21|atiny|insane pansexual

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”

Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”

Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”

Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”

Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”

Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”

“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.

The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”

Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”

The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”

“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”

Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”

“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.

Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.

Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”

Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”

Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”

“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”

Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”

“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”

Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.

Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”

Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”

Seonghwa blinked, genuinely startled. “They don’t?”

“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”

“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”

“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”

Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”

“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”

Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”

Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”

“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”

“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”

“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.

“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”

Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”

“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”

“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”

“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”

Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”

Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”

“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.

“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”

Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”

Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”

Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”

Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”

“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”

Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”

“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.

Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”

The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree. 

“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”

“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”

Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”

Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”

Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”

Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”

“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”

Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”

“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”

“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”

Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”

Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.

“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”

Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”

Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.

Then, he clicked Print.

The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.

[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]

Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.

“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.

Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.

“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.

“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.

“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.

“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.

The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”

The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.

[OUT OF PAPER.]

Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.

Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.

Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.

Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.

He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.

A dozen heads turned.

Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.

“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.

An hour.

The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.

The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”

Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”

“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”

That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”

“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.

“Hyung?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.

The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.

“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”

You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.

“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.

The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”

The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.

You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.

You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.

It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.

The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”

Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.

The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”

Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.

The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.

The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.

The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird. You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.

There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days. Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country. You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.

Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.

“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”

Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”

“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”

The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.

“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”

Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.

“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”

Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.

Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.

“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.

“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest. Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.

The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.

You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.

When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”

“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.

“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”

She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.

They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”

You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”

Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”

You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.

The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”

Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”

“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”

Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses. You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him. 

It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”

You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.

Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.

Viper.

The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.

The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.

“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.

“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.

The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming. With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.

Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.

Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.

“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”

The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.

“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”

“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”

The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.

“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”

Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.

[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL) Channel: #general-tactics

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.

FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.

“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”

Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”

“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”

You opened your mouth to defend your honour.

He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”

“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"

“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”

“I was saving him from bullies!”

“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”

“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.

Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”

“I do NOT bite people!”

“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”

“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.

“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”

“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”

“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”

Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”

You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”

“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”

“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”

Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”

“And if I do?”

“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”

“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.

Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”

“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”

“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”

“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”

“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.

You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.

You: Surprise me.

You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ...oh. Okay. Wow. Yes. Ma’am.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”

Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”

“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”

From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”

“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.

Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”

“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”

Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”

“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”

Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”

Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.

“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”

“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”

“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”

Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.

“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”

Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”

“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”

Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”

“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”

But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.

“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”

“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”

Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”

You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”

“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”

“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”

Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”

You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”

“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”

You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”

“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”

The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.

Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”

You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”

Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”

“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”

“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”

“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”

“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”

“You’re not helping.”

“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”

“I don’t stare at the floor!”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”

“That door started it.”

“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”

“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”

“That was iconic,” he said warmly.

You groaned. “I hate this.”

“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”

“I’m not emotionally invested.”

He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.

“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.

Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”

“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”

“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”

“It’s not like that!”

Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”

You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”

He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”

“I PANICKED.”

“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”

“None. They’ve all evaporated.”

“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”

You swallowed. “This is stupid.”

“Say it.”

You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”

“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.

Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”

“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.

Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”

“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”

Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”

“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”

“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”

“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.

“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The Discord pinged—a sharp, digital summons.

[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital... Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel. StarHwa_04 is in the channel. FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.

“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.

Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”

You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”

You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”

On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.

“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”

Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.

Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”

You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.

“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”

Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”

“Obviously,” you said.

Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”

“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.

“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”

Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.

Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.

Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”

But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”

You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”

A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.

Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”

“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.

Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.

Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.

Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”

Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”

There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.

“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.

“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”

The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening. The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.

“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”

“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.

Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”

Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”

Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.

Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.

“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”

Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.

VICTORY.

Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.

Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”

“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”

Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”

Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”

Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”

Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”

Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”

You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”

Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”

The lobby clicked. Match Found.

On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.

That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep. His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe. 

You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted  to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.

Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”

“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”

He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.

“What’s in the bag?”

He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.

You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”

Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”

“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.

“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”

“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”

Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock. 

“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”

“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”

“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”

Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”

“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.

Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—

Your stomach dropped. 

No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.

“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”

Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.

You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”

He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.

“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”

His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.

You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”

He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—” 

You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”

His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”

Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”

Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.

You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”

Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.

“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.

“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.

“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”

You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”

Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”

“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”

Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”

“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”

Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”

“I was stabilising the situation!”

“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”

You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”

“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.

Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”

“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.

“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”

“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”

Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”

“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.

He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”

“He didn’t say it like—” you began.

Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”

You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”

“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”

“Oh my god.”

“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”

“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.

Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”

“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.

Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”

“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”

“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.

Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”

You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”

“Yes?” he said sweetly.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”

Silence.

Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”

“I don’t bite,” you muttered.

Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”

You took another sip. “I already do.”

Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”

DAY ONE

"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"

You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.

His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.

You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.

The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"

Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.

"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.

"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."

You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.

"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"

You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.

"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."

"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.

"I don't have toiletries."

"You'll find it appropriately stocked."

"But what about my skincare?"

"Again. Appropriately stocked."

"You don't even know my skin concerns."

"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."

You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."

"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."

"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.

You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.

"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."

"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."

Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.

DAY FOUR

For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.

You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.

The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.

The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.

But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.

"Good morning. Kind of."

You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."

"Had some business in Australia."

You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."

He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.

You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.

When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"

You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.

You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.

"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."

Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.

"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."

The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"

The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"

It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.

When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.

It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.

"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.

"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.

"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"

The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?

Wait. Their souls?

"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."

"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).

"Their daughter."

You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.

You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.

"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"But… I'm here…"

He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"

"The Devil?!"

"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."

You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.

"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."

"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.

"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"

He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."

"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."

"So… you're… enslaving me?"

He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."

"A contract."

"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"

"Enslavement."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"

"Wow, what a gentleman."

"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.

"But I didn't ask you for anything."

"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."

"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"

He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.

"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.

INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT

Contract ID 666-4 This Agreement is entered into between:

THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";

and

Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".

PREAMBLE

WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;

WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;

WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;

WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;

THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:

OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.

Duties shall include, but are not limited to:

Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day

Responding to customer complaints from damned souls

Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks

Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises

Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots

Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes

Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire

Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday

Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department

Conducting annual inventories of screams

Working closely with Minghao from Accounting

Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.

OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.

You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

"What's the catch?"

"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."

"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."

You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."

He smirks and follows directions.

"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"

"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."

He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"

The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"

His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"

You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."

You sigh and skim the employment agreement.

POSITION

Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty

Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:

Maintaining Employer's schedule

Screening calls

Organizing contracts

Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.

Managing infernal correspondence

Other duties as assigned

Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.

COMPENSATION

During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:

Free housing

Free meals

Free skincare

Access to infernal healthcare

Unlimited coffee

Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:

Permanent demon status

Comfortable accommodations

Full retirement benefits

Choice of station

WORKPLACE CONDUCT

Employer shall not:

Steal Employee's soul

Curse Employee without written notice

Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)

Employee shall not:

Summon competitors

Sign contracts on Employer's behalf

Open portals without supervision

Feed eldritch horrors after midnight

TERMINATION

This Agreement may only be terminated by:

Employee's natural death

The collapse of reality

Mutual agreement

A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel

INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION

Upon execution of this Agreement:

Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents

Employer shall permanently cease collection efforts

Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"

The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.

You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.

"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.

"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."

"We—"

"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."

He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.

"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."

"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"

"You're the literal Devil."

"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"

You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.

"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."

"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"

You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."

He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."

The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"

"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."

"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"

"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."

"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."

He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."

"What if you hurt me?" you point out.

He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."

You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?

"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"

You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."

"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"

"On the point of employment until death…"

The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."

You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."

"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."

"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."

He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."

The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.

"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay…"

"What?"

"What do I call you?"

"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."

"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."

He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.

"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."

And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."

When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.

"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"

DAY TEN

Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.

You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.

And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.

He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.

Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.

"So… who are you…?"

You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.

The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"

You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."

He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."

"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.

The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.

"I am not dead."

"What's your—"

"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.

"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"

You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.

"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"

"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.

"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.

"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.

"Stop!"

"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"

"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."

You hum in approval. "Good to hear."

"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."

You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."

"Your funeral."

"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"

The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."

"I didn't ask."

"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"

You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.

"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"

"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"

You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."

Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.

Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.

Dear Satan,

If you're real, prove it.

You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.

"Interesting."

"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."

He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.

"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"

He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.

"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.

You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.

Dear Satan, should I text my ex?

I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.

Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?

No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.

Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?

Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.

Probably. What's her name?

He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"

You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"

"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."

"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."

"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"

"Nope. Get used to it."

DAY SIXTEEN

Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.

This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.

It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.

"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"

"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."

"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.

"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."

You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."

"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."

"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."

"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."

"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"

"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."

You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."

You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."

"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."

"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."

You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.

You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.

You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.

"Hello?"

"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."

"Thanks," he says slowly.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay then. Bye."

You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.

You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.

You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"

He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.

"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.

"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."

"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."

"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."

You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.

"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."

"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."

You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Is that allowed?"

He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."

You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.

"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.

The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.

Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.

"Summoning uniform."

"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.

"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.

"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.

"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."

"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.

"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"

"Infernal Majesty."

"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.

The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.

"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."

"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.

"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."

"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

"Our tithes are declining."

"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.

Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."

The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"

"He gets it," Jun cuts in.

"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."

"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.

"For…?"

Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.

"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"

"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."

You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"

He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.

You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.

"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"

You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"

"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"

Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."

"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"

"Where are they?"

"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"

"Um, can we get back to the—"

"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.

"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."

"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.

"Unnecessary, but we'll—"

"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"

"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"

"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.

"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"

Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.

"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.

"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"

"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."

"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."

Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."

The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.

"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"

"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.

"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."

There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.

"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"

"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."

You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"

Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.

"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."

The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.

"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."

"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"

You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.

"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."

The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.

"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."

Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."

"I was right."

"Hm?"

"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."

You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."

"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"

You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.

Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.

You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.

Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.

There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.

Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.

That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?

Will you leave me alone if I agree?

JUN.

One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.

Exhibit A: Soonyoung.

Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.

"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."

The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"

He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"

"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."

He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Next question."

The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."

"Why not?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"

You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."

"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."

"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."

"Yes."

"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."

Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."

"The dude—"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"

The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.

You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.

"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."

You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"

"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"

You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."

"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."

"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."

He groans. "Yes it is!"

"It isn't."

"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."

"Why do you think that?"

He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"

You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"

"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."

"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."

"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."

"And do what?"

His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."

"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"

"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"

The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.

But you're not so you aren't. You smile.

"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."

The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"

"Spit it out."

"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."

You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.

"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."

"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"

"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"

"Because it's the full moon."

"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"

Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.

"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"

You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.

"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"

"Okay, relax," he mutters.

"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"

"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."

The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.

"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"

When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.

"What is it?" you ask.

"I am a great boss."

"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you? Because you—"

"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."

"Hm."

"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Mhm."

"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.

DAY THIRTY

You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.

"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.

Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.

"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.

Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.

Meeting with Archangel Joshua Marketing Team pitch Block for contracts Block for collection Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory) Hellhound training check-in Block for contracts 1:1 with Chief Torment Officer

His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.

"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.

"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"

"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"

"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."

You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.

"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.

"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."

Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.

But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.

"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.

And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.

"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.

"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.

You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.

The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.

"Hey!"

"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."

"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."

"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."

"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."

"Week."

"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.

"Specific."

"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.

You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.

Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.

When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.

"You're a baby when you're sick."

"I could die."

"You literally couldn't."

He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."

"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.

"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."

"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."

Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"

You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"

"Why are you feeding me?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"

Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.

"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.

After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.

"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."

"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."

You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.

"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.

There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.

You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.

Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.

It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.

The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"

"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"

"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."

You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"

"Archangel Brayden…?"

The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.

"Tell him he's not available."

"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.

"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"

You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"

"You said—"

"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."

"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.

"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"

"Who am I speaking to?"

You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.

He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."

"And why is that?"

He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."

"Well, he's busy."

"I haven't even given you my availability."

"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.

There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."

"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.

"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"

"I am literally none of those four things."

"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."

"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"

"Brayden."

You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.

He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.

"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.

"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?

"What a fucking tool," you murmur.

"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.

"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"

"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.

"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."

"Hm."

You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.

"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.

"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"

"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."

The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.

"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"

"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"

Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."

He squeaks in protest. "I—"

"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."

"Uh, I, um, sir—"

"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"

"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"

"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."

"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."

Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"

"Yes?" his voice trembles.

"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."

There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.

"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."

The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.

As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.

"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."

He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.

"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."

"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"

He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."

"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.

Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.

"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.

"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."

The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.

You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.

"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"

"Okay."

"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."

You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."

"Mhm."

"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.

"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."

You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."

You laugh. "Will do."

You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Jun: where tf r u Me: have a dr appt!!! Jun: what why r u ok Jun: i'll come over Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up Jun: u sure ur ok? Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon. Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back Me: bruh Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me??? Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me Me: you could have just called Jun: k wtvr noted Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK

"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.

You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."

The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."

"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"

"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."

You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.

Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.

"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.

"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."

The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"

"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"

"Brayden."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"

You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."

The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.

"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."

You frown. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"

"Uh…" You're stumped.

It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.

You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.

"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.

"Can you read minds?"

She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."

"But I haven't given you my symptoms."

"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."

You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."

You startle. "What? Why?"

"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."

You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.

"Are you done?"

"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"

"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."

Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."

"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"

She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."

"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?

"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.

"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"

"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."

"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."

"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."

"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.

"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"

The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.

Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.

"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"

She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."

"Right."

When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.

Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.

"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.

"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.

"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"

"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."

Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."

You roll your eyes. "Sure."

"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."

"About what?"

"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."

The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?

When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?

When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?

When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?

When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?

Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.

You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."

"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."

"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."

His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."

Touché. "It's ridiculous."

"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"

You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"

"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"

What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.

Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.

But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.

When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.

You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.

"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."

"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"

Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.

"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."

You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?

You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.

"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.

"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"

"Hot pot?"

"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"

He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."

"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."

Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."

You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.

"Happy DAD, I guess."

The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.

"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."

You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.

"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."

You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"

His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."

You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.

"Can I hug you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"

He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."

"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"

Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"

"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.

He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.

"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."

Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."

You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.

When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.

For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.

"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."

He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."

You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."

You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.

JOIN MY PERMANENT TAG LIST • next part »

Calming yourself down, you focus on what you need to do now. It's past lunch, so you need to eat. You gather your things and head to the grocery store, needing some real food.

Once you've eaten lunch, you take a shower and purchase some resale tickets for the concert. Once you've sent Jung-Young her ticket, you pick out your clothes and do your hair and makeup. You throw on some jeans and a T-shirt, doing minimal makeup. You don't want to seem too much.

Glancing at the clock, you see it's about time to leave for the concert, so you head out and stop by an ATM to get cash for your lightstick.

When you arrive at the concert, you spot Jung-Young waiting for you. When she spots you, she starts waving two lightsticks in the air as you jog over to her.

"You did not," you blurt out.

"Oh, but I did," she grins.

"Here," you scramble to pull the cash you'd gotten out of your pocket. "I got this to buy my lightstick. Take it."

"No, no, it's okay. It's a gift," she insists. You sigh, but put the cash back in your pocket, following her into the stadium.

The concert ends up starting late, which isn't necessarily bad, but your stomach is full of butterflies by the time it actually starts. The members step out onto the stage, and you feel like you're in a dream. But then Yoongi steps out, and your heart skips a beat.

He's dressed in dark jeans, a white V-neck shirt, and a denim jacket. You stand there in awe as he surveys the crowd, your heart pounding. The stage lights make him look ethereal, and you let out a loud squeal.

The night passes by in a blur of screaming and jumping. It's over too fast, and your throat is protesting every note you've sung throughout the night. You have the absolute time of your life, and you take tons of pictures and videos.

When the concert ends, you do your best to hide your tears from Jung-Young, but your shaking shoulders give you away. "Are you seriously crying?" she teases.

You nod. "He's so handsome, I don't want this to end," you mumble shakily.

Jung-Young gives you an understanding smile, "I know...but we can go to their next event. I think it's in a few months." You want to object, tell her it's too long of a wait, but you just nod silently.

»»--------------------------------------------------------------------------►

When you get home from the concert, you shove all your textbooks into your backpack and collapse into bed, falling asleep almost instantly.

When your alarm goes off the next morning, you realize your makeup and concert clothes are still on. You quickly put on fresh clothes and redo your makeup, before getting ready for class.

When you arrive, Jung-Young is waiting for you outside the classroom. "Do you want to sit together today?" she asks excitedly.

"Absolutely!" you exclaim.

The two of you head into class, picking your seats and discussing the material while waiting for the teacher to arrive.

When the teacher arrives, he introduces himself as Seonsaengnim Choi. He's a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and hair so obviously dyed black you want to laugh. When he begins speaking, his gestures are so animated it's almost comical.

You listen carefully throughout the class, taking extensive notes and trying to absorb as much information as possible. Once the class ends, you tell Jung-Young that you'll catch up with her, and go over to where Seonsaengnim Choi is gathering his teaching notes.

"Seonsaengnim Choi?" you speak up.

"Yes?" he looks up from his notes.

"Hi, I was wondering if you happened to have office hours where I can ask you some questions," you explain.

He smiles, "Of course. I have a slot available at 8:00 tomorrow morning. I can put you down if you'll tell me your name."

"My name is Y/N," you reply.

He nods, writing your name in his schedule. "Alright, Y/N. I'll see you tomorrow at eight."

"Thank you, Seonsaengnim," you say, bowing slightly before leaving the room.

When you leave the building, Jung-Young is waiting for you. "What was that about?" she asks.

"I asked him if he had office hours. He did, and he put me down for 8 in the morning tomorrow," you explain.

"Wow, you're really on top of things. I'm impressed," she remarks.

"Thanks," you smile.

"What're you doing later?" she asks.

"I'm just going to go home and study," you reply.

"Do you want to go to the coffee shop from yesterday and study together?" she offers.

"Sure!" you agree. "What time?"

"Does now work? We already have all our books," she suggests.

He was the monster under your bed. The story your parents told to warn against disobedience and sneaking out at night. They warned you about him, and did you listen?

Of course not.

The night you met him was the night you lost your soul to the god of depravity. 

It was a cool winter’s night, as all stories like these start, and you had snuck out to see the stars. You didn’t care to bring a jacket with you. “Just a quick look.” you promised yourself.

Oh darling. How wrong you were. 

Quick as snow melting on skin, a man was before you. He smelled of spices, musk, and a coppery tang that seemed familiar. “You’re out much past dark, darling. Are you lost?” he asks in a silky smooth baritone that spoke of stolen kisses and whispered desires. You’re stunned at his presence. Why would such an ungodly beautiful man be talking to you? 

“I- I came here to see the stars. It’s the first clear night all winter.” you stammer out. You shiver slightly, whether from the cold or from the man’s heated stare, you weren’t sure. He chuckles lowly, the sound sending tingles up your spine. 

“The stars cannot possibly hope to match your radiance.” He murmurs, stepping closer to you. You can feel the heat of his body as he stops just inches away from you. His deep brown eyes seem to draw you in, luring you closer, closer. Your skin flushes with his comment, and he reaches out to brush his cold, cold fingers over your cheek. “What a beautiful color.” 

“I- who are you?” You ask, your breath stolen away by his mere presence. He chuckles again. 

“Some would call me Satan. Some would call me a nightmare born from the depths of Tartarus. But you, darling? You may call me Mingi.” He says, his perfectly pink lips curved in a devilish grin. A shiver races up your spine. You should run. You should leave. But you can’t bring yourself to. 

“What are you doing here, if you’re Satan, the devil incarnate?” You ask. He laughs. 

“I’m simply enjoying the hunt.” He says. Another shiver goes up your spine. Another warning you ignore. 

“What do you mean? What hunt? Who’s hunting me?” You ask. They say curiosity killed the cat, and right now, you were the cat, you were the prey, but you ignored the warning signs. Mingi laughs again. 

“Why, the hunt for you, darling. The hunt to take you, taste you, ruin you.” He says huskily, stepping closer, resting his hands on your hips, tugging your body closer. 

Oh darling. You should’ve run while you had the chance. 

He leans his head in, his heated breath skating across the bare skin of your neck and shoulders. You really should’ve worn a coat. He inhales deeply. 

“God, darling, your blood is like a siren’s call. I can’t bring myself to resist it.” He moans softly. His mouth brushes over your skin, sending shivers of pleasure to your stomach. Your breath hitches, you should push him away, you should run for your life, but it’s too late. You’re in his arms, under the spell of his scent, and you can’t pull away. 

His mouth presses to your pulse point, his tongue gently stroking the skin there, and a soft whine slips from your lips. “You smell so good, taste so good, like sin incarnate.” He groans. His teeth nip at the skin, causing you to yelp. He grins against your skin. “God, those sounds you make…” he murmurs. 

Before you register it, his teeth, his fangs, pierce the skin of your neck, and he groans as the sweetness of your blood hits his tongue. “Darling, you taste magnificent.” He mumbles against your skin. You can’t think straight. Your mind is foggy from blood loss and something akin to… desire? 

“Wh-what are you?” You manage to say, your mind spinning. He laughs darkly. 

“Oh darling. I’m your worst nightmare. I’m the monster under your bed. I’m the story your parents tell you to warn against sneaking out.” He leans closer to whisper in your ear, his lips brushing against the shell of it, sending shivers down your spine. “I am the night.” 

You really should’ve run when you had the chance. 

“How does it feel, darling? To be the object of someone’s desire? To be their sinful indulgence? To bring their filthiest fantasies into the light of the moon?” He murmurs against your ear, his tongue flicking out to brush over the skin. 

“I- I- “ You gasp out, unable to form a coherent response. He chuckles huskily and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses over your throat. 

“Speechless already, darling? I’ve barely started.” He murmurs. You gasp, and your eyes flutter shut, your knees going weak. He catches you, smoothly picking you up into his arms. 

You don’t remember how you got to his house. You don’t remember the passionate kisses, the needy moans, the way your clothes hit the floor. But you remember how he felt. You remember every shivering sensation racing through your body, every sensitive spot not left unkissed. 

FIRST COMES THE SILENCE. It's your only warning as the world peels away from you, the murmur of the court fading to the background until even the sound of voices are lost to the stillness. The warmth leeches from you next, a cold tingle blooming through you like spreading frost in winter, your arms getting heavy. You sit abruptly as the world shifts and the throne room fades to something else, something wet and freezing cold.

Rain.

Rain is falling in relentless sheets that are so cold it hurts, even through the vision. In front of you is a battledfield churned to a sea of black mud, cut up by boots and the hooves of war horses and the deep wheels of the machines of war. Broken wagons lie half-stuck in the mud, their splintered wheels jutting up from the chaos, some still spinning. Banners in colors lost to the black mud with symbols you can't make out in the rain hang in sodden ribbons, snapped from their poles.

The smell chokes you. Wet earth. Wood smoke. Blood. So much blood that it fills your mouth, warm and metallic. You cough, falling forward into the vision so that your knees hit the mud with a wet squelch. Your hand catches on metal and when you look down, the broken body of a soldier is beneath you. His throat is a scarlet gash, opened up from a sword, his eyes vacant and staring at the rainy sky.

You recoil, snatching your hand away as you fall backward into the rain, ass sinking into the mud. Somewhere to your left, a horse screams, high and shrill until the sound is abruptly cut off. A man a few yards away crawls through the mud with a single arm, the other several yards behind him where the fingers are still curled around the hilt of a broken sword. He drags himself toward you as though he's asking for help, and you scream and look away.

The world tilts and your vision changes abruptly, each image overlapping the other in flashes of light and sound. Thousands of bodies. A river choked with them. A bridge with the banners of the northern king. The emperor - your emperor- on his war chariot, the wheels turning as he crosses the bridge.

Suddenly, the vision releases you. You crash forward, wood striking your knees hard enough that you cry out as your hands shoot out. Your palms skid across the ground, stinging as skin tears open. Bile burns at the back of your throat and you taste the blood before you realize you've bitten your tongue again, the iron taste in your mouth real. You feel the wet warmth of blood as it trickles from your nose, splattering too brightly against the dark wood beneath you.

The wooden floor is cold beneath you as your vision swims and the throne room reassembles itself. You look up to see the wooden pillars that vanish into a vaulted ceiling with incense burning in their holders. Torches and braziers fill the room with heat, the orange flames licking along the twisted metal and casting long shadows across the waiting courtiers. Everything feels too bright and too sharp and you wince, the headache behind your eyes hammering you as soon as the vision fades in full.

Someone kneels beside you and you know without looking that it's Junhui, the smell of vetiver and cedar comforting with the taste of blood and salt in your mouth. His hands find you first, fingers calloused from sword work as they wrap around your hands, steadying you. The touch grounds you and pulls you back from the battlefield that's turned to the headache stabbing in your skull.

When you don't pull away from him, Junhui slides one arm behind your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, hauling you up and into his arms as though you weigh nothing at all. He's careful when he sets you on your feet, hands braced on your biceps as you sway a little. You're vaguely aware of how close he is, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.

