#BECAUSE HOW CAN SOMEONE GO INSANE FROM IT??
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verushkak70 · 2 days ago
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I understand what you're trying to do but in my experience it doesn't work
I've debunked literally hundreds of insane, factually & scientifically wrong crap a friend has been sending me off social media since the FIRST orange asshole campaign
It has not made a difference & I recently realized why (aside from, y'know, tens of thousands of Chinese & Russian social media bots gaming algorithms to inject false narratives into the mainstream to influence elections & democracy in multiple countries...)
It's because facts do not matter to him anymore
This is a belief system very much like religion - it might as well be religion
It is impervious to facts & science
Yet this is someone who I once considered highly intelligent & I still cannot understand how he's fallen for all of this except that, deep down, he must have either a hollow core, or a core of hate, that wants everyone else in the world to be as secretly miserable as he is (which I only know because I've known him for decades - since high school - casual observers would never say "this guy is miserable & self-loathing")
Objectively, on paper, he is intelligent or at least was intelligent & high scoring enough to get into Ivy League universities when we were graduating high school (he did not go to any tho; neither of us could afford such universities; we went to the state university that would take literally anyone, at the time, & from which you had to work at getting kicked out)
This was formerly a pro-choice, pro-porn, pro-drug guy who has drunk the Kool-aid - he's still pro-porn & pro-drug but suddenly in the past 2 years, as "throw it back to the states" became the propaganda on X (his favorite social media, ugh), he started saying it should be thrown back to the states
This from a guy who used to say - in his 20s, 30s, 40s - that abortion should be available on demand at drive thrus (which was hyperbole ofc; obvs you can't get one at an actual drive thru; it was the concept of fast & easy access he was championing)
As these right wing evangelical positions have trended on X, they have come up in his speech the past couple of years (really the past decade, but it accelerated like the speed of light once he moved from FB to the post-Musk Twitter/X)
Because I've known him for so long, I've been able to say, "Huh, you never used to say/believe that over the last 40 years... Why the change, & why now?"
& even that does not get him to realize his opinions are being deliberately shaped by propaganda
He will deny it or say "well I always kind of thought that way" & when I say "dude, you've never been shy of sharing your opinions, whether people wanted to hear them or not, especially if not! so why haven't you mentioned this change of opinion until after X became your main source of 'news'?"
That gets evasions & subject changes because the idea that he didn't come up with these ideas on his own is unacceptable
He will share literally fake news from X & when I ask, "OK, I get that you don't trust mainstream media, with good reason; or the government, with good reason; or the medical/scientific establishment, not without good reason; but you'll just believe anything some clown you don't know on the Internet - who could be anywhere in the world despite his "US Navy Vet" trucker hat - says, without question?"
& his response is always subject changes & attacks on mainstream media/government/politicians/parties but never an answer to the actual question because there is no rational explanation & he knows it
& if I call him on the subject changes, he just ratchets up the subject changes & attack rhetoric as if I'm one of those easily offended wilting liberal flowers he can steamroll, which I'm not & never have been, so it's interesting (if sad) that he thinks what works on other people will work on me
Or maybe he just doubles down because there IS no rational explanation, idk
This is seriously depressing me because this guy was my BFF for like the first 30 of our 40 year friendship - my older sisters would call him "our adopted little brother" - & I don't recognize him anymore
The only reason I continue to talk to him, really, is my oldest sister, who passed away a year ago in February, & was a big activist & organizer/coordinator of various (large) protests here, said "don't give up on him, don't fight or argue - just keep listening & questioning" because "he's a good egg"
& honestly he is, underneath all the sourball curmudgeon thorny exterior - the man has never not been there when I needed him & lots & lots of times when I didn't, just for fun
But this is becoming exhausting & I'm stressed out from not literally screaming "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!? WHERE IS MY FRIEND, YOU CRAZY POD PERSON WHO TOOK HIS PLACE??"
I'm sorry - I'm just venting, I guess
But please tell me how someone can maintain the cognitive dissonance of a high index of suspicion for the mainstream media, the government, & medicine/science, but not some Joe Blow clown on the Internet - as if somehow that guy (who's probably actually a Chinese or Russian bot) is telling the gospel truth & has a hidden mainline to the secrets of the universe
Because I can't understand it
I can understand it in people who've not had the privilege of university education (my friend has)
or international travel (my friend has, multiple times, with me & others)
or who never left the neighborhood or town where they grew up (my friend did as soon as he could)
I cannot understand it in my formerly skeptical & always shrewd friend
I honestly do not get it 😞
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So many people do not understand the relationship between climate change and cold weather.
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my-castles-crumbling · 15 hours ago
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gay - black brothers - @taylorswiftmicrofic - cw: internalized homophobia, but it's a happy ending - word count: 441
(someone requested Sirius going to Regulus for comfort! I also have a more serious version of this type of conversation in my longfic, Clandestine as well as this microfic)
Regulus Black had seen many things in his life. It came with the territory of being best friends with Barty Crouch, Jr, and brothers with Sirius. But he never, not once, would have bet all the money in the world, that he would ever see Sirius Black standing outside of the Slytherin Common Room, begging to see him.
“Have you killed someone?” he asked nervously, stepping aside to let his brother in. “I can’t protect you from Azkaban, Sirius.”
“No. No, I-” Sirius sat on the luxurious couch, wringing his hand and looking shockingly lost for words. “I didn’t know who to talk to.”
“Don’t you have three equally-obnoxious friends to talk about your emotions with?” Regulus drawled, though something in him was a bit worried. Things had to be bad if Sirius was going to him.
“I can’t talk to them. Pete can’t keep a secret to save anyone’s life, James…I don’t know how he’d feel about this, and Remus…well, it’s about Remus,” Sirius mumbled, looking down. “Please, Reg, can I just-”
“Fine, alright!” Regulus sighed, sitting as well, crossing his arms as he did so. “What is it, then?”
“I…think I’m going crazy,” Sirius whispered, gray eyes flickering up to meet Regulus’s before turning downward again.
Resisting the urge to make an ill-timed joke, Regulus blinked. “Okay. Erm. Why?”
“Because. I keep having dreams,” the older boy uttered, looking terrified.
“Dreams about…?”
“Dreams about…” Sirius took a deep breath then swallowed. “Kissing Remus.”
It took every ounce of Regulus’s self control not to burst out laughing. As it was, he had to let out a little cough of shock, covering his mouth to try to hide the grin on his face. “And you think that makes you crazy?” he asked, lip still quivering.
“Yes!” Sirius nearly-screamed. “Who has dreams like that, Reg? That’s insane! That’s gross! That’s-”
“That’s gay, Sirius,” Regulus interrupted him, rolling his eyes. 
“I’m not-” Sirius started to protest, but then stopped. “I don’t think I’m-” his eyes shifted and he paused again. “I really feel like…”
“D’you wanna kiss him in real life, too?” Regulus asked, trying to add at least a bit of gentleness to his tone.
“So much,” Sirius moaned, covering his face with his hands. 
“Right. That’s gay,” Regulus nodded, this time unable to stop himself from snorting.
“Oh, fuck,” the Gryffindor sighed. 
“It’s alright. On the bright side, now we have at least one thing in common,” Regulus shrugged.
“You- you’re also-?” Sirius asked, sitting up again.
Regulus grinned. “Poor Mother will have a heart attack when she finds out we’re ending the family line.”
Both of them burst into laughter.
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lavenderprose · 1 day ago
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Imagine you're Johanna Hezenkoss and your one goal in life is to Be Right All The Time and you've got this sidekick named Emmrich. He can do the whole corpse whispering thing and he's an objectively pretty skilled necromancer but, of course, YOU are Johanna Hezenkoss. And you decide that you like Emmrich enough to drag him along with you to glory. So you spend a few decades doing that. Only Emmrich is six and a half feet of saccharine poetry and fanatical devotion to the core tenants of the Mourn Watch and YOU, Johanna Hezenkoss, are just counting the moments until you can go Beast Mode in this bitch and show everyone what TRUE NECROMANTIC POWER means. So Emmrich weighs you down a bit but you're a little obsessed with him only because he's like. Real? That's a real dude? Saying that shit? Wild. Totally insane. He's like an annoying chattering dog who keeps all your secrets and makes the biggest saddest eyes at you when you say stuff like, "The world could be exactly what we want it to be. Aren't you MAD. Aren't you ANGRY at what they've taken from you. Don't you want to MAKE THEM SUFFER LIKE YOU'VE SUFFERED--"
Yeah. Whatever.
And then Emmrich betrays you because you're scaring him. SCARING him? After everything you've done for him? You were going to reinvent the world--you were going to put him at the top of it all so NOBODY could step on either of you ever again and now he's all, Oh Johanna, you're scaring me, this isn't what we believe in, you're letting your fear control you, blah blah BLAH he never shuts UP
Fear? FEAR, Volkarin? How fucking rich.
Then some stuff happens. Half lich 125 foot skeleton someone named Elgar'nan, maybe a God, who cares. You get so close--SO CLOSE--and then fucking Emmrich rolls in and this time he takes it ALL. Your power and your mortal life and your last remaining shreds of fucking credibility in this fucking world. And then he doesn't even have the basic fucking decency to say I Told You So. He keeps you on his desk like a tchochke and listens to you scream and spit and even THEN he doesn't do anything.
All the while he has his own sidekick now. Some vapid little thing always batting their eyelashes and paying Volkarin the kind of lip service that always distracted him, made his eyes go soft and his chin quiver. He's still such a weak man. You tell him so. You tell him and tell him and tell him until--
The sidekick disappears. Emmrich's eyes go empty and haunted in a way that makes you wonder what he's done to himself in his heartache and grief.
"Whoever did this to you," you tell him on the worst day, "You can make them pay. You're powerful enough. You defeated me." You being, of course, Johanna Balls of Steel fucking Hezenkoss.
"I just want them back," Emmrich admits. Because he's weak WEAK he's a weak man mewling pitifully in a dark room for his piece of ass while the moon rises red in the fucking sky and a God walks the earth.
"You have the power," you tell him. "When the world takes from you, you take those things back. This is what I've been telling you all these years, Volkarin. For once in your miserable life, LISTEN TO ME."
Finally, finally, Emmrich reacts. He screams. He throws a few books. He kicks his desk. Punches something, probably, because his knuckles start bleeding at some point. You watch it all with barely-contained glee. Anger, yes, fucking finally. You've been waiting your whole goddamn life for this man to realize how fucking ANGRY he is.
"How do I break into the fucking Fade?" He screams. He's not even looking at you. His hair is seven different kinds of fucked. His shirt is unbuttoned to the navel, and he's missing a boot.
"You could start by asking someone who's done it," you say. Emmrich turns, startled for some reason to hear you. Again you say, "Listen to me."
"Oh, Johanna," he sighs. "I've rarely done anything else."
It's not the words 'Thank you' or 'You're right'. It's certainly not lichdom or godhood or a 125 foot tall skeleton. But it's one point for Johanna Hezenkoss.
You'll make up the deficit eventually. Volkarin has a kid, after all.
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lupinqs · 3 days ago
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CHAPTER TEN ━━ The Introduction
❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)
❀ ━ word count: 5.9K
❀ ━ warnings: allusions to sex, alcohol consumption
❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist
❀ ━ author’s note: hehe
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IT’S FRIDAY, December 2nd, and UConn just annihilated Providence. Jo played out of her mind, as she always does. Of course, Paige is proud. Of course she is. But both her performance and the team win can’t really make this might feel like a victory for Paige to bask in. 
Currently, she’s standing in Nika’s kitchen, staring down at the cup full of Everclear in her hand. The liquid inside is dangerous, too strong for her, and yet she’s already downed three or four shots. She doesn’t even like it. In fact, she usually avoids this shit like the plague. But tonight, it’s the only thing she can think of to numb her, the only thing that might be able to quiet the anxious, suffocating storm inside her chest.
It’s almost laughable, really, how predictable she is. How every time Jo does something—breathes, laughs, smiles—Paige feels like she’s suffocating just a little more. It’s insane. They’re best friends. They’ve been living together since May. She’s seen every side of Jo—the silly, the serious, the completely ridiculous.
Well, every side except the one she shares with Asher.
Because Paige still hasn’t met him.
She’s seen all the pictures, of course—the one’s on Jo’s Instagram, the one that Jo has as her lock screen, the one framed in Jo’s family’s house back in Boston, the one perched on Jo’s desk in their apartment. She hears about him a God awful lot, too. She’s seen Jo text him, call him. She’s listened to Jo gush about him and their future while Paige is just… there. Watching Listening. Seeing Jo get lost in that perfect, fairytale love that Paige will never be a part of.
The rest of the team, on the other hand, have already met the damn boy. Back in October, while Paige was in LA rehabbing, he’d come up to visit Jo, and they’d met him. And, of course, they all informed Paige of how kind and charming and absolutely perfect for Jo he was.
And, tonight, it seems that Paige has finally met her dues. Because he’s coming to Ted’s with Jo, to hang out with the team.
Okay, it’s not that Paige wants to hate Asher. He hasn’t done anything to her, not really. She just doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to see the joy and adoration in Jo’s eyes when she’s with him. Doesn’t want to see her look at someone else the way she’ll never look at Paige.
That’s why she’s standing here in Nika’s kitchen, holding the cup of Everclear like it’s a lifeline. She’s downed drink after drink, trying to numb herself before the night really starts. She needs something to take the edge off. Anything to make the world feel a little less sharp, a little less raw.
