#txt fic

[beomieo]

a little update for y'all, i'm having the worst writer's block rn and my exams still aren't over... don't expect the fic to be out too soon!!

this is my sign to just stick to writing short fics...

[healingpage]

𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 (𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶'𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲) - 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶 𝘆𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗻 | 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 2

ꕥ summary: she meets him once and thinks he’s… nice. maybe too nice. then life of a broke student catches up, late rent, bills piling high, and he notices. he offers help, but the terms make her blood boil, and she walks away, stubborn and proud. later, she’s a med student, juggling patients and internships, when she ends up caring for the important person in his life she never expected to impress: his grandmother. boundaries are clear, rules carefully followed, yet small gestures, quiet moments, and stolen glances slowly chip away at them both. and somehow, despite everything, something grows that neither of them can ignore.

ꕥ pairing: txt yeonjun x f!reader

ꕥ tags: romance, angst, fluff, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, power imbalance. slow burn, slice of life pg-13 for this chapter

ꕥ wc: 11.2k

ꕥ notes: guys! it's been so long!! so much happened and i am so glad to share that i finished my last law school semester so updates after this will probably go much faster than before :D i am also so excited to become a lawyer hopefully by the end of next year!!

TAGLIST ARE OPEN : @junnielvr @ssdandelion177

The afternoon sun filters in, pale and honeyed, slipping through the blinds of the bedroom in thin, quiet lines. Halmeoni is napping, her chest rising and falling in a fragile, steady rhythm that fills the room with a kind of careful peace.

You sit in the armchair by the window in the living room, buried deep in a massive, dog-eared textbook on neuroanatomy, the pages heavy in your hands. There is a sudden quiz the next morning, so in between checking Halmoni’s meds, you try to cram whatever might appear on that paper. Your highlighter is nearly dried out, the ink fading no matter how many times you drag it across the same sentence, and your neck aches like it’s rusted into place. Across from you, on the small sofa, Choi Yeonjun is taking a call for the nth time today, each time work related. He is supposedly working on his laptop, but the screen has already dimmed to black minutes ago.

He is watching you. You don’t notice, your eyes still locked on the page, your brows pulling together as you try to force meaning out of words that refuse to settle.

“You’ve been on that same page for twenty minutes,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the textbook contents.

You don’t look up, though your heart stumbles anyway. “It’s just a complicated subtopic, Yeonjun.”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he says, and this time there’s no edge to it, no teasing, just something quieter, something that lingers. He stands, putting down his laptop on the table’s surface, the fabric of his trousers shifting softly, and walks toward the small kitchen tucked into the corner. “I’m getting you coffee.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do.” He glances back, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. “And don’t worry. I’m making it myself using whatever’s in the pantry. I’m not hiring any staff this time.”

It lands like a joke, but softer, like he’s still trying to make up for something without saying it outright. He’s got your attention now as you fold down the corner of the page, letting the book shut. You watch him for a moment, the way he fumbles with the machine, movements slightly uncertain, like this is unfamiliar territory for him. Someone who can probably navigate rooms full of executives without blinking, now contemplating his next steps over a French press like it might betray him. You could not help but softly giggle at the way his mouth pouts when he’s focusing, making Yeonjun turn to look at you, and you hurriedly avoid eye contact, holding back the smile.

When he finally walks back over, he sets a steaming mug beside your book, careful, almost deliberate. As he does, his fingers brush against yours. It’s brief, barely there, but it lingers in a way it shouldn’t, like the air shifts around it. Both of you still for a second, the quiet stretching just a little longer than usual. Something unspoken sits between you, soft but noticeable, blurring the edges of everything else.

A loud ring from his phone, and being followed by his Macbook after just one second startled the both of you. His hand moves further as Yeonjun stands up right, a heavy breath escalates from him as he picks up his phone. The conversation seems quite tense, his voice sounding like he’s one second away from scolding the poor caller.

“Right, I’ll call you back once it’s done, and I’m only getting there tomorrow morning the earliest.” The call ends abruptly after, and you awkwardly gutters up the courage to ask. “Why are you still here, Yeonjun?” you ask quietly, finally looking up to him. “The helpers and I can watch her. Your assistant has called you five times.”

His gaze meets yours, steady, stripped of the usual ease he carries around.

“Because the board meetings and my office are uncomfortably loud,” he says, his voice lower now, more honest than you expect. “And the house is quiet. But here… with you and Halmeoni… it feels different. Like I don’t have to be a ‘Choi.’” He pauses, then adds, softer, “I can just be here, take my time doing work. Having you around.”

Something feels tight in your chest hearing that last sentence, something you don’t quite want to name. For a moment, it feels easy to stay like this, to let the silence settle around the two of you without pushing it away. Then your eyes catch the cufflink at his sleeve, gold catching the light, then his watch, carefully crafted, polished, precise, belonging to a world that has never once made space for you.

“Don’t,” you say, your voice even softer now, but unsteady. “Don’t make this into something.”

He glances down briefly at where your hand was, something flickering across his expression before it smooths out again. He nods once, small, controlled.

“Right,” he says, stepping back just enough. “Boundaries.”

---

The heavy oak front door clicks shut behind you with a muted thud that echoes through the cavernous foyer. Every joint in your body throbs with a dull, persistent ache, the residue of an eighteen-hour shift in an overcrowded emergency room where the air smells eternally of rubbing alcohol, old floor wax, and adrenaline. Your feet feel uncomfortable inside your sneakers, knees stiff as you kick off your shoes and lean heavily against the cold drywall, letting out a breath so long and weary it feels as though it pulls the last bit of warmth right out of your lungs. The white coat seems heavier than usual and you quickly remove it from your shoulder, hanging them on the rack by the door. Your stomach churns, empty since an energy bar at mid-day, letting out a sharp, hollow growl that sounds ridiculously loud in the sterile silence of the high-rise penthouse.

You enter into the living room, where you spot Yeonjun sitting on the edge of the deep charcoal sofa, his laptop resting across his knees, illuminating the sharp angles of his cheekbones in the dim, ambient cove lighting. His tie is loosened into a relaxed loop, the top two buttons of his tailored oxford shirt unfastened to reveal the hollow of his collarbone. He’s at his usual after office hours shift at home, not even having an outfit change. 

The moment the lock turns, Yeonjun’s dark eyes already snap toward the entryway, instantly absorbing the curve of your slumped shoulders, the faint dark smudges beneath your eyes, and the way you drag your feet across the polished floor.

"Rough shift?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling timbre that seems to vibrate gently through the quiet room.

"I think my stomach has officially begun digesting its own lining," you groan, pressing the flat of your hand against your ribs as you bypass him entirely, heading straight for the massive, stainless-steel refrigerator that dominates the kitchen wall. "Tell me you have something. Anything. Cold rice, leftover soup, a piece of stale bread—I might even eat raw eggs at this point."

You pull open the heavy door. A pristine, blue-white light floods the kitchen, highlighting a scene of immaculate emptiness. Beyond three identical glass bottles of sparkling mineral water stacked in a wire rack, a small jar of artisanal cold brew, and a single lemon sitting in solitary confinement on the middle shelf, the vast interior is entirely barren. You stand frozen for a beat, the frigid air washing over your face, before snapping the door shut and spinning around to throw open the high wooden pantry cabinets. Row after row of minimalist oak shelves greet you, bare, save for a glass canister of loose-leaf jasmine tea and a dark bottle of unnecessary Italy imported olive oil.

"Yeonjun," you say slowly, turning around to face him with your arms resting against the edge of the marble island, staring at him in absolute disbelief. "Where is the food?"

He halts a few feet away, a sheepish, almost boyish flush rising along his neck as his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his scalp. "The housekeeping aunty usually restocks the pantry on Thursdays," he admits, his jaw tightening slightly in self-conscious embarrassment. "I canceled them yesterday morning because you were sleeping off your night shift. I knew how exhausted you were, and I didn't want the noise of her unpacking groceries to wake you up."

"Not even instant ramen?" you gasp, dropping to your knees to pull open the bottom drawers of the island, finding only neatly stacked cloth napkins and a set of crystal whiskey glasses. "How does a multi-million-won penthouse in the heart of the city not have a single packet of instant noodles? Isn't that a mandatory emergency supply?"

"I... don't generally eat instant ramen at home," he confesses quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he takes in your desperate search. "I can call my personal assistant right now. Or order from that twenty-four-hour French bistro down on the boulevard—they have a bone marrow risotto that—"

"No," you interrupt, standing up so fast your head swims for a brief second. Your stomach betrays you again, letting out another ferocious rumble that causes his lips to twitch with the barest hint of a suppressed smile. "By the time a delivery driver navigates security and gets up the elevator, I will have passed out on this marble floor. That’s fine. I’m going out."

He blinks, taken aback by the sudden sharpness in your tone. "At midnight?"

"At midnight."

Ten minutes later, the heir to one of the largest conglomerates in the city is walking beside you down a narrow, shadowy alleyway located three blocks behind the gleaming glass towers of the main avenue. He refuses to let you out all alone, and even panics when you said you were walking. He insisted on following, even offering to drive you there, but you say it’s just around the building. 

He has swapped his suit jacket for an oversized, midnight-black fleece hoodie and dark denim, his golden-toned hair slightly ruffled from pulling the hood over his head. Despite the low-key clothing, he still looks distinctly out of place, the razor-sharp cut of his jaw, his upright posture, and the subtle, instinctive way he keeps his broad shoulder positioned between you and the narrow street, keeping himself on the curb side as a quiet shield against the occasional passing scooter.

"Where exactly are we heading?" he asks softly, his breath misting into small white plumes in the crisp, autumn night air. His hands are thrust deep into his hoodie pocket, though his elbow stays lightly pressed against yours with every stride.

"To a place that caters to actual human biology," you reply, turning a corner where the damp pavement reflects the warm glow of hanging lights.

Ahead, nestled between a shuttered dry cleaner and an old brick building, sits a traditional stall, a cozy, temporary tent made of thick, bright-red vinyl, illuminated from within by string lights that cast an amber halo into the dark street. Thick plumes of fragrant white steam billow out from beneath the plastic entrance flaps, carrying the irresistible, intoxicating scents of simmered anchovy broth, toasted sesame oil, sweet gochujang, and frying batter into the chilly air.

You lift the heavy, rain-beaded plastic curtain and duck inside. The interior is tiny, intimate, and alive with heat. Three small, low plastic tables surrounded by matching red stools are scattered across the damp concrete floor. Behind a long stainless-steel counter lined with bubbling, deep-bellied vats of soup stands an elderly woman wearing a quilted floral vest over a thick purple sweater, her gray hair tightly permed into neat curls beneath a visor.

"Look who finally decided to crawl out of the nest!" the Ajumma barks the moment her sharp eyes catch sight of you, a heavy wooden ladle poised mid-air over a vat of boiling broth. Deep wrinkles fan-fold around her eyes as a broad, fond smile splits her face. "I was getting ready to call the police! Look at you, pale as a sheet, skin and bones! Did that fancy hospital swallow you whole?"

"Shift ran three hours over, Ajumma," you answer, a genuine, relaxed laugh bubbling up from your chest as the knot of tension in your shoulders loosens for the first time all day. "I haven't eaten since noon. I'm practically hallucinating."

Her keen, dark eyes slide past your shoulder, instantly locking onto Yeonjun as he ducks his head to fit under the low vinyl ceiling. He stands hovering right behind you, his massive frame practically filling the doorway, looking around the small street stall with quiet, wide-eyed curiosity. His shoulder bumps against yours, offering an anchor of warmth in the cool tent.

Ajumma squints at him, her bushy eyebrows shooting toward her visor line. "Aigoo... and what is this? Who brought a runaway model into my shabby stall? Look at those shoulders, did you steal him right off a billboard?"

A faint, charming dust of rose pink creeps across Yeonjun’s cheekbones. He immediately straightens his spine, tucking his hands behind his back, and dips into a deep, remarkably formal ninety-degree bow that looks hilariously aristocratic beneath the low red plastic ceiling. "Good evening, Ma'am. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm... a friend of y/n."

"A friend," Ajumma snorts with a loud, theatrical wave of her wooden spoon, her eyes dropping down to the way Yeonjun's hand hovers subtly near the small of your back, barely a millimeter from touching your jacket. "Sure, and I'm the country’s President. Sit down, sit down! Stop towering over my kitchen, big boy. I'll bring out the good stuff before your girlfriend faints."

The word girlfriend hangs in the air like a sudden drop in pressure. The space between you and Yeonjun instantly freezes with a stiff, agonizing awkwardness. You quickly take a half-step sideways, putting deliberate distance between the two of you, your face flushing hot under the amber string lights.

You lead Yeonjun toward one of the tiny red plastic tables. His long, lean legs fold awkwardly under the miniature frame, his knees knocking directly against yours in the tight space, but not a single flicker of annoyance crosses his face. Rather he’s looking around in curiosity. He spots a few customers, and shifts his eyes around the kitchen. His brows raise at the sight of only one person there, the Ajumma.

“She runs this stall by herself?” he’s asking, his upper lips pouting in surprise.

“I think so. Her son started studying in university just last month.”

He simply adjusts himself, his dark eyes fixed entirely on you as you hand him a pair of wooden chopsticks and pour hot, savory fish-cake broth from a battered aluminum kettle into a small paper cup.