"You okay?" He asks, voice soft.

Before you can answer, the emperor demands, "What did you see?"

You don't look at him. Looking at him only makes things worse. Instead, you stare in the distance as you taste the copper dripping from your nose.

"The north," you murmur. Each word costs you, your head throbbing, vision blurry as the headache grows. "The northern kingdom."

Beside you, Junhui presses his hand to the small of your back. It's barely there, but it's something, your heart fluttering as his thumb moves in small circles, grounding. You don't know if anyone else notices, but you notice, and that's all that matters.

"You'll invade at the height of the rainy season," you continue as your ears begin to ring. "When the rivers are high and the roads turn to mud from the rains. You'll win."

The throne room erupts into applause and cheers as the courtiers shout in triumph. Soldiers pound their fists against their armor, and the emperor rises in your peripheral vision, spreading his arms as he laughs, the sound booming across the room. The firelight from the braziers seems to brighten with their glee, the shadows dancing across the pillars as smoke drifts in the rafters from the incense.

You want to vomit as the nausea rises sharply and suddenly. You press a hand to your mouth and Junhui notices immediately - of course he does. He always notices. His hand slides around your waist and pulls you toward him, steadying you as he angles you so that his body shields you from the worst of the light and sound.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Junhui says, bowing deeply. The emperor turns to stare at him, cheeks ruddy and red from the heat of the hall and the glee. "If I may, the Sacred needs to rest. The vision has taken much from her. Might I escort her to her chambers?"

Sacred. You hate the title. Hate that it chains you to the emperor you've just predicted another victory for, so long as he attacks at the precise time that you've instructed. You've been his sword and shield since you were a little girl gifted to him and his growing empire, helping him knock his opponents off the board one by one.

You hate him. You hate him more than you hate yourself for being useful to him, but you have no other options. He hates you too, you think. Beyond being a cruel man, he's as shrewd as they come. You don't think any of your glares go unnoticed, and though you think he'd love to revel in your misery, he's careful with you, too afraid to break you and lose access to the future you promise.

He waves a hand dismissively, turning back to the crowd. "Yes, yes, take her. We have plans to make. The rainy season is coming soon and we have to make preparations immediately."

Junhui doesn't hesitate, his hand urging you toward the great doors at the far end of the throne room. You lean into him more than you mean to, your legs unsteady beneath you as the smell of the hinoki incense cling to your robes.

Behind you, the celebration continues, growing louder as the emperor orders courtesans and entertainment. You're grateful when the doors close behind you with a heavy thud to muffle the noise, leaving only the muffled quiet and the cool winds of winter rustling the trees in the imperial courtyard.

Junhui's thumb traces small circles against your side, another one of those small gestures that's just for you. They are few and far between, so you hoard them like a gluttonous child hiding mooncakes in their pockets, determined to keep them for your darkest days. You know it means nothing - not the way you want it to. He's kind to you because it's his duty and because someone must be. Because perhaps he pities the broken oracle who bleeds for an emperor who doesn't deserve victory.

Still, you let yourself cling to these moments anyway, your small fantasies of romance and being stolen away keeping you from going mad.

The cold air hits your face, sharp and biting. It does nothing for the pounding in your skull and if anything, the headache splits deeper, a white-hot spike driving through bone with each step you take. Your stomach lurches as bile floods the back of your throat, bitter and burning. The courtyard tilts, the bare branches of the plum trees blurring into dark streaks against winter grey as you start to tip over.

Junhui catches you before you lose your footing in full, arms sliding beneath your knees and around your back to haul you up and against his chest. You want to protest as he cradles you against him, but another wave of nausea hits you and all you can do is press your face against the cool leather of his armor and hope you don't retch all over him and embarrass yourself forever.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice low and right against your ear. "Just hold on."

He moves quickly through the courtyard. You're aware of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The world narrows and becomes only the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart against your cheek.

Your chambers are in the eastern wing, far enough from the celebration that it fades to nothing as he walks. He shoulders open the red lacquer door to your room and carries you inside to the smell of sandalwood and jasmine.

The chambers provided to you are modest, silk screens painted with cranes and willows, a low platform bed draped in pale green silk and piled high with soft blankets and pillows. The latticed window let the winter sun filter, the delicate shadows dappled across the polished wooden floor. It's the only space in the palace that is entirely yours, and you crave it, spending most of the days in the dark as the pain in your head recedes.

Junhui lowers you onto your bed like your spun of glass before he arranges the cushions behind your back, propping you up so you're half-reclined. His hands linger at your shoulders for half a second before pulling away, and you miss his warmth immediately.

"Wait here," he instructs.

"As if I could do anything else."

He huffs, amused as he crosses to the small table near the window. He opens a porcelain pitcher and pours it into a wooden basin. You let your eyes close, the sound of his hands in the water the only sound. He crosses back toward you and when you open your eyes, he's kneeling at your bedside and reaching out with a cool, damp cloth to press against your head.

You can't stop the small sound that escapes you. The relief is immediate. It isn't enough, of course, but it's something and something is better than nothing.

When he puts it down, he gestures to your robe. "Your outer robe is making you overheart. Maybe I?"

You nod, too exhausted to care about prosperity or about rules. Junhui has seen you more vulnerable than anyone else has the right to, and you know it means nothing untoward as his fingers work on the clasps and ties with practiced efficiency, never lingering where he shouldn't.

He eases the heavy brocade from your shoulders, leaving the lighter inner layers. You can breathe again, feeling the winter air that slips through the cracks kiss your overheated skin. You sigh in relief, leaning back onto the pillows as he folds the robe and sets it aside before turning his attention back to you.

Taking the cloth up again, he leans forward and wipes at the dried blood under your nose and on your chin, his touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze, the feeling inside of you that you refuse to name cracking open a little more. When he's satisfied, he leans back on his heels, watching you.

"You don't have to do this," you mutter, head falling back on the pillows as you stare up at the ceiling. Your head still hurts, thoughts swimming. "The emperor didn't assign you to nursemaid duty."

"My duty is to you," he says sharply. "Not to the emperor or court or anything else. It's to keep you safe and keep you well. That's all that matters to me. This counts."

You love that he says it. You hate that he says it. His words are both burden and balm, and he has no idea how much you want to believe them, how much you want to let yourself imagine that this devotion means what your foolish heart wishes it could mean. That you wish that when he touches you with tenderness, it's because he wants to and not because he must.

But you know better - you always have. The ancient scrolls about oracles - the Sacreds - have always been clean that oracles should remain untouched and unspoiled, pure in body and spirit. The moment an oracle is touched and spoiled by the intimacy only known between lovers or concubines, they become nothing more than ordinary women.

The emperor has no use for ordinary women. The moment you are anything less than the Sacred, he'll toss you out or worse - keep you as something to spoil and besot and remind you how far you've fallen from graze.

You accept Junhui's care because you're selfish enough to want it, even though it means nothing. You let him adjust the blanket around you and smooth the hair back from your damp forehead, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that this is a moment born of love rather than duty, and that you can have this. That you can have him.

"Thank you," you whisper, though you know he doesn't realize what for.

Your eyes close against the sting of the day, your headache taking over. His hand finds yourself beneath the blanket and his fingers thread through yours gently as he squeezes.

"Rest," he says softly. "I'll be here."

You nod and feel the weight of exhaustion pull you under, dreaming that his sweeping thumb across the back of your hand is because he loves you, and not because it's his duty.

-

Voices wake you. Junhui's voice is raised above them all, cutting through an argument like a blade. You open your eyes, the dark outside your window telling you that the sun has not yet risen. You sit up slowly and the room spins, the dull ache behind your eye and neck telling you that you're not yet free of your earlier vision's repercussions.

"She needs rest," Junhui snarls. "The visions are demanding and he has asked for them more and more. You will not-"

"The emperor has summoned her," someone else answers. "We have our orders."

"And I have mine. Yours can wait until morning."

"It is morning."

"It's barely beyond midnight!"

Your body still feels hollowed out, mouth dry and skin sweaty. You think you've only been asleep for a few hours, but you push yourself up onto your elbow, pausing as the room sways. When it stops, you get up and head to the door, opening it so that a sliver of the torchlight from the hallway falls across your room.

Junhui turns to you at once, his face twisted in anger. He blocks your doorway, his body a wall between you and the three imperial guards standing in the corridor beyond. Their armor gleams in the firelight, lacquered black and red, the emperor's colors. They don't care that you can barely walk or that your hands are shaking. They only care about their orders.

"You should be resting," Junhui growls. "I will handle-"

"It doesn't matter." You meet his eyes and see frustration burning there, a helplessness that you feel too. "If the emperor summons me, I go."

"You can barely stand."

"I must manage."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Can you help me dress properly?" You whisper the question for only him to hear, the other guards lingering.

For a moment, Junhui's eyes flash, something unreadable crossing his face so quickly it's there before you can understand. He nods tightly once and pushes inside, not letting the guards catch a glimpse of you before he shoulders the door shut.

Darkness swallows the room. You stand on unsteady feet as Junhui rummages around for a match before lighting a candle with a single strike. The orange glow makes him look haunting, sharp features sharper, eyes so dark they reflect the light of the candle back while he moves around the room.

He moves efficiently, retrieving a new robe from your wardrobe. It's deep blue silk embroidered with silver cranes, one of your favorites. He crosses the room toward you and you lift your arms a little as he settles it over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through before he's tying off laces.

When he's finished, he grabs a single comb, gathering your hair low at your neck to twist it up and give you some breathing room. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck and you're grateful.

"There," he mutters, standing in front of you.

"I'm ready."

It's a lie. You feel like you're made of paper, like someone could blow you away or cut right through you. But you remain standing anyway, and Junhui sighs, hand sliding to the small of your back as he guides you in the candlelight toward the door and into the hallway.

Neither of the guards acknowledge you. They simply begin walking, expecting you to follow. You do, and Junhui stays close, his hand never leaving your back, his grip firm enough that you can lean into him whenever the room tilts and becomes unsteady again.

The walk to the throne room feels endless. Each step sends an unsteady feeling up through your legs, and though the sharp pain of earlier is gone from your skull, the dull ache that remains isn't much better.

Your stomach churns with anxiety as you walk through winding halls. You know that the emperor has summoned you for another vision. He's done it over and over more recently, each promised victory and small win making him hungry for more, making him addicted to the future, to moves and countermoves.

Winter air bites at you as you cross the courtyard. Junhui pulls you closer and you smell him, vetiver and cedar. His body blocks most of the cold, and you lean into him, seeking heat. He lets you as the guards lead you to the throne room doors, the massive panels of dark wood bound with iron looming ahead.

The guards push the doors open and the familiar scent of hinoki incense washes over you, mixing with the acrid smoke of the burning braziers in the hall. At the end of the hall, the emperor sits on his throne, leaning forward in his seat, fingers drumming against the carved armrest.

There is no court this time - just a small handful of advisors and generals standing in clusters along the pillars, which means this isn't spectacle. It's business. Nervousness settles sourly in your stomach as you approach, footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor. Junhui's hand stays at your back until you reach the proper distance where he steps aside - but not far. Never far, even in the presence of the emperor.

You lower yourself into a bow and your knees nearly give out. Junhui is there in an instant, his hands firmly on your waist to keep you from falling forward onto your face as the room spins. You grimace through it, hands clutching your sleeves as you take a few deep breaths to regain composure.

"Your Imperial Majesty," you manage. "I'm here."

"Finally. I've been waiting."

You straighten slowly with Junhui's help and meet the emperor's eyes. They're dark and calculating, fixed on where Junhui's hands remain for a moment before he steps a respectful distance away once more. A needle of fear stabs at the back of your neck, sharp and cool.

"I want to know about the Free Isles," the emperor says. "Can we take them immediately after the northern kingdom, when they think they're safe? With the resources from the north, they should be no match for me."

Your heart sinks. The Free Isles are a chain of islands far to the northeast, fiercely independent and protected by treacherous waters and storms that only northern ships are made to cut through. The emperor has wanted them for years, but has never had the ships to take them. Of course he wishes to take them as soon as he has ships, the greed and desire to plant his flag on free shores insatiable.

You lick your lips. "I may not be able to see right now, Your Imperial Majesty. Using the gift this close together-"

"I don't care about your discomfort." He waves a hand dismissively. "I care about the future of my empire. Now look. Tell me what you see."

Behind you, Junhui tenses. You stare at the emperor and see no room for argument, no mercy. You knew he was not a merciful man the way he conquered lands, but you hadn't expected him to risk damaging you like this.

Nodding, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. You hate reaching for visions - oftentimes they come at random, seizing you when you're in a crowded room or alone in the bathing room. Sometimes they take you faster than you can summon them. But reaching for them feels like reaching into a wound every time, painful and sharp.

Pain explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding as you dip into the well of your power. You feel your nose start to bleed again from the force, hot copper flooding your mouth. Your own heartbeat hammers too fast, too loud, thundering in your ears like the emperor's war drums.

The vision comes to you like a knife to the gut, stabbing and painful. You're on the deck of a ship - no. You are the ship, the wood of your body groaning, the spray from the sea cold and sharp. The sky above is storm-black, choked with clouds so dark they're almost green. Lightning splits the sky and for one blinding moment, you see dozens of ships bearing the emperor's colors, their red and black sails straining against wind that screams and tears at the sea.

In front of you, a wave rises ahead. It's impossibly tall, a mountain of water that climbs climbs climbs toward the sky until it comes crashing down. The world becomes water - cold, crushing. You can't breathe and salt water floods your mouth and nose, choking you. Your lungs scream and wood splinters, the sound like bones breaking. Men scream, but the sound is lost in the roar of the ocean.

When you surface, you're you again, not the ship. Another ship lets out a resonant crack as the mast falls, crashing through the deck. Some soldiers jump, some cling to the side. The sea takes them as the ship goes down, the water pulling them into the belly of its black depths. You feel terror like never before, but the storm doesn't stop.

Another wave. Then another. Ships splinter. Bodies vanish underneath the waves. So many bodies. The ocean swallows them whole, greedy and hungry, taking and taking and taking.

Through the ocean spray and chaos, you see land. The Free Isles rise from the sea like teeth, their rocky shores and cliff spread open like a mouth laughing to the sky. Warriors dot the cliffs, lit up only by the flash of lightning as they watch the storm do the work for them.

A wave crashes over you and drags you down to the bottom of the sea. In the flashes of light that shine through the murky ocean, you see pieces of ship floating, red and black banners sinking toward the depths of the sea, bodies thrashing as the undertow pulls them down down down.

The vision releases you and you're drowning in air instead of water, gasping, choking on nothing. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the floor, palms slapping against the polished wood as blood gushes from your knows. Junhui's hands are already on you, trying to stop you from collapsing into the red pooling on the floor beneath you. Voices swirl around you, but you can't make out anything they're saying, the roar of the sea - or your blood rushing in your ears - drowning out everything else.

Slowly, words come back to you. Your head lolls to the side as you look up at the emperor, his face furious and impatient as he slams his closed fist against the arm of his throne. "Well? What did you see?"

"Failure," you choke out, coughing on imaginary mouthfuls of water. "The Free Isles cannot be taken. The storms will do the work for them and the islands will not fall."

"Look again, then!" He booms. "Find a solution!"

"I cannot-"

You don't know when the emperor stood up, but he's in front of you suddenly, his hand moving faster than you can track. The blow catches you across the face, snapping your head to the side. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, bright and sharp and the throne room spins.

Junhui moves. One moment he's behind you, the next he's between you and the emperor, his body a wall of rage. His hand goes to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt to slide the blade free just enough that the ring of metal cuts through the room.

Every guard in the room tenses. Hands fly to weapons. You hear the whisper of steel, the creak of leather armor as soldiers shift their weight, ready to strike. The advisors along the pillars press themselves back against the wood, their faces pale that Junhui would dare to draw steel in front of the emperor.

The emperor goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a moment you see something flicker there - surprise, maybe - before his face twists with rage at the affront. You look at Junhui, and though you can't see his face, his rigid shoulders say it all.

"You dare," the emperor hisses. "You dare to draw steel in my presence? You dare threaten your emperor?"

"My mandate is to protect her." Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. His shoulders are squared, his stance wide and grounded. "From any threat. Even you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The advisors go rigid. You can feel their shock radiating outward, a physical thing. This is treason. Open defiance. The kind of thing that ends with heads on spikes outside the palace gates. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The room swims, gaze blurry from the emperor's blow and the vision's aftermath and the realization that Junhui is signing his own death warrant for you.

You try to reach a hand up to tug on his sleeve but you can't move - you can barely think. You're broken on your knees, the taste of iron and salt in your mouth, looking up at Junhui as he remains in front of you.

"You forget yourself," the emperor snarls. "You forget who holds your life in his hands, who holds her life in his hands."

Junhui's grip tightens on his sword. "I forgot nothing, Your Imperial Majesty. I took an oath in front of you and this court to protect her from all, including the throne. This is my duty."

"Your duty is obedience. Your duty is to serve me. Everything in this palace - every guard, every servant, every Sacred - exists to serve me."

"I cannot break the oath I gave you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The emperor's face goes dark as silence permeates the room. Red creeps up into his neck and cheeks, his breathing labored as he works himself up, his rage choking the air in the throne room. Junhui stands in front of you anyway, his eyes forward, exterior calm.

You try to stand. Your legs don't cooperate, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, spattering beneath you. Your whole body trembles and you want to tell Junhui to stop, to save himself, but your voice doesn't work.

All you can do is watch. Watch him risk everything. Watch him stand between you and the most powerful man in the empire. Watch him choose you over his own life. Something cracks open in your chest. Something that feels like hope and terror and longing all tangled together. Something you can't afford to feel.

For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. The guards wait for the order to strike while the advisors stay out of the way, trying to become invisible in the pools of shadows between the pillars.

Finally, the emperor laughs. The sound is harsh and startling against the silence, echoing off the walls.

"Get out," his voice is ragged. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I have you both executed."

Junhui doesn't wait for him to change his mind. He turns, hauling you to your feet with careful hands, and guides you toward the doors. Your legs barely work and your face throbs where the emperor struck you. You ignore the pain, instead focusing on the way Junhui's arm is around your waist, holding you up as you somehow make it across the throne room.

Outside, the world is bitter cold. The courtyard tilts on its axis, and you feel Junhui's arm tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer to him.

"Stay with me," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.

"He'll kill you," you try to say. But your voice won't work. The words come out broken. Slurred. "Junhui, he'll-"

"Shh." His grip tightens. "Don't talk. Just breathe."

But breathing hurts. Everything hurts. The edges of your vision go dark and fuzzy, like looking through a tunnel. You can hear voices, but they sound distorted and echoing, like you're underwater again, drowning in that vision of ships and storms and mean screaming as the ocean devours them whole.

Your legs give out completely. You feel Junhui catch you. Feel his hands on your face.

Then nothing. Just silence.

-

The first thing you become aware of is warmth. It isn't the oppressive heat of the throne room, but it's the soft warmth of your room, the smell of sandalwood and jasmine comforting. The light comes second, soft and flickering, the orange glow soft behind your closed eyelids.

When your eyes flutter open, you see candles. Dozens of them burning in their holders, casting dancing shadows against the silk screens that divide your chambers. You're still in your bed, though the heavy outer layer of your robes are gone. Someone has covered you with a thick quilt embroidered with dragons - your favorite.

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through your skull - not the white-hot agony of a vision, but a deep, bone-weary ache that makes your stomach turn. You let out a small sound, barely more than a breath, and freeze when you realize Junhui is watching you from the side of your bed.

He's removed his armor, dressed only in the red and black robes of a palace guard. It catches you off guard - you've never seen him without his armor before. It makes him look unguarded, his dark hair disheveled and falling across his forehead slightly. His elbows rest on his knees, his head forward as his dark gaze pins you to the mattress.

"You're awake."

"I think so." Your voice comes out broken and harsh. "I hope so."

Junhui moves immediately. He reaches for a cup on the low table beside your bed and slides one hand behind your head carefully as he helps you lean forward to drink. The water is cool with a hint of medicinal herbs and you gulp, coughing a little.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Small sips, no gulping."

It soothes your throat and you manage three sips before pulling back, letting Junhui set the cup aside as he carefully sits back down beside you, pulling his chair closer.

"How long was I out?" You ask, sinking back down.

"Six hours. Maybe seven. I lost track."

Seven hours. You've been unconscious for seven hours. The weight of that settles over you like a stone. Seven hours of Junhui sitting here, watching over you, waiting for you to wake. Seven hours of not knowing if you would.

"The physician came," Junhui continues. "He said you need rest. That you can't keep doing this."

You close your eyes. The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. It lives inside of you, in all of the spaces between your ribs and in the hollows of your chest, pumping through your blood, threaded with everything breath. You're tired of this, tired of being the Sacred, tired of having headaches, tired of being split open and rendered useless by visions you've never asked for, tired of serving a man you despise and resisting the man you want.

"I hate this," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I hate this. I hate the visions. I hate being this, I hate-"

Your voice cracks down the middle like ice over a frozen lake, everything you've kept inside of you welling to the surface, rushing forward in an onslaught you cannot stop. You feel the tears spilling over as your hands fists the quilt and you cry.

"I wish I didn't have them. I wish I didn't live like this," you choke out. "I've lived like this since I was a little girl, unable to live how I want, to do what I want. It isn't fair Jun. It isn't fair! I want to be nothing, I want to be no one!"

Junhui says nothing at first. You can't look at him - can't bear to see what's written on his face. Pity, probably. You hate that the most, that he probably pities you, that he's nice and sweet and kind because no one else is.

He startles you when he moves. You look up to see him move from sitting on the chair to the bed, his weight on the mattress making you dip toward him as his hand slips beneath the quilt to find yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The touch is unexpected and gentle, palm warm against yours. Solid. Real. Calloused but comforting.

Junhui is looking at you. Not at the wall, not at his hands, not at some distant point beyond your shoulder like all the other courtiers when you're collapsing or bleeding or writhing in pain. He's looking at you, his dark eyes are steady on your face, and there's something in them that makes your heart hammer, something that looks almost like pain.

"If I could take them from you," he says quietly, "I would. In a heartbeat I would take them away."

You stare at him - really look at him for the first time since you woke to see exhaustion etched into every line of his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. You examine each part of him - the slight slump to his shoulders that he never allows when he's on duty. The way his hair falls across his forehead, disheveled and uncombed. He looks like he hasn't slept. Like he's been sitting here beside your bed for hours, watching over you, waiting for you to wake.

The worry hasn't left his gaze. You can see it there, sharp and clear in the way his eyes move over your face, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain. The way his jaw tightens when his gaze lands on the mark the emperor left on your cheek.

There's something else there too, something you've seen before but didn't know how to name, something you never let yourself hope for, but only dreamed about. Something in the way he holds your hand - not like a guard on duty, but like you mean something to him beyond being his charge.

Your heart pounds. This is dangerous. Forbidden. But you're so tired of being careful. So tired of denying yourself the one thing you want. So tired of pretending that his kindness is just duty, that his gentleness means nothing, that you don't feel the way you do.

"There is a way," you hear yourself say.

Junhui's brow furrows. His thumb stops its gentle movement across your knuckles. "What?"

Your mouth goes dry. This is it. The precipice. You could pull back now. Laugh it off. Pretend you meant something else. Say you were talking about running away, or finding some mythical cure, or anything other than what you're actually suggesting, but you're so tired of pretending.

"The visions," you say slowly. Each word feels like pulling teeth. Like dragging something heavy and sharp up from the depths of your chest. "They're tied to - um - purity."

Heat floods your cheeks. You can feel it spreading down your neck, across your chest. Can feel the way your skin burns with shame and something else. Something that might be hope or fear or both tangled together until you can't tell them apart.

You can't look at him anymore. Can't bear to see his reaction. So you stare at the quilt instead, studying the neat stitching and the way the gold thread weaves through the red fabric. At the way the dragons dance.

The silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. By the sixth, you want the ocean from your vision to swallow you whole so you can escape this embarrassment, realizing that you've misstepped

"They would go away?" His voice is hoarse. Halting. "The visions?

"Yes."

Another silence. This one longer. Heavier. You can feel it pressing down on you like a physical weight. Can feel the way the air in the room has changed, like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with pure pressure. When you risk a glance up at him, he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the blanket, jaw tight and lips pressed together in a thin line. You can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath, can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Are you asking me to take them from you?"

The question lands in silence between you. You say nothing, and when Junhui looks up at you, his gaze is more intense than you remember it, his eyes dark and pupils blown. You swallow thickly, and when he squeezes your hand to push for an answer, you can't speak. You give a tiny, imperceptible nod, nearly shaking as you admit to the unspoken question.

For a moment, nothing happens. Junhui just sits there, his hand in yours, his breathing careful and controlled. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can see the way his jaw works, like he's trying to force out words that won't come. Can see the conflict written across every line of his face.