So, Paige reaches for the bottle again, pouring herself another cup, her hand unsteady from the alcohol already coursing through her veins. She doesn’t even care that she’s probably about to get way too drunk to function. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not when she’s about to experience first-hand the perfect, romcom, movie-like romance of Jo and Asher.
As Paige pours the drink, she doesn’t even hear Caroline approach. It’s not until the sophomore’s hand wraps around her wrist that Paige jerks back, spilling some of the alcohol across the counter. “Bro!” she exclaims, frustration creeping into her voice as she whips her head to glare at Caroline. “What the hell?”
Caroline narrows her eyes, and the look she gives Paige is one of irritation, not amusement. “What are you doing?” she demands, voice tight. “You’re gonna be wasted before we even get to Ted’s. Besides, you don’t even like this shit!” She gestures to the bottle of Everclear in Paige’s hand, her gaze pointed.
Paige rolls her eyes. “Nah, don’t do that with me, Carol,” she says, her voice flat and cold, the words rolling off her tongue like venom. “I’m older than you. If you wanna mother someone, go find the freshmen.”
Caroline doesn’t flinch at Paige’s outburst. Instead, she just rolls her eyes back, her expression practically dripping with exasperation. Then, with one swift motion, she gives Paige a quick shove on the shoulder, a mockery of affection that’s meant to get her attention but only serves to make Paige more frustrated. “No,” Caroline says, her tone laced with that same tired edge. “I’m gonna mother because clearly you need it!”
The words land like a slap, stinging more than Paige expects. Yes, she knows she’s not being entirely responsible, but also—when has she been? It’s sort of in her nature to be irresponsible, so she’s not sure how this is any different. But is is. And she doesn’t even know why.
There’s a long pause. Too long. It stretches between them like a chasm, and Paige can feel the moment hanging in the air like it’s about to swallow her whole. She thinks Caroline might be done. She thinks the conversation might be over.
But it’s not. Caroline is not finished.
“Look,” the brunette says, her voice gentler now, but still firm. “I know you’re, like, totally in love with Jo and all, but please, Paige, get yourself together.”
Almost instantly, Paige stills. It’s as if the entire world falls silent in an instant. The sound of her pulse fills her ears, louder than anything else. Her mind goes blank for a moment, and then the words slowly filter through. Caroline knows. Paige has been so careful recently to pretend, pretend, pretend. But Caroline’s still seen through it.
Fuck.
“Wha—? How did you know that?” Paige’s voice comes out high-pitched, more frantic than she wants it to be. She feels like she’s suffocating, like she’s about to drown in the truth that’s just been laid bare. “Did Azzi tell you? Aubrey?” The thought of anyone else but the two of them knowing, of anyone else seeing what she’s been trying to hide, is bad. It’s what Paige imagines standing in front of a crowded room, naked, while everyone stares at her would feel like.
Caroline gives her a look. “No, dumbass,” she deadpans. “I figured it out myself. You’re not very subtle.”
As if it were possible, Paige’s stomach seems to drop even more at the simplicity of it all. Because Caroline’s right, just as Aubrey and Azzi both had been. Paige isn’t subtle. She never has been. The way she looks at Jo, the way her face burns every time Jo smiles at her, the way she seems to track everything Jo doesn’t without even meaning to—none of it is subtle.
She groans, a frustrated sound that escapes her before she can stop it. She leans forward, her palms flat against the counter as she rests her forehead against the cool surface. She’s so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of fighting the feeling that never goes away. And now, with Caroline’s words hanging before her, she knows it’s probably only a matter of time before Jo figured it out, too. Before Jo realizes what Paige has been hiding, and everything goes to shit. Jesus Christ, she’s gonna have to transfer.
Caroline doesn’t let the silence linger for too long, though. “Okay, yeah,” she says, her voice softening a little. “I know it sucks. I get it.” She takes a deep breath, and Paige can hear the sympathy in her voice, the understanding. “And I’m sorry you have to see Jo with Asher while you like her. But, please, get yourself together. Because she’s so excited for you to meet him, and if you’re drunk off your mind when you do, you’re probably just gonna embarrass yourself and her. Do you wanna do that?”
Caroline’s right. Of course she is. Paige can imagine herself meeting Asher, entirely wasted, and saying some stupid shit that would have him grimacing at her and Jo flushing with embarrassment over the fact that this drunk girl before them is supposed to be her best friend. It would be wrong and selfish to do that. But it’s gonna be so hard to do it and act normal. She knows she swore she would take Jo in whatever way she’ll give her—and she still stands by that—but that doesn’t mean she has any desire to meet her boyfriend. Because she just doesn’t. She’s truly not sure she can. 
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she just stays there, head pressed against the counter, trying to will sway the stupid, hot tears that begin to form in her eyes. She can’t cry here. It’s fucking stupid.
Eventually, after blinking the tears away, Paige begrudgingly shakes her head. “No,” she mutters under her breath, the words barely audible. “I don’t wanna do that.”
Caroline pats her on the back. “That’s what I thought.”
PAIGE LISTENS. She’s being good. She’s only slightly tipsy, every so often taking sips of her Dirty Shirley. She’s doing her best to integrate herself into the team’s conversation around her, despite her uncharacteristic anxiousness. She tries to will her gaze to stop flicking toward the door. It doesn’t work; her mind is already rehearsing every possible scenario when Jo and Asher walk in.
“Aye, JoJo just said they should be here any minute!” Ice says loudly, reading a text off her phone. The rest of the team, half-fueled by the alcohol running through their bloodstream, lets out a few cheers.
Azzi, who’s across from Paige and who Paige can tell is almost entirely sober, meets her eyes. She title her head, giving her a look as if to say you good? The blonde gives her a tight nod. She will be good. She’s gonna keep it together, it’ll be fine. It’s just one night, one introduction. After that, she can pretend none of it matters. She doesn’t need to be anywhere near Asher.
But even as she tells herself that, her pulse begins to quicken, the seconds ticking by too slowly as she waits for the pair to walk through that door. And, when they finally do, it’s not the way she thought it would be. She expected her heart to sink, her breath to catch, but what happens instead is worse. Her skin tingles, and her chest feels too tight, like her ribs are being squeezed, her lungs struggling for air. Jo walks in first, her laugh ringing out across the bar like it’s some beautiful melody that Paige can’t stop hearing. And then there’s Asher, in the flesh, right behind her. His arm is casually draped over Jo’s shoulder, and the two of them look so natural, so right together that it makes Paige feel like she’s been hit with a sucker punch to the gut.
They’re happy. It’s blatantly obvious in the way they move together, the way Asher’s hand rests lightly on Jo’s shoulder, the way they share that easy, carefree smile, as if nothing in the world could ruin this moment for them. Paige’s vision sharpens, the edge of the bar blurring as the urge to shrink away into herself rises up like an overwhelming tide. She wants to leave, to disappear, to drink so much she blacks out and dies.
But she doesn’t. Obviously.
Jo and Asher head straight toward the team, where they stand in the back corner. Paige forces herself to appear nonchalant like always, her back pressed against the bar wall, her fingers gripping the edge of her drink. The others begin to greet the pair quickly, all laughing and chatting with him so easily and fast it almost gives Paige whiplash. Within a minute, he already fits in so seamlessly—and Paige hates if. She hates the way he’s making them all laugh, the way he’s charming without even trying, the way everyone seems to like him so easily. Things would be so much easier for Paige if he was just some shitty douchebag boy.
But then Jo’s eyes find hers, that smile spreading across her face, and all thoughts of the boy flee for a short moment. It’s that smile only for her, only for Paige. She’s reserved it.
Paige feels her heart leap, an automatic reaction that she can’t stop, especially with alcohol in her system. She doesn’t know if Jo can see it, the way her face softens at the sight of her, but Paige knows her smile is already in place, even if it feels a little strained, like her cheeks might crack under the pressure.
Paige watches as Jo grabs onto Asher’s wrist, pulling him so they’re both face to face with Paige. “Paige! This is Asher!” she exclaims excitedly, and it’s adorable, it really is, the way her doe eyes shine at Paige, twinkling.
With some effort, the blonde forces her gaze from Jo to the boy beside her. “Hey, bro,” Paige says, her voice coming out a little higher than she intended, but she doesn’t let it show. She forces the words out, the greeting she’s practiced a thousand times too many.
“Nice to meet you,” she adds. It’s a lie. Of course.
Asher nods, his hand extending to shake hers. It makes everything inside Paige write. He’s not just some asshole she can dismiss; he’s the guy who makes Jo happy. And in the face of that, what does Paige have to offer? Absolutely nothing.
“Yeah, you too,” Asher replies, his smile wide, genuine. Fuck, he really is likable. It makes everything worse. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Stupidly, Paige can feel her heart skip a beat. He’s heard about her. Jo’s talked about her. The thought of it makes her skin flush, and she glances at Jo, who’s standing just a little too close to Asher, her eyes sparkling. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, just enough for Paige to notice.
Hm.
Jo’s talked about her. Jo’s talked about her. It’s an absurdly stupid thing to obsess over, because, yes, it would only make sense that Jo has talked about her. They’re roommates, for God’s sakes.
But then, just as quickly, it all comes rushing back—the overwhelming knowledge that it just doesn’t matter. Because Jo has Asher.
Paige’s hand in tightens slightly around her drink, and she forces her smile to stay in place. “I bet,” she says, before gesturing to Jo. “She’s a yapper.”
Asher’s grin widens, and he nods in agreement. He glances down at Jo for a moment, and Paige can see the faint sparkle in his own eyes. It makes her sick. “Yeah, she is,” he chuckles. Of course he would know that. He knows everything. Certainly more than Paige (except how to make a girl cum—though, at this point, she supposes it can’t even apply to the situation). But he’s been there. For everything. Since the fucking sandbox days. It’s not something Paige can even remotely compete with.
She needs another drink.
JO SITS awkwardly in the booth at Ted’s, wedged between Asher and Paige. It’s not even that the space is tight—there’s room enough for the three of them, probably room for one more—but the proximity feels off, almost claustrophobic. She shifts in her seat, feeling the edge of Asher’s knee against hers, and Paige’s shoulder brushing lightly against her own. All of it—the heat from their bodies, the weight of their presence—is somehow making her feel small, like there’s no space for her in this conversation.
Asher, ever the extrovert, is holding court with Paige, talking on and on about college football rankings and how Penn State (where he goes to school) is sure to win their bowl game. Jo tries to listen and engage, but the topic doesn’t interest her. Basketball is far superior to football. But she still follows along, because Asher’s so into it, so excited to share his thoughts, and Paige—who, as usual, is completely unfazed by the world around her—responds with that ease that always leaves Jo wanting more.
Jo feels herself sinking lower in the booth, staring at her drink. It’s a cranberry vodka, something that feels sweet on her tongue. She takes another sip—maybe too quickly—and feels the alcohol warm her from the inside out. It helps dull the growing discomfort, but it doesn’t erase it. The tightness in her chest persists, a strange, insistent thing that makes her shift again, trying to find a way to make herself comfortable.
She doesn’t know why she feels this way. She should be happy. She should be enjoying this. After all, she’s the one who was so eager to introduce Asher and Paige, so excited to see her favorite people meet and get along. So why does it feel… wrong now? Why does it feel like she doesn’t belong?
It’s not jealousy. No, not even close. She’s fine with Asher and Paige talking. She’s good with it. She wants them to like each other. She’s been waiting for this, hoping for it. But still… the weight of their conversation feels like it’s too much for her to hear, even if she can’t articulate why. It’s the way they’re so at ease with each other, like they’ve known each other for years, and Jo feels like she’s just a spectator, stuck in the middle. Paige is talking about football like she’s always been passionate about it, and Jo wonders if she even really cares or if she’s just being her usual, charismatic self, making everyone around her feel like they’re the most important person in the room.
She doesn’t know why this feels so weird, so odd. It’s almost as if the booth is too small for the three of them, like either Asher of Paige needs to move out of it so Jo can finally breathe again. She just doesn’t get it.
Asher keeps talking, oblivious to the tension knotting in Jo’s stomach. She can tell he’s enjoying himself, that he’s happy to be here, happy to be connecting with Paige. He’s wanted to ever since he’s realized how close she and Jo are, not to mention the fact that he’s a big fan of Paige’s game—which, valid. And Paige, of course, is just as nonchalant as always. She’s good at this—at making people feel seen and heard, like she’s the only person in the room that matters.
Jo tries to keep her smile in place, but she knows it’s not quite reaching her eyes. Every time Paige laughs, it hits something inside her she can’t explain, some quiet ache. Every time Asher leans in closer to Paige, every time they lock eyes, Jo feels a small, gnawing discomfort in the pit of her stomach. Not jealousy, just… something else. Something she doesn’t want to name.
Paige’s voice cuts through her thoughts, and Jo snaps back to the moment. “I’mma go get another Shirley,” the blonde says easily, pushing herself up from the booth. Jo watches her walk away, feeling a strange sense of relief mixed with the sudden urge to grab Paige’s hand and pull her right back. So weird.
Asher’s voice suddenly cuts through the murmur of chatter, causing Jo’s head to snap toward him. He’s looking at her now, his brow furrowed in that way he gets when he’s concerned. “Babe, you good? You been kinda, like… quiet?”
Jo forces a smile, the expression coming easy enough but feeling unnatural on her lips. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and she can feel it, can feel the way he’s watching her, sensing something is off. Why am I being like this? She doesn’t know.