"Drink this first," you instruct softly, nudging the cup toward him. "It'll warm you up."

Within five minutes, the small plastic table is entirely covered in steam and color: a wide oval plate heaped with thick, glossy, dark-red tteokbokki swimming in a rich chili sauce; a bamboo basket overflowing with golden, double-fried twigim, kimchi jeon, crispy sweet potato and two massive ceramic bowls of piping-hot udong, the clear amber broth glistening with sesame oil and topped with mountains of fried tofu and chopped green onions.

Without waiting further, you snap your chopsticks apart, snag a thick rice cake, and pop it into your mouth. A sound of absolute, unadulterated satisfaction escapes your throat as the sweet, fiery heat hits your tongue, instantly reviving your tired senses. "Oh, thank God."

Yeonjun watches you, his expression softening into something so tender it rivals the warm steam rising from the bowls between you. He carefully picks up his own wooden chopsticks, mimicking your movements as he takes a piece of golden sweet potato batter, dips it lightly into the crimson tteokbokki sauce, and brings it to his lips.

He chews slowly. His dark eyes widen, a flicker of genuine surprise washing over his features as he swallows. "This is... remarkably complex. The sweetness hits first, but the depth of the broth beneath it…"

"Of course it's good," you say around a bite of chewy udong noodles, shaking your head with a grin. "She’s been simmering that base broth for over thirty years. You can't buy a flavor like that in a five-star dining room with white tablecloths."

"I won't even try to argue with that," he murmurs, his lips curving into a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to the corners of his eyes, erasing every trace of the tense, tired executive who was staring at a laptop an hour ago.

"I ate here three times a week during my first few months of med school," you say, picking up two sets of metal chopsticks and setting one beside his paper cup of barley tea. "When my student loans ran late, she used to slip extra beef slices into my bowl and pretend it was a mistake."

Yeonjun listens, his dark eyes fixed on your face. He watches the way your shoulders finally relax under the yellow light of the hanging bulb.

"I didn't know people actually did that," he says softly.

"What? Gave out extra food?”

"Looked out for strangers like that," he clarifies. He rests his forearms on the small table, leaning in slightly. "In my world, if someone gives you something extra, it means they're preparing an invoice for later."

You stare at him, the casual bitterness in his tone catching in your chest. Before you can answer, the Ajumma slams two tins of sparkling ciders and two cups of ice onto the table, the cubes clink and shift beneath the pour, slowly sinking into the chilled drink as tiny bubbles race toward the surface.

"Eat while it's hot," she orders, slapping a small plate of fresh green peppers between your bowls before bustling off to tend to another pot. The warmth from the soup rises between you, a cloud of steam that softens the sharp lines of his face. You continue to dig in immediately, taking a hot spoon of broth and closing your eyes as the savory heat hits your stomach.

Yeonjun watches you for a second before picking up his spoon. He takes a cautious sip of the white broth now. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, the rich, deep flavor catching him off guard.

"It's very good," he admits, taking a second, larger bite.

"I told you," you say, a tiny smile touching your lips.

For a few minutes, the only sound between you is the rain tapping against the vinyl tent and the clinking of spoons against stoneware. The hunger recedes, leaving behind a heavy, cozy quiet.

"My family used to have dinner together every Sunday," Yeonjun says out of nowhere, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry to the other dining in. He keeps his eyes on his bowl, stirring the soup. "It was held at the main house. Twelve courses. Different wine pairings for each plate."

You stop your spoon halfway to your mouth, listening. He almost never talks about his family without that clinical, detached corporate tone.

"Sounds fancy," you respond, carefully.

"No. It was miserable," he says, a faint, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips. "If you held your fork at the wrong angle, my father's secretary would make a note of it. If you talked too much, you were interrupted. Meals weren't for eating. They were performance reviews."

He looks up from his bowl, his dark eyes catching yours. The vulnerability in them is sharp, raw, and completely unarmored.

"I was ten before I realized people were supposed to enjoy eating," he continues. "I thought dinner was just something you endured so you didn't get written out of the trust."

Your heart twists. You look at him, this man who can buy the building you work in, sitting on a cracked red plastic stool in a dark alley, admitting to a childhood spent walking on eggshells. You feel a sudden, overwhelming impulse to reach across the small table and place your hand over his. To tell him that he doesn't have to perform here. But you don't.

You catch yourself, your fingers tightening around your paper cup instead. The reality of his world—the boardrooms, the cold family dinners, the mountain of wealth that separates your daily life from his stares right back at you. You are a med student drowning in shifts; he is an heir with a legacy hanging over his head. You aren't dating. You can't cross that line.

Yeonjun notices the hesitation in your posture. He sees the way your hand pulls back, the subtle wall rising back up between you. A flicker of quiet hurt crosses his features, but he quickly covers it, leaning back against the cold plastic of his stool.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice reverting to that carefully controlled tenor. "You're exhausted. You don't need to listen to me complain about my childhood."

"No," you say quickly, looking directly into his eyes so he knows you mean it. "I want to hear it. It's just... it's a lot different from my world."

"I know," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to the space between your hands on the table. "Our worlds don't exactly have much overlap."

The air grows heavy again, filled with the unsaid weight of what you both feel, the intense, magnetic pull that has been building for weeks, crushed under the terrifying reality of how vastly different your lives are. Neither of you knows how to bridge the gap without getting hurt, so neither of you moves.

"Finish your soup," you say softly, offering a quiet, truce-like smile. "Ajumma gets offended if you leave broth behind."

Yeonjun looks at you for a long moment, the tension in his jaw slowly releasing.

"Alright," he murmurs, picking up his spoon again. "I wouldn't want to get on her bad side."

Yeonjun uses his chopsticks to break off a small piece of the yaktu-jeon, dipping it carefully into the small plastic saucer of soy sauce and pickled onions. He moves with an innate, quiet restraint. He chews slowly, his dark eyes fixed on the condensation dripping down the clear plastic flap of the tent.

"I used to think people only sat together like this in dramas," he says quietly, his voice carrying a raspy edge that is barely audible over the hiss of the rain. He doesn't look at you immediately; he keeps his focus on his cup sparkling cider, his thumb tracing the rough, ridge-patterned plastic. "Where everyone is cramped into a tiny space and the air smells like kerosene and grease. In my house, if you could hear the person sitting across from you chewing, or if the room was warmer than twenty-one degrees, someone was reprimanded."

You rest your chin in the palm of your hand, your own chopsticks resting across the rim of your now empty bowl of udong. The bone-deep fatigue from your fourteen-hour shift still aches in your lower back, but the sharp, empty gnawing in your stomach has finally settled into a dull, comforting warmth. "It sounds like living in a museum," you murmur softly, watching the way the dim light catches the sharp angle of his jawline.

"It was," he replies, finally turning his head to meet your gaze. His dark pupils are wide, reflecting the ambient red glow of the tent. "Everything was kept behind glass. Everything had a specific protocol. Even when my grandfather passed away, we didn't cry in the living room. We were given five minutes in a private study, and then we had to put on our jackets and face the reporters." He lets out a short, breathy exhale that isn't quite a laugh. "So when I see you... working until your hands shake, coming back here, eating at a place where the owner yells at you to eat more... it feels real. But it also feels like a world I'm not supposed to touch."

The honesty of his words hangs in the humid air between you, raw and unpolished. You feel a sudden, tight ache in your chest, the urge to tell him that he doesn't have to stay behind the glass when he's with you.

Your mouth twitches at the thought. But then your eyes catch the subtle, immaculate detail of his clothing, the hand-stitched hem of his shirt sleeve peeking out from under his dark hoodie, the quiet, undeniable weight of a world built on old money, corporate influence, and expectations that would tear a hospital intern like you to pieces. You remember the mountain of student loans waiting in your email inbox, the cramped, drafty apartment you still pay rent on just to keep your pride intact, and the stark reality that you are living in his penthouse on borrowed time.

Slowly, deliberately, you bite your word back, wrapping both palms around the warm, flimsy paper cup of tea instead.

Yeonjun catches the movement. His eyes track your hand anxiousy moving, and a faint, imperceptible tension returns to his posture. He doesn't press. He doesn't reach across the gap. He simply picks up his chopsticks again, leaning back slightly to restore the invisible, protective boundary you both keep erecting.

"You should eat the rest of the pancake," he says, his voice shifting back into that carefully measured, gentle tone as he uses his chopsticks to nudge the crisp edge of the chive pancake toward your side of the plate. "You're the one who worked fourteen hours on her feet. I just sat in air-conditioned boardrooms all day."

"A mental shift can be just as exhausting," you say softly, taking the piece he offered.

"Maybe," he murmurs, watching you chew with an intensity that makes the back of your neck warm despite the chill creeping under the vinyl flap. "But at least your work actually saves people. Mine just moves numbers from one column to another."

"It's not that simple, Yeonjun, and you know it."

"Isn't it?" He tilts his head, a small, somber smile touching the corner of his lips. "If I vanished tomorrow, the company would appoint a new board member by Monday. If you don't show up for your shift, a patient doesn't get their medication. That's the difference between our worlds. Yours matters. Mine is just... noise."

You look at him, really look at him—seeing past the expensive clothes and the polished demeanor to the quiet, isolated man sitting under a yellow lightbulb in a back alley. "It matters to Halmeoni," you say quietly. "And it matters to the people who actually know you."

He stills at that, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, heavy gravity that makes your breath hitch in your throat. For a long, fragile moment, neither of you speaks, the only sound is the rhythmic bubbling of the broth pots behind the counter and the steady fall of the rain outside, keeping two people from two entirely different lives suspended in the same quiet space.

“My childhood wasn't exactly…” You pause, rolling the paper cup slowly between your palms. “I wouldn't say it was bad. We just didn't have much.” You keep your eyes on the condensation gathering around the bottom of the cup, watching one tiny droplet make its way down the plastic before disappearing into the table. “I think I learned pretty early that if I wanted something, I probably had to figure out how to get it myself.” Your voice stays casual, almost conversational, but the words carry more weight than you intend. “My parents were always working. Sometimes I'd wake up before they did, make my own breakfast, go to school, come home and wait until someone got back. There were days when I thought the sound of our front door opening was the best sound in the world.”

Yeonjun doesn't interrupt. He has stopped eating altogether, his chopsticks resting loosely between his fingers as he listens. You glance up once and find him watching you with the same quiet attention he had earlier, except there is no pity in his expression. You are grateful for that. Pity has always made you uncomfortable, especially the kind that comes with lowered voices and sympathetic smiles, as though poverty is something that needs to be whispered about.

“We weren't miserable,” you add quickly, almost out of habit. “We laughed a lot. My mum used to sing when she cooked, even though she was terrible at it. My dad would complain about the noise from the living room, then start singing along when he thought she couldn't hear him.” A small smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. “We didn't have a lot of things, but somehow the house never felt empty when they were both there.”

The smile fades gradually as another memory surfaces, one you haven't thought about in a long time. “But money was always there. Not in the way people talk about it now, like investments or property or whatever.” You give a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “It was more like checking the electricity bill before turning the lights on. It was knowing which supermarket had cheaper eggs. It was my mum standing in front of the washing machine, counting the coins in her purse because she wasn't sure if she had enough for the laundromat.” You swallow, looking down at your hands. “I remember being about eleven and asking her if we were poor. She got really quiet. Then she told me, ‘We're okay.’” You smile faintly at the memory. “She never actually answered the question.”

Yeonjun's expression changes, barely. His brows draw together, and he lowers his gaze to the table as though he's trying to picture it. “Did you understand what she meant?”

“Not then.” You shake your head. “I thought being okay meant having enough money. Later I realised she meant we had each other.” Your fingers tighten around the cup. “But I also realised that only love doesn't make bills disappear.” The words come out softer this time. “It doesn't make tuition cheaper. It doesn't stop the landlord from calling when you're late with rent. It doesn't make your parents less tired when they've been working all day.” You let out a breath through your nose, almost embarrassed by how much you've said already. “So I guess I became very practical.”

“That explains a lot,” he says.

You look up immediately. “What does that mean?”

A tiny smile appears on his face. “You always have a plan.”

“I have to.”

“You carry three pens.”

You blink at that. “What?”

“I've noticed.” His smile grows a little. “You always have three pens in your pocket. Sometimes four. One black, one blue, one red. You check your phone battery constantly. You keep snacks in your bag even though you complain about being broke. You have a backup charger for your backup charger.” He leans back slightly, looking almost amused now. “You prepare for everything.”

You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. “Why are you paying so much attention to me?”

The question slips out before you can take it back.

His smile disappears, though not completely. He looks down at his hands for a second, turning one of the chopsticks between his fingers. “I don't know.”

The answer is so simple that it leaves you with nothing to argue against. You look away first, suddenly fascinated by the rain outside. Your cheeks feel warmer than they should, and you blame it on the cramped tent, the spicy food, anything except the fact that he has been noticing things about you that you didn't realise anyone noticed.

“When I was younger,” you continue after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think becoming a doctor would fix everything.”

Yeonjun looks back at you. “Everything?”

“Not literally everything.” You laugh genuinely. “I wasn't that dramatic at twelve.” You pause, then smile softly. “I just thought if I became successful enough, my parents wouldn't have to worry anymore. I could buy them a proper house. Pay off whatever they owed. Tell my mum she didn't have to count coins before going grocery shopping.” Your voice catches slightly, but you smooth it over with another sip of tea. “I thought medicine was the answer because doctors were the people everyone listened to. They walked into a room and suddenly everyone knew what to do.”