Then he pulls his hand away.

Devastation crashes through you, the loss of his touch immediately. He stands and turns away from you, shoulders rigid as he takes two steps toward the door before stopping, his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"No."

The word comes out hard. Final like a door slamming shut, like the last nail in a coffin.The rejection lands harder than the emperor's slap, and you feel the shame hit you like a physical thing because why would he? Of course he doesn't want you like that, of course he wouldn't abandon his duty. And you are his duty, his burden, a Sacred he's wrong to protect and nothing more.

The shame is crushing. Suffocating. Heat floods your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel it burning through you like fever, like fire, like the aftermath of a vision but worse. So much worse because this pain is your own fault- your own stupid, foolish, desperate mistake.

You want to disappear. To sink into the bed and never emerge. To pull the quilt over your head and suffocate yourself with it. To take back the last five minutes and pretend this conversation never happened. To go back to before, when you could at least pretend that his kindness meant something. That you meant something to him beyond duty.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I shouldn't have, I didn't mean-

"It would be an abuse of my power." Junhui still doesn't turn around. His voice is carefully controlled, but you can hear something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like anguish, maybe. "I'm your guard. You're vulnerable and desperate and I will not take advantage of that."

The words should make you feel better, should reassure you that he's honorable, that he's thinking of your wellbeing, that he's protecting you even from yourself. But all you feel is shame - the kind that is all-consuming and that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The kind that makes you want to claw at your face until the heat and the humiliation and the desperate, aching want are all gone.

"No, sorry," you rasp. "It's an abuse of my power. I'm the one asking. I'm the one - I'm sorry, Jun. That was awful of me."

Your voice breaks on the words. Cracks down the middle like everything else inside you.

"I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. Please."

The embarrassment is crushing. Suffocating. You've never felt so small. So foolish. So utterly, completely exposed. You want to disappear and to take back everything you just said and pretend this conversation never happened.

Silence stretches so long that you can hear your own ragged breathing and can feel the tears leaking between your fingers as you press your hands to your face, trying to hide the same and agony there.

Footsteps draw your attention, but you don't lower your hands. You can't even look at him, can't bear to see the pity or disgust on his face. But then his hands are on your wrists, pulling gently.

"Look at me," he murmurs.

You shake your head. Keep your eyes squeezed shut. The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down your cheeks, and you've never felt more humiliated in your entire life.

"Please," Junhui whispers. "Look at me."

Something in his voice makes you obey. You open your eyes and find him kneeling beside your bed. His face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough that you can see the way his own hands are trembling slightly where they hold your wrists.

"Do you have feelings for me?" The question comes out low and soft, his dark eyes searching yours with an urgency that makes your heart skip. "Please be honest."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. This is it. The moment where you could lie. Could protect yourself. Could pretend that this was only ever about the visions, about freedom, about anything other than what it really is.

"Of course I do," you whisper, heart hammering. "You're the only one who sees me as a person. Who treats me like I'm not a tool. I know I'm just your assignment and that you don't care for me that way, but you always-"

Junhui's mouth crashes against yours and the world stops. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair while the other frames your jaw gently, careful not to touch the bruise where the emperor struck you.

You gasp against his lips and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting you like he's been starving for it. Like he's been holding himself back for so long and finally, finally, he can let go.

You've never been kissed before, never been touched like this. It turns you to molten, your hands finding his shoulders to brush up toward his neck, your fingers threading though his hair as you kiss him back with everything you have. He tastes like tea and something spicey, something that makes heat pool low in your belly and makes you want more.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps that match your own.

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your lips. "For so long."

He doesn't pull away. He stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, can count each individual eyelash, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. His hand is still cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other still frames your jaw with that same careful tenderness, his thumb resting just below the bruise the emperor left.

Your heart is racing. Thundering so hard you're certain he can feel it. Your whole body is trembling, and you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, the pressure and heat of it.

"Then why did you pull away before?" You pant. "Why did you say no?"

"Because I was afraid." He says it so quietly you almost don't hear him. His thumb moves against your jaw, soft and soothing. "I was afraid that if I touched you - that if I gave into the want - that I wouldn't be able to stop and that I would ruin you. That I'd take something from you that you couldn't get back, that I would spoil you and it would be the worst abuse of power I could imagine."

"You wouldn't-"

"I'm a man who wants something he shouldn't have." His eyes burn. "A man who is supposed to protect you, not have you. I could stand feeling for you and resisting - but if you felt the same…"

"I do."

His eyes close briefly, like hearing you say it causes him pain or relief. You cannot tell which. When they open again, there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.

And then he kisses you again, softer and slower this time, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. This kiss is different from the first. Less desperate. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a patience that makes your whole body flush with heat. His hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again. But this time, there's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just want, pure and undisguised for once. His thumb traces your lower lip, and the way he's looking at your mouth is like it wants to kiss you again and again and again.

"If we do this," he says quietly, "there's no going back. You'll lose the visions. The emperor will have no use for you, and you'll be-"

"Free," you cut him off. "I will be free."

You catch the hand that's been tracing your lip and press it against your cheek, turning your face into his palm. His skin is warm against yours, rough with calluses. It's real and solid and everything you've ever wanted - everything you've ever dreamed about.

"I want to be free," you say again. "But I also want you. I've dreamed about it for so long - thought it could only ever be a dream. Nothing more."

Something shifts in his expression. His pupils dilate further until there's barely any brown left behind the want, behind the desire. He looks at you now like you're something to devour, not protect, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine as his hand moves from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, feeling the way your pulse thunders under his thumb.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough and strained. "There's no undoing this. You need to be certain."

"I've never been more certain. Please."

Junhui nods, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. "Okay," he murmurs against your lips. "Okay."

He stands slowly, and for a moment you think he's leaving and that he's changed his mind. But then he shrugs out of his outer robe, letting it pool on the floor. His hands go to the ties of his inner robe, and you watch, entirely transfixed as he undresses. His body is all lean muscle and old scars, beautiful in the candlelight. Beautiful in a way that makes your mouth go dry and your heart race even faster.

Then he's on the bed with you, carefully moving the quilt aside, his hands finding the ties of your robes. He pauses and looks up at you, his eyes serious. "Tell me if you want me to stop. At any point. Promise me."

"I promise."

He nods and undresses you slowly, peeling back layers of silk with careful attention, his fingers brushing your skin gently. When you're finally bare before him, you expect to feel exposed and vulnerable, but he looks at you like you're something otherworldly, like he cannot imagine what he's seeing.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. His hand traces the curve of your waist, your hip. "So beautiful."

Junhui leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper this time, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate intent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of him floods your senses as he cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper.

A soft moan escapes you and he swallows it, his other hand sliding down your side to trace the curve of your waist and your hip, dropping to your thigh. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like you might combust from the inside out.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and it lights you up inside. You push closer to him, hands shaking as your fingers trace his forearms, feeling the veins and muscles beneath his warm skin.

"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is rough. Raw. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. Can I do that?"

You can barely form words. Can only nod, your heart thundering so hard you're certain he can hear it.

"Use your words," he says softly. His thumb traces your lower lip. "I need to hear you say it."

"Yes." Your voice comes out breathless. Desperate. "Yes, please."

The smile that curves his lips is devastating. "Good."

Then his mouth is on your throat, hot and wet and perfect. He kisses the hollow beneath your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. His teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles there are hard beneath your palms, flexing as he moves.

He works his way down, kissing and licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his tongue tracing the delicate bone before his teeth close over it gently. The sensation shoots straight between your thighs, and you feel yourself getting wetter.

"Jun-"

"Shh." His breath is hot against your skin. "Let me take care of you."

His mouth moves lower to the swell of your breast, and he kisses the soft skin there, his hand coming up to cup you, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His touch is feather-light but it makes you arch into him, a whine escaping your mouth as you beg for more.

He gives it to you, his mouth closing over a nipple as he sucks gently. You arch into him, the sensation overwhelming as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, flicking over it before his teeth graze it gently. You almost come apart right there, melting.

"That feels- oh Gods-"

"Tell me." His voice is muffled against your breast. "Tell me how it feels."

You can barely think. Can barely form coherent thoughts. "So good. Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He lavishes attention to your chest - sucking, licking, biting - until you're trembling beneath him. You're so wet now you can feel it, the slickness between your thighs and the ache there driving you mad. As if reading your mind, his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. When he reaches where your thighs are shut tight, he pauses.

"Open for me," he murmurs against your breast.

You do. Spreading your legs, letting him see how wet you are, how much you want him.

"Gods," he growls. "Look at you."

His fingers brush through your folds, his touch light and barely there, but enough to make you gasp. He brings them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he licks them clean and the sight is so hypnotic that you find yourself staring, face flushing with heat as he grins.

"Taste like the Heavens," he murmurs. "Need more."

Before you can process what he means, he's moving down your body, kissing his way down your stomach, your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When his mouth presses to your core, you nearly scream, his tongue licking through you slowly, parting your wet folds. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever felt, sharp and overwhelming, and your hands fly into his hair, gripping the dark strands, unsure if you're pulling him closer or away.

"Oh," you gasp. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." His breath is hot against you. "Just feel it."

His tongue circles your clit gently and your hips twitch to meet his mouth, thighs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. It feels maddeningly good, and when his tongue starts flicking over your clit directly, you feel the way your breath catches, the way you twitch under him. He holds your hips down to keep you skill, humming lightly as he devours.

And Junhui devours, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on that sensitive spot. Sometimes he sucks on it gently, and the sensation makes you cry out. Sometimes he flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, building the pleasure higher and higher until you think you might die from it. And just when you think you can't take anymore, he slides a finger into your heat and you feel yourself clench hard.

"So tight," he groans. "So perfect. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

The crude words make you clench around his finger. Make more wetness flood between your thighs. He notices, and you can feel him smile against you.

"You like that?" His voice is teasing. Knowing. "You like when I talk dirty to you?"

"Yes." The admission comes out breathy. "Yes, please."

"Please what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the burn is delicious. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you everything."

His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you see stars. He works you patiently, fingers stroking inside of you, pressing against that spot over and over and over while he sucks gently on your clit, driving you higher and higher.

You're trembling. Shaking. Your hands are fisted in his hair, your hips moving against his mouth despite his attempts to hold you still. The pleasure is so intense it's almost frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss.

The tension that's been building inside you finally snaps and you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. Wave after wave of sensation that makes your vision go white, makes your whole body shake with the force of it.

Junhui works you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body. His lips are wet with you, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should be embarrassing - should be shameful - but you don't care, licking into his mouth hungrily, pulling him as close as you can.

Junhui's hand slides between your thighs again, and despite the orgasm you just had, your body responds. Arching into his touch. Seeking more. He positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and even through the haze of pleasure, you feel a flutter of nervousness. He's big. Bigger than his fingers. And you're not sure-

"Look at me." You do. His eyes are dark and intense, but soft and entirely focused on you. "We'll go slow. If it's too much, if you need me to stop, you tell me, understand?"

You nod. "Yes. I understand."

"Good." He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. "I've got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly - so slowly - the stretch is immediate and intense. More than his fingers, more than you expected and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers sliding against his sweaty skin as your nails dig in.

He stops immediately. "Breathe. Just breathe."

You do. Deep breaths that help your body relax, help you adjust to the intrusion. After a moment, the burn eases slightly, and you nod. He pushes in another inch. Then another. The stretch intensifies, bordering on painful, and you whimper.

"I know." His forehead rests against yours. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still, of going slow. "I know it hurts. But you're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."

The praise helps. Makes you want to be good for him, makes you want to take all of him. You breathe through the burn, through the stretch, and slowly your body adjusts. He steals another kiss from you as he sinks to the hilt, distracting you with his tongue and the way he groans into your mouth.

When he breaks the kiss, he's pressed as deep as he can go, the feeling so full and so good you can barely breathe. Junhui is just as affected, panting and shivering as he drops his head to gaze where you're joined, letting out a curse.

"You feel so good," he pants. "Like you were made for me."

You clench around him experimentally, and he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. It feels good to squeeze down, a sensation you'd never imagined, and you do it again, a small little sound leaving your lips as he groans again.

"Don't," he rasps. "Don't do that or I won't last."

"I want you to feel good too," you whisper. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the hard muscles there, the way they flex and shift as he holds himself still. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."

"You do." He kisses you, tongues tangling briefly before he breaks the kiss to press his lips against your jawline. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."

"Then have me."

Junhui lets out a desperate sound but nods, his hips starting to move slowly. It makes you gasp, the friction intense and the drag of his cock inside you so good. The pain has faded completely now, replaced by pleasure that builds faster than you can keep up with.

You wrap your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groans into your shoulder. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting something inside you, that same spot that makes the world spin and the pleasure spark right behind your eyelids.

"There," you gasp. "Right there, please."

"I know." His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So perfect."

He picks up the pace, still careful but full of urgency now, thrusting deeper until you can feel yourself climbing toward another peak. His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not enough and too everything.

The pleasure crests until it breaks and your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, your body clenching and spasming as you cry out his name. It's more intense than before, more overwhelming, like every nerve ending in your body is firing at once.

Seeing you lose it is all it takes for him. He buries himself deep as he can do and you feel the pulse of him inside of you as he comes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he whimpers a broken sound in the shape of your name.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. You can feel him still pulsing inside you, can feel the warmth of his release, and the realization that it's real and not a fantasy anymore makes your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Carefully, he pulls out. You both wince at the sensation but he's gentle, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You can feel his heart racing, and his lips press against your brow, soft and sweet while his fingers trace patterns on your spine.

"I'm taking you away from here," Junhui says eventually.

You lift your head to look at him. "What?"

"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere the emperor can't reach you. Somewhere you can be free."

"Junhui, you can't - your position-"

"I don't care." He cups your face in both hands. "You are sacred to me. Not because of your visions or your gift. Because of who you are. And I'm not willing to share you anymore. Not with the emperor. Not with the court. Not with anyone."

Your breath catches. "You'd give up everything? For me?"

"I already have." He kisses you softly. "The moment I stepped between you and the emperor, I chose you. There's no going back from that. So we go forward. Together."

"Where will we go?"

"East to the river provinces. I have family there who owe me favors. They'll hide us until we can figure out something more permanent." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You'll have a life beyond the throne room. Beyond the visions. I promise you that."

Tears spill over. For the first time in your life, you feel safe - not because of prophecy or position, but because someone has chosen you for you. Because Junhui has chosen you over everything else.

"You wanted to be no one," Junhui whispers. "You can be no one to everything else. But to me, you are everything. You are not the Sacred - you're just sacred to me."

You nod, throat tight. "I would like that."

Expedition Andromeda Exodus Crew Commander's Logbook

Day 42 Commander Jarvis is dead. I was able to retrieve his pack before the Entity Epsilon dragged his corpse into the nether. As the First Officer I am to resume his command of the crew — what's left of us anyway. Privates Pierson and Yu also did not survive Level 8. May their souls rest in peace. According to the limited records recovered from prior expeditions, we should be nearing the Null Zone to Level 9. As far as the Axiom Company is concerned, Level 9 is the furthest any crew has reached before being fully exterminated. In my opinion, however, it remains a possibility that others from prior expeditions may have survived — perhaps moving on to higher levels, beyond the Company's reach. Whether they are out there, I suppose we will either find out or die trying. Day 46 We encountered another Entity Epsilon — that makes five. We have not once escaped from one of them as a full crew, and this time was no different. Privates Klipp and Jameson fought valiantly until the very end, but that thing is a monster. May their souls rest in peace. It's just me, Sanchez, and Finn left now. We should have reached a Null Zone by now, but no such luck. I have a bad feeling we've just been going in circles — but we have no choice but to press on. Day 47 Sixth Entity Epsilon encounter. We were so close. The Null Zone was right there, but it was faster. May Privates Sanchez and Finn rest in peace. I have retreated and am writing this in haste from our previous post, but I won't be safe here for much longer. I am going to make a run for the Null Zone. If I don't make it, then so be it.

You slip the tablet into your pack and raise your gun at the ready. Quietly slipping out of the abandoned makeshift tent you've been hiding under, you take a deep breath. Scanning the cavernous tunnels in your periphery, it looks clear — though, that doesn't mean much. You've unfortunately had enough run-ins with the Epsilons at this point to know that they can practically materialize out of thin air. Those fuckers are fast. You know your odds aren't great, but it's not like you have much to lose left anyway.

Heading in the direction of the Null Zone, you break into a sprint. Normally you'd take greater care to move in silence, but you've learned the hard way that all the stealth in the world is fruitless against the Epsilons. So you bolt at top speed, the echoes of your boots thunking against the limestone ground booming through the stale, damp air. If there's one nearby, you're done for.

Your senses start to sting, picking up on the empty resonance of the Null Zone ahead. You're almost there. Just 30 meters more. So close you can taste it. Then a horrific screech fills your ear.

You don't stop, you don't slow, you don't even dare to peek over your shoulder. You know once you do, you're dead meat. You run and run, muscles screaming in agony as you push yourself onward. 20 meters. 10 meters. Five. Four, three, two—

Against all instincts you hurl yourself at the cavern wall between two towering stalagmites. For a split millisecond you consider the possibility that you have misjudged the location of the Null Zone, and that you are about to slam face-first into solid rock. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for impact.

But it doesn't come.

A sudden deafening silence hits you like a truck. You open your eyes you see yourself hurling face-first into slick, oily pavement. You brace yourself just in time — your palms slamming into the rough ground as you catch yourself. Quickly rolling over you leap back to your feet, reaching for your gun and raising it to position as you rapidly scan your surroundings, but the Epsilon is gone — as is the miserable cave system you'd been in for nearly two weeks. Instead, you find yourself standing in the middle of a street in a suburban neighborhood, dim and shadowy in the moonless nighttime, shrouded in a chilly lingering mist. The caves were an insufferable flavor of quiet, but you had gotten used to its reverberating echoes; here it is just as quiet, but instead of claustrophobic it feels uncomfortably vast. You're not sure which is worse — but you're here now, and there is no going back.

Your head swivels as you peer down the street in both directions. As expected, both ways appear endless — you're used to that by now. No immediate anomalies are detected, and since the Company's intel on Level 9 is practically nonexistent anyway it really doesn't matter which way you go at this point. You decide to go left.

You walk down the center of the silent street, observing the mundane cookie-cutter houses that pass. The only source of light here is the sparse low-wattage street lamps, their incandescent glow seeming to cast more shadows than anything, but still they all look more or less the same: color palettes ranging from gray to beige, windows darkened, manicured lawns sitting picture-perfect without a blade of grass out of place. Painfully bland. You note none of the houses have numbers, but of course they don't.

Eventually you spot a four-way intersection. Approaching the cross street, you pause at its stop sign — the first and only bit of color you've seen thus far. Logistically, it makes the most sense to continue straight; there are no street signs, so the more turns you make the more likely you are to get lost. But there's no logic to the Backrooms — just when you think you're starting to figure things out, everything can change in the blink of an eye. Try to strategize your way out of a situation, and you'll probably end up in a worse one. You decide to turn right.

The pure silence is deafening, causing your ears to ring just enough for it to be irksome. You don't know what Entities await you in Level 9 — anyone who does most likely did not live to tell the tale; and while this place feels somehow even more devoid of life than the cave systems of Level 8 your intuition tells you something awful is present here. Yet you walk for miles and come across nothing but endless empty houses. You wonder what would happen if you tried to go inside one; the thought is appealing — as is the potential of finding an actual bed to sleep in for the first time in months. But the illusion of shelter might cause you to let your guard down, and you're not yet sure if that's a risk you're willing to take.

You stroll for another 15 minutes, passing a few more intersections but continuing on your path ahead. The protocol for a new level is always to scope out the environment first, provided you deem it safe enough to do so. You've always found that a bit laughable — only Level 0 is free of Entities, after all. After that, any sense of safety is merely an illusion. It's a matter of when, not if, something finds you. But by Backrooms standards, you currently feel about as safe as it gets.

Your feet start to drag as you walk on. You have been going practically non-stop for the brutal two weeks spent in the Level 8 caves — a little rest would do you wonders right now. You begin to study each house as you walk past, trying to get a sense of any danger that may be lurking behind their doors. Much of surviving the Backrooms boils down to natural survival instincts; yours are pretty damn good (it's why you were recruited, after all), but you're exhausted. Even the best soldiers start to lose their grip on reality in this state.

You pass on a few dozen houses. None of them have felt dangerous, but uncertainty is making you hesitant, so you reluctantly press on. You're nearly past the umpteenth beige house when something makes you stop. Turning to your left, the house standing before you looks as unremarkable as the rest. But something about it feels different. Whether that's a good thing or not, you are unsure — but there's only one way to find out.

You step onto the sidewalk, slowly approaching the front door. Even up close, you can't make out any single thing through the boxy windows; it's as if they are solidly opaque rather than just dark. Reaching for the handle, you turn it slowly. You were half expecting it to be locked, but it turns, granting you entry. You push it open just a crack, raising your weapon as you peer into the dark house; it looks like an ordinary modern home interior — no immediate signs of Entities or other danger. Slowly you let yourself in, shutting the front door behind you. You tug a small flashlight from your utility belt — an item infrequently used in the Backrooms, as many Entities are attracted to light. Clicking it on, you scan the room, finding nothing but furnishings as dull and uninteresting as the house's exterior. A set of stairs stands before you, but you proceed past it down the first floor's main hall. You open the doors you pass along the way, only finding a half bath and a few empty closets. Stepping into the kitchen, you find it as ordinary as the rest of the house. You're about to head upstairs when a slightly ajar cabinet catches your eye.

Walking over to the counter, you hesitantly reach for the cabinet door. You open it, eyes widening as your flashlight beam falls on the stock of cans and provisions packs behind the door — food.

Your mind starts to race. Without a doubt, humans were once here. But where are they now? If they had moved on to higher Levels, it's unlikely they would have left food behind. Did they die? Are they still here? If so, where are they?

click

The metallic sound behind your ear sends an immediate chill down your spine. You freeze, body going rigid in fear.

"Put the gun down and turn around. Slowly."

The gruff male voice comes from right behind you. You do as it says, cautiously setting your weapon on the counter and raising your hands in the air. Turning slowly you come face to face with the black muzzle of a pistol, held by a tall, scowling man.

"Who are you?" he barks. "You Company?"

He glares at you through narrowed eyes. Between his spiked hair, tattered headband, eyebrow piercing, and the large scar across his cheek, he would look scary even if he weren't holding a gun to your head.

"I'm Commander l/n of the Exodus Crew, Expedition Andromeda. Our mission is to—"

"Yeah, whatever, I know the spiel," the man scoffs. He cocks his head at you. "Where's the rest of your crew?"

"Dead," you answer him with a glare.

"You kill 'em?" he questions, pressing his pistol threateningly into your forehead.

"What?" you balk. "Of course not, why would you even think that?"

"What do you know of Expedition Crusader?" the man continues, disregarding your question.

"Crusader?" you repeat, your brow shifting in confusion. "There's no such expedition from the Axiom Company with that name."

He lets out an incredulous huff.

"Okay, so you know nothing. Got it."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you inquire. You glance up at the barrel of the man's pistol. "And can you get this fucking gun out of my face?"

He stares at you for a moment, considering. You are a potential threat, but you also could be of use to him. Eventually he lowers the gun, letting it rest at his hip; you note that he doesn't take his finger off the trigger.

"It means you're just another pawn in the game."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" you stare at him, growing annoyed already. "Who even are you?"

The man looks at you, unanswering, the gears in his head clearly still turning.

"Call me Hoshi," he finally tells you. He gestures to your gun on the counter. "Get your weapon. But try anything funny and I will kill you."

"I won't," you respond as you grab your gun and put it back into its holster. "I'm just glad to see another human," you admit.

The man huffs again. "Right."

"What's your fucking problem?" you question, following him as he walks off toward a door at the other end of the kitchen. As he opens it you see it appears to lead down to the basement. He descends the staircase without responding; you roll your eyes, trudging after him.

"Shut the door behind you," he barks from somewhere in the darkness. You oblige, extinguishing the already inadequate light source. You're about to complain when you hear the strike of a match — Hoshi ignites a single lantern in the middle of the room, casting a faint flow over the basement's contents. You see a neatly piled stash of rations in one corner, an assortment of rifles and weapons in another, and a twin sized mattress with a single blanket pushed up against the wall — clearly this is where he has hunkered down. Hoshi sits down at the single table, where various maps and tablets are scattered, as if he had been studying them.

"Tell me everything you know about the Company and its missions," he says as you sit in the chair opposite from him.

"That's classified—"

He crosses his arms as he shakes his head, cutting you off. "I already know it all. I just want to see how much you know."

"So you're Company then, too."

"Formerly," he grumbles.

"What does that mea—"

"We'll get there. Just start from the beginning."

"The beginning?" you raise your brow at him. "You want a fucking history lesson?"

"Skip the details," he waves his hand dismissively. "Just give me a summary."

