floraoleander
floraoleander
cactus
35 posts
I'm fucking 20 do not block
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floraoleander · 11 hours ago
Note
omg hey saw that your reqs are open hehe if ure free or if ure thinking abt taking a break from your wips would u consider writing something abt jeonghan x monster!reader from the recent one you wrote :0 of course you don't have to write a whole fic abt it but i'd like to know how they ended up together! i'm so curious ... and also i think i'm just a little insane abt that fic . well. hehe.
I too am a little insane over that fic tbh it was so fun to write!
So basically when monster!reader left the lake she essentially becomes human. Naiads/sirens aren't really known for their complex emotions in mythology lol so most of what she's experienced sans loneliness has been heavily muted because she was immortal and had been in that lake for who knows how long. did y'all watch aquamarine and how she's kinda childish about emotions? think that
But she knows she's drawn to Jeonghan, she has the insatiable urge to be around him all the time, and that's the reason she left her lake because he couldn't stay there forever but she could join him in his world.
More under the cut! this ended up so much longer than I thought but slay.
Jeonghan would show her everything, and she is wide eyed the entire time because all of this existed and she didn't know about it? It makes her feel a little ashamed for believing humans were nothing more than playthings for so long. But I digress.
He takes her to the bookshop he likes to frequent, discovers she can't read obviously (not that she cares), and promises to teach her if she wants. It's fall so the fruit orchards on the outskirts of the village are full of autumn fruit that he picks for her, watching her intently as she tries them with enthusiasm. Jeonghan even takes her through the woods, walking the secluded trails he knows like the back of his hand as she watches the animals scurry in the underbrush with wonder.
And all of these positive feelings she associates with him. Even on days where she can hear the lake screaming for her to comeback, she remembers all the things she missed that Jeonghan has shared with her. And so she stays.
Winter is horrible in her opinion. Cold and dry, she feels like her skin is going to peel off from the heat of the fire she remains in front of all day, attempting to read the books Jeonghan's collected over the years. In the lake, she'd lay down at the bottom, slumbering as the ice crystalized the surface of her home this time of year. And then, when warmer days came, she'd rise to play again. But her now human body won't let her do that anymore. So she has to suffer the biting air.
It's refreshing.
One night, wind is howling and snow is piling against the glass of the windows and she just can't keep herself warm enough under the layers of wool to find rest. So she does what she always does when she runs into a problem in this strange new world. She goes to Jeonghan.
He's shocked to see her in nothing but her nightgown at the foot of his bed, half of her face illuminated in candle light. Jeonghan's seen her in far more compromising states of dress but she always looks so beautiful it makes it hard to breath. And when she complains of the cold, he offers to let her share his bed. Respectfully.
She isn't sure how that'll help but she agrees since Jeonghan hasn't led her astray yet, diving under his blankets to be shocked by the pleasant toastiness underneath. She sighs as her shivering body slowly heats up, eyes slipping shut drowsily as Jeonghan lays a few inches away, watching her.
They wake up the next morning, tangled in one another's arms. Her cheek against his chest, legs wrapped around his to soak in the early morning. After that, she comes to his bed every night under the guise of staying warm.
And then spring comes around and she practically burst from her excitement. She'll get to see the flowers and all the new life emerge as the world wakes up. The town has acclimated to her presence now, unaware of who or what she was before this life, but hypnotized by her sweet smiles and childish laughter all the same. Each morning she practically runs to the town square to look for the garland Jeonghan mentioned, pouting when it's nowhere to be seen as she goes about her errands.
"It's still too cold." Jeonghan explains, snickering at her scowl when she accuses him of lying.
So she waits. And she waits. And she never knew time could feel like this, slow in a painful way. Time had been her friend before but now she resents him.
Then one morning, Jeonghan is acting odd. Not the odd paleness he has when he falls ill or the strange quietness when he argues with his father. But a new sort of oddness she has yet to witness. He keeps glancing at a cabinet in the kitchen over her head as they eat breakfast. When she turns to look herself, his face stretches and his eyes round; like the fish in her lake.
He isn't working in the mill today so they're meant to go explore now that the ground is soft and the sun is closer. Even the wind has turned his sharp claws into gentle hands this morning.
Just as they're about to step outside to leave, Jeonghan pulls her back by her wrist.
"I got you a gift" He whispers.
Her head tips to the side, "A gift?"
Instead of answering, he crosses back to the cabinet. There's a strange rope coiled on one of the shelves, pink and red and white. And when he aproaches her with it, spreading the length from arm to arm to display it properly, she realizes he wasn't lying about the flowers.
"It's beautiful!" She exhales, enamored by the tight twine of blossoming buds. Even in her new form, she loves beautiful things.
She gentle caresses the velvety petals, completely hypnotized.
"I made it for you." He glows in that way that he does so often under her gaze. The way most people do under her approving stare but she thinks his red cheeks are the prettiest.
Together, they hang the garland over the front door. It's meant to welcome a prosperous spring and good luck for the year. Jeonghan doesn't mention it's also a tradition for newly betrothed couples to signify their devotion to one another.
Passing through the town, she examines each new decoration eagerly, Jeonghan smiling behind her as he watches.
"Look at this one!" she squeals, a braid of three lines, crisscrossing yellow, white, and lilac.
She's ecstatic the world isn't gray anymore, bursts of color dripping from every surface possible. Even the sky has returned to a cheery blue, dimpled with gossamer clouds sporadically.
And in her excitement, she does what she's seen the humans do when they celebrate. When taverns are rowdy with drunk patrons, or when a couple gets married in the small chapel at the center of town. When the women welcome their husbands back from long journeys.
She throws her arms around Jeonghan's neck and kisses him.
After he swallows the initial shock, he kisses her back.
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floraoleander · 11 hours ago
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🫶🏻
In the Lake
Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x fem!reader
Genre: romance, light horror, greek mythology!au
Warnings: drowning, mention of drunk Hannie (once), talk of a dead body, briefly suggestive moments
Length: 2.5k
Note: not proofread, just me spitballing. monster!reader is a hybrid of a naiad and a siren
Bonus
Monsters live in the lake.
That’s what Jeonghan’s dad tells him.
Monsters with round wet eyes and needle teeth. Who will drown anyone who comes too close to their shores with a laugh of glee. Monsters that will gorge on a man’s heart, and decorate their underwater gardens with his bones.
Jeonghan is never allowed to visit the lake.
And he doesn’t.
Until he turns eight.
Breathing glass.
The inky blue surface of the lake can only be described as breathing glass, reflecting the heavy full moon that illuminates the skies about and the ring of black trees circling the shore.
A perfect reflection. Clear enough Jeonghan is convinced that if he jumped in, his body would shatter the smooth surface into crystals of glass rather than clapping waves.
The bright moon lights up the clearing, making Jeonghan privy to every detail from one shore to the other. No one is here. Nothing is here. Not an single animal looking for a cool drink in the late night, the thicket of trees obscuring the hideaway silent. Even the wind seems to hold his breath here, unnaturally yielding.
But Jeonghan is eight and he’s not afraid of the stories his dad tells him around the hearth.
And as eight year olds are wont to do, Jeonghan steps in the dry rotted dock with a sure foot, and peaks over the edge.
Only to meet the eyes of the monster his dad warned him about.
Jeonghan scrambles back, the shrill scream of fear breaking the fragile silence. Nearly toppling into the water in an effort to escape the demon, only to have splinters bite into his hands as he manages to regain his balance.
The monster is on this side of the water too.
Only a hair away from Jeonghan’s face, his breath disturbing the beads of moisture clinging to its forehead.
It reeks of death and fear.
And when Jeonghan makes it to the tree line, it’s gone as if it never existed in the first place.
The second time Jeonghan comes to the lake, he’s sixteen and forgets the childhood nightmares that came to life one autumn night.
The daughter of the village baker asked him to meet her there, with droopy eyelids and a bitten lip. 
But the moon is high in the sky, a waning sideways grin, and she’s nowhere to be seen.
Vague memories of a night years ago attempt to surface, but Jeonghan can’t decipher reality from the realm of sleep. But he distinctly feels that this place, this eerie wrong place, is frozen in time. That the hedge of trees is a portal between worlds, and this lake is a pocket beyond any.
The dock creeks under his soft steps, gently bobbing ripples across the water with each shift of his weight.
At the end of the dock waits the baker's daughter. Only her eyes visible above the water, milky hue eclipsing the swampy green; flesh swollen and bloated.
And behind her is the monster, eyes crinkled in horrific amusement as Jeonghan untangles what happened.
And the monster is gone when he looks back from the safety of the trees, just like when he was a child.
The parchment bleeds ink from rushed sketches of the horrific creature Jeonghan encountered.
None do his terror justice.
Oil slick hair clinging to its scalp, eyes round and horrifically human. Two times he’d seen the monster of the lake, and both only from the bridge of its nose up.
But the fables of his childhood form in his memory and his dreams once again.
Below the surface of the glass lake was a mouth full of quilled teeth, eager to eat his heart and suck his bones. Webbed clawed hands, to snatch him underwater when it got the chance.
None of the drawings are right.
So Jeonghan goes back.
Apparently the monster talks.
And the monster has a lovely voice.
It’s waiting at the end of the dock this time. In the same place Mina’s body floated weeks ago.
You’ve returned. She laughs in his mind, light like the chime of a tin bell. 
And for a second, Jeonghan thinks he might have dreamt everything. How could this creature kill Mina? How could it be the subject of nightmares, yet sound like an angel?
But he knows he’s not smart enough to imagine any of this.
“You talk?”
Of course I talk. Do you listen?
“You drowned my friend.”
We were just playing.
Her eyes don’t leave Jeonghan’s face, and her nose remains beneath the surface of the water, but she tilts her head as if she’s innocent.
We can play too.
Her voice croons, and his blood heats at the breathy tone.
Jeonghan musters all the venom he’s capable of. Hatred on Mina’s behalf, on her parents behalf. “I don’t play with monsters.” He spits, turning to leave.
Pity. She pouts. You’d look great in my garden.
The moon calls Jeonghan to the lake again a few months later. Silent and expectant, she reaches her peak as he breaks into the clearing.
His monster is waiting for him too.
I was wondering when you’d return.
Jeonghan would say he doesn’t know why he’s here. But that’s a lie.
His room is filled with drawings of this place, drawings of her. A stack of books he bought with his measly salary at the mill, stories about demons and monsters who call water their home. 
None of it compares to the eerie serenity of being here.
“What are you?” He asks from the safety of the earth at the mouth of the dock. 
Standing on the dock had been foolish, the only sure thing he’d learned in his patchy research. Jeonghan will stay out of reach and out of her stomach.
Come here and I’ll tell you. She whispers, voice tickling through his ears and down his spine.
“No.”
Boo. She pouts. Jeonghan can almost imagine a childish stomp and cross of her arms below water. But all he can see is her eyes.
“What’s your name?”
What's your name?
“What will you give me if I tell you?”
I can show you the bones of your friend.
Rage flares on his tongue, white hot and acrid. A step on the dock sends a giggle through his mind.
You humans are so simple. The monster admonishes.
“Would you be happy if your friend was drowned by some ugly beast?” He screams at where she floats, veins popping on the side of his neck, the whites of his eyes visible.
My friends don’t drown. She sniffs, as that’s the problem at hand. And I’m not ugly.
“Must be if you hide your face.”
The wet squelch of her hands hitting the wood of the dock shocks Jeonghan. Human hands, distinctly human except for the necrotic tint to her fingertips. And her human-like hands lead to human like arms, feeding into a very human-like torso.
She smiles beautifully as Jeonghan averts his gaze from her breasts, nipples peeking through the long matted tresses of sopping hair.
Am I a beast, boy? 
“Yes.”
Her lower body remains obscured below the dock, dangling to the water. But Jeonghan spots the flare of her hips, the bite of her waist.
Not a beast at all.
She stays perched on the dock long after he’s gone.
This time, Jeonghan doesn’t look back.
Jeonghan dreams of her.
Fantasies of her rising on to the dock, beckoning him with a black tipped finger to come closer.
Imaginations of her mouth, how her unmistakably human body would feel in his palms.
And when she’s sucked his breath away, she pulls him under the water and into darkness forever.
A drunk trapeze through the forest is a fool's errand. But Jeonghan knows each tree by name, every trail by its curves. 
He’s at the lake again.
And she’s not here.
The urge to call for her arises, but what does he call her? Beast? Monster?
I don’t have a name. She whispers to his mind, forcing Jeonghan to scan the surface lake with the grace of a ragdoll.
“So what do I call you?” Jeonghan asks to nothing.
Come here and I’ll tell you. 
Eager for an answer, Jeonghan stumbles forward. “Where?”
Here. She calls, head slowly rising in the same spot at the bottom of the dock.
Jeonghan’s feet stop before they touch the wood.
“You’ll drown me.”
Not a question but a truth.
She drags herself up at the end of the dock, this time sitting. Her lower body is human like too; legs glistening in the moonlight.
But her face fills with curiosity.
Would that be so bad? She argues. Then you can stay with me forever.
“How long is your forever?”
For the first time, Jeonghan senses her hesitate.
“How old are you?”
Time means nothing to me.
Jeonghan is familiar with her tone. The same tone he used when he lied about Mina. A lie he’s convincing himself is the truth.
“Have you always been here?”
Yes.
“Are there others?”
Am I not enough for you, human? 
If Jeonghan could believe it, he might argue she sounds jealous.
“Seems lonely.”
I have plenty of company. Would you like to see?
His silence at her threat gets her to speak again.
My sisters left. They abandoned this place because humans were interesting enough.
“You can leave this place?”
None of his books mentioned that. But none of the books mentioned anything like her.
If I wish.
“And you don’t?”
I don’t find humans that interesting.
“I think you’re interesting.”
She disappears into the water without a splash. 
It becomes a routine.
Under the watchful eye of a full moon, Jeonghan sneaks from town to visit his lake. Sometimes she’s waiting for him, body forming puddles on the ancient dock. Others, doesn’t rise beyond the bottom curve of her eyes. And a few times she stayed deep below the surface.
Jeonghan refuses to dwell on the stench of rejection that reeks through his blood on those nights.
Humans age and wrinkle. I will stay beautiful forever.
She explains why she doesn’t want to leave her home, rolling onto her belly and pushing her breasts together tantalizingly; as if proving her point. Jeonghan would like to claim her attempts to charm him have lost their luster. 
He sits a safe distance away, firmly out of reach of her hands but not her words.
“What’s beauty if no one else gets to enjoy it?” He asks, munching on an apple from his cottage. There meetings stretch into hours now, and he’ll need the fuel for his early call into the mill.
Do you believe you're the only human to find me?
Deep in his gut, Jeonghan realizes he had. The idea of another person, another man, talking with her, being charmed by her, boils his blood. But she’s a demon, and he can’t claim jealousy to something beyond his understanding. So instead, he plays with her.
“Did you play with them?”
They look lovely in my garden! She claps, a macabre type of glee.
Jeonghan reclines on his back, watching the sky above. The earliest tinges of sunlight are starting to bleed into the dark night, signaling his time to leave.
What's your village like?
The question shocks him. She’s never asked about the world beyond the trees. A comment about something he brought with him such as a book or a treat for her to try. But she only cared about what came into her realm, not what existed outside it.
“Like any other I suppose.”
How do you explain something as familiar as the back of your hand, to someone who doesn’t even know what a hand is?
She snorts, continuing to brush her hair with a comb Jeonghan refuses to think more of. Very helpful.
“It’s a village, with lots of people. And when the spring comes, people hang garlands of flowers everywhere. It’s beautiful.”
Beautiful…
She ponders the imagine, silent for the first time this night.
Pressing his luck, Jeonghan continues.
“You’d just have to see it to understand.”
When she dunks into the water as he leaves, there’s a sadness hanging around her shoulders like a lead weight.
“Hannie! Jeonghan!” The gruff of his father’s shouts floods his ear. “Wake up boy!”
Bolting up, Jeonghan throws his eyes around the room wildly, expect a fire due to the urgency of his rising.
“What?” He croaks.
“There’s a girl downstairs. Says she’s your friend.”
Eyebrows curled in confusion, lips twisted sourly, Jeonghan responds. “A friend?”
Perhaps one of the girls in town misinterpreted his kindness again. But Jeonghan hadn’t give any of them more attention than was due since regularly visiting his lake, consumed by the being who ruled it. Whoever this “friend” is should pray his exhaustion will stifle his reprimand.
Shouldering around his father, Jeonghan stomps down the rickety stairs to the foyer. A biting remark hot on his tongue, shoulders square with anger.
But it all melts into shock when he sees a a head of inky hair, wide curios eyes, and legs dripping onto the wooden floor in front of the fire. A familiar brown wool blanket cloaks her figure, the one Jeonghan tucked into a tree by the lake for colder nights.
She isn’t looking at him, but rather the blazing hearth heating his home. She stares as if there’s never been a larger miracle than the flames licking towards her, round face illumined with the warm glow. 
Jeonghan’s grunt of surprise turns her around swiftly. 
And he’s greeted with the same beautiful smile and bell like voice he’d recognize anywhere.
“I wanted to see.”
There were monsters in the lake.
That’s what Hwamin’s mom tells her.
Since the beginning of the earth, the monsters dwelled in the lake, blessed to laugh and play for eternity. However, overtime, they would leave one by one, exiting the line of trees without looking back. Until only one monster remained. She vowed never to forsake her watery kingdom like her sisters before her.
And she didn’t.
Until the monster fell in love with a man who visited her every night under a sly moon. 
And when his words weren’t enough, when she wished to see his world beyond her own, the monster left her lake and married him.
Hwamin’s eventually stops listening to her mother’s bed time stories because her father always interrupts from the door of her room with a laugh before crossing to kiss her mother in the gross way grown ups do that makes Hwamin green in the face.
She doesn’t really understand what’s so special about the lake in the woods anyway. Or why her mom pretends she isn’t crying when they visit it on her birthday.
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floraoleander · 7 days ago
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I'm so confused this is like a major life decision for me.
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life is strange 🎮 soonyoung x reader. (1)
video game character!soonyoung x reader. (part one. your favorite video game character appears in your living room, blissfully unaware of who he is and what story has been written for him. masterlist.)
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Too little, too late
Games are all about winning. Save the world, get the girl, score all the goals, become the champion. As players, we're conditioned to expect success. And we get it most of the time. See, there are rare moments when defeat is snatched from the jaws of victory; when we're denied the happily-ever-after. It can often be quite shocking because it flies in the face of expectations.
This is a different beast. These are the times that—no matter how hard you fight, no matter how quick or skilled you are—you simply can't save your friend. Or your lover. Or that guy/girl you don't really like that much, but they're still integral to the plot anyway. Needless to say spoilers, lie ahead. Spoilers with massive, pointy teeth.
[...]
5. HOSHI (Life is Strange)
For an indie game that was marketed as a 'slice of life dating sim', you wouldn't think Life is Strange would have the balls to kill off one of its love interests. It's easy to lose track of all the potential romanceables in the game (seriously, thirteen?!), but HOSHI was the bachelor that you just couldn't miss. Love him or hate him, he was larger than life—until he didn't have much life left in him at all. (Too soon?) There isn't a single playthrough where anybody has been able to 'save' HOSHI. The game's publisher has also stayed mum as to whether it's an option at all, giving a sliver of hope that HOSHI might still be in the running in the game's upcoming sequel, Life is Strange: Shohikigen. Personally, I've always been a THE8 guy myself—but I, too, think that HOSHI deserves to be somebody's happy ending.
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Fans of the critically acclaimed indie title Life is Strange will have to wait longer than expected for its sequel. Today, publisher STUDIO EISA announced that the release of Life is Strange: Shohikigen has been delayed indefinitely due to the "health concerns" of its sole developer and artist, the reclusive creator known only as XINGANHAO.
