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1800titz · 2 months ago

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The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality.

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation— this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder—

And the rest of everyone else.

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in.

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic.

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees— seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her.

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor.

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who (based on volume alone) should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance.

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse— the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics.

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear.

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting.

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse.

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion.

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable.

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs.

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality.

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors.

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression.

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns.

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration.

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk.

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them.

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder.

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer.

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath.

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise).

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked?

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.”

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again.

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest.

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe.

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment.

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum.

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard.

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly.

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms.

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk.

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification.

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way.

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package.

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor.

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all.

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice."

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists.

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one.

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering.

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief.

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel.

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist.

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod.

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up.

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses.

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips.

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits.

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding.

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush.

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state.

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry.

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation.

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail.

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks.

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together.

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes.

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever.

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic.

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red.

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples.

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles au #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles one shots #dom!harry

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thedensworld · 20 days ago

Text

When Love Kills | W. J

Pairing: Wen Junhui x reader

Genre: mafia au!, exes au!

Type: angst, fluff, action, smut (mdni!)

Word count: 12k

Summary: Love is a double-edged sword—one for a kiss and one for a kill. Jun was meant to do one thing: uphold his family’s ruthless legacy. But everything changed when he met the woman he loves.

Jun arrived in South Korea after six years, returning to a place that felt strangely like home. The city had changed—skyscrapers seemed taller, neon lights brighter, and the streets more crowded, all moving at a relentless, breakneck pace. Yet the air held a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of the time he first set foot here a decade ago, learning the language, understanding the world of business, and tasting a freedom he rarely experienced back home.

The driver navigated the bustling roads, eventually pulling up at a high-end hotel where Jun would stay until his work was done. A simple task, at least in theory—secure the prime minister’s daughter.

Ji Jaekyung, the prime minister, had quietly forged an alliance with a rival syndicate in South China. Betrayal was something Jun’s father could never tolerate, and he had ordered his son to ‘take care of it.’ But Ji Jaekyung was a cautious man, his daughter a carefully guarded secret. No photographs, no public appearances—she was a ghost even in this hyperconnected country. Yet Jun had his ways.

A single bank account—the one receiving regular transfers from Jaekyung—had led Jun to her. A small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, nothing extravagant, almost too ordinary. Tonight, he stood across the street, watching through the café window. She was there, laughing, her short hair framing her face, eyes crinkling with joy as she spoke with someone—a boyfriend, perhaps? That would make things more interesting.

Jun’s gaze lingered, a strange pang tugging at his chest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel anything at all. But there was something familiar about the sight of this city, a memory buried beneath years of distance.

Back in his hotel room, the city lights spilled through the tall glass windows, casting a cool glow. He should be focused, preparing his men for tomorrow's briefing, but his mind refused to stay on task. His thoughts wandered, retracing old memories of this city—the late-night walks, the crowded markets, the warm, humid summers.

And most of all, the girl he met one summer night. You.

He hadn’t thought of you in years, and yet now, in this familiar city, the memory of you felt too close, too vivid. The taste of yout laughter, the warmth of your touch—it all rushed back with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

But that was then. This was now.

Tomorrow, he would have to forget sentiment. His father had given him an order, and sentiment had no place in this world.

Jun woke up in the morning with a dull ache of desire, a boner—one night in Seoul, and already his dreams were haunted by memories of you. He sighed, glancing down at the unmistakable evidence of his thoughts. His hand reached for his phone, fingers dialing quickly.

"I’ll be late for the meeting," he informed his men, voice steady despite the heat pooling in his chest. "Something urgent to take care of. Very healthy, I assure you."

He leaned back against the pillows, letting his mind wander. "Y/n…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Memories rushed in uninvited—one summer night in college, the first time he saw you.

It was the beginning of summer break. Jun and his friends had decided to blow off steam at an arcade. The place was alive with flashing lights and laughter, but nothing captured his attention like the girl on the dance game platform. Long hair swaying, laughter bright and infectious, you danced with a carefree joy that seemed to pull all eyes toward you.

"This is Y/n," one of his friends had introduced, nudging him. "She’s an art student."

Art student—that explained the wild creativity in your movements, the way you painted the air with every step. But what lingered most was your scent, a subtle sweetness that seemed to linger even when you weren’t near, an intoxicating memory.

One date became two, then three, and soon, he found you in his bed, bare and vulnerable, the world beyond those sheets forgotten. For the first time, Jun felt himself attach to someone—truly, dangerously. And it was you.

You held him with a warmth and softness no one else could replace—a touch that seemed to whisper comfort, a presence that wrapped around him even in the coldest of nights. If he ever met you again, he would make sure you knew that nobody else had ever taken your place. But there was one problem—he didn’t know if he would ever meet you again.

"Y/n, where are you?"

Jun waited in the shadowed corner of an old, abandoned building, its peeling walls and broken windows a testament to forgotten days. His fingers drummed lightly against the worn leather of the chair’s armrest, impatience simmering beneath his calm exterior. His people were on their way, and they had clear instructions.

"Bring her alive. Don’t you dare touch her," Jun had ordered, voice cold and precise. At least not before he arrived. Killing her immediately would be such a waste. There was so much potential—so many ways she could be useful. And if there was one thing his father valued, it was Jun’s efficiency. He never wasted anything. He never left a trace.

The creak of the rusty door pulled him from his thoughts. Jun stood as three men entered, one carrying a figure slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice—unconscious, her limbs hanging limply.

"Money first, then we’ll hand her over," one of the men demanded, his voice gruff.

Jun’s gaze slid to his right, where Minghao stood with a quiet, composed demeanor. A silent nod from Minghao, and Jun gestured for the money to be handed over. One of the men seized the briefcase, snapping it open and greedily flipping through the crisp bills.

They set the girl down on a dusty chair, her head lolling forward, long dark hair cascading over her face. But as Jun stepped forward, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.

"Are you sure this is the right girl?" Jun’s voice was sharp, a sliver of suspicion threading through his usual calm.

"She's the only one there," one of the men replied, barely looking up. "Exactly where you told us."

Jun’s jaw tightened. The girl he had seen last night had shoulder-length hair. This one… He reached out, brushing a few strands aside—and his world seemed to freeze.

Familiar features stared back at him, pale and unconscious but unmistakable.

"Y/n…" he whispered, the name escaping him like a secret he had tried to bury.

Ji Y/n. His ex-girlfriend. The woman who had vanished from his life six years ago.

"What’s wrong, boss?" Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, but Jun barely heard it.

His chest tightened, a storm of emotions crashing against his resolve—shock, confusion, and something he didn’t dare name.

He forced a steady breath, eyes never leaving your face. "We’re going to stay here longer than expected," he murmured, his voice betraying none of the chaos inside.

The drive back to his hotel was tense and silent, the hum of the city outside muted by the weight of his thoughts. In the back seat, you lay slumped against the leather, still unconscious, your chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm—a reminder that this was real. That you were real.

Once inside his suite, Jun dismissed his men, locking the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring at your figure on the king-sized bed, trying to process the chaos in his mind.

Six years. Six years of unanswered questions, of searching without knowing he was searching. And now, you were here. But why? How?

Stepping closer, he leaned over you, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The softness of your skin was the same, the gentle curve of your lips unchanged. Memories threatened to overwhelm him—the laughter you shared, the nights tangled in each other’s warmth, and the sudden, aching emptiness when you disappeared.

His jaw clenched. He needed answers, but he wouldn’t get any while you were unconscious.

He turned away, forcing himself to think logically. First, he needed to make sure you were unharmed. Jun grabbed a damp towel, gently wiping away the faint traces of dirt on your cheek. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse calm beneath his fingertips.

But who were you now? What had brought you to this dangerous world? Are you the daughter of Ji Jaekyung?

Jun leaned back against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. For now, he would wait. Because the moment you opened your eyes, he would demand every answer you owed him.

Morning light filtered through the hotel’s thick curtains when you finally stirred, your head pounding, ears ringing. A dull ache spread through your body as consciousness returned in fragments. Flashes of memory hit you—the door of your apartment bursting open, three towering men storming in. You thought it was Jena, your friend, coming by. But then rough hands grabbed you, muffled your screams, and darkness swallowed you.

A familiar voice pulled you from the fog of confusion.

"Awake already?"

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright room. Clean sheets, a spacious layout—luxury everywhere. Panic tightened in your chest until your gaze landed on the figure leaning casually against the wall.

"Moon Junhui…" you whispered, disbelief lacing your voice.

A faint smile played on his lips. "So you do remember me."

You pushed yourself up on the bed, the silk sheets slipping from your shoulders. "Where am I? What is this—"

"A hotel room. My hotel room." He stepped closer, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, an unsettling calm in his eyes. "Relax. You’re not going anywhere… yet."

Silence thickened between you, tension simmering beneath the surface.

"What is Ji Jaekyung to you?" Jun’s question cut through the air.

You frowned, your heart pounding faster. "What’s wrong with him?"

"So, he’s not your father?"

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. "He… he is my father."

Jun’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity in his eyes. "You don’t sound so sure. Your father passed away when you were sixteen, Y/n. So tell me… which one is a lie?"

Your breath hitched, the truth clawing at your throat. Six years of running, hiding, trying to forget. And now you were trapped—trapped in a room with the one person you never thought you’d see again. The one you once loved… and you tried to hate.

He moved toward you, and you instinctively scooted back, your back pressing against the headboard. But before you could retreat further, his hand caught your wrist—not harshly, but firmly.

"Relax," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your arm, where a faint blueish mark had begun to form.

Jun’s eyes darkened. "Why would you defend yourself against men twice your size?" His thumb traced the bruise lightly, his touch almost gentle despite the situation.

You didn’t answer, your throat tight, a mix of fear and stubborn pride keeping you silent.

Jun sighed, pulling out his phone and calling for room service, his tone cold and commanding. "Bring a first aid kit. Now."

But as he ended the call, his gaze lingered on you—intense, unreadable. Memories you tried to forget flooded back—his touch, his voice, the warmth you once craved. And you hated how, even after six years, he still held something in your chest—an ache you couldn’t ignore.

"Now, you’re going to tell me—who is Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter?" Jun’s voice cut through the quiet of the room, sharp but calm as he watched you finish your breakfast.

He had tended to your bruises himself, his touch surprisingly gentle, ordering room service to bring you a warm meal. He hadn’t said much, letting you eat in silence while he took a shower. But now, standing before you in his neatly tailored suit, his patience was gone.

"I’m his daughter," you replied, your voice steady.

Jun chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "I dated you, Y/n. I knew your family. Ordinary people. They weren’t part of any political circle, let alone connected to Ji Jaekyung."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "I told you, I’m Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. If you have anything to do with him, then do it to me."

Jun’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes—something like frustration or disbelief. He said nothing more, simply adjusted his suit jacket and stepped away. Moments later, you heard the door click shut behind him.

Silence settled around you. He was gone, leaving you alone in the spacious, luxurious room. A chance. Maybe your only chance.

Just as you stood, a voice cut through your thoughts.

"I’m Minghao, Mr. Wen’s right-hand man."

You froze, turning to see a young man leaning casually by the door. He had a calm, almost disinterested expression, but his gaze was sharp.

You sighed, leaning back against the plush chair. "You mean Moon Junhui?" you corrected, using Jun’s Korean name.

Minghao’s lips twitched slightly, a hint of a smile. "Yes. He went out for a business meeting and left you with me. You’re not allowed to leave without my supervision."

Your hands clenched in your lap, a mix of frustration and resignation washing over you. That man—he hadn’t changed at all. Still controlling, still calculating.

And yet, even now, your chest tightened with a confusing ache—anger, fear, and something else you refused to name.

Jun returned to the hotel room as the evening sun cast a warm, fading light through the curtains. His suit jacket was the first to go, discarded over a chair, his gaze immediately falling on you, curled up on the bed, still asleep.

"Did she say anything about Jaekyung?" Jun asked, loosening his tie.

Minghao, who stood by the window, shook his head. "No, sir. She insists she’s his daughter."

Jun’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I believe even his real daughter would rather disown him," he muttered, waving Minghao off. "You can leave for tonight. I’ll be going alone."

Minghao nodded, slipping out quietly.

Jun walked over to the bed, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at you. A moment of quiet hesitation. Then he leaned down, gently touching your shoulder. "Wake up. I’ll drive you back to your apartment."

You stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. His words barely registered, but you nodded, getting up slowly. In the car, the silence stretched between you two, thick and tense. Jun’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable.

At your apartment, you fumbled for your keys, and Jun followed you inside without asking, his eyes scanning your modest living space.

"Who's this? Your boyfriend?" Jun asked, picking up a framed photo of you with a younger man, both of you smiling brightly.

"So you like them younger now?" he teased, a hint of something bitter in his voice.

"Not your business, Jun," you muttered, already searching for your phone, checking if you missed any important messages.

A sudden knock at the door cut through the tension. "Y/n, are you ready? We need to be there before the Prime Minister," a man’s voice called out.

Panic surged through you. You spun around, grabbed Jun by the wrist, and dragged him into the kitchen. "Stay here. Don’t make a sound."

You rushed back, smoothing your clothes, and unlocked the door with a bright, apologetic smile. "Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll be ready in 15 minutes."

"Got it. Don’t take too long," the man replied, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You turned to find Jun leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You need to go, Jun."

"Going somewhere with the Prime Minister, are we?" he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "So tell me, are you his daughter or his mistress, Ji Y/n?"

Your patience snapped. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his eyes searching yours. The heat of his presence was too familiar, too close.

"Let go," you hissed.

"Make me," he challenged, his voice low.

In a swift motion, you stomped on his foot, and he grunted, instinctively letting you go. You didn’t spare him another glance, marching off to your bedroom to get ready.

Behind you, Jun leaned against the wall, rubbing his foot with a mix of pain and reluctant admiration. "Still got some fight in you, huh?" he muttered under his breath, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

Jun watched you all night, his car parked discreetly across the street. He saw everything—from the moment you stepped out of the sleek black car, escorted into a high-end restaurant, to the late hours when an older man led you into a lavish hotel lobby.

His jaw tightened, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His chest twisted with a mix of rage and disgust. He had pieced it together, or at least he thought he had. Ji Jaekyung was using you, presenting you as his daughter to entertain his clients—perhaps even worse. The thought sickened him.

By the time dawn brushed the city with pale light, Jun was already waiting in your apartment, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his calm exterior. The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your makeup smudged, hair disheveled, exhaustion written all over your face.

"Tell me," Jun's voice cut through the quiet, cold and sharp. "What is that bastard making you do?"

You froze, surprise flashing across your features before you frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Ji Jaekyung," he spat the name like a curse. "What is he making you do? Is he forcing you to entertain his clients? To sleep with them too?"

Your expression twisted with shock, then fury. "Fuck you, Jun. It’s none of your business!"

"None of my—" He stepped forward, his towering presence making the small space feel even tighter. "It becomes my business when I see you being treated like—"

"Like what?" you snapped, your voice rising, tears stinging your eyes. "Like a tool? A pawn? How the hell did you even here?"

"Don’t twist this, Y/n! I’m trying to help you, but you’re too stubborn, too damn prideful to admit you need it!" His voice escalated, fingers twitching with the urge to shake you awake.

"By accusing me of being a whore? By making me feel even smaller than I already do?" You tried to push past him, but he blocked your way, his glare unwavering.

"I’m not letting you walk away from this. Tell me the truth!" he demanded, his voice like a thunderclap.

"Get out of my way, Jun!" You shoved him, but he didn’t budge. His anger, his judgmental gaze—everything overwhelmed you.

"I won’t! Not until you—"

The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek silenced him. The room fell still, the sound of the slap echoing. Your chest heaved, tears spilling freely now.

"I’m tired, Jun. I’m so damn tired," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need you."

After leaving South Korea six years ago, Jun had learned how to mask himself. He buried the version of himself that only Seoul had known—the carefree, warm-hearted boy who once believed in love. In his father’s world, there was no room for softness. He trained relentlessly, sculpting himself into a weapon, a businessman, a strategist. He drowned himself in work, in power, in everything that would keep his mind too busy to think about you.