You stare at him, mouth slightly ajar. You don't like the idea of just sitting around wasting time, but you are fucking exhausted.

"Fine," you sigh. "In the year 2135 a group of scientists conducting research on particle physics accidentally discovered a gateway to an alternate dimension that became known as the Backrooms. One of the scientists, Zhang, volunteered to be the first person to enter. He went in, and the team waited patiently for him to report back — nobody knew whether time progressed at the same velocity in the Backrooms, after all, so there could be some sort of delay. They gave it a few days, then a few weeks, then several months. But he was never heard from again. The team then decided to set up a base camp in the Backrooms, to conduct further research and transmit data back to Standard Earth. It was a groundbreaking endeavor, and every day it seemed there was a new discovery that made physicists question everything they knew about the fabric of reality. The research was thriving, but there was a major problem: the initial team who went in could not find a way out. Transmissions from the team became less and less frequent; and eventually, radio silence. Optimism began to dwindle, and funding started to run out. The project was in danger of being shut down entirely — but a coalition of wealthy donors founded the Axiom Company to continue the research. They launched Expedition Pioneer, and sent the first official crew in on a recovery mission. They found the base camp, but it seemed abandoned — and the scientists were nowhere to be seen. The recovery operation turned into reconnaissance, and soon the first Null Zone was discovered. That's when they realized there was more than one level to the Backrooms — but just like nobody could return to Standard Earth from Level 0, those who proceeded to Level 1 could not return to the previous Level. This encouraged Axiom to turn the Backrooms into a full-fledged enterprise. More and more expeditions embarked, and more and more Levels were discovered; the physicists began to theorize that the Backrooms actually contained an infinite number of Levels — a never-ending labyrinth of dimensions within dimensions. But of course, there were also the Entities. Entity Alphas were the first, lurking in the shadows of Level 1's parking garage enviro. They were awful enough as is — large, gangly, and fleshy, strong enough to rip humans apart in a single go. But it only got worse when the Pioneer crews discovered they also had the ability to mimic — disguising themselves as fellow crew members, luring you in with a false sense of security and then shredding you into pieces."

You pause as the gruesome imagery flashes through your mind. Gritting your teeth, you reach for your canteen and take a swig of lukewarm water. You've had no one to talk to since the last of your crew were exterminated (except for yourself, but you try to keep that to a minimum — for your safety as well as your sanity), and your throat is already growing hoarse.

"Anyway," you continue, recapping your canteen and clipping it back onto its place on your utility belt. "I'm sure you're all too familiar with the known Entities." Hoshi doesn't respond, continuing to stare at you coldly from across the table. A grimace seems permanently etched onto his face, but you can't get a read on his motives. Frustrating.

"Despite all the setbacks, incredible progress was made. The Company developed a massive database, recording everything known about the Backrooms and each of its Levels. The first few Levels are the most well-known, but documentation exists through Level 8. No reports from further Levels have ever been received, and nothing is known of Level 9. There has even been speculation that Level 9's enviro is inhospitable to humans, that no one who has entered it has survived — but we are currently in Level 9, so clearly that's not true."

You stop, wondering if Hoshi is satisfied with your rundown of the shit he certainly already knows. His lips remain pursed, saying nothing but continuing to glare at you.

"Do you have a fucking problem with me?" you spit suddenly.

"That depends," he responds, unfazed by your hostile tone.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It's complicated."

"It's a yes or no question," you scowl.

"You are naive. Things are not as straightforward as you think they are."

"Go ahead then," you huff, growing exasperated. "Explain to me how things really are, since apparently I'm fucking stupid."

"You're not stupid," he states matter-of-factly. "You wouldn't have made it this far if you were."

"Then why are you speaking to me like I am??"

"The truth can be hard to grapple with."

"I've seen Entity Alphas rip a human to shreds in seconds," you glare. "I've seen a Gamma boil my crewmate's skin off with their projectile acid venom. I've watched helplessly as Epsilons picked my crew off one by one, taking them alive and dragging them off to to god knows what kinds of horrors lay waiting in the nether. I assure you, whatever it is, I can handle it."

"That's not what I mean."

You swiftly draw your gun and aim it at Hoshi's forehead, switching the safety off.

"I don't appreciate you wasting my fucking time with your cryptic bullshit," you sneer. "Tell me whatever it is that's so important, or die. Your choice."

Hoshi laughs. An infuriatingly haughty chuckle, aggravated even further by the smug smirk spreading across his face. Your scowl deepens, but he just reclines in his chair, raising his hands and resting them behind his head, nonchalant and arrogant.

"Go ahead darling, shoot me," he shrugs. "I've wanted to blow my fucking brains out every single day for a very long time now. You'd only be doing me a favor. But just know that without me, you'll be dead within days."

Your jaw clenches. Unfortunately, you know he's probably right. You don't know how long Hoshi has been in Level 9, but if he's survived this long he certainly has knowledge that would be useful to you.

"Fine."

You switch the safety back on and lower your weapon.

"But call me darling again and I'm gonna start breaking fingers."

If your threat had any effect on him, his callous face shows no sign of it. Rising to his feet, he begins to quickly move to gather the documents on the table.

"For now I will give you a very basic rundown," he tells you, rolling the papers up and shoving them into a small metal canister retrieved from his pack. "But we can't risk staying here any longer. I'll tell you on the way to our next location. Grab any weapons you want," he instructs, pointing to the stockpile in the corner. "Good chance you'll need 'em."

You have dozens of burning questions, but you hold your tongue. You don't think Hoshi would answer any of them right now anyway.

"Anything I can do?" you inquire after arming yourself with an additional automatic rifle and several hand grenades.

"Collect the provisions from the kitchen," he orders as he folds up the safety blanket into his pack. "I'll be up in a minute."

You turn to head back up the stairs, but you are halted by Hoshi's hand grabbing your wrist. Turning to face him, his piercing eyes bore into yours.

"If anything looks out of place, run."

"What do you m—"

"I mean exactly that. Use your instincts. Your life depends on it now more than ever."

As much as you want to trust Hoshi, you don't. Something about him scares you. You're not sure what — but according to him, there's no time to stand around and think right now. It's either trust him, or fend for yourself. Neither is very appealing, but for the time being, you decide to do as he says.

"Understood," you reply bluntly. He releases your arm, and you proceed up the stairs.

As you saw before, there's not much in the cabinet. It takes you approximately thirty seconds to stow the provisions in your pack. You hear Hoshi's footsteps echoing as he climbs up the stairs; turning, you see him emerge from the dark basement, hauling his belongings and also wielding an automatic rifle. You're about to ask where it is exactly that you two are going, when you notice the houseplant in the hallway. It's a large fern, tall and leafy, and it definitely wasn't there before.

Hoshi's eyes dart to where yours are fixed, immediately registering the anomaly. He turns to tell you to run, but you have already bolted out the back door. He runs after you, following you as you kick down the fence gate with a single blow and bolt into the street.

"LEFT!" he shouts at your back. You turn left, sprinting down the center of the road off into the permanent suburban night. He's fast, advantaged by his height, but you're faster. He lengthens his strides, pushing onward, finally catching up to you at the next intersection.

"Stop!!" he orders, and you do. Back to back, you survey the streets around you. You're not entirely sure what it is you're looking for, but as far as you can see in every direction you find nothing. Intuition tells you you are safe — for now, at least.

"We're clear," Hoshi states. He lowers his gun a bit, but still grips it firmly. "For now."

He turns to face you, his sharp eyes locking onto you.

"You're very good at following orders," he says to you, but by the bitterness in his tone you can tell that it's not a compliment. He walks off, continuing straight down the same street.

You follow him for several blocks, walking a couple meters behind him without conversation, but you quickly begin to grow annoyed.

"What was that?"

"An Entity Zeta," he responds curtly, not bothering to turn around. You wait for him to elaborate, but of course he doesn't.

"And what exactly are the Zetas?" you inquire, speeding your pace to catch up to him. "What's their M.O.?"

His jaw clenches. "They're a hive mind," he answers bitterly. "A massive, interconnected colony of festering, insect-like creatures. Their M.O. is to stalk and ambush. They don't attack right away. They watch you, disguising themselves as familiar objects — waiting until you least expect it, striking when you're at your most vulnerable. If you feel safe for even a moment, you're not."

"And that houseplant was one of them."

"Yes."

"What would have happened?" you press. "If we hadn't ran away?"

"It would've erupted into a swarm of vermin and cleaned all the flesh off our bones within a minute tops."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he huffs. "'Oh' is right."

"Is there any way to fight back?"

"Depends how close they are. If they're too close, no. You either run or you're fucked. If they're further away, fire will deter them, but not for long. There's no true way of 'killing' them off — it'll just retreat back into the hive mind and regenerate."

"You say fire. Are grenades the best bet?"

"Grenades can be effective. But your best bet—" He slips his pack off his shoulder, pulling out an empty beer bottle with a rag sticking out of it. "Is one of these."

You raise your brow at the crude Molotov cocktail, but as you think about it it does makes a lot of sense.

"What do you use to ignite it?"

Hoshi reaches into the breast pocket of his cargo jacket, pulling out something small and tosses it at you. As you catch it, you see it's a matchbook.

"Here," he adds, extending the bottle in his hand to you. "Take this one."

You tuck the matchbook into your own pocket and slip the makeshift bomb into one of the external pockets on your pack.

"Thanks," you tell him amicably. "Hopefully I won't need it."

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He still wears the same scornful expression, but unless your eyes are deceiving you, it seems to have softened ever so slightly.

"You will."

You walk in silence again for a few moments. The question lingering on your mind nags at you, begging to be asked.

"Is your crew still around or is it just you?"

Hoshi stiffens. "Just me," he answers grimly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you tell him sincerely, but he just scoffs. He continues onward, lips pursed tightly shut as he doesn't reply.

"Did they—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he sneers.

"Okay," you accept. "Sorry."

He says nothing. You go back to walking in silence.

At the next intersection, Hoshi turns right.

"Are we going to a specific location or are we just wandering until we find something?" you ask.

"Specific location. We're close."

You wonder if his bluntness is related to you bringing up his crew, ripping open a not-so-old wound. But in the short span of time you've known him, you've gathered this is just how he is.

"Here," he says a few blocks later, stopping in front of another perfectly nondescript house. He heads for the front door — you follow.

The house's interior is almost identical to the previous one you were in, bland and impersonal.

"I'll sweep upstairs. You take downstairs," he instructs, quickly disappearing up the stairs. You're not sure exactly what you're looking for, since the Zetas can apparently shape shift into anything, but you investigate anyway. The living room, dining room, kitchen, closets, and bathroom all seem fine. The last room to be checked sits behind a closed door; you swing it open, your gun at the ready — but you find nothing but an ordinary bedroom. You check its bathroom as well, but it too is clear.

Hoshi materializes in the doorway as you exit the bathroom.

"Upstairs is clear."

"Downstairs too," you inform him. "I can't believe this one has a real bed," you remark, a grin appearing on your face for the first time in god knows how long.

"They all do," he replies. You turn and give him a look.

"Then why were you sleeping in the basement in the other one?"

"It's not important."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, but then you just shrug.

"Well I'm sleeping here," you announce, plopping your pack down on the floor. "An actual bed, in the Backrooms. It's a goddamn miracle."

"Don't get too comfortable," Hoshi tells you dully, turning to exit the bedroom.

"Will we have to move again soon?" you inquire. He stops, looking back at you.

"It's likely."

"Is there a pattern to the Zetas' movement?" you ask, making him stop in his tracks again. He lets out a small sigh.

"Get some sleep," he says plainly, and then he leaves.

You're about to plop yourself on the bed and go right to sleep, but a thought crosses your mind. You step back into the bathroom, walking over to the shower and turning its knob. To your surprise, it actually turns on, an inviting stream of water spraying from the faucet.

"Holy shit," you mutter to yourself, a wide grin spreading across your face. You're about to begin undressing when an arm reaches from behind you and shuts the water off. You whip around abruptly, finding Hoshi's face hovering above yours. His broad stature towers over you — from this close up, he is even more intimidating than he already ways.

"What the hell?!" you bark at him.

"I told you," he glares down at you. "The Zetas will attack at your most vulnerable."

"I'll be fast."

"No," he insists, crossing his arms. "It's too risky."

"Oh come on," you groan. "I haven't taken a proper shower in ages. Let me have this."

"You're asking to get killed."

"Oh go fuck yourself," you roll your eyes, taking your shirt off anyway. Hoshi averts his eyes; you reach for the knob and turn the water back on. "I'll be five minutes."

"Fine," he grumbles. "I'll stand guard I fucking guess."

You're about to point out that you never asked him to do that, but you just shake your head. There's no point in arguing with him, it seems.

"Suit yourself."

He shuts the door behind him as he exits. You spend the next five minutes basking in the glory of a real, functioning shower. The water is cold, but you don't even care — as far as you're concerned this is the peak of luxury.

After, you exit the bathroom to retrieve the change of clothes from your pack. Sure enough, Hoshi is standing right outside the door; when he sees that you're naked, he quickly turns away.

"Could've given me a fucking warning," he mumbles under his breath.

"Sorry," you say uninterestedly as you get dressed again. "I wasn't about to put those filthy clothes back on."

"I'm dressed now," you announce about a minute later.

"Great."

He starts to walk out of the room when you grab him by the shoulder.

"You should take a shower, too."

"I'm fine," he responds, trying to walk away, but you cling to his shirt, yanking at it to spin him back around.

"Take a fucking shower," you glare at him. "Give me your gun, I'll be on watch."

He grits his teeth, but to your surprise he stomps back into the bathroom.

"I'm not giving you my gun. Use your own."

The door slams shut behind him. You grin as you hear the water turn back on, picking up your weapon and stationing yourself beside the door.

Eight minutes later the ambient rush of the water dissipates. Hoshi appears a few moments later, marching out of the bathroom and making a beeline for the door. You consider teasing him for taking so long, but you are promptly distracted by his stark lack of clothing. He wears only his underwear and headband, the rest of his clothes balled up in his fist sopping wet as he walks out of the room. It was clear from the moment you met him that he had a strong build — but seeing him shirtless, water droplets beading down his back between the crevices of his muscles, very much takes you by surprise.

"See? Wasn't that nice?" you call out to him. He turns back around, his thick pectorals also glistening with water despite the darkness of the room. He stares at you intensely, but the harshness which you've grown accustomed to from him has seemed to mellow slightly.

"Goodnight, Commander l/n," he says calmly, exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

You wake about eight hours later. Level 9 has no daylight, so there's no such thing as a true morning — but for the first time in months you actually feel refreshed. You don't know when was the last time you slept this long in one go. Certainly well before your time in the Backrooms.

You find Hoshi in the kitchen, eating beans straight from a can. He still wears a deeply wearied look, but he too seems like he slept well.

"I was just about to wake you," he states, extending the can of beans to you. "You should eat."

You gladly accept the can of beans, spooning a large bite into your mouth.

"I don't know when the last time I had real food was," you comment gleefully as you chew. "All I have left is the dehydrated powder shit and calorie pills."

"We seem to have been the last crew sent in with canned goods," he tells you. "The Company shifted to processed nutrient provisions after us. Cheap bastards."

Your lips twitch into a grin. Getting a full night's rest has seemingly done wonders for the man's demeanor. You consider commenting on it, but you figure he wouldn't appreciate that very much, and the last thing you want to do is piss him off even a little. But, you do still have about a thousand questions for him.

"What were they like?" you ask, treading carefully. "Your crew. You haven't told me much about them."

Hoshi tenses up, a cold expression washing over his face.

"I don't see how it's relevant."

"Okay," you nod acceptingly, not wanting to aggravate him. "How about you then?"

He narrows his eyes at you, confused. "What about me?"

"I don't know, anything. What's your rank?"

"What's it to you?" he cocks his head at you.

"Just trying to make conversation, damn. Sorry," you spit. Irritated, you turn to walk away. You're nearly out of the kitchen when he decides to answer.

"First Officer," he says, his voice less harsh this time. You turn back around; he's still staring at you sternly, but he no longer seems hostile.

"Oh shit, really?" you ask, surprised but interested. "Me too."

"I thought you were Commander," he frowns, wondering if you lied to him before.

"Only after an Epsilon got our initial Commander," you reply, trying not to relive that memory too much.

"Oh. I see," he says quietly, accepting your answer.

"But I suppose rank doesn't mean much of anything anymore," you comment neutrally. "Not when you're the last remaining crewmate."

"I suppose not."

"Well, First Officer Hoshi," you say as you finish off the beans. "What's our course of action for today?"

Hoshi lets out a bewildered laugh. You raise your brow at him, but he just shakes his head.

"Hoshi isn't my real name," he explains. "We all had nicknames, me and my crew."

"What is your name, then?" you ask, genuinely curious, but the minute amount of warmth present in his face quickly fades.

"That's not important."

"That seems to be your answer for everything."

"That's because most things are no longer important," he responds coolly. "Not if you're to survive Level 9."

With that, he departs the kitchen. You sigh. It's exasperating dealing with Hoshi — but you decide to follow him.

"You didn't answer my question," you remind him as you join him in the dining room. He is sitting at the table, notebooks and tablets and maps strewn across its surface just as they were in the previous house's basement.

"What question?"

"I asked you what our course of action is."

"Our course of action is to not die," he states.

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, no shit. I mean, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No."

"That can't possibly be true."

He glances up at you, sharp eyes locking into your gaze. Every time, it's intimidating.

"You don't have the intel needed to be of use here."

He says it matter-of-factly, without contempt, but you're still irked by his unintentional rudeness.

"Well, you could fill me in," you suggest, but he just waves his hand at you dismissively.

"That would take too long."

"It's not like we have anything else to do!" you point out, growing annoyed.

"Fine! Here," he barks, grabbing a handful of the maps and shoving them toward you. "Study these."

"Thank you," you say curtly, snatching them from his hand and marching out of the room.

You spend the next few hours studying Hoshi's maps of Level 9. For the most part, they are incomprehensible, and you genuinely start to wonder if he might just be insane. Eventually you bury your head in your hands, groaning with frustration. A few moments later, you sense movement, coming from behind you. You reach for your gun and jump to your feet, swiveling around and pointing the weapon, but it's just Hoshi.

"Fucking hell, don't sneak up on me like that!" you chastise him.

"Apologies." He extends to you an additional piece of paper; you take it, seeing an assortment of keys, diagrams, and notes. "This should help you understand the maps better."

"Gee, thanks, this would've been really helpful several hours ago," you say sardonically as you scan the sheet.

"I made it just now."

"Oh," you reply, lifting your gaze to meet his. "Well, thank you."

He gives you a single nod, spinning on his heel and retreating back to the dining room.

With Hoshi's new notes, you're quickly able to start making sense of the maps. What had previously looked like the scribblings of a madman turn into a vastly complex mathematical schematic depiction of the known areas of Level 9. You're still on the fence about whether the man is insane, but one thing becomes very clear: he's a fucking genius.

A few more hours and your brain is aching from overuse. When the maps start to become convoluted, you decide to call it quits. You gather the papers and return them to Hoshi in the dining room; he's in the exact same spot he was hours ago, poring over some sort of document on his tablet.

"Thank you for the notes," you tell him as you set the maps on one of the few empty spots on the tabletop. "They really helped me start to make sense of things."

"You're welcome," Hoshi replies, the polite words feeling awkward rolling off his tongue. It's been a long time since he's had a casual conversation with anybody that didn't involve giving or receiving orders.

"I'm going to sleep now," you inform him.

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Hoshi," you say cordially.

He simply nods. You figure that's about as much as you're going to get out of him; as you walk out of the room, you hear his voice echo calmly from behind you.

"Goodnight."

As you sleep you have a nightmare.

It's a recurring one — one you've been having for a while now. In it, you're wielding a gun, but it's not like the ones you carry with you in the Backrooms. It's a .45 handgun, and you're frantically reloading it as you crouch behind something that resembles a desk. Your hands are shaky and covered in blood, but it doesn't appear to be yours. A curly-haired man is perched beside you, reloading his own pistol. He's wounded, appearing to have been grazed by a bullet in the arm, one of his glasses lenses half-shattered, but he appears determined; he signals to you to advance.

"Go!! I'll cover you!" he mutters to you under his breath.

"I don't feel very good about this anymore," you reply, cocking your gun. He looks at you somberly, but you can tell he understands.

"Me neither," he says, then smiles at you. "If I don't see you again, it's been a pleasure working with you."

You grin back. "Likewise," you reply.

"On my signal," he tells you. You take a deep breath, shifting to prepare yourself to make a run for it.

"Three… two… one… GO!!!"

You jump to your feet and hurdle yourself over the desk, coming face to face with three men in full riot gear and guns much bigger and scarier than yours. A shot rings out from behind you as your companion shoots at the nearest one — he hits him, and the armed man collapses to the ground. You manage to yank the ballistic shield out of his hands as you pass, wielding it as you sprint toward the emergency exit that the remaining two men are blocking. You hold your fire, focusing on protecting yourself from their bullets with the shield. To your surprise you manage to make it all the way to them without getting hit. You shoot one of them in the leg as you ram the other with the shield as hard as you can — it's enough to knock him over slightly, giving you a chance to shoot at him once before you throw yourself against the door. It opens into a maintenance hallway, its concrete walls and flooring sallowly lit by sparse fluorescent lighting. You bolt toward the left, running as fast as you possibly can muster, hoping to escape before they come after you; but the hallway is vast and open, with no places to hide. Suddenly you are surrounded, flanked by a dozen armed men who seemed to materialize from the walls. One of them shoves you to the ground, your knees slamming into the floor. A siren wails hauntingly in the distance, your ears pound with the rushing blood coursing through your veins, your breathing harsh and erratic. You hear the sound of a rifle cocking into position behind your head, and then—

"Commander! Wake up!"

You bolt upright, finding yourself in the bedroom again. Hoshi hovers above the bed, staring down at you— a menacing sight to wake up to, but not worse than the dream you were having.

"We have to go," he tells you urgently. "Pack your shit as fast as you can."

You don't question him. The alarm in his voice is enough to light a fire under you, and within a minute you've gathered your things. Hoshi reappears in the doorway as you finish lacing your boots.

"Come on," he orders. You hurry after him, following him out the front door into the never-ending suburban night. You run for several blocks, turning down a new street a few times, but soon he begins to slow his pace.

"We should be safe now," he tells you. "But don't let your guard down."

He continues, walking along the sidewalk with his weapon at the ready.

"There's another house nearby. We'll be there soon."

You nod, walking beside him silently for a minute or two.

"How do you know where to go?" you decide to ask. "Like how do you know where is safe?"

He turns, facing you as he speaks. You notice that this is the first time he's done so.

"I've been tracking Zeta movement for long enough now that I can recognize their patterns," he explains. "Once one is activated in one area, there seems to be a recovery period before they can strike within the vicinity again. They also seem to stick to certain paths, though I have no idea why. I assume it has to do with the physical logistics of the hive mind network."

"Damn, you're really fucking smart," you tell him. "Not that I thought you were stupid," you add.

"I used to be an engineer," he replies gruffly.

"What?! How did you end up in a tactical unit then?"

He lets out a bitter laugh. "That's a long story. We turn left here."

"I'm all ears," you try, following him as he turns down the next street.

"Maybe later, when we—"

He stops in his tracks, thrusting his hand out in front of you and forcing you to halt too. Ahead of you are several dozen mailboxes — the blue collection receptacles that you would typically find at a street corner. It occurs to you that you've never seen a mailbox in Level 9 before, but these aren't just posted on the sidewalk — they're on the sidewalks, in the yards, in the middle of the street. All of them seeming to be turned toward you, facelessly staring you down with sinister intent.

"Shit," Hoshi hisses as he frantically reaches for one of the grenades clipped to his pack. He pulls the pin with his teeth and launches it toward the nearest cluster of mailboxes, but it doesn't go off. You reach for the grenades on your own pack, but as you do so one of the blue boxes close to you begins to turn into static, coming to life in a festering swarm and growing tall and sprawling and disgusting. You toss your first grenade, swinging your rifle back into your hands and firing into the mass. It seems to hinder it slightly, making it squeal, but the explosion of the grenade does significantly more damage. It begins to retreat into itself, but two others near Hoshi start to shift into their true form. His second grenade goes off, holding them off momentarily as they let out a grating screech, but the rest of the Zetas are already activating. Remembering the bottle Hoshi had given you, you grab it from your pack.

"Cover me!!" you shout to him as you kneel. Setting the bottle on the ground you reach into your pocket, digging around for the matchbook. Hoshi fires a stream of bullets into the Zeta currently charging toward you; you almost panic, unable to find the matches, but finally your fingers locate the small paper packet. You pry one of the matches off and strike it, holding it to the rag sticking out of the bottle. For a horrible moment you're not sure there's even anything flammable inside it — but giving it a good shake you hear something sloshing around in there. Saying a silent prayer you try the match again, and this time it ignites. A fucking miracle.

