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lixiesfreckless · 1 month ago

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this is a masterpiece. I love this au but the story of this one has to be my favorite by FAR.

Baby (k.sy)

PAIRING: Soongyoung x f. reader

SUMMARY: Soonyoung had been in your life for as long as you can remember. You haven’t spoken since your wedding to someone who isn’t him, but when you uncover your husband’s plans to turn against your family, you don’t know who else to call.

WC: 29,988

AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers

GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARINGS: Full warnings available under the cut.

A/N: This fic was posted on my original blog which has been deleted. I am now reposting it. I hope it does half as well as it did when I originally posted this story - thank you to everyone who left amazing feedback the first time. It genuinely made me so happy and I am so sorry that it got sent to the moon where I can no longer read it.

A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic and @eoieopda for beta-reading this fic.

Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!

KWON SOONYOUNG IS CRYING THE FIRST TIME YOU MEET HIM. It’s a loud, warbling cry that you’re not used to, and you flinch at the pitch as you hide behind your mother. Soonyoung and his mother are standing in the grand foyer of your home, his fists twisted in her tweed skirt as he begs her not to leave him.

His mother sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. You’ve seen her around before on the arm of her husband at your family dinner parties and for afternoon tea with your mom. This is the first time you’ve seen Soonyoung, though, and you’re unimpressed as his shrieking only gets louder when she crouches down to look him in the eye fondly, brushing the tears from his face.

You don’t know a lot of other kids, but the noisiness of him startles you. Unsettles you. Sensing your unease, your mother reaches to pull you from behind her, giving you a single look that you know means please behave. You straighten immediately, turning to watch the sniffling boy as he calms down.

Soonyoung is round-cheeked, his dark eyes swollen and face reddened from working himself up. His mother murmurs something to him and he nods, wiping the snot from his face with the back of his hand.

Seungcheol must notice the crying has stopped. He appears from the kitchen, giving Soonyoung an unimpressed once over as he strides toward you and your mother. She clucks her tongue at the cheek of her eleven year old, giving him a hard look.

“Seungcheol, don’t be rude,” she admonishes. “Greet our guests properly.”

Your older brother glances at you and you lift a shoulder. He’s going to lead the family one day, it’s important for him to show manners. You know this even at a young age - have always known what his place is among your family, what your place is.

Cheol is in line to become the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, an empire that you cannot fathom at your age but you know is important. You are its insurance, a second heir if something happens to the first and a bargaining chip for future partnerships. A potential logician, if you’re good enough.

Turning to Soonyoung and his mother, Seungcheol bows politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung. Are you here to play video games?”

Soonyoung perks up at that, looking at his mom, eyes going round. She grins and nods her head, pulling her hands from where they rest on his shoulders. “He is,” she agrees. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends.” Her gaze drifts to you. “All three of you.”

That makes you frown. You don’t really like playing video games. Seungcheol never lets you win and forces you to play for hours in exchange for him letting you borrow his AetherLink at night to scroll the internet. You’re not allowed to have one yet, even though you’re only four years younger and all of your other friends have them to enter virtual chat rooms and play online games.

“Do I have to?” you ask your mom, looking up at her.

“Yes,” she says firmly, gently nudging you by the shoulder toward where your brother is not so patiently waiting to escort you to the gaming room. “Go.”

“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, pouting a little.

“I’m not any good.”

“That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.”

Seungcheol moans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!”

“No way!”

Seungcheol grins and shoots off toward the gaming room, Soonyoung hot on his heels. You hesitate for a moment, staring after them with indignation. Soonyoung stops at the doorway, turning to you. His face is still ruddy from crying, but he’s suddenly smiling, cheeks round and smooth.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.”

“Holy fuck, can you let me win for once?” Soonyoung groans, rolling over on the mat. He’s dripping in sweat, wiping it away from his brow as he stands with effort.

Grinning, you skip away from him, reaching for your water bottle. Music pounds through the speakers of the training room. Overhead, the blue neon casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Seungcheol ignores you both in favor of using the weight machines in the far corner of the room.

On the far wall, your health and fitness data is displayed, each one of your bodies outlined and flashing as new data comes in. Right now, you’re in the red zone, heart pounding hard from your bout with Soonyoung, who is in the orange zone.

Which confirms your suspicion that he’s not trying as hard as he could be.

“Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me,” you offer. The water helps cool you down as you eye Soonyoung. Even at fourteen, he’s started to fill out his form more, arms corded as he hones himself into a weapon. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Seungcheol scoffs from across the room. Maybe he wasn’t totally ignoring the two of you. He drops his cool-older-kid act to turn and grumble, “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.”

The nickname makes you bristle. You hate when people point out that you’re the baby of the family, like you’re something less than or incapable of keeping pace. You especially hate it when Seungcheol uses it to put you in your place, reminding you that one day your shithead older brother is going to be leading the family business.

The family business is the reason you spar with them at all. Occasionally Vernon joins, though those days are as unpredictable as his appearances. Usually when he’s over at your house, it’s never a good thing. His arrivals are always bracketed with the sound of his father’s manic yelling and his mother’s frantic begging, followed closely by slammed doors and your father’s calming voice.

Today it’s just the three of you, though. Soonyoung comes over and sits on the mat by your feet, holding a hand up to you. You pass him your water bottle, rolling your eyes at him even though it doesn’t really bother you.

Nothing Soonyoung does really bothers you. Since that first day he showed up at your house sobbing because his mother was leaving him for the day, he’s grown on you. More than grown on you, in fact. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t noticed your lingering gazes and the way he flusters you when he gets too close, and you hope to keep it that way.

“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung offers gently, voice low over the metal clang of Seuncheol’s weights. “And it’s not ‘cause I don’t think you can’t take it,” he adds with a grin, bumping his shoulder against your leg. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.”

“Everyone treats me like a baby.”

“You are. But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone says how high. Even my dad.”

That makes you smirk a little. You look at the floor, letting his words wash over you. They do ring true - there’s no one in the Syndicate who would deny you anything, and though you’re utterly terrified of Soonyoung’s dad, he would do anything for you. In a way, it was the Kwon family’s divine purpose to be by the side of the Chois.

“What about you?” you ask.

“What about me?”

“Jump.”

Soonyoung grins and sets the water bottle down, getting up to his feet at your command. “How high, Baby?”

Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear on the day of his parents’ funeral. He’s a far cry from the little boy who showed up at your house to play video games and become friends.

Instead, he sits in silence, eyes raging - always raging, now. You don’t think the fury stops, his gaze burning the entire ceremony. His grip on your hand is like iron, and after a while, your arm tingles with pins and needles. You say nothing, willing to endure. Eventually, your arm goes numb entirely, and he keeps holding your hand.

Afterward, Soonyoung says nothing. You do the talking for him, accepting the hand shakes and bows on his behalf when he doesn’t reach out to accept them, thanking those who have come to offer him condolences and respect when he doesn’t speak.

His grip on you is steadfast. Iron and fire. Even when your father drops his gaze down with a look of disapproval, Soonyoung doesn’t let go and you don’t ask him to. If there’s any day that you can break decorum and tradition, it’s certainly now in the wake of Soonyoung’s loss.

They don’t need to know you’d let him hold you anyway.

The boy who existed before the murder of his parents is dead. You knew it before the funeral. But when the last guest finally leaves the Choi Estate and Soonyoung doesn’t shed a tear, you realize it isn’t just his parents that you’ve buried.

The sweet, gentle boy who had cried those tears for fear of his mother leaving him has died too. And you don’t think you’ll ever see him again.

“You want me to do what?” Soonyoung asks, pulling you into his room and looking out the cracked door to make sure no one else is around. “Where is your brother?”

“I have no idea.”

“You can’t just- ” Soonyoung fumbles for words as he shuts the door and takes a few steps past you into his room proper. It’s dark, safe for the glow of his AetherLink glowing with a paused video game. “Did he see you follow me up here?”

“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.”

“I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.”

You frown. “Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”

“Oh don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan. She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.”

You cross your arms over your chest, caving in on yourself a little. Maybe it was a stupid idea to ask Soonyoung after all. But you can’t get over the way all of the other girls were clinging to Lin’s every word as she spilled the details of sleeping with Jeonghan. Everyone else in your friends group had at least made out with boys - you had nothing.

Being the daughter of the leader of the Choi Syndicate has its benefits. Being accessible to do things like kissing boys and going out with your friends to new cool clubs like Echo Space and Hyper Vibe were not one of them. Getting any of the boys your age to even look you in the eye was impossible, the fear of catching the wrath of Seungcheol and your father looming over them like the Sword of Damocles.

Soonyoung is Soonyoung, though. Your father has brought him into the fold like one of his own, keeping his oath to Soonyoung’s parents to always watch over him and protect him. You’re old enough now to understand that the bonds between higher members of the Syndicate are bonds of faith and blood, of family and something more.

If anyone shouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, it’s Soonyoung. He lives down the hall from you, and he’s best friends with your brother. It wouldn’t be that weird. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you lay awake in your bed at night while you stared at the ceiling, fingers trailing your lips.

Now, you’re not so sure. The way Soonyoung recoils makes you realize you hadn’t thought of the single most important thing before marching in here and asking him to be your first kiss: maybe Soonyoung didn’t want to kiss you.

It hadn’t even crossed your mind - one of the many downsides to getting mostly everything you wanted. You’re so infrequently told no that in the light of rejection, you don’t know what to do, recoiling like you’ve been mortally wounded.

Nodding your head, you turn away from Soonyoung, throat tightening as the new wave of emotions threatens to spill over. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Baby,” he sighs. You ignore him, bolting for the door. Soonyoung is fast, though. He snatches your arm and drags you back toward him, though you turn your face away from him to hide the evidence of oncoming tears. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.”

“Would you look at me?”

“No.”

He sighs heavily. “Why are you being so difficult?”

Trying to wrench your arm from his hold is useless. He’s not hurting you, but the grip on your bicep is firm. “Well if I’m so difficult then let me go.”

“Baby.” The frustration in his voice is evident. You ignore the way your nickname rolls off his tongue, the way he’s the only person you don’t absolutely hate the name from.

“Just let me go!”

“No. Why do you want me to kiss you?”

The question is like nails against chalkboard now, your embarrassment peaking. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!”

“Fuck - are you crying?”

“No.”

“Baby, look at me.”

Too afraid that the wavering in your voice will give you away, you shake your head, refusing to turn and face him. With a growl, he gives a sharp tug on your arm, spinning you toward him. You let out a noise of protest, ready to lash out at him again when you feel his mouth on yours.

Startled, you don’t do anything at first. Soonyoung’s grip is still on your bicep, firm and steadfast. Your eyes blink for a second before they flutter closed, unsure exactly what to do beyond lean into him a little, pressing your lips firmer to his.

It’s somehow exactly what you expected and totally unexpected at the same time. Soonyoung’s mouth is softer than you were ready for, slotted gently against yours. He’s warm and smells like vanilla and sandalwood, a scent you’ve grown familiar with. Your thoughts peter out, enjoying the way he holds you to him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

When Soonyoung pulls away, you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, your breath shaky. He doesn’t pull back very far, looking down at you with a dark gaze. This close, you can see the real Soonyoung. His expression is soft, eyes sparkling in the blue light of his room. He looks so young suddenly, all of the rage and wrath that lurks under the surface of the calm mask he wears gone for just a moment.

“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. His mouth twitches at the corner, an almost smile. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.”

He opens and closes his mouth again, trying to find words. You wait him out, heart thudding. He’s still holding you close to him, fingers digging desperately into your arm.

Footsteps thundering up the stairs wake him from his daze, Seungcheol calling your name. Soonyoung drops his hand and steps away from you, a cool mask of calm sliding into place, the vulnerability gone in an instant. “There’s your kiss,” he murmurs. “Is there anything else you need from me or do I need to jump too?”

Synth pulses through you, vibrating your very bones as you lounge on the velvet couch in a private section of the club. The lights above you are hazy, but you can make out the shapes of holographic dancers, their graphics so high definition that you can see the sweat beading down their bare backs.

From the VIP section, you have the perfect view of the DJ platform. Screens flash behind it, holographic wonders of creatures and places and visuals flashing brightly. Writhing bodies twist on the dancefloor around the DJ like a pit of snakes. Among them, you know your father’s Taps slither among the crowd, pushing drugs and psychedelics into the hands of those who can afford it.

A trained eye can spot a Tap well enough. Though they blend in with the nylon and leather of the partiers, they tend to be sharp eyed and lucid, chewing on stim pops or some other substance to keep them awake and alert.

It’s not the drug dealers in the crowd who keep drawing your attention, though. You shouldn’t be able to spot Soonyoung in the mass of bodies so easily, but you do. His hair is bleached, reflecting the flashing lights around him as he presses in close to the girl attached to him, hips swaying.

Your mouth sours. Leaning forward you snatch one of the bottles from the ice bucket and pour a shot into a crystal glass. Angel raises her brows as you slide the glass over to her and pour another for yourself. She’s not much of a drinker, but she takes the glass wordlessly, sensing your need to have a partner in crime.

Knocking it back, you hiss as the liquor burns all the way back. Even the high grade alcohol is like fire, washing away your irritation for a dizzy moment, veins buzzing. Leaning back, your eyes scan the crowd and settle on Soonyoung again. This time, he’s leading his partner through the crowd and toward the stairs. The stairs that lead to you.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo crashing onto the seat next to you breaks your concentration. Seungcheol’s pupils are wide as saucers, eyes trailing upward to dance at the visual of a woman with pink skin sliding out of her top.

Next to him, Wonwoo pulls a small bag with glittering dust from his pocket, shaking it to settle all of the contents at the bottom before unsealing the top. The way the powder glows against the lights tells you its high quality frostbyte, a powerful stimulant named for the biting feeling when inhaled.

Instead of yelling over the music, you gesture toward the bag, catching Wonwoo’s attention. He gives you a surprised look followed by a wolfish grin. Wonwoo loves when you partake in partying harder, a side everyone so rarely sees from you.

Sliding a knife from his pocket, you watch with rapt attention as Wonwoo dips it into the baggie, scooping delicately. You’d rather he cut lines on the table, but you’ll take what you can get, watching as he expertly fishes out a decent sized amount for you to take.

You’re mutely aware that a group of bodies enters your section. Vernon throws himself down next to Angel, jostling you both as you lean over Seungcheol’s half-asleep form toward where Wonwoo extends the knife toward you carefully. You ignore the weight of Soonyoung’s eyes on you as he, Mingyu and a group of girls sit down and reach to fill their glasses with liquor.

Wonwoo’s hands are steady as he holds the tip of his blade out to you, a hand held underneath to catch any powder that slips off the blade. Careful not to lose your balance and stab yourself, you level your face with the knife, inhaling sharply.

Immediately the drug bites the back of your throat, eyes watering as you tilt your head upwards and blink for a second, letting it settle. Sniffing harshly a few times, you clear your nasal passage and blow out a breath, feeling the softest beginning of a tingle as you look at Wonwoo, who is still holding his hands out to you.

“Thanks,” you nod. He grins and pulls back, rubbing the excess powder along his gums as you fall heavily against the back of the booth.

Turning to look at your brother, you elbow him. “Are you alive?”

“Mhmm,” he grunts, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Lights dance across his face, all pinks and blues and purples as he breathes in heavily. “I am fucked right now. Can you get me a stim pop from Hoshi? If I do anymore frostbyte I’m gonna get a nosebleed. Again.”

Actually, asking Soonyoung for anything is the last thing you want to do. However, your brother does look like he needs to wake up, the mess of drugs and alcohol in his system working overtime to put him on his ass. Stim pops are a quick fix, a careful mix of sweet candy and methylphenidate to wake up the nervous system. Soongyoung always has them on his person, especially for when he works late night shifts.

Turning in the booth, you’re smacked with a wave of color. For a moment, you drink it in, tilting your head upward as the figures dancing above explode into a world of lavender butterflies. They’re utterly captivating, your eyes watching them twist and dance in the air as they flutter.

A laugh bubbles from your lips, entirely childlike. Grinning, you watch them for a few moments more before they disintegrate into stars, entire solar systems hovering and floating through the space above your head.

Seungcheol elbowing you breaks you from your concentration. Right. Stim pop. From Soonyoung. Glancing at the man in question makes your stomach plummet. Soonyoung’s head is resting against the back of the booth, the girl next to him draped over him with her mouth pressed hot to his throat, her teeth overly white in the blacklight of the club.

A surge of rage shivers through you, your nails scratching across the green velvet, leaving marks in their wake. Leaning forward, you reach out a hand and smack Vernon’s knee to get his attention. He turns his lazy gaze on you, brows raised. When you point at Soonyoung, he nods and yells over his shoulder to get your target’s attention.

Soonyoung’s eyes flutter open and flick to where you’re sitting. He drinks in your expression before muttering something to the woman mouthing at his neck and peels her off, standing up and shuffling over to you. Angel makes room for him, all but sliding into Vernon’s lap as Soonyoung crashes down on the couch next to you.

“Hi, Baby. What’s up?”

“Cheol needs a stim pop,” you answer curtly, leaning away from him. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood laced with alcohol. Soonyoung is so close you can feel his body heat, his breath fanning across your bare shoulder as he moves to look at Seungcheol half asleep on your other side. “Then you can go back to your little public sex session.”

Soonyoung makes an angry cat noise, narrowing his eyes at you as he smirks. He leans toward you further to reach into his pocket, shoulder pressed against you. His scent fills your nose, heady and familiar. You’re dizzy with it, the touch of his warmth against your skin making you flush.

Suddenly, his nearness is overwhelming. Every hair on the back of your neck stands on end, your skin hypersensitive to the way he leans against you. The glow of the lights is sharper than you remember, and you swear you feel the blood rushing through your body.

A response that could be either because of the drugs you inhaled a moment ago or because Soonyoung is pressed against you and you have the sudden urge to lean into him, to feel his warmth, to press your lips against his and feel their softness.

In an attempt to save yourself from the trap, you shove back at him. He huffs, glaring at you as he fishes a stim pop out of his pocket and hands it over to you. You’re careful to avoid his touch when you snatch it from his nimble fingers, turning your back on him in the booth to look at Seungcheol.

“Why are you being a brat?” His voice is loud over the music, shouted into your ear as he tilts back into your space again. You can feel the warmth of him on your back.

“Go away.”

“Baby, please don’t start with me.”

“I’m not starting fuck with you.”

Seungcheol cracks an eye open to observe your argument with a look of interest. Seungcheol’s pupils are dilated like moons, totally empty of any coherent thought. You peel the wrapper off the stim pop, careful to hold it by the cardboard stick as you pop it into your brother’s mouth.

For a few moments, your brother lolls the candy around his mouth, sucking greedily. Then, he blinks his eyes open, pupils narrowing as he drinks in the lights and the clubs. He sighs in relief, patting your thigh gratefully as the stimulant chases away whatever else is washing him out.

When you turn around, Soonyoung is still lingering, his dark eyes fierce and focused only on you. He looks good tonight. He looks good every night. He has become your picture perfect torture since that night you asked him to be your first kiss, kickstarting something you were incapable of foreseeing.

The bleached hair is new and you hate how much you like it. The silvery strands look just as soft as his natural black, and it’s a nice contrast to his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. Those stormy eyes are staring at you now, something playful that you don’t like glittering under the surface.

He pouts at you. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you. Go away!”

“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.”

“Please fuck off.”

He rolls his eyes, peeling himself off the couch and muttering something under his breath. You’re sure he has nothing nice to say, so you sink further into the couch, crossing your hands over your chest as you sulk.

Sticky air clings to your skin. You can feel your heart racing in your chest, the music vibrating your ribcage. Your anger is like a monster given life, fueled by the frostbyte and the feverish anger taking root in your stomach as Soonyoung settles back in his spot, pressing his mouth sloppily to the woman next to him.

And that’s the problem, really. It’s not you that is pressing your mouth to his jaw while he leans against the back of the seat. It isn’t you running manicured nails down the front of his shirts, pulling at buttons despite the audience.

It isn’t you and it should be. You want it to be.

It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you for the first time in his room. You’ve had more experience with other people since then, but it dulls in comparison to his simple kiss. You hate it. What you hate even more is how childish it makes you feel, embarrassment heating your cheeks and throat when he catches your gaze across the booth and you divert your attention.

For the second time, Soonyoung peels the girl off of him, making like he’s going to get up and come sit next to you again. This time, his companion keeps him rooted to the spot, her nails digging into his forearm as she hisses something at him. He groans, head tilted back like he’s once again the most inconvenienced man in the room.

Wanting nothing more than to blot him out, you call Wonwoo’s name again, leaning forward heavily for more frostbyte. Soonyoung whistles and snaps his finger in your direction as though to tell you no. You bristle, your anger turning to an inferno, burning up inside of you.

Vernon and Angel both cringe, leaning out of your line of fire as you swivel to angle yourself toward Soonyoung, hands shaking. “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”

“Baby, you don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”

Mingyu, though right next to Soonyoung, doesn’t hear the insult, his tongue being sucked down the throat of the girl sitting in his lap, hips grinding on him. Another girl is pressed to his side, teeth nipping at his jaw. At least someone is having fun, you think, the three of them totally aware of the crackling tension in their booth.

The girl attached to Soonyoung’s neck a moment ago bristles when she hears your nickname. “Baby?” she asks, face scrunching. “Are you serious?”

“Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”

“Yeah,” you agree, shooting her a venomous look, despite her doing nothing to earn your ire. “Chill, Victra.”

Once again, you turn your back on Soonyoung, standing and scooting Seungcheol over to swap places with him. He does so with a keen eye, watching the scene unfold as he sucks his lollipop happily, content to watch the drama.

Wonwoo dips his knife into the bag as you settle in next to him, bouncing with excitement. “I love when you do drugs, you’re so much fun.”

“I don’t feel very fun right now.”

“Drugs will fix it!”

“Wonwoo, don’t you dare give her that,” Soonyoung warns. He pries Victra’s hands off of him, leaning forward as though to reach across the table.

“Ignore him,” you insist.

Wonwoo hesitates, stuck between a rock and a hard place. The last thing he wants to do is tell you no. No one but your father and older brother get to tell you no. Wonwoo knows this better than most people. But he also doesn’t want to cross Soonyoung, a venture nearly as dangerous as pissing off Seungcheol.

Soonyoung hisses at the girl next to him, “Stop clawing at me! Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one. ”

“Why the fuck did you even bring me up here?” Victra interrupts, ignoring Soonyoung’s plea. “You’ve done nothing but fawn over her since we got here. This isn’t fun.”

Soonyoung ignores her. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove a point and be a bitch, though.”

“I’m not proving fuck, Soonyoung. And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”

“So it is about her?”

“I have a name!” The her in question snaps. You turn around, temper flaring as you level your glare at her. She turns her nose up at you as she says, “It’s obvious you’re bothered he brought me here. Your jealousy is insufferable.”

“Ding, ding ding,” Seungcheol imitates a bell. You turn around to look at Victra. “Round one! Fight!”

It takes a second for Victra’s words to land. It’s like each one hits you a second apart, packing their own punch as you register them. The pulsing music around you fades to a dull roar as you stare at her, seeing the way her lips twitch upward as she realizes she’s right. You are jealous that Soonyoung brought her up here.

Victra’s grin is all it takes for you to spill over. Before you can register what you’re doing, you’re out of your seat and leaping over the table at her, knocking over glasses and bottles. Wonwoo cheers in delight behind you as your brother catches you by the waist, trying to keep you on your side of the booth as you tear at his hands to get across the booth.

Seeing the attack of opportunity while you’re subdued, Victra shoots to her feet. Angel is fast as an adder, one moment sitting in Vernon’s lap and the next striking Victra down into the booth, knee planted in her stomach. Vernon does nothing to stop his girlfriend, opting instead to reach for a water bottle, unscrewing it to take a sip as his girlfriend pins Victra down to the seat with little effort.

Noticing for the first time that their friend is in distress, the two women with Mingyu lift their heads. As soon as one starts to slide from his lap to reach for Angel, you kick a foot out, striking the bucket of alcohol and ice. The bucket goes flying at her, hitting her hard in the face. She screams, crumbling in Mingyu’s lap, cradling her face.

Mingyu and Soonyoung are on their feet in seconds, soaked from the waist down and trying to gain control of the situation as it spirals. Mingyu becomes a blockade between Victra’s two friends, trying to keep them on their side of the booth. Soonyoung is prying a bottle from a hand before it can make its way toward you, yelling something indecipherable.

Angel is still pressing her knee deep into Victra’s gut. Victra’s attention has diverted from you entirely as she screams like a wounded animal, pushing and scratching at Angel’s knee to try and get her off. You’re sure it hurts, but Angel doesn’t budge, sinking her weight into it.

Leaning down, you grab something to lob at them - someone’s shoe - but Seungcheol manages to haul you off your feet and spin you, planting you into the booth behind him. You growl, shoving at his legs to move him out of the way, trying to re-engage.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “Are you fucking juicing? Why are you so strong?”

“It’s the drugs,” Wonwoo offers unhelpfully. “Really top of the line drugs.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo!” Both you and Seungcheol bark at the same time.

Wonwoo holds up his hands, leaning back into the seat as he watches the mess unfold with a delighted grin. You strike out with your foot, slamming against the booth’s table, shoving it in Soonyoung’s direction. You hear glass shatter as more things fall off the table, clattering to the ground. There are shrieks and curses that you can’t see with Seungcheol blocking the way.

“He’s a fucking asshole!” You seethe to your brother, panting with rage.

“He is, and you did exactly what he wanted you to do.” You try to kick the table again but he stops you, grabbing your knee. You feel like you can’t get enough air, sweat slicking your skin and the velvet of the couch too sharp against your flesh. “Soonyoung loves a fight when he’s fucked up. You know that.”

“Well fuck him!”

He pulls the stick from his mouth, candied stim gone. He tosses it onto the floor and looks over his shoulder where Mingyu and Soonyoung are corralling the three women out of the booth. “God, Angel broke that girl's rib I think. Hahahha!”

“I want to break her fucking face!”

“I think you broke her friend's face. She is fucked up. That bucket hit her right in the eye. What a shot.”

“If you’re so entertained, why’d you get in my way?”

“There’s a lot of eyes here.” You glance around, noticing other booths looking at you, people ducking toward one another to whisper. “You have an image to maintain.”

Adjusting your shirt, you settle back into the booth. “Alright. Alright I’m good.”

When Seungcheol moves out of the way to take a seat, Soonyoung replaces him. You glare up at him, feeling your anger curl up in you again. His lips twitch, a hint of a smirk as he sits down next to you, sighing heavily and tilting his head to look up at the flashing lights.

The girls are nowhere to be found. Angel is sitting back down next to Vernon who hasn’t moved, and there are servers picking up the mess you made. Mingyu is notably absent, though you can guess where he’s gone for the night. He’s good at making scorned lovers feel better about their bad luck.

“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung notes, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he glances at you sidelong. “I kind of like it.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” you warn. He laughs, the fight totally leaving him. “I’m serious. Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.”

“Alright, alright. When you say jump, right?”

Soonyoung’s fingers brush against yours. Just the rough feeling of his calluses against the tips of your fingers has you shivering, anger replaced with want. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t move to do anything else but lean back in silence with your fingers touching.

Resigned, you say nothing else to him. You’d got what you wanted - sort of - even if you know you made an ass out of yourself doing it. It isn’t the first time he’s made you jealous, but it is the first time it’s boiled over so violently.

You remind yourself not to do frostbyte when you’re mad anymore.

You turn your attention to where Angel is snorting frostbyte up her nose off of her boyfriend’s phone, accidentally turning on the hologram as she does, her face suddenly caged by green screen data. You call her name gently. She looks up at you, pupils blown, reflecting the lights dancing above like dark glass. “Thanks,” you offer.

Her grin is too wide, teeth too white. She reminds you of a demon more than she does an angel. “Anytime.”

When you settle back in, you glance at Soonyoung once. He looks down at you, smirking a single time before he leans into you and rests his head on your shoulder. You feel him melt into you, sighing as his eyes close and he nuzzles a little closer. You put your hand on his thigh, squeezing once before you leave it there, feeling the heat of his skin through his pants.

It isn’t until he’s almost asleep, pressed as close as possible to you that you realize maybe he got what he wanted too.

Rain washes over the black city, the mist turning the thousands of digital and holographic advertisements into a watercolor smear of neon. It smells wet and like rot, the drains overworked and belching water and trash back out into the street as you walk, feet splashing.

You quickly duck out of the way of a group of rowdy men spilling from a bar. You can smell the drink on them, their feet sloshing in the rising water of the street as they dredge toward the next bar. They whistle at the pretty girls dressed in light up raincoats and flickering green contacts, stumbling toward a brothel instead of the bar.

Gripping your umbrella tighter, you quicken your steps. Grease smoke drifts toward you from various hawker carts, the sizzle of meat making your stomach growl. You ignore them, knowing you have dinner with your family later as you take a corner and plunge into the darkness of an underground stairwell.

The LEDs on your umbrella cast a pink light as you descend the stairs, careful not to slip on the caked grime. Two guards stand outside metal double doors, music pulsing faintly behind it. They look you up and down, ready to deny entry until you state your name at the bottom of the steps.

“ID?” the one on the right asks, giving you a critical eye.

Of course he doesn't believe you. The daughter of the Tower would never walk anywhere without a body guard, especially in this part of the city. You spin the umbrella, the pink coalescing as he takes the phone from your hand and taps it, blue lighting up his face when your ID and profile appear in holographic data above the screen.

He clears his throat and bows at the waist. When his counterpart doesn’t, he smacks him hard on the back, making the man lean over. “Apologies, Miss Choi. Right this way.”

Music hits you full on when the doors open, the base creating static in the air. You cringe as it vibrates through your ribcage and teeth, wondering how anyone could stand to be in a club this loud. Popping the umbrella shut, you let your eyes adjust while one security guard remains at the door, shutting it behind you, and the other hands you your ID.

“Should I escort you to the office, Miss?”

Writhing bodies dance together, scintillating like snakes in a pit. Above them, lasers and holograms light up the world with flashes of colors you didn’t even know existed. A wide bar stretches to the left of the floor, lit up by soft cyan lights. Behind it, the bartenders move in a blur, the glow on their clothes turning them ethereal.

You glance at the security guard, who waits patiently before shaking your head. You point to the space above the bar where there are two large, mirrored windows looking out into the club. “Up there?”

“Yes,” he answers, hesitating. “Let me escort you.”

With a roll of your eyes you nod, gesturing to him to lead the way. He clears a path, clubbers and workers alike moving out of his way when he shoves them. You walk behind him, swinging your head from side-to-side as you look at the people, fascinated.

People with spikes pierced in their skin and whorling tattoos with glow ink stare back at you, glowing contact lenses and gemmed teeth all taking you in. You rarely get to mix in with the crowd that partakes in more unique cosmetic alterations and fashion, fascinated by someone who walks by with red glowing face tattoos like a demon mask.

At the foot of the stairs, the guard lets you walk up first. It’s clear of people, so he remains standing at the bottom, taking up an imposing position with his hands linked in front of him, blocking the stairway entirely.

The thud of music vibrates through your boots as you climb the stairs, greeting another security guard. You can tell he’s already been warned you’re here - he bows immediately and keys in the pad at the door, opening the office for you.

You pass by him airily, stepping into the dry and much cooler office. The door closes behind you, immediately cutting off the sound with high–tech sound proofing. Soonyoung is leaning against the bar, his back to the door as he watches out the windows, a glass in his hand.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” he asks, tossing you a look over his shoulder. You grin, skipping over to him. He doesn’t grin back, looking you up and down as you join him. You reach for the decanter he’s drinking from but he smacks your hand, viper fast. “Not a chance.”

“What? Why not?”

“You shouldn’t be here, much less without a security team. The Tower will be livid.”

“The Tower doesn’t have to know.”

Soonyoung’s jaw flexes. “The security team will tell him you were here.”

“Not if you tell them not to.”

“Baby,” he sighs, tilting his head up and closing his eyes. You lean against the bar, watching him. The lights from the club are dimmer in here, but they flash against his face, painting him in golden light. He’s beautiful. “What are you doing here?”

“Angel said you had a bad day.”

“I always have a bad day. And tell Angel to shut her mouth.”

You snort. “You tell her that.”

That gets a grin out of him. He lowers his head, dark gaze finding yours. “You can’t just walk around the Lower City without a personal guard, Baby.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know you’re not. I’m not either but people try to rob me all the time. You, on the other hand, are a lot prettier of a prize than I am.”

“So you think I’m pretty?”

This time when Soonyoung sighs, it’s affectionate. He sips his glass of amber liquid, turning to watch the crowd outside the office. He holds out his glass to you, a concession. You grin further, accepting it from him and bring it up to your nose to smell. You don’t know anything about liquor, but from the spiced scent you can tell it’s good quality.

You take a tiny sip. It goes down smooth - strong, but good and warm. Instead of giving him the glass back, you cradle it to your chest, leaning against the bar next to him close enough that your arms are almost touching. He continues looking out at the crowd, keen eyes serious and back to work while you look at him.

Soonyoung is beautiful. His side profile is lethal, the slope of his neck elegant, the curve of his jaw sharp but delicate, his high cheekbones catching the light. His eyes are dark pools, reflecting the snatches of light that come through the dark windows.

“Did you come here to stare at me?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the crowd.

“What if I said I did?”

His mouth twitches at the corner. “Unfortunately I would believe you.”

Watching over clubs isn’t usually Soonyoung’s job. But this club is in a terrible part of the city and isn’t worth much to the Choi Syndicate, so sometimes he’s awarded the opportunity to prove himself to your father and to the elders of the Syndicate that he’s competent and capable of leadership, despite the fact you’ve always known him to be.

Soonyoung isn’t meant for leading like Seungcheol. But there is a certain level of loyalty and understanding he has to cultivate with the heavies of the family, the Swords who carry out the bloody tasks of removing people from the way and keeping assets safe. His father had been the Sentinel of your family for years until his death, and Soonyoung is expected to pick up that mantle.

This is all a part of that. Soonyoung already has the loyalty of the security team running this hole in the wall, alerting him the second you arrived and refusing to let you go up the stairs alone. Had they failed to do that, you might think a little less of them.

Soonyoung also probably would have had them beaten.

Finally, Soonyoung turns to look at you. He sighs and raises his brows expectantly.

“What?” you ask.

“What did you come here for? Real answer, this time.”

“I told you. Angel said you had a bad day. That is my real answer.”

“And?”

You shrug, sipping from the glass and turning toward the windows. “I wanted to make it a better one.”

That makes him go silent. You can see him turn to look at you, his stormy gaze pinning you to the spot. You don’t look at him, letting him stare as you nurse the drink and watch the dancing crowd down below. They’re beautiful, in a way, an ocean of bodies saying as colors turn them blue and then green and then bright red and then lavender.

Soonyoung leans toward you, bumping his head on yours lightly. That gets a laugh out of you, stomach fluttering and wishing he would stay leaned against you. He pulls away though, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his eyes back to his job.

“Thank you,” he finally says, voice quiet. “It is already a better day.”

The silence is comfortable. You eventually give him the drink back and he takes it, tongue darting out to lick the lip gloss you left. He hums. “Cherries.”

“You’re gross.”

He smiles into the glass, taking a sip. “I actually have something for you.”

“A present?”

He snorts. “Not exactly. Go to the desk - top drawer on the right.”

Eagerly, you do as he says. The heavy wooden desk sits in the back of the room, imposing even without the metal lockers behind it with weapons. You ignore the heavy guns under padlocks and go for the drawer in question.

A rectangular box is in the drawer Soonyoung specified, unmarked. You turn it over in your hands, curious. It’s not very heavy and fits mostly in your palm.

“Bring it over here.”

You do, trailing back to Soonyoung. He extends his hand and you pass it over to him, watching with interest as he cracks the box open with the sheer strength of his fingers. He pulls out a small device, a wire and what looks to be a plug, tossing the box to the bar.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, holding up the device.

It’s a small rectangle with a keypad and a screen. You raise your brows in surprise. “It is a very old phone.”

“It is.” He smiles, pleased with your answer. He passes the materials over to you and you hold them against your chest. “That’s the charger and the charging cord. It’s one of the old kinds of phones that requires a phone tower. There are barely any in the city.”

“And what is this gift for?”

“I own the phone towers that support it.” You raise your brows. Soonyoung rarely spends the inheritance his parents left behind, so you’re surprised. “It only has a single phone number programmed into it that will call the one I have.”

At this, he reaches into his pocket and produces the phone’s twin. He shakes it for emphasis, pressing a button and lighting up the screen. “You have to make sure to keep it charged. I want you to have it for emergencies only. And I mean emergencies, Baby. This is a last resort kind of device, alright?”

You chew your bottom lip, dragging your eyes to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because I need to know that you always have a last resort.” His gaze darkens. “Clearly your assigned security team lets you give them the slip. I need to know that you can hit the dial on this faster than you can on our phones. They’re overly complicated and not quick. With this?”

He reaches over and turns on the phone in your hand. Once booted, he presses the one button. The device in his hand starts ringing. “Direct and fast access to me at all times. Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you.”

Emotion twists your throat. You grip the phone with a vice grip, looking up at him with wide eyes. His face is serious. He slips his phone in his pocket, turning back to do his job. “I will answer,” he promises. “It doesn’t matter when and where. I will answer that phone even if I’m dying. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Good.”

A knock on your door wakes you up from a dreamless sleep. Darkness spills across your room like ink as you slip from your bed, cursing when you kick the corner of your nightstand. With a raspy voice, you ask the automated room assistant to turn on the nightlights, a hazy purple immediately lighting the circumference of your room.

Squinting against the lavender glow, you pad over your room to open the door. Soonyoung is leaning heavily against the wall just beyond the threshold, his chin tucked to his chest and his hair sweaty and clinging to his temples.

He doesn’t move when you open the door, the lilac light casting an eerie radiance on the side of his face. It’s hard to make out his expression in the lurking shadow of the hallway, and he offers no explanation for why he’s knocking on your door at three in the morning.

“Soonyoung?” you whisper, eyes darting down the hall. No one else is around. “Where are Cheol and Vernon?”

“S’cheol is still working. Vernon went to stay at Angel’s.”

“Are you - Soonyoung are you drunk? Or high?”

“Yeah.”

Both you realize. You can deal with both.

Grabbing him by the hand, you tug him gently. He pushes off the wall with heavy steps, stumbling through your open door and into the room. You grip him tighter, shutting your door with a gentle click before turning around to face him.

Soonyoung won’t look at you, turning his face away as he sways a little where he stands. Now that you can see him fully, you realize that there is blood on the collar of his shirt. Heart thudding, your hands reach for it, peeling it back to look at his neck. Specs of dry crimson flake from sweaty skin, making your terror reach new heights.

He shrugs you off. “Not mine.”

“I - what’s going on?”

Instead of answering you, he walks a few crooked steps toward your bed and sits down on the edge. Licking your lips, you approach him slowly. He’s slouched over, elbows pressed to his knees as his head hangs heavily. He still hasn’t looked at you properly and you’re aching to see his eyes. You can always understand him better when you see his eyes, able to read the depth of emotions hiding beneath his mask.

When you reach him, you crouch down. Instead of grabbing for him again and risking him pulling away, you rest your hands on top of your knees. When afraid or upset, Soonyoung is like a cornered animal. You don’t know whether he’s in fight or flight, both just as dangerous as the next.

“Soonyoung,” you say again gently. You watch his every move. “You’re scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?”

If Seungcheol is working the circuit, he isn’t the best to call. Late night circuits include going from club to club under the Choi banner to monitor the drug trafficking and attend small business meetings as appropriate. Seungcheol will drop whatever he’s doing for you in a heartbeat, but it’s more complicated than that.

In theory, Vernon is easier to get a hold of. He’s already off work and though he might not answer his phone if you call, you know his girlfriend will. Plus, the blood on Soonyoung’s shirt and skin can give you a guess at what’s happened, and Vernon is more equipped for that type of thing than you are.

“Let me call Vernon-”

“No,” he finally says. “No. Sorry. I just.”

Your chest squeezes in pain. It’s like you can feel the torture radiating through him, feel the weight of whatever it is that’s dragging him down yourself. Desperation drives you to reach out toward him slowly, watching for any sign of startling him. When he doesn’t move to pull away, you touch him gently, squeezing his knee gently. “What do you need?”

“My dad always said I should feel something.” His words are halting, coming out slurred. You wait, holding your breath as he works through them. “Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don’t, it means you’re nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined.”

It takes everything in you not to let your grip turn to steel at his words. Instead, you rub your hand up and down his thigh soothingly, saying nothing. Soonyoung has never killed someone before. You would know if he had. He’s the last in your immediate circle of friends beside yourself to take on the weight of stealing life, and you’ve dreaded this day for a long time.

Murder is an inevitability in your family. Keeping the Choi Syndicate on top requires sacrifice, cruelty and cunning. Soonyoung had started serving as an officially ranked member of the Syndicate over a year ago, and though he had fucked up a lot of people and brought them to the brink of death, he hadn’t actually done it yet.

“I felt nothing,” he whispers, voice thick. “Fucking nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was no guilt. I didn’t even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That’s not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just… baser creatures. That we were better because we were… made better.”

“I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung.”

“I’m just tired of feeling fucking empty. I don’t give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing.”

You have no idea what to say. Instead of words, you surge forward, letting go of Soonyoung’s knee to push yourself between his thighs, wrapping your arms around his middle. He flinches for a moment, arms hanging dead at his side as you press your cheek to his chest, squeezing.

Inside, you feel your heart crack open. You shove down the overwhelming sense of despair on his behalf, instead focused on him. There’s nothing to say with words, and you hope he can feel what you’re trying to tell him through touch, that he can feel everything you don’t know how to say as you hold him tight, clinging to him.

Slowly, his arms encircle you. It takes him a moment, but he applies a little pressure back. It makes you scoot in more, pressed as close as you can get to him. He buries his face in your neck, his breaths warm and smelling like tequila. He smells like him too, vanilla and sandalwood.

“I don’t feel like a person sometimes,” he whispers. “It’s like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so that I didn’t ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-”

He cuts himself off and sinks into you a little more. You bear his weight, willing to carry any burden for him. You don’t think he realizes that he could ask you to jump and you’d say how high. You’ve always been willing to jump for him, always willing to do whatever he wants, whatever he needs.

Gently, you ask, “You only ever feel when what? You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need.”

“I feel when I’m with you.” Soonyoung whispers it like it’s a secret he doesn’t want you to hear. You feel the words hit your skin where he speaks them, a shiver slithering through you. His grip on you tightens a little with the admission, like now that he’s said it, he can’t let go. Won’t. “I feel most like a person when I’m with you.”

Pressing the flat of your hand to his back, you begin to stroke up and down slowly, touch following the careful ridges of his spine. He sighs, shivering in your hold. You want nothing more than to take the pain or whatever he’s feeling away, to rip it from him and to destroy it.

The fierceness of your love for him is hard to tamp down. A fiery admission of your feelings for him isn’t what he needs right now. You know Soonyoung like the inside of your own soul, everything that makes him tick, every habit he’s picked up over the years. You can sense him standing lost at sea, needing an anchor. Needing you.

“Okay,” you say softly. “So stay with me. Be a person with me.”

“I’m not made for you.”

“Yes you are.” Your nails dig into his back through his shirt, pressing sharply. The desire to covet him is so intense it overtakes you. “If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone but one another?”

Silence greets your logic. You stay holding him like that, desperate to keep him there, terrified he’ll shrug you off and get up. He’s done it before, shucking off your affection like something to be disposed of. And still you give it to him freely, begging him to take it.

He doesn’t shy away from you. Instead you feel him nod, mouth brushing tenderly across your throat in the ghost of a kiss. “If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won’t… I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You hug him tighter. “Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung.”

“Where’s your other half?” the voice causes you to turn from where you lean against the bar. Angel slides up next to you, cocking her head as she does. She looks like a wraith, dressed in a rain slicker over black long-sleeved shirt that’s tucked into black pants. Her jacket and combat boots are wet, suggesting it’s still raining outside. “You’re usually attached at the hip. My therapist calls that codependency. Says Hansol and I have it too.”

“Does your therapist also know you’re a murderer?” you mutter. The bartender slides drinks over to you and you nod in thanks. “Or that you’re only seeing her because Jeonghan made a bet with you? Or that your job often involves extortion? What does she think about that?”

As a Rook of the Choi Syndicate, Angel’s job is a far cry from the holy nickname she’s sported since she was a child. Like Vernon, her role within your father’s empire is to collect debts owed to the Choi family and to remind them never to fall behind on payments. Other times, she’s simply used as a good tool to put the fear of god into enemies of the Choi family, and she’s good at it.

Raised under the careful tutelage of the Yoon family, there’s no weakness Angel can’t find and use. The only one better at it than her is her step brother, who is probably sitting next to your brother behind closed doors somewhere in the Choi Estate holding a meeting.

As Seungcheol’s future second in command, it’s Jeonghan’s responsibility to learn the ropes just like your brother. One day, it’ll be the two of them leading your family, a thought that makes you cringe with worry.

Angel answers your question with a shrug. “I’m sure she knows I’m into some shit. I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I don’t like therapy. And I kind of want to ask my therapist why she thinks she’s qualified for therapy when she’s fucking three of her clients.”

A snort escapes you as you shake your head. Of course Angel knows that about her own therapist. Lifting the two drinks on the bar, you drift away from her, eyes flicking over the Rook. “Stay out of trouble, Angel. And give Vernon my love.”

She grins, wicked sharp and deadly. “No bar fights, hmm? Enjoy the party.”

The party in question is exhausting. You’ve been playing pretty princess all night, saying hello to all of the right people, shaking all of the jeweled hands, kissing all of the right asses. You’re exhausted and the tension in your shoulder has been knotting further and further.

Once upon a time you would have been thankful to at least not be Seungcheol. He shouldered a lot more responsibility. Now you’ve realized that you don’t shoulder less than him - it’s just different. If Seungcheol is the sword and shield of the Syndicate, you’re the face and smile. Galas, charities, celebrity events - it’s a never ending stream of smile, pose, shake hands.

It doesn’t hide the fact that you sit on a throne that belongs to a criminal empire, of course. But it’s also no secret that the Three Syndicates run the city. Your family has long been one of the stalwart backbones of the government and city infrastructure. Only the Kim family and the Yong family come close.

Still, appearances are everything. Especially when the Yong family owns most of the media outlets, weaponizing it against the Choi Syndicate every chance they get. You make it harder for them, using your appearances and platforms like a carefully wielded sword.

Spotting Soonyoung among those dressed in dark security uniforms is easy. He nearly blends in with the dark pipe and drape that has been set up all over the ballroom of your home, but you could find him anywhere, your internal compass pointing to him even in the dark.

Soonyoung’s eyes alight on you, sharp and intense. His face is a cool mask of indifference, but you can see the way interest sparks in his eyes as he drinks you in. He’s already seen you in your dress tonight, but it doesn’t stop him from refamiliarizing himself, eyes tracing every dip and curve.

God you wish you were somewhere else with him. Specifically wrapped in the gray sheets of his bed, sweat-slicked and out of breath.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you say shyly, handing him a drink.

He takes it and looks up at you, arching a brow. “I can’t drink this, I’m working.”

“It’s just soda with lime, the way you like it.”

His lips twitch in a smile as he takes a sip, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t reach out to you and hold you close like you know he wants to, respecting the propriety of his position and the fact that he is on the clock right now.

“You look tired,” he murmurs, eyes studying your face.

So does he. As an official Sword of the Choi family, his job keeps him out late, bloodied, and tired. He’s completely changed from the man who sank into your arms that first night he killed someone, hardened into someone that your father sends to do just that often.

A weapon. A Sword. A trusted knife in the dark for the Choi family.

You think Soonyoung is more capable than being a heavy for your dad and his associates. Soonyoung is intelligent and sharp, having gained perspective and a wealth of knowledge from living with your family. Still, his dad had been the leader of the hired guns for the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung is an efficient killer, his fate bound by his father long ago.

“When are you off tonight?” you ask instead of telling him how tired he looks.

“I’m not.” You frown. He sips his drink again and gives you a soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been busy. The Yong family are getting in our way at the docks. I gotta head down there with Vernon and Jeonghan after the party.”

“The Yongs are doing it outright?”

“No. We’re pretty confident it’s them though. Jeonghan is working on it. If we can bring the Xu family under our wing, it would be a lot easier to push them out.”

“They have a son,” you note, thinking about the last event you attended where the Xu heir was in attendance. “Maybe marriage to one of our big hitters? Nexus Capital has an heiress.”

“I’ll mention it to Jeonghan. Who the fuck would want an arranged marriage, though?”