The announcement came as a shock to the gaming community, as Life is Strange’s 2015 release was one of the most celebrated indie successes of the decade. Known for its narrative-driven gameplay, emotional depth, and unique art style, Life is Strange garnered a dedicated fanbase, earning accolades for its bold exploration of time travel, trauma, and personal choice. The anticipation surrounding Shohikigen, the follow-up to the original, had already reached fever pitch following an enigmatic teaser released last year.
However, in a brief statement issued today, STUDIO EISA revealed the delay, adding an air of mystery to the situation that only seems to deepen the intrigue around the project.
"Due to ongoing health concerns of XINGANHAO, the development of Life is Strange: Shohikigen will be postponed indefinitely. We understand this is disappointing for fans, but we must prioritize the well-being of the artist and creator behind this beloved series. XINGANHAO’s health and recovery are of utmost importance. We ask for your understanding and support during this difficult time," the publisher's statement reads.
STUDIO EISA also promised to keep the community updated with any new developments but did not provide further details on XINGANHAO’s condition. Given the secrecy that has surrounded the game’s production, this statement adds another layer to the already elusive nature of its development.
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floraoleander · 7 days ago
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Hoshi x Reader: spider web.
Date of release: 20.03.2025
Word count: 1 561
Tags: shibari, intimacy, suggestive fluff, biting, no plot, only subspace
Rating: +16 for non-s*xual intimacy and bondage. The fic is not +18 but it touches on topics that are often associated with such, so please take that into consideration.
Author's note: Anyway... that is my hello to the fandom! Btw don't do shibari on a carpet or you'll never get the threads out. This stuff sheds like a husky.
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Being with someone who spent most of the time in his own world was a challenge in itself. He wasn’t the type to disappear in that world completely, quite the opposite – being next to him after some years you learned that it was inevitable to get pulled in along with him, that his world would surround you eventually. Yet, you always felt like a stranger there. You loved him with your entire heart, but he seemed to resonate on a frequency that was far outside of your reach, and even when you tried to adjust, to resonate with him, it was all futile.
But there was one way to resonate with him the way that no one else could: by giving up your own frequency and allowing him to take over, to take control and show you his own world.
In this moment, there were only you and him, kneeling on the soft, burgundy carpet that provided you with some warmth against the chilly air that slipped into the room from outside.
You were wearing your most comfortable, sleeveless top and a pair of loose pants that allowed the widest range of movements. His body, on the other hand, was clad in all sophisticated black, with a turtleneck that fitted him a bit too well.
Maybe it was not as comfortable as your own outfit, but it did make you stutter a little the first time you saw him, and so he decided to stick to it for this occasion. You only wished he didn’t sit behind you so you could admire it a bit better.
You sat patiently, glancing back to take a look at Soonyoung’s face. Usually, he was the talkative type, but right now there was some tangible level of focus, similar as to when he was performing, on his features, making him seem like he was both absent and fully present in this exact moment. And he wasn’t speaking a word.
Sitting right behind you, he took a gentle hold of your wrists, massaging the skin gently and warming up your joints. His eyes were fixated down on your limbs, as if they were not a part of a human being, but rather a material, something to be formed, molded, re-created. He was assessing the options, although you knew he preferred to keep things simple with you. You weren’t too flexible, and he liked to take his time – you wouldn’t endure long in most of the positions that he felt completely comfortable in.
Having finally made his mind, he guided your hands behind your back, bending them horizontally on top of each other. You let out a slight whimper of discomfort and he released them a little, letting them stay at a more relaxed angle instead – not much, but enough to allow your shoulders some rest. His one hand laid flat between your shoulders, guiding you to bend down against the mat.
Your neck started to cramp from trying to sneak peek so you fixated your eyes on your own lap instead, working on calming down your breath instead. His hands worked slowly and precisely, wrapping the ropes around your wrists. The ones he chose today were made of coir – their surface was covered in harsh threads that irritated your skin as they rubbed your skin. But once secured in place, the discomfort was barely there. The skin on the wrists wasn’t too sensitive – and he made sure that the tie wasn’t too tight either.
Once your arms were secured behind your back, he took one strand of rope and folded it in half. Bending over your shoulder, he wrapped it slowly across your chest.
He didn’t have to bend over like that, you thought – the task was simple, not requiring much effort. But you felt the warmth of his chest on your shoulder blades, and realized he must have been craving to feel that heat as well, that physical closeness.
His fingers creeped across your chest in a non-intrusive, gentle manner, brushing against the fabric of your top. You held your breath when his fingertips, a bit cold and moist from sweat, touched your arm – the harsh texture of coir rope followed, and you flinched. He slowly moved the rope, dragging it across your shoulder, making the skin tender and a bit pained. Not too much, just a little – enough to suck you further into the state of vulnerability, of losing all control over your own body – and mind.
Once it was secured in place,  the harsh texture was no longer that tangible, but even the breaths you took moved it a little, scratching the same tenderized spots.
By the time he was done, your breaths slowed down. The slight discomfort of the position kept you grounded, but you felt that if he keeps touching you like this, you might doze off completely. His hands rested on your shoulders and you didn’t even realize that your neck gave in, making you lose your balance; he was right behind you, guiding you to fall against his chest.
“You’re so warm.”
You didn’t remember the last time you spoke by now – sessions like this were usually… somewhat quiet. The two of you knew each other’s bodies by heart. Some years ago, you wouldn’t believe Soonyoung was capable of staying silent in the first place. But when fully focused, letting his world run freely, he became so at ease, so peaceful, that it was only your own dazed state that kept you from second-guessing if he’s really, actually, enjoying himself at the moment.
But, consciously, you knew that he is. That light in his eyes, slight tension of his jaw indicating that he’s not sulking but rather putting his best effort. The small things, the teasing, deliberate brushes of his skin against yours when he took that moment apart into molecules of stimuli, some that would be easily omittable if you didn’t know better. It was yet another form of art. You were the art and its reader simultaneously – he guided you into his world, rid you off your own individuality for the sake of engulfing you in his own frequency.
He didn’t reply, but his hand rested on your sternum, pressing your body backwards into his own. You finally felt his breath on your own neck and subconsciously tilted your head to the side, enjoying the sensation.
It was subtle and genuine, and he leaned down, planting an open-mouthed kiss in the crook of your neck.
A nibble followed, and you let out a small whimper of surprise. His teeth lingered against your skin, scratching similarly to how rope did earlier, although leaving a wet trace that made you shiver when the cold air came after. Sensing that slight discomfort, Soonyoung’s arms wrapped around your silhouette, trapping you in a snake-like embrace. Even closer, if it was only possible – as if he wanted to eat you up, to devour the piece of art he created and become one.
You gasped like fish out of water – the sense of stillness was only temporary, now gone, and you felt your body heat up in all the new sensations.
“Bite me” your voice cracked in the pathetic plea. “Soonyoung, please.”
He wasn’t the type to make you wait, all the pent up emotion waiting to get released with this one short act of primality. His fingers dug into your side and shoulder as he leaned forward, bending you into yourself. Your arms stretched painfully and you unwittingly held your breath in the tension.
And finally, it came – along with a hiss-like sound from his mouth when he buried his teeth in your shoulder. Although expected, pain took you by surprise. Shocking at first, intensifying into something unbearable. The thought of tapping out crossed your mind for just a second before it dissolved into the sense of comfort and fulfillment. Soonyoung kept you firmly in place, his teeth held you in position as your muscle slowly relaxed, your body acknowledging the defeat.
Your mind turned into a mush. You seemed to float in and out of consciousness, balancing somewhere nigh its edge. Seconds extended into eternity that you spent relishing in the sweet numbness. From across the world, a soft voice reached out to you, calling out your name.
You allowed it to guide you back to reality, and you welcomed it with exhaustion washing over you.
Soonyoung’s arms embraced you in a gentler, less invasive manner than before, fingers gently massaging the spot on your shoulder, as if he didn’t realize it’s only making it hurt more – but now that gone was the insanity, he was back to his regular self, a bit sheepish in trying to pamper you back to normal.
“How are you feeling? Was that okay?” he asked something more, but he must have noticed you were too tired to talk. You shifted so that you could lean your side into him.
“Was nice” you mumbled against his shoulder. “Thank you.” A genuine smile made its way onto his mouth, making it clear how satisfied he was with himself, and how happy that he could share this moment with you. You cleared your throat. “But maybe untie me already.”
Not like he wouldn’t, but there was a bit of hesitation on his face, seeing the tension on yours.
You were quick to clarify.
“I really need to pee.”
Seventeen Masterlist
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floraoleander · 9 days ago
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Resonance | Masterlist (y.jh)
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Pairing: Jeonghan x f. reader
Summary: ORBITAL RESONANCE /ˈôrbədl/ /ˈrezənəns/ (noun): 
(1.) Occurs when orbiting bodies exert regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other, usually because their orbital periods are related by a ratio of small integers. (2.) Phenomenon where you and Jeonghan have circled one another for years, constantly applying force and influence over one another in cycles. 
Total Series Word Count: 51.2k
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Romantic Drama 
Type: Angst, smut, fluff
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: Notated on each chapter. General series warnings include angst, drama, explicit sexual content, explicit language some mild toxic relationship behavior, general rich kid debauchery, OCs and side relationships, appearances from members of SVT, characters often make stupid decisions and let insecurities overcomplicate their lives, this reader is wrong sometimes/makes the wrong assumptions - please be patient with our flawed reader.
A/N: This fic is sponsored by alani nu cherry slush and the five day break I had off of work. I knew I needed to get it done before I went back to my corporate dread, and it just sort of worked out that way. I have been talking about writing this fic for a year, and I finally did. It's mostly an excuse to write Jeonghan country hopping with gratuitious smut but who cares.
Main Masterlist | Ask | Resonance Tag List | Playlist
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M O O N S I N O R B I T . . .
MIMAS | 0.942 421 959 d | PASSING BY 08.15.2025
ENCELADUS | .3702 18 d | PASSING BY 08.29.2025
TETHYS | 1.887 802 d | PASSING BY 09.12.2025
DIONE | 2.736 915 d | PASSING BY 09.19.2025
TITAN | 15.945 d | PASSING BY 10.03.2026
HYPERION | 21.276 d | PASSING BY 10.17.2025
277 notes · View notes
floraoleander · 11 days ago
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life is strange (soonyoung x reader).
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everybody in the gaming community knows that HOSHI is an unsavable character, but that doesn’t mean you won’t try. you jokingly say that you’ll do anything to give him the happy ending he deserves—maybe next time, you’ll be careful what you wish for. 
⤿ a four-part series featuring video game character!soonyoung x reader.
𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 —
🎮 SAVE FILE ONE. USER: FIRST_DAY_OF_MY_LIFE.
your favorite video game character appears in your living room, blissfully unaware of who he is and what story has been written for him. 
🎮 SAVE FILE TWO. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
🎮 SAVE FILE THREE. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
🎮 SAVE FILE FOUR. LOADING...
THIS SAVE FILE IS EMPTY!
𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 —
each chapter will end with a poll of two choices; voting will be open for one week. there is a total of sixteen possible endings. like any good video game, your choices will dictate soonyoung’s fate. 
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with love, kae ✎ it’s been a while, hasn’t it? :’) i figured that if i were going to come back, might as well do it in style! i must admit: this is a smau plot i once did for a day6 member a long, long time ago. the terrific @purple-eustoma then pitched something similar to me a couple of months ago, and i haven’t been able to let it go since. my love, this one is for you and your brilliant mind. fingers crossed that i can execute and do this justice. 
thank you for playing life is strange with me! <3
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› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
418 notes · View notes
floraoleander · 11 days ago
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#kim mingyu drives me insane
#can I talk to someone about this picture
#this picture single handedly fractured my brain and altered it's chemistry for forever
22 notes · View notes
floraoleander · 24 days ago
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I LOVE THE WAY THEY WRITE
company benefits 🗂️ junhui x reader.
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you can’t really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn’t get the memo.
🗂️ pairing.  marketing intern!wen junhui x copywriter!reader.  🗂️ word count.  12k.  🗂️ genre/warnings. smut, romance, humor, pinch of angst. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of alcohol, food; profanity. semi-public & unprotected sex. ex-situationship, forced proximity, tension... so much tension!!!, contract terms i’m not 100% sure about. soonyoung from eunha’s Be My Tigress? 🗂️ footnotes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. eternally grateful to all the writers in the server who motivated me to finish this. above all, indebted to @diamonddaze01, who pitched this collaboration to me over six months ago. what a pleasure to finally write a long fic for jun!!! goin to take a veryyy long nap now. 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ company benefits.
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You never dated Wen Junhui.
You made out with him in the backseat of an Uber once. Shared a bowl of tteokbokki at 1:00 a.m. and left a toothbrush at his place. He sent you voice notes saying things like, “I wish you were here,” in that half-awake tone he got when he couldn’t sleep, which was often.
You spent entire weekends tangled on his couch, watching movies you barely remembered because you were too busy tracing the veins on his arm with your pinky. You cried once, in front of him. He didn’t flinch.
You never dated Jun, so when he shows up as one of the interns at your company, it's not like you can call him your ex. You can, however, nearly snap a Pilot G-2 pen in half.
The intern orientation is a thirty-minute slide deck with enough corporate jargon to resurrect a Roman senator. You're sitting near the back, doodling tiny skulls in the margins of your notes, when your manager says, “Let’s all welcome this year’s marketing interns!”
And there he is.
Wen Junhui. Hair longer than you remember. A navy button-down that you’re 90% sure used to be yours. He spots you in the crowd like it’s nothing. Like no time has passed. And then—the male audacity of it all—he smiles.
Your pen creaks, spine bending until the plastic gives a quiet, pitiful snap.
You recommended him. That’s the worst part. 
Back when he was unemployed and soft-spoken and yours in a way you never could quite name. You filled out a glowing referral form like an idiot. Said things like creative thinker and natural collaborator when what you meant was: makes me laugh when I don’t want to, makes me feel like I matter.
Now he’s here. Mid-career intern. Probably labeled as non-traditional in the onboarding notes. Definitely labeled as dead to me in your mental CRM.
You corner him in the coffee room after orientation. He’s stirring oat milk into some artisanal nonsense, back to you, as if this isn’t the beginning of your villain arc. “You’ve got some nerve, Junhui,” you declare, properly pissed. 
He doesn’t even flinch. Just turns, holding his mug like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. “... I was just getting coffee,” he answers, one perfect eyebrow already arched. 
You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”
“Interning.”
“You’re in your thirties.”
“I’m only twenty-nine, actually.”
“You had a whole job before this.”
“And now I have a new one.”
You resist the urge to glower. “As an intern.”
“Mid-career transition,” he says smoothly. “It’s a thing. There’s a podcast about it.”
You’re aware. You introduced the podcast to him. “Why here?” you bite out. 
He sips his coffee, meeting your gaze without hesitation. “It’s the best, isn’t it?” he drawls. “And I always want the best.”
There it is. That infuriating sincerity, tucked behind some metaphor you can’t afford to unpack. That must mean I wasn’t the ‘best,’ then, you nearly snap, considering, you know, you up and left. 
You hate that your chest aches. You hate that he still looks at you like you mean something. Like he didn’t disappear. Like he didn’t cut the cord with clean hands and a lazy smile.
You made your bed. Now, you have to lay in it. 
–-
This Agreement was entered upon by Wen Junhui [“FORMER SITUATIONSHIP INTERN”] and You [“ABSOLUTE FOOL COMPANY”] and shall remain in effect until either party learns how to stop looking for closure in a coffee room.
–-
You decide to be a professional about it.
Which is to say: you ignore him. Flawlessly. The way an inbox ignores unread emails from old flings or the way a cat ignores physics. With dignity, aloofness, and a very calculated schedule of exits and arrivals.
You walk into Monday morning’s marketing sync with an iced Americano, a bullet-pointed agenda, and an expression that says try me. Jun, mercifully, sits at the far end of the table, between a girl who uses color-coded spreadsheets and a guy whose entire personality is PowerPoint animations. You pretend not to notice when he nods at you. You definitely pretend not to notice that he’s taken to twirling his pen the same way you do.
Soonyoung, the Marketing Director, is wearing a shirt printed with neon tigers. Again.
“Okay, okay,” he claps his hands once, then dramatically slaps a stack of post-it notes down. “Let’s make this week roar!”
The interns balk, but none of the full-timers bat an eye. You’re all used to it. The man once themed an entire quarter around ‘predator energy.’
You run through project updates with the calm precision of someone who did not threaten emotional homicide in the coffee room last Friday. You lead the discussion on the spring campaign revisions, answer questions, deflect unnecessary input, and even sneak in a joke that makes Soonyoung laugh hard enough to drop his whiteboard marker.
The meeting ends. You gather your things. You’re halfway out the door when he catches up to you. “Hey,” Jun says, gently, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. “You killed that. You always do.”
You glance at him, expression neutral. "Thanks."
He looks like he wants to say more. Like he wants to be invited to say more. But you walk away, shoes clicking a little faster than necessary.
You still remember the other times he said it. After your first promotion. After you helped him rehearse for a job interview he never got. After a random Wednesday when you had ranted over a headline you couldn’t get right and he said, I wish you could see yourself the way I do.
You don’t want to remember any of it, so you go get coffee with Jihoon.
The head of HR is not known for emotional delicacy. Or any kind of delicacy, really. He wears monochrome like it’s a moral stance and drinks black coffee like it’s a dare. But he’s your friend, and he gets to the point.
“I’m not asking for details,” Jihoon says, stirring his drink with the slow menace of someone thinking about a compliance form. “But I saw the way you looked at the new intern.”
You feign innocence while you still can. “Which one?”
“Don’t insult both of us.”
Short-lived. You sigh. “It’s fine. He’s fine. We’re professionals.”
“Good. Because if I get even a whiff of nepotism, I’m lighting your recommendation form on fire.”
“You’re throwing around the word nepotism pretty lightly.”
“Am I?”
You lean back. “Everything’s professional,” you insist. “I wouldn’t jeopardize my own career over someone who thinks career pivots counts as a personality.”
Jihoon gives you a look. You sip again. Neither of you smiles.
Business as usual.
At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Some of it fractures two days later, in the breakroom with the flickering fluorescent light. You’re there for a sad granola bar and a moment of peace. Instead, you walk into chatter. The kind with edges.
Three interns—clipboard girl, PowerPoint boy, and someone new who looks like she does CrossFit for sport—are huddled near the snack station, laughing in that tight, conspiratorial way that means something mean is about to follow.
“I swear, he’s like, ancient,” Clipboard says.
“Wasn’t he in finance before this?” PowerPoint Boy adds. “Kind of sad, right? Like, starting over in your thirties?”
“He’s not in his thirties,” CrossFit interjects. “I checked. He’s twenty-nine. But still. Mid-career intern? Kinda screams washed-up.”
There are no names being thrown out—the slightest practice of discretion. It’s not difficult, though, to nail the topic of their breakroom gossip. The oldest intern in the pool. The one who hasn’t quite meshed with the Gen Z-ers who take OOTD mirror selfies and film TikToks in the bathroom. 
You clear your throat. Loudly. The interns freeze, a tableau of bad choices and instant regret. “Funny,” you say dryly. “I thought interns were supposed to observe before speaking.”
Clipboard opens her mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “We didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you interrupt. “But that’s okay. Not everyone gets to be interesting on their own, so I understand the appeal of tearing someone else down.”
PowerPoint looks at the floor. CrossFit suddenly finds the nutritional facts on her trail mix fascinating.
