kyannae

[kyannae]

cutie patootie

[kyannae]

A Choice Between Two:

One chases the horizon, the other lingers in the past, Their paths collide, The brilliance and shattered beauty intertwine— Who’s to say which one is closer to the truth of desire?

[kyannae]

That guy is not as cool as you think he is..."( – ⌓ – )

Read more like this that I made with love on my ko-fi here~

[kyannae]

just found this old art again anyw mamamafia childe ;DD

[kyannae]

12AM，↷ nagi seishiro.

summary: nagi calls at 12AM, effectively disrupting your sleep. what a menace. (gn!reader)

category: fluff.

warnings: gn!reader , nagi not letting you sleep LOL....he is such a gamer fr...

a/n: LORDDD i have succumbed to nagi once again 🙏🙏🙏 have a little thing over here

you woke up from your sleep abruptly, the annoying ringtone of your phone resounding throughout the room. god, you should've just powered it off...

rolling over to the side where your nightstand was, you squinted your eyes at the bright screen, before seeing the contact name 'nagi loml 💯'. immediately accepting the call, you flumped back onto the bed- phone beside you.

"y/n?" nagi's voice emitted from your phone which you had put on speaker mode. "mmmhm...?" you mumbled, just loud enough for the phone to pick up. obviously, you sounded extremely tired.

"wanna play bedwars?" nagi asked, and you could hear the faint clacking of his keyboard in the background. you deadpanned and rolled over, before sighing.

"sei, it's fucking 12AM."

"okay, so? play with me." nagi replied, and you laid there, eyes closed- slowly drifting off to dreamland again, completely ignoring your lover.

"y/n?"

and, his voice disrupted your peaceful state once again.

"sei, I'll play with you tomorrow, yeah?" you mumbled. the bed was feeling increasingly comfortable.

"cmon. please? jus' for tonight? i'm lonely..." nagi whined, and you can imagine him clinging onto you and giving you puppy eyes. you sighed for the second time, rolling around in frustration, trying not to give in.

eventually you stopped, rubbing your eyes as you sat up.

"ugh, you're such a baby. fine. just for a few rounds, okay? and let me get my coffee..."

"okay." nagi replied, content with your answer.

© kyannae

needless to say, you ended up playing till 6AM in the morning. well, at least the both of you won all the matches!

[kyannae]

HIS NAME，↷ cheongmyeong.

summary: in which, these were the times where you called his name. a hundred years later, he finds himself reminiscing about it.

category: ANGST. and maybe some fluff???? like...5% i think...

warnings: gn!reader , idk how bad the angst is to others but personally i find it quite sad , i think that's all

a/n: ERM. SO. whenever i open tiktok i only see cheongmyeong. i see him everywhere. and it's all angst. so i am sad. 😓

"cheongmyeong!" you would call, looking at him with a stern gaze. the said boy would glance at you from the tree he was on, before smirking. "oh? i swear i heard senior y/n for a second...i must be hearing things." he'd joke, before chugging down more alcohol. looking at your exasperated expression, he'd laugh again, taunting you by waving his bottle of alcohol.

"cheongmyeong." you would say, frowning at him as you hav caught him, yet again, stealing alcohol. "ehehehe ...." he'd laugh sheepishly, slowly moving towards the door and making a dash for it. "cheongmyeong! come back here!"

"cheeeongmyeeeonnggg~" you'd call, throwing yourself onto him during drinking sessions. (which you only participated in once in a blue moon.) "ack! get off me!" he'd complain, but make no effort to pry you off. tang bo would snicker, teasing the man endlessly.

"cheongmyeong..." you would say softly, embracing him and planting a kiss to the crown of his head, comforting him when things got tough. before he was the plum blossom sword saint, he was just cheongmyeong.

"cheongmyeong, the sect leader is calling for you." a hand was placed on his shoulder. the boy whipped his head around, and he swore that he saw you for a second- smiling at him softly. but then he blinked, and it was just jong yoon. "cheongmyeong...?" jong yoon hesitantly vocalized, seeing as he didn't respond, but was also afraid that the younger would beat him to a pulp.

© kyannae

"yeah, yeah." cheongmyeong got up, dusting himself off. placing both hands behind his back, he headed off to the sect leader, carrying a mountain of responsibilities along with him- jong yoon missing the wistful and melancholic look on his face.

[kyannae]

I'VE JUST SEEN YOUR REQ FOR SUGGESTIONS AND.. listen.... hear me out...

Kisses with ...Cheong Myeong and Yoo Iseol.... kisses hcs??? I'm all for it. Simple scenarios where you kiss them and they return it?? hell yeah. Maybe you could do "the [number] you did [action], and the one time they return it"..... I'm just hungry for kisses I am a starving young victorian child PLEASE OTHER THAN THAT !! I hope you have a great day :3

KISSES，↷ cheongmyeong, yu iseol

summary: kisses with cheongmyeong and iseol~

category: fluff!! | gn!reader

warnings: nil~ very rare. they are all so angst material. 😓

a/n: did yall miss me chat. LOL. im so sorry for taking so long to write this up...life was ass.