“Not me,” you laugh, wiping the eyelash you spot on his cheek gently. He gives you a tired, albeit affectionate smile. “You’ve been working nonstop. Tell Seungcheol you need a night off.”

“We both know it’s not Seungcheol working me to the bone, Baby.”

Swallowing thickly, you turn away from him under the guise of scanning the crowd. You know you don’t fool him. Both you and Soongyoung know your father does not approve of your relationship, taking it out on Soonyoung to keep him busy and away from you.

Your father would never hurt Soonyoung directly. You know that. He loves him like a son - sees his late best friend in the features of the man that Soonyoung has been shaped into under his care and tutelage. When you started dating Soonyoung seriously, you thought your parents might be happy. They adore him and they loved his parents just as much.

Soonyoung is below your station, though.

Your father will never say it outright. He wouldn’t insult his late friend’s son that way. But the way your father works Soonyoung harder than anyone else, holding him to a standard he doesn’t even keep for his highest level of men, you realize how deep the dissatisfaction goes. Even your mother’s adoration of Soonyoung does little to shield him from the petty assignments, try as she might.

Still, you don’t care. And at the end of the day, neither does Soonyoung. As long as he gets to have you, he’s willing to put up with the petty assignments and the working late.

“Hey,” Soonyoung says gently, bringing your attention back to him. He finishes his drink and sets it on a banquet table nearby. His eyes are averted, looking somewhere across the room as his hand slips around your waist to squeeze you quickly and press a kiss to your temple. “I’ve got to go - I’ve got a meeting with Vernon before we head out tonight. I’ll see you when I’m done. Probably won’t be until late morning.”

“Alright,” You sigh. His hand slips from your waist and you wish you could pull him back to you. “Love you.”

He grins brightly, giving you a wink before he melts into the crowd, weaving around party goers. Your heart squeezes when you lose sight of him.

Someone clearing their throat catches your attention. You spin around to see Lan, one of your father’s personal Swords nodding politely at you. “Your father wishes to see you in the West Parlor. I’m to escort you.”

“Oh. Sure.” You set your drink down on the banquet table, wiping your damp hands on your dress. “Lead the way.”

People bow their heads in respect as you go. You keep an even pace with Lan, which is hard to do with his long strides and your strappy heels digging into your ankles. He slows for your benefit and you give him a grateful smile, the swelling noise from the party leaving you behind as you step out of the ballroom and walk toward the west wing of the house.

Some people mill about the halls of the estate. You can spot the members of the Syndicate who are on duty, mostly Swords that belong to the security force employed under the Choi family. You spot Chan leaning against a wall while gesturing broadly with his hands as he speaks to the owner of a new club on the edge of the Pearl District. When he catches your stare, Chan winks before focusing his attention back on the owner. Probably trying to work out some sort of deal or partnership, as is his job.

The west wing of the house is quiet and off limits to the rest of the party. Your bedroom is just up two flights of stairs, your bed calling your name as you pass under the stairwell into the hallway that belongs to the West Parlor, the library, the study and your father’s billiards room.

Old Man Vero is standing outside your fathers study, his hands linked in front of him and his head straight forward. He glances your way as Lan leans you toward the door, cracking a bit of a smile on his leathery face and giving you a wink. You grin, lightly reaching out and touching his elbow as Lan opens the door for you. Your father’s Swords have been in your life since you were a child, permanent figures of fixed loyalty and familiarity.

They love you like they love your father, like they love your brother. It isn’t pure fear and power that keeps the Choi Syndicate together. Your father has plenty of that among the ranks, but the loyalty and love between him and his higher ranking members is real. Critical. It was a skill he taught you and Seungcheol, both of you arming yourself with your own shield of friends and confidants.

Your father sits in a leather armchair, leaned back with his eyes closed. Next to him, a cigar smokes in the ashtray, threatening to go out as the thin wisps of smoke vanish into the air. An old fashioned record player echoes in the far corner of the room, smoothe notes vibrating through the air.

“Tower,” you greet him formally, bowing at the waist. “How can I be of service to the family?”

His eyes flutter open and he looks at you tiredly. He looks so much like your brother that it’s uncanny, sometimes. But his youth has worn off, his age more and more evident these days as he spreads himself thin expanding the Choi empire. Your mother has asked him - begged him - to give more responsibility to Seungcheol, but he refuses.

At least you know where your stubborn streak comes from.

“So formal,” he notes, his lips twitching upward. He gestured for you to sit in one of the arm chairs. You do, smoothing your dress carefully as you sit. Behind you, Lan exits the room, the soft click of the door behind you. “You were always a better student than your brother.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

A hearty laugh makes you grin, feeling a flutter of fondness. He was never an overly affectionate father, but he’s always been kind, though firm. You respect him, which is saying something in your world.

“Spoken like an intelligent woman,” he sighs. You wait patiently, watching as he seems to gather his words. Your stomach knots, sensing a trepidation about him that you’re not used to. “Your intelligence has always been your best asset, though you’re a little hot-headed like your brother.”

“Steadfast is the mountain,” you say, quoting the Choi family motto.

He grins and adds your mother’s family moniker, “But the fire does burn. I knew marrying your mother was a good choice. Marrying the right person is paramount in this life. Family unions can make or break an empire, and they forge old alliances anew or secure new alliances.”

A prickle down your spine makes you sit straighter. You had implied as much earlier to Soonyoung about the Xu family, knowing marriage was a viable option to bring the shipping mogul into the Choi empire. Now, though, the notion has you on edge, watching him like a frightened cat.

“I didn’t pick your mother, you know,” he muses, his eyes unfocusing somewhere far away. “But when my father recommended her, I knew he was right. I was familiar with her, of course. We went to school together. Fought like cats, but she was so intelligent and fierce.”

You’ve heard this story before. Your father hadn’t loved her to start, but your mother had loved him right away. Had always known that she loved him. She’d shown up at one of his billiard nights and told him exactly how she felt, asserting that they would be married and that he would be loyal to her.

He’d fallen in love with her that night.

He sighs heavily. “I see a lot of your mother in you.”

“Don’t let her hear you sound so disappointed. She might be offended.”

“She’s better than me,” he says. His eyes focus on you, flicking back to appraise you. Sweat slicks on your back and only years of training keep you from not fidgeting under his weighty gaze. “But it would be easier sometimes if you were more like me. Less fire, more mountain. Still, you are rational, so let us speak plainly: you are going to marry the Kim family heir.”

Silence hangs in the air. You stare at him, your brain taking a moment to catch up with his words. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, processing the firmness in his voice, the way he looks at you with heavy countenance.

You are going to marry the Kim family heir.

A high-pitched ringing starts in your ears and you feel the buzz of panic start to tingle at the base of your spine. Your fingers dig into the arms of your chair a little, trying to fight the staccato rhythm of your heart from getting out of control.

“What?” you ask. It feels dumb, compared to the eloquence you’re capable of.

“Kim Yijun is a perfect match,” he says simply. “He’s in line to inherit the Kim Syndicate. There is tension with the Yong family, and I will not lie to you: they have a far larger reach than we would like. They don’t do things the old way like the Choi and Kim families. They have started to ally themselves with the Arash family in Veridian, giving them cuts and room in our city to spread their reach outside the bounds of their own city.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Kim and Choi families have been united before. They’ve always been our first ally in times of city upheaval and Syndicate war, and they, like us, don’t believe in letting outsiders have a seat at the table. The Yong family don’t understand that, and are willing to let vermin have scraps if it means scooting us out.”

“I’m-” you shake your head. “You can’t ask that of me.”

“I’m not asking.” He reaches for a lighter and picks up the cigar. He takes a moment to relight it, taking his focus off of you. You feel your pulse spiking, your grip on the chair like iron. “I am telling you that this is what your future will be. I understand you like the Kwon boy, but-”

You sneer, baring your teeth. “The Kwon boy? Don’t reduce him to some stranger. Soonyoung grew up in this house, he is family. And I don’t just like him, I love him. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you bullying him because you’re frustrated that I love him. You love him too.”

“I do. I love him like my own. But he is not for you.”

“He is. I will not marry Yijun. I am asking you not as a member of this Syndicate, but as your daughter to drop this machination from your plans. I am your blood, you cannot ask this of me.”

“I told you, I am not asking. I am telling you.”

A tremor starts in your hands. Your heart races so fast that you feel sick, sweat slicking your skin as you begin to pant sharply. The ringing in your ears grows until you feel disconnected to it, like suddenly you’re living in third person. You’re aware that you’re hyperventilating and yet, suddenly it’s separate from you.

Standing abruptly, you feel the world tilt. You take a second to steady yourself, feeling the numb tingle spread throughout you like a flood.

“Sit down,” your father demands. You hear the warning. Recognize the firmness in it. This is the Tower of the Choi Syndicate speaking, not your father.

“Take this as my resignation from the family,” you tell him. Your voice doesn’t feel like your own, steady and without inflection. “I’ll renounce my inheritance and will not use the Choi family for any connection or advantages-”

“You will not!”

His voice startles you. Lures you away from the safety of your detachment. You look at him, eyes wide and shaking. His hand is fisted on the armchair, his rage crackling around him like a thunderstorm. “I will not have my only daughter sabotage everything this family has built for the affection of someone unfit for her station. Kwon Soonyoung is a weapon meant to serve you. You will marry Kim Yijun or I will remove the obstacle altogether.”

Your entire life there have been two versions of your father. The stoic leader of one of the oldest criminal empires in Hyperion, the vicious man who could be cold and calculating, and who was reverently feared by his enemies. The kind father who watched you and Seungcheol study math together, carefully explaining to you how to carry numbers over in the equation.

It is the former who sits before you now. Someone entirely unfamiliar to you, though you’ve always known he existed. And why would you? Your father has never had to be ruthless with you before, hiding the way he could cut from you until it was necessary.

Soonyoung knew. You know it with absolute clarity. You remember the fear in his eyes when you had slipped into his room that night asking for a kiss, the way that he is always so careful about when and where he touches you, the way he takes the assignments and the mistreatment without so much as a protest because it means he gets to have you.

“You would kill him?” you whisper, looking your father in the eye. “You promised to take him in when his family was murdered. He had no one, and you promised his father you’d raise him as your own. You would go back on that?”

He scowls. “If his father knew what he was, he’d kill Soonyoung himself. That boy is a dog to be set upon whoever his owner wishes, who kills with impunity.” You say nothing. I don’t feel like a person. Soonyoung’s words echo in your mind, haunting. “I hold the collar and I will put him down, if need be.”

“So you raised a pet to be disposed of at your convenience?”

“I raised a boy who should be grateful I haven’t put him in the fucking ground for sullying my only daughter. I let you two have time, and you should be grateful. It is my love for him that has stayed my hand this long. No more. You will marry Kim Yijun, or you will bury that boy. This is the command of your Tower.”

“Mother will not let you-”

“Your mother doesn’t let me do anything. I am the Tower of this family, and it does what I command. You will fall in line.”

Tears spill from your eyes. You suddenly feel like you’re standing on a cliff, the vertigo of nothingness at the bottom making you sick with fear. Desperation grips at you as you stare at your father, willing him to change his mind. Begging him.

His pity doesn’t come. There is only resolute silence, watching as you crumple in front of him, knees going weak as you abruptly sit - fall - on the floor. You bury your face in your hands, grief for something lost stealing your ability to maintain control before you’ve even given an answer.

I’m not made for you.

Soonyoung had tried to tell you a long time ago and you’d brushed him off. Of course he was made for you. He was all you’ve ever wanted, and you’ve always been given what you wanted. You made him whole, and he you. How could you not be made for one another.

“Please don’t do this to me. Daddy,” you whisper, trying to appeal to him with the little girl he loves. “Please, I love him.”

“Lan will escort you to your room.” You ignore his words, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the tears to stop. You know later you’ll feel pathetic for the display of emotion, for the meltdown in the face of adversity. “You will announce your engagement at the end of the week.”

“Yes, Tower.”

“If you so much as remotely try to sneak around with him, I will put him in the ground and bear the weight of that grief for eternity.”

“Yes, Tower.”

“Know that I love you. We must make sacrifices for this family we wish not to. But you will make the sacrifice like I have so many times before. So will Soonyoung.”

You stand, limbs shaky as you look at your father, the heat of your mother’s rage fueling your gaze. “Yes, Tower.”

Sleep claws at you with greedy fingers, unwilling to give you up to the waking light of day. You groan, suspended in that moment of almost awake but achingly unaware. A brush of warm skin on your arm pulls you the rest of the way from heavy sleep, your thoughts sticky as they formulate and you open your eyes, squinting in the gray light of your room.

Squinting at the clock displayed on your nightstand, you realize it’s late morning. The tinted windows of your room keep out the sunlight, but a single panel has been adjusted to let some of the cloudy day in, a single shaft of gray spilling into your room like muddy water.

Warmth presses behind your back, the steady touch on your arm trailing up and down. For a second, you lean back into it, feeling your head thud against Soonyoung’s chest, his mouth pressing against the crown of your head. He drags his fingers up and down your arm absently, light as a feather. He smells like soap, a hint of his familiar vanilla and sandalwood.

“Have trouble sleeping?” the words are mumbled against you.

“Hmm?”

“There’s lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby.”

You look at the nightstand. Sure enough, the white pills you crushed are dusted across the surface. The reality of why you used them slams into you so suddenly that you stiffen, muscles locking.

Soonyoung notices immediately, his touch stilling. “What?”

Finding the words is impossible. You don’t know where to start, your father’s words make you dizzy. The sheets stick to your skin, Soonyoung’s warmth too hot to stand. You scramble from bed, kicking at the sheets and putting distance between you as you bolt toward the bathroom.

“Hey,” he calls after you. You don’t turn to look at him, the cool tile giving you goosebump as the lights flicker on. You close the door behind you firmly, pressing your back against it. Soonyoung’s knocks are immediate, his voice calling your name on the other side. “What’s wrong?”

The use of your name sours your stomach. You lurch forward, diving for the toilet as the contents of your stomach empty. The bile burns, your eyes watering as you press against the cold porcelain, clinging to it for life.

Soonyoung opens the door, letting himself in as you heave again. He’s quick to react, opening the medicine cabinet to remove an anti-nausea inhalent. He wordlessly pads over to you, crouching down to extend it toward you.

You avoid looking at him directly in the eye as you snatch it from him. His brows are pinched in concern, face swollen with what little sleep he got and mouth turned downward. Your stomach roils again but holds as you crack the inhalent and wave it under your nose, breathing in gently.

The stimulant makes your eyes water, but immediately the churning in your stomach subsides. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in and out slowly, trying to regulate yourself. Soonyoung watches in silence, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he wants to reach out and touch you but doesn’t.

When you open your eyes, there is so much love and concern on his face that you almost break right then and there. Instead, you clear your throat and straighten, tossing the medication in the trash.

“Thanks, just hungover. I need to shower.”

He looks doubtful. “Alright.”

Soonyoung stands, heading to the shower. You clear your throat and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Alone, please.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just want to shower.”

He says your name again. Not Baby. Not any other derivative. Your name. “You can talk to me.”

Your heart cracks. You panic. Your brain races for the only viable option. “I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung.” You push yourself off the ground, scowling at him. He moves out of your way as you pass him, stunned to silence. “I don’t need you crowding my space every five seconds.”

Refusing to look at him as you hit the panel in the wall, you instead focus on the water that falls from the ceiling, a storm of heat and the smell of peppermint. You keep your back turned toward him, staring at the water as it heats, steam curling in tendrils where it hits the stone tiles.

“You can go,” you say sharply.

“Alright.”

The gentle click of the door when he leaves is barely audible over the hum of the shower. You let the rushing water lull you into a state of numbness, peeling your clothes off with unsteady, mechanical movements.

Hot water slicks off your shoulders. You close your eyes and hang your head, letting the feel of the peppering water sluice over your ears, eyes, nose, mouth. You let it blind your senses to nothing but the roar of water, blotting out everything else.

If I stay right now, you will never get me to leave.

You remember when Soonyoung whispered it against your skin just a few years ago, spoken carefully and clearly, a promise and a warning. He would never let you go. You had to let him go. Telling him what your father has asked of you - has threatened to take away from you - will only make Soonyoung’s feet dig in further.

For as long as you’ve known him, Soonyoung has been a covetous creature. You remember the night at the club he antagonized you just to see that spark of want, just to prove to himself it was him you wanted. You remember the way he clung to you in the dark of your bedroom, the only person who could ever make him whole. Who could make him feel.

Your father sees Soonyoung as a loyal attack dog - but it isn’t the Tower of the Choi Syndicate who holds Soonyoung’s collar. It never has been. Soonyoung has never asked your father how high.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you start deep breathing exercises. In through your nose, out through your mouth. The shaking in your fingers begins to subside, the logic part of your brain turning on.

The threat on Soonyoung’s life is real. You saw the resolve in your father’s eye, the painful glint. He would hate to do it, but he would do it. You’re entwined too deep into your family’s affairs and business to vanish. There is nothing in the world you have that’s your own, no assets that are not connected to them in some way.

And if you tell Soonyoung, he’ll face the problem like he does everything that stands in his way: try to kill it.

For a split moment, your brain chases the thought like a mouse after cheese. Like a long math problem, you work out if it’s possible to commit patricide and get away with it. Your mother will never forgive you, but Seungcheol might. Your friends would - they’re loyal to you, especially Jeonghan and Angel.

The older generation, though-

You toss aside the thought almost as quickly as you thought of it - not because you don’t want to kill your father, but because it isn’t possible. Not just like that. There are too many pieces on the chessboard, too many domino effects spreading out in every direction if you take that route.

No. There is only a single path for you, set in motion by a hand with more power than you.

And there’s only one way you can move forward with Soonyoung.

There’s so much of your mother’s side of the family you’ve inherited. Her side has always been associated with the phoenix, the burning immortality of their name and their strength, a blazing glory. Your maternal relatives have always been the rage and the fire that was needed for a Syndicate to advance, a good partnership for the Choi’s who were cold and steadfast.

What you need now is the winter of the mountain, not the rage of the phoenix. You need to be a Choi.

Steadfast is the mountain.

You love Soonyoung. You love him you love him you love him youlovehimyoulovehimyoulovehimYOULOVEHIMYOULOVEHIM-

Pressing your fist to your mouth, you bite down for one, blinding moment of untapped rage. You feel your skin break, taste iron and salt, feel pain bloom.

Steadfast is the mountain.

Then it’s gone. You drop your hand from your mouth. Open your eyes. Turn off the shower. The rage is gone, buried beneath a layer of newly formed ice. If there is anyone you can do this for, it’s Soonyoung. You love him. You will destroy him. But he’ll be alive.

Soonyoung is sitting on your bed when you open the door. He’s got a tablet in his hand, the holographic images displaying above the screen, haloing his face in blue light. There are circles under his eyes and his teeth worry at his bottom lip, which is chapped. He’s shirtless, the compact planes of his body half shadowed by the single shaft of light filtering through a window.

He looks up at you but you ignore him, heading to your closet. The silence is brutal. You push through it, opening the closet doors to reveal a massive space nearly the same size of your bathroom. Track lights kick on, rows and rows of clothes by color greeting you. In the middle, there is an island counter, filled with drawers and biolocked jewelry safes.

Soft steps tell you Soonyoung is standing at the entrance of the closet. You still don’t face him, walking over to your section of black clothes. You flick through them, eyes scanning. Black seems appropriate. It feels like death, afterall.

Soonyoung’s voice is soft as his late night kisses. “What’s going on?”

“I’m marrying Kim Yijun.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“Is that supposed to be a joke? I’m not interested in pranks this morning.”

“It’s not a prank.” You pull out a black, silk dress. “The Tower has asked this of me, and I’ll be doing it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You continue, undeterred as you put the dress back and keep looking. “The Kim family has agreed to the match ahead of the rising tensions with the Yong Syndicate and their new take on foreign allies. A united front of the old families will benefit our family-”

“You’re not fucking marrying Kim Yijun.”

“All of the metrics we’ve run for public opinion and potential city-wide reaction are favorable. The Tower needs his children to fall in line, and I intend to do so.”

Soonyoung storms toward you. You turn on your heel, holding a finger out to him, voice severe, “Don’t come near me.”

“Why? Because you know you’ll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you’ll drop whatever bravado this is and let me help you?”

Exactly that. He knows you inside and out. Sees through the front. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need him to believe you, you need him to obey.

He takes another step and you back up. “I will scream,” you threaten, venom in your voice. “I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they’ll take, with your reputation for violence?”

“Fuck you, they know I’d never hurt you.”

You hear the waver in his voice. That tiny sliver of doubt, so small and tiny but there. They do know he would never hurt you, but Soonyoung isn’t convinced they’d believe him. It makes you sick, but you latch onto it, unspooling that tiny bit of hurt. “Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?”

Soonyoung is raging. His chest rising and falling, shaking his head back and forth as he tries to understand. You’re rooted to the spot, muscles coiled, pulse thudding in your throat. “You are not,” he growls. “Marrying Kim Yijun. You don’t even want to, don’t try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine.”

“I belong to the Choi family and it’s what my family needs from me. I will do my duty.”

“Fuck your family!” His roar makes you flinch, briefly closing your eyes. His palm slams on the top of the countertop in front of him, sharp in the silence. “You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You’re not doing it. I’ll fucking kill him, you think I won’t? I’ll murder every last one of them-”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung. I will do this, and you will obey.” He bristles, going rigid as your words land like a slap. “When I say jump, you say how high. You’ve always known that.”

For a second, he cracks. The Soonyoung you first saw on your doorstep, crying and round-cheeked and ruddy returns. His lip trembles and the way he looks at you nearly melts your iron will. You’re so close to collapsing, to laying it out before him, to risking it all.

“Don’t do this to me.” His whisper is made of glass. Delicate. He presses his palm to his chest, right over his heart. Earnest. “I can’t - you know I can’t. I- please. I can’t do this.”

Licking your lips, you look him in the eyes. His eyes are your favorite. Dark. Stormy. Endless. They are lined with silver, panic rippling across the surface.

You lift your chin and push back your shoulders. “You can and you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high.”

Sunlight warms the back of your neck, humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. You take a deep breath, though the steamy air offers no relief. You snap open a silk fan, waving it in front of your face in hopes of chasing away some of the sweat, feeling the separation between skin and makeup the longer you sit in the wretched heat of the garden.

It’s not even real sunlight or heat. You can’t tell beyond the projection in the room, but you know that there are vents heating up the room and controls that make the air humid and sticky, making it feel like you’re sitting in a real garden outside somewhere lush.

Lin drones on and on about something. You tuned her out long ago, eyes flickering back and forth to your watch and the women’s faces around you. None of them here are really your friend - not in the way Angel is, the way Wonwoo or Jeonghan are.

Yet you’re expected to be here, entertaining the upper echelon wives of the Choi and Kim Syndicates, boiling away in an imaginary garden while you sweat to death, dress clinging to your skin and thighs slippery in the seat as you adjust yourself, uncomfortable.

“It’s hot as a motherfucker,” a whispered voice comes from next to you. You look up to see the newly engaged heiress of Nexus Capital next to you, glaring behind the dark shade of her sunglasses as Lin continues rambling about something. “Couldn’t she have made it less real?”

A smirk twitches on your lips. You haven’t spoken to her much, but her recent engagement to Xu Minghao had secured the position the Choi Syndicate had been fighting for in the shipping yards and docks with the Yong family, elevating her family into the favored circle of your father.

Suddenly, you remember who had recommended that marriage in the first place. You remember the party, the pretty dress you wore, Soonyoung’s hand briefly on your waist as he kissed you goodbye for a meeting. You had no idea then that your throwaway comment about an arranged marriage to benefit your family would become your own nightmare under an hour later.

Grief is a funny thing. You never knew that you could feel grief for someone who isn’t dead, yet sometimes you feel such an overwhelming amount of grief at the hole that Soonyoung has left behind that you can’t breathe.

Throat dry, you reach for water, drinking eagerly. You feel a bead of water run down your face, but you ignore it in favor of trying to focus on not panicking.

Anxiety attacks are new for you. Though your entire life has been colored with stressful situations unique to growing up in a criminal Syndicate, you could never say that you were anxious before. At least not in the way that made the back of your neck too hot and the tips of your fingers buzz with the threat of a looming meltdown.

You ignore it. It’s all you know how to do. The anxiety medication your therapist gave you doesn't work, and you can’t crush a bunch of pills and inhale them anytime you feel like you’re about to get tunnel vision and spiral.

Well, you suppose you can, but you’re trying not to get into the habit.

Instead of acknowledging the way the panic lurks around your edges like a predator waiting to pounce, you listen to the dull conversation around you. Focus on the gossip that you don’t care about, exactly, but know it’s good to have.

Since marrying into the Kim family, you’re not sure what your job is. With your family, your role as the face, the legacy and the representation of the Choi Syndicate had always been clear and obvious. Now, your husband sends you to stupid things like this with preening people that you don’t like and makes you leave events early when he’s irritable.

Gossip is a weapon, though. So you gather it when you can, taking in bits of information and storing it for yourself. Rarely do you offer it to Yijun - not that he would take it - but Jeonghan finds the information you share useful. So does Angel, but there’s rarely anything you know that she doesn’t.

Just as your anxiety begins to fade, the source of it materializes.

At first, you think you’re seeing things when a door appears in the wall depicting an apple orchard and Soonyoung strolls out into the fake-sun. You blink dumbly, spine tingling as you realize that your mind is not playing tricks on you and it is him.

He sees you immediately. His dark eyes burn like embers, pinning you to the spot. His face remains motionless but you see his jaw tick, the only sign that he is immediately on edge when he sees you. He’s dressed for work in an all black suit, required for the Swords of the Choi family.

Giggles breakout around the table as he approaches, the ladies around you all flushed cheeks and demure smiles. You feel the buzzing start in your hands again, this time worse. It goes up your arms, working its way to your chest as the anxiety increases tenfold, heart pounding.

Soonyoung bows. “I beg your pardon, ladies.”

“My goodness, Soonyoung,” Lin preens. “You must be horribly hot in that suit, but you do look handsome.”

You fight the urge to snarl at her that the imitation of the garden isn’t real and no amount of pretending will make it real. You even imagine reaching across the table and plunging her fish knife into her hand. Instead, you watch Soonyoung, your hummingbird heart fluttering.

He gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I apologize for interrupting, but the Tower of the Choi family has sent me to escort his daughter home.”

“Home?”

“The Choi Estate.”

He doesn’t say what he means: the Kim Estate is not your home.

“Alright,” you say, voice reedy. Your hands are trembling as you slide your chair from the table, the metal legs grinding loudly against concrete. You flinch at the sound, hyper aware of every bead of sweat crawling down your spine, every beat of your heart that is too fast, too hard.

Static fills you as you mumble parting words to the women who watch you in confusion. At least, you think you mumble your goodbyes. Blood rushes in your ears as you take uneven steps toward Soonyoung, who turns on his heel and starts marching toward the apple orchard.

It feels like you’re in an echo chamber. Everything suddenly feels hollow and everything sounds as though you’re hearing it through a thin wall. Muted. Dull. He opens the door that you can’t quite spot even this close, ushering you inside as your vision starts tunneling to a narrow point, everything else blurry and distorted.

No. No no no no no.

Lifting your hands, you glance down at them to see them trembling, opening and closing your fists in an attempt to stop the buzzing feeling, as though you could will it away. You think Soonyoung says something but you can’t hear him over the roar of panic that grips you and tears you sideways.

Instead of following him down the hall, you lurch toward a different hall, rushing toward the powder room. It feels like the walls are narrowing as you throw open the door, breath coming out in pants. Everything feels tight and compact, crushing smaller still.

Stumbling to the sink you try to turn the faucet on. Once. Twice. Cold water spits from the faucet and you gasp, leaning down over the sink to splash freezing water into your face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, the water is not cool enough to shock you out of your panic.

Soonyoung speaks behind you. You can’t hear him, the grip of your anxiety so strong that you grab the edges of the sink to keep you up right. You’re heaving now, heart rattling so hard you think that maybe you’re having a heart attack instead.

A firm grip wretches your attention from the porcelain sink to the mirror, where you see your dripping reflection, eyes blown like saucers. Soonyoung is standing behind you, a hand on your bicep, squeezing. His face is no longer a mask of indifference, but one of confusion.

His mouth moves and you shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “I can’t,” you gasp, ragged. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Then, he does something that catches you entirely off guard. You watch in slow motion as he steps back and removes the gun from the holster underneath his suit jacket. You hear the safety on the gun click and the hum as the weapon charges, ready to fire rounds of plasma if he squeezes the trigger.

And then he points the gun at your head, the lights on it flipping from blue to red, signaling it’s ready to kill.

The world stops. The panic vanishes for a split second, replaced with utter shock as you stare at him in the mirror.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you demand, voice stronger than you expect.

Soonyoung is ten levels of crazy, but he’s never pointed a gun at you before. You stare at him, open-mouthed and wondering if he’ll do it. If he could pull the trigger. He’d told you a hundred times when you were together that he would never let you go and it was always with clarity that you understood what he meant: it’s me or no one.

With stark clarity, you realize there’s no reason for Soonyoung not to pull the trigger. He doesn’t care much about the value of his own life from what you can glean over the last two years, and he doesn’t really seem to care about yours.

Not that he should. You promised to make him feel human and you did. Then you took it away from him, leaving him adrift in a vast ocean of nothing alone and untethered.

No, you don’t think you inspire Soonyoung to feel human anymore. If anything, you probably make him want to be the worst version of himself.

Soonyoung’s voice holds no emotion when he asks, “Are you with me?”

“Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“Breathe,” he says instead. He doesn’t lower the weapon, stormy eyes focused on yours. “Breathe,” he repeats. “Slowly, maybe.”

“Soonyoung, you are holding a gun at me, what do you mean breathe?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? I mean what I fucking said. Breathe normally.”

“Lower the gun!” He does. “What the fuck?”

He breaks eye contact, sliding the weapon back into his suit jacket. He turns away from you as though he didn’t have you at gunpoint a second ago. “You were having a panic attack. Sometimes a shock to the system stalls it. Your breathing has slowed down now. And you’re not panicking.”

A beat of silence passes. Then, “So you leveled a gun at my head?”

“It worked. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Yes. Now let’s go. You’re needed at the Choi Estate.”

“Why?”

“Do I look like I have all the answers? I just do what I’m told. When a Choi says jump, remember?”

You visibly flinch as his words land. Soonyoung doesn’t wait for you to gather yourself, spinning on his heel and exiting the powder room to stride through the halls. Tightness gathers in your chest, left over from your anxiety attack.

Pressing your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them, you chase after Soonyoung. He’s already by the apartment’s elevator, jamming his finger into the button. He doesn’t look at you as he waits, content to stare at the metal door.

You don’t know where else to look - you want to look anywhere but him. Turning around, you fixate on the floor to ceiling windows. It’s still morning outside, but it’s hard to tell with the way the clouds block out the view, turning everything to mist.

This high up in the city is reserved for the elite. You can’t imagine why - there’s nothing to look at but clouds, clouds, and more clouds. It’s what makes them have virtual reality rooms in the first place, trying to recreate the experience that they might have if they were wealthy enough to own land.

The sound of the elevator arriving makes you flinch. Soonyoung ignores you, getting in and leaning against the wall as he hits a button to go to the parking garage. You scramble in after him, a little breathless as the doors close just behind you.

Immediately you start shooting down several floors. He glares at the wall, unseeing and unfeeling. You swallow thickly, watching the numbers decrease until you’re at Lin’s private parking garage. Soonyoung is out of the elevator before it finishes opening all the way, storming toward the car he’s left running idle.

Normally someone would open a car door for you. Instead, Soonyoung gets in the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. You reach for the handle of the passenger seat and pause. Normally you sit in the back when being driven somewhere, it’s always been like that. But this is Soonyoung and you’ve always been beside him in the car, his equal.

A muffled get in the fucking car reaches you. Deciding that sitting next to him is too personal, you open the back seat and slide in. You’ve barely shut the door when he punches the gas, slamming you into the back of the seat as he goes.

“Would you stop being an asshole?” you seethe, ripping the seatbelt from next to you to buckle in. Your hands are still shaking and it takes a moment for the clasp to click.

Instead of answering, you hear the way the car accelerates under his foot. Scowling, you look out the window. He speeds into the lift that brings the car down to the ground floor. Lights blur by as the lift drops at lurching speed, your stomach in your throat. You hate coming to apartments for this reason, the feeling of having to freefall to leave never growing on you.

It’s raining when the lift opens to the wet street. Soonyoung peels out on the pavement, tires spinning until they gain traction and the car slides onto the road, narrowly missing someone. You slam against the seatbelt, cursing and clinging onto the door as he pushes the gas down, engine roaring.

“Are you trying to kill us?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer you. You think it might be because he’s not explicitly trying to kill the two of you, but he doesn’t care if he does. You try not to think about it so much as he powers through the streets of the Upper City, driving past towering businesses, luxury districts with entertainment and bars and apartment buildings.

The road starts to incline and you hit a line of trees. The city vanishes behind you as Soonyoung drives the car up the winding road, leaving a world of metal and lights for greenery and earth. The contrast between the cities below and the Estates above is stark, especially as he drive’s higher up the mountain, snatches of the city below visible.

“Why did you come to get me?” you ask, flicking your gaze to the rearview mirror to watch him. Soonyoung keeps his eyes on the road, but you see his mouth tighten. “Last I checked you’re not an errand boy.”

“So what, you check on me?”

“It’s a figure of speech, you know what I mean.”

“The Tower personally requested I come get you.”

That gives you pause. Soonyoung’s face reveals nothing as he turns on the street that will inevitably lead to the massive metal wall that blocks off the world from the Choi Estate. There can only be a single reason why Soonyoung was sent to fetch you when usually your husband’s staff would do so.

“What’s happened?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer your question. Instead, he rolls the window down at the guard house to show his face. The security team recognizes him immediately, waving him through as the gate begins to slide open to reveal lush, green jungle.

Gravel crunches underneath the car tires as he drives through the winding foliage on Choi grounds. Your great-great-grandfather had built the Choi compound, the first of the few elite houses on the mountain. He thought it was important to keep the plant life and sprawling greenery to conserve, but you knew it was really about power. Symbolism. Greenery didn’t really exist in the city, and this much space and plantlife meant wealth.

The sprawling estate you grew up in reveals itself. Multiple buildings dot the property, making it more a family compound than an estate. Now that Seungcheol is old enough, he’s moved out of the main house and into one of the smaller homes, occupying the space with his own men and staff. Still, he’s just a brief stroll away from your childhood home.

Home. Even two years under a Kim family banner hasn’t erased the feeling of home for you. There is nothing in the house you share with Yijun that makes it feel like you. It is as devoid of love as your marriage, merely a placeholder for you to sleep, eat, and occasionally, try to produce an heir.

Soonyoung pulls up to the long building that serves as a garage, hitting a button on the car’s screen to open one of the bays. He pulls in slowly, the outside world fading as the garage door shuts behind the car, dousing it in darkness until the neon lights above flicker on.

Without a word, he powers off the vehicle and gets out. Taking a deep breath, you square your shoulders and get out of the car. He doesn’t wait for you - even shuts the door as he enters the main house so you’re forced to lug it open.

He’s already opening the door to the main house a few yards away, forcing you again to haphazardly navigate gravel in your heels as you give chase. You’re sweating and irritated by the time you’re up the steps and pushing through the front door, a nasty quip on your lips ready until you see your aunt coming down the stairs.

“Oh thank goodness,” she says, seeing you. She looks older than you remember, the lines of her face deep and the hair at her temples gray. “Come along.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, uncertain as you step into the foyer and let her take your arm.

She scowls. “Did that useless boy not tell you? Your mother suffered a heart attack this morning. She’s with Dr. Ymir in the medical wing.”

Your heart thuds to a stop as you wheel around to look over your shoulder at Soonyoung. His gaze is stormy but his face gives away nothing as he turns to leave the way he came, slamming the front door and vanishing down the steps to leave you alone.

“No,” you mumble as your aunt pulls you down the hall. “He didn’t tell me.”

Because that’s how much Soonyoung hates you. Hate isn’t even the right word, you think. It is something far deeper and far more sinister, fueled only by taking away something that he valued more than anything else in the world and forcing him to live with it.

I deserve this, you think as the door to one of the private medical rooms opens, a clinical smell hitting you in the face. I deserve everything that happens to me.

I deserve this. It’s all you can think of as you watch the black casket lower into the ground. Seungcheol stands beside you, his hands linked in front of him. You want to reach out and take his hand in yours, but you don’t want him to look weak. Don’t want others to see him crack like you know he will if you comfort him.

Instead, you comfort yourself as best you can, which isn’t saying much. You’ve never been good at dealing with your feelings, too much of your mother’s blood running through you. It was your father’s least favorite trait of yours and perhaps Soonyoung’s favorite.

Soonyoung, who has always been your emotional tether and outlet. You’re not accustomed to dealing with grief alone, and the pull of it feels like an undertow threatening to drag you under and drown you.

Someone shifts behind you, close enough that you feel Yijun next to you stiffen. You turn to look over your shoulder, blinking in surprise as you tilt your head up to see Soonyoung. He doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed forward and jaw flexing tightly. He’s standing closer than is necessary, as shown by your husband’s scoff.

Soonyoung doesn’t move, though. He remains nearly pressed against your back, so close that you can smell vanilla and sandalwood. Turning away from him, you feel your shoulders relax. He ignores you, but he’s there, a stoic guardian that’s just out of reach.

The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is too lost in his grief to notice or care about Soonyoung’s proximity to you. Your brother couldn’t care less, barely realizing that his brother by choice is an inch away from him. But you know Soonyoung is there and that’s all that matters.

The grief lessens, turning back from churning waters to gentle, lapping waves.

“Your brother doesn’t respect me,” Yijun asserts. You look at him in the bathroom mirror. He’s standing behind you in the closet, taking out glinting cufflinks to replace them in the countertop in the middle of the aisles of clothes. “You should work on that.”

“Seungcheol hardly takes what I say to heart.”

Yijun snorts, detecting the lie before you can even get it out. Seungcheol very much values your insight and opinion far more than he’s interested in Yijun’s. He’s made it clear at multiple parties and events now, often asking you how business is and how the shared Kim-Choi accounts are doing, despite not having anything to do with them.

Seungcheol hates your role within the Kim family. On more than one occasion he’s recommended Yijun make use of you somewhere in the family business, to make you the head of operation somewhere so that your schooling and experience weren’t going to waste. Yijun asserted that your social skills were being put to perfect use, entertaining the wives of his associates and serving as the perfect host when his business colleagues and friends were over.

“He’s going to be leading the family soon,” Yijun sighs. “It would be better for us if he saw me as a real ally.”

“He does see you as an ally. You’re married to his sister.”

“Exactly, so you should remind him that I’m family.” It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it also doesn’t sound like a request. Sighing, you shut the drawer in the counter forcefully. It draws his attention, gaze darkening. “Don’t you want your brother to respect your husband?”

No, you think. You don’t respect your husband, so why should Seungcheol?

Instead, you sigh. “Of course, Yi.” He doesn’t soften at the nickname. “I’ll talk to him, alright? He’s got a lot going on. And don’t talk about my father’s health that way.”

“I didn’t say anything about his health.”

“Please,” you snort. “I know what you meant about Cheol taking over soon.”

Yijun had been talking about Seungcheol more and more. You’ve watched with a sour taste in your mouth as your husband tries to earn your brother’s attention and trust, flashing what he thinks Seungcheol cares about in his face, telling him about the new car he acquired, or the historical art piece you purchased at an auction, and the new apartment building he’s constructing.

Seungcheol doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. The Choi family never has. Your ancestors didn’t make a name for themselves and carve it on the mountain they built their home on by showing off their wealth and what it could do for them. They did it by earning it, and by remaining steadfast and intelligent. Political.

Yijun understands none of that. As the eldest son of his family, it’s a shame. The real world of the Syndicates is lost on him. He has enough business acumen to run companies under his father’s careful tutelage and instruction, but he doesn’t have the social savvy for it, the right drive.

His brother does. You think of Kim Minchan and nearly shiver. The middle child of the Kim family has more than enough understanding of the way that things work, but the ocean of blood behind him is enough for you to prefer Yijun leading the Kim Syndicate any day.

“I’m just saying,” Yijun grunts, flicking off the lights in the closet. “Your brother has all the reason in the world to respect me and he doesn’t.” He looks at you, face hardening. “Do you tell him not to? Is that what it is? His baby sister tells him how useless her husband is?”

Danger is in the air. Yijun won’t lay a hand on you, but it doesn’t make this dance any less stressful. You turn away from the mirror, looking at him fully. He’s not terrible to look at - he has a sharp jaw and a broad nose and a pleasant shaped mouth. He’s handsome, even.

He’s not Kwon Soonyoung.

Swallowing away the thought, you reach up to put your hands on his chest, placating. “I wouldn’t do that,” you assure him, softening your voice. You hate the sound of your voice, hate the way you pitch it low and gentle. “You’re a reflection of me too. I would never let my brother think any of those things about my husband.”

Yijun swats your hands away, making you grit your teeth. “Don’t act like a whore. Just - tell your brother. I should be in his inner circle by now. Make it happen.”

As Yijun leaves the bathroom, the urge to grab him by his collar and yank him back in to smash his head on the counter almost wins. You stare at him until he vanishes in the bedroom, your rage a live, sentient thing. You feel it crawl beneath your skin, slithering and clawing and biting and begging to be let out.

Steady is the mountain. You take that fire and shove it down. Years of instinct of reacting with your mother’s temper peter out slowly. It’s a shame - you’re the last woman left from her side of the family, the only one who can carry the fire of the phoenix.

You glare at the bedroom. Somewhere, Yijun lurks, getting into bed. Oh how the shadows of the weak choke out the fire of the strong.

If killing Yijun wouldn’t risk everything, you’d have done it already. That first month spent with him where you realized this would not only be a loveless marriage, but a hateful one had almost driven you to it. The Choi Syndicate could surely survive a war with the Kim Syndicate - you had better assets, stronger loyalties, and more money.

But if the Kim family turned to the Yong family…

Avoiding unification of the Kim and Yong families is why you were married to Kim Yijun in the first place. To murder him now would mean Syndicate war, and despite the fact that every moment with him is hateful and poisonous, you’re too nervous to put your family at risk.

Especially with your father’s failing health, as Yijun had pointed out.

Syndicate war isn’t the only thing keeping you from stabbing Kim Yijun until you can’t feel anything anymore. Minchan’s shadow of a presence lingers over your thoughts, one of the few threats you truly fear. Any harm to his brother would elevate Minchan to a position where he could only wield his power more.

And he’d hunt you like a bloodhound. You’re unsure if there is any corner of the world he would leave unturned if you killed his brother, no matter how much it would benefit him if Yijun keeled over tomorrow.

Inside your bedroom is dark. It doesn’t feel like your bedroom at all. There’s nothing homey about it, no possession or unique decor, no pictures. You wouldn’t sleep in here at all if Yijun didn’t make you, insisting that he couldn’t trust any of the house staff not to tell your father you weren’t sleeping in the same room.

Your father doesn’t care. He stopped caring about anything the day you put your mother into the dirt. Even if he hadn’t, as long as your relationship looked functional to whom it mattered, it mattered little to him if you slept in the same room or if you even liked Kim Yijun.

He’d made that very clear the day he tore away your future with Soonyoung.

Yijun is already snoring when you climb into bed. You grind your teeth, reaching to pull open the nightstand for noise cancelling earbuds and sleep medication. The medication isn’t as strong as the crushed up knockout you might have used previously, but it helps take the edge off without making you vulnerable to attack.

Which is something you still worry about.

Setting your phone on silent, you settle in for sleep. It takes a long time, but you finally drift away to thinking about smothering the man next to you in his sleep.

Something wakes you. Blinking sleep from your eyes, you sit up in bed and look around the room. It’s dark, but you can see the barely-there outlines of the furniture in your bedroom. Next to you, Yijun is gone. You can feel the lack of presence there more than you can see it, reaching your hand over to confirm the bed is cold and that he’s not been there for a while.

You reach for the phone on your nightstand but can’t find it. Frowning, you press your hand on the cool marble, sweeping back and forth to no avail. You lean further, finger finding the button to the light function on the stand and press down.

Dim, lavender light halos the top of the nightstand. Your phone is nowhere in sight. It’s just your jewelry dish, a decanter for water, and your sleep medication. You’re pretty sure that you put your phone face down before you went to bed, but you can’t be sure.

Pulling open the nightstand drawer only makes the back of your neck sweat. Your phone isn’t there, but neither is the gun you keep in the top drawer. Both you and Yijun sleep armed, despite having armed guards on the premises at all times.

Snapping the drawer shut, you roll to the other side of the bed and pull his open. A book, a watch, some pill bottles and a pack of cigarettes fill the drawer. No gun.

The back of your neck tingles. You rip the sheets off of you, heading to the bedroom door. The house is mostly dark when you open it, the entire second floor dim. Leaning over the banister, you can see a shaft of light falling across the room, perhaps coming from the kitchen.

Quietly, you stalk toward the top of the stairwell, trying to reduce noise as you creep down. A high pitched whine rings in your ears, heart thundering. You have no idea why you’re so afraid all of the sudden, especially in your own house, but your instincts tell you to be alert and quiet.

At the foot of the stairs, you confirm the light is coming from the kitchen. It’s not uncommon for people to be in the house in the middle of the night. Official Syndicate business happens at any time, and often goes into the early hours of morning.

Tonight, it’s not busy. Before you’d gone upstairs to bed, you’d noted that it was a skeleton crew security team for the night, just a few of them at the gate house and walking the premises while you and Yijun returned upstairs for the evening alone.

Creeping toward the hallway, you pause when you hear voices. You identify Yijun’s voice right away, holding your breath and straining your hearing as he says, “What do you want me to do here?”

“Keep her contained. Make sure no one from her family can reach her.”

“I already took her phone and her gun.”

Your stomach drops. “Good.” That’s Minchan’s voice, you realize, dread growing tenfold. “The second she finds out the Tower has fallen, she’ll try to run or her brother will try to get her.”

“Or that psycho fuck,” Yijun mutters.

“You’d be lucky if it was Seungcheol who came to get her. If Kwon Soonyoung comes looking, call me immediately. We’ll make our move in two hours. We’ve got the biggest team outside the Choi estate ready to go in and we’ve got men and women stationed at all the key points.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and babysit my wife?”

“Yes.” Minchan’s tone is nonnegotiable. “We’ll leave the guards at the gatehouse but we can’t spare anyone else. This kind of assault requires everyone. The Yong family will take care of the Pearl District and the Salt.”

Yijun hesitates. “What about the Yoon family? Are they all accounted for?”

“Yes. I have a team on the crazy one - what do they call her?”

“Angel, I think.”

Minchan laughs. “Demon is more fitting. Stay here. Stay by your phone. We’ll call thirty minutes before we give the signal to link everyone on comms. We do this right, and the Choi Syndicate is gone.”

Panic presses in for a moment. Your heart hammers. Your hands shake. Bile churns your stomach. It feels like you can’t get enough air, the pieces of what they're talking about falling into place.

The Tower has fallen.

Your father is dead, and in the wake of the crushing blow, the Kim family intends to strike at yours alongside the Yong family. The realization lands like a blow, immediately slapping you out of your panic.

Fear turns to rage. Rage turns to ice. You are fire, you are the mountain.

Steadfast is the mountain, but the fire does burn.

As quietly as you can, you creep up the stairs. You keep turning over your shoulder to ensure Minchan doesn’t leave the kitchen and catch you creeping back toward your bedroom. When you hit the second floor landing, you all but sprint to your room, gears turning.

Yijun took your phone and intends to keep you locked in the house until they finish their plan. From their discussion, you know they intend to mobilize within two hours, targeting important members of the Choi Syndicate across the city with the help of the Yong family.

It means you have only a few minutes to warn your family to respond, to prepare and to fight back or strike first. Which is hard to do without a phone, but your husband doesn’t know you nearly as well as he thinks.

Door closed behind you, you flip the lock on the bedroom door and dash for the closet. The lights above come to life, bathing you in ghoulish, grey light. You dive to the floor toward your shelf holding all of your shoes, the carpet burns nothing compared to the pain starting to bloom behind your sternum where your grief builds slowly under your anger.

Your father is dead. The Kims are going to turn on you anyway. Your marriage to Kim Yijun to secure alliances against the Yong family was for nothing.

You’ve endured for nothing.

Snatching a pair of boots, you swallow down the bile again. You will not break now, not when there are more important things than the time you’ve wasted withering away in this cold home. Shoving your hand inside the boot, you come into contact with what you were looking for. Your hand closes around the device, yanking it out and powering it on.

The screen flashes to life. You press one and hold, hearing the buzz on the phone as it begins to ring. You cradle the phone against your shoulder and ear, nearly sick with the adrenaline that is pounding through you, your vision blurring, hands shaking.

