➸ synopsis: when the language barrier between you and a stranger becomes too wide, your shared interests bridge the gap for you.
➸ starring: hwang hyunjin x female reader
➸ word count: 2.7k
➸ general content: artist!hyunjin, there is somewhat of a language barrier, both people are complete art nerds and it's way too endearing, takes place in south korea, flufffff(I'm so fond of this man)
➸ warnings: microscopic mention of alcohol
➸ rating: teen+
➸ author’s note: an older fic but I'm still so attached to it. two kinds of people: the type who hear hyunjin speak english and move on, and then me
♫ this fic has a soundtrack! you don’t need to listen to it while reading, but rêverie by the man, the myth, the legend, claude debussy goes SO HARD ON THIS FIC LIKE-
You were never the type to dabble in realism.
A pair of headphones, a wide brush, a blank canvas, and a bucket of red paint; that was your activity of choice on friday nights. Nothing that came from that ever resembled anything in particular, but it was never supposed to. Just looking at it, one could tell what emotions fueled the creative process those nights.
The feelings behind them were real enough, you'd hear people say.
But of course, there's always some people that detest abstract art. They say it takes no talent, no thought, that you're just slathering paint on a canvas and expecting to get recognition for it. Sometimes you think they're right.
Other times you buy a plane ticket out of the country, you know, for fun. If you were a starving artist, maybe you'd think about letting their words get to you.
And while some would argue that booking a spontaneous vacation to Seoul could classify as a form of escapism, the painting in front of you has you wondering whether you could mark this trip in your tax forms as a business expense.
All of your years in art school and not once had you ever learned so much from one piece of canvas.
Art museums are designed to look boring. They are supposed to draw your eye from one acrylic-covered canvas to another, making you forget about your surroundings and immerse you into the various artworks. This one was no different, hues of beige and black and white littering the geometric space.
That being said, you are certain that this painting would have caught your eye even if it was posted in Times Square.
You had made your way across the room, ears picking up on the few Korean phrases you knew as strangers shifted around you. A graphite cityscape. A gouache vase of flowers. A portrait made of ink prints on wood. The exhibit you randomly picked over tonkatsu and soju last night in your hotel room was definitely a good one, no doubt.
And to think you almost walked past this piece.
Bold strokes of blue, tiny specks of white, all on a frame that was wider than your wingspan.
The girl was depicted just off center, in some billowy white dress.
Floating? Drowning?
You settle on suspended as your footsteps slow down, turning to approach the watery scene.
Staring at it feels like staring at a glass of water. You can't definitively say whether it’s half-empty or half-full, whether she’s reaching for the surface or letting herself sink. Her face is covered by wispy brown hair, obstructing her true emotions from view. Somehow you know this was a conscious decision the artist made, to let the viewer come to their own conclusion on the piece.
Even though you know about the negative effects that human oils have on artworks, you still find yourself fighting the urge to reach out and touch it. To feel the ripples of the oil paint and somehow find your own hand soaked, as if you reached through the canvas barrier and felt the cold loneliness yourself.
Impressionist paintings did always have this charm about them, at least to you. They felt abstract upon inspection, just a mess of strange brushstrokes and controversial colors. And yet when viewed from a distance, it feels like a completely different experience. Up close, a dizzying mix of the shades of the sky. A step back, and it's an unspoken thesis on the solitude of limbo, or whatever you've decided to name this piece.
You glance at the info card at the bottom right corner.
Buoyancy- Hwang Hyunjin
You make a mental note to research him later before your eyes get pulled to the subject once again.
‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧
You have been staring at his painting for eight minutes.
He had walked around, chatted with other featured artists, talked with a few strangers, but when he came back, you had acted as though you were one of the items on display; still locked in the same position as before. Eyebrows furrowed, one hand resting on your canvas tote bag, the other in the pocket of your trousers.
In the nicest way possible, you looked like a tourist.
But tourists don't have long attention spans, and you could have been roleplaying a statue with how long you'd been standing there.
A strange mix of anxiety and excitement rushed through Hyunjin when he found you still standing there.
No one had ever observed his art for that long before.
At least, not in one sitting. Definitely not like this. Why haven't you moved on? Can you see something that he can't? Are you thinking of buying a print?
He wants to approach you. To leave you alone. To watch you scrutinize his painting. To run screaming to the event coordinator.
Casually, he sticks both hands in his jeans and stands a few feet from your right side, as if he's one of the visitors.
He takes a moment, gaining whatever’s left of his composure before speaking.
“I'm so glad I know how to swim.”
You snap out of your daze, surprised to hear English in the Korean white noise you've been immersed in. You look over and see the gorgeous young man standing near you, looking at the painting you've been so engrossed in.
“Yeah,” you exhale, “I totally get the fear of open water.”
Hyunjin chuckles, strangely drawn in by the sound of your voice.
“Although, she doesn't seem all that scared to me,” you add, shifting your focus back to the canvas.
“You don't think so?”
“I mean, you could argue that she doesn't want to be there, that she's drowning,” you begin, pointing to the girl. “But…the longer I stare at it, the more I feel like she's just hanging there, not reaching for the surface on purpose.” Your finger trails down to the bottom right corner. “I think that's why it was named Buoyancy, at least that's what I got out of it…”
You trail off, realizing that you're rambling to a total stranger about a random piece of artwork. Looking back at him however, you find your face heating up at the amazed expression on his, as if you had just told him his middle name.
“I wish I had thought of that,” he lies. It was almost scary how quickly you had found the meaning he'd tried to convey after months of fighting with the paint.
“Well that's the fun thing about art,” you say, smiling to yourself. “It's all subjective. What were you thinking?”
Hyunjin opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again in mild frustration.
“I'm not…very good with English,” he says, defeated.
He would argue that he's not very good with any language, even his mother tongue.
Art was the only language he felt he could speak easily without hesitation. It was easy to throw himself into that with reckless abandon, because it was the only place where he truly felt understood.
“But I can still understand you,” he quickly amends, glad to see that spark behind your eyes again. He walks past you, stopping at the painting on your left. “What about this one?”
“This one has some really dramatic lighting, which makes me believe…”
‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧
Evening sunlight filters in through the exhibit windows as you and Hyunjin examine an organically-shaped vase, admiring its handiwork.
“I’ve always wanted to try pottery but…I don’t really like the feeling of cold clay on my hands,” you chuckle, looking at the tall man next to you. He grins, scrutinizing his hands as he contemplates his answer.
“People tell me I have good fingers- for clay,” he adds quickly, even though the meaning wasn't lost on you, and you fight back a smirk to appear unphased. “But I haven't found a good studio? Is that how you call it?”
“I wouldn't know, I've never been,” you say, walking to the next painting. Which happens to be where you both started.
“Wait, have we been through this whole gallery?” You quickly check your watch, confirming that you have been there for much longer than you had intended. Looking back at the stranger you have spent the evening with, you feel heat start to scatter across your face.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to take up so much of your ti-”
“I liked it,” he blurts, and you feel reassured as his face lights up with panic. “Talking. With you, I mean.” He looks just past you to the art on the wall, ears turning the slightest shade of red. “No one has ever said anything so beautiful about my art before.”
He watches as your face circles through several emotions, before settling on embarrassment.
“You're…you're one of the artists? Which one is yours?” You say, trying to recall what you said about every art piece.
He nods toward the painting that had first caught your attention, the one that practically jumped out at you an hour ago.
“Hyunjin,” he says quietly, extending a hand toward you in a humble introduction, as if that same hand didn't produce the masterpiece in front of you.
“Y/n,” you whisper, trying not to let your mouth hang open in awe. “And to think I was going to Google you later.”
“You were?” The light in his eyes was unmistakable.
“I always research artists that inspire me,” you admit, bashfully dropping his hand.
“I inspired you?”
You meet his eyes and you know then, the weight that your words carry.
To create is a desire that all artists cannot shake; it is what keeps the painter keep coming back to the blank canvas, the sculptor to the slab of clay. But when the process is finished, all they can hope is that someone will see it, and feel a fraction of what they felt whilst creating it.
Moving someone to the point of giving them the desire to create, through their artwork, is a dream many artists never get to see come into fruition.
And maybe that's why Hyunjin stares at you now, wondering which lucky star is shining down on him now.
“Can I…” he pauses, hoping he's saying the line like how they do in the movies, “can I buy you a drink?”
‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧
When people say studio apartment, this is what you wish they mean.
Floor-to-ceiling window walls on one side, where several canvases sit propped up against the city skyline, and an apartment on the other, with a cute kitchenette and loft bedroom that doesn't feel cramped. It's perfect for someone who needs enough space to think, without sacrificing their space to live.
You hear Hyunjin click the door shut behind you as you set your bag down on a chair, surveying the studio side of his residence.
Several canvases catch your eye.
You can't even blame him for attempting to paint it because with the view he has, you'd paint it every day.
Different versions of the Seoul skyline are scattered across the room, each depicting a different time of day. Sunrise is leaning against the window. Midday is sitting on a canvas. Twilight is hanging up on the wall, and something akin to golden hour lays unfinished, perhaps even abandoned on the floor. You crouch in front of it to get a better look.
“That one is…not finished,” Hyunjin says from the kitchen, pouring two glasses of soju. You can feel his nervous gaze on you even with your back turned to him.
“It's beautiful,” you whisper, looking at the palette he used to mix the colors. An array of browns and yellows are smeared on the glass, which were no doubt used to put the buildings into the scene.
He doesn't say thank you; his face does that for him when he crouches next to you, cheekbones pink as he sets the soju glasses on the floor.
“I can't get the colors right,” he sighs, staring at the painting in discontent. “It looks…dull.”
“Maybe you should try adding red instead of brown,” you suggest, picking up a palette knife. “May I?”
Hyunjin stares at you in bewilderment, before opening a tube of vermillion and squeezing a bit onto the palette.
“I studied color theory for what felt like forever,” you chuckle, taking the knife and adding red to a few of his previous colors.
“I never went to art school,” he says, as if that makes him a lesser artist. You feel a twinge of jealousy at that statement, knowing that the man next to you was this skilled without coaching, before adding, “You didn't miss much. It killed my creativity.”
Hyunjin goes pale at that as you pass him a clean paintbrush and toss the palette knife aside.
“Did you get it back?” He asks, and when you tilt your head, he adds, “Your creativity?”
“It comes and goes.” Sometimes you wish you didn't stake your livelihood on your ability to create. Inspiration is always a welcome guest but it never stays for long, at least on your side of the ocean.
Watching him add your hues to the painting is like having inspiration fed right into your bloodstream. Immediately the painting comes to life, the reds of the sunset becoming visible at the whim of his paintbrush.
He stops for a minute to admire the changes, and turns to you for feedback, eyes twinkling with joy. Or maybe that's just the soju.
“It was beautiful before,” you say, tracing your finger along the side of the canvas, “but now it looks alive.”
“I love the way you talk,” Hyunjin says quietly after a moment of silence, and the bluntness of the compliment nearly has you choking on your soju. But he just looks at you, no hint of humor in his eyes, sitting entirely too close to your tipsy self, and you feel your body buzz with warmth.
“And I love the way you smile,” you whisper back, unable to look away as he sets down his paintbrush, trying to hide his contagious grin.
He turns back to you, and you wish for several things. You wish you didn't have a plane ticket taking you away from this place in a week. You wish that you had finished your glass of soju. You wish you could poke the mole under his eye, or the dimple in his cheek.
You wish that you were drunk enough to close the gap between you two without a second thought.
But when your foreheads touch, your phone buzzes, so you grin and chuckle to yourself.
“I…I think we've had too much to drink.”
He looks at you through hooded eyes and smiles again.
“Or not enough.” He counters.
You nod in agreement at that and pull back, mentally kicking yourself for losing the only chance at finding out what his smile tastes like. But it's probably better this way. You don't want to be remembered as the girl who sweet talked her way into his bed.
You're halfway to the sink with your glasses when he speaks up suddenly.
“I want to see you again.”
You set the dishes down before turning to face him, and you wish you had brought a change of clothes. And maybe an extra toothbrush.
“I don't want to finish it without you,” he says, nodding to the painting that he had moved to the easel.
“I can come back tomorrow morning,” you promise, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“I can make crepes.”
“I love crepes.”
He picks up your bag from the chair and brings it to you, hating how much it feels like he's rushing you out the door.
“See you tomorrow, y/n.”
“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”
You leave the apartment and close the door behind you, but your feet don't advance down the hallway. Hyunjin's hand hovers over the locking mechanism, unable to click the deadbolt into place as he considers running after you.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you spin around to knock on his door, only to find him throwing the door open and grinning in delight at the sight of you.
I want to spotlight some authors on here and thought it would be best to start with darling @lixiesfreckless ! I used to read your stories when you were on instagram and now you are the entire reason I made my way to tumblr. If it were for you then I wouldn’t be introduced to some of my favorite fics so thank you! As for no translation needed AHHHHH I love this cute little story! I find it so sweet how the two of them are able to understand each other so well in such a short amount of time. You did a great job at writing these characters AND THE ENDING?!! “His smile tastes like mint and chamomile tea” SOOOOO CUTE
content: bf!keeho x fem!reader ; reader is insecure about her big boobs, keeho reassures her in a rather... unconventional way!
warnings: smut! honestly, nothing freaky keeho is just sweet and funny! he also busts on her boobs! npr! i wrote this and didn't read it over pls forgive me if there's any typos!
requested: yes!
18+ minors/ageless blogs dni!
ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ
Nothing fits quite right. It never does.
The only reason you haven’t lost count of how many shirts you’ve tried on is because they’re all mangled into an endless messy pile on your bed.
The one you’ve just slipped over your head isn’t great either. Much too tight around your chest, baggy and loose and ill-fitting like the rest around your waist. Your boobs are practically spilling out from the cut of the low neck-line and the bubbling frustration has made the most bitter of tears start to well up in your eyes.
“Hey,” Keeho’s voice drifts in from the living room, “You good?”
You huff, hesitating before stepping out. He’s sitting on the couch, arm behind his head and phone resting against his chest. The second he looks up, his eyebrows lift.
“You changed again,” he says. It’s not a question.
You shrug, trying to play it off. “Didn’t like the other one.” Your hands busy themselves by smoothing down the wrinkles on your jeans.
He hums, scanning you from head to toe in a way that makes you want to retreat back into your room. “And this one?”
“It’s fine.”
“‘Fine doesn’t sound convincing.” He pats the space beside him. “Come here.”
You hover in the doorway, fingers picking at the hem of your shirt. Keeho’s sitting there, shoes on, jacket already zipped—he’s been ready for the last twenty minutes.
Guilt prickles at your chest.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” you mumble, forcing a smile. “I can just meet you there.”
He shakes his head instantly. “Not happening.” When you still don’t move, shoulders dropping as you cower into yourself he adds softly, “C’mere, seriously.”
How fucking embarrassing.
You drag your feet across the carpet, sitting beside him with a small sigh. Keeho turns a little toward you, elbow resting on the back of the couch and his warm palm finding its place on your lower back.
“You know,” he says, voice gentler now, “I don’t care if we’re late. I just care that you look like you wanna cry.”
You press your lips together, desperately trying not to. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue this time. He just studies you for a moment — really looks. Then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, “You’ve been trying on clothes for an hour. What’s going on?”
The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Nothing fits right. Everything’s either too tight or too loose, and I just—” you gesture helplessly at yourself, eyes burning, “I don’t even know why I’m crying about this.”
“Baby…”
You shake your head, embarrassed. “You’re all dressed up. You’ve been waiting.”
“Yeah, but I’d wait again if it meant you didn’t feel like… this.” He pauses, eyes softening. “We can stay in if you want. Order something. You can try things on and I’ll give brutally honest fashion advice, free of charge.”
That earns a tiny laugh out of you. “You’re gonna regret offering that.”
“Never,” he grins.
“It’s just,” you glance down defeatedly, taking in the spillage— the way your top sits uncomfortably and barely covers you. Your hands come up to cover your chest, “They’re just too big.”
“Too big?!”
“Keeho-”
“No, seriously-” His eyes are wide, hands coming up to grab your waist and tug you closer.
You try to resist, hands wrapping tighter around yourself and eyes darting around as you mumble something incoherent. Still, he lulls you closer, so patiently, until you’re seated on his lap, thighs on either side of his.
“Look at me,” he tilts your chin up with his finger until you meet his eyes. “Do you know how obsessed I am with you?” He leans closer, eyes dancing over your skin as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
His hands squeeze your waist, working themselves everywhere until they settle just under your ribs.
“Do you know how much I love laying on your chest?” His mouth moves carefully around each word as he draws closer, until his breath is kissing your skin but his lips are still just an inch too far.
“How soft,” he whispers, “how kissable they are? I could die a happy man right now, just holding you like this.”
“I know, but my shirts-”
“So take it off.” He shrugs, “Just for now. If this is stressing you out,” he tugs at the fabric, “then take it off.”
When you don’t move, he carefully finds the hem of your shirt, “Let me?”
You nod, meek and shy and overwhelmed. But his gaze—it doesn’t feel pressuring. It doesn’t feel judgmental or rushed or even pitiful.
And when he peels your shirt off your skin and your arms come down around his shoulders, the look on his face nearly makes you laugh.
“Holy shit,” he groans, “feels like it’s my birthday every time I undress you.”
“Shut up,” you scold, but there’s no real bite to your tone. The corner of your lips twitches up when he groans again, face pressing into your chest as he breathes you in.
“I love you.” He’s muffled and slurring, hands molding over your bra and kisses finally starting to meet your soft, plush skin. “So warm.”
Your brows lift up slightly as you watch, jaw slack, as his tongue darts out with a mind of its own to lick across the swell of your boob. He doesn’t just stop there; His mouth finds your other breast, making sure it’s not neglected. Open-mouthed kisses trail spit across you as you gasp quietly, nails digging lightly into his skin.
“Kyo…”
“Do you really not see? How pretty and full you are?”
Before you can think too much about it, before you can take it back, you blurt out, “take it off.”
Keeho pauses for just a second, eyes finding your soft and vulnerable ones for long enough to make sure you really mean your request before letting his hands wrap around you slowly to unhook your bra, straps slipping down your arms until the undergarment is sitting between you.
Keeho wastes no time in tossing it aside and leaning back on his palms, his eyes, respectfully, glancing nowhere near yours.
“Wow…” he draws out, drool gathering on the corner of his lip.
“Don’t just stare…” You mumble. Your hand comes up to cover yourself until he catches them and gently brushes them away.
“Oh, I don’t plan to,” his thumb comes up to smooth over your perked up nipple, “believe me, I plan to do way more than just stare. Just… Just wanna take you in for a second…”
“You really like them that bad?” You ask quietly, looking down at them with less appreciation than you should.
He nearly laughs, “Are you crazy? Did you just ask your boyfriend if he likes your boobs?”
“Keeho!” You smack his shoulder but he catches your hand and kisses your fingertips before sinking his face between your mounds again.
“I’m sorry, m’ sorry, it’s just… really? You’re insane.” He shakes his head, “But hey, maybe I just need to remind you." he kisses your neck before pulling back to look at you properly. "Yeah? Is that okay?”
You nod again, much quicker and sure this time.
Before you can even ready yourself, you’re swept into the air with a yelp, clinging to his shoulders as he carries you up and over towards your room. When you look down, his face is barely visible, completely buried under your boobs.
“Can you even breathe?” you squeak out in a laugh.
You feel him shake his head against you, “No. And I don’t care.”
A real laugh escapes you for the first time today, and another when he kicks open the bedroom door clumsily. His arm swipes away at all the shirts you had tried on earlier, knocking them off the bed and out of the way so he can lay you down.
“Baby, my clothes-”
“You didn’t like them right? So we’ll throw them out. And I’ll buy you new ones. You can try them all on until you find ones that fit you just how you like.”
“You’re crazy.”
“About you.” He winks, laughing at his own low blow.
But the giggle that was bubbling up dies in your throat as he crawls between your legs and attaches his mouth to your nipple, hands instantly holding and squeezing and worshipping the areas his kisses can’t reach.
“Oh my god,” you breathe out, head falling back against the pillows.
He doesn’t intend to be quiet in the slightest, moaning softly at your salty taste on his tongue, at the way your hips roll up instinctively to meet him when his teeth graze you just a bit too sharply.
“Gentle,” you remind him half-heartedly.
He nods helplessly against you, sputtering out what you assume to be an apology.
“Shit, baby. I could do this all day.” He groans, leaving pecks down your sternum until he finally tears his hands off of you and drags them down to unlatch the button on your shorts.
You blink down at him, mumbling out, “Need you.”
“I know,” he agrees, “I need you, too.”
You can’t help the heat that swells in your stomach when you notice how absolutely wrecked and desperate he’s growing. It's so easy to rile him up, you know that. You know how easily he gets turned on at the sight of you.
But at least until now, you've never seen him so completely at your disposal, so eager to please and feel you.
He’s completely hard, length pressing to your thighs and against your core as he shifts around, kissing you all over.
But then, he notices the one place he’s been neglecting.
He crawls back up, arms bracketing either side of you as his hands cup your face.
“I love you.” he mumbles, then presses his lips to yours softly. He kisses you deeply, mouth moving against yours with so much care and deliverance. “You’re so, so beautiful. Don't ever question that. And definitely don’t ever question again whether or not I like your body.”
“Okay.” You nod, really believing him as he pulls away.
He kisses you once more before tugging his shirt over his head, slipping off his jeans and your shorts.
You writhe beneath him as his fingers find your cunt, sliding through to coat his fingers in your slick before pushing an experimental digit in.
“Need to stretch you out…” He mumbles, mostly to himself.
“Feels good,” you breathe out softly in response.
He kisses the side of your boob once more, slipping another finger in and pulling them apart slightly to prep you. When you whimper out again at the lack of friction, he starts pumping them into you, nearly melting at the way you clench around him.
The pad of his thumb circles once around your bud and your eyes flutter closed, stomach tightening as he works you open.
“Think you’re ready for me?”
“Yes,” you breathe out, “please.”
Keeho readjusts instantly at your plea, cooing softly when you whine as he withdraws his hand. He’s tugging his boxers down just enough to free himself and line himself up with your entrance within seconds.
“You’re all I’ll ever want.” He promises, pushing his length inside of you slowly, watching your face for any signs of discomfort, “You, just like this. Exactly as you are, baby. You’re perfect.”
There’s only bliss on your face—bliss and overwhelming love that bleeds from your eyes as they bat up at him when he presses his chest against yours.
His hand props one of your legs up on his hip to give himself more room to move, slowly at first, then picking up the pace when he senses you’ve adjusted.
There are no words to describe how fucking good it feels when your breasts spread as they’re flush against his, your warmth wrapping around him at the same time, your lips parted and spewing out his name.
“So pretty,” he reminds you, kissing you as he presses himself deep into your gummy walls, settling there for a moment to savor the feeling and taste the whimpers you feed into his mouth through your plump, o-shaped lips.
“Move, Kyo… Please.”
He obliges, cause how could he not give you everything you want? He bucks into you faster, skin slapping yours at the rhythm with his thrusts. He sits up slightly, wanting to see the way your chest bounces with every rock of his hips, wanting to look down where your bodies meet to watch himself sink over and over again into your core.
He can't take his eyes off your pretty pebbled nipples, so you tease him by reaching your hands up to grab yourself and play with them.
“My god,” He hisses, dick twitching at how unbelievably good you look, how much more confident you are, seeing the effect it has on him.
“You like this?” You pant out, only slightly nervous, pressing them together and glancing up at him. The way his jaw slacks makes your head spin.
“I love it,” He says tightly, voice strained from the way you’re gushing and squeezing around him. Knowing he won’t last much longer, he grabs both of your wrists and holds them to your chest with one hand, his free one reaching down to rub your clit.
You cry out instantly, stringing pleas together incoherently as he works you so you can finish with him.
“Yes, baby, like that,”
“So good for me,”
“Y’look so perfect,”
“I wanna feel you, please,”
Everything he’s saying is lighting you on fire. Every drag of his cock through your walls has you gasping and reaching for him, his arms, his shoulders, anywhere you can get a hold of. His hands are everywhere too: wiping a stray tear that slips out of your eye from the pleasure, sticking this fingers in your mouth or his own when he needs to wet them so he can tend to your puffy clit easier, gripping your hips to lift you for a better angle or fondling your beautiful bouncing breasts so he can plop a kiss on them to stifle his moans.
Your legs tighten around him to draw him closer as he presses his mouth to yours again, needing to be close when you come around him.
It doesn't take much more than a simple “You’re making me feel so good,” uttered against your mouth before you let go, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm washes over you, instantly triggering his own release.
He lets you ride out your high before he pulls out, painting your pretty pussy and stomach and tits with his load. He rubs himself until he’s shaking, until his tip is red and sensitive, before he collapses on top of you, both of you sticky with sweat and cum.
“I hope you hate every shirt you buy from now on and none of them fit right.” He decides.
Your eyes snap open, head perking up enough to glare at him. “What?”
“Yup. You heard me.” His tone is unapologetic but his mouth is leaving the softest little kisses on your chest. “If you crash out again then I just get to fuck you again to remind you how pretty you are and how pretty they are,” he smushes your boobs together, propping himself up with the little strength he can muster to kiss each one again and again.
“You’re so annoying.” You grumble, not really meaning it. You're combing a hand through his hair as he looks up at you, eyes soft.
“Yes but in all seriousness, baby,” he starts, “I don’t wanna see you on the verge of tears like that again. We’ll go through every store on the strip and restock your wardrobe until you feel pretty in all your stuff, okay?”
“Okay,” you smile. You shift uncomfortably a moment later and his brows furrow, eyes looking up at you even though his lips are still wrapped around your nipple.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your cum is literally sticking us together like glue right now and I want a shower.” You laugh, “I’m also starving cause we skipped our lunch plans to… well, do this.”
He presses his lips to yours and smiles against them, “Okay,” he agrees with a chuckle, sitting up. “Let’s go. Order of business: shower, lunch, shopping. Sound good?”
heloo, its my first time making a request and i was wondering if maybe u could write piwon ot6 when they're jealous?? could be smut if thats ok with you:P
p1harmony members getting jealous!
warnings: the last bullet point for each member is explicit smut (minor dni!), there’s also a bit of swearing
a/n: thank you for the request (and sorry it took so long💀) please enjoy! these all got kinda long NSJDJDJF
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☆ keeho:
keeho is soooooo chill honestly, definitely the least likely member to feel jealous. he doesn’t really ever get jealous because he really doesn’t feel threatened or upset by someone else flirting at you or anything, he knows he’s yours and you’re his and trusts you’ll let the person know. if someone crosses a line and makes you uncomfortable, he won’t hesitate to put them in their place and make it clear you’re taken, but it’s never out of jealousy, only concern for you and annoyance with the offender for overstepping your boundaries.
perhaps the only time he’d get jealous is before bagging you, when you’re still in the friendship stage and he jealous for any kind of special treatment from you. he’d just really wish he could be the one making you laugh and getting your attention before anyone else. but it’s never angry, it’s more bitterness and sadness than jealousy.
the only other exception to jealousy in your relationship is if you’re apart for a space of time and he sees you out without him. not because he’s even necessarily jealous but again, he’s got major fomo and just wants to be the one making your day, not watching from afar as other people do what should be his job😭
smut: jealous sex very rarely, if ever, happens with keeho just because he isn’t often jealous enough, nor does he often let his emotions get the best of him before he can talk them out. if you try hard enough to bug him, he’ll see right through you and get a little pissed, and that’s probably your best bet with him. “so this was what you were looking for, huh?” he’ll murmur in your ear as you tremble at the feeling of his fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt, whining his name as he inserts himself with a moan. “then take it.”
☆ theo:
theo doesn’t get jealous very often, he’s pretty relaxed about these kinds of things and feels like its pointless to be jealous. the one exception is when another guy gets you to laugh. your laugh is his absolute favourite thing in the world and knowing someone else was able to pull that from you, and multiple times, kinda itches at him. he doesn’t say anything, knowing neither of you actually did anything wrong, but he is eyeing the guy with a less than savory look.
will leave you alone until you notice him looking, and gestures for you to join him. “what?” “nothing.” he insists, while slinging an arm around your waist and drawing you in for a kiss. makes a dumb joke to see that laugh for himself, and instantly feels better just seeing it directed at him again.
theo just sees you as the light of his life and wants to be that for you, so as long as you’re giving him a fair amount of attention, he’s good. when you’re not, he’ll subtly bring your focus back to him, and chill out instantly.
smut: jealous sex almost never happens with theo either, as he’d much rather talk through his emotions or give them time to settle than let them get the better of him. even when you’re egging him on, he doesn’t fall for the bait and simply ignores you or walks away. you’d probably have to be really explicit about your desire for him to fuck his frustration out on you, and when he does, he won’t say much, just holds your body down as he pumps harshly into you, talking you quietly through it, holding your hands above your head and abusing your pussy until you’re crying and shaking.
☆ jiung:
when jiung gets jealous, it’s very quiet. you’re standing in a group, and one of the guys keeps trying to catch your attention without you realizing, and every time you laugh at a joke he tells, jiung’s body tenses. it just bothers him, and he can’t even pinpoint exactly why, since nothing’s really happening, except that he doesn’t like that your attention is constantly being encroached on by this other guy.
however, he doesn’t want to show that he’s jealous, and will keep it to himself, sulking a little bit until you notice. it’s easy to reassure him; a hand in his and a smile in his direction is usually enough to make him feel better and ease his anxieties, reminding him that he’s not left out; but if the guy is persistent, jiung may get worked up again and take things up a notch, an arm circling your waist tightly, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear, kissing the back of your hand, eyes sliding to the guy to make his position clear.
he won’t say anything to you directly until you’re out of there, not wanting to be disruptive or to upset you. will quietly tell you what bothered him, not because you did anything wrong, but just to talk it out of his system and receive a bit more reassurance from you. otherwise he might ruminate if left to his own devices and take a little bit to get the annoyance out of his head. when this happens, you just need to distract him with kisses, cuddles and the like. it’ll work wonders.
smut: jealous sex with jiung happens on occasion. he’s an emotional person, and sometimes it just gets the best of him. when he knows you’re down for it, jiung edges you to the point of tears, coaxing ragged moans from your throat and telling you to wait to come until he tells you to, all while rubbing your clit in tight circles and snapping his hips into yours. the sound of his name broken on your lips does so much for him when he was jealous just moments ago.
☆ intak:
easily the most jealous member in the group. if someone so much as looks at you with any perceived flirtatious intention, intak’s shifting in his seat, fighting against the demons in his head. mostly just because he thinks you’re the most perfect person in the world and of course any guy would see that about you, and he doesn’t want them to even try anything on you. will often stick close to you when you’re out and make it obvious you’re taken with a hand around your waist or clasped tightly in yours, and a kiss on your temple.
if you leave his side for a bit while the two of you are out, intak makes sure to keep a bit of an eye on you, not because he doesn’t trust you but because it would just kill him if some guy tried something and didn’t know you were already taken. he knows you’ll tell the guy yourself, but it irks him that the guy even thought about it or attempted something in the first place KHKJHF
never makes it your problem; however, he will be extra clingy and touchy when you’re out of there and back at his place or yours. just attaches himself to you, wants to be as close as possible to you, holding you and kissing you to make himself feel a little better. he’s just upset at the idea of someone else vying for your attention when it should be him!
smut: jealous sex definitely happens with intak, and it’s fast and intense. he’ll strip you himself, mouth focusing on your neck and mouth to suck and bite at, leaving some hickies in the process (and asks for marks from you, too, for good measure). his emotions rise to the surface and he just needs to fuck you immediately. will grind against your ass and smack it, telling you to take him, groaning all through it, pounding into you fast and hard. alternatively, he’s a big fan of having you suck him off…
☆ soul:
soul is also someone who is easily jealous, mostly because he just adores you so much that he wants to be around you all the time and be the center of your attention at any given moment. won’t be jealous immediately when your attention is directed elsewhere, but after a while he gets quiet and shifts closer to you, silently asking for you to look at him or hold his hand.
it’s pretty easy to ease soul’s mind if you stick close to him, or throw him a smile every once in awhile; as long as he’s in the loop, that’s typically good enough for him. if he continues to feel on the outskirts, however, he’s quite sulky and can get a little petty, getting a little passive aggressive to any questions or conversation directed his way.
when you’re alone again, you’ll need to approach soul first, because otherwise he’ll just be stuck in a loop with his emotions and thoughts all tangled together in a worried knot. all he really needs is you to play with his hair and tell him you love him, and he’ll be right as rain, kissing you back and calling you “mine” with a proud smile on his lips. he wasn’t ever upset with you, just missing your warm eyes on his, your smile directed at him.
smut: jealous sex only happens once in awhile, mostly when kissing you doesn’t make him feel close enough to you. He has to be really upset to get to this point, and it will be a lot of rutting against your heat and whispered words on your skin before anything progresses further. would love it if you took the lead, murmuring praises to him and reminding him just why he’s the center of your world, the same way you’re his.
☆ jongseob:
jongseob is the type to gaslight himself into thinking he doesn’t feel very jealous when he is, in fact, a pretty jealous person JKDHHD especially if he was already talking to you or standing close to you when another guy approaches you. even if it isn’t flirtatious by nature, it just pisses him off to see you smiling and chatting with another guy… not that he’s jealous, of course, he’d tell himself. the guy just shouldn’t have interrupted. why is he here, bothering you? what’s his deal?
really has to confront himself and come to terms with his jealousy when you ask him if he’s okay, not even realizing initially how quiet he’s gotten. says he’s fine, mostly because he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of anything or bother you with his petty emotions, but will grab your hand and engage you in other conversation now that he’s got your attention back so that your focus remains on him.
as long as he gets your attention back, he’s happy, but isn’t above side eyeing the guy and responding rather coldly if he comes close again. once you’re out of there, he’ll probably admit to being a little jealous and feeling kinda bad about it, but all he requires is your affection to set him straight again. is very happy to let a makeout session act as an olive branch, satisfied that your focus is now 100% on him and him only <3
smut: jealous sex with jongseob doesn’t happen super often, since he likes to deal with his emotions himself and rarely lets them run loose like that. on the occasion he feels like it, though, he’ll spend a lot of time working the both of you up to it, making out for a good while before anything else happens. will run his hands allllll over your body to remind himself you’re all his, and loves when you do the same as he slides into you, losing himself in the feeling of your warm walls around him, the sound of his name on your tongue as he hushes you and quietly groans in your ear, pushing you both closer to the edge.
as exes to lovers! who are still in love with each other!
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗
it is impossible to expect the unexpected; as prepared as you may think you are, there is no sure fire way of anticipating what the universe might throw at you. soon after arriving at that conclusion, you decided another thing, too: there's no such thing as coincidence, either.
for instance, there's no way you could have foreseen that on the very first week of living in a new city, so far away from all you've ever known, you'd run into perhaps the most familiar thing from home—your ex boyfriend, still as kind-eyed and handsome as ever.
when you bumped into each other at the park, the air was instantly knocked from your lungs. your eyes trailed up to meet his and they widened in sync, disbelief tainting your features.
the first thought to cross your mind was: it can't be...
despite not having seen each other since the breakup that made you stop believing in love, the two of you flowed into conversation rather naturally, which is how you ended up where you are now: red-cheeked, glass of wine in hand, sitting at a restaurant with your ex of two years, jiung.
this is the fourth time in two weeks that you've consistently met up, might i add.
"i've uh, been meaning to ask you something," his face is just as red as yours, eyes drooping in his tipsy state. you wordlessly nod at his request, taking a sip and scrunching your nose as the tart liquid washes over your taste buds. your face rests on the palm of your hand, watching him attentively as he shuffles in his seat, struggling to find the right words to say.
"have you met, or- um, a-are you seeing anyone?"
oh.
not expecting that to be his question, you blink once at him, "jiung, i've been here for less than a month. no, i'm not seeing anyone."
"oh," he laughs nervously, "right," a hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck.
after another sip, you place down the empty glass and sigh. maybe if you were completely sober you would have kept the following fact to yourself: "since i moved here, i've really only been hanging out with you."
he quickly nods, "okay, good."
"huh?"
"uh," he immediately coughs as he realizes what he just said, "not good, sorry! i-i mean, it's good that we're hanging out- i mean at least i think it is, i don't know about you, i just meant that-"
"i know what you meant, jiung" you giggle. the boy in front of you lets out sigh of relief, face growing hot in embarrassment. he ends up tilting his drink all the way back to soothe the awkward moment, which you only intensify when you pipe up, asking, "have you dated anyone since we..." your eyes and voice trail off.
"no." he answers too quickly, shaking his head, "come on, i mean... how was i supposed to move on after... well, after you." it seems like his words are spewing out faster than his brain can catch up but when it finally does, he looks into your wide eyes that look anywhere but his, clearing his throat.
you're reluctant to speak, the tension in the air causing your chest to tighten. the only thing you can manage to squeak is a quiet calling of his name, with no clear intention behind it. Whether it was meant to be a warning or a plea, jiung's confession is spilled all the same.