"Incoming!!!" you yell to Hoshi. He ducks, and you throw the Molotov cocktail as hard as you can toward the center of the largest cluster of Zetas. The bottle shatters on impact with the pavement, igniting into a massive fireball and engulfing the Entities. The flames spread quickly to the others, extracting a cacophonous symphony of horrible screeches as they all begin to burn — the one weakness of being a hive mind, you suppose.

"RUN!!" Hoshi screams. He takes off in the opposite direction, with you sprinting right behind him. As you dash across the intersection you hear a thunderous BOOOOOOOOM bellow out from behind you. The sound of the Zetas' awful squeals swells, and then disappears, returning the street into silence aside from the crackling of the spreading fire and the pounding of you and Hoshi's boots upon the pavement. You steal a glance back, but there's no mailboxes or Zetas in sight — just the flames lighting up the block with an ominous orange glow.

"Are we clear?" you ask Hoshi through labored breaths. He slows down, walking now instead of running. Turning to look behind him, he nods approvingly.

"Yeah, we're good."

"For now," you add.

"For now," he agrees.

"Where to now?" you inquire as he continues down the street, seeming to know exactly where he's going. He lets out a long sigh.

"My crew's original base camp is not far," he says bitterly. His tone sounds reluctant, and you get the sense he does not want to return to this location — but he knows it's the smartest option.

You turn right a few blocks later, and the base camp comes into view. The tall makeshift fence surrounding the house makes it glaringly obvious where you're headed.

"Damn," you comment as you and Hoshi approach the gate, staring up in awe at what looks to be like electrical wiring rigged on top of and all over the scrapped-together fencing. "This is impressive."

Hoshi doesn't reply. He fiddles with the gate's crude latch, letting the both of you in and shutting it again behind you.

"Let's see if we can light this shit back up," he mutters, stepping up to the tangled assembly of wires beside the gate. He fiddles with it for a minute, a low humming sound filling the air as the electricity comes back on. You look at him in amazement; he gives you a slight smirk.

"I told you, engineer," he says nonchalantly, brushing past you and heading into the house.

You were expecting another lifeless interior, like the past houses, but your eyes widen with surprise as you step through the door. The house does have the same style of bland furnishings as seen before, but scattered everywhere are various belongings: clothes strewn over the couch, papers and notebooks atop the coffee table and floor, empty cans and rations packs discarded haphazardly all around. Most prominent though are the spray painted walls — playful graffiti scribbled alongside what appears to be basic map outlines. You realize you haven't seen this much color, this much life, in a long fucking time; the thought nearly makes you emotional, but you quickly shake it off.

"Do you mind if I sleep now?" you question.

"Sure," Hoshi responds, dropping his pack in the middle of the room and plopping himself onto the couch. "We'll be safe here for a while."

"Great," you reply with a relieved grin, excited at the prospect of getting to sleep in a bed again. You head toward the door that appears to be the master bedroom.

"No!!" Hoshi shouts as you go to open the door. He leaps off the couch and gets between you and the doorway, blocking you from entering.

"Don't fucking touch it," he spits angrily.

"Okay, okay!" you say as you swiftly back up, raising your hands in the air apologetically. "I won't, I'm sorry."

He's glaring at you, but his face quickly drops, his irate expression shifting into one of sorrow.

"Take the room with the blue door upstairs," he orders you quietly. "At the end of the hall."

"Okay," you agree gently. As you turn to go up the staircase, you hear him sigh deeply.

"It was my Commander's room."

You look back over your shoulder. Hoshi stands before the door still, arms crossed and staring down at the floor.

"Were you close?" you ask softly.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," you tell him with sincerity. He nods, saying nothing. You stand there for a few more moments, watching him, wondering if you should say anything else. But you don't; you continue up the stairs without another word, leaving him be.

Sure enough, the room at the end of the hallway sits behind a door spray-painted bright blue. You enter, finding a standard looking bedroom covered in a similar disarray to what was present downstairs. Even with the mess, it feels surprisingly cozy.

You drop your bag to the ground, removing your boots and flopping onto the bed. You're asleep before you can even bother getting under the covers.

As usual, you wake up to darkness. You never thought you would miss daylight this much, but the lack of distinction between day and night in the Backrooms, quite frankly, fucking sucks.

You decide to go downstairs to get something to eat. As you drag yourself out of bed, you see something flutter off the nightstand and onto the floor. You pick up the small piece of paper; it's very wrinkled, edges tattered and slightly torn, but you see that it's a photo. Flipping it over, you see a group of eight people, bright faces smiling with enthusiasm and laughter. Many are holding beer bottles, raising them to the camera with cheers. Hoshi's face pops out to you immediately, but the huge beaming grin on his face makes him looks drastically different, as does the distinct lack of scarring across his cheek. One man in the middle of the group seems to be the central focus of the photo — he holds a cake with lit candles on it, the others pointing at him gleefully.

This must be his crew, you think to yourself. You figure the man in the middle is probably his Commander; it appears to have been his birthday in the photo. You tuck the photo into your pocket, careful not to rip it any further.

Traipsing down the stairs, you spot Hoshi crashed face down into the couch, fast asleep. Carefully you wake up him, patting at his shoulder gently. He flies off the couch, making you nearly jump out of your skin.

"Fucking hell!" you instinctively shout in reaction. Calmer, you add "It's just me."

Hoshi stands before you, looking frazzled, the bandana around his head askew and partially covering one of his eyes. He blinks, realizing you are not a threat. He relaxes slightly, adjusting the headband back into place and sitting back down on the couch with a thump.

"Sorry," he mutters, a yawn overtaking him.

"It's fine. Why didn't you sleep in a bed?" you inquire.

"You were in my bed," he states plainly.

"What?" you say with a laugh. "There's more beds in this house—"

"The couch is fine," he insists firmly. You roll your eyes, but you don't press it any further.

An unopened can of what appears to be beef chili sitting on a nearby shelf catches your eye.

"Mind if I open this?" you ask Hoshi, showing him the can. "We can share."

His face seems to lighten up at the prospect of something besides beans or nutrient powder. "Fine with me," he nods, getting up and walking into the next room. "Here, there's probably some utensils in the kitchen still."

He returns with a very bent metal spoon and a fork that is missing a prong. You sit at opposite ends of the couch, passing the can of chili back and forth as you eagerly devour it.

"As far as I'm concerned," you say, breaking the silence as you shovel a spoonful of the stew into your mouth, "this is a gourmet fucking meal."

Hoshi takes the can as you hand it to him. It disappears in a flash, but the briefest hint of a grin appears on his face for a split second.

"Can I ask you about your crew?" you say delicately after a minute or so of silence. You know it's clearly sensitive topic for him, but you have a feeling he might be more open to talking about them now that he seems to trust you at least a little bit.

Hoshi stares down at the can in his hand, mindlessly stirring the chili with his fork.

"I'm not sure why you want to know about them so bad," he says quietly.

You consider whether you should for a moment, but you decide to ask him about the photo. Carefully removing it from your pocket, you show him the tattered photograph. His expression changes, the coldness disappearing from his face, replaced by wistfulness and regret.

"I found this in your room. I assume this is them?"

He takes it from you, staring at the eight smiling faces in the photo.

"Yeah, that's them."

"This was from before your expedition," you comment, looking at him for confirmation. He gives you a small nod. The room falls silent again, and you accept that that's the most you're probably ever going to get out of him. You start to get up, figuring you should leave him alone.

"It was the week before we set out."

You freeze. Sitting back into the couch, you look over at him again. He's still staring at the picture.

"It was our Commander's 30th birthday," he continues. "His name was Laughlin, but we all called him Blaze. He accidentally started a fire once in the middle of a training course, and the name stuck."

A smile appears on Hoshi's face. It's subtle, but it's a real, genuine smile.

"Tell me about your past," he says, turning to face you.

"My past?" you respond, thrown off by the sudden request. "Um, well I started out at Axiom training in the Research Department, but then I was switched over to Tactical—"

"No," Hoshi cuts you off. "I don't mean that. I mean before Axiom."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what you did prior to joining the Company. Your job, your hobbies, your family, anything."

"Well, I…" you start to tell him, but your mind spins. You rack your brain, trying to picture your life before all this, but you're completely drawing a blank.

"I… can't remember?" you say quietly. You think about your parents, your mom, your dad. You know they exist — so why can't you picture their faces? You try to think about your siblings, but did you even have any? You don't know.

Your heart starts to pound in your chest. You jump to your feet, beginning to pace around the room.

"Why can't I remember?" you whisper, barely audible. You suddenly feel very dizzy.

"It's okay, don't panic," he tells you calmly. But it's too late — your chest has already tightened, and you feel like you're going to throw up. You don't know what else to do, so you bolt upstairs.

"Commander!" Hoshi calls after you, but with your heartbeat pounding in your ears you barely hear him. You run back into the bedroom, slamming the blue door shut behind you. You fall to the ground, your back to the door as you try to steady your breathing. You don't ever remember having panic attacks before, but then again you apparently don't remember anything at all.

You hear the doorknob turn above your head. Hoshi tries to open the door, but it doesn't budge with you slumped against it. He pounds on the door, the knocks thumping against your back.

"Let me in," he insists, but you barely even hear him. He sighs, turning the knob again and forcing the door open with his body weight. It opens enough for him to slip inside; he picks you up off the ground, lifting you with ease and carrying you across the room. He sets you on the bed, sitting down beside you.

"Hey, breathe," he instructs, shaking you gently but firmly. It brings you back to reality a bit; your eyes are able to focus on your surroundings again. "Take a deep breath, you're starting to hyperventilate."

You do as he says, inhaling and exhaling slowly several times. Finally, the panic dissipates. You turn to look at Hoshi beside you.

"Why can't I remember?" you ask again, your voice wavering. He sighs.

"It's a long story, but I'll explain. Do you remember what you told me about Axiom's history before?"

You nod. That was only a few days prior, but it feels like ages ago.

"Well, most of everything you said is true. But there's more — secrets they kept from you and me and almost everybody. There's a reason you don't remember anything about your past: nobody does. And there's good reason for it. Because if the truth got out, the Company would go down in flames."

"That's what you said before, 'the truth'," you recall.

"I wasn't lying when I said it's a tough pill to swallow," he reminds you. "I didn't want to believe it at first, either. But it all goes back to the initial discovery of the Backrooms. It was an accident, a byproduct of a top-secret government experiment conducted as part of research efforts to create a new weapon of mass destruction — one that would make the atomic bomb look like child's play. Word got out, spreading to various government agencies, and people were pissed. Almost everyone opposed the development of the new bomb, so they said they were halting the research. But they lied. A whistleblower eventually exposed them, leading to a massive strike amongst the scientists and engineers working on classified government projects. But the government didn't budge — they executed the whistleblower, hoping to instill fear that would lead to compliance, but it backfired. It instigated an uprising, the scientists and researchers fighting back, but despite their numbers they were no match for the militarized response units. Those who weren't killed were imprisoned and forced into menial labor. That's when Axiom comes along — the 'wealthy donors' it boasts of as its founders were on the government's payroll. The Company was founded as a ruse, pretending to be a neutral third party purely interested in the research, but they quickly rounded up the prisoners to use for their dirty work. But even with brute force and violence, the scientists refused to work. They knew they couldn't just kill them all off — they were far too valuable of assets. So they came up with an alternative solution: implant a neural chip in everyone's heads. The chip repressed memories, and with that they had a blank slate of brilliant minds to brainwash into compliance. Those who were least valuable were sent into the Backrooms first, guinea pigs sent off to their deaths. Once the imprisoned scientists were milked of their knowledge and no longer useful for research purposes, they shipped them off to training for the tactical units to send on their little expeditions. Smart, obedient, but also disposable — it was the perfect source of labor for the job."

You stare blankly at Hoshi, processing everything he just told you. I was right, you think to yourself. He is actually insane.

"You don't believe me," he observes.

"How do you expect me to believe… all that?? This is ridiculous."

"Think about it," he insists. "What other explanation could there be for you not remembering anything pre-Axiom?"

"I don't know!" you shout in frustration, rising to your feet as you begin to pace again. "But surely there's a much more likely explanation than that—"

Hoshi stands, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you back around to face him. He glares down at you, an intense fiery gaze, as he grasps onto your wrists tightly. Your heart begins to pound again in fear — you're stuck here, deep in the fucking Backrooms, in the clutch of a crazy delusional man. What if he kills you? What if this is the end?

He raises your right hand to your head, pressing your fingers into your scalp above your right ear. As he pushes further, you feel something… sharp. It's small, but you wince as it nearly pricks your finger.

"There's your truth," he says quietly. You stare up at him, wide-eyed with disbelief.

"How… how did you figure this out?"

He lets go of your right hand; with his free hand he removes the bandana tied around his forehead, sliding if off his head and dropping it to the floor.

"Look," he says, tilting his head to the side. You let out a soft gasp. Above his right ear, previously concealed by the bandana, is a large, deep gash. It's old enough to be mostly healed, thick scar tissue filling in the wound, but you can tell it's still somewhat recent.

"What happened?" you whisper.

"An Alpha tried to rip my head off," he smirks. "I was fast enough to avoid death, but it still got me pretty good."

He lifts your left hand, drawing it in to the scar. You resist, trying to pull your hand away, but he doesn't let go.

"It's okay, it doesn't hurt," he assured you. "In fact I can't even feel anything there."

He guides your fingers into a groove in the healed skin. As he presses them into his head you feel a similar sharp sensation, but smaller, and more of them.

"I guess it hit me just right," he says with a slight huff of a laugh. "It broke the chip, and suddenly I remembered everything. I was free again. Except, of course I'm not really. I'm still stuck in this fucking hellscape. Some days I wish I had never learned the truth — it would be less painful that way."

The truth. You think back to your recurring dream. What if it wasn't a dream at all, but a memory?

You suddenly realize how close you are to him right now. It should be far too intimate, but you don't want to move for a second.

"Did you tell your crew?" you ask him.

"Yes. Fortunately, they believed me. One by one we helped each other remove the chips. None of us were surgeons, so that part was a bit rough," he grimaces. "But once they were gone, they too remembered everything. The only—"

He stops himself. That part isn't important, you don't need to know about it. But for some reason, he decides to tell you anyway.

"The only member of our crew who didn't remove their chip was Blaze."

"Your Commander," you affirm softly. He nods. "Why not?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I don't know much about his past — but think some part of his unconscious mind remembered something, something too painful experience all over again. I tried to convince him several times, but he didn't want to. So I respected that. But then we made it to Level 9. We'd only lost one crew member up until that point, but the Zetas started to pick us off one by one. Before long, it was just him and I left. He told me he decided he wanted to remove his chip. I was going to do it that night, once we got back to base camp, but he didn't make it back."

Without thinking, you cradle his face in your palm. He inhales sharply, looking into your eyes with equal parts surprise and want.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper. He reaches up to take your wrist in his grasp again, rubbing his thumb slowly over the back of your hand. His eyes close as his head drops, his forehead falling against yours.

"You don't have to be sorry," he mutters. Opening his eyes again, he meets your gaze. Your heart palpitates in your chest, the intimacy making you ache with need. Then, you kiss him.

Your lips crash into his, leaving him momentarily stunned, but quickly his hands drop to your sides, grasping at your waist urgently as he kisses you back. Your hands cling to his face as you press your body into him; he lets out a soft moan into your mouth, making your core throb. His arms squeeze around your torso, drawing you in as close as possible, hands wandering desperately as he eagerly explores every curve of your body. You wrap your arms around his head, clinging to him as you grind against him.

"Fuck," he groans against your lips. Suddenly you are lifted in the air as he picks you up, carrying you back to the bed where he lays you down gently. He crawls on top of you; your legs instinctively open, wrapping around his hips as he presses his weight into you. You pull him back into a kiss, hungrily tugging at his lips once more. You push your hips up against him, your center greeted by a stiffening bulge and drawing another moan out of him.

You sigh as his mouth wanders to your chin, kissing along your jawline up to your earlobe and nipping at it; his lips return to your neck, planting soft, slow pecks into the delicate skin as he works his way down to your collarbone. Your soft whines are driving him insane already; he abruptly sits up, taking off his shirt. He reaches for yours as well, prying it over your head and dropping it to the floor. He makes quick work of your bra, discarding it aside and immediately grasping at your breasts, tugging and kneading the soft flesh in his hands while pinching your nipples between his fingers.

"You're amazing, so fucking hot," he praises. He steals another kiss before hopping up and tugging at your waistband. You hurriedly unbutton your pants, wriggling out of them as he follows suit. As he slips his pants down his thighs his cock comes into view, erect and red with anticipation; the mere sight of it makes your mouth water.

He reaches for your bare pussy as he lays down beside you; you whine softly as his fingers discover the pooling wetness present between your legs.

"God, you're so fucking wet, fuck…"

You let out a moan as his fingers slip inside you, lazily working them in and out of your pussy, your slick collecting on his hand and glistening in the dim lighting.

"That's it, let me hear you baby," he encourages. You let go, moaning unrestrained as you let your hips rock to his touch, grinding your clit against the heel of his hand. It feels incredible, like you never want him to stop touching you.

"Fuck," he hisses through gritted teeth. He leans over, licking your nipple with the tip of his tongue. He starts to swirl his tongue around it, eliciting a string of whimpering from you, curling his fingertips to press against your g-spot.

"Oh my god," you groan, your head falling back onto the pillow.

"So pretty, so perfect," he croons, switching to your other nipple, wetting it with his saliva and dragging his tongue in circles around the bud.

"Feels so good," you mutter breathily, your body writhing as a burning heat swells in your gut.

"Go on, cum for me baby, I wanna see."

He wraps his lips around your nipple, latching on as he sucks on it, his hand speeding its pace. You feel your release wash over you, whining as you cum on his fingers, their deep strokes sending thick pulses of pleasure through your whole body. He slows as you do, releasing his mouth from your breast and lifting his head so he can kiss you again, long and slow, so he can savor it. He slips his fingers out of you, sticking them in his mouth and lapping up your juices, moaning at the taste of you.

You've barely caught your breath when he rolls over on top of you. His tip brushes against your wet cunt; he strokes it up and down over your folds a few times before pressing into your entrance. His cock slips inside, making you gasp, slowly filling you with his whole length.

"Ready?" he asks softly. You nod eagerly, eyes begging him to fuck you. He drags his cock out of you, almost all the way, then plunges it back in, watching himself disappear inside you. The sight is tantalizing, but his eyes meet yours again, falling deep into your gaze as he fucks you with slow, measured strokes. Your arms snake around his torso, clinging to the warm skin of his back as he presses his forehead into yours, his breath becoming more labored with each accelerating thrust. Your shift your hips forward, allowing his cock to reach even deeper inside you, eliciting a string of moans from your throat.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he whispers, lips hovering above yours as his eyes remained locked with yours. "Never wanna leave this pussy."

"Please don't stop," you beg, voice breathy and desperate.

"I won't baby."

He fucks you with burning desire, each powerful stroke sending a delicious shockwave through your body. You cling to him tight, drawing him in even further into a passionate embrace. He groans, savoring the divine way your body squishes against his.

"You're amazing," he mutters into your mouth, frantic kisses placed upon your lips as he tries not to cum just yet — but it's an impossible feat. "Such a perfect little pussy, gonna fill you up baby. Gonna make you nice and full with my cum."

"Please," you whine.

"Keep begging for it, pretty girl," he hums, beginning to lose composure.

"I want your cum," you plead. "Want you to cum inside me and fill me up."

"God, that's so fucking hot," he growls.

"Your cock feels so good," you continue babbling, mind spinning so much you can no longer think straight. "I want you to fuck me every day for the rest of my life."

"I will, baby, I will."

His hand caresses your cheek, rubbing at the warm skin with his thumb as he stares into your watering eyes — utterly intoxicated by you.

"I'm cumming," he groans. "Ohhhh…"

With a series of grunts he releases, powerful ropes of cum shooting up into you as his cock throbs against your squeezing walls. After several bursts he slows, his cock stilling deep inside your cunt as his heavy breaths fall against your lips. He collapses, laying his weight on you as he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. You drag your fingertips up and down his back, delicately dancing across his hot skin and rippling muscles.

"Fuck," he mumbles into the mattress, making you smile. He eventually lifts his head up, kissing you again. "You're incredible."

He slowly pulls his cock out of you, rolling over to your side taking you in his arms. He rests his hand on your belly, planting gentle kisses on your cheek as he holds you.

"Tell me your name," he hums softly into your ear after a few silent minutes.

"It's y/n," you reply, falling into a deep relaxation in his embrace. "Tell me your name."

"Soonyoung," he says quietly.

You lay together, the uncomfortable silence of Level 9 forgotten as the sounds of your breathing and the thumps of your heartbeats fill the air. Eventually, you're unsure whether he's fallen asleep beside you.

"Do you ever think we'll get out of here?" you try anyway.

"No," he replies plainly.

"Why keep going then?"

He thinks for a while. "I don't know," he finally says. "I've been stuck in here so long that this is all I know anymore."

"Do you dream of going back, to your life before?"

You feel him shake his head. "Those are such distant memories at this point. Sometimes I don't even know if they are real or if it's all in my head."

You think back to before, when you questioned whether he was insane and delusional. You think you believe him, about Axiom, about the chip in your head — though, something inside you still isn't entirely convinced. But you're not even sure if any of that matters at this point.

"But it doesn't matter," he continues. "I'm here now, and I can't go back. The only way is forward."

"Does that mean you're trying to find Level 10?" you ask.

"I know where a Null Zone is," he replies.

Surprised, you turn to look at him. "Why haven't you gone yet?"

He sighs. "I lost hope after my I lost my crew. I didn't want to walk further into hell by myself. But I couldn't bring myself to end it all either — so here I am, stuck here in limbo."

You gaze at him, a soft smile appearing on your face. He stares back at you, hopeful.

"I'll go with you," you say quietly. He smiles again — another true smile. You think it suits him well.

"I'd like that."

taglist 1: @minisugakoobies @kwonxy @aaniag @princessjazzyjazz 

@christinewithluv @choco-scoups @unlikelysublimekryptonite @lostmembrane @hearts4cheol

@ninigyuuu @tokitosun @bonsaijoons @reiofsuns2001 @hluisstuff

@meowchella @asyre @hipsdofangirl @dy-kyeom @haoxiaoba

@boltersworldsblog @nidda13 @mae-murdock @renapersa @alikesical 

@humanitysstrongestsoldier1 @mytangerine98 @a-thln @riddlerloveb0t @fancypeacepersona 

@floverchwe @ybimoon @j3nnch3ls3a @eternalsagacrusader @livelaughloveseventeen 

@sevenpersona @chirocatic @jbear00 @strxwberry-skiess @coupsarchive

It still smelled of that strange air freshener that always made you a bit nauseous when mixed with Hongjoong’s signature cologne, and the seatbelt still felt sharp and uncomfortable on your neck. For some reason you had almost expected the car to have changed somehow, just like with Hongjoong. Sitting there with everything above the surface apparently as it was felt like playing pretend. You had expected for him to drive you into one of the usual shops around town you were already acquainted with, so when he had taken that turn into the highway you had started to get suspicious.

“Can’t get it done anywhere here” he had said “Has to be a real professional”

You had raised an eyebrow at him. He answered, or more like avoided most of your questions without taking his eyes out of the road for even a second. Hongjoong was surprisingly a good driver when he wanted to, but the way his eyes stayed glued straight ahead seemed to be more of an excuse to not look at you. However it might have just been the awkwardness between you two, a conversation to be had that you both were avoiding. Is not like you didn’t want to have it, in fact you had already had the conversation in your mind multiple times after he had texted you “wanna come get a piercing?” after two months of silence. In the end you had just sent “sure” and all the things you had planned to say you had left outside when you had closed the car door.

“Damn” you kicked an empty Monster can that pilled among other things at your feet on the passenger seat “What are you getting?”

“You’ll see. Well...” he trailed off, a soft chuckle as result of a joke you weren’t a part of yet “Not really, I guess”

“...okay?” You could tell without even asking. The eyebags under his eyes, his unkempt hair, the bitterness of the laugh that had just escaped his lips. He wasn’t over it. He wasn’t over her. After all, it had only been a week “You are not doing like, anything crazy, right?”

“Define crazy”

“I don’t know, like... I don’t want you to get something you’ll regret when you forget about her in a month”

“I don’t regret any of these" You had known Hongjoong ever since his skin had been bare, watching as ink left its mark in him one tattoo at a time. You could recollect every single one by memory, even those fans would never get to see. Her name fell from his lips after a brief silence, catching you off guard "That was her name”

“I know”

Of course you did. How could you not when she had been the last thing Hongjoong had talked about before it all went down. She had been a “miracle” as Hongjoong had called her, a meeting brought by fate at some event. You had seen her on his finsta stories, never in person. Embarrassingly, you had stalked her profile a few times like a complete masochist. You didn’t know much about her though, as Hongjoong seemed too busy to keep you updated on the relationship once she had agreed to go out with him. It had lasted about two months, which was within the usual window of time that it took Hongjoong’s relationships to end. It was always like this. Passionately fall for a girl, crash and burn, and then this: new addition to Hongjoong’s body. Well, this time there had been a slight change, but neither of you would bring it up.