You grab another shoe, this time reaching inside carefully instead of shoving your hand in. The smooth, bone handle of a knife meets your hand and you wrap your fingers around it firmly, pulling it out.

Soonyoung answers on the fourth ring. “Where are you?”

“The Kim family has turned on the Chois. They’re mobilizing for a full scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They’re at the estate and all over the city - anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt.”

“How many men are at Yijun’s estate?” You can hear him moving on the other side of the line, something rustling. Perhaps clothes as he gets dressed. “Are you armed?”

“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.”

“Where are you in the house?”

“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.”

“Listen to me,” Soonyoung says, voice like ice. “The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they’ll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?” When you say nothing, he asks again, voice louder. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to fight back. Either kill him or hold him off until I’m there.”

“You need to warn-”

“Don’t worry about the fucking Syndicate! We’ll be fine. You’ve given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself.”

You take a deep breath, letting it out shakily. “Okay.”

“Do you have frostbyte?”

“Maybe? Yijun might have it in the nightstand.”

“Take some. Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes.”

“Okay.”

You squeeze the phone, unwilling to hang up. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t heard his voice in months. It doesn’t matter that he hates you, it doesn’t matter that you know whatever used to be between you is broken and it’s entirely your fault. You just… don’t want to hang up.

“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice is soft, drawing you from your trembling spiral. “Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to. I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” Soonyoung pauses, the silence heavy on the line. “I love you.”

Nothing breaks you like those words, whispered but firm, whispered in case you die before he gets there. He doesn’t have to say that’s why he’s saying it - you know. You know the chance of him not getting there fast enough is likely and real. He does too, but instead of telling you, he gives you this.

You whisper back, “I love you.”

Soonyoung hangs up the phone and you fight a sob. You bring the knife up to your hand, pressing your pointer finger down on the tip. The sting is immediate, making you his in pain as blood beads on the tip of your finger, red and garish in the closet lighting.

The sting grounds you enough to push yourself from the floor, following Soonyoung’s directions to Yijun’s nightstand. You yank it open, rattling around the contents until you find the bag of frostbyte you were hoping was there. Yijun uses it the nights he attempts to put an heir in you, numbing himself the way you never did, taking your punishment for what you’d done to Soonyoung raw.

Not enough to fuck me up, you think, untwisting the bag and shaking. Just enough to make it easier.

Dipping the tip of your knife into the bag, you pull out a small lump of the glittering drug. You try not to think about that night at the club all those years ago, when you and Soonyoung were still dancing around one another’s feelings, doing anything you could to get a reaction out of one another.

You take a sharp breath in. The drug hits your nasal passage and it burns, your eyes smarting as you tilt your head up, cursing and blinking away the tears. It hits the back of your throat, bitter and awful as you cough a little, trying to wait for it to clear your nasal passage.

When the burning subsides a little, you do it again. It’s less harsh than the first bump but still just as awful, making you wonder how the fuck you did this on the weekend with your friends as a teenager. Tossing the back on the nightstand, you stand waiting, closing your eyes and trying to do deep breathing exercises your therapist taught you to calm down.

Frostbyte works fast. It hits your bloodstream and an electric calm comes over you. Everything comes into sharper focus, the adrenaline pumping as your simmering rage turns to a boil, ready to kick the fucking door down and hunt down Yijun yourself.

Nerves fade away to the background of your mind. You walk toward the door, waiting to the side so when Yijun ultimately kicks it down, you’re ready.

Ten minutes pass. The entire time your ears are ringing, heart thundering in your chest. You think the frostbyte was a good idea - if you had to wait in silence like this without it, you would have gone crazy by now. Even with the drug, fear nips at your ankles, a hound ever on your tail.

Yijun’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. Your heart lurches and you inch away from the door, readying yourself. He storms down the hall, fury in each step until he gets to the door and turns the handle. It doesn’t move. He tries a few more times, shaking the door.

His roar on the other side of the door is loud and feral, making you grin as he thrashes against the door, cursing and screaming at you. The door holds, rattling in place as he slams what you think is his shoulder into it multiple times.

The bombardment pauses for a second and then restarts ten times stronger. This time, you recognize that it’s his foot slamming into the side of the door. You realize he’s kicking where the door is latched, trying to break it open instead of kicking through it.

A small crack sounds. You take a breath, readying yourself as you hear another snap go through the door, now rattling loose in its frame. He kicks hard again and the door blows open, nearly smacking you as it does. You roll away from it on the wall, keeping close as Yijun barrels past you, swinging his head from left to right as he looks for you.

It’s your only chance to get the jump on him. You slide from the dark, heart hammering. You’ve never stabbed anyone before, but you’ve practiced. You drive the knife upward, intending to puncture his kidneys. Yijun twists a little to the side, sensing your presence as the knife plunges into his side.

Yijun screams. Your satisfaction only lasts a second before he throws his elbow backward, catching you in the nose. Pain explodes in your face, blinding you as your eyes water and you stumble backward hands shooting to your face.

Removing the knife from his side, Yijun screams at you, spit flying as he comes at you. Through tears and warm blood rushing from your nose, you reach for anything to use as a weapon. Your hand closes on the ceramic artwork on the dresser and you launch it at him, hitting him hard in the face.

The ceramic shatters and he drops the knife. You dive for it but he grabs you by the hair, ripping you upward and backward like a ragdoll. You lose your footing, screaming as he tightens his fist in your hair and drags you toward the bed, tossing you there.

With a feral shout, you kick your foot forward, catching him in the lower gut. He grunts but wraps his hand around your ankle, yanking you back off the bed onto the floor, where the knife lays. You reach for it, seething, your hands managing to close around it just as he pivots, foot landing against your ribcage.

Again, pain explodes inside of you. With the frostbyte, you barely recognize it, grabbing the knife and stabbing him in the calf. He shrieks and collapses to a knee, reaching for the knife. This time you rip it back out, nearly losing your grip on the bone handle, fingers slippery with blood.

You stab him again, this time in the thigh. His knee presses into your stomach, crushing you and forcing air from your lungs. You ignore the pain, stabbing him again and again in the thigh until he falls backward off of you, muscles malfunctioning, tendons give away.

Yijun kicks out at you with his good leg but you’re already moving, ignoring the way your body is screaming in utter agony, every part of you throbbing and begging you to give up.

You don’t. You scramble on top of him. His hands shoot up to your throat but you spit at him, a spray of blood blinding him and making his grip loosen momentarily. It’s enough to bring the knife down home again, this time directly in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

For a second, he fights back. You hear the wet gasp and he thrashes, but you stab him again. And again and again and again and again -

You think about all of the times that you were forced to submit to him.

And again and again and again -

The way he heaved himself on top of you, trying to force a child into you so he could be done with you, the way you’d wish it had been Soonyoung instead.

And again and again and again -

The way Soonyoung’s face broke that morning, begging you not to do this to him.

And again and again and again -

All for the Kim family to turn on the Choi’s anyway, wasting the entire time you’ve spent under lock and key, doing Yijun’s bidding while Soonyoung hated you. Loathed you. Wish you never happened to him.

Again and AGAINANDAGAINANDAGAINAND-

Yijun isn’t moving under you. Your hand is warm and wet, the knife becoming slippery as you let it go. It clatters to the floor and you sit backward on his knees. He’s unmoving as you heave, sucking down air that tastes like iron and salt.

Sweat slicks the back of your neck and down your spine. Somewhere in the house, there’s a crashing noise. You leap for the knife, rolling off of Yijun’s mutilated body toward the door, positioning yourself in a defensive position as feet thunder up the stairs.

You bare your teeth, knowing this is it. Knowing Soonyoung hasn’t come quickly enough but it doesn’t matter, because you warned them and they are safe. Your penance for destroying him has been paid in half, though never full, and -

Soonyoung appears in the doorway. He looks like an angel from hell, wreathed in shallow light that comes from the first floor, his silver hair stained with blood. He’s in black trousers and a short-sleeve shirt with his favorite band on it - one of his sleep shirts.

For less than a second, he stares at you. Then, Soonyoung dives at you, dropping the gun in his head and grabbing you. You hadn’t realized that you’d sunk to your knees, looking up at him as he grabs your face, turning you this way and that. He’s asking you a question but you can’t understand him, dizzy and confused and in so much pain that the edge of your vision wavers.

“Baby,” Soonyoung begs, his voice warped and echoey. “Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?”

“S’mostly his,” you answer, feeling how heavy your tongue is. Your thoughts are sticky and slow. Concussed, you think. “Maybe broke my nose.”

Soonyoung’s thumb brushes gently across your cheek, smearing blood. “Can you walk if I help you?”�� You think about it. Shake your head. “Okay. I’m going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don’t hurt you, Baby.”

“Ribs.”

“Left or right?”

You pause, breathing in and feeling the pain bloom. “Right.”

“Okay, tell me if I hurt you, okay? We’re going to take you home.”

“Thank you.” Soonyoung hesitates at your tone, looking at you. His eyes are vulnerable and open, more raw than you have seen them since you were kids. “You didn’t have to come get me.”

He stares and stares at you. The world fades a little and Soonyoung lifts you toward him. “Of course I did,” he murmurs, so soft you barely hear what he’s saying. “When you say jump, remember?”

“Where's this?” You mumble, looking out the window at a small home behind high gates.

Soonyoung has been driving for an hour and a half, his silence nearly unbearable as you both left the city. You don’t ask about where you’re going or if everyone is okay - you don’t think you can stomach the answers right now. Not while in the car.

Rain mists through the window as Soonyoung rolls it down to punch in a code in front of the gate. It flashes green and the metal starts to roll open, revealing a large but modest house - at least by Syndicate standards. He drives through, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

“Safe House. Very few people know it exists.”

“Are we in Levin?” He nods his head. You’ve never been to the small town, but you know it’s mostly a vacation village on the coast. “Who does this place belong to?”

“Me.” You look at him, surprised. “I bought it when you… got engaged.”

It’s like a stone sinking to the bottom of your stomach. You don’t have to ask why. It was his failsafe for you, a way to get you away from Yijun if you had just asked.

You should have asked. Should have just thrown it away and called him, should have begged him from your knees-

Soonyoung turns the car off and opens the door. You open yours, rain pattering against your red skin. He rushes to help you out of the car, hands hovering around you, unsure where to touch. It makes you want to sob. You want him to touch you anywhere - everywhere.

Instead, he leads you to the house, a hand wrapped firmly around your forearm to keep you upright and steady as you walk up the steps.

A porch light flickers on. You cringe away from the brightness, squinting through your fingers as the door opens to reveal Vernon standing on the other side. His eyes flicker between the two of you and he nods, stepping to the side to let you in.

Warmth blankets you as Soonyoung shuts the door. You’re standing in a small entryway with a staircase to the right leading to the second floor. Straight on, the lights are on, revealing a sliver of the living room. You can hear voices pause as they hear the door shut.

Angel materializes in the doorway, her hair damp. She’s dressed down like she recently showered, her eyes on you as she heaves a sigh of relief. “It’s Hoshi and Baby,” she calls over her shoulder, coming forward.

Soonyoung nudges you toward Angel gently. “Take her to shower.”

“Yeah of course.”

“Where’s Seungcheol?” You ask, turning to look at Soonyoung, who is already looking at his phone, holoscreen lighting up his face.

“On his way. The main crew is safe.” He hesitates. “We lost Lan, Old Man Vero and Yoon Minji.”

Your heart seizes, eyes darting to Angel. “Angel, I’m-”

“Jeonghan is taking care of it.” For the first time in years, you hear a note of pain in her voice, raw and real. Angel has - had - a complicated relationship with her step-mother, the matriarch of the Yoong family. “I’ve already satiated my vengeance. This is his. Come on.”

You hesitate. Soonyoung nudges you toward the stairs gently by the hip, suddenly looking tired. “Go. I’m going to find a doctor for that nose.”

“Is it terrible?”

He huffs, trying not to laugh. “No, but it needs to be fixed. Go. Shower.”

I love you. It’s on the tip of your tongue, right there. I love you. It’s all you can think about, thundering in your ribcage. I love you. It consumes you, makes you freeze up, staring at him. I love you.

Angel tugs your wrist delicately and breaks the spell. You follow her up the stairs. She’s careful with you, making you take one step at a time. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her so gentle, her eyes softened with worry and her touch on you delicate as butterfly wings.

Upstairs, she leads you into a room that smells like vanilla and sandalwood. Soonyoung. This room belongs to Soonyoung. You spot his subtle touches, a gaming computer shoved in the corner and powered off. A closet with a metal door that is under lock and key. A single gun sitting on top of the nightstand.

But what makes the room spin is the touches of you. A teakwood candle sitting on the dresser. Weighted blankets folded at the end of the bed. A bookshelf with all your favorite titles. A jar of saltwater taffy in multiple flavors.

Angel hesitates by the bathroom door, watching you drink in the room. You turn to her, shaking your head, confused and mouth open. She nods. “I know. I didn’t know either.”

“I could live and die a thousand times and never deserve him.”

“I’m not the best judge of character, but I don’t think I believe that to be true.”

Angel isn’t the best judge of character. But she also doesn’t say things she does not mean. She’s the last person in the world to offer words of comfort, and yet she’s standing in the bathroom staring at you like she can see through you, right down to the very core.

Maybe she can. Seeing what is rotting people on the inside and sniffing out their weaknesses is what she does best.

Instead of pointing out where you hurt, she manages to get you into the bathroom. It’s spacious but not grand like what you’re used to - it’s small. Safe. She starts the shower and backs away, helping you get out of your bloody clothing.

Everything hurts so bad. Your ribs ache, the bruising on them blotchy and horrendous as Angel peels back your shirt. She thankfully doesn’t react - she’s seen worse and done worse. Suddenly, you realize why Soonyoung picked her to help you. She’s steady, her fingers sure as she holds your arm while you pull your pants down.

You don’t dare look in the mirror. From what you can see without it, it’s already bad enough. Yijun hadn’t dealt fatal damage, but you know you’re bruised and covered in dry, flaking blood.

Angel leaves you in the shower, shutting the door to go sit on the sink, a guardian willing to give you space but ready to help when you need it. Shaking, you shuffle into the stream of hot water, hissing when it hits your skin.

It’s both heaven and hell. The hot water feels so good on your aching muscles and throbbing pain, but it also hurts when the water taps against your nose, reminding you that it is indeed broken. You suck in sharp air as you slowly begin to work your fingers into your skin, turning the water pink as you wash off the blood.

Blood that belongs to you. Blood that belongs to Yijun.

Yijun.

You’re not sorry you killed him. It was satisfying and necessary. But… the weight of your grief comes crashing into you. You could have killed him years ago and ran. Could have gone crawling back to Soonyoung and asked for his help. Could have told him that the only reason you ever agreed to marry him in the first place was to protect him.

None of it mattered. You bought him a paltry couple years worth of protection and for what? To shackle yourself to a man who thought little of you, who wanted to fuck you until you gave him another version of himself, who wanted to kill you at every moment because he knew you didn’t respect him and because he was afraid of you and the way you command respect from your family, but he never did.

All that time you’d made yourself smaller for him. Held back your bite. Hid your teeth. Mourned Soonyoung everyday, knowing that you’d never touch him again, that he would never kiss you again, that you’d never wake up in the morning when he got home from work and crawled into bed with you.

A potential lifetime of happiness, one of your own making, wasted on a promise that they broke anyway.

For nothing. It had been for nothing, you’d hurt Soonyoung for nothing, shut him out, promised you would never leave him and threw him away, forced him to jump for you, forced him to leave you when he said he wouldn’t all for nothing nothing nothing nothing notHING NOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHINGNOTHING-

Angel’s arms are around you. You startle, looking up to see that she is in the shower fully clothed, holding you to her. You hadn’t realized you’d been crying - screaming - in the shower. She presses you closer to her, the only way she knows how to tell you that she’s got you. She’s there. She understands.

You crumble, leaning heavily on her as you let it out, sobbing. Your throat is raw, your face throbbing each time you squeeze your eyes shut. Angel says nothing, content to hold you while her clothes soak up the water, weighing her down as you let out your grief in full, ugly waves.

Eventually, the water starts to get cold and your tears start to dry up. You sniff and groan, the pain in your face so poignant that it can’t be ignored. Lifting your head from her shoulder, you glance at her boots, soaked and murky red around the edges.

“Can I tell you something?” Angel asks, voice low. You nod. She hesitates, putting the words together before she says, “He’s going to accept you back. He’s going to do it with no conditions, and ask nothing of you. You’re going to want to torture yourself and beg for his forgiveness and deny yourself of him because you think you should be punished, that there is not a god powerful enough to hurt you the way you deserve.”

You blink in surprise. Angel isn’t religious, despite the nickname. She also isn’t overly emotional or wordy. But you see the severity in which she tells you this, see the pain in her eyes. You remember that she has demons far older than yours, ones that have followed her since childhood.

And she’s right. She reads you like a book, seeing the fucking pain radiating inside of you, the desire to be punished and hated and whipped-

“Let him take you back.” Her words are firm. “Don’t make him punish you. Don’t believe for a second that Soonyoung wants to make you pay. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care what you did or why. Just… let him have you. You’ve endured enough.”

You nod. “Alright. I’ll try.”

“Good. Um - can we get out of the shower though? It’s very cold in here.”

You laugh, immediately followed by a groan. “Please don’t make me laugh. I am in so much pain.”

“Yeah, let’s go get you some drugs, dude.”

The three Syndicates of the city are officially at war. Of all the news that has poured in over the last few days, this is the least surprising. When you’d seen Seungcheol that first night after everything went to hell, he’d held you close and promised that he would kill every last Kim in the city.

He had also told you he was proud of you. Not just for surviving Yijun long enough for Soonyoung to come get you, but for being able to warn the family what was coming. Your single warning alone had saved them a great deal and wounded the Kim Syndicate more than you could understand.

The days following your father’s death are strange. It doesn’t feel like he’s dead - at least, you haven’t truly processed it yet. There are things that demand your attention like being seen by Dr. Ymir for your fractured nose and bruised ribs, and the accounts and logistics of what being at war with the Kim and Yong family truly means.

On the fifth day at the safe house, you go back home. Seungcheol makes you ride with him, unwilling to let you out of his sight these days. You’re the only two members of the Choi family left, and it’s up to the two of you to rally the troops and remind everyone what the mountain can do.

Seungcheol replaces your father as the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. Typically there’s a small ceremony to pass the torch so to speak, but there’s no time for that. Seungcheol is buried in problems and trying to maneuver the family into a favorable position, but it’s hard - the Yongs and Kims have been preparing this for a while.

You’re suddenly given a job again. Fresh in his position leading the family, Seungcheol needs those he trusts by his side, immediately appointing you as the Architect of the Syndicate. There’s no one he trusts more with the finances and the logistics of the businesses under the Choi banner and who have pledged to his family.

With Yoon Minji’s death, Jeonghan’s takes his rightful side as the Wisdom and second in command to Seungcheol. It’s like you’d always known it would be as a kid, but it brings you no joy to see the two of them together in an office until the early hours of the morning, worn at the edges and sick with the grief they’re ignoring to push forward.

With no surprise, Seungcheol immediately promotes Soonyoung to the lead military position, rising from Sword to Sentinel in a single night. It’s the same position his father held under your father, and Soonyoung takes it with steely resolve.

It also means you don’t see him. You move back into your old room at home. At first, it doesn’t feel like your room at all because Soonyoung isn't in it. He had moved into your room when you first started dating, spending two years in that bed with you. Now, he’s taken up residence in his room down the hall, so close and yet the distance feels larger than ever.

Of all the problems mounting for you to solve, Soonyoung is the most important. You know he shouldn’t be. There are a thousand other things that you need to figure out, like how to assure that the businesses you own in and near the Kim and Yong family territories won’t go under or be attacked, or how to assure that payment to the family won’t increase now that there’s a fight.

Your days are filled with countless meetings, assuring loyal patrons that the Choi Syndicate will not fall and will not fail them, and that the Choi’s protect their own. You can see the fear in people’s eyes - the city hasn’t had the big three at war in a long time. Already the city officials are cracking down on Syndicate activity to try and establish order.

It’s farcical at best.

Squeezing your temples between your fingers, you lean back from the desk in your newly appointed office - which is really just your father’s. It feels weird to be in here. It still smells like leather and sweet tobacco, a little bit of smoke hanging in the air.

The last time you’d been in this office, you’d fallen to your knees and begged him not to make you marry Kim Yijun. Now you sit at the desk, hanging up the phone as another call ends - not as bad as the first, but not as good as you’d hoped.

Quickly, you scribble down a summary of the call to give to Seungcheol. You know he’ll read every word you write, determined to hear each concern of those under Choi patronage, whether they’re valid or not.

At the sound of the door opening, you glance up. Soonyoung sticks his head in, surprising you. You straighten in your seat, heart racing when you take him in. His silver hair has grown longer, tapered a bit at the neck. He’s dressed in all black but he’s clean, indicating that he showered not that long ago. You thought he would be out all day like usual, looking at your watch to see he’s back far earlier than normal.

“Is everything alright?” You start to get up and he rushes to you, hands lifting to help you. “I’m alright. I am well on the mend.”

He chews his lip, nodding before dropping his hands hesitantly. “Everything’s fine I just.” He hesitates. “Do you want to eat lunch?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Soonyoung’s smile is tentative. Shy. You give him one back, following him out of the office while sending a quick note to Jihoon that you’ll meet with him later. He sends a thumbs down back, less than pleased that you’ve not made time to talk to him about your potential murder charges for Yijun.

“Are you busy? We don’t have to-”

“It’s just Jihoon.”

“Ah. He’s persistent, are you sure-”

“I want to have lunch with you, Soonyoung.”

He blushes and you grin. “Alright,” he murmurs. “When you say jump and all that.”

That makes you pause. “You don’t have to do anything I tell you.”

“What?” He stops walking, confused.

“You don’t have to ask how high if I tell you to jump... I’m wrong a lot of the time. I don’t… want to be that.”

I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. You don’t say it, but you think Soonyoung senses it when he says, “I’ve always wanted to jump for you. That hasn’t changed.”

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you.

Angel’s words come back to you so you swallow down your guilt and you nod, giving him a tentative smile that he returns. This time, he holds out his hand to take you in the kitchen. You take it, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around yours both foreign and familiar.

The way he holds your hand in his makes you tremble. It’s something so simple and benign and yet you’re screaming on the inside, looking at where your fingers twine together like it’s everything, like it’s the only thing.

Lunch consists of very badly burned grilled cheese. You don’t care because Soonyoung makes it, insistent that he wants to and that he can. He’s good at a lot of things, particularly on the spectrum of murder and weapons, but he is terrible at putting bread, cheese and butter in a pan.

You eat it anyway, burnt bread and all. He sits next to you, his stool pulled so close that your thighs touch. You want to reach out and brush your fingers across his face, down his neck, through his hair. You want to touch until you’re grabbing, grab until you’re pulling.

Instead, you let him lead this dance, too afraid to initiate.

Let him take you back. Don’t make him punish you.

You don’t, but you can’t let go of the fear of rejection. Can’t bring yourself to toe the line beyond what he’s giving you, which is more than you ever dreamed of. So you accept when he offers to take your plate, fingers brushing over the top of your hand either by design or by accident you don’t know. His touch makes you shiver and he notices, pausing.

Slowly, you look up at Soonyoung. His eyes are dark and misty as ever, churning with emotion that you’re a little too afraid to read. Instead of taking the plates to the sink, he sets them down and reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands.

A sob works its way up your throat but you force it down. You will not cry over this. You will not make him comfort you.

“Are you afraid to touch me?” His question is gentle. You nod, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb brushes back and forth across your cheekbone. “Why?”

“I… want to so badly. I just want it to be your choice.”

“I want you to.” You open your eyes. His earnestness is right on the surface of him, rippling for you to see. “I’m dying for it. Please.”

Soonyoung’s please sounds like that morning he’d begged you all that time ago. It freezes you in place, heart beating like a prey animal in fight or flight. He steps closer, his breath on your forehead when he whispers, “Please.”

Slowly, you bring your hands up to his wrists. Licking your lips, you place your hands on him. His eyes close. His skin is warm to the touch and you feel him tremble as you brush your hands upward, tracing his forearms, his corded biceps. You brush your fingertips over the sleeves of his shirt and toward his neck until you’re cupping his throat, your thumbs resting against his hammering pulse.

You close your eyes, remaining still. Both of you remain that way, his hands on your face, yours on his neck. You’re shaking under his touch, feel his breath against your forehead. His fingers add a little pressure to your face, careful not to hurt you where your bruise is finally fading on your nose as he turns you to look up at him.

Soonyoung licks his lips, eyes open. “There is not a second I didn’t love you.”

And there it is. The admission that he never hated you. You bet he tried - you know he tried. You know the inside of Soonyoung’s soul better than you know your own, no part of him hidden to you even with time.

“I don’t care why you did it,” he continues. “Not anymore. Not after everything. I don’t care about any of it. I just… want you.”

“Soonyoung-”

“I know you’re sorry. I know you hate yourself. I know there is guilt eating away at you. Get over it, because none of it changes how I feel. I love you. You’re mine. I don’t want to leave you again. You cannot make me.”

“I know. I won’t make you.”

“Good.” Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours gently. He’s careful not to knock noses with you too hard, aware of the pain it’ll cause. “I cannot do any of this without you.”

“I know.”

Soonyoung’s mouth is tentative when it presses against yours. Your grip on him tightens, leaning forward into the kiss. It is everything - the only thing. You feel something wet on your face, thinking that you’ve got another nosebleed, but when you pull away, you realize it’s because Soonyoung is crying.

Crying for the first time since his parents died.

You stand up from the stool, gripping the back of his neck to pull him toward you. He melts under your touch, letting you meld your mouths together. He tastes like his burnt sandwich and like him, his mouth warm and wet against yours. Vanilla and sandalwood invade your senses, overwhelming as you grip him for dear life, never wanting to let him go.

He doesn’t want to let you go either. His grip on your hips is crushing, fingers digging into flesh and bone as though he can force you to become one. The thought makes you dizzy. You slide your fingers in his silk-soft hair, wrapping the strands around them to pull lightly, pull him closer, pull him to you, pull him back.

Soonyoung whines against your mouth and you break the kiss, panting. “Take me upstairs,” you whisper between peppering kissing against his mouth, his bottom lip, the corner of his lips. “Please take me upstairs.”

He does. Soonyoung grabs you by the hands, tugging you toward the stairs that lead to your room - the room you used to share. The room that still smells like him, even if faintly. He takes you to your bed, where you’ve spent hundreds of nights with him, and lays you down gently like he has a million times before.

Soonyoung touches you like you’re holy. His hands skim over you in worship, they scratch you in penance, they hold you in reverence. He slots himself between your knees, stealing a kiss from you like it’ll breathe new life into him, bare him anew, purge him of sin.

You love him. You love him you love him you love him you love him you love him -

A moan leaves his mouth when your nails drag down his back. He is quaking under your touch, his mouth hungry but careful against yours, wanting to swallow you whole but knowing you’re hurt. You know he won’t break you but you wish he would.

There’s time for that later. Now isn’t the time for rough and biting. Now, Soonyoung peels the shirt from your skin, immediately covering your arms, chest, collarbones, shoulders in kisses. You vibrate under his touch, lashes fluttering as he sucks at the sensitive skin of your neck, tongue pressed flat to your pulse as he tastes you.

You tug at his shirt and he complies, leaning upward to toss it. He’s back on you in a second, pressing you close, hip to hip as he tangles his tongue with yours, drinking you in. His touch ignites a fire and you’re burning, a complete inferno as you drag your fingers up the hard contour of his stomach to the firmness of his chest and around to his shoulders.

“I love you,” he mutters against your mouth, rolling his hips into you. You let out a breathy sound and he groans. “Fuck I love you. I missed you. I love you.”

“Please,” you beg. He understands, burying his face in your neck and biting down lightly. You feel like you’re going to burn up under him, an out of control blaze while his fingers work the buttons on your pants. “Never let me go.”

“Never.”

Jeans scrape down your legs, his hands following. He drags his blunt nails down your thighs. Your hips twitch upward, loving the scratch, loving the way he touches you, loving him. He returns his mouth to yours, unable to get enough of your kissing.

Soonyoung’s hand slips between your thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing against your clit through your underwear. You keen for him, pulling at the long strands of hair at the back of his neck. He moans in tandem, his pleasure driven by yours, loving the way you sound as you start to come apart under the gentle circle of his fingers.

He only teases you a little, knowing the friction with the fabric between his fingers and your aching cunt isn’t enough. He finally decides that you’ve had enough, hooking a finger to pull them aside, the cool air hitting your sticky folds.

Before you can complain, Soonyoung’s touch is there. He drags his fingers slow-soft from top to bottom, circling your clit slowly. He’s not in a hurry, dragging it out as he sucks your tongue into his mouth, sliding his fingers back down to press against your entrance but not breach it.

You whine and he grins, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth until he lets go with a pop. “I love those sounds you make.”

“Feels good,” you admit, head falling to the side as you close your eyes, enjoying the pressure he puts on your clit, wiggling his fingers back and forth. Your thighs close around his hand but he’s unbothered, drawing more arousal from you as he plays. “Fuck, your fingers.”

His laugh is throaty and he shakes his head, attaching his mouth to your jaw where he sucks at the skin. He makes himself comfortable with nibbling toward your neck, both of his hands reaching for the sides of your underwear to pull them down. You let him, folding your knees toward your for a moment to help.

Soonyoung’s hand returns to the wetness between your legs except this time, he’s not teasing. He presses a finger in deep and you whine, hips wiggling. You squeeze down on his finger, pussy spasming as he begins to pump leisurely, like he has all the time in the world.

And he does, doesn’t he? The work is far from done and the world is falling apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s here with you. Because Soonyoung is yours again - always has been - and because he’s drawing your mouth toward his to kiss you messily, swallowing down your moans as he presses in another finger.

Now you crumble beneath him. You can’t stop your hips from coming off the bed. You loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close, breathing the same air. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes impossible dark and half-lidded as he hooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot.

You cry out his name and he grins. Now he knows where it is, pressing repeatedly as he fucks you on his fingers, driving you directly toward an orgasm. Your breathing becomes labored, your legs squeezing his hips, your fingers digging into his shoulders. It is so good that you think you might die, letting him yank you toward release.

Soonyoung kisses you again and you come crashing down, cumming around his fingers, body squeezing, ignoring the ache in your ribs and the millions of other places that you’re sore. He doesn’t slow down, scissoring his fingers to pry you open, to stretch you more.

“Soonyoung,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “Soonyoung Soonyoung Soonyoung.”

“Just like that,” he agrees. You can tell he loves the way you say his name, knows that on your tongue it means something different. “Come on, one more.”

You’ll give him anything he wants. Never again will you deny him. You let him work you up again, feeling the way your breath gets stuck in your lungs and you shiver, another wave washing through you as you shudder around his fingers.

When you start to pant, he pulls his fingers out. You feel the wet schlick as he does, immediately hating the way you feel empty, hating the way he leans away from you. Whining, you reach out toward him, needy. He hushes you with a brief kiss, only standing to rid himself of his jeans and briefs.

Using the fingers covered in your arousal, Soonyoung pumps his cock, smearing a mixture of your slick and his precum down his shaft as he kneels on the bed again, taking his place between your thighs again. You watch with hooded eyes as he rubs the head of his cock through your messy folds, a moan dripping from your lips.

Soonyoung is beautiful, skin flushed and a sheen of sweat on his arms. His stomach flexes and clenches as he presses the tip of his cock into your entrance, both of you taking a shaky breath together. He slowly slides home, the stretch of him driving you wild, pussy fluttering around him until he’s slotted to the hilt.

He hangs his head, panting as he plants his hands on either side of your head. He takes a moment to collect himself, shaking. You turn your head to the side, kissing his wrist, peppering any skin you can reach with your love while your hands drift up his back, feeling the muscles flex.

When he begins to move, you nearly die. It feels so good, your breath lodged in your throat. He lowers his face to yours, kissing you as gently as he fucks you. His thrusts are deep and timed, not hard or fast but slow and measured, pressing all the way in as he uses his weight to his advantage.

Your fingers turn to talons on his back, nails biting his shoulder blades. He’s precise, the tip of his cock finding the right angle to make you nearly sob in a matter of a few thrusts. It’s familiar. Home.

Soonyoung lowers himself to his forearms, pressing your chests together. The friction of his skin against your pert nipples makes you squeeze around him, his name a whisper on swollen, kiss-bitten lips. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing shakily as he continues to fuck you.

You feel him everywhere, feel everything that he wants to say. Soonyoung has never needed words to communicate to you and he doesn’t now, the way he shakes as he lets out a wispy moan enough, the way he slides one of his arms under your back to cradle you to his chest, closer closer closer.

He wants to be closer and so do you, arms around his neck, drawing him to you. You never want to let him go, never will let him go. You’ve learned your lesson and this, right here with him is the only thing that matters.

“Shh,” he hushes. You realize you’re crying, tasting salt on your lips when he brushes his mouth against yours. “I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Soonyoung’s pace picks up only a little bit. It’s enough, sending you careening toward your third orgasm. He can feel it - needs it. He chases after your high, catching your mouth to brush his tongue against yours, rolling his hips until you’re clenching around him, whining into his mouth, lips buzzing against his.

He hums against you, waiting until your pussy lets go of its vice grip to speed up a little bit, the wet smack of his hips against yours loud and lewd, driving him forward until he comes, your name on his lips, his face buried in your neck. His thrusts slow, both of you trembling like leaves until he finally stops, remaining seated inside of you.

“I will love you for a thousand lifetimes,” he mutters against your mouth, with no intention of moving. “You know that, right Baby?”

You nod, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. “Leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung,” you rasp, quoting yourself that first night he finally caved, where he finally told you that he couldn’t exist without you. “I will never go anywhere ever again.”

TAG LIST

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If you do not see your tag here, it didn't work.

SYNDICATE ROLES

Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydnicate boss Architect - title for the main business affairs and political tactician Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate

#hoshi smut #kwon hosi smut #soonyoung smut #kwon soonyoung smut #soonyoung angst #hoshi angst #hoshi x reader #svt smut #soonyoung x you #hoshi x you

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

Text

Drive | l. m.

an epilogue to Punch It, a fic from the PICU

➸ synopsis: "I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”

His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.

“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”

➸ starring: lee minho x reader

➸ word count: 4k

➸ general content: street racer!minho, established relationship, very slight Cars reference, playing twister in a car

➸ warnings: explicit sexual content(MINORS DNI), car sex, piv(wrap it before you tap it), switch!minho(rare sighting indeed), praise

➸ rating: TV-MA

➸ author’s note: this is at least 3 years old, but it's just a DLC for anyone who loves these characters as much as I do <3(also my writing style has changed so much since then, in a good way)

“Ah, a cliff,” Minho chuckled, peering over the edge before turning to you with a knowing look on his face. “I think I can see where this is going-”

“Relax. If I wanted you dead I would have killed you months ago.”

You stepped up next to Minho, pointing somewhere over the cloud of dust that the car brought to the view. Through the brown haze, he could make out a path, or rather, a track, one that hadn’t been used in years. The turns were overgrown with brambles and weeds of every kind, attempting to reclaim the terrain in between the tires wearing them down every so often.

“Behold,” you yelled rather dramatically, throwing your arms out in front of Minho, “the place where I learned to race!”

“You learned on a dirt track?” He scoffed, looking at you in shock. You however, nodded proudly, reminiscing all the times you had run off the road while attempting to drift.

“My dad taught me to drift here,” you laughed, looking over the field, “he knew I couldn’t really destroy anything out here, and boy was I a reckless driver…”

“Do you visit here often?”

“Not anymore...in fact the last time I came here was…” you paused, furrowing your brows as you searched your brain for an answer. “Actually, the last time I came here was right before we started dating.”

“What? Why?” He laughed, crossing his arms. “I can’t imagine you came out here to practice…”

“No no, I just came out here to talk to my dad.”

“Does he come here often?”

It was at this point that you realized you had backed yourself into a corner, because the topic of your father wasn’t necessarily a light one, and truthfully the reason you went to talk to him was for advice concerning the driver you were currently dating. But Minho didn’t know that, nor did he need to know.

“My dad…” you stared wistfully over the racetrack. Memories of summer days spent in cars, with the radio blasting and the windows down came surging towards the front of your memory, but before they could do any damage, you swallowed them all and put on a blank face.

“My dad died in a car accident when I was eighteen.”

Minho’s head fell, instantly regretting that he pushed the topic further.

“Y/n...I-”

“It’s okay, really,” you whispered, giving him a weak smile. “You didn’t know.”

“I come here sometimes to talk to him, because it’s where I feel closest to him…” you explained, heat rising to your cheeks. “That sounds really corny-”

“No no—it's endearing,” he reassured you, before his face changed to one of concern.

He pondered for a moment, running his hands through his hair.

"How did you get behind the wheel after the accident?"

“I didn’t.”

Shocked, Minho slowly nodded his head in silent understanding, waiting for you to continue.

“I didn’t drive for almost a year, actually,” you chuckled bitterly, kicking a rock off the cliff face. “I resented cars, biked to work, barely hung out with friends…that was probably the worst year of my life.”

“Well hey, at least your carbon footprint went down-”

You shot him a glare, and he nervously chuckled an apology before asking you a question.

“So if you hated driving so much...how did you get to be a street racer?”

“I didn’t hate driving,” you whispered. “I was scared of it.”

For someone like you to be scared of driving, Minho almost couldn’t believe it. You were the most fearless driver he met; or at least, that was what he deduced after that fateful duel from months ago. Aside from that, you didn’t seem to be scared of anything, especially not Minho.

“But my dad, he loved cars, almost as much as he loved me probably,” you laughed, walking back towards Minho’s car. “To stop driving was to stop surrounding myself with the one thing that constantly reminded me of him.”

“So what you just...stopped being afraid of cars?”

“Not exactly,” you said, leaning against the hood. “It was really slow trying to get back into it, but then I met Changbin and the rest of the gang, and seeing them drive…” you looked up to the sky, and Minho could see the tears that you were holding back as you smiled, “it made me feel like he never left.”

Minho wasn’t entirely sure of how to comfort you, but he threw caution to the wind and embraced you in a hug, toned arms and cologne enveloping you almost immediately. And for a moment, you were glad that he couldn’t see how easily the tears fell from your eyes once he did that. It almost made you fall for him more, seeing how caring he was when he wanted to be. He didn’t even let you go until you gently pressed on his sweater vest.

“Your dad would be thrilled to know how good of a driver you are now,” he whispered as he pulled away, smiling. “I heard you're the best in the city.”

“Stop it,” you laughed, punching his arm. That sparkle that returned to your eyes made him feel at ease again, thankful that he could bring any sort of ease to you before the air grew quiet again.

“I know a lot of drivers,” you began, leaning off of the hood, “a lot of them drive just to get to places, some drive for the adrenaline rush, or money, or fame, or to ‘be the best’,” you glanced at him playfully, to which he feigned offense.

“For me...I drive to keep the memory of my dad alive.”

For Minho, it was moments like these that made it hard to pinpoint when exactly you had started backing your way into his heart. The ridiculously cocky girl that he met months ago he had come to realize was only a facade, for underneath all of the snarky remarks and banter was a girl that cared deeply for the people she loved. From staying up late with Yeji so she wasn’t alone when she worked on her car, to giving him lessons on drifting, Minho found that to him, you were more than just a rival.

And he was lucky that you even felt the same way.

He could feel his heart beat faster as you made your way inside his car, and he knew it wasn’t from the rush that driving gave him.

“Hey I don’t think I’ve ever asked,” you spoke up, watching Minho land in the driver's seat, “why did you start street racing?”

“Well,” he began, slumping against the leather seat, “I mean I was a professional racer for a minute but, to tell you the truth, I started because I lost a bet.”

Your mouth fell open, not viewing Minho as the type to gamble, but you let him continue.

“I won’t bore you with the details, but I owed someone money, and I knew of some people that did street racing for cash prizes...one thing led to another and I was able to pay the guy back, but not before I was hooked on the sport.”

He looked to you, who had a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at the absurdity of his backstory, but he only gave you an eye roll before continuing.

“At first I loved it, but I started to get obsessed with numbers and time trials and being the best, and I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”

His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.

“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”

The car fell silent for a moment, Minho staring deep into your eyes, and you tried your best to keep a straight face, but it was useless. You burst out laughing, ruining the atmosphere, and Minho sighed loudly, pretending to be annoyed.

“Too cheesy?”

“Absolutely,” you snorted, folding yourself in half from the laughter.

“But y/n,” he cooed, leaning over the center console to pull you over to him, “you make my heart race-”

“Gross, get away from me!”

Any bystanders would have thought that two little kids were occupying the front seats of an expensive car with the way you two were now wrestling, limbs flying about and squeals leaving your mouth every other second. Finally, you pushed his arms back far enough over the middle aisle to ensure that he couldn’t tickle you, giggling madly at his little frustrated pout.

However your giggling was abruptly cut short by Minho’s lips on yours, and while being silenced wasn’t your favorite pastime, you had to admit that this was probably your favorite way of being shut up.

Not that you’d allowed anyone else to do that other than him.

His fingers reached over the center console to cradle your jaw, and a dizzying jolt of excitement seemed to shock you where they met your skin. Rather than melting you, that set your skin ablaze, and suddenly you were pressing onto his mouth with equal force, earning a satisfied sigh from him as he tilted your head slightly. The space between you two was diminishing, but not as quickly as your impatient self would have liked, and as he pulled away you had to stop yourself from chasing after his lips.

He held a fiery gaze at bay with a look of mild amusement, a little surprised at how quickly you were unraveling for him, but before he could say something snarky, you took matters into your own hands.

Clambering over the seat, you braced yourself on various parts of the car interior before situating yourself on Minho’s lap, trying not to laugh at Minho’s failed attempt at an unaffected look towards your suggestive actions.

You made a quick mental note that he liked being straddled, but before you could waste any more time, his electrifying fingers held your chin, pulling your lips back into a gentle kiss.

Your hands landed on his chest, and you took this opportunity to slide them up to his neck, slowly feeling every ridge of him through his sweater vest. He couldn’t conceal the smirk that appeared once he picked up on what you were doing, and in return he bit your lip playfully, as if to tell you to behave.

Your growing impatience had no intentions of doing that, however.

Needless, to say, his lip biting only spurred you on, and you returned the favor with a few open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, watching how his eyes fluttered closed in silent delight as he sighed. At last, he quit being shy and let his hands wander downwards, resting on your waist as you leaned farther into him.

When his lips found yours again, the kiss that resumed was more intense than the previous ones, and you were sure that your heartbeat was matching his rapid pulse under your fingertips. Hushed gasps replaced the chaste giggles from moments before, and you wanted to push him a bit further; sliding your hands along his bare shoulders in an attempt to free him of the crisp white button down that was loosely hanging off of his frame.

He pulled away momentarily, shrugging the sleeves off of his arms and breaking the kiss to get his wrists past the cuffs, then swiftly tossing the shirt against the passenger side window before turning back to you.

Something about the way you hovered over him, face flushed and lips swollen, made him lose all resolve and snap beneath you, pulling you flush into his chest with one arm around your back while the other slid into your hair, gently tugging at the strands as his tongue slid inside your mouth. Your body turned to mush, making you grateful that Minho’s sweater vest was still between the two of you for you to ball up in your fists, clutching onto him like you were clutching onto your sanity.

You shifted in his lap, liking the closeness but not entirely comfortable with your positioning and in doing so, Minho inhaled a sharp breath, breaking the kiss. Panicking for a moment, you thought you might have hurt him, but it was quite the opposite, and upon realizing this you glanced down to see that his pants weren’t looking too comfortable either.

“Sorry,” he winced, not meeting your eyes in fear of the knowing look you would have on your face. “We should probably-”

You cut him off, leaning in to capture his lips in a slow, passionate kiss, laced with a small but noticeable hint of desire, and when you pulled away you were met with a flushed Minho, clearly trying to ignore the way you were sitting on top of him.

“...move to the backseat?” you answered, waiting for him to get the memo.

“Wait...here? You want to do this here?” he whispered, eyebrows furrowing in shock.

“You don’t?”

“I do! I just thought that I would be moving too fast for you and-” you brought a finger to his lips, tilting your head in amusement.

“Moving too fast? For me?”

You watched as his face turned from one of concern to one of annoyance, and you giggled mischievously as he rolled his eyes, huffing slightly.

“I…I was trying to be considerate and here you are, making fun of me…”

“I do appreciate your concern,” you responded playfully, pulling at the strings at his neckline, “however…”

You shifted your hips once more, this time intentionally grinding yourself against him as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, and before he could grip you any tighter, he reached over to the door handle.

“Get in the backseat.”

Probably a little too excitedly, you hopped out of the car and into the backseat, kicking off your shoes as Minho put the key into the ignition and rolled up the windows, as well as turned on the air conditioning to combat the heated atmosphere inside the car. He followed after you, closing the driver’s door and jumping in next to you, just barely closing the door behind him as you threw your arms around his neck.

Neither of you could tell if he was pushing you down more or if you were pulling him; either way you two were level with the seat cushions in seconds, frenzied hands doing everything they could to feel the other’s skin under their fingertips. Minho’s sweater vest flew off first, him tugging it off quickly to stop you from stretching the knit to shreds in your desperation.

Your shirt was next to follow, Minho’s teasing finally coming to a halt for him to whisper “off” as he tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you both momentarily sat up for him to pull the shirt over your head and onto the floor. The break from contact was only for a moment though, Minho pushing you back down to litter hot kisses across your now exposed collarbones. You gasped involuntarily, squirming from the light suction as your hands fumbled with his belt, finding the metal buckle a bit too complicated for your lust clouded mind.

“In my...back pocket,” Minho whispered, resting on his elbows to lean against you, “grab my wallet.” His focus went back to moving his lips along your neck, occasionally letting his teeth nip against the skin as you whimpered, hands sliding down his back to the edge of his pants. His leather wallet poked out from the left side, and you took it, looking for a particular foil square. Needy as you were, you weren’t completely delusional.

As soon as you found it, he sat up against the seat, finally allowing you room to breathe as he quickly undid his belt, and your brain started working again, telling you to rid yourself of the shorts caging your arousal. The denim disappeared in seconds, and you looked up to see Minho pulling down his pants and boxers in one go, wincing slightly as his hard red length sprang up against his abdomen. The sight of it throbbing had your core clenching in anticipation, and you could do nothing but wish that Minho would put the condom on faster, or better yet; do it yourself.

Almost painfully slow, he slid the rubber on, but as soon as he looked to you to cage you between his arms again, you ditched your underwear and stretched a leg over his thighs, straddling him once again. An eyebrow raised in pleasant surprise, hands hovering over your hips cautiously, but a hurried nod was all it took for him to hold you tightly, waiting for you to begin your descent.

Just like the rest of him, his shoulders felt firm under your palms, and you buried your head at the junction of his neck and shoulder as your entrance pressed against his tip. A silent gasp was shared between the both of you as you slowly enveloped him in your tight heat, followed by a low rumble from his chest. Whimpering slightly, your fingers dug into his hot skin as you adjusted to his size.

“...Do you want any help?” He whispered, and you slowly pushed yourself away from his chest. The burning desire to move was blazing inside your core, so you shook your head, figuring your own desperation would fuel your stamina for now. His hands slipped upwards to rest on your waist as his head leaned back against the headrest, bracing himself for your movements.

With a small raise of your hips, it felt like flames of pleasure were licking your every corner, and a small moan threatened to escape your throat from the friction. Minho was holding back too, for whatever reason, but you didn’t miss the slight groan that vibrated in his chest, or the way his fingertips pressed into the flesh of your sides a bit harder.

Sinking back onto him made your mind fuzzy; the only thing you could think about was how much you needed to do that again, and again, and with nothing in the way of that, you created a pace that was somehow too much but also not enough, for either of you. Your chest burned with the need to vocalize every time you sank down, while Minho had resorted to leaving the space between you full of shallow breaths, thick with the desire to meet you halfway into every movement.

The way that he was filling you up was more than satisfactory, and to keep your mind somewhat grounded, you leaned down and connected your lips again, electric kisses distracting you from the delicious burning sensation below.

Minho was not having it however; he wanted to hear you, so he distracted you with his mouth in other ways.

Moving away from your mouth, he kissed up your jawline, over to your ear, which you would quickly realize was extremely sensitive to Minho’s hot breath against it. And definitely more sensitive to his voice, in this particular situation.

“Y/n,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below your earlobe, “can you go faster for me?”

You must have clenched around him hard at that, because his breath hitched in his throat, stifling what would have been a moan as you picked up the pace.