"it's just... you meant a lot to me. you still do."
your head shakes in disbelief as you continue to avoid his eyes, "you broke up with me, remember?"
"yes, but, i- y/n, i can't be the only one who still thinks about us."
he's desperately searching for your gaze, moving around to fit into your line of sight. still, you remain stoic, busy with your thoughts.
there's no such thing as coincidence...
at your unresponsiveness, he calls your name again, softly.
your next words come out something like a grumble, although it was only half-hearted, intended to lighten the mood, to make the words seem half as heavy as they truly were.
"yes, i have feelings for you. moving on."
before the last syllable even leaves your mouth, a smile breaks out onto his face as he leans forward in his seat, muttering a quiet but ever so genuine "thank god," to himself. "can i?" he asks, arms outstretched, deprived for too long of your touch. when you nod, he wraps them his finds around yours, bringing your hand closer until his lips are kissing the top of your knuckles.
18+ minors & ageless blogs dni
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bf!intak who doesn't know how to be subtle when he needs you. he'd be rather touchy on the regular but if he was in the mood? oh you'd know instantly. his palms would smooth over your shoulders and down your arms until he grabbed your hands, kissing each fingertip between slurred words.
"what are you doing?"you'd ask, to which he'd reply: "m'not doing anything. don't need an excuse to kiss you,"
bf!intak who would have the dreamiest, far off look in his eyes. and god, the way they'd be drinking you in...
and his hands would follow.
he'd brush your hair from your face to really look at your eyes, hands forming a loose ponytail he grips for just a moment before settling his hands on the back of your neck.
and you'd grip his forearms, already sensing with where this is going, as his chin dips down so he can look at your lips, soft and plump and pretty.
"come here," he'd ask so nicely.
bf!intak who, when he kisses you, is hesitant on purpose. he wants you to reach after him again, he wants you to be the one who needs more. he'd barely brush your lips with his before pulling away with a crooked, boyish grin.
then he'd look down, a single finger dipping into the neckline of your shirt, tugging down only slightly.
"intak..."
"hmm?"
bf!intak whose hands would find your waist and hips next, pulling you closer til you're flush against him. it's so easy to get you worked up and he loves it. he loves how receptive you are. how he can already see the flush blooming across your cheeks and ears and all he's done is held you in a manner not much different from the day-to-day.
he especially loves how you blink up at him expectantly, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself.
when his mouth finds your jaw to leave an open-mouthed kiss and a whispered plea there, you stumble a bit, and he chuckles.
"something wrong, sweetheart?"
bf!intak who wants you to know just how bad you affect him, too. even through his casual dominance he's pouty and needy and desperate. his hands would be tugging you closer, gripping you harder, all while he's pressing himself against you and whimpering at the just barely-there friction that's so good and not enough all at once.
bf!intak who'd love to strip you down first and lay you flat on the bed, hair fanning around your face like a halo, shy hands covering your boobs as your legs press together.
he'd then pull his shirt over his head as quickly as he can before parting your thighs with his hands and crawling between them
bf!intak who would finally, finally kiss you properly. his tongue would swipe over yours, wet and teasing and slow so he could savor your taste and steal your breath at the same time.
he'd take his time, even if the strain in his pants was becoming dizzying, even if your hands were practically itching to get his last piece of clothing off.
bf!intak who'd turn you over and kiss down your spine before pulling your hips up.
and finally, finally he'd undo the buttons of his jeans and bring them down just enough to pull himself free. he's expressive—maybe not loud, but he certainly makes it a point to hiss and groan and growl at the way his hand feels when it finally clasps around him. it relieves some of the tension that's been building, but as hard as he tries to pretend his palm is your walls hugging him so nicely, a simple impatient cry from your lips would remind him it isn't.
"i know, i know, baby. i'm going, m'sorry."
bf!intak who curses out a moan when your warmth wraps around him and your back arches up to meet his chest. who gently sinks in inch by inch while rubbing a soothing hand over your ass and up your stomach as he coos and praises at you for taking him so well.
bf!intak who ensures you know that you're his priority. your enjoyment, your pleasure, your climax, it all comes first. he'd oblige your every request.
slower? done.
faster? alright.
deeper? he's right there with you.
bf!intak who lays you down so gently after, still stuffing you full for a few selfish minutes until he catches his breath. only when he realizes your eyelashes are starting to flutter closed does he so softly remind you he's gotta clean you up. urges you not to move as he goes to the bathroom and grabs some stuff to wipe you down with.
then, he helps you dress before laying down beside you with his head on your chest, lips leaving a trail of kisses as he mumbles sleepily how much he loves and adores you.
content: bf!theo x gn!reader
warnings: no pronouns but implied that reader may wear a bra? a tiny bit suggestive for one text, theo being sassy, banter
note: the hiatus is over & i'm sooo back :p i'll be posting mostly for piwon for a little while since i just met them & all my brain can do is think about them !!
↳ The job was meant to be easy, but one wrong drink later and you're left at the mercy of a crew of bounty hunters who hold your immediate future in the palm of their hands.
However, the rest of your future, you learn, is completely out of any of yours.
bang chan x fem!reader x lee minho — bounty hunters! fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia. found family, why choose?, action, violence, angst, drama, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mystery, secrets, near death experiences, complicated relationships, happy ending, plot-heavy!! smut. [5,6k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of violence, betrayal, distrust, toxic yearning/situationship, bad decisions, and falling for the guy who puts everything on the line for you... as well as the guy who wants you dead.
❥ masterlist | ao3
Your surroundings are dim but alive with buzzing, anticipatory people seeking out the thrill of debauchery. Beautiful dresses and embroidered, gaudy suits catch your eye at every turn.
The majority of these faces you have never seen before, but a handful of them, you have.
With every step you take, you are reminded of the weapons strapped to the inside of your thigh. A gun and a knife; because you never know the kind of situation you may find yourself in during jobs such as this. A fairly simple in and out procedure—at least that's what the bounty flier says—though you know well enough not to rely on sketchy, unchecked info.
Drink in your hand, you carefully bring it up to your lips for a very quaint sip. You have to fit in; blend into the crowd, draw no attention to yourself if you intend on seeing this job through to the payout. Surveying your surroundings, you glance towards the bar lined with rows of waiting bodies, and then shift your gaze over towards the door.
Three bouncers, one on the inside and the other two waiting on the outside to determine who is granted entry. No pat downs for safety, only a hefty fee on partaking in luxury.
A few more minutes pass by with nothing much to take note of, and then finally, you spot your mark.
Your memory of the intel is that this man is a black market weapons dealer importing and selling illegal trade to the kinds of people who most definitely do not need to be supplied with it. People who already have exponential wealth and power in a world where the poverty gap is insurmountable, and those sitting in the less fortunate bracket are left to survive through the whims of those with no further interest than to profit even more. Murderers, traffickers, kidnappers… and more organic parts deals than you really care to think about.
The whole thing makes your stomach turn. Collecting a bounty is an additional prize, but getting people like this off of the street? The ultimate victory.
You watch him greet three other men in the corner of the room, just beside the shining, glass staircase. They smile, shake hands, and whisper amongst themselves as they undoubtedly congratulate one another on all of the horror they have already inflicted on the people they deem beneath them. Making out what they are saying, or what weapons they may have lining their suits is impossible from where you are stationed, and as you watch them disappear up those stairs and towards the private VIP booths, you realize that you have no other option than to wait until the deal is done and catch them on their departure.
Hell, you might even be able to take them all out in one go.
Another swig of your drink, you take a step backwards, and your shoulder unexpectedly finds the firm, unmoving wall of another body.
You still abruptly, unsure of what has found you. Your heart rate skyrockets, a chill creeping down your spine. There is little as far as options are concerned in a situation such as this one, should this go awry. Maybe someone recognizes you from another job? Someone might be seeking revenge. It is far from unheard of in a line of work such as this one.
"Haven't seen you around so much lately."
The voice… the accent. Immediately you are put at ease by the familiarity of the sound. You turn to face him—a man that you recognize well enough—and drop the tension that has been locked into your shoulders.
"Thought I recognized some of your crew here," you say. "Admittedly, I wasn't so thrilled to see them."
He pouts, as if a little disappointed in your saying that.
You have run into Bang Chan and his misfit crew of bounty hunters on more than one occasion. A side effect of an open line of communication that everyone in the job is more than capable of accessing. Information that you find is the same that anyone else can find; all that you can hope for is that a job you decide to take is passed on by others.
Things notoriously get messy when a bounty is up for grabs between more than one hunter. Killers in search of a payment do not enjoy their perceived turf being trampled on and everyone feels a right to what they have decided is theirs.
Still, Chan has always been kind enough in your simplistic interactions. You would be a fool to count him out as a ruthless killer just like the rest, but so far, no such attempt on your life has been made.
"Don't fancy seeing a familiar face?" he questions with a lighthearted shrug. "Suppose we're different, then. I quite like knowing there are more sitting closer to our side here, than theirs."
"Impossible to say, all of these other people are totally unaccounted for. For all we know, they're a part of the problem."
"Doubtful, though not impossible. It doesn't make much of a difference…" Chan nods in the direction behind you, back towards the staircase, and you carefully look the very same way to find a handful of his men making their own way upstairs—with a woman hanging from each arm. "Got a few folks on it. Hope you've got a way out of here when this incredibly nice party soon goes to shit."
You give him a look, one that says he's stupid for even questioning that fact. "I don't take jobs I don't have all possibilities accounted for."
"All possibilities?"
"All of them."
"Well, if that's the case," Chan begins, nodding over towards the bar, "What do you say to one more drink while we're still able to have some semblance of a nice night?"
With Chan leading, the two of you weave yourselves through the crowd of bodies, little more than the silver embellishments of his coat glimmering in the flashing lights to help guide your way. Thankfully, the destination is a close one, and pushing your way through the people standing in wait, you settle yourself against the dark, polished wood and right beside another man that Chan seems to know quite well.
Your attention falls to him as he remains seated on a stool with an empty glass in hand. He pays you little mind, only briefly acknowledging the fact that you and Chan have situated yourselves there, at all. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on the back of the bartender before the inconspicuous man turns back, slides a full glass across the bar, and the empty one is traded off.
"I need to make the rounds and check in on the rest of my people," Chan says, but before you have the opportunity to respond, he is already gone.
Thus, you turn back towards the bar. Still standing beside this man that you understand to be a part of Chan's crew, but whose name you do not know. A few glances at him and you take in the sharp point to his nose, the immaculately styled press of his dark hair and the flashy, similarly decorated sleeve of his suit.
"Yo!"
The exclamation startles you from your thoughts, but suddenly another man has joined your tiny, makeshift bar group. Short but sturdy and with a big grin plastering his face, you can't help but take notice of the fact that his suit is not tailored properly—the man inside of it far too built for the allowances of the sleeves—and more than that, he appears far too thrilled to be here, comparatively speaking.
He steals the drink from the man seated, takes a strong sip from it, and before anyone has anything to say about it, he disappears back into the crowd.
Struck by awe and a little bit of confusion, you stare at the man still seated as he stares down at the glass once again placed into his hand. He grimaces, but still does not pay you any mind.
This person's disinterest in you, however, is soon to be the least of your problems.
Two men make their way towards you through the crowd, boxing you into place against them, the bar, and the other man that you know to be a hunter. They are both large, both clearly interested in starting some form of trouble, and with arms crossed and proximity looming over you, one of them says, "Hey, you going to take up space at the bar without ordering something? Or should we order something for you?"
The other one glances to his pal, a sinister smile curling into his lips. He says, "You at the bar, you gonna drink, them's the rules. What you say we make sure she starts following them?"
Nodding, the first seems delighted by the treacherous plan. "Yeah, I think I do like the idea of that. Him, too. He should be drinking, too."
Glances towards the guy sitting beside you, his eyes only shift up briefly to acknowledge the fact that he is being talked about. His hand remains lazily wrapped around a nearly-full glass, and slowly, he raises it upwards with seemingly little intention of actually drinking from it.
"Come on now," the increasingly pushy brute says, "If you're seated here, you need to drink. Drink it quickly, let's not waste everyone's time."
Bar rules such as these are not unheard of, and you are somewhat aware of the concept of them. However, seeing them be so strongly enforced in any establishment is not something you have ever experienced, and as a result, a prickling of discomfort begins to make itself known across your skin.
You swallow hard, but do not say a word. Your eyes shift to catch a glimpse of the bartender who has served this man, and just as quickly as you find him surveying the scene, he swiftly turns to look away.
A man checking on a plan he has set into motion. You know that look better than many.
Seemingly growing tired of being badgered, the crewmate once again drags the glass towards his mouth.
"Fine!" you all but yell, smiling and laughing with every bit of feigned amusement you can possibly dredge up. "I was hoping to take it easy tonight, but hey! Rules are rules, right?"
You snatch the glass out of his hand and without so much as a second thought, down the entirety of it in one, thoughtless go. It bangs against the bar as you set it down, gasping out in the aftermath of the bitter, unrefreshing taste. Everyone is looking at you with wide eyes and mouths agape—except for Chan's crewmate. He stares up at you unmoved by the display, if not minimally put off by it.
Additionally, the two men and the bartender continue looking at you in shock. They will not leave you even as the seconds tick by. Discomfort grows even more, because what was being asked of you has been carried out yet their interest does not appear to wane, and with an awkward chuckle you say, "What? Do I have to drink another one?"
You shift your stance, but your legs feel a bit more wobbly than you remember them being. As you look down in an attempt to assess the situation, you realize that your vision is blurring, eyelids heavier than they should be. This isn't the typical onset of alcohol in strength, nor speed. Terror begins to rip through you alongside whatever else you fear this might be, but you have no other option than to play it all as cool as you possibly can.
"Wow, guess I really am a lightweight, huh?"
"You have a good evening, ma'am," the second large man says, and as they begin their walk away, you watch Chan quickly fight his way through the crowd and back towards you.
"Getting a bad feeling about this," he says, concern dripping from his tone. His head dips in closer to yours, but the once dull, ambient sounds of your surroundings are closing in. It's difficult to make out the difference in words or noise, and no matter how many times you attempt to blink out the dizziness, it continues coming on in full force. Still, you manage to make out the words, he says, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Yeah," you gasp out, a light chuckle following it given how ridiculous the question feels to you right now. "I think I was drugged."
"What?"
"I think…" You attempt to repeat it, but your voice gets lost in your voice as your legs begin to give out beneath you.
Darting forward, Chan grips your arms to steady you and sets his attention on his friend. "What happened while I was gone?"
"She drank my drink," the man says, and from what you can hear, he does not seem to be all that bothered by it. "Must have been tampered with."
"That means they were trying to drug you," Chan concludes, "And that also means that our cover is blown—"
Before he has the chance to finish the statement, the sound of a small explosion and immense gunfire follows. The people all around them who once had every intention of enjoying their evening out suddenly begin screaming, running, dropping their glasses to the floor in an enormous stampede of unintelligible chaos.
Weakly grasping at the fabric of Chan's jacket, you look towards the staircase as the room clears out and three of his crew file downwards with guns ablaze.
"We've got to get out of here!" Chan says, pulling you back upwards in an attempt to get you on your feet. Your legs are shaky, the muscles giving out with even the smallest amount of pressure put on them. Thin, small gasps of air slip through your lips when you try to speak but no words come out, and when you look back up towards him, you can no longer make out the features of his face that once felt so familiar.
Consciousness is leaving you quickly, though you feel the movement of the man once sitting behind you as he gets up from his seat.
"Take this side!" Chan jostles you slightly, presumably towards the other person, but you do not feel the physical connection that is being demanded.
"Just leave her!"
"If we leave her here, she's dead!"
"We can't take her back with us, you know that! There's too much at stake!"
"She's going to die here, what are you saying?"
"Then so be it!"
Those words are the last that you hear. All of the sounds around you fade into nothing, and the vision you once had blurs into a dark nothingness.
Consciousness slowly returns to you, but what greets you first is the repeated, painful throb radiating in your skull.
You keep your eyes closed for the first few moments that you recognize you are awake, using your other senses to survey your surroundings. Wherever you are, it smells clean; the scent of sterilization wafting through the air alongside the barely noticeable powder of gloves. Through a lack of sight, you can still make out the blinding light of an overhead lamp through your eyelids, and accompanying its small flickers, the quiet buzz of electricity coursing through it.
The clattering of metallic tools comes next, from somewhere across the room. You do not dare move now that you know you are not alone here, but then, the stark, piercing beep of another device breaks through to your awareness.
"You're awake," a man says. You must be hooked up to this machine, something medical. Something that tells on you long before you have the option to do so yourself. The sound of a chair turning and rolling across the floor follows, as does your concern for what may happen to you next. "Don't make any sudden movements, take it easy."
"Where am I and who are you?" The question is biting, doing your best to still appear well within your ability to fight, should you need to. The truth behind that, however? You're not so sure. "You haven't killed me yet, so let's not do anything that might have me repaying that in a less than ideal way."
He sighs, clearly somewhat perturbed by your words, but then just says, "You're without weapons. Obviously we weren't going to take that chance."
"Who is we?"
Finally, you begin to open your eyes.
The light is blinding—as expected—but you do your best to adjust to it quickly. Sitting up slowly, you balance yourself on your elbows and turn to your left to watch as this strange man begins reaching out towards you, concern twisting his features.
"You really shouldn't move so much." He looks down at the digital chart held in his hand. "Your vitals are stable, but they're far from good."
"Are you going to answer any of my questions, or should I take my chances with strangling them out of you?"
The man sighs again, blinks slowly and says, "My name is Seungmin. You're aboard a ship named Adala, but I guess more important for you to know is that this is Chan's ship. I'm a part of his crew."
Matching his displeasure, you let out a similarly slow exhale and close your eyes once again.
"Why?"
"You don't remember?" Seungmin questions, "What do you remember from being back in the lounge?"
"Are you my doctor, or something?"
"For now, I'm the best you've really got."
Seungmin seems nice enough, and you suppose that if he had wanted you dead then you would not be partaking in this line of questioning, at all. If it is true that you are aboard Chan's ship then as far as strange places to end up, it's a pretty good option; There are far worse places you could have been left incapacitated. Which reminds you…
"I was standing by a guy at the bar—one of yours, I think—and then I started getting hassled by a couple of bouncers for taking up space there but not drinking. I didn't really think much of it, but they were being pretty persistent, it rubbed me the wrong way, made me feel like something was off about the whole situation. I took the other guy's drink out of his hand and drank it hoping they'd leave me alone, but I could tell by their faces that what I had done wasn't really the intended outcome."
Squinting, Seungmin continues watching you pensively, thinking over the information he has just been told. "Are you sure they were only asking you to drink? Were they not hounding Minho?"
"Minho?" you repeat, though once the name leaves your mouth you recognize precisely who is being referred to. The brainfog is still heavy, dissipating slowly and causing you to lag in ways that feel deeply distressing… You do not dare show it, however. "Uh, yeah, come to think of it. I think they were bothering both of us. When Chan came back I remember them talking a little. That the drink must have been spiked. That it must have been meant for the other guy."
Looking back down at his data panel, Seungmin opts out of a reply and instead begins inserting more data. Silence sweeps the room, as does the looming feeling inside of you that things are not as dealt with as your current consciousness might make you want to believe.
"Am I going to be all right?"
Unfortunately, before Seungmin has the opportunity to acknowledge the question, the door to the office swings open with an abrupt bang and another crew member that you only somewhat recognize stands within the doorway.
His hair is long and blonde, prettily framing his youthful face. He is draped in fitted black attire with numerous holsters for all sorts of weaponry. Most definitely one of the guys sent out on missions for handling the worst that they might come across.
One of the people seen heading up and then barrelling down the stairs with a gun in each hand.
"You're both requested on the bridge." His accent is heavy—similar to Chan's—and a voice so deep that it betrays his looks.
"She's hardly in any condition to be leaving her bed," Seungmin argues.
The man in the doorway shrugs and begins his walk back from where he came.
Rolling his eyes, Seungmin turns back to you and says, "Do you think you're okay to walk? We'll try to make it quick."
"Yeah, I think so," you say. "And besides, I want to get a good look at the guy that wanted to leave me to die."
As you and Seungmin make your way towards the bridge, it gives you the opportunity to take in the humble sights of what you learn to be an incredibly small ship.
From what you can gather, it has all of the necessary amenities that any ship and its crew may need, though comfort and spaciousness has been an afterthought within the plan. You wonder if you will be confined to the doctor's office for the remainder of your being stuck here—if there even is any other space for you here—and beyond that, if you will be granted the ability to stay amongst them as you recover, at all.
Recover from what, you can't help but wonder, too.
Thankfully, your journey is a short one, and as the doors shift open the first person you are able to lay your eyes on is Chan.
For a smaller crew, the space here may be ample, but there are too many bodies and you are not granted the gift of personal space that you would truly desire. You do not know these people, do not trust them, and most of all; you know that they do not trust you.
Looking to Chan's right, you spot the man of the hour. His voice still ringing loudly in your ears and his words of protest repeat like a devilish chant.
This man—the one you now know to be named Minho—does not look towards you. He stares ahead of himself into nothingness with his hands folded behind himself and the face of someone heavily displeased and having no qualms in showing it. The rest of the crew stand around fairly casually; talking amongst themselves and stealing curious glimpses of you as they do so.
You're not quite sure which approach to your being there appeals to you more.
"Right then," Chan finally says, turning to face you and the rest of his crew. "Clearly there are some things that need to be addressed. This mission went south fast, and we're lucky that we all got out of there in one piece, that said…"
He pauses, delicately glancing towards Minho before his eyes shift and firmly land on you.
"We have a temporary addition to this crew."
"The fuck we do," Minho says, the words biting and laced with vitriol. "She is no addition to this crew and we'll be dropping her at the next city we end up stopping in."
Murmurs fill the cramped room, everyone whispering amongst themselves. You cannot make out any one conversation, unsure of whether or not the rest of the members here agree with the man that hopes to dump you at the next possible hellscape. For all you know, their next stop could be your last. Not all of the ruined cities are recommended for people—even bounty hunters—to traverse alone.
And the most important aspect of remaining alive is knowing and understanding one's limitations.
"If I may," Seungmin pipes up, taking a step forward.
"You may not," Minho fires back, eyes narrow in apparent disgust.
"Might I remind you that I am the captain of this crew," Chan says, looking towards Minho once more. "I understand your apprehension in this decision, but she is not someone that we have previously had negative dealings with. Our next stop is only a couple of days away, you can deal with having someone you are unfamiliar with on board for that long, yeah?"
"No."
"You don't have the final say."
With rage bubbling up beneath your skin, you finally take a step forward—ahead of Seungmin—and staring directly at Minho you say, "Why were you so comfortable letting me die back there, anyway? I never did anything to you, I don't even know you! I'm friendly with your captain and we have never had a dangerous interaction, so why do I deserve to die for simply being in the wrong place, at the wrong time?" Another step forward then, one of your fists so tightly wound that your fingernails dig harshly into the skin of your palm. "Are you fucking crazy? What is wrong with you? I was drugged for you!"
"You were drugged for you," Minho spits, and with that he swiftly moves from his position and steps to be only inches from your face. The rage that you feel is mirrored in his eyes, the sort of anger that is palpable, that can seem tangible and hot to the touch. "A little push and you were happy to do whatever it took to get those guys off our back. You were careless and paid the price for it, I'm not going to let that become our problem. Actions have consequences," Minho says, and his face pushes even closer to yours, "And sometimes that means you have to die."
Before you have the chance at a reply, Minho is being pushed away from you by Seungmin, stepping in between both of your bodies. He looks back towards Chan with a gentle hand placed at your shoulder and says, "We need to speak privately, and soon. At your earliest convenience. We don't have time for this and it's not going to net any of us anything."
"I will find you at your office soon, as for the rest of you," Chan says, but not without a judging glance hauled in Minho's brooding direction, "You are dismissed. Try not to make tonight any more eventful than it already has been, yeah?"
Seungmin does not lead you back to his office, and instead, another member of the crew is tasked with the endeavor—the person that had earlier informed you of your required presence on the bridge—a man whose name you have now learned to be Felix.
Felix is kind and chatty, though you can tell that beneath it all is an unbridled sort of joy for havoc that you might not have anticipated from mere appearances alone. As you look him over and he talks about the ship, you recall the brief memory of him and two others littering previously unexpecting bodies with holes. You seem to remember there being something of a smile on his face while he had been unloading, though your recollection is spotty at best from the drugs, you think.
Still, he smiles a lot as he speaks to you, carrying on as if the two of you have known one another for a much longer period of time than you truly have. It's comforting to be in the company of a person who is not a doctor, nor outwardly wants you dead; Felix is much more like Chan indeed, and for that, you are thankful.
But through the thin enjoyment of your conversation with him, there is a nagging question that lingers on your mind. The discussion that Seungmin had been insisting upon with Chan, dire in his expression.
Felix finishes up a story about burning his chicken a few weeks back, and when the emptiness of silence finally offers you an opening, you take it.
"So, what was that back there? With Chan and Seungmin? He seemed pretty worried about it."
Looking at you with wide eyes, Felix shrugs as if it is neither here nor there and says, "Oh, who knows? Gotta be about you though, right? Why else would Seungmin of all people need to have a chat with him." He leans into you then, bumping you playfully with his shoulder. "Maybe you're contagious, maybe we're all going to die now."
Groaning, you don't think that to be the case. Surely not, right? But who knows…
The next, most obvious inquiry is one you're far less happy to be engaging in, but you have little option than to do so. Acquiring the necessary data to move forward with safety is non-negotiable in this line of work, and though you are not here for a hunt, you cannot help but feel as though you are, in some capacity, the one being hunted.
"And Minho?"
"Ah, that guy," Felix says through something of a laugh, as if already anticipating being asked this. "He's tough. I wish I could tell you that he'll warm up but he probably won't. It's not that he wanted you to die—"
"Sure as hell seemed that way from what I was hearing back there."
"I know." The two of you reach the office door, and stop just in front of it. Felix leans against the wall across the way, shoves his hands into the loose pockets of his black pants and sort of glances around the space, as if in search of the proper words to convey the feelings of his friend properly. "Minho's a little apprehensive of having new people around. He's got his reasons, ya know? Not that it will mean anything to you, but he's really not that bad once you get to know him. He's deeply loyal; caring and soft, and all that. There's a reason Chan took him as the lieutenant."
That information hits you like a truck, though it could very well be exacerbated by the exhaustion threatening to take your already weary body.
"Him being in any position of power does not feel like it bodes well for me here."
"He probably won't kill you, if that's what you're worried about." Felix shrugs. "He tries not to piss off Chan too much."
"Probably." You huff out a laugh that is threaded in disbelief. "Maybe it's in my best interest that you guys dump me at the next possible opportunity."
"Everyone has secrets," Felix says, shrugging himself off of the wall and turning to take his leave, "Some are just a little more important to keep that way."
The discomfort of your body begins to settle quickly as you make your way back to the small bed, and there is a concern that you might not make it in time with the way that your legs once again threaten to give out beneath you. As you hold up your weight against the mattress, your arm shakes, nearly dropping you down without the chance to make yourself comfortable. You've barely been out since waking up, and already your body is telling you that you do not have the strength to bear much more.
Your heavy eyelids can no longer be fought, and you drift out of consciousness once more.
Time is lost to you, and when you wake once more, the room is shrouded in unrelenting darkness.
But you recall passing out without turning the lights off, meaning that someone has been here since your entry. For a split second, terror bolts through your veins at what this could mean for your safety. You know that Minho wants you dead, and Felix's barely there insistence that he will not take matters into his own hands has done little to stave off the fear that nestles in your mind.
For all you know, he could be hiding in the shadows right now.
You hear voices, and the sound strikes just that much more fear within you. Frozen in place, you focus on what you can make out of it; they are muffled, two people speaking, and much to your satisfaction, they are surely coming from outside of the room.
Listening further, you try to make out who they may be coming from. Your senses are foggy from having just woken up and the lethargy that still grips onto you tightly. Nothing that once felt second nature comes easily to you now, and you cannot help but wonder if this is your new and unfortunate normal.
Putting those thoughts out of your mind, you focus harder. One is Seungmin, you are fast to conclude, the memory of his cadence still at the forefront of your mind. The other is one that you recognize, though not as easily. You listen more, trying your best to make out anything from the conversation until finally, it dawns on you who the thin but insistent voice belongs to.
"Whatever she drank back there has already dug itself too deeply into her system," Seungmin says, to the best of your understanding. You sit up despite how difficult it feels to do so, and crane your neck out towards the door. "I don't know what to say, I've never been in a situation like this," he continues, and only now can you make out the saddened desperation of his tone.
"She's going to die. I don't think there's anything that can be done," he concludes.
This information, this sort of tragic finality to the words being spoken, washes over you in an incomprehensible, heavy wave. You blink through the thoughts that follow, as if it will do anything in helping them disappear or change your fate, and stare down into the darkness where your hands rest atop your lap.
But then, Minho speaks.
"Good riddance," he says, curt and careless. "That's one problem solved, and without so much as an ounce of blood on my own hands."
heyyy so this is super super random but way back you had a Wattpad book for skz that ended up getting taken down and there were so many good stories on there, so I was just wondering if you have somewhere else where all of those are posted?
anyways you're amazingggggg never stop what you do queen
hellooooo!
yes I remember that tragedy😭currently the only way to read them all is over on my instagram @lixiesfreckles_ , the more recent of which are on this blog. if there's any specific one you're looking for, I can always send you a link!
The only reason why I don't want to post a lot of them on here is because they're no longer considered my best works by FAR, but if you want to read them in this format I would be willing to cross post, at request <3
SUMMARY: Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.
WC: 29,988
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst
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.
WARINGS: Full warnings available under the cut.
A/N: This fic was posted on my original blog which has been deleted. I am now reposting it. I hope it does half as well as it did when I originally posted this story - thank you to everyone who left amazing feedback the first time. It genuinely made me so happy and I am so sorry that it got sent to the moon where I can no longer read it.
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic and @eoieopda for beta-reading this fic.
MASTERLIST | FULL COLLECTION | ASK | PLAYLIST | NEXT | MOODBOARD
Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!
KWON SOONYOUNG IS CRYING THE FIRST TIME YOU MEET HIM. It’s a loud, warbling cry that you’re not used to, and you flinch at the pitch as you hide behind your mother. Soonyoung and his mother are standing in the grand foyer of your home, his fists twisted in her tweed skirt as he begs her not to leave him.
His mother sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. You’ve seen her around before on the arm of her husband at your family dinner parties and for afternoon tea with your mom. This is the first time you’ve seen Soonyoung, though, and you’re unimpressed as his shrieking only gets louder when she crouches down to look him in the eye fondly, brushing the tears from his face.
You don’t know a lot of other kids, but the noisiness of him startles you. Unsettles you. Sensing your unease, your mother reaches to pull you from behind her, giving you a single look that you know means please behave. You straighten immediately, turning to watch the sniffling boy as he calms down.
Soonyoung is round-cheeked, his dark eyes swollen and face reddened from working himself up. His mother murmurs something to him and he nods, wiping the snot from his face with the back of his hand.
Seungcheol must notice the crying has stopped. He appears from the kitchen, giving Soonyoung an unimpressed once over as he strides toward you and your mother. She clucks her tongue at the cheek of her eleven year old, giving him a hard look.
“Seungcheol, don’t be rude,” she admonishes. “Greet our guests properly.”
Your older brother glances at you and you lift a shoulder. He’s going to lead the family one day, it’s important for him to show manners. You know this even at a young age - have always known what his place is among your family, what your place is.
Cheol is in line to become the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, an empire that you cannot fathom at your age but you know is important. You are its insurance, a second heir if something happens to the first and a bargaining chip for future partnerships. A potential logician, if you’re good enough.
Turning to Soonyoung and his mother, Seungcheol bows politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung. Are you here to play video games?”
Soonyoung perks up at that, looking at his mom, eyes going round. She grins and nods her head, pulling her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. “He is,” she agrees. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends.” Her gaze drifts to you. “All three of you.”
That makes you frown. You don’t really like playing video games. Seungcheol never lets you win and forces you to play for hours in exchange for him letting you borrow his AetherLink at night to scroll the internet. You’re not allowed to have one yet, even though you’re only four years younger and all of your other friends have them to enter virtual chat rooms and play online games.
“Do I have to?” you ask your mom, looking up at her.
“Yes,” she says firmly, gently nudging you by the shoulder toward where your brother is not so patiently waiting to escort you to the gaming room. “Go.”
“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, pouting a little.
“I’m not any good.”
“That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.”
Seungcheol moans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!”
“No way!”
Seungcheol grins and shoots off toward the gaming room, Soonyoung hot on his heels. You hesitate for a moment, staring after them with indignation. Soonyoung stops at the doorway, turning to you. His face is still ruddy from crying, but he’s suddenly smiling, cheeks round and smooth.
“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.”
“Holy fuck, can you let me win for once?” Soonyoung groans, rolling over on the mat. He’s dripping in sweat, wiping it away from his brow as he stands with effort.
Grinning, you skip away from him, reaching for your water bottle. Music pounds through the speakers of the training room. Overhead, the blue neon casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Seungcheol ignores you both in favor of using the weight machines in the far corner of the room.
On the far wall, your health and fitness data is displayed, each one of your bodies outlined and flashing as new data comes in. Right now, you’re in the red zone, heart pounding hard from your bout with Soonyoung, who is in the orange zone.
Which confirms your suspicion that he’s not trying as hard as he could be.
“Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me,” you offer. The water helps cool you down as you eye Soonyoung. Even at fourteen, he’s started to fill out his form more, arms corded as he hones himself into a weapon. “You’re not going to hurt me.”
Seungcheol scoffs from across the room. Maybe he wasn’t totally ignoring the two of you. He drops his cool-older-kid act to turn and grumble, “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.”
The nickname makes you bristle. You hate when people point out that you’re the baby of the family, like you’re something less than or incapable of keeping pace. You especially hate it when Seungcheol uses it to put you in your place, reminding you that one day your shithead older brother is going to be leading the family business.
The family business is the reason you spar with them at all. Occasionally Vernon joins, though those days are as unpredictable as his appearances. Usually when he’s over at your house, it’s never a good thing. His arrivals are always bracketed with the sound of his father’s manic yelling and his mother’s frantic begging, followed closely by slammed doors and your father’s calming voice.
Today it’s just the three of you, though. Soonyoung comes over and sits on the mat by your feet, holding a hand up to you. You pass him your water bottle, rolling your eyes at him even though it doesn’t really bother you.
Nothing Soonyoung does really bothers you. Since that first day he showed up at your house sobbing because his mother was leaving him for the day, he’s grown on you. More than grown on you, in fact. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t noticed your lingering gazes and the way he flusters you when he gets too close, and you hope to keep it that way.
“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung offers gently, voice low over the metal clang of Seuncheol’s weights. “And it’s not ‘cause I don’t think you can’t take it,” he adds with a grin, bumping his shoulder against your leg. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.”
“Everyone treats me like a baby.”
“You are. But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone says how high. Even my dad.”
That makes you smirk a little. You look at the floor, letting his words wash over you. They do ring true - there’s no one in the Syndicate who would deny you anything, and though you’re utterly terrified of Soonyoung’s dad, he would do anything for you. In a way, it was the Kwon family’s divine purpose to be by the side of the Chois.
“What about you?” you ask.
“What about me?”
“Jump.”
Soonyoung grins and sets the water bottle down, getting up to his feet at your command. “How high, Baby?”
Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear on the day of his parents’ funeral. He’s a far cry from the little boy who showed up at your house to play video games and become friends.
Instead, he sits in silence, eyes raging - always raging, now. You don’t think the fury stops, his gaze burning the entire ceremony. His grip on your hand is like iron, and after a while, your arm tingles with pins and needles. You say nothing, willing to endure. Eventually, your arm goes numb entirely, and he keeps holding your hand.
Afterward, Soonyoung says nothing. You do the talking for him, accepting the hand shakes and bows on his behalf when he doesn’t reach out to accept them, thanking those who have come to offer him condolences and respect when he doesn’t speak.
His grip on you is steadfast. Iron and fire. Even when your father drops his gaze down with a look of disapproval, Soonyoung doesn’t let go and you don’t ask him to. If there’s any day that you can break decorum and tradition, it’s certainly now in the wake of Soonyoung’s loss.
They don’t need to know you’d let him hold you anyway.
The boy who existed before the murder of his parents is dead. You knew it before the funeral. But when the last guest finally leaves the Choi Estate and Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear, you realize it isn’t just his parents that you’ve buried.
The sweet, gentle boy who had cried those tears for fear of his mother leaving him has died too. And you don’t think you’ll ever see him again.
-
“You want me to do what?” Soonyoung asks, pulling you into his room and looking out the cracked door to make sure no one else is around. “Where is your brother?”
“I have no idea.”
“You can’t just- ” Soonyoung fumbles for words as he shuts the door and takes a few steps past you into his room proper. It’s dark, safe for the glow of his AetherLink glowing with a paused video game. “Did he see you follow me up here?”
“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.”
“I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.”
You frown. “Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”
“Oh don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan. She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.”