“She was okay”

“I wouldn’t know” it pissed you off how you were supposed to be walking on eggshells around him, a little biting wouldn’t hurt him. You could tell it had though. Still, the car drive would be a nightmare if the mood got completely sour, so you decided to liven it up with a joke "Just don't get a full black sleeve or something like that just because your manager isn't here”

Hongjoong seemed to appreciate the breather.

“I know, don't worry. But it is... special”

There it was again, that lower register in his voice. You knew him all too well to understand that there was something that was troubling him. The idea of him doing something absurd for a girl he’d dated for two months pissed you off. That she could be that important while you were the backup friend he'd use when he needed someone to tag along. It made you feel worse that you had actually come to him.

“You sure you are not doing anything weird?”

“Can you stop worrying?”

“Well can you stop fucking around for a second?” Hongjoong looked out of his window, hands gripping the wheel a bit tighter, rings reflecting the sunlight. It didn’t feel good to snap at him, especially not when he was in a vulnerable state like that. But how long could you indulge him? How long could you silently forgive him? “Actually I have no idea why you asked me to come” Hongjoong didn’t look at you, his eyes glued to the asphalt and body stiff under your gaze. You sighed and looked out of the window, giving up “I guess time out is over”

The direct sunlight blinded you for a moment before you closed your eyes. You crossed your arms over your chest as it rose up and down with a heavy sigh. Hongjoong eyed you through the corner of his eye, his tongue slowly wetting his lips as if getting ready to say something. Whatever it was it felt heavy on his chest.

“I need someone with me” he murmured loud enough for you to hear, a slight shakiness in his voice “Someone I trust”

You opened your eyes and turned to him, catching his a second before he set them back ahead. There was worry but also determination.

“Okay, you are really freaking me out now”

“I am making it sound worse than it is, trust me”

“Then why don’t you just tell me?”

“It’s... complicated. Listen, I just--” he shrugged, hands leaving the wheel for a second “I can’t ask anyone else. It has to be you”

Far from easing your worries, the bare rawness of his voice worried you even more.

“Okay, stop the car. You are acting crazy”

“I keep making it sound weird but it’s true, okay?” he cackled somehow genuinely at your reaction “And if we get there and you don’t want to hold my hand you can wait outside but...” his shoulders shook with a brief shrug, then a short pause “It’ll hurt less knowing you are there”

You hated how much his words affected you.

“You really are not going to tell me”

“I sort of, maybe... want to see the face you make when you find out”

You saw the smile tug at the corner of his lips, the first one you’d seen since getting in the car. The first one you’d seen in months that didn’t come from a picture with him and his ex on his instagram story.

“Oh... so you are fucking with me. Thank god, I was starting to get worried. Turns out you are just your usual asshole self”

“If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it”

You shook your head with a scoff “Idiot”

You felt his eyes on you, the silence still tense but somewhat lighter.

“Thank you for coming, though”

You bit your lip and your eyes wandered to the landscape across your window again.

“Had nothing better to do”

-

The tattoo shop was by far the most professional looking you had ever seen Hongjoong step into. The receptionist even smiled at the both of you as he saw you come in. You sat on the red velvet couch propped against the black wall, perfectly decorated with framed designs and art pieces in clean, minimalistic frames. Hongjoong walked towards you with the paperwork to sign in hand and sat next to you, closer than you had expected him to. You were still walking on eggshells around him, but he didn’t seem to be doing the same. He should have. He should be the one worried about making the wrong move, say the wrong thing, sit too close to you. And yet there he was, elbows propped on his knees that bruised against yours like it was okay to just do so. Like the last two months hadn’t happened. You both got taken into the room almost immediately where a man in his mid-thirties welcomed you two with a warm, formal smile The smell of sterilizer hit your nose almost as strongly as the white light had hurt your eyes. There was a black tattoo bed in the middle of the room where you assumed Hongjoong would sit, with two small stools resting nearby.

“We already went over all the details during your consultation and I trust you read the paperwork as well. I know you are familiar with all this but I just want to make sure you are ready”

“Yes sir, I am”

Whether it was anticipation or fear you couldn’t tell, but you knew him well enough to hear the nervousness behind the casualness of his voice.

“Okay! Get comfortable on the bed and pull down your underwear. You need to get erect for me to work the piece so I’ll give you guys a few minutes”

What?

You hadn’t said that aloud, and yet Hongjoong turned towards you like he had heard you. All color drained from his face as he saw the artist leave the room, the soft click of the door as it closed the last noise that room heard for a few seconds as you both stayed still.

“I did not think about that” Hongjoong finally said, pointing towards the door “Fuck, I should have told you earlier. I’m sorry” he passed both his hands through his hair, messy strands of freshly dyed black hair standing in all directions “This is fucking weird. I’m sorry, I--”

“What exactly is going on?”

“So... remember that idea I mentioned a year ago?” he asked hesitantly, forcing a smile

It took you a bit of effort to remember, and then your mouth fell open.

“You are out of your mind” your eyes unconsciously traveled down to his black sweats before you shut them tightly, attempting to compose yourself and ignore the heat creeping up your face “You brought me for this?”

“No! I didn’t-- shit, the plan was for you to just hold my hand” he held your gaze, and you saw the confidence leave him as his eyes moved somewhere else in the room as the reality of the situation seemed to hit him “Or you can wait outside, as I said--”

“What the fuck” you said, attempting to make sense of the situation. Of course. Only Hongjoong could get you both in a situation like this “Is that why you said I was the only one you could ask?”

“No, fuck. I’m sorry, seriously. I didn’t think of this. Shit” he laughed nervously “You can just leave and come back with him, close your eyes and all that” Hongjoong pondered for a moment, just how selfish he could get “Or you can just not come back. I just wanted you to hold my hand while it goes in but it’s okay, it’s stupid ”

No matter how amusing it had been seeing him panic in such a way, the sound of his voice, beaten and ashamed was not something you enjoyed. And yet.

“I should have known it was something crazy when you called me. I mean... after two months? You must have been desperate”

Hongjoong lowered his head, eyes fixed on his beaten black Converse. He blinked a few times and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep frown. He shifted his weight where he stood and you just waited.

“I’m sorry” he finally said, voice lower “I should have spoken to you”

You fell quiet, your soft smile and confidence disappearing.

“We already spoke about that”

“Not really. Not properly”

“It was nothing, Hongjoong”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you”

You sucked in your bottom lip, chest feeling tight.

“I said it was nothing”

You had said that. You both had.

Back in the same car you both had driven to the tattoo shop in. He had driven you home after one of your regular late night hang outs. Car drive, radio on and a “goodnight” that had stretched until early in the morning. You could still see him as he had been, head turned to you on the driver seat, smile wide as he laughed at something you couldn’t quite recall. The engine had been turned off a while ago when you both had realized the conversation would last longer than expected once again. That had been the night he had told you about the “miracle girl”, every detail he gave you about her making a bit more nauseous. There were years of practice to the way you could smile at Hongjoong as he spoke to you about other girls, but there was nothing you could do about the suffocating pressure of your chest whenever he did so. Your body had been turned to him, seatbelt unlocked, simply watching him under the dim light of a distant street lamp. It hurt every time you realized how much you loved him, and as you always did when the truth hit you, you became small and felt inadequate no matter what you said or did. You always tried to run away from him when that happened.

“I didn’t even have to ask for her number, she just gave it to me!”

“That’s bold” you matched his tone, hoping that would make lying easier. It usually did.

“Right? I don’t know. It was kind of hot”

“I bet. It’s your lucky day”

You wish you could have said the same thing. Your shift at work had been an absolute nightmare, the kind that made you want to lock yourself in the bathroom and angry cry for a few minutes. Your whole week had been like that, really. The only thing that had made it bearable was the plans you had made with Hongjoong on a rare spot where he was schedule-free, and now there you were: listening to him talk about how he had met the woman of his dreams that also happened to be really interested in him. You wished you could be an adult and be happy for him, but you were just a person, and the fact you couldn’t bring yourself to do so made you feel like a terrible one.

“You good?”

Hongjoong sounded worried, and when you finally rose your head to look at him he looked like it too. You hadn’t realized you had zoned out, lips wrapped around the straw of your empty drink and eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired”

Hongjoong shifted on his seat and fully turned to you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Of course you couldn’t fool Hongjoong. He knew you too well. That’s why it scared you so much whenever your act slipped even if just a bit. He would know.

You forced a smile, your acting not as sharp under the scrutiny “I’m fine, sorry. I’m excited for you, really” you had said, with the type of casualness that took effort. He had stilled at that, as if you had said something wrong. You had noticed the look he’d give you sometimes when you did things like these, like he somehow knew something was wrong. His eyes would scan your face for something, and it worried you that one day he might find it. Maybe he had already. You felt the familiar overwhelming feeling creep up on you, and you knew you couldn’t bear it much longer “Is late and all we are doing is talking so...”

You were looking for a way to finish the sentence and excuse yourself when he interrupted. His voice was low and the words stuck together with a mix of heat and confidence.

“Got any other suggestions?”

The heat crept from your chest to your face so quickly you almost felt feverish. You let out a nervous giggle and Hongjoong’s lips stretched into a smile, his heavy lided eyes dragging from your avoiding eyes to your lips that were still toying with the straw. Hongjoong took the empty cup from your hands and dropped it somewhere at his feet. The sudden silence in the car had made your heart start racing, and you would have said another stupid thing to break the tension if he hadn’t leaned over and kissed you. His lips pressed against yours, shut tight and a bit dry, nothing like you had imagined a hundred times before. His fingers buried themselves on your hair, stiff at first, then loosened when you hummed in satisfaction. He pulled away just enough to let you say something, and when you didn’t he kissed you again, tongue briefly draging along your lips. The sound of your mixed jaded breathing felt loud and obscene in the dead quiet of the car, and the idea that someone could pass by and see you through the windows worried you and excited you all the same. The idea that someone could see you kissing Hongjoong is one you had fantasized about for so long it felt ridiculous by then, and yet there he was, moaning against your lips and hand gently dragging up and down your knee before making its way upwards to your tigh. His thumb brushed along your jeans before he pulled away enough to whisper:

“This okay?”

His voice made you giddy, so close and low and hot against your mouth. You got to nod only once before a bright light blinded you, making you both wince and turn to it. It’s was his phone that vibrated against the holder with an incoming call. Her name was displayed in bold black letters against the white background. There was a few seconds in which you had to make a choice, and as usual the one you took was the easy one that would cause you the most pain. You just laughed.

“Calling at two in the morning? You better pick that up”

The muscles pulling at your smile ached, and the strain to keep your voice steady hurt your throat. You pulled away from Hongjoong, in more ways than one. He could feel it immediately. The coldness, the distance.

“I mean... it’s just--”

“It’s okay Hongjoong” you had already opened the door, body turned away from him and your leg already on the ground “I'm cool on you”

That had been the last time you both had seen each other. There had been some awkward texting trying to emulate a casual conversation for a few days before he told you he was dating that girl, and then the conversation had died until he had asked you to come get the piercing with him.

“I’m sorry” he repeated, a bit louder, shakier. He looked at you from barely a few feet away, but the distance between you two felt bigger and way colder “You can wait in the car if you want. I’ll take you home later. Or I can call you an uber and you can leave now”

You didn’t want to leave, and despite everything, you didn’t want things to be like this.

“Hongjoong, I’d do this for you any time, but...” you hestitated, and you understood why he couldn’t look at you as you found yourself avoiding his eyes too. It was shame, fear “Getting a new girlfriend and shutting me off for months only to ask me to come here and do this? Like you knew I’d come back to you like a lap dog?” you felt your jaw quiver, cutting your speech short “It doesn’t feel great”

“That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to see you” Hongjoong scoffed “That’s kind of w...” Hongjoong trailed off and silence settled once again “I kept talking about you” he finally said “That’s why we broke up”

You stared at him, and to your surpise he was looking at you. You saw his pupils shake, but he didn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

“What a stupid reason” you whispered.

“Yeah”

Your arms unfolded and fell to your sides.

“Do you want me wait outside?”

A shrug.

“Do you want to leave?”

“I asked first”

“I asked second”

You both laughed softly, and for a moment it all felt like it’d all be alright. You pondered for a few seconds before you walked to the door and disappeared behind it. Hongjoong nodded, more to himself than to you.

“Fucking stupid” he muttered to himself as he pulled down his sweats, just as the door opened and you entered the room again “Shit! What--”

Hongjoong hurried to pull his pants up again, hitting the stools and making a crashing noise reverberate through the room as he fell forward on the bed. You would have laughed if you hand’t been fighting the dizziness that came with your eyes quickly snapping to the other side of the room. You had seen nothing, and you needed to keep telling yourself that so the heat wouldn’t turn your cheeks bright red.

“Sorry! I should have knocked. I asked him if he could give us a few more minutes”

“Wh--”

He looked completely lost and embarrassed as he straightened up. His hands were still tightly gripping the waistband of his pants as he saw you walk inside the room and towards him.

“You are all depressed now, there’s no way you are going to get hard so--”

“Wow, can you not say that?” he asked with almost a wince, his eyes closed tightly as if you were the one suddenly undressing in front of him with no warning.

You gave him a confused look.

“What? Get hard?” a crooked smile spread across your face as you saw the slight pink at the tip of his ears “I’m pretty sure you’ve heard worse things”

“Yeah, not from you. It feels... wrong”

“What happened to ‘it has to be you’” you mocked.

“I meant for you to hold my hand”

You pursed your lips, furrowing your brows in confusion.

“So you don’t need any help?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I sort of... thought that’s what you actually meant when you asked me if I wanted to stay”

You could see the gears turning in his head, painfully slowly.

“No! No, I’d never--” Hongjoong closed his mouth, then opened it again “I mean, not... never”

“Whatever, Hongjoong. I’m a woman. I’m your friend. It’s cool with me” you said, feigning aloofness “You can just... touch me or something, imagine I’m her or whoever. I don’t know”

Hongjoong stared at you for what felt like minutes before he spoke again.

“You are crazy”

“Actually, I am ‘the only one you could ask’”

“Stop it, I’m going to kill you” the threat was loud and genuine, but you could also see the way his eyes scanned your body in one swift look before falling silent again.

His eyes wandered around the room. You bit your lip, worried that this was it. Everything could break apart in an instant, the fate of your friendship at the tip of Hongjoong’s tongue.

“He’s going to charge you over time” you joked, trying to backtrack.

“Shut up”

Silence again.

“Hongjoong” you called for him in a soft voice, and he finally looked at you “I can leave, it’s okay. I’ll be on the other side when--”

“No” he instinctively took a step forward, as if you were going to walk away “It’s fine is just...”

You didn’t notice when Hongjoong had walked backwards towards the bed, bringing you with him as his hand still held your arm. He had sat down on the bed and as he rested his back against the back of it you knew he wouldn’t say anything else. There was no need for it. He let go of you and sat with his hands resting over his lap as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was looking at you, waiting for you to approach him. Under any circumstances you would have laughed, but you just crossed the distance and stood closer to him.

“Where did that big talk go?” he joked, the excitement and nervousness evident in his voice.

You panicked for a moment, the situation becoming real all too suddenly.

“Do you want to make out or...?”

“I don’t know what we are doing” he said and you laughed together “But it feels good”

“I haven’t even touched you yet”

“You are gonna touch me?” he said, halfway between a question and a plea.

You absentdmindedly reached for his hair, burying your fingers in the soft black locks while trying to ease your own heartbeat. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Hongjoong inhaled softly and deeply, eyes fluttering before fixating on your lips.

“Is that alright?”

Your voice was low, the question spoken like a secret. Hongjoong nodded lazily, face dangerously close to yours. 

“Feels good”

His voice dived an octave lower, which you took as an invitation to drag your nails a bit further through his scalp. Hongjoong shifted on his seat and he closed his eyes. You took in his features, still the same as you had remembered these last few months, and yet something had changed. Maybe it had been you.

“I missed you” you confessed with a shaky breath.

“Me too”

“Don’t do that again”

Your fingers grabbed onto his hair, softly pulling at the locks and earning a sharp inhale from him. Hongjoong opened his eyes, brown eyes piercing through yours, eyelids heavy.

“I won’t”

He brought his hand to your waist, taking a moment to gauge your reaction. You expected him to have reached higher, towards the thin lace of your bra. He could have felt the drumming of your heart against your chest, almost begging to be felt. Instead he drew his fingers across your waist, his hand hesitantly sneaking underneath your top and caressing your lower back. Goosebumps covered every inch of your skin, you were sure Hongjoong would be able to see it. His eyes darted around your body, seeing it stiffen as his fingers caressed further up your back with lazy moves. His head fell forward, almost resting against your shoulder, nested against your neck. You felt the hot fanning of a breathing against your neck, and Hongjoong saw your swallow before his eyes fluttered shut as he stirred on his seat. The motion made his nose bump against your neck, and your hand instinctively held his shoulder as if you thought he would fall, fingernails digging slightly into his skin when you felt the softeness of his lips brush against your ear for just a second. Then again, a bit bolder but hesitant chaste kiss to your neck with a soft noise.

You felt his shoulder muscles under his skin as he moved his arm, followed by the rustling of clothes. He struggled awkwardly for a few seconds in which his grip on your waist tightened. The side of his face felt burning hot against your neck, and you wondered if he was embarrassed.

“Do you need help?”

“No” he was “I’ve got it”

The hand on his shoulder ventured downwards, anticipation jolted through your body before you had time to feel ashamed of it. You felt the hard bits of the old band t-shirt Hongjoong wore, the name faded away and rough under your fingertips. You felt his chest rise up and still as your hand stayed there for a second, feeling the faint drumming of his fast heartbeat, before continuing your way down. The fanning of his breath against your neck stopped and his body froze when he felt you push his hand that was resting on his crotch to the side. His other hand that had been low on your back, pinky finger toying with the hem of your jeans stopped altogether. Saying he was half hard would have been an understatement. It felt hot as you palmed it softly over his sweats. A soft whine escaped his lips, so pathetic you felt it directly between your legs. You stilled for a moment, savoring and processing the sound of it. It must have been too long because with a hot sigh Hongjoong's hand rested on top of yours, squeezing himself with your hand in a silent, desperate and pathetic plea. You palmed him, a bit drunk on how desperate he felt, head limp on the crook of your neck, his body so hot you could feel it. His fingernails digged slightly on your lower back as he whined against your ear, holding onto you as if steadying himself. You could feel yourself getting wet. If this was the state you were both in by simply touching each other over clothes, just how much--

Hongjoong moaned against your neck when you passed your fingers under the waistband of his sweats. Of course he wasn't wearing underwear, it would be too uncomfortable after the piercing was done. His skin felt hot, sweat making it a bit sticky too. When you finally grabbed his cock his mouth opened in a silent moan. He was hard by now, heavy under your touch, gratefully twitching when you had started dragging your hand painfully slowly. He was dragging his tongue through your neck in open mouth kisses, lost in the way you pumped him slowly.

"Can I put it out?" you asked, sounding way hornier than you wanted him to know. He shook his head, but the way his hand gripped at the flesh of your waist told you the idea was somewhat to his liking "I want to see it"

He thrust himself into your hand, giving himself away almost like it had been an accident. He moaned weakly into your neck, and soon he found himself doing it again, and again, and again. The chair rocked slightly, the frantic screeching of its swaying filling the room and giving away the pathetic way Hongjoong was fucking himself into your hand, holding onto you for dear life. His hands gripped at your shoulders and waist, putting you at a very uncomfortable position, but the sound of his panting on your ears and the feeling of his now slick cock desperately thrusting onto your hand was too exhilarating for you to care. Then you heard his airy voice against the shell of your ear, loud and hot. It sent the most pleasant chills down your spine.

“You can tell him to come in”

You both could tell neither of you wanted to stop, but he knew he'd cum if he thrust into you even once more. You put your hand away, resting it against his chest to stabilize yourself. His clothes felt strangely warm, and the feeling of his fast heartbeat strangely flattering. You expected him to look away when you pulled away from him but he didn’t, his clouded eyes stuck to you like a madman. He fixated on the way your chest rose up and down, your exposed waist where he had lifted your top, the small wet patch on your neck where he had drooled. Your chest, where he seemed to regret not touching you. Your flushed face and hazy eyes staring down at him, mirroring his.

“Hurry, or I’ll finish” he moaned against your mouth.

You turned around and exited the room under Hongjoong’s burning gaze. It felt embarrassing to call for the artist in such a state, wondering if he'd know. When you entered the room your eyes stayed glued to the floor until you had been next to Hongjoong, his hand warm holding tightly onto yours. It felt so strange doing this after what had just happened. The metallic clanking behind you made you shiver and you tried not to think about what would be going down soon. Next to you, Hongjoong’s eyes were glued to the ceiling, the strong white light reflecting on his glassy blue eyes.

“It’ll be just a moment” his eyes fell onto you and despite the nervousness still evident in them, they softened “You are going to look so cool”

His grip on your hand tightened. It really was just a moment, but to Hongjoong it probably felt way longer than it had been. Your hand would hurt for a while after the way he had held onto it, but you wouldn’t tell him that. His jaw tensed as he held in a pained cry, and despite not being able to see what was going on, the implication made you wince. A single tear streamed down his cheek, softly wiped them away by you. His breathing seemed to steady as you heard the familiar sound of gloves being pulled out.

“All done. Bleeding for a few days will be normal, it’s nothing to worry about. Clean the wound twice a day, dry it gently, don’t touch the piece, the usual. No swimming. No oral or penetrative sex for a month" none of you said anything, but you both were obviously disappointed "Erections are okay but there might be some bleeding too... I think that’s it. I’ll let you fix yourself and I’ll be waiting outside, okay? See you in a minute, guys”

“Thanks” Hongjoong’s voice was raspy but he felt alright “Wait outside, I’ll be right there”

“Okay”

-

You had expected for Hongjoong to walk with a bit more difficulty than he did, but despite the slight hint of discomfort on his face there weren’t many tells. He might be able to hide it from the members after all. After Hongjoong had arranged for his follow up visit you both exited the place, the clear mid-day sky welcoming you despite the chill air. You expected things to get awkward, but it surprised you how much you both just seemed horny and frustrated.

“You hungry?” Hongjoong asked as he fished inside of his jacket for his car keys.

“I could go for a bite, yeah”

His hand grabbed onto the handle of the driver’s seat and you both sat down inside.

“Thank you. Really” he said.

“No need. And I am sorry”

Hongjoong frowned.

“Sorry for what?”

“For your girlfriend breaking up with you because of me”

His lips shaped into a crooked smile.

“Who said she’s the one who broke up?” You looked at each other for a moment before he leaned forward and he kissed you. It was soft, and slow. So slow that it was obvious it was far from innocent. His eyes trailed down your body with a sigh "What about we go back to your place, actually?"

You bit your lip and shook your head. Your thighs pressed together.

"Didn't you hear what he just said"

"He said no oral and no sex, on me" his eyes bored into yours, hungry "There are so many things I can do for you" his hand rested on your knee, lazily moving upwards "Please?" Your legs parted and his hand eagerly touched your through your jeans. Hongjoon let of a soft groan, even through the thick fabric he could feel the heat "How wet did you get?"

"It's your fault" you complained, aware of the way Hongjoong would soften up at your pouty demeanor from time to time.

"Is it?" he feigned innocently, his fingers uselessly pressing harder over your entrance through the jeans, as if your cunt was desperately calling out to him. It was nothing short of disgusting how horny you both were in plain daylight, parked on the street with people passing by "Should I fix it?"

-

You both tried to make the ride back to your apartment, but thirty minutes proved to be too much. Heat was blinding Hongjoong, eyes darting around like a crazy man, so impatient he'd hit the claxon at any car that took more than one second to floor it after the light turned green. He was trying hard not to touch you with his free hand, and you were busy ignoring how uncomfortably your panties stuck to your pussy. He had driven inside the parking lot of a mall, half empty, as you questioned him.

"I'm sorry" he had said, before finding the emptiest, most secluded part of it and parking against the wall "get in the back" he demanded, but there was desperation underneath it.

He winced like something hurt, and it was then you could see he was fully hard underneath his sweats. You wanted so badly to see the piercing. Touch it, suck around it, feel it deep inside. A moan escaped your mouth just thinking about it as you let yourself fall on the back seat, Hongjoong coming through the door and slamming it behind him. His hands went for your zipper right away, pulling at the waist of off your jeans with impatient hands. You stopped him.

"All the way?" you asked, your panic as strong as how feverishly horny you felt.

"No one will see" he said before he kissed you, mouth open and tongue dragging across it.