But tonight, as he watched you being paraded like a mistress—escorted by a man old enough to be your father, vanishing into the shadowed halls of a luxury hotel—every wall he built crumbled. All the effort to forget you was worthless. Because seeing you like that didn’t just hurt—it enraged him. You were his lover, and you were never meant to be anything else.

The phone in his hand felt like a lifeline, his father’s voice crackling on the other end. "It’s taking longer than expected to find his daughter," Jun reported, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I’ve managed a few business matters here well," his father replied, almost dismissive. "Honestly, it would be easier to end him than to keep searching for his daughter. The man’s a coward—paying someone to pretend to be his child."

"I know. Ji Jaekyung is a damn snake," Jun muttered, jaw clenched. But now, a new resolve burned in his chest. He wasn’t just going to finish his father’s mission—he was going to save you, even if you didn’t want to be saved.

"Listen to me, Y/n," Jun's voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. He turned to face you, his expression a fierce mix of anger and desperation, while you stood there with tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Jaekyung has a lot of debt with my family in China. He promised his daughter as collateral for the deal, and he broke that promise. If you keep pretending to be his daughter, you’re walking straight into danger. Real, unforgiving danger."

His words struck like a whip, each one leaving a mark, but before you could even process them, Jun stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous bang. The sound echoed in your chest, leaving you alone in a silence that felt louder than anything else.

Your mother was murdered the night you left Jun.

The call came from the police, their voices cautious and clinical. They informed you that your mother had been found dead in her apartment. They tried reaching your brother, Seungkwan, but you knew they wouldn’t succeed—it was nearing the KSAT, and Seungkwan usually buried himself in his studies outside.

The first piece of evidence they found was a security camera recording of a stranger leaving your mother’s place in the dead of night. A dragon tattoo was visible on his arm—a dragon you recognized. The same ink Jun bore on his back.

"It's from a Chinese crime syndicate," the officer explained, his voice tinged with grim seriousness. "We suspect your mother may have been involved with them."

But you knew better. Your mother was no involved to the syndicate. And you couldn’t let Seungkwan know. He had worked so hard, pushing himself to become a police officer so he could catch the person who killed your father. Another tragedy would shatter him.

It all spiraled into a tangled mess. Your parents had once worked for Ji Jaekyung, and both were killed by people with that dragon tattoo. Now Jun, with the same tattoo, had shown up—searching for Jaekyung’s daughter.

One night, a man in a sleek suit appeared at your door 6 years ago. His expression was as sharp as his attire.

"Ji Jaekyung wants to meet you."

Seungkwan was asleep, exhausted from his studies, so you left quietly.

The proposal was straightforward: become Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Smile, play the role, and he would pay you enough to support Seungkwan’s dream of entering the police academy. No further explanations, just one threat:

"Or else, we’ll have to do something about your brother."

That was the leash around your neck.

From that moment, you were a hostage in a game far beyond your control. You learned about Long Wei, the syndicate Jaekyung was tangled with—the same syndicate responsible for your parents' deaths. You thought you could uncover the truth by diving into this chaos, but instead, you were trapped deeper.

You hated all of it—the politics, the business, the way innocence was trampled for power. But you had no voice, no power. Just a thin, fragile line of survival with a bullet always aimed at your head.

"I brought chicken!" Seungkwan's delighted voice filled your apartment, a burst of warmth you didn’t realize you needed. You looked up from your laptop, seeing him still in his uniform, clearly fresh from his shift.

"You didn’t even change," you noted, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

"Figured I had some clothes here anyway," he quipped, already darting into your room. "Don’t start without me!"

Moments later, he emerged in a faded pajama set he had once left behind, immediately joining you at the small dining table where you’d set out the chicken and a few cold beers.

"My shift was a nightmare," Seungkwan grumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "Two separate thefts in one shift! Why do criminals love my schedule? Seriously, is it me?" He gestured dramatically, his expression an exaggerated mix of exhaustion and outrage.

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension you’d been carrying. "Maybe they just love giving you a challenge."

"Chicken is the best stress relief," he declared, tossing another piece into his mouth.

But your laughter faded when your phone buzzed, and you saw the caller ID—Ji Jaekyung’s assistant. A sense of dread settled in your stomach. The man wanted you at a meeting with clients tomorrow. Seungkwan’s eyes darkened as he recognized the name.

"I’m annoyed," he muttered, throwing his fork into the chicken box, his mood dampened.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your hand reaching for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We have to get through this."

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened. "If only our parents hadn’t worked for that bastard, we wouldn’t be stuck in this mess—especially you."

A thick silence settled between you, rage and sadness lingering like an uninvited guest at your table.

"I promise, I swear," Seungkwan’s voice trembled, his grip on your hand tightening. "I’ll catch everyone who made our lives this hard. I won’t let them win."

"You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. Ji."

The familiar man across from you smiled, his words smooth but laced with something darker. So, this was how people like him played their games—one meeting with Ji Jaekyung, a pleasant exchange of words, deals sealed over expensive wine. And in the end, it was always the innocent who paid the price.

Just like your parents.

Would you be next?

Jun tilted his head, watching you squirm in your seat, your gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath you. Beside you, Ji Jaekyung wore a pleasant smile, sipping his wine with the ease of a man who controlled the room.

"Your visit was rather surprising, Jun. I was expecting one of your uncles, actually. I can't believe they sent the serpent himself," Ji Jaekyung mused, swirling his glass.

Jun chuckled, his voice light, but his eyes sharp. "I apologize if my visit seems a bit impolite. I was just playing around in the city—feeling nostalgic."

Jaekyung nodded, a smile never leaving his face. "Ah, nostalgia. I heard you graduated here. My daughter is an alumna of the same university."

Jun’s gaze shifted to you. "Is that so?" he murmured, leaning back with an air of casual interest. "You're very secretive about her for someone so beautiful."

Ji Jaekyung’s hand moved to your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear with a touch that felt cold rather than comforting. "She is beautiful. I simply want to protect her. You know how it is—enemies can be unpredictable."

"That's very fatherly of you," Jun said, his smile unwavering. "Do you consider me an enemy?"

Ji Jaekyung laughed, the sound loud and full, yet hollow. "Of course not. You're practically family. I know your grandfather, your father, your uncles... No, you could never be an enemy."

Jun’s smile widened, though his eyes never softened. "Since we’re practically family, may I take your daughter with me tonight? I find myself feeling a bit lonely here in Seoul."

Your eyes widened, a jolt of shock running through you. He had trapped you with a simple question—one that Ji Jaekyung couldn’t refuse without appearing rude, and one you couldn’t reject without risking angering either man.

"Of course, of course," Jaekyung agreed with a chuckle. "I’m sure my Y/n doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, right?" His gaze shifted to you, a smile masking a warning.

The weight of your fate pressed against you like a stone. You were nothing more than a pawn in their game, your life a currency exchanged with a polite smile. And maybe that was all you were meant to be—something to be used, polished, and displayed, but never truly free.

Jun drove in silence, the city lights spilling over the windshield, their glow a pale wash against the dark leather interior. The gentle hum of the engine filled the void between you, but it did nothing to calm the storm in your chest. Every breath felt sharp, every heartbeat a painful reminder of how your world kept spiraling out of control.

Your gaze remained fixed outside, the blurred neon signs and bustling sidewalks passing like ghosts. But your mind wasn’t in the present. It was wandering, lost in the echoes of a time you had tried so hard to forget.

Six years ago, you were different—bright-eyed and hopeful, your world centered around love and simple dreams. Jun was a part of that world, his laughter a melody you cherished, his touch a promise of comfort. But then everything shattered. Your mother was murdered. Your father’s name was stained with secrets and blood. Seungkwan was left clinging to his dreams of justice while you were forced to live as someone you weren’t.

Was it all a lie? Was Jun just another player in this twisted game? Even then, when he held your hand, whispered sweet promises—was he already playing a role? Was everything a calculated move, leaving you to fend for yourself in this nightmare?

The ache in your chest grew unbearable. You wanted to scream, to demand answers. But part of you was terrified—terrified of hearing the truth, of confirming that the one person you once loved was just another betrayal.

The car eventually slowed, pulling into the familiar driveway of the grand hotel where Jun was staying. He stopped in front of the entrance, but neither of you moved. He let out a quiet sigh, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, knuckles white. You had nothing to say to him. Nothing that wouldn’t break you further.

After a long moment, Jun stepped out, moving around to open your door. Ever the gentleman, even when his actions felt like cruel mockery. You stepped out, your legs feeling like lead, and followed him into the grand, silent lobby. The warm, golden light of the chandeliers felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness pooling in your chest.

The elevator doors closed around you, trapping you in the suffocating silence. You stood beside him, his reflection in the mirrored walls a ghost haunting your thoughts.

When the elevator chimed, you stepped out without waiting for him. But he followed, his footsteps quiet but ever-present. He opened the door to his suite, and you walked in, each step feeling heavier than the last. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and polished wood washed over you.

Your hands moved mechanically, a reflex born from nights of forced smiles and silenced pride. Your fingers reached for the zipper of your dress, pulling it down, the fabric slipping off your shoulders. Cold air touched your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb, lost in the hollow routine you had perfected—a doll performing its part, a daughter sold for survival.

But just as you began to let the dress fall, a strong, calloused hand caught your wrist.

“Stop.” Jun’s voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. His grip tightened, his touch burning against your skin.

You looked up, your hollow eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was clenched, a faint tremor in his grip. Anger radiated from him, his dark eyes stormy, but beneath the fury, something else lingered—hurt, desperation.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low but shaking with barely contained rage.

“What do you think?” Your voice was empty, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Isn’t this what you wanted? What he wanted?”

“I never—” His voice broke for a second, but he quickly composed himself. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t you dare think I’m like them.”

“Then why did you take me?” Your voice rose, trembling, your chest heaving with a rush of anger you didn’t even know you had left. “Why, Jun? Is this your revenge? Is this how you prove your power over me?”

“Revenge?” He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is revenge? Watching you—watching you reduce yourself to this?” He released your wrist, but the heat of his touch lingered, burning against your cold skin. “This isn’t you, Y/n. This was never you.”

“Then who am I, Jun?” you shot back, your voice cracking. “A liar? A puppet? A pawn in your sick game?”

“No.” He took a step closer, his anger palpable, but there was something else—pain, raw and unhidden. “You’re the woman I—” He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, Y/n. You’re not some doll for them to play with. Not for him. Not for me.”

“Then what am I?” Your tears broke free, hot against your cheeks, your voice desperate. “Because this is all I know now, Jun. This is all I’ve become.”

A thick silence fell between you, your breaths heavy, your tears blurring your vision. His fists were clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if fighting to keep his own emotions in check.

You stood there, trembling, your arms wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Jun’s presence was overwhelming—tall, intense, his dark eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and anger. But you couldn’t stop. The dam had broken, and the words poured out like a torrent you couldn’t control.

“My father… he was killed. By people with those dragon tattoosn. And I thought it was just a coincidence, I thought… I thought I could escape. But I couldn’t.” Your voice wavered, your breathing coming in short, frantic gasps. “I met you, and for once, I thought I could be happy. But then… my mother—my mother was murdered too. They said it was the same people. The same syndicate. Your people.”

Jun’s eyes widened, his brows knitting together. He tried to reach out, but you stepped back, your voice rising.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, the tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare touch me, Jun. I was a fool. I thought I could protect Seungkwan, that I could find a way out. But I ended up becoming Ji Jaekyung’s puppet. I became his fake daughter, a plaything for his clients, all because I had no choice. And now you—” Your voice broke, a sob escaping your lips. “Were you part of it, Jun? Were you always part of it? Did you know everything?”

“Y/n, stop—” he began, but you cut him off.

“Stop what? Lying to myself? Pretending that you’re different from them?” You laughed bitterly, your knees giving out as you sank onto the cold floor. “I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t even know who I am. I’m just a pawn in their game—a doll they pass around. And you… you might be just another player.”

Jun moved towards you, but you curled into yourself, hiding your face in your shaking hands.

“Did you use me, Jun? Did you ever care? Or was this all a game to you? A way to keep me under control? To keep me as a bargaining chip?” Your voice was hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Because that’s what I’ve become—someone they use, someone you might have used too.”

“Y/n, no,” Jun’s voice was rough, desperate. He knelt before you, reaching out but hesitating, his hands hovering in the air. “I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Then why?” you looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes pleading. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to protect me?”

“I’m not pretending.” He leaned forward, his own voice breaking. “I never used you. I never lied to you. I… I didn’t know about your parents. About your mother. I swear, Y/n.”

Your vision blurred, your breathing ragged. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe those desperate, pained eyes looking back at you. But the darkness around you was suffocating, and trust was a luxury you no longer had.

“Then what are you, Jun?” you whispered. “A savior? Or just another monster wearing a kind face?”

His hands finally found yours, his touch warm, but you couldn’t feel it. You were drowning, trapped in a whirlpool of doubt, fear, and grief.

“I’m someone who won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Jun’s arms held you tighter, his embrace warm but desperate, like a man trying to keep you from slipping away. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing against your hair as he whispered, “Y/n, listen to me. I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt your family. I didn’t know you were trapped like this.”

His voice trembled, yet there was a firm resolve beneath the fear. “I swear, I’m not a part of Jaekyung’s schemes. I came here to deal with him, to bring him down for everything he’s done—not just to you, but to everyone he’s destroyed.”

You leaned back slightly, your tear-streaked eyes meeting his, searching desperately for any hint of deception. Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Are you telling me the truth? You’re not lying to me again?”

“I’m not lying. Not now, not ever again.” Jun’s gaze never wavered, his thumb gently brushing away your tears.

Your fingers tightened on his shirt, fear and desperation clawing at your chest. “Then save me, Jun. Please. I can’t do this anymore."

Jun’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears, his touch so gentle that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—regret, longing, and something deeper, something that had never truly left even after all these years.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss, nor a cautious one—it was a kiss of desperation and yearning, of a man who had lost you once and was terrified of losing you again. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent warmth flooding through your chest, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as though he was the only solid thing in your crumbling world. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you against him, and you felt the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, matching the wild rhythm of your own.

Jun’s kiss softened, the fierce urgency giving way to something deeper, something that spoke of all the years of regret, the nights spent wondering if he should have come back sooner. His lips trailed over yours, slow and tender, as though memorizing the shape of your mouth, whispering promises with every touch.

Your hands slipped up to his shoulders, and you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch. But he didn’t pull away; if anything, he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair, his forehead resting against yours as his lips moved softly, lovingly against yours.

“I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, the words a quiet confession. “I never stopped thinking about you, never stopped loving you.”

A soft, broken sound escaped your throat, and your fingers tightened on his shirt. “Don’t leave me, Jun. Please… promise me, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, and you could hear the promise in his voice, the desperate need to be the man you could trust again. “I swear, I won’t.”

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring each second, each gentle press, his hands cradling you with a care that made your heart ache. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, a silent vow that you weren’t alone anymore, that he would stand with you, fight for you.

And for the first time in years, in his arms, you felt safe.

Jun's sleek, black car sliced through the bustling city streets, the quiet hum of the engine a sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air. Minghao sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed ahead, but his voice clear and steady.

“Her parents worked for Ji Jaekyung for a long time,” Minghao began, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “Her father, Ji Ho-seok, was a lawyer—he worked for us. Her mother was a housewife, quiet but smart.”

Jun leaned back against his seat, his jaw clenched as Minghao laid out the twisted history. The dim overhead light cast sharp shadows over his face, making the anger in his eyes even more pronounced.

“So, Ji Ho-seok wasn’t just a victim of his own honesty,” Jun muttered, his voice low and edged with rage. “He was framed. Jaekyung made him a scapegoat, painting him as a traitor to Longwei so they would take him out.”

Minghao nodded, his expression grave. “That’s right. Jaekyung manipulated the narrative. Ho-seok’s death wasn’t just an accident. It was a calculated move. He convinced Longwei that Ho-seok was a threat, a liability who might expose their business dealings in Seoul.”

“And then he didn’t stop there,” Jun continued, his fists tightening. “Six years ago, he found out about Y/n. He used her—forced her into this fake daughter role to exploit his connections. And when her mother tried to protect her…”

“Jaekyung had her killed. Made it look like another syndicate move, but it was all part of his plan,” Minghao finished. “He knows that Y/n’s survival means his control over her. The moment she tries to escape, he can turn everything against her.”