Your words come out with their trademark sharpness, with the type of teeth that has silenced board rooms. “Jun has more experience than most of you. He chose to be here. He got in the same way you did. Maybe keep that in mind next time you’re measuring someone’s worth by your own insecurities.”
Silence. Blessed, blooming silence. You grab your granola bar and turn around.
And then you nearly walk right into Jun.
He’s standing by the doorframe, coffee in hand, eyes wide. You have no idea how long he’s been there. Long enough, judging by the way he looks at you. Not shocked. Not smug. Soft. And a little sad.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.
You nod once. He nods back.
You walk away, heart tapping a rhythm that feels like a memory.
–-
IV. In addition, the Intern will be eligible to participate in bonuses and other employee benefits established by the Company for its employees. The Employer currently offers the following benefits to its employees: momentary witness to your better nature, free of charge.
–-
The assignment happens on a Wednesday. Which already feels unfair. Mid-week emotional warfare is always much more draining than, say, a Monday terror or a last-minute Friday deadline. 
You’re sitting in the glass meeting room with a half-dead laptop and a whole-dead espresso shot when Soonyoung bursts in with his usual flair, dragging Jihoon behind him like a reluctant paperweight.
“Alright, team!” Soonyoung announces, sleeves rolled and tie nowhere to be seen. “It’s time to mentor the future!”
Jihoon sets down his folder with the quiet judgment of a man who had no say in this decision. “Intern shadowing,” he says, flat. “Mandatory. Two weeks. No complaints.”
“Like a tiger teaches its cubs,” Soonyoung adds, teeth bared in a wide grin.
Pairings are doled out quickly. Clipboard girl is assigned to someone in data. PowerPoint boy goes to Accounts. CrossFit intern gets Soonyoung himself (“I will break her spirit or befriend her forever,” he declares).
And then—
“Junhui,” Jihoon reads. And then your name. 
You don’t flinch. You nod once, hand still moving across your notes. Professional. If the pen’s plastic creaks underneath your grip, that’s between you and whoever invented Faber-Castell ballpoints. 
Jun, across the table, shifts. “Is that... final?”
Jihoon frowns. Never a good sign, even if it is his default. “Would you like to dispute the legality of this HR-approved decision?”
“No,” Jun mutters. But he doesn’t look at you.
The meeting ends. People scatter. You’re organizing your things when Jun corners you in the hallway, by the glass copy room that reflects everything you don’t want to see.
“I was trying to give you an out,” Jun says curtly, almost explaining.
You glance up at him. “What?”
“Back there. In the meeting. I was trying to not make things worse.”
“By publicly questioning a department head’s assignment?”
“By not forcing you to work with me when things are clearly… complicated.”
You back out a laugh. “It’s just work, Junhui. Not everything is personal.”
He stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. You mean it. Mostly.
There’s a flicker of something—memory, maybe. The last time you fought, back in the vague non-label limbo of your not-a-relationship. Something about a canceled plan. Or the way he left your texts on read. It spiraled, and somehow you ended up half-yelling and then making out in his kitchen, back against the fridge.
Those arguments never lasted long.
This one already has.
You tuck a pen behind your ear, shoulders squared. “We’ll get the intern materials from Soonyoung this afternoon. I’ll book a conference room.”
“Okay,” Jun says. He still looks like he wants to say something else. Maybe everything else.
You walk past him before he can. The hallway feels colder than usual.
Just like that, the stage is set. You. Him. Two weeks. One shared desk. Zero unresolved tension whatsoever.
The project brief lands the next morning like a meteor.
Marketing strategy for upcoming romantic comedy starring Jeonghan, the email reads. The subject line includes a heart emoji. You click it with a growing sense of dread.
The film’s title? Just Friends.
“Fuck me in the ass,” you mumble underneath your breath, the same way a corporate slave does once or twice a week. 
You open the attached pitch deck. The logline reads: Two friends navigate the blurred lines of a no-strings-attached relationship until one of them catches feelings.
You close your laptop. You reopen it thirty seconds later. Professionalism, you remind yourself, is a decision.
By 2 p.m., you and Jun are in a borrowed conference room with Soonyoung, who has inexplicably brought snacks and a whiteboard shaped like a heart. “Okay! Let’s ideate,” Soonyoung says brightly, cracking open a soda. “No bad ideas. No wrong answers. Just vibes.”
“How about a trailer that ends with both characters alone,” you start, “because some things aren’t meant to be mutual.”
Jun’s lips quirk to one side. “A little bleak for a rom-com.”
“Not if it’s honest.”
“Or bitter.”
“Not everything has to be about you.”
Soonyoung pauses mid-sip.
Jun clears his throat of the faux pas. “We could do a digital campaign,” he offers. “Confession booth at the premiere. People record what they never told their almosts.”
You write it on the board. Then, without looking at Jun, you add: “QR codes on limited-edition tissues.”
“You still have those?” Jun asks, his tone a little snide. “Thought you threw them out.”
“I did.”
A beat. The marker you’re holding is probably going to run dry by the end of this hour. Jun’s fingers are tightly clenched over the table edge. Soonyoung is unashamedly looking back and forth between the two of you, as if this is a particularly interesting tennis match between Carlos Alcaranz and Jannik Sinner.
“Maybe a microsite,” Jun says quickly. “Where users can soft-launch their regrets anonymously. Could include heat maps for popular phrases.”
You nod. “We could include copy like Sometimes the fine print on friendship is heartbreak.”
Jun’s next words are spoken under his breath. “Right. Friendship.” 
Soonyoung raises his hand like he’s in school. “Sorry,” he squeaks. “Is this a pitch or—an actual breakup in real time?”
“Both,” you say simultaneously with Jun.
Jun clicks his pen. “At least I’m trying.”
“Is that what this is? Trying? Looked more like derailing.”
“Better than deflecting.”
“Better than ghosting.”
Soonyoung reaches for another snack. You turn back to the board. “Let’s bring in Jeonghan for a cheeky teaser. Maybe he narrates bad firsts. First kiss, first fight, first time you find their ex’s number still in their contacts.” 
Jun exhales, sharp. “How about the first time they refused to introduce you to their friends?” 
“Not as bad as the first time they said someone else’s name during sex.” 
Soonyoung coughs, intentional and interrupting. “Wow. Okay,” he exhales. “Let’s take a break, cubs. Hydrate. Process.”
No one moves.
You cap your marker slowly. “I’ll send a write-up.”
Jun’s stiff fingers flex on the table. “Looking forward to your notes.”
–-
V. The Employer also offers the benefit of one (1) shared creative meltdown in the presence of your manager, and unlimited awkward silence thereafter.
–-
Jihoon calls you into his office with the same tone someone might use to summon a guilty terrier who’s chewed through a power cord. You arrive with your laptop and your most composed expression. You know better than to ask what this is about.
He shuts the door. Points to the chair opposite his desk. You sit. Jihoon steeples his fingers. “Soonyoung says the marketing brainstorm was intense.”
“I’d call it thorough,” you say wryly. 
“He used the words ‘emotional combat.’ Also ‘trauma-fueled campaign ideation.’”
You exhale through your nose. “We delivered on the brief.”
“Is there something I should know?”
The question hangs. You think about deflecting. About redirecting. But Jihoon’s office is too small for half-truths, and cluttered with evidence of a man who lives off structure and caffeine. You suspect he can smell lies the same way bloodhounds smell fear.
You lean back into the chair and pick out the bullet points. “Jun and I were… sort of a thing. Before. It wasn’t official. But it also wasn’t not.”
Jihoon doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I figured.”
Your brow furrows. “Then why ask?”
“I wanted to see if you’d admit it like an adult,” he replies. “You passed. Barely.”
“I’m not going to make this a disciplinary thing,” Jihoon continues, flipping through some papers just to emphasize how above it all he is. “But you have to keep it together. Finish the project. Grin and bear it.”
“I am grinning,” you mutter. “Aggressively.”
“Good. Because this is what happens when you mix personal history with professional decisions.”
You squint at him. “You mean helping a qualified former friend apply for a job and letting HR do its job?”
“See,” Jihoon says, pointing with his pen, “this is why nepotism is bad.”
You groan. “It wasn’t nepotism. We weren’t even dating. He was unemployed. I had a moment of generosity.”
“And now you have a moment of regret,” Jihoon says. “Funny how that works.”
You cross your arms. “I liked it better when you barely spoke to people.”
“Me too,” he replies. Then, almost kindly: “Finish the campaign. Keep it clean.”
You nod. He returns to his laptop without another word. You take that as your dismissal.
As you leave Jihoon’s office, you hear him grumble, just loud enough: “God, I hate romantic comedies.”
You invite Jun for coffee the way some people file restraining orders. Terse. Cold. Legally sound. “After work,” you say, passing his desk without slowing. “Fifteen minutes. Corner place with the green awning.”
Jun, understandably, looks mistrustful. “Is this a trap?”
“Only if you make it one.”
Thirteen minutes later, he shows up. Hair slightly mussed. Shirt rolled at the sleeves like he’s trying to look less guilty. It doesn’t work. You’re seated already, nursing a decaf and a dull headache.
He slides into the chair opposite you. Eyes scanning your face like you’re a riddle he once solved and forgot the answer to. “If it’s not a trap, is it a truce?” he asks outright.
“Not everything has to be war, Jun.”
“You spent half our brainstorm launching missiles.”
“Well,” you say, sipping. “Some of them were paper airplanes.”
He grimaces. “I’m not doing this sober.”
You hate it when he’s right. 
The bar you two agree on is dim and semi-functional. Exposed brick. Mismatched stools. The music sounds like it was curated by a heartbroken DJ. Jun orders a peach soju; you get the blueberry one.
“So,” he says around the rim of his soju bottle. “Where should we start?” 
“How about,” you exhale, “with your obnoxious sipping habits?” 
“My what?” 
“The way you slurp. It still gives me the ick.” 
Jun’s responding laugh is humorless. The drinks go down quickly. The second round is unnecessary and immediate. 
“Remember that fight we had about ice cream?” you ask, after he chewed you out for being emotionally unavailable and unnecessarily anal-retentive about halving bills.
Jun laughs into his glass. “You said anyone who chose mint chocolate chip was self-sabotaging.”
“And you defended it like a personal religion.”
“You called it mouthwash in disguise.”
You shrug. “Still true.”
More drinks. More memory lane. There’s a half that has teeth, that tears through the gripes and frustrations. But there’s also a half that’s almost tender, that provides a montage of why it could have worked once upon a time. 
“You kept a spare toothbrush at my place,” he says.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You never used it.”
“You never asked why.”
Silence. Real, this time. The music changes to something softer. A song you both know. You hate that you both know it.
“I was always trying to be careful,” he says delicately. “Trying not to overstep.”
You stare at your glass. “Yeah. Well.” 
In not overstepping, Jun ended up taking no steps at all. Another silence tugs. Longer. It doesn’t bite. Just lingers.
“We were never good at timing,” he says eventually. 
“We were never good at talking.”
You expect him to push back on that. He doesn’t. For a moment, you contemplate asking the million won question. Why did you ghost me? 
Before you can, though, he’s saying something too sincere for you to ruin. “Thanks for the rec. For the job.”
“Thanks for finally thanking me,” you answer, taking a long enough sip of your soju to ignore the way your heart flutters. 
He winces, smiles. “Small steps.”
You nod.
“So, we’re okay?” he asks.
You think about it. The ghosts, the drawer, the campaign brief that cut too close. “Whatever ‘okay’ means,” you say, because you never lied to Jun; you weren’t about to start now. 
He raises his glass in a wordless cheer. You clink.
The second brainstorming session is mercifully normal.
You arrive ten minutes early, not because you’re eager but because you’ve started pre-gaming meetings with silence. Jun arrives exactly on time, not a second more, not a second less. He looks at you like he’s bracing for shrapnel. You nod like you’re not holding any.
Soonyoung plops into the seat across from you both, wearing a tiger-print shirt that says FIERCE IDEAS ONLY. You want to make fun of it. You don’t. Growth.
The meeting flows. That’s the only way to describe it. No barbs, no barbed metaphors. Jun pitches clean, clever ideas. You counter with strategy. There’s laughter. There’s alignment. There’s a genuine moment where you look at him and say, “That’s a good one.”
He smiles, appreciative and maybe even a little fond. You have to look away from it. The compliment tastes like a penny on your tongue.
“Hehe,” Soonyoung cackles, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Just your reign of chaos,” you deflect.
“Horang-haaay,” he sighs. “Anyway. Love this direction. Run with it. Make it beautiful. Make it bite.”
You do.
The presentation goes well. Soonyoung beams like a proud zookeeper. Jihoon nods once, which is his version of a standing ovation. The execs approve the romantic comedy campaign with minimal edits. There are even murmurs of early awards submissions. You pretend not to care. You care deeply.
Jun catches you after the meeting, shoulder brushing yours in the hallway. “Hey,” he says. “We made that work. Really work.”
The pride blossoms in your chest, persistent and unwelcoming. “We did.”
“So,” he starts, casual but not, “Want to grab a drink? Just us. Not like before. Or maybe not not like before. Whatever works.”
You hesitate. 
If it were anyone else, you probably wouldn’t balk. This offer isn’t a romantic advance. It’s a grabbing-a-drink-with-your-workmate-after-a-job-well-done. Unfortunately, your mind is a slideshow of late texts, half-finished thoughts, and the sound of silence where a goodbye should’ve been.
“I can’t,” you answer. Not unkind. Just honest. You give no explanation, and Jun doesn’t press even though he flinches. Wavers. As if he’s remembering his place. 
He nods slowly. “Okay,” he says with faux cheer. “Another time.”
You don’t say yes. You don’t say no. He walks away like it doesn’t sting, and you stay rooted like it does.
To ease the hurt, you take yourself to dinner like a pity party with better lighting. Your comfort place is a hole-in-the-wall Italian spot tucked between a laundromat and a locksmith, which is, frankly, how you know it’s good. The tables wobble slightly, the waitress knows your name, and the carbonara tastes like a hug from someone who never judged you for your bad taste in men.
You order your usual. Set your phone face-down, then pick it up again. Jun’s contact is open. 
You don’t remember when you opened it. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, caught between being impulsive and being pathetic.
You almost start typing. Something like, Hey, my schedule cleared up. Drinks on me? or Were you flirting with me or am I delusional? or I’m at the place where we had our first date. At the very same table we sat at, in fact. 
Then the door chimes.
You look up.
Jun walks in. Not alone.
He’s with another intern—the one from finance, maybe? She laughs at something he says as they walk toward the back. He’s relaxed. Rolling his sleeves like he wants to look like effort. He gestures to the menu like this place wasn’t once yours.
You watch, stone-still, as he orders. You catch fragments. “You’ll love the tiramisu.” “This place is a hidden gem.” “No, seriously, the carbonara—life-changing.”
You’re vaguely aware that you’re gripping your fork too tight. You don’t name the feeling. Not jealousy. Definitely not jealousy. Just territorial spite and righteous betrayal with a dash of indigestion.
Your pasta arrives. You pick at it. Every bite feels like chewing a memory that now has someone else’s fingerprints on it. In your head, it’s a litany of fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui, fuck you Wen Junhui. 
The carbonara is wrong. Too salty. Not al dente enough. And Jun is sitting a couple of seats away, smiling at his date. Blissfully unaware that he’s ruined your comfort food for life. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Fuck you, Wen Junhui. 
You flag the check. You tip generously, because if you’re having a terrible night, then the waitress might as well have a good one. 
Jun notices you only as you brush past his table. His expression morphs mid-laugh—first surprise, then something else. His companion’s gaze flits to you, recognizing you as a senior at the company.
“Hi!” she says politely. 
You give her a tight nod. “Hello.”
Jun rises. “Wait, hey—”
But you’re already pushing past the door. The air outside is cooler than expected. He catches up halfway down the block.
“Hey,” he calls, a little breathless. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Clearly.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Oh, what, colonize my safe spaces?” You stop. Turn to him. “I didn’t realize you gave restaurant tours now. How generous.”
He runs a hand through his hair. Frustrated. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”
“You weren’t thinking. That tracks.”
The words hang. Sharp. Petty. 
“Don’t be rude to your not-date,” you grit out. “Haven’t you got some life-changing pasta to share?” 
You don’t wait for his reply.
You walk off, fast. The kind of walk that dares someone to follow.
He doesn’t.
That, too, tracks. 
–-
VI. The Intern is entitled to unlimited paid time off (PTO) for as long as they do not do it at bygone date spots. In light of this, the Employer may claim a lifetime of pettiness. 
–-
Soonyoung makes the announcement as if it’s a reality show reveal.
“There might be one or two interns we absorb after the cycle,” he tells the room of department heads, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is an exciting twist instead of a budget conversation. “Jun’s doing well. Also, that other one—what's her name? Finance intern? The one who has a nice laugh.”
You freeze mid-note taking. He means the girl from the restaurant. The one who knows about the tiramisu. Your stomach coils, and your poor pen jabs into your paper a little too hard. 
You make it through the rest of the meeting on autopilot, the kind of dazed professionalism that only corporate trauma can birth. Jihoon gives you a look on the way out. You ignore it.
As expected, you’re assigned to write Jun’s intern evaluation.
It’s a task you’d normally treat like any other. Bullet points. Benchmarks. But the cursor on the blank Google Doc blinks at you like a dare. Because it’s not just about campaign contributions or interpersonal skills. It’s about putting on record what he it, or what he isn’t.
You close the tab. You’ll come back to it. Maybe. After a lobotomy.
Two days later, Jun finds you by the vending machine. “You’re evaluating me?” he says by way of greeting.
You take your time selecting a soda. The machine whirs dramatically. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll go away. 
He proves otherwise. “Soonyoung told me,” Jun presses. “He said you’re writing my assessment.”
You procure your strawberry Fanta with deliberate coolness, fingers already toying with the metal lid. “Do you greet all potential references this way?” you say dryly. 
“I just—I figured you wouldn’t be neutral.”
That stops you. You turn, slow. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, after everything. The way we—” He gestures vaguely. “That night. The restaurant. You were pissed.”
You laugh. You can’t help it. God, what did you do in your past life to end up in a situation like this? The last of your patience snaps like a rubber band, and the words spill out of you with a kind of cutthroat that could melt tungsten. 
“I gave you a glowing recommendation, Jun,” you snipe. “I said you were sharp and collaborative and vital to the pitch. Which, in case you forgot, you were. I did my job. Maybe try doing yours.”
He gapes. You don’t stop. “You’ve been the unprofessional one here. You keep making things personal. You bring other people to restaurants that aren’t yours to share. You act like I owe you something when I don’t even owe you eye contact.”
Jun opens his mouth. Closes it again. You toss your still-full can in a nearby bin. You don’t have the appetite for anything sweet right now.
“You haven’t changed, Wen Junhui,” you bite out—the last word, huzzah!—before walking off.
It’s not the cleanest exit, but it’s something final. And right now, that’s all you have.
Jun pretends like nothing happened.
You’re not surprised. Denial is practically his native language. He nods at you in meetings, leaves polite spaces between you in the break room. He’s mastered the art of the neutral expression, the kind that suggests nothing has ever gone wrong. That everything is fine.
Then a package arrives at your desk.
No note. Just a brown paper bag tied up with string, like something out of a middle school crush fantasy. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a bouquet.
Of ballpens.
Dozens of them, in your preferred brand and ink weight. All black, all clicky. Not one of them chewed, cracked, or snapped in half—yet.
You stare at them like they’re a coded message. Maybe they are.
Jun used to tease you about it. How you went through pens like breath mints. How he’d hear the telltale crack of a barrel and look over to find you sheepish, a half-dismembered pen in hand. Once, he said he was going to buy you a box just to see how long it would take you to kill them all. You laughed and told him that was the most romantic thing he’d ever said.