You cross your arms over your chest, caving in on yourself a little. Maybe it was a stupid idea to ask Soonyoung after all. But you can’t get over the way all of the other girls were clinging to Lin’s every word as she spilled the details of sleeping with Jeonghan. Everyone else in your friends group had at least made out with boys - you had nothing.
Being the daughter of the leader of the Choi Syndicate has its benefits. Being accessible to do things like kissing boys and going out with your friends to new cool clubs like Echo Space and Hyper Vibe were not one of them. Getting any of the boys your age to even look you in the eye was impossible, the fear of catching the wrath of Seungcheol and your father looming over them like the Sword of Damocles.
Soonyoung is Soonyoung, though. Your father has brought him into the fold like one of his own, keeping his oath to Soonyoung’s parents to always watch over him and protect him. You’re old enough now to understand that the bonds between higher members of the Syndicate are bonds of faith and blood, of family and something more.
If anyone shouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, it’s Soonyoung. He lives down the hall from you, and he’s best friends with your brother. It wouldn’t be that weird. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you lay awake in your bed at night while you stared at the ceiling, fingers trailing your lips.
Now, you’re not so sure. The way Soonyoung recoils makes you realize you hadn’t thought of the single most important thing before marching in here and asking him to be your first kiss: maybe Soonyoung didn’t want to kiss you.
It hadn’t even crossed your mind - one of the many downsides to getting mostly everything you wanted. You’re so infrequently told no that in the light of rejection, you don’t know what to do, recoiling like you’ve been mortally wounded.
Nodding your head, you turn away from Soonyoung, throat tightening as the new wave of emotions threatens to spill over. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Baby,” he sighs. You ignore him, bolting for the door. Soonyoung is fast, though. He snatches your arm and drags you back toward him, though you turn your face away from him to hide the evidence of oncoming tears. “Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.”
“Would you look at me?”
“No.”
He sighs heavily. “Why are you being so difficult?”
Trying to wrench your arm from his hold is useless. He’s not hurting you, but the grip on your bicep is firm. “Well if I’m so difficult then let me go.”
“Baby.” The frustration in his voice is evident. You ignore the way your nickname rolls off his tongue, the way he’s the only person you don’t absolutely hate the name from.
“Just let me go!”
“No. Why do you want me to kiss you?”
The question is like nails against chalkboard now, your embarrassment peaking. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!”
“Fuck - are you crying?”
“No.”
“Baby, look at me.”
Too afraid that the wavering in your voice will give you away, you shake your head, refusing to turn and face him. With a growl, he gives a sharp tug on your arm, spinning you toward him. You let out a noise of protest, ready to lash out at him again when you feel his mouth on yours.
Startled, you don’t do anything at first. Soonyoung’s grip is still on your bicep, firm and steadfast. Your eyes blink for a second before they flutter closed, unsure exactly what to do beyond lean into him a little, pressing your lips firmer to his.
It’s somehow exactly what you expected and totally unexpected at the same time. Soonyoung’s mouth is softer than you were ready for, slotted gently against yours. He’s warm and smells like vanilla and sandalwood, a scent you’ve grown familiar with. Your thoughts peter out, enjoying the way he holds you to him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
When Soonyoung pulls away, you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, your breath shaky. He doesn’t pull back very far, looking down at you with a dark gaze. This close, you can see the real Soonyoung. His expression is soft, eyes sparkling in the blue light of his room. He looks so young suddenly, all of the rage and wrath that lurks under the surface of the calm mask he wears gone for just a moment.
“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. His mouth twitches at the corner, an almost smile. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.”
He opens and closes his mouth again, trying to find words. You wait him out, heart thudding. He’s still holding you close to him, fingers digging desperately into your arm.
Footsteps thundering up the stairs wake him from his daze, Seungcheol calling your name. Soonyoung drops his hand and steps away from you, a cool mask of calm sliding into place, the vulnerability gone in an instant. “There’s your kiss,” he murmurs. “Is there anything else you need from me or do I need to jump too?”
Synth pulses through you, vibrating your very bones as you lounge on the velvet couch in a private section of the club. The lights above you are hazy, but you can make out the shapes of holographic dancers, their graphics so high definition that you can see the sweat beading down their bare backs.
From the VIP section, you have the perfect view of the DJ platform. Screens flash behind it, holographic wonders of creatures and places and visuals flashing brightly. Writhing bodies twist on the dancefloor around the DJ like a pit of snakes. Among them, you know your father’s Taps slither among the crowd, pushing drugs and psychedelics into the hands of those who can afford it.
A trained eye can spot a Tap well enough. Though they blend in with the nylon and leather of the partiers, they tend to be sharp eyed and lucid, chewing on stim pops or some other substance to keep them awake and alert.
It’s not the drug dealers in the crowd who keep drawing your attention, though. You shouldn’t be able to spot Soonyoung in the mass of bodies so easily, but you do. His hair is bleached, reflecting the flashing lights around him as he presses in close to the girl attached to him, hips swaying.
Your mouth sours. Leaning forward you snatch one of the bottles from the ice bucket and pour a shot into a crystal glass. Angel raises her brows as you slide the glass over to her and pour another for yourself. She’s not much of a drinker, but she takes the glass wordlessly, sensing your need to have a partner in crime.
Knocking it back, you hiss as the liquor burns all the way back. Even the high grade alcohol is like fire, washing away your irritation for a dizzy moment, veins buzzing. Leaning back, your eyes scan the crowd and settle on Soonyoung again. This time, he’s leading his partner through the crowd and toward the stairs. The stairs that lead to you.
Seungcheol and Wonwoo crashing onto the seat next to you breaks your concentration. Seungcheol’s pupils are wide as saucers, eyes trailing upward to dance at the visual of a woman with pink skin sliding out of her top.
Next to him, Wonwoo pulls a small bag with glittering dust from his pocket, shaking it to settle all of the contents at the bottom before unsealing the top. The way the powder glows against the lights tells you its high quality frostbyte, a powerful stimulant named for the biting feeling when inhaled.
Instead of yelling over the music, you gesture toward the bag, catching Wonwoo’s attention. He gives you a surprised look followed by a wolfish grin. Wonwoo loves when you partake in partying harder, a side everyone so rarely sees from you.
Sliding a knife from his pocket, you watch with rapt attention as Wonwoo dips it into the baggie, scooping delicately. You’d rather he cut lines on the table, but you’ll take what you can get, watching as he expertly fishes out a decent sized amount for you to take.
You’re mutely aware that a group of bodies enters your section. Vernon throws himself down next to Angel, jostling you both as you lean over Seungcheol’s half-asleep form toward where Wonwoo extends the knife toward you carefully. You ignore the weight of Soonyoung’s eyes on you as he, Mingyu and a group of girls sit down and reach to fill their glasses with liquor.
Wonwoo’s hands are steady as he holds the tip of his blade out to you, a hand held underneath to catch any powder that slips off the blade. Careful not to lose your balance and stab yourself, you level your face with the knife, inhaling sharply.
Immediately the drug bites the back of your throat, eyes watering as you tilt your head upwards and blink for a second, letting it settle. Sniffing harshly a few times, you clear your nasal passage and blow out a breath, feeling the softest beginning of a tingle as you look at Wonwoo, who is still holding his hands out to you.
“Thanks,” you nod. He grins and pulls back, rubbing the excess powder along his gums as you fall heavily against the back of the booth.
Turning to look at your brother, you elbow him. “Are you alive?”
“Mhmm,” he grunts, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Lights dance across his face, all pinks and blues and purples as he breathes in heavily. “I am fucked right now. Can you get me a stim pop from Hoshi? If I do anymore frostbyte I’m gonna get a nosebleed. Again.”
Actually, asking Soonyoung for anything is the last thing you want to do. However, your brother does look like he needs to wake up, the mess of drugs and alcohol in his system working overtime to put him on his ass. Stim pops are a quick fix, a careful mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate to wake up the nervous system. Soongyoung always has them on his person, especially for when he works late night shifts.
Turning in the booth, you’re smacked with a wave of color. For a moment, you drink it in, tilting your head upward as the figures dancing above explode into a world of lavender butterflies. They’re utterly captivating, your eyes watching them twist and dance in the air as they flutter.
A laugh bubbles from your lips, entirely childlike. Grinning, you watch them for a few moments more before they disintegrate into stars, entire solar systems hovering and floating through the space above your head.
Seungcheol elbowing you breaks you from your concentration. Right. Stim pop. From Soonyoung. Glancing at the man in question makes your stomach plummet. Soonyoung’s head is resting against the back of the booth, the girl next to him draped over him with her mouth pressed hot to his throat, her teeth overly white in the blacklight of the club.
A surge of rage shivers through you, your nails scratching across the green velvet, leaving marks in their wake. Leaning forward, you reach out a hand and smack Vernon’s knee to get his attention. He turns his lazy gaze on you, brows raised. When you point at Soonyoung, he nods and yells over his shoulder to get your target’s attention.
Soonyoung’s eyes flutter open and flick to where you’re sitting. He drinks in your expression before muttering something to the woman mouthing at his neck and peels her off, standing up and shuffling over to you. Angel makes room for him, all but sliding into Vernon’s lap as Soonyoung crashes down on the couch next to you.
“Hi, Baby. What’s up?”
“Cheol needs a stim pop,” you answer curtly, leaning away from him. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood laced with alcohol. Soonyoung is so close you can feel his body heat, his breath fanning across your bare shoulder as he moves to look at Seungcheol half asleep on your other side. “Then you can go back to your little public sex session.”
Soonyoung makes an angry cat noise, narrowing his eyes at you as he smirks. He leans toward you further to reach into his pocket, shoulder pressed against you. His scent fills your nose, heady and familiar. You’re dizzy with it, the touch of his warmth against your skin making you flush.
Suddenly, his nearness is overwhelming. Every hair on the back of your neck stands on end, your skin hypersensitive to the way he leans against you. The glow of the lights is sharper than you remember, and you swear you feel the blood rushing through your body.
A response that could be either because of the drugs you inhaled a moment ago or because Soonyoung is pressed against you and you have the sudden urge to lean into him, to feel his warmth, to press your lips against his and feel their softness.
In an attempt to save yourself from the trap, you shove back at him. He huffs, glaring at you as he fishes a stim pop out of his pocket and hands it over to you. You’re careful to avoid his touch when you snatch it from his nimble fingers, turning your back on him in the booth to look at Seungcheol.
“Why are you being a brat?” His voice is loud over the music, shouted into your ear as he tilts back into your space again. You can feel the warmth of him on your back.
“Go away.”
“Baby, please don’t start with me.”
“I’m not starting fuck with you.”
Seungcheol cracks an eye open to observe your argument with a look of interest. Seungcheol’s pupils are dilated like moons, totally empty of any coherent thought. You peel the wrapper off the stim pop, careful to hold it by the cardboard stick as you pop it into your brother’s mouth.
For a few moments, your brother lolls the candy around his mouth, sucking greedily. Then, he blinks his eyes open, pupils narrowing as he drinks in the lights and the clubs. He sighs in relief, patting your thigh gratefully as the stimulant chases away whatever else is washing him out.
When you turn around, Soonyoung is still lingering, his dark eyes fierce and focused only on you. He looks good tonight. He looks good every night. He has become your picture perfect torture since that night you asked him to be your first kiss, kickstarting something you were incapable of foreseeing.
The bleached hair is new and you hate how much you like it. The silvery strands look just as soft as his natural black, and it’s a nice contrast to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Those stormy eyes are staring at you now, something playful that you don’t like glittering under the surface.
He pouts at you. “Why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you. Go away!”
“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.”
“Please fuck off.”
He rolls his eyes, peeling himself off the couch and muttering something under his breath. You’re sure he has nothing nice to say, so you sink further into the couch, crossing your hands over your chest as you sulk.
Sticky air clings to your skin. You can feel your heart racing in your chest, the music vibrating your ribcage. Your anger is like a monster given life, fueled by the frostbyte and the feverish anger taking root in your stomach as Soonyoung settles back in his spot, pressing his mouth sloppily to the woman next to him.
And that’s the problem, really. It’s not you that is pressing your mouth to his jaw while he leans against the back of the seat. It isn’t you running manicured nails down the front of his shirts, pulling at buttons despite the audience.
It isn’t you and it should be. You want it to be.
It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you for the first time in his room. You’ve had more experience with other people since then, but it dulls in comparison to his simple kiss. You hate it. What you hate even more is how childish it makes you feel, embarrassment heating your cheeks and throat when he catches your gaze across the booth and you divert your attention.
For the second time, Soonyoung peels the girl off of him, making like he’s going to get up and come sit next to you again. This time, his companion keeps him rooted to the spot, her nails digging into his forearm as she hisses something at him. He groans, head tilted back like he’s once again the most inconvenienced man in the room.
Wanting nothing more than to blot him out, you call Wonwoo’s name again, leaning forward heavily for more frostbyte. Soonyoung whistles and snaps his finger in your direction as though to tell you no. You bristle, your anger turning to an inferno, burning up inside of you.
Vernon and Angel both cringe, leaning out of your line of fire as you swivel to angle yourself toward Soonyoung, hands shaking. “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”
“Baby, you don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”
Mingyu, though right next to Soonyoung, doesn’t hear the insult, his tongue being sucked down the throat of the girl sitting in his lap, hips grinding on him. Another girl is pressed to his side, teeth nipping at his jaw. At least someone is having fun, you think, the three of them totally aware of the crackling tension in their booth.
The girl attached to Soonyoung’s neck a moment ago bristles when she hears your nickname. “Baby?” she asks, face scrunching. “Are you serious?”
“Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”
“Yeah,” you agree, shooting her a venomous look, despite her doing nothing to earn your ire. “Chill, Victra.”
Once again, you turn your back on Soonyoung, standing and scooting Seungcheol over to swap places with him. He does so with a keen eye, watching the scene unfold as he sucks his lollipop happily, content to watch the drama.
Wonwoo dips his knife into the bag as you settle in next to him, bouncing with excitement. “I love when you do drugs, you’re so much fun.”
“I don’t feel very fun right now.”
“Drugs will fix it!”
“Wonwoo, don’t you dare give her that,” Soonyoung warns. He pries Victra’s hands off of him, leaning forward as though to reach across the table.
“Ignore him,” you insist.
Wonwoo hesitates, stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last thing he wants to do is tell you no. No one but your father and older brother get to tell you no. Wonwoo knows this better than most people. But he also doesn’t want to cross Soonyoung, a venture nearly as dangerous as pissing off Seungcheol.
Soonyoung hisses at the girl next to him, “Stop clawing at me! Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one. ”
“Why the fuck did you even bring me up here?” Victra interrupts, ignoring Soonyoung’s plea. “You’ve done nothing but fawn over her since we got here. This isn’t fun.”
Soonyoung ignores her. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove a point and be a bitch, though.”
“I’m not proving fuck, Soonyoung. And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”
“So it is about her?”
“I have a name!” The her in question snaps. You turn around, temper flaring as you level your glare at her. She turns her nose up at you as she says, “It’s obvious you’re bothered he brought me here. Your jealousy is insufferable.”
“Ding, ding ding,” Seungcheol imitates a bell. You turn around to look at Victra. “Round one! Fight!”
It takes a second for Victra’s words to land. It’s like each one hits you a second apart, packing their own punch as you register them. The pulsing music around you fades to a dull roar as you stare at her, seeing the way her lips twitch upward as she realizes she’s right. You are jealous that Soonyoung brought her up here.
Victra’s grin is all it takes for you to spill over. Before you can register what you’re doing, you’re out of your seat and leaping over the table at her, knocking over glasses and bottles. Wonwoo cheers in delight behind you as your brother catches you by the waist, trying to keep you on your side of the booth as you tear at his hands to get across the booth.
Seeing the attack of opportunity while you’re subdued, Victra shoots to her feet. Angel is fast as an adder, one moment sitting in Vernon’s lap and the next striking Victra down into the booth, knee planted in her stomach. Vernon does nothing to stop his girlfriend, opting instead to reach for a water bottle, unscrewing it to take a sip as his girlfriend pins Victra down to the seat with little effort.
Noticing for the first time that their friend is in distress, the two women with Mingyu lift their heads. As soon as one starts to slide from his lap to reach for Angel, you kick a foot out, striking the bucket of alcohol and ice. The bucket goes flying at her, hitting her hard in the face. She screams, crumbling in Mingyu’s lap, cradling her face.
Mingyu and Soonyoung are on their feet in seconds, soaked from the waist down and trying to gain control of the situation as it spirals. Mingyu becomes a blockade between Victra’s two friends, trying to keep them on their side of the booth. Soonyoung is prying a bottle from a hand before it can make its way toward you, yelling something indecipherable.
Angel is still pressing her knee deep into Victra’s gut. Victra’s attention has diverted from you entirely as she screams like a wounded animal, pushing and scratching at Angel’s knee to try and get her off. You’re sure it hurts, but Angel doesn’t budge, sinking her weight into it.
Leaning down, you grab something to lob at them - someone’s shoe - but Seungcheol manages to haul you off your feet and spin you, planting you into the booth behind him. You growl, shoving at his legs to move him out of the way, trying to re-engage.
“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “Are you fucking juicing? Why are you so strong?”
“It’s the drugs,” Wonwoo offers unhelpfully. “Really top of the line drugs.”
“Shut up, Wonwoo!” Both you and Seungcheol bark at the same time.
Wonwoo holds up his hands, leaning back into the seat as he watches the mess unfold with a delighted grin. You strike out with your foot, slamming against the booth’s table, shoving it in Soonyoung’s direction. You hear glass shatter as more things fall off the table, clattering to the ground. There are shrieks and curses that you can’t see with Seungcheol blocking the way.
“He’s a fucking asshole!” You seethe to your brother, panting with rage.
“He is, and you did exactly what he wanted you to do.” You try to kick the table again but he stops you, grabbing your knee. You feel like you can’t get enough air, sweat slicking your skin and the velvet of the couch too sharp against your flesh. “Soonyoung loves a fight when he’s fucked up. You know that.”
“Well fuck him!”
He pulls the stick from his mouth, candied stim gone. He tosses it onto the floor and looks over his shoulder where Mingyu and Soonyoung are corralling the three women out of the booth. “God, Angel broke that girl's rib I think. Hahahha!”
“I want to break her fucking face!”
“I think you broke her friend's face. She is fucked up. That bucket hit her right in the eye. What a shot.”
“If you’re so entertained, why’d you get in my way?”
“There’s a lot of eyes here.” You glance around, noticing other booths looking at you, people ducking toward one another to whisper. “You have an image to maintain.”
Adjusting your shirt, you settle back into the booth. “Alright. Alright I’m good.”
When Seungcheol moves out of the way to take a seat, Soonyoung replaces him. You glare up at him, feeling your anger curl up in you again. His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk as he sits down next to you, sighing heavily and tilting his head to look up at the flashing lights.
The girls are nowhere to be found. Angel is sitting back down next to Vernon who hasn’t moved, and there are servers picking up the mess you made. Mingyu is notably absent, though you can guess where he’s gone for the night. He’s good at making scorned lovers feel better about their bad luck.
“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung notes, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he glances at you sidelong. “I kind of like it.”
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you warn. He laughs, the fight totally leaving him. “I’m serious. Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.”
“Alright, alright. When you say jump, right?”
Soonyoung’s fingers brush against yours. Just the rough feeling of his calluses against the tips of your fingers has you shivering, anger replaced with want. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t move to do anything else but lean back in silence with your fingers touching.
Resigned, you say nothing else to him. You’d got what you wanted - sort of - even if you know you made an ass out of yourself doing it. It isn’t the first time he’s made you jealous, but it is the first time it’s boiled over so violently.
You remind yourself not to do frostbyte when you’re mad anymore.
You turn your attention to where Angel is snorting frostbyte up her nose off of her boyfriend’s phone, accidentally turning on the hologram as she does, her face suddenly caged by green screen data. You call her name gently. She looks up at you, pupils blown, reflecting the lights dancing above like dark glass. “Thanks,” you offer.
Her grin is too wide, teeth too white. She reminds you of a demon more than she does an angel. “Anytime.”
When you settle back in, you glance at Soonyoung once. He looks down at you, smirking a single time before he leans into you and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel him melt into you, sighing as his eyes close and he nuzzles a little closer. You put your hand on his thigh, squeezing once before you leave it there, feeling the heat of his skin through his pants.
It isn’t until he’s almost asleep, pressed as close as possible to you that you realize maybe he got what he wanted too.
Rain washes over the black city, the mist turning the thousands of digital and holographic advertisements into a watercolor smear of neon. It smells wet and like rot, the drains overworked and belching water and trash back out into the street as you walk, feet splashing.
You quickly duck out of the way of a group of rowdy men spilling from a bar. You can smell the drink on them, their feet sloshing in the rising water of the street as they dredge toward the next bar. They whistle at the pretty girls dressed in light up raincoats and flickering green contacts, stumbling toward a brothel instead of the bar.
Gripping your umbrella tighter, you quicken your steps. Grease smoke drifts toward you from various hawker carts, the sizzle of meat making your stomach growl. You ignore them, knowing you have dinner with your family later as you take a corner and plunge into the darkness of an underground stairwell.
The LEDs on your umbrella cast a pink light as you descend the stairs, careful not to slip on the caked grime. Two guards stand outside metal double doors, music pulsing faintly behind it. They look you up and down, ready to deny entry until you state your name at the bottom of the steps.
“ID?” the one on the right asks, giving you a critical eye.
Of course he doesn't believe you. The daughter of the Tower would never walk anywhere without a body guard, especially in this part of the city. You spin the umbrella, the pink coalescing as he takes the phone from your hand and taps it, blue lighting up his face when your ID and profile appear in holographic data above the screen.
He clears his throat and bows at the waist. When his counterpart doesn’t, he smacks him hard on the back, making the man lean over. “Apologies, Miss Choi. Right this way.”
Music hits you full on when the doors open, the base creating static in the air. You cringe as it vibrates through your ribcage and teeth, wondering how anyone could stand to be in a club this loud. Popping the umbrella shut, you let your eyes adjust while one security guard remains at the door, shutting it behind you, and the other hands you your ID.
“Should I escort you to the office, Miss?”
Writhing bodies dance together, scintillating like snakes in a pit. Above them, lasers and holograms light up the world with flashes of colors you didn’t even know existed. A wide bar stretches to the left of the floor, lit up by soft cyan lights. Behind it, the bartenders move in a blur, the glow on their clothes turning them ethereal.
You glance at the security guard, who waits patiently before shaking your head. You point to the space above the bar where there are two large, mirrored windows looking out into the club. “Up there?”
“Yes,” he answers, hesitating. “Let me escort you.”
With a roll of your eyes you nod, gesturing to him to lead the way. He clears a path, clubbers and workers alike moving out of his way when he shoves them. You walk behind him, swinging your head from side-to-side as you look at the people, fascinated.
People with spikes pierced in their skin and whorling tattoos with glow ink stare back at you, glowing contact lenses and gemmed teeth all taking you in. You rarely get to mix in with the crowd that partakes in more unique cosmetic alterations and fashion, fascinated by someone who walks by with red glowing face tattoos like a demon mask.
At the foot of the stairs, the guard lets you walk up first. It’s clear of people, so he remains standing at the bottom, taking up an imposing position with his hands linked in front of him, blocking the stairway entirely.
The thud of music vibrates through your boots as you climb the stairs, greeting another security guard. You can tell he’s already been warned you’re here - he bows immediately and keys in the pad at the door, opening the office for you.
You pass by him airily, stepping into the dry and much cooler office. The door closes behind you, immediately cutting off the sound with high–tech sound proofing. Soonyoung is leaning against the bar, his back to the door as he watches out the windows, a glass in his hand.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder. You grin, skipping over to him. He doesn’t grin back, looking you up and down as you join him. You reach for the decanter he’s drinking from but he smacks your hand, viper fast. “Not a chance.”
“What? Why not?”
“You shouldn’t be here, much less without a security team. The Tower will be livid.”
“The Tower doesn’t have to know.”
Soonyoung’s jaw flexes. “The security team will tell him you were here.”
“Not if you tell them not to.”
“Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. You lean against the bar, watching him. The lights from the club are dimmer in here, but they flash against his face, painting him in golden light. He’s beautiful. “What are you doing here?”
“Angel said you had a bad day.”
“I always have a bad day. And tell Angel to shut her mouth.”
You snort. “You tell her that.”
That gets a grin out of him. He lowers his head, dark gaze finding yours. “You can’t just walk around the Lower City without a personal guard, Baby.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know you’re not. I’m not either but people try to rob me all the time. You, on the other hand, are a lot prettier of a prize than I am.”
“So you think I’m pretty?”
This time when Soonyoung sighs, it’s affectionate. He sips his glass of amber liquid, turning to watch the crowd outside the office. He holds out his glass to you, a concession. You grin further, accepting it from him and bring it up to your nose to smell. You don’t know anything about liquor, but from the spiced scent you can tell it’s good quality.
You take a tiny sip. It goes down smooth - strong, but good and warm. Instead of giving him the glass back, you cradle it to your chest, leaning against the bar next to him close enough that your arms are almost touching. He continues looking out at the crowd, keen eyes serious and back to work while you look at him.
Soonyoung is beautiful. His side profile is lethal, the slope of his neck elegant, the curve of his jaw sharp but delicate, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the snatches of light that come through the dark windows.
“Did you come here to stare at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the crowd.
“What if I said I did?”
His mouth twitches at the corner. “Unfortunately I would believe you.”
Watching over clubs isn’t usually Soonyoung’s job. But this club is in a terrible part of the city and isn’t worth much to the Choi Syndicate, so sometimes he’s awarded the opportunity to prove himself to your father and to the elders of the Syndicate that he’s competent and capable of leadership, despite the fact you’ve always known him to be.
Soonyoung isn’t meant for leading like Seungcheol. But there is a certain level of loyalty and understanding he has to cultivate with the heavies of the family, the Swords who carry out the bloody tasks of removing people from the way and keeping assets safe. His father had been the Sentinel of your family for years until his death, and Soonyoung is expected to pick up that mantle.
This is all a part of that. Soonyoung already has the loyalty of the security team running this hole in the wall, alerting him the second you arrived and refusing to let you go up the stairs alone. Had they failed to do that, you might think a little less of them.
Soonyoung also probably would have had them beaten.
Finally, Soonyoung turns to look at you. He sighs and raises his brows expectantly.
“What?” you ask.
“What did you come here for? Real answer, this time.”
“I told you. Angel said you had a bad day. That is my real answer.”
“And?”
You shrug, sipping from the glass and turning toward the windows. “I wanted to make it a better one.”
That makes him go silent. You can see him turn to look at you, his stormy gaze pinning you to the spot. You don’t look at him, letting him stare as you nurse the drink and watch the dancing crowd down below. They’re beautiful, in a way, an ocean of bodies saying as colors turn them blue and then green and then bright red and then lavender.
Soonyoung leans toward you, bumping his head on yours lightly. That gets a laugh out of you, stomach fluttering and wishing he would stay leaned against you. He pulls away though, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes back to his job.
“Thank you,” he finally says, voice quiet. “It is already a better day.”
The silence is comfortable. You eventually give him the drink back and he takes it, tongue darting out to lick the lip gloss you left. He hums. “Cherries.”
“You’re gross.”
He smiles into the glass, taking a sip. “I actually have something for you.”
“A present?”
He snorts. “Not exactly. Go to the desk - top drawer on the right.”
Eagerly, you do as he says. The heavy wooden desk sits in the back of the room, imposing even without the metal lockers behind it with weapons. You ignore the heavy guns under padlocks and go for the drawer in question.
A rectangular box is in the drawer Soonyoung specified, unmarked. You turn it over in your hands, curious. It’s not very heavy and fits mostly in your palm.
“Bring it over here.”
You do, trailing back to Soonyoung. He extends his hand and you pass it over to him, watching with interest as he cracks the box open with the sheer strength of his fingers. He pulls out a small device, a wire and what looks to be a plug, tossing the box to the bar.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, holding up the device.
It’s a small rectangle with a keypad and a screen. You raise your brows in surprise. “It is a very old phone.”
“It is.” He smiles, pleased with your answer. He passes the materials over to you and you hold them against your chest. “That’s the charger and the charging cord. It’s one of the old kinds of phones that requires a phone tower. There are barely any in the city.”
“And what is this gift for?”
“I own the phone towers that support it.” You raise your brows. Soonyoung rarely spends the inheritance his parents left behind, so you’re surprised. “It only has a single phone number programmed into it that will call the one I have.”
At this, he reaches into his pocket and produces the phone’s twin. He shakes it for emphasis, pressing a button and lighting up the screen. “You have to make sure to keep it charged. I want you to have it for emergencies only. And I mean emergencies, Baby. This is a last resort kind of device, alright?”
You chew your bottom lip, dragging your eyes to look up at him. “Why?”
“Because I need to know that you always have a last resort.” His gaze darkens. “Clearly your assigned security team lets you give them the slip. I need to know that you can hit the dial on this faster than you can on our phones. They’re overly complicated and not quick. With this?”
He reaches over and turns on the phone in your hand. Once booted, he presses the one button. The device in his hand starts ringing. “Direct and fast access to me at all times. Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you.”
Emotion twists your throat. You grip the phone with a vice grip, looking up at him with wide eyes. His face is serious. He slips his phone in his pocket, turning back to do his job. “I will answer,” he promises. “It doesn’t matter when and where. I will answer that phone even if I’m dying. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good.”
A knock on your door wakes you up from a dreamless sleep. Darkness spills across your room like ink as you slip from your bed, cursing when you kick the corner of your nightstand. With a raspy voice, you ask the automated room assistant to turn on the nightlights, a hazy purple immediately lighting the circumference of your room.
Squinting against the lavender glow, you pad over your room to open the door. Soonyoung is leaning heavily against the wall just beyond the threshold, his chin tucked to his chest and his hair sweaty and clinging to his temples.
He doesn’t move when you open the door, the lilac light casting an eerie radiance on the side of his face. It’s hard to make out his expression in the lurking shadow of the hallway, and he offers no explanation for why he’s knocking on your door at three in the morning.
“Soonyoung?” you whisper, eyes darting down the hall. No one else is around. “Where are Cheol and Vernon?”
“S’cheol is still working. Vernon went to stay at Angel’s.”
“Are you - Soonyoung are you drunk? Or high?”
“Yeah.”
Both you realize. You can deal with both.
Grabbing him by the hand, you tug him gently. He pushes off the wall with heavy steps, stumbling through your open door and into the room. You grip him tighter, shutting your door with a gentle click before turning around to face him.
Soonyoung won’t look at you, turning his face away as he sways a little where he stands. Now that you can see him fully, you realize that there is blood on the collar of his shirt. Heart thudding, your hands reach for it, peeling it back to look at his neck. Specs of dry crimson flake from sweaty skin, making your terror reach new heights.
He shrugs you off. “Not mine.”
“I - what’s going on?”
Instead of answering you, he walks a few crooked steps toward your bed and sits down on the edge. Licking your lips, you approach him slowly. He’s slouched over, elbows pressed to his knees as his head hangs heavily. He still hasn’t looked at you properly and you’re aching to see his eyes. You can always understand him better when you see his eyes, able to read the depth of emotions hiding beneath his mask.
When you reach him, you crouch down. Instead of grabbing for him again and risking him pulling away, you rest your hands on top of your knees. When afraid or upset, Soonyoung is like a cornered animal. You don’t know whether he’s in fight or flight, both just as dangerous as the next.
“Soonyoung,” you say again gently. You watch his every move. “You’re scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?”
If Seungcheol is working the circuit, he isn’t the best to call. Late night circuits include going from club to club under the Choi banner to monitor the drug trafficking and attend small business meetings as appropriate. Seungcheol will drop whatever he’s doing for you in a heartbeat, but it’s more complicated than that.
In theory, Vernon is easier to get a hold of. He’s already off work and though he might not answer his phone if you call, you know his girlfriend will. Plus, the blood on Soonyoung’s shirt and skin can give you a guess at what’s happened, and Vernon is more equipped for that type of thing than you are.
“Let me call Vernon-”
“No,” he finally says. “No. Sorry. I just.”
Your chest squeezes in pain. It’s like you can feel the torture radiating through him, feel the weight of whatever it is that’s dragging him down yourself. Desperation drives you to reach out toward him slowly, watching for any sign of startling him. When he doesn’t move to pull away, you touch him gently, squeezing his knee gently. “What do you need?”
“My dad always said I should feel something.” His words are halting, coming out slurred. You wait, holding your breath as he works through them. “Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don’t, it means you’re nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined.”
It takes everything in you not to let your grip turn to steel at his words. Instead, you rub your hand up and down his thigh soothingly, saying nothing. Soonyoung has never killed someone before. You would know if he had. He’s the last in your immediate circle of friends beside yourself to take on the weight of stealing life, and you’ve dreaded this day for a long time.
Murder is an inevitability in your family. Keeping the Choi Syndicate on top requires sacrifice, cruelty and cunning. Soonyoung had started serving as an officially ranked member of the Syndicate over a year ago, and though he had fucked up a lot of people and brought them to the brink of death, he hadn’t actually done it yet.
“I felt nothing,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fucking nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no guilt. I didn’t even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That’s not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just… baser creatures. That we were better because we were… made better.”
“I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung.”
“I’m just tired of feeling fucking empty. I don’t give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing.”
You have no idea what to say. Instead of words, you surge forward, letting go of Soonyoung’s knee to push yourself between his thighs, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches for a moment, arms hanging dead at his side as you press your cheek to his chest, squeezing.
Inside, you feel your heart crack open. You shove down the overwhelming sense of despair on his behalf, instead focused on him. There’s nothing to say with words, and you hope he can feel what you’re trying to tell him through touch, that he can feel everything you don’t know how to say as you hold him tight, clinging to him.
Slowly, his arms encircle you. It takes him a moment, but he applies a little pressure back. It makes you scoot in more, pressed as close as you can get to him. He buries his face in your neck, his breaths warm and smelling like tequila. He smells like him too, vanilla and sandalwood.
“I don’t feel like a person sometimes,” he whispers. “It’s like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so that I didn’t ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-”
He cuts himself off and sinks into you a little more. You bear his weight, willing to carry any burden for him. You don’t think he realizes that he could ask you to jump and you’d say how high. You’ve always been willing to jump for him, always willing to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
Gently, you ask, “You only ever feel when what? You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need.”
“I feel when I’m with you.” Soonyoung whispers it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel the words hit your skin where he speaks them, a shiver slithering through you. His grip on you tightens a little with the admission, like now that he’s said it, he can’t let go. Won’t. “I feel most like a person when I’m with you.”
Pressing the flat of your hand to his back, you begin to stroke up and down slowly, touch following the careful ridges of his spine. He sighs, shivering in your hold. You want nothing more than to take the pain or whatever he’s feeling away, to rip it from him and to destroy it.
The fierceness of your love for him is hard to tamp down. A fiery admission of your feelings for him isn’t what he needs right now. You know Soonyoung like the inside of your own soul, everything that makes him tick, every habit he’s picked up over the years. You can sense him standing lost at sea, needing an anchor. Needing you.
“Okay,” you say softly. “So stay with me. Be a person with me.”
“I’m not made for you.”
“Yes you are.” Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, pressing sharply. The desire to covet him is so intense it overtakes you. “If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone but one another?”
Silence greets your logic. You stay holding him like that, desperate to keep him there, terrified he’ll shrug you off and get up. He’s done it before, shucking off your affection like something to be disposed of. And still you give it to him freely, begging him to take it.
He doesn’t shy away from you. Instead you feel him nod, mouth brushing tenderly across your throat in the ghost of a kiss. “If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won’t… I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
You hug him tighter. “Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung.”
“Where’s your other half?” the voice causes you to turn from where you lean against the bar. Angel slides up next to you, cocking her head as she does. She looks like a wraith, dressed in a rain slicker over black long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into black pants. Her jacket and combat boots are wet, suggesting it’s still raining outside. “You’re usually attached at the hip. My therapist calls that codependency. Says Hansol and I have it too.”
“Does your therapist also know you’re a murderer?” you mutter. The bartender slides drinks over to you and you nod in thanks. “Or that you’re only seeing her because Jeonghan made a bet with you? Or that your job often involves extortion? What does she think about that?”
As a Rook of the Choi Syndicate, Angel’s job is a far cry from the holy nickname she’s sported since she was a child. Like Vernon, her role within your father’s empire is to collect debts owed to the Choi family and to remind them never to fall behind on payments. Other times, she’s simply used as a good tool to put the fear of god into enemies of the Choi family, and she’s good at it.
Raised under the careful tutelage of the Yoon family, there’s no weakness Angel can’t find and use. The only one better at it than her is her step brother, who is probably sitting next to your brother behind closed doors somewhere in the Choi Estate holding a meeting.
As Seungcheol’s future second in command, it’s Jeonghan’s responsibility to learn the ropes just like your brother. One day, it’ll be the two of them leading your family, a thought that makes you cringe with worry.