“And now?”

You look at him across the small table.

“Now I know doctors are mostly just tired people who Google things when no one's looking.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is quiet but genuine, his head dipping as he shakes it. “That's reassuring.”

“You're welcome.”

The laughter settles between you, making the space feel lighter. You pick up another piece of pancake even though you're already full, mostly because you need something to do with your hands. “But I still want it,” you admit. “Medicine, I mean. Even after everything. Even after the nights where I wonder why I willingly chose this.” You look toward the opening of the tent, where the city lights blur behind the rain. “There are moments at the hospital when someone gets better, even a little, and you see their family breathe again. You realise you're part of that moment. I don't think I could give that up.”

Yeonjun watches you quietly. “So you really would do it all again?”

You think about the long shifts, the cheap meals, the textbooks with broken spines, the shoes that have nearly fallen apart from being worn too many times. You think about your parents and the promises you made to yourself when you were young enough to believe every problem had a solution if you worked hard enough.

“Yes,” you say eventually. “I'd complain the entire time, but yes.”

His mouth curves into a small smile. “Your parents must be so proud of you.”

The words make your fingers stop.

For a second, you don't answer. You stare at the cup in your hands, watching a tiny drop of condensation roll down the side and disappear beneath your thumb. When you finally speak, your voice is quieter than before. “They were.” You swallow. “At least, I think they were.”

His smile fades.

“They passed away before I could finish.” You say it simply, without dressing it up, because there is no easy way to say something like that. “My mum never got to see me start medical school. My dad didn't even get to see me finish my first year.” You give a small laugh that doesn't quite sound like one. “I used to joke that they were going to be the annoying parents who told everyone their daughter was a doctor. My mum would probably have carried my graduation picture around in her wallet.”

Yeonjun doesn't say anything. You are grateful for that.

You look down at your hands again, remembering the little things instead. Your mother's fingers fixing your collar before school. Your father's habit of waiting by the door when you came home late. The cheap dinners that somehow tasted better when all three of you were sitting around the same table. “Sometimes I still catch myself thinking about telling them something,” you admit. “Like when I passed an exam, or when I got a good placement, or when something happens at the hospital that makes me think, ‘Mum would have loved this.’ Then I remember.”

Your voice trails off.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. Yeonjun doesn't try to fill it with one of those meaningless things people say when they don't know how to respond. He just sits there, listening, his eyes lowered to the table. For once, there is no solution in front of him. No problem he can throw money at, no person he can call, no favour he can ask. There is only you, sitting across from him with a life that continued even after the two people who had once been at the centre of it were gone.

“I think that's part of why I can't give up,” you say eventually. “I know they're not here to see it, but I still want to finish. Sometimes it feels stupid because the person I was trying to become a doctor for isn't even around anymore.” You rub your thumb against the side of your cup. “But then I think about how excited my dad was when I got into medical school. He called everyone he knew. My mum cried for almost an hour.” A smile finally appears, small and tired but real. “So I guess I have to finish. Someone has to prove they weren't crying for nothing.”

Yeonjun lets out a quiet breath, and when you look at him, his eyes are fixed on you. “They wouldn't think you failed because they're not here,” he says.

You give him a look. “I know.” You look away again, a little embarrassed by how easily you blurted out about your childhood and family to him. “Maybe I just miss them.”

“I think that's allowed.”

The simplicity of it catches you off guard. No grand speech. No attempt to make the grief sound beautiful. Just that. You're allowed to miss them. You nod slowly, blinking once before reaching for your drink again. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think so too.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The rain continues outside, steady against the windows, and somewhere beyond the room, a car passes through the wet street. Yeonjun doesn't reach across the table or try to comfort you in a way you might pull away from. He simply stays where he is, giving you enough space to breathe while making it clear that he isn't going anywhere.

You glance at him after a while. “You know, if they were still here, my mum would probably hate you.”

His eyebrows lift. “Why?”

“She'd think you were too handsome.”

He stares at you for a second before laughing, completely caught off guard. “That's why she'd hate me?”

“No.” You finally laugh too, the heaviness in your chest easing just a little. “Then she'd probably figure out you're rich and then she'd hate you for a completely different reason.”

“That sounds fair.”

“She'd interrogate you.”

“I can handle an interrogation.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

He smiles, shaking his head. “You have very little faith in me.”

“I've known you long enough.” The words leave your mouth before you realise what they imply. Long enough. Not forever. Not enough to erase the differences between you. But long enough to know how he takes his coffee, how he gets quiet when he's worried, how he checks his grandmother's room before leaving even when the nurses have already assured him she's fine. Long enough to know the person behind the tailored clothes and the family name.

And perhaps, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, long enough for him to start becoming someone you no longer want to keep at a distance.

You glance at him, attempting to distract the conversation now. “What about you?”

He seems caught off guard by the question. “What about me?”

“Would you do it all again?”

His fingers still around the chopsticks. For once, he doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift toward the rain, toward the tiny street outside that probably looks completely different from every place he usually spends his evenings. “I don't know,” he says eventually. “I don't think I've ever asked myself that.”

You study his face, the way his expression has gone distant. “Why not?”

“Because nobody ever really asked what I wanted.” His voice is quiet. “They asked what I was going to do. Who I was going to become. What position I would take. Which company I would inherit.” He gives a small shrug. “Those are different questions.”

Something about that makes you pause.

For all the differences between you, there is something strangely familiar in what he has just said. You both grew up learning what was expected of you. The difference is that his expectations came wrapped in wealth and polished silver, while yours came in overdue bills and tired parents. Neither of you had been particularly good at asking what you wanted outside of what was necessary.

“You should try answering it sometime,” you say. “What you want.” You shrug, trying to make it sound insignificant. “Not what your family wants. Not what the company wants. You.”

His gaze stays on you for a few seconds longer than it should. “I think,” he says slowly, his eyes focusing on you, “I'm starting to figure that out.”

You know better than to ask what he means. Instead, you reach for the last piece of pancake and push it toward him.

“Eat.”

He looks down at it, then back at you. “That's your big advice?”

“For tonight, yes.”

A quiet smile appears on his face as he picks it up with his chopsticks.

“Okay,” he says. “I'll eat.”

For the next forty minutes, the distant roar of Gangnam's midnight traffic fades into a background hum. The world narrows down to the yellow glow of the string lights, the smell of toasted sesame, and the quiet rhythm of shared food. Yeonjun sheds his guarded, perfectly manicured posture entirely. He learns how to blow on the steaming udong broth before taking a sip straight from the heavy ceramic rim, and when a stray drop of dark red chili sauce lands just near the left corner of your lower lip, he doesn't grab a paper napkin or point it out.

He simply reaches across the tiny red table, his thumb brushing over your skin with feather-light precision, wiping the speck away. Instead of pulling back immediately, his fingers linger against your jaw for a fraction of a second, his calloused thumb tracing a gentle circle against your cheekbone while his dark, steady gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes the air in your lungs freeze.

"What?" you whisper, your cheeks suddenly burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the spicy gochujang. You pick up a tissue, wiping the spot he just touched, trying to fix it yourself even when there’s nothing anymore.

"Nothing," he says quietly, his voice dropping into that soft, velvet tone as he finally pulls his hand back, dabbing his thumb with a paper towel. "Just... I've lived in this city my whole life, surrounded by the best restaurants money can buy, and I don't think I've ever felt this full."

"It's just street food, Yeonjun."

"It's not the food," he corrects softly, his eyes meeting yours in the warm, amber light of the vinyl tent. "It's who I'm eating it with."

Before the weight of his words can settle too heavily around your shoulders, Ajumma marches over and slams a small metal dish of steaming, sliced kimbap right onto the center of the table with a loud clatter.

"Service for the handsome ‘friend’," she declares, winking broadly at you as she wipes her hands on her purple apron. "Eat up, young man. You're going to need your strength if you want to keep up with this one. She’s stubborn, she works too hard, and she doesn't know when to ask for help."

Yeonjun lets out a rich, deep laugh, a clear, ringing sound so full of genuine amusement that you realize with a sudden pang how rarely he ever laughs like that inside the pristine walls of his penthouse. He bows his head respectfully to the old woman. "Thank you, Ma'am. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

The walk back to the high-rise is conducted in slow, deliberate steps, neither of you eager to return to the clinical silence of the apartment. The midnight air is crisp, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and ozone, biting at your cheeks as you navigate the narrow sidewalks. Yeonjun matches his stride to yours, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dark hoodie. He walks on the street side of the curb, a silent, instinctual habit of protection that he doesn't draw attention to, his tall frame acting as a windbreak against the gusting breeze sweeping down the concrete canyon.

When you finally step into the private elevator of his building, the shift in atmosphere is instantaneous and suffocating. The doors glide shut with a silent, gold-leafed click, sealing you both inside a small box of polished brass, mirrors, and soft amber lighting. The mirror reflects the stark contrast between you: you, in your oversized, rumpled coat with faint hospital-soap scent clinging to your sleeves, and him, standing tall beside you with the sharp silhouette of a man built for boardrooms, despite his casual clothes.

As the digital display silently ticks up through the floors—40, 41, 42—the air grows thick with the unsaid. He stands so close you can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of rain and dark wood cologne wafting off his skin. His hand hangs at his side, just inches from yours. You see his knuckles tense, his fingers twitching slightly as if pulling against a physical weight, debating whether to close the small gap between your palms. You freeze, your breath catching in your throat, your own mind racing through a dozen reasons why you shouldn't let him, the student loan bills waiting on your desk, the brutal hospital shifts, the cold reality of his family's expectations.

Before the hesitation can resolve itself, the elevator chimes softly, declaring your arrival at the penthouse. The doors slide open to reveal the vast, shadowy living room overlooking the sprawling, glowing grid of the city below. The moment breaks like glass. Yeonjun steps out first, holding the sensor with his hand to keep the doors wide, his eyes sweeping over you with a quiet, lingering intensity that makes your pulse race faster than the three flights of stairs ever could.

"Get some rest," he says softly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seems to vibrate right through the hardwood floor. He stays by the door of his wing of the apartment, hands remaining firmly in his pockets, keeping the boundary intact even as his eyes betray the magnetic pull drawing him toward you. "I'll make sure the kitchen has actual food before you wake up tomorrow. No assistant required."

You offer a small, weary smile, taking a step back toward your room, your fingers tightening around the strap of your tote bag. "Goodnight, Yeonjun." He watches you until your bedroom door clicks shut, the soft sound echoing like a finality through the vast, quiet space, two people sleeping under the same roof, separated by a distance that has nothing to do with physical space.

The promise of making the kitchen has actual food is fulfilled. You wake up to the sound of some thumping from the kitchen. After getting ready for your shifts, you are greeted by the silhouette of the familiar tall figure, he’s all suited up in navy today, with an apron with flowery pattern wrapped around them. You huff at the unbelievable sight. His lips are puckered in focus, and as you get closer you finally sniff the smell of scrambled eggs on the pan. He doesn’t notice your presence yet, as he struggles with the salt bottle cap for a moment, twisting it the wrong way before finally getting the shaker open. Some of it goes flying next to the pan, as he curses softly at the mess.

“What are you doing?” you interrupt, his shoulder jumping at that, his foxy eyes glaring when he turns his back towards you before finally softening at your sight.

“Hey, go sit there, I’m making breakfast,” he assures, your eyes following his at two plates waiting on the kitchen counter, two pieces of pancakes on each, edges burnt, with slightly undercooked beef bacon and uneven banana slices.

“So unlike you,” you respond, finally sitting at the seat, your eyes still on his movement. Yeonjun glares at you before pouting, “Excuse me, I am being nice. I realise I am being a bad landlord, and my tenant is already starving enough so I have to make her food and make sure she eats enough.”

The sarcastic remark only left a bittersweet feeling to you. He carefully plates the scrambled eggs into the plate, the presentation awkward but it still gives off genuineness. “Thanks. You really don’t have to. I could survive by snacking on a protein bar, really.”

He shakes his head at that, disagreeing. “No. You live under my roof, and you don’t have time to eat proper meals before coming to attend my grandmother. This is the least I could do.”

For the next few mornings, the kitchen slowly becomes a place you find yourself lingering in, even when you tell yourself you are only there because the food is already made. Yeonjun never says anything about it, and neither do you, but somehow there is always something waiting for you before you leave for your shift. Some mornings it is toast with eggs, other mornings it is whatever he has managed to convince himself counts as breakfast. The food is never perfect. The eggs are sometimes too dry, the toast occasionally comes out suspiciously dark, and once, you find a pancake that is still cold in the middle. You tease him about it every time, and he pretends to be offended every time, but he keeps making them anyway.

You start noticing the little things too. He has learned that you don't like your eggs too runny, that you prefer your coffee without too much sugar, and that you will always eat the fruit first when you are in a hurry. He learns these things without asking, the same way you have slowly learned that he leaves his watch on the counter when he gets home, that he hates when people leave cabinet doors open, and that he gets unusually quiet whenever Halmeoni has a difficult night. Neither of you call it a routine, because giving it a name would make it feel like something more than it is supposed to be. Still, there are mornings when you walk into the kitchen half-awake and find him already there, sleeves rolled up and hair slightly messy, and the sight feels strangely familiar.