You use one of the pens in the next meeting. On purpose. Jun notices. You can see it in the flick of his eyes, the way he registers it with a twitch of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.
After, as people are clearing out, he lingers.
“That one working okay?” he asks.
You click it. Unclick. Click again. “Still alive,” you say. “No casualties yet.”
He nods. You don’t say thank you. He doesn’t say sorry.
All the same, it hangs there, between you. The closest either of you has come to being a decent person.
–-
VII. The Intern will respect all intellectual property of the Company, and in return, the Company will provide necessary tools for productivity—and occasional forgiveness.
–-
The interns are tasked with planning the company party to cap off the end of their rotation. It’s meant to be a fun assignment. Low-stakes. High morale. Naturally, it turns into an emotional landmine.
Jun, for reasons you pretend not to think too deeply about, takes the lead.
He delegates well. Manages expectations. Schedules with military precision. In the end, what catches your attention is the uncanny accuracy of his planning decisions.
The venue is one of your favorites. The playlist includes that one obscure indie-pop band you once had on repeat. The snacks avoid all your known aversions—no olives, no red velvet, no sad carrot sticks masquerading as party food.
You raise an eyebrow when he unveils the plan in the department-wide meeting. He doesn’t look at you directly, but when you glance his way, he winks. Later, when everyone’s clapping for the effort, you wait for him to slide into the seat next to yours. You lean over and mumble, taunt just for him, “Stalker.” 
He raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I shadowed you for two weeks. I’m observant.”
The party is in a week, which is probably why you run into him at the grocery store later that night, arms full of sparkling water and overpriced string lights.
You’re already in line, clutching a frozen meal and a bottle of wine that screams dinner-for-one. He falls in behind you, a little breathless, a little smug.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.
“Is that rosemary sea salt popcorn?” you ask, peering into his basket. “Wow. Intern budgets have really changed since my day.”
He grins. “Only the best for Carat Company.”
You point at a tub of hummus. “That brand’s terrible. Too tangy.”
“Noted,” he says, and swaps it out for another without fanfare.
You don’t know what makes you say it—maybe the buzz of fluorescent lights, maybe the way he’s stacking paper plates like it’s an art form—but you tilt your head and ask, “Bringing a date?”
Jun doesn’t miss a beat. “Nope.”
“Finance intern not free?”
“She’s got better taste than me,” he says. Then, a little more tentatively: “Position’s still open, if you’re interested.”
You click your tongue. Before you can think better of it, a responding flirtation breaks free. “I could be convinced.”
Jun giggles, quick and honest. He tries to cover it with a cough, but he’s still smiling as he sets down his basket.
The next couple of days unfold with unnerving ease. You tell yourself it’s just the party approaching, just everyone being unusually cooperative for once. But there’s a rhythm to the way you and Jun move around each other now—a familiarity that feels inherited. Like muscle memory. Like relapsing. 
You catch him finishing your sentences, anticipating your notes in meetings, handing you the pen you’re about to ask for before the words even leave your mouth. It’s annoying. It’s also disarming.
You’re in the office late one evening, finalizing a last-minute asset for the event. A print layout no one else had the brain cells to catch. Most of the floor’s lights have gone dark, save for your corner, glowing sterile and soft. But Jun’s still there too, cross-legged on the carpet like he lives here, surrounded by poster tubes and tangled cable wires, wielding a stapler with the intensity of a man on the edge.
“You know we have tape, right?” you say, leaning against the copy room door frame, sipping cold coffee that tastes like regret. 
He glances up, squints. “Yeah. Tape’s a coward’s tool.”
You snort. It sounds like something he would’ve said back when you were sharing fries and arguments on your living room floor, when evenings blurred into 2a.m. discussions about plot holes in movies and whether hotdog sandwiches were burgers.
“Besides,” he adds, popping a staple in with too much flair, “this is more permanent. It says, I commit.”
You raise an eyebrow. “To the banner?”
“To the bit,” he says, deadpan.
You roll your eyes and go back to your screen, but your grin lingers longer than you want it to.
He offers you a ride home. Says it casually, like it’s a weather update. You accept. Too casually. Like you haven’t already memorized the way his dashboard lights flicker, or how he drives five over the limit.
In his car, it’s too quiet. The AUX cable is broken. His windows fog slightly from the humidity. The air smells like mint gum, vinyl from a new car freshener, and something else—something old. You give him the directions without thinking, because they haven’t changed. Neither has the weight that settles in your chest when he takes each turn with instinctive precision.
Outside your apartment, the silence hovers. “Thanks for the ride,” you say, hand on the door handle, already half-gone. Trying very, very hard not to think about the dozens of other times this ride has happened, and how each of them ended the same way. 
He doesn’t answer for a moment. He just watches you, head tilted slightly like he’s solving a puzzle or waiting for permission. You face him, nose scrunching with mild confusion. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says. 
And then he kisses you.
It’s not sudden, but it still surprises you. Your body forgets to protest, forgets the smart thing to do, forgets the narrative you’ve been building for weeks about being over this. His mouth is warm, and patient, and frustratingly familiar. The kind of kiss that bypasses logic. The kind that knows too much.
You kiss him back. Automatically. Completely. As if no time has passed. As if the ghosting, the tension, the HR talks and overused pens never happened. Just mouths and memory and momentum.
It isn’t until you break apart—his thumb still barely touching your jaw, breath heavy in the space between—that you hear yourself say, “What are you doing?”
He exhales a laugh, like he’s embarrassed. “Convincing you.” A beat. “Is it working?”
The panic rises in your throat like bile. You’re not sure what you’re about to throw up—regret, probably. But for what? Which part? 
You don’t know the answer to that question. And so you peel away from a confused Jun, and you open the car door. The night air rushes in, cool and intrusive. You get out without a word.
He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t call after you. You don’t know what you’d want him to say, anyway. For once, you’re grateful that Wen Junhui has never chased after you when it counts. 
The morning after, you walk into the office like nothing happened. Which is to say: you walk in five minutes late with a coffee too hot for your tongue and sunglasses still on because your soul isn’t ready for fluorescent light.
You make yourself a promise. You will not acknowledge the kiss. You will not dwell. You will do what Jun did months ago. You will ghost in broad daylight.
It feels very mature.
Except, unlike Jun, you have to see him at the printer. And at the shared snack drawer. And at the joint team huddle where Soonyoung teaches everybody how to this weird, new hand gesture he picked up on. 
Jun keeps looking at you. That too-familiar softness, that edge of disappointment creeping around the corners of his mouth like he expected better from you. You don’t return the look. You don’t even return the stapler he loaned you yesterday. If professionalism is a hill to die on, then consider your gravestone already drafted.
Two days pass. You think you’ve successfully rewritten history until Jun corners you by the vending machine. Again. Before you can half-joke we have got to stop meeting like this, Jun is already snipping at the strings of your defenses. 
“Is this revenge?” he asks, low voice, eyes scanning your face.
Your hand hovers over the button for salted almonds. “What?”
“This,” he gestures vaguely at the space between you, which has become somehow both intimate and unbearable. “You pretending like it didn’t happen. Like the kiss didn’t happen.”
You choose the almonds. Not because you want them, but because silence is at least with vending machine clatter.
“You kissed me back,” he says. Almost an accusation. 
You shrug. It’s not as nonchalant as you probably want it to be. “People kiss. It’s a thing.”
Jun recoils, and something like white-hot guilt flashes through you. You douse it as Jun huffs out his next words with poorly-concealed offense, “Wow. Is this what being the bigger person looks like now?”
You pocket the almonds. “Well, you always said I was good at taking notes.”
His jaw flexes. Hurt flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over with a tired smile. “Right. Got it.”
You don’t stop him when he walks away. For the both of you, it’s a lesson learned. Turns out, the taste of your own medicine is bitter. 
And, sometimes, it comes with a side of overpriced almonds.
–-
VIII. The Employee acknowledges that emotional clarity is not listed among official job responsibilities, and therefore will not be provided under Company policy.
–-
The company party is held at a rented rooftop bar with fairy lights, questionable shrimp cocktails, and cheap beer masquerading as an open bar. Someone’s playlist is stuck on a loop of early 2010s hits, and there’s a half-deflated inflatable swan in the punch bowl. It’s all very on-brand. 
There are icebreaker games, a makeshift red carpet, and a cardboard cutout of Soonyoung in a tiger costume posing with the slogan: ROAR FOR Q4! It is, in every way, excessive.
You don a black silk blouse tucked into tailored high-waist trousers, sharp and clean and the only ironed thing in your apartment. Your lipstick is a soft red. Strategic, not romantic. You wear your hair up, simple earrings, and shoes that are just shy of painful. You look like someone who planned not to linger.
Jun shows up in a white button-down with sleeves rolled past his elbows, collar slightly askew like he got halfway ready and forgot to care. There’s a wine-colored blazer slung over one shoulder and, unfairly, it works. He has the ease of someone who didn’t expect to be watched yet somehow is.
You avoid each other all night with the precision of two people still nursing unspoken sentences. You talk to other departments. He lingers around the interns. Jihoon drinks exactly one cocktail, makes direct eye contact with you for three seconds too long, and vanishes like The Judgmental Ghost of Situationship’s Past.
The party buzzes on. There’s a chocolate fountain that no one trusts and a dance floor that Soonyoung won’t leave. There’s a photo booth filled with props from last year’s pirate-themed anniversary campaign. You find yourself laughing at something someone from Legal says, and immediately hate that it reminds you of how Jun used to make you laugh just like that—like you were surprised by it.
It’s going fine. Almost.
Until the awards begin. Soonyoung, of course, is the MC, beaming with chaotic delight. “And now,” he grins, pausing for effect, “for the honorary award for Best Enemies-to-Lovers Plot Unfolding in Real Time…”
You blink. Jun blinks. You both know how this film is going to end, and sure enough, Soonyoung is screeching your name and Jun’s. 
There are cheers. Some gasps. Mostly laughter. You rise with the grace of someone preparing for emotional war. Jun’s already on his feet, giving you that look like this is either his worst nightmare or his best bit. Possibly both.
Onstage, you are handed a trophy of a basketball player bought from the dollar store around the corner. You and Jun pose awkwardly for a photo as a chant of Speech! Speech! Speech! resounds in the crowd. 
You contemplate handing in your two week’s notice tomorrow.
Under string lights and scrutiny, you take the mic first. “I’d like to thank HR for not firing either of us,” you say for the lack of better thing to say. 
Polite chuckles. Someone from the Events team yells, “Not yet!”
Jun takes the mic next. “And I’d like to thank, uh, Soonyoung. For teaching me what a ‘horanghae’ is. Seriously, it’s done immeasurable damage to my vocabulary.”
Louder laughter. A few whoops. You both smile too hard, too bright, too fake. 
Later, you spot him near the edge of the bar, half-shadowed by a potted ficus. He’s slipping away. Classic Jun, retreating mid-scene. 
You excuse yourself before you think too hard about it. You follow him down a stairwell half-lit by emergency bulbs, the music above thumping faintly through concrete. He hears your steps before you speak.
“You always leave like this?” you ask.
He turns, hands in his pockets. His expression—initially closed-off, ready to bolt—creaks open ever so slightly. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he answers. 
“Can’t help it.”
He looks at you like it hurts. Like you’re saying too much without saying enough. “Is this the part where you ask me why I’m leaving?”
You fold your arms over your chest, over the maddening beat of your heart. “No,” you breathe. “I want to know why you left.”
You don’t care about tonight. Jun could leave this party and never look back at The Carat Company, and you wouldn’t blame him. You care about the way his texts stopped coming in, the way it was radio silence for weeks. How he didn’t even come to take back his things, so you made the executive decision to donate them to a thrift shop like it might somehow make you feel better about yourself. 
Jun exhales, long and tired. He shifts from one foot to another. For a moment, you think he’s going to make a run for it. 
He doesn’t. 
“I didn’t think I could be enough,” he says, finally. “Not for you. Not for the version of you that has her life together, who writes like a scalpel and moves like she’s never tripped over anything in her life. I didn’t want to hold you back. I didn’t want to be another unfinished thing in your life.���
When Jun had gotten laid off his previous job, he’d fallen into a rut that you tried so hard to get him out of. You sent him motivational LinkedIn posts. You pointed out Harvard courses and helped him scour JobStreet. All the while, you were working your ass off at The Carat Company. Coming home burnt out but still willing to help him back on his feet. 
You hadn’t realized how that might’ve looked like for him. You hadn’t seen the cracks, stretching like spiderwebs over his fragile male ego. Obscuring the reason why you did it all in the first place. 
Love. Crazy, stupid love. You clear your throat, refusing to let the rage tip out of you. Some of it bleeds into your incredulous question, anyway.  “So you decided for me?”
His shoulders flinch. “I was scared.”
“You don’t get to do that,” you say, your attempt at being cool fracturing. “You don’t get to leave me, then show back up like a better man, when the truth is—you didn’t even let me choose.”
He looks at you, stunned. “I—”
“No,” you say, stepping forward. “Who I want to suffer for is my call.” 
This time, you kiss him. 
It’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s messy and fierce and fueled by months of bitterness and longing, of misspoken lines and things unsaid. His hands find your waist like they’ve never left it. Your mouth moves like a dare. There’s a wall at his back, and your chest at his front, and none of this feels professional at all.
It feels like something finally falling into place. Or breaking open.
Jun’s car is parked two levels down, the far corner of a concrete lot that smells like rain, gasoline, and the ghost of things unsaid. It’s far from the rooftop’s sticky laughter and company-wide inebriation. A hush broken only by the soft echo of your heels and the low, restless rhythm of your breathing. His, too.
You’re kissing again by the time you get nearer to the car.  This time, it’s slower. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that drags a sound out of him—half-sigh, half-swear. 
Jun groans into your mouth, hands moving instinctively. One finds your jaw, the other your waist, fingers curling with intent. Your back hits the side of his car with a quiet thud. You smile against his mouth, sharp and satisfied.
“You gonna run again?” you mumble, voice low, all edge.
He shakes his head, dazed. “Not unless you tell me to.”
“Good,” you say, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, grazing hot skin. “Then shut up and get in the car.”
He listens. He always did know how to listen when it mattered.
The door slams shut, muffling the world. The air smells like him—clean linen, faint spice, something faintly sweet beneath it. The dash glows dim. Your blouse is unbuttoned by the time you straddle him, knees digging into the leather seat. He fumbles to push his seat back farther, and you don’t wait. You settle on his thighs, hungry hands pushing his shirt up, over his head.
His eyes are already wild. Chest bare. Breath uneven. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening. You kiss him again, rougher this time, teeth grazing his bottom lip. He gasps.
“You want this?” he asks, voice cracked, part awe, part fear.
You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “I need this.”
Clothes are tossed somewhere in the front seat—jacket, trousers, shirt, all lost to heat and haste. Your fingers fumble with his belt; he helps, hands shaking. You lift your hips, letting him drag your trousers down, your underwear already damp and sticking to your thighs. His knuckles brush the inside of your legs as he pulls them off, slow and reverent, then not-so-slow.
His fingers ghost along your inner thigh, then between your legs, slipping through slick heat. He exhales like it guts him.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, voice shredded. “How are you still so wet?”
You take his hand, guide his fingers to your lips, and suck your own slick clean. Your eyes on his the entire time. The sharp, guttural sound he makes is a reward in its own right.
The kiss that follow doesn’t end so much as it fractures. Broken by breath, by the heat of your thighs still spread over his lap, by the way your hips keep shifting like you haven’t quite had your fill.
Jun exhales sharply when you pull back. His mouth is swollen, his chest rising and falling like he ran a mile, and his hands—God, his hands—don’t stop touching you. One strokes your thigh, the other drifts higher, sliding back between your legs.
He groans, thumb dragging through your slick, and you shudder. “You always get like this,” he whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for you. “I touch you and you… fuck, you melt for me.”
You grind into his palm, voice already too hoarse to feign nonchalance. “Don’t pretend you’re in control right now.”
His eyes flick up, wide and wrecked. “I’m not,” he laughs. “Not even close.”
His fingers slip in. Two at once, with a stretch that makes your eyes flutter. You gasp, back arching, one arm braced against the seat in front of him as he starts to work you open. Slow. Deep. A rhythm that feels almost reverent, like he’s savoring this. Like he’s making up for every missed chance.
“So warm,” he grunts, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “So perfect.”
You reach down to find his cock still half-hard and twitching. Your fingers wrap around him, familiar with the way he likes to be touched, with how he reacts when you drag your thumb just under the head. He shudders. Moans. His hand falters inside you.
“Don’t—don’t do that,” he stammers.
You smile, sharp and smug. “Why not?” 
You jerk him slow, just enough to keep him on the edge. His eyes flutter. His mouth opens, breath catching on every exhale as your hand works him while his fingers fuck into you.
This is how it used to be, back when it was messy and undefined, back when you still pretended this didn’t mean something. His hands in your pants after a long day at work. Your mouth on him in a shared shower.  But this is different. Sharper. Hungrier. The way he looks at you now—it isn’t casual. It’s not temporary.
His lips graze your jaw. His voice cracks. “You feel so good,” he says, his words slurred with pleasure, “s-so good. I can’t think.” 
You lean closer, nipping at his throat. “Don’t think. Just give me your fingers.”
He does. He gives you everything. Curling deeper, pressing harder, stretching you out until you clench around him and gasp, nails digging into the side of his neck. “Shit,” you whisper. “There, please. Right there.”
He moans, like he’s the one being burned alive. His hips jerk up into your palm. “So polite,” he says affectionately, placing a quick kiss to your shoulder before going on, “You’re gonna come for me, baby? Huh? Just on my fingers?”
You grind down, breath punching out of you. The pleasure coils hot and fast in your stomach, that dizzy, electric pull that tells you you’re about to break. When you register that the old pet name had slipped out of him—baby—you shatter.
It hits you all at once. Tight, breathless, a wave crashing through your spine and curling your toes. Your moan rips through the silence, raw and wild, as you pulse around him.
Jun curses under his breath. Even as you climax, your hand hasn’t stopped moving. He trembles, thighs tight beneath you. “Fuck, stop, stop—please, I’ll come,” he pants. “I’ll come and I’m not inside you yet. Please.”
You still your hand, fingers flexing around the base of his cock. His hips twitch anyway, desperate. His head falls back against the seat, jaw slack, chest heaving.
You watch him. The boy you almost had. The man who’s trying not to lose you now.
“You good?” you ask, voice low. Fond. Worried. 
He nods, swallowing hard. “Barely,” he croaks. “Need you.”
You lean in, mouth grazing his. “You’ve got me,” you promise, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said all night. 
The second your hand lifts from his cock, Jun fumbles between your thighs with shaking fingers, lining himself up. His touch is clumsy, reverent, desperate. His breath hitches when the head of his cock drags against your slick, catching at your entrance.
“Fuck, yes,” he gasps, the sound raw, like he’s already too close.
You sink onto him in one motion.
It’s not graceful, not slow. It’s greedy.
Your body takes him deep, full, stretched wide around him in a single sharp thrust that leaves you both dazed. His head snaps back, mouth open in a moan that cuts off halfway, swallowed by the thud of your hips meeting. “Jesus Christ,” he chokes out. “You’re—fuck. Fuck. You’re perfect.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself. The leather creaks beneath your knees. You don’t wait, don’t answer. You ride him fast, rough, punishing—like you need him to feel just how badly you've wanted this.
His hands scramble to keep up, one sliding to your waist, the other gripping your thigh, then your ass, then back again. He can’t seem to pick where he wants to touch you, so he settles for everywhere.