“That’s it...that's my girl,” he almost moaned, tipping his head back as his hands slid up to hook around your shoulders. His hips started to jut up into you, and that combined with his arms pulling you down further every time your hips met was slowly turning you into a whining mess.

The sounds of your bodies meshing together was the dominant sound in the car, aside from Minho’s breathless pants and your endless whimpers, and the sun was far below the horizon now, long shadows finally disappearing and blending into the darkness inside the vehicle. The car was starting to rock back and forth in time with your movements, and the aching need for release was building just as fast as your stamina was diminishing; Minho noticed how you clung to his bare shoulders, signaling that you couldn’t keep up for much longer.

“I...can’t–” you sputtered out, your body close to giving out in the exhaustion and overstimulation of it all. Minho stilled your movements, pulling you off of him as both arms wrapped around your back.

“Slow down sweetheart, I’ve got you…” he whispered, laying you back onto the seat. He hovered over you, guiding himself back into your entrance before resuming a much slower pace, one that made you feel his every ridge, and in a sense this was slightly worse compared to riding him, because you could feel your orgasm approaching with the slowness of a bullet train.

For Minho, it was becoming increasingly difficult to not just drive himself inside you until you screamed his name, but he could save that for later, for now he thrusted inside you with a slow deliberation, and he relished in the way your nails clawed at his arms.

You felt like you could barely keep your eyes open, but when you could, it was a sight to behold. His honey skin was just barely caught in the remnants of the sunset, beads of sweat rolling down his neck and sticking to the various necklaces he was wearing, or dampening his beep brown hair. His face and neck were tinted with a slight glow of red, as well as his lips, which you were only to catch a glimpse of before he dipped down to taste the skin of your chest.

His hand slipped under you momentarily to unclasp your bra, and you just barely helped him slip it off your shoulders, dropping it on the floor beside you. His lips then went back to work, kissing along the sensitive swell of your breast as your core clenched tightly around him, spurring him on even further.

A hand came up to cup one of your breasts, thumb lightly running over your hardened nipple as your back involuntarily arched, and Minho could tell that you were close, with the pitch of your moans getting higher by the second.

“Almost there?” He asked, half curious for your sake and half for his; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take you before he would start to unravel.

“Yes...close, so close,” you cried out, syntax becoming nearly impossible.

His lips latched onto your neck once more, sucking to leave a deep red mark there as his thumb and index finger rolled your sensitive bud, and that combined with a few more deep thrusts had you twisting in pleasure until finally, you reached your peak. You were sure there would be marks left as your nails dug into his back, your loud moan reverberating around the car interior as Minho slowed his thrusts, relishing in the way you tightened around him.

It was only a minute before Minho was gasping for air himself, on the tip of ecstasy as he sheathed himself inside you at a fast pace, not wanting to overstimulate you for longer than he needed to. Luckily, his resolve broke quickly, and you could feel his warm release filling the condom before he pulled out, chest heaving.

You both fell mostly silent in the afterglow, spent but definitely satisfied, both of you just enjoying being in each other’s embrace before having to get cleaned up. The faint sound of the nearest highway was now the loudest sound in the vehicle, and the sky was turning into a deep shade of cobalt blue, every remnant of the sun now buried under the horizon line.

After a minute you started giggling, a funny thought running through your mind.

“What?” breathed Minho, starry eyes gazing at you through long eyelashes.

“It’s just-” you paused to laugh again.

“When Changbin wanted us to make good use of his car, I don’t think this is what he had in mind…”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

Text

honestly I've been reading one of your fics a day and I'm enjoying it way too much. this one is sooooo reminiscent of my current relationship and how much we were idiots in the weeks prior to getting together

but it's so sweet :') and I love it. thank you for writing Chan like this, his character just feels so real

Blood & Popcorn (l.c)

PAIRING: Lee Chan x f. Reader

SUMMARY: Fridays are reserved for watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer and stuffing your face with popcorn and pizza. It’s been like that for you and Chan since your freshman year of college. But when he skips your Blood and Popcorn night for a date, things take an unexpected turn.

WC: 11,315

AU: Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff

GENRE: Smut

WARNINGS: Literally so much misunderstanding and repressed feelings, pining, light themes of jealousy, recreational drinking, recreational weed use, bad communication skills, some mild insecurities, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (do not do this lmaooo), nipple stim, light teasing, oral (f. receiving), clumsy/playful sex, jokes/banter while fucking. They’re both down horrendous. Joshua as an almost love interest. Jeonghan is both terrible and great at advice.Alternating POVs and some time skips.

A/N: This was originally posted on my old blog, and is being reposted to celebrate Valentine's Day! Enjoy Chan and Bambi the way god intended.

A/N 2: Thank you to @daechwitatamic who beta read this and who this was dedicated to!

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“SO WHY NOT BLOOD AND PIZZA IF PIZZA IS ALWAYS INVOLVED BUT POPCORN ISN'T?” Mingyu eyes the french fries on your plate. You give him a warning glance, pointing the sharp tines of your fork at him. He retreats, leaning against the cracked vinyl of the booth, pouting. “Also, the title sounds gross.”

“Good thing it has nothing to do with you then.”

“Wow, you’re not even going to invite me?”

“No,” you chirp, popping a shoestring fry into your mouth. You savor the saltiness, humming delightedly. “It’s for me and Chan. Not me, Chan and you. Plus, you know nothing about Buffy.”

“Isn’t that a magic dragon? And are you sure you two aren’t dating?”

The look you send Mingyu makes him hold up his hands in surrender. It isn’t the first time someone has asked if you and Chan are dating, and you know it won’t be the last. You don’t want to start down that avenue tonight, trying to navigate the questions of why and well you seem to be a good match.

If romantic relationships were started over simply having things in common and matching a vibe, you and Chan would have started dating a long time ago. But you’re not, and you’ve already gotten over the fact that you’re not dating and that you will not start dating.

Mostly.

The bell rings above the diner door, drawing your attention. Like he’s been manifested by Mingyu’s dangerous question, Chan spots you and lifts a hand, a smile splitting his face as he heads over. You scoot over in the booth, dragging your plate along with you to make room for him.

Chan is dressed in jeans and a green sweater, your favorite color on him. He sits down next to you, cushioned seat dipping a little as he leans over to kiss the top of your head and steal fries off of your plate. You let him, feeling heat flush up the side of your neck as you look anywhere but Mingyu’s accusatory stare.

“These are so good,” Chan says around a mouthful of fries. “Thanks, Bambi.”

You grin at the nickname, trying not to flush too hard.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mingyu says pointedly. You ignore him, shoving your burger in your mouth. “Apparently I’m not allowed fries or to attend your movie night.”

“Order your own fries,” Chan says.

“Ugh. I already ate mine.”

“So order more, idiot. And of course you’re not invited to Blood and Popcorn. That’s our thing.”

Our thing.

The corner of your mouth twitches as you glance at Chan. He doesn’t notice, catching the eyes of the server and waving happily, giving her a broad smile. She gives him a thumbs up in return, confirming she’ll put in his usual now that he’s there.

There are a lot of things that belong to you and Chan. Studying at the very diner you were sitting in during freshman year had been one of them, though now in your final year there’s not as much of a need to study and you’ve incorporated other friends in your late night trips for grease and calories.

You also shared trivia nights on Tuesdays with Vernon and Seungkwan, football Sundays with Seungcheol, Mingyu and Jeonghan, once a month family dinners with everyone, and most importantly, Blood and Popcorn.

Chan steals another fry off of your plate and you let him, leaning back in the booth. Mingyu glares daggers at you, dark eyes flicking from your plate, to you, to Chan. You grin around a mouthful of cheeseburger and he scoffs before looking away.

Behind you, Chan’s arm stretches across the back of the booth, just barely brushing against the top of your shoulders. Your stomach flips a little, momentarily elated at the contact before you swallow it down with Sprite, pretending it wasn’t there in the first place.

The two boys immediately fall into a conversation about their shared engineering class. You tune it out easily, a learned habit over the last four years of having to listen to Chan tell you the functions of a bridge and the best way to design one. Instead, you focus on the rise and fall of Chan’s soft voice and the way it lulls you into a state of calm.

When the server brings over his order, he pulls his arm from over the back of the seat. Immediately you snatch one of the onion rings from his basket, popping one into your mouth and hissing as the crispy snack burns you. He shakes his head, laughing as he gives you a napkin while you sputter.

“Careful, Bambi,” he murmurs. “They’re literally steaming.”

Mingyu reaches for an onion ring, only to be threatened with the blunt end of Chan’s steak knife. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But she-”

“Bambi has special privileges,” Chan quips. “Order yourself some more fries for the love of God. I’ll pay for them.”

Mingyu immediately stops whining, mood improving markedly as he orders fries, wiggling in his seat happily. Chan cuts his burger in half, asking, “Why were you talking about Blood and Popcorn anyway?”

“Shua asked Bambi out on a date,” Mingyu answers around a mouthful of fries. “She told him she couldn’t go because of Blood and Popcorn.”

Chan stops eating and looks at you, brows creasing. You feel your heart rate speed up as you kick Mingyu under the table. He yelps, knee jerking upward to slam against the underside of the table. The salt and pepper shakers rattle in place as Mingyu bends over to rub his shin.

“He didn’t ask me out on a date.”

“He asked you to dinner!”

“As friends!”

“Oh yeah,” Mingyu snorts, rolling his eyes. “Friends take friends to fucking prime steakhouses. He asked you out on a date.”

For a moment, silence envelops the table. You stare at your fries, watching Chan out of your periphery. He looks away from you, wiping the grease from his fingers onto the napkin. The air feels pregnant with tension suddenly, your anxiety bubbling as you open your mouth to assert once more it wasn’t a date.

Chan beats you to breaking the silence, “We can skip this Friday so you can go!”

You open and close your mouth a few times, heart dropping to your ass. “What?”

“It’s totally fine if we have to skip. I don’t mind.”

Chan picks his burger back up, not looking at you. Heart pounding in your chest, you can’t help but watch him in total silence, trying to string together a response. Sure, maybe Chan doesn’t mind if you miss your weekly solo hangout. But you care.

The ache of the implication cuts you suddenly, a delayed reaction. You feel your throat tighten painfully, reaching for your Sprite to try and swallow past the sudden tension. It does nothing to quell the way the casual dismissal of your tradition keeps cutting you long after he’s said the words, sawing down to the bone.

“I wasn’t aware that we could just skip Blood and Popcorn, I guess.”

“I mean if you’ve got a date.”

That’s not the point, you want to scream at him.

Chan is a lot of things. Perceptive isn’t one of them. If he had been, you know he would have sniffed out your feelings for him a long time ago. Luckily for you, he’s remained completely oblivious over the last four years of your friendship, and you like to keep it that way. Keep it safe.

Nothing ruins a friendship more than unrequited romance. You know that from more than just the media you consume - you’ve seen more than once first hand when one friend catches feelings for the others but the desire isn’t mutual.

It isn’t mutual here. It’s always been very clear where Chan’s interests lie, and you’re totally fine with that. You accept the relationship that you have happily and quietly, and thought moments like are a brutal reminder of where you stand, it’s alright because you also love your friendship. More than you love him - at least, you think so.

So when Chan so easily suggests to go on a date, to cancel your thing with him to accommodate, you know it isn’t because he doesn’t care. He just thinks that you should go on a date because it doesn’t occur to him that the real reason you don’t want to is because your interests are somewhere else. That you don’t want to cancel Blood and Popcorn because it’s for the two of you and no one else.

“Yeah,” you rasp, unsure what else to say. “Um, maybe.”

“Shua is a good guy.”

“Yeah. Yeah he is.”

Mingyu and Chan go back to their conversation about class. You finish your meal in silence, leaning back against the seat as your thoughts wander listlessly. You gaze around the diner, drinking in detail as their conversation becomes background noise and you can no longer understand what they’re saying.

Rounders Diner had been a staple in the college community long before you were born, and continues to be the center for academic life. Students fill the booths sipping on milkshakes as they cram for exams or homework, night shift workers sit at the countertop and order coffee before heading to work, and the jukebox in the corner glows neon, only offering a selection of music from the 50s.

Behind the countertop is an open scratch kitchen, the sound of sizzling grease and yelled orders bracketing an Elvis song you know the words to but don’t know the name of. Black and white tile flooring with years worth of scuffs reflect the canned lighting in the ceiling. Over near the entrance is a wall covered in pictures of students of note throughout the years.

You remember the first time Chan had hauled you to Rounders. It was the first day you’d met, two freshmen absolutely terrified of the world after experiencing two back to back intro courses together. The dining hall was on the opposite side of campus from your classes, but Chan had insisted there was a diner just off the corner that everyone said was a necessary experience.

He was the first real friend you made. Your roommates had become your best friends too, Lorna and Mai splashed across almost every memory you have of college. But that first day is only colored with Chan, who had slid into the seat across from you and looked around the diner with a bright grin like he was suddenly at home.

Wanna start coming here after class?

You did. And you had.

A hand waves in front of your face, making you blink several times before Chan’s face swims into focus. Your thoughts are a little delayed as you drink him in: dark hair framing dark, angular eyes that turn molten brown when the sun hits them just right, a jawline that has turned sharper as he’s aged, though his cheeks still have a youthful softness that you adore, and a grin that makes the world dim.

“What?” you ask him, totally at a loss for words.

He laughs and you feel the corners of your lips turn upward, an automatic response to his mirth. “I asked if you were ready to go.”

You look up to see Mingyu at the register, passing over the bill and a card. “I think I spaced out. I thought you were buying him fries?”

He snorts. “Never fear, it’s my card. Everything okay?”

You hesitate. Not for the first time, the urge to spill your guts to him grips you so forcefully that you almost do right in the middle of Rounders. Almost tell him everything from start to finish, the feelings, the reason you don’t want to date Joshua, how beautiful you think Chan is-

Mingyu starts heading back and you force a grin on your face, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Of course. A little tired, though. Thanks for dinner.”

“You know I’ve got you.” He gets up from the booth and holds his hand out to you. “Always.”

Chan is the stupidest fucking person he knows. He lets out a loud scream into the warmth of his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as he lays face down in his bed. His arms are shoved under the pillow, fisting in his sheets as the long-winded scream finally begins to die out.

“Yes, that is healthy,” Seungkwan calls from Chan’s desk against the window. “Let the pillow know everything that you’re feeling.”

Scowling, Chan lifts his head up and looks over his shoulder at where Seungkwan is sitting. His roommate is hunched over Chan’s laptop, a document open on the screen as he clicks around rapidly, cursing under his breath.

“Why are you in here again?”

“My literature professor is a dinosaur,” Seungkwan answers. “And only accepts printed essay submissions.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“No, I mean you don’t have your own printer?”

“No, and I will not be paying thirty cents a paper for an essay that is almost thirty pages long.”

“That’s like, nine dollars dude. Also, why is your essay thirty pages long?”

“Ask the dude who wrote Beowulf.”

“Isn’t that like… a movie?”

Seungkwan mutters something under his breath. The printer chimes, followed by a mechanic whirring as the paper feeds into the machine and starts printing. Spinning in the chair, Seungkwan looks at where Chan is still laying stomach down, face squished against his pillow as he cradles it.

“Speaking of movies - are you having Blood and Popcorn here or at Bambi’s?”

Chan can’t help but smirk at the nickname. It had stuck ever since your freshman year when you’d called Rin Hartford a bambi-eyed bitch for saying nasty things to Mingyu. He thinks that night might be the night he realized he was absolutely head over heels for you, even if he had only known you for two weeks then.

Despite your quiet disposition, you’ve always been the epitome of bravery. He can’t recall a time that you haven’t said what you meant or meant what you said, and defending your friends and speaking up has always been paramount to you.

For someone like Chan who was often the youngest and the softest spoken in any group he was in, you were a breath of fresh air. And you’ve taught him to speak up for himself, letting him grow comfortable pushing back with people - especially his friends - and how to give back what he gets.

Corrupted, Seungcheol joked once. She corrupted him and taught him how to bully us back.

“I’m not really sure,” Chan says slowly, thinking about your conversation at the diner, the exact source of his pillow-scream. “We might not be doing it.”

“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?”

“There is no paradise. We’re just friends.”

“That’s the trouble I’m talking about, brother.” Seungkwan turns around to start collecting the pages out of the printer. “Is the Blood and Popcorn cancellation the reason for your pillow screaming?”

“I don’t know that it’s canceled.”

“That really clarifies the issue.”

Chan scowls. “Did you know Shua was into her?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“He asked her on a date.”

“Joshua must have got tired of waiting for you to make a move on Bambi. I guess he decided you weren’t going to.”

Chan frowns and sits up. He didn’t realize Joshua remotely had a thing for you, and while Chan adores the older member of their larger friend group, the thought of him taking you to dinner - a date - makes his stomach tighten.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Seungkwan clarifies. “That you have had the last four years to nut up or shut up. Everyone has waited for you to make your move on Bambi and you haven’t. If you’re not going to do it, someone else might as well.”

“I mean, anyone could ask her out. It’s not like I have-”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t have dibs. Dibs can be unspoken, Chan. You’ve been in love with that girl since freshman year, if you think people - especially our friends - cannot tell and don’t respect you enough to give you time to ask her out, you need to wake up.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Not to her, clearly.” Seungkwan stands and grins at Chan placidly, his essay collected in his hands. “Fortunately for you, the only person who is as dumb as you are is Bambi. Match made in heaven, really.”

Chan chews his bottom lip. That offers a little bit of relief. He doesn’t like knowing that his feelings are so obvious to everyone else, but at least you don’t know. He cannot imagine how uncomfortable it would make your friendship dynamic knowing he was mooning over you while you just saw him as a friend.

“Well, she doesn’t feel that way about me. I’m not going to confess my unrequited feelings and put her in that position to deal with them. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Seungkwan gives Chan a slow blink, smile turning plastic. “Like I said. Match made in heaven.”

Heaving a sigh, Chan throws himself on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Chan was certainly an idiot for a lot of reasons, but the biggest reason has to be the way he has let his feelings for you fester since freshman year. Instead of implementing preventative maintenance, he’s let the problem grow to the point that his friends are no longer waiting for him to do something about it.

The window of opportunity is gone.

Not that there was a window of opportunity to begin with. Chan has seen what it looks like when you’re interested in guys - dazed eyes, a little flustered, a tiny grin on your face. You’ve never looked at him that way. At least, not really like that. You smile at him all the time, but it’s different.

If he had the slightest indication you looked at him like you were interested, he’d have spilled his feelings a long time ago. Hiding this from you feels almost like a violation of friendship, but in order to preserve the friendship and keep you comfortable, he does what he must.

The memory of him telling you to go on a date with Joshua makes him groan in embarrassment. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, seeing stars explode behind his lids. It had been a knee jerk response, something to distract you from the immediate jealousy and panic he’d felt that moment that Mingyu had dropped that bit of information at the table.

Mingyu. That motherfucker did it on purpose - not to rile Chan, but to try and give him a kick in the ass toward the right direction. But like everyone else, Mingyu doesn’t get it. If Chan told you how he felt just to get it off of his chest, it would be putting his burden on you. You’d be the one who had to feel guilty for it being unrequited, you’d be the one who would inevitably feel uncomfortable or out of place.

No. It would be the highest form of selfishness he can think of, offloading the heavy weight of his feelings just to give them to you as a reprieve from carrying them around so long.

Chan blinks away the swimming colors, staring up at the popcorn ceiling of his bedroom again. He can hear Seungkwan singing somewhere in the apartment, liquid voice calming even in Chan’s mild state of distress.

Joshua is a good guy. Honestly, there are only a few guys that Chan knows who would make a suitable partner for you, and he begrudgingly acknowledges that Joshua is at the top of that list. And yet he still feels a twist of self-loathing that he had pushed you so quickly towards it, the regret like bile in his stomach.

The last thing Chan wants to do is skip Blood and Popcorn this week. It is the one guaranteed day of uninterrupted time with you, and he waved it away like it meant nothing to him, which could not be farther from the truth. The nights of watching Buffy and eating pizza and sometimes popcorn mean everything to him.

He just wishes he had been brave enough to stand his ground.

Maybe Joshua Hong is the worst person ever. Chan dismisses the irrational thought as soon as he has it. Joshua isn’t awful at all. It’s just that he’s leaning in toward you and saying something into your ear over the loud din of the party, and Chan watches the way you nod.

Crack. The plastic cup in his hand splits and immediately spills rum and coke all over the kitchen floor. Jeonghan starts yelling at him, ripping paper towels off of the roll and throwing them in Chan’s direction. He mutters an apology, gaze drifting over the kitchen counter to the living room where you’re laughing, head tilted back, warm light splaying across your throat-

“Ya! Don’t just let it pool at your feet!”

Jeonghan’s screech brings Chan back to life. He snatches the copious amounts of paper towels Jeonghan has thrown at him and starts to soak up the drink. The tile floor is already sticky and Chan cringes. No way have either Jeonghang or Seungcheol cleaned this floor any time recently. If anything, Chan has done it a favor.

The party is in full swing around him. He stands up with the soaked paper in his hand, tossing it into the trash and grabbing more while Jeonghan digs underneath the counter. Chan finishes soaking up the spilled drink and comes eye to eye with a new set of paper towels and spray cleaner.

Chan gives Jeonghan the soaked papers. “Jeonghan, your floor is already disgusting.”

“Then you should have no problem cleaning it!”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t call me that!”

He rolls his eyes but does what Jeonghan says, spraying the area quickly and pressing down the paper towels. They come away sticky and black, making him cringe in disgust before tossing them out and washing his hands. As he turns off the faucet, Jeonghan has the decency to hand him a new drink.

Chan takes it without comment, the image of Joshua leaning into you a little too much for him to deal with right now. He drains the cup, sputtering a little. Jeonghan is a heavy pour and the spiced rum goes down rough, his eyes tearing just a little as he finishes the drink.

“Well, that’s one way to stop from spilling.” Chan shoots Jeonghan a look before reaching for the mixer and handle of rum again. “You do normally drink like a fish, but anything in particular driving tonight’s thirst?”

“Nope.”

“Right, so it’s not tall, dark and handsome hanging out with Bambi?”

Chan feels his eye twitch as he heavily pours the liquor into his cup. “Nope. And Joshua isn’t even that tall.”

“Taller than you.” Chan shoots Jeonghan a venomous look. His face is beatific, grin a little bit dangerous as he holds his hands up in a white flag. “You look pretty bothered. If only there were a way to fix that.” Chan looks at Jeonghan with wide eyes, hope surging for a moment. “Just tell her you like her.”

“Why is that the only advice any of you have?”

“Because it’s the only advice I have. Either tell her or get over your feelings. Those are your options.”

“And I’ve already told you, it would just make her uncomfortable. It’s not her burden to bear.”

Jeongan taps his fingers on the countertop, studying Chan. Chan pouts into his cup, taking long draughts, trying not to cringe at the strong taste. He can already sense the oncoming buzz and he welcomes it, needing a little something to distract him from the obvious elephant in the living room.

“Alright,” Jeognhan relents. “Then deal with the consequences and get over your feelings.”

And he will. Chan has always been good at dealing with the repercussions of hiding his feelings, and he does them well. So he tips back the cup and rejoins the party, nerves steeled and ready to deal with the consequences like his friends keep telling him to.

“What?” you asked, lifting your voice to be heard over the rowdy game of cards at the coffee table. Joshua had asked you something but the words had been lost on you as your gaze drifted to Chan where he was leaning against the wall, talking to a girl you didn’t know. He was leaning awfully close. “I didn’t catch that.”

Joshua smiles. He really is handsome, and everything someone could want in a partner. He’s kind and gentle, has a little bit of an insane streak, and he is incredibly intelligent and loyal. So why do you feel nothing when he grins at you or laughs?

Your eyes drift over to Chan again and you feel your stomach flip. The alcohol turns to lead. The girl Chan is speaking to is so close to him, both of them turned toward one another as he ducks his head down to say something to her. She laughs and he smiles, looking her up and down.

Jealousy swallows you whole. It roars so loudly in your ears that you almost miss Joshua’s question again. “Did you give any thoughts about dinner on Friday?”

Dinner? Friday? Oh right. He had asked you to dinner on Friday, but you’d declined due to your planned Blood and Popcorn night. With Chan. Who is flirting with the girl next to him, who is flirting back.

The jealousy feels like a raw, rotten thing. It turns the alcohol in your stomach sour, makes the sweat on the back of your neck feel too much, like the room is too loud and too full. Even as the envy rears its head, an ugly beast ready to unleash, you turn to Joshua and say, “I really can’t. Friday nights are really important to me.”

Joshua looks disappointed, but he’s polite enough to nod and smile. “I understand. Maybe a different night?”

“Um, maybe. Would you excuse me? I really need some air.”

You stand abruptly, starling the people next to you. The cup in your hand shakes a little and your throat constricts and oh god. You cannot cry in the middle of a party just because you’re a little buzzed and the boy you like is across the room with another girl.

“Do you want me to-”

“No!” You quip, shaking your head. “Totally fine, I’m so fine, I just need some air. Please! Sit! Stay!”

Joshua raises his eyebrows at your frantic commands and you give a laugh that is a little on the hysterical side as you step over the legs of people sitting on the floor and on the couch. Joshua calls after you as you make the escape but you don’t turn around, eager to get out of the room.

You trip over someone’s foot and nearly launch into a passerby as you go. Strong hands steady you before you totally topple over, though your drink sloshes over the edge of your cup, spilling it on the carpet.

“What is it with you and your other half?” You look up to realize that it’s Jeonghan who stabilized you. “Spilling drinks all over my damn floor!”

“It probably helps. Your floors are disgusting.”

“Ya! That’s beside the point - why do you look like you’re about to die?”

“I feel like I might. I need fresh air.” For a moment, Jeonghan looks confused. You watch his dark brows pull together and he looks over your head, dark gaze scanning for something. For Chan, you realize. It’s usually Chan who leaves with you if you need air or need to stick your head in a bucket to vomit. The realization hits you like a brick. “Not him,” you whisper. “I’m fine.”

Your words land at the same time Jeonghan focuses in the direction you’d last seen Chan. He holds you there, suspended in time for a moment as his eyes dart between you and back to where you know Chan is still leaning against the wall.

There is a flicker of something that you cannot place in Jeonghan’s gaze before it softens and he nods. He pulls you toward him and helps guide you around the groups of people. “Fresh air it is.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I don’t know, crying alone is kind of lame, Bambi.”

Cool air hits you the second you step onto the porch. Soonyoung is sitting on the railing with Jihoon and Vernon leaning next to him. He waves enthusiastically when he sees you, breaking out into a grin and lifting the joint between his fingers, an offer. You shake your head and he shrugs, passing it to Vernon who lifts a hand in salute.

The smell of weed chases you down the grass slope of Jeonghan’s backyard. It’s not so much a backyard as it is open to the apartment community’s lake. The spray of the fountain grows louder as the sounds of the party fade.

Jeonghan sits down in the grass, leaning back on his hands. You join him, cringing at the dampness from the dewey grass. Taking in a deep breath you close your eyes and lean your head back, letting the wind cool the sweat on your overheated skin. The breeze mists the fountain, tiny specks of water tingling on your face as you sit in silence.

Behind your lids, you can see the image of Chan leaning in toward that girl. The intimacy of the space. You hate how you can recall it in such detail - you’d always been able to remember details where Chan was involved. Like the way he was wearing a black, long-sleeved tee that pulled against his chest and arms perfectly, or the way the necklace you bought him two years ago glinted in the light of the living room, or the way-

“I did it to myself, huh?” you ask, feeling the first tear collect on your lash line. You tilt your head upward, trying to blink it rapidly away. “I could have just told him a while ago.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re entirely responsible,” Jeonghan mutters. “Look, putting your heart on your sleeve is really scary, especially when it’s to someone you really value. But you have to decide what to do. You can either tell Chan you love him or you can decide to get over it. You can’t cling to unspoken feelings, though.”

“I just… I don't feel like he returns the feelings and I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“Then get over him.” You snap your gaze at Jeonghan, who is looking at you with the cool and calm you wish you felt. “If you’re unwilling to be honest with him, then your option is to get over it.”

“Do you think he would… react poorly?”

“Of course not, but I will not speak to all of Chan’s feelings. Those are his to share, not mine, and I believe in the sanctity of acting on one’s own.”

“You sound so… saintly.”

“Dealing with all your problems has turned me into a saint. Do you know what it’s like being therapy to all of these damn people? You all take ‘door open’ a little too seriously.”

You laugh, feeling a little lighter. Pulling at the grass, you sigh. “You’re right, though. I either need to just tell him or let it go. I can’t just… suffer.”

“If only you’d come to that conclusion a while ago.”

“Bleh.”

Fresh air and the weight of Jeonghan’s words weigh down on you. You know that he’s right. Though you’re confident that Chan doesn’t return your feelings, you don’t explicitly know because you’ve never asked. And if you never ask, you’ll never know.

Calm settles over you as you decide your course of action. Blood and Popcorn is in two days - you can bring it up then.

Nodding to yourself, you pluck more grass out of the ground. “Alright,” you tell Jeonghan, heaving a sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Ugh, you two! Don’t call me that!”

Hands shaking, you stare at your phone. You’ve had two days to mentally prepare for this evening and yet when you look at your phone, you think two days was not remotely enough to prepare for this evening. You haven’t spoken to Chan at all about what time you want to have your weekly hangout, but that’s not unusual.

The only thing unusual is your hesitation to hit the call button and ask what time he wants to come over. It’s such a simple thing - you don’t need to confess your feelings to him right now. But the anticipation of what inviting him over means and the possible disaster it can bring makes your fingers shaky.

Instead of hitting dial, you take one deep breath and let it out slowly. In slowly again, and-

Your phone starts ringing before you can finish the exhale. Your heart pounds in your throat when you see Chan’s name flash across your screen. For a few seconds there is pure panic, but you manage to collect yourself and slide your thumb across the screen. It takes a few tries, your hands clammy with anxiety as you answer.

“Hi!”

“Don’t kill me,” Chan immediately says on the other side of the line. You pause, cocking your head.

“Why would I do that?”

“I have to raincheck on Blood and Popcorn tonight.”

“Oh no, are you sick? Do you need me to bring anything over? Is Seungkwan-”

Chan laughs on the other side of the phone and your stomach flutters helplessly. You hear the creak of bed springs and you know he’s sitting on his bed. He has the world’s creakiest bed. “I’m not sick.”

“Oh.”

You frown, sitting down on your couch and folding your legs. There’s nothing else you can think of that Chan would cancel Blood and Popcorn for, so illness had seemed like the first rational thing. You feel a little embarrassed at immediately trying to take care of him, but push it away to ask, “What’s up?”

“I have a date. Tonight is the only night she was available for like two weeks. She’s in her first year of law school so her availability sucks.”

It feels like the air vanishes from the room. You lean back against the backrest on the couch, deflated. You hold the phone to your ear, but don’t feel the weight of it in your hand. The TV across the living room becomes a blur, the muted program in the background unrecognizable.

A date. Chan has a date. That he’s willing to cancel your night for.

You think back to that night at the diner when he told you to just go out with Joshua instead of doing Blood and Popcorn. How easily he pushed it aside. Like it was unimportant. Easily missed.

“Bambi?” Chan’s voice sounds distant through the roar of your emotions. “You there? The cell service in your apartment is so shitty.”

“I’m here.”

“Oh good. Sorry to miss, please don’t kill me. We can add two days of Blood and Popcorn next week to make up for it?”

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah.”

There’s a pause. “Are you okay?”

“Definitely.” Lie. “Sorry, I just woke up from a nap and I’m a little spacy.” Lie. “No problems here. I’m not mad. Enjoy your date.” Lie.

“Thanks, I’ll let you know how it goes after!”

“For sure.”

When Chan hangs up the phone, you think that Jeonghan was right. Crying alone is lame.

Chan can’t do this.

Sol isn’t the problem - at least not directly. She is beautiful and funny, sharp as a whip and has an edge to her that he loves in women. She is successful, has goals, and she’s sensible. And she’s into him, which is perhaps the biggest plus of all.

But she isn’t you. Sol’s biggest problem is that she’s not you, and it’s not really her problem at all. It is Chan’s and Chan’s alone, and he cannot sit through this date anymore. He’s tried for the last hour already, asking all of the right questions and laughing at all the right places, but he cannot stop the way he wonders if you’re watching buffy. He cannot help but wonder if you’re in those expensive pajamas you like, drinking inexpensive wine from the corner story, his favorite contrast.

Chan cannot stop thinking that his button up is a little too tight on his chest and the uncomfortable way his new shoes rub his ankle. He’d rather be in a tee and shorts, freshly showered and stretched out. He cannot stop blinking his eyes, hating the way one of his contacts is irritating him, wishing instead to be in glasses and the lowlight of your apartment.

From the moment he ended that call with you to cancel Blood and Popcorn, all he’s felt is dread. Dread for the upcoming date with someone he should be excited about, dread for telling you how it goes, dread for having to be in public with people and to get to know someone, dread at what happens at the end of the date, does he have to kiss her? Does he have to go get ice cream? What does he do-

“Are you okay?” Sol’s raspy voice draws him from his thoughts - not for the first time that night. She’s leaning back in her seat, dark eyes pinning him to the spot. She is as sharp as she is beautiful, and normally someone like Sol would make him trip over his feet. “You zoned out.”

“I apologize, that was rude of me.”

“It was,” she agrees. She swirls the wine in her glass, looking him up and down before giving him a sympathetic smile. “I won’t be offended if you want to call this off early.”

“What?”

“You’re not interested,” she asserts. Confident. Self-assured. “It’s totally okay if it’s not working for you.”

Heat crawls up the side of Chan’s neck. He runs his sweaty palms over his slacks. “I am so sorry,” he says earnestly. “This sounds so stupid to say, but it is me, it isn’t you.”

“No offense, but I know. You’ve been distracted since we got here. You obviously have something or someone else on your mind.”

“That easy to read, huh?”

“Open book. I have some pride, though. Let’s pay the bill?”

“I’m sorry.”

Her grin is polite. Understanding. “Don’t be. You’re cute and nice, but I cannot suffer knowing your mind isn’t on me.”

“Understandable.”

Chan knows he’s lucky. Anyone else a little less level-headed or less confident might have made him suffer. As it is, Sol does let him suffer a little, sliding the bill over to him with a knowing grin. He likes Sol - not like he likes you, but she’s good people.

“Promise me one thing?” Sol asks before ducking into her Uber. “It’ll help my pride.”

“Sure.”

“Go spend the rest of the evening with whoever it is and make sure you tell them how you feel. It’ll be worth it, that way.”

Chan grins. “Alright. I promise.”

And he does intend to hold to that promise. Something about tonight is different. He can feel it as he walks quickly to his car, undoing the top button of his shirt as he goes. The air is crisp and there are still a few streaks of orange in the night sky, the sun long gone.

Chan calls you as he turns his car onto the road, heading toward your apartment on the northside of down. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel, buzzing with nervous and excited energy as the line rings. When you don’t pick up, he ends the call.

Jeonghan was right - he usually is. Chan could either tell you how he feels or live with the consequences, and he’s decided he cannot live with the consequences. He cannot sit across the table from someone who isn’t you and pretend that he isn’t wondering what you’re doing. He cannot look at the curve of someone else’s mouth and wonder what it would be like if it were yours.

The date had been spurred by the intense wave of jealousy and inadequacy he felt at Jeonghan’s party when he saw you sitting on the couch with Joshua. He has no idea how else he would have had the confidence to start chatting up someone as commanding as Sol, but he was powered by rum and a wounded heart.

Stupid. It was stupid, he realizes now. He has been stupid so many times regarding you and for long enough that even Joshua, the most polite of his friends, felt like they could respectfully intercept you, now.

Well, perhaps you will choose Joshua instead. Chan is fine with that. What you want has always been paramount to him. But if you choose Joshua, it will be with the knowledge that Chan loves you and he always has.

Steeling himself, he gets out of the car at your apartment complex and looks up at the building. He can see the lights on in your living room, confirming you’re still home and probably watching Buffy. The thought sends a thrill through him and he smiles, shaking his head and taking a deep breath.

“You’ve got this, Lee Chan,” he tells himself. “You’ve got this.”

A loud knock on your door startles you. You finish blowing your nose in the issue, trying to suck up the rest of your tears. Pulling the sleeves of your sweater - Chan’s sweater - over your hands, you wipe your face with sweater paws, trying to erase some evidence of your tears before having to face the delivery person.

Grabbing the bills on the counter, you wonder how many people delivering food have seen people answer the door while crying or immediately after crying. Honestly, they’ve probably seen all types of strange situations, which makes you feel a little bit about answering the door after very clearly sobbing.

Unlatching the top and flipping the deadbolt, you yank the door open, prepared to not make eye contact to make it a little less awkward for you and the person just trying to hand you pizza and soda, except-

“Chan?”

It is Chan standing outside of your door. You blink in surprise, giving him a quick once over. He looks really nice, dressed in slacks and a black button up shirt that is a little too tight across the chest - not that you’re complaining - and the top of the buttons undone to reveal the necklace you gifted him. His dark hair has styling product in it, pushing it out of his face, save for a small rebel strand that hangs over his eyebrow.

Chan looks… beautiful. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, face swollen from crying, nose a little snotty and looking worse for wear.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why are you crying?”

Chan pushes his way into your apartment and you let him, dropping your arm as he passes by. He shuts the door for you, flipping the latch and lock out of habit as he turns to you. He reaches out to grab you by the shoulders but you back up a little, suddenly terrified of his touch.

He notices. “Why are you crying?” he asks again, dark brows knitted and mouth twisted in a frown. “Talk to me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”

“Left early, wasn’t working. What’s going on?”

You swallow thickly, realizing you’re at a crossroads. Silence stretches between you as he waits for your answer, looking at you with so much concern that you begin to crack. The tension in your throat returns, the telltale sign of tears and you ball your fists, nails digging into your palms.

A torrent of feelings bombard you. Anger. Hurt. Desire. Relief. Hurt again.

“You canceled Blood and Popcorn.”

Chan opens and closes his mouth, head cocking to the side a little bit. He looks mystified, trying to put together the pieces to the puzzle. “I don’t understand.”

“You canceled Blood and Popcorn for something else. For someone else.”

“I-”

A series of emotions flit over his face. You feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest as you watch each one, trying to catch them as they go. Confusion. Thoughtfulness. Confusion. Realization. You watch as he drinks you in, the tears, the wet stains from crying on the shirt, your words. Slowly, Chan puts the pieces together for the entire picture, and his face becomes so soft that you nearly cringe.

“Oh, Bambi.”

“You can date whoever you want, you’re not mine,” you punch out, wiping a tear as it escapes your eye. Feeling small, you back away from him a little, breaking eye contact. “But it hurts when you shove me aside like that. Look, I know we’re friends, but-”

“Bambi,” he says gently. You’re not looking at him, but you know that tone. The pleading. He’s begging you to stop, you think, but if you don’t get this out now you never will.

“Blood and Popcorn is important to me. You’re important to me. I know you’ve never seen me as more than a friend, but Chan-”

Chan interrupts you again. This time though, it’s by crashing against you. You nearly topple over onto the coffee table with the force of it, but you cling to him, digging your hands into the meat of his biceps to hold yourself to him. His hands press into the small of your back, sending a bolt of electricity to you that you can’t pay any attention to, because Chan presses his mouth against yours softly, stealing all of your thoughts.

For a second, your brain goes static. You’re so stunned you don’t do anything but cling to him, vacantly aware that the softness of his lips are on yours. Tentative. Questioning.

Chan pulls away and your eyes flutter open. He is only an inch away from your face, his minty breath fanning your lips as he begins to apologize, panic on his face. You interrupt him this time, surging forward to crash your lips to his, far less gentle than he had been the first time.

The box you’ve shoved every feeling for Chan cracks open. You feel everything pour out of it, a steady stream of want as you press into him. He smells like teakwood and mint, hypnotizing you. His mouth is soft and eager, sucking gently against your bottom lip.

Everything feels lighter, like gravity has lost all meaning. Chan pulls away from your mouth a little, close enough to brush your lips against his in a feather-light kiss, but enough to gaze down at you through half lidded eyes.

“The date didn’t work out because I kept thinking of you,” he whispers, voice shaking. You feel your breath stop as he speaks, each word sinking in. “It was stupid to ask her out. I was feeling insecure about Joshua asking you out, and it was stupid and petty-”

You kiss him again. He smiles into the kiss, letting you lead him, slow and lazy. You feel his tongue brush against the seam of your lips and you eagerly let him in, toes curling as he licks into your mouth.

“I just want you,” Chan admits, breaking away for a quick breath of air. He presses his lips against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek. He peppers your face in them as his hands skate up your back, hot even through the material of his sweatshirt. “I have for so long and I’ve been so afraid to tell you.”

“I was afraid too.”

“I have wasted so much time.” His hands cradle your face, turning you to look at him.

Chan is so earnest. Raw honestly glitters in his eyes. Deeper, hiding beneath the surface is something a little darker and more intense. Want. Desire. Something that lingers, waiting for you to call it forward. You love him so much that in that moment you almost cry more, feeling overwhelmed with everything you’ve buried down for years.

“I want to make up for it,” you whisper, stealing a kiss that is more teeth than anything. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. Your hands sink to his waist, gripping at the fabric of his shirt. “I was actually going to tell you tonight, before you canceled.”

“What a stupid man I am.”

You smirk a little. “Yes.”

“Let me apologize,” he murmurs, voice low. You feel yourself shiver as he pushes you toward your room, connecting your mouths again. The kiss is messy and needy, so different than the one moments before. You tangle together, stumbling toward your room. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh?”

The crash landing onto your mattress is not graceful. Chan’s full weight falls on top of you and your foreheads smack a little. You yelp in paint and Chan groans, burying his face in your neck. You can’t help the laughter that bubbles to the surface, exploding out of you as your hands press flat on his back, soothing as you hold him to you.

“First step of apologizing,” you wheeze under him. “Give her a concussion.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, burying his face further in embarrassment. “I’m a little eager.”

His breath tickles your neck, making you squirm under him. He seems to notice, opting to press open-mouthed kisses against your throat. You hum, eyelids fluttering at the stimulation. “It’s okay,” you breathe, fingers turning to claws against his back. “It’s cute.”

Chan leans off of you, properly supporting himself with arms on either side of your head, caging you in. His knee slots between your legs, making your stomach leap in excitement as he scoots it up a little, almost pressing against you.

“You’re cute,” he notes, kisses getting messy as they go up your neck toward your ear. He nips your ear and you let out a sound. His laughter is warm against you and you shiver. “You’re in my clothes.”

“I wear them all the time.”

He groans. “I know. Fuck I know.”

“Is that what does it for you?” You move your hands from his back to his waist, pulling the tucked shirt from the waistband of his slacks. His hips twitch forward, excited. He busies his mouth with pressing wet kisses to your jaw. “Me in your clothes?”

“Everything does it for me. I am down horrendous for you.”

“I really didn’t know.”

He moves a hand to pull at the collar of his sweatshirt, exposing more of your collarbones to him as he kisses. “Everyone else did,” he assures you. You hiss when he bites down and licks over the sting, looking up through dark lashes to gauge your reaction. You nod a little and he grins, doing it again. “Biting. Got it.”

With trembling fingers, you work the buttons on his shirt. You steal touches as you go, greedy for him. Too long have you hidden what you want in the shadows, too long have you resisted this. Now, you take.

You brush your fingers against the flexing muscle of his stomach as you pull at the shirt, making him moan deep in his throat. His skin is like fire as you brush your fingers across its warmth, shoving his shirt off. He leans up, letting it fall from his shoulders, rippling to the ground.

The light from your hall glows behind Chan, halloween him in golden light. Your breath catches in your chest as your fingers press to his skin, brush over his shoulders and chest, down his stomach. You feel him twitch beneath your hands but he lets you explore, breathing hard under your reverence.

Golden boy, so full of fire. It’s all you can think of as you stare up at him, equal parts light and dark in your bedroom. Your hands drop to his belt and you tug him to you, desperate for him.

“Kiss me,” you beg.

He does. His mouth is greedy, stealing your breath. A thrill shoots through you when he slides his knee up higher, pressing it between your legs. You breath the kiss to gasp at the barest amount of pressure and Chan grins, watching your reaction through a heavy gaze.

“Take this off for me,” he asks, voice raspy. He pulls at the hem of his sweatshirt on your frame. “Please.”

You lean up, pressing your mouth to his collarbone in a sweet kiss as you pull the shirt over your head. He helps you, tossing it somewhere else. His hands go to your sides, fingers tracing up your curves as he pushes you back down, claiming your mouth again.

It feels like you might go crazy. Your bare chest presses against his, the friction turning your blood to liquid fire. His knee is firm between your legs, and when his hand slips to your waist, squeezing you and urging you to roll your hips you can’t help but let out a moan in the shape of his name, helpless.

“Fuck,” he swears, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he helps you move against his thigh. “If you say my name like that again I might bust in my fucking pants.”

“Chan.”

“Don’t,” he laughs, biting your shoulder. “I want this so bad.”

“I want you.”

“I might pass out due to sheer joy.”

“I have some ideas on how to revive you.”

He lets out a swear and you laugh. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Maybe.”

Truth is, you think he might be the death of you. You’d die happily in his arms, completely swept up in the feeling of Chan’s tongue as it skates across your skin and up the swell of your breast. When he pauses, you look down at him. He smirks, happy to have your attention before he flicks his tongue lightly over the peak of your nipple.

You squeeze your legs around his thigh, back bowing off the bed. He lets out a chuckle, repeating the flicking motion as he watches you with dark, satisfied eyes. It drives you insane, the way he watches you with equal parts reverence and determination to find out what makes you squirm.

Chan is a fast learner. His teeth scrape against your nipple and you whine, thrashing under him as he teases you, pulling gently. The sting feels so good, making you melt into the mattress underneath him. He makes a sound of appreciation, sucking gently and sending you to the moon before trailing his mouth toward your other breast.

The hand on your hip squeezes you, reminding you why it had been there in the first place. “Keep going.” His breath fans against your skin and you tremble. “I like seeing you worked up.”

“God,” you whisper, trying to roll your hips against his leg again. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and as he sucks greedily at your chest you feel like you might rip at the seams. “Who knew you were so… this.”

You feel his wet grin against you, tongue flicking against your pert nipple. Your head falls to the side as you pant, trying to catch your fucking breath.

Of course he can reduce you to nothing so easily. No one knows you better than Chan, the two of you like twin flames. Every touch of his tongue, every press of his fingers into your skin, every breath of your name on his lips were made to unravel you because it’s Chan. Your Chan.

Your Chan who gently pulls the sweatpants from your hips, groaning low and slow when he sees the way your panties stick to your folds. Your Chan who kisses and bites the softness of your thighs, breath ghosting across sensitive flesh, fingers prying your legs apart when they start to twitch shut.

You’d always been made for him. To think otherwise was folly. You know that now, hand gripping his bones tight as he pulls your hands to the side, the cold air hitting your aching cunt. He lets you squeeze his hand, not caring that your gripping is bone-breaking.

“Hmm.” He looks up at you and you look down at him. His eyes are blown and he grins, shaking his head a little. “This for me?” You nod, your thoughts banging around the near empty space in your head as you do. “Fuck.”

And then his tongue presses against you, flat and warm and fuck fuck fuck. You can barely function as Chan drags his tongue slowly up your pussy, avoiding your clit entirely before dragging it back down. He makes a sound in his throat that sounds like a whine and you nearly lose it there, driven insane by him.

Chan takes the hand he has linked with yours and rests it on your hip, pressing into you to keep you still. You buck under his mouth and he laughs, unbothered as he looks up at you. The vision of him between your legs makes you dizzy, his hair mused, tongue pressed between your folds, eyes starving.

Your other hand grips his wrist where his opposite hand holds you open. You cling to him, thighs twitching as he licks you at his leisure. His mouth is a weapon, bringing you to the edge of insane easily. When he closes his lips around your clit and sucks gently, you fear you might break.

He can sense it too, setting himself to the task of pushing you over the edge. Chan learns you so quickly - maybe just knows you intuitively - alternating between circling his tongue around your throbbing bundle of nerves and sucking on it gently.

“I am going to die,” you gasp between ragged breaths. “Your fucking mouth.”

“Yeah? Feels good?” The buzz of his words drive right into your lower stomach where your orgasmed has so much compacted pressure you know you’re going to snap any moment. “Taste so good. I could eat this pussy all fucking night.”

“Fuck, Chan. I’m gonna come.”

He gives a harsh suck to your cunt, the wet sound obscene. “Good.”

“Like that.”

“Yeah?” he asks, panting. He does it again, following your instruction. Your mouth falls open as you nod, unable to string together more than. “Mmm.”