It is not that you have stopped being careful around him. You still keep track of the distance between you, still remind yourself that this is his house and you are here because of Halmeoni, not because the two of you are slowly becoming comfortable with each other. But the sharpness that used to sit between you has softened around the edges. Sometimes you catch yourself laughing at something he says before remembering that you are supposed to be annoyed with him. Sometimes he says something ridiculous just to hear you complain, and you have begun to suspect that he enjoys your irritation far more than he should. It is easier now, somehow, to forget the dinner that started all of this when he is standing in front of the stove arguing with a pancake that refuses to flip properly.

One morning, though, you leave the kitchen with a strange feeling you cannot quite place. You thank him before heading out, and he tells you to eat the food he packed for later instead of surviving on coffee again. You roll your eyes at him, but you take the container anyway. Neither of you knows that by the end of the day, you will be sitting beside his grandmother for four hours, listening to her breathing become shallower with every passing hour.

Halmeoni is having a bad day, her breathing is shallow, her spirit fragile as she had to be hospitalised again. The room grows darker as evening settles outside the windows, the machines beside her bed filling the silence with their quiet beeps. By the time she finally falls asleep, your throat is dry and your back aches from sitting in the same position for too long. You only notice that you had spent four hours holding her hand, reading her poetry in a voice that hides your own exhaustion as your eye catches a glimpse of the time when your phone lights up shortly from a notification. 

You wait another few minutes just to make sure she is properly asleep before carefully slipping your hand from hers. You straighten the blanket around her shoulders, check the monitor one last time, and step quietly out of the room. 

The door closes behind you with a soft click, and only then do you let your shoulders drop. The exhaustion you had been holding back all afternoon settles over you at once. You take a slow breath and look down the empty hallway, expecting nothing more than another long walk to the nurses' station. Instead, you find Yeonjun standing several metres away, staring at the white walls.

"She's finally asleep," you say, gaze fixated on his tense back. You remain two steps away from him, hesitant to be wanting to step into his personal space.

He doesn't turn around. "I heard you reading. My mother never did that. She just hired someone to do it. I used to listen from the hallway, wondering if the words sounded different when someone was paid to say them."

The vulnerability in his voice is a physical weight. You step closer, the air cools against your face. "Yeonjun..."

"I'm sorry about the dinner," he says suddenly, his voice cracking as he turns towards you. "I know it’s been so long, and this is an overdue apology. The offer. I thought... I thought that's how the world worked. You have something you want to protect, you secure it by any means. I didn't realize that by trying to help you and Halmeoni, I was insulting you."

As you glance up, the bright light catches the moisture in his eyes. He isn't the Choi heir at this moment. He’s the lonely boy Halmeoni described.

"I don't want to buy you," he whispers. "I just don't know how to keep you here any other way."

The silence on the private hallway shifts from heavy to hollow as his words settle. You take that final step, closing the two-step gap until you are standing beside him. You don't touch him yet, but you let your shoulder lightly brush his arm, a small anchor in the dark.

"The words do sound different when someone is paid to say them," you explain softly, your gaze following his to the distant corridor. "They sometimes sound like a script. Or they sound like a shift ending at five o'clock."

Yeonjun’s grip tightens on the phone on his hand, his knuckles turning white.

"But I’m not here because of a contract, Yeonjun," you continue, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. "I stayed tonight because she’s your grandmother, and she was scared. She told me that she needed to hear my voice because if she tried to be asleep with no one around, or just silence, she’d be terrified that there would be no one else around if something would go wrong."

He lets out a shaky, jagged breath, his posture finally breaking as he bows his head. The Choi Heir facade doesn't just crack, it dissolves. "You're the only thing in this entire building that doesn't feel like an arrangement," he admits, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the hospital's ventilation. "I don't know how to handle something that isn't... transactional."

You turn your face upward toward him, finally meeting those brown eyes. You offer a small, tired smile, the first real one he’s seen from you in months.

"Then stop trying to arrange me," you reply gently, your hand lands on his sleeve to offer comfort. "You don't need a contract to keep someone around, Yeonjun. You just need to be here. Honestly, without the checkbook. That’s the only way anyone ever stays genuinely."

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, the caution between you melts into something aching and real. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near your hand, hesitant to invade your space after everything he's messed up.

"Can I start over?" he asks. "No offers. Just... me."

The softness of the moment suddenly feels like a trap. As his hand hovers near yours, warm against your own cold, pale, unmanicured, a cold wave of reality crashes over you, so you pull your hand back from his sleeve, the friction of your cheap, polyester scrub sleeve rubbing against his tailored, clean cut fabric. It’s a harsh reminder of the double shifts, the ramen dinners, and the looming debt that he once tried to fix with a casual contract offer. You didn’t notice the way his face drops, as you pull away your hands before he even gets to touch them.

"I can't," you whisper, the word catching in your throat.

Yeonjun’s taken aback, his hand freezes in mid-air. The longing in his eyes is replaced by a flash of confusion. "Y/N? I just said I’m sorry. I’m trying to—"

"That’s the problem, Yeonjun," you interrupt, stepping back until your heels almost betray you. The gap between you feels like a whole sea again. "You’re 'trying.' To you, this is a beautiful, tragic moment on a balcony. To me, this is a temporary break before I go back to a life you can’t even imagine."

You look around the floor, each expensive furniture picked with care, private rooms for extraordinary patients, before your mind drifts vaguely at the glittering skyline view their mansion has, and the penthouse and cars that he owns and the slums he’s never seen.

"We’re not even on the same page. When you look at me, it feels like you see someone you need to take care of or fix. When I look at you, I just see why I’m working three jobs to get by. People like you don’t really start over with people like me. You just… drop in for a while, then leave when it stops being interesting."

"Y/n,” he warns, “don’t say that," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning sharp with a different kind of pain. "I've never felt that way."

"Easy for you to say," you counter, your voice trembling. "You can afford to be vulnerable. If I let you in and this fails, if I lose my focus or my job because I'm distracted by you—I lose everything. You just go back to being a Choi. I go back to nothing."

The hospital lighting that made him look like a lonely boy now makes him look like a statue, cold, expensive, and unreachable. You realize with a sinking heart that even his apology feels like a luxury you can’t afford to accept.

"Halmeoni needs her vitals checked in an hour," you say, your voice regaining its clinical, distant edge. "I should go prepare the charts." You turn to leave, but his voice stops you at the fifth step.

"Is that all I am to you now? Just a hazard to your career?"

The air on the hospital’s private level turns from cold to electric. Your shoes click sharply against the concrete floor as you whip around, the exhaustion of the four-hour company for his grandmother finally boiling over into a raw, jagged anger.

"A hazard?" you snap, the word echoing off the glass doors. "You think you’re a hazard? Yeonjun, you're out of reach."

He flinches, but then his eyes narrow, his own frustration rising to meet yours. "I’m standing right here! I’m apologizing. I’m admitting I was a fool at that dinner. What else do you want from me? Blood?"

"I want you to realize that I don’t stand a chance to be with you!" you fire back, stepping toward him, all caution gone. "You stand there in a suit that costs more than my medical school tuition and tell me you didn't realize you were insulting me? How sheltered do you have to be to think the only way to bridge the gap between us is to buy me?"

Yeonjun’s jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white. "I wasn't trying to—"

"You were!" you cut him off, your voice cracking with a mix of fury and grief. "Because in your world, everything has a place and a price. But look at me! I’m a student doctor living on caffeine and prayer. If I let myself care about you, if I actually try to be with you, your world will tear me apart. Your parents will see a gold-digger, your friends will see a charity project, and eventually... eventually,” you pause, your voice breaking, “you’ll just see someone who doesn't fit into your life."

The overhead lights catch the sheen in your eyes as you take another step, closing the space between you until you’re standing right in front of him, close enough to feel it in your breathing.

"I don't stand a chance, Yeonjun. Because the second this gets hard, the second your board of directors or your mother whispers that I'm a distraction, you’ll go back to being a Choi. And I'll be the one left in the hallway, ruined, with nothing but a medical license I can't afford to lose. I can't risk my heart on a maybe from a guy who thinks love is a transaction."

Yeonjun looks at you like you’ve physically struck him. The anger in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a desperate, wild intensity. He moves suddenly, his hands coming up to grip your arm.

"You think I'm that weak?" he whispers, his face inches from yours, his breath hitching. "You think I’ve spent every night in that hospital room watching you help my grandmother fight for her life just to let you walk away because of a life I'm born into?"

He leans in, stopping just short, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without him ever touching you. "Y/n, I don't care about the chance you think you don't have. Give me the chance to prove you're the only thing in this life I actually want to keep."

"I think you don't have a choice," you say, your voice lowers. "Your world will eat me alive, and my world will just make you resentful."

You turn to walk away from the scene, letting his hold around your arms loosening, feeling tears almost escaping, but his hand shoots out, grabbing at your arm as you lean on the wall. He’s breathing hard, looking down at you with a desperate, wild look in his eyes.

"You’re not leaving until you admit one thing," he says, his face inches from yours. The air between you is thick, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the sterile, sharp smell of medical antiseptic. His hand braces against the wall beside you, close enough to block your way without actually touching, leaving you caught in the narrow space between him and the quiet stretch of hallway. You can feel the warmth of him even without contact, a quiet contrast to the cool, sterile air of the hospital.

“Admit what?” you say, a little out of breath, still trying to steady yourself. “That you’re annoying? A bit too used to getting your way? I think you already know that, Yeonjun.”

“Admit you’re scared,” he replies, quieter now, but more certain. His face inches a little closer, not enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you notice. “Not because of money, or my family, or any of that. You’re avoiding this because you don’t want to deal with how you feel.”

Your chest tightens, and you look away for a second. “I don’t have the time to think about feelings, Yeonjun. I have other things to worry about.”

“You’re handling everything on your own,” he says, a hint of frustration slipping through, but it softens just as quickly. “I see how hard you’re trying. I’m not here to fix it or throw money at it. I just… I don't want you to do it alone.”

His hand lifts for a moment, hesitates, then gently brushes against your jaw. It’s such a small touch, but it lingers longer than it should. You don’t move away, even though you know you probably should.

“You’ll leave,” you whisper quietly, the words coming out more honest than you intended. “When it gets complicated, or when someone tells you I’m not worth the trouble. You’ll go. And I’ll just have to deal with it.”

He exhales, resting his forehead lightly against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “You think I don’t know what that feels like?” he murmurs. “I’ve been left behind plenty of times too. That’s why I’m still here. I’m asking for you to give me a chance.”

You don’t say anything after that, and that is exactly how Choi Yeonjun knows he has lost this round. Not because you argued back, not because you raised your voice, but because you didn’t. He watches the way your expression shifts, subtle but enough, like something inside you quietly closes off, like a door being pushed shut without a sound. When you push him by his shoulder slowly, it gives him a horror reminder like the distance between you has suddenly been redrawn into something he is no longer allowed to cross so easily.

“I should go,” you say, your voice steady in a way that doesn’t match the way your hands briefly tighten at your sides.

He almost interrupts you. The instinct is there, immediate and unfiltered, sitting right at the edge of his tongue. Stay. Wait. Don’t go like this. But he doesn’t say any of it, because there’s something about the way you’re already turning away that tells him it wouldn’t matter. You’ve already decided. And pushing you now would only make you retreat further.

So he lets you walk past him.

He notices everything in that moment, annoyingly so. The way you don’t look back. The way your steps are just a little faster than usual, like you’re trying to get out before something pulls you back in. The faint sound of your steps against the floor, steady and controlled, even when everything else about this moment feels anything but that. He stays where he is, rooted to the same spot, listening to the sound of you leaving until it fades into nothing, swallowed by the hallway like you were never there to begin with.

Only then does he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He drags a hand through his hair, gaze fixed on the empty space you left behind, jaw tightening slightly as the quiet settles in. He knows what just happened. He pushed too far, said too much, forced you to look at something you weren’t ready to name. He has always had a bad habit of doing that, stepping past lines because he refuses to pretend not to see what’s right in front of him. And with you, it’s worse, because every time you pull away, it only makes him more certain there’s something there worth staying for.

Still, certainty doesn’t make this any less frustrating.

[words-in-purple]

i’m binge watching every movie with tom holland as spiderman in it even though i’m not a marvel fan. kinda got inspired to write a soobin spidey fic but i have s few other ongoing projects so idk.

would yall actually be interested?

yes

nah

Voting ended onAug 9

[junnieguetttt]

Im in love (soogyu)

"You're failing beomgyu" he said smoothly. Beomgyu's eyes shot towards as he sputtered out a response "no nno way i can't be i study all the

[junnieguetttt]

His secret (yeonkai)

watppad:

Kai always thought he looked sinfully gorgeous in the morning sunlight The way his eyes turned hazel under the golden glow of the sun , his

ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/90015051

[knmaskitten]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ — DON'T CROSS THE LINE

...we keep it secret and i'm happy with it.

choi soobin x f!reader

.ᐟ AO3 .ᐟ Masterlist .ᐟ Guidelines

18+ mdni .ᐟ.ᐟ

ᨀ. summary 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁

The nineties in Korea were full of secrets. He was one of them. Because where the warm touch of the sun doesn’t reach, Choi Soobin inhabits. Rude, mean, sour and rough—he was a hitman hired by whoever could meet the price.  The underground was the counterpart of heaven, where you and other guardian angels looked after their assigned humans. You’ve been watching him ever since he got his hands bloody for the first time, five years ago. Whatever he does, you’re there, guarding his soul. Never understanding the mundane problems and diligences of humans, you often visited, hidden among them, relishing the secrecy. Sometimes you let yourself into his dusty apartment, which is barely used, to take in the small details, the textures, the scents. Everything you can’t see from above. Until one day, Soobin comes home early. One bite of the apple and it’s free-fall.