Angel answers your question with a shrug. “I’m sure she knows I’m into some shit. I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I don’t like therapy. And I kind of want to ask my therapist why she thinks she’s qualified for therapy when she’s fucking three of her clients.”
A snort escapes you as you shake your head. Of course Angel knows that about her own therapist. Lifting the two drinks on the bar, you drift away from her, eyes flicking over the Rook. “Stay out of trouble, Angel. And give Vernon my love.”
She grins, wicked sharp and deadly. “No bar fights, hmm? Enjoy the party.”
The party in question is exhausting. You’ve been playing pretty princess all night, saying hello to all of the right people, shaking all of the jeweled hands, kissing all of the right asses. You’re exhausted and the tension in your shoulder has been knotting further and further.
Once upon a time you would have been thankful to at least not be Seungcheol. He shouldered a lot more responsibility. Now you’ve realized that you don’t shoulder less than him - it’s just different. If Seungcheol is the sword and shield of the Syndicate, you’re the face and smile. Galas, charities, celebrity events - it’s a never ending stream of smile, pose, shake hands.
It doesn’t hide the fact that you sit on a throne that belongs to a criminal empire, of course. But it’s also no secret that the Three Syndicates run the city. Your family has long been one of the stalwart backbones of the government and city infrastructure. Only the Kim family and the Yong family come close.
Still, appearances are everything. Especially when the Yong family owns most of the media outlets, weaponizing it against the Choi Syndicate every chance they get. You make it harder for them, using your appearances and platforms like a carefully wielded sword.
Spotting Soonyoung among those dressed in dark security uniforms is easy. He nearly blends in with the dark pipe and drape that has been set up all over the ballroom of your home, but you could find him anywhere, your internal compass pointing to him even in the dark.
Soonyoung’s eyes alight on you, sharp and intense. His face is a cool mask of indifference, but you can see the way interest sparks in his eyes as he drinks you in. He’s already seen you in your dress tonight, but it doesn’t stop him from refamiliarizing himself, eyes tracing every dip and curve.
God you wish you were somewhere else with him. Specifically wrapped in the gray sheets of his bed, sweat-slicked and out of breath.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you say shyly, handing him a drink.
He takes it and looks up at you, arching a brow. “I can’t drink this, I’m working.”
“It’s just soda with lime, the way you like it.”
His lips twitch in a smile as he takes a sip, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t reach out to you and hold you close like you know he wants to, respecting the propriety of his position and the fact that he is on the clock right now.
“You look tired,” he murmurs, eyes studying your face.
So does he. As an official Sword of the Choi family, his job keeps him out late, bloodied, and tired. He’s completely changed from the man who sank into your arms that first night he killed someone, hardened into someone that your father sends to do just that often.
A weapon. A Sword. A trusted knife in the dark for the Choi family.
You think Soonyoung is more capable than being a heavy for your dad and his associates. Soonyoung is intelligent and sharp, having gained perspective and a wealth of knowledge from living with your family. Still, his dad had been the leader of the hired guns for the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung is an efficient killer, his fate bound by his father long ago.
“When are you off tonight?” you ask instead of telling him how tired he looks.
“I’m not.” You frown. He sips his drink again and gives you a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been busy. The Yong family are getting in our way at the docks. I gotta head down there with Vernon and Jeonghan after the party.”
“The Yongs are doing it outright?”
“No. We’re pretty confident it’s them though. Jeonghan is working on it. If we can bring the Xu family under our wing, it would be a lot easier to push them out.”
“They have a son,” you note, thinking about the last event you attended where the Xu heir was in attendance. “Maybe marriage to one of our big hitters? Nexus Capital has an heiress.”
“I’ll mention it to Jeonghan. Who the fuck would want an arranged marriage, though?”
“Not me,” you laugh, wiping the eyelash you spot on his cheek gently. He gives you a tired, albeit affectionate smile. “You’ve been working nonstop. Tell Seungcheol you need a night off.”
“We both know it’s not Seungcheol working me to the bone, Baby.”
Swallowing thickly, you turn away from him under the guise of scanning the crowd. You know you don’t fool him. Both you and Soongyoung know your father does not approve of your relationship, taking it out on Soonyoung to keep him busy and away from you.
Your father would never hurt Soonyoung directly. You know that. He loves him like a son - sees his late best friend in the features of the man that Soonyoung has been shaped into under his care and tutelage. When you started dating Soonyoung seriously, you thought your parents might be happy. They adore him and they loved his parents just as much.
Soonyoung is below your station, though.
Your father will never say it outright. He wouldn’t insult his late friend’s son that way. But the way your father works Soonyoung harder than anyone else, holding him to a standard he doesn’t even keep for his highest level of men, you realize how deep the dissatisfaction goes. Even your mother’s adoration of Soonyoung does little to shield him from the petty assignments, try as she might.
Still, you don’t care. And at the end of the day, neither does Soonyoung. As long as he gets to have you, he’s willing to put up with the petty assignments and the working late.
“Hey,” Soonyoung says gently, bringing your attention back to him. He finishes his drink and sets it on a banquet table nearby. His eyes are averted, looking somewhere across the room as his hand slips around your waist to squeeze you quickly and press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got to go - I’ve got a meeting with Vernon before we head out tonight. I’ll see you when I’m done. Probably won’t be until late morning.”
“Alright,” You sigh. His hand slips from your waist and you wish you could pull him back to you. “Love you.”
He grins brightly, giving you a wink before he melts into the crowd, weaving around party goers. Your heart squeezes when you lose sight of him.
Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. You spin around to see Lan, one of your father’s personal Swords nodding politely at you. “Your father wishes to see you in the West Parlor. I’m to escort you.”
“Oh. Sure.” You set your drink down on the banquet table, wiping your damp hands on your dress. “Lead the way.”
People bow their heads in respect as you go. You keep an even pace with Lan, which is hard to do with his long strides and your strappy heels digging into your ankles. He slows for your benefit and you give him a grateful smile, the swelling noise from the party leaving you behind as you step out of the ballroom and walk toward the west wing of the house.
Some people mill about the halls of the estate. You can spot the members of the Syndicate who are on duty, mostly Swords that belong to the security force employed under the Choi family. You spot Chan leaning against a wall while gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks to the owner of a new club on the edge of the Pearl District. When he catches your stare, Chan winks before focusing his attention back on the owner. Probably trying to work out some sort of deal or partnership, as is his job.
The west wing of the house is quiet and off limits to the rest of the party. Your bedroom is just up two flights of stairs, your bed calling your name as you pass under the stairwell into the hallway that belongs to the West Parlor, the library, the study and your father’s billiards room.
Old Man Vero is standing outside your fathers study, his hands linked in front of him and his head straight forward. He glances your way as Lan leans you toward the door, cracking a bit of a smile on his leathery face and giving you a wink. You grin, lightly reaching out and touching his elbow as Lan opens the door for you. Your father’s Swords have been in your life since you were a child, permanent figures of fixed loyalty and familiarity.
They love you like they love your father, like they love your brother. It isn’t pure fear and power that keeps the Choi Syndicate together. Your father has plenty of that among the ranks, but the loyalty and love between him and his higher ranking members is real. Critical. It was a skill he taught you and Seungcheol, both of you arming yourself with your own shield of friends and confidants.
Your father sits in a leather armchair, leaned back with his eyes closed. Next to him, a cigar smokes in the ashtray, threatening to go out as the thin wisps of smoke vanish into the air. An old fashioned record player echoes in the far corner of the room, smoothe notes vibrating through the air.
“Tower,” you greet him formally, bowing at the waist. “How can I be of service to the family?”
His eyes flutter open and he looks at you tiredly. He looks so much like your brother that it’s uncanny, sometimes. But his youth has worn off, his age more and more evident these days as he spreads himself thin expanding the Choi empire. Your mother has asked him - begged him - to give more responsibility to Seungcheol, but he refuses.
At least you know where your stubborn streak comes from.
“So formal,” he notes, his lips twitching upward. He gestured for you to sit in one of the arm chairs. You do, smoothing your dress carefully as you sit. Behind you, Lan exits the room, the soft click of the door behind you. “You were always a better student than your brother.”
“That’s because he’s a man.”
A hearty laugh makes you grin, feeling a flutter of fondness. He was never an overly affectionate father, but he’s always been kind, though firm. You respect him, which is saying something in your world.
“Spoken like an intelligent woman,” he sighs. You wait patiently, watching as he seems to gather his words. Your stomach knots, sensing a trepidation about him that you’re not used to. “Your intelligence has always been your best asset, though you’re a little hot-headed like your brother.”
“Steadfast is the mountain,” you say, quoting the Choi family motto.
He grins and adds your mother’s family moniker, “But the fire does burn. I knew marrying your mother was a good choice. Marrying the right person is paramount in this life. Family unions can make or break an empire, and they forge old alliances anew or secure new alliances.”
A prickle down your spine makes you sit straighter. You had implied as much earlier to Soonyoung about the Xu family, knowing marriage was a viable option to bring the shipping mogul into the Choi empire. Now, though, the notion has you on edge, watching him like a frightened cat.
“I didn’t pick your mother, you know,” he muses, his eyes unfocusing somewhere far away. “But when my father recommended her, I knew he was right. I was familiar with her, of course. We went to school together. Fought like cats, but she was so intelligent and fierce.”
You’ve heard this story before. Your father hadn’t loved her to start, but your mother had loved him right away. Had always known that she loved him. She’d shown up at one of his billiard nights and told him exactly how she felt, asserting that they would be married and that he would be loyal to her.
He’d fallen in love with her that night.
He sighs heavily. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”
“Don’t let her hear you sound so disappointed. She might be offended.”
“She’s better than me,” he says. His eyes focus on you, flicking back to appraise you. Sweat slicks on your back and only years of training keep you from not fidgeting under his weighty gaze. “But it would be easier sometimes if you were more like me. Less fire, more mountain. Still, you are rational, so let us speak plainly: you are going to marry the Kim family heir.”
Silence hangs in the air. You stare at him, your brain taking a moment to catch up with his words. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, processing the firmness in his voice, the way he looks at you with heavy countenance.
You are going to marry the Kim family heir.
A high-pitched ringing starts in your ears and you feel the buzz of panic start to tingle at the base of your spine. Your fingers dig into the arms of your chair a little, trying to fight the staccato rhythm of your heart from getting out of control.
“What?” you ask. It feels dumb, compared to the eloquence you’re capable of.
“Kim Yijun is a perfect match,” he says simply. “He’s in line to inherit the Kim Syndicate. There is tension with the Yong family, and I will not lie to you: they have a far larger reach than we would like. They don’t do things the old way like the Choi and Kim families. They have started to ally themselves with the Arash family in Veridian, giving them cuts and room in our city to spread their reach outside the bounds of their own city.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Kim and Choi families have been united before. They’ve always been our first ally in times of city upheaval and Syndicate war, and they, like us, don’t believe in letting outsiders have a seat at the table. The Yong family don’t understand that, and are willing to let vermin have scraps if it means scooting us out.”
“I’m-” you shake your head. “You can’t ask that of me.”
“I’m not asking.” He reaches for a lighter and picks up the cigar. He takes a moment to relight it, taking his focus off of you. You feel your pulse spiking, your grip on the chair like iron. “I am telling you that this is what your future will be. I understand you like the Kwon boy, but-”
You sneer, baring your teeth. “The Kwon boy? Don’t reduce him to some stranger. Soonyoung grew up in this house, he is family. And I don’t just like him, I love him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you bullying him because you’re frustrated that I love him. You love him too.”
“I do. I love him like my own. But he is not for you.”
“He is. I will not marry Yijun. I am asking you not as a member of this Syndicate, but as your daughter to drop this machination from your plans. I am your blood, you cannot ask this of me.”
“I told you, I am not asking. I am telling you.”
A tremor starts in your hands. Your heart races so fast that you feel sick, sweat slicking your skin as you begin to pant sharply. The ringing in your ears grows until you feel disconnected to it, like suddenly you’re living in third person. You’re aware that you’re hyperventilating and yet, suddenly it’s separate from you.
Standing abruptly, you feel the world tilt. You take a second to steady yourself, feeling the numb tingle spread throughout you like a flood.
“Sit down,” your father demands. You hear the warning. Recognize the firmness in it. This is the Tower of the Choi Syndicate speaking, not your father.
“Take this as my resignation from the family,” you tell him. Your voice doesn’t feel like your own, steady and without inflection. “I’ll renounce my inheritance and will not use the Choi family for any connection or advantages-”
“You will not!”
His voice startles you. Lures you away from the safety of your detachment. You look at him, eyes wide and shaking. His hand is fisted on the armchair, his rage crackling around him like a thunderstorm. “I will not have my only daughter sabotage everything this family has built for the affection of someone unfit for her station. Kwon Soonyoung is a weapon meant to serve you. You will marry Kim Yijun or I will remove the obstacle altogether.”
Your entire life there have been two versions of your father. The stoic leader of one of the oldest criminal empires in Hyperion, the vicious man who could be cold and calculating, and who was reverently feared by his enemies. The kind father who watched you and Seungcheol study math together, carefully explaining to you how to carry numbers over in the equation.
It is the former who sits before you now. Someone entirely unfamiliar to you, though you’ve always known he existed. And why would you? Your father has never had to be ruthless with you before, hiding the way he could cut from you until it was necessary.
Soonyoung knew. You know it with absolute clarity. You remember the fear in his eyes when you had slipped into his room that night asking for a kiss, the way that he is always so careful about when and where he touches you, the way he takes the assignments and the mistreatment without so much as a protest because it means he gets to have you.
“You would kill him?” you whisper, looking your father in the eye. “You promised to take him in when his family was murdered. He had no one, and you promised his father you’d raise him as your own. You would go back on that?”
He scowls. “If his father knew what he was, he’d kill Soonyoung himself. That boy is a dog to be set upon whoever his owner wishes, who kills with impunity.” You say nothing. I don’t feel like a person. Soonyoung’s words echo in your mind, haunting. “I hold the collar and I will put him down, if need be.”
“So you raised a pet to be disposed of at your convenience?”
“I raised a boy who should be grateful I haven’t put him in the fucking ground for sullying my only daughter. I let you two have time, and you should be grateful. It is my love for him that has stayed my hand this long. No more. You will marry Kim Yijun, or you will bury that boy. This is the command of your Tower.”
“Mother will not let you-”
“Your mother doesn’t let me do anything. I am the Tower of this family, and it does what I command. You will fall in line.”
Tears spill from your eyes. You suddenly feel like you’re standing on a cliff, the vertigo of nothingness at the bottom making you sick with fear. Desperation grips at you as you stare at your father, willing him to change his mind. Begging him.
His pity doesn’t come. There is only resolute silence, watching as you crumple in front of him, knees going weak as you abruptly sit - fall - on the floor. You bury your face in your hands, grief for something lost stealing your ability to maintain control before you’ve even given an answer.
I’m not made for you.
Soonyoung had tried to tell you a long time ago and you’d brushed him off. Of course he was made for you. He was all you’ve ever wanted, and you’ve always been given what you wanted. You made him whole, and he you. How could you not be made for one another.
“Please don’t do this to me. Daddy,” you whisper, trying to appeal to him with the little girl he loves. “Please, I love him.”
“Lan will escort you to your room.” You ignore his words, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the tears to stop. You know later you’ll feel pathetic for the display of emotion, for the meltdown in the face of adversity. “You will announce your engagement at the end of the week.”
“Yes, Tower.”
“If you so much as remotely try to sneak around with him, I will put him in the ground and bear the weight of that grief for eternity.”
“Yes, Tower.”
“Know that I love you. We must make sacrifices for this family we wish not to. But you will make the sacrifice like I have so many times before. So will Soonyoung.”
You stand, limbs shaky as you look at your father, the heat of your mother’s rage fueling your gaze. “Yes, Tower.”
Sleep claws at you with greedy fingers, unwilling to give you up to the waking light of day. You groan, suspended in that moment of almost awake but achingly unaware. A brush of warm skin on your arm pulls you the rest of the way from heavy sleep, your thoughts sticky as they formulate and you open your eyes, squinting in the gray light of your room.
Squinting at the clock displayed on your nightstand, you realize it’s late morning. The tinted windows of your room keep out the sunlight, but a single panel has been adjusted to let some of the cloudy day in, a single shaft of gray spilling into your room like muddy water.
Warmth presses behind your back, the steady touch on your arm trailing up and down. For a second, you lean back into it, feeling your head thud against Soonyoung’s chest, his mouth pressing against the crown of your head. He drags his fingers up and down your arm absently, light as a feather. He smells like soap, a hint of his familiar vanilla and sandalwood.
“Have trouble sleeping?” the words are mumbled against you.
“Hmm?”
“There’s lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby.”
You look at the nightstand. Sure enough, the white pills you crushed are dusted across the surface. The reality of why you used them slams into you so suddenly that you stiffen, muscles locking.
Soonyoung notices immediately, his touch stilling. “What?”
Finding the words is impossible. You don’t know where to start, your father’s words make you dizzy. The sheets stick to your skin, Soonyoung’s warmth too hot to stand. You scramble from bed, kicking at the sheets and putting distance between you as you bolt toward the bathroom.
“Hey,” he calls after you. You don’t turn to look at him, the cool tile giving you goosebump as the lights flicker on. You close the door behind you firmly, pressing your back against it. Soonyoung’s knocks are immediate, his voice calling your name on the other side. “What’s wrong?”
The use of your name sours your stomach. You lurch forward, diving for the toilet as the contents of your stomach empty. The bile burns, your eyes watering as you press against the cold porcelain, clinging to it for life.
Soonyoung opens the door, letting himself in as you heave again. He’s quick to react, opening the medicine cabinet to remove an anti-nausea inhalent. He wordlessly pads over to you, crouching down to extend it toward you.
You avoid looking at him directly in the eye as you snatch it from him. His brows are pinched in concern, face swollen with what little sleep he got and mouth turned downward. Your stomach roils again but holds as you crack the inhalent and wave it under your nose, breathing in gently.
The stimulant makes your eyes water, but immediately the churning in your stomach subsides. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to regulate yourself. Soonyoung watches in silence, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t.
When you open your eyes, there is so much love and concern on his face that you almost break right then and there. Instead, you clear your throat and straighten, tossing the medication in the trash.
“Thanks, just hungover. I need to shower.”
He looks doubtful. “Alright.”
Soonyoung stands, heading to the shower. You clear your throat and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Alone, please.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just want to shower.”
He says your name again. Not Baby. Not any other derivative. Your name. “You can talk to me.”
Your heart cracks. You panic. Your brain races for the only viable option. “I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung.” You push yourself off the ground, scowling at him. He moves out of your way as you pass him, stunned to silence. “I don’t need you crowding my space every five seconds.”
Refusing to look at him as you hit the panel in the wall, you instead focus on the water that falls from the ceiling, a storm of heat and the smell of peppermint. You keep your back turned toward him, staring at the water as it heats, steam curling in tendrils where it hits the stone tiles.
“You can go,” you say sharply.
“Alright.”
The gentle click of the door when he leaves is barely audible over the hum of the shower. You let the rushing water lull you into a state of numbness, peeling your clothes off with unsteady, mechanical movements.
Hot water slicks off your shoulders. You close your eyes and hang your head, letting the feel of the peppering water sluice over your ears, eyes, nose, mouth. You let it blind your senses to nothing but the roar of water, blotting out everything else.
If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave.
You remember when Soonyoung whispered it against your skin just a few years ago, spoken carefully and clearly, a promise and a warning. He would never let you go. You had to let him go. Telling him what your father has asked of you - has threatened to take away from you - will only make Soonyoung’s feet dig in further.
For as long as you’ve known him, Soonyoung has been a covetous creature. You remember the night at the club he antagonized you just to see that spark of want, just to prove to himself it was him you wanted. You remember the way he clung to you in the dark of your bedroom, the only person who could ever make him whole. Who could make him feel.
Your father sees Soonyoung as a loyal attack dog - but it isn’t the Tower of the Choi Syndicate who holds Soonyoung’s collar. It never has been. Soonyoung has never asked your father how high.
Pressing your palms to your eyes, you start deep breathing exercises. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The shaking in your fingers begins to subside, the logic part of your brain turning on.
The threat on Soonyoung’s life is real. You saw the resolve in your father’s eye, the painful glint. He would hate to do it, but he would do it. You’re entwined too deep into your family’s affairs and business to vanish. There is nothing in the world you have that’s your own, no assets that are not connected to them in some way.
And if you tell Soonyoung, he’ll face the problem like he does everything that stands in his way: try to kill it.
For a split moment, your brain chases the thought like a mouse after cheese. Like a long math problem, you work out if it’s possible to commit patricide and get away with it. Your mother will never forgive you, but Seungcheol might. Your friends would - they’re loyal to you, especially Jeonghan and Angel.
The older generation, though-
You toss aside the thought almost as quickly as you thought of it - not because you don’t want to kill your father, but because it isn’t possible. Not just like that. There are too many pieces on the chessboard, too many domino effects spreading out in every direction if you take that route.
No. There is only a single path for you, set in motion by a hand with more power than you.
And there’s only one way you can move forward with Soonyoung.
There’s so much of your mother’s side of the family you’ve inherited. Her side has always been associated with the phoenix, the burning immortality of their name and their strength, a blazing glory. Your maternal relatives have always been the rage and the fire that was needed for a Syndicate to advance, a good partnership for the Choi’s who were cold and steadfast.
What you need now is the winter of the mountain, not the rage of the phoenix. You need to be a Choi.
Steadfast is the mountain.
You love Soonyoung. You love him you love him you love him youlovehimyoulovehimyoulovehimYOULOVEHIMYOULOVEHIM-
Pressing your fist to your mouth, you bite down for one, blinding moment of untapped rage. You feel your skin break, taste iron and salt, feel pain bloom.
Steadfast is the mountain.
Then it’s gone. You drop your hand from your mouth. Open your eyes. Turn off the shower. The rage is gone, buried beneath a layer of newly formed ice. If there is anyone you can do this for, it’s Soonyoung. You love him. You will destroy him. But he’ll be alive.
Soonyoung is sitting on your bed when you open the door. He’s got a tablet in his hand, the holographic images displaying above the screen, haloing his face in blue light. There are circles under his eyes and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, which is chapped. He’s shirtless, the compact planes of his body half shadowed by the single shaft of light filtering through a window.
He looks up at you but you ignore him, heading to your closet. The silence is brutal. You push through it, opening the closet doors to reveal a massive space nearly the same size of your bathroom. Track lights kick on, rows and rows of clothes by color greeting you. In the middle, there is an island counter, filled with drawers and biolocked jewelry safes.
Soft steps tell you Soonyoung is standing at the entrance of the closet. You still don’t face him, walking over to your section of black clothes. You flick through them, eyes scanning. Black seems appropriate. It feels like death, afterall.
Soonyoung’s voice is soft as his late night kisses. “What’s going on?”
“I’m marrying Kim Yijun.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not interested in pranks this morning.”
“It’s not a prank.” You pull out a black, silk dress. “The Tower has asked this of me, and I’ll be doing it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
You continue, undeterred as you put the dress back and keep looking. “The Kim family has agreed to the match ahead of the rising tensions with the Yong Syndicate and their new take on foreign allies. A united front of the old families will benefit our family-”
“You’re not fucking marrying Kim Yijun.”
“All of the metrics we’ve run for public opinion and potential city-wide reaction are favorable. The Tower needs his children to fall in line, and I intend to do so.”
Soonyoung storms toward you. You turn on your heel, holding a finger out to him, voice severe, “Don’t come near me.”
“Why? Because you know you’ll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you’ll drop whatever bravado this is and let me help you?”
Exactly that. He knows you inside and out. Sees through the front. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need him to believe you, you need him to obey.
He takes another step and you back up. “I will scream,” you threaten, venom in your voice. “I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they’ll take, with your reputation for violence?”
“Fuck you, they know I’d never hurt you.”
You hear the waver in his voice. That tiny sliver of doubt, so small and tiny but there. They do know he would never hurt you, but Soonyoung isn’t convinced they’d believe him. It makes you sick, but you latch onto it, unspooling that tiny bit of hurt. “Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?”
Soonyoung is raging. His chest rising and falling, shaking his head back and forth as he tries to understand. You’re rooted to the spot, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in your throat. “You are not,” he growls. “Marrying Kim Yijun. You don’t even want to, don’t try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine.”
“I belong to the Choi family and it’s what my family needs from me. I will do my duty.”
“Fuck your family!” His roar makes you flinch, briefly closing your eyes. His palm slams on the top of the countertop in front of him, sharp in the silence. “You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You’re not doing it. I’ll fucking kill him, you think I won’t? I’ll murder every last one of them-”
“You don’t tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung. I will do this, and you will obey.” He bristles, going rigid as your words land like a slap. “When I say jump, you say how high. You’ve always known that.”
For a second, he cracks. The Soonyoung you first saw on your doorstep, crying and round-cheeked and ruddy returns. His lip trembles and the way he looks at you nearly melts your iron will. You’re so close to collapsing, to laying it out before him, to risking it all.
“Don’t do this to me.” His whisper is made of glass. Delicate. He presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart. Earnest. “I can’t - you know I can’t. I- please. I can’t do this.”
Licking your lips, you look him in the eyes. His eyes are your favorite. Dark. Stormy. Endless. They are lined with silver, panic rippling across the surface.
You lift your chin and push back your shoulders. “You can and you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high.”
Sunlight warms the back of your neck, humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. You take a deep breath, though the steamy air offers no relief. You snap open a silk fan, waving it in front of your face in hopes of chasing away some of the sweat, feeling the separation between skin and makeup the longer you sit in the wretched heat of the garden.
It’s not even real sunlight or heat. You can’t tell beyond the projection in the room, but you know that there are vents heating up the room and controls that make the air humid and sticky, making it feel like you’re sitting in a real garden outside somewhere lush.
Lin drones on and on about something. You tuned her out long ago, eyes flickering back and forth to your watch and the women’s faces around you. None of them here are really your friend - not in the way Angel is, the way Wonwoo or Jeonghan are.
Yet you’re expected to be here, entertaining the upper echelon wives of the Choi and Kim Syndicates, boiling away in an imaginary garden while you sweat to death, dress clinging to your skin and thighs slippery in the seat as you adjust yourself, uncomfortable.
“It’s hot as a motherfucker,” a whispered voice comes from next to you. You look up to see the newly engaged heiress of Nexus Capital next to you, glaring behind the dark shade of her sunglasses as Lin continues rambling about something. “Couldn’t she have made it less real?”
A smirk twitches on your lips. You haven’t spoken to her much, but her recent engagement to Xu Minghao had secured the position the Choi Syndicate had been fighting for in the shipping yards and docks with the Yong family, elevating her family into the favored circle of your father.
Suddenly, you remember who had recommended that marriage in the first place. You remember the party, the pretty dress you wore, Soonyoung’s hand briefly on your waist as he kissed you goodbye for a meeting. You had no idea then that your throwaway comment about an arranged marriage to benefit your family would become your own nightmare under an hour later.
Grief is a funny thing. You never knew that you could feel grief for someone who isn’t dead, yet sometimes you feel such an overwhelming amount of grief at the hole that Soonyoung has left behind that you can’t breathe.
Throat dry, you reach for water, drinking eagerly. You feel a bead of water run down your face, but you ignore it in favor of trying to focus on not panicking.
Anxiety attacks are new for you. Though your entire life has been colored with stressful situations unique to growing up in a criminal Syndicate, you could never say that you were anxious before. At least not in the way that made the back of your neck too hot and the tips of your fingers buzz with the threat of a looming meltdown.
You ignore it. It’s all you know how to do. The anxiety medication your therapist gave you doesn't work, and you can’t crush a bunch of pills and inhale them anytime you feel like you’re about to get tunnel vision and spiral.
Well, you suppose you can, but you’re trying not to get into the habit.
Instead of acknowledging the way the panic lurks around your edges like a predator waiting to pounce, you listen to the dull conversation around you. Focus on the gossip that you don’t care about, exactly, but know it’s good to have.
Since marrying into the Kim family, you’re not sure what your job is. With your family, your role as the face, the legacy and the representation of the Choi Syndicate had always been clear and obvious. Now, your husband sends you to stupid things like this with preening people that you don’t like and makes you leave events early when he’s irritable.
Gossip is a weapon, though. So you gather it when you can, taking in bits of information and storing it for yourself. Rarely do you offer it to Yijun - not that he would take it - but Jeonghan finds the information you share useful. So does Angel, but there’s rarely anything you know that she doesn’t.
Just as your anxiety begins to fade, the source of it materializes.
At first, you think you’re seeing things when a door appears in the wall depicting an apple orchard and Soonyoung strolls out into the fake-sun. You blink dumbly, spine tingling as you realize that your mind is not playing tricks on you and it is him.
He sees you immediately. His dark eyes burn like embers, pinning you to the spot. His face remains motionless but you see his jaw tick, the only sign that he is immediately on edge when he sees you. He’s dressed for work in an all black suit, required for the Swords of the Choi family.
Giggles breakout around the table as he approaches, the ladies around you all flushed cheeks and demure smiles. You feel the buzzing start in your hands again, this time worse. It goes up your arms, working its way to your chest as the anxiety increases tenfold, heart pounding.
Soonyoung bows. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”
“My goodness, Soonyoung,” Lin preens. “You must be horribly hot in that suit, but you do look handsome.”
You fight the urge to snarl at her that the imitation of the garden isn’t real and no amount of pretending will make it real. You even imagine reaching across the table and plunging her fish knife into her hand. Instead, you watch Soonyoung, your hummingbird heart fluttering.
He gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I apologize for interrupting, but the Tower of the Choi family has sent me to escort his daughter home.”
“Home?”
“The Choi Estate.”
He doesn’t say what he means: the Kim Estate is not your home.
“Alright,” you say, voice reedy. Your hands are trembling as you slide your chair from the table, the metal legs grinding loudly against concrete. You flinch at the sound, hyper aware of every bead of sweat crawling down your spine, every beat of your heart that is too fast, too hard.
Static fills you as you mumble parting words to the women who watch you in confusion. At least, you think you mumble your goodbyes. Blood rushes in your ears as you take uneven steps toward Soonyoung, who turns on his heel and starts marching toward the apple orchard.
It feels like you’re in an echo chamber. Everything suddenly feels hollow and everything sounds as though you’re hearing it through a thin wall. Muted. Dull. He opens the door that you can’t quite spot even this close, ushering you inside as your vision starts tunneling to a narrow point, everything else blurry and distorted.
No. No no no no no.
Lifting your hands, you glance down at them to see them trembling, opening and closing your fists in an attempt to stop the buzzing feeling, as though you could will it away. You think Soonyoung says something but you can’t hear him over the roar of panic that grips you and tears you sideways.
Instead of following him down the hall, you lurch toward a different hall, rushing toward the powder room. It feels like the walls are narrowing as you throw open the door, breath coming out in pants. Everything feels tight and compact, crushing smaller still.
Stumbling to the sink you try to turn the faucet on. Once. Twice. Cold water spits from the faucet and you gasp, leaning down over the sink to splash freezing water into your face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, the water is not cool enough to shock you out of your panic.
Soonyoung speaks behind you. You can’t hear him, the grip of your anxiety so strong that you grab the edges of the sink to keep you up right. You’re heaving now, heart rattling so hard you think that maybe you’re having a heart attack instead.
A firm grip wretches your attention from the porcelain sink to the mirror, where you see your dripping reflection, eyes blown like saucers. Soonyoung is standing behind you, a hand on your bicep, squeezing. His face is no longer a mask of indifference, but one of confusion.
His mouth moves and you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “I can’t,” you gasp, ragged. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Then, he does something that catches you entirely off guard. You watch in slow motion as he steps back and removes the gun from the holster underneath his suit jacket. You hear the safety on the gun click and the hum as the weapon charges, ready to fire rounds of plasma if he squeezes the trigger.
And then he points the gun at your head, the lights on it flipping from blue to red, signaling it’s ready to kill.
The world stops. The panic vanishes for a split second, replaced with utter shock as you stare at him in the mirror.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you demand, voice stronger than you expect.
Soonyoung is ten levels of crazy, but he’s never pointed a gun at you before. You stare at him, open-mouthed and wondering if he’ll do it. If he could pull the trigger. He’d told you a hundred times when you were together that he would never let you go and it was always with clarity that you understood what he meant: it’s me or no one.
With stark clarity, you realize there’s no reason for Soonyoung not to pull the trigger. He doesn’t care much about the value of his own life from what you can glean over the last two years, and he doesn’t really seem to care about yours.
Not that he should. You promised to make him feel human and you did. Then you took it away from him, leaving him adrift in a vast ocean of nothing alone and untethered.
No, you don’t think you inspire Soonyoung to feel human anymore. If anything, you probably make him want to be the worst version of himself.
Soonyoung’s voice holds no emotion when he asks, “Are you with me?”
“Why are you pointing a gun at me?”
“Breathe,” he says instead. He doesn’t lower the weapon, stormy eyes focused on yours. “Breathe,” he repeats. “Slowly, maybe.”
“Soonyoung, you are holding a gun at me, what do you mean breathe?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean what I fucking said. Breathe normally.”
“Lower the gun!” He does. “What the fuck?”
He breaks eye contact, sliding the weapon back into his suit jacket. He turns away from you as though he didn’t have you at gunpoint a second ago. “You were having a panic attack. Sometimes a shock to the system stalls it. Your breathing has slowed down now. And you’re not panicking.”
A beat of silence passes. Then, “So you leveled a gun at my head?”
“It worked. Let’s go.”
“Are you fucking crazy?”
“Yes. Now let’s go. You’re needed at the Choi Estate.”
“Why?”
“Do I look like I have all the answers? I just do what I’m told. When a Choi says jump, remember?”
You visibly flinch as his words land. Soonyoung doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself, spinning on his heel and exiting the powder room to stride through the halls. Tightness gathers in your chest, left over from your anxiety attack.
Pressing your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them, you chase after Soonyoung. He’s already by the apartment’s elevator, jamming his finger into the button. He doesn’t look at you as he waits, content to stare at the metal door.
You don’t know where else to look - you want to look anywhere but him. Turning around, you fixate on the floor to ceiling windows. It’s still morning outside, but it’s hard to tell with the way the clouds block out the view, turning everything to mist.
This high up in the city is reserved for the elite. You can’t imagine why - there’s nothing to look at but clouds, clouds, and more clouds. It’s what makes them have virtual reality rooms in the first place, trying to recreate the experience that they might have if they were wealthy enough to own land.
The sound of the elevator arriving makes you flinch. Soonyoung ignores you, getting in and leaning against the wall as he hits a button to go to the parking garage. You scramble in after him, a little breathless as the doors close just behind you.
Immediately you start shooting down several floors. He glares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. You swallow thickly, watching the numbers decrease until you’re at Lin’s private parking garage. Soonyoung is out of the elevator before it finishes opening all the way, storming toward the car he’s left running idle.
Normally someone would open a car door for you. Instead, Soonyoung gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. You reach for the handle of the passenger seat and pause. Normally you sit in the back when being driven somewhere, it’s always been like that. But this is Soonyoung and you’ve always been beside him in the car, his equal.
A muffled get in the fucking car reaches you. Deciding that sitting next to him is too personal, you open the back seat and slide in. You’ve barely shut the door when he punches the gas, slamming you into the back of the seat as he goes.
“Would you stop being an asshole?” you seethe, ripping the seatbelt from next to you to buckle in. Your hands are still shaking and it takes a moment for the clasp to click.
Instead of answering, you hear the way the car accelerates under his foot. Scowling, you look out the window. He speeds into the lift that brings the car down to the ground floor. Lights blur by as the lift drops at lurching speed, your stomach in your throat. You hate coming to apartments for this reason, the feeling of having to freefall to leave never growing on you.
It’s raining when the lift opens to the wet street. Soonyoung peels out on the pavement, tires spinning until they gain traction and the car slides onto the road, narrowly missing someone. You slam against the seatbelt, cursing and clinging onto the door as he pushes the gas down, engine roaring.
“Are you trying to kill us?”
Soonyoung doesn’t answer you. You think it might be because he’s not explicitly trying to kill the two of you, but he doesn’t care if he does. You try not to think about it so much as he powers through the streets of the Upper City, driving past towering businesses, luxury districts with entertainment and bars and apartment buildings.
The road starts to incline and you hit a line of trees. The city vanishes behind you as Soonyoung drives the car up the winding road, leaving a world of metal and lights for greenery and earth. The contrast between the cities below and the Estates above is stark, especially as he drive’s higher up the mountain, snatches of the city below visible.
“Why did you come to get me?” you ask, flicking your gaze to the rearview mirror to watch him. Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the road, but you see his mouth tighten. “Last I checked you’re not an errand boy.”
“So what, you check on me?”
“It’s a figure of speech, you know what I mean.”
“The Tower personally requested I come get you.”
That gives you pause. Soonyoung’s face reveals nothing as he turns on the street that will inevitably lead to the massive metal wall that blocks off the world from the Choi Estate. There can only be a single reason why Soonyoung was sent to fetch you when usually your husband’s staff would do so.
“What’s happened?”