"myeong, sahyung is calling for you." you knocked against the trunk of the tree cheongmyeong was on, the said male peering at you from his relaxed position.

"ugh, did he find out i stole wine again?" he let out a little hiccup at the end. "obviously. and, you skipped training." you replied, seeing the male hop down from his spot. "aw, don't be like that, n/n!" he attempted to flick your forehead, which you blocked with ease.

"oh, come on. did you really have to block that? you knew that I didn't put any force-"

kiss.

cheongmyeong stilled, lips parted in disbelief as he stared at you licking your lips. "mh, plums. basic taste." you looked back up at him. "what?"

cheongmyeong's face erupted into a deep shade of red, as he pointed a finger at you accusingly.

"y-you...you!" he stuttered, finger trembling slightly. you snorted, before bursting out in laughter. "god! you look so funny right now, i wish i could show this to-"

kiss.

you froze, seeing cheongmyeong smirk. his face was still red, but he had that stupid proud grin on his face.

"that's...!" you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. "...not fair." you muttered, steam rising from your face comically.

cheongmyeong full on belly laughed, rolling on the floor. you glared at him, before raising your leg to kick his abdomen. he let out a choking-like sound, clutching his stomach.

iseol was beautiful- a fact that everyone agreed on, but they could never see how breathtaking she looked under the moonlight. this scene was for your eyes only.

"hah! I'm going to tell sahyung thay you were so drunk to the point where you fell off the tree." you turned around, stomping off to your senior, cheongmyeong raising a hand weakly to try and stop you.

"you look beautiful, iseol." you complimented, brushing some stray hairs away from her face. iseol turned her head over to look at you, giving you a small smile.

"you look equally as stunning, y/n." she replied, your smile turning into a grin at her words. silence ensued, the both of you simply enjoying the breeze.

however, suddenly-

kiss.

iseol whipped her head around so fast that she might've gotten whiplash, looking at you with wide eyes. you were facing away from her, likely too embarrassed to face her.

she smiled, eyes forming crescent like shapes. "oh y/n," she said endearingly, gently cupping your face. "look at me."

"iseol..." you murmured, avoiding eye contact as you turned your head to face hers.

kiss.

© kyannae

iseol smiled, pulling away to admire your appearance under the moonlight. "i love you, y/n." she said, placing another kiss on the crown of your head. "you're mine, forever."

[kyannae]

Can I make a request? The reader is also reincarnated, and Chung Myung is in denial about having in a crush and jealous?

BADUMP，↷cheongmyeong

summary: he has a crush, on you? impossible! so why is his heart beating like this?! and what is this disgusting feeling in his chest when you interact with others?!

category: fluff | gn!reader

warnings: nil

a/n: I LOVVVEVEED THIS REQUEST OMG YES 😍🙏 I HOPE it's ok omg. im a little rusty.

"grab the handle like this- and move your legs slightly further apart." cheongmyeong was watching with subtle irritation at you training the sect members. sure, this was necessary, but was you touching them to correct their position necessary? surely not!

"just put your arms a little higher..." there was a subtle blush on the disciple's face. the audacity?!

"that's it. training's over. everyone leave," cheongmyeong interrupted. the rest immediately scurrued away, afraid to incur cheongmyeong's wrath.

"myeong, what the heck? I'm not done!" you huffed, crossing your arms infront of him. "don't you want the sect to regain its glory? why did you interrupt their training? weirdo."

"weirdo?! well, i did that because...because...!" cheongmeyong stuttered, before clearing his throat. "i just wanted to give them...a. break. that's. all." he said stiffly, and you raised a brow in response.

"ha. ha. very funny." you rolled your eyes, unamused. "what's your problem? at this rate, they'll never be able to make it."

"well...i...ugh! i just felt like it!" cheongmyeong retorted. there was no other reason! right...? right. cheongmyeong shook his head.

"hah. fine," you relented. "i made your favourite food. and snuck some wine." you said, before clearing your throat and turning around. "make sure you come and eat. we can drink, like...old times."

it was like a scenario described by those madly in love. the sun just so happened to hit your figure just right, the slight breeze made some plum blossom petals fall from the tree, and you just so happened to turn around to beckon cheongmyeong to follow along.

this all created a picture perfect scene infront of cheongmyeong. of course, you were the central figure.

damn. you looked so...

badump.

what the hell? cheongmyeong flushed, covering the lower half of his face with one hand. impossible! hell no!

badump. badump. badump.

oh shit.

© kyannae

[kyannae]

IM GNA REVAMP TO SUA THEME I LOVE SUA I LOVVVEEE SUAUAUSIEBEUWIWOW SUAAA MY QUEEEEEN

[kyannae]

"youve already written that trope" yesss. i like it a lots. i will be writing it again. 1000 stories of the same trope over and over again for ten million years

[kyannae]

Can I make a request? The reader is also reincarnated, and Chung Myung is in denial about having in a crush and jealous?