ᨀ. wc. 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ 11.3k ᨀ. pairing 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ Hitman!Choi Soobin x guardian angel!f reader. ᨀ. genre 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ drama, dark romance, forbidden love. ᨀ. type 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ one-shot.

ᨀ. warnings for this chapter 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ no use of y/n. Dead dove do not eat. I love writing stories full of plot so it takes some time to get to the smut :P. Violence and Blood. Mentions of gore. Mentions of suicide. Heavy themes. Religious topics (glup). Morally gray characters. This probably is highly unethical. Smut (an attempt at it). Soobin is a bitch. Reader is obssesive and an unreliable narrator. Inexperienced reader (literally an angel). Reader watches Soobin all the time. Dom!Soobin and Sub!reader. Reader gets injured. Unprotected sex (wrap it up guys!). Penetrative Sex. Not pulling out. A knife is used like thrice but there is no kind wound (yeah oops!). Fingering. Oral (f & m). (i think thats all... if I forgot something lmk...).

ᨀ. inspo 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ fallen angels (ily wong kar wai). Apocalypse and Derre by BIBI

ᨀ. mar's note 𓏲🪽˚. ˖ . ݁ I got this idea at 1 am while sneezing because I got a cold and I was half delirious. It took me like a month to finish this because I had writers block and I was halfway through the smut scene and I was so tired of it?? Idk, I know I'm learning to write smut so have that in mind. Barely proof read sorry!

You had gotten used to watching Soobin’s calloused hands drip in blood. The silence after a bullet was always deafening; even from above, you could hear the spatter of the scarlet liquid against cement. Despite five years of following his everyday life, your body never stopped flinching at the sound of a life being taken. Some might think that you should be unfazed by this by now, but you were surrounded by beings that represented the virtues of the universe. Outside your duty as a guardian angel, you only saw good.

When you first got assigned to Choi Soobin, you were excited. The last human you guarded was an infant who died young because of cancer. Emotionally, you kissed her forehead silently the day she passed; you commended her soul to the heavens. Praying that you could help your next mortal as much as you could.

When you gazed at him with hopeful eyes and a cheery smile, you saw him walking through a dark alleyway. Puddles of unknown substances splashing when he stepped on them. The neon lights reflecting against his fair skin showed his boyish features. He seemed nervous, an undecipherable expression plastered across his face. You didn’t know this was the last glimpse of innocence you were going to get.

You knew he was eighteen and freshly out of school; your superiors told you some details before you could get to work. Confused as to why he was out in the middle of the night, you frowned. It was only when his trembling hands lit up a cigarette that you started to worry. “He might get hurt. Somebody might do something to him." You thought, frantic to get him to safety—if only you knew.

The rattle of his shoes was swallowed by the muffled noise coming from the bar in front of him, a red neon sign perched above the black doors. He took a long puff before throwing the cigarette butt to the ground, smashing it with his foot. Adjusting his black jacket, he entered. It was full of grown men, faces toughened by the years. They paid no attention to Soobin, busying themselves with their drinks, cigars, and women in scarce clothing chatting too close to their faces. The dim lights made it hard to see clearly, so Soobin narrowed his gaze. He walked through the crowd, avoiding bumping into anyone. The loud music was overstimulating; your whole body was tense and confused.

He maneuvered himself well, like he knew where he was going. Everything seemed to point that this wasn’t his first time here. He took a turn to his right, where a little hallway made way to a series of rooms. Two of them were bathrooms, but on the end of the corridor was a room full of men gambling, a table in the middle packed with cash and different games. He looked around, to his left was the emergency exit and in front was the chamber.

He silently reached for something at his back. It was quick, and feelingless. He took a gun and shot everyone that stood in his way. Their blood spattering in every direction, making a bloody mess, some droplets staining his dark clothes. Some gasped, others muttered incoherent sounds. There were bullets so poorly aimed that he had to shoot twice in some cases, targeting their heads or hearts. But it was no use, bodies fell with a thud, without time for someone to retaliate—it was too late, they were dead before they knew. The clatter of the coins against the hardwood floor was the only thing left, decks of cards colored scarlet red.

Not even caring to glance back, he walked toward the back exit, the night swallowing his silhouette while he stuffed his warm weapon back into its place, you saw how he cleaned his dripping fingers on the back of his jacket. You were frozen in your spot, mouth slightly agape. Your whole body was quivering, tears forming in your eyes. The echo of the bullets was distant in your mind, the ringing lingering in your ears, haunting you. It could have been the way their forms fell to the ground, their souls now commended elsewhere. Or maybe it was how his expression remained bored—but something rotten bloomed inside you for the first time. A dark, red feeling that you could only attribute to what you just had witnessed.

And when the rivulets of tears wetted your cheeks, nobody knew how to handle it. Everyone asked if you were okay, confused. Angels weren’t used to feelings or even crying, sympathy was what they allowed themselves to have. But it was for a matter of duty. A long-lived angel swept the tears from your eyes mechanically and asked patiently why you were making such a scandal. You sobbed and said that your human was too complex this time.

She sighed and shook her head and just said, “Humans are complex, that is what differentiates them from us. They are faulty.”

You nodded, unable to explain the situation you were in.

You quickly learned that this would become routine for him. It was quite strange, because this was the very first job he took. You later overheard him on the phone talking with his employer, asking for his part. The caller scolded him because of his inability to kill in one swift motion. It could be said that this was a new thing for both of you, yet you wished to create good; he only sowed pain.

His days flew by fast. For him, the night was the time that mattered. Watching him eat, sleep, kill, and repeat, you got accustomed to his habits. You found it strange how he would only eat from the same ramen brand, the flavors he repeated the most were always spicy. You sometimes wished to slip in some vegetables and nutrients, the ones the mortals so highly praised.

A year in, you started venturing into the mortal realm. Against the protest of your friends and coworkers, you did it anyway. In general, guardian angels were even able to go to earth—to soothe or help. Never revealing their role, of course. You kept the truth about Choi Soobin a secret, you never knew why you didn’t blurt the words out. And each time you had to cover it up, you felt your wings sting. You only told them your human worked at night, in uncommon establishments.  Given the mystery of your situation, everyone was afraid you might get hurt. Humans were known to harm each other, some countries had a deadlier night than others. And due to this, even angels were wary. You knew the truth. You knew the danger was closer than they imagined, you had seen it without exception every single time the sun hid.

Every fiber in your body screamed for more, contradicting common sense. You needed to fill the gaps in your head. How did he smell? Did he use cologne? Or was his scent a mixture of his natural odor, blood, and gunpowder? He seemed so mysterious. Even when you had observed so much about him that you knew how he took care after his injuries, you still knew nothing.

One time he got cut with a knife because one of his victims tried to defend himself. Retaliating, he smashed the butt of his gun between the man’s eyes, drawing blood. After that he shot him rapidly in the temple. The force of the gun scattered its contents out, dirtying his face. Cursing under his breath, he wiped the gray matter away from his eyes. Blinking, he noted that there was blood coming out of his stomach. Assessing the situation, he opted to continue with his modus operandi and leave the scene fast.

He was starting to look pale when he reached his apartment. An improvised tourniquet with his black button-up tried to stop the blood. He was incredibly careful, cleaning his hands and using latex gloves before reaching for his injury. His hands were usually careful when handling open wounds. He always made sure to have medical supplies. You even thought that some were only meant to be handled by a doctor. He rarely allowed people to get near enough to damage him, yet this wasn’t the first nor the last time it would happen.

You always looked away when he fetched bullets from his flesh, squeaking in your spot. You covered your eyes with your fingers. There were other times where you observed how he brushed his wet hair, droplets of water falling from the dark strands. Shyly, you heard him shower, averting your gaze. Counting how many minutes he stood under the showerhead, thinking. You wished you could know what goes through his head. Or maybe not, that’s something you hadn’t decided yet.

Yet you still cared enough to go through the hassle of traveling here. Clad in worn-out clothes, hiding your hair under your hoodie, wings gone. It was a stark contrast from the white, flowing dresses you wore. Your aura was heavenly by nature, and you had to intentionally camouflage this. If he were to see you, he would know something was odd about you. You took your façade so deep that you even tried smoking—it didn’t go well.

This time he was walking with his hair brushed back, a cigarette between his lips, fingers fidgeting with a set of dangling keys. Clothes dark as always. You stood behind an alleyway, watching his moves closely. He stopped at an entrance; there was a line of people waiting outside. It was crowded. They wore different kinds of garments. Women in tight short dresses—too short to cover anything. Showing their cleavage seductively, confident in themselves. Men were flirting or even kissing some girls, groping them shamelessly. They were wearing shirts that showed their muscles.

Almost everyone was chatting loudly, chewing gum, drinking, or smoking unknown substances. Soobin took lives, but you rarely saw him with something other than a cigarette between his fingertips. He eyed the long line, brows slightly furrowed. He walked toward the security guard, grabbing something from his pocket, and he showed the object to the guard. Nobody asked questions; he simply let himself in.

Gulping loudly, you looked at your fake ID. Was it going to suffice? You didn’t know. You walked with feigned confidence towards the entrance. Nobody cared about your presence, busy with whatever drug they were inhaling. Your ragged clothes didn’t highlight anything about you. If anything, they made you look like a tramp.

A thousand excuses ran through your mind before the interaction even began. The security guard was tall and broad. He had a permanent scowl in his face. One hit from him would leave you with a bruise.

“Huh? Name.” He was mean. His voice laced with tiredness, probably from people’s antics. It was very deep into the night; he probably had seen and heard everything by this time.

You forced your fake name out, hoping that you picked a normal human name. You tried to be nonchalant while fetching your ID, placing it at eye level. “I came with that guy.” You pointed inside, Soobin’s figure a blur inside the neon crowd.

“Take your hoodie out. I can’t even see your face.” Pointing toward your head, he scoffed.

You prayed to God that your nervousness would dim or maybe stop the suave quivering of your hands. You obliged quickly, so he couldn’t see your movements too closely. He raised a brow, scanning you.

“Why did you come after? If you two came together.” Taking a breath, he continued. “And you don't look the part. Are you here to scavenge through the trash?” He laughed at you when he finished, mocking your stupid excuse.

It was a series of logical questions, ones that didn’t occur to you. Your mind racing, you saw the outcome of every single one of the answers you were thinking of. Before you could even blurt one out, he tsked.

“Get lost. You are wasting my time.” He forcefully shoved your ID back to you, forcing you to take a few steps backwards to avoid losing balance.

Humans were rude. They were flawed creatures, kicked away from paradise. The divinities still had mercy and assigned them guardian angels to many who didn’t deserve them. At the same time, they were entrancing. Or at least Soobin was.

Slumping, you gave up, walking to the back exit. Several washes of disappointment coursed through your body. There was no way you were going to speak to him, but you wanted to get close enough to see how his features evolved across the evening. And, without a trace of rationality, you hid behind a few funky bins. Knowing the smell and scenery were unpleasant, you sat down. You forced the bile that arose in your throat down. Repeating this several times after you felt something warm against your thigh. At one moment you came to the realization that you were a heavenly being, you were above this. Any angel, be it guarding or not, would scold and shame you if they saw you. Any human would do so too. If you were stooping so low, what were you now?

Why were you even doing it?

Shaking your head and scrunching your nose, you endured it, shoving the questions to the back of your mind. Your improvised lair was far enough that anybody would confuse you with a homeless person yet close enough for you to see who left.

The track of time was something new to you. You found yourself learning it just so you could track how long his movements were. And like a naïve toddler who was gifted a lollipop, you were happy when you started getting how many minutes he spent training right.

Hours passed without a trace of him. You saw drunk groups of people walk past you. Their nonsensical chatter dissolving in the cold dawning air. A handful of them shoved each other playfully while others had their arms intertwined to avoid losing balance. Cars passed by with obnoxiously loud music, throwing trash your way. Sometimes they lowered their speed to spit on the asphalt. Until the doors flung open.

He walked with a girl under his arm. She was alright for a mortal; her body was full of curves. She had plump tits and a round ass. You thought that she had too much trust in her top and questioned the sinful way her body was glued to Soobin’s. Her hair was luscious and long, framing her face just right. She was no different from the catalog of girls you saw at the entrance. There was nothing special about her, yet he whispered lulls into her ear. Nibbling the tip softly. Like they'd known each other their whole lives.

She was loud; he spoke softly. They drunk-walked to their left; she twirled her hair, puffed her cheeks and giggled stupidly from time to time. You were unable to hear what they were saying. But judging by the way his left hand roamed over her waist, even going down to squish her butt at times, you knew he probably was going to take her somewhere secluded.

Your heart threatened to betray you. It wanted to leap out of your body and scream. You felt the tips of your ears and cheeks warm, too warm. Clutching your sweatpants tightly, you waited for them to be out of sight. You didn’t know you were holding your breath until you started feeling dizzy. Something inside you started churning, your eyes unfocused. You knew what he did to girls; you had seen him before.