“Yeah, let’s go dance,” she says, the words sounding too breezy. Asher doesn’t seem to notice, though, his smile brightening. He takes her hand in his, tugging her up from the booth.
They make their way to the dance floor, and Jo feels the heat of the crowd, the heavy bass that vibrates in her chest. She tries to lose herself in it, tries to let the rhythm take over. Asher’s hands find her waist, guiding her gently, pulling her closer as they fall into the music. She moves with him, tries to feel the warmth of his body, the comfort of being with him. It’s weird, though, because the steps feel a little too quick, like she’s trying to make her body fit the rhythm of something that feels off.
Her gaze drifts without meaning to. It’s not even something she consciously does, it just happens, as her eyes scan the room, taking in the crowd of people. And then, they land at the bar.
Paige is there, talking with someone Jo doesn’t recognize at first. But when she squints her eyes, trying to make sense of the redhead leaning over the counter, she realizes it’s Celeste. She watches, captivated for reasons she doesn’t understand, as Celeste leans in closer to Paige, her fingers brushing along Paige’s arm. Jo doesn’t really like that. She should stop watching.
But she doesn’t. And the longer she stares, the more that strange feelings gnaws at her. She can’t tear her gaze away, even though she tries. It’s weird and wrong, Jo knows, watching her best friend cook up her nightly fuck—because, surely, that’s what this is.
And then, just as if she’s been caught, Paige’s eyes meet here. Jo feels her heart skip a beat. Her cheeks instantly flush, her gaze jerking away from Paige’s with an awkwardness she doesn’t understand.
Bur when she dares to glance back, she finds Paige still looking at her, her gaze steady, unwavering. There’s something about the way Paige is staring, like she’s waiting for Jo to react, to do something, anything. Jo feels herself shift uneasily under that gaze, her skin heating as though she’s been caught in something she shouldn’t have been.
She looks away again, closing her eyes briefly as she tries to focus more intently on the movement of Asher’s hands on her hips, on the way he’s leading her in a slow circle. She tries to focus on the feel of his body close to hers, tries to drown out the memory of Paige’s eyes. But Jo’s thoughts are all scattered, her focus slipping like sand through her fingers.
The music changes, the beat shifting, becoming more sensual, slower. Asher leans in closer, his lips brushing against Jo’s ear, and he whispers in that low voice that always makes her shiver, “You wanna go back to yours?”
Jo nods automatically, because, yes, she really needs to leave this place.
As they move through the crowd, heading for the exit, Jo sneaks one last glance at the bar. She’s hoping for something—she doesn’t even know what—but Paige’s attention is elsewhere, focused on Celeste now. Jo feels a pang, but it’s fleeting, and she brushes it off with a shrug, tightening her grip on Asher’s hand.
“I’MMA GO get another Shirley,” Paige says, pushing herself out of the booth before either Jo or Asher can respond. She’s already halfway out by the time the words fully register with them, and she doesn’t wait to hear what they might say. For obvious reasons, talking to Asher has drained her. They’ve been going on and on about football, and it just got to a point. Not to mention the fact that Jo was between them, the whole right side of her body pressed against Asher, his arm casually slung over her shoulders.
Paige tries not to think too hard about it. She’s fine. She’s so fine, in fact, that she decides she needs another drink.
The bar is crowded, but Paige carves her way through the bodies easily. She leans against the counter, resting her forearms on the sticky surface as she flags down the bartender. She orders another Dirty Shirley, and then a shot of tequila because, well, it’s just one of those nights.
Paige exhales and lets herself sink into the moment—the crowd, the pounding bass of the music, the buzz of alcohol in her system. She tries to think about anything but the happy couple she’d been forced to hang out with for far longer than she’d planned.
Her drink arrives, the tequila shot placed next to it. She picks up the shot glass without hesitation, throwing it back quickly. The burn hits her immediately, sharp and biting, but she welcomes it. She needs it. The glass clinks against the bar as she sets it down, and she picks up her Shirley, sipping it to chase the tequila’s lingering heat.
“Hey, P,” a voice says from beside her, catching her off guard.
Paige turns, her brown furrowing for a split second before her expression smooths out. It’s Celeste. Of course.
“Hey,” Paige says casually, as if the sight of the redhead doesn’t throw her a little off balance for a moment. She’s not surprised Celeste is here—she’s always around. She’s also not surprised when Celeste slides closer, her lips curving into a smile that Paige knows all too well.
“You celebrating the win?” Celeste asks, her voice light, flirtatious. Paige has to give her credit, if she’s honest, because, really, this girl never gives up, no matter how hot and cold Paige is.
And, if Paige is even more honest, Celeste looks good. Better than good. She’s wearing some kind of black corset top that pushes her tits up in a way that’s impossible not to notice, her bright red hair perfectly blown out, and her makeup flawless even in the hazy lighting of Ted’s.
“Something like that,” Paige replies, her words accompanied by a small shrug. She takes another sip of her drink, letting the alcohol settle over her like a warm blanket.
Celeste doesn’t waste any time. She leans forward, her hand brushing against Paige’s arm in a way that’s calculated. “You looked good on the bench tonight. I posted a couple shots that the cameras got of you,” she says lowly.
Paige nearly snorts at the words—you looked good on the bench tonight. That’s what she’s been reduced to, a pretty bench-warmer, too injured and useless to be anywhere but on it. But she doesn’t laugh. Because she knows exactly what Celeste is doing. And under normal circumstances, she might be annoyed—Celeste has a habit of getting too attached, of acting like there’s more between them than there really is. But tonight, Paige is a little drunk, a little tired, and more than a little tempted to let herself fall into the distraction Celeste is offering. She was already planning on fucking someone tonight, and Celeste? Well, she’s right here, looking like that. Why not?
So, Paige smiles, tilting her head just slightly, enough to give the redhead the impression that she’s been hooked. “Yeah?” she says playfully, teasingly. “Didn’t know you were paying that much attention.”
Celeste laughs a little, leaning even closer, and Paige can feel the way her fingers linger on her arm. She plays along, letting herself fall into the conversation, the push and pull of flirtation. It’s easier to think about other things.
But, of course, somehow, her focus still seems to slip.
Over Celeste’s shoulder, Paige catches a glimpse of the dance floor. Her eyes find Jo and Asher almost instantly, like she was looking for them without even realizing it. They’re dancing, their bodies close, their smiles easy. They look happy. They look like they belong together. And it makes Paige want to puke.
She tries to look away, tries to focus on Celeste, on the warmth of her hand still on her arm, on the sharp curve of her smile. But she can’t. Her eyes keep drifting back to Jo, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
And then, suddenly, Jo looks over. Their eyes meet across the room, and Celeste blurs into the background beside Paige like she was never even there. Paige should look away, should stop staring. But she doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked on Jo’s, rooted there.
But then Jo breaks the connection, her gaze shifting away, and Paige is left staring at nothing. She feels an idiotic pang, and forced herself to take another sip of her drink.
Celeste seems to notice, her head turning to follow Paige’s line of sight. Her eyes land on Jo and Asher, and she tilts her head as she turns back to Paige. “Is that Jo’s boyfriend?” she asks.
Paige nods. “Yup. His name’s Asher.” She forces her voice to sound calm and unaffected, even though saying his name feels like she’s choking on something too sharp to swallow.
Celeste hums slowly in response. She pauses for a moment, and Paige can feel her gaze, sharp and curious, boring into her. “So… you and Jo are, like, best friends, right?” Her tone is casual, but there’s something suspicious laced beneath it, like she’s fishing for something Paige doesn’t want to give.
Paige nods again, slower this time, turning her head to glance at Celeste. “Yeah…” she says, the word dragging out of her like it takes effort to say. She wonders where this is going.
“Well,” Celeste begins, tipping her shot glass back and setting it down with a faint clink. “I ask her about you sometimes, and she never really gives me a clear answer. I can tell she tries to be nice to me, but it doesn’t really seem like she likes me much.”
Paige raises an eyebrow at that, her instinct to defend Jo kicking in automatically. “Nah, Jo likes everyone,” she says, waving Celeste off with a dismissive hand. And it’s true—Jo does like everyone.
But Celeste shakes her head, her red hair catching the light. “I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “For a while, I kinda thought you and her were a thing.”
The words hit Paige like a slap, and she chokes on the sip of her Shirley she just took, coughing as she sets her glass down hard on the bar. “What—?” she manages to get out, her voice rough and disbelieving. Her heart is pounding so loudly in her chest she’s sure Celeste can hear it.
Celeste shrugs, her expression almost too nonchalant, like she knows exactly what kind of chaos she’s causing. “Yeah. I mean, I guess I just kinda got that vibe. But if she’s got a boyfriend and we’ve fucked a couple times recently… I guess I was wrong.”
Paige blinks at her, wide-eyed. “You definitely were,” she says quickly, the words tumbling out too fast, too eager to set the record straight. Her face is flushed, and she can feel the heat crawling up her neck. “We’re just friends. Nothing more. At all.”
The words feel heavy in her mouth, bitter and thick. They’re not a lie, no matter how much Paige sometimes wishes it could be.
She doesn’t miss the way Celeste studies her, her green eyes narrowing slightly, like she’s trying to figure out if Paige is telling the truth. Paige hates how exposed she feels, like someone on the outside—someone as far removed as Celeste—can somehow sense the mess of feelings she’s been trying so hard to bury.
She forces herself to take a large gulp of her Shirley, the alcohol doing little to ease the tightness in her stomach. When she glanced back at the dance floor, her eyes automatically searched for Jo, she realizes that she’s—and Asher—are gone from their previous spot.
Her gaze flickers around the bar, scanning the corners, but they’re nowhere to be found. Probably went to go fuck, she thinks bitterly. Even though she has insight now that Asher is basically terrible at it, the idea still makes Paige want to die.
But she doesn’t. Obviously.
Instead, she finishes the last of her drink, turning her attention back to the girl next to her, forcing her signature smirk back onto her lips. Jo’s gone, busy with him, and Paige doesn’t owe anyone anything.
She leans into the conversation, matching Celeste’s flirtation with her own, their banter growing looser and bolder with each drink they down. The alcohol is certainly doing it’s job, blurring the edges of her thoughts, making everything feel distant and less painful.
Unexpectedly, Paige ends up in Celeste’s bed. And, also unexpectedly, she thinks about brown hair and doe eyes during the entirety of it.
JO LIES tangled in the sheets with Asher, her head resting on his bare chest, his arm wrapped around her back. It’s around four, she thinks, and the world outside feels impossibly quiet at this hour, the kind of stillness that comes only in the dead of night. Asher’s fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along her shoulder, his touch featherlight and soothing.
The haze of the night has mostly worn off now—the alcohol burned away by time, replaced by a comfortable clarity that feels almost foreign after hours of noise and chaos. It’s just the two of them now, alone in her room, their breaths in sync, the moment easy and weightless and familiar.
Jo closes her eyes, letting herself drift in the warmth of his presence, but her mind doesn’t quiet as easily as her body does. It’s almost like something beneath the surges won’t let her fully settle. It’s not unease, exactly. Not suspicion. Just… something. A restlessness she can’t name.
“Okay, I gotta piss,” Asher says suddenly, breaking the silence.
Jo snorts, her eyes fluttering open as she turns her head to look up at him. “Way to ruin the moment,” she teases, though her voice is laced with affection.
Asher grind down at her, unapologetic as he shifts, moving to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Nature calls,” he jokes. He starts to stand, but Jo catches his wrist, tugging him back down for just a second.
“Put some clothes on first,” she reminds him. “Paige got back a little bit ago.” She’d heard the door open, the quiet shuffle of footsteps as Paige made her way to her room. It was probably a half an hour ago, maybe less, and Jo had listened, wondering how Paige’s night had gone, whether she’d been alone or gone back with the team or left with Celeste.
Asher groans playfully, leaning down to peck Jo’s lips. “I will, I will,” he promises, his voice low and warm.
Jo rolls her eyes but can’t help the soft laugh truth escapes her. “You’d better,” she says, swatting lightly at his bare chest.
He smirks before gathering his clothes from the floor. Jo watches him for a moment, her head propped on her hand, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. He looks good, his hair messy, his lips still swollen pink from all the kissing. And he’s here—he’s always been hers. She knows she should feel lucky.
When he leaves the bedroom to disappear into the bathroom, Jo sighs and sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The cool air against her skin makes her shiver, so she grabs the first things she can find—a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from her drawer. She pulls them on quickly, then settles back on the bed, folding her legs beneath her as she waits for Asher to return.
The sharp buzz of a phone notification catches her attention, the sound loud in the quiet.
Instinctively, Jo reaches over to the nightstand, assuming it’s hers. She picks up the phone without thinking, the screen lighting up in her hand—and stops short.
The message isn’t hers.
Her heart stills in her chest, her breath halting for a moment as she stares at the screen. Without thinking, she presses on the contact, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling, unraveling everything she thought she knew in an instant.
She doesn’t notice the sound of the bathroom door opening, doesn’t register Asher’s footsteps until they’re right at her bedroom door.
And then she hears his voice, soft and unsuspecting. “What’s wrong?”
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silcoitus · 2 days ago
Note
Erm hello. Idk if this has been requested yet by me or not but….
Silco x reader with a hand fetish maybe? Fingers in her mouth and all yk?
Because this is a request, I am posting the full text. In one month, it will be converted to an AO3 link, so read it here now while you still can!