BADUMP，↷cheongmyeong

summary: he has a crush, on you? impossible! so why is his heart beating like this?! and what is this disgusting feeling in his chest when you interact with others?!

category: fluff | gn!reader

warnings: nil

a/n: I LOVVVEVEED THIS REQUEST OMG YES 😍🙏 I HOPE it's ok omg. im a little rusty.

"grab the handle like this- and move your legs slightly further apart." cheongmyeong was watching with subtle irritation at you training the sect members. sure, this was necessary, but was you touching them to correct their position necessary? surely not!

"just put your arms a little higher..." there was a subtle blush on the disciple's face. the audacity?!

"that's it. training's over. everyone leave," cheongmyeong interrupted. the rest immediately scurrued away, afraid to incur cheongmyeong's wrath.

"myeong, what the heck? I'm not done!" you huffed, crossing your arms infront of him. "don't you want the sect to regain its glory? why did you interrupt their training? weirdo."

"weirdo?! well, i did that because...because...!" cheongmeyong stuttered, before clearing his throat. "i just wanted to give them...a. break. that's. all." he said stiffly, and you raised a brow in response.

"ha. ha. very funny." you rolled your eyes, unamused. "what's your problem? at this rate, they'll never be able to make it."

"well...i...ugh! i just felt like it!" cheongmyeong retorted. there was no other reason! right...? right. cheongmyeong shook his head.

"hah. fine," you relented. "i made your favourite food. and snuck some wine." you said, before clearing your throat and turning around. "make sure you come and eat. we can drink, like...old times."

it was like a scenario described by those madly in love. the sun just so happened to hit your figure just right, the slight breeze made some plum blossom petals fall from the tree, and you coincidentally turned around to beckon cheongmyeong to follow along.

this all created a picture perfect scene infront of cheongmyeong. of course, you were the central figure.

damn. you looked so...

badump.

what the hell? cheongmyeong flushed, covering the lower half of his face with one hand. impossible! hell no!

badump. badump. badump.

oh shit.

© kyannae

[kyannae]

i let rotmhs/rotbb marinate for so long i forgot where i stopped omg. 😭😭😭 not tew mention the many other manhwas & animes ive started as well...🙂 heh...is it time...for bed rotting...with my ipad....#ipadkid

[kyannae]

I'VE JUST SEEN YOUR REQ FOR SUGGESTIONS AND.. listen.... hear me out...

Kisses with ...Cheong Myeong and Yoo Iseol.... kisses hcs??? I'm all for it. Simple scenarios where you kiss them and they return it?? hell yeah. Maybe you could do "the [number] you did [action], and the one time they return it"..... I'm just hungry for kisses I am a starving young victorian child PLEASE OTHER THAN THAT !! I hope you have a great day :3

KISSES，↷ cheongmyeong, yu iseol

summary: kisses with cheongmyeong and iseol~

category: fluff!! | gn!reader

warnings: nil~ very rare. they are all so angst material. 😓

a/n: did yall miss me chat. LOL. im so sorry for taking so long to write this up...life was ass.

"myeong, sahyung is calling for you." you knocked against the trunk of the tree cheongmyeong was on, the said male peering at you from his relaxed position.

"ugh, did he find out i stole wine again?" he let out a little hiccup at the end. "obviously. and, you skipped training." you replied, seeing the male hop down from his spot. "aw, don't be like that, n/n!" he attempted to flick your forehead, which you blocked with ease.

"oh, come on. did you really have to block that? you knew that I didn't put any force-"

kiss.

cheongmyeong stilled, lips parted in disbelief as he stared at you licking your lips. "mh, plums. basic taste." you looked back up at him. "what?"

cheongmyeong's face erupted into a deep shade of red, as he pointed a finger at you accusingly.

"y-you...you!" he stuttered, finger trembling slightly. you snorted, before bursting out in laughter. "god! you look so funny right now, i wish i could show this to-"

kiss.

you froze, seeing cheongmyeong smirk. his face was still red, but he had that stupid proud grin on his face.

"that's...!" you sputtered, covering your face with your hands. "...not fair." you muttered, steam rising from your face comically.

cheongmyeong full on belly laughed, rolling on the floor. you glared at him, before raising your leg to kick his abdomen. he let out a choking-like sound, clutching his stomach.

iseol was beautiful- a fact that everyone agreed on, but they could never see how breathtaking she looked under the moonlight. this scene was for your eyes only.

"hah! I'm going to tell sahyung thay you were so drunk to the point where you fell off the tree." you turned around, stomping off to your senior, cheongmyeong raising a hand weakly to try and stop you.

"you look beautiful, iseol." you complimented, brushing some stray hairs away from her face. iseol turned her head over to look at you, giving you a small smile.

"you look equally as stunning, y/n." she replied, your smile turning into a grin at her words. silence ensued, the both of you simply enjoying the breeze.

however, suddenly-

kiss.

iseol whipped her head around so fast that she might've gotten whiplash, looking at you with wide eyes. you were facing away from her, likely too embarrassed to face her.

she smiled, eyes forming crescent like shapes. "oh y/n," she said endearingly, gently cupping your face. "look at me."