“You’re taking me so good,” he groans, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined, completely lost in it. “So fucking deep. Missed this. Missed you.”
You grind down harder, pace unrelenting. “You missed me, or just my pussy?” you bite out, even as a moan escapes.
He laughs, broken and breathless. “Both. Don’t make me choose.”
You lean in and kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry, your teeth dragging against his bottom lip before you suck it into your mouth. His hands tighten, fingertips bruising. Your hips roll, bounce, grind. Every motion is intentional. Relentless. He’s twitching inside you already.
He lets out a strangled sound when you clench around him. “Trying to—hng—ruin me?” he whimpers, forehead pressed to yours.
“You’re doing that all on your own,” you exhale before chasing his lips. 
The car rocks. Windows fog. Sweat beads at your spine, your thighs, the crease of his neck where you bury your face to muffle a cry.
He’s fucking up into you now, meeting every downward slam of your hips with a thrust that has you seeing stars. His rhythm is messier than you remember, but it’s probably the moment. The setting. The reunion. 
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked. “Shit—baby, please.”
You pull back, lips brushing his ear. “Then do it,” you whisper. “Come—ah—inside me. Make a mess, baby.”
His whole body jerks. His fingers dig in. He groans deep in his chest like it hurts to hold on. You don’t let up.
Your pace gets rougher. Sloppier. He’s moaning, practically whimpering. The kind of sounds you’ve only ever pulled from him when he’s too far gone to pretend. “You sound wrecked,” you pant, dragging your nails down his chest. “You close, baby?”
He nods, dazed, unable to speak.
You fuck down harder. Grind meaner. Your clit drags against the base of him and your whole body tenses. It hits you without warning—full-body and sudden. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, ripping your breath away as your muscles seize around him.
He cries out, high and choked. His hips stutter. “Wait—wait, fuck, baby, stop—please,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Need this to last. Need to have you for longer.”
You freeze, panting against his mouth.
He’s trembling.
“Alright?” you ask.
He nods, frantic. “Yeah. Yeah. I just—don’t want this to end.”
You stroke his cheek, your body still sensitive in aftershocks.
He looks up at you, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bruised. “I used to dream about this,” he says, voice barely there. “After we... you know. Dreamt of having you again. But it never felt like this.”
“Like what?”
He swallows. “Like I could lose you if I didn’t hold on tight enough.”
The sincerity bowls you over, so you kiss him again. This time, you slow down. Not because you want to, but because you know you’re both too close to let it end like that.
Your next words are a tremble against his lips. “Don’t leave. Not this time."
“I won’t,” he answers without missing a beat.  
You don’t move for a moment. Just sit there, full of him, your body still trembling with aftershocks, hips twitching every few seconds like your muscles don’t know it’s over. Jun’s forehead rests against your sternum, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his grip around your waist just this side of desperate.
You let it stretch. The quiet. The weight. The ache.
The car is still and humid, your skin sticking slightly where it meets his. All you can hear is the slow, syncopated rhythm of your breath tangled with his. Every now and then, your body clenches around him involuntarily, dragging tiny, startled sounds from both your throats.
After a couple of minutes, you start to move again. Just a slow, idle grind of your hips. Gentle. Lazy. The kind of roll that shouldn’t mean anything, but still makes you both react. A twitch from him. A flutter from you. You do it again. Then again. Just enough pressure. Just enough friction to keep you grounded in it.
He whimpers quietly, head tilting up to look at you through damp lashes. “This is torture.” 
You smile. Kiss his temple, almost laughingly. “I always did like making your life hard.” 
Jun huffs something like a laugh, more breath than voice. His hand curls around the back of your neck, thumb stroking over your pulse. The other traces down to your thigh, fingers dragging along the crease with slow reverence. You keep rocking gently, almost absentminded. Not fucking. Not chasing. Just—resting. Keeping him there. Letting him feel all of you, even in stillness.
It’s unfairly intimate, how your body fits against his like it remembers how. The arch of your spine molded to the shape of his chest, your forehead resting against the curve of his jaw, your hands cradling his face when you lift it.
His heartbeat pounds beneath your palm, too fast. Too vulnerable. “Can I…” he starts, voice cautious, almost shy.
You lift a brow. “Can you what?”
“Take some of the control. Just for a bit.”
It kills you. That he has to ask. That he still doesn’t think you’d give him the world. “Of course,” you say, the word murmured against the corner of his mouth. “Take me.” 
He doesn’t answer. His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging into the supple fleshed. “Baby,” he says, wrecked and serious, “I’ve been dreaming of fucking you properly since the day I left.” 
Your teeth grazes his lips. “Do it, then,” you hum. 
And he does.
He plants his feet. Braces himself. Then lifts you slightly and thrusts up hard, cock dragging deep, unforgiving. The breath punches out of you like a hit. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, your head falling forward.
He does it again. And again. Brutal. Precise. Each upward slam meets the drag of your body grinding down, slick and hot and soaked with all the aftermath he’s still pulsing inside.
“That’s it,” he growls, his breath ragged. “Let me fuck you. Let me make you feel it.”
You let him.
You go pliant in his hands, let him chase the tempo, his rhythm messy but deep. Every thrust is a reminder of what you both lost and what he’s begging for now.
He fucks up into you like he’s trying to chase every unsaid apology down your spine. The car rocks with the motion. His arms strain with effort, sweat slipping between your bodies, your skin slapping wetly together with every filthy thrust.
“You’re unreal,” he moans. “So good. So fucking good. I forgot how you feel. I forgot how you sound when I—”
“You didn’t forget,” you cut in, panting. “You just—hng—thought you could survive without it.”
He whines at that. Literally whines. You tighten around him and his hips stutter.
The pressure rises again. Slower this time. No sharp edge. Just steady, building tension in your core. Your muscles twitch with each thrust, your chest pressed to his, damp and heaving.
Jun kisses you hard, tongue hot and desperate. “I wanna feel you come again,” he begs against your mouth. “Please. Please, baby. One more. Give it to me."
You nod, but it’s not conscious. Your body answers before your mouth can.
It crashes into you, serrated and mean. Your third orgasm claws through your nerves, your thighs clamping down around his waist as you cry out into his neck. It’s overwhelming. Scalding. Your body trembles, every inch of you unraveling in his hands.
That’s all he needs. He groans, deep and undone, shoving into you one last time and staying there. His whole body goes tight, shakes. You cup his face. Make him look at you.
The thought occurs to you for the nth time: Jun is so pretty when he comes. 
Even if he does it with a raw, wounded sound. He pulses deep inside you, buried as far as he can get, and you swear you can feel him shaking with it. Like it guts him. Like it saves him.
He clings to you afterward. Breathing hard. Drenched and unraveled.
You don’t say anything. You just stay. Let him hold you. Let him come back to you, slowly but surely.
Because this time, he isn’t running. And for once, neither are you.
The next morning, though, you wake to the absence of weight.
That’s the first thing you notice.
The second is the shape of your own anxiety, curling low in your chest, familiar as a bad habit. The other side of the bed is empty. The sheets are rumpled and cooling. There’s a single long strand of hair caught in the pillowcase. Not yours.
For a moment, you just stare at it. Then you look around. Bedroom door open. A thin shaft of light bleeds in from the hallway.
You don’t call out. You don’t move. You just go very, very still.
This is, after all, a familiar pattern. Boy meets girl. Boy runs away. Girl pretends she doesn’t notice until it’s convenient to feel something about it. The air smells like sex and detergent. The ceiling has a crack in it that you keep forgetting to report to the landlord. Your throat is dry.
Then Jun reappears.
Towel low on his hips, toothbrush in hand. He stops short in the doorway, mid-step, and you watch the exact moment he realizes what his absence must’ve looked like. The moment the air shifts. The look on your face must be something, because his shoulders drop in a slow exhale and his voice goes soft.
“Hey. I didn’t leave,” he says, swallowing his toothpaste—what a fucking psycho—before setting his tooth brush on to the nearest flat surface. “Just went to brush my teeth."
You raise an eyebrow. Try to mask the little betrayal that had already crept in. “You know, most people announce their morning survival before disappearing,” you say. “It’s customary.” 
Jun winces. “You’re right. I should’ve said something. I just didn’t want to wake you.”
You sit up, sheets falling to your waist. Your body aches in a way that feels earned. Your hair is a mess after the two, maybe three rounds that you and Jun had when he fell into your bed last night. You don’t care enough to hide the overthinking.
“You could’ve left a note,” you say. Half-serious, half-joking. “Or a sock on the door. A smoke signal.”
He laughs, crosses to the side of the bed. Drops the towel a little lower on purpose, the menace. “Noted. Next time I disappear into the bathroom, I’ll launch a full PR campaign.”
You narrow your eyes. “See that you do.”
His hand lifts to your face, thumb dragging just under your cheekbone. “I’m here,” he says, plain and simple as a promise. And he means it.
Maybe it’s stupid that you believe him. Maybe it’s messier than it should be, that you’re even in this place, in this bed, with this boy again.
But his hand is warm. His mouth is soft when he kisses your forehead. And when he climbs back in bed to hold you to him, you don’t say no. 
It’s a Saturday, so the two of you let the sun climb high enough to slice through your blinds. You’d move, but Jun is draped over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues. It’s clingy in a way that would be annoying if it weren’t also stupidly comforting. 
His leg is thrown across yours. His arm is a dead weight on your stomach. He smells like your shampoo and the faint citrus of your soap, and the whole thing is either domestic bliss or a very elaborate trap.
His fingers are tucked into the curve of your hip, not moving, just there. A quiet claim. As if anchoring himself will stop time or stop you from thinking of endings.
You’re not even annoyed, which is suspicious. You should be cataloging all the reasons this is a bad idea. Cross-department entanglements, your no-office-romance policy (written internally, unspoken externally), the sheer HR nightmare of it all. Instead, you’re memorizing the rhythm of his breathing.
“So,” he says after a long moment, voice still scratchy with sleep, mouth near your collarbone, "they offered me a job."
You blink at the ceiling. The fan clicks. One of the blades wobbles slightly. “‘They’ being The Carat Company.”
He nods into your shoulder. You feel the curve of his smile before you see it. It’s smug and sleepy and dangerous—a combination that should come with a warning label.
You hum. Neutral. “That’s… a choice.”
Jun shifts. Enough to glance up at you, catching your expression with lazy amusement. It’s probably somewhere between polite support and visible internal shrieking. “Wow,” he murmurs. “You are doing an excellent job of pretending that doesn’t horrify you."
You sigh, staring at the water-stained patch on your ceiling. “I just think our HR department is one passive-aggressive email away from imploding, and I’m not sure I want to share a copier with someone who’s seen me naked.”
He chuckles. Kisses your shoulder. “That’s fair. But relax. I’m not taking it.”
You pause. Blink. Turn your head just enough to catch his face. “You’re not?”
He shakes his head, pulling back slightly, grinning like a man who knows he’s about to get a dramatic reaction. You squint at him. "So?"
“Sebong offered me something better.”
Record scratch. Full stop. You sit up slightly, sheet dragging across your chest. “Sebong Corporation? Our most flamboyant and passive-aggressive rival?”
“The very same.”
You purse your lips. “The one that sent us cupcakes during Q3 just to say ‘Sorry about your metrics’?”
Jun grins. “A plus for petty. But yeah, they want me.”
“You’re going corporate spy now? Love that for you,” you jab. “Can you wear a wire to our next team sync?"
He shrugs, undeterred by your sarcasm as a coping mechanism. “They offered better pay, better benefits. Free espresso on every floor.”
You make a sound of mock envy. “Now you’re just bragging.”
“I am,” he adds, with that soft arrogance only he can pull off without getting slapped. “I think I’m gonna take it.”
“Why?”
He looks at you with the kind of gaze that burns just a little. Like he’s searching for a permission he already knows you’ll give. Then he says it. The same thing he said when he waltzed back into your life, self-assured and saccharine. 
“It’s the best, isn’t it?” Jun says. “And I always want the best.”
You roll your eyes so hard your ancestors probably feel it. But something in your chest stutters. This time, the words land different. Softer. Honest in a way that makes your ribs ache.
He’s making a concession. He’s doing something to make this, make the two of you, possible. 
He’s calling you something he wants, and calling you the best, in the same breath.  
Jun leans in, presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing yours like an apology. When he kisses you, it tastes like toothpaste and devotion. And also maybe like something terrifyingly close to commitment.
You lie there for a while. Wrapped in warmth and silence and the complicated calculus of wanting things that feel big and breakable. Like him. Like this. Like futures you haven’t even said out loud yet.
At some point, Jun shifts behind you, arms tightening around your middle. His chin rests in the crook of your neck, breath brushing your skin.
“You okay with it?” he asks.
You shrug. “I mean, it’s marginally better than you working across the hall from me and flirting over the printer queue.”
“We’d both get nothing done.”
“Exactly. Chaos.”
Jun kisses the back of your shoulder again. It’s like he can’t stop kissing you, like he can’t believe he can do it all again. Somewhere in the quiet that follows, your brain writes the paperwork.
--
This Employment Contract (“Agreement”) is made between Wen Junhui (“Boyfriend”), and you.
WHEREAS the Boyfriend agrees to remain shirtless in your apartment at least three mornings per week, and to bring the good coffee whenever you run out;
WHEREAS emotional transparency shall be upheld with the same rigor as quarterly reporting, including but not limited to: post-sex vulnerability, Sunday-night anxiety debriefs, and one (1) designated safe word for moments of self-sabotage;
WHEREAS both parties are permitted one (1) bad take per fiscal quarter, to be gently corrected and never mentioned again;
THEREFORE, both parties agree to exclusive rights to back scratches, late-night ramen runs, shared Spotify queues, and slow dancing in the kitchen when neither of you feels like cooking;
FURTHERMORE, cuddling shall not be used as a diversion tactic during emotionally intense conversations, unless unanimously approved by both parties in advance.
Effective immediately. Benefits include forehead kisses, a stupid amount of texting, sleeping on opposite sides but always ending up tangled, emergency ice cream runs, and never having to go to office parties alone.
614 notes · View notes
floraoleander · 26 days ago
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Glutton (TEASER)
Pairing: demon!Kwon Soonyoung x f! grad student reader
Genre: smut, reincarnation au?, urban fantasy/dark academia
warnings: fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, chan makes an appearance (sorry), more tbd
Teaser Length: ~1.3k | Full Length: TBD
Note: as every fic this started as plotless smut and then turned into whatever the hell it is now. thank u @sailorsoons and @gyuswhore for being my betas, and @100vern for the banner. finally i have written something since my vday fic. i'm hoping to have the full fic posted next week! inspired by ninth house/hell bent by leigh bardugo
summary: You didn't mean to summon him but your demon is dedicated to serving you anyway he can.
m.list
This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.
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You didn’t mean to.
The incantation you studied for nearly six months was perfect. In no way, shape, or form should the ritual have gone awry even if stray magic emerged. At worst, nothing should have happened. You’d should’ve ended up with an empty summoning circle, wasted materials that would need to be vacuumed up. At best, you’d have a servitor ready to assist with the more mundane parts of your thesis research. 
As with every ritual, you drew the proper wards in salt and bone ash, some graveyard dirt on hand just in case. You had the knife, ready to sacrifice a few drops of blood for such a useful creation.
You recited the incantation, pricked your finger and then…
Nothing.
The sulfurous stench occult didn’t flood the room, the wards didn’t even manage a flickering glow. The candle flames didn’t even wince.
Utter failure.
You were too tired to do much more than release a choked scream in frustration before blowing out the candles and running upstairs.
Tomorrow you’d study the ancient manuscript for what you missed and try again. You just needed some sleep first.
You barely manage a few hours when you wake up with the distinct feeling something is wrong. 
Everyone else left for winter break, leaving you alone with a mountain of books and articles to skim for the thesis you’ve been writing for years. It’s why you need a servitor to begin with; there was too much work to be done and simply not enough time. 
No one should be in the house but you got the distinct feeling someone, or something, was.
Only the noise of the house rang through your ears, the creak of the floor boards, the wind battering against the windows. The occasional owl calling from the tree outside the window of the living room on the ground floor. You swiped a knife from the kitchen and one of the spare jars of graveyard dirt before heading downstairs.
What a terrifying image you portrayed: a raggedy university sweater and pajama pants, dark circle bruised beneath your eyes, and a dirty kitchen knife.
None of it mattered.
The sharp scent of magic clouded the air at the bottom of the steps leading to the basement, thick as a curtain. But it wasn’t the rotten scent you were accustomed to. It was heavier with the sickly sweetness of flowers, like a poisonous bloom attempting to lure you in.
And what would want to lure prey into a trap than a predator?
Standing in the circle was a man but he was too perfect to be just a man. Gold flowed through his veins, illuminating him from the inside out. His eyes glowed like honey as he stared at you, watching. Waiting.
You were so distracted by his eyes you barely realized he was naked. He didn’t seem to care either, or register the fact he’s hard and you can see the way his length bobs between his thighs. 
Embarrassment didn’t have a chance to take root because he said your name just as sweet as the flower smelled. 
You launched the jar of dirt at him in shock, the bottle shattering into a thousand pieces at his feet. The man made no move to avoid the explosion, didn’t disappear like the undead usually did when confronted with the reminder that they were no longer of the living. He didn’t even blink. 
“What are you?” you shouted, brandishing the knife as if that could do anything. He was in the circle, that was safe enough for now.
“Yours.”
“That’s not,” you start, breathless. “What are you?”
“I’m…” Soonyoung struggled with the words to explain his purpose. 
You tried to keep your eyes level with his but miles of bare, tan skin, with taunt muscles corded underneath proved too tempting. A few silver scars littered  his body, indecipherable in the light and the passage of time. He was much older than you could even begin to imagine; this form only the briefest glimpse of his actual power.
“I’m a servant.”
“You’re the servitor I summoned?”
The manuscript you studied didn’t specify what a servitor looked like, only that it would serve its summoner with whatever tasks it was assigned. 
He nodded widely. “I’m meant to serve whoever I’m bound to.”
“And now you’re bound to me.”
“Yes,” he swallowed. For the first time, he seems to realize he’s naked but continues to be unbothered by it. His palm shakily grazes over himself before curling around his thighs. 
Other passages from your reading came to mind as you forced your gaze away. 
Bind your servitor to their duties as soon as possible, they don’t do well without direction.
They are eager to please and are capable of any task their summoner presents them with.
“We need…” you swallowed, trying to hide the squeak in your voice. “We need to make a deal.”
He nodded.
“You have to follow all of my commands.”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t, I’ll banish you to a demiplane.”
His head tilted to the side, eyes pouring down your figure. Perhaps the stains of your sweater weren’t intimidating to him but you held the power. He was still stuck in the circle, and you could send him away with a spell. Either he listened or turned back into nothing. Or worse; stuck in a demiplane with no purpose.
“Whatever you tell me to do, I’ll do,” he rasped.
“Give me your name.”
“Hoshi.”
You almost settled for that but something told you that wasn’t right.
“Your true name,” you commanded.
He watched you for a long moment, eyes fading from gold to brown. Human eyes. Something familiar flickered in them until he said, “Soonyoung.”
As you repeat it, he shivers, a strangled inhale to match. You don’t mean to, but a quick glance down shows he’s hard and leaking. Obscenely so. To the point it mixes with the circle drawn on the floor.
“Swear to do everything I say, and to never disobey me.”
“I swear to follow your every command, exactly as you say them.”
“And…”
“And to never disobey you or betray you. I bind myself to you, and anything you wish of me.”
Something wasn’t right. Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to tell you more, but you needed to ask the right questions. You knew what the question was, and that made you dread it all the more.
“You’re not a servitor at all, are you?”