Practiced Hands
Masterlist | AO3 link
Rating: Explicit���Minors DNI
Tags: Young Silco, f!reader; hand and finger kink, semi-public sex, fingers in mouth, vaginal fingering, dirty talk
Word count: 1.7k
Betas: @juniper-sunny
You've always noticed how dextrous Silco is with his hands; the way he twirls his pencil or fiddles with his butterfly knife. One night, when you have The Last Drop to yourselves, you see just how good his hands truly are.
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He doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Of course he doesn't realize. 
The man just oozes effortless swagger, innate charisma. Every movement is less like a gesture and more like a dance; everything he does somehow elegant.
You busy your hands, wiping down a tumbler with a rag, standing opposite Silco as he pours over his notebook. His eyes are pinned to the page while his elbow rests on the countertop, his butterfly knife twiddling between his long, deft fingers. He flicks it open and spins it around, not even looking at what he's doing. The metallic clatter and the swish of the knife through the air a steady rhythm, almost musical.
“Silco.”
“Hmm?”
He doesn't look up. The knife continues to dance between his fingers.
“You better be careful with that.”
“With what?”
He finally looks up, his hand still moving. Finally, his ocean green eyes look to his knife and back to you. He chuckles lightly before clicking the knife closed with a decisive flourish.
“What? Scared?”
You roll your eyes.
“Not for me. For you.”
“Please,” he says, picking up his pencil. He twirls that just as dexterously. “I can handle it.”
You let out a sigh before setting down the tumbler, throwing the rag over your shoulder and crossing your arms. Hip popped, you watch him return to his work as he idly fiddles with the pencil. 
Those long fingers of his move so quickly, so effortlessly, never once dropping the writing instrument. Something about the movement sends heat to pool in your belly and desire to rise in your chest.
He's been driving you insane ever since you joined the operation. His arrogance and dryness, his hot-one-minute-cold-the-next nature. You can't get a read on him, and yet you can't look away. And if that wasn't enough, the slight pout of his lips is begging for someone to kiss it—or better yet, lick it.
You shake off the thought, turning your back to him. As you tidy up the bar, Silco continues to work silently. A rare comfortable silence between the two of you, save for the jukebox humming lightly in the corner. 
Silco breaks that silence with a soft call of your name.
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing after this?”
“I dunno,” you say without turning around. “Just heading home, I guess.”
You hear Silco stand behind you, the stool squeaking as it spins. His footsteps get closer and closer as he makes his way around the bar to join you. You're reaching up to replace a bottle to the top shelf, standing on your toes, when you feel something at your back. Soon, Silco's hand is on yours, taking the bottle from you.
“Here,” he says, his breath in your hair. “Let me get that for you.”
You turn, your nose brushing against the tip of his with how closely he stands to you. Your eyes dart between his two ocean green ones as his fingers wrap around yours, tugging the bottle free before setting it down.
“There you go,” he hums.
“Thanks,” you whisper, heels returning to the floor, making Silco seem even taller.
His hand lingers on yours, his free one snaking around to your hip. Your heart races in your chest, firelights in your stomach.
“You know,” he coos. “The rest are gone for the night.” His fingers intertwine with yours, bringing your hand down to rest on the counter. “We have the bar to ourselves.”
Your breathing grows shallow, anticipation building behind your ribs.
“That so?”
“Mmhmm,” he hums, guiding your hand so it rests on your stomach, his thumb agonizingly close to the bottom curve of your breast. 
He untangles his fingers from yours, wordlessly instructing with a squeeze to the back of your hand to keep it still. You freeze, keeping your hand steady on your stomach as the pad of his middle finger glides up your shirt between your breasts. 
“I saw the way you looked at me,” he says, voice honey in your ears. “The way you looked at my hand earlier.”
That same hand is wrapping around your neck now, his touch featherlight. Those long fingers cover so much of you and you find yourself lifting your chin as he moves against you. His chest presses into you, and you're certain you can feel the hardened length of him against the swell of your ass. 
But all you can focus on are those fingers now cradling your chin, heading north.
“Did you enjoy it? The way my fingers move?”
His middle and forefinger rest on your left cheek, his thumb coming up to swipe across your bottom lip. 
“Would you like to know how they taste?”
Your hand at your stomach grips the fabric of your shirt tightly now, molten lava sent down to your core.
For a moment, you forget yourself, lost to his touch and voice. It takes you a second to remember he had asked you a question.
“Mmhmm,” you hum, nodding as much as his hand will allow.
His thumb swipes along your top lip now, your mouth hanging open to let out shallow, bated breaths.
“Go on, then,” he coos. “Indulge yourself.”
At that, you stick out your tongue, Silco's thumb coming down to press on it. As soon as he does, you close your mouth around it and suck, tasting the sweat on his skin. You hum around him, not even realizing that your eyes have fluttered closed.
“That's it.”
You drag your teeth across his thumb and he chuckles softly at that.
“How about some more?”
He pops his thumb out, replacing it with his middle and ring finger. You readily accept both, humming as you allow him to press them in as deep as they can go, fingers firm against your tongue.
“How long have you wanted these inside you?” He pulls his fingers back a fraction before sliding them back in. Your thighs press together as you picture that same movement between your legs. “Perhaps as long as I've wanted?”
You whimper around him, dampness growing in your underwear. And if his fingers in your mouth wasn't enough, his other hand is snaking down your hip, moving with purpose toward your navel.
“I should fuck you with my fingers right here in the bar,” he whispers into your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”
You nod, whining a muffled whine.
Eyes half lidded, you feel drunk off him. More drunk than you could ever feel on any drink from the bar. His hand works quickly to undo your belt, fingers deftly unbuttoning your pants.
“How much do you want this?”
Your free hand flies to grab him by the thigh, fingers digging into his pants desperately. 
Right hand still working your mouth, his left dips beneath the waistband of your underwear, gliding down to your mound. And when the pads of his fingers glide through your folds, he finds them absolutely drenched.
You feel completely captive to him, his body encircling you and his fingers playing you like a puppet. Your walls clench around nothing as he massages a circle into your clit.
“Mmph!”
“That's it,” he hums, coating his fingers in your arousal. “Don’t worry. You're in good hands.”
At that, he presses two fingers into you. Your hips buck and your mouth falls open at the touch, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure shoots through you. Your toes clench and you scoot your feet apart, spreading yourself wide for him. His palm grinds against your clit as his fingers in your mouth press down on your tongue, middle and ring finger rolling against it like a steady wave.
You knew his hands were good.
You didn't know they were this good.
You already feel on the edge of ruin, hips shamelessly chasing the curl of his fingers inside you, grinding yourself against him. So blissed out, so overcome by want, you lift your hand from your stomach to grab your own breast, kneading it as you chase your high.
“I love a woman who knows what she wants,” he hums, his breathing almost ragged. He seems to be enjoying watching your undoing as much as you are enjoying experiencing it.
Your name is a prayer of praise on his lips, a quiet secret against skin. And as Silco's fingers continue to curl within you, his chest flush with your back and his palm grinding your clit, you wish this moment could last forever.
Silco shoves a third finger into your mouth, followed swiftly by a third at your core, stretching your walls.
A few more rolls of your hips, a few more curls of his fingers and then—
“Mmph!”
Your walls pulse around his fingers as you come undone, drool escaping out the sides of your lips as you pant and moan through your climax. It's impossible to tell which part of you is wetter with how slick both Silco's hands are. Chest heaving, clit throbbing, you feel as if every cell in your body is singing, crying out in unison one singular word.
Silco.
He eases you through your climax, both sets of fingers matching the rhythm of your spasming walls. And when finally your orgasm slows, he holds you in place, not moving a muscle.
Eyelids heavy, breath ragged, you feel exhausted all over. Silco's fingers remain inside you, a heavy, comforting presence within you. And when he pulls his hands from you, he does so only for a moment before bringing his left hand up to your mouth.
You can smell yourself on him and see the way his fingers glisten with your release. Wordlessly, you open your mouth and Silco pushes each drenched finger inside one by one.
You lazily suck on each of his fingers in turn, cleaning them as you try to piece yourself back together. 
Satisfied, he pulls his last digit free from your mouth and rests his damp fingers on your stomach possessively, both arms curled around you.
It's almost sweet, the way he embraces you.
But as your senses slowly return to you, you can feel the needy press of his crotch to your backside.
His chin tucked over your shoulder, his voice is a low rumble, a deep devilish purr at your ear. Your eyes flutter closed at the sound and warmth fills your body at his words.
“Why don't we continue this upstairs?”
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A/N: Yes, a part 2 is already written 👀 Look forward to it.
Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @constantfragmentation @ariaud @jennrosefx @steponmesilco @leave-me-alone-silco @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @you-never-talk @noposwe @toripandashady @sirenofzaun @22carolina08 @roxnpens @commanderblood @medic-simp @cthezaunite @verdant-onyx @ursawastricked @artwithvivien @edlix @lackofhonor @spoczkot @witchypandamonium @lotus-99 @robin-the-enby @blissfulip @all-that-we-hope-to-be @zaunite-leo @silvia-elaine-hestia @nyx2021 @cccandynecklaces @another-batkid @toogaytofunctiondangit @rinkatai @mollymauksboi @pinklunarprincess | @mutedwordz @fly-like-egyptian-musk @jennithejester @witheringblooddemon @ladymer @redlovett
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thesquidgame · 3 days ago
Text
The Moments After
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Hwang In-ho x wife!reader
Part One Part Two
Summary: In-ho deals with your sudden collapse while you receive treatment.
Warnings: angst, medical emergency, hospital, stitches, blood, viral infection, understaffed hospitals, trauma, violence
Word Count: 2.5k~
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In-ho didn’t know how slowly time could pass before today. Sitting in the sterile white hallway of the hospital, bouncing his knee, staring down at his blood-soaked hands, every minute felt like hours. He always thought that was an exaggeration, but here, in this moment, he knew it to be true. Every now and then he would look up when he thought that at least half an hour had passed, only to find that it had been less than a minute.
After he had run you into the ER, chaos erupted. An entire medical staff instantly swarmed you, asking countless questions, all that he was almost too frazzled to answer. He told them only what he knew; that you had been acting strange lately, what strange behaviors you had, and that he woke up earlier that night to find you throwing up blood. And that you hadn’t stopped since you had started.
After that he could only focus on you, screaming your name over and over again as you blinked your eyes slowly, in a daze of blood loss and whatever had happened to you to make you throw up so much.
And then, the hand he didn’t even realize was gripping yours slipped away from his. A nurse held him back as they wheeled you into a deeper part of the hospital that he couldn’t enter. It was suddenly very quiet. Unlike the insanity that had just happened around him, there was complete and total stillness around him. He was far enough into the hospital that the noises of the ER were inaudible. In-ho never knew how quiet a hospital could be, but between the silence, the white walls, and the glacial pace of time, it felt like he was being tortured.
It had been an hour since he had arrived in the hospital, he only knew because of how often he glanced at the clock before any staff talked to him. 
“Sir? Are your feet alright?” 5 AM, the time he knew the doctors changed shifts in your hospital. The man speaking was young and looked terrified by seeing a 40-year-old man covered in blood sitting in an empty hallway. “Are- are you okay?”
In-ho glanced down to see that tracks of blood were running from his feet. He just noticed the pain. He still didn’t care. “No, I need to know what’s happening to my wife?” He demanded as he stood up.
Shame washed over him. Why hadn’t he asked before? He knew the answer, he didn’t want to talk to anybody, that would make this real.
“Sir, I- I think you need to get some stitches first, your feet look-” 
In-ho made the difference between him and the young doctor. He picked him up by the collar and slammed him against the wall. In-ho didn’t consider himself a violent man, but right now he had no idea what he was capable of. 
“What happened to my wife.” He wasn’t asking, he was demanding.
“I- I think I need to treat your feet fi-” In-ho pushed him further into the wall.
The doctor gulped, “What- what’s her name?”
In-ho let go. “(Y/n) Hwang.”
“Nurse Hwang is your wife?” The doctor looked away.
“Yes.” In-ho had done countless trainings and interrogated countless criminals. He knew when someone was afraid of something. “Why are you looking away from me.”
The doctor started walking away, stammering, “If you come with me, I can help you find out what ha-”
“Don’t walk away from me. What aren’t you telling me.” The doctor stopped in his tracks.
When he turned around, In-ho saw tears on his cheeks. “I’m sorry. We- we didn’t know.”
In-ho stalked towards him, leaving almost no space between him and the younger man. “Didn’t know what.”
“We noticed she was acting strange. We thought- we thought it must just be stress.” He gulped, “and if it wasn’t,” he got quiet, “we didn’t know how to deal with it. We were all so stressed out all the time. We- we didn’t have any time or resources to step in or talk to her about it.”
They knew something was wrong with his wife, but they hadn’t done anything about it. In-ho wanted to grab the doctor and slam him against the wall. But he couldn’t. Hadn’t he done the same exact thing? Hadn’t he been too stressed to prod further about what was happening? In-ho thought that because you were a nurse, you would do something if you thought something was wrong, or talk to him about it. He was just as bad as them. No, he was worse. He was your husband. He was supposed to take care of you, that was what he had sworn to do on the best day of his life, your wedding day.
In-ho wanted to break down. He wanted to collapse and roll into a ball on the ground and cry. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know anything about your condition, he had to figure out what was happening, he had to do something.
In-ho croaked, “What happened to her?”
The doctor silently walked away, sensing what had just happened, and In-ho followed behind. “I’m going to see if anyone can come tell us what happened.” He pressed dials on a phone and called someone. “A doctor will be here soon. The surgery is almost over.”