"iseol..." you murmured, avoiding eye contact as you turned your head to face hers.

kiss.

© kyannae

iseol smiled, pulling away to admire your appearance under the moonlight. "i love you, y/n." she said, placing another kiss on the crown of your head. "you're mine, forever."

[kyannae]

[kyannae]

hello!! Your fic is so cool and if your request is open, can I request DG x male reader when DG still in his James lee era while reader is the King of Busan

XENIA ゜゜・DG

Xenia, noun: the classical concept of hospitality to strangers. This, unfortunately, includes a wandering dog and his conniving owner—a most irritating, tooth-grinding conundrum the King of Busan has with Charles Choi and his boy-genius. sorry for the wait anon I was away from my laptop for the past week or so! and I couldn't write :'( first meetings and onwards for this particular work haha chicken and egg problem.. haha introspection on business and corruption... haha capitalism pairing: dg (james lee) + male reader warnings: male reader, canon typical violence, arguing (bickering) wc: 3.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

In the lengthy chronicles of Charles Choi’s grand plan—to mould the precarious South Korean underground into something far more profitable—James Lee finally came across his very own cause-and-effect conundrum. 

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Plutarch initially posed this question in The Symposiacs: a symbolic tug of war between creator and creation. James supposed, in his bored sort of way, that this question described the relationship between cities and Kings as well. Chronically, objectively, the cities existed first—tall structures and unique ecosystems that forged shadowy figureheads to rule the violent underbelly. But poetically, it was rather hard to ignore the hands etching—pummeling—a pathway for the power to flourish. Without those in charge, what were the cities? And without the cities, who were the people in charge?

Parsing the matter, it distilled into who influenced whom.

Of course, the dazzling sprawl of Busan refracting from the glass under his feet was no exception. Even he, who satiated his youthful wanderlust with blood on his fists, couldn’t deny his reluctance to sully this city more. But, what did it matter? The second most important city in South Korea (some would froth at the mouth and argue it was the first for its gateway to Eurasian trade, or at least for its world-class ports) was built from perfectly respectable trade; but alack! it was also protected by its snarling underworld. It had already been befouled: polluted by fists no better than his, trodden by legs more filthy than his own. Blood and toil smeared its golden sand, and its money was just as dirty.

 Sure, the city was propped up by honourable (hah) commercial deals, but it was shielded by the illicit ones. 

A defiled aegis, if you would.  

It was clear the current glitzy glamour of Busan night-life was carefully orchestrated by someone: from the specific mouthfeel the night air had, to the businesses that ran late into the witching hours. Those mythical beings and chaebols who fed and extracted money from this place, in endless loops, were culpable for these towering skyscrapers and glittering lights. 

Creators. 

In turn, the city cradled your grimy little body—chubby hands wrapping around index fingers of the metaphorical hounds—and made you. 

Did this metropolis represent you, or did you represent the metropolis?

It was not in a polite setting that James Lee scouted the venerable King of Busan: arguably the second most esteemed figurehead for the Kings of South Korea. In theory. In theory, since Busan’s reputation as a hub for trade and exalted trade (rather than the mere cold, hard cash ill-reputed other cities offered Choi) entwined with your own. Except, in practice, you were a far more reticent King than anyone could imagine. A shadow to fade into obliquity more than any other shadow. 

Underbelly, yes. This was the turf you were most at home in; he could forget all about the glamorous, illegal casinos in basements, he could forget about eavesdropping on business moguls and their lackeys, he could forget about waiting in the entertainment districts for the proverbial snake to finally rear his head. 

You were the fucking microcosm of this city: draped with expensive fabric and chainmailed with gold, but the blood on your knuckles stank of impurity. In a parking lot nestled on the outskirts of Busan, he witnessed the King in his court: complete with the luxury, the opulence, and the hamartia of brutality that came with capitalism. Yes, Busan had minted you as a shadowy side to a glitzy coin—as your eyes snapped to where he lounged against concrete, he couldn’t help but observe how your imaginary hackles raised. 

Thwomp. Casually, you tossed the grunt beaten black-and-blue to the frigid asphalt, with the magnanimity of tossing breadcrumbs to ducks in a pond. Like the lackey was the bread and James fucking Lee himself was the duck. A bloodied cheek squished into his sneaker, but you merely stared at him owl-like. No, cat-like, because it seemed to be the same nonplussed stare a cat would give someone after bringing them a dead rat. 

“Nice city.” Since you clearly had no intention of speaking first. Deftly, his fingers unravelled the mystic plastic of a lollipop: popping the cherry-flavoured candy into his mouth to soothe the acerbic irritation he tasted. “You treat all your guests like this, or do kings not follow xenia anymore?” 

It was a rather futile attempt to lighten the mood. After all, if he could help it, he’d rather negotiate to pave the way for the second generation before resorting to throwing his fist. No, that was a lie. His flexing fingers wanted nothing more than to curl into a fist to let off some of the steam he’d garnered from searching for you in this uselessly big city, but fate had him making stupid jokes based on The Odyssey he’d read just last week for his Classics competition. If he rummaged in his pocket, he could probably find the gold medal clanking against hard sweets. 