Soonyoung rolled his shoulders, his muscles shifting and flexing with the motion. He seemed to grow taller, take up more space with the action as if only a fraction of his true form existed in front of you and the rest was being hidden out of sight. “No.”
“Then what are you?”
“I think you know what I am.”
A demon.
A demon bound in service. To you.
Horrified, you rushed back up the way you came. If Soonyoung was truly a demon, then the wards would only keep him trapped for so long and the last place you need to be was next to him when he escaped. You felt the weight of his gaze on your back as you raced back up the stairs. Profound relief and disappointment greeted you once you were safely tucked back upstairs knowing that he hadn’t followed.
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@whrryuu @wonrangwoo @xchaenx @champagnenoona
259 notes · View notes
floraoleander · 27 days ago
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Made me cry
The Tiger & The Moon
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Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader
Themes: Smut | Angst | Found Family | Forbidden Love | Slow burn | T.W.: mentions of violence, trauma, panic attacks, prostitution, infertility and miscarriage.
Wordcount: 12.7K
Playlist: 'Rescue' - Lauren Daigle | 'Colors - Stripped' - Halsey | 'Terrible Love' - Birdy | 'I Found' - Amber Run | 'Youth' - Daughter | 'War Of Hearts' - Ruelle
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
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It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.
Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.
It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.
You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.
A travelling circus.
You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.
You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.
But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.
You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.
You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.
Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.
You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.
But then he appears.
Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.
You forget to breathe.
He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.
And he does. Not with sound. With movement.
A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.
Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.
You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.
And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.
Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.
His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.
But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.
You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.
Hours pass. You stay hidden.
When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.
And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.
Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.
“You know that, right?”
You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.
“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”
You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.
“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”
You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.
“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.
“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.
He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.
“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”
You shake your head.
“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”
You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”
He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”
You hesitate.
“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.
He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”
“Moon?”
“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”
You say nothing, but you follow him.
You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.
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The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.
Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.
You hover at the threshold.
“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.
You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.
“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”
You don’t reply.
“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”
Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.
He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”
You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.
“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”
He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.
“I’m happy here.”
The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.
The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.
You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.
He talks a lot.
About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.
“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”
You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.
You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.
He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.
You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.
You sketch until your fingers ache.
Until you know him by lines alone.
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It happens five nights in.
You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.
You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.
“You said it’d be done by now.”
It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.
“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”
"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”
"And drinking away your cut by morning.”
"That’s not—”
"Don’t lie to me.”
You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.
“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.
“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”
Silence.
“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”
The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.
Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.
“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”
You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.
You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.
A tiger in a cage.
Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.
He blinks. “Is this… me?”
You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”
He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”
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One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.
“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”
You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.
“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”
You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.
Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.
“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”
You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.
The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.
The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.
You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.
“Morning, Andrei!”
"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”
People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.
When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”
You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.
A few notice the tension in your shoulders.
One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.
“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”
The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.
Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.
“Watch your mouth.”
Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.
“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”
That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.
You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.
“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”
But you’re already spiralling.
As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.
When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.
You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.
Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.
Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.
You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.
A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.
You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.
He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.
You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.
Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.
And then—“I hate his guts.”
Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.
“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”
Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.
“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”
You don’t reply.
But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.
And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.
And you sleep. For the first time in years.
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You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.
Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.
But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.
First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.
“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”
You don’t react. But you take them.
Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.
“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”
Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.
“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”
You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.
That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.
He talks while you draw. He always talks.
About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.
“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”
You glance at him.
“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.
Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.
“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”
The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.
You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.
You start watching him at night.
When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.
Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.
He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.
He doesn’t notice you at first.
Then—“Moon?”
You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”
You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.
“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”
You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.
He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”
You say nothing.
He looks down at his hands.
“I wanted Paris.”
The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.
“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”
He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”
You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.
“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”
Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.
Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.
“I would.”
He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.
The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.
“Say that again,” he breathes.
You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.
Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.
Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.
Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.
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They call it The Velvet Night.
Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.
Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.
You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.
You sew quietly. You keep your head down.
Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”
You nod. He winks and disappears.
Night falls; the masquerade begins.
You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.
You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.
Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.
And then he steps into the ring.
He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.
Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.
You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.
And then— It happens.
A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.
And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.
You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.
You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.
You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.
You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.
You sit. And the tears come.
You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.
You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.
Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.
Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.
You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.
“Moon?”
Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.
“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”
You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.
Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”
He stills.
You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.
“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”
You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”
The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.
“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.
“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”
You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.
“Moon,” he whispers.
You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.
“Can I hold you?” he asks.
Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.
He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.
He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.
He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.
You cry again. This time, without shame.
And he stays.
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The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.
You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.
As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.
Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.
One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.
He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.
And Rigo notices.
As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.
“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.
“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.
“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”
Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.
“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.
“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”
He walks off before Hoshi can reply.
You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.
You wonder if you’re unravelling him.
That night, you sit together outside the wagon.
The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.
“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.
You glance at him.
“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”
You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.
“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it.
“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”
You freeze.
His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.
“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”
You stare at him, and your heart twists.
Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.
But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.
So you lower your gaze.
He just whispers, “Think about it.”
You don’t sleep that night.
And by morning, everything has changed.
Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.
“He knows.”
The words are like ice in your veins.
“Rigo. He knows about you.”
You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”
"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”
You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”
A voice cuts through the air like a whip.
“So this is the little stray.”
Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.
You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.
“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”
Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.
“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”
Rigo lifts a brow.
“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”
"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”
You’re trembling.
Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.
A backhand. Brutal. Fast.
Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.
You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.
You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.
“Stay back.”
"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”
He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.
And the silence that follows is deafening.
You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.
Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.
You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.
He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.
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You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.
The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.
You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.
Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.
It’s easier than it should be.
By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.
You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.
You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.
You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.
That night, it rains.
You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.
You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.
The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.
You don’t allow yourself to cry.
You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.
The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.
You spend the day trying to find a way out.
You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.
You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.
Every time:
“We’re not hiring.”
"No experience?”
"Come back another day.”
You leave each time with your head lower than before.
By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.
You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.
You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.
“Angel?”
The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.
“Angel, is that you?”
Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.
“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”
Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.
“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”
You walk faster.
“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”
That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.
“ANGEL!”
The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.
Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.
He’s chasing you.
And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.
You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.
Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.
“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.
“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”
You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.
And then footsteps pass.
“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”
You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.
“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”
The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.
You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.
Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.
He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.
“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.
He exhales through a shaky laugh.
“Looking for you, obviously.”
You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”
"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.
“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”
Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.
“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”
"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.
“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”
You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.
But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.
He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.
“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”
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The wagon looks exactly as you left it.
Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.
You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.
Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
The circus moves two days later.
Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.
No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.
Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.
The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.
“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”
"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.
You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.
Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.
Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.
“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”
Your blood runs cold.
“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.
And there is nothing either of you can do.
Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.
And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.
When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”
On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.
“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”
You stare at him, confused.
“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”
You hesitate, he notices.
“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”
You nod. Because how could you not?
You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.
The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.
He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.
Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.
It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.
You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.
This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.
He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.
And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.
Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.
Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.
While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.
You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.
“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”
"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.
“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”
A pause. Then—
“How much does he owe you again?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”
“And if he tries to leave again?”
"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”
You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.
Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.
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The next city is louder than the last.
Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.
You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.
“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.
“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”
You smile. It’s faint. But real.
He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.
“Come back to me after,” you murmur.
“Always.”
You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.
You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.
You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.
But Luca does. And that’s enough.
Hoshi returns later than usual that night.
You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.
When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.
He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.
“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.
“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.
You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.
“What happened?”
"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”
You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.
He won’t meet your gaze.
“Take off your shirt.”
"What? No, I—”
"Take. It. Off.”
His jaw tightens.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.
Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.
“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.
Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.
Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.
“He beat you.”
"It’s not the first time.”
"Because of me?”
"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”
"A scout?”
He nods.
“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”
You don’t need to ask what happened next.
Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.
“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”
"It’s nothing.”
"Don’t say that.”
He finally looks up.
And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.
“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.
“Then what do we do?"
Your hands reach for his.
“We burn it down.”
It begins with Mira.
You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.
“It’s about time.”
Then Andrei.
The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.
He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.
“I’ll handle the locks.”
Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.
Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.
When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.
“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.
“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”
It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.
One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.
You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.
You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.
Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.
And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.
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The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.
It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.
You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.
The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.
Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”
No one says goodbye.
You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.
Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.
He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.
Then, he vanishes into the shadows.
Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.
The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.
“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”
"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”
“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”
He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”
You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.
The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.
The flame eats the rope greedily.
The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.
Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.
Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.
The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.
“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.
“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”
Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.
Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.
It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.
“That’s not possible.”
He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.
The chain lies coiled on the ground.
“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”
He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.
Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.
The audience flees. Performers scatter.
And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.
“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”
But Solomon does not stop.
He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.
Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.
“You obey me!”
And then Solomon pounces.
The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.
The tent is fully ablaze now.
A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.
And just like that—Rigo is gone.
There’s only one last thing left to do.
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You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.
It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.
Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.
You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.
You move quickly.
The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.
Nothing.
Then—you find it.
A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.
Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.
You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.
Kwon Soonyoung.
You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.
You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.
“Going somewhere, Angel?”
Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.
“You stupid, stupid bitch.”
Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.
Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.
The rendezvous point, where you should already be.
He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.
“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.
“Moon!” Still nothing.
He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.
Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.
One by one, they arrive. Except you.
Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”
You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.
“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”
He spits the words like it’s poison.
“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”
You don’t have time to answer.
He lunges.
His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.
Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.
“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”
You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.
You hit the floor hard.
Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.
You lunge for it.
“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”
You close your fingers around the cold metal.
And without thinking, you swing.
The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.
He sways, then crashes to the floor.
The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.
You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.
You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.
Hoshi is pacing.
“She should be here.”
"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.
“No. We had a plan.”
Then—movement.
You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.
Hoshi turns and runs to you.
“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”
He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.
“Are you okay? What—did someone—”
"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”
You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”
His eyes widen.
“You went back.”
You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”
You run.
The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.
In the distance, you hear a whistle.
The tracks shimmer in the dark.
An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.
You run faster.
Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.
Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.
The doors close. The train rolls on.
And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.
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The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.
You haven’t spoken about it.
Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.
The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.
Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.
The silence between you grows louder with every mile.
Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.
But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.
“I’m not.”
“You say that right before you wince.”
"That’s because you’re hurting me.”
He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.
“I’m trying to help, Moon.”
"I didn’t ask you to.”
It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.
You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.
He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.
“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”
"I’m not—”
"Yes, you are.”
He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.
“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”
"That’s not fair.”
"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”
That stuns you.
The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.
“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”
You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.
He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.
“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”
That breaks something in you.
“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”
His silence says enough.
You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.
“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”
He doesn’t answer.
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.
“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”
The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.
Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.
Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.
And his lips finally meet yours.
His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.
The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.
“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”
Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.
You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.
His thumb strokes over your hip.
“Still okay?”
"Yes.”
He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.
His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.
“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
You flush, chest tightening.
You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.
He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.
When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.
“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”
You bite your lip, fighting tears.
“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”
He shakes his head.
“No.”
You blink.
“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”
"But—”
"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”
You shudder as he leans in again.
“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”
He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.
When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.
“You got this for me.”
“I’d do it again.”
His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.
“Can I?”
You nod, voice caught in your throat.
He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.
The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.
He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.
And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.
You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.
“Soonyoung—please—”
He groans against your skin.
“You feel like heaven.”
Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.
You don’t even realise when you fall.
You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.
Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.
When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”
He hesitates.
“Are you sure?”
"I’ve never been more sure.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.
“You’re okay?” he pants.
“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.
“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”
He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.
He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.
When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.
He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.
The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.
He kisses your lips again.
“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.
The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.
“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”
"I won’t. I’m right here.”
You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.
His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.
“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And you do.
You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.
Soonyoung kisses them away.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.
"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”
And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.
You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.
Neither of you speaks for a long time.
You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.
And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”
He smiles.
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The sea is quieter in the mornings.
You like to think it’s listening.
The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.
You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.
Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.
He still calls you Moon.
Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.
You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.
Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.
He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.
“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”
Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.
Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.
The bed is a little fuller now.
There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.
You might just believe her.
The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.
He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”
You did. And she is perfect.
Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.
But it’s not like before.
You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.
You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.
Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.
And you are still in love.
Tonight, the stars are out.
You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.
“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”
"You.”
"Again?” he laughs.
“Always.”
He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”
"Sometimes.”
"Do you regret it?”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”
"It burned everything down.”
"Only what needed to die.”
He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”
"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”
He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.
You are safe. You are free. You are loved.
And your tiger still sleeps beside you.
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A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)
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floraoleander · 29 days ago
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Can someone write a svt fic with this plot 😭
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
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on watching a parent age
i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
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hard carry 🧮 mingyu x reader.
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your math major soulmate is the only reason you’re surviving college, but how long can you rely on him for help?
★ math major!mingyu x art major!reader.  ★ word count: 2k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: college/university, alternate universe: soulmates (you and your soulmate can communicate with thoughts), romance, fluff, humor. a math term/solution i am not 100% sure about. reader’s thoughts are in pink while mingyu’s are in blue.   ★ footnotes: this is part of my follower milestone event. when are @maplegyu and i not self-indulgent? alas, brainiac!kmg is one of my favorite versions of gyu— so i’m glad to finally have an excuse to play with it. ily, maple! 
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ hard carry by got7. no song without you by honne. in the same place by girls on top. let’s love by suho. lilac by iu. mariposa by peach tree rascals. love equation by vixx. common denominator by justin bieber.
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Barnett Newman. Helen Frankenthaler. Mark Rothko. 
All fantastic abstract expressionist painters, known for their vibrant compositions and color-saturated canvases. Some of your peers turned their noses up at the movement, presumably because it always took a little more of a critical eye to understand it. 
You didn’t share the same distaste. Most of the time, you enjoyed the colors, lines, and shapes that all served to be a bigger part of a whole. 
If anything, the math problem in front of you was the most abstract thing you’d ever faced. 
You stare at the test paper, your pencil hovering uselessly above the page. The numbers have all blurred together— a mess of equations and symbols that could rival the work of Jackson Pollock. 
It’s almost comical, how you slot so easily into the stereotype of art-major-who’s-ass-at-math. Some people are an exception to the norm. You are not one of them. 
“Fifteen minutes left,” your hard-pressed professor drawls from the front of the classroom, and you snap out of your woe-is-me reverie.
Question five taunts you. If f(x) = 3x² - 4x + 7, find f'(x) and evaluate f'(2).
Derivatives. Okay. You know this. You should know this. 
Except, right now, your brain is a blank canvas.
You purse your lips. This isn’t going to bode well for you, but you’d held out this long. You’ll be lucky to get a C on this test— to pass by the skin of your teeth— and so you deserve to get at least one question indisputably correct. Right? 
Mingyu. You reach out through the bond, desperate. You there? 
Some have said that once you’ve met your soulmate, once you know how they sound like, it’s their voice that rings in your thoughts. If you haven’t, though, you’re left with something more akin to subtitles. Text flashing in your head in a font of your choosing. 
(Your poison is Courier New. You asked Mingyu once, what his font for you was, but he never really ‘got back’ to you on it.) 
There’s a pause— just long enough for you to feel guilty— before a response flashes in your mind. Aren’t you in the middle of a test? 
You can almost imagine his tone. You anticipate it’d be something sharp and warm all at once, which is just your way of coping with how desperate you feel right now. 
I’m seriously failing in the middle of my test, you respond. Hopefully, he can read how frantic and desperate you are. I just need a little nudge. 
A beat. 
You tack on, Please? 
If Mingyu could sigh, he probably would have by now. He’s a man carrying the weight of your academic shortcomings, after all. There’s just enough exasperation in his ‘tone’ when he shoots back, Fine. What is it? 
Your eyes dart over the problem plaguing you. Once you’ve mentally relayed it to your soulmate, he responds without missing a beat. 
Power rule. If you have something like axⁿ, the derivative is naxⁿ⁻¹. 
You blink. Say that like I’m five. 
So help me, God, Mingyu says, forcing you to tamp down a laugh. Okay. What’s 3x²? 
Uh… 6x? 
Good. And -4x? 
-4? 
And a constant? 
Zero— 
You sit up a little straighter, faltering mid-mental correspondence. So f’(x) is 6x - 4.
Mingyu can’t really sound amused— or proud— but you picture it all the same when he urges you to go on. And f’(2)? 
Your pencil is already scribbling furiously across your test paper. Eight, you triumphantly declare. The answer is eight. 
There you go, he answers. 
For not the first time, you wish you’d already met him. It must be nice to have a smile in your mind, a cadence instead of sentences. But you and Mingyu had agreed that neither of you were in a rush. You were both uni students wanting to explore your individual lives at your own pace before attempting a happily ever after. 
It’s only through your ironclad will that you’ve resisted the urge to look him up, to find out if there was a math major named Mingyu within your area.
This is the last time I’m going to help you cheat, he says as you move on to correct your answers for some of the other questions.
A corner of your mouth twitches upward. That’s what you said last time. 
Yeah, well, I mean it this time. Get a tutor or something, woman. 
Are you presenting yourself? 
Don’t tempt me with a good time. 
Your professor keeps you from responding immediately. “Five minutes,” she calls out. 
Your fingers tighten around your pencil. It wouldn’t be the first or last instance where academic integrity might be compromised because of the whole soulmate bond, but Mingyu is right. You can’t keep summoning him like your personal math genie. 
Fine, you concede. I’ll stop bothering you with my [math] problems. Nerd. 
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Mingyu asked for it, so, really— he’s to blame for missing it. 
It’s an odd feeling, this restlessness that comes in the absence of your out-of-the-blue inquiries. The two of you still occasionally reach through the bond to exchange an amicable word or two, maybe recommend a song, but gone are the times you’d come running to him for help. 
He’s sitting in the library, his notebook opened to a half-finished proof. His pencil twirls idly between his fingers as he attempts to focus. Instead, his mind keeps drifting to what was once a daily occurrence. 
Panicked whispers of Mingyu, help. Last-minute pleas for salvation. Complaints about how math is ruining your life, how this would most definitely not be useful in the real world. 
(He would never admit it, but he had always liked when you tangented into the last one. It felt a bit like a betrayal to his field, the endearment he felt whenever you’d flood his mind with paragraph after paragraph cussing out Newton and Leibniz for inventing calculus.) 
With a sharp sigh, he stabs his pencil into the spiral binding of his notebook and leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. His fingers drum against the desk. His leg bounces. He debates reaching out first— just to check, just to make sure you haven’t actually given up on math altogether. But what would he even say?
Hey, fail another test yet? Are you alive, or did calculus finally take you out? I kind of miss you annoying me. Don’t let it go to your head.
No, no, and definitely not. 
He doesn’t even know you like that. You’re soulmates and that’s pretty much it. He’s lucky that you’ve been rather chill about the whole affair, not hurrying to meet him and lock him down like other soulmate horror stories he’s heard. 
He knows bits and pieces. Your major, your love for survival reality shows, your utter distaste for anything beyond multiplication. 
Mingyu mumbles something like “for fuck’s sake” to himself. He tries to refocus, and he manages to make it halfway into his homework when it comes. 
Mingyu. 
When you wanted to tell him something inconsequential, like The new Fantastic Four movie sucked or I’d kill for a slice of pizza right now, you went straight into it. You only ever ‘said’ his name when it was related to numbers. 
Took you long enough, he says, his lips twitching. 
Shut up. I was trying to figure it out on my own this time. 
And? 
Your brief moment of hesitation has Mingyu wondering if he’s too cruel. His mother had always advised him to be nice to his soulmate, to not overwhelm you, and he contemplates throwing in an apology. Before he can, though, you’re back in his head. 
I need you. 
Something in his chest tightens. He tells himself it’s just relief. 