Soonyoung doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he rolls the window down at the guard house to show his face. The security team recognizes him immediately, waving him through as the gate begins to slide open to reveal lush, green jungle.
Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as he drives through the winding foliage on Choi grounds. Your great-great-grandfather had built the Choi compound, the first of the few elite houses on the mountain. He thought it was important to keep the plant life and sprawling greenery to conserve, but you knew it was really about power. Symbolism. Greenery didn’t really exist in the city, and this much space and plantlife meant wealth.
The sprawling estate you grew up in reveals itself. Multiple buildings dot the property, making it more a family compound than an estate. Now that Seungcheol is old enough, he’s moved out of the main house and into one of the smaller homes, occupying the space with his own men and staff. Still, he’s just a brief stroll away from your childhood home.
Home. Even two years under a Kim family banner hasn’t erased the feeling of home for you. There is nothing in the house you share with Yijun that makes it feel like you. It is as devoid of love as your marriage, merely a placeholder for you to sleep, eat, and occasionally, try to produce an heir.
Soonyoung pulls up to the long building that serves as a garage, hitting a button on the car’s screen to open one of the bays. He pulls in slowly, the outside world fading as the garage door shuts behind the car, dousing it in darkness until the neon lights above flicker on.
Without a word, he powers off the vehicle and gets out. Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and get out of the car. He doesn’t wait for you - even shuts the door as he enters the main house so you’re forced to lug it open.
He’s already opening the door to the main house a few yards away, forcing you again to haphazardly navigate gravel in your heels as you give chase. You’re sweating and irritated by the time you’re up the steps and pushing through the front door, a nasty quip on your lips ready until you see your aunt coming down the stairs.
“Oh thank goodness,” she says, seeing you. She looks older than you remember, the lines of her face deep and the hair at her temples gray. “Come along.”
“What’s going on?” you ask, uncertain as you step into the foyer and let her take your arm.
She scowls. “Did that useless boy not tell you? Your mother suffered a heart attack this morning. She’s with Dr. Ymir in the medical wing.”
Your heart thuds to a stop as you wheel around to look over your shoulder at Soonyoung. His gaze is stormy but his face gives away nothing as he turns to leave the way he came, slamming the front door and vanishing down the steps to leave you alone.
“No,” you mumble as your aunt pulls you down the hall. “He didn’t tell me.”
Because that’s how much Soonyoung hates you. Hate isn’t even the right word, you think. It is something far deeper and far more sinister, fueled only by taking away something that he valued more than anything else in the world and forcing him to live with it.
I deserve this, you think as the door to one of the private medical rooms opens, a clinical smell hitting you in the face. I deserve everything that happens to me.
I deserve this. It’s all you can think of as you watch the black casket lower into the ground. Seungcheol stands beside you, his hands linked in front of him. You want to reach out and take his hand in yours, but you don’t want him to look weak. Don’t want others to see him crack like you know he will if you comfort him.
Instead, you comfort yourself as best you can, which isn’t saying much. You’ve never been good at dealing with your feelings, too much of your mother’s blood running through you. It was your father’s least favorite trait of yours and perhaps Soonyoung’s favorite.
Soonyoung, who has always been your emotional tether and outlet. You’re not accustomed to dealing with grief alone, and the pull of it feels like an undertow threatening to drag you under and drown you.
Someone shifts behind you, close enough that you feel Yijun next to you stiffen. You turn to look over your shoulder, blinking in surprise as you tilt your head up to see Soonyoung. He doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed forward and jaw flexing tightly. He’s standing closer than is necessary, as shown by your husband’s scoff.
Soonyoung doesn’t move, though. He remains nearly pressed against your back, so close that you can smell vanilla and sandalwood. Turning away from him, you feel your shoulders relax. He ignores you, but he’s there, a stoic guardian that’s just out of reach.
The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is too lost in his grief to notice or care about Soonyoung’s proximity to you. Your brother couldn’t care less, barely realizing that his brother by choice is an inch away from him. But you know Soonyoung is there and that’s all that matters.
The grief lessens, turning back from churning waters to gentle, lapping waves.
“Your brother doesn’t respect me,” Yijun asserts. You look at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing behind you in the closet, taking out glinting cufflinks to replace them in the countertop in the middle of the aisles of clothes. “You should work on that.”
“Seungcheol hardly takes what I say to heart.”
Yijun snorts, detecting the lie before you can even get it out. Seungcheol very much values your insight and opinion far more than he’s interested in Yijun’s. He’s made it clear at multiple parties and events now, often asking you how business is and how the shared Kim-Choi accounts are doing, despite not having anything to do with them.
Seungcheol hates your role within the Kim family. On more than one occasion he’s recommended Yijun make use of you somewhere in the family business, to make you the head of operation somewhere so that your schooling and experience weren’t going to waste. Yijun asserted that your social skills were being put to perfect use, entertaining the wives of his associates and serving as the perfect host when his business colleagues and friends were over.
“He’s going to be leading the family soon,” Yijun sighs. “It would be better for us if he saw me as a real ally.”
“He does see you as an ally. You’re married to his sister.”
“Exactly, so you should remind him that I’m family.” It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t sound like a request. Sighing, you shut the drawer in the counter forcefully. It draws his attention, gaze darkening. “Don’t you want your brother to respect your husband?”
No, you think. You don’t respect your husband, so why should Seungcheol?
Instead, you sigh. “Of course, Yi.” He doesn’t soften at the nickname. “I’ll talk to him, alright? He’s got a lot going on. And don’t talk about my father’s health that way.”
“I didn’t say anything about his health.”
“Please,” you snort. “I know what you meant about Cheol taking over soon.”
Yijun had been talking about Seungcheol more and more. You’ve watched with a sour taste in your mouth as your husband tries to earn your brother’s attention and trust, flashing what he thinks Seungcheol cares about in his face, telling him about the new car he acquired, or the historical art piece you purchased at an auction, and the new apartment building he’s constructing.
Seungcheol doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. The Choi family never has. Your ancestors didn’t make a name for themselves and carve it on the mountain they built their home on by showing off their wealth and what it could do for them. They did it by earning it, and by remaining steadfast and intelligent. Political.
Yijun understands none of that. As the eldest son of his family, it’s a shame. The real world of the Syndicates is lost on him. He has enough business acumen to run companies under his father’s careful tutelage and instruction, but he doesn’t have the social savvy for it, the right drive.
His brother does. You think of Kim Minchan and nearly shiver. The middle child of the Kim family has more than enough understanding of the way that things work, but the ocean of blood behind him is enough for you to prefer Yijun leading the Kim Syndicate any day.
“I’m just saying,” Yijun grunts, flicking off the lights in the closet. “Your brother has all the reason in the world to respect me and he doesn’t.” He looks at you, face hardening. “Do you tell him not to? Is that what it is? His baby sister tells him how useless her husband is?”
Danger is in the air. Yijun won’t lay a hand on you, but it doesn’t make this dance any less stressful. You turn away from the mirror, looking at him fully. He’s not terrible to look at - he has a sharp jaw and a broad nose and a pleasant shaped mouth. He’s handsome, even.
He’s not Kwon Soonyoung.
Swallowing away the thought, you reach up to put your hands on his chest, placating. “I wouldn’t do that,” you assure him, softening your voice. You hate the sound of your voice, hate the way you pitch it low and gentle. “You’re a reflection of me too. I would never let my brother think any of those things about my husband.”
Yijun swats your hands away, making you grit your teeth. “Don’t act like a whore. Just - tell your brother. I should be in his inner circle by now. Make it happen.”
As Yijun leaves the bathroom, the urge to grab him by his collar and yank him back in to smash his head on the counter almost wins. You stare at him until he vanishes in the bedroom, your rage a live, sentient thing. You feel it crawl beneath your skin, slithering and clawing and biting and begging to be let out.
Steady is the mountain. You take that fire and shove it down. Years of instinct of reacting with your mother’s temper peter out slowly. It’s a shame - you’re the last woman left from her side of the family, the only one who can carry the fire of the phoenix.
You glare at the bedroom. Somewhere, Yijun lurks, getting into bed. Oh how the shadows of the weak choke out the fire of the strong.
If killing Yijun wouldn’t risk everything, you’d have done it already. That first month spent with him where you realized this would not only be a loveless marriage, but a hateful one had almost driven you to it. The Choi Syndicate could surely survive a war with the Kim Syndicate - you had better assets, stronger loyalties, and more money.
But if the Kim family turned to the Yong family…
Avoiding unification of the Kim and Yong families is why you were married to Kim Yijun in the first place. To murder him now would mean Syndicate war, and despite the fact that every moment with him is hateful and poisonous, you’re too nervous to put your family at risk.
Especially with your father’s failing health, as Yijun had pointed out.
Syndicate war isn’t the only thing keeping you from stabbing Kim Yijun until you can’t feel anything anymore. Minchan’s shadow of a presence lingers over your thoughts, one of the few threats you truly fear. Any harm to his brother would elevate Minchan to a position where he could only wield his power more.
And he’d hunt you like a bloodhound. You’re unsure if there is any corner of the world he would leave unturned if you killed his brother, no matter how much it would benefit him if Yijun keeled over tomorrow.
Inside your bedroom is dark. It doesn’t feel like your bedroom at all. There’s nothing homey about it, no possession or unique decor, no pictures. You wouldn’t sleep in here at all if Yijun didn’t make you, insisting that he couldn’t trust any of the house staff not to tell your father you weren’t sleeping in the same room.
Your father doesn’t care. He stopped caring about anything the day you put your mother into the dirt. Even if he hadn’t, as long as your relationship looked functional to whom it mattered, it mattered little to him if you slept in the same room or if you even liked Kim Yijun.
He’d made that very clear the day he tore away your future with Soonyoung.
Yijun is already snoring when you climb into bed. You grind your teeth, reaching to pull open the nightstand for noise cancelling earbuds and sleep medication. The medication isn’t as strong as the crushed up knockout you might have used previously, but it helps take the edge off without making you vulnerable to attack.
Which is something you still worry about.
Setting your phone on silent, you settle in for sleep. It takes a long time, but you finally drift away to thinking about smothering the man next to you in his sleep.
Something wakes you. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed and look around the room. It’s dark, but you can see the barely-there outlines of the furniture in your bedroom. Next to you, Yijun is gone. You can feel the lack of presence there more than you can see it, reaching your hand over to confirm the bed is cold and that he’s not been there for a while.
You reach for the phone on your nightstand but can’t find it. Frowning, you press your hand on the cool marble, sweeping back and forth to no avail. You lean further, finger finding the button to the light function on the stand and press down.
Dim, lavender light halos the top of the nightstand. Your phone is nowhere in sight. It’s just your jewelry dish, a decanter for water, and your sleep medication. You’re pretty sure that you put your phone face down before you went to bed, but you can’t be sure.
Pulling open the nightstand drawer only makes the back of your neck sweat. Your phone isn’t there, but neither is the gun you keep in the top drawer. Both you and Yijun sleep armed, despite having armed guards on the premises at all times.
Snapping the drawer shut, you roll to the other side of the bed and pull his open. A book, a watch, some pill bottles and a pack of cigarettes fill the drawer. No gun.
The back of your neck tingles. You rip the sheets off of you, heading to the bedroom door. The house is mostly dark when you open it, the entire second floor dim. Leaning over the banister, you can see a shaft of light falling across the room, perhaps coming from the kitchen.
Quietly, you stalk toward the top of the stairwell, trying to reduce noise as you creep down. A high pitched whine rings in your ears, heart thundering. You have no idea why you’re so afraid all of the sudden, especially in your own house, but your instincts tell you to be alert and quiet.
At the foot of the stairs, you confirm the light is coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for people to be in the house in the middle of the night. Official Syndicate business happens at any time, and often goes into the early hours of morning.
Tonight, it’s not busy. Before you’d gone upstairs to bed, you’d noted that it was a skeleton crew security team for the night, just a few of them at the gate house and walking the premises while you and Yijun returned upstairs for the evening alone.
Creeping toward the hallway, you pause when you hear voices. You identify Yijun’s voice right away, holding your breath and straining your hearing as he says, “What do you want me to do here?”
“Keep her contained. Make sure no one from her family can reach her.”
“I already took her phone and her gun.”
Your stomach drops. “Good.” That’s Minchan’s voice, you realize, dread growing tenfold. “The second she finds out the Tower has fallen, she’ll try to run or her brother will try to get her.”
“Or that psycho fuck,” Yijun mutters.
“You’d be lucky if it was Seungcheol who came to get her. If Kwon Soonyoung comes looking, call me immediately. We’ll make our move in two hours. We’ve got the biggest team outside the Choi estate ready to go in and we’ve got men and women stationed at all the key points.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit here and babysit my wife?”
“Yes.” Minchan’s tone is nonnegotiable. “We’ll leave the guards at the gatehouse but we can’t spare anyone else. This kind of assault requires everyone. The Yong family will take care of the Pearl District and the Salt.”
Yijun hesitates. “What about the Yoon family? Are they all accounted for?”
“Yes. I have a team on the crazy one - what do they call her?”
“Angel, I think.”
Minchan laughs. “Demon is more fitting. Stay here. Stay by your phone. We’ll call thirty minutes before we give the signal to link everyone on comms. We do this right, and the Choi Syndicate is gone.”
Panic presses in for a moment. Your heart hammers. Your hands shake. Bile churns your stomach. It feels like you can’t get enough air, the pieces of what they're talking about falling into place.
The Tower has fallen.
Your father is dead, and in the wake of the crushing blow, the Kim family intends to strike at yours alongside the Yong family. The realization lands like a blow, immediately slapping you out of your panic.
Fear turns to rage. Rage turns to ice. You are fire, you are the mountain.
Steadfast is the mountain, but the fire does burn.
As quietly as you can, you creep up the stairs. You keep turning over your shoulder to ensure Minchan doesn’t leave the kitchen and catch you creeping back toward your bedroom. When you hit the second floor landing, you all but sprint to your room, gears turning.
Yijun took your phone and intends to keep you locked in the house until they finish their plan. From their discussion, you know they intend to mobilize within two hours, targeting important members of the Choi Syndicate across the city with the help of the Yong family.
It means you have only a few minutes to warn your family to respond, to prepare and to fight back or strike first. Which is hard to do without a phone, but your husband doesn’t know you nearly as well as he thinks.
Door closed behind you, you flip the lock on the bedroom door and dash for the closet. The lights above come to life, bathing you in ghoulish, grey light. You dive to the floor toward your shelf holding all of your shoes, the carpet burns nothing compared to the pain starting to bloom behind your sternum where your grief builds slowly under your anger.
Your father is dead. The Kims are going to turn on you anyway. Your marriage to Kim Yijun to secure alliances against the Yong family was for nothing.
You’ve endured for nothing.
Snatching a pair of boots, you swallow down the bile again. You will not break now, not when there are more important things than the time you’ve wasted withering away in this cold home. Shoving your hand inside the boot, you come into contact with what you were looking for. Your hand closes around the device, yanking it out and powering it on.
The screen flashes to life. You press one and hold, hearing the buzz on the phone as it begins to ring. You cradle the phone against your shoulder and ear, nearly sick with the adrenaline that is pounding through you, your vision blurring, hands shaking.
You grab another shoe, this time reaching inside carefully instead of shoving your hand in. The smooth, bone handle of a knife meets your hand and you wrap your fingers around it firmly, pulling it out.
Soonyoung answers on the fourth ring. “Where are you?”
“The Kim family has turned on the Chois. They’re mobilizing for a full scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They’re at the estate and all over the city - anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt.”
“How many men are at Yijun’s estate?” You can hear him moving on the other side of the line, something rustling. Perhaps clothes as he gets dressed. “Are you armed?”
“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.”
“Where are you in the house?”
“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.”
“Listen to me,” Soonyoung says, voice like ice. “The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they’ll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?” When you say nothing, he asks again, voice louder. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to fight back. Either kill him or hold him off until I’m there.”
“You need to warn-”
“Don’t worry about the fucking Syndicate! We’ll be fine. You’ve given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself.”
You take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Okay.”
“Do you have frostbyte?”
“Maybe? Yijun might have it in the nightstand.”
“Take some. Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes.”
“Okay.”
You squeeze the phone, unwilling to hang up. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t heard his voice in months. It doesn’t matter that he hates you, it doesn’t matter that you know whatever used to be between you is broken and it’s entirely your fault. You just… don’t want to hang up.
“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, drawing you from your trembling spiral. “Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to. I have to go.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” Soonyoung pauses, the silence heavy on the line. “I love you.”
Nothing breaks you like those words, whispered but firm, whispered in case you die before he gets there. He doesn’t have to say that’s why he’s saying it - you know. You know the chance of him not getting there fast enough is likely and real. He does too, but instead of telling you, he gives you this.
You whisper back, “I love you.”
Soonyoung hangs up the phone and you fight a sob. You bring the knife up to your hand, pressing your pointer finger down on the tip. The sting is immediate, making you his in pain as blood beads on the tip of your finger, red and garish in the closet lighting.
The sting grounds you enough to push yourself from the floor, following Soonyoung’s directions to Yijun’s nightstand. You yank it open, rattling around the contents until you find the bag of frostbyte you were hoping was there. Yijun uses it the nights he attempts to put an heir in you, numbing himself the way you never did, taking your punishment for what you’d done to Soonyoung raw.
Not enough to fuck me up, you think, untwisting the bag and shaking. Just enough to make it easier.
Dipping the tip of your knife into the bag, you pull out a small lump of the glittering drug. You try not to think about that night at the club all those years ago, when you and Soonyoung were still dancing around one another’s feelings, doing anything you could to get a reaction out of one another.
You take a sharp breath in. The drug hits your nasal passage and it burns, your eyes smarting as you tilt your head up, cursing and blinking away the tears. It hits the back of your throat, bitter and awful as you cough a little, trying to wait for it to clear your nasal passage.
When the burning subsides a little, you do it again. It’s less harsh than the first bump but still just as awful, making you wonder how the fuck you did this on the weekend with your friends as a teenager. Tossing the back on the nightstand, you stand waiting, closing your eyes and trying to do deep breathing exercises your therapist taught you to calm down.
Frostbyte works fast. It hits your bloodstream and an electric calm comes over you. Everything comes into sharper focus, the adrenaline pumping as your simmering rage turns to a boil, ready to kick the fucking door down and hunt down Yijun yourself.
Nerves fade away to the background of your mind. You walk toward the door, waiting to the side so when Yijun ultimately kicks it down, you’re ready.
Ten minutes pass. The entire time your ears are ringing, heart thundering in your chest. You think the frostbyte was a good idea - if you had to wait in silence like this without it, you would have gone crazy by now. Even with the drug, fear nips at your ankles, a hound ever on your tail.
Yijun’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Your heart lurches and you inch away from the door, readying yourself. He storms down the hall, fury in each step until he gets to the door and turns the handle. It doesn’t move. He tries a few more times, shaking the door.
His roar on the other side of the door is loud and feral, making you grin as he thrashes against the door, cursing and screaming at you. The door holds, rattling in place as he slams what you think is his shoulder into it multiple times.
The bombardment pauses for a second and then restarts ten times stronger. This time, you recognize that it’s his foot slamming into the side of the door. You realize he’s kicking where the door is latched, trying to break it open instead of kicking through it.
A small crack sounds. You take a breath, readying yourself as you hear another snap go through the door, now rattling loose in its frame. He kicks hard again and the door blows open, nearly smacking you as it does. You roll away from it on the wall, keeping close as Yijun barrels past you, swinging his head from left to right as he looks for you.
It’s your only chance to get the jump on him. You slide from the dark, heart hammering. You’ve never stabbed anyone before, but you’ve practiced. You drive the knife upward, intending to puncture his kidneys. Yijun twists a little to the side, sensing your presence as the knife plunges into his side.
Yijun screams. Your satisfaction only lasts a second before he throws his elbow backward, catching you in the nose. Pain explodes in your face, blinding you as your eyes water and you stumble backward hands shooting to your face.
Removing the knife from his side, Yijun screams at you, spit flying as he comes at you. Through tears and warm blood rushing from your nose, you reach for anything to use as a weapon. Your hand closes on the ceramic artwork on the dresser and you launch it at him, hitting him hard in the face.
The ceramic shatters and he drops the knife. You dive for it but he grabs you by the hair, ripping you upward and backward like a ragdoll. You lose your footing, screaming as he tightens his fist in your hair and drags you toward the bed, tossing you there.
With a feral shout, you kick your foot forward, catching him in the lower gut. He grunts but wraps his hand around your ankle, yanking you back off the bed onto the floor, where the knife lays. You reach for it, seething, your hands managing to close around it just as he pivots, foot landing against your ribcage.
Again, pain explodes inside of you. With the frostbyte, you barely recognize it, grabbing the knife and stabbing him in the calf. He shrieks and collapses to a knee, reaching for the knife. This time you rip it back out, nearly losing your grip on the bone handle, fingers slippery with blood.
You stab him again, this time in the thigh. His knee presses into your stomach, crushing you and forcing air from your lungs. You ignore the pain, stabbing him again and again in the thigh until he falls backward off of you, muscles malfunctioning, tendons give away.
Yijun kicks out at you with his good leg but you’re already moving, ignoring the way your body is screaming in utter agony, every part of you throbbing and begging you to give up.
You don’t. You scramble on top of him. His hands shoot up to your throat but you spit at him, a spray of blood blinding him and making his grip loosen momentarily. It’s enough to bring the knife down home again, this time directly in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
For a second, he fights back. You hear the wet gasp and he thrashes, but you stab him again. And again and again and again and again -
You think about all of the times that you were forced to submit to him.
And again and again and again -
The way he heaved himself on top of you, trying to force a child into you so he could be done with you, the way you’d wish it had been Soonyoung instead.
And again and again and again -
The way Soonyoung’s face broke that morning, begging you not to do this to him.
And again and again and again -
All for the Kim family to turn on the Choi’s anyway, wasting the entire time you’ve spent under lock and key, doing Yijun’s bidding while Soonyoung hated you. Loathed you. Wish you never happened to him.
Again and AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAINAND-
Yijun isn’t moving under you. Your hand is warm and wet, the knife becoming slippery as you let it go. It clatters to the floor and you sit backward on his knees. He’s unmoving as you heave, sucking down air that tastes like iron and salt.
Sweat slicks the back of your neck and down your spine. Somewhere in the house, there’s a crashing noise. You leap for the knife, rolling off of Yijun’s mutilated body toward the door, positioning yourself in a defensive position as feet thunder up the stairs.
You bare your teeth, knowing this is it. Knowing Soonyoung hasn’t come quickly enough but it doesn’t matter, because you warned them and they are safe. Your penance for destroying him has been paid in half, though never full, and -
Soonyoung appears in the doorway. He looks like an angel from hell, wreathed in shallow light that comes from the first floor, his silver hair stained with blood. He’s in black trousers and a short-sleeve shirt with his favorite band on it - one of his sleep shirts.
For less than a second, he stares at you. Then, Soonyoung dives at you, dropping the gun in his head and grabbing you. You hadn’t realized that you’d sunk to your knees, looking up at him as he grabs your face, turning you this way and that. He’s asking you a question but you can’t understand him, dizzy and confused and in so much pain that the edge of your vision wavers.
“Baby,” Soonyoung begs, his voice warped and echoey. “Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?”
“S’mostly his,” you answer, feeling how heavy your tongue is. Your thoughts are sticky and slow. Concussed, you think. “Maybe broke my nose.”
Soonyoung’s thumb brushes gently across your cheek, smearing blood. “Can you walk if I help you?” You think about it. Shake your head. “Okay. I’m going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don’t hurt you, Baby.”
“Ribs.”
“Left or right?”
You pause, breathing in and feeling the pain bloom. “Right.”
“Okay, tell me if I hurt you, okay? We’re going to take you home.”
“Thank you.” Soonyoung hesitates at your tone, looking at you. His eyes are vulnerable and open, more raw than you have seen them since you were kids. “You didn’t have to come get me.”
He stares and stares at you. The world fades a little and Soonyoung lifts you toward him. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, so soft you barely hear what he’s saying. “When you say jump, remember?”
“Where's this?” You mumble, looking out the window at a small home behind high gates.
Soonyoung has been driving for an hour and a half, his silence nearly unbearable as you both left the city. You don’t ask about where you’re going or if everyone is okay - you don’t think you can stomach the answers right now. Not while in the car.
Rain mists through the window as Soonyoung rolls it down to punch in a code in front of the gate. It flashes green and the metal starts to roll open, revealing a large but modest house - at least by Syndicate standards. He drives through, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
“Safe House. Very few people know it exists.”
“Are we in Levin?” He nods his head. You’ve never been to the small town, but you know it’s mostly a vacation village on the coast. “Who does this place belong to?”
“Me.” You look at him, surprised. “I bought it when you… got engaged.”
It’s like a stone sinking to the bottom of your stomach. You don’t have to ask why. It was his failsafe for you, a way to get you away from Yijun if you had just asked.
You should have asked. Should have just thrown it away and called him, should have begged him from your knees-
Soonyoung turns the car off and opens the door. You open yours, rain pattering against your red skin. He rushes to help you out of the car, hands hovering around you, unsure where to touch. It makes you want to sob. You want him to touch you anywhere - everywhere.
Instead, he leads you to the house, a hand wrapped firmly around your forearm to keep you upright and steady as you walk up the steps.
A porch light flickers on. You cringe away from the brightness, squinting through your fingers as the door opens to reveal Vernon standing on the other side. His eyes flicker between the two of you and he nods, stepping to the side to let you in.
Warmth blankets you as Soonyoung shuts the door. You’re standing in a small entryway with a staircase to the right leading to the second floor. Straight on, the lights are on, revealing a sliver of the living room. You can hear voices pause as they hear the door shut.
Angel materializes in the doorway, her hair damp. She’s dressed down like she recently showered, her eyes on you as she heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s Hoshi and Baby,” she calls over her shoulder, coming forward.
Soonyoung nudges you toward Angel gently. “Take her to shower.”
“Yeah of course.”
“Where’s Seungcheol?” You ask, turning to look at Soonyoung, who is already looking at his phone, holoscreen lighting up his face.
“On his way. The main crew is safe.” He hesitates. “We lost Lan, Old Man Vero and Yoon Minji.”
Your heart seizes, eyes darting to Angel. “Angel, I’m-”
“Jeonghan is taking care of it.” For the first time in years, you hear a note of pain in her voice, raw and real. Angel has - had - a complicated relationship with her step-mother, the matriarch of the Yoong family. “I’ve already satiated my vengeance. This is his. Come on.”
You hesitate. Soonyoung nudges you toward the stairs gently by the hip, suddenly looking tired. “Go. I’m going to find a doctor for that nose.”
“Is it terrible?”
He huffs, trying not to laugh. “No, but it needs to be fixed. Go. Shower.”
I love you. It’s on the tip of your tongue, right there. I love you. It’s all you can think about, thundering in your ribcage. I love you. It consumes you, makes you freeze up, staring at him. I love you.
Angel tugs your wrist delicately and breaks the spell. You follow her up the stairs. She’s careful with you, making you take one step at a time. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so gentle, her eyes softened with worry and her touch on you delicate as butterfly wings.
Upstairs, she leads you into a room that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. Soonyoung. This room belongs to Soonyoung. You spot his subtle touches, a gaming computer shoved in the corner and powered off. A closet with a metal door that is under lock and key. A single gun sitting on top of the nightstand.
But what makes the room spin is the touches of you. A teakwood candle sitting on the dresser. Weighted blankets folded at the end of the bed. A bookshelf with all your favorite titles. A jar of saltwater taffy in multiple flavors.
Angel hesitates by the bathroom door, watching you drink in the room. You turn to her, shaking your head, confused and mouth open. She nods. “I know. I didn’t know either.”
“I could live and die a thousand times and never deserve him.”
“I’m not the best judge of character, but I don’t think I believe that to be true.”
Angel isn’t the best judge of character. But she also doesn’t say things she does not mean. She’s the last person in the world to offer words of comfort, and yet she’s standing in the bathroom staring at you like she can see through you, right down to the very core.
Maybe she can. Seeing what is rotting people on the inside and sniffing out their weaknesses is what she does best.
Instead of pointing out where you hurt, she manages to get you into the bathroom. It’s spacious but not grand like what you’re used to - it’s small. Safe. She starts the shower and backs away, helping you get out of your bloody clothing.
Everything hurts so bad. Your ribs ache, the bruising on them blotchy and horrendous as Angel peels back your shirt. She thankfully doesn’t react - she’s seen worse and done worse. Suddenly, you realize why Soonyoung picked her to help you. She’s steady, her fingers sure as she holds your arm while you pull your pants down.
You don’t dare look in the mirror. From what you can see without it, it’s already bad enough. Yijun hadn’t dealt fatal damage, but you know you’re bruised and covered in dry, flaking blood.
Angel leaves you in the shower, shutting the door to go sit on the sink, a guardian willing to give you space but ready to help when you need it. Shaking, you shuffle into the stream of hot water, hissing when it hits your skin.
It’s both heaven and hell. The hot water feels so good on your aching muscles and throbbing pain, but it also hurts when the water taps against your nose, reminding you that it is indeed broken. You suck in sharp air as you slowly begin to work your fingers into your skin, turning the water pink as you wash off the blood.
Blood that belongs to you. Blood that belongs to Yijun.
Yijun.
You’re not sorry you killed him. It was satisfying and necessary. But… the weight of your grief comes crashing into you. You could have killed him years ago and ran. Could have gone crawling back to Soonyoung and asked for his help. Could have told him that the only reason you ever agreed to marry him in the first place was to protect him.
None of it mattered. You bought him a paltry couple years worth of protection and for what? To shackle yourself to a man who thought little of you, who wanted to fuck you until you gave him another version of himself, who wanted to kill you at every moment because he knew you didn’t respect him and because he was afraid of you and the way you command respect from your family, but he never did.
All that time you’d made yourself smaller for him. Held back your bite. Hid your teeth. Mourned Soonyoung everyday, knowing that you’d never touch him again, that he would never kiss you again, that you’d never wake up in the morning when he got home from work and crawled into bed with you.
A potential lifetime of happiness, one of your own making, wasted on a promise that they broke anyway.
For nothing. It had been for nothing, you’d hurt Soonyoung for nothing, shut him out, promised you would never leave him and threw him away, forced him to jump for you, forced him to leave you when he said he wouldn’t all for nothing nothing nothing nothing notHING NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING-
Angel’s arms are around you. You startle, looking up to see that she is in the shower fully clothed, holding you to her. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying - screaming - in the shower. She presses you closer to her, the only way she knows how to tell you that she’s got you. She’s there. She understands.
You crumble, leaning heavily on her as you let it out, sobbing. Your throat is raw, your face throbbing each time you squeeze your eyes shut. Angel says nothing, content to hold you while her clothes soak up the water, weighing her down as you let out your grief in full, ugly waves.
Eventually, the water starts to get cold and your tears start to dry up. You sniff and groan, the pain in your face so poignant that it can’t be ignored. Lifting your head from her shoulder, you glance at her boots, soaked and murky red around the edges.
“Can I tell you something?” Angel asks, voice low. You nod. She hesitates, putting the words together before she says, “He’s going to accept you back. He’s going to do it with no conditions, and ask nothing of you. You’re going to want to torture yourself and beg for his forgiveness and deny yourself of him because you think you should be punished, that there is not a god powerful enough to hurt you the way you deserve.”
You blink in surprise. Angel isn’t religious, despite the nickname. She also isn’t overly emotional or wordy. But you see the severity in which she tells you this, see the pain in her eyes. You remember that she has demons far older than yours, ones that have followed her since childhood.
And she’s right. She reads you like a book, seeing the fucking pain radiating inside of you, the desire to be punished and hated and whipped-
“Let him take you back.” Her words are firm. “Don’t make him punish you. Don’t believe for a second that Soonyoung wants to make you pay. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what you did or why. Just… let him have you. You’ve endured enough.”
You nod. “Alright. I’ll try.”
“Good. Um - can we get out of the shower though? It’s very cold in here.”
You laugh, immediately followed by a groan. “Please don’t make me laugh. I am in so much pain.”
“Yeah, let’s go get you some drugs, dude.”
The three Syndicates of the city are officially at war. Of all the news that has poured in over the last few days, this is the least surprising. When you’d seen Seungcheol that first night after everything went to hell, he’d held you close and promised that he would kill every last Kim in the city.
He had also told you he was proud of you. Not just for surviving Yijun long enough for Soonyoung to come get you, but for being able to warn the family what was coming. Your single warning alone had saved them a great deal and wounded the Kim Syndicate more than you could understand.
The days following your father’s death are strange. It doesn’t feel like he’s dead - at least, you haven’t truly processed it yet. There are things that demand your attention like being seen by Dr. Ymir for your fractured nose and bruised ribs, and the accounts and logistics of what being at war with the Kim and Yong family truly means.
On the fifth day at the safe house, you go back home. Seungcheol makes you ride with him, unwilling to let you out of his sight these days. You’re the only two members of the Choi family left, and it’s up to the two of you to rally the troops and remind everyone what the mountain can do.
Seungcheol replaces your father as the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. Typically there’s a small ceremony to pass the torch so to speak, but there’s no time for that. Seungcheol is buried in problems and trying to maneuver the family into a favorable position, but it’s hard - the Yongs and Kims have been preparing this for a while.
You’re suddenly given a job again. Fresh in his position leading the family, Seungcheol needs those he trusts by his side, immediately appointing you as the Architect of the Syndicate. There’s no one he trusts more with the finances and the logistics of the businesses under the Choi banner and who have pledged to his family.
With Yoon Minji’s death, Jeonghan’s takes his rightful side as the Wisdom and second in command to Seungcheol. It’s like you’d always known it would be as a kid, but it brings you no joy to see the two of them together in an office until the early hours of the morning, worn at the edges and sick with the grief they’re ignoring to push forward.
With no surprise, Seungcheol immediately promotes Soonyoung to the lead military position, rising from Sword to Sentinel in a single night. It’s the same position his father held under your father, and Soonyoung takes it with steely resolve.
It also means you don’t see him. You move back into your old room at home. At first, it doesn’t feel like your room at all because Soonyoung isn't in it. He had moved into your room when you first started dating, spending two years in that bed with you. Now, he’s taken up residence in his room down the hall, so close and yet the distance feels larger than ever.
Of all the problems mounting for you to solve, Soonyoung is the most important. You know he shouldn’t be. There are a thousand other things that you need to figure out, like how to assure that the businesses you own in and near the Kim and Yong family territories won’t go under or be attacked, or how to assure that payment to the family won’t increase now that there’s a fight.
Your days are filled with countless meetings, assuring loyal patrons that the Choi Syndicate will not fall and will not fail them, and that the Choi’s protect their own. You can see the fear in people’s eyes - the city hasn’t had the big three at war in a long time. Already the city officials are cracking down on Syndicate activity to try and establish order.
It’s farcical at best.
Squeezing your temples between your fingers, you lean back from the desk in your newly appointed office - which is really just your father’s. It feels weird to be in here. It still smells like leather and sweet tobacco, a little bit of smoke hanging in the air.
The last time you’d been in this office, you’d fallen to your knees and begged him not to make you marry Kim Yijun. Now you sit at the desk, hanging up the phone as another call ends - not as bad as the first, but not as good as you’d hoped.
Quickly, you scribble down a summary of the call to give to Seungcheol. You know he’ll read every word you write, determined to hear each concern of those under Choi patronage, whether they’re valid or not.
At the sound of the door opening, you glance up. Soonyoung sticks his head in, surprising you. You straighten in your seat, heart racing when you take him in. His silver hair has grown longer, tapered a bit at the neck. He’s dressed in all black but he’s clean, indicating that he showered not that long ago. You thought he would be out all day like usual, looking at your watch to see he’s back far earlier than normal.
“Is everything alright?” You start to get up and he rushes to you, hands lifting to help you. “I’m alright. I am well on the mend.”
He chews his lip, nodding before dropping his hands hesitantly. “Everything’s fine I just.” He hesitates. “Do you want to eat lunch?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Soonyoung’s smile is tentative. Shy. You give him one back, following him out of the office while sending a quick note to Jihoon that you’ll meet with him later. He sends a thumbs down back, less than pleased that you’ve not made time to talk to him about your potential murder charges for Yijun.
“Are you busy? We don’t have to-”
“It’s just Jihoon.”
“Ah. He’s persistent, are you sure-”
“I want to have lunch with you, Soonyoung.”
He blushes and you grin. “Alright,” he murmurs. “When you say jump and all that.”
That makes you pause. “You don’t have to do anything I tell you.”
“What?” He stops walking, confused.
“You don’t have to ask how high if I tell you to jump... I’m wrong a lot of the time. I don’t… want to be that.”
I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. You don’t say it, but you think Soonyoung senses it when he says, “I’ve always wanted to jump for you. That hasn’t changed.”
Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you.
Angel’s words come back to you so you swallow down your guilt and you nod, giving him a tentative smile that he returns. This time, he holds out his hand to take you in the kitchen. You take it, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around yours both foreign and familiar.