Chan doubles his effort, the wet sounds of his mouth making it all the harder to keep it together. He keeps you in place as best as he can, but his little hums of pleasure and the combination of his mouth and tongue send your orgasm slamming into you.

You think you say his name. You have no idea if anything comes out at all. You come hard, thrashing against the bed as he licks you through it, uncaring. Every nerve in your body is on fire, limbs tingling as you float in the momentary high of your peak before you start to come back down, breathing raggedly.

A cramp throbs in your fingers that are still twisted in Chan’s grip. You loosen your grip a little bit, feeling a little bad about almost snapping his fingers. He doesn’t seem to mind, head still between your legs, tongue gentle and pressed against your twitching entrance. He avoids your clit, letting you catch your breath.

“Chan,” you mumble. He lifts his head, your arousal spread across his mouth. He is a mess, spiking your need for him. You pull at him, wild. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He scrambles up to you, letting go of your hand in favor of cradling your face. The kiss is hungry and wet, your heady taste on his mouth as you drink him in. You don’t care, desperate to have him close, pulling him into you.

One of your hands snakes between your bodies, pressing against the firm outline of his cock through his pants. He lets out a whine, shaking his head as he breaks the kiss, breathing heavy.

“Don’t,” he begs. “I will cum right now.”

“Oh?”

“I’m so serious, I almost came untouched.”

“Wow, I really do it for you, huh?”

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” His sincerity makes you flush and you peck him on the lips. “I cannot promise I will not come apart after a single stroke.”

“Don’t care.” You undo his belt, pulling. “Want it. Want you. Please don’t make me wait.”

He curses. “I can deny you nothing.” He sees your wicked grin and shakes his head, laughing as he pulls away to kick out of his pants. “You like having me wrapped around your finger, huh?”

“You’re not the only one whipped.” He looks at you, doubtful. “You think I share my fries with anyone? Be so real, Chan. That’s something only you can do.”

“Got it. French fry privileges, what else can I weaponize?”

You don’t answer his question, distracted by him as he peels his briefs off and fists his heavy cock. You lick your lips, drinking in the length and thickness of him, the sticky, swollen tip, the way he pumps himself when he kneels on the bed again.

“Hmm?” he asks, noticing you're distracted. “Everything okay?”

“You have a nice dick,” you blurt. He pauses, raising his brows, thighs pressed to the back of yours. You fold your lips flat, a little embarrassed by your outburst. “Thank you is the proper response to a compliment.”

He bursts into laughter and you can’t help but join him, covering your face as it heats up. “Don’t hide from me, wanna see you,” he teases, grabbing your hands and pulling them from your face. He pins them above your head. “And thank you.”

Chan runs the head of his cock along your sticky folds, both of you moaning in unison. His hand still pins yours above your head, making you feel open and vulnerable. Your knees squeeze his hips as he ruts against you a little, eyes focused while he uses his other end to guide himself to your entrance.

“Mmm,” the sound escapes you as he presses in, the ache in your core doubling for a second as he sinks further. “Fuuuck.”

“Okay?”

“Very. Just- slow.”

“You got it, baby.”

The term of endearment hits you low in the stomach. Between him whispering baby and sinking into the hilt, you don’t know what drives you crazier. The easy answer is just Chan. It’s simply Chan who does this to you, who turns you inside out, who reduces you to a whimpering mess.

Chan lets go of your hands and brings it to your face. He leans down, supported by the other hand as he kisses you gently, letting you adjust to his girth, pussy spasming around him as you try to keep it together. The kiss is slow and sweet, in contrast to the feral kiss you shared earlier.

“Fuck,” he breaths against you mouth, laughing. He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re fucking squeezing me. I might die.”

You do it on purpose this time and he hisses, all of his muscles clenching. “Like that?”

“Doonnn’t. If I come right now I’ll be so embarrassed.”

“Why? It’s just me.”

“I don’t want to one-stroke my dream girl, are you serious?”

“Dream girl, huh?” He pulls out a little before shallow thrusting back in. “Mmm yeah. That feels good.”

Instead of answering your jest, he kisses you slowly. His strokes are slow but deep, making you sigh. He feels so good, having him like this. Chan presses his body against you, melding the two of you. You wrap your legs around his waist, squeezing to keep him as close as possible.

Your name falls from his lips as you move in sync. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, feel him shake in your hands. He buries his face in your neck, mouth pressed against your skin as he breathes heavily. You cling to him, as though you could press your love into him, as though you can transfer it through touch.

Chan slides a hand between the two of you, reaching down to circle your clit gently. You whimper in surprise, squeezing around him and drawing out a low sound. “I’m gonna come soon,” he murmurs. “Do you have another one, baby? Can you try for me?”

You nod. He presses his lips to your temple, driving his hips faster, fingers firm. You feel yourself wind up again, desperate to catch up to Chan, to give him what he wants, to come undone together. You’d do anything for him - anything he asked. You always have.

A glint of metal catches your eye. You see the necklace you gifted him hanging around his neck, tapping his collarbone in time with his movements. The sight of it makes you possessive, your desire for him surging. Gripping the back of his neck, you bring his mouth to yours. You don’t kiss him, but your mouths are pressed together as you mutter, “I love you, you know?”

He groans, hips stuttering, fingers firm. You’re so close, you feel yourself right on that edge again. “I do know,” he admits, his cock pressing that perfect spot inside of you that has the room spinning. “I love you too, you know?”

You feel him smile against you. The kiss he gives you is so gentle that it sends you over the edge. You hold him tight, coming undone around him as he groans into your mouth, unraveling with you. When he stills, you keep holding him to you, his embrace warm.

Chan nudges your nose with his. You open your eyes to find his dark ones peering at you. You smile, lifting a hand to trace your fingers along his jaw, the gentle slope of his nose, the roundness of his cheeks. You note the faint freckles under his eyes, his long lashes, the way one side of his lips lifts before the other when he smiles.

“Hmm?” he asks.

“You’re so pretty.” You trace your finger to his nose and then flick it. He frowns and pulls away, making you laugh. “There is cum leaking down my leg to my ass.” He thrusts once sharply and you whine. “Chaaaan.”

“Hmmm?”

“Can we shower?”

“We?”

You grin. “You speak French?”

“I speak pussy.”

“Ew, get off of me!” you laugh, hitting him in the shoulder. He laughs too, rolling off and pulling out. “Take me to the shower, you loser.”

“Oui.”

“Then I want to watch Buffy - oh no.”

“What?” He stands and reaches a hand out to you, helping you up. “Are you alright?”

“I ordered pizza and they probably tried to deliver.”

“That’s okay.” He pulls you toward the shower and smacks your ass lightly, making you yelp. “Start the shower, I’ll call and get it re-delivered.”

You pause, looking at him, unable to bite back the smile. “I love you.”

“Mhmm. Love you too, Bambi.”

“I know I’m good looking,” Chan murmurs, eyes on the screen. “But you’re staring very hard at me.”

You’re laying against his chest, head tilted up to look at him. You can’t help it, watching the blue light from the TV dance across his face, reflected in the glasses he put on after the shower. His hair is still damp and fluffy, skin glistening from the skincare post-shower.

“You are good looking.”

“Damn. Only like me for the looks?”

“Well your jokes aren’t very good.”

He levels you with a glare and you laugh, kissing him quickly before settling down in his arms again. His embrace is warm and he smells like your shampoo. You press yourself into him further and he grunts, letting you.

“Can we do Blood and Popcorn forever?” you ask, watching him fondly. He smiles and kisses your forehead, flooding you with warmth. “Please?”

“Anything you ask, baby. Blood and Popcorn forever.”

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched @eoieopda @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom @imlonelydontsendhelp

#lee chan smut #chan smut #dino smut #chan x reader #dino svt #svt smut #dino fanfic #dino reader #sventeen smut #svt fanfic

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

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this is so ssick like I don't even have words for the world building genius in this fic omg. I need to like. give you a hug or something holy cow this is amazing

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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Any work is good work.

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor.

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.”

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.”

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first.

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy.

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever.

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it.

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top.

Any work is good work.

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?”

“Who is to say?”

“Just tell her I’m here.”

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.”

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.”

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?”

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.”

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face.

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.”

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.”

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.”

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.”

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt.

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here.

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock.

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.”

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.”

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.”

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?”

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time.

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?”

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.”

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.”

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.”

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.”

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop.

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up.

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.”

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work.

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself.

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.

There was crazy, and then there was that.

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you.

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true.

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them.

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team.

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling.

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.”

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history.

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing–

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.

Irreversible.

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed.

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he?

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.

It’s clinical.

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work.

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.”

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers.

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.”

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?”

“You’d be surprised, Collector.”

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me.

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.”

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.

Act of faith.

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.”

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.”

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.”

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.”

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.”

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.”

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you.

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun.

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does.

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.”

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.”

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little.

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.”

“I… don’t have an argument.”

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?”

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.”

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you.

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?”

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.”

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not.

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?”

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?”

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t,

An act of faith.

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust.

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?”

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.”

“Who owns that place, anyway?”

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.”

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.”

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.”

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.

“Where are we going?”

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.”

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.”

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.”

Minho bites back a grin.

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.”

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.”

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?”

“Of course. Swan likes strays.”

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.”

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.”

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side.

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something.

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching.

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.”

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive.

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been.

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge.

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.”

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed.

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay.

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.”

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.”

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.

A little braver.

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.”

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?”

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.

You.

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead.

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.”

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?”

“Need it.”

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.

“Hmm. Sweet.”

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward.

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.”

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left.

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.”

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.”

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in.

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?”

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.”

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.”

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.”

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.”

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.”

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

#lee know smut #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #lino smut #stray kids smut #lee know fic #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #stray kids fanfic

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

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Dudeeee i remember u from instagramm. if i aint wrong u used to write thereeeeeee i used to read ur fics when i was 14😭😭😭😭😭😭 they were so comforting omg i love ur writing soo muchh (correct me if im wrong seriously) i hope ur doing well rightt nowww

And u dont have to answer thisss but whyd u stop writing thereee??

OMG HIIIIIIII

yes I am from there hello! I always love running into people from the good old corona era <3

I am doing fantastic, thanks for checking in🥺

The reason why I stopped writing over on insta is simply because at the time I was leaning towards longer fics, and the most I could cram into one post was 5k words(after shrinking the font size WAY down. add instagram's signature quality compression and you start getting a bunch of comments like "ahhh I can't read it"). also a lot of my good writer friends were making the switch to tumblr, so I figured it was time.

it IS worth mentioning that even though I don't post for...engagement, people over there are less likely to click on a fic with an actual title, and more likely to swipe on "reaction to you holding their hand". I didn't want to write blurbs or bulleted lists. I wanted to put movies into words and that, does not do well on instagram. for everyone involved.

tl;dr, I switched for a better reading experience lololol

but I'm so glad you're here :))))) and I am very much still writing. a lot of the stories on instagram like Just Around That Corner were only one part because an expansion would have to be broken up, and now I feel free to make them longer!

anyways enjoy your stay <333

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

Text

this fic edged me from start to finish holy COW

and I loved it. I always thought there was something a little too intimate about tattoo parlors, and this fic encapsulated that perfectly, jeez.

BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

#stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #filthy friday #skz smut #황현진

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lixiesfreckless · 2 months ago

Text

Strike My Chord

rockstar!Hwang Hyunjin

minors dni!

Hyunjin perks his head up at the sound of someone lightly clearing their throat behind him, quickly sneaking a glance over his shoulder. You stand there above him, fiddling with the guitar pick he had tossed into the crowd just a few short minutes before, feeling the ridges of the H engraved into the black and red plastic.

“I’m sorry, we’re not really taking any autographs at the moment,” he says politely, turning back to continue packing his stuff away, filling random bags and cases with cords of every color.

“I uh, I actually came to return this to you,” you say, and he catches onto the slight tremor in your voice. He looks up and gets a good look at you this time, taking in all of your ripped jeans and flannel glory.

You’re holding his guitar pick out to him, very clearly avoiding eye contact with the guitarist as you do so.

“Ah…” Hyunjin stifles a giggle as he stands to his full height. He’s a solid few inches taller than you, and his ego swells when he catches you doing the quick once-over that he’s gotten used to. “I take it you’ve never been to one of our shows before?”

You flush red, and Hyunjin is almost relieved to come to the realization that you are most definitely not a groupie. The lack of merch should have made that obvious, though.

“No…” you smile sheepishly, eyes looking past his distressed patchwork jeans. “I came with a friend, but you guys are really good and…I’m sorry, is that guitar yours?”

A confused expression crosses Hyunjin’s face as he turns around, eyeing the wine colored guitar laying half inside its case.

“Yeah, why?”

“Oh wow, I haven’t seen a Fender guitar like that in years,” you exclaim, stepping past him to get a closer look. “They stopped making these back in ‘05.”

“I- really?” Hyunjin’s eyes widen as you crouch, peering over the instrument with curious eyes.

“Yeah! Where did you get it?” Your shy demeanor has basically evaporated, and now it’s Hyunjin’s turn to be flustered.

“It was a gift from my grandpa, actually.”

“Did you name it?”

You look up at him with excited eyes, and he wonders if he’s dealing with someone with two different personalities.

“Well I…” His face feels as if there’s one too many spotlights on it. “…it’s not official or anything, but I’ve called her Rosie on multiple occasions-”

“Do you like roses?”

“I love roses,” he crouches down next to you, pulling the cuff of his spiked bracelet down to reveal his thin-lined rose tattoo on the inner flesh of his wrist. “They’re a symbol of passion, and I’m really passionate about guitar so I just…”

The two of you lock eyes again, and he immediately feels as if he’s shared too much; your eyes feel like they can see right through him. He chuckles in mild embarrassment, shaking his auburn hair out of his eyes.

“Sorry, I…I’m Hyunjin,” he says, extending a heavily decorated hand towards you.

“That’s what I was told,” you giggle, shaking his hand before looking at the pick in your other hand.

“Oh- that’s for you to keep by the way.” He nods towards the plastic keepsake, and your mouth drops open.

“For free?”

“I’ll even sign it for you…if you can tell me more about my guitar.”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

a/n: what if I just dump a bunch of my favorite drabbles while I finish this other fic huh what then

#skz #stray kids #skz x reader #hyunjin skz #hyunjin #hyunjin fluff #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagine #stray kids fic #skz imagine #skz hyunjin #skz fic #skz imagines #skz fluff #skz fanfic #skz scenarios #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids fanfiction #hyunjin stray kids

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lixiesfreckless · 3 months ago

Text

this is a terrible time to realize that the way Intak’s written is so similar to someone I know irl HAHAHAHAHAHA 😀so thanks for that I guess??? fantastic fic I just need a minute to reorient myself lmfao

11:52 PM || h. intak

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ contents: hwang intak x fem!reader, established relationship, smut (minors dni!)

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ word count: 3k

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ warnings: swearing, 18+ explicit content, soft soft soft dom!intak, down bad!intak lol, unprotected sex, fingering, little bit of marking, praise galore cause intak is so obsessed with reader omg

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ a/n: a lil smut i had cooking for wayyyyy too long to hopefully get me back into a good routine of writing and posting over the summer break! and intak’s been killing me so bad this comeback so it was bound to happen regardless skdjfkjfjf. enjoy~~

now playing: bedtime story - rini, need it - rini

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“That’s definitely new, right?”

You catch Intak’s eyes in the mirror, watching his reflection look back at you before sliding down over your body, assessing the cute black pajama set—silky shorts and a spaghetti strap camisole—you’d recently purchased. The way that he’s staring at you, and especially the way his ears and cheeks are tinted red, has your stomach doing cartwheels, but you’re also just touched that he noticed.

“Yeah, I got them while shopping with Yeji over the weekend. I needed something lighter to wear over the summer…”

Your voice trails off as he steps fully into the bathroom and slips a hand around your waist, feeling the fabric. His eyes widen with a small shocked gasp. “Oh wow, it does feel really nice.”

“Right?” You concentrate back on the mirror to finish the last steps of your skincare—well, at least you try to concentrate. Intak’s gentle hand smoothing over your waist, occasionally brushing under the hem, and his head resting in the crook of your shoulder don’t do much to help that, especially when he presses a light kiss to your bare skin.

“It’s cute. You look really cute.” He mumbles into your neck and you’re glad for the excuse to reach away and grab a towel and pat your face dry, hoping he can’t see the blush on your cheeks from his voice so close to your ear.

However after taking off the headband holding your hair back and hanging the towel to dry, you make the mistake of catching Intak’s gaze on you in the mirror, chin still resting on your shoulder. His mouth instantly tilts up in a smile that’s so endearing and butterfly-inducing that you can feel your heart speed up. He lifts his head enough to press his nose into your cheek, then kisses the corner of your mouth with a whispered, “I mean, you always look cute, but right now…”

It’s diabolical and he knows it, your heart leaping out of your throat. Your body acts on instinct and you pull away with a giggled, “Intak!” He just grins as you duck quickly out of the bathroom before your boyfriend can think of anything else to say to make you shy and all sorts of stupid.

“Hey, hey, where are you going?” Intak laughs as you attempt to escape into your bedroom, cheeks heated- and this time he can definitely see your flustered state as he slips past the doorway behind you. He’s grinning, eyes sparkling playfully, and he’s looking at you like you’re the galaxy and he’s only just looked at the night sky for the first time. His hand catches yours with enough force to wheel you back to him, and you give in with little resistance, spinning to face him. You’re just a couple inches away now, giggling as he pretends to flick your forehead as punishment for trying to run from him.

“There’s no way I’m letting my girl go without a proper kiss.” Intak tsks, tapping your chin to force you to look up at him. “Especially when she’s looking so damn pretty.”

You roll your eyes, another not-so-subtle disguise to hide how flustered he’s making you. But he knows you too well, a crooked smile lifting with pride as he slowly adjusts his hold of your hand, intertwining your fingers and stepping right into your space. He’s leaning into you like a flower to the sun, adoring eyes darting between your eyes and down to your lips. The way such a simple action can make you feel so much is absolutely ridiculous, and it only takes Intak another few seconds to increase that giddiness tenfold with his soft lips pressed to yours. It’s a sweet kiss, gentle and slow and dizzying, instantly sending you reeling from his touch. His free hand finds your waist as yours slide up to his shoulders, shivers running up your body. He draws you as close as possible to himself, subtly tugging at your bottom lip to hear you sigh before pulling away.

You don’t let him get far, slipping a hand around to the nape of his neck to keep him close. Intak tilts his head, letting his forehead rest on yours as you hover around each other’s lips, taking in the other’s presence. Your hand lightly scratches at his scalp and his eyelashes flicker, eyes half closed, nose nudging yours as an invisible force closes the distance and his lips capture yours again—slowly, deeply, like it’s been weeks since he’s had the chance to kiss you like this. Your sharp inhale dissolves into a quiet whine that only encourages him to smile into the kiss and press closer. Both of his hands move to rest on your hips and you find yourself slowly moving backwards until your body collides with the back of your bedroom door. Intak has you pinned in a second, kissing you again and again, parting your lips to gently suck on your bottom lip and feel your quiet whimper on his tongue.

“God- been wanting to kiss you all night…” he whispers into your mouth in a strained, desperate tone. You answer by tugging him back into a heated kiss that pulls a groan from the back of his throat. Your hands rake through his curls to encourage more pretty sounds that fall onto your lips as he picks up the pace. His hands squeeze your hips, and that’s all the warning you get before he’s hoisting your body into the air, picking you up like its nothing to hold you against the door. You instantly wrap your legs around his torso and pull his face back to yours, unwilling to let him get too far. He responds eagerly, grip tightening on the underside of your thighs as his slow, borderline messy kisses pull from you sighs and whines of his name. His whole body feels on fire under your fingertips, and so does yours, adrenaline rushing through your veins and taking over your senses. His tongue parts your lips, his hands slip to grip your ass, and a murmured “fuck,” turns your brain to static. His hips rut against yours and you gasp, pulling away briefly, heart pounding in your chest.

Your breath catches as his gaze finds yours; Intak looks like a dream and your worst nightmare all at once. His cheeks are flushed, hair disheveled, chest heaving, eyes dazed and half closed as he examines your face the way you do with his, lips brushing yours as his gaze drops to them, then back up to your eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes wandering over your face, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. His lips are locked back on yours in an instant, pulled like a magnet to its opposite pole, and you’re instantly dizzy, gripping his shoulders like your life depends on it.

This kiss is pure heat. He teases your bottom lip with his teeth and you quietly moan, drawing him as close to you as possible. You run your hands over his shoulders and pecs and feel him shudder, softly groaning as he presses your body to the back of the door once more, pressing his hips against yours again. His lips leave yours, but only to find the slope of your neck and kiss along the skin, sucking marks in a trail to your shoulder, slipping the strap of your tank out of the way without missing a stride. The sensation of his wet mouth on your bare shoulder has your head falling back to rest on the door, heat swimming in waves beneath the surface of your skin. Intak’s lips wander back up your neck, finding a sweet spot behind the back of your ear. The feel of his soft lips and wet tongue make you shiver and quietly moan out his name. “Intak—”

“You’re driving me crazy, baby.” He pants, voice low in your ear. “So perfect… look so fucking cute…”

Your hands run back over his biceps and shoulders, appreciating the toned muscle with gentle squeezes as you sigh and subtly rut your hips against his growing boner. He groans against your lips, melting under your touch and the obvious display of want. He can’t muffle a whimper from the back of his throat as you slide your hands over his chest and repeat the action, which he instantly reciprocates with a grind of his own and a whined, “Fuck, baby… c’mere…”

Making sure his grip looped under your body is secure, Intak kisses your lips one last, lingering time before pulling you back from the door. Stumbling slightly, Intak carries you to the bed and sets you down on the sheets, making your stomach jolt in anticipation. Moving to hover his body overtop of yours, he rubs your thighs and lingers by your lips again, kissing you with new fervor as he whispers between each dizzying peck, “Lay back for me, baby. Just relax and let me do all the work… gonna give you what you deserve…”

His words have an instantaneous effect, making you shiver and grab at his broad shoulders to keep him close, whispering, “Want you…”

With a smile, he pecks your cheek before trailing soft, sensual kisses back down the side of your neck and along your collarbone. He spends a little extra time at the neckline of your shirt before helping you pull the fabric over your head to discard it, doing the same quickly with his own shirt. His lips don’t miss a beat in continuing their path down your body, littering your skin with long presses of his mouth and tongue that make you shiver, sensitive to every touch. His hands follow his lips in their journey down your body, rubbing over your breasts and the curves of your sides. You feel yourself sinking into the bed as Intak slowly presses your hips into the mattress, lips worshipping your body, slowly sucking wet, red marks in his wake. Every small sound you make is only encouraged by Intak, who slowly massages your waist and murmurs, “You’re so good for me.” The words are whispered over your skin, making you feel lightheaded with desire. “So perfect.”

His mouth trails a line down your center, and he’s so unbearably slow that you already feel like a mess before he even starts kissing along the waistband of your shorts. Your hands find their way into his hair and tug at the dark locks, pulling small, strained groans from the back of his throat as his eyes flutter. The action seems to only encourage him to further drive you to the edge of insanity, tongue teasing the marks he’s leaving as you squirm beneath him, already out of breath.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, thumbs massaging the rise of your tummy, admiring the darkening bruises he’s left behind. He presses several wet, sweet kisses there before he tugs at your shorts, glancing up at you through dark lashes. “Can these come off, baby?”

You nod with a small “please,” and that’s all Intak needs. His lips split into a grin, eyes sparkling before he carefully pulls aside both your shorts and panties to expose your whole body to him. He takes several seconds to simply get a look at you before bending back down to capture your lips again, softly moaning when you readily press back into him. His hands slip back to your waist, thumbs pressing into your hip bones to hold you in place as he kisses you twice, three times, endlessly more. You lose count as he mumbles sweet praises and several “I love you” ’s against your lips before parting once more. This time, he wastes no time, eager impatience getting the better of him as his arms loop around your waist to roll you over onto your stomach with ease.

Your stomach drops at the change in position and the way his hands explore your body again, rubbing over your ass and up your spine firmly, kneading into the skin. His warm kisses return, littering your back with wet spots and stinging marks that make you whine into the pillow. You feel his smile on your skin, know he’s teasing you on purpose, but your complaints are instantly forgotten when he finally pushes your thighs apart and drags a finger through the wetness gathered in your core, catching on your clit in the process. Pleasure pulses through your body as he repeats the action several times, making you whimper and clutch at the sheets.

“Fuck, Intak, there, please-”

You arch your back with a small moan as Intak obliges, rubbing two fingers over your clit in practiced motions that have you seeing stars. After a minute, he pauses briefly to prop a pillow under your hips, then firmly loops his hands under your thighs and pulls you close to him. He leans over you, kissing up your neck before once again finding that sweet spot behind your ear and murmuring, “Relax, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’ve been so good, so good, baby… gonna get you there, promise… just hold on for me.”

His fingers work magic as he slips two into your aching cunt and quickly begins to thrust and curl them just right. It’s so good you don’t even know when you start grinding your hips back to chase the friction. “Oh my god…”

It’s not enough, though, and when you say as much Intak quickly strips off his pants and boxers with his free hand, fisting his boner and aligning himself with your hole. Your whole body heats, shaking with anticipation and need, core tingling. Intak hisses as he slowly pushes into you, head falling, his hair and his breath tickling your back. “Oh my god… baby…”

His hands tighten on your hips as he ruts into you, gradually sinking further into your welcoming warmth as spots fill your vision, skin burning at the feeling of his pulsing dick filling you, stimulating your sensitive walls and triggering waves of heat and pure pleasure to flow through your veins. When Intak bottoms out, he does so with a throaty groan, head dipping to touch your back, hair tickling your skin.

As you take a second for the two of you to adjust, Intak lifts his head and presses several messy kisses to the side of your head and behind your ear. “Feel okay?” He pants, breath hot on your neck.

You nod, head heavy in the pillows, body shaking. One of Intak’s arms wraps around your chest and pulls you up to him, supporting your weight while he begins to thrust. The friction is delicious, and you’re instantly clenching around him, your body practically begging for more. Intak lets out quiet sounds and grunts with each thrust, and it’s not long before both of you start to slowly fall apart. Each stroke is deliberate and evenly paced, slow enough for you to really feel it, yet hurried enough that you’re not given a second to breathe before another wave of pleasure rolls through your gut and pushes a moan from your throat.

“God, you feel so good,” Intak groans, head buried in your neck, mouth warm against your skin. “Take me so well, baby… shit—”

His hips thrust with more force, his desperation getting the better of him. His arm around your chest remains firm in holding you to him at the same time that his body presses you against the mattress, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you in place for him, allowing him to control the angle and hit all your best spots. It’s so good and so intense that you similarly begin to lose control, breaths hitching and choking on moans and whimpers and pleas of his name, all of which are muffled into the sheets as your strength fails you and your head falls against the bed.

His own groans and whines become more high pitched and breathy, his words coming out in broken murmurs. “Feel s’ good, baby,” he whispers, words slurred together. He presses sloppy kisses to your shoulder, moaning against your skin as you clench around him again, feeling your stomach tightening, body tingling. “Fuck, babe—ah—I’m not… not gonna last long like this…”

You whimper, fingers digging into the sheets as his hand slips from your hip to find your clit again, rubbing in pressured circles that have you clenching around him harder, moaning beneath him. “There, there—”

Intak doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, repeating each heavenly motion as your climax nears its approach. It doesn’t take long before the knot in your gut becomes unbearable, heat rising across your skin. A few more seconds and you’re babbling, “I-I’m coming, Intak, ah-”

“Come for me…” Intak pleads, panting, body shaking overtop of yours, voice right beside your ear, deep and laced with want. “Let me feel you, baby… I’ve got you…”

In an instant, your body tenses and the knot snaps, your high washing over you hard. Your boyfriend rides you through your high, and it’s not long before Intak’s hips stutter and his cum spills into you, his own choked moans filling the space between you. After a couple last thrusts, Intak stills, then slowly pulls out and slumps beside you.

You take a minute to catch your breath, and as you do, Intak pulls you against him, rolling you onto your side and curling you backwards into his chest. His mouth presses gently to your back, free hand rubbing circles over your hip bone. “There you go, baby, that’s it…”

You hum in return, taking his hand and intertwining it with yours. Intak nuzzles into your neck, both of you catching your breaths as he kisses you there. Eventually, he whispers, “You good?”

“Mm. Better than good.”

You can feel Intak’s proud grin against the shell of your ear as he holds you tighter to him. After a moment, he presses another kiss to your skin and murmurs, “Let’s get you washed up and back into those cute pj’s of yours, baby.”

You let him guide you to sit up, eyeing him as he grabs your pajama set, and laughing softly. “Okay, but behave this time.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes as Intak pulls you to your feet, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips once more for good measure. “No promises.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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p1harmony masterlist

#p1harmony fanfiction #p1harmony imagine #p1h imagine #p1harmony fanfic #p1h imagines #p1harmony imagines #p1harmony smut #p1h intak #p1h fanfiction #p1h fanfic

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lixiesfreckless · 4 months ago

Text

I AM MONTHS LATE TO REVIEW THIS BUT ANYTHING WORTH DOING IS WORTH DOING POORLY SO HERE'S MY (totally unbiased and objectively correct) OPINION ON THIS SERIES(spoilers ahead):

oooooooh this right here? peak fanfiction. dare I say hardly fiction at all, if you know what I mean.

lowkey I need everyone that is even a LITTLE bit into stan culture or fandom culture to sit down and read this like, yesterday.

there are things in this fic that had me questioning whether the author had previously been an idol. or knew someone who worked in the industry. I know fanfiction is inherently, well, fiction, but I wholeheartedly believe that this story has happened several times in real life. this isn't just a story that the author decided to tell, I genuinely think this is an untold story for many idols that we love, and to me that makes them so much more human.

I think as a collective we kpop stans tend to forget that the people that make the music we like aren't perfect. aren't any different from the consumer, have hopes and dreams that might not have anything to do with their current job and I think the industry AND the viewers need to hold ourselves accountable for the pedestals we trap these people on. it's honestly not fair and inhumane a lot of the time too.

and I think this story does a damn near perfect job of portraying that. seeing the behind the scenes of what goes on behind every instagram post, every hate comment, every curated article and pointed photo, all of it. at the end of the day kpop idols are real people that are just trying to get by. and they fall in love and make mistakes and say things they don't mean when their emotions cloud their judgement.

I originally wanted this review to be more about me screaming about how sunwoo could break my jaw with his [redacted] and I would tell him thank you, and I still feel that way, but I think this fic highlights something more important that I think all kpop fans need to understand.

everything we see in kpop is almost always severely reviewed and edited and perfectly crafted so that we, the consumer, will either like it, or hate it. we do not know these people, we only know as much as they are allowed to show us, and until they're no longer under a contract we need to stop pretending that we do.

honestly the scene where they were planning to ruin sunwoo's career just because they thought they would financially recover from that thanks to mvne's success BROKE me. it makes me wonder how many under the table transactions have happened in the past to guarantee something else stays afloat. quite literally had me rethinking every scandal we saw and bought into ever since I got into kpop in 2019.

and that kind of eye opening writing, as fun, and spicy, and heartwarming, and funny as it is and can be, needs to be read by everyone.

you know how in the movie ratatouille Ego shows up to Gusteau's and when it's time to order, he asks the waiter for some "perspective?"

that is this fic. I ordered some sunwoo shenanigans and got a plate of decadent, heart wrenching, pearl-clutching, jaw dropping perspective. and all I have left to say is damn. I wish I could read it for the first time again.

thank you melty, for this masterpiece. I'll recommend it to every deobi that dares to ask for recs <3

❥between two breaths (m)

↳ Navigating the realm of transitioning from fan-turned-trainee is difficult enough for you, but only half as difficult as the challenge of navigating the fact that your relationship with Sunwoo has long since moved beyond fan-and-idol to a very secret friendship.

And worse than that, is the way that your forced proximity is going to continue to evolve, and your long held decision to never take things a step further will truly be put to the test. Perhaps at the cost of both of your careers.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [105k wc COMPLETE] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 + authors notes

note from the author: for narrative purposes, company details have been altered from reality. additionally, though this work is meant to include certain aspects of idol and trainee life, details pertaining to weight management and diet culture have been mostly if not wholly omitted on account of the fact that i do not like them and i think they're bad <3. all characters in this work should be assumed to be aged 20 and above.

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖: 𝕡𝕣𝕖-𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕦𝕥

𝚘𝚗𝚎 | 𝚝𝚠𝚘 | 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 | 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕥𝕨𝕠: 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕦𝕥

𝕒𝕔𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕖: 𝕣𝕠𝕠𝕜𝕚𝕖

#sunwoo smut #the boyz smut #tbz smut #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo x reader #tbz x reader #tbz imagines #tbz scenarios #sunwoo scenarios #the boyz x reader

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lixiesfreckless · 5 months ago

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I have no words for this it's perfect ugh

11:29 PM

jiung, who looks so good when his tongue is poking the inside of his cheek in concentration, fully immersed in the song he’s been working on for the last few hours. the two of you keep missing each other’s glances, only looking when the other looks away or pretends to be too interested in what’s on the soundboard in front of him, or in your case, your cellphone.

he’s tried to focus on the task at hand, he really, really has, but how can he when you’re laying on the little couch in his studio, jeans hugging your thighs, midriff exposed under your shirt that has risen up?

he’s not usually this easily distracted—a detail about him you know very well. countless times, you’d tried to tempt him to take a break from work and each and every time, your attempts had failed.

“i’ll take care of you when we get home, baby,” he’d insist with a sweet, wet kiss on your lips, “but i have to finish this now.”

even sitting on his lap and rutting against him while you kissed and whimpered into his neck had been useless. technically, not entirely useless, cause you could feel him get worked up beneath you, but even then he didn’t budge—his outstanding and stubborn self-control won every time.

naturally, you decided to give up your fruitless teasing and convincing, but perhaps, the absence of your advances is exactly why he’s so worked up today.

subconsciously, he misses the way your arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, palms smoothing over his chest and fingers trailing paths through his soft hair.

“please, i’m so needy,” he can practically hear the words dripping like honey from your lips, begging for him, needing his attention. and if he tries hard enough, he can feel your breath on his neck when you ask him to touch you, “just for a little.”

but instead, you’re quiet and still, laying back on the couch as you patiently wait for him to finish. and as much as he’d like to get this adjustment to the song over and done with so he can go home and treat you to the pleasure you so rightfully deserve, he can’t, because nothing he’s hearing in his headphones sounds good right now—not when his dick is so hard and swollen inside of his briefs that it physically hurts.

the melody is a mess, the lyrics are senseless, the beat isn’t right, and his head is leaking pre-cum into his underwear.

with a scowl on his features, he yanks the headphones off and spins around to face you.

you don’t look up from the phone, simply humming to acknowledge him as you shift onto your stomach. he swallows back a groan at the view of your pretty ass, now in perfect view.

“honey,” he starts, but you only hum again. “i’m gonna take a break.”

“good,” you mumble, “you’ve been going at it for over two hours. i’m starving.”

“i-“

“what do you wanna eat? i’ll order.”

“baby…” there’s a smidge of vulnerability in his voice, which is what finally makes you look up from the screen and at him. one of his hands is cupping himself over his sweats, the other reaching out for you desperately, “c’mere.”

your eyes widen as you glance down at his bulge and back up at him, the corners of your lips twitching up to form a teasing smile.

"what's wrong?" you play dumb. jiung rolls his eyes, letting his head fall back.

"please?"

"what ever happened to leaving that for when we're home?"

there's a strain on his voice when he answers, "i know, but... i can't. not this time."

"oh, but when i'm the one who's needy, it's fine?" you get up, walking over to him and stopping between his legs. instantly his hands come up to hold your hips.

when you grab his chin and tilt his head up to look at you, his dick twitches in his pants.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, lids heavy and lips drooling as his eyes trail down your figure, following every curve, every bit of exposed skin. "m'sorry," he repeats, speech a bit more slurred this time.

his index fingers hook onto the waistband of your pants, slipping along the hem until they meet in the middle where the button clasps your jeans closed. he tugs at them in a silent plea, and you nod slowly, running a hand though his hair.

jiung groans softly, leaning into your touch and making quick work of the button so he can work your jeans down your legs until you can step out of them.

not a moment later, he's shimmying his own sweats and underwear down until his angry tip is out, flushed and dribbling with clear pre-cum.

"come sit on it," there's a firmness to his voice, hands desperately tugging you closer until you're hovering over his lap. he can tell you're worked up—the way your lips are parted, the way your eyes are hazed. once you're close enough that he can feel the heat radiating between your laps, he wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you in place.

as his hand guides his dick through your folds to coat it in your slick, his lips find solace in the crook of your neck where he whines and drools and bites, hiding his flushed face from yours. he's already worked up a sweat from the need to feel you around him.

"mmm.." every time he drags himself up and down your core, your grip on his shoulders tightens, beckoning him closer.

"relax for me okay?"

you quickly nod, bringing your hand over your mouth to muffle the way you gasp as he pushes himself in. he slowly moves to sink you down, his own eyes rolling back, until you're flush against his lap and whimpering softly at the feeling of being so full.

"you're too tight," he groans.

"maybe you're just too big." he chuckles breathlessly at your words though he can't deny the way they make him flush, bringing his palms down to grip your hips. he tries to encourage you to move, but you only whimper, mumbling "hold on, i'm so full, i-"

"fuck, darling, i need you to move." he hisses, feeling the way your walls flutter around him.

after a few seconds, you lift yourself up halfway and sink back down with a moan that he echoes the moment he feels his swollen tip poke at your walls.

he works you to a pace that has your legs trembling, unable to hold you up if it wasn't for his grip that steadies you. you hum, eyes squeezed shut, focusing solely on him, on the way he feels inside you—the way his tongue drags up your neck until he stops at your jaw, ending his trail with an opened mouth kiss.

he moans against your neck, grabbing your face with his hand to turn you so you're looking down and at him.

"that's it," he praises when your eyes flutter open, glossed over and dazed. "there's my girl."

"ji-"

"sweetheart," his voice is tight as you roll your hips into his, chasing your high. the way you cling to him, nails scratching lightly at his shoulders, mouth letting out the most beautiful and addictive breathy whines—it drives him crazy.

you gasp against his lips as he rolls his hips up to meet yours—a slow, deliberate motion that has your fingers tugging on his hair, "jiung—” your breath hitches, the way he moves, the way he grips you, it’s overwhelming.

“i know, baby,” he groans, his lips tracing along your jaw, down to the base of your throat. his hands move, skimming up your sides, sliding under your shirt, palms warm against your flushed skin as he squeezes your boobs.

the tension that’s been building finally snaps, the air filled with breathless moans, whispered pleas, and the sound of skin against skin. the wet sounds coming from where your bodies meet make his head spin, pushing him to fuck you harder as you gasp, walls tightening around him.

he mumbles the sweetest things against your skin as you go limp in his hold, as he sinks so deep into you when he finds his own release.

"fuck," he shudders, head falling back against the chair, arms keeping you in place, tightly tucked against his chest.

for a few seconds, neither of you speak. the only sounds are the faint hum of the unfinished track looping in his headphones and your synchronized pants as you both come down from your highs. jiung leans forward, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as if he can't seem to pull away.

“you okay?” his voice is hushed, tender. he brushes damp strands of hair away from your face, his other hand tracing mindless patterns on your back.

you nod against him, still catching your breath. “yeah,” you murmur, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “really good."

jiung hums in approval, his arms wrapping around you fully. he leaves a kiss on your head, but before you can get lost in his warmth, he's shifting, adjusting you in his arms. “come on, baby,” he says, his voice still a little hoarse. "let's clean up.”

you groan softly, nuzzling into his neck. “uh-uh. can’t move,” you whine. “you wore me out.”

he chuckles, smoothing your hair back with his hand, mumbling, “i did, huh?” before he sighs. “alright, sit tight.”

before you can protest, he’s gently lifting you off of him, setting you down carefully on the couch. his warmth leaves you, but only for a moment before he’s grabbing a clean towel from the studio's bathroom, using it to wipe the sheen of sweat from your skin and the mess he's left between your legs with soft, delicate touches. his focus is solely on you, unhurried, full of care.

“there we go,” he murmurs, discarding the towel before grabbing the oversized hoodie draped over his chair. "c'mere, baby." he helps your arms through the sleeves and slides your panties back up your legs, fingers ghosting your skin. "all better."

you nod, your heart swelling. “you always take such good care of me.”

jiung grins, cupping your jaw affectionately before tugging on his own pants. “of course. you’re my girl.”

for a moment, he pauses, glancing toward his screen where his unfinished song still sits open. “shit. i was supposed to finish that.”

you giggle, nudging his side as he drops onto the couch beside you, pulling you effortlessly into his lap. “maybe next time don't get so distracted.”

he half-heartedly scoffs, pressing a teasing bite against your shoulder before pulling you into a proper kiss—slow, deep, tongue swiping at your still swollen lips. when he pulls away, he doesn't go too far, nose still brushing yours. “how could I not?” he murmurs against your mouth. “you’re my favorite distraction.”

you instantly melt into him, curling against his chest, listening to the thump-thump of his heart as exhaustion begins to creep in.

"i wasn’t expecting you to give in so easily,” you tease after a beat, your fingers absentmindedly threading through his hair.

"yeah, well," he starts, eyes flickering closed as you scratch his scalp, "you were quite convincing." when you sigh contently against him, he whispers “rest for a bit, I’ll finish up later.”

"are you sure?" you mumble, but you're already half-asleep—he can tell.

he just nods softly, squeezing you in reassurance as your breath evens out and you fall asleep, tucked in his embrace.

🫐

#piwon imagines #p1h jiung #p1h #p1harmony fluff #jiung #p1h smut #jiung smut #piwon smut #p1h fluff #piwon scenarios

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lixiesfreckless · 5 months ago

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the plot just twisted me into a PRETZEL?????

I need a moment to think omG what a finale. I'll reblog the first part with my full review of the series but zipper I'm so proud of you for writing this holy cow

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟟

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫

↳ Returning, you anticipate the worst.

And somehow, what awaits you is far beyond anything you could have comprehended.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [8,1k wc COMPLETE] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

"You feel guilty because your inaction led to this, and now we've seen where that got you. So…" A light shove follows, and you stumble back towards whatever future is held for you. "Go make a damn decision for once. Make a choice. We'll be here waiting for you once you do."

The car coming to a slow stop is the thing that brings you back to consciousness. You hadn't been attempting to fall asleep for the ride, but a good night's rest is something that you have been sorely lacking as of late, and the exhaustion embedded in your weary bones seems to have caught up with you.

Groggy and a little disoriented, it takes you a bit longer than it would usually to understand where you are and why it is that your head is perched on Sunwoo's shoulder.

Darkness still hangs in the early morning sky, but the handful of lights that illuminate the complex of your dorm shine in through the windows insistently, unwilling to relent in their mission to displease.

Sunwoo's hand comes up and gentle fingers press pieces of hair that have fallen thoughtlessly around your forehead.

"Time to go," he says, his voice only barely above a whisper. You believe you catch a hint of raspiness to the sound that alludes to his only having just woken up, too, and make it a point to file it away as a memory. Unsure of what is soon to come. "The endless demands of work for me, and probably a lot of conversations waiting in there for you."

"Yeah."

Your efforts to grab your belongings are sloppy, but you manage to make it happen in some time. Sunwoo watches you with a small, adoring smile as if everything you could ever do is unimaginably pleasing for him to behold. The sort of look that reminds you that in spite of everything and even now; you hold his entire world.

But regardless of that fact, there is worse that awaits you. What stands inside of that small apartment is not the thing that fans the flame of fear deep inside of your chest, but it is the anticipation of so much more that resides beyond it.

As lovely as it would be to pretend that none of it exists, that this moment can go on forever and no acknowledgement of anything else needs to be made; you can't. It drapes down around both of you like a heavy, noxious cloud. Destructive, if ignored.

Turning to look at Sunwoo, you force the best smile that you can manage and say, "I don't really know how today is going to go. I don't know if I'll be able to message you. I just don't know what awaits us from here."

His smile grows wider, and it would seem unfitting for the topic at hand if worn by anyone other than him. "I know, don't worry about it. You're probably going to have to sit through some really shitty meetings with people whose only interest in all of this is revenue loss. That's just how all of this goes, but you know that already." Sunwoo pauses for a moment and shrugs before continuing on to say, "We'll probably have to lay low for a while if it's what appeases the Idol Management Gods, but it'll be worth it in the end. Everything is going to be fine, I promise."

"A part of me still wonders if they're going to try to push for my withdrawal…"

Sunwoo snorts a laugh at that. "No chance, I'm telling you. So you banged a colleague, so what? It's not like you killed a guy." He takes another short pause, evidently thinking to himself and then says, "Well, I guess you banged two, but still."

"Sunwoo…"

"Joking." Swaying lightly into you, Sunwoo bumps your shoulder with his own and takes the opportunity for closeness to press a kiss to the top of your head. "Seriously though, I really don't think you have to worry about that. I'm sure they have something unreasonably devilish up their sleeves, sure, but not that."

Slowly closing your eyes, you allow yourself some time to let the words wash over you in hopes that they will meet their mark of intention. To placate your anxiousness, to not step out of this car feeling as though your entire world is soon to crumble down around you.

Though you may not want to admit it to yourself in many cases, Sunwoo has a shockingly high accuracy rate as far as being correct is concerned. The tables have turned, indeed.

"Okay," you say, relenting to his insistence of the fact. "I'm going then, and I'll try to update you once the worst of it is over."

"Hey."

Your eyes have since fallen away from him, bag lazily slung over your shoulder and already moving to make your way from the backseat of the vehicle. The unexpected word gives you pause, however, and as you turn back to find him, he smiles at you all over again.

"I love you," Sunwoo says.

And without so much as a second thought, you easily say it back.

There have been other times that the weight of your hand on this very same doorknob has felt similarly jarring. This time, however, trumps them all.

A part of you had not anticipated ever returning here. Sitting in a mansion in Pyeongchang-dong had, for a moment, convinced you of the fact that the rest of your life exists somewhere else. Not here, not inside of that company building, and most certainly not on a stage for the consumption of the people.

Perhaps that will still be your fate, despite Sunwoo's insistence otherwise. Now, as you stand in the blistering cold of a much too early dawn that has not yet come to find you, all you can think about is how utterly disastrous that outcome would be.

With a racing heart, you punch in the code and turn the handle; trying to stomach the anticipation of everything that awaits you throughout this day.

Upon entering, you are swiftly swept into the arms of women who adore you more than you ever could have thought. Everyone is here, and most appear to not have slept a wink despite the long hours of the night. There are more of them than there is of you to offer to them as loving hands paw at your face, hair and belongings to pull them from your weary limbs, and all you can think about is how you ever could have believed that these people would cast you out and leave you out to dry.

Glancing up from the mess of it all, your eyes catch Woori's as she remains perched up against the wall just a few footsteps away. She watches the scene with a soft, pleasant smile that you know holds just a twinge of I told you so within it. And while accepting this sort of thing is still a work in progress, for now, you're happy to relent to the obviousness of it.

"Thank goodness you're back," Nara says, a hand cupping at the side of your face as she demands your attention. "We were so worried. We didn't know what to think once Woori came home and told us you were taking a leave. Nobody could sleep, all we've been doing is sitting here, checking our phones, and hoping."

"Not saying a word to any of us is kind of crazy, I've gotta say," Miyoung adds, and for her there's a hint of displeasure in the tone. You look at her and though her face is a little tougher than the rest, it immediately melts once the two of your eyes meet. "I'm just glad you're home, and that you didn't make any wild decisions while you were gone."

"I definitely thought about it," you admit, and glancing at Woori again, you wonder how much of her visit she has divulged to them. She nods at you—a silent insistence to move forward with accepting the trust that they are so incredibly willing to offer—and finally, you decide to let them all in. You say, "I haven't been a good friend, a good member, a good sister to you; rather than run away from that fact, I think it's about time that I try to make it right."

"Woori said we might have to go to battle," Hyemi says with arms crossed over her chest in an attempt to appear tough. It doesn't work, but you appreciate her willingness to try. "To keep you in the group? Is it really that bad, what's going on?"

Crinkling your nose, you want more than anything to downplay the possibility of it. You don't know what stands between you and the stage now, and though you haven't bothered to look at your phone for hours, you know exactly what it is that is awaiting you there. Returned calls and messages are nothing you intend on doing, but once the hour of managerial employment strikes—without a shadow of a doubt—you will know it.

Through the crowd, Miyoung's hand locates yours and squeezes it tight. "Is it what I think it is?"

You give an ever so slight nod to affirm it.