Jun’s chest heaved with barely contained fury. The woman he loved had been caught in this twisted game for years—used, threatened, and forced to play a role that trapped her.

Jun strode into the safe house with Minghao and a group of guards trailing behind him. The cold, metallic hum of the place seemed to amplify the shock on the faces of the Longwei members stationed in Seoul. Their whispers died down immediately, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence. It wasn’t every day that their young boss appeared without warning—especially not with that fierce, unyielding glare in his eyes.

“Everyone, listen up.” Jun’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and authoritative. “I want this man found by tonight.”

Minghao stepped forward, holding up a clear, high-resolution image of a man—his features hardened with age, but the distinct dragon tattoo on his forearm was unmistakable. The room seemed to shift, the guards exchanging uneasy glances.

“This man killed Ji Ho-seok fifteen years ago,” Minghao announced, his voice steady but intense. “He was one of us—Longwei. But he betrayed that honor the moment he became a pawn in Ji Jaekyung’s game.”

Jun’s gaze swept over the room, his jaw clenched. “I want him alive. No excuses. No mistakes. If he tries to run, you make sure he regrets it.”

The men nodded, already pulling out their phones, making calls, and exchanging brief, whispered instructions. They knew better than to disappoint Jun—especially when his voice carried a darkness they rarely heard.

Jun stepped quietly into the hotel room, the soft click of the door almost drowned out by the city’s distant hum. His eyes immediately found you—sitting by the window, wrapped in one of the plush white robes, your knees drawn to your chest. Pale morning light filtered through the glass, painting you in a soft, ethereal glow, but your expression was distant, lost somewhere beyond the bustling streets below.

“You’re back.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight he couldn’t ignore.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone.” Jun closed the door gently behind him, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. His gaze never left you, taking in the way your fingers absentmindedly traced invisible patterns on your knee.

Silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t the comforting quiet you used to share. It was heavy—thick with questions, with fears, with everything left unsaid.

“I thought about everything… about how this started. How one decision ruined everything,” you murmured, your voice cracking just slightly. “I feel like I’m drowning, Jun… I don't even know if there’s a way out.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside you. His warm hand reached for yours, covering your cold fingers. “There is. I swear there is. And I’ll make sure you’re free from all of this.”

You looked down at him, searching his eyes, desperate for even a flicker of certainty. “You promise?”

“I do.” His voice was steady, his grip firm, grounding you. “I’ve already started. Minghao is tracking the man who killed your father. We’ll get answers. And I won’t let Jaekyung touch you again.”

Your eyes stung, a tear slipping free despite your best effort. “It’s just… I keep thinking you’re going to disappear too. Like I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone… just like everything else.”

Jun’s hand moved, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/n. Not now. Not ever.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”

You met Seungkwan at a quiet, tucked-away cafe far from the city center. He was already there when you arrived, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair, his face pinched with worry. The moment you sat down, his sharp gaze settled on you.

"You look tired," he noted, his tone softening just slightly. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

You offered a weak smile. "Sleep has become a luxury I can't afford."

Silence hung between you as you stirred your coffee, the warmth seeping into your fingertips. Finally, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Seungkwan, I need to tell you something."

His expression tightened, and he leaned in, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"It's about Jun. He... he’s here. And he promised to help me. To help us escape from Ji Jaekyung," you whispered, watching his reaction closely.

Seungkwan's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Jun? Your ex, Jun? He's with Longwei. He's part of the syndicate. The same people who ruined our family."

"I know," you admitted, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I know what he is. But he promised me, Seungkwan. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s trying to help."

Seungkwan leaned back, crossing his arms, his disbelief painfully clear. "Help? A man from the same group that killed our parents? That controlled Jaekyung? How can you even believe him?"

"Because he’s different!" Your voice broke, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. You forced yourself to lower your tone, tears burning in your eyes. "Because I have no one else to turn to. Because I’m so tired, Seungkwan. I’m tired of being Jaekyung’s pawn. I’m tired of living in fear, of pretending, of wondering who will be next—us, our parents, everyone we love."

Seungkwan's expression softened, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders. "Sister…"

"He promised me, Seungkwan. He promised to protect me. I know how this sounds, but I trust him. Maybe I’m a fool, maybe I’m desperate, but I need you to believe in me. Just this once. Please, understand."

Seungkwan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "And what if you’re wrong? What if this is just another trap? What if he’s using you like everyone else?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice a bare whisper. "But I’d rather take a chance with Jun than keep living this nightmare. I can’t do it alone anymore."

Silence stretched between you two, only the faint clinking of cups and murmurs of the other patrons filling the air. Finally, Seungkwan leaned forward, his gaze soft but still cautious.

"Then let me help too. Don’t keep me in the dark. If you trust him, fine—but I’ll be watching. And if he betrays you, I won't hesitate."

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you, Seungkwan."

"I just want you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You stepped out of the cafe, the cool air brushing against your face, calming the lingering ache in your chest. The black sedan parked by the curb seemed almost out of place in this quiet neighborhood, but the tinted window rolled down as you approached, revealing Jun's familiar, composed face.

"How was the talk with him?" Jun asked, his voice steady but his gaze searching.

You slipped into the passenger seat, closing the door with a sigh. "He’s skeptical, but I told him everything. He’s worried, but… he’s willing to trust you. For now."

Jun's lips curved slightly, a trace of relief in his expression. "That’s a good start."

The car smoothly pulled away from the curb, and for a while, silence filled the space between you. But Jun’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles, a quiet comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

"Let’s take a break today," he suddenly suggested, glancing at you. "There’s a place I want to take you."

You blinked, a hint of surprise in your eyes. "Where?"

"You'll see."

The cityscape gave way to quieter streets, familiar corners, and warm nostalgia began to seep into your chest. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized where you were—your old university district.

The car stopped by a small, colorful alley with photo booth stations lining one side, neon lights flickering in the daylight. Memories rushed back, the laughter, the warmth, the days when everything was simpler.

"We had our first kiss there," Jun pointed to a particular photo booth, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You remember? You were so nervous, kept laughing to avoid looking at me."

Your lips curved, a small laugh escaping. "And you kept teasing me until I got so annoyed that I pulled you down and kissed you first."

"Best surprise of my life." He chuckled, a softness in his gaze that made your heart ache.

Jun led you down the alley, his hand still holding yours, and he insisted you both take a new set of photos. The first shot captured your shy smile, the second was Jun leaning close to kiss your cheek, and by the third, you were both laughing, caught in that familiar, carefree feeling.

As the photo strip printed, Jun pulled you aside to a small cafe next door, the same place you used to visit after classes. He ordered the same iced coffee you loved, and you shared a slice of cake by the window, the warm sunlight painting gentle patterns on the table.

"You know," he murmured, watching you take a bite. "I thought I lost this feeling... That simple happiness of being with you."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "I thought I lost you."

Jun leaned forward, resting his hand on yours. "You never did. And I won’t let you go this time."

Warmth spread in your chest, the weight of fear and doubts momentarily melting away. This was Jun—the Jun you loved, the one who made you feel alive. And for the first time in so long, you felt like you could breathe.

Jun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gently holding yours. The city’s noise faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic whoosh of waves as the beach came into view. The golden hue of the setting sun stretched across the sky, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface.

He parked near the empty shoreline, and together, you stepped out, letting the cool breeze brush against your face. Without a word, Jun pulled down the back bunk of his car, and you both settled on it, facing the endless sea. His jacket draped over your shoulders, enveloping you in warmth as his arms wrapped securely around you.

Silence fell comfortably between you, the soothing crash of waves filling the space. The sky melted into a fiery orange, then a soft purple, stars slowly emerging one by one. But as the darkness grew, so did the weight in your chest.

Finally, you leaned against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Jun’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, cutting through the quiet embrace of the evening. "Why did you leave me?"

Your breath hitched, eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the shore, a rhythmic reminder of how time never stopped, even when your world crumbled.

"I didn't leave, Jun... I was forced to disappear." Your voice trembled, the bitterness of the truth catching in your throat. "After my mother was killed, Ji Jaekyung came to me. He knew everything—who I was, who my family was, how vulnerable I was. He gave me a choice, or at least pretended to. Play his daughter, entertain his clients, and in return, he'd keep Seungkwan safe. But I knew it was never really a choice."

Jun's hold around you tightened, his jaw clenching against the side of your head. "And you couldn’t tell me? You couldn't come to me?"

A faint, sad smile curved your lips. "How could I? I didn’t even know if I could trust you back then. After I learned about your family’s connection. Everything became a blur, and I was scared. I didn’t know if you were part of it... if you were just another trap."

Silence stretched, heavy and cold. Jun’s fingers trembled slightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your temple. "I would’ve torn the world apart for you… if you had just told me."

"Would you?" You whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Or would you have seen me as a burden—a weakness in your world of power and secrets?"

Jun leaned back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes fierce, filled with a pain that mirrored your own. "You were never a burden. You were everything I wanted… everything I thought I couldn’t have. And I was an idiot to let you go."

Your hand reached for his, intertwining your fingers. "Then don’t let me go this time, Jun."

"I won’t," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead, a promise sealed in the warmth of his touch.

Jun's strong hands gently lifted you onto his lap, and once you settled, he cupped your cheek with tenderness, his thumb brushing your skin as if you were the most delicate porcelain. His other hand began a slow exploration, starting at your thigh and gliding with a featherlight touch beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers traced every curve and dip of your body as he leaned in closer, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

"You're mine, Y/n," he murmured against your mouth, the words a gentle command. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss with a fervent intensity. "Say you're mine," he urged, his fingers dancing up your thighs, lingering at the curve of your waist before tracing the outline of your stomach.

You gasped his name, a soft moan escaping as his fingers brushed against your most sensitive spot, teasing and exploring with deliberate slowness. His lips never left yours, devouring you with a passionate hunger as his fingers slipped inside, moving with a steady, rhythmic intent. Captivated by the sounds you made, each soft whimper and sigh, he began to undress you, the cool night air whispering over your bare skin.

Your fingers moved with urgency, unbuttoning the last remnants of clothing between you both until skin met skin. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the soft, worn cushions of the car's backseat. Spreading your legs, he positioned himself between them, his gaze locked on yours.

"Tell me each name that bothered you," he said, his voice a low promise. "I'll show them that touching you means messing with me."

With infinite care, he entered you, and the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth and tightness enfolded him, and in that moment, there was only the two of you, cocooned in each other's embrace, with the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance, an intimate symphony to your shared solitude.

Twelve men sat rigidly on the cold, metal chairs, fear starkly painted on their faces. Thick ropes wound around their torsos, binding them to the chairs, their wrists tied behind their backs, rendering them helpless. The dim light overhead cast a sickly glow, accentuating the sweat beading on their foreheads. The room smelled of damp concrete and something darker—panic.

Jun stepped into the room, Minghao trailing behind him with a steely gaze. Jun’s sharp eyes scanned each terrified face, lingering on the man he recognized—the one he saw that night, leading you through the hotel lobby. Rage simmered beneath his calm exterior, a silent storm brewing.

He remembered your voice, trembling but steady, each word a needle prick against his chest.

"What did they do to you?" he had asked, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving yours, desperate for the truth.

"Everything... They did... everything."

The quiet crackle of the burning charcoal snapped him back to the present. A thick metal rod, its tip glowing a fierce orange, sat on the smoldering heat, a twisted promise of pain.

"What should we do to them, boss?" Minghao's voice was steady, but there was a tension beneath his words, a coldness matching Jun’s simmering fury.

Jun's gaze never left the men, especially the one he recognized, whose face had turned ghostly pale.

"For whoever laid their hands on her," Jun’s voice was calm, almost emotionless—a chilling contrast to the violence in his words. "I want them to touch that." He pointed to the searing metal rod, the heat radiating from it like a promise of hell.

Minghao nodded, signaling to the men holding the rod. They stepped forward, the fiery glow reflecting in the captives’ wide, terror-stricken eyes. Some thrashed against their bindings, whimpering and begging, while others shut their eyes, murmuring desperate prayers.

Jun’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the screen flashing with a familiar name—Ji Jaekyung. He signaled Minghao to keep an eye on the captives before stepping away, his expression unreadable. With a swipe, he answered, his voice calm but guarded.

"Mr. Ji," Jun greeted, leaning against the cold wall.

"Jun, my boy!" Jaekyung's voice carried a forced warmth, laced with a hint of tension. "I haven’t seen my daughter since yesterday. She’s not answering her phone. I thought you two would be together. Care to tell me where she is?"

Jun’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "She needed some fresh air, Mr. Ji. I figured she'd enjoy some time away without all the... usual pressures."

Jaekyung chuckled, though the edge in his laughter was clear. "Fresh air? That's sweet of you, but you know how dangerous this city can be. Especially for a young woman like her."

"Don’t worry, she’s in good hands."

"Good hands, you say?" Jaekyung's tone turned sharper. "I hope you're not forgetting our arrangement, Jun. You understand how important my daughter is to me... and how unpleasant things can get if something happens to her."

Jun’s fingers curled tighter around his phone. "Rest assured, Mr. Ji. I always take good care of what's mine."

A brief silence stretched between them before Jaekyung's voice softened again, but the threat lingered beneath. "See that you do. I expect her back soon, Jun. Don’t disappoint me."

The call ended, and Jun lowered the phone, his gaze darkening. He looked back at the room where the captives were. His grip on the phone was so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Minghao," he called out, his voice cold.

Minghao approached immediately, reading the look in his boss’s eyes. "Jaekyung’s getting anxious?"

"He's getting suspicious." Jun’s voice was low, almost a growl. "Have someone follow him. I want to know every move he makes. If he sends anyone to look for her, I want to know before they even leave his doorstep."

Minghao nodded, already typing instructions to his men. "And the men here?"

Jun’s gaze returned to the captives. His voice was ice. "Continue. Make them talk. I want to know everything they did to her. And I want them to feel what it means to lay their hands on her."

With one last glance at the room, Jun stepped out, his mind racing. He needed to protect you, and to do that, he needed to stay two steps ahead of Ji Jaekyung.

Jun’s car sped through the city streets, neon lights casting fleeting colors across his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he dialed the secure line to his father. The call connected after a few rings, and a deep, authoritative voice echoed through.

"Jun?" His father's voice carried the weight of decades of power. "Is something wrong?"

"Father," Jun began, his voice steady but tense. "I need your permission to eliminate Ji Jaekyung."

A sharp silence filled the line, followed by a low, incredulous chuckle. "Holding his daughter isn't enough? Have you lost your mind, Jun?"

"No, Father. I've seen enough." Jun’s voice remained firm. "Ji Jaekyung has tainted the deal further than Longwei expected. He’s using our name, manipulating our men, and worst of all—he's exploiting innocent lives. He uses a false daughter to shield his business, dragging her into a world of filth."

His father’s silence deepened, the weight of his contemplation almost palpable through the phone. "Are you certain this isn't personal?"

"It is personal too," Jun admitted without hesitation. "But even without the personal part, his actions have become a liability. He hides behind our name, but he’s a snake, corrupting our reputation."

"Jun, killing an ally can bring consequences. The balance in Seoul will shift. His partners, his clients, they might turn against us. He just needs a warning."

"But if we keep him, he’ll turn them against us with his lies and deceit. I can handle the fallout. I will clean up every trace."

"Would you stake your position for this decision?" his father asked, his tone now sharp, testing.

Jun didn’t hesitate. "Yes. If you give me your approval, I will do everything. No one will ever trace it back to us."

A slow exhale echoed from the other side. "Very well, Jun. But remember, this is your choice. If you fail, it’s your head on the line, not just his."

"I won’t fail, Father."

The call ended. Jun's jaw clenched as he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but it was a weight he was willing to bear.

The car pulled up to the hotel, and Jun stepped out. His expression remained cold, but beneath that exterior was a storm of determination. He was going to protect you, no matter the cost.

The television screen in the hotel room flickered to life, its glow casting a pale light over the dimly lit space. You were curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the screen, trying to distract yourself from the whirlwind of emotions inside you. But then the program shifted, the tone turned urgent, and a news anchor appeared, her face a mix of shock and professionalism.