The way he holds your hand in his makes you tremble. It’s something so simple and benign and yet you’re screaming on the inside, looking at where your fingers twine together like it’s everything, like it’s the only thing.
Lunch consists of very badly burned grilled cheese. You don’t care because Soonyoung makes it, insistent that he wants to and that he can. He’s good at a lot of things, particularly on the spectrum of murder and weapons, but he is terrible at putting bread, cheese and butter in a pan.
You eat it anyway, burnt bread and all. He sits next to you, his stool pulled so close that your thighs touch. You want to reach out and brush your fingers across his face, down his neck, through his hair. You want to touch until you’re grabbing, grab until you’re pulling.
Instead, you let him lead this dance, too afraid to initiate.
Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you.
You don’t, but you can’t let go of the fear of rejection. Can’t bring yourself to toe the line beyond what he’s giving you, which is more than you ever dreamed of. So you accept when he offers to take your plate, fingers brushing over the top of your hand either by design or by accident you don’t know. His touch makes you shiver and he notices, pausing.
Slowly, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are dark and misty as ever, churning with emotion that you’re a little too afraid to read. Instead of taking the plates to the sink, he sets them down and reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands.
A sob works its way up your throat but you force it down. You will not cry over this. You will not make him comfort you.
“Are you afraid to touch me?” His question is gentle. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb brushes back and forth across your cheekbone. “Why?”
“I… want to so badly. I just want it to be your choice.”
“I want you to.” You open your eyes. His earnestness is right on the surface of him, rippling for you to see. “I’m dying for it. Please.”
Soonyoung’s please sounds like that morning he’d begged you all that time ago. It freezes you in place, heart beating like a prey animal in fight or flight. He steps closer, his breath on your forehead when he whispers, “Please.”
Slowly, you bring your hands up to his wrists. Licking your lips, you place your hands on him. His eyes close. His skin is warm to the touch and you feel him tremble as you brush your hands upward, tracing his forearms, his corded biceps. You brush your fingertips over the sleeves of his shirt and toward his neck until you’re cupping his throat, your thumbs resting against his hammering pulse.
You close your eyes, remaining still. Both of you remain that way, his hands on your face, yours on his neck. You’re shaking under his touch, feel his breath against your forehead. His fingers add a little pressure to your face, careful not to hurt you where your bruise is finally fading on your nose as he turns you to look up at him.
Soonyoung licks his lips, eyes open. “There is not a second I didn’t love you.”
And there it is. The admission that he never hated you. You bet he tried - you know he tried. You know the inside of Soonyoung’s soul better than you know your own, no part of him hidden to you even with time.
“I don’t care why you did it,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not after everything. I don’t care about any of it. I just… want you.”
“Soonyoung-”
“I know you’re sorry. I know you hate yourself. I know there is guilt eating away at you. Get over it, because none of it changes how I feel. I love you. You’re mine. I don’t want to leave you again. You cannot make me.”
“I know. I won’t make you.”
“Good.” Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours gently. He’s careful not to knock noses with you too hard, aware of the pain it’ll cause. “I cannot do any of this without you.”
“I know.”
Soonyoung’s mouth is tentative when it presses against yours. Your grip on him tightens, leaning forward into the kiss. It is everything - the only thing. You feel something wet on your face, thinking that you’ve got another nosebleed, but when you pull away, you realize it’s because Soonyoung is crying.
Crying for the first time since his parents died.
You stand up from the stool, gripping the back of his neck to pull him toward you. He melts under your touch, letting you meld your mouths together. He tastes like his burnt sandwich and like him, his mouth warm and wet against yours. Vanilla and sandalwood invade your senses, overwhelming as you grip him for dear life, never wanting to let him go.
He doesn’t want to let you go either. His grip on your hips is crushing, fingers digging into flesh and bone as though he can force you to become one. The thought makes you dizzy. You slide your fingers in his silk-soft hair, wrapping the strands around them to pull lightly, pull him closer, pull him to you, pull him back.
Soonyoung whines against your mouth and you break the kiss, panting. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper between peppering kissing against his mouth, his bottom lip, the corner of his lips. “Please take me upstairs.”
He does. Soonyoung grabs you by the hands, tugging you toward the stairs that lead to your room - the room you used to share. The room that still smells like him, even if faintly. He takes you to your bed, where you’ve spent hundreds of nights with him, and lays you down gently like he has a million times before.
Soonyoung touches you like you’re holy. His hands skim over you in worship, they scratch you in penance, they hold you in reverence. He slots himself between your knees, stealing a kiss from you like it’ll breathe new life into him, bare him anew, purge him of sin.
You love him. You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him -
A moan leaves his mouth when your nails drag down his back. He is quaking under your touch, his mouth hungry but careful against yours, wanting to swallow you whole but knowing you’re hurt. You know he won’t break you but you wish he would.
There’s time for that later. Now isn’t the time for rough and biting. Now, Soonyoung peels the shirt from your skin, immediately covering your arms, chest, collarbones, shoulders in kisses. You vibrate under his touch, lashes fluttering as he sucks at the sensitive skin of your neck, tongue pressed flat to your pulse as he tastes you.
You tug at his shirt and he complies, leaning upward to toss it. He’s back on you in a second, pressing you close, hip to hip as he tangles his tongue with yours, drinking you in. His touch ignites a fire and you’re burning, a complete inferno as you drag your fingers up the hard contour of his stomach to the firmness of his chest and around to his shoulders.
“I love you,” he mutters against your mouth, rolling his hips into you. You let out a breathy sound and he groans. “Fuck I love you. I missed you. I love you.”
“Please,” you beg. He understands, burying his face in your neck and biting down lightly. You feel like you’re going to burn up under him, an out of control blaze while his fingers work the buttons on your pants. “Never let me go.”
“Never.”
Jeans scrape down your legs, his hands following. He drags his blunt nails down your thighs. Your hips twitch upward, loving the scratch, loving the way he touches you, loving him. He returns his mouth to yours, unable to get enough of your kissing.
Soonyoung’s hand slips between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing against your clit through your underwear. You keen for him, pulling at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. He moans in tandem, his pleasure driven by yours, loving the way you sound as you start to come apart under the gentle circle of his fingers.
He only teases you a little, knowing the friction with the fabric between his fingers and your aching cunt isn’t enough. He finally decides that you’ve had enough, hooking a finger to pull them aside, the cool air hitting your sticky folds.
Before you can complain, Soonyoung’s touch is there. He drags his fingers slow-soft from top to bottom, circling your clit slowly. He’s not in a hurry, dragging it out as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his fingers back down to press against your entrance but not breach it.
You whine and he grins, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth until he lets go with a pop. “I love those sounds you make.”
“Feels good,” you admit, head falling to the side as you close your eyes, enjoying the pressure he puts on your clit, wiggling his fingers back and forth. Your thighs close around his hand but he’s unbothered, drawing more arousal from you as he plays. “Fuck, your fingers.”
His laugh is throaty and he shakes his head, attaching his mouth to your jaw where he sucks at the skin. He makes himself comfortable with nibbling toward your neck, both of his hands reaching for the sides of your underwear to pull them down. You let him, folding your knees toward your for a moment to help.
Soonyoung’s hand returns to the wetness between your legs except this time, he’s not teasing. He presses a finger in deep and you whine, hips wiggling. You squeeze down on his finger, pussy spasming as he begins to pump leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.
And he does, doesn’t he? The work is far from done and the world is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s here with you. Because Soonyoung is yours again - always has been - and because he’s drawing your mouth toward his to kiss you messily, swallowing down your moans as he presses in another finger.
Now you crumble beneath him. You can’t stop your hips from coming off the bed. You loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close, breathing the same air. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes impossible dark and half-lidded as he hooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot.
You cry out his name and he grins. Now he knows where it is, pressing repeatedly as he fucks you on his fingers, driving you directly toward an orgasm. Your breathing becomes labored, your legs squeezing his hips, your fingers digging into his shoulders. It is so good that you think you might die, letting him yank you toward release.
Soonyoung kisses you again and you come crashing down, cumming around his fingers, body squeezing, ignoring the ache in your ribs and the millions of other places that you’re sore. He doesn’t slow down, scissoring his fingers to pry you open, to stretch you more.
“Soonyoung,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Soonyoung Soonyoung Soonyoung.”
“Just like that,” he agrees. You can tell he loves the way you say his name, knows that on your tongue it means something different. “Come on, one more.”
You’ll give him anything he wants. Never again will you deny him. You let him work you up again, feeling the way your breath gets stuck in your lungs and you shiver, another wave washing through you as you shudder around his fingers.
When you start to pant, he pulls his fingers out. You feel the wet schlick as he does, immediately hating the way you feel empty, hating the way he leans away from you. Whining, you reach out toward him, needy. He hushes you with a brief kiss, only standing to rid himself of his jeans and briefs.
Using the fingers covered in your arousal, Soonyoung pumps his cock, smearing a mixture of your slick and his precum down his shaft as he kneels on the bed again, taking his place between your thighs again. You watch with hooded eyes as he rubs the head of his cock through your messy folds, a moan dripping from your lips.
Soonyoung is beautiful, skin flushed and a sheen of sweat on his arms. His stomach flexes and clenches as he presses the tip of his cock into your entrance, both of you taking a shaky breath together. He slowly slides home, the stretch of him driving you wild, pussy fluttering around him until he’s slotted to the hilt.
He hangs his head, panting as he plants his hands on either side of your head. He takes a moment to collect himself, shaking. You turn your head to the side, kissing his wrist, peppering any skin you can reach with your love while your hands drift up his back, feeling the muscles flex.
When he begins to move, you nearly die. It feels so good, your breath lodged in your throat. He lowers his face to yours, kissing you as gently as he fucks you. His thrusts are deep and timed, not hard or fast but slow and measured, pressing all the way in as he uses his weight to his advantage.
Your fingers turn to talons on his back, nails biting his shoulder blades. He’s precise, the tip of his cock finding the right angle to make you nearly sob in a matter of a few thrusts. It’s familiar. Home.
Soonyoung lowers himself to his forearms, pressing your chests together. The friction of his skin against your pert nipples makes you squeeze around him, his name a whisper on swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing shakily as he continues to fuck you.
You feel him everywhere, feel everything that he wants to say. Soonyoung has never needed words to communicate to you and he doesn’t now, the way he shakes as he lets out a wispy moan enough, the way he slides one of his arms under your back to cradle you to his chest, closer closer closer.
He wants to be closer and so do you, arms around his neck, drawing him to you. You never want to let him go, never will let him go. You’ve learned your lesson and this, right here with him is the only thing that matters.
“Shh,” he hushes. You realize you’re crying, tasting salt on your lips when he brushes his mouth against yours. “I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Soonyoung’s pace picks up only a little bit. It’s enough, sending you careening toward your third orgasm. He can feel it - needs it. He chases after your high, catching your mouth to brush his tongue against yours, rolling his hips until you’re clenching around him, whining into his mouth, lips buzzing against his.
He hums against you, waiting until your pussy lets go of its vice grip to speed up a little bit, the wet smack of his hips against yours loud and lewd, driving him forward until he comes, your name on his lips, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts slow, both of you trembling like leaves until he finally stops, remaining seated inside of you.
“I will love you for a thousand lifetimes,” he mutters against your mouth, with no intention of moving. “You know that, right Baby?”
You nod, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. “Leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung,” you rasp, quoting yourself that first night he finally caved, where he finally told you that he couldn’t exist without you. “I will never go anywhere ever again.”
Tower - title for a Syndicate boss
Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydnicate boss
Architect - title for the main business affairs and political tactician
Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate
Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord
Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role
Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers
Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel
Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate
Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants
Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate
Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate
➸ synopsis: "I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”
His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.
“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”
➸ starring: lee minho x reader
➸ word count: 4k
➸ general content: street racer!minho, established relationship, very slight Cars reference, playing twister in a car
➸ warnings: explicit sexual content(MINORS DNI), car sex, piv(wrap it before you tap it), switch!minho(rare sighting indeed), praise
➸ rating: TV-MA
➸ author’s note: this is at least 3 years old, but it's just a DLC for anyone who loves these characters as much as I do <3(also my writing style has changed so much since then, in a good way)
“Ah, a cliff,” Minho chuckled, peering over the edge before turning to you with a knowing look on his face. “I think I can see where this is going-”
“Relax. If I wanted you dead I would have killed you months ago.”
You stepped up next to Minho, pointing somewhere over the cloud of dust that the car brought to the view. Through the brown haze, he could make out a path, or rather, a track, one that hadn’t been used in years. The turns were overgrown with brambles and weeds of every kind, attempting to reclaim the terrain in between the tires wearing them down every so often.
“Behold,” you yelled rather dramatically, throwing your arms out in front of Minho, “the place where I learned to race!”
“You learned on a dirt track?” He scoffed, looking at you in shock. You however, nodded proudly, reminiscing all the times you had run off the road while attempting to drift.
“My dad taught me to drift here,” you laughed, looking over the field, “he knew I couldn’t really destroy anything out here, and boy was I a reckless driver…”
“Do you visit here often?”
“Not anymore...in fact the last time I came here was…” you paused, furrowing your brows as you searched your brain for an answer. “Actually, the last time I came here was right before we started dating.”
“What? Why?” He laughed, crossing his arms. “I can’t imagine you came out here to practice…”
“No no, I just came out here to talk to my dad.”
“Does he come here often?”
It was at this point that you realized you had backed yourself into a corner, because the topic of your father wasn’t necessarily a light one, and truthfully the reason you went to talk to him was for advice concerning the driver you were currently dating. But Minho didn’t know that, nor did he need to know.
“My dad…” you stared wistfully over the racetrack. Memories of summer days spent in cars, with the radio blasting and the windows down came surging towards the front of your memory, but before they could do any damage, you swallowed them all and put on a blank face.
“My dad died in a car accident when I was eighteen.”
Minho’s head fell, instantly regretting that he pushed the topic further.
“Y/n...I-”
“It’s okay, really,” you whispered, giving him a weak smile. “You didn’t know.”
“I come here sometimes to talk to him, because it’s where I feel closest to him…” you explained, heat rising to your cheeks. “That sounds really corny-”
“No no—it's endearing,” he reassured you, before his face changed to one of concern.
He pondered for a moment, running his hands through his hair.
"How did you get behind the wheel after the accident?"
“I didn’t.”
Shocked, Minho slowly nodded his head in silent understanding, waiting for you to continue.
“I didn’t drive for almost a year, actually,” you chuckled bitterly, kicking a rock off the cliff face. “I resented cars, biked to work, barely hung out with friends…that was probably the worst year of my life.”
“Well hey, at least your carbon footprint went down-”
You shot him a glare, and he nervously chuckled an apology before asking you a question.
“So if you hated driving so much...how did you get to be a street racer?”
“I didn’t hate driving,” you whispered. “I was scared of it.”
For someone like you to be scared of driving, Minho almost couldn’t believe it. You were the most fearless driver he met; or at least, that was what he deduced after that fateful duel from months ago. Aside from that, you didn’t seem to be scared of anything, especially not Minho.
“But my dad, he loved cars, almost as much as he loved me probably,” you laughed, walking back towards Minho’s car. “To stop driving was to stop surrounding myself with the one thing that constantly reminded me of him.”
“So what you just...stopped being afraid of cars?”
“Not exactly,” you said, leaning against the hood. “It was really slow trying to get back into it, but then I met Changbin and the rest of the gang, and seeing them drive…” you looked up to the sky, and Minho could see the tears that you were holding back as you smiled, “it made me feel like he never left.”
Minho wasn’t entirely sure of how to comfort you, but he threw caution to the wind and embraced you in a hug, toned arms and cologne enveloping you almost immediately. And for a moment, you were glad that he couldn’t see how easily the tears fell from your eyes once he did that. It almost made you fall for him more, seeing how caring he was when he wanted to be. He didn’t even let you go until you gently pressed on his sweater vest.
“Your dad would be thrilled to know how good of a driver you are now,” he whispered as he pulled away, smiling. “I heard you're the best in the city.”
“Stop it,” you laughed, punching his arm. That sparkle that returned to your eyes made him feel at ease again, thankful that he could bring any sort of ease to you before the air grew quiet again.
“I know a lot of drivers,” you began, leaning off of the hood, “a lot of them drive just to get to places, some drive for the adrenaline rush, or money, or fame, or to ‘be the best’,” you glanced at him playfully, to which he feigned offense.
“For me...I drive to keep the memory of my dad alive.”
For Minho, it was moments like these that made it hard to pinpoint when exactly you had started backing your way into his heart. The ridiculously cocky girl that he met months ago he had come to realize was only a facade, for underneath all of the snarky remarks and banter was a girl that cared deeply for the people she loved. From staying up late with Yeji so she wasn’t alone when she worked on her car, to giving him lessons on drifting, Minho found that to him, you were more than just a rival.
And he was lucky that you even felt the same way.
He could feel his heart beat faster as you made your way inside his car, and he knew it wasn’t from the rush that driving gave him.
“Hey I don’t think I’ve ever asked,” you spoke up, watching Minho land in the driver's seat, “why did you start street racing?”
“Well,” he began, slumping against the leather seat, “I mean I was a professional racer for a minute but, to tell you the truth, I started because I lost a bet.”
Your mouth fell open, not viewing Minho as the type to gamble, but you let him continue.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but I owed someone money, and I knew of some people that did street racing for cash prizes...one thing led to another and I was able to pay the guy back, but not before I was hooked on the sport.”
He looked to you, who had a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at the absurdity of his backstory, but he only gave you an eye roll before continuing.
“At first I loved it, but I started to get obsessed with numbers and time trials and being the best, and I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”
His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.
“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”
The car fell silent for a moment, Minho staring deep into your eyes, and you tried your best to keep a straight face, but it was useless. You burst out laughing, ruining the atmosphere, and Minho sighed loudly, pretending to be annoyed.
“Too cheesy?”
“Absolutely,” you snorted, folding yourself in half from the laughter.
“But y/n,” he cooed, leaning over the center console to pull you over to him, “you make my heart race-”
“Gross, get away from me!”
Any bystanders would have thought that two little kids were occupying the front seats of an expensive car with the way you two were now wrestling, limbs flying about and squeals leaving your mouth every other second. Finally, you pushed his arms back far enough over the middle aisle to ensure that he couldn’t tickle you, giggling madly at his little frustrated pout.
However your giggling was abruptly cut short by Minho’s lips on yours, and while being silenced wasn’t your favorite pastime, you had to admit that this was probably your favorite way of being shut up.
Not that you’d allowed anyone else to do that other than him.
His fingers reached over the center console to cradle your jaw, and a dizzying jolt of excitement seemed to shock you where they met your skin. Rather than melting you, that set your skin ablaze, and suddenly you were pressing onto his mouth with equal force, earning a satisfied sigh from him as he tilted your head slightly. The space between you two was diminishing, but not as quickly as your impatient self would have liked, and as he pulled away you had to stop yourself from chasing after his lips.
He held a fiery gaze at bay with a look of mild amusement, a little surprised at how quickly you were unraveling for him, but before he could say something snarky, you took matters into your own hands.
Clambering over the seat, you braced yourself on various parts of the car interior before situating yourself on Minho’s lap, trying not to laugh at Minho’s failed attempt at an unaffected look towards your suggestive actions.
You made a quick mental note that he liked being straddled, but before you could waste any more time, his electrifying fingers held your chin, pulling your lips back into a gentle kiss.
Your hands landed on his chest, and you took this opportunity to slide them up to his neck, slowly feeling every ridge of him through his sweater vest. He couldn’t conceal the smirk that appeared once he picked up on what you were doing, and in return he bit your lip playfully, as if to tell you to behave.
Your growing impatience had no intentions of doing that, however.
Needless, to say, his lip biting only spurred you on, and you returned the favor with a few open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, watching how his eyes fluttered closed in silent delight as he sighed. At last, he quit being shy and let his hands wander downwards, resting on your waist as you leaned farther into him.
When his lips found yours again, the kiss that resumed was more intense than the previous ones, and you were sure that your heartbeat was matching his rapid pulse under your fingertips. Hushed gasps replaced the chaste giggles from moments before, and you wanted to push him a bit further; sliding your hands along his bare shoulders in an attempt to free him of the crisp white button down that was loosely hanging off of his frame.
He pulled away momentarily, shrugging the sleeves off of his arms and breaking the kiss to get his wrists past the cuffs, then swiftly tossing the shirt against the passenger side window before turning back to you.
Something about the way you hovered over him, face flushed and lips swollen, made him lose all resolve and snap beneath you, pulling you flush into his chest with one arm around your back while the other slid into your hair, gently tugging at the strands as his tongue slid inside your mouth. Your body turned to mush, making you grateful that Minho’s sweater vest was still between the two of you for you to ball up in your fists, clutching onto him like you were clutching onto your sanity.
You shifted in his lap, liking the closeness but not entirely comfortable with your positioning and in doing so, Minho inhaled a sharp breath, breaking the kiss. Panicking for a moment, you thought you might have hurt him, but it was quite the opposite, and upon realizing this you glanced down to see that his pants weren’t looking too comfortable either.
“Sorry,” he winced, not meeting your eyes in fear of the knowing look you would have on your face. “We should probably-”
You cut him off, leaning in to capture his lips in a slow, passionate kiss, laced with a small but noticeable hint of desire, and when you pulled away you were met with a flushed Minho, clearly trying to ignore the way you were sitting on top of him.
“...move to the backseat?” you answered, waiting for him to get the memo.
“Wait...here? You want to do this here?” he whispered, eyebrows furrowing in shock.
“You don’t?”
“I do! I just thought that I would be moving too fast for you and-” you brought a finger to his lips, tilting your head in amusement.
“Moving too fast? For me?”
You watched as his face turned from one of concern to one of annoyance, and you giggled mischievously as he rolled his eyes, huffing slightly.
“I…I was trying to be considerate and here you are, making fun of me…”
“I do appreciate your concern,” you responded playfully, pulling at the strings at his neckline, “however…”
You shifted your hips once more, this time intentionally grinding yourself against him as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, and before he could grip you any tighter, he reached over to the door handle.
“Get in the backseat.”
Probably a little too excitedly, you hopped out of the car and into the backseat, kicking off your shoes as Minho put the key into the ignition and rolled up the windows, as well as turned on the air conditioning to combat the heated atmosphere inside the car. He followed after you, closing the driver’s door and jumping in next to you, just barely closing the door behind him as you threw your arms around his neck.
Neither of you could tell if he was pushing you down more or if you were pulling him; either way you two were level with the seat cushions in seconds, frenzied hands doing everything they could to feel the other’s skin under their fingertips. Minho’s sweater vest flew off first, him tugging it off quickly to stop you from stretching the knit to shreds in your desperation.
Your shirt was next to follow, Minho’s teasing finally coming to a halt for him to whisper “off” as he tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you both momentarily sat up for him to pull the shirt over your head and onto the floor. The break from contact was only for a moment though, Minho pushing you back down to litter hot kisses across your now exposed collarbones. You gasped involuntarily, squirming from the light suction as your hands fumbled with his belt, finding the metal buckle a bit too complicated for your lust clouded mind.
“In my...back pocket,” Minho whispered, resting on his elbows to lean against you, “grab my wallet.” His focus went back to moving his lips along your neck, occasionally letting his teeth nip against the skin as you whimpered, hands sliding down his back to the edge of his pants. His leather wallet poked out from the left side, and you took it, looking for a particular foil square. Needy as you were, you weren’t completely delusional.
As soon as you found it, he sat up against the seat, finally allowing you room to breathe as he quickly undid his belt, and your brain started working again, telling you to rid yourself of the shorts caging your arousal. The denim disappeared in seconds, and you looked up to see Minho pulling down his pants and boxers in one go, wincing slightly as his hard red length sprang up against his abdomen. The sight of it throbbing had your core clenching in anticipation, and you could do nothing but wish that Minho would put the condom on faster, or better yet; do it yourself.
Almost painfully slow, he slid the rubber on, but as soon as he looked to you to cage you between his arms again, you ditched your underwear and stretched a leg over his thighs, straddling him once again. An eyebrow raised in pleasant surprise, hands hovering over your hips cautiously, but a hurried nod was all it took for him to hold you tightly, waiting for you to begin your descent.
Just like the rest of him, his shoulders felt firm under your palms, and you buried your head at the junction of his neck and shoulder as your entrance pressed against his tip. A silent gasp was shared between the both of you as you slowly enveloped him in your tight heat, followed by a low rumble from his chest. Whimpering slightly, your fingers dug into his hot skin as you adjusted to his size.
“...Do you want any help?” He whispered, and you slowly pushed yourself away from his chest. The burning desire to move was blazing inside your core, so you shook your head, figuring your own desperation would fuel your stamina for now. His hands slipped upwards to rest on your waist as his head leaned back against the headrest, bracing himself for your movements.
With a small raise of your hips, it felt like flames of pleasure were licking your every corner, and a small moan threatened to escape your throat from the friction. Minho was holding back too, for whatever reason, but you didn’t miss the slight groan that vibrated in his chest, or the way his fingertips pressed into the flesh of your sides a bit harder.
Sinking back onto him made your mind fuzzy; the only thing you could think about was how much you needed to do that again, and again, and with nothing in the way of that, you created a pace that was somehow too much but also not enough, for either of you. Your chest burned with the need to vocalize every time you sank down, while Minho had resorted to leaving the space between you full of shallow breaths, thick with the desire to meet you halfway into every movement.
The way that he was filling you up was more than satisfactory, and to keep your mind somewhat grounded, you leaned down and connected your lips again, electric kisses distracting you from the delicious burning sensation below.
Minho was not having it however; he wanted to hear you, so he distracted you with his mouth in other ways.
Moving away from your mouth, he kissed up your jawline, over to your ear, which you would quickly realize was extremely sensitive to Minho’s hot breath against it. And definitely more sensitive to his voice, in this particular situation.
“Y/n,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below your earlobe, “can you go faster for me?”
You must have clenched around him hard at that, because his breath hitched in his throat, stifling what would have been a moan as you picked up the pace.
“That’s it...that's my girl,” he almost moaned, tipping his head back as his hands slid up to hook around your shoulders. His hips started to jut up into you, and that combined with his arms pulling you down further every time your hips met was slowly turning you into a whining mess.
The sounds of your bodies meshing together was the dominant sound in the car, aside from Minho’s breathless pants and your endless whimpers, and the sun was far below the horizon now, long shadows finally disappearing and blending into the darkness inside the vehicle. The car was starting to rock back and forth in time with your movements, and the aching need for release was building just as fast as your stamina was diminishing; Minho noticed how you clung to his bare shoulders, signaling that you couldn’t keep up for much longer.
“I...can’t–” you sputtered out, your body close to giving out in the exhaustion and overstimulation of it all. Minho stilled your movements, pulling you off of him as both arms wrapped around your back.
“Slow down sweetheart, I’ve got you…” he whispered, laying you back onto the seat. He hovered over you, guiding himself back into your entrance before resuming a much slower pace, one that made you feel his every ridge, and in a sense this was slightly worse compared to riding him, because you could feel your orgasm approaching with the slowness of a bullet train.
For Minho, it was becoming increasingly difficult to not just drive himself inside you until you screamed his name, but he could save that for later, for now he thrusted inside you with a slow deliberation, and he relished in the way your nails clawed at his arms.
You felt like you could barely keep your eyes open, but when you could, it was a sight to behold. His honey skin was just barely caught in the remnants of the sunset, beads of sweat rolling down his neck and sticking to the various necklaces he was wearing, or dampening his beep brown hair. His face and neck were tinted with a slight glow of red, as well as his lips, which you were only to catch a glimpse of before he dipped down to taste the skin of your chest.
His hand slipped under you momentarily to unclasp your bra, and you just barely helped him slip it off your shoulders, dropping it on the floor beside you. His lips then went back to work, kissing along the sensitive swell of your breast as your core clenched tightly around him, spurring him on even further.
A hand came up to cup one of your breasts, thumb lightly running over your hardened nipple as your back involuntarily arched, and Minho could tell that you were close, with the pitch of your moans getting higher by the second.
“Almost there?” He asked, half curious for your sake and half for his; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take you before he would start to unravel.
“Yes...close, so close,” you cried out, syntax becoming nearly impossible.
His lips latched onto your neck once more, sucking to leave a deep red mark there as his thumb and index finger rolled your sensitive bud, and that combined with a few more deep thrusts had you twisting in pleasure until finally, you reached your peak. You were sure there would be marks left as your nails dug into his back, your loud moan reverberating around the car interior as Minho slowed his thrusts, relishing in the way you tightened around him.
It was only a minute before Minho was gasping for air himself, on the tip of ecstasy as he sheathed himself inside you at a fast pace, not wanting to overstimulate you for longer than he needed to. Luckily, his resolve broke quickly, and you could feel his warm release filling the condom before he pulled out, chest heaving.
You both fell mostly silent in the afterglow, spent but definitely satisfied, both of you just enjoying being in each other’s embrace before having to get cleaned up. The faint sound of the nearest highway was now the loudest sound in the vehicle, and the sky was turning into a deep shade of cobalt blue, every remnant of the sun now buried under the horizon line.
After a minute you started giggling, a funny thought running through your mind.
“What?” breathed Minho, starry eyes gazing at you through long eyelashes.
“It’s just-” you paused to laugh again.
“When Changbin wanted us to make good use of his car, I don’t think this is what he had in mind…”
SUMMARY: Fridays are reserved for watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer and stuffing your face with popcorn and pizza. It’s been like that for you and Chan since your freshman year of college. But when he skips your Blood and Popcorn night for a date, things take an unexpected turn.
WC: 11,315
AU: Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff
GENRE: Smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Literally so much misunderstanding and repressed feelings, pining, light themes of jealousy, recreational drinking, recreational weed use, bad communication skills, some mild insecurities, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (do not do this lmaooo), nipple stim, light teasing, oral (f. receiving), clumsy/playful sex, jokes/banter while fucking. They’re both down horrendous. Joshua as an almost love interest. Jeonghan is both terrible and great at advice.Alternating POVs and some time skips.
A/N: This was originally posted on my old blog, and is being reposted to celebrate Valentine's Day! Enjoy Chan and Bambi the way god intended.
A/N 2: Thank you to @daechwitatamic who beta read this and who this was dedicated to!
MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | READ NEXT
“SO WHY NOT BLOOD AND PIZZA IF PIZZA IS ALWAYS INVOLVED BUT POPCORN ISN'T?” Mingyu eyes the french fries on your plate. You give him a warning glance, pointing the sharp tines of your fork at him. He retreats, leaning against the cracked vinyl of the booth, pouting. “Also, the title sounds gross.”
“Good thing it has nothing to do with you then.”
“Wow, you’re not even going to invite me?”
“No,” you chirp, popping a shoestring fry into your mouth. You savor the saltiness, humming delightedly. “It’s for me and Chan. Not me, Chan and you. Plus, you know nothing about Buffy.”
“Isn’t that a magic dragon? And are you sure you two aren’t dating?”
The look you send Mingyu makes him hold up his hands in surrender. It isn’t the first time someone has asked if you and Chan are dating, and you know it won’t be the last. You don’t want to start down that avenue tonight, trying to navigate the questions of why and well you seem to be a good match.
If romantic relationships were started over simply having things in common and matching a vibe, you and Chan would have started dating a long time ago. But you’re not, and you’ve already gotten over the fact that you’re not dating and that you will not start dating.
Mostly.
The bell rings above the diner door, drawing your attention. Like he’s been manifested by Mingyu’s dangerous question, Chan spots you and lifts a hand, a smile splitting his face as he heads over. You scoot over in the booth, dragging your plate along with you to make room for him.
Chan is dressed in jeans and a green sweater, your favorite color on him. He sits down next to you, cushioned seat dipping a little as he leans over to kiss the top of your head and steal fries off of your plate. You let him, feeling heat flush up the side of your neck as you look anywhere but Mingyu’s accusatory stare.
“These are so good,” Chan says around a mouthful of fries. “Thanks, Bambi.”
You grin at the nickname, trying not to flush too hard.
“I wouldn’t know,” Mingyu says pointedly. You ignore him, shoving your burger in your mouth. “Apparently I’m not allowed fries or to attend your movie night.”
“Order your own fries,” Chan says.
“Ugh. I already ate mine.”
“So order more, idiot. And of course you’re not invited to Blood and Popcorn. That’s our thing.”
Our thing.
The corner of your mouth twitches as you glance at Chan. He doesn’t notice, catching the eyes of the server and waving happily, giving her a broad smile. She gives him a thumbs up in return, confirming she’ll put in his usual now that he’s there.
There are a lot of things that belong to you and Chan. Studying at the very diner you were sitting in during freshman year had been one of them, though now in your final year there’s not as much of a need to study and you’ve incorporated other friends in your late night trips for grease and calories.
You also shared trivia nights on Tuesdays with Vernon and Seungkwan, football Sundays with Seungcheol, Mingyu and Jeonghan, once a month family dinners with everyone, and most importantly, Blood and Popcorn.
Chan steals another fry off of your plate and you let him, leaning back in the booth. Mingyu glares daggers at you, dark eyes flicking from your plate, to you, to Chan. You grin around a mouthful of cheeseburger and he scoffs before looking away.
Behind you, Chan’s arm stretches across the back of the booth, just barely brushing against the top of your shoulders. Your stomach flips a little, momentarily elated at the contact before you swallow it down with Sprite, pretending it wasn’t there in the first place.
The two boys immediately fall into a conversation about their shared engineering class. You tune it out easily, a learned habit over the last four years of having to listen to Chan tell you the functions of a bridge and the best way to design one. Instead, you focus on the rise and fall of Chan’s soft voice and the way it lulls you into a state of calm.
When the server brings over his order, he pulls his arm from over the back of the seat. Immediately you snatch one of the onion rings from his basket, popping one into your mouth and hissing as the crispy snack burns you. He shakes his head, laughing as he gives you a napkin while you sputter.
“Careful, Bambi,” he murmurs. “They’re literally steaming.”
Mingyu reaches for an onion ring, only to be threatened with the blunt end of Chan’s steak knife. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But she-”
“Bambi has special privileges,” Chan quips. “Order yourself some more fries for the love of God. I’ll pay for them.”
Mingyu immediately stops whining, mood improving markedly as he orders fries, wiggling in his seat happily. Chan cuts his burger in half, asking, “Why were you talking about Blood and Popcorn anyway?”
“Shua asked Bambi out on a date,” Mingyu answers around a mouthful of fries. “She told him she couldn’t go because of Blood and Popcorn.”
Chan stops eating and looks at you, brows creasing. You feel your heart rate speed up as you kick Mingyu under the table. He yelps, knee jerking upward to slam against the underside of the table. The salt and pepper shakers rattle in place as Mingyu bends over to rub his shin.
“He didn’t ask me out on a date.”
“He asked you to dinner!”
“As friends!”
“Oh yeah,” Mingyu snorts, rolling his eyes. “Friends take friends to fucking prime steakhouses. He asked you out on a date.”
For a moment, silence envelops the table. You stare at your fries, watching Chan out of your periphery. He looks away from you, wiping the grease from his fingers onto the napkin. The air feels pregnant with tension suddenly, your anxiety bubbling as you open your mouth to assert once more it wasn’t a date.
Chan beats you to breaking the silence, “We can skip this Friday so you can go!”
You open and close your mouth a few times, heart dropping to your ass. “What?”
“It’s totally fine if we have to skip. I don’t mind.”
Chan picks his burger back up, not looking at you. Heart pounding in your chest, you can’t help but watch him in total silence, trying to string together a response. Sure, maybe Chan doesn’t mind if you miss your weekly solo hangout. But you care.
The ache of the implication cuts you suddenly, a delayed reaction. You feel your throat tighten painfully, reaching for your Sprite to try and swallow past the sudden tension. It does nothing to quell the way the casual dismissal of your tradition keeps cutting you long after he’s said the words, sawing down to the bone.
“I wasn’t aware that we could just skip Blood and Popcorn, I guess.”
“I mean if you’ve got a date.”
That’s not the point, you want to scream at him.
Chan is a lot of things. Perceptive isn’t one of them. If he had been, you know he would have sniffed out your feelings for him a long time ago. Luckily for you, he’s remained completely oblivious over the last four years of your friendship, and you like to keep it that way. Keep it safe.
Nothing ruins a friendship more than unrequited romance. You know that from more than just the media you consume - you’ve seen more than once first hand when one friend catches feelings for the others but the desire isn’t mutual.
It isn’t mutual here. It’s always been very clear where Chan’s interests lie, and you’re totally fine with that. You accept the relationship that you have happily and quietly, and thought moments like are a brutal reminder of where you stand, it’s alright because you also love your friendship. More than you love him - at least, you think so.
So when Chan so easily suggests to go on a date, to cancel your thing with him to accommodate, you know it isn’t because he doesn’t care. He just thinks that you should go on a date because it doesn’t occur to him that the real reason you don’t want to is because your interests are somewhere else. That you don’t want to cancel Blood and Popcorn because it’s for the two of you and no one else.
“Yeah,” you rasp, unsure what else to say. “Um, maybe.”