He took them to motels—never to his apartment—and fucked them until they were so exhausted they couldn’t form a thought. You immorally acknowledge that you should’ve given him more privacy, but you were curious. As to why he was expressionless the whole time. Or the way he avoided kissing them, just sucking at their necks. Not a single sound erupted from his lips, only grunts. Sometimes you covered a gasp from your lips when you saw the way he licked their breasts, his lips sucking and nibbling their sensitive buds. A shiver ran down your spine.

And now you hoped that this wasn’t the exception. Because the bitterness wilting your body would be unbearable. Because the way your back burned in the spot where your wings should be is a reminder. You don’t belong in this world.

The path back to heaven that day was defeating. Everyone was so worried about you, not a single angel lost sight of your filthy body coming into view. For them, you were a poor angel abused by humans who didn’t understand the rules of the universe. They were rude because they were flawed creatures. You allowed them to believe whatever they wanted. Partially because you knew something inside you wasn’t supposed to be there. Because you were having trouble keeping your ideas at bay. You weren’t a weak mortal. You were supposed to be above them. Feelings were there for you to try and empathize with the mundane. Not to feel like them.

The days turned into months, then into years. Time flew by fast, lives did.

Two years of observing Soobin had passed. He had already killed more people than the days you had been watching him. You were keeping count of every life he took. Every night your fingers itched to caress his cheekbones, wanting to soothe whatever sorrow he was into. There was no other reason for him to cause such pain. He had to be fueled by his own. Because even after such a long time observing him, you never knew what happened to his family or if he had friends. He spoke with people, but it was purely pleasure or business. You wanted to believe he wasn’t entirely lonely—at least spiritually. He still had the chance for his soul to be taken care of.

You prayed to God that he would stop this nonsense. You never prayed to God, you didn’t need to pray, you were only supposed to carry his will. But you were desperate enough to let him fix this mess. Yet he never answered, never listened. His lackeys were the ones who had to endure human pain. He allowed as much beauty and as much evil as he wanted. He toyed with lives as he pleased.

Still hating the sound of bullets penetrating bodies and the way they fell with a squelch, you closed your eyes forcefully. Afraid of what might welcome you if you opened them, you mentally counted five minutes before opening your lids. You already dominated human time, and Soobin was meticulous. He never took more than five minutes before leaving a crime scene.

He had gotten better at taking lives, his hands were trained every day to learn new lethal points. Using fewer bullets, he was even faster at murdering. Often, you spoke to yourself, letting the word “murder” roll off your tongue. Your mouth always felt cottony after saying it out loud, its corrupt nature breathing heavy down your neck. Assigning that word so close to him was the truth, but you avoided acknowledging it frequently.

The night for humans was interesting, the city felt much more alive. The silvery touch from the moon was a silent promise that the secrets it witnessed were going to remain hidden. Couples under swaying trees, promising the world and beyond to each other. Drunk teenagers who ran away from home arguing on the streets. And proficient assassins doing their jobs. This is where Soobin existed, under all the “harmless” ruckus of the streets, he maneuvered himself.

It wasn’t like you weren’t used to the mortals. Even when they were so different from each other, they had distinct patterns. But he was peculiar, his situation. You had only taken care of normal people before. From day one you had been learning and perhaps tainting your celestial aura. Everyone was too flawless where you lived, they had nothing captivating. It was an endless cycle of abnegation, which you didn’t hate. Couldn’t hate. Your creation was done to fulfil your role. That was it.

Today he was out. You were out too. With the passing of months, you learned how to dress properly depending on the situation. And you used that ability well. You started frequenting bars and restaurants Soobin went. You knew by heart what he usually asked for, ordering it diligently when the bartender or waiter approached you. You were sitting at a secluded table at a ramen shop three blocks away from his apartment. You were nearing a line you knew you shouldn’t cross, this was as close as you were going to get to him. Still, the thrill of being within walking distance of his sacred place made you feel lightheaded. Knowing he probably was sleeping because it was afternoon with the sun beginning to set, you ventured into the earth.

Cautious not to draw too much attention, you dressed like a normal woman in her twenties during summer. Fresh and comfortable clothes, wings hidden and the slightest dab of makeup—this you didn’t do well. You had started enhancing your features when you saw that this was a recurrent detail in people’s faces. You mostly copied the girls you saw during the day. It was a much softer and natural style. The night style cosmetics were bolder, trying to make a statement as soon as you locked gazes with someone.

Shifting in your seat you put the menu down. This too, was an act, you knew what you were going to get already. The young waiter walked to your table, a friendly smile across his lips. Notepad ready to register your order he asked if you knew what you wanted. Tapping your fingers on your chin for a few seconds, faking a thought, you nodded.

“I’ll take the beef ramen.” He scribbled on the paper, his eyes never leaving your face. “Extra spicy, please.”

He nodded. “Anything else miss?”

“And one can of lemon-flavored soda. Thanks.” You grinned softly.

Learning how humans expressed their emotions silently was a challenge. All the grinning, thanking, politely asking, frowning or whispering was too much. But you were forcing yourself into these situations, trying to make your being slowly adapt to social norms.

“Alright!” With that he left you alone.

The place was not full, there were few people. You silently scanned the room, the decorations. It was full of figures of cats. The smell felt warm, human. The voice of the scattered customers holding lively conversations mixed with the ambience music. Some were talking about their day, taking long puffs of smoke between sentences. Others were complaining about coworkers with a pout. The scenery was alive, it felt so much different from what you usually saw from above.

Angels were indifferent to each other. They reserved emotion for humans. Practicality mattered above everything else. It was engraved in your nature, abiding the rules of God. You didn’t know when you started losing sight of the shine in heaven. When you started feeling a pang of disappointment every time you took breaks from work to talk with your kin. The days were gloomier in heaven than on earth and the rotten feeling invading your body made your wings sting, hurt. Almost feeling like they were going to fall, there were times when it was unbearable.

You reminisced about the times before Choi Soobin. Closing your eyes, you pictured your existence when your life felt full. Everything was easier, you didn’t have to hide anything. When you were created you thought that God made angels perfect, that there was no other way to be. Heaven was the desired target for every living soul, everyone opposed to it deserved punishment. It was luster, precious and pristine. There was not a corner where the light didn’t reach. These days you found yourself longing for a speck of color, for a shadow. For life. You questioned why you were made to serve. Were you that low of a creature? It should be a privilege to follow God’s will. You didn’t know anymore.

But it didn’t dawn on you until you were assigned a younger guardian angel to teach her the diligences of your job. She was bright, like a flower who just blossomed. Her eyes sparkled and she spoke softly. You thought if you were once like this, now you were the shadow of that young angel. She asked if she could see your human, you denied it amicably, saying that you preferred to respect his privacy.

“I want to have a human too. How long does it take?”

You both were walking after a long day of teaching. “You will probably assist an experienced angel first. After that you are good to go.”

She nodded. “Do angels love their humans?”

Gulping you felt nervousness. This was a habit you picked up from humans, you had to mentally suppress it whenever you were in heaven. Love was a strong word reserved only for one being in the universe: your creator. Young angels often needed to learn these implied rules with the passing of time.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We shall never learn to love humans. We pity them. That noun is strictly reserved for God.” Your voice was severe. As soon as the words left your mouth there was a tingling sensation in the joint of your wings with your back.

She tilted her head. “But do you love your human? You never said no.” You felt like cursing and clenched your fist behind your back.

What were you going to answer? No, yes, maybe, probably. I don’t know. Reaching for the last rational moments in your heart you huffed with the same scolding tone your elders had with you.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. I already told you my answer.” The pain in your wings had become sharp. The feeling of thousands of tongues of fire enveloping your feathers. You saw the features of Choi Soobin, his fair skin contrasted against the shadows. You felt your heartbeat accelerate. You acted as if nothing happened.

She apologized and continued her stroll, never mentioning it again.

Good angels learnt fast and obeyed tacit rules. If not, you might risk losing your status. There were stories of the things that happened to disobedient angels. Depending on the offense they either were sent to earth or to the depths of hell. Condemned to live a life full of sorrow either way. It was whispered that their wings usually withered slowly. It climbed feather by feather, necrotizing everything it touched. Until they fell from their bodies, like dead bodies. The process was long and torturous, nobody knew how long it took. The ache was supposed to be so unbearable that fallen angels committed suicide before reaching that point. Fallen angels that take their lives are eternally damned to hell.

The clatter of the bowl of ramen against the wooden table snapped you back to reality. You blinked slowly, getting rid of the lingering image of your home. The young man placed your food in front of you. The beef broth filled your nose, bringing you fully back.

Thanking him, you picked up a fork—you were still clumsy with chopsticks. You looked around to see how people ate this meal. Placing down your fork, you grasped the spoon, tasting the broth. It was amazing. You didn’t need food to live. Angels reached for other sources for their existence yet the pleasure that flooded your mouth was unique. Then the hurt came. It raised the temperature of your mouth and made you gulp down soda. Sticking out your tongue, you fanned your hand over your face. Brows furrowed.

You were too busy trying to soothe the pain that you didn’t pay attention to your surroundings. You saw a dark silhouette from the corner of your eye, blinking you focused your eyes on it.

It was him. It was him.

The pain in your tongue seemed to dim, a distant reminder of where you sat. He was bored looking at the menu, a cigarette between his fingers, casually flicking it above the ashtray. He looked at a newspaper, reading it silently. His jaw was relaxed, his body usually so alert now calm.

You averted your gaze before he spotted your presence. The food didn’t seem so appetizing anymore. A bead of sweat travelled from the back of your neck to your lower back. The wet sensation grounding you. You saw the waiter approach him, he ordered exactly what you were having. Voice stern.

Urging yourself to act normal, you took your fork and ate some noodles. The spice wasn’t so strong anymore, you endured it like it was nothing. Even from the next table you could smell him. For the first time you registered his scent. He smelled ordinary. It could’ve been soap, his shampoo, sweat, cheap cologne. You didn’t know what it was, you were new to human smells. You could discern the odor of the strong cigarettes he smoked. But to you this was the most precious smell in the universe, because it wasn’t random. It was his.

Closing your eyes you relished another piece of him being shown to you. With warm cheeks and tears forming in your eyes, you left money on the table. It was much more than you needed to pay, but you didn’t mind. You left as fast as you could, avoiding being noticed. You told yourself that the spice was too much, that this made you overwhelmed.

You knew this was a lie.

And when the days passed and you felt feverish every time you remembered his scent you closed your eyes. Legs pressed together, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

By year five you had visited the human realm more times than you could count. You knew him more than you did before, you had seen his features sharpen. He became an expert killer, his expression hardened by his job. There was no trace of the doubt he had on day one. Yet you still knew so little about him, so many gaps to be filled.

You didn’t know how it started. Maybe it was after you saw him fall asleep with his clothes on, soft expression plastered across his face. You wished you could feel the texture of his bed, how his sheets felt against your bare skin. Maybe it was that one time you saw him look at an old polaroid picture with sorrow. Eyes narrowed, he stuffed it in his locked drawer. Whatever reason you had to be doing this didn’t matter because it was eclipsed by one thing—you wanted it. Nothing else could change your mind because you simply wanted it.

So, from seven pm to eleven pm you roamed free in his apartment. It had begun a while ago, when you were casually walking near his house while he was out working. One day you walked up to his door, frozen in your spot, fingers itching to open it. You repeated this for weeks before actually letting yourself in.

You skillfully went up the stairs to his floor, sneakers squeaking against the ceramic tiles. Your black skirt swaying with your movements. You bit your lip to contain your excitement. His door was ugly, the paint was peeling and there wasn’t even a carpet. Every single door had at least a decoration to claim the place as theirs—his had none. You reached for the key that rested on top of the door frame, letting yourself in. You smiled, kicking off your shoes, leaving the key on the table by the door.

His smell clouded your mind. The lingering scent of his cheap cologne floated in the air, and the trace of cigarette smoke clung to the walls. You didn’t mind it. His place was broad. The living room was just a black sofa, a coffee table and the TV. He barely had any ornaments, just the necessary. The windows were covered by drapes slightly parted, letting some of the sunset rays in. You always walked towards his room first. Everything was messy, he had clothes discarded on the ceramic floor, his nightstand was packed to the brim. An ashtray with dozens of smoked cigarettes. A scribbled notepad with a pen, few crumbled papers surrounding it. And a silver clock. The drawers were locked. His unmade bed was your favorite place here. You plopped yourself against the mattress, the bed screeching. There was a certain roughness to it, the texture felt fresh against your skin, the smell of fabric softener mixed with traces of soap, shampoo and sweat overpowered everything else. You smiled, stretching your limbs happily.

You looked at the time. Seven thirty. You could allow yourself to take an hour nap. It was routine for you now because you had never rested as well as you did when you slept on his bed. You never rested outside of this apartment. Angels didn’t sleep, it wasn’t a need. You took the clock by his bed, adjusting the alarm. Hugging a white pillow and covering yourself with the weight of the duvet, you made yourself comfortable. Drifting towards sleep you dreamed of a distant paradise, of a faraway warmth.

When you woke up, startled by the loud noise, you spun, placing a pillow over your head. Groaning, you took an arm out reaching to turn off the alarm. Reluctantly, you sat up, blinking slowly. Feeling your mouth pasty, you noticed the wet spot on the pillow and cleaned a trail of saliva with the back of your hand. Getting up, you went to the kitchen to prepare the instant ramen you had bought—without spice.