(The truth of the matter is this: Mingyu liked being needed by you. He wasn’t sure yet why, but he did.) 
Yeah, yeah, he responds as he absentmindedly sketches a heart into the corner of his notebook. What’s the problem? 
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You’re starting to think that a tutor might not be that bad of an idea. 
While Mingyu is always obliging, the guilt of relying on your connection was beginning to weigh on you. You scoured the university boards until you found a girl named Somi willing to meet with you twice a week, and it was going pretty well. 
Still— is it weird to admit that you kind of miss running to Mingyu? 
You try your darndest to keep those thoughts catalogued. A couple of your friends have talked about accidentally slipping some of their innermost thoughts to their soulmates, and God forbid Mingyu find out that you crave his dry wit. 
You can’t miss somebody you’ve never met. 
At least that’s what you keep telling yourself as you go to Mingyu less and less, instead filling in the gaps of your conversation with menial, everyday things. 
What coffee do you usually drink?, you ask him one afternoon. 
You’re in the world’s slowest-moving line, at the cafe you and Somi frequented for your tutoring sessions. Your phone is dead, you’ve analyzed the art on the walls at least seven different ways, and there’s no one around for you to talk to. Might as well abuse the soulmate connection. 
His response comes in by the time you’re nearly at the front of the line. Iced Americano, he responds. Why? 
No reason. 
“Next.” 
You offer a sympathetic smile to the dead-eyed barista at the counter. “Once large iced Americano, please,” you say. 
You go to stand off to the side. As you’re waiting for your order, Mingyu asks a question of his own. 
What about you? 
What about me? 
What’s your go-to order? 
You contemplate it for a moment. Salted caramel cream cold brew. 
The barista hands you your drink. A corner of your lip twitches upward as you accept it, Mingyu’s response coming in at the same time. 
That sounds obscene, he taunts. A toothache in the making. 
Hey. You’re mentally britsling, readying to defend your coffee of choice. I’ll have you know— 
“Oomf!” 
This was sometimes the problem about getting lost in your thoughts. You tend to get dragged out of the real world, stuck in your conversation. You exchange a quick apology with the person you bumped into, the tips of your ears flaming red. 
With your drink in hand, you make a beeline for the table that you and Somi always sit at. You’re distracted enough to forget that you were mid-‘conversation’ with Mingyu, and so you barely register that your usually punctual tutor has yet to arrive— or that someone else is coming up to your table once you’ve settled in. 
Later, you will get a text from Somi telling you something came up, but not to fret; she called in a friend to help. Someone who was more than willing to pick up Somi’s slack after joking that he’d already been doing it for the soon-to-be-love-of-his-life. 
Your gaze flicks up to the boy standing in front of you. 
‘Cute.’ ‘Cute.’ 
It’s a two-way record scratch. 
The stranger hovering by your table seems to freeze, too, and the pieces fall together in your head like a puzzle— no. It’s like when you squint at an abstract painting and the whole thing comes together.
You had said sorry earlier, hadn’t you? To the person you bumped into. He had apologized as well. 
Now, there was a voice to the words in your head. A face to the soulmate you’d been missing.
“Hey,” your soulmate says, he says out loud. 
He plops down into the seat across from you, trying and failing to fight off the biggest smile on his face. There’s no need to exchange introductions. He says your name, and it’s so much better than anything you could have ever imagined. 
When Mingyu sets down his drink, you actually laugh. 
It’s a salted caramel cream cold brew. 
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
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#so good I love this #yoon Jeonghan #please I think if I was any less awestruck I would be able to yap more #i don't know how to use tags #but I wanted to be vocal #i really really really think you're amazing
growing sideways 📧 jeonghan x reader.
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yours, whether you like it or not,
📧 pairing. co-workers!jeonghan x reader. 📧 social media au & epistolary (told through emails). 📧 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: co-workers. romance, humor. 📧 includes. mention of alcohol; suggestive language; profanity. workplace rivals, corporate jargon, engineering terms i definitely butchered, use of y/n l/n for e-mail purposes. title from noah kahan’s growing sideways; waaay too many kahan references, really. style and format insp. by cinnamorussell’s tell all your friends i’m crazy (i’ll drive you mad). 📧 notes. this is a bit long, but we ball. in one of my first conversations with @diamonddaze01, we dreamed up workplace rival yoon jeonghan. i offer it, now, as part of a month-long celebration for the person i’ve dedicated a good quarter of my work to. tara, i’ll never meet someone who won’t know about you. nanu ninnannu pritisuttene! 🔭
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Liked by feat.dino, everyone_woo, and others jeonghaniyoo_n   if my engine works perfect on empty, guess i’ll drive 
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vernonline woah indie ahhh caption user1 Looking good, Jeonghan! Let’s catch up soon x user2 who tha baddie in the back in the second slideee ↳ sound_of_coups 👋 ↳ user3 no the one on the right sry :/ ♥︎ Liked by creator user4 congrats to whoever’s bouncing on it ! junhui_moon Aura 1000000% ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n what language are you speaking
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Liked by sound_of_coups, dk_is_dokyeom, and others yourusername   romanticizing life (before i go insane) 
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user1 need to know where that phone case is from user2 Are you EVER not working dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S MY GIRLBOSS ╰(▔∀▔)╯ ↳ yourusername ❤️ user3 i wanna be you when i grow up <3 xuminghao_o Lovely ♥︎ Liked by creator
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)
Yoon,
I reviewed the validation draft you uploaded this morning. Fascinating interpretation of clause 4.3.2. Bold of you to skip the stability data appendix entirely. I can only assume it was an artistic choice.
Also, the raw tensile data from the 0528 batch isn’t included. If it was meant to be in the shared drive, it wasn’t in any of the usual folders (QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > missing_files > probably_Jeonghan’s).
I’ve attached my edits. I added actual numbers.
Regards, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)
Thank you for the prompt review. I assumed your obsession with clause 4.3.2 would outweigh your impulse to nitpick, but alas—some things never change.
The stability data was excluded intentionally while awaiting results from the accelerated aging test. If you opened the protocol (second folder under QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > definitely_not_missing), you’d see that.
As for your edits, I appreciate the effort. It’s cute when you pretend Excel likes you back.
Best, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
Yoon,
Not that I expect you to read full briefs, but just in case you skimmed this one: yes, the transfer protocols need to be locked before next Friday if we want the France site to hit qualification by Q3.
Your last edits to the QAP template were inspired. I didn’t know it was possible to confuse ISO 13485 with a haiku.
I’ve restructured the equipment IQ section. You’re welcome. You’ll need to coordinate with Wonwoo at the Lyon site for vendor access, assuming you remember to email him this time.
I’ll see you in Lyon.
Disrespectfully, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
Of course I read the brief. Just because I don’t annotate every margin with red ink and superiority complexes doesn’t mean I don’t understand the deadline.
I’ll coordinate with Wonwoo, assuming you don’t scare him off again with your charmingly blunt emails. (I still have the screenshot of him calling you “intimidatingly competent.”)
By the way, your IQ revisions look fine. Shockingly legible this time. Congratulations.
I’ll see you in Lyon. Try not to sabotage the coffee machine this trip.
Until customs detains us, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
If Wonwoo was intimidated, it’s because I sent him instructions written in complete sentences. A rare treat, I know.
You still haven’t confirmed the calibration matrix. We’ll need the traceable certs before equipment ships, or do you plan to charm EU regulators into letting us slide on documentation? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve seen you talk to vendors.
Also: bring the correct adapter this time. I’m not sharing an outlet with you again.
Best of luck (to me), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
The calibration matrix is in the tracker: third tab, fourth column, next to the thing labeled “READ ME, PLEASE” Try it. It’s fun.
And yes, I plan to charm the regulators. You, on the other hand, can stun them into compliance with your piercing PowerPoint transitions.
As for the outlet. I’m bringing an adapter. And a surge protector. For reasons.
Looking forward to our time in France. Nothing says “teamwork” like four days of jetlag and passive aggression.
Yours in regulatory purgatory, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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YJH 👿 (Work) [8:13 AM]: why do you type so aggressively. the guy next to me thinks you’re yelling at me You [8:14 AM]: he’s not wrong. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:15 AM]: did you really need three highlighters in your carry-on? You [8:15 AM]: yes. the pink one is for your mistakes. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:16 AM]: romantic You [8:16 AM]: if you die on this trip it’s going to be from a highlighter to the throat. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:17 AM]: worth it You [8:17 AM]: you are the worst seatmate in existence. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:18 AM]: you snore when you pretend not to be sleeping and your pointy elbow crosses the line You [8:18 AM]: so we’re calling it a truce? YJH 👿 (Work) [8:19 AM]: we’re calling it foreplay
☾ You have silenced Notifications.
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Liked by junhui_moon, woozi_universefactory, and others jeonghaniyoo_n   everything, everywhere 
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user1 oui oui 😜 user2 Who are you wearing??? ho5hi_kwon surprised a murder hasn’t occurred lolololol ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n not counting it out just yet user3 WHAT’S 4+4? ATEEE user4 Is he a model? ↳ sound_of_coups please don’t say that his head is going to get so big
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Liked by vernonline, xuminghao_o, and others jeonghaniyoo_n   northern attitudes 
View all comments user1 bwoah . . . feat.dino STUNT ON THEM HOESSSS ♥︎ Liked by creator user2 gender gender gender 😮‍💨 user3 Really need to know where the second pic is !! Plsss DM yourusername i see how it is ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n credits. xo
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Yoon,
Per our debrief notes (the ones not written on a cocktail napkin), I’ve uploaded the final QAP revisions and vendor qualification summaries to the shared drive. You can stop emailing me pictures of our hotel room as  “documentation.” Though impressive dedication to fieldwork.
Also, your expense report still lists the mini bar from Tuesday night. Pretty bold move, considering you insisted you only drank half the bottle.
Respectueusement, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
You’re welcome for the in-room stress testing of French plumbing. I was being thorough.
Also, I did only drink half. You drank the other half and then told the front desk I was your emotional support engineer.
Re: shared drive. I see your formatting crimes continue. I fixed your spacing in the risk assessment table. Try to be better.
Yours across all timezones, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Yoon,
I’d fix my spacing if you’d stop adjusting my bullet styles just to mess with me. And next time, maybe don’t volunteer us for the plant tour while hungover. Watching you nearly fall into a vat of solvent was not the regulatory impression we wanted.
Stop calling me yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You still owe me one (1) bed. I’m adding it to your performance review.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Not my fault someone booked the hotel late and got us the romantic suite. You’re lucky I didn’t call room service for rose petals.
I’ve uploaded the final sign-offs and confirmation from the French regulatory contact—who says we’re the most “thorough and theatrically matched” engineers she’s worked with. I think that’s a compliment.
Let me know if I’ve missed any appendices. Or if you want your highlighter back.
Yours, even if you deny me (hotel registration said so), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. I liked sharing the room with you. Not because of budget errors or international confusion. Just because it was you.
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from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Great audit notes, as usual. I’ve attached my edits for the CAPA log. We’ll have to discuss column F, because your formulas hate me.
Also, bold of you to post a photo of flowers on a Tuesday. Does SVT approve PTO for midweek romance now?
Am I being cheated on?, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Yoon,
Corrected the formula logic in column F. Try not to break it again.
And yes, Tuesday dates are a thing now. Believe it or not, some people find me tolerable enough to see more than once.
Shocking, I know.
Regrets, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Don’t worry. I’m sure your second date will be charmed by your bullet point consistency.
Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of dating someone like you. Too sharp. Too bossy. Too quick to judge formula errors.
Fortunately, SVT doesn’t require us to like each other outside of Gantt charts.
Yours, whether you like it or not, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Yoon,
Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I'd sooner date a malfunctioning tensile tester.
I fixed your math in the timeline estimates. Again. Please don’t bother me for the rest of the week. I’m going to be busy preparing for date number two.
(You wish I was) Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 
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You [11:42 PM]: he ghosted me. u jinxed it. You [11:43 PM]: i shaved my legs for nothing. hope ur happy. You [11:44 PM]: he said he liked my slides. he LIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You [11:45 PM]: sitting alone at a bar rn contemplating the meaning of life.. and if i can blow u up telepahteitcally.... YJH 👿 (Work) [11:45 PM]: *telepathically YJH 👿 (Work) [11:46 PM]: which bar. You [11:47 PM]: fucking MANSPLAINER You [11:47 PM]: don’t come near me EVEREVER
YJH 👿 (Work) requested your location.
You started sharing your location with YJH 👿 (Work).
You [11:50 PM]: fuckfcuckfuckity my fat fucking thumbs FMLLL YJH 👿 (Work) [11:53 PM]: i’m coming. don’t order tequila until i get there. or do. i want to see the disaster myself. You [11:55 PM]: jerk YJH 👿 (Work) [11:56 PM]: always. save me a seat, heartbreak girl
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user1 Caption + second slide >>>> joshu_acoustic is that yourusername in the last slide 🫨 ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n is it ? yourusername ↳ yourusername must be a lookalike ♥︎ Liked by creator ↳ dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S ME yourusername & min6yu_k !!! ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ user2 just one chance pls,, user3 Wait was that a wine date or
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Yoon,
Your revised equipment validation timeline looks solid. I’ve flagged the dates where QRA and process requal overlap. You’ll need to talk to Ops to make sure there’s no resource conflict.
Also, thanks. For the other night.
Don’t make a thing out of it. Reluctantly yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Wow. A “thanks.” What is this, a truce?
Noted on the QRA overlap—I’ll sync with Ops and shift our timeline by 2-3 business days. I’ve attached a revised Gantt for your very critical review.
Also: you owe me fries.
Yours with no reluctance whatsoever, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. Don’t let your guard down. I’d hate for you to start thinking I’m nice.
P.P.S. You’re beautiful when drunk. Infuriating, but beautiful.
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Attached: my comments on your Gantt chart (see rows 14–27). Also, your font choices are unhinged. You’re lucky you’re marginally good at your job.
Fries are contingent on you not mentioning the karaoke. Sober now, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You’re nice when you think I’m too drunk to remember.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
I’ll swap the font if it means less red pen in my inbox.
And don’t worry, I’d never mention your rendition of “Dancing Queen” in front of senior management. Or that you made me sing backup.
As for being nice: I was just making sure you didn’t fall asleep in a nacho basket. Again.
Drunk on you, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. I remember everything you said. Even the parts you don’t.
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user1 fly safe, babygirl user2 ermmm.. am i witnessing a soft launch ?! min9yu_k I’d know that YSL bag from anywhere 😏 user3 How can I be youuu :( user4 is that a BOYFRIEND?! junhui_moon strategic non-response to any of the comments here #respect
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from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Attached: updated protocol outline and projected data submission window. Added notes re: temperature excursions flagged by the lab.
Unrelated, but I saw your latest post. Interesting how you managed to frame the lighting just right on that cafe table. Almost as if someone you work with took the photo.
Also, bold choice uploading a cropped version of that one picture of me holding five tote bags. Very “soft launch,” very subtle.
Launched like a rocket ship, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
This isn’t the time.
The humidity chamber failed mid-run and half of the accelerated aging samples are compromised. I’ll need to retest from baseline and revalidate the controls. Not sure yet if it pushes our submission, but I’m flagging it with QA.
I suggest you review section 6.2 of the protocol instead of obsessing over my Instagram.
L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Didn’t mean to distract. I hadn’t seen the alert yet. Engineering just looped me in on the chamber issue. I’ll prioritize sourcing backup samples and contact Tech Ops to check chamber calibration across all zones.
You’ll have data. We’ll make it work.
(But if you were soft-launching me, I looked great.)
Trying too hard, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Yoon,
Appreciated. Sorry I snapped.
I just really didn’t want this run to go sideways. I know it’s not your fault—but I’ve been fielding calls since 7:00 a.m. and I’m a little fried.
Yours and then some, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You looked ridiculous, but sure. Let the internet wonder.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
You can yell at me any time. Preferably not before coffee, but I’ll survive.
QA says they’ll expedite sample disposal so we can start the new batch by end of week. I sent you a revised Gantt. And a snack. Don’t fight me on it.
Yours in whatever way you’ll have me, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. Internet speculation is already intense. I’ve received two DMs inquiring if I’m truly off the market. Is this your twisted little way of staking claim?
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
The snack was suspiciously well-timed. You’re lucky I like sesame.
Re: QA—I’ll update the submission calendar and notify Regulatory we’re adjusting the stability window.
And tell your fans I’m flattered, but my standards are higher than “guy who argues about font weight in shared spreadsheets.”
Yours for some reason (When did I succumb to this?), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline
For the record, I wasn’t arguing. I was advocating for consistent formatting.
Also: I’m sorry. For earlier. I should’ve checked the system alerts before joking around. You always catch things first, and I forget what it’s like to be under that kind of pressure all the time.
Let me know what else you need. I mean it.
Yours for equally no reason (I bookmarked the first time you signed off with ‘yours’, btw), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Apologies for the Timestamp 
Yoon,
I realize this is past hours. I won’t pretend it’s an emergency—it’s just the draft for the stability test realignment we discussed. I needed to get it out of my head or I wouldn’t sleep. It can wait until morning. I just didn’t want to forget.
Sorry. Again. Sleep well, or party well, or whatever it is you’re doing tonight.
Terribly sorry, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 
Got your email—yes, timestamp noted.
I’m out. Drinking. Loud music, terrible lighting, questionable tequila. I’ll look at the draft during actual work hours. I promise.
Also, you do know that you’re allowed to exist outside work. Don’t apologize for thinking too hard. That’s half your brand.
Buzzing like a drunk bumblebee, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Yoon,
Enjoy your night out. Try not to bully the DJ. May your drinks be overpriced and your lighting flattering.
And hey—hope you pull. You deserve someone mildly tolerable for a few hours.
Cheers, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 
The drinks are terrible. The lighting is flattering. I’ve technically pulled, but she’s more interested in the bartender now, which is fine because—
I miss you. You, and your midnight overthinking, and your Excel color codes, and the way you always say “don’t wait up” but still check your inbox five minutes later.
I miss you. Stupidly. Even while I’m here.
Yours at my own risk, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Yoon,
Pray tell why you're getting drunk and you're "pulling" what I can assume to be ABGs whose names you won't even know in the morning, and yet you're still in the club, emailing me? Missing my drunken emails?
Why? Are the girls of Wall Street not enough for you?
Totally not jealous, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
I can answer this so simply, it won’t even be fun.
The girls of Wall Street will never be you.
No one will ever be you.
I'm not enjoying my night as much as I should because you're not here. I'm in the club, drunk AND emailing you. That should tell you everything.
Come out with me next time. Wreck my plans. Ruin the music. Steal my coat.
I may be playing with fire, but to hell with it.
Burning myself, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected] 
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
I can feel you overthinking all the way from here. You’re probably thinking that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and regret all of this. That I will be unable to face you at work come Monday, when I am no longer drunk out of my mind and thinking you are the most brilliant, most gorgeous, most infuriating person alive. 
You will be right. Thankfully, though, these are—what do the kids call it? ‘Receipts’. You will have a paper trail. These emails will be between you, me, and that Australian guy from IT. 
He will know, and you will know, that I may have the most miniscule work crush on you. 
Jesus Christ. What am I? A high schooler? 
Let’s try that again: Love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. What I’m feeling for you isn’t love. It’s so much more than that.
Love sucks, and I need to sober up, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Get home safe, Jeonghan.
Yours, with questions, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
You just called me Jeonghan.
Yours, with answers (maybe), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
That’s your name, isn’t it?
Stop e-mailing me while you’re at the club.
Fine. Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S.: I may have the most miniscule work crush on you, too.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
i am  goi n    to die
Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
Text
growing sideways 📧 jeonghan x reader.