“Shua is a good guy.”
“Yeah. Yeah he is.”
Mingyu and Chan go back to their conversation about class. You finish your meal in silence, leaning back against the seat as your thoughts wander listlessly. You gaze around the diner, drinking in detail as their conversation becomes background noise and you can no longer understand what they’re saying.
Rounders Diner had been a staple in the college community long before you were born, and continues to be the center for academic life. Students fill the booths sipping on milkshakes as they cram for exams or homework, night shift workers sit at the countertop and order coffee before heading to work, and the jukebox in the corner glows neon, only offering a selection of music from the 50s.
Behind the countertop is an open scratch kitchen, the sound of sizzling grease and yelled orders bracketing an Elvis song you know the words to but don’t know the name of. Black and white tile flooring with years worth of scuffs reflect the canned lighting in the ceiling. Over near the entrance is a wall covered in pictures of students of note throughout the years.
You remember the first time Chan had hauled you to Rounders. It was the first day you’d met, two freshmen absolutely terrified of the world after experiencing two back to back intro courses together. The dining hall was on the opposite side of campus from your classes, but Chan had insisted there was a diner just off the corner that everyone said was a necessary experience.
He was the first real friend you made. Your roommates had become your best friends too, Lorna and Mai splashed across almost every memory you have of college. But that first day is only colored with Chan, who had slid into the seat across from you and looked around the diner with a bright grin like he was suddenly at home.
Wanna start coming here after class?
You did. And you had.
A hand waves in front of your face, making you blink several times before Chan’s face swims into focus. Your thoughts are a little delayed as you drink him in: dark hair framing dark, angular eyes that turn molten brown when the sun hits them just right, a jawline that has turned sharper as he’s aged, though his cheeks still have a youthful softness that you adore, and a grin that makes the world dim.
“What?” you ask him, totally at a loss for words.
He laughs and you feel the corners of your lips turn upward, an automatic response to his mirth. “I asked if you were ready to go.”
You look up to see Mingyu at the register, passing over the bill and a card. “I think I spaced out. I thought you were buying him fries?”
He snorts. “Never fear, it’s my card. Everything okay?”
You hesitate. Not for the first time, the urge to spill your guts to him grips you so forcefully that you almost do right in the middle of Rounders. Almost tell him everything from start to finish, the feelings, the reason you don’t want to date Joshua, how beautiful you think Chan is-
Mingyu starts heading back and you force a grin on your face, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Of course. A little tired, though. Thanks for dinner.”
“You know I’ve got you.” He gets up from the booth and holds his hand out to you. “Always.”
-
Chan is the stupidest fucking person he knows. He lets out a loud scream into the warmth of his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he lays face down in his bed. His arms are shoved under the pillow, fisting in his sheets as the long-winded scream finally begins to die out.
“Yes, that is healthy,” Seungkwan calls from Chan’s desk against the window. “Let the pillow know everything that you’re feeling.”
Scowling, Chan lifts his head up and looks over his shoulder at where Seungkwan is sitting. His roommate is hunched over Chan’s laptop, a document open on the screen as he clicks around rapidly, cursing under his breath.
“Why are you in here again?”
“My literature professor is a dinosaur,” Seungkwan answers. “And only accepts printed essay submissions.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean you don’t have your own printer?”
“No, and I will not be paying thirty cents a paper for an essay that is almost thirty pages long.”
“That’s like, nine dollars dude. Also, why is your essay thirty pages long?”
“Ask the dude who wrote Beowulf.”
“Isn’t that like… a movie?”
Seungkwan mutters something under his breath. The printer chimes, followed by a mechanic whirring as the paper feeds into the machine and starts printing. Spinning in the chair, Seungkwan looks at where Chan is still laying stomach down, face squished against his pillow as he cradles it.
“Speaking of movies - are you having Blood and Popcorn here or at Bambi’s?”
Chan can’t help but smirk at the nickname. It had stuck ever since your freshman year when you’d called Rin Hartford a bambi-eyed bitch for saying nasty things to Mingyu. He thinks that night might be the night he realized he was absolutely head over heels for you, even if he had only known you for two weeks then.
Despite your quiet disposition, you’ve always been the epitome of bravery. He can’t recall a time that you haven’t said what you meant or meant what you said, and defending your friends and speaking up has always been paramount to you.
For someone like Chan who was often the youngest and the softest spoken in any group he was in, you were a breath of fresh air. And you’ve taught him to speak up for himself, letting him grow comfortable pushing back with people - especially his friends - and how to give back what he gets.
Corrupted, Seungcheol joked once. She corrupted him and taught him how to bully us back.
“I’m not really sure,” Chan says slowly, thinking about your conversation at the diner, the exact source of his pillow-scream. “We might not be doing it.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”
“There is no paradise. We’re just friends.”
“That’s the trouble I’m talking about, brother.” Seungkwan turns around to start collecting the pages out of the printer. “Is the Blood and Popcorn cancellation the reason for your pillow screaming?”
“I don’t know that it’s canceled.”
“That really clarifies the issue.”
Chan scowls. “Did you know Shua was into her?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“He asked her on a date.”
“Joshua must have got tired of waiting for you to make a move on Bambi. I guess he decided you weren’t going to.”
Chan frowns and sits up. He didn’t realize Joshua remotely had a thing for you, and while Chan adores the older member of their larger friend group, the thought of him taking you to dinner - a date - makes his stomach tighten.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Seungkwan clarifies. “That you have had the last four years to nut up or shut up. Everyone has waited for you to make your move on Bambi and you haven’t. If you’re not going to do it, someone else might as well.”
“I mean, anyone could ask her out. It’s not like I have-”
“Don’t you dare say you didn’t have dibs. Dibs can be unspoken, Chan. You’ve been in love with that girl since freshman year, if you think people - especially our friends - cannot tell and don’t respect you enough to give you time to ask her out, you need to wake up.”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Not to her, clearly.” Seungkwan stands and grins at Chan placidly, his essay collected in his hands. “Fortunately for you, the only person who is as dumb as you are is Bambi. Match made in heaven, really.”
Chan chews his bottom lip. That offers a little bit of relief. He doesn’t like knowing that his feelings are so obvious to everyone else, but at least you don’t know. He cannot imagine how uncomfortable it would make your friendship dynamic knowing he was mooning over you while you just saw him as a friend.
“Well, she doesn’t feel that way about me. I’m not going to confess my unrequited feelings and put her in that position to deal with them. It wouldn’t be fair.”
Seungkwan gives Chan a slow blink, smile turning plastic. “Like I said. Match made in heaven.”
Heaving a sigh, Chan throws himself on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Chan was certainly an idiot for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason has to be the way he has let his feelings for you fester since freshman year. Instead of implementing preventative maintenance, he’s let the problem grow to the point that his friends are no longer waiting for him to do something about it.
The window of opportunity is gone.
Not that there was a window of opportunity to begin with. Chan has seen what it looks like when you’re interested in guys - dazed eyes, a little flustered, a tiny grin on your face. You’ve never looked at him that way. At least, not really like that. You smile at him all the time, but it’s different.
If he had the slightest indication you looked at him like you were interested, he’d have spilled his feelings a long time ago. Hiding this from you feels almost like a violation of friendship, but in order to preserve the friendship and keep you comfortable, he does what he must.
The memory of him telling you to go on a date with Joshua makes him groan in embarrassment. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, seeing stars explode behind his lids. It had been a knee jerk response, something to distract you from the immediate jealousy and panic he’d felt that moment that Mingyu had dropped that bit of information at the table.
Mingyu. That motherfucker did it on purpose - not to rile Chan, but to try and give him a kick in the ass toward the right direction. But like everyone else, Mingyu doesn’t get it. If Chan told you how he felt just to get it off of his chest, it would be putting his burden on you. You’d be the one who had to feel guilty for it being unrequited, you’d be the one who would inevitably feel uncomfortable or out of place.
No. It would be the highest form of selfishness he can think of, offloading the heavy weight of his feelings just to give them to you as a reprieve from carrying them around so long.
Chan blinks away the swimming colors, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom again. He can hear Seungkwan singing somewhere in the apartment, liquid voice calming even in Chan’s mild state of distress.
Joshua is a good guy. Honestly, there are only a few guys that Chan knows who would make a suitable partner for you, and he begrudgingly acknowledges that Joshua is at the top of that list. And yet he still feels a twist of self-loathing that he had pushed you so quickly towards it, the regret like bile in his stomach.
The last thing Chan wants to do is skip Blood and Popcorn this week. It is the one guaranteed day of uninterrupted time with you, and he waved it away like it meant nothing to him, which could not be farther from the truth. The nights of watching Buffy and eating pizza and sometimes popcorn mean everything to him.
He just wishes he had been brave enough to stand his ground.
-
Maybe Joshua Hong is the worst person ever. Chan dismisses the irrational thought as soon as he has it. Joshua isn’t awful at all. It’s just that he’s leaning in toward you and saying something into your ear over the loud din of the party, and Chan watches the way you nod.
Crack. The plastic cup in his hand splits and immediately spills rum and coke all over the kitchen floor. Jeonghan starts yelling at him, ripping paper towels off of the roll and throwing them in Chan’s direction. He mutters an apology, gaze drifting over the kitchen counter to the living room where you’re laughing, head tilted back, warm light splaying across your throat-
“Ya! Don’t just let it pool at your feet!”
Jeonghan’s screech brings Chan back to life. He snatches the copious amounts of paper towels Jeonghan has thrown at him and starts to soak up the drink. The tile floor is already sticky and Chan cringes. No way have either Jeonghang or Seungcheol cleaned this floor any time recently. If anything, Chan has done it a favor.
The party is in full swing around him. He stands up with the soaked paper in his hand, tossing it into the trash and grabbing more while Jeonghan digs underneath the counter. Chan finishes soaking up the spilled drink and comes eye to eye with a new set of paper towels and spray cleaner.
Chan gives Jeonghan the soaked papers. “Jeonghan, your floor is already disgusting.”
“Then you should have no problem cleaning it!”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Don’t call me that!”
He rolls his eyes but does what Jeonghan says, spraying the area quickly and pressing down the paper towels. They come away sticky and black, making him cringe in disgust before tossing them out and washing his hands. As he turns off the faucet, Jeonghan has the decency to hand him a new drink.
Chan takes it without comment, the image of Joshua leaning into you a little too much for him to deal with right now. He drains the cup, sputtering a little. Jeonghan is a heavy pour and the spiced rum goes down rough, his eyes tearing just a little as he finishes the drink.
“Well, that’s one way to stop from spilling.” Chan shoots Jeonghan a look before reaching for the mixer and handle of rum again. “You do normally drink like a fish, but anything in particular driving tonight’s thirst?”
“Nope.”
“Right, so it’s not tall, dark and handsome hanging out with Bambi?”
Chan feels his eye twitch as he heavily pours the liquor into his cup. “Nope. And Joshua isn’t even that tall.”
“Taller than you.” Chan shoots Jeonghan a venomous look. His face is beatific, grin a little bit dangerous as he holds his hands up in a white flag. “You look pretty bothered. If only there were a way to fix that.” Chan looks at Jeonghan with wide eyes, hope surging for a moment. “Just tell her you like her.”
“Why is that the only advice any of you have?”
“Because it’s the only advice I have. Either tell her or get over your feelings. Those are your options.”
“And I’ve already told you, it would just make her uncomfortable. It’s not her burden to bear.”
Jeongan taps his fingers on the countertop, studying Chan. Chan pouts into his cup, taking long draughts, trying not to cringe at the strong taste. He can already sense the oncoming buzz and he welcomes it, needing a little something to distract him from the obvious elephant in the living room.
“Alright,” Jeognhan relents. “Then deal with the consequences and get over your feelings.”
And he will. Chan has always been good at dealing with the repercussions of hiding his feelings, and he does them well. So he tips back the cup and rejoins the party, nerves steeled and ready to deal with the consequences like his friends keep telling him to.
-
“What?” you asked, lifting your voice to be heard over the rowdy game of cards at the coffee table. Joshua had asked you something but the words had been lost on you as your gaze drifted to Chan where he was leaning against the wall, talking to a girl you didn’t know. He was leaning awfully close. “I didn’t catch that.”
Joshua smiles. He really is handsome, and everything someone could want in a partner. He’s kind and gentle, has a little bit of an insane streak, and he is incredibly intelligent and loyal. So why do you feel nothing when he grins at you or laughs?
Your eyes drift over to Chan again and you feel your stomach flip. The alcohol turns to lead. The girl Chan is speaking to is so close to him, both of them turned toward one another as he ducks his head down to say something to her. She laughs and he smiles, looking her up and down.
Jealousy swallows you whole. It roars so loudly in your ears that you almost miss Joshua’s question again. “Did you give any thoughts about dinner on Friday?”
Dinner? Friday? Oh right. He had asked you to dinner on Friday, but you’d declined due to your planned Blood and Popcorn night. With Chan. Who is flirting with the girl next to him, who is flirting back.
The jealousy feels like a raw, rotten thing. It turns the alcohol in your stomach sour, makes the sweat on the back of your neck feel too much, like the room is too loud and too full. Even as the envy rears its head, an ugly beast ready to unleash, you turn to Joshua and say, “I really can’t. Friday nights are really important to me.”
Joshua looks disappointed, but he’s polite enough to nod and smile. “I understand. Maybe a different night?”
“Um, maybe. Would you excuse me? I really need some air.”
You stand abruptly, starling the people next to you. The cup in your hand shakes a little and your throat constricts and oh god. You cannot cry in the middle of a party just because you’re a little buzzed and the boy you like is across the room with another girl.
“Do you want me to-”
“No!” You quip, shaking your head. “Totally fine, I’m so fine, I just need some air. Please! Sit! Stay!”
Joshua raises his eyebrows at your frantic commands and you give a laugh that is a little on the hysterical side as you step over the legs of people sitting on the floor and on the couch. Joshua calls after you as you make the escape but you don’t turn around, eager to get out of the room.
You trip over someone’s foot and nearly launch into a passerby as you go. Strong hands steady you before you totally topple over, though your drink sloshes over the edge of your cup, spilling it on the carpet.
“What is it with you and your other half?” You look up to realize that it’s Jeonghan who stabilized you. “Spilling drinks all over my damn floor!”
“It probably helps. Your floors are disgusting.”
“Ya! That’s beside the point - why do you look like you’re about to die?”
“I feel like I might. I need fresh air.” For a moment, Jeonghan looks confused. You watch his dark brows pull together and he looks over your head, dark gaze scanning for something. For Chan, you realize. It’s usually Chan who leaves with you if you need air or need to stick your head in a bucket to vomit. The realization hits you like a brick. “Not him,” you whisper. “I’m fine.”
Your words land at the same time Jeonghan focuses in the direction you’d last seen Chan. He holds you there, suspended in time for a moment as his eyes dart between you and back to where you know Chan is still leaning against the wall.
There is a flicker of something that you cannot place in Jeonghan’s gaze before it softens and he nods. He pulls you toward him and helps guide you around the groups of people. “Fresh air it is.”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I don’t know, crying alone is kind of lame, Bambi.”
Cool air hits you the second you step onto the porch. Soonyoung is sitting on the railing with Jihoon and Vernon leaning next to him. He waves enthusiastically when he sees you, breaking out into a grin and lifting the joint between his fingers, an offer. You shake your head and he shrugs, passing it to Vernon who lifts a hand in salute.
The smell of weed chases you down the grass slope of Jeonghan’s backyard. It’s not so much a backyard as it is open to the apartment community’s lake. The spray of the fountain grows louder as the sounds of the party fade.
Jeonghan sits down in the grass, leaning back on his hands. You join him, cringing at the dampness from the dewey grass. Taking in a deep breath you close your eyes and lean your head back, letting the wind cool the sweat on your overheated skin. The breeze mists the fountain, tiny specks of water tingling on your face as you sit in silence.
Behind your lids, you can see the image of Chan leaning in toward that girl. The intimacy of the space. You hate how you can recall it in such detail - you’d always been able to remember details where Chan was involved. Like the way he was wearing a black, long-sleeved tee that pulled against his chest and arms perfectly, or the way the necklace you bought him two years ago glinted in the light of the living room, or the way-
“I did it to myself, huh?” you ask, feeling the first tear collect on your lash line. You tilt your head upward, trying to blink it rapidly away. “I could have just told him a while ago.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re entirely responsible,” Jeonghan mutters. “Look, putting your heart on your sleeve is really scary, especially when it’s to someone you really value. But you have to decide what to do. You can either tell Chan you love him or you can decide to get over it. You can’t cling to unspoken feelings, though.”
“I just… I don't feel like he returns the feelings and I don’t want to ruin what we have.”
“Then get over him.” You snap your gaze at Jeonghan, who is looking at you with the cool and calm you wish you felt. “If you’re unwilling to be honest with him, then your option is to get over it.”
“Do you think he would… react poorly?”
“Of course not, but I will not speak to all of Chan’s feelings. Those are his to share, not mine, and I believe in the sanctity of acting on one’s own.”
“You sound so… saintly.”
“Dealing with all your problems has turned me into a saint. Do you know what it’s like being therapy to all of these damn people? You all take ‘door open’ a little too seriously.”
You laugh, feeling a little lighter. Pulling at the grass, you sigh. “You’re right, though. I either need to just tell him or let it go. I can’t just… suffer.”
“If only you’d come to that conclusion a while ago.”
“Bleh.”
Fresh air and the weight of Jeonghan’s words weigh down on you. You know that he’s right. Though you’re confident that Chan doesn’t return your feelings, you don’t explicitly know because you’ve never asked. And if you never ask, you’ll never know.
Calm settles over you as you decide your course of action. Blood and Popcorn is in two days - you can bring it up then.
Nodding to yourself, you pluck more grass out of the ground. “Alright,” you tell Jeonghan, heaving a sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Ugh, you two! Don’t call me that!”
-
Hands shaking, you stare at your phone. You’ve had two days to mentally prepare for this evening and yet when you look at your phone, you think two days was not remotely enough to prepare for this evening. You haven’t spoken to Chan at all about what time you want to have your weekly hangout, but that’s not unusual.
The only thing unusual is your hesitation to hit the call button and ask what time he wants to come over. It’s such a simple thing - you don’t need to confess your feelings to him right now. But the anticipation of what inviting him over means and the possible disaster it can bring makes your fingers shaky.
Instead of hitting dial, you take one deep breath and let it out slowly. In slowly again, and-
Your phone starts ringing before you can finish the exhale. Your heart pounds in your throat when you see Chan’s name flash across your screen. For a few seconds there is pure panic, but you manage to collect yourself and slide your thumb across the screen. It takes a few tries, your hands clammy with anxiety as you answer.
“Hi!”
“Don’t kill me,” Chan immediately says on the other side of the line. You pause, cocking your head.
“Why would I do that?”
“I have to raincheck on Blood and Popcorn tonight.”
“Oh no, are you sick? Do you need me to bring anything over? Is Seungkwan-”
Chan laughs on the other side of the phone and your stomach flutters helplessly. You hear the creak of bed springs and you know he’s sitting on his bed. He has the world’s creakiest bed. “I’m not sick.”
“Oh.”
You frown, sitting down on your couch and folding your legs. There’s nothing else you can think of that Chan would cancel Blood and Popcorn for, so illness had seemed like the first rational thing. You feel a little embarrassed at immediately trying to take care of him, but push it away to ask, “What’s up?”
“I have a date. Tonight is the only night she was available for like two weeks. She’s in her first year of law school so her availability sucks.”
It feels like the air vanishes from the room. You lean back against the backrest on the couch, deflated. You hold the phone to your ear, but don’t feel the weight of it in your hand. The TV across the living room becomes a blur, the muted program in the background unrecognizable.
A date. Chan has a date. That he’s willing to cancel your night for.
You think back to that night at the diner when he told you to just go out with Joshua instead of doing Blood and Popcorn. How easily he pushed it aside. Like it was unimportant. Easily missed.
“Bambi?” Chan’s voice sounds distant through the roar of your emotions. “You there? The cell service in your apartment is so shitty.”
“I’m here.”
“Oh good. Sorry to miss, please don’t kill me. We can add two days of Blood and Popcorn next week to make up for it?”
“Yeah. Uh. Yeah.”
There’s a pause. “Are you okay?”
“Definitely.” Lie. “Sorry, I just woke up from a nap and I’m a little spacy.” Lie. “No problems here. I’m not mad. Enjoy your date.” Lie.
“Thanks, I’ll let you know how it goes after!”
“For sure.”
When Chan hangs up the phone, you think that Jeonghan was right. Crying alone is lame.
-
Chan can’t do this.
Sol isn’t the problem - at least not directly. She is beautiful and funny, sharp as a whip and has an edge to her that he loves in women. She is successful, has goals, and she’s sensible. And she’s into him, which is perhaps the biggest plus of all.
But she isn’t you. Sol’s biggest problem is that she’s not you, and it’s not really her problem at all. It is Chan’s and Chan’s alone, and he cannot sit through this date anymore. He’s tried for the last hour already, asking all of the right questions and laughing at all the right places, but he cannot stop the way he wonders if you’re watching buffy. He cannot help but wonder if you’re in those expensive pajamas you like, drinking inexpensive wine from the corner story, his favorite contrast.
Chan cannot stop thinking that his button up is a little too tight on his chest and the uncomfortable way his new shoes rub his ankle. He’d rather be in a tee and shorts, freshly showered and stretched out. He cannot stop blinking his eyes, hating the way one of his contacts is irritating him, wishing instead to be in glasses and the lowlight of your apartment.
From the moment he ended that call with you to cancel Blood and Popcorn, all he’s felt is dread. Dread for the upcoming date with someone he should be excited about, dread for telling you how it goes, dread for having to be in public with people and to get to know someone, dread at what happens at the end of the date, does he have to kiss her? Does he have to go get ice cream? What does he do-
“Are you okay?” Sol’s raspy voice draws him from his thoughts - not for the first time that night. She’s leaning back in her seat, dark eyes pinning him to the spot. She is as sharp as she is beautiful, and normally someone like Sol would make him trip over his feet. “You zoned out.”
“I apologize, that was rude of me.”
“It was,” she agrees. She swirls the wine in her glass, looking him up and down before giving him a sympathetic smile. “I won’t be offended if you want to call this off early.”
“What?”
“You’re not interested,” she asserts. Confident. Self-assured. “It’s totally okay if it’s not working for you.”
Heat crawls up the side of Chan’s neck. He runs his sweaty palms over his slacks. “I am so sorry,” he says earnestly. “This sounds so stupid to say, but it is me, it isn’t you.”
“No offense, but I know. You’ve been distracted since we got here. You obviously have something or someone else on your mind.”
“That easy to read, huh?”
“Open book. I have some pride, though. Let’s pay the bill?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her grin is polite. Understanding. “Don’t be. You’re cute and nice, but I cannot suffer knowing your mind isn’t on me.”
“Understandable.”
Chan knows he’s lucky. Anyone else a little less level-headed or less confident might have made him suffer. As it is, Sol does let him suffer a little, sliding the bill over to him with a knowing grin. He likes Sol - not like he likes you, but she’s good people.
“Promise me one thing?” Sol asks before ducking into her Uber. “It’ll help my pride.”
“Sure.”
“Go spend the rest of the evening with whoever it is and make sure you tell them how you feel. It’ll be worth it, that way.”
Chan grins. “Alright. I promise.”
And he does intend to hold to that promise. Something about tonight is different. He can feel it as he walks quickly to his car, undoing the top button of his shirt as he goes. The air is crisp and there are still a few streaks of orange in the night sky, the sun long gone.
Chan calls you as he turns his car onto the road, heading toward your apartment on the northside of down. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel, buzzing with nervous and excited energy as the line rings. When you don’t pick up, he ends the call.
Jeonghan was right - he usually is. Chan could either tell you how he feels or live with the consequences, and he’s decided he cannot live with the consequences. He cannot sit across the table from someone who isn’t you and pretend that he isn’t wondering what you’re doing. He cannot look at the curve of someone else’s mouth and wonder what it would be like if it were yours.
The date had been spurred by the intense wave of jealousy and inadequacy he felt at Jeonghan’s party when he saw you sitting on the couch with Joshua. He has no idea how else he would have had the confidence to start chatting up someone as commanding as Sol, but he was powered by rum and a wounded heart.
Stupid. It was stupid, he realizes now. He has been stupid so many times regarding you and for long enough that even Joshua, the most polite of his friends, felt like they could respectfully intercept you, now.
Well, perhaps you will choose Joshua instead. Chan is fine with that. What you want has always been paramount to him. But if you choose Joshua, it will be with the knowledge that Chan loves you and he always has.
Steeling himself, he gets out of the car at your apartment complex and looks up at the building. He can see the lights on in your living room, confirming you’re still home and probably watching Buffy. The thought sends a thrill through him and he smiles, shaking his head and taking a deep breath.
“You’ve got this, Lee Chan,” he tells himself. “You’ve got this.”
-
A loud knock on your door startles you. You finish blowing your nose in the issue, trying to suck up the rest of your tears. Pulling the sleeves of your sweater - Chan’s sweater - over your hands, you wipe your face with sweater paws, trying to erase some evidence of your tears before having to face the delivery person.
Grabbing the bills on the counter, you wonder how many people delivering food have seen people answer the door while crying or immediately after crying. Honestly, they’ve probably seen all types of strange situations, which makes you feel a little bit about answering the door after very clearly sobbing.
Unlatching the top and flipping the deadbolt, you yank the door open, prepared to not make eye contact to make it a little less awkward for you and the person just trying to hand you pizza and soda, except-
“Chan?”
It is Chan standing outside of your door. You blink in surprise, giving him a quick once over. He looks really nice, dressed in slacks and a black button up shirt that is a little too tight across the chest - not that you’re complaining - and the top of the buttons undone to reveal the necklace you gifted him. His dark hair has styling product in it, pushing it out of his face, save for a small rebel strand that hangs over his eyebrow.
Chan looks… beautiful. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, face swollen from crying, nose a little snotty and looking worse for wear.
“What are you doing here?”
“Why are you crying?”
Chan pushes his way into your apartment and you let him, dropping your arm as he passes by. He shuts the door for you, flipping the latch and lock out of habit as he turns to you. He reaches out to grab you by the shoulders but you back up a little, suddenly terrified of his touch.
He notices. “Why are you crying?” he asks again, dark brows knitted and mouth twisted in a frown. “Talk to me.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”
“Left early, wasn’t working. What’s going on?”
You swallow thickly, realizing you’re at a crossroads. Silence stretches between you as he waits for your answer, looking at you with so much concern that you begin to crack. The tension in your throat returns, the telltale sign of tears and you ball your fists, nails digging into your palms.
A torrent of feelings bombard you. Anger. Hurt. Desire. Relief. Hurt again.
“You canceled Blood and Popcorn.”
Chan opens and closes his mouth, head cocking to the side a little bit. He looks mystified, trying to put together the pieces to the puzzle. “I don’t understand.”
“You canceled Blood and Popcorn for something else. For someone else.”
“I-”
A series of emotions flit over his face. You feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you watch each one, trying to catch them as they go. Confusion. Thoughtfulness. Confusion. Realization. You watch as he drinks you in, the tears, the wet stains from crying on the shirt, your words. Slowly, Chan puts the pieces together for the entire picture, and his face becomes so soft that you nearly cringe.
“Oh, Bambi.”
“You can date whoever you want, you’re not mine,” you punch out, wiping a tear as it escapes your eye. Feeling small, you back away from him a little, breaking eye contact. “But it hurts when you shove me aside like that. Look, I know we’re friends, but-”
“Bambi,” he says gently. You’re not looking at him, but you know that tone. The pleading. He’s begging you to stop, you think, but if you don’t get this out now you never will.
“Blood and Popcorn is important to me. You’re important to me. I know you’ve never seen me as more than a friend, but Chan-”
Chan interrupts you again. This time though, it’s by crashing against you. You nearly topple over onto the coffee table with the force of it, but you cling to him, digging your hands into the meat of his biceps to hold yourself to him. His hands press into the small of your back, sending a bolt of electricity to you that you can’t pay any attention to, because Chan presses his mouth against yours softly, stealing all of your thoughts.
For a second, your brain goes static. You’re so stunned you don’t do anything but cling to him, vacantly aware that the softness of his lips are on yours. Tentative. Questioning.
Chan pulls away and your eyes flutter open. He is only an inch away from your face, his minty breath fanning your lips as he begins to apologize, panic on his face. You interrupt him this time, surging forward to crash your lips to his, far less gentle than he had been the first time.
The box you’ve shoved every feeling for Chan cracks open. You feel everything pour out of it, a steady stream of want as you press into him. He smells like teakwood and mint, hypnotizing you. His mouth is soft and eager, sucking gently against your bottom lip.
Everything feels lighter, like gravity has lost all meaning. Chan pulls away from your mouth a little, close enough to brush your lips against his in a feather-light kiss, but enough to gaze down at you through half lidded eyes.
“The date didn’t work out because I kept thinking of you,” he whispers, voice shaking. You feel your breath stop as he speaks, each word sinking in. “It was stupid to ask her out. I was feeling insecure about Joshua asking you out, and it was stupid and petty-”
You kiss him again. He smiles into the kiss, letting you lead him, slow and lazy. You feel his tongue brush against the seam of your lips and you eagerly let him in, toes curling as he licks into your mouth.
“I just want you,” Chan admits, breaking away for a quick breath of air. He presses his lips against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek. He peppers your face in them as his hands skate up your back, hot even through the material of his sweatshirt. “I have for so long and I’ve been so afraid to tell you.”
“I was afraid too.”
“I have wasted so much time.” His hands cradle your face, turning you to look at him.
Chan is so earnest. Raw honestly glitters in his eyes. Deeper, hiding beneath the surface is something a little darker and more intense. Want. Desire. Something that lingers, waiting for you to call it forward. You love him so much that in that moment you almost cry more, feeling overwhelmed with everything you’ve buried down for years.
“I want to make up for it,” you whisper, stealing a kiss that is more teeth than anything. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Your hands sink to his waist, gripping at the fabric of his shirt. “I was actually going to tell you tonight, before you canceled.”
“What a stupid man I am.”
You smirk a little. “Yes.”
“Let me apologize,” he murmurs, voice low. You feel yourself shiver as he pushes you toward your room, connecting your mouths again. The kiss is messy and needy, so different than the one moments before. You tangle together, stumbling toward your room. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Oh?”
The crash landing onto your mattress is not graceful. Chan’s full weight falls on top of you and your foreheads smack a little. You yelp in paint and Chan groans, burying his face in your neck. You can’t help the laughter that bubbles to the surface, exploding out of you as your hands press flat on his back, soothing as you hold him to you.
“First step of apologizing,” you wheeze under him. “Give her a concussion.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, burying his face further in embarrassment. “I’m a little eager.”
His breath tickles your neck, making you squirm under him. He seems to notice, opting to press open-mouthed kisses against your throat. You hum, eyelids fluttering at the stimulation. “It’s okay,” you breathe, fingers turning to claws against his back. “It’s cute.”
Chan leans off of you, properly supporting himself with arms on either side of your head, caging you in. His knee slots between your legs, making your stomach leap in excitement as he scoots it up a little, almost pressing against you.
“You’re cute,” he notes, kisses getting messy as they go up your neck toward your ear. He nips your ear and you let out a sound. His laughter is warm against you and you shiver. “You’re in my clothes.”
“I wear them all the time.”
He groans. “I know. Fuck I know.”
“Is that what does it for you?” You move your hands from his back to his waist, pulling the tucked shirt from the waistband of his slacks. His hips twitch forward, excited. He busies his mouth with pressing wet kisses to your jaw. “Me in your clothes?”
“Everything does it for me. I am down horrendous for you.”
“I really didn’t know.”
He moves a hand to pull at the collar of his sweatshirt, exposing more of your collarbones to him as he kisses. “Everyone else did,” he assures you. You hiss when he bites down and licks over the sting, looking up through dark lashes to gauge your reaction. You nod a little and he grins, doing it again. “Biting. Got it.”
With trembling fingers, you work the buttons on his shirt. You steal touches as you go, greedy for him. Too long have you hidden what you want in the shadows, too long have you resisted this. Now, you take.
You brush your fingers against the flexing muscle of his stomach as you pull at the shirt, making him moan deep in his throat. His skin is like fire as you brush your fingers across its warmth, shoving his shirt off. He leans up, letting it fall from his shoulders, rippling to the ground.
The light from your hall glows behind Chan, halloween him in golden light. Your breath catches in your chest as your fingers press to his skin, brush over his shoulders and chest, down his stomach. You feel him twitch beneath your hands but he lets you explore, breathing hard under your reverence.
Golden boy, so full of fire. It’s all you can think of as you stare up at him, equal parts light and dark in your bedroom. Your hands drop to his belt and you tug him to you, desperate for him.
“Kiss me,” you beg.
He does. His mouth is greedy, stealing your breath. A thrill shoots through you when he slides his knee up higher, pressing it between your legs. You breath the kiss to gasp at the barest amount of pressure and Chan grins, watching your reaction through a heavy gaze.
“Take this off for me,” he asks, voice raspy. He pulls at the hem of his sweatshirt on your frame. “Please.”
You lean up, pressing your mouth to his collarbone in a sweet kiss as you pull the shirt over your head. He helps you, tossing it somewhere else. His hands go to your sides, fingers tracing up your curves as he pushes you back down, claiming your mouth again.
It feels like you might go crazy. Your bare chest presses against his, the friction turning your blood to liquid fire. His knee is firm between your legs, and when his hand slips to your waist, squeezing you and urging you to roll your hips you can’t help but let out a moan in the shape of his name, helpless.
“Fuck,” he swears, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he helps you move against his thigh. “If you say my name like that again I might bust in my fucking pants.”
“Chan.”
“Don’t,” he laughs, biting your shoulder. “I want this so bad.”
“I want you.”
“I might pass out due to sheer joy.”
“I have some ideas on how to revive you.”
He lets out a swear and you laugh. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Maybe.”
Truth is, you think he might be the death of you. You’d die happily in his arms, completely swept up in the feeling of Chan’s tongue as it skates across your skin and up the swell of your breast. When he pauses, you look down at him. He smirks, happy to have your attention before he flicks his tongue lightly over the peak of your nipple.
You squeeze your legs around his thigh, back bowing off the bed. He lets out a chuckle, repeating the flicking motion as he watches you with dark, satisfied eyes. It drives you insane, the way he watches you with equal parts reverence and determination to find out what makes you squirm.
Chan is a fast learner. His teeth scrape against your nipple and you whine, thrashing under him as he teases you, pulling gently. The sting feels so good, making you melt into the mattress underneath him. He makes a sound of appreciation, sucking gently and sending you to the moon before trailing his mouth toward your other breast.
The hand on your hip squeezes you, reminding you why it had been there in the first place. “Keep going.” His breath fans against your skin and you tremble. “I like seeing you worked up.”
“God,” you whisper, trying to roll your hips against his leg again. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and as he sucks greedily at your chest you feel like you might rip at the seams. “Who knew you were so… this.”
You feel his wet grin against you, tongue flicking against your pert nipple. Your head falls to the side as you pant, trying to catch your fucking breath.
Of course he can reduce you to nothing so easily. No one knows you better than Chan, the two of you like twin flames. Every touch of his tongue, every press of his fingers into your skin, every breath of your name on his lips were made to unravel you because it’s Chan. Your Chan.
Your Chan who gently pulls the sweatpants from your hips, groaning low and slow when he sees the way your panties stick to your folds. Your Chan who kisses and bites the softness of your thighs, breath ghosting across sensitive flesh, fingers prying your legs apart when they start to twitch shut.
You’d always been made for him. To think otherwise was folly. You know that now, hand gripping his bones tight as he pulls your hands to the side, the cold air hitting your aching cunt. He lets you squeeze his hand, not caring that your gripping is bone-breaking.
“Hmm.” He looks up at you and you look down at him. His eyes are blown and he grins, shaking his head a little. “This for me?” You nod, your thoughts banging around the near empty space in your head as you do. “Fuck.”
And then his tongue presses against you, flat and warm and fuck fuck fuck. You can barely function as Chan drags his tongue slowly up your pussy, avoiding your clit entirely before dragging it back down. He makes a sound in his throat that sounds like a whine and you nearly lose it there, driven insane by him.
Chan takes the hand he has linked with yours and rests it on your hip, pressing into you to keep you still. You buck under his mouth and he laughs, unbothered as he looks up at you. The vision of him between your legs makes you dizzy, his hair mused, tongue pressed between your folds, eyes starving.
Your other hand grips his wrist where his opposite hand holds you open. You cling to him, thighs twitching as he licks you at his leisure. His mouth is a weapon, bringing you to the edge of insane easily. When he closes his lips around your clit and sucks gently, you fear you might break.
He can sense it too, setting himself to the task of pushing you over the edge. Chan learns you so quickly - maybe just knows you intuitively - alternating between circling his tongue around your throbbing bundle of nerves and sucking on it gently.
“I am going to die,” you gasp between ragged breaths. “Your fucking mouth.”