Surgery? In-ho knew there was a reason that all of the doctors and nurses had rushed away and not come back, but hearing it was different than just simply knowing it.
“Can I look at the cuts on your feet?”
In-ho didn’t respond, just sat down in a chair and put his head in his hands. 
It was another long wait before anyone came out to talk to In-ho, and eventually, a woman and a man came out wearing scrubs, “Mr. Hwang?”
In-ho stood up immediately, staring at the doctor who looked to be the same age as him. In-ho didn’t have to ask the question, the doctor already knew what he was waiting to hear. The other doctor sighed, “She’s alive.”
In-ho let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “My name is Dr. Park, would you like to take a seat?”
He didn’t like that. In-ho knew that tone of voice. He had used the same one at his job when he was giving bad news. “No, tell me now.”
The doctor reached up and took off his surgical cap. “Your wife had a large blood vessel in her esophagus explode, causing internal bleeding. We were able to help correct it using bands in surgery.” The doctor sighed again, as In-ho held his breath. “However, that isn’t the concerning part. There is almost always an underlying condition causing this. We sent a rush blood panel down and found that your wife’s liver results came back abnormal. We believe she has cirrhosis.”
Cirrhosis. He had only heard about this in passing when you were studying for your nursing exams. You had made a stack of notecards at least three feet tall, and he spent weeks quizzing you. In-ho had always had a good memory and was usually able to pick out pieces relating to the disease, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember anything relating to cirrhosis.
“What, what does this mean?” In-ho said, panic exuding through his voice.
“I’d like to talk further when your wife wakes up, it’s best if we discuss with the patient and the patient’s family there.”
In-ho wanted to was rush over and hit this doctor until he told him everything he wanted to know, but his priorities were still on you. He had to conserve his energy, and arguing with the doctor would only take more energy than he had to waste. “Can I see her?”
“Yes, she’s right this way.” This doctor said nothing about the blood In-ho was leaving on the floor. He had been doing this a lot longer than the other one and knew that stitches were the least important thing in In-ho’s mind at this point.
You were lying in the bed, still unconscious from surgery. “We were able to go in laparoscopically, meaning that we put a tube down her throat and operated from there.”
In-ho didn’t care about what that meant, he just rushed to your side and grabbed one of your hands in both of his. Your hands felt cold and clammy, and he looked to your side to see that there was a blood bag attached to your arm next to another one giving you other fluids.
“Is there anyone we can call for you? You were listed as her emergency contact, so we weren’t sure if you had any family you’d like us to call.” The nurse waiting next to Dr. Park asked. 
In-ho didn’t pause, “Yes, my brother.” He realized that he had left his phone in your apartment in his rush to get you to the hospital. He quickly gave Jun-ho’s number and went back to directing his complete and full attention at you.
In a couple of minutes, the young doctor from before came into the room pushing a small metal cart. “Mr. Hwang, can I quickly treat your foot wounds? You won’t have to leave her side. It’s best to do it now so you won’t have to leave her side later if it gets worse.”
In-ho didn’t move, and the doctor took it as a sign to continue. The younger doctor had clearly been lectured on what best to say to the loved one of an injured person. He painstakingly pulled glass piece after glass piece out of In-ho’s foot, washed each cut carefully, and then stitched up each one. He was in miserable pain, but In-ho didn’t move. It was a small dosage of the punishment he deserved for ignoring your illness.
The doctor silently left after he was finished wrapping the wounds, and In-ho continued the self-inflicted torture he put himself through inside his head.
The door burst open, and Jun-ho rushed inside, a nurse hot on his heels. “Sir, you can’t be in here! It’s not visiting hours.”
“It’s 6:45, visiting hours start in 15 minutes,” Jun-ho said, ignoring her further protests to run forward and kneel next to his brother. “In-ho, are you alright? What happened? They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone.” 
“She’s sick. She’s really sick.” In-ho said. 
Jun-ho’s face was shocked. “What are you talking about? How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know. I- I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t think it could be this.” He paused, taking a deep breath, “she had to have surgery. She started…” In-ho shuddered, “she started throwing up blood earlier this morning, and I had to drive her to the hospital.”
Jun-ho didn’t know what to do, or say. His brother was glued to your side, so he couldn’t hug him. They had been through something slightly similar when Jun-ho was 8 and their father had died, but past it both being sick family members, everything else was different. In-ho was 20 when their dad died, and he was the one comforting Jun-ho. Now it was Jun-ho’s turn, and he had no idea how to do it. 
This was his wife. The reason In-ho got out of bed in the morning; you were his entire life. Your wedding date was his passcode, and his lock screen was you on the day you graduated nursing school.
“In-ho, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. Do they know what it is?”
In-ho squeezed your hand tighter, “I don’t know the details, but it’s something with her liver. It’s… It’s bad Jun-ho.”
There was nothing else for Jun-ho to say. No band-aid that could fix it, not call to anyone to change it. He sat down next to his brother, and like In-ho, waited.
It was only a couple of hours before you woke up, dazed and blinking slowly. Your eyes immediately moved towards the man holding your hand, “In-ho?”
Your voice hurt to speak, it felt like there were rusty nails in your windpipe.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” In-ho surged toward you, beginning to stroke your hair with his hand.
“What- what happened?” You saw In-ho’s brother push a button next to your bed.
“What do you remember?” He said, slowly and soothingly.
“I remember feeling sick, and getting up to throw up, and- and that’s it.” You said, blinking in confusion.
In-ho looked like he started to say something before a doctor and a nurse walked into the room, both of them being people you had worked with before. Dr. Park was the nicest doctor in the hospital you thought. He was a man of few words and never sugarcoated anything, but he always took care of his patients' needs. The nurse was a new hire, she was one that you always covered for, and there was a strange expression on her face.
“Ms. Hwang, I’m glad you're awake.” He said, pulling a stool forward that had been in the corner of the room. 
“My husband was just about to tell me what happened.” You said, still confused at what was happening.  You looked up at In-ho, and there was a look of sheer terror on his face, confusing you even further. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
He did his best to wipe that look off his face, but it didn’t really work, “nothing, I just want to hear what the doctor has to say.”
Dr. Park took a deep breath, before explaining something that would change your life forever. “Ms. Hwang, your husband brought you in early this morning after you threw up blood. He told us that you had been having some odd symptoms, and frankly, some of the staff were able to recount some for me as well. We did some blood work, and noticed some unusual things.” You held your breath. “The first thing we noticed, was that you tested positive for Hepatitis C, do you have any knowledge of this?”
You and In-ho were both shocked, “no, I- I had no idea.” 
Dr. Park sighed again, a sound that was quickly becoming foreboding, “Do you have any past use of drugs, any knowledge of any family members carrying the virus, or any contact with used needles.”
And then it hit you, “Yes. When I was in my first month as a nurse I got stuck with a used needle. My boss- my boss told me that it happened to everyone at some time or another and that we were busy and had to move on.” 
In-ho looked at you horrified, “Honey, what does the disease do?” He whispered, addressing you and not the doctor.
But Dr. Park cut in, “It’s a virus that can go away on its own, but other times it can stay in the body symptom-free for decades before showing harmful symptoms. It’s unlikely to be transmitted through sex, but you should get tested as well.”
While the doctor was speaking, the pieces connected in your head. Hepatitis C, vomiting up blood, the symptoms you thought were nothing. “My liver is failing, isn’t it.”
The four other people in the room turned to you. The look on In-ho’s face killed you, so you had to look away and move your glance to Dr. Park.
He stared you in the eyes, and said, “Yes, it is.”
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I'm taking a break from the series, I'll probably write part three after my next fic!
Tags: @bigdaddddyyyyy @kimeungun114 @eviesmoon @jspidey5 @kyl13sm1l3y @watasinekoru @starkeyszn @multifandomgirllol @annasnape7 @sylviavf @foulbreadpaenut @unaaasz @vrystalius @ultimate-simp-10
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chanranghaeys · 2 days ago
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😭
i've been putting off reblogging this because 1) i was busy AS A WORKING GIRLIE, 2) i was busy as a working girlie wishing for CHAN AS MY WORK SPOUSE, and 3) svt con weekend in my country haha
I'm Annotating my going insane because I Want To (below the cut~)
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting your afternoon coffee with Mr. Program Assistant?” 
i hate how kae clocked me for this as a nonprofit programs girlie hate it hate it hate it LOVE IT SO MUCH I COULD CRY. chan would be such a good programs person if he worked hard on it i can See it.
He doesn’t respond verbally, just smiles at you in that way that lights up a whole room. It’s the type of grin that has you forgetting just how bad of a morning you had; you’d lose yourself in it if weren’t for the ominous presence of Vernon a couple of seats down.
wow. wow. just imagine arriving to THIS at the office in the morning. i'd faint on the spot. or just outright kiss him—office etiquette be damned.
Vernon lets out a huff of laughter at Seungkwan’s side. “I’ll bet a dollar that it’s Lee Chan,” says Vernon. Seungkwan responds with a roll of his eyes. “That’s a given.” 
i've always maintained that i'd be so good friends with the maknae line irl as a forever svt maknae line truther. I Love Them.
It’s hard not to laugh when Chan is looking at you like that.
LIKE WHAT CHAN?? LIKE WHAT??
“Hey, Lee Chan, where’s your work wife?” Chan doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s in a meeting with finance,” he answers without even looking up from his keyboard. 
i swear to have someone just know intimate details like this about you god i swear how was this not a giveaway???
“Well, tell her that we hope she gets better soon,” the CEO says coolly. A corner of her lip is upturned, like she’s finding this entire interaction a little too amusing.
sorry it's so funny to me that the ceo seems privy to these things seemingly evident in these little actions but of course she won't let anyone know about it my god it's so accurate imo
And, alright, fine. Maybe your knees knock into each other more often than not. Maybe Chan puts a hand over your ear whenever he wants to point something out, and maybe you lean in just a little more than necessary. 
these small details gaaaahh me me me it's me i would so do this
“Of course it’s important!” Chan’s always been a little louder when he’s drunk, so his voice raises an octave or two.
CHAN IS ALSO ME I SWEAR
But the moment the corner has been rounded, Chan is sagging against your side like he’s wanted to the entire night. “Oh, thank God,” your boyfriend sighs. “I didn’t think I’d survive another minute without touching you.”
/kinilig/ 🫠
You’re not sure if he’s entirely right— you know of Vernon’s whole iPhone note, after all— but you’re willing to indulge your boyfriend if it makes him happy.  “Yeah,” you concede. “They don’t know a thing.” 
something about vernon being the one to list all of this down makes me feel like he's doing this in tandem with seungkwan. or maybe a bet to see who will come up with a list first. idk. it's fun to imagine really.
this whole fic made me so warm inside my little fuzzy and fluffy heart. thanks kae for this wonderful little gift huhu bless u forever ✨
the way of the work husband 📋 chan x reader.
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going back to work after the holidays sucks, but at least you've got your 'work husband' lee chan to get you through it.
★ office worker!chan x f!reader. ★ word count: 1.8k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: office, alternate universe: co-workers, fluff/romance. vernon is a menace (affectionately). not proofread. ★ footnotes: been itching to write chan lately and this was the result. dedicating this to my favorite corporate girlie!dinonara @chanranghaeys, who i have been threatening a chan fic with for a little over a week now ෆ sana all may lee chan sa office. 😔 + a special shoutout to @diamonddaze01 for educating me on the how work spouses operate. 🙏
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“Is Lee Chan, like, your work husband or something?” 
The look on Vernon’s face is perfectly innocent, but his arched eyebrow gives some indication of just how amused he is. You shoot him a scathing glare before turning back to your work-sanctioned laptop. 
You don’t answer Vernon’s question. Not at first, anyway. Instead, you opt to wryly ask, “Why do you always have to use his full government name whenever you’re talking about him?” 
“Eh. Just ‘Chan’ is too short,” Vernon responds noncommittally. He should be focusing on the grant that he has to write, but he seems intent on quizzing you on your relationship with the company’s newest program assistant. 
Vernon leans a little further into his computer chair. He’s always been a pretty amicable seatmate; he just liked to poke the bear every so often. 
“So?” he prompts. “Are you and Lee Chan… you know.” 
When Vernon makes a vague, crude gesture with his hands, you groan out loud. “Don’t make it weird,” you snap. “And no. Chan and I are just friends, asswipe.”
“But you guys display peak work spouse behavior.” 
“Aren’t you supposed to be grant writing?” 
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting your afternoon coffee with Mr. Program Assistant?” 
Vernon’s rebuttal has you glancing at the digital clock on your desk. Shit. 
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you say as you grab your wallet and get to your feet. You hate to admit it, but Vernon is right. You’ve started dedicating your fifteen-minute afternoon breaks to cafeteria trips with Chan. 
All in the name of friendship, you insist.
“‘Course it doesn’t,” Vernon sing-songs. Just when you think he’s done, he throws in a final jab. 
“I’ll have an itemized list of my observations,” he calls after your retreating back. “Just you wait!” 
You don’t turn around to dignify Vernon’s taunt with a response. Instead, you flip him off over your shoulder as you contemplate what coffee to get with Chan today.
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Rarely are you late to work. Some mornings are just harrowing, littered with minor inconveniences like your alarm not going off or the bus making one too many stops. 
When you finally make it to the office, you can already imagine the CEO’s backhand comment about punctuality. Something like ‘early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable,’ probably. 