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yours, whether you like it or not,
📧 pairing. co-workers!jeonghan x reader. 📧 social media au & epistolary (told through emails). 📧 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: co-workers. romance, humor. 📧 includes. mention of alcohol; suggestive language; profanity. workplace rivals, corporate jargon, engineering terms i definitely butchered, use of y/n l/n for e-mail purposes. title from noah kahan’s growing sideways; waaay too many kahan references, really. style and format insp. by cinnamorussell’s tell all your friends i’m crazy (i’ll drive you mad). 📧 notes. this is a bit long, but we ball. in one of my first conversations with @diamonddaze01, we dreamed up workplace rival yoon jeonghan. i offer it, now, as part of a month-long celebration for the person i’ve dedicated a good quarter of my work to. tara, i’ll never meet someone who won’t know about you. nanu ninnannu pritisuttene! 🔭
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vernonline woah indie ahhh caption user1 Looking good, Jeonghan! Let’s catch up soon x user2 who tha baddie in the back in the second slideee ↳ sound_of_coups 👋 ↳ user3 no the one on the right sry :/ ♥︎ Liked by creator user4 congrats to whoever’s bouncing on it ! junhui_moon Aura 1000000% ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n what language are you speaking
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user1 need to know where that phone case is from user2 Are you EVER not working dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S MY GIRLBOSS ╰(▔∀▔)╯ ↳ yourusername ❤️ user3 i wanna be you when i grow up <3 xuminghao_o Lovely ♥︎ Liked by creator
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)
Yoon,
I reviewed the validation draft you uploaded this morning. Fascinating interpretation of clause 4.3.2. Bold of you to skip the stability data appendix entirely. I can only assume it was an artistic choice.
Also, the raw tensile data from the 0528 batch isn’t included. If it was meant to be in the shared drive, it wasn’t in any of the usual folders (QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > missing_files > probably_Jeonghan’s).
I’ve attached my edits. I added actual numbers.
Regards, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)
Thank you for the prompt review. I assumed your obsession with clause 4.3.2 would outweigh your impulse to nitpick, but alas—some things never change.
The stability data was excluded intentionally while awaiting results from the accelerated aging test. If you opened the protocol (second folder under QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > definitely_not_missing), you’d see that.
As for your edits, I appreciate the effort. It’s cute when you pretend Excel likes you back.
Best, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
Yoon,
Not that I expect you to read full briefs, but just in case you skimmed this one: yes, the transfer protocols need to be locked before next Friday if we want the France site to hit qualification by Q3.
Your last edits to the QAP template were inspired. I didn’t know it was possible to confuse ISO 13485 with a haiku.
I’ve restructured the equipment IQ section. You’re welcome. You’ll need to coordinate with Wonwoo at the Lyon site for vendor access, assuming you remember to email him this time.
I’ll see you in Lyon.
Disrespectfully, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
Of course I read the brief. Just because I don’t annotate every margin with red ink and superiority complexes doesn’t mean I don’t understand the deadline.
I’ll coordinate with Wonwoo, assuming you don’t scare him off again with your charmingly blunt emails. (I still have the screenshot of him calling you “intimidatingly competent.”)
By the way, your IQ revisions look fine. Shockingly legible this time. Congratulations.
I’ll see you in Lyon. Try not to sabotage the coffee machine this trip.
Until customs detains us, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
If Wonwoo was intimidated, it’s because I sent him instructions written in complete sentences. A rare treat, I know.
You still haven’t confirmed the calibration matrix. We’ll need the traceable certs before equipment ships, or do you plan to charm EU regulators into letting us slide on documentation? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve seen you talk to vendors.
Also: bring the correct adapter this time. I’m not sharing an outlet with you again.
Best of luck (to me), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination
The calibration matrix is in the tracker: third tab, fourth column, next to the thing labeled “READ ME, PLEASE” Try it. It’s fun.
And yes, I plan to charm the regulators. You, on the other hand, can stun them into compliance with your piercing PowerPoint transitions.
As for the outlet. I’m bringing an adapter. And a surge protector. For reasons.
Looking forward to our time in France. Nothing says “teamwork” like four days of jetlag and passive aggression.
Yours in regulatory purgatory, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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YJH 👿 (Work) [8:13 AM]: why do you type so aggressively. the guy next to me thinks you’re yelling at me You [8:14 AM]: he’s not wrong. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:15 AM]: did you really need three highlighters in your carry-on? You [8:15 AM]: yes. the pink one is for your mistakes. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:16 AM]: romantic You [8:16 AM]: if you die on this trip it’s going to be from a highlighter to the throat. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:17 AM]: worth it You [8:17 AM]: you are the worst seatmate in existence. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:18 AM]: you snore when you pretend not to be sleeping and your pointy elbow crosses the line You [8:18 AM]: so we’re calling it a truce? YJH 👿 (Work) [8:19 AM]: we’re calling it foreplay
☾ You have silenced Notifications.
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user1 oui oui 😜 user2 Who are you wearing??? ho5hi_kwon surprised a murder hasn’t occurred lolololol ఇ ◝‿◜ ఇ ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n not counting it out just yet user3 WHAT’S 4+4? ATEEE user4 Is he a model? ↳ sound_of_coups please don’t say that his head is going to get so big
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View all comments user1 bwoah . . . feat.dino STUNT ON THEM HOESSSS ♥︎ Liked by creator user2 gender gender gender 😮‍💨 user3 Really need to know where the second pic is !! Plsss DM yourusername i see how it is ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n credits. xo
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Yoon,
Per our debrief notes (the ones not written on a cocktail napkin), I’ve uploaded the final QAP revisions and vendor qualification summaries to the shared drive. You can stop emailing me pictures of our hotel room as  “documentation.” Though impressive dedication to fieldwork.
Also, your expense report still lists the mini bar from Tuesday night. Pretty bold move, considering you insisted you only drank half the bottle.
Respectueusement, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
You’re welcome for the in-room stress testing of French plumbing. I was being thorough.
Also, I did only drink half. You drank the other half and then told the front desk I was your emotional support engineer.
Re: shared drive. I see your formatting crimes continue. I fixed your spacing in the risk assessment table. Try to be better.
Yours across all timezones, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Yoon,
I’d fix my spacing if you’d stop adjusting my bullet styles just to mess with me. And next time, maybe don’t volunteer us for the plant tour while hungover. Watching you nearly fall into a vat of solvent was not the regulatory impression we wanted.
Stop calling me yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You still owe me one (1) bed. I’m adding it to your performance review.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation
Not my fault someone booked the hotel late and got us the romantic suite. You’re lucky I didn’t call room service for rose petals.
I’ve uploaded the final sign-offs and confirmation from the French regulatory contact—who says we’re the most “thorough and theatrically matched” engineers she’s worked with. I think that’s a compliment.
Let me know if I’ve missed any appendices. Or if you want your highlighter back.
Yours, even if you deny me (hotel registration said so), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. I liked sharing the room with you. Not because of budget errors or international confusion. Just because it was you.
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user1 GIVE US A FIT CHECK user2 something you’re not telling me ? hmmm ↳ yourusername dm dm dm user3 Need to know who yr nail tech girlie is fr everyone_woo 👀 ↳ yourusername 🤫 sunwoo pretty flowers 4 a pretty girl ♥︎ Liked by creator
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from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Great audit notes, as usual. I’ve attached my edits for the CAPA log. We’ll have to discuss column F, because your formulas hate me.
Also, bold of you to post a photo of flowers on a Tuesday. Does SVT approve PTO for midweek romance now?
Am I being cheated on?, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Yoon,
Corrected the formula logic in column F. Try not to break it again.
And yes, Tuesday dates are a thing now. Believe it or not, some people find me tolerable enough to see more than once.
Shocking, I know.
Regrets, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Don’t worry. I’m sure your second date will be charmed by your bullet point consistency.
Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of dating someone like you. Too sharp. Too bossy. Too quick to judge formula errors.
Fortunately, SVT doesn’t require us to like each other outside of Gantt charts.
Yours, whether you like it or not, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things
Yoon,
Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I'd sooner date a malfunctioning tensile tester.
I fixed your math in the timeline estimates. Again. Please don’t bother me for the rest of the week. I’m going to be busy preparing for date number two.
(You wish I was) Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 
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You [11:42 PM]: he ghosted me. u jinxed it. You [11:43 PM]: i shaved my legs for nothing. hope ur happy. You [11:44 PM]: he said he liked my slides. he LIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You [11:45 PM]: sitting alone at a bar rn contemplating the meaning of life.. and if i can blow u up telepahteitcally.... YJH 👿 (Work) [11:45 PM]: *telepathically YJH 👿 (Work) [11:46 PM]: which bar. You [11:47 PM]: fucking MANSPLAINER You [11:47 PM]: don’t come near me EVEREVER
YJH 👿 (Work) requested your location.
You started sharing your location with YJH 👿 (Work).
You [11:50 PM]: fuckfcuckfuckity my fat fucking thumbs FMLLL YJH 👿 (Work) [11:53 PM]: i’m coming. don’t order tequila until i get there. or do. i want to see the disaster myself. You [11:55 PM]: jerk YJH 👿 (Work) [11:56 PM]: always. save me a seat, heartbreak girl
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user1 Caption + second slide >>>> joshu_acoustic is that yourusername in the last slide 🫨 ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n is it ? yourusername ↳ yourusername must be a lookalike ♥︎ Liked by creator ↳ dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S ME yourusername & min6yu_k !!! ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ user2 just one chance pls,, user3 Wait was that a wine date or
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Yoon,
Your revised equipment validation timeline looks solid. I’ve flagged the dates where QRA and process requal overlap. You’ll need to talk to Ops to make sure there’s no resource conflict.
Also, thanks. For the other night.
Don’t make a thing out of it. Reluctantly yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected] 
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Wow. A “thanks.” What is this, a truce?
Noted on the QRA overlap—I’ll sync with Ops and shift our timeline by 2-3 business days. I’ve attached a revised Gantt for your very critical review.
Also: you owe me fries.
Yours with no reluctance whatsoever, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. Don’t let your guard down. I’d hate for you to start thinking I’m nice.
P.P.S. You’re beautiful when drunk. Infuriating, but beautiful.
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
Attached: my comments on your Gantt chart (see rows 14–27). Also, your font choices are unhinged. You’re lucky you’re marginally good at your job.
Fries are contingent on you not mentioning the karaoke. Sober now, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You’re nice when you think I’m too drunk to remember.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 
I’ll swap the font if it means less red pen in my inbox.
And don’t worry, I’d never mention your rendition of “Dancing Queen” in front of senior management. Or that you made me sing backup.
As for being nice: I was just making sure you didn’t fall asleep in a nacho basket. Again.
Drunk on you, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. I remember everything you said. Even the parts you don’t.
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user1 fly safe, babygirl user2 ermmm.. am i witnessing a soft launch ?! min9yu_k I’d know that YSL bag from anywhere 😏 user3 How can I be youuu :( user4 is that a BOYFRIEND?! junhui_moon strategic non-response to any of the comments here #respect
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from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Attached: updated protocol outline and projected data submission window. Added notes re: temperature excursions flagged by the lab.
Unrelated, but I saw your latest post. Interesting how you managed to frame the lighting just right on that cafe table. Almost as if someone you work with took the photo.
Also, bold choice uploading a cropped version of that one picture of me holding five tote bags. Very “soft launch,” very subtle.
Launched like a rocket ship, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
This isn’t the time.
The humidity chamber failed mid-run and half of the accelerated aging samples are compromised. I’ll need to retest from baseline and revalidate the controls. Not sure yet if it pushes our submission, but I’m flagging it with QA.
I suggest you review section 6.2 of the protocol instead of obsessing over my Instagram.
L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Didn’t mean to distract. I hadn’t seen the alert yet. Engineering just looped me in on the chamber issue. I’ll prioritize sourcing backup samples and contact Tech Ops to check chamber calibration across all zones.
You’ll have data. We’ll make it work.
(But if you were soft-launching me, I looked great.)
Trying too hard, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
Yoon,
Appreciated. Sorry I snapped.
I just really didn’t want this run to go sideways. I know it’s not your fault—but I’ve been fielding calls since 7:00 a.m. and I’m a little fried.
Yours and then some, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S. You looked ridiculous, but sure. Let the internet wonder.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
You can yell at me any time. Preferably not before coffee, but I’ll survive.
QA says they’ll expedite sample disposal so we can start the new batch by end of week. I sent you a revised Gantt. And a snack. Don’t fight me on it.
Yours in whatever way you’ll have me, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
P.S. Internet speculation is already intense. I’ve received two DMs inquiring if I’m truly off the market. Is this your twisted little way of staking claim?
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 
The snack was suspiciously well-timed. You’re lucky I like sesame.
Re: QA—I’ll update the submission calendar and notify Regulatory we’re adjusting the stability window.
And tell your fans I’m flattered, but my standards are higher than “guy who argues about font weight in shared spreadsheets.”
Yours for some reason (When did I succumb to this?), L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline
For the record, I wasn’t arguing. I was advocating for consistent formatting.
Also: I’m sorry. For earlier. I should’ve checked the system alerts before joking around. You always catch things first, and I forget what it’s like to be under that kind of pressure all the time.
Let me know what else you need. I mean it.
Yours for equally no reason (I bookmarked the first time you signed off with ‘yours’, btw), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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sound_of_coups 🎣 Hook, line, sinker user1 can this guy fight omfg user2 Even his side view is ethereal. What the hale vernonline okurrr ♥︎ Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n   ↳ yourusername ? jeonghaniyoo_n wasn’t aware i had paparazzi   ↳ pledis_boos IS THIS ALLOWEDDD IS THIS ALLOWED
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from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Apologies for the Timestamp 
Yoon,
I realize this is past hours. I won’t pretend it’s an emergency—it’s just the draft for the stability test realignment we discussed. I needed to get it out of my head or I wouldn’t sleep. It can wait until morning. I just didn’t want to forget.
Sorry. Again. Sleep well, or party well, or whatever it is you’re doing tonight.
Terribly sorry, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 
Got your email—yes, timestamp noted.
I’m out. Drinking. Loud music, terrible lighting, questionable tequila. I’ll look at the draft during actual work hours. I promise.
Also, you do know that you’re allowed to exist outside work. Don’t apologize for thinking too hard. That’s half your brand.
Buzzing like a drunk bumblebee, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Yoon,
Enjoy your night out. Try not to bully the DJ. May your drinks be overpriced and your lighting flattering.
And hey—hope you pull. You deserve someone mildly tolerable for a few hours.
Cheers, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 
The drinks are terrible. The lighting is flattering. I’ve technically pulled, but she’s more interested in the bartender now, which is fine because—
I miss you. You, and your midnight overthinking, and your Excel color codes, and the way you always say “don’t wait up” but still check your inbox five minutes later.
I miss you. Stupidly. Even while I’m here.
Yours at my own risk, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Yoon,
Pray tell why you're getting drunk and you're "pulling" what I can assume to be ABGs whose names you won't even know in the morning, and yet you're still in the club, emailing me? Missing my drunken emails?
Why? Are the girls of Wall Street not enough for you?
Totally not jealous, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
I can answer this so simply, it won’t even be fun.
The girls of Wall Street will never be you.
No one will ever be you.
I'm not enjoying my night as much as I should because you're not here. I'm in the club, drunk AND emailing you. That should tell you everything.
Come out with me next time. Wreck my plans. Ruin the music. Steal my coat.
I may be playing with fire, but to hell with it.
Burning myself, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected] 
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
I can feel you overthinking all the way from here. You’re probably thinking that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and regret all of this. That I will be unable to face you at work come Monday, when I am no longer drunk out of my mind and thinking you are the most brilliant, most gorgeous, most infuriating person alive. 
You will be right. Thankfully, though, these are—what do the kids call it? ‘Receipts’. You will have a paper trail. These emails will be between you, me, and that Australian guy from IT. 
He will know, and you will know, that I may have the most miniscule work crush on you. 
Jesus Christ. What am I? A high schooler? 
Let’s try that again: Love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. What I’m feeling for you isn’t love. It’s so much more than that.
Love sucks, and I need to sober up, Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
Get home safe, Jeonghan.
Yours, with questions, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
You just called me Jeonghan.
Yours, with answers (maybe), Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
from: L/N Y/N [email protected] to: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
That’s your name, isn’t it?
Stop e-mailing me while you’re at the club.
Fine. Yours, L/N Y/N she/her [email protected]
P.S.: I may have the most miniscule work crush on you, too.
from: Yoon Jeonghan [email protected] to: L/N Y/N [email protected] Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp
i am  goi n    to die
Yoon Jeonghan he/him [email protected]
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vernonline lfggg min9yu_k 🤮 JK! Congrats junhui_moon saw this coming from a mile away sound_of_coups Gorgeousss   ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n back off, bud. dk_is_dokyeom (˶ ˘ ³˘)ˆᵕ ˆ˶) love is love everyone_woo oh god what about our project   ↳ yourusername please check your e-mail. :)   ↳ everyone_woo fml.
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xuminghao_o Not seeing yjh in suits is disconcerting ho5hi_kwon RAH RAH RAH RAHHH woozi_universefactory 👍   ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n JIHOON????????????? pledis_boos U CAN DO BETTER THAN HIM GIRL joshua_acoustic So happy for you two! feat.dino my otp fr jeonghaniyoo_n mine ♥︎ Liked by creator   ↳ yourusername yours,
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
Text
Baby is like a drug to me at this point
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.  
WC: 29,988
AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Childhood Friends/Exes to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARINGS: Full warnings available under the cut.
A/N: This fic was posted on my original blog which has been deleted. I am now reposting it. I hope it does half as well as it did when I originally posted this story - thank you to everyone who left amazing feedback the first time. It genuinely made me so happy and I am so sorry that it got sent to the moon where I can no longer read it.
A/N 2:  Thank you @daechwitatamic and @eoieopda for beta-reading this fic.
MASTERLIST | FULL COLLECTION | ASK | PLAYLIST | NEXT | MOODBOARD
Warnings: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, morally grey characters, themes of codependency (a little bit), a bit of a toxic relationship with Soonyoung and reader at times (they like to make each other jealous), bar fights, women being very petty, recreational drinking and drug use, heavy angst, depictions of death (funerals for parents), fight scene that ends in death in a domestic situation, difficult relationships with parents, reader and her husband have a terrible relationship and hate each other, depictions of blood and stabbing in one scene (it is the most graphic scene in the whole fic but kept short), reader agonizes over decisions she's made and struggles mentally with a lot of it, depiction of a full blown anxiety attack, sexually explicit content including fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, crying during sex, a lot of making out and biting, multiple orgasms... sorry this is so long, I want to over-warn for everything happening here so if I have missed something you think needs to be warned, please tell me!
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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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SYNDICATE ROLES
Tower - title for a Syndicate boss Wisdom - title for the second-in-command to a Sydnicate boss Architect - title for the main business affairs and political tactician Sentinel - title for the main military leader of a Syndicate Riots - title for a member of the Syndicate responsible for sowing discord Swords - title for a member of the Syndicate who is a fighter/military role Chariots - members of the Syndicate who make deals/act as business brokers Rooks - members of the Syndicate who collect debts/lead the extortion practices Justices - members of the Syndicate on the legal counsel Hanged Men - members of the Syndicate who betrayed their Syndicate Watchers - members of a Syndicate who are spies/informants Patrons - citizens who pay homage/have an alliance/are under the protection of a Syndicate Vanguard - official members of the Syndicate who don't have specific roles but do work for the Syndicate
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floraoleander · 2 months ago
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You belong with me. 💚💛💜❤️🩵🖤
Letter on my site :)
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