Moving to the living room, every member of MVNE crowds onto the floor for your retelling of the events leading up to now. Some are completely shocked by the discovery, while others seem less surprised by the admittance of what has been taking place in secret over the last year. The pieces fall together fairly obviously when given the luxury of hindsight in so many cases, but all you can offer these girls now is the promise of transparency in whatever way you can lend it.

Serri shifts uncomfortably as your story comes to a close, and it's evident in her posture that something is not sitting quite right with her. "I know dating is frowned upon, and of course, the details of your situation are especially messy but…" She trails off quietly for a moment, still sifting through her words before continuing and then says, "But going to these lengths to try to spin a story is…"

"Evil," Woori says, firm and determined. "There's really no other way to put it. Crafting up stories about your own idols low, too low, which is why I'll be doing everything in my power to not allow them to continue to do so past this."

"We have no power here. Sunwoo woke up one day in another country and found out photos of him were being posted up to craft a narrative that he wasn't even aware of," you say. "He didn't know, his members didn't know, and we don't know what else they may have up their sleeve once they catch wind that none of this is going according to plan."

"That's fine, if they want to play games then we can do that too." Kaia leans back with her palms splayed out against the rug, far too casual in appearance given the gravity of the conversation at hand. "We just won't go on stage. Can't have a comeback when everybody on the roster is sick."

"I don't want this to become a problem for all of you more than it already has," you say. The willingness that they all seem to share to leverage the small amount of power that they have as the talent is something that you admire deeply to your core, but the guilt of being the sole reason that all of this may fail for them beings to trickle through your skin restlessly as the one thing you wanted nothing more than to avoid. So, you shake your head and say, "Don't throw all of this away for me. I'm one piece of the puzzle, but I am far from the reason that all of this works. I got myself into this mess, and I'll deal with the consequences of it as best as I can."

"We're ten," Woori says, "and we will continue to be forever, no matter what happens."

Swallowing your anxiety, you do your best to accept the terms no matter how unlikely they may feel to you at this moment. Love cannot conquer all, and particularly not in such an ultimately cruel industry such as the one you have fought your way into. It cannot fix this, and it cannot save you; but it can soothe the bitter pill of your actions just enough to take it down as you must.

And then you feel your phone begin to vibrate.

Pulling it from your pocket, you take note of the time displayed. Only one minute past the hour, right on time as expected.

You answer it with a sigh and a hello, and though you anticipate the angry words of a man who has been pushed into a corner that he never wanted to be in, that is not what comes.

"Are you home?" your manager asks, with a voice that is steady and indecipherable in what feelings may be lurking on the other end.

"Yes, I'm here."

"I'll get you in thirty minutes. Clean up and look presentable. I'll call back when I'm outside."

The phone cuts before you have a chance to reply.

With nothing more than your phone, a fresh set of clothes and the affectionate goodbyes from your members, you once again stand at the front door of your dorm, and wonder if the next time you are here will be when you are sent to pack your things. You thank them, tell them you love them, and let them know that you'll be quick to inform them of the outcome once it is all said and done, but Woori stands beside you with the obvious intent of a final, private word to send you off with.

The both of you exit, and knowing that the two of you do not have much time together like this now, she looks at you sternly and waits for the front door to give its final, affirming click closed.

"Whatever happens in there, and whatever decision you end up making, I trust you to make the right one."

Unable to fight back the skeptical chuckle, you shake your head through it and say, "I'm not sure I've shown myself to be a paragon of good decision making, if I'm honest with you."

"Your problem is and always has been overthinking it all. I appreciate your dedication to this, but it's all fucking stupid, right? We dress up in costumes and dance around and sing and play pretend all day long. It's laughable, it's a farce." Woori rolls her eyes and shrugs like the veil of the industry has been pulled back in ways that realistically, she has always known about, but never had to face head-on quite like this. "You feel guilty because your inaction led to this, and now we've seen where that got you. So…"

A light shove follows, and you stumble back towards whatever future is held for you.

"Go make a damn decision for once. Make a choice. We'll be here waiting for you once you do."

The window beside you is cracked just enough to allow for the cool breeze of the Seoul morning to waft in during the drive. You idly stare out of it with nothing and everything on your mind; a dizzying, simultaneous mess of what is soon to come, as well as the things that you may be leaving behind.

Your manager does not speak to you, and for once, you sit unsure of whether or not you are pleased about that fact. This man has always been kind to you, has extended himself in ways towards you that many other idols could not be as lucky to receive, and perhaps you have slighted him by the end of this whole undertaking, too. The memory of your prior meeting with him being one of the topics you now find yourself unable to shake the remnants of; he warned you, he offered you a lifeline that many others would not, and instead of heeding it… Now, you are here.

His face is hardened and gruff no matter how many quick glances you take to look. He never meets your eye, but the travel distance is a short one and you cannot imagine walking into that room without some form of debriefing ahead of time. You wonder if it is too much to ask. If this man is even on your side anymore, and more than that, if you are deserving of it.

A red light catches the vehicle and it slows to a stop. Now is as good of a time as any, and you suppose that if he is harboring harsh words for you, that is something you are deserving of.

So, you inhale deeply and steady your nerves for whatever may come. Your stomach twists with nervousness, with hunger, with a loss of appetite that has held you tight since your last meal with Sunwoo many hours before. Running away from the discomfort of a situation is something you have grown far too willing to do, and it has to stop now.

"What am I about to walk into?"

In the immediate aftermath of the question, there is no answer. Seconds tick by slowly, achingly so as you await a shift in his demeanor that might suggest a response is coming. Eventually, your eye catches the firming grip of his hand on the steering wheel, and when the streetlight turns green, the car gently pushes forward.

He clears his throat first and then says, "Truthfully, I don't quite know." There's an unsteadiness to his voice that alludes to his unwillingness to give you any ounce of truth, yet he seems keen to ignore it and move forward anyway. "What I can tell you is that they're aware of what's going on, and this meeting is in reference to how to deal with that."

"Deal with it," you repeat, laughing through how ridiculous the whole thing feels. "You'd think I killed someone."

Finally, he glances towards you for a second. "There is a certain level of discretion that is expected in this industry, and I don't think I have to tell you that you have long since failed at maintaining it. That's not all on you, I recognize that, but I am your manager…" He pauses, shaking his head gently, and then says, "I warned you before that if this were to become a bigger thing than it already was that it would be bad. I'm here to tell you now: It has become bad."

Leaning your head against the window, you stare silently out towards the empty road and the minimal amount of lights inside of storefronts that have begun to come to life. How simple it all must be, you think to yourself, to merely exist as the consumer, rather than for consumption.

"Sunwoo seems to believe they won't push for my removal," you say quietly, barely audible over the background noise of the moving car. "You don't sound so convinced."

"Your biggest problem is that you lack the willingness to look behind the curtain. There's a part of you that's still too new, too fresh and starry-eyed to see all of this for what it really is, and it's that very same lack of foresight that has brought us to this point."

The car creeps up on another red light, and once it comes to a halt, he finally fully turns to face you.

He says, "You're not outside of this anymore, you're not the hopeful fan looking in through the window and only seeing the things that all of this has been constructed to allow you to see. It's ugly, and it's tremendous and it's evil, and that's one thing that Sunwoo seems to understand that you do not."

Snapping your attention towards him and with fire sitting deep in your throat, your eyes narrow as you stare him down with a sort of contempt you have not before felt towards him.

"You think I don't know that? I've been jumping through hoops for the past year trying to minimize the damage of all of this; trying to avoid it, trying to do what's best for him, for my members. I've watched the industry spin stories for their own gain for years before now, yet you talk to me like I'm wholly unaware of what they're capable of? Like I haven't seen my company do the same not only against him, but me, as well? Don't talk to me like a child."

"Then figure it out!" he snaps back, "You think the worst thing they can do to you is a removal from the group, but I'm here to tell you that's not even close to as horrific as it can get. MVNE are successful—incredibly so—and if you weren't so wrapped up in yourself, maybe you would have noticed it."

"What a ridiculous thing to say."

"If you think they're going to tear apart a brand new, rising star group because of this then it just goes to show how little you understand about it all."

"Then what's the worst that could happen?"

The car pulls into the underground parking garage, and as he slips his arm out from the rolled down window to show his identification badge, he turns back just slightly to address you for the final time.

"Unfortunately, we're about to find out."

Walking into this room is stifling. The air is unmoving and cold, unwelcoming to your presence. Every pair of eyes that already waits inside of it falls on you, and it is far more than you find you had been anticipating.

Immediately, you fall numb to it. There is no other way to fight through this and still somehow come out on the other side. Your manager steps ahead and presents his hand in the direction of an empty seat just beside the one that will be his own, and along the rectangular table is many, many more bodies filling their respective chairs.

Paperwork is laid out and a few laptops sit open. There are pens strewn and people that you have never seen before in suits doing a poor job of pretending that they are not at all intrigued by your being here today. Their eyes fall away from you awkwardly with unimpressive coughs and sounds of throats clearing in the otherwise suffocating quiet of this conference room prison. Your skin crawls, and worst of all, you feel the rippling sob of desperation raking its way up through your chest.

And maybe if you cry, they will spare you. The thought comes to you as a hopeless plea while settling into the cold of your chair. Nothing has prepared you for this moment; no amount of insistence that the worst is far beyond what you are able to comprehend can placate the thought that what awaits you here is a careless hand sliding paperwork for your departure across this expensive, waxed table.

A few seats down, a woman in a white blouse closes her laptop, folds her hands together atop it, and then looks directly at you.

"My name is Kim Jieun, I'm the head of Public Relations. Seated with us today are a handful of the shareholders, as well as legal representatives for the agency. All participants of this meeting are here to ensure that the outcome is beneficial to the parties currently present. Do you understand?"

Looking towards your manager, you hope for any hint of how to go forward. However, he sits still, staring out towards what appears to be nothing in particular.

"Are they… my lawyers?"

"You could say that. They are all of our lawyers. Yours, the company, and mine. They are a neutral third-party only tasked with ensuring that everything that takes place today does so with the utmost legality."

You are at least smart enough to know that these people are not here with your best interest in mind. That, however, is far from what is most concerning to you.

"Can I ask why lawyers would need to be present, at all?"

A small smirk plays at Jieun's lips, either amused or irritated by your unwillingness to let this playout as easily as she might have hoped. Her hands pull away from one another and instead move to take a thin stack of papers into her hands. She looks them over for only a moment, and then her eyes fall back to you.

"It's simply a procedure. Do you understand what I have told you?"

"Yes."

Her attention falls back to the papers and she begins to read them over. "For the past couple of weeks, myself and my colleagues have been tasked with detailing the trajectory of MVNE from debut to now, and outwardly to the future. Of course, it is impossible to predict how well a freshly debuted idol group is going to do, and the industry is a grueling one—the people are fickle—but one thing is for certain: They like what they like."

Jieun folds the papers face down onto the table and gently slides them towards you.

Tentatively, you take them into your hands and begin to look through them yourself.

She continues. "MVNE has seen the kind of wildfire success that many companies could only dream of, and of course, you are an absolutely necessary aspect of that. It's reasons such as this that so many rules and guidelines are put in place for idols, especially at the beginning of their careers. I have no doubt that being on the receiving end of such smothering regulations can be bothersome, but it's important that you know it's for the best for you, as well as the company."

The paperwork is filled with text, numbers and graphs detailing each and every high and low that your group has ever experienced. It is immaculately drawn up—charting number, album sales, ticket sales, member-specific merch sales as well as individual activities and the broadcast pull that each and every one of you inside of the group seems to have garnered. This sort of understanding of where a group sits in the vast zeitgeist of the industry seems almost impossible to actually quantify to you, yet here it sits now; right between your fingers.

And the numbers do not lie: MVNE is a roaring success by every single metric, yet this fact does not cause your heart to rest easily.

Looking up from it, your eyes catch those of every person in the room before finally falling back to Jieun's.

"What… does this mean, exactly?"

She smiles again, and though you know it is meant to be reassuring, it feels anything but. There is a kind of wickedness seated behind her eyes that you can easily parse out through the rest of what she is offering you; the poisoned apple. Something devilish wrapped with beautiful packaging.

"It means that you don't have a whole lot to worry about right now, as far as your place in this industry is concerned, and that's something that not a lot of idols get to say. It is a privilege to be so highly favored amongst the public, but it is still a very precarious position that you hold, and it can go away in a flash if the right steps are not taken to get a handle on situations that may flip them otherwise." Reaching towards you, Jieun takes the stack of paperwork back and then folds her hands over it once more. There is an oppressive beat of silence that follows those words, and before you have a chance to consider a response, she says, "We believe that your group will quickly surpass the senior group at the company, and for that reason, it is in all of our best interests to ensure that that pans out without a hitch."

With your breath catching in your throat, you immediately recall her words from just prior that had once slipped by without so much as a second thought.

All participants of this meeting are here to ensure that the outcome is beneficial to the parties currently present.

"Unfortunately," she says, "Sometimes that requires some less than ideal tactics that must be resorted to. I have come to understand that a relationship has formed between yourself and one of the members of this senior group—someone that you had initiated private contact with prior to your entering the company as a trainee—is that correct?"

Your throat is dry, no longer numb to everything crumbling down around you and rather, becoming starkly aware of it. The air feels thick, almost impossible to take into your lungs as you desperately try to steady your nerves. Acknowledgement of the crime feels impossibly heavy now that it has been brought to light in front of so many displeased eyes.

You are barely able to croak out a "yes" in response.

"Who initiated the contact?"

"I…" You stumble, not wanting to air the truth but terrified of what may happen if you don't. Does it even matter if you lie? Will dishonesty net you anything, or save either of you from an outcome that is already impossible to avoid? "I was his fan, I went to events—fansigns—we just talked there, it wasn't—"

"Yes, I am aware of that. It is important that you understand that what I am asking you now is purely for legal reasons, and has no bearing on the procedures going forward."

The wheel is already in motion, the clock is ticking down, and you don't know how much time you even have left.

And so, you relent to it all.

"He did," you say, with a new confidence forced into your tone.

"And the two of you met privately numerous times before you became a trainee at this company?"

"Yes."

"Were you involved romantically then?"

"No."

"Only after you became a trainee?"

"Debut," you correct, "Only after debut."

The barrage of questions comes to an end, and Jieun takes some time to write notes into her laptop that you cannot see. You don't need to see them, however, because the threads have begun to come together in your mind already, and rather than fight them as you have attempted to do so many times prior; finally, you are giving in.

Finally, you are making a decision.

Jieun hums and closes her laptop once again. You watch her shuffle through another stack of papers before eventually locating the one that she appears to have been searching for. It is placed face-down onto the table—soon to find you—and it is then that you feel the air shift in such a tangibly wicked way.

Your eyes catch hers, and that smirk ever so slightly curls into her lips once again.

"Through numerous discussions, we have decided to get ahead of this in a way that will leave you largely out of the line of public vitriol. Of course, it cannot be avoided as a whole, but if we spin this to appear as though you have been groomed into this relationship—that you have been preyed upon by your senior—it will set you up as a victim of the circumstances, rather than a willing participant in the wrongdoing. This way, public favor will continue to fall onto you and your group, and MVNE will likely continue their upward trajectory, maintaining yours, as well as the others', successful careers."

The facade you maintain is one of strength and confidence, but inside, your chest feels as though it is caving in on itself. This will destroy Sunwoo's career, destroy him, and the rest of his members will have to shoulder the burden of this forever, as well. People who have been kind to you, who you have formed friendships with and who have even extended themselves to aid in flourishing this thing that now, will ultimately be their downfall.

Though your mouth is dry, you swallow through the painful sting that resides in your throat. Still, you insist on stating the obvious as if hopeful that the response you receive is indicative of something else entirely.

"The Boyz will fail."

"An unfortunate byproduct, yes," Jieun concludes, "but the lesser of two evils." She slides the paper towards you then, and there is no pen for your signature included in it. Confused, you flip it to read over the text that says all of the same things that have already been explained to you. There is no line for your name, nothing that suggests your consent is a requirement in moving forward with this plan, and once that understanding comes to a head, you fully come to recognize that the clock has long since begun counting down towards this demise.

"There's no line for my signature," you say.

Unbothered, Jieun does not extend towards you the grace of meeting your eye, and instead begins gathering her belongings as if this conference has already come to an end.

"This assembly is a formality. Contractually, we are not obligated to receive your consent to move forward with any decision we come to in regards to you, the other members, or the groups as a whole. We have legal grounds, and thus, the final say is amongst the committee."

You nod, force a slow, calculated smile, and say, "Thank you, my career means everything to me."

And for the first time, Jieun's smile appears genuine.

Messaging Woori is an afterthought, and though there is a twinge of wrongfulness that presses in your mind, it is far outweighed by the urgentness of the first one that you have sent out instead.

Your manager does not bother to ask about where you're rushing off to or your feelings on the way that this has all played out, and that is a grave oversight. Feigning illness is simple for you and you have more than enough corroboration to get away with it; averted eyes, a hand to your head, and a quick leap into one of the nearby single-use bathrooms is all it takes to have no one there to question your next steps going forward.

The first text you send is nothing more than a single word. Cafe. Nothing more needs to be said about it and you don't need to wait for a response to it, either. Nothing remains on your schedule for the rest of the day, there is no where else than anyone is expecting you to be, and thus, you are free to move about without the concern of watchful, prying eyes worried for your whereabouts. For all of the money they have, all of the planning and strategizing that has been carried out until now, you would have thought them to be a little more careful in conceptualizing the potential aftermath of what has just been told to you.

Or perhaps they truly did expect you to fall in line and take it all lying down.

Once out of the elevator, you don't bother glancing around yourself for anyone that you may know. Other members of either group could be lingering and mingling in the common areas of the company lobby, but that is not something that you have the time or attention to give to it. Where the seniors are concerned, especially, you do not yet have the words to offer them in relation to an outcome that they have not yet come to learn about. How do you tell them that it is all about to come crashing down, and through no fault of their own? How do you soften the blow of everything being ripped away from them, and the person to blame for it is you?

Sunwoo has culpability, too, though his hand in this does not feel nearly as strong. As you charge out onto the sidewalk and whip yourself around the corner, your memory replays all of those times that he has insisted, begged, pleaded for you to give him something more, something safer for the both of you and more easily maneuvered than whatever the situation has ultimately become.

You hadn't trusted him to make the wise decision then, and all he could do was sit back and allow you to take the reigns of inaction towards demise.

Standing at the crosswalk, you feel your phone vibrate inside of your pants pocket. Whatever it is can wait, even if it's a reply to the most pressing of messages, because you need to escape the jail cell that holds claim to your entire being, and this tiny coffee shop is the only option as far as solace is concerned.

The light turns green, and as you cross, you remember the secret entrance.

It is hardly a secret, just far less traveled, but that is precisely the thing that you are needing right now. The alleyway it is tucked into is dirty and barely tended to, but the back door to the cafe hangs open and inviting as if they are anticipating your arrival in some way. With a pounding heart and lungs full of air that never quite feel sated, you step inside and call out to anyone that may be able to hear you as you continue your journey towards a place you have been once before.

And when you turn that familiar corner, the person that you are hoping to meet is already sitting there staring back at you.

"You don't check your phone," Juyeon says with a cup of coffee in hand.

"I'm a bit tied up right now," you answer back, stepping into the room and slinging your lifeless body into the chair across the table. For the first time today, you feel somewhat at peace, but you know all too well that that is something that has not yet been earned. "We need to talk. It's… really bad."

"Tell me."

"The company knows everything. I just got out of a meeting with PR, the lawyers, shareholders; basically everyone that's anybody in there. It's so much worse than I thought it would be. I thought they would just push for my withdrawal from the group, or reprimand me, but that's not their plan at all…"

As the story leaves your lips, you realize that you have been looking anywhere but at Juyeon. Meeting his eyes feels like an impossible task given the knowledge that you now have and the precariousness of his own career. You know this, but he does not, and as you force yourself to give him the kind of respect that he deserves, the softness of his features as he gazes back at you does nothing to dissipate the guilt that holds you with force.

In that moment, a hand comes down from behind to gently set down a cup of coffee for you.

"They're willing to dismantle your group to protect mine. They're going to say some despicable things about Sunwoo—things that aren't true, that they know aren't true—so that they can get ahead of the narrative and put an end to this once and for all. They don't care about what it means for you guys, only that it preserves the ideal outcome for us."

Silence follows for a long while after that, and you suppose you can't really blame Juyeon for not having the right words for once.

His eyes fall away from yours and settle back down to the cup he keeps in hand. A slow, deliberate sip comes after that, and once the motions of the task have fully completed he hums to himself and merely says, "I see."

"I… I can't let them do that," you say. "I can't just let them get away with this, no matter what that means for me and my future. It's not fair, it's not right; this isn't just about being an idol anymore, what they're planning is going to ruin peoples lives."

"Then do something about it."

Juyeon's voice is firm but soft when the response comes, and it jars you from your otherwise spiraling thoughts. Your eyes widen, you look at him once again with the shock evident on your face and all you can ask is, "What?"

The smile he offers you is small and easy, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, though you cannot fathom the fact. Once again, the cup makes its way back up to his lips but before he takes the impending sip he says, "They've shown you their hand, you know exactly what it is that they intend to do. So, do something about it. Undermine them. Take the control away and the power back. That's what you want, isn't it?'

Still stunned by what you have just heard, it takes you a moment to collect yourself enough to issue a reply.

"I mean… Yeah, of course that's what I want, it's just…" Slinking down further into your chair, you finally tend to the cooling cup of coffee that has been left for you and with a lazy sip you say, "If I'm honest, it's a little surprising hearing this coming from you. When it comes to decisions that are effectively nuclear, you wouldn't be my go-to." You glance up to him again. "No offense."

"None taken, but you have to consider where I am coming from with this. It's not as though I am looking at it through a sudden lens of impracticality—quite the opposite, in fact—I consider all of the angles and do my best to make a calculated conclusion suited for the best outcome…" Juyeon's head falls to the side ever so slightly as he watches you, and the look on his face tells you that this is all information you should have long since figured out. Slow to the discovery as always, it would seem.

Setting the mug down onto the table, Juyeon folds his hands in front of his face and props his chin atop them. He then adds the conclusion to his earlier sentiment. "The best outcome for the people who matter the most in the equation."

"You think I should call Sunwoo."

"I don't think that's the only thing you should do, but at the very least, you should start there. If you want to steal back the power of the narrative, then you're simply going to have to tell your own. In spite of everyone and everything else."

With one, quick swig of your cold coffee, you dig out your phone. Sunwoo picks up the call after only a single ring.

"So, this is where all of those secret coffee dates have been taking place."

Turning to look, you find Sunwoo standing in the doorway to the private room with his hands pressed into his hips and a meager pout at his lips.

"Do you really think now is a good time for this?" you say.

"Probably not, but it's funny. I also don't know what's going on, so forgive me for not arriving dressed for the occasion."

Rim pressed to his lips, Juyeon does not bother to look up at Sunwoo when he says with a fairly idle nothingness to his tone: "The company is going to issue a statement that asserts that you have been grooming her into a relationship. The group is effectively over if that happens."

"What!?"

Rushing into the room, Sunwoo's shoe catches on one of the legs of your chair and sends him nearly tumbling to the ground, though he finds his footing enough just in time to not have himself laid out on the cold floor. Still, he succumbs to the horror of it all and crumbles to his knees beside the table anyway, looking between you and Juyeon as if you are his parents tasked with saving him from the gruesomeness of it all.

"That's what the meeting was about? I mean, I knew they would want to preserve MVNE but this is crazy! I didn't do that!" Sunwoo's head snaps towards you, eyes wide and pleading as he says, "I didn't do that! We were just friends!"

"It doesn't matter what the truth is, all that matters is that they can say it, and people will believe it. Once the story goes out it'll be easy enough to connect the dots, and who knows who might come forward that might have spotted is in public together before."

His head falls into his hands, and Juyeon looks down at him with only a moderate amount of concern.

Then, you say it: "I think we should hard-launch."

And the room falls impossibly silent in turn.

Looking down at your phone, you finally take notice of how much time has passed since your beginning of this project until now.

Wording is everything, and it all has to be delivered perfectly. Succinctly. No margin for error and no possibility of anything being misconstrued. You understand more than anyone from a place of once being involved in fandom that there will be no convincing everyone; no world where what you say here today will be accepted by each and every person as the unwavering truth, but that's a fact that you are simply going to have to accept.

As an idol, or not.

There's really no telling whether or not you will retain your place in MVNE after this, and though there have been moments where you've believed yourself not to care about that, you can say with a newfound assuredness that for the very first time, you well and truly do not. What matters now is the truth. What matters now is taking this back from the grips of people who wish to inflict nothing but harm with it, and reinvisioning it as something that it was always supposed to be.

Something good, something happy and unplanned, but all-in-all, right.

Important people in high up places are not going to be happy about this level of undermining, but you consider that the price they must pay for backing you so far against this wall. None of this had to get to this point, and a lot of that guilt still rests upon you. It isn't the the sort of atonement that you had been hoping for when you imagined it, but it is all you have to work with now.

Tilting the screen towards Sunwoo, he looks at the drafted social media post from over your shoulder and smiles at the picture long before reading the caption beneath it.

It is a simple selfie together—nothing special, nothing impressive—but there's an obvious sort of light behind both of your eyes that makes the love held there evident to anyone looking to find it. His face is pressed against yours, lips smooshed against your cheek, and the smile on your face is one that you probably haven't been able to wear carefree in a long, long time.

You'd hoped to keep the wording short, but wordiness comes naturally to you, and thus, you wrote from the heart. From start to finish, everything is there in the open. Every lie once told, every truth hidden, and the truth that is now soon to be established. Getting there first is half the battle—you know this perfectly well—and given the fact that your phone hasn't yet begun to blow up with phone calls and notifications, you have reason to believe that the upper hand is still yours.

Turning back, you search for Juyeon as he scrolls through his phone. When he looks up at you, he shakes his head to confirm nothing has gone out yet and you answer that with a confirming nod.

"It's not going to be easy, you know," Sunwoo says, leaned hard against you like a warm, heated blanket in human form. "Even like this, even getting the first word out, it's going to be nasty for a long time. I don't even know if we'll have jobs after this…"

"It's better than the alternative, we know the outcome of that already. We take this chance and maybe they realize that getting into a pissing contest in the public eye isn't actually that great of a look for them. People who will be angry with us for dating… I can weather that storm."

"Are your members going to be upset? You didn't consult them, after all."

Shaking your head, a small smile forms as you recall the events of the morning. "No," you say, confident. "I think they will be proud."

"Alright then!"

Snatching your phone from your hand, Sunwoo turns his back towards you as if he anticipates you fighting for your device back and without so much as another word, you watch in what feels like slow motion as his thumb hovers over the button, and then presses post.

The world stops spinning for a single second in time, the numbness of what has just transpired blanketing over your form as something that you can never take back, can never be ignored, and that opens up a path ahead of you that you cannot predict.

But this is a decision that you have made, and when Sunwoo's hand slips into yours, the road onwards seems just a little less dark than it was before.

a/n: thank you everyone for coming along for this ride! i wasn't expecting much coming back after a year of silence and i am blown away by the reception to this, so thank you so much! i hope it was a fun ride, and hopefully there will be more from me in the not-so-distant future 🩵

#sunwoo smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo scenarios #tbz x reader #tbz imagines #tbz scenarios #the boyz x reader

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lixiesfreckless · 6 months ago

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everyone repeat after me: saturdays are for sunwoo🗣️🗣️🗣️

I don't have much to say other than my brain is FRIED rn and this story never fails to MAKE ME STRESSED THE WHOLE CHAPTER. it's like a fun little game- how high can I raise my cortisol in under 10k words🤪

it is good though. like really good😩sorry I usually have more to say but ngl it's LATE🤣

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟞

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

↳ Sitting on the cusp of an irreversible decision, you effectively disappear, but your plans of doing so are thwarted by a couple of unexpected visitors showing up on your doorstep.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [7,4k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

Thankfully, before the burden drives you mad, Woori's lips part slowly—no words spoken at first—and then eventually she says with the firmest resolution: "Are you insane?"

Upon returning to Seoul, you begin biding your time.

Emotions were running high when you said those words, and though they felt utterly truthful in the moment, you know yourself well enough to acknowledge the fact that they cannot simply be taken at face value, as they are. Not after that, not after everything you had only just come to discover.

Two days before MVNE's comeback showcase, you all but disappear.

An avalanche of calls, text messages and emails begin to cascade sooner than you had really anticipated. Suppose you thought it might take longer for people to realize that your being gone is not just a short skip off to the local cafe or the convenience store across the street. The majority of your belongings still reside in the dorm room that you've done your best to make your home—but the essentials are gone, and it is obvious enough to anyone with a mind to notice.

No time is wasted from the company's side, and with a cup of coffee in hand, you laugh to yourself as you read over the announcement of your alleged 'illness.'

They don't have any information about your whereabouts or the reasoning behind all of this, so they must err on the side of assuming that no conclusion on the matter is going to be reached in time for the showcase. You come to learn that you have 'flu-like symptoms' and your 'worsening condition' is of the utmost importance to all of them. Thus, you will be sitting out of MVNE promotions indefinitely, and further updates will be communicated at a later point in time.

Rimi's place doesn't feel as soulless now as it did the first time you ventured here.

The home is yours for as long as you need it, with Rimi off in Japan tending to business of her own. It is an excellent getaway spot that you could really only dream of in the event of being a runaway idol unsure of the future of your own career. You'll owe the company a substantial sum of money should you wish to terminate your contract early, you'll let down the rest of the girls, and ultimately; you'll also have failed yourself.

All of this weighs heavily on you, each point to be taken into careful consideration. The money is less of a concern, but the rest of your members are not deserving of as much of a tumultuous debut as they have already ended up in, and regardless of the bumps that have come to pass, success still awaits on the horizon; just out of reach, but close enough that you can see it.

What more could you have really asked for? This sort of debut, in this sort of group is the kind of thing that all aspiring idols pray about.

And instead, you are here in Pyeongchang-dong running away from it.

It has been hours since you last looked at your phone, knowing what awaits you there. You wonder if Sunwoo has heard yet—almost certainly he has now with the announcement having gone out—and if anyone knows it's fictitious, it's him.

Realistically, you know you cannot hide forever, and this point is driven home by the loud and untimely sound of someone at the front buzzing in from the intercom.

The sound of it startles you and nearly has you spilling hot liquid all over yourself, but you manage to gather yourself enough to not have to walk away from this with burn marks to accompany whatever humiliation you may face. Still, you turn and stare off towards a door that you cannot quite see from the couch that you've sat on another time before.

Any of Rimi's friends should know that she is not here, which unfortunately means that any number of yours know that you are.

Terribly unlucky, but whoever has come all this way is at least owed a conversation on the matter. You cannot run away from this forever, and eventually, the documents will need to be signed should that be the decision that you ultimately come to.

By the time your feet hit the cool marble of the floor, the buzzer is already sounding off again. This time, it is longer; less careful and brief in its alarming. Whoever is waiting on the other side of it has already grown tired of having done so, and through their only line of communication, urging you to hurry up and get this over with.

You rush over to the door, turn on the screen for the camera, and find a face that you had not at all been expecting to find staring back.

The gate crawls back against its track, the front door unlocks, and in only a few seconds time Woori has crossed the path and stands perched up in the doorway right in front of you.

Once the door has shut behind her, she only stares at you. A sort of incredulous look marks her features. Anger, disappointment, sadness… But most of all; concern.

"What's going on?" she asks, words laden with a breathless sigh as if she walked herself the whole way here. You recognize it for precisely what it is, however; a choking worry that like so many other things, this is one that is completely out of her control.

It's too late for this. Too late for all of the things that need to be said, to be said. Still, they must. Finally, the time has come where the weight of all of this can finally be relieved for better or for worse. A suicidal notion of freedom making you feel weightless in the face of any potentially disastrous outcome that awaits.

"We should talk," you say. The truth of it all resting in wait on your tongue. "For real, this time."

You tell Woori everything.

All of it, from the very beginning. You retell the history of how your friendship with Sunwoo began, how it blossomed into something you could have never anticipated, and how he was the one that not only told you about auditions opening up, but pushed you to swallow your reluctance and self-doubt to enter try-outs for yourself.

As you do so, you catch yourself reminiscing in it all as if it's a story about a person that you only vaguely know, not a recounting of your own life as you have lived it. In so many ways, it does not feel as though it is your story to tell. This is the story of another person, someone who perhaps once was you, but has long since splintered off into a person that you no longer see, much less recognize.

Woori holds a shallow glass of wine in her hand as you speak, but you're not sure that she ever sips from it. Her attention is wholly locked on you as you go over every minute detail of everything leading up until this very moment, as it all stands now.

You tell her about Juyeon, you tell her about Rimi and Kokoro, you tell her about Eric. You tell her about Sunwoo—completely truthful and in its entirety.

Heaviest of all, you tell her about the company.

When you finish, there is nothing left inside of you beyond a heavy sigh. The weight of so many lies, so much deception finally feels as though it has been lifted from you. It is something that you are unsure you can bear any longer, and so, you tell her that, too.

Picking at the skin around your nails to the point that it almost bleeds, you look down at the damage you have done. Your lips thin into a shape that so desperately wishes it could be a smile and you say, "So, that's everything. Honestly, this time." Eyes slowly creeping back up to find hers, you nod once and add, "Of course, I understand if you want me to withdraw from the group. I knew that it would probably come to this once it reached this point. It's something I'm willing to do quietly for the best of the rest of the members."

Woori stares at you in silence for a while, and for the most part, her feelings are utterly indecipherable. You do your best to try to pick out pieces of her thoughts that may be lingering on her features. A master of her craft, a completely impossible task.

Thankfully, before the burden drives you mad, Woori's lips part slowly—no words spoken at first—and then eventually she says with the firmest resolution: "Are you insane?"

Your face drops. "In… In what way?"

"All of them, really," she says. Her arms jostle around her a bit and the untouched wine in her glass sloshes about as she demonstrates her exasperation. "But what I'm referring to specifically this time is about the leaving the group thing. Are you insane? Why would I want you to leave the group over something like this? Might I remind you, this entire time all I have ever been trying to do is minimize that being a potential outcome." Woori leans forward across the couch, squints at you and continues on to say, "You really think I believed that it was just going to be a one-and-done, never gonna happen again and certainly not going to escalate, thing? Of course I knew it was going to continue! I just wanted you to trust me enough to help you… Well, not end up here, I guess."

Your heart sinks hearing the words, and the truth of the matter is that the writing has always been on the wall. Woori's actions line up perfectly in relation to the words that she's saying now; you've never had a reason not to trust her beyond your own unwillingness and terror. You didn't trust her, and you wouldn't trust Sunwoo, either. Two people who have done nothing but extend themselves in an effort to minimize the impact of a decision that you were always going to make.

"Didn't really anticipate you going all scorched earth with Juyeon, though," she adds.

Groaning, you toss yourself back against the couch. "It wasn't exactly thought-out."

"And of course, it didn't scorch the earth, either. That guy really is just absolutely crazy about you."

Looking up towards the ceiling, you give time for the concept of that to truly wash over you. It feels new and old simultaneously and in ways that you find you don't quite have the means to articulate. Something you have known forever and yet, are only just discovering.

"I think he always has been."

"Obviously," Woori says, your obliviousness punctuated by her tone. "He wanted you to audition because he both wanted you to debut and because he wanted to close the otherwise insurmountable distance that would always stand between the two of you. Surely you understand that now."

"That night in Germany… I told him I wanted to quit, that I didn't want to do this anymore. I don't know why but I thought he'd be happy about it. I expected him to be glad because if one of us isn't doing this anymore then at least it's only one person's career that's hanging in the balance, you know?"

Cocking her head slightly, Woori looks at you with a sort of knowing grin pressed into her lips and she says, "But he wasn't happy, was he?"

Slightly shaking your head, you recall the moment as if even now you cannot help but disbelieve the way that it had all played out. "Nope, not at all. Not even a little bit."

"If the cost of being with you means sinking your career then it's not worth it to him," she reasons. To her, you realize, this is all the most simplistic thing in the world. "He'd rather watch from afar and weather the treacherous storm of his feelings forever. Sunwoo isn't a bad guy, you should give him a little bit more credit than that. You've wanted this for years; you've trained and auditioned, suffered and overcome the sort of breakneck-paced schedule from debut to now that a lot of people would not even survive, much less thrive in. You thrive. He's not going to let you throw it away when all it means is that you still have to suck face in the privacy of unmarked cars and hotel rooms. It's not like it would really make that much of a difference to your lives. The two of you will never be holding hands walking down the street."

Your head flops lifelessly to the side so that you can look at Woori once more and you say, "And the rest of MVNE? This is all going to become a situation now. I've disappeared and they're going to start investigating. They're going to find out, it's no longer a matter of if, but when. So, what's going to happen when the meeting is called and they motion for my withdrawal?"

"Then we fight it, stupid." Woori squints at you like she doesn't understand why you're asking the question, at all. "Groups have done it before. If they want to play stupid games then they can win all of the stupid prizes they could ever ask for, and we have nine more where you came from."

The smile that creeps up on your face precludes the tears that otherwise threaten to come. Instead, Woori scoots across the expensive furniture and wraps her strong arms around you in an embrace that you have needed to feel from her for a long, long time.

She has always been on your side, you only needed to allow her to be.

With a sniffle and the nonchalant wiping of her hand across her eye, Woori flashes you a smile and adds in: "By the way, I have something to confess, myself. You have to promise you won't be mad, though."

Reluctantly, you agree to her terms.

Digging her phone out of her bag, she swipes and taps across the screen for a moment before simply setting it down into her lap and staring at you with a wide and fairly unnerving smirk.

"Wha—"

Before you can get the question out, a loud chime resonates through the entirety of the home. It frightens you, first and foremost, unfamiliar with the intricacies of a place of this magnitude, before eventually coming to realize that you suppose it must be the doorbell.

Why a house with a gate, buzzer and security at the front of the neighborhood needs a doorbell, you may never really know.

Woori appears unperturbed by this which, when coupled with her alluding statement prior, leads you to believe that whatever—or whoever—this is, is a concoction of her own making. Your being here is not meant to be a reunion of any kind, and so it is not at all ideal that more people come to learn of the fact that you are here. Unfortunately, whoever it is is already here, and so you have no other choice than to face what awaits you.

And if your meeting with her today has taught you anything, it is that you have no reason not to trust her.

Making your way down the hall, you catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror hung against the wall. You look terrible; barely slept, barely eaten, barely cared for yourself and especially not your appearance in the last couple of days leading up to your eventual vanishing. It's not a great time for visitors, but maybe that's just the idol in you talking.

You don't turn the security screen on before opening the door. Just another small signal of your willingness to let go.

The door pulls open slowly, and suppose you didn't know what to expect once you reached this foyer; only that this most certainly wasn't it.

"Crazy person delivery," Sunwoo says. "You thought you could disappear to Pyeongchang-dong and I just wouldn't find out about it? Yeah right!"

Stunlocked, Sunwoo gently pushes his way inside and before the door even has a chance to close, you hear Woori shouting from the living room. "Don't take credit for the fact that you're here! I told you to come! You're not a detective!"

Sunwoo rolls his eyes, leans in towards you and whispers, "Romance is dead, huh? Can't even pretend I tracked you down out of pure adoration and spite anymore." He turns his head back towards where the voice had come and then shouts, "You can't talk to me like that! I'm your senior!" Then, back towards you he goes. He says, "I love pulling that out of a hat when I need it, works every time."

Eyes wide and still standing in silence, you stare at Sunwoo as if you expect the vision of him to dissipate any moment now. He kicks his shoes off and pulls the hoodie over his head to hang up by the door. His hair is a mess, but he's wearing make-up. Has he just come from a schedule? How did he get here? You have a lot of questions but no idea where to start.

Then Woori arrives at the entryway, flashes you a smile, and begins gathering her things.

This is enough to break you from your trance. Your sights dart from her, to Sunwoo, back to her and as she pulls on her shoes you say, "Wait, you're leaving?"

"Yeah! I can't stay here, it'll be a much bigger situation if we both go off the grid, don't you think? Besides, I have to talk to the girls, we need a game plan going forward."

"You're leaving him here? With me?"

Woori flashes you a sort of condescending look and then says, "Oh yeah, I'm sure you're really bummed about that."

Glancing back towards Sunwoo, he is idly meandering around the home and taking in the sights. As far as you can tell, his attention is so far from the conversation you are having with your bandmate and in fact, he appears far too content for how absurd this whole thing has now become.

"Wait! How is he getting back?" you ask.

Pausing, Woori appears as though she considers the question for all but a second, shrugs, and says, "I don't know. Ask him."

"How are you getting back!?"

Sunwoo's head snaps towards you, as if he is not anticipating being addressed at all. "Manager? How else would I get anywhere?"

Closing your eyes, you press the heel of your palms hard into them in hopes that at some point, you will no longer feel like the most logical person in the room.

"Anyway, I'm going," Woori announces, the door in front of her already ajar. "I don't know if it's wise to text from now until you're back home, so stay safe and you're welcome back whenever you're ready. I would say don't do anything stupid but…" Her attention draws towards Sunwoo specifically. "He's already here and you already did, so. There's that."

Sunwoo's face twists mockingly. "Very funny!"

"See you!"

The door shuts, Woori disappears behind it, and now only you and Sunwoo remain in the quiet, empty liminality of a Pyeongchang-dong mansion.

In the privacy now allotted to you, the hours pass by through simple, affectionate touches and light kisses that linger on your skin long after the lips that left them have departed.

As the time dwindles, however, you are forced to come to terms with your lack of planning as far as being in this space is concerned. Rimi does not live here full-time—something you have known—but once the door to the refrigerator and numerous kitchen cabinets are opened, the realization becomes just that much more stark.

There is enough stress on your shoulders already, the weight of everything that follows you even this far away from the heart of it all. A hiccup such as this one feels insurmountable when faced with all the rest, but when you look at Sunwoo and his sort of effortless whimsy in spite of it, a small bit of the struggle is indeed chipped away.

Without a word, food arrives at the doorstep and you only become aware of it when the driver buzzes in from the driveway. Sunwoo quickly scrambles to his feet with a big smile and a brief glance back at you that insists for you to acknowledge that he has done a good job; he has, he always does, and that is sort of why you have landed yourself in this predicament to begin with.

"When's the last time we've shared a meal?" Sunwoo asks through a mouthful of noodles, "It has to be before you became a trainee, right?"

"There's the cafe, or that time we went across the street to the store after you were out drinking with the guys."

He shakes his head. "That doesn't count. Actually, that time I took you out after Idol Radio. That counts. Our first foray into what it might be like going forward."

"How could I have forgotten about that?"

Bent in half and leaning against the kitchen island, Sunwoo shoots a glance at you and says, "Because you were too busy stressing yourself into an early grave to even enjoy it, probably."

Perhaps there is some truth to that.

"At the very least," he adds, "This scenario is a little too life-altering to not remember it, so I have that going for me."

"I never even got around to asking Woori how she figured out where I was…" You take a bite out of a dumpling, grimace at its bizarre texture, and let it fall from your fingers back into the plastic container from which it came. "I probably have to start coming to terms with the fact that I'm not even half as clever as I think I am."

"Yeah, it would be a good time for that. Also, it's not hard to figure that out. She's friendly enough with the other guys to follow the breadcrumbs back to your friend."

You look at him with narrow eyes. "And then she decided it was a good idea to tell you."

"It was a good idea, because I'm probably the only person who can talk you down from making a truly insane career decision." Finishing his bite, Sunwoo pushes the cartons of food in front of him away, turns to give you his full attention and leads his thoughts with an already exhausted sigh. He says, "It's kind of funny looking back, because you used to be the one with your head screwed on right when it came to all of this, not me. I mean, I was just going along with it because really, you were right. But now…?"

A small pause follows as he thinks through his next step, but he arrives at it fairly quickly.

"Bit of an overcorrection, don't ya think?"

What little appetite you had originally leaves you entirely then. This conversation—a conversation that is so long overdue—is one that you knew would be rearing its ugly and uncomfortable head from the moment you saw Sunwoo walking in through that door. More realistically, however, it has been needed for months; since the first kiss, since all of the others after it, since that night in your dorm and since Sunwoo's overarching and unending willingness to bear all to you and receive little-to-nothing in return.

But especially since that night abroad.

The breath you take is an obvious one, and Sunwoo's eyes never leave you all the while. He grants you the quiet space you ask from him without a single word uttered, merely watching and listening for you to finally be willing to take this quest on and move forward with whatever your choice may be.

You know what you want, but can you have it?

With a fingertip idly tapping into the black marble countertop, your lips part to speak despite the way they feel utterly lost in your throat.

And just before you manage a single word, Sunwoo stretches forward and takes your fidgeting hand into his, gently pulling you away and out of the kitchen.

"Let's get cozy," he says. "Being surrounded by knives is no way to navigate this sort of thing. Ya know, just in case I say something that doesn't land as I might have hoped it would."

"You think I'm going to stab you."

"I think it'd solve, like, most of your problems! Though it may raise a whole mess of other ones."

It takes much longer than anticipated to get the intricacies of the fireplace figured out, but once the flame comes to life, the tension melts and drains from your bones.

Sunwoo can't sit still, not until everything is perfectly in place according to whatever mental imagery he has concocted in his mind. He doesn't say it aloud, nor do you ask, but you know him well enough to understand that there is a particular series of events that must play out; an idea of a scene that exists in the theoretical that plagues the fantastical, dreamy hopeful in ways that you may never truly come to make sense of. A hopeless romantic in every sense of the word, and you have no other option than to allow him to go through the motions until it all comes to fruition.

Thus, pillows and blankets are thrown on the floor into a pile, and with the only thing left in the house being expensive wine, a bottle of that is popped open, too.

You watch him make his way back over to the middle of the living room with two empty wine glasses in one hand and the bottle in another. As usual, a loose hoodie and even looser jeans draped from his body and at a glance to anyone not knowing any better he could pass for someone with no business having the alcohol in hand.

Holding the items up for display, Sunwoo cracks a proud grin and says, "Okay, now we're ready. Romance isn't dead, after all!"

With glasses half-full and the fire quietly crackling ahead, the two of you take a moment to sit together in silence—offering nothing more. No words are spoken, no movements are made to close the physical distance and connect your bodies in any fashion whatsoever. In all truthfulness, you take the time to acknowledge Sunwoo's often overlooked emotional intelligence; always seemingly able to understand precisely what you want and need from him without even needing to utter a word.

Now, he knows that you do not wish to be pressed further for answers. The answers that the both of you seek already sit with you together in this vast, empty room. They will come in due time, and any urgency he could display is ill-suited for the delicacy of the topic at hand.

The first sip of wine you take is a bit longer and stiffer than originally intended to be, but once the harsh bitterness hits your tongue you realize that you're going to need just a little bit more liquid courage than you had hoped in order to finally lay your truth out onto the table.

It is difficult, but Sunwoo deserves this. Both of you do.

Turning to look at him, you hold the glass between both of your hands, cradling it far gently than what is necessary; just like your heart that you've been desperately hoping to shield from harm.

"So, I guess this is the end then," you say to start. Your voice trembles ever so slightly, and for once, you don't bother making an effort to steady it. "Or the beginning, I'm not really sure which it is yet."

"Both," Sunwoo says with a nonchalant shrug. "The end of one thing, the beginning of another. Both things can be true." Looking at you, he scoots himself a bit closer but still does not make physical contact of any kind. "It all depends on what you want, what you're willing to take on. It always has."

"It's going to be a nightmare, you know that."

"Yeah, for a while, but it'll pass. We don't have to go public, you know. That can be a problem for another day."

"I know." You take another sip, this one smaller than the one prior. "I guess I just feel like… It's better to take on the worst of it and just get it over with as quickly as possible, you know?"

"Yes, you're a doomsday-er, I've long since gathered that much." Sunwoo rolls his eyes, finally swaying himself enough to bump your shoulder with his own. He says, "The company situation is going to be bad enough, I'm not going to lie to you. Once they figure out that their little set-up didn't go to plan and that we figured it out and even worse, are moving forward with things…" He pauses, and for what might be the first time, you see the light wash of fear draped across his features. Eventually though, Sunwoo must catch himself in the midst of it all and he forces a smile, saying, "Well, let's just say it won't be the best day either of us have ever had!"

Your eyes fall down to the glass still clutched within your hands, and though your chest is tight and throat stinging with terror; what other options do the two of you have moving forward?

"We…" The word drips from your mouth slowly, bitter and heavy with the sort of vile falsehood that you promised yourself to never succumb to moving forward. It is a last ditch effort now—the final option—the only remaining time that the two of you have to cut your losses and try to move on with your hearts merely functionally intact. "We… Don't have to do this. If it's too hard, too much trouble. There's no glory in forcing it if it's the wrong choice."