"Breaking News—South Korea's Prime Minister Ji Jaekyung has died in a tragic car accident earlier this evening. Authorities report that his vehicle lost control on a mountain road before crashing into a ravine. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but Ji Jaekyung was pronounced dead on arrival. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but preliminary reports suggest a possible brake failure. This sudden loss has sent shockwaves throughout the nation."

Your breath caught, and the remote slipped from your hand, clattering against the floor. A cold chill spread through you as your eyes widened. Ji Jaekyung… dead?

Your thoughts raced—was it truly an accident? Could it be connected to Jun? You remembered his words, his quiet but fierce promise to protect you. You covered your mouth, trying to suppress the mix of fear and relief flooding your chest.

The screen continued to show footage of the crash site—flashing lights, twisted metal, and officers cordoning off the area.

"The Prime Minister's office has yet to release an official statement. Reports indicate that Ji Jaekyung’s car was traveling alone, and there were no other passengers. The investigation is ongoing."

Your heart pounded against your ribs as the door clicked open. Jun stepped in, his sharp suit barely wrinkled, his expression unreadable as his eyes immediately found yours. He saw your pale face and glanced at the television.

"You did this," you whispered, a mixture of disbelief and shock in your voice.

Jun's face softened slightly, his steps careful as he approached you. "I told you I would protect you."

You stared at him, tears pooling in your eyes. "Did you… was it really an accident?"

"It was necessary," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "He can never hurt you again."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and your legs gave way, but Jun caught you, pulling you into his arms. His hold was firm, grounding you as your mind struggled to process everything.

"You… you killed him," you whispered against his chest.

"Yes," Jun murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And I'd do it again to keep you safe."

The weight of everything crashed down on you all at once—fear, anger, betrayal, and an overwhelming sense of relief. Your chest tightened, and a sob tore itself free from your throat.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of Jun’s suit, twisting it as your body trembled. A wretched, broken cry escaped your lips, raw and unrestrained. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his shoulder as you buried your face against him.

"I-I thought… I thought he'd never let me go," you choked out, the words barely coherent between your sobs. "I thought… I thought I’d lose everything—Seungkwan, you—"

Jun’s arms tightened around you, a steady, protective embrace. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to hush your cries. He simply held you, letting you release every ounce of fear and pain you had bottled up for so long. His hand moved gently, cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his voice steady, a calm in the storm of your emotions. "No one can hurt you. Not anymore."

Your sobs grew louder, uncontrollable. Years of suffering, of living under someone else’s shadow, of being used, manipulated, and threatened—all of it broke free. Your knees buckled, but Jun held you, sinking with you to the floor.

"I was so scared… so tired…" you cried, clinging to him. "I don’t want to be afraid anymore."

"And you won’t be," Jun murmured, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "I promised you, didn’t I? I will protect you… no matter what it takes."

You didn't know how long you cried—minutes, hours—it all blurred together. But through it all, Jun never let you go. He stayed, a silent, steady presence in the chaos of your breaking heart.

Life changed swiftly, almost ruthlessly. You followed Jun to Guangzhou, leaving behind the shadows of Seoul for the neon-lit city bustling with life. Jun was a name whispered with both fear and respect here, a man painted as the villain in countless stories. But to you, he was never a villain—he was your hero. The man who pulled you from the jaws of despair, who held you when you were broken, and who taught you how to survive.

Guangzhou was a different world. Jun's life was a world of negotiations done in half-lit rooms, whispers exchanged in crowded clubs, and loyalty measured in blood. You learned quickly that being Jun’s partner wasn’t just about standing by his side—it was about keeping up, about becoming strong enough to protect yourself and everything you held dear.

He introduced you to Minghao, who taught you self-defense. Hours spent in a private dojo, where you learned how to disarm a knife-wielding attacker, how to break a grip, how to move swiftly and strike precisely. Every bruise, every ache became a reminder of your growing strength.

Jun didn't just shelter you; he prepared you. Over sleek mahogany tables filled with maps and documents, you learned the art of strategy—how to anticipate moves, how to read people, how to negotiate. You became a quiet but sharp presence in his meetings, your observations valued, your voice heard.

"You’re not just my woman, Y/n," Jun whispered one night, his fingers tracing along your jaw as you lay in his arms. "You’re my partner. I need you to be strong. Strong enough to stand by me… and strong enough to protect yourself when I can’t."

And you became that.

Yet, being Jun's partner meant facing danger. You felt it the night a black sedan rammed your car, your body jolted against the seatbelt as your driver struggled to regain control. You heard it in the sharp, cracking sound of gunfire in a dim alley one evening, Jun’s arm pulling you against the wall, his body shielding yours.

You saw it in the cold glint of a knife pressed against your throat when you were kidnapped by a rival syndicate. You remembered the terror, the way your voice didn’t shake as you spoke to the man holding you, buying just enough time until Jun stormed in, his men dismantling the enemy with calculated precision.

But Jun, like he promised, was always there. When you were dragged out of the car wreck, he was the first face you saw, his voice soothing you even as blood ran down his cheek. When you were taken, he didn't sleep until you were back in his arms.

Your life was a dance on the edge of a blade, a world where chaos and calm intertwined. But in every shadow, Jun was your light. In every storm, he was your shelter. He was a villain in the stories of others, but to you, he was a savior.

Amidst all this, a call came from Seoul—Seungkwan’s voice on the other end, trembling but determined.

“I did it, Y/n,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I found him. I found the man who killed our parents.”

Your heart raced, the room around you fading into silence. “Seungkwan… where is he?”

“I have him in custody. He’s confessed. Ji Jaekyung set it all up—made him do it, made him kill them to cover his tracks.”

A cold rage settled in your chest, but also a twisted sense of relief. The ghosts of your parents had haunted you for so long, their deaths an open wound that never healed. Now, that wound had a face. A face that could finally be punished.

“Y/n?” Seungkwan’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but a small, determined smile touched your lips. “I’m okay, Seungkwan. Because you did it. You brought justice to them.”

Jun noticed your tears as he entered the room, his gaze softening as he knelt before you. “What’s wrong?”

You met his eyes, your hand reaching out to grasp his. “Seungkwan found him… the man who killed my parents.”

Jun’s jaw tightened, his fingers threading through yours, offering his silent, unwavering support. “Then we’re one step closer, Y/n. To finally ending this nightmare.”

Or maybe, one more nightmare.

The grand hall of Long Wei's headquarters was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over a sea of influential faces. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air, but a sharp tension cut through the room as a man grabbed you, a knife pressed against your neck. Gasps rippled through the crowd, fear seizing those who watched. The man’s voice trembled as he shouted threats, his grip on you shaky, his eyes wild.

“Everyone back! I swear I’ll—”

But his voice faltered when he noticed the subtle change in the air—an eerie calm, an odd sense of confidence. You stood perfectly still, your breathing steady, your gaze unwavering. The knife against your skin was a cold whisper, but fear didn’t cloud your eyes. Instead, there was something else—annoyance.

Jun stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the marble pillar, a glass of wine still in his hand. His head was tilted slightly, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout. He simply watched, his eyes locked on you.

And you knew what that meant—his trust in you was absolute. Even though he was nervous, considering you were eight months pregnant, his confidence in your abilities never wavered.

The man’s grip tightened, his voice shaking. “I said move back, or she’s—”

Before he could finish, you moved. Your heel slammed down on his foot, hard enough that he cried out, his grip loosening just enough. Your hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, twisting it sharply until the knife clattered to the floor. His free arm reached for you, but you drove your elbow into his ribs with a force that made him gasp.

The room watched, frozen, as your fist collided with his jaw in a clean, precise strike, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Chaos erupted around you. Long Wei’s guards surged forward, tackling the man to the floor, rough hands ensuring he wouldn’t rise again. But you hardly noticed. Jun was already at your side, his arms wrapping protectively around you, pulling you close. His hand instinctively rested against the gentle curve of your stomach, feeling the faint movement within.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby,” he whispered, his voice half-scolding, half-loving, his lips brushing your temple.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand resting over his. “I didn’t even break a sweat.”

Jun chuckled, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “If you weren’t eight months pregnant, I’d be proud. But right now, I’m just trying not to have a heart attack.”

Behind you, the party guests were beginning to murmur, the tension slowly dissipating. Long Wei’s men dragged the failed attacker away, and whispers of admiration and shock spread through the crowd. Even Jun’s father, who had been watching from the balcony, gave an approving nod.

“Come on,” Jun murmured, steering you gently toward a quieter corner. “Let’s sit you down. You’ve done enough for tonight, hero.”

You chuckled, letting him guide you, your fingers lacing with his. “Maybe next time, they’ll think twice before trying to mess with Long Wei’s family.”

Jun’s expression softened as he looked down at you, his hand never leaving your stomach. “They better. Because I can’t lose either of you.”

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zhelin-thames · 5 months ago

Text

Untouchable Chaos: The Jason Todd Chronicles

prompt idea

@silverblueglitter

It was a regular day in the Batcave, which, for anyone who knew Gotham’s most infamous family, meant utter chaos was just a second away. Bruce sat at the large table, sipping his coffee like a man in desperate need of peace. He'd already survived more than enough crises today — a string of robberies, some new crime syndicate in town, and, of course, Jason's latest antics. But as the latest drama unfolded, Bruce couldn't help but wonder if today was the day he’d finally snap.

"We need to talk," Bruce said, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Jason, who was currently spinning around in a chair like an over-caffeinated toddler, stopped his antics and flashed a grin that could only be described as mischievous. "Why? What do you mean?" he asked, playing innocent. If it were anyone else, they’d have seen through the act, but after years of dealing with Jason, everyone knew better than to fall for that.

Damian stood up from the table, slamming his palms down with the intensity of a kid who had just lost his favorite toy. "That! That is what we are concerned about! Your crimes must be answered to!"

Jason tilted his head, blinking exaggeratedly as though he was the picture of innocence. "Crimes?" he asked, fluttering his eyelashes. "What crimes? I’ve done no such thing."

Dick, who had long since abandoned the idea of maintaining his cool around Jason, leaned forward with a dry smirk. "Little wing," he started wryly, "you terrorized the mayor by stalking him for days, pranked the GCPD seven times, let the animals go at the zoo twice, stole priceless treasures to bribe government officials, robbed three banks to fund an assassination plot on the president, shot five billionaires, beat up four other CEOs, and oh, yeah — set Wayne Enterprises on fire to declare your love for Jazz. Pretty sure those are crimes."

Jason beamed at him, a glint in his eye. "No, they’re not. Not anymore. Thanks to the GIW and the Anti-Ecto Act, I’m not a sapient being anymore. I can’t be held accountable for my actions. In fact, no one can arrest me but the GIW. So until they catch me, I’m untouchable."

Tim, who had been silently simmering in his chair, muttered under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like, "I should’ve just reported his ass to the government."

Stephanie, ever the voice of reason (when she wasn’t laughing at Jason’s latest disaster), nudged him hard. Tim groaned in response and rubbed his shoulder, then stood up, glaring at Jason. "Jason!" he snapped, "It’s still not an excuse for you to jeopardize our work just to flirt with Jazz and overthrow the government!"

Jason’s grin only widened. He was enjoying this far too much.

"What’re you gonna do? Arrest me?" he taunted, cocking his head to the side with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Before anyone could respond, Damian and Tim lunged at him, and suddenly the Batfamily was engaged in an impromptu brawl in the middle of the Batcave. Bruce, meanwhile, clutched his coffee mug like it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind entirely. He was pretty sure they were all laughing at him. At him, the patriarch of the family, the one who was supposed to keep things in order.

The fight only grew more ridiculous as time passed. Jason ducked under Damian’s wild swing, using the boy’s own momentum to launch him into Tim, who stumbled into Stephanie. Meanwhile, Dick, who had long ago realized it wasn’t worth fighting Jason's chaos, sat back and watched it all unfold, shaking his head with a wry grin.

Damian growled and attempted to pin Jason down, but the older man slipped out of his hold like a greased pig, laughing the whole time. "Oh, come on, little bat, I’m just having some fun!"

"Fun?!" Damian hissed. "You’re a menace!"

"Yeah," Jason said cheerfully, bouncing back to his feet, "and you love it."

Finally, Bruce, at his absolute limit, slammed his mug down and rose to his feet with all the authority he could muster. "Jason!" he barked, "Get back here."

Jason paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. "What now, Bruce? You want me to remind you about the rules again?" His voice was sweet as syrup. "I’m untouchable. Not even you can make me stay in Gotham right now."

Damian, still seething, jumped up and rushed toward him, only to be intercepted by Jason who effortlessly dodged the attack. "You’re impossible!" Damian shouted, pulling his hair out in frustration.

Jason just grinned. "And you love it, little bat. Admit it."

Bruce massaged his temples, his patience wearing thin. "I’m about to turn this place into a crime scene just to get rid of you."

Jason smirked and strutted out of the room. "Can’t touch me, Bruce. I’m above the law now." He called over his shoulder with a mocking wave, "Catch you later, guys! And remember, chaos is the spice of life!"

Jazz, who had just entered the room, watched the whole scene unfold, looking from one exhausted face to another. "So... I assume Jason’s breaking more laws again?"

Bruce collapsed back into his chair, his hands still covering his face in disbelief. "At this point, he is the law."

Jazz crossed her arms, shaking her head but with a faint smile on her lips. "Well, we’d better get used to it. He’s going to keep doing this, and we’re all stuck cleaning up his mess."

Tim groaned, muttering darkly, "I should have reported him to the GIW when I had the chance."

Damian crossed his arms with a huff. "You all are weak."

Dick chuckled, finally leaning back. "No, Damian, we’re just really tired."

As the rest of the family sighed and rubbed their temples, Bruce shot them all a tired look. "Surviving Jason is not the same thing as thriving."

Jazz raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the door Jason had just disappeared through. "I think you’re giving up too soon. Life’s never boring with him around."

Bruce’s tired chuckle was the only response. At least for today, it seemed, the Batfamily’s most chaotic member was out of the room — but only for a moment.

Tomorrow, who knew what mess Jason would create next?

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scamsupdateindia · 6 months ago

Video

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 3 months ago

Text

Midnight Bloom

Pairing: The Hermit! Seungmin x Dancer! Reader

Themes: Smut | Strangers to ? | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 5.8K

Playlist: 'Chimera' - HANA

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Mutual masturbation - Thigh riding - Use of pet names - Slight degradation - Slight Dom!Seungmin

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous chapter: Celestial Sin - The Lovers

The city was supposed to be your golden ticket, a place where dreams were spun into reality. You had arrived with a guitar strapped to your back, a suitcase filled with more hope than money, and the conviction that you would make it. But dreams, you learned, were expensive, and conviction didn’t pay the bills.

For months, you juggled odd jobs—barista, cashier, hostess at a seedy little diner—anything to keep you afloat while chasing auditions and open mic nights. But one by one, those gigs slipped through your fingers. The barista job went when a corporate chain opened next door. The cashier job cut your hours until you couldn’t afford to stay. And the diner? Well, that one ended last night, when your manager decided he could get handsy, and you decided to throw a pot of scalding coffee in his lap.

Your rent was overdue three weeks, and your landlord’s final notice lay on your tiny bedside table like a death sentence. Your phone buzzed beside it, a call from Mina lighting up the screen.

“Tell me you’re not still in bed.”

You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “Mina, it’s barely noon.”

“Exactly. Which means you should be up looking for a job.”

“I am looking for a job,” you lied, staring at the ceiling. “Manifesting one right now.”

Mina snorted. “You manifest a job the way I manifest a boyfriend—poorly.” She hesitated, and you could hear the shift in her tone. “Listen, I might have something for you. It’s… unconventional.”

You sat up, wary. “If you’re about to suggest OnlyFans—”

“Oh, please. You’re too much of a control freak. No, I was thinking something a little different.”

You frowned. “Mina.”

She hesitated. “You know where I work.”

You did. Vaguely. Mina never flaunted it, never dragged you into conversations about it, but you knew she was comfortable, lived well, and never seemed to regret her choices. “The club?”

“The Garden,” she corrected. “And before you say no, just listen. It’s not some sleazy backroom joint. It’s exclusive. Private. Everyone wears masks, even the girls, and no one touches you without permission. The money is insane. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Just dance.”

You ran a hand through your hair, exhausted. “Mina, I don’t even know how to work a pole.”