Your expression changed minutely—a slight disturbance in your brows. They furrowed, and for a brief moment James Lee thought his joke fell flat. With all the blood soaked into your expensive garb, maybe you just valued fists over Homeric hexameter. Violence over prose. Brawns over brains. You slinked like shadows. Crude. Ominous. He could barely see your face even with the city lights flashing neon in the backdrop, but when your loping gait came to a halt, there was an exasperation that afforded more subtle nuance to your character. A bitterness to tinge what he thought was mindlessness. 

“Mr. Lee.” Your voice curled low in your throat, as quick and elusive as mercury, and perhaps just as poisonous. Shadow King of Busan, the man who never introduced himself to you noticed. Silence was golden, and he suddenly understood why Charles Choi so badly wanted sway over the young King in charge of this port city. “I hope you’re aware that beating my subordinates would invalidate any sort of hospitality between us. You’re no god amongst men either, so ritualistic hospitality is a very weak premise to coerce my amiability with. Try again.”

Deity in the flesh. Perhaps James Lee was the closest thing to breaking the limits of humanity, but all men were fallible. That wasn’t what caused his brow to rise though; going in blind may have been risky, but it was worth it to find someone with a silver tongue like this. 

You looked about his age—treading on the precarious cusp between First and Second Generation, fists stained as red as his hair—but you spoke as if you were triple your years. 

“You wanna transfer to my school? It’d be fun to have you in the Debate Club,” he said on a whim, but it wasn’t really a whim either. His instructions were expressly to negotiate with Busan—the city was far too volatile to create a power vacuum in. For cities like Ansan, struggle was welcomed; but Charles Choi had too little of everything to contend with Busan, of all places. Just like in Seoul, the situation would resolve itself, and it was far too soon for the HNH Group to meddle in a place like this. “You talk like a teacher.”

His tone was as syrupy as his candy, but there was half-provocation, half-probing-curiosity entrenched in his cadence. Go on, it coaxed, throw a punch. Argue back. Unorthodox was his means of securing cooperation, but he’d have to be a little unorthodox to secure the deal old man Choi had painstakingly written out. A contract between Elite and the capricious man before him, between HNH Group and the microcosm of Busan himself; it sounded like every capitalist’s wet dream. 

“Good question, kid,” you smiled, but it was less of a smile and more of a sneer as you ghosted closer to him. Kid, like you weren’t one yourself. 

Crack. You stepped, heavy, on the hand of the man you’d pummelled—only his unconscious groan of pain re-alerted James to his existence. “The term isn’t over. You should still be in school. Playing around like this makes me far less likely to listen to whatever you’ve followed me for. Try again.”

The thick scent of metal invaded his personal space as you peeled your black gloves off; the rings beneath them were tinted with the blood that had seeped through the material. Just like that, you callously tossed the garment onto the slumbering man under your feet—though he truly wasn’t sure whether it was a final affront to a beaten man or throwing down the gauntlet towards James Lee himself. 

It was a reminder, once again, to not be hasty. There was the real possibility of fucking Charles Choi several times over if he didn’t get this right, but the thought of his imminent doom didn’t seem all too unappealing. On the contrary, he found his heart beating faster—pulse hot on his tongue as an intriguing challenge presented itself before him. 

“I’m sure your informants have relayed more intel than just my name,” he mirrored the jagged stretch of your lips. The Legend of the First Generation. The Genius. The original, associated with the base moniker of the Ten Geniuses to show just how unparalleled James fucking Lee was. “Take a guess as to how my scholastic life is going, then consider the opportunity that I’m bringing you.”

Ambiguous. His words were dusted with just enough information to seem straight to the point, but vague enough that it was tantalising. A hook to ensnare the snake of Busan himself. And rather than sating the itch in his fists, he found himself looking forward to a parley instead. 

You studied him, appearing to consider his words seriously. Syllables phrased like he was the one with the upper hand, when in fact the HNH group was still tentatively unfurling and in the process of negotiations with both yakuza and Triad alike. He awaited your favourable response, hearing the stats roll into your mind as you calculated the preliminary gains and losses to joining hands with Charles Choi. 

Bloodied fingers tapped a rhythm into your jacket absentmindedly. He watched, anticipating your invitation. 

“Fuck off.”

“Huh?” he spluttered. Maybe he misheard you. Maybe he finally choked on his candy and induced a coma in which he was now dreaming of your response. 

“Your boss sent a high-schooler to broker a deal with Busan.” Your fingers now drummed in irritation against your forearm, but he was just as irritated. He took care of every other prefecture and province, only to have this guy who was his age, nonetheless, tell him his presence wasn’t good enough. Like, what? “Tell old Choi to come himself to negotiate if he wants any sort of foothold in my city. If he truly wanted a respectable contract, why would he send you as a messenger?”

“Excuse me?” If he wasn’t restricted from fighting you—the only exception was valid self-defence—he would’ve made the asshole in front of him eat shit. Alas, Choi wasn’t that generous or lenient. “He sent one of the Ten Geniuses, the primero, for this. I’m one of his greatest assets.”