Slowly turning to look at you, Sunwoo waits patiently for your eyes to drag upwards to meet him. What is there for you, however, is not a sadness or concern that you might have come to expect. Instead, a small smile tugs at a corner of his lips—at odds with the words you have just said before. What you find there is a truth that you realize you have been exerting far too much effort into ignoring, and now, that wall is suddenly crumbling away.

Sunwoo huffs a laugh out from under his breath, rolls his eyes and says, "You're ridiculous, you know that? Are you like, being obtuse on purpose, or something? Of course we have to do this…" Turning back to face the warm, ambient flicker of the fire, Sunwoo shakes his head gently as if still in disbelief of your unwillingness to accept what is now an unshakably obvious fact to the both of you.

"I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for a while, which you have gone to impressive lengths to somehow not notice. So, yeah, we kind of do have to do this now, because it's too late and we're in too deep to just go on pretending it isn't what it is." His head falls back lazily, face tilted up towards the ceiling, clearly exhausted by your obliviousness. Fair enough. He says, "And I don't know if you realize this yet, but you're in love with me, too. If I have to act out this whole confession scene between the both of us just by myself I'm going to put my head in the fireplace. This is utterly excruciating."

A deep sigh rolls out from you, no point in arguing with the point and fighting this any further. "Yeah, I guess unfortunately I am."

"Unfortunately!?"

"Well, my life would certainly be much more carefree if that weren't the case."

"It'll be worth it," Sunwoo says, leaning to the side to rest his head on your shoulder. "They'll have to kill me to keep me away from you at this point, and while they definitely have nasty methods of trying to get what they want, I don't think they're willing to stoop down that low, at least."

Pressing a kiss to the top of his head, you linger in place there and quietly say, "You should go back. It's getting late and it's a long drive."

But to that, Sunwoo hums and says, "No, I don't think I will, actually." His tone is sarcastic, a little comically inclined that you know well enough alludes to something else on his mind that has not yet been spoken of. A stray fingertip finds the skin of your hip from underneath your sweater shortly thereafter, and for as much as he may understand you, in a lot of ways, the same can be said for you about him. "I can go back early in the morning and still make my schedule, I'd rather spend the night here with you."

"We have about five bedrooms to choose from," you say, attempting to play off the way that his insistence makes you feel. "Or we can stay here all night, your choice."

Mulling over his options for only a second of time, Sunwoo nods along with the decision it appears he has made and says, "I want the biggest one you got—with a bathroom! Truly living in the lap of luxury now!"

"Enjoy it while you can, who knows what awaits us in the morning."

Moving to stand and struggling to make it to his feet, Sunwoo groans along with the mere mention of having to return to his typical life. "I know exactly what awaits us in the morning, and it's going to be a nightmare, so let's put a pin in that for the rest of the evening and just… pretend that that isn't the case until we have no other choice but to face it. Deal?"

You nod, accepting the terms. "Deal."

With both of your bodies covered in a light sheen of sweat, Sunwoo—ravenous as he is idealistic—pries himself from your limbs and allows for new air to waft over your heated, sated skin. There is a long silence that follows once heaving chests find a more calmed rhythm, neither of you daring to utter the first word just yet. Perhaps he shares the thought that sits so pertinent in your mind: to enjoy this for what feels like the last time, even if it is not exactly that.

Instead of speaking, Sunwoo rolls to the far end of the bed and takes his phone into hand.

"What are you doing?" Curiosity paired with the strangeness of the action gets the best of you, proving that you no longer have the strength to continue along with the charade. Sunwoo continues typing for a moment without acknowledging your words, but it's not long before his head flops to the side, and a grin tugs at one corner of his lips.

"Telling my manager I'm not coming home tonight."

"I'm sure that will go over well."

He shrugs, slumped against a pile of messed up bedding and pillows. "Doesn't matter if it does or not. I'll make it back in time for schedules and I'll do my job just as well as I always do it. Shouldn't that be what's important? He doesn't want to babysit me any more than I want him to."

"A stern talking-to will be waiting, that's for sure. Running off with me is probably far from what he had been hoping for."

"He has known about us for a while," Sunwoo says, and the tone in his voice alludes to it being a completely inconsequential matter in ways that are not at all in line with the reality either of you are facing. Your face contorts into something that you can only imagine being read as horrified, and he huffs out a laugh as a result. "I mean, the guy has worked with me for a long time, and has been involved in enough of our passing matters to not be blind to the obvious writing on the wall. Yeah, it's not ideal the way this has all turned out but… Oh well!"

Laid out against the mattress, your eyes drift from Sunwoo and instead settle onto the plain vastness of the high ceiling above. There is a kind of tranquility that has found its way nestled into your bones when the topic comes up now, and you wonder how much of that is your acceptance of there being no good or easy way out of this swamp.

Those final two words ring through your ears repeatedly long after they leave his lips: Oh well. What's done is done, and as far as Sunwoo is concerned there is little point in wallowing on the matter.

"Will you quit if I do?" you ask.

There is no thought behind the question when you pose it to him, a passing thought with no particular start or end point in mind. You don't look at him once it leaves your lips, waiting once again in silence for an answer that you feel confident in already knowing.

And making oneself smaller for love is hardly any kind of love, at all.

After a few beats of no response, you hear Sunwoo pull in a breath. "No, I won't," he says. "And neither will you. You're not a quitter, you've made it this far. If they want to make the worst choice they could make and cut your contract for this then that's on them, but don't give them the easy way out. Make them do it."

"And if they do?"

"They won't." Rolling onto his side, Sunwoo slings an arm over your chest and uses the leverage it gives him to shorten the distance between the two of you. He says, "MVNE are too successful and you're already a year in. I mean, sure, groups have had member losses early—I should know—but they'd be foolish and taking a huge risk chopping the line-up like this right now. They'd have to lie about the reason and then cut you a fat check for you to keep your mouth shut about it, and the last thing any company wants to do is pay out an idol. Don't worry about it, you're going to be fine."

Turning to look at him again, your eyes meet his and he looks up at you with the sort of joyful, boyish exuberance that he always carries. The kind that betrays the severity of any given situation, the kind that you have learned to very much appreciate.

It all sort of melts away.

"Woori said she and the girls are going to figure out a plan, just in case," you say through a heavy sigh. "So, when I go back, I suppose I'll move forward with them on my side."

"You were never even half as alone as you thought you were," Sunwoo says. A hand of his finds yours, interlocking your fingers as yet another reminder of the fact. "You're going to get through this, and who knows, maybe your mysterious illness will clear up in time for your comeback showcase, too."

Narrowing your eyes, you say, "Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Damn right I would! I've seen the outfits sitting in the fitting rooms, sheesh."

Playfully nudging an elbow into him does little to deter his advances, and you suppose that's just another thing about Sunwoo that you like, too.

Overhead, the bright lighting from the enormous bathroom mirror illuminates your surroundings. As you stare at yourself in the reflection, you cannot help but think of how similar it is to the many times you have been seated for poking and primping from any number of stylists. Always in preparation. Not unlike now.

Sunwoo's alarm begins to sound off just beyond the open door.

This too feels familiar. The same adrenaline that courses through your veins as you stand backstage, waiting for the staff to give the final signal for you and your members to go on stage, begins to flow through you. It is muted, there is no stage and no performance to give, but the feelings of anticipation and hopefulness drive you all the same. In the other room, you can hear Sunwoo roll himself out from between the sheets with a semi-confused groan—likely due to your not being there beside him—but seems to pass quickly in favor of the ticking clock.

Gathering your courage, you do your best to settle your nerves. The bathroom is spacious but it only requires a handful of steps to lead back into the darkness of the room. He hasn't bothered with a light and you don't particularly blame him; it's too early in the morning, and he hadn't brought a whole lot with him to begin with.

"Sunwoo," you say, still shrouded in what is mostly darkness from his own perspective. From where Sunwoo stands, there is light emptying in from a place behind you, but it offers him little as far as deciphering your features is concerned.

Seated and slumped at the edge of the bed with wild hair and a shirt that has only begun being pulled onto his limbs, Sunwoo turns slightly to at least acknowledge that you've spoken to him, though his back faces you. "Yeah? You're up already…" His voice is heavy and groggy, still laden with the sleep that has only just left him. "Why're you up?"

You've been busy while he has slept.

Reaching up, your hand finds the lightswitch and flickers it on. Sunwoo winces at the intrusion to his senses, and you take his temporary blindness as an opportunity to fully enter the room and make your way to the destination in mind. It isn't the bed, as you figure he might think. Instead, you stand perched up by the bedroom door.

Next to your already packed belongings.

It takes a few moments for Sunwoo to collect himself and finish pulling on his shirt, but once he does, his head finally turns to locate where you've ended up and his face deadpans with a shocking quickness. His eyes remain glued to the small amount of things you have stationed there; a large backpack, a handbag for a laptop and some other, minor items, and then, they carefully make their way back up to you.

Neither of you speak for a while, and the bizarreness of the silence has you nearly second guessing your decision as a whole. Sunwoo looks at you with a sort of dumbfounded expression, his lips parting ever so slightly as if he wants to speak but doesn't yet have the words to accurately portray his thoughts. You wait longer, lingering in this no matter how uncomfortable it may be, because more than anything you need to hear whatever it is that his most genuine reaction is intended to be.

Then finally, he says it: "You don't have to come with me if you're not ready yet."

Your body has become so accustomed to expecting the worst case scenario that enough tension has built to withstand any kind of impact. It takes far too long for his words to sink in, for his earnestness to wash over you and begin to break down the wall that you have started to construct, but once it does, the breath that leaves you is one that carries all of the worries you've been holding in along with it.

"People might see us together," Sunwoo adds, as if to ensure that you're fully aware of any risks that may come with traversing this immediate future together with him.

"I don't care if you don't," you say with a lazy, somewhat noncommittal shrug, "but I'll stay behind if it's what's best for you."

Sunwoo huffs and quickly brings himself to his feet. The movement is all dangling, tired limbs and his head lazily lolling back and to the side—maybe even an eye roll—too exhausted to engage in the typical, playful lambasting of you, but no intention of allowing this to go unaddressed, either.

He crosses the room, stills in front of you, and just stares. The fatigue is deeply laden all across his face, and the stylists are going to have their work cut out for them once he makes it into that chair. Suppose you're no better off once you step across that threshold, though what waits for you back in that city is far less welcoming than a smudge of eyeliner and a hint of shimmer eyeshadow.

It doesn't really matter right now, though.

Inching towards you, Sunwoo presses a light, chaste kiss against your lips, nudges you with an elbow and then says, "It's a long drive, we should go."

Slinging your bags over your shoulder, you follow Sunwoo. Your heart and trust fully his, but the dread still held inside remains yours, and yours alone.

#sunwoo smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo scenarios #tbz x reader #tbz imagines #tbz scenarios #the boyz x reader

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lixiesfreckless · 6 months ago

Text

TWO THINGS ZIPPER MY GOD:

1. have you watched the netflix series arcane? specifically season 2 episode 7? the shower confession scene reminded me SO MUCH of the prison cell scene and it made me giggle

2. THE LAST TWO LINES KNOCKED THE WIND OUTTA ME and it should have been so obvious to me but somehow I'm panicking??? what is she gonna do???? literally caused so much trouble just to realize this isn't the life for her like this action will have consequences™️

eric's portrayal is SO cute and SO accurate, the shower scene was actually so good omg, not to mention the dialogue right after was really funny/realistic

all in all I'm kinda floored rn what are we gonna do uhhhhh :D

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟝

𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞

↳ 'A picture is worth a thousand words,' as the age old adage goes, but you are soon to find out that the narrative spun around them can be worth so much more.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [8,7k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

Leaning his face closer to yours, Eric squints devilishly at you and says, "Be nice to me, or I won't scout the way myself to sneak you in."

The following days speed by in a blur; comeback practice, setlist practice, multiple meetings and pre-comeback appearances meant to create interest for what is soon to come commandeer the majority of your time, and it is only once you land in Germany that you realize just how little you have been able to afford for yourself.

There is a wash of relief there when the foreign air hits your skin and the unfamiliarity of a place you have never been before begins to sink in. Of course, MVNE have things they must do here beyond a handful of songs they are set to perform tonight, but photoshoots and social media are nothing compared to the demanding schedule that still awaits you back home.

You've still not spoken to Sunwoo in weeks.

He has been away for the majority of the time, and did not fly with the rest of you. Sunwoo, you find out through overhearing discussions amongst managers, will come in a few hours in the future. Straight to the stage for rehearsals, and then a meager wait following that until it is time to perform for those awaiting him.

One positive thing about it all is that Juyeon has kept his word.

Interactions with him are brief and professional, given the fact that you are in public and there are curious eyes all around. The fans like the two of you together in certain ways—as far as performance and aesthetic are concerned—but both of you know it best to not test the limits of where your friendliness might land you.

You steal glances as he stands near to you, careful not to draw attention to yourself. He is handsome and kind; forthcoming with his thoughts and feelings, incredibly intelligent and well-read on top of it all. For a moment you wonder to yourself, why not him, and then suppose that it really is as intangible and cosmic as what he had said to you only a week or so back.

Your heart just isn't in it. What else can be said for that?

Mid-day rolls around and rehearsals come and go. The sound leaves a lot to be desired with numerous hiccups and discussions following in tow. MVNE will perform four songs, which is plenty given the way your body feels weary on account of the travel and jet lag. A couple of the girls push for one more, but you stay silent in the conversations. Really, your mind is heavier than your body could ever be. Hours have passed, the rehearsal following yours is for The Boyz, and you know who is standing by backstage awaiting their time to shine.

Your feet hurt by the time your time slot is finished—numerous runs done over and over again until finally everyone has got it right. The girls all hurry backstage to enjoy the small amount of time they have until fans start shuffling into their places and the arena lights shine for you and so many others to be seen. At the very least, the green rooms are catered well and there is a whole plethora of food awaiting you.

Once down the stairs and behind the scenes of the glamour, bodies dart around and zoom past you, all with time-sensitive tasks of their own that must be attended to. Black blurs that you cannot make out the faces of before it is too late and they have disappeared off into the distance. People are shouting and static is buzzing from sound systems and communication devices. It's stressful making sure that everything happens precisely the way it is meant to; the air brimming with electricity that can be felt right down to your bones.

You look up and to your left, your eyes catch Kevin's briefly and your heart leaps up into your throat. The understanding that they had been waiting back here is something that logically, you had made peace with, but emotionally? Evidently less so.

Yet you can't look away.

Your attention spans down the line with momentum so fast that it makes your head spin. Chanhee and Haknyeon are standing just behind, though their eyes are set to the ground in anticipation of what's to come. Mimicking them, you also look to the floor, not wanting to accidentally trip on something that may be troublesomely in front of you. Then, your eyes snap back up and as if constructed by fate itself; you find Sunwoo.

He looks at you as if he can feel the fact that your gaze sits heavy on his form. It's so dark and so busy that you only have a second or two to truly get a look at him, but you don't require much to recognize that he has seen better days and wears the fact tiredly upon him.

Those eyes light up for what seems like the first time in a long time.

But you snap away from him and are quickly ushered down the hall towards elsewhere entirely. The girls all make their way inside of the green room, a few of them wasting no time looking over the bountiful display of snacks and drinks that have been waiting there for the taking. Rather than following suit, or sitting to rest your tired feet, you halt just past the doorway and remain lost in a split-second moment that has hardly even happened, at all.

The look on his face, and the obvious desperation seen behind eyes that have no hope of being able to convey the depth of whatever it they feel as though they need to.

"Hey," a familiar voice calls to you, enough to snap you back to the present. Woori nudges you with her shoulder from just beside you and lowers her voice a little bit more to avoid being overheard. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah, of course." What else are you meant to say beyond the thing that you know she wants to hear. "Just tired, jet lagged… You know how it goes."

"First time overseas for an event, it's not easy, I'll tell you that much," she agrees. "I don't know how groups do it, back and forth all the time, but I guess all we can hope for is that eventually, that'll be us, too." There's no response you have to give to her words with your mind still left back in the hallways. Woori notices it—perceptive as she is—and lowering her voice to a whisper she says, "Are you sure you're okay? You know… with everything going on?"

You grant her your attention, and though you have no doubt that your feelings lie fully displayed upon your features, you don't have the fight left in you to attempt to correct it, either.

"It's fine." That's the best you can do. "It's all going to be fine."

From just behind where the both of you stand, a knock raps at the door and shortly thereafter it swings open to reveal a couple of familiar faces that you were not at all anticipating seeing.

There stands Rimi, dressed in white and pastel pinks. Beside her is another girl that you know, though not as familiarly as Rimi, herself. Her name is Kokoro; never not seen with bleached blonde hair and a wild aesthetic of animal prints and vast accessories.

They both enter and immediately wrap you in affection, with strong hugs and kisses pecked to the sides and top of your head. Just what you need, right about now.

"How did you guys get back here?" you ask, still basking in the love that they're showing you. "Don't tell me you've started down the dark path of sneaking into places you know you're not supposed to be."

Rimi's hands set at her hips, a comical display of displeasure at your words and she says, "Please! We would never! But more than that, we don't need to!"

Kokoro raises a hand. "My family knows one of the directors of this production, so we have just about as much free reign of this place as you do."

"Shall we step outside to chat?" Rimi suggests, "We wouldn't want to bother the other girls during their resting time, only you."

Little does she know, their presence is precisely the sort of pick-me-up that you need. Following them out, Kokoro says something about a vending machine with a very particular cold coffee that she wants, and the three of you head down towards her intended prize. It is a less frequently traveled spot by talent and staff alike; no time for anyone to hang around and enjoy the luxury of a beverage in the hours leading up to the show. For the first time in a long time, you feel the tension dissipate from your form. Comforted by the quell of madness.

"We can speak comfortably around Kokoro," Rimi says suddenly, words that feel a little out of place and do more harm than good when it comes to the stress that you're hoping to leave behind. "She already knows everything that goes on everywhere, nothing you could tell her would be news to this one."

You look the girl over. Times spent together in the past have been little more than holding spots in line and journeys for soju and barbeque after an event. However, your trust held in Rimi is unwavering, and if she is willing to vouch, then you allow yourself to accept the fact.

"My family is very well connected," Kokoro says. "I wouldn't be able to escape it if I tried."

The smile you give her is slight and half-hearted, but you don't have it in you to offer much more beyond that.

"That said! How are you? How have things been? It hasn't been long since we last spoke but a lot has happened!" With wide eyes and a dramatic display of disbelief, Rimi shakes her head as she recounts the most obvious elephant in the room. "I mean, can you believe it? Just crazy the way all of that has played out."

Busy with her drink retrieval, Kokoro finally slips the container out from the slot and still bent down, she looks up at you and says, "It must have been a very strange conversation, huh? But I guess this is business. It's all politics, smoke and mirrors and all that, ya know? Like, we always know that's the case, and then you see it in action and it's like whoa, they'll go to any lengths to get what they want, isn't that right?"

Through the course of Kokoro's tirade, your eyebrows have flexed and pressed together on your face. It hasn't been a conscious effort on your part, and though you entered this discussion with a baseline understanding of what is about, the more she has spoken, the less you have come to understand it. Somewhere along the line, the words Kokoro has said have sounded less familiar to you, and more akin to information that you have not yet become privy to.

You understand what the three of you are talking about, but simultaneously, you have no idea what the three of you are talking about.

So, you have no choice but to inquire. Your eyes dart to Rimi—who is watching you expectantly—then back to Kokoro who is seemingly unaware and working towards enjoying her prize.

"Uh, what are we talking about?"

Rimi rolls her eyes and stamps her foot like a cartoon character. "Sunwoo! The pictures, and everything!"

"I know, I gathered that much, but…"

Silence follows. Eventually, any hint of comedic display falls from Rimi and a sense of sincere urgency takes hold instead. "Wait." Her shoulders drop all of their tension, slouching lifelessly to her sides. Cocking her head inquisitively she says, "Have you not… spoken to him?"

Your throat is dry and your eyes drop from hers, unable to maintain the contact as this topic persists.

"No, I don't think I have to explain why."

"Oh shit!"

It drops from Rimi's mouth before she has a chance to reel it back. Her hands fly over her mouth and Kokoro gasps in the aftermath of it, gently swatting at her as if to reprimand her for saying it. Reaching towards you, Rimi grips your arm tightly—almost enough to hurt—and with a kind of determination you've never seen from her before she says, "Babe, you need to talk to him, oh my god. It's not true!"

Your stomach drops before you have time to truly consider the weight of what you have just been told.

"Wha… I saw the pictures," you stammer, "We all saw them. We saw the articles, the company statement…"

After struggling for quite some time, the cap finally pops off of Kokoro's drink. She takes a sip and appears wholly unbothered by the weight of the conversation that is happening around her. A loud sigh follows her sip, like she's filming for a commercial and selling the part to perfection, and once she's finished Kokoro finds the time to attend to you.

"I mean, yeah, the photos are real in the sense that they exist and they were spotted out together." She takes another sip, enamoured by the flavor in ways that seem incredibly untimely given the gravity of what is happening to you. "It's the story around them that's not. I thought for sure you would have known this, figured this was already water under the bridge. They must be keeping a real tight leash on him then."

You close your eyes, shake your head in disbelief and just say: "Pause."

A moment is needed for you to think through the unimaginable amount of thoughts swirling around in your head. You take in a slow but deep breath, holding it inside of your lungs until you can't stand to keep it there for any longer. Your nerves settle slightly, enough to move forward with all of this without completely shutting down, bursting into tears, and ruining the incredible amount of stage make-up that is crafted upon your face.

"Can you just… Start from the beginning."

"I'll keep watch!" Rimi announces, craning her body so that she can look down the hall.

"Okay, so." Kokoro revels in another sip of her coffee drink before continuing on. "My dad works with a lot of very high-profile people, so I hear about all of the nasty business in the industry. Entertainment companies, news, politics… all of it," she says. "He's currently assigned a job working very closely with the news source that posted those photos and the article along with it, and you know, these people love to talk. They love gossip. They can't sit on a secret without it killing them. Love the attention."

Growing impatient, you say, "Can we just…"

"Right! Anyway, he was there when the story broke, and I guess it was a big deal when it happened, the office was going crazy about it! So, they went out for some drinks after work and got to talking, and apparently everyone working on the project spilled! There was a lot of correspondence with your company back and forth, and apparently it wasn't just some random paparazzi that snapped the photos and sent them in… It was your company, themselves."

The more she says, the more your heart sinks down to your gut.

"So, they get these pictures of him out with this photographer. The outing is nothing special, nothing happens. It's just a casual thing amongst colleagues but you know, you can snap a single photo of a moment and spin it to seem like anything with the right kind of story attached. Which is precisely what they did. That company paid a lot of money for this all to get out, by the way. Orchestrated the whole thing. And I can't prove this—it's just something my dad overheard in passing another day—but it seems like they did it to manufacture tension in-house." Kokoro stops, gives you a knowing look and then says, "Don't have to be the smartest person in the room to know exactly what that means."

Voice trembling, you say: "They know about us."

"Yup, and are going about breaking it up in the nastiest way they know how," Kokoro confirms. "I mean, if you think about it from their perspective, there's no other way. No-dating rules have been a thing in the industry for decades but it doesn't stop anyone from doing it anyway. If you sniff out some funny business under your roof, the only real way to ensure that it stops is to craft up a way for those people to not want anything to do with each other the natural way—good ol' emotional manipulation style."

You feel sick. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, eyes stinging with the pain of tears you're desperate to fight back. Everything hurts, straight down to your bones; body limp with the discovery that you have never been as attuned to the intricate and downright wicked willingness these people have to get whatever it is that they want.

"You're sure?" you ask. Realistically, you already know the answer to the question, but something inside of you needs to hear the confirmation one more time.

Kokoro nods. "Yeah, without a doubt. I'm really surprised he hasn't reached out about it, but my guess is that they're watching him like a hawk. He probably doesn't have free access to his phone if he hasn't."

No wonder Sunwoo never reached out once the story broke. The sickness writhes inside of you just that much more in relation to everything that has transpired since then; your feelings, your actions, things that can never be undone or taken back.

All just to find out that Sunwoo hasn't done anything, at all. Instead, he is the person with the target on his back; the first shot sent from his very own company, and the second—unbeknownst to him—fired from you.

"Someone's coming!" Rimi whisper-shouts.

Kokoro nods to her and the conversation comes to a close, but before you will allow it to do so, you grasp the sleeve of her coat into your hand and say, "Thank you, but… I need to talk to him. How do I talk to him?"

Her eyes widen. "You're asking me?" Thinking it over for a few seconds, her head bobbles in a considering sort of way as if mulling over any potential options and she says, "Are you close to anyone else in there? Someone else you trust? I can't talk to Sunwoo himself, the degrees of separation aren't far enough, but I might be able to pass a message along and start orchestrating something."

Juyeon would be willing, you know that fact well. You trust him and have seen firsthand how capable he is through missions of stealth. However, involving him in this feels too close to home—as well as other things—and so, you opt into your next best and considerably more messy option.

"Eric."

Squinting suspiciously, as if to say that you have missed the importance of this being a covert sort of going on, Kokoro relents to it and just says, "Well, alright. Eric it is, then. I'll try to talk to him and figure something out, Rimi and I will message you when we have something but it's probably for the best if we're not seen together again after this. Not until we're back in Seoul, at least."

How deep does the rabbit hole go, you wonder.

Rimi [18:47]: great news~♡ kokoro talked to eric about that client her dad works with who wants to work with him in the future and it looks like he's super open to it! we wanted to talk to him about it more later after the show, but he said something about just being way too busy with the gym tonight (¬_¬") men can be so annoying, but that's how it is! see you in seoul again soon~!

Covered in sweat, it is the first thing you see on your phone upon arriving back inside of the green room. Your heart skips, breath holding inside of your lungs out of fear that should you dare breathe, the possibility of this may disappear with it.

This is code. Obviously enough to you with the knowledge you have but not so much so that anyone who happens to see it could understand the hidden meaning behind the words.

Unexpectedly, a hand finds your back and you jump at the fright.

Kaia swings around to settle in your line of vision with a big smile on her face and a make-up wipe in hand, always the fastest to rid herself of the excessiveness of it all.

"Great job out there tonight, you were electric," she says, "We're all going to go out for dinner and some drinks, enjoy the city a bit while we're here, tell me you'll come along with us!"

You want to say no, but there is no good excuse for not doing so. The Boyz trail behind you in their performance and are set to go on shortly, and rushing back to the hotel only ensures that you sit waiting until a later point in time where you are finally able to begin perusing the hauls for the place it is that you will seek. Truthfully, the only reason you wish to bow out is a selfish desire to be alone with your own thoughts and worries; what will happen, what has happened, and what might be waiting for you in the not so distant future.

"Of course I'll come," you say, putting all of your ample weariness on the shelf for the time being. A formidable task. "You were great, too. We all were."

Miyoung is passing by as you say it, catches ear of what you've said, and flashes you a smile as she continues on her way.

For MVNE, things couldn't be better. Little do they know how close you are to bringing it all toppling down.

You don't know Eric's manager, nor how intense he is about his line of work. All you know is that this had seemingly been his plan, and if he had set it into motion, then it must be fairly smooth going from here.

The room you have is shared with Serri and you're quite thankful for that. A perfect night for her is staying in, watching television and scrolling through her phone with little interest for much else to entertain her. She is quiet and kind, but wholly uninterested in being the life of the party—especially after a long day of travel, rehearsals, and performances.

When you say you're leaving to see what the accommodations have to offer, she barely even hums to acknowledge your words.

Circumstances are such now that you can't take any chances with anyone you may run into, and so, you are dressed accordingly. The typical wear of an idol engaged in sneaky business and you make it a point to keep your head low, not bothering to ask the front desk where the location of the gym even is. You trust you can find it on your own—these places have maps everywhere—and once you make it to the lobby, your instinct to trust your gut is instantly rewarded.

Basement level, just one more level down and just beside the pool.

You don't know what time you're meant to be here, and you don't ask Rimi for any further clarification, either. Correspondence with Eric is certainly out—not that you have a way of getting ahold of him, anyway—so all that you can hope is that their business is wrapped up and you haven't kept him waiting so long that he has already retired back to bed. It's late, most people are no longer making their way through the halls… All you can do is hope.

Down here it's musty and the scent of lingering wetness clings to the carpet that you're walking on. You pass a door for staff, and then the very next one is precisely what you are searching for.

With a racing heart that threatens to leap from your chest, you slowly push the door open.

And seated on a bench right in plain sight, is Eric.

"Your friends told me they have an exciting opportunity waiting for me, how nice of you to send them my way."

While a part of you wants to clear the distance and jam a fist into his arm, the stronger part nearly wants to break down and cry.

"Youngjae…"

His eyes go wide. "Whoa, government name. You're really in the trenches, huh?"

Fighting the floor of emotions that threaten to take hold, you bring your palms to your face and drag them downwards woefully as you make your way towards him. Eric pats the empty portion of the bench just beside him and you take your seat with a despondent plop.

"I need to talk to Sunwoo."

"You're kinda dumb, you know that? I can't believe you saw all that and really thought that what you were seeing is what you were really getting. I mean, seriously? Another woman?"

"You're not helping."

Eric reels a bit, rolls his eyes like he accepts that his badgering is not particularly wanted and says, "I'm just saying, you know that guy is crazy about you. I mean, I didn't have the proof and he hadn't told me it wasn't true yet but like… I kind of knew someone was playing games, and it wasn't him."

"You can hang me up in the city square for torture another time, but right now I need to talk to him. He doesn't have his phone?"

"Nope, at least, not without someone eyeing him while he's using it. It's kind of a nightmare, if I'm being honest. Can't send as many dick jokes as I'd typically like." You look over at him with a glare, and once again Eric realizes that his additional anecdotes are falling on deaf ears. "Alright, look… It's late enough by now that I don't think he's being hounded. We got food and some drinks after the show and then a few of us headed back in, him included. I told him I was going to come over so we could see if the theory is true that Ridiculousness is literally always showing on TV in hotels, no matter where you are or what time it is. He seemed to like that idea."

"I cannot believe you guys are actually idols," you say, "No wonder everyone likes girl groups now, instead."

Leaning his face closer to yours, Eric squints devilishly at you and says, "Be nice to me, or I won't scout the way myself to sneak you in."

His hand grips your wrist and just as swiftly, you are dragged to your feet and back towards the door.

When the elevator announces your arrival, your breath fully catches in your throat. Once again, you hold it for fear that none of this is real, that with one faulty move karma will deem your being here something that should not happen.

The silver doors slide open and Eric pops his head out.

"Nothing, it's clear. Pretty sure everyone is asleep already, managers included."

"Even for him?" you ask.

Looking back at you he says, "Yeah, they're tyrants but they're not on him twenty-four-seven, nobody gets paid enough to do that. Let's go."

Eric wanders down the hallway with the sort of nonchalant ease of a guy with absolutely nothing to lose. It must be nice, you think to yourself, walking with your body nearly curling inside of itself as if to disappear should the slightest of glances fall upon you.

"What if someone else is inside?" you ask then, nervousness making itself evident through your questioning.

He briefly glances back at you again. "Again, not paid enough."

"You guys don't room together?"

"Not anymore, perks of being in the game for a while." Eric pauses for a second and then says, "Wait, you two were friends for a while before all of this, don't you know that already?"

"I never went to his room, are you insane?"

Playfully offended, Eric tosses his hands into the air and says, "Okay, sorry. Forgot meeting at restaurants was a much safer option, as has thoroughly been demonstrated to us."

His jovialness is hardly appreciated.

The two of you turn a corner and after only a few more steps, you stop in front of a door. Neither of you move, and after a couple of long, unnecessarily drawn out moments Eric looks at you and says, "Okay. We're here. Knock."

"Is it weird that I'm scared?"

He rolls his eyes, a seemingly common reaction from him in regards to you now. "Oh my god." His fist pounds on the door—far more loudly than you think is really necessary given that this whole operation is meant not to draw attention—and then before the door even begins to draw open, Eric begins his journey back the way you came.

"You're not waiting!?" It's something in between a necessary whisper and a displeased yell, and all he gives you in reply to it is a big grin and a shrug.

Time draws on so slowly that you easily lose track of how much goes by with you perched up outside of the room. How many seconds has it been? A minute, perhaps? You don't know. Beneath your skin, your veins feel like fire in anticipation of what's to come. Maybe he's asleep, maybe Eric was wrong and the person that is soon to greet you is the angry face of a manager that somehow knew that all of this was taking place. A heavy exhale leaves you and it's shaky with uncertainty. You shouldn't be here, you can still leave… and yet, you can't. No matter what.

There's a click from behind the door and your heart nearly stops. It begins to pry open slowly, and though you aren't quite able to make out what lies beyond, the thing that does come to you is the gentle waft of warm steam and the noise beyond that grows louder as it widens.

An arm slips out, hand grasping your sweatshirt by the sleeve and forcefully dragging you inside.

What awaits you hidden away in those walls is a flurry of lips, teeth and hands.

Neither of you say a word and Sunwoo's mouth finds yours in a flash. His hands are warm and wet; hastily slipping beneath your sweater and tearing it upwards to rid you of the bothersome thing. With a pounding heart and chest that feels suffocatingly tight, you completely let go and relent to what he intends to give you; it's been far too long, you put up enough of a fight, and as far as you are concerned… This is the other side of a battle well-fought.

Beside you, the bathroom door is left ajar—a shower still running hot inside of it. The taste of beer still lingers faintly on Sunwoo's tongue as you revisit a place you have been so many times before. His skin is damp, warm; and droplets of water hopelessly cling to long, black clumps of curls that dangle in front of his eyes.

But more than anything else, he is relentless in his pursuit.

Sunwoo's fingers dig at the button of your jeans and though you make the effort to aid him in the task, it is already completed by the time your hands find their way there. His movements are hurried and clumsy; needy and rushed that aren't entirely unlike him but nothing that you have quite seen before. Teeth nip at your bottom lip and your body melts into the feeling of his hands smoothing over the skin of your sides. When your head falls back, he takes it as the perfect opportunity to drag his lips down the expanse of your throat; kissing, nipping… Maybe even marking.

You should care. You should find the strength to take the reins of this and bring it back to a place that isn't so desperate with careless need.

But you don't.

Dragging you into the bathroom, Sunwoo's mouth barely leaves your skin even for a second. Fingers disappear beneath the top of your jeans and they are quickly shimmied from your legs, discarded and quickly forgotten. Right along with all other intimates you had been hiding underneath.

Once you are finally disrobed, the towel tied at Sunwoo's hips is the next to fall away. His hands come back up to cradle your face, the urgency behind his actions slows to nearly a halt, and he kisses you again unlike any of the times before.

It isn't want that hangs shackled behind this motion, but something far more delicate and sensitive to the touch. This is adoration, it's regret, it's something raw and exposed and meant only for you, and you, alone.

It feels like love.

Sunwoo presses you to step backwards, and so you follow suit. The water is hot and jarring to your skin as it cascades down upon you. Never letting go, the persistence once again finds its way within his motions and once chaste kisses are replaced with tongue and teeth and a need to feel you in all of the ways he has been so desperate for before.

Your palms press into the flesh of his chest and the mere amount of muscle that rests underneath. Sunwoo is overwhelming in his insistence on all things, and being a lover is no different. The air is heavy around you with moisture in a way that makes it difficult to breathe, inebriated by the combination of both it and his desire to have you.

As your touch wanders, so does his. You slip down towards his waist and settle at his hips, now starkly aware of the fact that neither of you have a single garment covering your forms. All of your shared intimacy up until this point has been quick and to the point with little time afforded to revel in the joy of exploring one another's bodies. All of this is new to you, entirely uncharted waters await.

You feel his fingertips light and gentle as they slip down the front of your body and towards the space between your legs. Sunwoo's touch is shockingly delicate given the way his lips slot against your own. The feeling of his hands on your skin, his body pressing harder, firmer against your own dizzies you nearly out of the ability to think clearly. You've wanted this for so long; tried to fight it and lied to everyone—including yourself—in an attempt to win the war waging between you.

Sliding a hand up his back, you bury fingers deep within his hair. Sunwoo groans into your open mouth as a result of the touch and the sound of him like this—the look of him with lustful, half-lidded eyes and lips plump from abuse—sends a wanting chill down your spine that all but has you melting into putty in his hands.

When he goes in to connect your lips once more, you keep the hold of his head in your hands firm, disallowing him from doing so. The thought has lingered in the darkest recesses of your mind ever since his touch fell upon you; a dutiful thing that—while ugly and untimely—simply cannot be ignored.

"I…" you begin to say, and even just that much is sputtered out in a directionless way, with no clear path to follow. Sunwoo looks at you tentatively and with unwavering interest. All that you can hope for is that what you have to say will not shutter it away—rightfully, and for good.

"I…" you start again, forcing the rest of the confession out past the painful dryness in your throat. "I slept with Juyeon." Tears begin to form but you refuse to let them come. Crying on account of your own actions feels manipulative even if the intent to be so is not truly there. Your lip trembles as you continue with the words. "After the article, the pictures… I—"

Sunwoo's face twists into a mixture of things as he looks at you: confusion, disbelief, but most of all… indifference. "I don't fucking care," he says, firm and resolute. His hands clasp your face all over again and he kisses you hard, pulls back, and then reiterates it again: "I don't fucking care about that."

Your back finds the smooth tile of the shower wall shortly thereafter, and Sunwoo's hand falls down once more to fit between your legs. The gasp that slips away from your lips is immediately taken in by his own through fervent kisses and the ever so slight but pleased grin that twists at his mouth. Knees that feel gelatinous threaten to no longer be able to hold your weight, the arousal pooling where he touches you leaving your senses feeling stifled past anything but him. You can no longer hear the sounds of the water beating down or smell the faint hint of floral shampoo that once seemed so strong in the air; only slightly panting breaths just beside your ear and alcohol that has long since been consumed.

Sunwoo's fingers are long and slender, inching down and then slowly inside in an effort to have you melting around them. Tension drops from your shoulders as he does, your head falling back against the wall and his lips quick to taste the exposed skin there. That all-too-knowing curl follows—heel of his palm firm against the dull throb that begs for attention—this place has been visited between the two of you so many times before, and Sunwoo's expertise in the matters of having you come undone this way are fully on display.

His free hand finds your thigh and the feeling of his fingernails gently gripping into the flesh there as your body craning off the wall and harder up against his, but the pleading groan that drips from him afterwards is the final straw of your quickly dwindling sense of composure.

In your mind, the way you say his name sounds stronger than the actuality of it; broken, pathetic, and little more than a whimper.

"God, I want…"

Sunwoo doesn't finish the thought but you already know precisely what he means by it. This is quickly spiraling out of control should either of you hope to walk away from this with good decisions having been made. There is no push for more being made save for the idle desperation felt from his fingertips raking at your thigh. He wants more—knows neither of you have walked into this situation amply prepared for that—and worst of all, so do you.

And throwing all caution to the wind; a victim of being drunk with history, regret, and arousal, you find his warm, wet lips all over again to kiss him with silent, unspoken confidence and intent.

"I don't care," you whisper against them.

The reaction that follows is nothing short of a culmination of things, none of which are ill-suited for the situation at hand. Sunwoo's head falls back, eyes rolling as if some part of him had been holding out hope for the fact that you might be better than him—better than this. You're not, neither is he; and though it may be poor decision making at its finest, when his gaze drops down to find yours again, there is a sort of sinister hunger now sitting behind his eyes.

You know Sunwoo well enough to know he wouldn't dare to broach the subject on his own, but your willingness to put it on the table for yourself is simply too much for him to be able to deny.

The grip becomes strong, creating space for his hips between your legs as the hand once there moves to himself. His chest presses against your own, lips ghosting across yours as you feel the careful first push inside.

"Can't tell you no," he says softly, breath escaping him through the words as he sinks deeper into your body. "I've been dying to give you anything you want."

Feeling him bury into you, the closeness of your bodies, and the heat of your surroundings has you dizzy with need. Your hands slide up the hot, wet skin of his back with nails fast to dig in and find purchase against the muscles just below. They flex and move beneath your touch, tense with strength to hold you open for him and shifting with every slow, concentrated drive of himself into you. The friction of each drag blurring your vision, oxygen thick and hard to take into your lungs through the steam that continues to form.

Once frenzied kisses fall to the wayside in favor of open mouth panting and a repeated chorus of whines, groans and moans. Sunwoo watches your expressions intently for any hint of how to take you further as he settles into a more demanding, conscious pace. "Feel good?" he asks, voice low and labored, intonation matching with every press of his hips against yours.

The answer is written all over your face, given away with every sound that falls away from you and every deep drag of your nails against his back. He'll likely walk away from this encounter with rows of evidence to show for the fact, and you can only hope that there's nothing in his immediate future that might cause that being known.

Even just thinking about it has his name escaping you in a desperate plea for more of him.

"Keep doing that and I'm gonna come," Sunwoo says, a hedonistic growl laced through his tone. "But I need to feel you fall apart on me first." His lips drag across the flesh of your jaw, teeth lightly sinking in as he continues fucking you through the way his words make you tighten around him. "Then I'll have you moaning my name as much as you want."

Your muscles tense, the need for release teetering on the edge of unbearable to the point that your body aches from the tension. Nails dig deeper into him, so much so that he winces at the feeling but never once relents, and taking matters into his own hands, Sunwoo presses you harder against the wall in anticipation for how unrelenting his drives become. Faster, longer, fuller strokes that have you coming undone at a breakneck pace. Any control of your volume immediately falls to the wayside and is amplified by the bathroom echo—so just as quickly, Sunwoo fits his palm snugly across your mouth.

His eyes fixate on yours, completely in tune to the feeling and movement of your body as he works to bring you over the edge. Eyes blown out with lust and need and a sort of carnal desire to have and acquire something that he has, to some degree, always believed to be his.

"Come on," he urges, "Come for me, your body's begging for it."

Once loud moans dissipate into a silent cry through your release. It shakes you, rattles your body almost painfully as it rips through you. Any concept of your surroundings completely melts away for those few, slow seconds following the intensity that wrecks your body. Sunwoo never stops, never slows as he continues to fuck you through it without so much as a falter; and the gasps you find do cuminate into a breathless, pathetic chant of his name just as he so desired.

But he can't continue through it much longer, in the haze of your immediate aftermath you can feel the shake to his strength, the tremble of his breaths as his own end rushes to find him. The once easy rhythm to his hard drives into you are quickly dissembling; his head drops, forearm pressed to the wall beside your head like the additional assistance to his stance is needed.

Watching him unravel like this is delectable in ways you never could have possibly anticipated.

"Gonna come," he whines, "I'll pull—"

"Don't."

Your insistence for otherwise has his hips stuttering, head dropping down to just beside yours as he growls through the logical resistance of it. Hands once firms against his back slide down to his hips, guiding him forward and urging him to do precisely as you have instructed.

"Fuck." The exasperation sounds punched out of his chest, aching and craving for exactly what you've offered him. His head snaps back up, the hand against the wall then curling around to lightly grip into your hair as hungry lips once again find your own. All teeth and tongue and groans into your mouth as his drives once again find the speed and depth they had before. "Want me to come inside you?" he says, words filthy and coated with venom on his tongue. "Want me to take you, want me to really make you mine?"

And the airy yes that escapes from you is just as sinful.

Confirmation is all he needs, the simple word echoing against the shower walls as Sunwoo buries himself hard and deep inside of you. Laborious pants draft over your mouth, his chest rising and falling in quick succession with every aching throb of release that shakes him. He pulls from you only just a bit before pressing forward fully again, and an anguished whimper dies in his throat for the last time.

Basking in the immediate aftermath, there is only silence now. Your chests rise and fall with the hope of finally finding the calmness of breath that you seek, and slowly breaking apart your bodies, Sunwoo hisses at the feeling of loss and then suspiciously squints at you.

"Oh, you're a freak, huh?"

You deadpan.

"Says the guy with a fire-hot possessive streak."

"Very normal kink to have, I'll have you know." He inches his face closer to yours again, lingers in the space just between your mouths and then quickly pecks a kiss there. "Sure worked for you."

Gently shoving him backwards and into the stream of water, you roll your eyes and relent to the most obvious thing of all. "I guess I should have known that the mouthiest guy I know would be no different… In other aspects."

"Yes, you should have," Sunwoo agrees, and annoyingly so. "And as much-needed as this was and a great reunification gift… I guess we've got a whole lot more talking that we need to do."

The sound of his voice in the latter half of the realization is so far from the strength and confidence displayed only moments before. Sunwoo's eyes fall away from yours like he doesn't have the courage to face you, nor the choices you have made. Juyeon had insisted that this day would come, and though you had eventually relented to accepting that fact, suppose you had expected there to be just a bit more time spanning in between. Time for it to feel further in the past, time for it to feel less like a wound still trying to scab.

You offer a small and forced smile then say, "Lets get cleaned up, I want to enjoy this for a little while longer."

Sunwoo crawls into bed beside you last, tending to the last minute prep of your final moments together like this. You are unable to spend the night here and are expected to be found in your room by the time a manager makes his way to retrieve you in the morning. You'll be tired, the wear of the long evening will certainly show on your face… But it was worth it, without a doubt in your mind.

The television flickers on and a program that you neither recognize nor understand flashes onto the screen just as the light to the room is harshly shut off. It smells faintly of him; clothing, cosmetics, fragrances scattered about as far as the eye can see with little care for the place that they happen to land. Comforting and familiar within the coffin of a secret you no longer hold.

Slipping in beside you, Sunwoo's head falls daintily to the side as he offers you a tight-lipped smile. His arm falls over the front of you—laid out on your back and spending the majority of your time staring towards the ceiling.

Tip-toeing back through the memory of how it is that the two of you arrived here.

"So," he says, and his voice is so quiet that you almost don't even hear him. "Tell me."

But there's no strength behind those words, and that sinks into your chest with a weight far heavier than anything you could have anticipated. Sunwoo wants to know because he feels like he needs to; not through jealousy or even anger, but because of the very same reason that Juyeon knew to be true.

"I was angry." Staring up at the darkness of the ceiling, from here it looks as though it can carry on forever. A part of you wishes that you could disappear into it, leaving all of this behind, but the tender curl of Sunwoo's fingertips into the flesh of your stomach remind you to be present and that being here just might be worth it, after all.

"I had actually just gotten back from meeting with my friend, one of the girls that met with Eric backstage. We talked about you. Talked about us." You pause, remembering that day. Inhaling deeply, you continue on. "I got home and the girls showed me. I mean, what else was I meant to think?"

Turning your head, your eyes find his. Light from the TV flashes across them in an almost mesmerizing way. Easy to get lost in, easy to forget that all of this has been, and will continue to be, so hard.

"So, I was hurt, and I was angry, because I thought how can he be saying all of this to me while doing this behind my back? It's not as though we've never talked about you and other women, so I figured if there would ever be someone else, you'd at least respect me enough to say as much. It just felt like a knife to the back, after everything."

"You wanted payback," Sunwoo reasons.

"Yeah, and what better way to cash in, I guess."

"Fucking my friend?" The words are jarring when you hear them despite the light and comical way that he delivers it. Sunwoo rolls his eyes, sighs, and says, "Sure, that'll do it."

"Are you mad?"

"No." Inching closer, Sunwoo's lips ghost just beside your ear to say, "I came inside you." But as if the consideration has only just found him, he reels back suddenly, startled and says, "Wait, did he…?"

You shove him with nearly enough strength to have him falling out of the bed completely.

"No! Are you insane?"

The giggle that follows is annoying and presumptuous in its intent, but true, nonetheless. Sunwoo crawls his way back to snugly fit his body against yours and says, "See, you like me. What's there to be mad about? All jokes aside though, the whole situation is shit and obviously I know how it looks, so I can't really blame you for acting out. I mean, sure, I kinda wish you didn't fuck Tall, Scary and Handsome because that's a whole lot to try and compete with, but Juyeon's nice. He's a good guy. He probably had a whole lot to say about it, too."

Your eyes shut slowly at the recollection. "Yeah, he certainly does… Think about things."

"I take solace in the fact that you had to suffer for it in some way."

In silence, the two of you lay together for many long moments. Sunwoo's finger traces shapes over the expanse of your skin idly, lost in thought much like yourself, if you had to guess as much. Your mind has been heavy since long before your arrival here and the subsequent actions taken thereafter; but now that they have occurred, your thoughts have muddled and congealed past the point of being recognizable to you.

Turning your head to look at him again, you find the courage to say the thing that maybe—for a long time now—you've really wanted to say.

It isn't permanent, just speaking it aloud, but it certainly does feel that way.

"I don't think I want to be an idol anymore."