“You don’t need to. You already dance. You already perform. You’ll pick it up fast.” There was a pause. “Look, I wouldn’t suggest this if I thought it was a bad idea. I know you. You have standards. This place does, too.”

Your stomach twisted. You had always prided yourself on finding another way. On holding onto your pride. But pride didn’t pay rent. Pride didn’t fill your fridge. And you were tired—tired of fighting, tired of struggling, tired of clawing your way through a city that didn’t seem to want you.

“I don’t know…”

“Come on, just meet with the manager. If you hate it, walk away. No pressure.”

Your bank account balance flashed in your mind—$34.76. Your landlord’s final notice wouldn’t manifest itself into rent money. You exhaled sharply.

“Fine. I’ll meet her.”

Mina whooped. “That’s my girl! I’ll text you the details. Wear something cute.”

The Garden wasn’t what you expected. Tucked away in the heart of the city, it looked more like a high-end lounge than a strip club. The entrance was discreet, a sleek black door with a brass plaque etched with the name The Garden in elegant cursive. Inside, the air smelled like vanilla and something darker—something decadent.

A woman met you at the bar. She was dressed in all black, her sharp features unreadable.

“Mina speaks highly of you,” she said, eyes assessing. “You have experience performing?”

You nodded. “I dance. I sing. I’ve done stage work.”

“Pole?”

You hesitated. “Not yet.”

The woman smiled slightly. “You’ll learn.” She motioned for you to follow her further into the club. “The rules are simple. No real names, no personal details. You’ll choose a nymph name—Persephone’s court. We protect our dancers, and you control your performances. You strip as much as you’re comfortable with. No one touches you unless you allow it. If you ever feel unsafe, you walk away.”

It sounded… surreal. You expected something grimier, something desperate. But this? This was control. This was money. This was a way out.

“What’s my name?” you asked, pulse thrumming as the manager handed you a purple mask.

The woman smiled. “Ianthe.”

And just like that, you became someone new.

The first official night was a blur of nerves and adrenaline. You weren’t the best, not yet, but you knew how to move, how to hold an audience’s attention. The pole was foreign, but the music was not. You kept your boundaries, stripping only as far as you were comfortable, and to your surprise, no one pushed. The customers were eager but controlled, appreciative rather than entitled. When the night ended, you had more money than you had seen in months.

It was supposed to be just one night.

But one night turned into another.

And another.

You never expected to enjoy it. But in a way, you did. The thrill of performance, the anonymity of the mask, the way the world blurred into a haze of music and movement. The money was good—more than good. For the first time in a long time, you weren’t drowning.

You fell into the rhythm of The Garden quicker than you had expected.

What had begun as a desperate solution had become something familiar, something steady. Your schedule was set, your performances fluid, your movements more confident with each passing night. You moved through its velvet-lined corridors like you belonged, like you had always belonged. The dancers—Callisto, Thalia, Eurydice—had welcomed you in their own ways, offering tips and knowing glances. Customers came and went—some lingering longer than others—but all of them knew the rules. The Garden wasn’t a place for sloppy, drunken hands or crude demands. It was a playground for the wealthy, a sanctuary for indulgence and restraint intertwined.

And they watched you.

Some were expected—the older men in tailored suits, businessmen looking for a distraction with wallets fat enough to demand attention, lonely men with too much time and not enough warmth, younger ones pretending to be older, and older ones pretending to be young.

But one customer stood out.

You noticed him the first time by accident. You had been performing, body swaying to the slow, sultry beat of the music, when you felt it—the weight of an unwavering gaze. It was nothing new; you were used to being observed, scrutinized even. But this was different. His stare wasn’t leering, nor was it detached like those who watched simply because you were there. His focus was precise, deliberate. It sent a shiver down your spine.

But when you finished and made your usual rounds through the club, he was nowhere to be found.

You lingered longer than necessary, greeting patrons, and taking your time with the regulars who had learned to appreciate your boundaries. There was the IT mogul, a silver-haired gentleman who tipped generously and never asked for more than conversation. Then there was the Parisian, a man in his fifties who liked to pretend he was much younger, always eager for a private dance but respectful enough never to push. You indulged them, letting their hands rest on yours, laughing at their harmless flirtations, all while keeping an eye out for the man who had been watching you.

But he was gone.

Mina caught on quickly. She always did.

“You’ve got yourself a mystery man,” Mina’s voice cut through your thoughts as you lounged backstage, sipping water between sets. She perched beside you, looking effortlessly radiant in her barely-there ensemble, her mask pushed up to rest on her forehead for a moment.

You rolled your eyes. “He’s just another customer.”

“Oh, please,” Mina smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. “I’ve been here long enough to know the difference between a casual customer and whatever the hell he is.”

You rolled your eyes, but her words stuck with you.

She leaned in closer. “You know the manager knows him, right?”

That made you pause. “What?”

“They never talk much, but she acknowledges him. Which means he’s important. Rich, maybe. Maybe he owns the whole damn place.” Mina nudged you playfully. “Wouldn’t that be something? Our little Ianthe catching the eye of The Garden’s owner.”

You laughed softly at the idea, shaking your head. “You’ve been watching too many dramas.”

Mina winked before slipping off her stool and grinning. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, Ianthe.”

The rhythm of the club became routine. Nights blurred together in a swirl of music, silk, and whispered propositions. The money flowed easily, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t have to worry about rent, food, surviving. You weren’t just keeping your head above water—you were swimming.

And then, one night, everything changed.

You had just finished a set, the heat of the stage lights still clinging to your skin, when the manager approached you. Her gaze was unreadable, her posture relaxed but firm.

“A guest has requested a private room,” she said. “He specifically asked for you.”

You barely blinked. You had been requested before—it was nothing new. Some men preferred to watch, others preferred more direct entertainment. It was part of the job.

Still, something prickled at your skin, a whisper of anticipation curling in your stomach. “Which guest?”

She didn’t answer; she just tilted her head toward the hallway that led to the private rooms.

You took a breath and followed.

As you made your way through the dimly lit hallway, the hush of the main floor faded behind you. The private rooms were different—smaller, more intimate. A single platform with a pole for dancers stood in the centre, plush seating arranged around it in a way that made it feel personal rather than transactional.

You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

And then, you saw him.

The stranger from the shadows, now sitting comfortably on one of the benches surrounding the lone pole at the center of the room. His suit was dark, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—those same intense eyes that had watched you for weeks—followed your every move.

You hesitated, just for a moment, before stepping forward, keeping your mask securely in place.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” you said lightly, letting your fingers skim along the length of your torso. “I was wondering if you’d ever request me.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he watched you, his gaze never faltering. Then, finally—

“I wanted to see you up close.”

It was an expected answer, but something about the way he said it made your breath catch. Not crude. Not demanding. Just... certain. His voice was smooth, low but not imposing. A beat of silence stretched between you. He made no move to touch you, no move to beckon you closer, and yet his presence was magnetic. His aura wasn’t suffocating or lecherous like some of the others—it was controlled, powerful in a way you couldn’t quite place.

You stepped onto the platform, the cool metal of the pole grounding you. The music started, slow and rhythmic, and you let yourself move—not just to entice, but to feel. You had grown used to how men watched you, but this was different. He wasn’t just watching your body—he was watching you.

Between movements, you dared to meet his gaze. “What should I call you?”

His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk. “I think the better question is—what should I call you?”

“Ianthe.” Even though you were used to it by now, uttering it out loud still felt foreign all the same—a persona that wasn’t quite you but close enough.

He nodded slowly. “Ianthe.”

Your pulse quickened. It was how he said your stage name, slowly, like he was savouring it, rolling it over his tongue to see how it felt. Your mask shielded you, but somehow, you felt exposed under his stare.

The dance continued, the space between you thick with something unspoken.

By the time the music slowed to a stop, you were breathless—not just from the performance, but from the weight of his attention. You met his gaze again, trying to decipher the quiet storm behind his eyes.

“I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you,” you mused as you stepped down from the platform.

His smirk deepened just slightly. “Perhaps.”

And just like that, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Something shifts after that first private performance.

The stranger still keeps his distance on the public floor. He remains in the shadows, watching you with that same quiet intensity, and he still disappears the moment your performances end. But now, he calls for you—again and again.

Private room. Your name. No substitutions.

At first, you try to ignore the way your stomach twists when the request comes in and try to treat him like any other customer. But he isn’t like the others. His attention is too sharp, too measured. He doesn’t gawk, doesn’t leer. He watches as if he’s learning something about you with every movement, every note in your voice.

And despite your best efforts, your walls begin to crack.

The first few private dances are much like the first. He stays seated, his posture always composed, his eyes always on you. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t speak unless you do first. But when he does, it’s with that low, steady voice that makes the air between you feel heavier than it should.

“You’re different when you dance.”

You circle the pole, dragging your fingers along the cool metal, letting the tension coil in your body as you sway. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” There’s no amusement in his voice, just curiosity, like he genuinely wants to know. “Are you pretending?”

You pause mid-turn, catching his gaze through your mask. “Aren’t we all?”

Something flickers in his expression, something you can’t quite name. You don’t wait for him to respond—you move again, rolling your hips to the slow beat, letting the music wrap around you.

But the more time you spend in these private rooms with him, the more you find yourself slipping. You reveal more—not just with your body when you finally bare your breasts to him, but with your words. He asks small, precise questions, and somehow, you answer them.

“How long have you been in the city?”

“Two years.”

“Why stay?”

“Because I have to.”

He never asks for more than you’re willing to give. But still, you give.

And then, one night, you finally learn his name.

There was something about the way he watched you, something that made you feel like you weren’t just another performer. Like he saw something more than just a body swaying to the music.

“What should I call you?” you asked one night, mid-performance, emboldened by how he had begun to lean forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

His lips quirked into a barely-there smile. “You tell me, Ianthe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled, a quiet amusement threading through his expression. “Seungmin.”

The name settles between you like a secret. You repeat it, soft but deliberate. “Seungmin.”

For the first time, his lips curve—just barely. But it’s there.

Mina notices the shift before you do.

She corners you in the dressing room one night, her arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face.

“You’re different.”

You scoff, adjusting the ties on your lingerie. “I’m making good money. Maybe I’m just happier.”

“It’s not that.” Mina steps closer, her voice dropping. “It’s him.”

You roll your eyes. “Mina—”

“I’m serious.” She softens, reaching out to lace her fingers through yours. “I know you, babe. I know how you keep your distance. But you’re letting him in.”

You glance at her, searching for the right words. She isn’t wrong. You just don’t know what to do about it.

“I know what I’m doing,” you say finally, squeezing her hand before pulling away. “It’s just business.”

Mina doesn’t look convinced. But she doesn’t push. Not yet.

She does push a few nights later.

Mina is heading out of a private room when she passes by yours. You’re not inside yet; still due on stage in a few minutes. But the door is slightly ajar, and she hears voices.

She stops, just for a moment, and listens.

“…profits are steady.” The voice is female—your manager.

“Good. I want the reports by the end of the week.” Seungmin.

Mina’s brows furrow, but she stays still.

“Vendors have been settled, but the new shipment is delayed. It should arrive soon.” your manager continues. “Mostly thanks to certain… interventions from The Hermit.”

There’s a pause before Seungmin replies. “Good.”

Mina strains to hear more as she tenses, but the noise outside drowns out their conversation. Still, she’s heard enough. The Syndicate owns the Garden. She had always known this place was backed by powerful figures, but hearing it confirmed like this sent a shiver down her spine. Not only that, but now she knows that Seungmin isn’t just another customer. He’s connected somehow.

And she doesn’t like it.

She keeps this information to herself for the next few days, watching you closely from the shadows. You seem lighter, more at ease when Seungmin is around, but she sees the way he affects you, the way you hesitate when his name comes up, the way you search for him in the crowd. And she doesn’t like that either.

So when another request comes in—another private dance, another night in that secluded room—Mina pulls you into a darkened corner right before you can go in.

“Listen,” she whispers, urgency laced in her voice. “I need to tell you something.”

You sigh, adjusting your mask. “Mina, I—”

“It’s about him.” She grips your arm, eyes glancing at the door before forcing your gaze to meet hers. “He’s not just some guy, okay? I heard him talking to the manager a couple of days ago. He knows things—things about the club. About the business. About The Syndicate.”

You blink, thrown off by the seriousness in her tone. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know yet. But I don’t trust it.” She exhales sharply. “And I don’t think you should either.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the call comes—your name over the speakers, signalling your time is up.

You hesitate, just for a second. Then, you pull away from Mina’s grip and shake your head. “I have to go.”

She looks like she wants to stop you, to say more, but she doesn’t.

And so you go—to him.

To Seungmin.

But you should have known the shadows don't keep secrets for long.

The moment you step into the private room, your eyes land on him immediately.

Seungmin.

He greets you with nothing but a look—intense, unreadable, but something about it is different tonight. There’s a tension rolling over his shoulders, something tight coiled beneath his usual composed demeanour. To anyone else, he might look the same as always: relaxed, leaning into the plush seating, his posture giving nothing away. But you’ve learned to read him, to decipher the smallest changes. The slight shift of his fingers as they drum against the seat cushion. The way his jaw clenches, just briefly, before smoothing over again.

Something is off.

You try to ground yourself, to ignore the sudden weight pressing into your chest, the whisper of danger suddenly stifling the air.

The music starts, a slow, intoxicating melody that seeps into your skin, pulling you back to the performance. This is where you excel, where you thrive. The weight of the outside world, of unspoken words and lingering questions, fades as you let your body take over.

Seungmin watches you like he always does, but tonight, his gaze is heavier, sharper. It burns against your skin, branding you in ways that make your breath hitch. You twirl around the pole, your hands gliding along your own body, teasing both yourself and him.

“You’re distracted.” His voice cuts through the haze, the deep timbre curling around you.

You blink, not missing a beat in your movements, though for a fraction of a second, your balance wavers. “Am I?”

He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes unwavering. “You are.”

You don’t know how he does it—how he always manages to read you so easily when you can barely read him at all. You force a soft smile, letting your fingers trail down your thighs as you move, shaking Mina’s words from your head. “I’m just tired.”

His lips curve just a little, but it isn’t in amusement. “You expect me to believe that?”

You meet his gaze then, something defiant sparking in your chest. “Does it matter?”

A quiet pause. Then, “No.” But the way he says it—low, almost thoughtful—tells you that’s a lie.

You exhale shakily as the moment stretches between you, thick and heavy. You let yourself sink into the music again, forcing everything else to the back of your mind. If Seungmin is tied to The Garden, if he is something more than just a customer, then what does it really matter? You don’t have answers yet and won’t ask for them either. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that Seungmin will only reveal what he wants to, when he wants to.

And right now, it seems he wants something else entirely.

As your fingers tease the clasp of your bra, letting the delicate fabric slip from your shoulders, you catch it. The hard bulge pressing against the front of his pants.

Heat floods through you.

You’re not naïve—You’ve always known he finds you attractive—he wouldn’t be here otherwise—but Seungmin is a man of control, a master at hiding his impulses. Yet tonight, something is different.

He isn’t hiding it.

Or maybe, he doesn’t want to.

Something in you shifts. The power you feel at this discovery is intoxicating. Your own desire has never been in question—you’ve left this room more than once with damp panties and restless frustration. But this? This feels different. It feels like an opportunity.

So you test it.

Your movements become slower, more deliberate. You let your hands ghost over your breasts, your fingers grazing your sensitive nipples as your hips roll with precision. You take your time, watching his every reaction, every flicker of his expression. And there it is again—the tightening of his jaw, the faintest twitch of his fingers resting on his thigh.

Not enough.

You want more.

And so, emboldened by your own rising desire, you do something you’ve never done before. Not for anyone.

Turning your back to him, you hook your thumbs under the thin straps of your panties and, with an agonizing slowness, you slide them down your legs. You bend, giving him an unobstructed view of your bare, glistening core, knowing precisely what he’s seeing.

The hitch in his breath is unrestrained. Uncontrolled.

Got him.

A slow, victorious smile curves your lips as you straighten, turning to face him. He’s still composed—just barely—but the shift is undeniable. His control is slipping. His hand has moved, no longer resting idly on his leg. Now, it’s in his lap, palming his hardened cock over his tailored slacks.