“Are you a damn car or a person?” you snapped, and it suddenly felt as though he was looking upon an ancient wizard as he lectured a troublemaker outside his tower. His eyelid twitched, and he was finding it quite hard to keep a cool head. “Talking about assets… can’t believe Choi’s sent the guy who’s fucked up all the smaller provinces to deal with us.”

The latter sentence was more grumbled to yourself; it appeared he annoyed you just as much as you annoyed him, which he found a delighted satisfaction in. 

“Tell Elite to come himself,” you uttered finally, not even letting him get in a word edgeways as you ambled back into the shadows—not even sparing a glance for the pile of bodies left in your wake. 

And despite his objective, despite the imminent yelling he’d no doubt face, he couldn’t help but stare at your blood-soaked coat fluttering in the frigid coastal wind. 

Out of hatred, obviously. 

・゜゜・

Charles Choi was a conniving bastard. You already knew it, but seeing him in the reception hall really drove the image home. He was polite, a little too polite; yet as soon as you slid that manila folder across the mahogany table, his demeanour prickled into something knife-like. 

Snake of Busan, you were nicknamed, but this guy was something else entirely. Once he sank his teeth into your determination to keep Busan flourishing, you could practically see his pupils contract into thin slits. Of course you’d dealt with tricky deals. Weaving through negotiation as though it were a riptide was how you clawed your way to the very depth of Busan’s underworld—navigating until you finally found that crown mired in cess. 

Or, more accurately, it was Miss Crystal Choi who’d pierced her venom right where it hurt. A Genius of Business, her father had called her—and boy, did it take all your wit to match her expertise in trade. 

But did he really have to bring that guy along?

The scion of the Geniuses was also in your office, leaning against the wall far behind Elite and his daughter. And though nobody asked for his input—not even old Choi spared his prodigy a glance—it still irritated you to no end that he’d tagged along. A bright, cheerful grin cast the sun against the city nightlife on the top floor of your building—one directed right at you, considering the only other two people he knew had their backs facing him. Quite the foolish move, but you weren’t one to concern yourself with people who were basically daylight robbing you. If the dog they’d raised bit them, all the better.

Or maybe he was beaming right at your bodyguard-turned-assistant, who stood discreetly in the shadows of the blinds: slatted light gently cresting over his tall build. Well. It certainly was one of the less strange things Mr Lee had done.  

Still, for someone who’d been glaring at you just a week ago, the change felt far too eerie to ignore. 

“—and onto the temporary personnel exchange section—” A feeble attempt to pry open the walnut that Busan was, which would only end with the unfortunate bastard failing. You’d choose a loyal subordinate, they’d select someone who was doomed to only grunt work—far from the impenetrable fortress of this building. Boredly, you tapped the pen on the contract, before freezing up at Miss Choi’s next words. “—we’d like to recommend James Lee to transfer to this office.” 

A pen snapped, and ink spilled onto the page. Dumbfounded, you barely registered her sliding over a fresh sheet, as though she knew full well this would happen. 

No, it was no recommendation. Her very mention of his name was a forceful shove of him into your office. No wonder he was grinning like the devil. No wonder he was here in the first place. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to leave Busan behind. 

Your eye twitched. 

He kept smiling—an ominous prelude to the brimstone and fire you were sure to experience promptly.  

・゜゜・

“Aren’t I a better bodyguard than that useless one you keep around?” 

James Lee had been a bit too quiet these past few days; duly loping around behind the lower-ranked subordinates as they made their rounds, never crossing the proverbial line when you’d handed him his duties as interim grunt. Though, whenever you passed him, his eyes followed the shadows of your fluttering hem—two pinpricks of an arid glare sweeping on your back. 

But James Lee was a dog, and whatever command Elite gave him, he’d obey. Heel. Roll over. Serve under the King of Busan for a month. A jester, if you would, with a leash around his neck that kept drawing more and more blood from him. What were the limits? Just how far would he go for the man with a crimson shadow?

“No,” you said. He stood, far too proud, on a summit of lackeys that had been sent your way by one of the companies who’d attempted to cheat their way to getting a more favourable deal. It would’ve been a simple ambush—one doomed to fail—fated to end with you tossing blood-soaked gloves right on them before you postponed the meeting you were on your way to. 

But not today. It appeared the limit of the dog of Elite was passing up petty competition with the man two paces behind you.

“Unlike you, Song’s actually pleasant to listen to.” Yes, Song wasn’t the most useful of bodyguards point-blank, but it wasn’t like you particularly needed someone to take care of protecting you. He made people lower their guards. And he made a mean cup of tea. “I don’t have any use for you, so you’re still worse.”

“Semantics,” he shrugged. “I made your life much easier, did I not?”

He was smart. Too smart, but you already knew that from the intel that had not yet been erased. Hushed up, because of course Elite would painstakingly conceal his cards. 