That’s why you feel an immense pang of relief when you notice a vacant seat near the back of the room, one that you undoubtedly know is yours. 
You make your way to the chair as discreetly as you can. The bag atop it is taken off the moment that you arrive, and you flash an appreciative grin at the one who made it possible. 
Chan— who is already shifting his bag onto his lap— gives you an exaggerated wink in return. 
You mouth a wordless ‘thank you’ at him. He doesn’t respond verbally, just smiles at you in that way that lights up a whole room. It’s the type of grin that has you forgetting just how bad of a morning you had; you’d lose yourself in it if weren’t for the ominous presence of Vernon a couple of seats down.
The meeting grabs your attention soon enough, but not before you notice Vernon inconspicuously typing something into his phone. 
☑ You always sit next to each other at meetings
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“Who’re you texting?” 
“Hm?” 
“Hellooo! Pay attention to me!” 
There’s a guilty expression on your face as you finally glance up at Seungkwan. “Sorry,” you say meekly. “What were you asking?” 
Vernon lets out a huff of laughter at Seungkwan’s side. “I’ll bet a dollar that it’s Lee Chan,” says Vernon. 
Seungkwan responds with a roll of his eyes. “That’s a given.” 
“Yah,” you begin to protest, ready to justify the way you’ve only been half-present throughout your entire lunch break. 
Your attempt falls flat when your phone pings, and the screen lights up. 
One (1) new text from Channie. 🦖LOLOL I have the perfect reel for this!! Wait a minute~~ 💖💙
Seungkwan scoffs. Vernon snickers. 
Your eye twitches, and you shoot back a text underneath the table in a bid to avoid your friends’ teasing. 
☑ You message each other all day long
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It’s hard not to laugh when Chan is looking at you like that. 
Despite the fact that there’s a whole brainstorming session going on— preparation for the company’s next fundraising event— the two of you can’t help your silent communication. 
Especially when Soonyoung starts running his mouth about the fundraiser potentially being tiger-themed. 
One glance is all it takes. Chan’s lips are drawn into a thin line, and you know he’s also trying his darndest not to laugh. It’s a mammoth effort to hold back yourself, but you manage— not wanting to suffer from your eccentric boss’ line of questioning. 
It’s all free game once the session ends, though. 
You make a beeline for Chan. He takes one look at your quirked lip before jerking his head towards the door, urging the two of you to have this discussion somewhere you won’t be lynched.
Still, you and Chan can barely resist your peals of laughter as you leave the meeting room with your heads bowed together. Vernon watches with bemusement as the two of you trade incoherent mumblings about Tigger and Pompompurin. 
Not that Vernon has any idea what those have to do with anything. 
☑ You exchange knowing glances from across the room ☑ You share inside jokes about work and life
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“Hey, Lee Chan, where’s your work wife?” 
Chan doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s in a meeting with finance,” he answers without even looking up from his keyboard. 
A corner of Vernon’s lip twitches upward. Aha. 
Chan seems to pick up on Vernon’s smug silence. The younger boy’s head snaps up, his expression quickly becoming guarded. “Not my work wife,” Chan sputters. “Just— I knew where she was, okay?” 
“Riiight.” 
There’s a redness in the tips of Chan’s ears as he goes back to the Google Doc he’d been slaving away on. Vernon doesn’t say anything more, but he does feign like he’s texting someone instead of adding to his ever-growing list.
☑ Your other colleagues wonder where the other’s at when you’re not together
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It’s a bit of an epilogue in its own right, how Chan is the one to know why you’re out for the morning.
The CEO had asked it mostly as a rhetorical question— has anyone seen her?— but Chan’s easy answer has the meeting coming to a stuttering halt. 
“She got stuck at her dentist’s appointment,” he says. 
Several pairs of eyes turn to Chan. The look on his face is comically caught.
He fumbles for his phone and waves it around awkwardly. “We were texting,” he adds hastily. “That’s why I know.” 
How that was supposed to help Chan’s case, Vernon has no idea. 
“Well, tell her that we hope she gets better soon,” the CEO says coolly. A corner of her lip is upturned, like she’s finding this entire interaction a little too amusing. 
Chan manages a mumbled “Will do.” 
The meeting pushes through. Vernon watches Chan from the corner of his eye. Aside from looking absolutely mortified, there’s just a bit of dullness to the latter’s demeanor. A slower uptake, a dimmer grin. 
Gee, Vernon muses as he types away on his laptop. Wonder why. 
☑ You’re kind of bummed when they’re out of office ☑ You cover for each other when one is MIA
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Vernon’s running list is a fun little gig, but it all comes to head on the evening of the company’s monthly night out.
The table at the speakeasy is full of boisterous laughter and greasy finger food. Everyone’s in high spirits for the upcoming weekend, and Vernon has to hold back on teasing those who he thinks are having just a little too much fun. 
You and Chan have spent much of the evening acting like you’re in your own world. Sure, you’re not touching each other— this is technically a work event, after all— but you’ve shared laughter and whispers throughout the night that nobody else is privy to. 
And, alright, fine. Maybe your knees knock into each other more often than not. Maybe Chan puts a hand over your ear whenever he wants to point something out, and maybe you lean in just a little more than necessary. 
It’s obvious to anybody with two eyes that you two are fond of each other. That much is certain.
That’s what gives Vernon the boost of confidence to play wingman by the end of the night. 
“You know,” he says coolly as your group spills out onto the sidewalk. “I think the two of you live in the same neighborhood.” 
What Vernon is scheming is plain as day to you. You narrow your eyes at him, but he’s undeterred. He only smiles at you and Chan like the menace that he is. 
Chan, for his part, raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. He glances at you with a quizzical expression. 
“You’ve never mentioned that.” He raises his hand to his chest, as if feigning hurt at being kept in the dark. 
A snort of laughter escapes you. “Didn’t feel like it was particularly important information,” you say dryly. 
“Of course it’s important!” Chan’s always been a little louder when he’s drunk, so his voice raises an octave or two. “‘Cause that means we can carpool together, or, like, y’know—” 
Vernon interrupts with a sage, “You can probably book the same cab for tonight, actually. Make it a double stop.” 
Chan’s face lights up. “Great idea, man!” 
Before you can protest, Chan is already whipping out his phone to pull up his ride-hailing app. This is not a battle that you’re going to win. 
All the while, Vernon grins triumphantly. 
☑ You go home together after happy hour 
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“Can we—” 
“Shhh. No, not yet.” 
“But nobody’s looking!”
“Wait until we’ve rounded the corner, idiot—” 
And so he does. 
But the moment the corner has been rounded, Chan is sagging against your side like he’s wanted to the entire night. “Oh, thank God,” your boyfriend sighs. “I didn’t think I’d survive another minute without touching you.” 
You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. The feeling is mutual, though, so you reach out to rest your hand on his knee.
“Commendable self-control tonight,” you note. “All the whispering was a little too obvious, though.” 
Chan huffs in protest, but the sound loses its edge as he cuddles up to you in the back of the cab. “No one suspects us. It’s just Vernon,” he complains. 
“And Seungkwan,” you say. “And Jeonghan, and Minghao, and Wonwoo—” 
Your boyfriend gives a dismissive wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter.” His hand rests on top of yours, just barely resisting the urge to intertwine your fingers. “They don’t know a thing about us, sweets.” 
The smile threatening to fill your face finally breaks. When you laugh, your shoulders shake against Chan’s body. You’re not sure if he’s entirely right— you know of Vernon’s whole iPhone note, after all— but you’re willing to indulge your boyfriend if it makes him happy. 
“Yeah,” you concede. “They don’t know a thing.” 
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ethtyn · 10 hours ago
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LET'S GO OUT WITH A BANG 🚦
taglist:
@ashiyn @single-malt-scotch @goodtimeswithetho @pebbltree @crabbunch @catmaidetho @amethyst-allium @stitchthesewords
sooooo ermm i guess i get to talk about this piece now YIPPEE
i am one of those people who's constantly trying to figure out what their own art style looks like LMFAO. i take frequent breaks from art due to mental health shit so it feels like every time i come back i'm trying to find my footing again.
that being said, i had a lot of caffeine yesterday and started this on a whim and it ended up being something i'm incredibly proud of. i think it helps that i've been redrawing old emotes for a friend's twitch channel, so figuring out which brushes i like right now was really helpful, and i ended up using my personal emote palette like...a lot. that pink in Etho's eye, the purple used for shading, most of the browns are all used in my own emotes. it's wild how much having colours already picked out streamlines things!
Etho is the one i started with, of course, and ended up being one that i went back to re-draw after i'd done...three? or four? more, because the sizing wasn't right and i wasn't happy with the posing. i still wish i could have conveyed him dipping his chin into his coat fluff a little better, but oh well. i thought of the little detail of him looking at Martyn's drawing at the last second (#ethtyn4life) and it made me laugh so i did it. points to you if you caught that!
Joel was the second - life!Joel has always been fey in my head, especially after that season when he just went batshit insane the second he turned red. can't explain it, that's just how it be. i tried to give him an air of subtle menace about him but i think he just looks sleepy 💀 i'd like to do these as individual, larger pieces at some point, so maybe i can work on that more then.
Grian was the third - he reminds me of a Lost Boy here and that wasn't intentional but the Lost Boys always kind of freaked me out and life!Grian's kinda freaky so i think it fits. his little smirk is so creepy and i love him.
i don't remember who i did next after this so we'll just go in order pfft
Bdubs is SO CUTE look at him. one of the few where i couldn't make a menacing expression work, and honestly with how good his profile turned out i barely mind. i did that side profile with no reference, y'all, idk what kind of crack i was on last night. what the hell. this was about the point where i started wanting to do little lore doodles for everybody so i added the clock face - i think it clashes with the red background but what can you do.
CLEOOOOOO CLEO CLEO. i LOVED drawing them, i think their design is one of my favourites of the bunch. her hair has always been snakes in my head and AGAIN i drew those with no reference, can you fucking believe that. i loved the little detail of some of the snakes poking at the people next to her, they're so cute hehe. also Cleo has freckles now, i'm so sorry but i don't make the rules. someone complimented the teeth in the reblogs and THANK YOU!! they're not quite anatomically correct but fuck it we ball and they look cool as hell anyway.
Martyn is so smug, i love him. points if you caught that he's looking at Cleo bc Double Life, i wanted to do something a lil different with him than just another straight up symmetry tool drawing and i think it fits. he is so eye-searing tho sir please tone it down.
Lizzie is fey just like her husband, and also she is smol. i don't think it's conveyed as well as i'd like here but i also didn't want her to look like a straight-up child so i did what i could. she is So Scary with those vacant blue eyes oh my god. and drawing her hair was sooooo fun i love long hair ahh
with Gem i basically smoothed out a rough design sketch i posted awhile back and i'm so proud of the little head cock she's got going on, she looks so cool. also her hair?? idk how i did that. i love her swoopy bangs so much.
Pearl is moth. Pearl will always be Moth. so she got lil antennae and big buggy eyes. drawing that hood was so satisfying, i used to try and draw Raven Teen Titans in high school and could never get the hood to look right so seeing this one come out perfectly was sooooo good. and of course had to include a teensy moon.
that's all i've got, i think - i feel myself crashing LMFAO. maybe at some point i'll come back and say more but here's this for now!
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bambi-kinos · 9 hours ago
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Sorry for taking so long on this post, I've been writing it in my head for weeks trying to figure out how to phrase everything. But umm I think Paul was in a bath tub when he was taking certain photos of John.
So the book itself is divided into sections based on location. There's a London section, a Paris section, then they go to New York and then on to Miami, etc. The London section is really interesting and the photos are very revealing IMO. I definitely recommend getting your hands on a physical copy, your local library may have it. This is something you should experience physically because uh. There's a lot of John in here. To me at least it's very obvious how deeply in love Paul was with John.
So imagine for a minute that you're Paul McCartney, and you're in London, England with your best mate.
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The way that journalists are treating this set of photos makes me feel a little insane because so many of them are saying "this is John and Paul backstage!" Y'all, this is not John and Paul backstage. This is John and Paul in their hotel room. Alone.
First off let's look at this:
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Here's John shaving the stubble off his face. Sunglasses still on; John had prescription sunglasses so if he's wearing these then his contacts are not in. Look at the background of this photo:
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John's in the way here but that is a set of curtains in a hotel room! You can tell from the horizontal bar on top, those are to hold the black out curtains. And another thing: I think these are John and Paul's suitcases sitting on top of a wardrobe. Not entirely sure about that though since the image is so grainy.
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At this point John has taken off his sunglasses, he's brushing his teeth and has washed his face. Again, look at the background:
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This is a medicine cabinet, a storage feature in bathrooms to keep toiletries safe from the humidity caused by a bath and/or shower. I don't know how common these are anymore:
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What I find interesting about this sequence of photos is that John first pulls a funny face for Paul:
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But then something grabs his attention:
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Spits out the toothpaste:
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And then off John nyooms...making soft eyes at Paul no less.
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Pay close attention to the background on this photo! We're seeing the hotel window from another angle, the horizontal strip at the top is the tell:
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I outlined the horizontal strip on the curtain and then drew lines on the dips in the fabric so you can compare it to the OG photo:
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Paul is utilizing an interesting run-and-gun style of camera shooting here, he's got John tilted and at an angle that puts John over Paul. Unconsciously signaling something? Let's move on...
According to this strip...