His eyes are darker, pupils blown wide, fixed on you like you’re something dangerous. Like you’re something he wants.

The space between you is charged, buzzing with an unspoken challenge. You step off the platform, moving towards him, completely bare now, feeling more powerful than ever before.

His fingers twitch as he squeezes again, and you almost expect him to stop you. But he doesn’t.

So you push further.

Straddling his lap, you settle yourself over him, close enough that you can feel the heat from his crotch against your bare skin.

You lean in, your lips close to his ear. “What do you want from me, Seungmin?”

His fingers grab hold of your hips in response. He doesn’t answer immediately, his breath warm against your naked shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, rougher, laced with something dangerous and wanting all at once.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

The words send a thrill through you, igniting something deep in your core. There’s no doubt now—no second-guessing. Whatever has been building between you both has reached a point of no return.

Your breathless “Yes” barely leaves your lips before Seungmin is on you.

His mouth crashes against yours in a kiss so deep, so consuming, it knocks every lingering thought from your head. It’s bruising, raw, his lips parting yours with ease as his tongue sweeps against yours, pulling you deeper into him. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging in as he drags you closer, pressing your bare body against his fully clothed frame. The contrast is dizzying—the warmth of his body seeping through the fabric, the friction setting every inch of your skin ablaze.

You fist his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from him, the sound vibrating against your lips. Your other hand clutches his shoulder, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his suit, the sheer power coiled beneath his perfect composure.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding against him, desperate for friction. You don’t even realize how lost you are in the moment until Seungmin suddenly shifts, adjusting your position with ease. A moment later, you’re no longer straddling his lap, but perched on just one of his thighs instead.

The new position sends a shock of heat through you, and you gasp against his lips at the sudden pressure of his tight muscle against your aching clit. Seungmin pulls back from the kiss slightly, his breath hot against your mouth as he murmurs, “Ride my thigh, doll.”

Your stomach tightens at the command, the heat pooling within your core. You swallow hard, but something keeps you still—a hesitation that isn’t like you. Seungmin notices immediately. Of course, he does.

His fingers flex against your waist, firm but coaxing. “Don’t make me repeat it.” There’s a teasing lilt in his tone, but beneath it, something darker—a threat.

Your breath hitches. Slowly, hesitantly, you start to move.

The first slow drag of your slick folds against his pants makes your breath catch in your throat. The friction against your clit is sharp, teasing, just enough to make you whimper softly. Seungmin exhales sharply, his grip tightening.

“That’s it, doll.” His voice is low, almost reverent. “Look at you. Already making a mess of me.”

You shudder, but you don’t stop.

Your movements become bolder, each grind more desperate, chasing the pleasure coiling tighter inside you. The fabric of his trousers beneath your pussy is damp now, soaked with your arousal, and when you roll your hips particularly hard, Seungmin lets out a quiet, satisfied hum.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands squeezing your hips as he watches you move. “So fucking wet, doll. You feel that?”

You nod, biting your lip. You feel everything—the heat of his thigh between your legs, the way his pants are now sticking to his skin from your slick, the way every grind makes your clit throb harder.

You’re unravelling. And the worst part is that he knows it.

His voice drops lower, rough and teasing. “You’re soaked. Desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

You let out a choked moan, your thighs clenching around him. Seungmin smirks, his fingers guiding your movements, making you grind down harder. But it’s not enough.

You slow your pace, meeting his gaze through heavy lashes. “Take it out. Please.”

His jaw flexes at your request, something dark flickering in his eyes, but then he moves. His hands leave your hips, undoing his belt, his fingers working with practised ease. The sound of his zipper lowering fills the thick silence before he finally reaches in, pulling himself free.

Your breath hitches in your throat at the view.

Seungmin’s cock is thick, flushed, the tip already glistening with the first drops of precum. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, twice, his breath growing uneven as his gaze stays locked on yours.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I want to see you come like this.”

You obey.

Rolling your hips, you find your rhythm again, your slick folds dragging against his thigh as he watches you with hooded eyes. The sight of him stroking himself, matching your movements, sends another rush of arousal through you. His hand tightens around his cock, and he groans low in his throat.

The pace builds. You move faster, rocking against him, gasping as pleasure sparks through every nerve. Seungmin grips your waist again with his free hand, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin. “That’s it, doll. Fuck yourself on me.”

Your whimper is near desperate now. Every grind drags you closer, the pressure unbearable. And then, his voice, dark and commanding— “Touch yourself.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you obey again, slipping a hand between your legs. The second your fingers find your clit, you cry out, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

“Fuck—”

Seungmin’s groan is wrecked, his strokes turning rougher as he watches you fall apart. “That’s my girl.”

You’re spiralling now, grinding against him with reckless desperation, your fingers circling your clit, the pleasure cresting higher, higher—until finally, it snaps.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. Your body trembles, thighs shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. Seungmin watches every second of it, his gaze dark and hungry as you come apart on top of him.

Through the haze, you hear him curse, his grip on his cock tightening. His strokes turn erratic, his breathing ragged. Then, with a sharp inhale, his jaw clenches, and his body goes rigid.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head tipping back as his release spills over his fingers.

Your body is still humming, the remnants of pleasure leaving you heavy-limbed and breathless. Seungmin exhales deeply, his head tilted back against the couch, his fingers still curled loosely around his softening length, streaked with his own release. Then, with practised ease, he tucks himself back into his pants, the quiet sound of his zipper breaking the silence between you.

You blink slowly, reality creeping back in as you shift, your legs weak as you carefully move off his lap. His warmth leaves you too quickly, making you feel bare, vulnerable. You settle beside him on the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself, watching him as he adjusts his clothes.

Now. Now would be the time to ask.

You hesitate before speaking, your voice softer than you mean it to be. “Seungmin.”

He doesn’t immediately respond, straightening his cuffs, his expression unreadable. But you see it—the small flicker in his eyes that tells you he knows what’s coming.

You tread carefully. “Can I ask you something?”

This time, his gaze finally meets yours. It’s softer now, the sharpness from before mellowed, but there’s something distant in the way he looks at you. “You can ask.”

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment before speaking again. “What do you do outside of this?” Your tone is light, casual, but intentional. “I don’t see you with the other dancers. You don’t act like other clients. You don’t even look at anyone but me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. “You’re not asking what I do,” he muses, voice low. “You’re asking who I am.”

A beat of silence. Then—“Maybe.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk, but it doesn’t quite happen. “And if I told you I’m just a man who enjoys watching you?”

You exhale, rolling your eyes slightly. “I’d say that’s bullshit.”

He chuckles, but it’s quiet, brief. “Would you?”

“Yes.” You shift slightly, watching him. “I know when someone is lying to me.”

Seungmin hums, tilting his head as he finally looks at you again. The air between you is charged, but not as it was before. There’s something unspoken hanging there, something he’s waiting for you to let go of.

You hesitate, then try again. “Mina told me something today.”

At that, his jaw tightens—so subtly you almost miss it.

Bingo.

“She’s worried about me,” you continue, watching him closely. “She thinks you might be someone I should be careful around.”

Seungmin doesn’t react at first. He breathes, slow and steady, as if weighing his words carefully. Then, finally, he straightens, standing from the couch.

The shift in his demeanour is subtle but noticeable. Where there was warmth, there is now a cool distance. Not cold—not regretful—but something else entirely. Something like a retreat.

You watch as he adjusts his jacket, his expression calm, unruffled. The same Seungmin you always see. The one who never gives away more than he wants to. The one you can never quite pin down. The enigma.

“You should listen to her,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “Mina is a good friend.”

Your stomach tightens. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m giving.”

There it is. The wall. The carefully constructed barrier he’s so skilled at building between himself and the rest of the world.

You don’t push. You could—you could demand, press further, chase the truth he so obviously doesn’t want to give. But something tells you that if you do, he’ll disappear entirely.

So you let it go. For now.

Seungmin watches you for a moment longer before stepping closer. You don’t move as he leans in, his lips pressing softly against your forehead. It’s gentle, intimate in a way that somehow holds more weight than the heat you shared moments ago.

When he pulls back, his gaze is unreadable again, but his voice is warm. “I’ll see you again soon, doll.”

And just like that, he turns, heading for the door. You watch him leave, something twisting deep in your chest as the door clicks shut behind him.

The silence is deafening.

You exhale, running a hand through your hair as you finally move to your feet. The events of the last hour settle over you like a weight, leaving you dizzy, uncertain. You should be getting dressed, but your mind is elsewhere, your thoughts too tangled to focus.

Then—something catches your eye.

Something small, matte black, tucked into the crease of the couch where Seungmin had been sitting.

Frowning, you reach for it, fingers brushing against the sleek surface. When you turn it over, your breath catches.

A tarot card.

The gold lettering gleams under the dim lighting, the illustration strikingly familiar.

The Hermit.

Realization slams into you like a forceful wave, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You stare at the card, your heart pounding, your grip tightening around it as everything clicks into place.

Seungmin hadn’t dodged your questions.

He had answered them.

A/N: Soooooo, chapter 5 of The Syndicate is officially finished. What did y'all think of it? I tried to emulate Seungmin as The Hermit as well as I could, and hope some questions have been answered. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

taglist: @hanjisungs-bitch66 - @smartie-pants - @inniesfanblog - @skzittomebabyuhhuhx3 - @skzthelomlhehe - @tirena1 - @sp4ceboo - @hanniebunch

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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berriblossom · 7 months ago

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->Modern AU, like organized crime Fatui Buisness AU, reader is considered amab, power dynamics, you are his "dog", sugar daddy pantalone, warning for gore, blood, violence, and slight mention of collars, Fatui is a crime syndicate and the Northland bank will always collect what is in fair exchange of debt. DNI: (this is written by masc NB, so don't fetishize this pls, minors pls dni)<-

The empty restaurant with dimmed lights set a "mood" for its guests. Most glamor at the amount of detail on the pantings that hang on the wall. The guests even ignorantly claimed the false portraits to be original. Like these fools have never seen a well organized dinner set either.

"Oh, is that a Doyung Orginal?"

"My look at the engraving on the plates!"

"My goodness the wine is to die for, has to be a Mondstat staple!"

Yes, the quality and attention to detail were incredible, even in the late hours for special guests to come by and have "chats" with the staff. With the owner, head chef, and hostess standing still for him.

For a specifically special guest, he was on his way for a special meeting with the staff. The court of Fontaine never failed to disappoint with the glamor, the fusion of fontainian and Liyuen food, who could have thought? No wonder such elite laywers, officers, prosecutors, senators, and opera house performers eat here to fill their hearts and stomachs till content.

Like filthy pigs.

It sickened him to his stomach.

Pantalone hated the stiffness in the dining hall. The tables were too close together, hence no privacy in the place for actual buisness to be held. No wonder some customers complain of the noise, but then again when cheap dandelion wine is served for all service cycles, you'd get noisy too.

The carpet was tacky, it was crisp crimson with intricate detail, even the most disgusting hardwood floors would've captured the feeling within the place better. His eyes moved around, the small perfectly sculpted gray hairs swept into the neat style of his hair.

His fingers collected in his lap as the pitifully looking waitress took his order. No one was here, all customers were gone. Vacant of even the tacky suites, outdated dresses, and excessive displays of nonexistent money. But when sitting in front of the real deal, who wouldn't get nervous.

The man who owns the Norhtland Bank, the wealthiest and most accredited bank in Teyvat. The man who was a well-decorated politician, salesman, diplomat, and sponsor to some of the biggest brands and stock names in the world. The richest person to have lived in Teyvat sits before the teenager and smiles at her with a carefully crafted smile. A fake one, no less.

But even before the slaughter, the wolf can be kind to any of the sheep for the sake of better taste of their meat.

He sighs as he sips the cool glass of what feels like stale water. The chef stares frantically outside the kitchen window into the dining area. The dusty chandelier looks way more dusty and apparent than usual. The chairs at table 5 look more crooked than normal. All the smallest imperfections seem to be shown right before the finale. Pantalone crosses his leg as he flickes an nonexistent speck of dirt off his perfectly pressed dress pant leg. His black and gray suite complimenting his features, the rounds of his glasses and his gloves.

"What a shame, isn't it?" He says with a small pitiful chuckle to the waitress, as she places the plate of ragu onto the table. The dish looking the cleanest it will ever be. But even from the looks of it, well polished to a uncultured eye. It looks old, the tomatoes aren't fresh, the salt is old snd possible too dry. The onions aren't soft enough and the chew of them could make anyone vomit. The goll to charge over a hundred mora for this is honestly more of a scam than a loan with 14% interest on it in a first year.

Pantalone watches the girl shake her head, then nod. In an almost confused way. "Ah, um..no-no, it is..sir..?" Almost like a test, she feels like its a multiple choice when its actually true or false in his mind.

Sigh, what a shame. This place is a dump, better a landfill than even another department to waste money on. The taxes in this neighborhood are ridiculous anyway. Too close to the Palais Mermonia.

Out of curiosity and just to get it over with, he was always playing the patient role within his organization, but in reality, he wanted to be over with this and now. Pantalone takes a bite of the ragu, and as he thought, too salty, not fresh, and the lettuce is welted. The saliva in his mouth pools, his teeth stick, the assault on his tongue makes him gag silently. He chews slowly and swallows. His mind was made. Screw with polite conversation and then the slaughter. Their best and finale dish said enough, and his mind was made up.

"Excuse me while I make a quick phone call. While I'm outside could you call your manager and the owner of this fine establishment? I'd love to have a conversation with them."

Your phone rang while you slept in the hotel Pantalone set up on the outskirts of the court, a decent way to lay low for any job he wanted done during his political tour of the place. Even with the House of the Heart here, sone jobs required more...brutal ways to ease the tensions within the nation of solem waters.

The Fatui despite the reputation they've built for years, as a banking, diplomatic, independent governing body to help local governments and offices to aquire the stystems and supplies needed. Money, political dirt, information, a means to kill, or just power. You want it, someone had it. So even if the harbingers held such, it was too much of a "risk" for they themselves to do all the work. Why not have someone else do it?

Even the most deranged harbingers follow this rule placed by their leaders. Even that popstar Tartaglia, despite him speaking about wanted to lick the blood off a knife after cutting his finger. So it wasn't crazy for you, someone who gets whats done for a notcible price, done to be favored by someone like Pantalone.

So when that call rang through the hotel, you picked it up lazily, tiredness from the stiff and insufferable plane ride beating on your body. Scarred with what many would hope to be the ghosts that haunt your dreams rather than the ghosts of anyones beloveds. But anytime that phone rings, its always the latter.

"Yes?" No need for anything conversation or formalities, despite Pantalone scowling at it. You could hear the night air of the busy street he was on. The sound of the wind, sea air flickering through the reciver. But the sound that makes you highly alert is that wicked chuckle. A small, kind-sounding chuckle. But it's actually a sign of how pissed he is. Doing this job for 7 years teaches you a lot, without a word you stand and get ready to head wherever he wants you to be with a tired sigh.

"So good for a vacation.." you mumble as Pantalone's exhuasted and crafted smile drops. "You're incredibly lucky your the most competent one I've had. So keep the tone in check. Dogs don't bark unless needed remember?"

The warning was in plain sight, even with rose-colored glasses it was a stark sight. Your roll your eyes as he complains about the stupid little dump of a restaurant and how piss poor the quality is. And something about a shitty ragu? You sigh and put on your boots as you finsh getting dressed, half the time you barely catch what hes upset about. But for now its better to pretend.

"Since i can tell you're not listening fully. Get over to this dump within the next 10 minutes. Wear your uniform and don't be late. Be a good dog."

Like always, you always are. So without a word you let him hang up and huff as you tighten the straps to the simple leather harness he had you wear. Gloves, check. Boots, check. And finally a token from Pantalone for his favorite dog...a beautiful reminder that your freedom is imminent.

When you arrive(3 minutes early), you stick to the shadows and watch from the corner of the restaurant front house as Pantalone grills the staff on the quality of food. When in reality he could not give a shit for it, but hey? What good is it for a show?

"But gentlemen it truly amazes me how incompetent you are. It's such a shame, that for what...11 years we have donated various amounts to see this place prosper when in reality, the Northland Bank has been wasting millions of mora on a shack like this? Such a deaperate shame."

As soon as his tone became pointed, the change in tone. It was time to move, so you waisted, arms crosses and head turned down as you waited.