And unfortunately, you were always drawn to a risky hand. A pleasure far removed from the mundane violence of your everyday life—a heart-pounding thrill of betting all your chips in a hazardous (though not desperate) gamble. 

“Maybe.” For it was one day removed from the multitudes of late meetings and burdensome glove changes. Your hands weren’t seeped in oily red, sliding and dripping onto your expensive clothes that were tailored—though still felt so fucking ill-fitting that it made you sick—right to your body. 

You considered the man toeing carefully past the dogpile located against a cargo container: donning what could’ve been your life. A beige school uniform, pinkie slightly indented from books and study, pen marks still dotting his fingers. Closer. He ambled lazily to your direction, and as he approached with the dying sun behind him, you could see his smile. Just as languid as the day you first met him, and just as irritating. 

Closer. Strawberry candy laced the iron odour, though you could faintly taste lemon in the profile too—testament to the yellow wrapper stuck crudely on one of the men. Closer—he was far too close now, standing chest to chest while he stared directly at you. 

If there was one thing that came from this ill-fated encounter, it was probably the permanent furrowed brows that decorated your perplexed face—the bloodhound had been reduced to this fluffy thing demanding your attention. 

And it was just as unfortunate that your impression had been chipped away for him too—a King whose expressions were utterly delightful to witness. A straight mouth, grinning ever-so-slightly when a deal went your way. A routine rhythm to your biro tapping your notepad. Eyes that shone with practical constellations as you breathed the briny air of the port in. 

A particularity to the way you treated others, steely to the strong, awkward with the weak. So utterly flustered, when it came to tiny kids tugging on your long coat, or the grandmas you lent your arm to on the streets. If he had to compare it, he’d attribute your personality as a non-Newtonian fluid: your very own mix of cornstarch and water. Tough with pressure, all soft without. 

Like now. 

“Come on,” he whined. Psychologically, he was doing a damn good impression of pitifulness—even if you’d just witnessed him commit a beatdown so one-sided that you could feel the second-hand pain. And little by little, he was watching you falter: breath caught in his throat as he watched your brows default to their furrow once more. “I saved you a good few minutes, didn’t I? Don’t tell me Busan can’t even acknowledge hard work and effort.”

“Fine, whatever,” you crumbled just like that, under the heavy weight of his triumphant eyes. “Good job.”

So cute, he thought, then froze almost immediately the moment the words came to mind.

Fuck. 

・゜゜・

[kyannae]

Hello, I love your work, can you write a Dg x boyfriend! Reader who is like Osaragi from Sakamoto days please, take care of yourself, you are great

FAR FROM ANY ROAD ゜・DG

"And strange hands halted me, the looming shadows danced; I fell down to the thorny brush and felt the trembling hands." And after the numbing day concludes, after the rain swallows all your sorrows, where else do you return if not home? honestly anon when I got this request I was fully wondering whether you meant the full deal of osagiri and was going to write actual assassin reader... then I re read the request. anyways hope you enjoy this short fic because once more I was at a loss whether to write actual headcanons or a scenario.. pairing: diego kang x male reader warnings: canon typical violence, blood, sort of hurt/comfort? not comedic sorry :'( wc: 1.4k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tonight, the rivulets of rain streaming down your body feel particularly heavy. Those drops chase the blood that stains your skin and seeps into your clothes: petrichor battling against the acrid, metallic reek; purification against the concentrated sanguine of your sins and the sins of these assailants. 

In this abandoned construction site, you feel much like these unfinished buildings. A crude facade with crumbling foundations. Of course, the unconscious bodies of these Workers resemble those decrepit structures far more—alas, you’re not referencing their physical state, but rather the slightly-numbed, slightly-exhausted mental state you’re in. 

The bruises and scrapes littering your skin might make any lesser man hiss at his incompetence in guarding his temple, but to you, you absently trace the wounds with curious fascination. One last moment of entertainment, before your fun and games abruptly end. 

“How unpleasant,” you finally utter—the bleak words are washed away by the rain, to be heard by nobody but yourself. It’s always a thrill to perform your Sacred Duty; that is, teaching these wrong-doers a salient lesson that is beaten into their very bones. Your transgressions are only to correct their own sins, not bound to any particular affiliation but yourself. 

Against your injuries, your gelid fingers don’t spark the same warmth he does. It is at this particular moment that the joy completely evaporates, it is at this moment where all you want is to take off the crushing black veil and retreat back home. 

Home. You’ll be late as usual—limping back to the dimly-lit apartment with carmine kissing your knuckles and a frown on your face. 

These hours, where the clouds swirl a rich black, and only the street lamps pity your lonely journey home, no longer feel so welcome. So it's despondently that you start the meander back to the city. 

゜・

It’s early summer when you transfer to his class—almost comically late in the year, James Lee notes. Right on the cusp of the holidays, you stand before your peers with caustically empty eyes and a careful blankness on your face. How dull, he dismisses before crunching down on his candy: an obnoxious gesture that swivels your pupils in his direction. But not much else changes in your face—it seems you’ll be just as boring as his classmates, if not slightly more weird.