By ten thirty, you had cleaned up any trace of your presence, the ramen cup in a plastic bag stuffed inside your purse. You always had to restrain yourself from tidying the whole place. You knew he would notice. You didn’t want to risk it. Brushing your fingers against the duvet of the bed, you silently said goodbye. Before leaving you made sure to leave the pillows in the same position and the alarm turned off.

You walked to the living room, giving one last look at the space. But before you could move, a sharp pain hit your stomach, a deafening sound exploded inside the room. You knew this sound well, it was his gun. The force of the bullet made you stumble two steps back. Legs quivering, you fell to your knees, your hands on the floor, supporting your body.

“O—Oh god.” You cried under your breath.

“Who the fuck sent you?” He stood at a reasonable distance, wary of your movements.

You had to stabilize your breath before slowly getting up. He saw how the hole in your tank top remained intact. There was no trace of blood, of flesh. A few seconds later, a bullet came out of it, hitting the floor with a metallic sound. Healing your body rapidly. The pain was white, sickening. Akin to someone stabbing you and twisting the blade slowly, tearing your insides every time it spun.

“Nobody.” You said breathless.

His jaw clenched when he stared at where the bullet pierced you, puzzled, brows tight. His grip on his gun tightened, pointing it again, this time at your thigh, shooting. You closed your eyelids tightly, gasping, balance faltering. Vision blurring, stars appearing before your eyes. You thought you might faint.

He took a step closer. “I’m not asking again.” His tone was demanding, threatening.

The pain was unbearable. So unbearable that your wings sprang out along with your heavenly aura. There was a silence, nobody moved. A few white feathers fell from your back, your whole body suffering the effect of the need to recover. Your mind raced.

His grip on his gun never loosened, even when he saw the feathers drift to the floor. His expression, however, cracked, you caught a glimpse of disbelief. Confusion. This was not normal, there wasn’t anything quite like this. And if there was, he had never seen it.

“Please—just. Don’t shoot again.” Heaving, you tried to steady yourself. “I have been taking care of you for a while now, Soobin.” Your words came out strained, the ache still lingering on your body.

He stared at you in silence for a moment. “Taking care of me?” The words came out in disbelief, a laugh at the end. He walked to your figure and examined your wings. He touched the feathers with his free hand, leaving a burning trail, his gaze was intense, fixed on the whiteness of them. He pressed hard, intent on discovering what you were.

You were hurt, your body throbbing where you had been pierced, there was no wound anymore, yet you could still feel it. And now all you could think about was how his coarse fingers touched you, it shouldn’t feel good. But it did. You were shuddering. It could have been because you were shot or because he was so close to you, you didn’t know. He kept his gun aimed at your heart, not leaving any room for error. You knew he could kill you if he wanted to, yet you still were an angel. You couldn’t die from this.

“What are you?” He hissed, voice low, locking his eyes with yours.

His eyes were deep, you knew you could’ve looked at them for an eternity. The moment was electrifying, it brought your body back to life, dimming the weight of what just happened. Your mind barely functioned, any coherent thoughts long gone. You thought your flesh would dissolve with the tension in the air. There was once an imaginary line you knew you weren’t going to cross for Choi Soobin, you weren’t so sure anymore.

You couldn’t stand straight, still you tried, wincing. “I’m not human.”

He seemed skeptical, the touch of his curious fingers distracting you. “Then what are you?” His eyes narrowing, he pressed his gun to your chest forcefully with his other hand, hurting you. Your eyes never leaving his, you gulped, nervous.

Shaky hands rising to eye level, you shook your head. “I don’t want to hurt you.” You were sincere, there was nothing behind your voice. You spread your arms open. “You can check.”

He stopped touching your wings, withdrawing his hand. “If you try anything I’ll shoot you.” His tone was matter of fact. He maneuvered his weapon with one hand while the other approached you.

He patted your back first. He checked under your tank top, the bareness of it making your skin prickle. You knew this meant nothing to him, it was something he needed to get out of the way to ensure his safety. But to you this was more than you ever thought you would get, and the idea alone of his hand on your skin made you lightheaded. He moved his hands down, to your lower back until he reached your butt. He moved his hand under your skirt, shamelessly. You wished for a moment that he would squeeze your ass, but you had to mentally remind yourself that you were not in a good situation. That you needed to survive.

He realized soon how you reacted under his touch, seeing how you could barely contain it. Nibbling on your lip, fingernails pressed against your palms. Body still quivering. He didn’t move an inch, still wary. When his fingers grazed your tits, you had to avert your gaze, he allowed himself to explore a little bit more—more than he should have. He felt how your nipples started to harden under his digits, but as indifferent as he seemed, he continued down. Touching under your skirt, he actively avoided going anywhere near your core, moving to your bare legs instead.

The cold gun never left your skin, it only moved from its spot at your heart anytime Soobin moved. It was a chilling reminder of the reality of the situation. When he finished, he lowered it, stuffing it at his back.

“Explain yourself.” He crossed his arms.

The absence of his warmth took the air out of your lungs. You had to blink a few times before speaking. “I have been watching you since your first job.” Inhaling you fiddled with your fingers. Were you really going to say it? You couldn’t take it back. This was dangerous. “I have been taking care of your soul. You have never been alone, I have been above, watching.”

He huffed annoyed. “Above? Be clearer.”

Shifting in your spot you mentally prepared yourself for what you were about to say. “I’m your guardian angel.”

The truth was out, the weight of it settled on your shoulders. You searched his face for a reaction. There was a moment of silence, then he scoffed.

“Do I look like I would have a guardian angel?”

Frustrated you nodded. “I don’t choose my humans. You were just assigned to me.”

“You aren’t making any fucking sense.” He stood tall in front of you, brow raised. Questioning the mere fact of your existence.

“I know you were eighteen when you first killed, your hands trembled even before you held your gun. I know that you like spicy beef ramen and that you get it three blocks from here. And I know there is a polaroid picture you don’t want anyone to see locked inside your nightstand’s drawer.”

He froze, his hands clenching. The third fact surprised him, a sudden glimpse of fear seeping through the crack of his front. He seemed taken aback at the sudden burst of vulnerability. He thought no one was seeing him, that those were things time was going to erase. A flickering of belief sparked in his eyes, he opened his mouth doubtfully.

“You are…an angel?” The words were foreign to him.

“Yes. I’m your guardian angel.” You chose your words carefully, hoping it would make sense to him.

“Fuck.” He muttered incredulously. “Why are you here?”

Oh.

That was a logical question, one that you didn’t want to answer. You remained silent. He walked towards you. A hint of danger behind his irises. “You know, it is weird.” He twirled a strand of your hair between his fingers, focusing on it. “For a while now, I have been smelling something out of place in my bedsheets.”

The proximity took you by surprise, the warmth that radiated from his body contrasted well with his usually cold persona. You tittered before speaking. “Maybe it’s the brand of detergent you’re using. Or you know you might reconsider sleeping with your clothes on. The blood smell on them might be—” You kept rambling, nervous.

His face was close to yours, he seemed calm, in control. “I know what blood smells like.” He sniffed the hair in his fingers, then he came even closer and took the scent of the skin in your neck. You never wear perfume, there was no way your natural scent was this strong. “It smells like you.”

“I—” Stammering, you tried to place some distance from him. His whole being was overwhelming. The way his eyes roamed over your figure was enough to send someone to madness. He grabbed your arm with enough force to keep you still. Your heart was pounding loudly, you could feel it all over your body. He was getting too close. He was already too close.

“Tell me everything. I want to know how much you know.” He loomed over you, voice low, barely above a whisper. His breath hitting your skin softly, prickling it. He was centimeters away from you, you could hear him perfectly.

Debating internally if you should just be honest with everything you had done these past five years, you locked eyes with him. There was so much to lose, so many to disappoint. And then there was him, just him. In front of you, finally, speaking to you, demanding answers. He acknowledged your existence, and that was enough. You didn’t need anything else. Determination in your irises you knew what you had to do.

“I’ve seen you kill. I’ve seen and heard every single life you have taken. I’ve seen you eat that stupid cup ramen you always buy. I’ve seen you sleep. I’ve seen you nervous. I’ve seen you get every single wound you ever had. I’ve seen you stitching yourself. I’ve seen you alone. I’ve seen you smoke alone in the darkness of your living room.” Blurting the words out you forced yourself to look him in the eye. You stopped registering his reactions the moment you splayed yourself raw. “I’ve seen you f—fuck. I’ve seen every single one of those. I see when you touch them, when you bite their skin. Every time you make them moan. I’ve heard, seen it and hated it.”

You waited five seconds to compose yourself, to breathe. “I’ve hated every single time you touch another woman. Each moment I’ve wished it was me.” Your wings were starting to throb.

After that you stopped looking at him, fixing your gaze on the floor. His grip on your arm loosened, staring silently at you. “You’ve been watching me fuck other women?”

You nodded, ashamed of yourself.

He chuckled in disbelief. “You’ve seen me kill.”

This wasn’t a question, this was a fact. You whispered yes anyway.

“And you still wanted me?”

You were surprised by the ease with how he spoke. These were things you tried to hide for years, these were secrets nobody knew. He knew what to say, what to ask to get you to say them aloud.

“Y—yes.” Inhaling, you spoke. “I’ve wanted you for a while now.” The confession made the pain in your wings ablaze, you winced. It was finally out.

His hand roamed from your elbow to your waist, tentatively. He brought you closer to him, your chest clashing against his. There was something similar to hunger taking over his eyes. “Such a pure creature meddling with things she shouldn’t.” His fingers brushed your cheek, as if he were afraid to touch you fully. “Taking care of me…” He trailed. “You’ve done a terrible job.”

You breathed heavily, following the movements of his fingers closely. You were alight, something gurgling underneath your skin, threatening to explode and take this whole world with you. You knew you were still alive, that this was real, because your figure throbbed and your wings were aching like they never had before. Every single fiber in your body screamed that this was wrong, that you should escape at the very first chance you had. That you should return to heaven and request another mortal.

You weren’t going to do any of that.

“I’m sorry. You are not an easy human to take care of.” Your tone was hushed.

 He paused, looking for something behind your eyes. What could he be looking for? There was nothing more than this, this was you. Just you. “You are a weird angel. I don’t think you are supposed to get involved with me…” Then closing the distance, he stopped about two centimeters away from your lips. “You want me to touch you, don’t you? Your eyes look like they need me.”

“I…” Stammering because of how straightforward he was, you struggled to find coherent words. “I shouldn’t even come to earth this often.” Your breaths mixed and you felt it on your parted lips, the residual pain of the bullets still present—a reminder of his nature, of how opposite you were from him.

“For someone so pure, you seem to be having sinful thoughts.” He shifted and with how close your bodies stood, you could feel everything. His hand on your waist squeezed hard. You suppressed a sound. “Just look at you. You are such a fucking mess under my fingers.”

You gulped, trying to get something out of your mouth but you couldn’t. “Say it. Say that you need me.”

You had accepted a long time ago that you weren’t going to have this—that you couldn’t. This wasn’t right, you knew it. The apple was right there, juicy and vibrant. You just had to take the first bite.

“I…I need you.” Admitting it felt foreign.

“Such an obedient little angel.” He mocked you, leaving feather-like kisses on your neck. Then he moved to your cheek and patiently kissed the corner of your lips. He took his sweet time, entertaining himself with your little noises. With how large and impressed your pupils were. “I’ll make an exception for you, my guardian angel…” He kissed you, deep, furious, and hungry. You didn’t know how to answer to this, to such intensity. You’d never done it and you are sure he never does it either. You’ve never seen him kiss. There were millions of things going through your head right now, and all you could feel is your brain turning to mush. Trying to match his speed you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you.

“You are so bad at it.” Realization dawned on him. He looked at you amused, then he smirked. “Have you ever been kissed?”

Embarrassment flooded you. You tried to avert your gaze, but Soobin’s hand grabbed your chin, keeping you in place, demanding an answer. “No, I haven’t.”

“You think too much.” He sighed, moving his thumb over your lips. “Just follow my lead.”

Kissing you, slower this time, he allowed you time to explore. This one was different, the build-up tension was still present, he seemed careful with you. Ignoring the sharp pain coming from your back, you relished the way his lips felt. Every single one of those times you had pictured them did no justice to reality, he seemed to know how to maneuver himself with his body. You hated being so clumsy. His tongue parted your lips, allowing him to wander freely. You let him, happily.

He started walking towards his bedroom, never separating from you. He paused abruptly. “You really want to do this?  You’ve seen me. You know how this ends.” He looked into your eyes. His were dark and hypnotic, you felt like he was restraining himself from something. You just didn’t know what.

“Be my first, Soobin.” You pleaded. There was something hidden underneath all of that, an acceptance of reality. A choice was made today, or perhaps five years ago. You couldn’t take it back anymore, you knew. You were already too deep the moment you saw him touch himself and hoped you could make him grunt like that too.

He trapped your lips, clouding your senses. His scent was so strong, and it mixed with your sweaty frame, which made you almost dizzy. Since you couldn’t resist temptation anymore, you allowed your fingers to travel to his arms, feeling every muscle, grazing his rough skin. He guided you towards his room, a path you both knew very well. It was difficult to walk thanks to the overwhelming sensation of being touched by human hands. You had never felt the warmth of somebody else. Every nerve in your body jolted every time he grabbed you by the waist or when his fingers pressed hard into your arms to keep you stable.