Hongjoon moaned at the difficulty he had when he tried to pull your pants down. He had become painfully aware of your plush thighs and pretty ass for a long time now. He had thought about humping you like a dog whenever he took notice of how well fitted your pants were, or when you'd sit down next to him in a playful minskirt. He didn't even think about fucking you, the simple idea of humping your ass, fully clothed and cumming in his boxers was enough for him. The jeans pilled in an awkward way at your ankles, but it was enough for Hongjoong to maneuver. He didn't waste time and pulled your panties to the side. Breath hitched on his throat when his fingers touched your pussy. You could see the blissful surprise in his eyes, locked on yours, before he had to look down to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He trailed his fingers across it, so wet they easily slid across it.

"Fuck" he said in a pained whine, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He closed them for a moment, trying to concentrate on the nasty, slick sounds that embarrassingly filled in the quiet of the car as his fingers spread your lips. It made his dick twitch painfully.

His eyes went back to yours again, as if asking you if this was real. You looked away, embarrassed. It drove him insane, your flushed face, shiny shy eyes and brows furrowed in shame. All while he felt his fingers wet and sticky against your cunt that seemed to be pleading for him to fuck you.

He didn't even try, his fingers seemed to slip inside your pussy with ease, getting sucked in in a way that had you both moaning into each other's mouths. He pulled them out, taking off the rings on his fingers and unceremoniously tossing them somewhere in the car. He put his fingers right back in as deep as he could, his other hand trying to push your knee as far away as the jeans at your feet allowed it. He groaned almost childishly, taking his fingers away again.

"Take the pants off"

He leaned forward to take your shoes off, but you stopped him again.

"What if someone sees"

"The windows are tinted"

It shouldn't have been enough to convince you, but it did the job. You let him take your shoes and jeans off, horny by just seeing how desperate he was to just finger you. He turned you slightly, your back now pressed against the car door, him sitting on the back seat with your pretty pussy in full display for him. Your back hurt, uncomfortable, but the way he was looking at you was worth it. You could see his fully hard dick pressing against his sweats and you knew it must hurt against the restrain. He pushed your knees apart, but you closed them. It almost made you feel bad, the way he looked at you like he had done something wrong. Before he had time to wonder if he had messed up, you said:

"Pull your pants down, friction is going to hurt you"

Hongjoong bit his lips, it did hurt.

"It's okay..." he started saying, until he saw how you pressed your legs together, hiding you from him. The simple act of losing sight of your leaking pussy for even a second seemed to do the trick, his hands quickly pulling the waistband of his sweats down and freeing his hard, red cock. You could faintly see the piercing, glistening faintly under the fluorescents of the parking lot. You pussy clenched around nothing, around the mere thought of fucking his pierced cock deep inside you.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a hint of shyness laced on his heated breath.

"When it gets better, can I fuck it?"

Hongjoong nodded slowly, as if taking in your request. He parted your legs, slightly pressing them against your chest, making you whimper at the nasty way he was eyeing you. With a whimper he went back to trace his fingers across your pussy, tantalizingly slow for someone who was so desperate to be knuckles deep inside you seconds ago.

"I want to spit on it but you don't need it"

You understood then why he had fallen so quiet, why he was toying with your entrance. He was savoring the sound of it. The slick, faint and nasty sound your pussy made whenever he graced his fingers across it. You pushed your hips, almost begging him, and he obeyed. His fingers slid right inside again, this time perfectly going all the way in until his knuckes pressed against the entrance. How he wished he could put more in, fuck you like a pathetic bitch in heat in the back of his car. The way you moaned brought him back to reality. You clenched around him, and he worried he might cum. Slowly he pulled his fingers out, savoring the slick coat of arousal around your fingers before pushing them back in. They filled you up again, your hips moving on their own again. He pumped them inside you slowly, lost in the small pants that left your mouth, your eyes glued to the way his hand got sucked inside your cunt over and over again. His thumb started to press at your clit whenever his fingers went all the way in, and the loud moans you were trying to suppress turned into pathetic cries whenever it did. The cries, the exposure, your hot pussy, the filthy sounds. He was going to cum. He needed to compose himself.

He pulled his fingers out, and you let out a whimper that sounded like a question. He dragged your legs towards him, until he had your back arching across the back seat. His hands grabbed at the neck of your tank top, pulling it down unceremoniously to expose your tits to him. The way he seemed so desperate to do so got you clenching around nothing. His hands moved to them, palming them with a satisfied groan, brows furrowed as he took the whole sight in. You, sprawled in the back seat of his car, chest exposed and your legs open just for him to see and touch, thighs wet with your own arousal. His hands dragged down, nails scratching at your stomach and thighs on their way back to hold the back of your knees against your chest.

"I want to fuck you" he said, as if it were a confession "I've always wanted to fuck you"

Maybe it had been a confession, an apology he felt he'd owe you soon. He winced, and you thought the piercing might hurt, but you understood once you saw and felt him cum on you and the leather seat. A thin string connected his cock to the cum that now covered your gaping pussy. It felt hot, but not as hot as the sight in front of you: Hongjoong hunched forward, head down in shame and panting slightly.

"I'm sorry" he breathed out, an you could tell he was embarrassed.

He heard you groan lowly, and for a second he worried he really had ruined everything, until you said:

"You are so hot"

His head shot up when he felt you grabbing his wrist, coating his fingers on his own cum before moving your hips to fuck yourself onto his hand. Hongjoong moaned loudly in surprise, which startled him so much that he turned around to make sure no one had heard. He brought his attention back to you quickly, not wanting to miss a single second of what was going on inside his car. Neither did you. The sight of his shiny eyes, fucked-out expression and parted lips making you squeeze his pretty fingers, dragging another whine from him.

"You are fucking me so well" you said, speaking for the first time. You voice was strained, dry "Can't you feel how much I love it?"

You clenched around him on purpose, and the way his face twisted anyone might think he was severely hurt.

"Does it feel good?" he breathed "Do my fingers feel good? Tell me they feel good"

His desperation made you clench again "It feels so fucking good, can't you hear it?"

He could hear it, that filthy sound now exacerbated by his cum getting pushed in and out of your cunt. He was getting hard again, watching you hold onto his hand and thrust into it, using it to abuse your own pussy with such a pleased, eager expression.

"You are so pretty. You have such a pretty pussy" the words left his mouth like a lost thought. He wasn't really thinking anymore.

"I want you to fuck it"

"Shut up" he groaned.

Hongjoon leaned in and kissed you, the drool that had formed at the sight of you now falling down your chin in a clash of teeth and tongue. He pressed his tongue against yours, forcing it deep inside your mouth just as he buried his fingers deep, deep inside you. The moan that rose from your throat choked on his tongue. He pulled it out of your mouth it with a nasty sound, a thread of saliva connecting your lips. Just by the way he looked, you knew he was hard again.

"I'm going to fuck you so good. I promise you"

He pulled his fingers back again, and proceeded to finger you at a speed that made it clear he was trying to get you to cum before he did again, and he was close.

"You sound so fucking good"

He patted at his sweats with his free hands, hand looking for something like a desperate puppy. He finally found it: his phone. When you realized what he was doing, both embarrassment and heat spread through your lower belly, making you whine in a way that made Hongjoong's hand shake, but his pace never faltered. He had opened the recording app and placed it close to your pussy, making sure every filthy little sound was saved for later.

You came with a loud cry, and Hongjoong savored every small clench, every small wet sound that came from your orgasm as he moaned himself, painfully hard and wishing he could use you like a fleshlight. He rode out your orgasm by recording every sound, fingers going inside and out, stretching you out and dragging them across your cunt to record as much as possible. When he was done, he pulled them out, and sat with a deep sigh, placing his hard cock insde his sweats with a wince. He took a look at you, then leaned forward and kissed you softly on the lips. It was soft, careful, like the first one you had shared in that same car. You were both riding the high, and you felt blissful enough to do him the favour of cleaning his fingers by bringing them to your mouth, tongue dragging across them in small licks.

"You are awful" Hongjoong said, voice strained and eyes going dark again.

It made you chuckle, and baring your teeth you bit them playfully before placing a chaste kiss on them.

He pulled your top back up, and helped you sit comfortably after lying in such a straining position for so long. The truth was, if he let you stay in that position for longer, he might be tempted to bury his fingers deep inside you again. God, he already missed the feeling of your pussy around them. He looked around to make sure there was no one around.

"You good?" he asked, lips pressed against your cheek in a soft kiss.

You humed in response.

"I'm sorry about your car" you said, guiding Hongjoong eyes to the part of the back seat between you two that was covered in cum. Hongjoong's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh.

"It's my fault. I was too impatient"

"How are you going to survive a whole month?"

Something flashed in Hongjoong's eyes. Something soft and unguarded.

"I think I'll manage, if you help me out"

You bit your lip. It was obvious he was still incredibly horny. So were you.

"Do you think you'll last until we reach my apartment?" you didn't miss the way Hongjoong's eyebrows rose, eyes shining, then it disappeared after he took a quick glance at the time on his phone.

"I have to go back to the dorm..."

You playfully shrugged.

"You could be very quiet" you whispered into his lips before kissing them so softly it made his dick twitch.

"I can't be, you just saw" he retorted, but you could tell he only needed a little push.

"It's easy if your mouth is busy" you kissed his neck, tongue dragging swiftly through te spot "Buried under my pretty pussy"

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), unprotected sex (it’s a period piece and I’m not looking up ancient contraceptive techniques lol just use protection) first time sex, degradation (m receiving), begging, corruption kink, virgin!Jeongin, use of pet names (baby boy, sweetheart, little fox, etc), Jeongin is a subby whiny baby. Take it or leave it. If I missed anything, just let me know!

dialogue prompt: ❛ Have you never been touched like this before? ❜

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════

To a kid, the word orphan is often used as an insult from other kids. Jeongin was lucky that he never had to hear that word until he was much older. He was just shy of fifteen years when his father died from pneumonia. Old enough to be considered a man but Jeongin didn’t feel like a man.

He felt like a lost little boy who just lost his father.

His mother had left not long after Jeongin’s birth. His father had tried his best to explain to Jeongin how his mother didn’t love him any less. She just had a different way of doing things. She had things she had to do, tasks to see to and couldn’t take a newborn with her.

That was the nature of a kumiho. Others called her flighty, said she abandoned him but Jeongin knew better. He had her journals, gifted to him on his fifteenth birthday by his father on instruction from his mother. Jeongin had spent his free time reading those journals, getting to know his mother through her words. It was a surreal experience for him.

His father couldn’t tell Jeongin much about his mother other than that she was incredibly cunning, kind, and compassionate. He also spoke of her beauty. Jeongin had never seen a portrait of his mother and had no idea what she looked like.

“I see her in you,” his father often told him. “You have her eyes and her hair.”

Jeongin took solace in the fact that he resembled his mother. It was comforting in a way.

When Jeongin was finally thrust upon the cruel world at a young age, he had luckily learned enough skills from his father to survive. He knew how to hunt small game and fish. He grew a simple garden that was enough for one when he harvested it. He had spent time foraging with his father and knew his way around the forest’s shrubbery and other plants.

He knew which ones were food, which ones healed, and which ones killed.

Jeongin was able to raise himself, growing into a man of limited means and he kept to himself except when he needed to head to the village to trade his furs for other things he could not provide for himself, like clothing. He’d never learned how to sew as he had no mother to teach him and his father also didn’t know how.

So another morning was spent gathering the furs he’d chosen to sell, setting them aside for the ones he wanted to keep. And he packed some food for his trip to the village. His walk through the woods was always quite so early in the morning. The sounds of the forest waking up, birds calling out to say good morning as the sky lightened from deep indigo to a light periwinkle, the sun creeping over the horizon.

The first rays of sunshine had started to break through the trees as Jeongin reached the village which was also bustling, everyone having gotten up around the same time as he. He ignored the stares as he walked through the village towards the market, readjusting his bag as he trodden on.

He could hear murmurs and whispers as he passed but chose to ignore them. Sure, he perhaps didn’t stick out as much as a full blooded fox folk might, but his blond fox ears, hair, and orange eyes gave him away immediately. Folk around these parts didn’t normally sport such a contrasting hair color.

Jeongin’s father had told him he took after his mother after all.

Upon reaching the market, Jeongin looked around, surveying his surroundings and looking for the lady his father had always purchased clothing from. He spotted her and made a beeline as she was folding garments, setting them down on the wooden stall before her.

“Morning,” Jeongin heard her grumble. Unlike the rest of the villagers, this woman had always been kind to him as he accompanied his father, sneaking him sweets and other homemade candies when his father wasn’t looking. The caramels were his favorites.

“Morning,” Jeongin parroted as he looked over the linen tunics. His was starting to fit a little too snugly and the threads were wearing out. His pants would last him another winter at least. As he was looking over the tunics, he heard a voice as sweet as honey call out.

“Granny, I can’t find the skirts!”

Jeongin looked up in time to see probably the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life appear before him. He stared, awestruck as she walked over to the old woman. She had waist length black hair that fell in soft waves down her back, half of it pulled back and secured with a comb. Her eyes were a chocolate brown, much different than the dark brown or black he’d grown accustomed to.

She was petite, smaller than he was, with a slender frame and a pale complexion. She met his gaze and Jeongin felt as if the world stopped moving. Everything around him seemed to slow, almost as if time was stopping. The sounds around him drowned out as he stared back into those brown eyes.

Her pale, pink lips pulled into a shy smile before she averted her eyes to look at her grandmother. “They’re in the chest, not the sacks, dear,” the old woman replied and waved her hands. “I’ll get them,” she said, brushing past the girl and around the cart.

The girl looked after her grandmother before stepping towards the stall. Jeongin managed to snap himself out of his trance and had looked down to resume inspecting the tunics. “This would look nice on you,” the girl said, brushing her fingers over a black tunic.

Jeongin glanced up, meeting her gaze and quickly looked away as did she. He noticed the blush that crept over her cheeks. “I’ve never seen you before,” she suddenly said, smiling as Jeongin looked up. “Are you new to the village?” Jeongin opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted.

“He lives in the forest,” the grandmother said as she returned, arms loaded with fabric that she dumped onto the stack of boxes next to her. “This is my granddaughter, Haneul,” the old woman said as she started to fold the skirts and place them on the wooden surface of the stall.

Haneul turned to look back at Jeongin. “What’s your name?” she asked. Jeongin was caught off guard and forgot to answer, instead just smiling and nodding at Haneul. She giggled as he realized his error, shaking his head before answering awkwardly. “Uh, I’m Jeongin.”

As the old woman folded the skirts, Haneul reached into a small pouch on her hip, glancing at her grandmother before pulling her hand out and quickly handing something to Jeongin when her grandmother wasn’t watching. Jeongin glanced down at his hand and felt heat spread to his cheeks.

Sitting in his palm were three wrapped caramel candies. The ones the old woman used to give him. He smiled, tucking them away in his bag before clearing his throat. “I need some shirts,” he announced. “Very well,” the old woman said. “What do you have to trade?”

Jeongin ended up trading one of his tanuki furs for three shirts, two light colored linen ones and one black one. He also managed to trade three of his rabbit furs for a new tool set. As he thanked the blacksmith he turned around and bumped into a body.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized profusely, bowing quickly. The woman he’d bumped into patted him on the shoulder and went about her business. Jeongin was about to turn away when he caught Haneul watching him, an amused smile on her face. When their eyes met, Jeongin felt another rush of heat over his cheeks and waved to Haneul who returned the gesture.

Before Jeongin could turn and start making his way home, he felt an arm hook over the back of his neck, draping across his shoulders. “Well, well, well,” said an all-too-familiar voice. “Look what the dog has dragged back to the village!”

The comment was met with a cacophony of laughter as Jeongin held his tongue.

“Hello to you too, Baek-hwa,” he said monotonously. He glanced up at the taller man, noticing he was now surrounded. Baek-hwa’s friends were staring him down and Jeongin felt like this wasn’t going to end well. He felt Baek-hwa’s arm tighten around the back of his neck.

“What are you doing here, thief, I thought I told you to stay away from the village,” Baek-hwa said under his breath so only Jeongin heard him. “I’m not a thief, Baek-hwa,” Jeongin replied softly. “I just came to get some things and I’ll be going back home now. You won’t have to see me again for a long time.”

Baek-hwa clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You really should have stayed away.”

It didn’t take long for Baek-hwa and his friends to drag Jeongin away from the market and behind a hut before they started laying into him. His bag was torn from his grip and tossed aside as they landed blow after blow on him. Jeongin had learned from a young age that if he avoided trouble, he’d be okay but he knew that wasn’t always the case. Regardless if he stayed out of trouble, it always managed to find him.

He leaned against the wall, doubled over in pain as Baek-hwa’s friends goaded him on. “Kick his ass!” one laughed. Jeongin glanced at where his bag sat and then looked up. His assailants were too busy egging their leader on. He had a small window. Mustering his strength and taking a deep breath, Jeongin pushed off the wall, knocking over one of his attackers.

He snatched his bag and took off as they shouted after him. He may not be as strong as they were, but he was definitely faster. He was more agile having spent all his life living in the forest. They had no hope of catching him once he made it into the treeline.

Jeongin didn’t stop as he vaulted over fallen logs and through the underbrush. He made sure to loop around the long way to lose his pursuers if they were even still following him. He didn’t want to take the chance that they would follow him home and come knocking.

It was midday by the time Jeongin finally reached the front door of his father’s cabin, pushing aside the curtain that hung there and stepping over the threshold. He set his bag down and moved to peer out the window. He saw no sign of life and let the curtain fall back in place before he went about his business.

His father had been in charge of keeping up the home but without his help, the cabin was slowly falling apart and Jeongin didn’t know much about building. There were poorly made patches in the roof that barely kept out the rain and more than once, parts of the roof had collapsed. Jeongin did his best to make it work as he had nowhere else to go.

He was sitting by the fire, heating up some stew he’d made the previous night when he heard it.

A distant crash of thunder. Looking up from the fire, he let out a sigh and glanced up at the roof.

“Just hold out for tonight, please,” he begged the thatched hay. “Just one more night.”

The storm blew in quickly after that, dark, thick storm clouds obscuring the sun and bringing with it heavy rains and strong gusts of wind that whipped around the small cabin, making the walls shake and blowing through the cracks Jeongin hadn’t managed to seal properly.

Several times, he was afraid that the roof was going to collapse or a wall was going to cave in and then the entire cabin would crumble around him, trapping him inside.

Rainwater leaked through the shoddy patching, drenching almost everything under it. Jeongin huddled up in the corner as his furniture and almost everything was soaked. The only thing that saved him was the built-in table in the corner.

He had dragged most of his bedding from the bed to the corner, curling up in the only fortified, safe, and dry place in the cabin. It was here that he fell asleep, curled up with his blankets and pillow as well as his bag and the small box his father had left him. The only important possessions in his life.

The storm raged all night and finally blew itself out by dawn, the dark storm clouds retracting as the sun rose, almost as if shooing them away. Jeongin woke as the sun was climbing and crawled out of his cubby, inspecting the damage. His plea to the roof had saved him. The thatching had held up for the most part but it would have to be replaced. Jeongin wasn’t sure who he could even ask.

He headed outside to inspect his garden and was pleased to see that the garden remained safe and untouched as he picked up a few twigs that had blown in and tossed them away. His firewood stores were also surprisingly dry with only the top layer soaked from the rains.

All in all, he’d managed to survive another monsoon storm. As he was cleaning up stray leaves and small branches, Jeongin heard voices and looked up, his stomach dropping as he spotted Baek-hwa and his friends. ‘No,’ he thought. He looked around and darted inside the cabin, starting to grab things, placing them inside his bag as the voices grew louder and louder outside.

“Come on out, thief, we know you’re in there!” came Baek-hwa’s voice. Jeongin swore under his breath, filling his bag with as much as he could but he knew he wouldn’t have time to leave out the front door. He’d be spotted and then they’d follow.

He dropped the bag by the back window before exiting the cabin to face his tormentors. If he was lucky, they’d just beat him up and leave quickly and then he could leave. He didn’t know where he’d go but now that they knew where his home was, they would be back.

“There he is,” Baek-hwa said as he stopped, leaning against the fence Jeongin’s father had built to keep their small homestead separate from the forest around them. “The thief shows his face.”

Jeongin’s fingers curled in against his palms. “I’m not a thief,” he said, a little more forceful than he intended. “Stop calling me that.” The smirk on Baek-hwa’s face dropped instantly. “You raising your voice at me?” he asked, his tone low and dangerously so.

“You think you can just raise your voice and talk back to me and I’ll let it slide?”

Jeongin held his ground. This was his home after all. “We’re outside the village,” Jeongin replied. “I don’t have to listen to you anymore, Baek-hwa.”

The man laughed, looking around at his friends. “This is my world, Jeongin,” he said, actually saying the blond fox folk’s name. “You’re just living in it.”

Jeongin forced a smile. “No it’s not,” he answered, shocking Baek-hwa. Never before has Jeongin acted so defiantly but like Jeongin said, they weren’t in the village. Jeongin wasn’t afraid of them out here. Sure he was dangerously outnumbered but he didn’t have to worry about causing the village trouble out here.

“I’ve had enough of your smart mouth,” Baek-hwa said before nudging the friend standing beside him. “Teach him a lesson, Jae-song.”

The man next to him climbed the fence, landing in the garden and stared Jeongin down before advancing slowly through the small rows of vegetables, making sure to stomp on them as he strode towards Jeongin. “I’m gonna make you wish you’d never been born,” he spat, bringing his fists up.

Jeongin didn’t move, standing stoically as he stared back at Jae-song. “Beat you to pulp and leave you for the scavengers,” he added. Jeongin narrowed his eyes. “Your parents must be so proud,” the smaller man retorted, catching Jae-song off guard before Jeongin tilted his head. “Oh wait…” he said with a scoff. “They’re dead.”

Jae-song gritted his teeth and swung at Jeongin who dodged the blow easily. “Picking on smaller people and beating them up for the fun of it. What would your mother think?”

Jae-song let out an angry yell. “Shut the hell up!” he swung again but Jeongin managed to dodge it again, this time pushing Jae-song forward, using the bully’s momentum to send him running face first into the side of the cabin.

“And stay down,” Jeongin added as Jae-song fell to the ground, holding his nose and writhing in pain. “I’m getting sick of this,” Baek-hwa said loudly. “Grab him.”

Jeongin turned as two more of Baek-hwa’s friends hopped the fence and advanced toward him, also kicking and stomping on the vegetable beds as they went. “Two against one?” Jeongin asked, raising a brow. “How noble of you. Or is it pathetic that you need help to take me on?”

Jeongin ducked as two separate fists swung at him before kicking out, knocking one of the assailants down and rolling out of the way as the other aimed a kick at him. Jeongin was back on his feet as the one who tried to kick him, came lumbering forward. As he was about to take another swing, Jeongin dodged around him, kicking him in the backside and sending him toppling over the fence.

“Enough!” Baek-hwa said, climbing the fence himself. “I grow weary of this,” he continued, advancing in Jeongin, stalking forward like a panther stalking its prey. Jeongin kept his eye not only on Baek-hwa but also on his friends who seemed like they were going to sit this one out.

“You sound like some kind of villain, talking like that,” Jeongin noted with a laugh. “I grow weary of your games,” Jeongin mocked, turning as Baek-hwa circled him slowly. “I’m going to end you,” Baek-hwa growled angrily. Jeongin rolled his eyes. “Again with the villain talk. Come on already,” Jeongin said exasperatedly.

Baek-hwa leaned into his punch as he threw his fist forward. Jeongin managed to block the attack before counter attacking with a blow of his own to Baek-hwa’s side. “You little shit,” Baek-hwa grunted, reaching for Jeongin who dodged again, pushing Baek-hwa’s hands aside.

The taller man tried again, aiming a punch that Jeongin deflected before hitting Baek-hwa in the throat with his palm. Immediately Baek-hwa backed off, choking from the sudden impact. “Go home,” Jeongin said as he watched Baek-hwa stumble backwards. “Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

As the men helped each other up and staggered out of his garden, Jeongin heard Baek-hwa’s strained voice call out. “We’ll be back, thief. Watch your back!”

Jeongin watched as they disappeared in the forest and breathed a sigh of relief. Never before had he stood his ground against his tormentors. He was grateful for the few self defense lessons his father had given him before he passed.

Jeongin looked down at his mangled vegetable beds and sighed. He would have to go foraging and salvage what he could. He needed to pack up everything and leave tonight. He knew Baek-hwa and his friends would be back.

He entered the cabin, grabbing a basket and heading out into the forest. There was a berry patch not far from his cabin but the terrain made it a longer task of traversing to it. Once there, Jeongin started to gather some of the berries. There he also found wild carrots, chives, cabbage, and potatoes. He gathered what he deemed necessary for tonight as well as some for his trip and started to make his way back.