"For the Tsarista's sake. You'd think I'd note the amount of money missing from...." it all drowned out for you, you knew how impatient he really was, and his body language hid it, but never the voice. You kick off the wall and walk into the dining area of the restaurant as the owner and manager argue with Pantalone in desperation about how its not a watse.

"No gentlemen, I really think it is. Not to add the amount of money you've embezzled with the small business loans we've given. 5.6 million mora missing from the original 12 million in 11 years? Over 100k a month in sales but yet so little profit made? You must think of my gratitude as useless?"

The owner, sweating like a pig on its way to the slaughter house, held his hands up in disagreement and a final wave to uphole peace. His stuttering pleas, even pitiful and frankly stomach- curling snotty tears all come to a halt when you stand behind him. The manager kneeling on the floor begging for forgiveness of his greed, looks up and sees the thing many who take money up with the Northland Bank fears most.

"Gentlemen, I see you've noticed my dear friend here. You see...-" Pantalone sits on the edge of the table, the staff of thr restaurant stand in the entryway of the kithcen and serving station in fear. Escape is useless, you liked hunting as a sport anways.

"You see, I despise, liars. I really do, and something that makes me just so...displeased is when my hard earned kindess is treated with lies and disrespect. I gave you the money, happy to support a in-need business. Like a basket case chairty...but to see the money, my money. My mora, used like....this?"

Your hand comes to the shoulder of the owner as Pantalones monolog comes to a fateful end. "So...well...theres no need for a second chance...not after your greedy showcase...but i will say....-" He stands and downs the rest of the water in a long and slow sip. "The Northland Bank will send some beautifully picked flowers for your services."

With a snap of his fingers, as he turned his back to the pleading staff and owners, he speaks lowly.

"Sick 'em."

As he leaves, the owner, an elder balding man scrambles to cling onto Pantalones leg, but as he reaches out, the hand on his shoulder, your hand grabs him by the chin, and with a small movement...

crack!

The mans head is shot upward, eyes glazed over and gray as his body is lifeless and limp, jaw clenched permanently as his spine is stilted. A pen kept on your person, stuck in the back of his head to keep it in place as blood drips like honey onto the crimson carpet. The the spray started, like the fountain of Lucine, except instead of a prayer for new life, it was one to cling onto. The pen was shoved until the clicker was sticking out. You let go of his head as his body lumped onto the ground. By the time Pantalone is out of the door, screams of terror, fear, and pure agony ring out as well as the stupid tacky chime of the entrance bell of this dump of a restaurant. With your nonchalant espression as he knows, his dog will handle it.

By the next hour when the noise died down, he returns with a expensive cigar, lightening it with a silver lighter. Pantalone enters and sees just the beautiful spread of color. As you packed up and chopped bodies like they were hog meat with the same dull knives used to make any shitty dish within this dump. Blood decorated even the onion colored wallpaper, soaking and staining. He looks down and sees the bodies all in bags, no bullets, meaning your must've used your hands.

When he entered the kitchen to see you chopping the arm of one of the waiters, he notes how uncaring your eyes were. Like this was just another Wednesday to you, your eyes glazed in concentration as you bang the butchers knife into the cutting board to hack the arm away. Veins and coagulted blood splays all around, but in his eyes, it was so beautiful....

And alluring.

He walked closer and tilted your chin to meet his gaze, bringing his nose to your cheek, he inhales the iron sting and copper twang painted on your skin, even if you scrubbed every micro-inch off he could still smell it. With the deep inhale, he smiles against your cheeck as you hold still, almost numb to the exchange. "Yes...good....such....goood...my good boy..." he waits for you to finish, like you were programed to.

"You're only good, boy, sir." You repeat like always back, even if its for money, his obsessed mind games, power, ego stroking, you will always repeat it back. Like a good dog.

He grins as he pressed his lips onto your cheek, almost tryung to dabb it away with a lick, he pulls away and notes. "The mess will be cleaned tomorrow, this place is going to be burned anways, now come, i need my dog for a walk."

-> teehe...can you tell i wrote this at 3 A.M?

#genshin impact #berri bomb🍓#berri things #genshin impact x reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone #pantalone x you #genshin pantalone #fatui x reader #fatui harbingers #genshin impact x male reader #x male reader #berri writes #🍒

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shinsmarlboro · 11 months ago

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Manjiro with a lover, who is a successful entrepreneur.

TAGS: SFW && gender neutral y/n.

manjiro loves staying in your office while you're working away on your laptop.

if you need help with advertising a product you are selling but you don't have enough funds for that, you best believe that manjiro got your back. he'd advertise your product legally and illegally he doesn't care, as long as you make profit.

he loves spending on you. he doesn't think of money as something significant, it's just something that comes along as he is a part of the yakuza. spending on you is his way of making use of it, otherwise he would barely take much out of his bank account.

he dislikes it when you don't pay much attention to him while working, but he won't immediately ask for your attention until he's sure you won't use the excuse of working to get him to behave.

“you've been working for 6 hours, babe.” he would whine and sit on your desk, tipping your laptop cover even lower so you pay attention to him.

“you kept track of my working hours?”

“mm, you could say that.” he would then move your laptop aside so he could wrap his arms around you while sitting on your lap.

your office is like his hangout spot where he falls asleep to the sounds of your fingers against the keyboard or where he sprawls onto the couch to read magazines, or sometimes he just lovingly stares at you with his hand against his cheek. you are more than certain that he has no idea how piercing his gaze is and how it makes you fidget in your seat.

izana tends to drop by here and there to drag manjiro away from you. he isn't too fond of you for ‘stealing manjiro away from him’ and often vies for his younger brother's attention and skills.

he thinks it's ideal that both of you are night owls, with him being an insomniac and you always making sure to burn the midnight oil. late work nights with you always seem more intimate for you two, even with unspoken words.

manjiro would invite you as a plus-one to events with izana where networking is inevitably bound to happen to expand your business and brand. he would ensure that you are dressed in the finest attire to make the best first impression. it is also an excuse for him to watch you prance around in different dresses as you ask him for your opinion.

“you look so hot.” he'd gush for the umpteenth time, not caring about the exasperation on your face.

“you're not helping.”

“can i help it if you look good in everything, baby?”

he'd notice your dissatisfaction and offer to buy all the dresses you had put on and forcefully get his brother to choose for you.

“sorry y/n, izana-nii’s better with all this fashion stuff.”

he follows you on business trips whenever he has the time, and extends them for 2 more days.

“manjiro fucking sano. let go of me, i…we have a flight back to tokyo.”

“oh no we don't. we're staying for two more days, baby! don't worry i’ve got it covered, let's go to the beach in miami. i wanna tan my skin like those blonde foreigners.”

don't even bother complaining or arguing with him because he will totally ignore you, take your suitcase from your hand and put it somewhere in the hotel room before pulling you to bed.

BONUS; BONTEN MIKEY HCS.

he finds it convenient when you work late hours at night and you are not there to witness his mental breakdowns. he isn't fully comfortable with being vulnerable with you. he thinks he's doing you a favour by shielding you from that weak side of himself.

however, he despises when you pay little attention to him when he comes over to visit (which is rare as he is the face and leader of the most powerful crime syndicate in japan) and it seems like you prefer your laptop over him but would act clingy only when you two are alone. he won't say anything, won't bother you but his body language would let you know that he wants attention.

you would hold his hand and type away with the other one (even if it is a bit inconvenient, there isn't anything you wouldn't do for your babyboy).

he loves it when you look put-together and modest in your suit or your long pencil skirt with your hair tied back in a bun or a slick-back. no matter how feminine or masculine you appear, he looks at you with a tender expression hidden under his brooding visage.

manjiro would hook you up with people that would have your business skyrocketing. you converse with them about market potential, growth strategies and all that jazz, while mikey watches you like a hawk or gets sanzu to do that if he has to leave the venue for whatever reason.

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yanyandam · 3 months ago

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𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙏 𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏

Chapter One: "World"

Bonten!Kokonoi Hajime x Fem! Reader

-W𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐇𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐊𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐢 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡: 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨’𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐬.

>> reader is a hostess, Reader works in a strip club, Koko is an asshole at first, Koko is hella arrogant, No use of second person ("You"), Reader is mentionned with 3rd person, fem!reader -Non-Graphic Smut, Eventual Smut, Angst, Lots of Angst, Bits of fluff, Mention of the reader's father at first (he's not very present in the story), shared trauma

12/09/2017

Bonten was the most dangerous and influential criminal organization in all of Japan, maybe Asia.

A sprawling syndicate with hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of members, it controlled the country’s largest arms trade, drug networks, and prostitution rings. But those were just the surface of its operations. Behind closed doors, bloody vendettas were settled with ruthless efficiency, and its tendrils reached deep into the political sphere, weaving alliances with conservative parties that turned a blind eye in exchange for favors. Their symbol was unmistakable, tattooed onto the skin of every single member.

And at the top of it all stood the one they called the Invincible Mikey.

Just beneath him, a pantheon of legends. Men who had once ruled the streets during the golden era of the bosozoku. Their names still carried weight. The Haitani brothers of Roppongi, their elegance masking a savagery that few had ever lived to tell of. Kakucho, known as ‘Hitto,’ the embodiment of unwavering loyalty, a fighting machine. They were ghosts in the city, seldom seen but always felt. Their presence was undeniable, their influence woven into the very fabric of Japan itself.

Because Bonten was not just a criminal empire. Bonten was Japan.

Bonten’s empire stretched far beyond the shadows. It reigned over dozens of establishments: clubs, high-end restaurants, and, of course, an elite circle of executives. Among them, one name stood out: the Money God, Hajime Kokonoi.

No one mastered the art of capital like he did. A financial genius, a man who seemed less like a strategist and more like the very embodiment of profit itself. Unlike others in the organization, he was not feared for brute strength or combat prowess, yet he remained one of Bonten’s most dangerous weapons. Power came in many forms, and his was corruption; an ability to twist, buy, and control anything and anyone with nothing more than numbers on a balance sheet.

Because when you understand money, you don’t just hold power. You own the world.

But don’t mistake him for a man driven by wealth. He did not love money. No, Kokonoi was money.

His talent was not a gift; it was the product of a past carved in loss. But that story? That’s one everyone already knows, don’t they?

Kokonoi wasn’t married, unlike some of his colleagues. He never saw the point, especially when most of them spent their nights tangled up with hostesses, only to return home to a wife they barely respected. He found the whole thing pathetic. Yet, unlike the others, he carried a curse far worse than infidelity: he still believed in love.

But didn’t chase it. Just knew it was possible. Love didn’t fill bank accounts. So why chase a paradox that had no place in his world?

That didn’t mean he deprived himself. Every now and then, he indulged, booking the most luxurious hotel suites money could buy. It was a simple transaction, one that his wealth and status afforded him without question. But he had no interest in spoiling the women who warmed his bed. He never faked affection, never whispered sweet lies.

Because what was the point? He didn’t love them.

And Hajime Kokonoi was many things, but he was not a liar. He just never spotted the entire truth.

It was a night like any other at one of Bonten’s clubs: a strip club in disguise, masquerading as an upscale hostess lounge. Technically, nothing about it was illegal, but registering it for what it truly was? That would’ve been far more expensive. So, like most things in Bonten’s world, the truth was neatly buried under a more palatable illusion.

Beyond the velvet ropes, past the neon haze and the scent of expensive perfume, the club doubled as a crucial HQ, a place where deals were made over whiskey and promises. Tonight was no different.

Hajime Kokonoi sat in the VIP section, legs crossed, fingers idly tapping against the rim of his untouched glass. He was waiting for some old bastard to show up, another businessman who needed an executive’s signature to finalize a deal. He understood the importance of it. A partnership with a major alcohol distributor meant serious money. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a pain in the ass.

His gaze drifted downward to the stage. The dancers moved in fluid, practiced motions, their eyes scanning the crowd for high-rollers, for the kind of men who would drop a small fortune just for a few moments of feigned attention. One girl, in particular, was putting in extra effort. He could tell.

Maybe it was because of the Bonten emblem tattooed on the side of her head, a silent pledge of loyalty that left her with no choice but to please. Or maybe it was because of him.

Draped in a deep red luxury suit, silver hair falling effortlessly around sharp, piercing eyes, Kokonoi looked every bit the king he knew he was.

He couldn’t deny it, the dancer was fucking stunning. And not just tits and ass. There was something in the way she moved, a precision that turned every motion into something close to poetry.

Her nudity wasn’t even refined, he thought. It was raw. Undiluted.

Hajime watched her for a while, elbows resting on his knee, fingers lazily rolling the base of his whiskey glass. That was the thing about places like this: you could watch a bitch like she was yours. Like no one else in the room mattered. Like no other man could touch her, fuck her, own her.

And yet, the brutal truth? A few bills were all it took. A little cash, and the illusion shattered. Strip her bare, take the name she was born with, the girl she once was, turn her into nothing more than a bitch to be fucked and forgotten.

That’s how it worked. That’s what they were.

But he wasn’t delusional. He didn’t pretend. He knew what money did, what it could buy. And he was money.

After what felt like an eternity, the old bastard finally showed up. Hajime didn’t even bother to hide his irritation. He exhaled slowly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before leveling the man with an unimpressed gaze. “Took you long enough.” His tone was sharp, dismissive, the words dripping with quiet disdain. He didn’t even look at the old man at first, only shifting his gaze when the guy hesitated before finally sitting down.

The man, late fifties, maybe sixties, was trying to keep his composure, but Hajime could see right through him. The stiffness in his shoulders, the way he adjusted his outdated but expensive suit, the slight twitch of his fingers before he neatly folded them on the table. He was nervous. And he had every damn reason to be.

“Yes, yes, excuse me…” the old man muttered, voice just a little too eager to appease.

Hajime smirked, leaning back against the plush leather of the booth. The neon lights of the club flickered against the polished table, the distant bass thrumming beneath his feet. The dancer he’d been watching earlier was still moving, twisting under the glow of artificial light, but his attention had shifted elsewhere. “Keep your excuses. I’m not a whore.” His voice was smooth, slow, deliberate. “Let’s talk about the contract.”

The old man cleared his throat, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a neatly stacked pile of documents. His hands weren’t visibly shaking, not yet, at least, but Hajime noticed the extra second he took to straighten the papers before pushing them forward. “Everything is in order,” the man said carefully. “Deliveries will begin next week. We’ve secured partnerships with several distributors, but to ensure the volumes you requested, we’ll need—”

Hajime lifted a hand, cutting him off. He picked up the contract lazily, his gaze skimming the pages with barely any interest before letting them drop back onto the table with a dull thud. “You think I have time to read this shit?” He raised an eyebrow, mockery dripping from his words. “You get my signature when I decide you’re worth it. Not before.”

A muscle in the old man’s jaw twitched, but he swallowed whatever insult was clawing at his throat. He wasn’t stupid. No one pushed a Bonten executive.

“Of course,” he replied, forcing a tight smile. “I only wanted to ensure everything was clear between us.”

Hajime clicked his tongue, lips curling into the faintest smirk. “Oh, it’s clear. Crystal clear.” He paused, eyes locked on the man, who was carefully avoiding his gaze. “You want our influence. You want Bonten’s name on your bottles, so your little business becomes untouchable.” Another pause. He leaned in slightly, just enough to watch the way the old man’s breath hitched. “And I want you to stop wasting my fucking time.”

Silence.

The man stiffly nodded, obedient.

Hajime took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch between them, then exhaled, his smirk widening as he spoke.

“You seem pretty comfortable for a man whose biological daughter is dancing half-naked just a few meters away.” His tone was smooth, almost amused. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

The old man froze. His face lost its color as his wide eyes snapped to Hajime, panic flickering beneath the surface. “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Hajime tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself. “Oh? You didn’t think I’d do my research before signing a deal with you?” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make the words hit deeper. “Turns out, you recently found out you’re the father of one of these little sluts.” He gestured lazily toward the stage without even looking. “All thanks to some messy little affair you had in ’91 with a hostess whose pregnancy you never knew about. And now, look at you! Sending her money every month, playing the good Samaritan from the shadows.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like he was scolding a child. “Disgusting.”

The old man swallowed thickly, his breath uneven. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried, but his voice wavered. Weak.