You felt the mattress squeak under your weight. He broke the kiss. “You taste so pristine…” He fetched a shiny, sharp knife from his belt and tore your white tank top from top to bottom. The ripping sound and your pulse were the only things your ears registered; everything else floated unnoticed in the air. This was actually happening. “I can’t wait to ruin you.”

You shuddered, your chest only covered by your bra. He toyed with the knife in his hands, thinking with his brows knitted. With resolve, he pushed you towards the bed. And as you lay there expectantly, the night air drifting through the window, tingling your bare skin, he came close to your frame. He gave feather-like touches to your skin with the tip of the knife, the cold metal a reminder of who you were entangling yourself with. He had the power to do whatever he wanted with your body, yet he was so careful and so knowing with his movements that you redirected all the faith in your body to him.

He adjusted your torn clothes and hair before taking in the sight of the art he had created. His gaze roamed free over your body. Your wings splayed over the duvet, cheeks red and breath uneven. The remains of your garment rested on your sides, hair disheveled and wet with sweat. Your eyes, consumed by lust, looking at him expectantly. He was able to smirk when he saw the tinge of innocence behind your irises, almost fading.

Satisfied with your state, he took the liberty to pull out one of your breasts. Your nipple already hard and ready to be taken care of. He groped your tit, pinching your nipple. The sensation was like something you had never ever imagined, it awoke the familiar warmth that bloomed in your lower abdomen every time you saw Soobin touching somebody else’s skin. You whimpered, pushing your legs together to soothe the growing heat from between your legs. “Your skin is so soft.”

He placed his arms on your sides, supporting his weight, while he positioned a leg in between yours, one of his knees meeting a delicious pressure with your clothed core. Your thighs engulfed him, silently pleading for more. He lowered his head to the band of your skirt, nuzzling it with his nose. Breath teasing you. You wanted him lower, that much you knew, yet he was intent on denying you this. He nibbled you at the bare skin over where the fabric ended. Creating a wet trail with his tongue, nipping and licking at your flesh, he hovered above your exposed tit. His ragged breath softly hitting your nipple, eager to be touched. You were buzzing under his ministrations.

When you couldn’t take the wait anymore, you reached for his hair, burying your hand between his locks, tugging at them. Desperately trying to break the distance. He answered your silent plea by enveloping your breast with his mouth. He sucked your nipple, sometimes pressing it carefully with his teeth, the sensation sending waves of joy that collapsed in your core. Other times just twirling his tongue around it. You pulled his strands harder, a choked sound escaping your parted lips. You saw how his arms flexed under his button-up. The wet sounds coming from your chest made you shudder.

With a pop, he separated, licking his lips. He pointed downwards. “Open your legs.” He demanded.

You slowly opened them, releasing his limb. Your skirt now hardly covered you. From his point of view, he could see your dollar-store white panties peeking; you weren’t the type to wear shorts underneath. There was a wet spot forming in them. “I’ve barely touched you. You are so painfully obvious.”

Crouching, he squeezed your thighs before kissing you near your throbbing entrance. “Don’t move or I'll stop.” He knew, of course he knew, how desperately you wanted to be touched there. It felt like a test of patience, the hardest one you ever had to overcome. Because when he nibbled your inner thighs, you had to grab a fistful of sheets to avoid flinching.

He stayed long painful minutes in between your legs, his hair tickling your skin. He seemed to like how loud you were; you had zero idea how to control these desires, and everything was so overstimulating that the only way you found relief was with sounds. That was until you felt his finger hook on your panties, because you went completely still and silent when he grabbed the wet fabric.

He used the cold knife to rip your panties, the fabric recoiling to expose your aching cunt. You saw how he licked his lips before enveloping your throbbing bud in his mouth. Gasping, you couldn’t avoid moving, closing your eyes. He didn’t stop, lapping at it. Moaning his name, your hands gripped the duvet tightly, your legs squeezing his neck. You felt every single fiber of your body threading a sensation you couldn’t quite put a name on.

He stopped for a brief moment to spit on his finger before slowly thrusting into your core. He looked at your face, flushed and messy. Your pupils were blown, walls clenching over his digit. "M—move," you whispered.

“I can’t hear you.” He spoke above your pussy, you could feel the movements of his lips.

Pushing the shame to the back of your mind, you spoke. “Move!”

To this, he smirked, sinking his finger to the depths of your core, thrusting. His mouth continued to tease your clit. It was like being touched everywhere; you felt it all over your body. He picked up a pace after a few minutes, and when he saw that your juices were flowing, he inserted a second finger. Startling you, he didn’t give you any time to adjust. The tension was delicious, stretching you.

He adjusted the angle of his hand, and you knew he was hitting a precious spot. Because your back started to arch and your body was brimming with an unknown white sensation. You tensed your muscles and closed your eyes, unable to see the filthy movements of Soobin.

“You are getting tighter. Don’t tell me you are going to come so soon?” His mocking tone wasn’t enough to snap you back into reality. You were too far gone.

“Please don’t stop.” Imploring him, you bucked your hips forward. This seemed to amuse him because he withdrew his fingers entirely. Shaken, you lifted your head, your eyes scanning his face for an answer.

He looked at her with a lopsided smile, relishing the sweet look of your eyes. Panting, with a tit out and hair tangled, you gulped. There was the dormant pain of your wings underneath all of that, it hadn’t stopped. On the contrary, it just seemed to escalate forward. And there was only one way out of this story, and you were ready to face the consequences of it.

The clinking of metal broke the silence of the room, snapping you back to reality. You followed his trail of movements closely, interested. The bulge in his boxers was thick and tight, you saw how it stretched the fabric of his underwear. “Help me out.”

You opened your eyes like a deer caught in headlights, dazzled. You adjusted your position so you could sit in front of him. The outline of his shaft made you wet your lips instinctively, wondering if you could do with your mouth what he used to do with his hand. Wanting to pleasure him.

He freed himself, his length sprang. It was glistening, covered in a sticky substance that oozed from the tip. He stroked himself a few times before smugly looking at you. You adjusted the loose strands of hair that stuck to your face and hesitantly took his member in your hand. His eyes were focused on you, a spark of hunger crossing his irises for a fleeting moment. And for some odd reason, that was enough to drive you insane. The mere thought of being desired by this man sent you into oblivion.

You pumped his cock up and down, hand trembling, vacillating. “C’mon. You should do better than that.” His sardonic words laced with boredom fueled you. You were going to be better than any woman who ever dared to even lay eyes on him. You had to be better than any fling, you were more than that. You needed to be more than that.

Furrowing your brows, you fully focused on trying to please him, now grabbing his shaft with newfound confidence. You saw him narrow his gaze, a slight telltale sign that he was enjoying himself. Trying to draw expressions on his face, you tried different ways to make him feel good. At first you squeezed a little bit tighter, to which he nodded smugly. Then you decided to drag the head with your thumb in a round motion, the precum allowed the movement to be swift. He bit his lower lip, yet you still weren’t satisfied with it. You wanted to make him grunt.

With a little bit of doubt, you parted your lips and wrapped them around his cock, taking him in, gliding until you had to physically suppress a choke, tears pricking your eyes. You freed him, needing to cough, muttering a "sorry" with frustration.

He shook his head, exhaling a sharp breath, almost becoming a laugh. “What did you expect? You had never blown someone.”

You felt a blush creep to your cheeks, averting your gaze. “It’s not a big deal.” He sighed, grabbing your chin so you could face him. “I’ll teach you.”

“Instead of trying to take it all at once, try to test how much you can handle.”

You tried a second time, taking as much as you could without gagging. “Try to hollow your cheeks a little bit and start to bob your head.”

You did as he said, looking expectantly from your position to see if you were doing good. He nodded as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, guiding you. “Keep going, little angel. You are just starting to get good.”

You allowed him to set the pace, doing your best to feel him. Lips pressed to him. The salty taste of precum invading your tongue. The unknown substance making you frown. “Try to circle the head with your tongue.”

Not releasing your hair, he guided you out so you could catch your breath before positioning you near his cock. Panting, you stuck your tongue out, circling his red tip. After that you mixed your tongue in between sucks, and it worked wonderfully. You were a fast learner, and the soft grunts he started to mutter after a while encouraged you.

You had never stayed watching long enough to hear Soobin moan. It wasn’t because of shame or even respect. It was rooted in the deep hatred you felt towards the women that lingered on his bed for too long. When a soft cry escaped his parted lips, glossing thanks to the sheer layer of saliva coming from them, he stopped you.

“I want to come inside you.” The bluntness of the statement left you at a loss for words, not knowing how to exactly answer that. Nervousness was the first thing that came to mind. “I want to be the first to taint you.”

He pushed you softly against the mattress, your back crashing against the soft bedding. When he started parting your legs, you stopped him hurriedly. “Could you take out your shirt?”

“Mmmm…Why?”

“I want to feel the warmth of your skin.”

He thought for a whole heartbeat before caressing your cheek. Feeling the curves of your cheeks. Looking into your supplicating eyes. “I wonder how cold heaven must have been.”

You shuddered at the mention of your home, you wanted to bury the fact that you were ever a pristine creation in the first place. Because what you were doing had a name, and it was rightfully punished. You were a sinner, the worst kind at that. Detaching yourself from that was the only way you were ever going to be able to pursue the passing joy of having Soobin, at least for a brief second.

He saw your face shift to worry, hands fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. He tsked, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take my shirt off.”

He undid the buttons of his shirt skillfully, looking at you the entire time. Throwing the garment to the floor, he picked up where he left off, not wasting a second. You grabbed his shoulders, kissing him, letting your hands roam free over his bare torso. Nails scratching his back, leaving red trails. He was startled by this, not quite meeting the pace of the kiss. You stopped for a second, grabbing his hands and placing them on your body.

“Feel me, touch me. Desire me.”

You didn’t have to kiss him because he buried his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and nibbling at the exposed skin. Every hickey he left was a claim over your body, he wanted to say he proudly helped you fall from grace. That he turned you evil. It excited him; it made him spiral. Because you were the first being that he could touch that didn’t feel like a mere piece of meat to him. You were so loving with your touch, yet you knew what his hands were capable of. How? Just how could you lay there and demand his touch? How could you dare relish in the warmth of an assassin?

A symphony of moans erupted from your throat, you hugged him tightly. Burying your hands in his dark locks, encouraging him to keep going. He pressed his body above yours, you felt his erection on your stomach. He was harder than before. The thought of having him inside you made your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He stopped, gasping for air. This time he roughly parted your legs open. “Fuck. I just want to feel you.”

Positioning himself in your entrance, he didn’t even think about teasing you before parting your folds with the tip and sinking his shaft. The stretch brought a sharp pain, and you couldn’t avoid letting out a cry. “I’ll give you time. Tell me when you want me to move.”

A few seconds in and the pain melted into an indescribable yet delicious feeling. Mewling, you demanded that he move. It started as a lazy drag, trying to allow you to fully adjust to him. When you brought him closer to your body, hugging his torso with your legs, he sank his cock to the hilt, knocking the air out of you. Without notice, he thrust strongly, drawing all sorts of sound from your body. Bucking your hips, you tried to meet his thrusts, and when you did, you swore you saw stars.

“You feel so good, little angel.”

The only correct answer for you was a messy kiss. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, exploring. Biting your bottom lip, savoring your taste. He changed his angle, hitting the same spot he discovered with his fingers making you nip at his lips. You knew your walls were clenching around his shaft, squeezing him. Grunting, he let you go, a shiny thread of saliva connecting your mouths.

He stopped speaking altogether when he saw your teary eyes looking at where you two were joined. “Faster, p—please.” And he obeyed.

You sank your nails into his shoulder blades when it was becoming too much to handle, when one of his hands started circling your clit quickly. You knew you were nearing something, that something was supposed to happen. It scared you, yet it pushed you to plead for him to not stop. A long, sharp moan came from the depths of your throat when the storm inside your body collided into an unbearable pleasure. You came undone under him, the remaining strength in your body holding onto him.

He smiled smugly, biting his lip, bucking his hips forward. The pain of the overstimulation wasn’t enough to bring you back. You were being used by him to reach his pleasure, and you were thankful. You were here, hugging him, his body like an anchor to earth, and there was nothing else beyond him and this moment.

“Moan, please.” You mustered weakly.

He did. He made all sorts of sounds just because you asked. And when he came undone, his seed filling you up, he tiredly whispered into your ear. "A human tainting an angel like this? Unthinkable.”

He rested on top of you, catching his breath. You were so far gone you didn’t realize when your feathers started cascading off from your wings. Falling to the ground like dead leaves, turning from white to a dull ashen black.

tysm for reading!

[beomieo]

just a heads up, the soobin fic probably won't be out till a while later since i have exams going on the whole of august and the rest of july (•᷄- •᷅ ;) ofc i still work on it little by little every night before bed~ please be patient!!! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

[mickymauz]

I did a beomgyu fic yesterday based off of art class by beadbadoobee and it was genuinely soo fun to write😭

sooo I was thinking of maybe doing a fic for every member based off of a beadbadoobee song⁉️😛

just out here on sum tryna collide my two worlds type shi