Sunwoo's hand slowly comes to a stop.

a/n: fun fact but this shower scene was The Scene that this whole entire thing spawned from, and now we're finally here. escape by tbz the perfect listening vibes for it 😋

#sunwoo smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo scenarios #tbz x reader #tbz imagines #tbz scenarios #the boyz x reader

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lixiesfreckless · 6 months ago

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chat is it weird that I dissociated to read this part because I PHYSICALLY COULD NOT READ IT without feeling so guilty over sunwoo??? THIS ISNT EVEN REAL AND I WAS averting my eyes and not scrolling, my god the guilt was so crazy it's honestly super impressive how well done this all is. however I want to shed my skin and treat this part as a DLC and pretend it never happened though I know damn well that's not the case hahahaha

and this is coming from a juyeon biased slut istggggg zipper ily but WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY I NEED MORE REACTION IMAGES UHHHH

my honest reaction

the smut was good tho LMFAO

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟜

𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡

↳ Revenge tastes so sweet.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [4,8k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

"So, that's what this is," he says, "Payback."

Whatever this is, you're not dressed for it. Maybe you have preconceived notions of what a scenario such as this one might entail, maybe your idea of what a situation such as this one might actually look like in reality is entirely off base; or maybe it's the nagging feeling inside of your stomach that really, you shouldn't be here, at all.

Little effort had been made upon your exit from the dorm. You did not hide the fact that you were leaving, neither did you care for the fact that Miyoung and Kaia would know. It's a dangerous game to throw all caution to the wind; to disappear into the night, crawl into the back of an unmarked vehicle sent by someone else and drive off to a place that you don't even particularly know. The building you're inside now is a large one that offers numerous different places for passersby to enjoy, and at the very least, you figure that this particular spot is the one least traveled by people looking for a good time.

The van had pulled inside of the building—private parking. Private entry for people who cannot take a risk of being spotted. The chain of events leading up to the affair make one thing you had always known all the more clear: Juyeon is no novice in matters such as this one.

MVNE's popularity is a sort of intangible thing to you, something that you don't quite understand the weight of, and so you wonder how far out you are from the ability to engage in escapades such as these. Have you already passed that point? Are you already too recognizable to be taking risks such as these? You don't know the answer to those questions, but more than anything else right now; you don't care.

You owe the girls and the guys on the other side of this at least the minimum amount of effort and respect to remain lowkey in your treacherous endeavors, but beyond that? You wouldn't mind if this whole thing burned to the ground right before your eyes.

Confirmation from the company be damned, Sunwoo has not messaged you since the story broke. As far as you're concerned, that's all the confirmation you need.

The hotel room isn't fancy but it's above standard quality. It doesn't need to be, all things considered, because you probably won't be here long. It's clean and unscented—unnervingly so—making you feel as though you are trapped in the liminal space between somewhere previously untraveled and nowhere, at all.

You finish your drink and wince as you swallow it down. Looking at the bed from the table where you are sitting, it seems so inviting. Perhaps it would be nice to spend the evening here and then shuffle off to where you are supposed to be early in the morning. Enough people know that you are not where you are meant to be right now, what difference would it make returning later in the evening?

The inevitable knock on the room door comes, you can hear the keycard being pressed into the slot and the loud click that follows as the lock unclasps. Everything feels as though it is in slow motion when the door cracks open and your companion for the evening slides inside.

With chilled air outside, Juyeon's long, black coat is apt. He wears a mask covering half of his face and a hat atop his head though you cannot fathom that stares do not accompany him regardless of these things.

Though the door has long since shut behind him, Juyeon lingers in the entryway as if a barrier stands between himself and this place. You watch him tug the mask away and pull the hat off, his hair a mess of black strands with styling products still clinging to them. His coat remains on though, and rather than motioning to begin its removal, he stands in place and leans his shoulder against the wall with arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.

The question is remarkably strange to you, and with that fact evident on your face you reply, "What do you mean?"

"We both know exactly why I'm here."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

Juyeon hums as he mulls over the question for a moment, but before he has a chance to respond you double down and continue the thought. "Are you worried about how it might look if it were to get out?"

"Public perception is not a concern, because this is solely between you and I," Juyeon reasons. "My being here at all is skirting the line of 'morally reprehensible' a little too closely for my liking." He pauses for a moment to think, but then goes on to say, "But I think you're a smart woman with a good head on your shoulders, and I also think your feelings are hurt and you're lashing out because of it. Suppose I'm here in an effort to make sense of that."

"What's there to make sense of?" Your eyes pull away from him, staring down at the empty glass still clasped in your hand. "You've seen it. Everyone has seen it. If there's anything that doesn't make sense it's…" You stop, shake your head and change the trajectory of the topic slightly. Looking at Juyeon again, you ask, "Did you know? Did anyone else know?"

"No, none of us knew."

"Then I guess I can at least take solace in the fact that we all found out the same way."

"So, that's what this is," he says, "Payback."

"And what if it is? You didn't have to come, you seem to have known precisely what I intended for our meeting when I called you, but you're apprehensive now that you've arrived."

Juyeon huffs out a laugh from under his breath. "Anyone not apprehensive in this situation is no one you should be here with, I can tell you that much. They certainly wouldn't be someone with your best interest in mind. Look…"

You watch as he begins to slowly shrug off his coat, broad shoulders beneath a smooth, immaculately fitted black button down shirt. He has just come from a photoshoot and the aftermath of it still clings to him in minute, easily overlooked ways. Dark shadows that elongate his sharp eyes, and a barely remaining tint to his lips that might suggest them having been freshly bitten by another.

"I'm fine with being your revenge-fuck, but you need to be sure about it. Because you're the one that's going to have to deliver the news to him, and that day will come."

Those words send a chill across your skin. "And why would I need to tell him anything about it?"

He takes a few steps forward to cross the room and makes his way towards you. Upon his arrival, Juyeon does not extend a hand to touch you, does not move to urge this event along. Instead, he stands ahead of you and looks down as if affording you the time to recognize that all of this is very real, and should you decide to go forward with it, impossible to ever undo.

There is gravity in all of this, and Juyeon is sure to make you aware of that fact.

"This could all be temporary," he says, "But this? Right here, right now? This is very much permanent."

The weight of that sinks your heart inside of your chest. You swallow hard, shrug slightly and then say, "There's pictures. The company didn't even deny it. So, why shouldn't we?"

"He's going to find out about it. He's going to know. I just need you to make peace with that and not make a decision based on what you think you can get away with. You can't play both sides. This isn't a situation where we're dealing with the public." Juyeon's eyes are intense as he stares down at you, a look that makes you nearly tremble in your seat. "Sunwoo is my bandmate, he's my friend. He's also crazy about you, and I can't make sense of the way all of this fits together either, but those are things I do know for a fact."

With your eyes locked onto Juyeon's, you inhale slowly and deeply and then say: "I know them, too."

Leaning down, Juyeon's hands each find an arm of the chair you are seated in, effectively boxing you inside of it. His face inches closer to yours—something you have experienced once before—only this time, you are fully willing to let the cards fall where they may once his lips finally find yours.

The scent emanating off of him is light, yet intoxicating. Juyeon kisses you gently, tentatively; not at all like his appearance on stage might suggest him to be. There is still apprehension lingering in his motions, awaiting the moment where you might eventually come to your senses and decide not to go through with this. However, the more of him you taste, the further from your mind the possibility of this falls.

You reach up, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him further down against your mouth.

Finally, you begin to feel some of the tension in his form melt away.

Once chaste kisses quickly transform into needing, wanting open mouth desire to taste and consume. You pull him towards you even more despite the way his body is bowed and his inability to be felt against you as a result of that, and having grown tired of this, Juyeon's frustration seems to hit a breaking point as he shifts away, brings you up to stand and swiftly works to rid your body of the sweatshirt hanging against it.

With your head spinning, you want nothing more to taste more of him, feel more of him beneath your fingertips; but before you have a chance to make a move to do so, Juyeon is pressing your back into the mattress and slipping himself between your thighs.

Your mouths connect again and this time, the urgency is white hot atop his tongue.

A soft hand smooths over the flesh of your side, though he does not immediately search for the front of your chest. Juyeon's evident desire for you is dizzying; gasping for air between unrelenting kisses and the firm press of his hips at the aching point between your legs. His lips eventually leave your own, smoothing down your jaw and making their slow journey with teeth accompanying to the sensitive skin of your neck. No other thoughts exist in your mind now beyond the hedonistic desire of where this all may lead; your flesh hot and damp with a light sheen of sweat, heart racing, and the aching throb of need pooling at your core.

Where his mouth meets your neck, hot breath wafts over it soon after. You could stay like this—do nothing more than this—all night and be perfectly content.

But you do want more.

Juyeon pulls off of you and kneels between your legs to begin pulling the buttons of his shirt apart. You watch as he does; each one falling away and more skin becoming no longer hidden underneath. He shrugs the fabric away from his shoulders, easily pulls his lithe but toned arms from the sleeves and discards it somewhere on the floor beside the bed as if it is representative of something else, entirely. This thought comes to mind but you discard it just as swiftly in favor of the fact that his hands have now begun to find their work at his belt.

With the leather binding stripped just as quickly, he leans down towards you again and slips his hands behind your back. You aid in his endeavor, leaning up and once again finding his lips with your own.

Now that you can feel him, you waste no time in doing so. Juyeon rids your torso of the only remaining garment keeping the flesh of your bodies apart and the two of you fall against the bed all over again with hands desperately feeling for every dip of muscle and supple, plush offering that they can find. One hand slips down between the two of your bodies, Juyeon's last ditch effort at unfastening the button to his slacks before they are to be removed entirely in the future, and though you anticipate the warmth of his touch after the fact to once again find its way to your chest, rather than doing so, you feel his fingertips breech the top of your leggings; sliding down slowly past the elastic band and curving down to dip where you most need them.

His touch coaxes out a gasp from you, which he easily tastes off of your tongue.

Back arching and chest pressed against his, you melt into the feeling of thick, long fingers dragging slow, firm circles against you.

"Good?"Juyeon asks, whispering the question against your nipped lips.

But the answer of yes is barely comprehensible, and most of it dies in your throat.

"Good," he says again. Shifting himself from between your legs ever so slightly, his face drops from yours and instead he begins to kiss down the front of your chest to make for different use of his sinister tongue. Juyeon looks up at you as his lips clasp around the waiting bug, tongue swirling over it in ways that make your toes curl only to then break away and say, "You're so wet. I want to fuck you, but I need to taste you."

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you all but melt into the mattress beneath you as he goes back to working you from top to bottom.

Slipping down further against you, Juyeon slips his hand out from your pants and makes easy work of pulling the displeasing fabric from your legs. His eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you, regaining his position between your thighs but much further down than before. A single finger slips up the seam of your folds, you sigh into the teasing feeling of it, and then Juyeon wastes no more time; hot, wet tongue following the very same path his finger only just did.

The once free hand finds work in different ways, a finger slipping inside and gently prying you open for him. For the first time and unexpected even to you, a moan escapes from your lips; unable to be fought away any longer.

And Juyeon knows what he's doing—has certainly done this many times before. Every movement he makes into or against you is expertly crafted and delivered with intent to unravel you before him. Your back arches, body writhing beneath him as he undoes you thread by thread. Sliding a hand down, your fingers tangle into the hair that sits atop his head as if waiting to be touched, and worst of all, Juyeon groans into the feeling of your nails gently digging into his scalp.

His fingers sink deeper inside of you, his tongue firmer at the place that has you whining and gasping for more. Your muscles tighten in your thighs and abdomen, warm with the feeling of a mounting release.

You gasp out, desperate to speak but the words get lost in the dryness of your throat. The grip in his hair tightens, inadvertently so. You don't intend to cause discomfort, but when Juyeon groans even louder as you do, the realization of the fact is far too much for your weary body to overcome. Your hips grind against his mouth as your body is wracked by release; jaw clenched tight and head pressed back into the pillow below.

By the time your awareness finds you once more, Juyeon is already making his way back up the length of your body and lining the path with light presses of his lips along the way. He does not immediately go to kiss you—as if unsure of your willingness to do so—and thus you take it upon yourself to arch up and find his mouth once more.

"Need a minute?" he asks in a broken whisper, but you shake your head and make it clear that you intend to do no such thing.

Juyeon smiles devilishly against you, and after stealing another kiss, he pulls himself away from you and begins the final removal of the last remaining pieces of clothing that still cling to him.

Once removed, he digs into one of the pockets… and then this all becomes so very real.

You think about his words from earlier all over again: 'This is very much permanent.'

And incredibly attuned as he is, Juyeon's gentle hand finds the inside of your thigh. It is not a touch meant to entice, but rather, to soothe.

"We don't have to do this," he says. "This is something, but it's not everything. We both know that, it doesn't have to go further."

"I know, but I want it to."

Without pressing the issue further, Juyeon busies himself with readying for this. You are thankful for his emotional aptitude and his willingness to trust you and believe that the words you say to him really and truly mean what you're feeling. He does not push, he does not pry; he asks you the question and then takes your answer for precisely what it is.

Craning over you again, Juyeon kisses you and then whispers against your lips, "Tell me what you need from me, I want to feel you come around me."

His hand slips between your bodies, reaching down and carefully pressing himself inside. Once the initial push is made, the very same hand reaches up to cradle your head and the other grips your thigh to hold you open for taking him.

With a sly smirk pulling at his lips, Juyeon appears perfectly happy to drink down the gasp that escapes you as he inches deep inside.

Giving you time to settle into the feeling, he remains still inside of you for a few moments, instead focusing on tasting the way your wetness still lingers on your lips.

You're drunk on wanting him, hips subtly grinding against where you meet in an effort to find the friction you so desperately seek. Juyeon is happy to accommodate the desire, and takes it as his opportunity to slowly, shallowly make his drives.

Hands smoothing down his chest, you revel in the dips and curves of the muscle there. Once he finds rhythm in his motions, your hands wrap around to his back and shoulders; fingernails digging deeper and harder as each stroke becomes faster, harder and more intentional against you.

When it all culminates just right, you clutch his flesh and laboriously moan his name.

Juyeon's eyes find yours, glazed over with lust; makeup that has begun to warp and smudge still clinging to his eyelids and lips that are far redder than his first meeting you here. Captivating and beautiful. His mouth sits slightly parted as he focuses on the task at hand, and more than anything else you know that the task is you.

The excitement of a first time paired with the devilish inclinations that neither of you should be here—a surefire way to have this all quickly coming to an end.

You moan. "Harder," you plead, though it's quiet and bitten back. Juyeon takes the direction well, gives you exactly what you've asked for, and just as quickly the tact you've once had melts away in favor of desperation and unrelenting requests for more.

Then, Juyeon's face presses down and with his lips against your ear he says, "I want to have you on your knees."

Arousal immediately washes through you and pools in your gut. The shift is fast—your head spins as you're easily flipped onto your stomach and large, strong hands grip your hips and yank them upwards. Once in position, his palm smooths down the center of your back as he carefully fits himself back inside; bigger, thicker, harder than before. Juyeon is gentle and mindful with the repositioning, but it is merely seconds before you're pushing back against him and so, he happily takes the hint with longer, fuller drives once again.

However, now your hopeful composure is nothing in comparison to the way he feels inside of you. You whimper and moan unabashedly with every purposeful drive, hands clutching the bed sheets beneath your body. It's overpowering; his hands gripped tightly at your waist, your hips, sometimes leaning forward to grip at your shoulder for even more leverage than before. Juyeon pants lightly as he fucks you, the occasional hint of a groan rippling in his chest as he sinks inside. You twist to change the position of your face as it remains pressed against the pillow, but what finds you upon doing so comes to be your ultimate undoing.

Staring back at you is yourself, the reflection of a mirror you'd not noticed before standing tall on the wall and perfectly offering vision of every movement that either of you make. You're able to see the veins in Juyeon's arms shift beneath his slightly tanned flesh and protruding on account of the strenuous physical work. His eyes remain fixed on the place where he stretches you open to accommodate his size, now easily taking all that he has to offer. Black hair sits wet and pressed against his forehead, his fingers carve indents into your flesh as he holds you in place; Juyeon is kind, but there is nothing gentle about the way that he takes you now. His drives against you are hard and fast, chasing release for the both of you, the sound of his hips finding your skin reverberating throughout the otherwise empty hotel room.

You feel yourself tightening around him, and a groan from him follows as a result. You can't stop watching, you're drunk with the sight, sound and feeling of him. You're so close, nearly painfully so. Desperately begging for something that you know is soon to come.

"Good?" he asks again, voice broken off and barely audible. The growl residing within the tone travels down your spine and settles right between your legs.

"I'm gonna come," you say. And you sound utterly pathetic as you do so.

"Take that as a yes then."

The following drives are even more purposeful than before, seconds that feel like a lifetime of steady strokes inside of you until you are whimpering and writhing beneath him with no actual words to offer as a response. In mere moments you're coming undone around him just as he had hoped for, incomprehensible nonsense falling from your parted lips as he shows no signs of slowing in chase of his own release.

Juyeon's hands grip around your waist, repeatedly pulling you along himself until his jaw tightens, a visceral, animalistic groan gritted out between firmly clenched teeth until finally his mouth falls slightly slack, he offers one, final hard press of himself as deeply inside of you as he can manage and he spills into the unfortunate barrier that must exist between the two of you.

As the moments following begin to settle and your heart begins to find a more normal pace, you hear Juyeon huff out a heavy sigh from behind you, slowly pry the try of you apart, and then unceremoniously lobs himself to lie on the bed beside you. His eyes are closed, chest heaving in the aftermath of his rather impressive work, and surprising even to you; you smile.

"Good?" you ask, cheeky.

He cracks a single eye open to look at you and says, "Yeah, good."

"Is it going to be weird now?"

A little late to broach the subject, you realize. Better late than never, you suppose.

"It doesn't have to be," Juyeon says, breaths still laborious as he makes an effort to engage despite it. "Was it weird with Sunwoo?"

"That's different."

"Is it, though?" Turning himself on his side, Juyeon faces you fully with messy hair and even messier black smudges circling his eyes. He says, "It's different because if Sunwoo weren't in the picture, then maybe this might have a shot at being more than what it is." A smile curls into his lips in spite of your heart beginning to sink. "But your heart isn't in it, and that's okay. You're not hurting my feelings. If it was going to be weird, I'd be the one making it that way, and I have no intention of doing so. We both knew exactly what this was when you made that call."

His eyes narrow mischievously and then he adds: "Really glad I'm the one that got the call, actually."

You swat at his shoulder. "Shut up, don't make me regret this."

"I'm not the one that's at risk of doing that," Juyeon says through a sigh, "You are going to have to tell him. Eventually."

"Why? Are you going to tell him if I don't?"

Juyeon appears as though he flips the question over in his mind a few times before he makes any motion to answer it. All things considered, you couldn't exactly blame him for landing on the side that you would be far less pleased with.

"No, I think it's far more appropriate if you do," he says. "You seem to believe that there's a version of this story where he never has to find out, but I assure you that's just not going to be the case. I know you don't see it now, but I'm fairly confident there's a future where you're going to feel compelled to do so."

Staring at him, you allow a few moments of silence to buffer and then you say, "You think we're going to make up."

"That's what your heart's in, isn't it?" Juyeon shrugs then inches a bit closer to your body, a hand timidly smoothing over the flesh of your thigh. "This was fun—wouldn't mind fitting another one in for the road—but once we leave here we both know this is never going to happen again."

Glaring, you shift away despite not entirely hating the idea.

"Both groups have to go overseas in a week, talk about an exciting secret getaway."

"The damage has been done," Juyeon says, reaching up to gently push stray strands of hair away from your eyes. "There's really no need to double and triple down. Don't call me when we're abroad… Call Sunwoo."

"And if I don't?" you reply, petulant.

Juyeon rolls his eyes, sighs again and simply says, "You will. For some reason, you're the only one who doesn't seem to know that yet."

Dragging himself out of bed, Juyeon hauls himself off to the bathroom to clean up and as he strides past you, you can't help but think that he wears the afterglow of sex exceptionally well. His skin seems to shimmer with a glow that hadn't quite been there before, and upon this realization you cannot help but wonder how it is that you look right about now. Not particularly well, you figure. In more ways than one, at that.

You wonder how Sunwoo looks with the very same afterglow. You wonder where he is, and if he is wearing it right about now.

There's a lump that forms in your throat at the thought, in spite of everything that has just transpired. You don't know if that's fair—the way that thinking about it makes you feel. Playing tit-for-tat games that have no clear victor crowned at the end. Have you won? Is the victory yours? And why, above all else, does it not taste so sweet?

The inhale that follows is sharp and unsteady. Juyeon can be heard in the bathroom with the faucet on, but not much else making his movements known.

"Do you think he'll be mad?" you say, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the running water. Unsure if you have the strength to dare utter the question again.

But he does hear, and his head pops around the corner without bothering to shut the faucet off. His hair is wetter now, pressed away from his forehead and a few droplets still clinging to his skin. The look on his face is one that you can't quite decipher; some mixture of emotions that don't quite equate to pity, but rather something more akin to compassion.

"I don't think he's going to be mad," Juyeon says, and it's evident through his delivery of the words that he is choosing them with immense care. His lips thin into a line, one corner dipping downward ever so slightly and he says, "If he's going to be mad at anyone, really, it's only going to be at himself."

And maybe that's worse, you think in response.

#sunwoo smut #tbz smut #the boyz smut #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo imagines #sunwoo scenarios #tbz x reader #tbz imagines #tbz scenarios #the boyz x reader

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lixiesfreckless · 6 months ago

Text

flung myself off the bed at the ending in a fit of rage bro it is NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE CAN WE SIT AND THINK BEFORE WE ACT OR HAVE YOU GROWN TOO WEARY OF THAT AND SUNWOO HAS RUBBED OFF ON YOU HUH

fantastic as usual :D <3

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟛

𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲

↳ After two steps forward in the ways of healing conversations, a massive step backwards abruptly finds you in the form of a new, breaking story that you never could have seen coming.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [6,4k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

Swallowing hard, you glance at Miyoung again—only briefly—and in your best effort to remain composed you say, "You think they're right? What they're saying online?"

In the week following your blowout with Sunwoo, communication with him has grinded to a complete halt.

Normally, you might chalk this up to the fact that both of you are too busy to properly keep up with one another. There is a comeback looming in the not so distant future for you and a huge amount of prep that is meant to be done for it before that day comes. You're tired, your body is sore, meals and sleep get skipped on account of all of the extra time you opt to carve out in favor of making sure you can give this everything you're capable of. More than that, however, is that staying busy keeps your mind clear; no thoughts of him, less worries about the scene that your bandmates had the misfortune of being audience to.

Sunwoo is in and out of the country now even more than before and, for once, you're thankful for that fact. Running into him in the halls presents nothing that you're interested in engaging with right now, be it having to pretend that no contention exists, or even worse than that; having to face the truth of the matter all over again.

A conversation with the girls is not something that you have the same luxury of avoiding forever.

Nothing has been said to you in regards to it, and you suppose that you are thankful for the firm hand that Sunwoo had had that day. Still, the air is thick with tension and curious, wandering eyes every time you find yourself in the same room as the girls who had the misfortune of stumbling upon an inkling of your dirty little secret. Worst of all: you share a dorm with Miyoung and Kaia, and the efforts made to not encounter one another in the common areas outside of work-related coming and going has quickly begun to drive you mad.

This is not the kind of relationship you wish to cultivate with your members. These girls are your friends, your colleagues, and at some point throughout all of this; you want them to be your family.

The evenings have begun to run late whether it is on account of work, or not. Even when you find yourself at the dorm before the early hours of the morning, that time is considered precious and you are unwilling to lose any more of it through sleep. Social media scrolling, long showers and a simple sandwich in the kitchen are things that you are not often afforded with a poorly timed comeback looming so harrowingly in the distance. Tonight is no different, and though the discomfort your body carries is difficult to ignore, it's better than resigning yourself to a bed and the fast coming of the next day.

Much of the food inside of the refrigerator has expired now. Annoying, you think to yourself, and it's the most you can muster up given the state of everything else happening around you. There's bread that only expires today—probably still good—and some left over meat that is creeping up on much of the same fate, so you pull them both and begin fashioning yourself a late night snack.

Perhaps it's how muddled your brain is, that it takes you so long to realize that you are no longer left alone to this task.

Your attention darts upwards from the counter, and though the overhead light for the kitchen has remained off, the stove lamp is lit and gives ample illumination to see who it is that stands before you. Miyoung lingers just outside of the kitchen opening with her messy black bob and a t-shirt that looks like it's been with her for a lifetime, but more than that is the look of gentle concern that sits upon her features as her eyes settle on you.

Snapping back to your task, you can't ignore the feeling of her eyes on your skin and the way that it makes you feel. She knows far too much now, has seen much more than she was ever meant to, and though you admit that you do not feel as though there is judgment there, what will not leave you is the feeling of transparency. A privacy has been lost—something you have fought so hard to maintain despite all odds being against it—and in the end, they won.

"I'll be out of here soon," you say. The words are mumbled and so nearly inaudible that you can't be sure she has even heard them, but in the end, she does reply.

"Don't. We should talk."

Being an idol, as you have learned, is spending your days navigating situations and conversations that you do not wish to; and with a smile on your face, at that. People endlessly prying and looking and picking apart the bits of you that they are able to see in an effort to find the things that they are not granted access to, all for the luxury of being able to perform on a stage and living a life that you have always dreamed of. Having been thrust into this has been a quick lesson on the trials and tribulations of what it takes to make it, and the sacrifices one must make in order to have a shot at doing so.

An idol's best chance at making it through is to minimize problems that may disrupt that journey, and conversations such as this one are a direct result of having failed in doing so.

Miyoung steps inside of the enclosed space and though you aren't giving her your full attention, you do notice her glance back towards the other bedroom doors to ensure that what is about to take place is only for the two of you. Your heart swells at the observation, at the fact that she is still taking that much into account when navigating the throes of this tiring mess you have created amongst them.

She takes her place beside you and bends to press her elbows into the countertop—face cradled within her palms—and does not look at you when speaking as if already having anticipated your wish to not be perceived.

"Is it about the rumors?" she asks, voice quiet and light. "Figure it must be, to some degree."

It is in this moment that you realize that you cannot tell the truth, but also, you can no longer lie.

Hands once busy with something come to a halt, and staring at the wall of pots and pans that hang in front of you, you take into your lungs a slow, deep breath in preparation for what is about to become of this interaction.

"It's kind of funny that no matter how in control of a situation you try to be, there's always something that slips through the cracks, huh?" You turn to look at her with a small smile, and Miyoung's eyes meet yours. "I thought that with joining this company and being in such close proximity to him all the time that nothing would really change, because we were already friends before, we had already been spending time together before, and nothing was ever different then. I figured it would always just be more of the same, that I would always look at him the same way no matter what. I guess I was wrong."

"You caught feelings?"

Huffing out a laugh, you can't help but dwell in the absurdity of the fact. You say, "It's so stupid. Maybe there's a part of me that was always going to be the fawning fangirl, never really able to see our relationship for what it really was."

"It's not really that unusual," Miyoung says, a light hand finding your arm in a comforting gesture. "If I had to guess, there's a whole lot of girls who deep down want to have that fairytale, idol-story romance, and it sounds so exciting, right? Secret meetings and hushed words, stealing glances and touches even when you shouldn't. Everybody likes the idea of it, but it's probably not all that great when you're actually wrapped up in it, so, try to think of it like that. It's for the best, really. You can have hurt feelings about what could have been and what he might be doing elsewhere but it's a load of stress off your back, that's for sure."

Shifting uncomfortably where you stand, the fact that Miyoung seems especially convinced of there being legitimacy to the online rumor mill gives you pause, and quickly you begin to draft up a convincing enough response that allows you to interrogate her assumption without coming off as someone fishing much too hard for implicating information.

"So…" The word trails off, you don't really know how you want to engage in this, if you're being completely truthful with yourself. Swallowing hard, you glance at Miyoung again—only briefly—and in your best effort to remain composed you say, "You think they're right? What they're saying online?"

Shrugging abruptly and without so much as a second thought about it, Miyoung says, "Oh, I don't know. I figure if anyone between the two of us knows that, it'd be you, especially given the scene on the elevator." As if realizing her potential misstep, Miyoung's face twists into something awkward and unbecoming and she stammers out the following, "Or I guess you two were just talking about the other thing… The thing just between you… Not someone else…" She rolls her eyes—at and because of herself—and then says, "Sorry, I didn't mean to assume. I really gotta stop trying to have serious, heart-felt talks with people, I'm not good at this at all."

"It's fine," you say, leaning over to nudge into her gently with your shoulder, "It's not a big deal, seriously. I know how it looked in there but that was just a single, bad snapshot of a bigger conversation, and at the end of the day, we're going to be fine."

"Even if he's dating someone else?"

The words spark something inside of you that truthfully, you hadn't ever really considered. Sunwoo has always been unabashedly and completely enthralled by you, and so the consideration that there may ever be another woman in the picture—now, or in the future—isn't one that has ever truly crossed your mind. You give it space in your mind to grow and fester just for a moment, before quickly shutting it down and swiftly working to rid yourself of the nasty growth bubbling up beneath your skin.

An asinine thought, you remind yourself, because the woman in reference is me.

"Yeah," you finally manage out with a smile, "even if it's someone else."

The whole idea of it is fairly ill-advised, and though you have the foresight to acknowledge that fact, it does not stop you from your attempt to act upon it.

Perhaps the easiest route would be to carve out the minimal amount of free time afforded to you amongst comeback preparations and simply disappear elsewhere without so much as a word to anyone. You are no stranger to such acts, but maybe the slight feeling of having all eyes on you brings you to a different point of action.

Best to err on the side of caution for now. To follow the rules and make it seem as though you have nothing to hide and are doing your best to play by the book. It isn't completely untrue, though it is far from wholly true, as well.

Thus, when your old friend from your fandom days messages you and asks you to make a visit, the first person you send off a text to about it is your manager.

He is far from pleased by the prospect of it all, as you had anticipated, but you can tell by the response he gives that he isn't completely unwilling to facilitate this. You wonder if he takes some amount of pity on you and the minute ways in which you have struggled to acclimate to your new life, considers that in spite of the fact that you being seen meeting with someone like this will do little to make permanent your new, squeaky-clean brand, yet makes the wrong choice for the company in favor of you.

During the first week of October and early on a Wednesday morning, you receive a message to your phone while you are preparing yourself for the slog of the intended day. With a toothbrush shoved into your mouth and your hair tied back sloppily, you glance at the screen without much anticipation towards anything. However, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest once you read the words that are left there waiting for you.

Manager [07:12]: If you still wish to go to Pyeongchang-dong then it must be today. This is the only time I can fit it into the schedule without many questions. I will drive you there myself and we will leave at 8. Let me know soon.

The drive is about two hours long, and though it is far from short, you enjoy the serenity that looking out of the vehicle window gives you.

Music gently plays from the stereo but you do not pay it much mind. Instead, your attention is glued to the cars on the road beside you, as well as the trees and buildings that swiftly pass you by. It's been such a long time since you have been able to enjoy the simplicity of something as leisurely as a road trip, and if you had been asked prior to debut if it would be something that you might come to miss, you assuredly would have said no.

You are faced with that fact now. Faced with the fact that so many things have changed and with such rapid succession that you've barely had the ability to catalogue them and fit them into the proper crevices of your memory that they belong. Road trips, visiting friends, seeing your family… All things once taken for granted that now, barely exist as a part of your life in any facet, at all.

The acknowledgement of this fact has you breathing out a heavy sigh, and you are thus reminded of the fact that despite your privacy amongst the road, no chances can be taken: You are still fitted in a mask covering half of your face, a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up in an effort to obscure the rest, and otherwise unimpressive clothing as to not draw attention to yourself.

Sometimes it all feels so stupid.

When the current song on the radio comes to an end, you feel something in the atmosphere of the vehicle shift. Your attention draws to your manager who then slowly inhales a breath and with eyes still glued to the road he says, "I won't hang around, but you won't be afforded much time, either. A couple of hours, at most. I'll message you when it's time to go back." He glances towards you for just a second, as if to drive the point of his saying this home and then continues with, "Don't make me regret having done this."

With your head slowly falling to the side and against the car door window, you say, "I won't, I just… need to get away from it all. Even for a second."

"I know. The first few years are the hardest part, I've been told."

Just hearing that makes your throat feel dry, and you can't help but contemplate if you have gotten in way over your head.

The thought of being an idol always felt so luxurious and hopeful to you, though you had never been the sort of dreamy-eyed optimistic that sat blind to the realities that would come along with it. You followed the idol scene from the outside but your proximity to it—even before a friendship with Sunwoo had developed—allowed you to easily see it for precisely what it can be; brutal, devastating, and utterly cannibalistic.

Yet the materiality of it is crushing you with every passing day.

"Anyway," he eventually says, clearly sensing the mounting discomfort between you, "Who is your friend?"

You turn slightly to look at him. "I already told you that. You're no slack at your job, you wouldn't be shipping me off two hours away for me to meet someone without having already checked them out."

A chuckle slips through his lips after the evidence of having been caught.

"Of course I've done my due diligence, but I don't know everything." He glances at you again then says, "I'm not the police force, you know."

But it sure feels that way sometimes, you think.

Turning to face towards the disappearing blur of trees again, you say, "Rimi is an old friend from my days as a fan. She's Japanese, but has lived in South Korea for a long time now. Her parents are exceptionally wealthy tech industry folks, this is only one of many homes they own, to my understanding."

"In South Korea?"

You shrug. "In the world." Sighing, you continue staring as if hoping to find a different life. The one you wish you had. "She runs a popular fansite—as they often are wealthy—pretty girl who was always a treat to be around. I'm really glad I get to see her again."

"Fansite?" he says with a quizzical upturn to his tone, "Anyone I've heard of?"

Unable to fight the smile that begins to tug at your lips, you turn to look towards him once again and say, "Yeah, Hyunjae."

Any hint of amusement immediately drops from his face, as you anticipated.

"I don't know if I would have been so willing to make this trip if I had known you knew her from the very same circumstances that have landed you in such a precarious situation," he says. "But I suppose we're already well on the road by now, and not much can be done about that."

"Should have done a little more research then, huh?"

"I'm being nice to you, don't torture me for it."

"You're right, but if there's one thing I've learned during my limited time in the idol system," you say, "It's that if you're going to survive it, you better learn which information to lead with, and which information to omit." A beat of silence follows the statement, and regardless of whether or not he intends to reply, you finish off the thought with: "It's the only way to make it out alive."

After navigating the winding roads that make up the luxurious neighborhoods of Pyeongchang-dong, the car pulls up upon an enormous, modern home that you cannot think to describe as anything less than breathtaking.

The yard is vast and immaculately maintained; beautiful trees, expertly manicured shrubs and carefully crafted stones work as a pathway towards the front door itself, and though the residence is shielded off from its surroundings by a vast cement fence, the gate at the driveway gives a glimpse to what you are soon to experience.

"I'll drop you here," your manager says, "No need for me to head inside. I'll message you when it's time, enjoy it while you can."

That insistence rests heavy on your heart, knowing full well the depth of implication that sits behind it.

Standing at the gate, Rimi is fast to buzz you inside, though you make it a point to take in the sights that surround you and linger in the leisure that has presented itself toward you.

The front door is already ajar by the time you reach the stone footsteps, and with a careful shout to announce your arrival, you usher yourself inside.

Your voice carries through the high ceilings and empty hallways, and for a moment you consider if you have entered the correct home, at all. Of course, this worry is immediately quelled by the memory of your friend already having granted you access inside, but with how pristine your surroundings appear and unlived in the home seems, you wonder if anyone else is truly inside.

"Kitchen!"

The familiar voice calls out, echoing similarly as your own. So, you follow it without any knowledge of where the kitchen may actually be.

After rounding a few corners that ultimately lead nowhere, you eventually stumble upon not only the grandiose kitchen, but Rimi, herself.

"Baby!" she coos, rushing towards you and immediately throwing her loving arms around your body. "I'm so happy you came! I can't believe it! I've missed you so much, I could cry right now!"

Rimi does, in fact, carry on with the faux-tears that she has only just threatened for a dramatic display that you only now realize you have desperately missed. You kiss the side of her head, gently push her body away from your own and once the two of your eyes meet, you realize that there are tears welling for the both of you; but only one of them is fake.

"Why are you crying?" she asks, immediately concerned for the way the mood has shifted unexpectedly. "Don't cry, oh no! Let me make you a drink! Wait… Are you allowed to drink?"

Wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, a laugh catches in your throat and you say, "Yes, I can drink. Idols are allowed to drink, you know this."

"Right, of course." Rimi busies herself with trying to collect all of the necessities required for crafting up a cocktail, though it becomes evident rather quickly that she is not especially familiar with the layout of this place, either. "It's strange knowing someone in the industry now, sometimes it feels like I don't know anything about it anymore, despite being involved for so long. Is it the same as you thought it was? How much has changed from your initial perception."

You stare at her blankly, an absolute whirlpool of thoughts and considerations spinning through your mind simultaneously and it feels nearly impossible to answer the question with one, single thing. Your lack of reply must jar her from her task, because Rimi pauses as she's bent into the massive refrigerator and looks back towards you.

"What? What's wrong?" Her eyebrows furrow like she's trying to read the thoughts in your mind, and then she says, "Are you going to cry again?"

"No," you say through an airy chuckle, "But we certainly do have a lot to talk about."

Rimi is pretty and dainty in ways that idols typically are, and as you look at her from the opposite side of the couch, you can't help but wonder why she never bothered to pursue a career such as yours with the incredible amount of opportunities and wealth afforded to her already.

The candle on the table pops and crackles as the fire eats away at the wick, and the room fills with the light, ambient scents of vanilla and berry. It's comforting and reminds you of home even though this place is nothing like where you have come from; rather, it is the opportunity to sit and talk to someone without a camera and a set crew listening in on and picking apart each and every word.

Her bartending skills leave much to be desired, but it's better than nothing, and you're happy to have a drink in hand regardless of that fact.

"I've watched everything you've done since debut, I can't believe it's already almost a year," Rimi muses, looking longingly at the ceiling as if speaking to no one but herself. "MVNE is amazing, but of course, you're my favorite." She pauses for a second, hums to herself, then looks at you and says, "Well, you and Woori, of course."

"That's fair, Woori has a sort of magnetic pull to her. She's really lovely, we've become quite close over the year, and it happened quickly."

"Are the moods good amongst the members? Of course, I'd like to keep up more with you but these are the sorts of conversations that are best kept off of devices where they may get into the wrong hands."

"You always were a few steps ahead of the rest, weren't you?" Smiling, you take a sip of your drink and your head drifts off to rest against the couch. "It is good, I'm really thankful. I think I got very lucky. You hear a lot about groups where the relations are difficult amongst the members, so I'm just glad it didn't end up like that. There have been small hiccups, but nothing we haven't been able to overcome."

"Hiccups?" That appears to pique Rimi's interest, eyebrows shifting upwards on her face. "Ooh, do tell!"

"Well, as you know, there was the stuff with my past, and then similar with another girl who was not as forthcoming about hers. That caused a bit of a shift between us, some mild animosity. It's been dealt with since then. But also, there was something…"

You trail off, the words dying off on your tongue. Your heart begins to race as you contemplate being forthcoming about this, though you know perfectly well that if anyone can be trusted with it, it is Rimi.

A deep inhale follows as you make an attempt to steady yourself. Rimi's eyes remain glued to your form as you take another long, full sip of the very strong drink that she has not-so-expertly crafted, and then… You begin.

"I think, in order for this to make sense, I have to start elsewhere in the timeline of events." Another sip follows and you're quickly running out of alcohol to take the edge off, but smooth as ever, Rimi shoves her own glass towards you in order to make up for it, and you take it from her hand with an awkward, understanding smile.

"I think… I think Sunwoo and I are… dating."

"What!?"

Rimi just about flies out of her seat as the words leave your mouth, and you shut your eyes tight with the strong unwillingness to face her reaction.

"What do you mean you think?" she questions, voice high and shrill, "I feel like that's something you should definitely know if you're doing it! What does that mean!? You and Sunwoo? Sunwoo!? Kim Sunwoo!? The same one that you used to…"

"Yes! And can you keep your voice down before the whole neighborhood hears you!" Swatting at the air between the two of you, Rimi recoils and settles herself down, though you can tell she is still brimming with excitement at the alleged news.

"No one's going to hear anything here, all these homes are fortresses. Anyway, don't change the subject! Tell me everything!"

You roll your eyes and say, "I mean, there isn't a whole lot to say about it, really. It started as nothing, then it started very small, and then it sort of… rather quickly spiraled out of control. I don't know, we haven't really had a proper discussion to label anything, though he has made his stance on the matter quite clear."

"He wants to date? You don't?"

"It's complicated," you say. "We're idols, we're in the same company, I was his fan and we were friends prior to my becoming a trainee. It wouldn't exactly look great for either of us if it ever got out."

"Then don't let it get out!" Rimi reasons, like it's the most obvious and easy thing in the world. "Idols date all the time, what's the problem?"

"It can't be a secret forever. At least, we shouldn't move forward thinking that it will be."

"So, what? If you think you're dating—or whatever you call it—then it's pretty obvious that enough is already going on for you to say that. What difference does it make what label you put on it?"

Your next stiff sip is drawn from Rimi's volunteered glass.

"I don't know." You pause, look at her and then say, "I'm terrified? I have more people than just myself to think about." Another sip follows. "Plus, Sunwoo is always gone lately and I've been busy with comeback preparations, there just hasn't been any time to really hash it out. There was a moment not so long ago, and it got a little out of hand and wasn't nearly as private as it should have been. I think we're both reaching the end of our ropes as far as a situationship is concerned."

"Then make a decision!" Rimi says, arms spread wide like she is the one as tired of being involved with this debacle as you and Sunwoo are. "Just take a leap! Just… Jump!"

She makes it sound so simple, so carefree and without need for further thought. Swept up in the fleeting confidence of the moment, you have half a mind to dig out your phone and send a message to Sunwoo right now: To confess, to be honest and forthcoming, to once and for all put an end to these haphazard games.

"Yeah, maybe I should."

Rimi smiles at that, and without much time put between the topics her face lights up, she urges herself towards you across the length of the couch and devilishly says, "Enough about you. So, how's Hyunjae?"

Your abrupt reaction is once again to roll your eyes. "I honestly haven't spent much time with him, but from our very limited interactions he seems perfectly nice."

"Too busy with Sunwoo," Rimi says knowingly and with an accompanying nod, "I understand."

"I've also become quite close with Juyeon, if that's of any interest to you."

"Ooh! Love triangle! How exciting!"

"Please shut up and make me another awful drink."

The sun has not begun to set, but your heart feels the weight of it as if it is the soon to be sinking sun itself.

Your manager is a quiet man, something you have come to know about him over the year that the two of you have spent together. His words are few and far between—saved only for times in which they are best served—but his care and interest in you is often shown in other, more meaningful, ways.

In the silence of the car ride, you stare out of the window not unlike your journey there. A small gift bag of items sits in your lap that Rimi sent you off with; Japanese snacks, expensive cosmetics, and a little note that you haven't yet had the strength to read. All of them are hand wrapped with little bows and stickers and her incredible craftsmanship and kindness is easily seen with every tiny detail. If you are honest with yourself, it's difficult for you to look at it, and each time you do you feel the painful pang of longing in your chest that you have spent so much time trying to ignore.

Everyone tells you it gets better with time. That this feeling is expected and temporary, that you will move past this and come out on the other side of it. You have no other option than to believe them.

The radio is on and the man coming through the speaker is reporting on the news. Keeping up with the goings on of everything outside of your small, isolated idol bubble has become so much more arduous than you ever remember it being. You try to pay attention, try to make up for all of the lost time and indifference you have had in the face of anything except this one, singular thing that now encompasses your entire life. Shades of you that once existed—that you could easily see and parse through without thought—now seem to blend together and ultimately culminate into a new, entirely different entity that you don't remember ever giving way to.

Do you even exist outside of idoldom, at all? The idol version of you and the actual, real version of you that is true… Are they separate beings any longer?

Your mind drifts easily without the constant bombardment of activities to attend to, and you quickly realize that you've already lost interest in the man coming through the speaker. The thoughts inside of your head keep you too busy to pay him any mind… Until, that is, you hear the buzzing of a vibrating phone kept inside of your manager's pocket.

Once you hear it, you come to realize you've heard it passively for far longer than this. Whoever is trying to get his attention has been doing so for some time, and when you turn your head to look over at him you see the deep frown that has already formed on his face.

He notices you looking at him, and without more than a second going by he addresses the fact and says, "Must be important, but we're not far off now."

Indeed, twenty minutes or so from the dorm building. Not that you have been counting.

You can't quite explain it, the feeling that begins to rustle beneath your skin. Foreboding and unpleasant. Swallowing hard, you opt out of a verbal response and instead turn away as if accidentally becoming privy to something not at all meant for your eyes. It is uncomfortable and awkward, the silence immediately shifting to feel distressing for reasons you have not yet come to know.

The feeling that has begun to encompass you, is dread.

Slipping out of the car, you thank your manager and linger only long enough to see if he is going to check his phone now, rather than later. When he makes no motion to do so, you resign yourself to the fact that this is a situation that you will have to learn of through other means, at some other time, and you slowly make your way upstairs towards your dorm.

Upon reaching the door, you extend a hand to punch in the code and notice that your hand has a wary tremble.

Then, the door flies open.

"You're home!" Kaia says, but her features carry none of the happiness that one might expect from an anticipatory welcoming party. Her eyebrows are terse, lips flat and thin, and when you look past her to spot Miyoung just a ways further inside, she appears much the same. "I'm so glad you're back. We're so glad you're back. When we saw the news we tried to find you, then we saw you were taking a personal day and didn't want to interrupt but also—"

"What's going on?" you interrupt.

Kaia's mouth falls open as if the answer is already there, waiting to leap off of her tongue, yet still confined by the confusion of your question.

After a few silent moments, Miyoung rushes forward and says, "You should come inside."

"Seriously," you say, still holding the reward of a lovely reunion with Rimi that you are now beginning to believe is soon to be spoiled. Anxiety has long since taken hold of your insides, though with every passing second it becomes that much more unbearable to stomach. "What is this? Has something happened?"

The two girls look at each other, and then Miyoung digs out her phone from the pocket of her jeans.

"You haven't been on socials at all?" Kaia asks, and you do not find comfort in the breathless urgency that her tone carries.

"No, I was visiting an old friend, I didn't even think to. Why?"

Miyoung hands you her phone, and on the display is an article from a fairly reputable news source that often reports on idol-related news.

You read the title, your stomach drops. Then, you continue scrolling further.

"I mean, we don't know what this means to you," Kaia says with a nervous shake, "Maybe it's nothing, but…"

Miyoung does not say anything, because she absolutely does know.

The article details that Sunwoo was spotted in Japan a few months back, on a date with a fairly prolific photographer that he had been reported to have been working with at the time. The details of their goings on are sparse, but they are also unnecessary once you see the pictures that are attached.

As is usually the case with these sorts of things, the photos are grainy and taken from a distance. It is some nighttime excursion of sorts; drinks, dinner, candlelight—the works. There is no ease in making out certain intricacies of the outing, but what you absolutely can deduce is that it most certainly is Sunwoo in the photo, and this is all body language that you have seen many times before.

You stare at the photos for far too long, forgetting that you are amongst the company of your fellow bandmates. There is no time to feel your feelings about this despite how absolutely lethal this unexpected wound has been. You blink a few times, try to steady your voice to speak and look up at them to say, "Has the company responded? This could just be—"

"They have," Miyoung gently concludes. "Not exactly a resounding confirmation but… They definitely didn't deny it, either. It's a personal matter, et cetera."

With your throat tight and stinging, you force a smile that you know is far from convincing and make your way past them saying, "So much for being such close friends, if this is how I find out about things! Just like everybody else!"

You hear them call your name, but you have already rounded the corner into your bedroom and shut the door tightly.

One thing you're not going to do in relation to this, is cry.

And so, you swallow the pain down and force back the tears. Rather than wallow in the sadness that desperately wishes to take hold, you instead harness another feeling; one that is vindictive and destructive and threatens to throw all caution to the wind for any semblance of not only fleeting satisfaction, but revenge. You are angry, the only thing flowing through you now being rage.

With your phone in hand you finally see all of the missed calls and notifications that await you, but you rush right past them and instead, navigate elsewhere and initiate a call for yourself.

It rings four times, and just before the thought to reconsider emerges, it connects.

"We should meet. Tonight." There's a waver in your voice that you pray does not put-off the person on the receiving end of the proposition, but you are far from willing to concern yourself with that possibility right now, either. Thus, you urge further, as if to prove your interest in acquiring that which you are seeking. You say, "I'll leave it to you to set something discreet up, give me a time and a location. I'll be there."

Little more of the conversation carries on from there, but regardless of that, Juyeon agrees.

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