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...this is the next photo in the sequence:
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Again calling attention to more interesting details here:
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John's tie is missing and his shirt is undone. And that looks like a towel in his hands. He's turning in for the night.
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2. John is standing in front of a reinforced door which are common in hotels but are not common in dressing rooms:
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3. This photo is itself a reflection of John's face that Paul has taken in a mirror, maybe a vanity mirror. Someone in the McLen discord server said it was too small to be a vanity mirror and I'm inclined to agree, so maybe it's a compact or hand mirror propped up on the sink.
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So what does this mean? I think that John and Paul were getting ready for bed, someone knocked on the door, and John went to answer it. You'd think Paul would but for some reason he didn't. Oh and another thing...check out the four jackets in the mirror:
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They're definitely hanging from something so John and Paul were looking out for the suits that night.
Next in the sequence, John is back at the sink washing up. Check out the hotel window curtain being reflected in the mirror there!
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Then something kind of odd happens...John is seen coming back and re-entering the shot again? Through out Eye of the Storm Paul emphasizes a lot of duality with John, including a shot where John reflects on his own sculpted face. Paul was very interested in John doing performing the act of reflection on his own face:
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But here's the really interesting bit and what makes me think Paul was naked in a bathtub when he took these last two photos:
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Y'all, that's the fluffy fringe of a towel! You can tell that the threads are hanging down from it! These are very different from the clean lines of the curtain or the medicine cabinet or even the lines of their suit jackets! Paul was sitting in or on the edge of the bath tub when he took these photos of John! He wrapped a towel around his camera to protect it from getting wet! Cameras are generally made for right handed people so when Paul had his finger on the button on the right hand side. That means Paul keeping his finger on that button pushed the edge of the protective towel over the lens!
So I submit to you Paul McCartney's Eye of the Storm, where he submitted a film strip where he was staying in a hotel room with John and was most likely nude and bathing when he took John's photographs! Someone knocked on the door to get their attention while Paul was naked so John answered the door for them, while Paul followed him a little. John was enjoying having Paul right there for him too:
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PLEASE get Eye of the Storm, it's such a great book and there's so much in it. Paul lets the pictures speak for themselves and wow they have one hell of a story to tell!
@perasperaadastratoday
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demolitionsweetheart · 20 hours ago
Text
Relationship headcanons
Knuckles the echidna x reader
(Written with mobian reader in mind but can be human!)
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✫Knuckles is obviously very protective,  whether they really need protection or not.. He'll always defend them even if it not be much of a threat..>_<
✫Knuckles would be more drawn to those who are physically strong(or mentally), or someone who won't quit easily. He'll respect and admire that in his partner˃̵ᴗ˂̵
✫The warriors love language would be acts of service and words of affirmation. He'll bring her food, fix thing for her, defends her.. Like standing guard-really for no reason but he's adamant he will always protect her.
✫If his partner is physically strong he'll always praise them during training/combat. If not, he'll train her and congratulate her at any achievements.
"Yes! You're almost as strong as I am!.... Almost.. "
✫Knuckles wouldnt know how to deal with jealousy.. Either mope around or outright and very bluntly confront his new found rivalry.
"Are you attempting to seduce MY partner"
-That would also make him kind of big on PDA
✫Because he's rather old-fashioned, if his partner has a specific style or aesthetic, like ghoth, knuckles would try to match with her and he's rather adamant(so cute.. However it would go very well)
Reader: ".... Knuckles why are you wearing eyeliner"
Knuckles: "it is your battle armor, is it not?"
✫Additionally, knuckles would worship her like a goddess.. He's not very good at expressing his feelings so it always comes out blunt but he never hesitates to share his thoughts.. She could be rambling about something but he's too caught up with her eyes. "Your eyes are very striking" he'd say, only to quickly add "continue". Hes so insanely loyal. The idea of another woman wouldn't even cross his mind. To him no one else would ever compare to her.≧∇≦
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Thank you for reading!
Requests are open!
Dividers from @pixxiecup
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daechwitatamicrecs · 13 hours ago
Text
A repost of my original feedback!
okay let me tell you (collective) all the things i love about this fic: (read more for spoilers)
the world / the cyberpunk of it all / the background of the Syndicate and the many ways the setting affects the story and the characters - it all spiderwebs out and touches everything and it is done SO masterfully. your characters are who they are because of the world that shaped them and you see the potential for them to be somebody else, somebody softer, but that's not the hand they were dealt. also the little futuristic touches were so subtle but made this SO visceral and immersive, reading this fic is like a whole experience that i can picture and feel like i'm walking through
the way you use bracketing and call-backs, the way everything is cyclical and comes back later, but when it comes back it's turned sideways........ insane work. INSANE work inside that brain. i think the most obvious example of this is the jump / how high refrain but there are SEVERAL MORE through here that i yelled about in the doc and they are all!!! so!!!!
This big brother Seungcheol makes me INSANE he's such a minor character throughout this but every time he shows up it's like !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THERE HE IS and you can see the beginnings of a very Zaddy character and i am readyyyyyyyyyyy for his installment!!!!
the bracketing of funerals (his to hers) and the difference in those scenes but also they way they are a pillar for each other and how even though he "hates" her (we know the truth kwon soonyoung) he's still gonna hold her up
WORD CHOICE, BITCH. specifically the "not to ME" and "i NEED you to fight back" BOTH SO SO SO SO DELIBERATE AND THEY DO SOOOOOOOOOOO MUCH WITH ONE LITTLE WORD IT CHANGES THE WHOOOOOOLE MESSAGE IF YOU'RE PAYING ATTENTION like?????????
"Do it even if you can’t tell me where you are. I’ll find you." - i can't believe you did this to me. to me, personally.
the recurring themes of the two sides of her family are masterclass. that's all.
the way you write people experiencing and moving through emotions is so well done. like. rereading the breakup scene, they both go through the rise and ebb of explosion to honest emotion to resolve but they do it in different ways and you feel both and RAHH. it is SO well done.
the scene of her panic attack? miss hali he is BONKERS???? WHO DOES THAT???? idc if it worked he could have done a million things and THAT was his choice???? lmfaoooo WILD. ABSOLUTELY WILD.
EVERY SINGLE THING that happens from when she wakes up and her shit is gone. EVERY single thing. the way hoshi responds. you know he fucking flew there, didn't even change out of his pajamas lol. the fight scene was everything. the bracketing again and how her thoughts spiral the same way as to when it was "i love him" and later when she's in the shower thinking of how she hurt him for nothing.
ANGEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! get you a friend who will break a strangers ribs for flirting with your man and get in a shower with their shoes on just because SOMEONE needs to hold you!!!!
THE SOFTNESS OF THE ENDDDDD :( :( :( :( i love them so much :( :( :(
i genuinely cant wait for the rest of these and i will harass you until have them OKAY BYE
Baby (k.sy)
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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.  
Word Count: 29,988
Genre: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers
Type: 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.
Warnings: 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.
Main Masterlist | The Syndicates Collection | Tag List Request Form | Ask | Playlist
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!
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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.” 
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“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?” 
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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?” 
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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. 
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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.”
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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.” 
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“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.”
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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.” 
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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. 
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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.
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“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. 
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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?”
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“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.” 
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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.” 
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TAG LIST
@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @thepoopdokyeomtouched @avochele @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @abibliolife @idubiluranghae @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld
If you do not see your tag here, it didn't work.
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SYNDICATE ROLES
Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydicate boss 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
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Seen a few 'maturity is realising that it's not a look of love' videos on Instagram re: 457, and while I do realise it is Not That Deep, I nonetheless have THOUGHTS
The crux of those thoughts is this: has fandom's view of shipping narrowed so far that unless two characters are mashing their faces together on-screen, it's immature to interpret the text contrary to what we assume the creator's intention was?
With this ship specifically, let's start with the obvious: the actors have insane chemistry. This is true whether you see the characters' bond as platonic, romantic, antagonistic, or something else. They are very obviously comfortable and friendly with one another in real life, and this translates into an intense on-screen relationship between Gi-hun and In-ho (and I'm sure this is exactly what the director did want, because, newsflash, this is our protagonist/antagonist duo).
I do think it's valid to ship something based purely off the actors' chemistry, but the comment is obviously referring to the characters themselves in the context of the story, so let's address that too.
There's a clear motivation for the way In-ho stares at Gi-hun, follows him around, and generally tries to insert himself into his life, and this is what these posts are referring to. He's testing his ideology, he's watching how he's affected by the horrific things that are happening around him, and to help him do this, he's ensuring that Gi-hun trusts and likes him. It's important if he wants to prove to him that the world is unchangeable, and humanity irredeemable.
And because of that, it's not the 'look of love'. Case closed?
Well, no.
Because there is so much nuance and depth that you're failing to explore, if a look can only mean one thing.
Because why does In-ho bother? Why is Gi-hun worth his time and interest? In-ho - via the games - has access to resources that far far outweigh the money Gi-hun won. He could prevent him from finding the island forever. He could just have him shot tbh. He's not really a credible threat - at most, he's a minor annoyance, because people need to be paid off every so often to prevent him getting too close.
Just through this detail, we can deduce that In-ho cares, in some way. He is interested enough to want to change Gi-hun's mind, when it would be so much easier to... not. Is it love? It's certainly fascination. And I don't think it can be argued that he brought him back for the VIPs' entertainment and not his own, because Gi-hun was searching for three years before In-ho let himself be found. And even when he's found, it's Gi-hun who suggests going back into the games.
So these stares - yes, he's testing him, but he's doing it because he wants to. They denote genuine interest. How did this guy retain his hope and faith in humanity? How can I prove to him that my view is correct?
And I'm very much not saying that a romantic interpretation is 'correct', because fiction should be interpreted however the audience sees fit, but what is love (in all its forms) if not wanting to know someone and be known by them?
This is even more compelling to me when we take into account In-ho's backstory, which we learn a bit more about in season 2. Because he and Gi-hun are so similar, except in the way they've used their trauma to interpret the world. Which just adds to the evidence that In-ho would be fascinated by this man, be determined to know him and to change his mind.
What I'm saying with all this isn't that 457 is canon, and that anyone who says otherwise is media illiterate. What I'm saying is that the real immature interpretation is one that's surface level, be that interpretation 'uwu he loves him' or 'he's PLOTTING evil things'.
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galactic-knightmare · 2 days ago
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Random Aible Information before I go to bed for ya'll >:3
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(plus a small section of his finished ref since I haven't showed it yet(it still has spoilers)) I'll put it under the cut :3 (not the spoilers, but the info. ya'll ain't gettin spoilers)
Aible's very had to guess the emotions of- his expression always looks either bored or angry, and its impossible to tell for most people. Kinger (and Queenie, depending on if I bring her back or not) can kinda guess, with Pomni having a vague idea of a guess, but aside from that no one can fucking tell. Caine meanwhile, just needs to glance at Aible to tell whats going on in his head. Aible doesn't like being touched by people. he's more than happy to manhandle someone if he needs to (usually its Jax, since he's the resident troublemaker) but if someone initiates the touch then he is not happy at all. He'll just barely tolerate some of the cast (mostly Zooble and Ragatha) and He's alright-ish with Kinger, Queenie, and Pomni, but that's mostly because they always make sure to ask first, and he tolerates(likes) them more. Caine meanwhile could use him as a jungle gym and he wouldn't bat an eye. Caine can get away with a lot of stuff with Aible compared to everyone else honestly. He could pop Aible's head off of his body and Aible would still only be mildly annoyed with him. (Everyone else who tries this-coughJaxcough- would get punted into the sun(or the moon, Aible isn't picky)) Aaaaannd to finish it all off, heres his relationships/opinions of everyone Ragatha : He's alright with her. She tries to keep the peace and he respects that. Zooble : Their willing to call Jax out on his bs, and he appreciates that. He also likes how blunt they can be. Gangle : He doesn't really have that many thoughts on her. He likes that she doesn't cause trouble though. Jax : Probably the only person he hates, or at least kinda hates. Jax is a troublemaker and Aible doesn't like rulebreakers. (a ship between these two would be so fucking funny though) Sun : Shes a bit too talkative for his liking, so he kinda just tolerates her. Moon : He likes how quiet she is, but aside from that he's mostly neutral towards her. Bubble : He's a terror that breaks things, but he's also Caine's right-hand man and bff, who helps him with everything, so its... complicated. Pomni : He likes her. She always tries to help, regardless of how nervous she is. He just gets worried when both her and Caine get stuck in a dissociation episode with eachother... Kinger : He respects the chess piece a lot. If it wasn't for Kinger, then things could've been a lot worse... Queenie (once again, if I bring her back) : He likes her. she's calm, but she's also fun. not to mention she's really good at calming everyone down when they start panicking. Caine : Overprotective to an extreme. Caine annoys him and drives him insane sometimes, but fuck anyone who tries to hurt the gremlin. This is HIS chaotic Anxiety twin, thank you very much.
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sugar-petals · 3 days ago
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Hi again caro 🌟 you know how cillian murphy is being compared to yoongi and vice versa (they share aries/ashwini placement in their big 3 in vedic ), the ketuvian eye / deadpan look but actually being softies on the inside . Plus cillian's face is 100%female and 100% male got me wondering if he's a classic type (same amount of yin /yang) or maybe a gamine like yoongi cause that man always looks young ! Thanks !
cillian's kibbe type | analysis
i endlessly deliberated on his image ID way before, too, he's such a tough case — but hear me out: i'm nominating soft classic.