“Yeah? Feels good?” The buzz of his words drive right into your lower stomach where your orgasmed has so much compacted pressure you know you’re going to snap any moment. “Taste so good. I could eat this pussy all fucking night.”
“Fuck, Chan. I’m gonna come.”
He gives a harsh suck to your cunt, the wet sound obscene. “Good.”
“Like that.”
“Yeah?” he asks, panting. He does it again, following your instruction. Your mouth falls open as you nod, unable to string together more than. “Mmm.”
Chan doubles his effort, the wet sounds of his mouth making it all the harder to keep it together. He keeps you in place as best as he can, but his little hums of pleasure and the combination of his mouth and tongue send your orgasm slamming into you.
You think you say his name. You have no idea if anything comes out at all. You come hard, thrashing against the bed as he licks you through it, uncaring. Every nerve in your body is on fire, limbs tingling as you float in the momentary high of your peak before you start to come back down, breathing raggedly.
A cramp throbs in your fingers that are still twisted in Chan’s grip. You loosen your grip a little bit, feeling a little bad about almost snapping his fingers. He doesn’t seem to mind, head still between your legs, tongue gentle and pressed against your twitching entrance. He avoids your clit, letting you catch your breath.
“Chan,” you mumble. He lifts his head, your arousal spread across his mouth. He is a mess, spiking your need for him. You pull at him, wild. “Kiss me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles up to you, letting go of your hand in favor of cradling your face. The kiss is hungry and wet, your heady taste on his mouth as you drink him in. You don’t care, desperate to have him close, pulling him into you.
One of your hands snakes between your bodies, pressing against the firm outline of his cock through his pants. He lets out a whine, shaking his head as he breaks the kiss, breathing heavy.
“Don’t,” he begs. “I will cum right now.”
“Oh?”
“I’m so serious, I almost came untouched.”
“Wow, I really do it for you, huh?”
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” His sincerity makes you flush and you peck him on the lips. “I cannot promise I will not come apart after a single stroke.”
“Don’t care.” You undo his belt, pulling. “Want it. Want you. Please don’t make me wait.”
He curses. “I can deny you nothing.” He sees your wicked grin and shakes his head, laughing as he pulls away to kick out of his pants. “You like having me wrapped around your finger, huh?”
“You’re not the only one whipped.” He looks at you, doubtful. “You think I share my fries with anyone? Be so real, Chan. That’s something only you can do.”
“Got it. French fry privileges, what else can I weaponize?”
You don’t answer his question, distracted by him as he peels his briefs off and fists his heavy cock. You lick your lips, drinking in the length and thickness of him, the sticky, swollen tip, the way he pumps himself when he kneels on the bed again.
“Hmm?” he asks, noticing you're distracted. “Everything okay?”
“You have a nice dick,” you blurt. He pauses, raising his brows, thighs pressed to the back of yours. You fold your lips flat, a little embarrassed by your outburst. “Thank you is the proper response to a compliment.”
He bursts into laughter and you can’t help but join him, covering your face as it heats up. “Don’t hide from me, wanna see you,” he teases, grabbing your hands and pulling them from your face. He pins them above your head. “And thank you.”
Chan runs the head of his cock along your sticky folds, both of you moaning in unison. His hand still pins yours above your head, making you feel open and vulnerable. Your knees squeeze his hips as he ruts against you a little, eyes focused while he uses his other end to guide himself to your entrance.
“Mmm,” the sound escapes you as he presses in, the ache in your core doubling for a second as he sinks further. “Fuuuck.”
“Okay?”
“Very. Just- slow.”
“You got it, baby.”
The term of endearment hits you low in the stomach. Between him whispering baby and sinking into the hilt, you don’t know what drives you crazier. The easy answer is just Chan. It’s simply Chan who does this to you, who turns you inside out, who reduces you to a whimpering mess.
Chan lets go of your hands and brings it to your face. He leans down, supported by the other hand as he kisses you gently, letting you adjust to his girth, pussy spasming around him as you try to keep it together. The kiss is slow and sweet, in contrast to the feral kiss you shared earlier.
“Fuck,” he breaths against you mouth, laughing. He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re fucking squeezing me. I might die.”
You do it on purpose this time and he hisses, all of his muscles clenching. “Like that?”
“Doonnn’t. If I come right now I’ll be so embarrassed.”
“Why? It’s just me.”
“I don’t want to one-stroke my dream girl, are you serious?”
“Dream girl, huh?” He pulls out a little before shallow thrusting back in. “Mmm yeah. That feels good.”
Instead of answering your jest, he kisses you slowly. His strokes are slow but deep, making you sigh. He feels so good, having him like this. Chan presses his body against you, melding the two of you. You wrap your legs around his waist, squeezing to keep him as close as possible.
Your name falls from his lips as you move in sync. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, feel him shake in your hands. He buries his face in your neck, mouth pressed against your skin as he breathes heavily. You cling to him, as though you could press your love into him, as though you can transfer it through touch.
Chan slides a hand between the two of you, reaching down to circle your clit gently. You whimper in surprise, squeezing around him and drawing out a low sound. “I’m gonna come soon,” he murmurs. “Do you have another one, baby? Can you try for me?”
You nod. He presses his lips to your temple, driving his hips faster, fingers firm. You feel yourself wind up again, desperate to catch up to Chan, to give him what he wants, to come undone together. You’d do anything for him - anything he asked. You always have.
A glint of metal catches your eye. You see the necklace you gifted him hanging around his neck, tapping his collarbone in time with his movements. The sight of it makes you possessive, your desire for him surging. Gripping the back of his neck, you bring his mouth to yours. You don’t kiss him, but your mouths are pressed together as you mutter, “I love you, you know?”
He groans, hips stuttering, fingers firm. You’re so close, you feel yourself right on that edge again. “I do know,” he admits, his cock pressing that perfect spot inside of you that has the room spinning. “I love you too, you know?”
You feel him smile against you. The kiss he gives you is so gentle that it sends you over the edge. You hold him tight, coming undone around him as he groans into your mouth, unraveling with you. When he stills, you keep holding him to you, his embrace warm.
Chan nudges your nose with his. You open your eyes to find his dark ones peering at you. You smile, lifting a hand to trace your fingers along his jaw, the gentle slope of his nose, the roundness of his cheeks. You note the faint freckles under his eyes, his long lashes, the way one side of his lips lifts before the other when he smiles.
“Hmm?” he asks.
“You’re so pretty.” You trace your finger to his nose and then flick it. He frowns and pulls away, making you laugh. “There is cum leaking down my leg to my ass.” He thrusts once sharply and you whine. “Chaaaan.”
“Hmmm?”
“Can we shower?”
“We?”
You grin. “You speak French?”
“I speak pussy.”
“Ew, get off of me!” you laugh, hitting him in the shoulder. He laughs too, rolling off and pulling out. “Take me to the shower, you loser.”
“Oui.”
“Then I want to watch Buffy - oh no.”
“What?” He stands and reaches a hand out to you, helping you up. “Are you alright?”
“I ordered pizza and they probably tried to deliver.”
“That’s okay.” He pulls you toward the shower and smacks your ass lightly, making you yelp. “Start the shower, I’ll call and get it re-delivered.”
You pause, looking at him, unable to bite back the smile. “I love you.”
“Mhmm. Love you too, Bambi.”
-
“I know I’m good looking,” Chan murmurs, eyes on the screen. “But you’re staring very hard at me.”
You’re laying against his chest, head tilted up to look at him. You can’t help it, watching the blue light from the TV dance across his face, reflected in the glasses he put on after the shower. His hair is still damp and fluffy, skin glistening from the skincare post-shower.
“You are good looking.”
“Damn. Only like me for the looks?”
“Well your jokes aren’t very good.”
He levels you with a glare and you laugh, kissing him quickly before settling down in his arms again. His embrace is warm and he smells like your shampoo. You press yourself into him further and he grunts, letting you.
“Can we do Blood and Popcorn forever?” you ask, watching him fondly. He smiles and kisses your forehead, flooding you with warmth. “Please?”
“Anything you ask, baby. Blood and Popcorn forever.”
honestly I've been reading one of your fics a day and I'm enjoying it way too much. this one is sooooo reminiscent of my current relationship and how much we were idiots in the weeks prior to getting together
but it's so sweet :') and I love it. thank you for writing Chan like this, his character just feels so real
𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.
𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.
𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.
𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)
𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024
𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration
Any work is good work.
Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor.
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.
“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.
“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.”
“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.”
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.
Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.
He’s so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy.
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever.
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.
No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it.
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top.
Any work is good work.
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.
“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.
Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.
Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.
“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
“I don’t like when you call me that.”
Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?”
“Who is to say?”
“Just tell her I’m here.”
“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.”
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.
When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”
“But you’re so pretty.”
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.”
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.
Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.
“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?”
He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.
“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.”
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face.
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.
“When is the last time you slept?”
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”
“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”
“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.”
“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.”
His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.
Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.
Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.”
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.”
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt.
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
He’s not in danger here.
Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock.
“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”
“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.”
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.”
“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.”
“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?”
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.
Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time.
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”
“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”
“My watch?”
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.
Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”
“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”
“What’s the point, though?”
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.”
Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”
“And purple?”
“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”
Minho stares. “What?”
“What part didn’t you get?”
“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”
“Do you see a price tag?”
“You can’t give me this for free.”
“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”
Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.
Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.
“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.”
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.”
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop.
Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.
It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.
“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up.
“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”
“Collection accepted.”
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.
-
The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself.
If the knife had been one of yours…
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.
Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.
“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.
There was crazy, and then there was that.
Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.
He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you.
Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true.
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.
Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team.
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.
Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.
-
The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling.
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.
Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.”
“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”
Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history.
Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing–
Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.
Irreversible.
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed.
Now he’s supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or won’t he?
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.
It’s clinical.
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.
Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?
Maybe it’s even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.
It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.
“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.”
Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.
Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”
“I need to speak with her.”
“No.”
“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers.
“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”
“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.”
“Listne, Nightcrawler-”
Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”
“I’d never hurt her.”
“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”
“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?”
“You’d be surprised, Collector.”
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
He’s that confident in beating me.
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.”
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.
Act of faith.
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.
“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”
“Is there a way through that door?”
“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.”
“Does she have a way out the back?”
“No, then I would have two doors to watch.”
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.
“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”
“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.”
“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”
Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.”
The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“That’s hardly less settling.”
“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”
“One is legal, for starters.”
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.
“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.”
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.
Then there’s you.
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun.
“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does.
“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.”
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.”
It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little.
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.
“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.
“I was never going to kill you.”
“Hard to tell with you.”
“I… don’t have an argument.”
And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”
“They’re on the house?”
“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?”
“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”
“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”
A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.
“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”
“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.
“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.”
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.
“What is this?” he asks, looking at you.
It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”
“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?”
“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.”
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not.
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?”
“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?”
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t,
An act of faith.
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust.
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?”
Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.”
“Who owns that place, anyway?”
“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.”
“You keep unusual company.”
“Better than none.”
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”
“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”
“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.”
“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.
“Where are we going?”
He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”
“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”
“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”
“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”
Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”
“What is it now?”
“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.”
“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”
“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.”
“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.”
Minho bites back a grin.
By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.
Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.
“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.”
“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”
“It’s a kind of art.”
“I suppose it is.”
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.
He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.
“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”
Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”
“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.”
“I’m not a child!”
“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”
You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”
“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.”
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?”
“Of course. Swan likes strays.”
“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”
Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.”
“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.”
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side.
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something.
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching.
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding.
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
“Minho, there’s a-”
“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”
“And you were sure that was going to work?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.”
It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive.
Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.
It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge.
At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.
“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.
“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.”
“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed.
After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay.
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.
Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.”
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”
“Are you sure?”
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”
“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.
A little braver.
“I never had a chance to thank you.”
“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”
“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”
“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”
“And now?”
“I realize it was silly.”
“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.”
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.
“Why’d you offer me that armor?”
“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?”
Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.
You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.
You.
The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.
Fuck.
He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead.
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.
“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.”
“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?”
“Need it.”
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.
“Hmm. Sweet.”
“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.
“True,” he agrees, leaning forward.
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.
It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.
He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.
“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.”
The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left.
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.
Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.”
“What a stuipd man I am.”
“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.”
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.
You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.
“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in.
“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”
“What is it with you and rodeos?”
“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.”
“Oh?”
“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.”
He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.”
You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.
“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”
“That joke was terrible.”
“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.”
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.
this is so ssick like I don't even have words for the world building genius in this fic omg. I need to like. give you a hug or something holy cow this is amazing
Dudeeee i remember u from instagramm. if i aint wrong u used to write thereeeeeee i used to read ur fics when i was 14😭😭😭😭😭😭 they were so comforting omg i love ur writing soo muchh (correct me if im wrong seriously) i hope ur doing well rightt nowww
And u dont have to answer thisss but whyd u stop writing thereee??
OMG HIIIIIIII
yes I am from there hello! I always love running into people from the good old corona era <3
I am doing fantastic, thanks for checking in🥺
The reason why I stopped writing over on insta is simply because at the time I was leaning towards longer fics, and the most I could cram into one post was 5k words(after shrinking the font size WAY down. add instagram's signature quality compression and you start getting a bunch of comments like "ahhh I can't read it"). also a lot of my good writer friends were making the switch to tumblr, so I figured it was time.
it IS worth mentioning that even though I don't post for...engagement, people over there are less likely to click on a fic with an actual title, and more likely to swipe on "reaction to you holding their hand". I didn't want to write blurbs or bulleted lists. I wanted to put movies into words and that, does not do well on instagram. for everyone involved.
tl;dr, I switched for a better reading experience lololol
but I'm so glad you're here :))))) and I am very much still writing. a lot of the stories on instagram like Just Around That Corner were only one part because an expansion would have to be broken up, and now I feel free to make them longer!
Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you
🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.
💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up.
p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin?
p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,”
you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)
⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Friends-to-lovers tension finally snaps and it’s carnal, needy, and fucking overdue | Oral (f. receiving) | Latex gloves | Spit | Tattoo chair sex | Filthy dirty talk — praise + hunger: “sweetheart,” “good girl,” “let me taste you again.” | Fingering | Thigh gripping | Ass worship | Tattooing as marking kink | Reader on all fours, bent over the chair | Clit attention that makes your brain fog | Aftercare so tender it hurts
Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.
The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.
The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.
Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.
God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.
He looks up.
His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.
“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”
“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”
You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”
He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”
“And you?”
“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”
There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.
You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.
Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.
The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.
Still, you stayed friends.
Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.
And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.
“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.
He shrugs. “Just sketching.”
“For a client?”
His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”
There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.
“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”
His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”
You pause.
Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.
It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”
He stares for a long moment.
When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”
You nod.
His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”
You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.
Silence.
You can feel the air shift.
Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.
“You want me to tattoo you there?”
“Yes.”
A long breath. “Why me?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”
You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”
He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”
You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”
The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“You’ve touched me five times.”
“Not like that.”
Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.
But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
You nod once, pulse thudding.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”
You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”
His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”
You arrive before closing.
The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.
You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.
“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.
From somewhere in the back, you hear him.
“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”
You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”
He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.
You offer him the coffee.
He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”
“Strawberry scones.”
He pauses. Blinks once.
Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”
You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.
“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”
You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.
Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.
One of his.
He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.
“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.
You nod. “Still want you to do it.”
That makes his head lift.
His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.
Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.
Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.
“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.
His inhale is so sharp you hear it.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”
You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”
“Not like this.”
Your breath catches.
He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.
The difference.
It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.
His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.
“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.
Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.
You inhale slowly. Exhale.
He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.
“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”
You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.
You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.
He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.
“Well?” he asks.
You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”
“Then lie back for me, angel.”
You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.
Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.
A little too still. A little too loaded.
And then he turns.
Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.
At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.
“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.
You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”
He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.
You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”
“Intimate,” he finishes.
You nod once. Slowly.
He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”
You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”
He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”
“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”
That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.
“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”
You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”
“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”
“It hurt!”
“It was a two-inch peony.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.
He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.
You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.
“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”
You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”
He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.
He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.
“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.
“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.
His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”
“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”
He does not, in fact, move away.
Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”
“I’m not wiggling.”
“You are.”
“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”
“Always.”
He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.
He notices. Of course he does.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.
“You always hold my hand when I do.”
He pauses. Just a beat.
Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.
You don’t let go.
And then—
“Here we go,” he says quietly.
The needle touches your skin.
Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”
The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.
“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”
You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Say what?”
“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”
He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”
You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”
He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”
Your whole body freezes.
“I—excuse me—”
“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”
“You know what I thought you meant.”
He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”
You let out a long, slow exhale.
“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.
You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.
His voice drops. “When I’m what?”
Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.
“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”
Those words echo.
Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.
You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.
This has never just been ink.
Not for him.
And not for you.
“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.
His gloved hand is still on your hip.
Still holding you steady. Still not moving.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”
“But you meant it,” you say.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.
And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”
You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”
It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.
The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.
You’re not sure if he means you or him.
“I’m fine,” you manage.
He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.
“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”
You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”
Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.
Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.
He notices. He always notices.
"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.
"I'm trying," you whisper.
"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."
The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.
Another petal. Another clean line.
Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.
“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”
You nod, nails digging into your own palms.
And then—
He stops.
The buzzing dies.
You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down.
The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink.
The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.
“…Finished,” he says quietly.
You look at him.
His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.
He pulls the gloves off.
Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.
Then looks at you like he’s still starving.
“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.
You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.
You watch him work.
He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.
You shiver.
“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”
You blink at him. “But?”
His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.
But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.
You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.
Is he seriously—
“Lie back,” he murmurs.
You hesitate.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”
You lie back, narrowing your eyes.
He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.
"You're being professional again," you mutter.
His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”
“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”
“I remember everything I say to you.”
He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.
And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.
The goddamn printed paper.
“I know how to—”
“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”
You sit up abruptly.
His words die in his throat.
You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.
His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.
He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.
“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”
Your breath catches.
He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.
Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.
“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”
Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.
"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”
“You already have.”
He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.
He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."
His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.
"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"
The shorts hit the floor.
And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.
Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed.
They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.
Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.
“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”
“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.
“Bullshit.”
He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.
“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”
A kiss over the curve of your ass.
“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”
His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.
“I should rip these.”
“You won’t,” you gasp.
“Oh?”
“You like how they look too much.”
He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”
And then he does something you don’t expect.
He kneels behind you.
Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.
Then—
A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”
His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.
Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.
“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”
His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.
Then—
Spit.
The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”
And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.
“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”
His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.
“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”
Then he sucks. Hard.
Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.
One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.
“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”
“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.
His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.
“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”
He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.
“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”
And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—
You do.
You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.
“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.
Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—
And stands.
You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.
He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”
His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.
“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”
You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.
He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.
Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.
“You staring?” he says, breathless.
“Obviously.”
He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”
You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.
“—and all mine.”
He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.
You jolt.
“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans down, voice curling around your ear.
“Good.”
And then—
He pushes in. Slow. Deep.
Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.
“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”
You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”
He pulls out halfway—
Then slams back in.
Your cry echoes through the studio.
“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.
Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.
“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”
One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.
“Hyunjin—!”
“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”
He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.
The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.
And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.
“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”
His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—
Everything snaps.
You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.
“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—
And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.
“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.
You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”
“Worth it,” he grins.
Then: “Round two?”
You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.
You nod slowly. “Better than.”
He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”
You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.
A gasp escapes your lips.
Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”
You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.
Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.
“Let me see it,” he whispers.
You glance back, confused.
“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.
You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.
He crouches again.
One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.
His eyes go soft.
“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”
You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—
He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.
“Come home with me,” he says.
Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”
“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”
You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”
You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.
Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.
The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.
Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.
You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”
He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”
You snort. “You mean mine.”
His gaze flicks up.
“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”
He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”
You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.
He grins. “You love it.”
His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.
You squirm. “Hyunjin—”
“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.
He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.
And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.
You blink. “Another what?”
“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”
He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.
You shiver. “Hyunjin…”
His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”
You moan—already soaked, already clenching.
But he just smirks.
“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”
You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”
He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”
Hyunjin perks his head up at the sound of someone lightly clearing their throat behind him, quickly sneaking a glance over his shoulder. You stand there above him, fiddling with the guitar pick he had tossed into the crowd just a few short minutes before, feeling the ridges of the H engraved into the black and red plastic.
“I’m sorry, we’re not really taking any autographs at the moment,” he says politely, turning back to continue packing his stuff away, filling random bags and cases with cords of every color.
“I uh, I actually came to return this to you,” you say, and he catches onto the slight tremor in your voice. He looks up and gets a good look at you this time, taking in all of your ripped jeans and flannel glory.
You’re holding his guitar pick out to him, very clearly avoiding eye contact with the guitarist as you do so.
“Ah…” Hyunjin stifles a giggle as he stands to his full height. He’s a solid few inches taller than you, and his ego swells when he catches you doing the quick once-over that he’s gotten used to. “I take it you’ve never been to one of our shows before?”
You flush red, and Hyunjin is almost relieved to come to the realization that you are most definitely not a groupie. The lack of merch should have made that obvious, though.
“No…” you smile sheepishly, eyes looking past his distressed patchwork jeans. “I came with a friend, but you guys are really good and…I’m sorry, is that guitar yours?”
A confused expression crosses Hyunjin’s face as he turns around, eyeing the wine colored guitar laying half inside its case.
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh wow, I haven’t seen a Fender guitar like that in years,” you exclaim, stepping past him to get a closer look. “They stopped making these back in ‘05.”
“I- really?” Hyunjin’s eyes widen as you crouch, peering over the instrument with curious eyes.
“Yeah! Where did you get it?” Your shy demeanor has basically evaporated, and now it’s Hyunjin’s turn to be flustered.
“It was a gift from my grandpa, actually.”
“Did you name it?”
You look up at him with excited eyes, and he wonders if he’s dealing with someone with two different personalities.
“Well I…” His face feels as if there’s one too many spotlights on it. “…it’s not official or anything, but I’ve called her Rosie on multiple occasions-”
“Do you like roses?”
“I love roses,” he crouches down next to you, pulling the cuff of his spiked bracelet down to reveal his thin-lined rose tattoo on the inner flesh of his wrist. “They’re a symbol of passion, and I’m really passionate about guitar so I just…”
The two of you lock eyes again, and he immediately feels as if he’s shared too much; your eyes feel like they can see right through him. He chuckles in mild embarrassment, shaking his auburn hair out of his eyes.
“Sorry, I…I’m Hyunjin,” he says, extending a heavily decorated hand towards you.
“That’s what I was told,” you giggle, shaking his hand before looking at the pick in your other hand.
“Oh- that’s for you to keep by the way.” He nods towards the plastic keepsake, and your mouth drops open.
“For free?”
“I’ll even sign it for you…if you can tell me more about my guitar.”
‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧
a/n: what if I just dump a bunch of my favorite drabbles while I finish this other fic huh what then
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ contents: hwang intak x fem!reader, established relationship, smut (minors dni!)
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ word count: 3k
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ warnings: swearing, 18+ explicit content, soft soft soft dom!intak, down bad!intak lol, unprotected sex, fingering, little bit of marking, praise galore cause intak is so obsessed with reader omg
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ a/n: a lil smut i had cooking for wayyyyy too long to hopefully get me back into a good routine of writing and posting over the summer break! and intak’s been killing me so bad this comeback so it was bound to happen regardless skdjfkjfjf. enjoy~~
now playing: bedtime story - rini, need it - rini
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“That’s definitely new, right?”
You catch Intak’s eyes in the mirror, watching his reflection look back at you before sliding down over your body, assessing the cute black pajama set—silky shorts and a spaghetti strap camisole—you’d recently purchased. The way that he’s staring at you, and especially the way his ears and cheeks are tinted red, has your stomach doing cartwheels, but you’re also just touched that he noticed.
“Yeah, I got them while shopping with Yeji over the weekend. I needed something lighter to wear over the summer…”
Your voice trails off as he steps fully into the bathroom and slips a hand around your waist, feeling the fabric. His eyes widen with a small shocked gasp. “Oh wow, it does feel really nice.”
“Right?” You concentrate back on the mirror to finish the last steps of your skincare—well, at least you try to concentrate. Intak’s gentle hand smoothing over your waist, occasionally brushing under the hem, and his head resting in the crook of your shoulder don’t do much to help that, especially when he presses a light kiss to your bare skin.
“It’s cute. You look really cute.” He mumbles into your neck and you’re glad for the excuse to reach away and grab a towel and pat your face dry, hoping he can’t see the blush on your cheeks from his voice so close to your ear.
However after taking off the headband holding your hair back and hanging the towel to dry, you make the mistake of catching Intak’s gaze on you in the mirror, chin still resting on your shoulder. His mouth instantly tilts up in a smile that’s so endearing and butterfly-inducing that you can feel your heart speed up. He lifts his head enough to press his nose into your cheek, then kisses the corner of your mouth with a whispered, “I mean, you always look cute, but right now…”
It’s diabolical and he knows it, your heart leaping out of your throat. Your body acts on instinct and you pull away with a giggled, “Intak!” He just grins as you duck quickly out of the bathroom before your boyfriend can think of anything else to say to make you shy and all sorts of stupid.
“Hey, hey, where are you going?” Intak laughs as you attempt to escape into your bedroom, cheeks heated- and this time he can definitely see your flustered state as he slips past the doorway behind you. He’s grinning, eyes sparkling playfully, and he’s looking at you like you’re the galaxy and he’s only just looked at the night sky for the first time. His hand catches yours with enough force to wheel you back to him, and you give in with little resistance, spinning to face him. You’re just a couple inches away now, giggling as he pretends to flick your forehead as punishment for trying to run from him.
“There’s no way I’m letting my girl go without a proper kiss.” Intak tsks, tapping your chin to force you to look up at him. “Especially when she’s looking so damn pretty.”
You roll your eyes, another not-so-subtle disguise to hide how flustered he’s making you. But he knows you too well, a crooked smile lifting with pride as he slowly adjusts his hold of your hand, intertwining your fingers and stepping right into your space. He’s leaning into you like a flower to the sun, adoring eyes darting between your eyes and down to your lips. The way such a simple action can make you feel so much is absolutely ridiculous, and it only takes Intak another few seconds to increase that giddiness tenfold with his soft lips pressed to yours. It’s a sweet kiss, gentle and slow and dizzying, instantly sending you reeling from his touch. His free hand finds your waist as yours slide up to his shoulders, shivers running up your body. He draws you as close as possible to himself, subtly tugging at your bottom lip to hear you sigh before pulling away.
You don’t let him get far, slipping a hand around to the nape of his neck to keep him close. Intak tilts his head, letting his forehead rest on yours as you hover around each other’s lips, taking in the other’s presence. Your hand lightly scratches at his scalp and his eyelashes flicker, eyes half closed, nose nudging yours as an invisible force closes the distance and his lips capture yours again—slowly, deeply, like it’s been weeks since he’s had the chance to kiss you like this. Your sharp inhale dissolves into a quiet whine that only encourages him to smile into the kiss and press closer. Both of his hands move to rest on your hips and you find yourself slowly moving backwards until your body collides with the back of your bedroom door. Intak has you pinned in a second, kissing you again and again, parting your lips to gently suck on your bottom lip and feel your quiet whimper on his tongue.
“God- been wanting to kiss you all night…” he whispers into your mouth in a strained, desperate tone. You answer by tugging him back into a heated kiss that pulls a groan from the back of his throat. Your hands rake through his curls to encourage more pretty sounds that fall onto your lips as he picks up the pace. His hands squeeze your hips, and that’s all the warning you get before he’s hoisting your body into the air, picking you up like its nothing to hold you against the door. You instantly wrap your legs around his torso and pull his face back to yours, unwilling to let him get too far. He responds eagerly, grip tightening on the underside of your thighs as his slow, borderline messy kisses pull from you sighs and whines of his name. His whole body feels on fire under your fingertips, and so does yours, adrenaline rushing through your veins and taking over your senses. His tongue parts your lips, his hands slip to grip your ass, and a murmured “fuck,” turns your brain to static. His hips rut against yours and you gasp, pulling away briefly, heart pounding in your chest.
Your breath catches as his gaze finds yours; Intak looks like a dream and your worst nightmare all at once. His cheeks are flushed, hair disheveled, chest heaving, eyes dazed and half closed as he examines your face the way you do with his, lips brushing yours as his gaze drops to them, then back up to your eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes wandering over your face, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. His lips are locked back on yours in an instant, pulled like a magnet to its opposite pole, and you’re instantly dizzy, gripping his shoulders like your life depends on it.
This kiss is pure heat. He teases your bottom lip with his teeth and you quietly moan, drawing him as close to you as possible. You run your hands over his shoulders and pecs and feel him shudder, softly groaning as he presses your body to the back of the door once more, pressing his hips against yours again. His lips leave yours, but only to find the slope of your neck and kiss along the skin, sucking marks in a trail to your shoulder, slipping the strap of your tank out of the way without missing a stride. The sensation of his wet mouth on your bare shoulder has your head falling back to rest on the door, heat swimming in waves beneath the surface of your skin. Intak’s lips wander back up your neck, finding a sweet spot behind the back of your ear. The feel of his soft lips and wet tongue make you shiver and quietly moan out his name. “Intak—”
“You’re driving me crazy, baby.” He pants, voice low in your ear. “So perfect… look so fucking cute…”
Your hands run back over his biceps and shoulders, appreciating the toned muscle with gentle squeezes as you sigh and subtly rut your hips against his growing boner. He groans against your lips, melting under your touch and the obvious display of want. He can’t muffle a whimper from the back of his throat as you slide your hands over his chest and repeat the action, which he instantly reciprocates with a grind of his own and a whined, “Fuck, baby… c’mere…”
Making sure his grip looped under your body is secure, Intak kisses your lips one last, lingering time before pulling you back from the door. Stumbling slightly, Intak carries you to the bed and sets you down on the sheets, making your stomach jolt in anticipation. Moving to hover his body overtop of yours, he rubs your thighs and lingers by your lips again, kissing you with new fervor as he whispers between each dizzying peck, “Lay back for me, baby. Just relax and let me do all the work… gonna give you what you deserve…”
His words have an instantaneous effect, making you shiver and grab at his broad shoulders to keep him close, whispering, “Want you…”
With a smile, he pecks your cheek before trailing soft, sensual kisses back down the side of your neck and along your collarbone. He spends a little extra time at the neckline of your shirt before helping you pull the fabric over your head to discard it, doing the same quickly with his own shirt. His lips don’t miss a beat in continuing their path down your body, littering your skin with long presses of his mouth and tongue that make you shiver, sensitive to every touch. His hands follow his lips in their journey down your body, rubbing over your breasts and the curves of your sides. You feel yourself sinking into the bed as Intak slowly presses your hips into the mattress, lips worshipping your body, slowly sucking wet, red marks in his wake. Every small sound you make is only encouraged by Intak, who slowly massages your waist and murmurs, “You’re so good for me.” The words are whispered over your skin, making you feel lightheaded with desire. “So perfect.”
His mouth trails a line down your center, and he’s so unbearably slow that you already feel like a mess before he even starts kissing along the waistband of your shorts. Your hands find their way into his hair and tug at the dark locks, pulling small, strained groans from the back of his throat as his eyes flutter. The action seems to only encourage him to further drive you to the edge of insanity, tongue teasing the marks he’s leaving as you squirm beneath him, already out of breath.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, thumbs massaging the rise of your tummy, admiring the darkening bruises he’s left behind. He presses several wet, sweet kisses there before he tugs at your shorts, glancing up at you through dark lashes. “Can these come off, baby?”
You nod with a small “please,” and that’s all Intak needs. His lips split into a grin, eyes sparkling before he carefully pulls aside both your shorts and panties to expose your whole body to him. He takes several seconds to simply get a look at you before bending back down to capture your lips again, softly moaning when you readily press back into him. His hands slip back to your waist, thumbs pressing into your hip bones to hold you in place as he kisses you twice, three times, endlessly more. You lose count as he mumbles sweet praises and several “I love you” ’s against your lips before parting once more. This time, he wastes no time, eager impatience getting the better of him as his arms loop around your waist to roll you over onto your stomach with ease.
Your stomach drops at the change in position and the way his hands explore your body again, rubbing over your ass and up your spine firmly, kneading into the skin. His warm kisses return, littering your back with wet spots and stinging marks that make you whine into the pillow. You feel his smile on your skin, know he’s teasing you on purpose, but your complaints are instantly forgotten when he finally pushes your thighs apart and drags a finger through the wetness gathered in your core, catching on your clit in the process. Pleasure pulses through your body as he repeats the action several times, making you whimper and clutch at the sheets.
“Fuck, Intak, there, please-”
You arch your back with a small moan as Intak obliges, rubbing two fingers over your clit in practiced motions that have you seeing stars. After a minute, he pauses briefly to prop a pillow under your hips, then firmly loops his hands under your thighs and pulls you close to him. He leans over you, kissing up your neck before once again finding that sweet spot behind your ear and murmuring, “Relax, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’ve been so good, so good, baby… gonna get you there, promise… just hold on for me.”
His fingers work magic as he slips two into your aching cunt and quickly begins to thrust and curl them just right. It’s so good you don’t even know when you start grinding your hips back to chase the friction. “Oh my god…”
It’s not enough, though, and when you say as much Intak quickly strips off his pants and boxers with his free hand, fisting his boner and aligning himself with your hole. Your whole body heats, shaking with anticipation and need, core tingling. Intak hisses as he slowly pushes into you, head falling, his hair and his breath tickling your back. “Oh my god… baby…”
His hands tighten on your hips as he ruts into you, gradually sinking further into your welcoming warmth as spots fill your vision, skin burning at the feeling of his pulsing dick filling you, stimulating your sensitive walls and triggering waves of heat and pure pleasure to flow through your veins. When Intak bottoms out, he does so with a throaty groan, head dipping to touch your back, hair tickling your skin.
As you take a second for the two of you to adjust, Intak lifts his head and presses several messy kisses to the side of your head and behind your ear. “Feel okay?” He pants, breath hot on your neck.
You nod, head heavy in the pillows, body shaking. One of Intak’s arms wraps around your chest and pulls you up to him, supporting your weight while he begins to thrust. The friction is delicious, and you’re instantly clenching around him, your body practically begging for more. Intak lets out quiet sounds and grunts with each thrust, and it’s not long before both of you start to slowly fall apart. Each stroke is deliberate and evenly paced, slow enough for you to really feel it, yet hurried enough that you’re not given a second to breathe before another wave of pleasure rolls through your gut and pushes a moan from your throat.
“God, you feel so good,” Intak groans, head buried in your neck, mouth warm against your skin. “Take me so well, baby… shit—”
His hips thrust with more force, his desperation getting the better of him. His arm around your chest remains firm in holding you to him at the same time that his body presses you against the mattress, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you in place for him, allowing him to control the angle and hit all your best spots. It’s so good and so intense that you similarly begin to lose control, breaths hitching and choking on moans and whimpers and pleas of his name, all of which are muffled into the sheets as your strength fails you and your head falls against the bed.
His own groans and whines become more high pitched and breathy, his words coming out in broken murmurs. “Feel s’ good, baby,” he whispers, words slurred together. He presses sloppy kisses to your shoulder, moaning against your skin as you clench around him again, feeling your stomach tightening, body tingling. “Fuck, babe—ah—I’m not… not gonna last long like this…”
You whimper, fingers digging into the sheets as his hand slips from your hip to find your clit again, rubbing in pressured circles that have you clenching around him harder, moaning beneath him. “There, there—”
Intak doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, repeating each heavenly motion as your climax nears its approach. It doesn’t take long before the knot in your gut becomes unbearable, heat rising across your skin. A few more seconds and you’re babbling, “I-I’m coming, Intak, ah-”
“Come for me…” Intak pleads, panting, body shaking overtop of yours, voice right beside your ear, deep and laced with want. “Let me feel you, baby… I’ve got you…”
In an instant, your body tenses and the knot snaps, your high washing over you hard. Your boyfriend rides you through your high, and it’s not long before Intak’s hips stutter and his cum spills into you, his own choked moans filling the space between you. After a couple last thrusts, Intak stills, then slowly pulls out and slumps beside you.
You take a minute to catch your breath, and as you do, Intak pulls you against him, rolling you onto your side and curling you backwards into his chest. His mouth presses gently to your back, free hand rubbing circles over your hip bone. “There you go, baby, that’s it…”
You hum in return, taking his hand and intertwining it with yours. Intak nuzzles into your neck, both of you catching your breaths as he kisses you there. Eventually, he whispers, “You good?”
“Mm. Better than good.”
You can feel Intak’s proud grin against the shell of your ear as he holds you tighter to him. After a moment, he presses another kiss to your skin and murmurs, “Let’s get you washed up and back into those cute pj’s of yours, baby.”
You let him guide you to sit up, eyeing him as he grabs your pajama set, and laughing softly. “Okay, but behave this time.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes as Intak pulls you to your feet, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips once more for good measure. “No promises.”
this is a terrible time to realize that the way Intak’s written is so similar to someone I know irl HAHAHAHAHAHA 😀so thanks for that I guess??? fantastic fic I just need a minute to reorient myself lmfao
2087
stormborns
yousharknotpass