Hajime chuckled. “Oh, come on. You really think you can bullshit me?” He traced the rim of his glass with his finger before continuing, his tone turning sharper. “Tell me, why not just…oh, I don’t know, tell her the fucking truth? Pull her out of this shithole? Get her away from this world?”

He gestured lazily to their surroundings, the neon haze, the bodies moving under dim lights, the stench of alcohol and greed filling the air. “This place is a fucking slaughterhouse for girls like her. A life after midnight that gets men like you rock hard because it lets you forget your pathetic little problems. And yet, you let her stay.” He let the words sink in before adding, with mock sympathy, “Oh… wait. That wouldn’t be profitable, would it?”

The old man’s breathing was ragged now. His fingers curled into fists against the table. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Hajime arched an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself.”

The man looked like he wanted to lunge across the table, but he didn’t dare. He wouldn’t. Not here. Not against him.

Hajime leaned back, stretching slightly before letting out a mocking sigh. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna let her keep spreading her legs for every rich bastard who walks through those doors? Or are you hoping she ends up just like her mother?” He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think. “Maybe you’re even hoping for a prince charming to knock her up and let history repeat itself. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

The old man shot up from his seat, his chair scraping against the floor as he glared down at Hajime. “You little—”

Hajime didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just grinned. “What? We’re just having fun, aren’t we?”

The man’s face was red with fury, but he didn’t say another word. He knew better than to make a scene. His jaw tightened, his hands trembling slightly as he straightened his suit. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the VIP section.

Hajime watched him go, utterly unbothered. Then, he reached for his drink, taking a slow, satisfied sip before mumbling to himself with a smirk—

“What a fucking joke.”

—

It had been about a week since that night at the club, and Hajime Kokonoi was seething in his office.

The leather chair creaked slightly as he leaned back, eyes locked onto the document on his desk, the contract termination notice. His jaw clenched, fingers tapping impatiently against the polished wood.

That old bastard had backed out. At the very last fucking minute.

Hajime himself had personally allocated resources, shifted capital, rerouted assets, pulled strings with bastards who didn’t like to wait. And now? Now there was a gaping hole in the revenue pipeline, a missing percentage that would have to be covered. By whom? By what? It wasn’t just a matter of money lost, it was money wasted. Capital that could’ve been reinvested into other high-yield ventures was now locked into a failed agreement. Worse, the sudden withdrawal of a business partner created market instability, the kind that could make other investors hesitant, the kind that chipped away at Bonten’s illusion of invincibility. That was unacceptable.

Kokonoi didn’t know what had finally scared him off. His little guilty conscience, or the fact that he’d realized what kind of game he was playing. Either way, he had pulled out, and Bonten had lost money. A lot of it. The deal had been profitable as hell. The alcohol distribution network was tight, clean, and already established. The profits had been estimated in the hundreds of millions. And now? Now that deal was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

Unacceptable.

Across from him, one of his men stood stiffly, waiting for orders. He hesitated before speaking.

“Koko-kun, do you want me to take care of him? Directly?”

Kokonoi exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples before responding. “Not yet.” His voice was low, tight with restrained fury. “I can’t let him walk away feeling like he made the right choice.”

The man frowned. “But if we let him live–”

Kokonoi’s gaze snapped up, sharp and cold. “Who the fuck said anything about letting him live?”

The man stiffened. “I—I just meant, if we wait too long—”

Kokonoi clicked his tongue, silencing him. “If we kill him now, it’s easy. It’s clean. Too clean.” He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice dropping even lower. “Do you have any fucking idea how much we lost because of this?”

The man swallowed, but didn’t speak. He knew better.

“That contract was worth billions in long-term revenue. Not just from alcohol sales, but from political leverage, real estate, smuggling routes. We had a goddamn empire built into that deal, and now? Now I have to explain to Mikey why it went to shit.”

The thought alone made his blood boil.

“That old fuck thinks this is over. Thinks he can just run back to his sad little life and pretend Bonten never touched him. But I’ll make sure he remembers.” Kokonoi’s fingers curled into a fist. “I’ll take everything from him.”

‘But what everything?’ he thought. The old man had nothing but himself. And that slut of a daughter…

Silence settled between them, heavy and charged. Then, in a casual tone, Kokonoi finally spoke again. “Find out everything about his assets. His real estate, his suppliers, his family. I want to know where every yen of his goes.” He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, the anger settling into something calmer. Something colder.

—

The club was suffocating tonight.

A thick haze of smoke lingered in the air, clinging to the velvet walls and cheap perfume of the girls weaving through the crowd. The bass was low, steady, a dull throb that rattled in Hajime’s ribcage as he stepped inside. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.

Tonight wasn’t business.

Tonight was about the girl.

The plan was simple. Take her. Fuck her. Destroy her. Kill her, preferably right in front of her old man. Make him watch. Make him understand exactly how badly he fucked up. It wasn’t just about the contract anymore. That bastard had been in debt to Bonten long before this little scandal. This? This was just the final nail in the coffin. He had dug his own grave, and Hajime was more than happy to bury him in it. Twenty million yen. That was the number. The amount that wrinkled old shit owed them. Did they make him pay it off in blood first, or did they let him sweat: make him watch as his dirty little secret was used and ruined before they slit her throat?

Hajime hadn’t decided yet.

But the mere thought of getting his revenge made his pulse hum with excitement. This was personal now.

Some things, you left to the grunts. The dumb muscle. The ones who barely knew how to count the money they broke bones for. But Kokonoi wanted to handle this himself. Personally.

Because money was his business. And if you tried to fuck with his business, then he would fuck you right back. Only, unlike that old bastard, he finished the job.

She wasn’t on stage. No bright lights casting her into a fragile illusion of allure. No hungry men stuffing bills into her hands. No rehearsed smiles. Just her. Somewhere in this room. He walked slowly through the club, letting his presence ripple through the space like oil spilling over water. He could feel the eyes on him, some of the girls whispering, some of the men shifting uncomfortably at the sight of his crimson silk jacket, the insignia of Bonten stitched onto his head like a warning.

No one approached him. No one dared.

He didn’t need muscle to clear a path. He was the fucking muscle.

The bartender, a man in his forties with a sunken face and a shirt too tight around his stomach, recognized him immediately. He tensed up but nodded in respect.

“Koko-kun. Welcome.”

Hajime barely glanced at him. “The girl,” he said, voice smooth, quiet, but firm. The bartender took a moment to understand. Ah yeah, that terrible story…The contract…He hesitated for a second too long. Hajime didn’t like that.

His fingers drummed against the bar once, a slow, lazy rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The man swallowed. “She’s over there.” He gestured with his chin.

Hajime turned his head, following the direction. And then. There she was.

Perched at the end of the bar, a cigarette between her fingers, head tilted slightly as she exhaled a slow stream of smoke. Her lips parted just slightly, lazily, like she had all the time in the world to ruin her lungs.

Not painted in glitter. Just a black dress clinging to her shoulders, bare legs crossed as she swirled the whiskey in her glass, the ice clicking softly against the glass.

Hajime already knew everything about her. Twenty-six years old. Been working in the club for six years. No family…except, well. He smirked to himself. She wouldn’t know about that.

She didn’t look fragile. If anything, she looked unbothered. Detached. As if the world could collapse around her, and she’d simply take another drag of her cigarette and wait for the dust to settle. Yet there was something that made everything softer.

His footsteps were soft against the polished floor as he moved toward her.

One step. Then another. No rush. No need.

By the time she noticed him, he was already too close to ignore.

Her eyes flicked up, scanning him lazily, as if trying to decide whether he was worth acknowledging.

Hajime smiled.

She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable at first. Maybe she thought he was just another rich bastard in an expensive suit, looking for a way to waste his money on booze and flesh.

But then, she really saw him.

Her grip on the cigarette tightened. Just a fraction. But Hajime noticed. The realization flickered in her eyes, slow but certain. Bonten.

And it was already too late.

The moment fear settled in, the moment her breath hitched just slightly, he knew.

She was terrified.

Good.

The neon lights above the bar painted her skin in soft shades of pink and violet, but they couldn’t hide the way she stiffened, the way she suddenly sat up a little straighter. He could see her mind working, trying to figure out why the hell a high-ranking member of Bonten was standing in front of her. Did she fuck up? Was she getting fired? Or was it something worse?

Hajime chuckled lowly, tilting his head just enough to let her feel his amusement. “Relax,” he murmured, voice smooth, almost gentle, almost. He pulled out the barstool next to hers and took a seat, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. The club pulsed around them, thick with cigarette smoke and the scent of cheap whiskey. Laughter echoed from dark corners, hushed conversations slithering between the bass of the music. But at this moment, at this table, there was only them.

Hajime Kokonoi sat lazily, one arm draped over the back of his seat, his expensive clothing barely creasing as he leaned forward just enough to inspect her. His gaze raked over her like she was nothing, like she was an object, a transaction.

He smirked, slow and cold. “Nice dress. Yves Saint Laurent.”

The girl blinked at him, her features smooth and unreadable. But he saw the flicker of something underneath, something cautious. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before slipping on her well-rehearsed mask. A pretty smile, a soft gaze. The kind of expression that had kept her alive in a world that chewed girls up and spat them out before dawn. “Thank you, sir.” Her voice was syrupy sweet, perfectly measured.

He tilted his head, his sharp eyes gleaming under the dim neon glow. “That dress wasn’t provided by the club, though.” He tapped his fingers against the table, a slow calculated rhythm. “Too expensive. Why waste money dressing up the merchandise when it’s just going to get ripped off after midnight?” His tone was light, casual even, as if he was discussing the weather. But the disdain dripped from every syllable.

The girl didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a soft, practiced laugh. The kind of laugh that made men believe they were charming. “You’re right,” she admitted smoothly. “It wasn’t the club.”

Hajime feigned curiosity. “You didn’t buy it either. That much is obvious.” He smirked, his voice like silk laced with venom. “You can’t afford it.”

She nodded, still holding her polite little smile. “That’s true. It was a gift. From a client.”

His smirk deepened. He loved this game.

“Oh? A lover? A sugar daddy, maybe? Where is he now?”

There was a brief pause. Just a flicker of hesitation before she answered, her voice still sweet, still careful. “No. Just a loyal client. He died.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow. “Ah. A casualty of business, I assume?”

She gave a small, indifferent shrug. “A turf war. A hit. Who knows? These things happen.” She said it with such calm detachment, like death was nothing more than another item on the menu.

Hajime chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Of course. You’re versatile, aren’t you? Sometimes a dancer, sometimes a hostess, but always a whore.”

His words were a knife, sharp and deliberate. Cruel, but not emotional. Just an observation. A fact.

She smiled: small, poised. The way a servant smiles at a king.

He leaned forward now, closing the distance just enough to let her feel the weight of his presence. His voice dropped just slightly, still smooth, still dangerous.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

She blinked at him.

“You’re pretty. You bring in good money as long as you stay fuckable and breathing.” His fingers traced the rim of his untouched glass. “And most importantly, alive.”

The girl exhaled a slow stream of smoke, letting it curl lazily into the air between them before meeting his gaze again.

“Smoking kills,” she murmured, her voice soft but steady. Then, with the faintest hint of something that might have been defiance, or maybe just resignation, she added, “Living does too. So I might as well ruin myself on my own terms.”

For the first time that night, Hajime actually laughed. Shame she wouldn’t last long.

Hajime exhaled slowly, letting the air settle between them, his gaze dripping with condescension as he let his eyes roam over her. He didn’t bother hiding it. He never did. “Good one.” His voice was smooth, low, laced with something almost mocking as he tilted his head slightly. “Alright, let’s not dance around it. I want you tonight.”

She didn’t react at first. Just a blink, a flicker of something careful behind her practiced expression. But then she slipped back into character, that same polite mask she had perfected years ago. “You’re an executive,” she said, her voice feather-light, like she wasn’t about to walk on knives. “What brings someone of your rank to a club like this? And for me, no less?”

Hajime clicked his tongue, rolling his neck as if the question itself was exhausting.

“Don’t piss me off with stupid questions, sweetheart.” His tone was still calm, but there was an edge to it now. A warning. “You’ve got a reputation. I like to verify things myself.”

She hummed softly, pretending to be flattered, pretending like she wasn’t already mapping the quickest way out of this conversation. “Oh? Really?”

Hajime’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t get cocky.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “See, I signed. Which means I can do whatever the fuck I want. You might have men at your feet, but I have the world at the tip of my pen.”

How disgusting.

She said nothing. Just let the words sit there, sinking into the space between them like a poison she had no choice but to swallow. Hajime chuckled, leaning back as he studied her reaction, or rather, her lack of one. His smirk deepened. “I hear you’ve got a sharp tongue. Your blowjobs are practically wordplay.” He laughed at his own remark, a low, lazy sound, amused at his own filth.

“So much money, so little love… But hey—” He tapped his temple lightly, as if sharing a secret. “Professional secrecy. Shhh. This stays between us.” He laughed again, it all felt so cold.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume, a mix of sweat and desperation clinging to the velvet-lined walls of the club. The low hum of jazz-laced lounge music barely masked the occasional moans slipping from behind closed doors, where men of power spent their nights indulging in whatever they could afford.

He exhaled slowly, watching her, waiting. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, her fingers gripping the edge of the bar like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. He had seen it before, this moment of realization. When they understood that no matter how much they played the game, they would always be at the mercy of men like him.

Hajime fed on that understanding.

He sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair before tilting his head at her with that same lazy smirk. “What, you want me to get on my knees and beg or something?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “C’mon, let’s move. VIP rooms are upstairs… but oh, I don’t have to teach you that, do I?”

She hesitated. Not because she was new to this, but because of him. His words, his tone, the way he didn’t even try to hide how fucking brutal he was.

Hajime caught it immediately. He lived for that hesitation. His smirk widened, but his gaze remained sharp, cruel. “What’s wrong? Scared?” His laugh was low, taunting. He leaned in just a bit, his presence suffocating as he murmured, “Oh, let me guess. You wanted something more romantic? A countryside love story?” Then, with a sharp, biting laugh, he added, “You’d rather I bend you over a haystack and fuck you under the stars?”

She swallowed hard, forcing a small, trained smile, but he could see the stiffness in her fingers as she brushed her hair back. She was good at this game, but he was better. Without waiting for a response, Hajime turned on his heel and started toward the VIP rooms, expecting her to follow. The club’s heavy bass thrummed beneath his feet as he moved, his expensive loafers clicking against the polished floor. The dim, red-tinted lighting cast long shadows, giving the space a dark, almost underworldly glow.

The other girls, the staff, the security, they all watched. Not openly, of course. Nobody in their right mind would stare directly at Hajime Kokonoi. But he could feel their eyes, their silent acknowledgment of who he was and what was about to happen.

She followed. Of course, she did.

They always did.

The VIP room was drowned in low, amber lighting, the kind designed to make sins feel softer, more acceptable. The walls were lined with velvet, deep crimson like the color of fresh blood, and a faint trace of perfume, expensive, floral, but cheapened by the suffocating scent of lust, lingered in the air. A large leather couch sat in the center, sleek and indulgent, facing a glass coffee table littered with empty crystal glasses. A half-melted candle flickered in the corner, its dim glow casting restless shadows across the walls. A room built for indulgence. A room built for men like him.

Hajime took a seat with a lazy sort of elegance, spreading his legs, one arm resting over the back of the couch as he watched her. She already knew the routine. No hesitation, no pointless attempts at small talk, just quiet obedience. She turned, hands ghosting over the zipper of her dress, but Hajime narrowed his eyes.

“Front.” His voice was smooth but firm, leaving no room for argument. “I want to see your straps roll down your hips.”

There was a flicker of something in her expression, reluctance? But she obeyed. The dress peeled away from her body in slow, deliberate movements, sliding over the curve of her shoulders, her arms, her waist. He watched, taking in the way silk and skin intertwined before parting, his gaze unreadable, yet heavy.

This was business.

He had walked into this room with a purpose: to ruin, to destroy, to punish. He was meant to be thinking of her father, of the debt, of the contract, of revenge. But then she looked at him. Not with desire, not with fear. Just… unreadable, much like himself. And suddenly, his thoughts became something else entirely.

And for the first time that night, Hajime Kokonoi forgot why he was here.

This is my second work ever yayyy. English isn't my first language!!

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