Though, as you slip into your seat with almost serpentine grace, as you click your mechanical pencil in such a way he briefly wonders whether you know you’re wielding a writing utensil and not a weapon, as your loping gait starts appearing in the edges of his vision wherever he is—this is where his eyes start following your motions curiously.

These endeavours prove fruitless; you’re a model student, if not subpar to his own vast academic success. There’s nothing noteworthy about your clipped speech, nor about your penchant to eat heaping bowls of food in one serving on the rooftops. Maybe there is that feeling he gets—that you seem to be holding yourself back during sports and other activities—but he’s come to his own conclusion. Boring. And just like that, his interest wanes once more.

It’s in the holidays that he sees you once more. This time, you’re out of uniform and in such peculiar garb he half-believes you’re an apparition: clad in rich black with a veil thrown over your head.  Or at least, he would believe you were a ghost were it not for the heaps of unconscious gang members strewn around you, and the vibrant red staining your fists and face. And when he laughs, when your head finally turns to gaze at the boy at the abandoned parking lot—you look as nonplussed as ever, and that is perhaps the most interesting thing about this ill-fated encounter.

Even with the lacerations cutting deep, you barely wince. Even as he finds you, again and again and again as you’re guts deep in beating these ‘sinners’ up, you barely spare him any greetings as he watches on amusedly. Even as he’s taken to cheering you on from the sidelines, you ignore him just like he did you—though, it’s more matter-of-fact than malicious, like it would be unprofessional to acknowledge him. 

It seems James Lee has found himself a new form of entertainment: all wrapped up neatly in a parcel of a boy with weirdly haunting eyes. 

゜・

But with age, naturally, comes the act of growing up. As he sheds his crimson locks, as he slips on his new moniker and buries his name along with his past, as he finally puts a name on the captivation you’ve bound him in—no longer does he laugh as you throw yourself into danger. 

Rather, with each new scar you accumulate on the vast and brilliant canvas of your skin, he can’t help but feel each pain on his own body. 

This especially bodes true as you stumble across the threshold, back into the lonely recesses of your apartment. It’s a small thing in the suburbs—far from prying eyes that snag on the lace decorating your body, far from those that could pick up on your sins. 

When you shuck off the heavy boots—ever the contrast against the exquisite craftsmanship of your clothing—you want nothing more than to collapse against the cold tiles of the floor. As you take on the more fatal—the more perilous—jobs, the money proportionally increases. 

But you don’t get the chance to sink onto the ground, because warm hands suddenly catch your frigid body just as you’re about to keel over. 

DG, Kang Dagyum, Diego—he’s got many names. James. The man you’ve known for the past three years holds you close to his designer sweater. He willingly lets the plush fabric to be soaked in the sins that trailed in with you: clear, polluted rain, which seems to perfectly encapsulate your sullen mood; mud soaking the hem over your veil; and finally the sanguine, oily blood that never seems to wash off. 

“Sorry.” Guilt eats away at you as you watch the material seep with wickedness. “I ruined it.”

Laconic as ever, you feel worse for staining his clothes than you do for coming home bruised and bleeding. His heart seems as tattered as you look, wrenching and twisting through his flesh while you inhale the powdery scent of his freshly-laundered loungewear. 

“You’re not sorry for coming home to me like this?” he bites out. There’s not a trace of laughter in the tight lines of his mouth—for James can’t find these stupid jobs amusing any more. He makes enough, God knows he makes more than enough, for you to leave this cursed work behind and just stay by his side. 

“Um,” you murmur, and he can practically hear the cogs in your brain whirring as you wonder why he’s not mentioning the deep smears of crimson that assault his outfit. “I can change before coming in—”

“Stop.” He interrupts you with his tight grip on your body and the concerned, devoted glint in his softening eyes. “Can’t you worry about yourself for once?”

His job is harsh within itself: volatility and high-pressure wrapped in one, but the things you do for money are downright punitive. It’s paradoxically comical: a man who’s stained his hands with blood far darker and deeper than you have, versus a pseudo-vigilante whose life revolves around violence. Diego Kang, or more accurately, James Lee conceals his past as though it were a separate entity: while still keeping the dregs of yesteryear with him in the form of you.

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t keep you by him. He’s bound to you instead, he realises through his adoring gaze and tender hands, through the reverent kisses he presses to your glacial arms. 

You still as his fingers card through your skin: past the fragile, wounded dermis; weaving through the sinuous muscles, and past the tangles of veins; and finally, they hold tight on the steady thrum of your pulse. You’re alive. You’re alive and breathing, and your heart is still beating through all those layers. 

Only then does he gaze up at you. None of his past ghosts through his look: neither boredom nor the callous indifference he once regarded you with. He’s been destroyed and reborn anew within these three years, while you still remain the painfully reckless fool. 

He’s no longer James Lee.

No, there’s not a single trace left of the boy who once saw your endless struggle as entertaining: save maybe the part of him that’s always been enraptured by your existence.  

゜・

EXTRAS

DG: …

reader: yeah I beat up those haters who were harassing you on twitter

DG: …

DG: without me 🥺

[kyannae]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)