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TR and FG being his only other options of highly androgynous types imo. i'll narrow it down ("crossing out" method, below) maybe we can find some consensus. so:
he consistently dresses pure classic off the screen, at least that i am sure of. symmetrical, standard tailoring, mid-contrast colors. goes in the right direction. well-fitted, puts emphasis on his face. not THE spectacular outfit, sometimes too stark, but pure classic works for his body shape. reversely, C does not fit pure romantics and all naturals because of their rounded/blunt shoulders bulking out the sharp edge. but for cillian, the standard tux, easy. the more dapper, the better for him.
CROSSING OUT: R, FN, SN, N. (9 possible types left!)
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2. now, he got famous for characters that dress dramatic classic (peaky blinders, scarecrow, oppenheimer...), but i think those lines are too long/drowning from a distance and without movie magic. yes, the warm tone of the right coat contributes as clashing since he's cool-toned. but proportion-wise, and at 5'7, all yang-dominant types disqualify for him anyway. too large, wide, boxy.
CROSSING OUT: D, SD, DC. (6 possible types left!)
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3. then again, cillian being such a renowned classic dresser and directors agreeing says something. nolan always shows him as a C! it is his thing. but: we have to accommodate that cillian's not in a yang height range, and an androgynous face calls for androgynous fashion. put him in a masculine-coded Natural styling (scruffy beard, loose outfit & hair, bulky fabric), it's a disaster. proves how we crosses out N for him early. it needs more yin.
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4. puzzlingly... he can do some dramatic lines, even as a smaller guy. that means he's either TR, or an FG, or some classic that can handle a tailored silhouette. Cs are notoriously style chameleons as long as a frame is kept. see my dilemma? 😭 it can go either way.
he looks awesome in that matrix-type dramatic ID fashion, hair sleek, colors dark, sharp edges. maybe he's a true winter or true summer, that's why D colors are fine with him. at least we can exclude pure gamine and soft gamine because they crave the line break and more pizzazz. pure C is also overwhelmed by anything that goes off balance. subtypes are more flexible.
CROSSING OUT: C, SG, G (3 possible types left!!)
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finally, why are TR, FG, SC my top 3 picks? because they all combine shorter height with a mix of "feminine and masculine" essence/lines. he has to be among these 3.
5. i see why any gamine is a viable option generally, cillian being short. but i think it's too much for him to pull off, and people hardly perceive him as petite and cute and moon-faced. for yoongi, that's immediately obvious. most SGs have a face like a young romantic type. worlds apart from cillian's insane jaw/cheekbones.
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cillian looks too sophisticated, mature, structured, sexual, otherworldly for SG. not sweet, baby-like, cute. classics age gracefully and especially "like fine wine" as well, it's not limited to G types. much like D becomes more dignified with age and truly grows into their severe, tall look, or N types gain even more rugged charm, etc.
style-wise... G color blocks, stripes, details, all seemingly turn him into someone else. the gamine hair chop is unflattering, too. patterns transform him into another person. gamine fashion is a mixed bag on cillian, while soft classic never misses.
CROSSING OUT: FG
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6. cillian's height does say G or R, and yes i know, many type him TR. i could agree with it; but still, his figure isn't full/soft/fully rounded (R) or compact (G) enough in my opinion. TR does have some chiseled D characteristics like him, but you have to see softness and curve first, as with all romantics.
compare jimin or billy dee williams (R), such a different vibe! R and TR are sexiness machines. more rounded thighs, nothing works without waist emphasis, rounded chest area, figure 8 body, more rounded nose and romantic curls, the list goes on! cillian's body type is also short like that, but not as curve-dominant, but balanced (shoulders, legs, waist all line up and are straighter = balanced = classic).
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question is, does cillian's extreme dieting interfere here so he's harder to type? styling-wise, i do think TR clothing is something else on him, but it steals the limelight or overdefines his face. i also feel like waist definition isn't 1000% paramount for him. plus, kibbe writes for TR: "Stiff fabrics, straight lines, and geometry are to be avoided at all costs!" — While Cillian easily dresses best in exactly that 😂 (WOW!)
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imo TR also ages him unfairly, and all you look at is the ornaments, not him. soft classic is still a romantic-influenced subtype, yes, so it does flatter him, below is a memorable look, don't get me wrong. but it takes the focus. i only see how fantastic the garment is, while cillian is secondary, and his face is suddenly too stark, devoid of definition. it's too high glam. i wish we'd have more pictures of him dressing TR to compare, that might be another problem.
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7. SC is the only type left to explain his mysterious looks. recap: he's successfully classic-dressed, has a yin height plus a face that combines yin and yang, his silhouette is balanced not curved, all his huge movie roles are C image typecastings, that's SC.
i do think the polished, soft, but shapely elegant character of this type is expressed in him. SC is a highly androgynous type for men, think ATEEZ yeosang. but SC men are so well-dressed in controlled hairstyles and very masculine period or past fashion, ironically, because the fabrics are soft, plush, symmetrical, and tailored. that definitely applies to cillian 10/10. his face simply pops.
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cillian looks best dressed minimally, always symmetrical, slight wave in the hair, head to toe theme > mixing styles, understating, no color experiments, basics > overdressing, his signature for a reason. symmetrical coat plus soft woven fabric underneath sounds like it. puts the focus on him while at the same time being well-styled. he was born for timeless, subtle fashion.
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and in general... who could dress classic so impactfully, anyways?
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give this beautiful, stylish man every available award for what he does so well!
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puckingtea2 · 11 hours ago
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hi! i am not one of audrey’s friends, i just found out about this whole quinn drama today, however i think it’s extremely rude to assume something about a person you’ve never met. of course people are going to call her pretty. she is conventionally pretty. i understand that this is a drama account and all that, but deciding that audrey is the evil stepmother from cinderella based on a video is kinda insane. as someone with a gnarly rbf who doesn’t even realize it sometimes, i can understand how it might look like she was annoyed, but we weren’t in the car. we also don’t know what happened before the moment even happened.
i don’t want to say that her reaction was appropriate or inappropriate based on the video because, then again, we don’t know what happened, but being rude to a random girl because she’s with your favorite hockey player is also not appropriate.
do with this what you will. i just wanted to get my thoughts out on the situation considering that’s what this account is for, right? :)
my new biggest pet peeve is when people like you come on here talking as if you know a thing or two when in reality, you don’t! so I’m gonna say this nicely, or not as I’m so extremely fed up. To make it even clearer for you and the other anons coming on here who keep skipping over this repeatedly, I’m gonna put it in all caps, bolded, AND italicized so y’alls eyes can transfer the big letters to your brain a little better 😉
1) NO👏🏼ONE👏🏼IS👏🏼MAD👏🏼QUINN👏🏼HAD👏🏼A👏🏼ONE👏🏼NIGHT👏🏼STAND👏🏼
2) NO👏🏼ONE👏🏼CALLED👏🏼HER👏🏼UGLY👏🏼OR👏🏼THINKS👏🏼SUCH👏🏼
3) THIS👏🏼WAS👏🏼NEVER👏🏼ABOUT👏🏼HER👏🏼HAVING👏🏼A👏🏼NASTY👏🏼LOOK👏🏼ON👏🏼HER👏🏼FACE👏🏼 (although, with the other things I’m about to mention, it’s a contributing factor)
I got tired of doing the claps but you get the point. Just imagine thats what I’m doing
4) SHE HAS BEEN OBVIOUSLY CLOUT CHASING SINCE SHE WENT TO VANCOUVER. SHE KEPT POSTING AND DELETING PHOTOS OF BEING A HIS APARTMENT AND AT THE GAME BUT DELETED ALL OF THAT BEFORE THE GAME ENDED SO HE WOULD SEE. IF U WANT A MORE IN DEPTH DISCUSSION ABOUT THAT EITHER CHECK THE TAGS OR ASK
5) THEN THIS TIKTOK: SHE HAS HER FRIENDS COMMENTING ON THE VIDEO PRETENDING THEY DONT KNOW WHO SHE IS AND COMPLIMENTING HER. ONCE SAID FRIENDS ARE CALLED OUT, THEY DELETE THE COMMENTS AND ALL INCLUDING GENITALIA GO PRIVATE. AGAIN, IF YOU WANT THE PROOF OF THAT CHECK THE TAGS
6) HER FRIENDS ALSO STARTED TAGGING HER IN THE VIDEO AND REPOSTING IT. How weird is that? It’s OBVIOUS she wanted clout and attention and that’s what she got- just not the kind she wanted
7) She had “make me famous so I don’t have to work” or something in her tiktok bio FOREVER and also took it out when that video was released to try and save face. Even though clearly the bio was a bit of a joke, considering what she’s done, it seems like she truly is a gold digger
8) I don’t know where tf you got that Quinn Hughes is my favorite hockey player but you’ve already made it very clear you don’t read this blog so you just decided to assume because (gasp) you people love to act like you know everything based off assumptions.
Am I missing anything? Probably but at the end of the day the bottom line is: KNOW WHAT YOURE TALKING ABOUT BEFORE YOU START TALKING. This happens WAY too often because dense people like you believe you’re all the knowledgeable and us less than fortunate can benefit from your intelligent (or lack thereof) minds. Speaking of rude, I think it’s pretty rude to come on a blog and accuse people of being mean girls before reading a SINGLE thing, yeah? Because if you did, this entire thing could have been avoided. No one is sending hate to this girl (at least no one on my blog) we’re just laughing at how desperate she is for attention/clout to the point she had to get her friends involved in commenting to put a false narrative out there. That, the nasty look and rolled eyes, and everything else that has happened since is evident enough this girl is nothing more than your typical 🏒🐰. Call me a bad person for pointing all of that out, I don’t care, but she’s the one who did it to herself at the end of the day. Also, I hope you took the time to read my blog. Because Quinn is NOT my favorite player or even my favorite Hughes! Thx!!
No further comments from anyone will be needed, thank you!
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voidandabyssal · 1 day ago
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Heeeyy, i don't know if you do platonic asks so you can ignore this if you don't
A random scenario popped up my mind and i cant stop thinking about it, ok so the star boys with a teammate that is basically a tired dad/mom for them
i just imagine them being tired as heck and Dream, Blue and ink running in circles around them, or them protecting the boys from error or nightmare with a big BONK on their heads
I wanted to see your take on this, how the star bois would behave around their tired ass dad/mom friend lol. (Lmao i can't stop seeing error and the dad/mom friend having a absolute HATE for each other while ink is in the corner like this:🧍‍♂️)
[I deeply apologize if there's any translation errors 🙏]
No need to apologise! I love doing all types of asks, platonic ones are awesome! This was fun thank you for sending an ask in!❤️
Parent friend definitely has their hands full with the star sanses. One on one isn’t so bad most of the time but those three all have the potential for great amounts of chaos that triples every time they’re close to one another.
It’s like herding cats trying to keep them all healthy, happy and fed. They definitely run circles around you, especially Blue with his insane amount of energy. You’re going to get very strong from the amount of times you carry them by the scruff of their neck.
In fights your main tactic to protect them is just by yoinking them away from Nightmare or the bad Sanses and hauling ass away from them. You probably don’t have the same level of magic power as anyone else in a fight does, so you substitute by being extremely strong. BONK! Indeed anon. Thats your signature move in fact. Error and Nightmare learn to fear your bonks in battle.
Error despises you. He literally develops a fight or flight reaction every time he even hears you approaching him. It is on sight with you two. Poor ink is just standing in the corner trying to get you to both get along before just giving up and joining the fight.
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(This is you and error⬆️)
Nightmare despises you less only because you tend to avoid him in fights unless its a direct one on one with dream. In which case you’re getting involved LOL. The bad Sanses (Killer, Dust, Horror) enjoy watching the times when you’re kicking Errors ass instead of theirs.
Blue and Dream appreciate your care the most. Dream is very touched by your care, especially in the early stages of your friendship. He’s so used to having to be the caregiver that experiencing someone trying to help him, he finds it foreign at first. Dream’s suspicious of you initially. You barely know him and yet you’re showing such care, he can’t help but be reminded of all the villagers in his au who were kind only to take advantage of him. Once he senses your aura of kindness and care does he fully relax around you.
Dream learns to relax around you, when it’s just you two he doesn’t feel like he has to put up this brave front. He can be tired around you, tell you his fears, his worries. Without being worried that his public persona as this beacon of positivity will be stained. Dream also (eventually) learns to stop self sacrificing for others and give everyone else the chance to help out.
Blue is second place, only because he’s so used to taking care of people and being cared back (Blues the only one with a loving, living family lmao). He understands your want to care for others the most and encourages you to train and get stronger, while also making sure you don’t burn out at the same time. You spend a lot of time with Blue training together, cooking food for the other two, etc. You also spend the most time in Blues au. So you’re close with his brother as well.
Now don’t get me wrong, Ink does appreciate you a lot as well. Ink is absolutely the type to get so caught up in something he forgets to eat or sleep. So having you around is good in keeping him in tip top shape.
If you’re creative then the two of you definitely spend time in the doodlesphere drawing. Ink is always interested in what your drawing. You could give him a stick figure drawing and he would still be really excited and give you tips to improve. If your hobby isn’t drawing then Ink is definitely still interested in what you’ve made. Music, knitting, dance. Ink loves to see others create! Especially his good friends.
You also help Ink learn to manage his vials. You record down what having a specific amount of each paint does to him and help figure out how much he needs in order to feel the full range of emotions.
Ink just wishes you would stop attacking Error on sight. Especially if the two have agreed to not get in each other’s way anymore.
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