The sun was starting to set when he reached his cabin and he felt his heart sink and his stomach drop. Baek-hwa and his friends had returned but this time he was really outnumbered. He had half a mind to sneak around to the back of the cabin and grab his bag without being seen but just his luck, one of them turned and spotted him. 

Before he could turn and run, he was grabbed from behind by two sets of hands, the basket knocked from his grip, and dragged over to where Baek-hwa stood. “Not so tough now,” Baek-hwa sneered. Jeongin looked around at the ten or so men Baek-hwa had brought with him. 

“Judging by your entourage, I’d say you aren’t very tough either,” he quipped.

For his comment, Baek-hwa landed a blow, punching Jeongin hard in the stomach and causing him to double over in pain. “That’s for earlier,” he snapped before looking towards one of his friends and nodding. Jeongin looked up in time to see one of the men he’d fought earlier holding a torch. His eyes widened in horror.

“No,” he said, struggling against the two holding him. “Stop!” he shouted as the one with the torch lit the garden on fire before moving towards the cabin. “Stop, please!” Jeongin shouted and continued to struggle. “Everything I own is in there! You can’t do this!”

Baek-hwa smiled smugly as Jeongin’s father’s cabin was set ablaze. “Actually, I can,” Baek-hwa said.

As the cabin caught fire and the flames spread, Baek-hwa stepped back allowing the others to take turns punching and kicking Jeongin. “S-stop,” Jeongin coughed. “Please.”

Baek-hwa laughed cruelly. “That’s what thieves get,” he said as Jeongin collapsed to his knees, only being held up by the two beside him. Jeongin weakly watched as the flames engulfed his home and burned presumably everything inside. Everything was gone. The cabin, the roof, his furniture, his stores… his eyes widened. 

His mothers journals. 

‘No,’ he thought as he stared at the fire.

He hadn’t finished reading them all.

Jeongin struggled against his captors. They held onto him tightly as Baek-hwa watched the inferno with a smirk. With a strength he’d never experienced before, Jeongin managed to pull free from his captors, delivering a punch to each before tackling Baek-hwa to the ground.

His actions were so sudden that everyone was caught off guard as Jeongin grabbed Baek-hwa’s head and slammed it against the ground, dazing the man before he scrambled off him and pushed through the hands that tried to grab at him. He burst into the flaming inferno, shielding his eyes as he looked around. His bag by the window sat untouched.

Before grabbing it, Jeongin darted under the table, tearing through the blankets until he found the bag with his mothers journals. He grabbed it and got up, eyes landing on the trinket box his father had made sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. Jeongin dashed across the room to grab it, stuffing it into the bag with the journals before he moved to the back window, grabbing the bag and heaving it over his shoulder.

Tossed both bags out the window before climbing through. Grabbing the bags, he took off into the forest as the fire consumed his home, the roof finally collapsing. Jeongin turned to look back at the raging inferno as he slung the bags over his back. ‘No going back now,’ he told himself as he watched the flames dance before turning away from the sight and heading further into the woods.

He’d never been this deep before. Glancing skyward, he could see clouds were obscuring the stars and he could only assume another storm was brewing. He made his way through the forest, making his way down embankments and crossing streams as he continued deeper than he’d ever ventured before.

As he stopped to catch his breath, he could hear voices in the distance.

“I think he went this way!” 

Jeongin’s eyes widened. Baek-hwa and his friends had followed him?! Looking around, he saw a small opening under a tree sitting atop the embankment he was currently at the bottom of. He scrambled up, making his way over and peered inside. He couldn’t see much but hoped for the best as he removed his bags and stuffed them through the opening before pulling himself up using the roots of the tree.

He slid into the opening feet first and wiggled into the space. It seemed to be some sort of den. Most likely abandoned but he didn’t dwell on it, instead kept himself hidden as he peered out into the forest. He heard footsteps overhead and ducked back into the safety of the small cave waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside.

He waited as the sounds of feet and voices continued around him. “Did you see which way he went?”

“No.”

“Maybe he’s hiding nearby.”

“Well we’ll never see him in the dark.”

“Maybe we should come back when it’s light out.”

“Enough,” a voice Jeongin recognized to be Baek-hwa’s snapped. “He couldn’t have gotten far,” he continued. “Spread out and find him.”

“How?” another voice asked. “With what light?” Jeongin guessed this voice to be Jae-song’s. It sounded like him anyway. “Here,” another voice said and Jeongin saw light flicker and dance outside the opening of his hiding place. Glancing back, he could barely see that this was indeed a den. He grabbed his things and scooted back further, hoping to stay out of sight.

He waited, listening patiently as footsteps trudged through the forest, twigs snapping underfoot.

He carefully crawled toward the opening and peered out. He could see two of the men standing nearby as they searched the area. “Find anything?” one of them called. “Nothing yet!” another voice called back. “This is so stupid,” one of the men said softly. “There’s no telling which way he went.”

The one that had spoken up before nodded in agreement. “I know,” he answered just as quietly. “But you know how Baek-hwa is. Ever since he saw Jeongin talking to Haneul, he’s just been set on making Jeongin suffer,” he added as he held his torch up, peering around a tree.

“I mean, it’s not like doing all this is going to impress Haneul,” he continued. “She doesn’t even like Baek-hwa.” The second man nodded as well. “I know! It’s like--”

What it was like, Jeongin didn’t get to hear as he watched a shadow cut across the small illuminated circle, passing both men. The second smaller one let out a grunt of pain and Jeongin watched in horror as blood spilled from his mouth, a look of pain crossing his features as he fell to his knees.

“Wonjae!” the first man said in shock as his friend collapsed, blood gurgling from his mouth. “What happened?” Jeongin watched as the shadow passed again, quick as lightning, passing the first guy who let out a choked cry of pain before falling to his knees as well, blood seeping through his shirt and he fell to the ground. Jeongin froze realizing he’d just watched something kill those two men.

‘What the hell?’

“Where are they?” called a voice, drowning out Jeongin’s thoughts. “Over here! Dabin! Wonjae!”

Jeongin watched as two more men entered his field of vision. “Are they okay?” one of them said as the other knelt down to check the bodies of their friends. “They’re… dead,” he said, his voice shaky. “D-dead?” the other stammered, taking a few steps back.

“What happened?” Baek-hwa’s voice called from somewhere above Jeongin’s hiding place. “They’re dead!” the one kneeling beside Wonjae and Dabin’s bodies called back. “Shit,” Baek-hwa cursed. “Get down there and help them get the bodies,” he instructed someone Jeongin presumed was beside him.

Jeongin watched as two more men appeared and helped pick up the bodies of the two men and carry them away. He listened as the footsteps retreated and pulled back as the area was thrown into darkness once more. He listened as the sounds of the forest came back and he could finally rest.

He tried to get some sleep but his mind wouldn’t stop. ‘What was that shadow? Was that what killed those men?’ He tossed and turned until he finally managed to pass out.

The next morning, he awoke to find light creeping into the cave and he could finally see. It wasn’t a huge den, maybe only big enough for a family of foxes or so. He had enough space to sit up. He could tell it wasn’t dug out by whatever previously lived here. Perhaps it was naturally occurring.

He gathered his things and left the safety of the den, squirming his way out of the opening and could see that it had rained the night before. He pulled a flask from his bag, filling it with water before he placed it back and stood up, slinging both bags over his back again. He started the way he’d been going the night prior, moving deeper into the forest.

He continued as the sun rose, stopping briefly to have something to eat before continuing on. He didn’t see Baek-hwa or his assailants again as he continued on. He noticed how the terrain started to slope up and he knew he must have reached the base of the mountain. If he could reach the otherside, maybe he could find another village where he could set up a new homestead.

He continued on, stopping when he heard a twig snap from behind him. Turning quickly, he expected to see Baek-hwa or his men. He was met with nothing. He couldn’t see anyone or anything other than the trees for that matter. Perhaps he was hearing things?

He turned back and continued forward. He’d only gone a few more steps when he heard another snapping twig. He froze again, turning his head around to see what was following him but again, he saw nothing. He turned back forward, but instead of taking another step, he waited. Waited for something else.

Another twig snapped, this time closer but instead of looking, Jeongin stayed still. He kept calm, listening as soft steps carried toward him. He spun quickly, catching sight of what had been following him. His eyes widened as he made eye contact with it.

‘A fox?’ he thought to himself. Looking back at him was a small fox with black fur and golden eyes. He stared back at it, expecting it to run but instead it stared back at him. He watched in awe as it took a tentative step forward, still keeping its eyes on him. Jeongin slowly knelt down as the fox approached, holding out his hand.

The fox looked at his hand and then up at him before its head turned slightly to look at something behind Jeongin. He froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He tried to turn to see what was behind him but he felt a blow to the head and everything went black.

You looked down at the man, the branch in your hand as you breathed heavily. “Oh my god,” you whispered as the realization of what you’d done crept over you. You tossed the branch aside and looked back down at him. Looking at Clover who looked up at you, golden eyes judging you. “I’m sorry!” you said holding your hands out. “Look, I panicked! I thought he was going to grab you!”

The fox rolled its eyes and you looked away, back at the man lying unconscious at your feet. “Should we take him?” You looked back at Clover who stared back at you unblinking. You nodded. “Right. Leaving him here would be bad. Got it,” you said as you brushed your hands together to get the dirt from the bark off. Clover watched as you reached down, sliding your hands under the man’s arms and lifted, starting to drag him along the ground.

You heaved and pulled, panting as you did only to receive more judging looks from Clover. “Look,” you panted. “You could help me, you know.” Clover rolled their eyes again before the vision of the fox spun and morphed into a man. “I don’t know what you’d do without me,” he said as he waved his hand, the man’s body lifting from the ground.

You smiled at the wizard and dusted your hands off again. “Thanks, Clover!” you chirped as he shook his head. You led the way, skipping along the path as the man’s body floated behind you with Clover bringing up the rear. 

You skipped faster as the cabin came into view. “Almost there!” you called out to your friend who rolled his eyes as your chipper demeanor. “You know,” he said as you started up the path leading to the door. “For someone who is so violent, you sure don’t act it,” he continued, guiding the man’s body after you.

“I’m not violent!” you called back as you reached the door and unlocked it, pushing it open and holding the door so Clover could guide the man into the room. “Just put him on the bed,” you said softly as Clover guided the man’s body over to the bed where he hovered for a moment before falling haphazardly on the mattress. “Careful!” you chastised, rushing over to sort out the man, moving his head and arms so he wouldn’t be sore when he awoke.

“You hit him over the head with a log and you’re telling me to be careful?” Clover chuckled as he stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest. “What a strange person you are, Y/N,” he added.

You stood up straight and turned towards him. “Well, I must be off,” he said, standing up straight. “Will you be alright, alone here by yourself?” he asked. You shook your head. “Right, just hit him with another log if he gives you trouble,” Clover said with a smirk. Your smile fell. “I. Panicked, okay?”

Clover nodded, waving before exiting the open door. You rushed over to watch as he headed down the path, turning once to look at you waving at him. He raised a hand before turning into a raven and taking flight into the sky. You shut the door and locked it before turning your head to look back at the man on your bed.

“Alright,” you continued, taking a deep breath and walking over, placing your hands on your hips as you took a good look at him.  “Now, just who are you?”

Jeongin woke to the sounds of light clattering and the scrape of metal against metal. His head was throbbing. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he tried to adjust. He turned his head, wincing at the pain that followed. He was inside a cabin of sorts.

He could see shelves with books upon books and a desk that was cluttered and covered with papers, writing implements, and an assortment of herbs and rocks. He tried to sit up but his limbs felt heavy. He looked down and noticed a strange purple aura encasing him.

“What the-”

“Oh, you’re awake. Good,” said a voice and Jeongin looked up, seeing a figure by the hearth where a fire was crackling, heating up a large cast iron pot. The smell of meat and vegetables reached his nostrils and he took a deep inhale. Whatever it was in the obvious cauldron smelled amazing.

“Where am I?” he asked as the figure turned their gaze away from him and stirred the contents of the pot.

“You’re in my cabin, what a silly question to ask,” the figure said with a chuckle. Jeongin watched as they set the spoon aside and moved towards the bed. Jeongin looked up as they approached and took a seat beside the bed. “What have you done to me?” he asked as the person, he could now see was a female, looked over him, gently turning his head and prodding the tender spot.

Jeongin winced and the figure grimaced. “Sorry,” she said. “I hit you over the head.”

Jeongin looked up at her. “You what? Why the hell would you do that?!” he yelled.

You moved your hand, your finger moving in a quick circle and Jeongin felt his jaw snap shut.

“Don’t yell,” you said as you grabbed a basket with some medical supplies in it. “It’s rude.”

‘Well, so is hitting someone over the head,’ Jeongin thought since he couldn’t talk.

“My name is Y/N,” you said as you pulled out a small vial. “And I hit you over the head because I thought you were going to hurt my friend.” You looked down at him and Jeongin felt his heart skip a beat. Your eyes. They were a bright golden yellow. Much like that fox from before.

“Do you remember the fox?” you asked and Jeongin nodded as he watched you pull the cork on the vial. “That’s my friend Clover. I thought you were going to grab him and hurt him. Foxes aren’t exactly revered around these parts,” you explained as you turned the vial over, allowing some to spill onto a cloth.

You set the vial aside and leaned forward, holding out the cloth only for Jeongin to shy away. “It’s okay,” you said softly. “I know your head hurts. This will make it not hurt.” Jeongin hesitated, allowing you to gently press the cloth to his head. He winced but soon, the pain as well as the throbbing went away and he looked up at you in shock.

You winked at him, placing the cork back in the vial and returning the little glass to the basket. You waved your hand and freed his mouth. “Who are you?” he asked softly. You looked down at him unblinkingly. “I’m Y/N,” you said plainly. “I already said that.” Jeongin shook his head.

“I meant like… who are you? Are you like… a witch?” he asked to which you laughed. “I’ve been called that before,” you answered with a nod. “But more importantly,” you said, leaning forward. Jeongin was unable to pull too far away due to whatever spell you had his body under.

“Who are you?”

Jeongin cleared his throat. “I’,m uh… I’m Jeongin.”

You sat back up straight. “Jeongin, huh?” you said softly, tilting your head. He nodded, glancing down at his body still shrouded in the purple aura. “What is this?” he asked, nodding towards the aura. “Oh,” you said suddenly, waving your hand and it disappeared.

“I just did that while you were out and I was busy cooking so you didn’t try to sneak up on me,” you explained as you started to stand. Jeongin moved quickly, sitting up and grabbing your arm but you were quicker. You managed to roll, pulling him off the bed and pinning him against the floor, his arms pinned to his sides by your legs as you straddled him, your forearm pressing against his throat.

“I’m not your enemy,” you explained softly. “But don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t hesitate to kill you if you try to hurt me.”

Jeongin tapped the back of your calf, surrendering to your power.

Just as quickly as you were on him, you got up and held out a hand, pulling him up when he took it. “Let’s eat,” you chirped and walked over to the fire. Jeongin stood hesitantly. “Sit,” you instructed and he did as you said, moving to take a seat at the table. You grabbed a bowl and picked up the ladle, scooping stew into the bowl before moving to set it on the table.

“It’s hot, so be careful,” you said as you filled another bowl and took a seat across from him.

Jeongin watched as you picked up your spoon and took a bite. “It can’t be that hot,” he noted, to which you looked up. “Want me to throw it in your face and test that theory?” you asked with a smirk, tilting your head. Jeongin’s eyes widened and he quickly picked up his spoon, shaking his head.

“N-no,” he stammered before digging in.

He could tell there was meat and potatoes, maybe some cabbage and rice but it was delicious. He scooped another spoonful into his mouth. “S’good,” he said as he ate and you smiled, turning your attention back to your own bowl.

Jeongin had forgotten the last time he had a proper meal and ended up eating three bowlfuls of stew. You reached to take his empty bowl but he stopped you. “You cooked,” he said before getting up. “Tell me where to go and I’ll clean them.” You smiled but ignored his comment, taking his bowl.

“You’re still injured,” you explained. “Go lay down, let me deal with this and then I’ll look at your wounds.

Jeongin watched as you headed out the door and instead of laying down, he started to poke around the cabin, inspecting your belongings. He was used to the small huts in the village where he lived. Nothing this extravagant. Wooden doors that locked, windows with decorative frames were things he’d never seen in person, only ever heard of.

The cabin was one room, like his had been but it was much cozier. There were no cracks for the wind to sneak into, the roof was sturdy wood and slanted to allow rain to run off. There were four windows, two on the wall by the door, one on the outside window and one on the back wall over the desk, framed by shelving. The fourth wall wasn’t made of wood. It was made of rock.

‘It must be partially built into the mountain,’ Jeongin noted as he stared. The bedroom area was almost entirely encased in rock. It was unlike anything Jeongin had ever seen. It was an extremely clever idea as well. Using a cave as part of your dwelling. If only he had known to do so.

On the other side of the stone hearth was a large wooden cabinet with doors and shelves stocked full of cheeses, sealed bottles, breads, small bowls with salts and other spices. Hanging from an iron circle suspended from the ceiling were various dried herbs and even some small game. Rabbits and birds mostly. He inspected the mantle and noticed a couple portraits and a small trinket box. 

He moved over to the desk, fingers brushing over the papers on the surface as he inspected them. There were a lot of maps. Maps he didn’t recognize, not that he was knowledgeable of maps to begin with. He looked up at the shelving, inspecting the books and their titles. He expected to see this sizable collection in a palace or something, not here in a cabin in the forest, built into the base of a mountain.

Jeongin turned as he heard the door open and you returned with two clean bowls and spoons.

“Having fun snooping?” you asked with a smirk. Jeongin opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water trying to explain but you shook your head. “I saw you through the window,” you explained, pointing to the window opposite the rock wall.

“I’m not mad,” you continued. “But I really do need to inspect your wounds.”

You led him over to the bed and he sat down. “I don’t have any wounds,” he protested but you made him lie down and lifted his shirt. “Your wounds are internal,” you explained as you gently prodded and massaged his side, making him wince. “You’ve got a fair amount of bruising here and here,” you said, also placing your hand over his stomach just over his navel.

“Were you in a fight?” you asked bluntly. Jeongin froze, staring up at the rocky ceiling above. You waited for his answer but when he didn’t answer, you spoke again. “Did you at least get a few punches in?”

Jeongin chuckled, letting out a soft cry when the motion caused his sore muscles to tense him. “You’re asking me about my fight?” he asked. You nodded. “Whoever did this packs a wallop. So I hope you got a few licks in, too.”

Jeongin smiled as you rubbed some kind of ointment and the soreness and tenseness in his muscles dissipated. “You’ll have to apply this until the bruising clears up,” you explained as you rubbed some more on his stomach.

Jeongin held his breath as your hand traveled dangerously close to his waistband. “Two times a day,” you added as you pulled your hand back, wiping it on a cloth and placing the lid back on the small metal tin and handed it to him. Jeongin sat up and took the tin from you. “What is it?” he asked.

“An ointment to help with soreness and bruising,” you explained as you gathered your supplies and set the basket aside. “I made it myself.” Jeongin opened the tin and held it up to his nose, sniffing it. He smelled mint but couldn’t tell what else was in it.

“What’s in it?” he asked, placing the lid back on it and looking up at you.

“Just some herbs,” you replied. “I’ll tell you how I made it tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

You got up and paused when he grabbed your wrist. Looking down at his wrist and then up to meet his gaze, Jeongin managed to blurt out “thank you.” The smile you gave him was one he’d never seen before, not even from the old woman in the village he traded furs for shirts or her granddaughter, Haneul.

“You’re welcome,” you answered and Jeongin let go of your wrist. “What about you?” he asked as you moved over to the desk. “I can sleep on the floor,” you said as Jeongin set the tin of ointment on a small table beside the bed. “What?” he said suddenly. “No,” he continued. “This is your bed. I’ll sleep--”

He didn’t get to finish his words as you turned in your chair and waved your hand at him. “Sleep,” you said sternly and Jeongin passed out, unable to fight the darkness as it passed over him, taking him deep into slumber.

The next morning, Jeongin awoke to find himself in bed but the cabin otherwise empty. He sat up, looking around and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Lifting his shirt, he saw that he indeed had some heavy bruising from Baek-hwa and his friends’ punches.

He dropped his shirt as the door opened and you entered the room, smiling when you saw he was awake. “Morning,” you said as you carried something in your arms. “Or should I say good day,” you continued as you carried the sack over to the table and set it down.

“Let’s have a look at those bruises,” you said as you walked over and took a seat beside him. Jeongin lifted his shirt for you to inspect. “Make sure to apply that ointment,” you said as you gently poked around the edges of the bruising. “It’ll make a huge difference in healing.”

You got back up and headed for the table as Jeongin picked up the tin and opened it. He scooped a small amount and started to rub it into his skin as you opened the sack. “What’s in the bag?” he asked, looking up occasionally as he applied the ointment.

“I went hunting,” you said nonchalantly. Jeongin looked up at the rabbits hanging from the ceiling. “What about those?” he asked, nodding towards the rabbits. “They’re small and we need more meat if you’re going to heal properly. Protein speeds up the healing process,” you explained as you pulled small game from the sack.

Jeongin finished applying the ointment and wiped his hand off on the same cloth you used the night before and got up, walking over to the table. He was surprised to see what you managed to catch. “Hunting and fishing?” he asked as he noticed the fish basket.

“I’ve been gone all morning,” you replied. “Up before the sun, in bed after it sets,” you explained. “Making the most out of every day. That’s what Clover taught me.” Jeongin smiled as you added the rabbits to the iron circle. “The fish has to go outside,” you explained and picked up the basket.

He followed you as you headed outside and over to a wooden rack where you had some fish already hanging. “How does fish tonight sound?” you asked, turning to look at him. Jeongin nodded silently before you turned back to the rack and hung up all the fish.

“I also need to go foraging,” you said as you walked back towards him, stopping at the bottom of the steps leading into the cabin. “Want to come with me?” you asked, looking up at him. He nodded. “Sure,” Jeongin said, stepping aside as you entered the cabin.

“Good,” you said and grabbed a sack. “Make yourself useful,” you added as you tossed one to him.

The hike to the spot was a short one and Jeongin was shocked to see the size of it. Not only were there even more berries than at his favorite spot but there were more types as well as all kinds of fungi. He watched as you pulled a small bag from your pocket and moved over to one of the mushrooms.

“These are really good when you fry them,” you explained as you picked them and placed them in the bag. “They’ll need to soak for a few hours but we can have them with our fish.”

Jeongin looked around and moved to one of the bushes. “Are these okay?” he asked, pointing to the berries. You turned to look at him and nodded. “Not too many though,” you instructed. “Maybe a sack,” you added. “There are smaller bags in the large sack I gave you.”

Jeongin dug through the bag and found one before starting to pick berries and fill the bag. Once it was full, he tied it off and picked a few berries to eat. “And those?” he asked, pointing to another bush. You nodded without looking. “All these berries are good to eat,” you replied. “Just a small bag each. I like to make wine with them,” you explained.

Jeongin got to work, collecting berries as you foraged for mushrooms and other plants. When the bags were full, Jeongin insisted on carrying both but you refused, reminding him he was still healing. The walk back, you asked him about his life, where he was from, where he grew up, what his childhood was like.

When you broached the subject of parents, Jeongin shut down as you walked up the path to the cabin. “Touchy subject?” you asked, unlocking the door and letting him in. Jeongin nodded, handing you the bag and watching as you moved to the cabinets. “I lost both my parents,” he finally answered.

“My mother left when I was young and my father died when I was fifteen. I’ve been on my own ever since,” he explained as you started to store the food you both collected together. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I lost my parents to disease when I was young. I was raised by Clover,” you explained, shutting the cabinet doors.

“The fox?” Jeongin asked, making you chuckle. “He’s a wizard,” you reminded him. “He was in fox form while we hunted that day. He’s awfully quiet in that form,” you explained. Jeongin grimaced as you turned to him, setting the bags of berries on the table.

“So he raised you?” he asked and you nodded. “Taught me everything I know. Built this cabin and left it to me when I came of age.” Jeongin looked around. “Makes sense,” he said softly. “I’ve never seen a cabin like this before,” he explained. “That’s because it was built with magic.”

Jeongin smiled as you set the empty bags away, hanging them on hooks.

“I have some work to do in the garden,” you announced. “Would you like to join me?” Jeongin nodded with a smile. 

“I’d love to.”

After a quick lunch of leftover stew, Jeongin helped you in the garden, pulling weeds and pruning the bushes and vines. His garden was small but this garden was twice the size. It had everything from cabbages to potatoes and even pumpkins.

“This is a huge garden,” he noted as he dropped another cabbage in the basket. “Even for two people.” you nodded as you pruned a tomato plant. “I sell whatever I don’t need,” you explained. “Never hurts to have a little extra coin,” you added with a wink.

As the two of you finished up, Jeongin looked at you. “Where do you sell this stuff?” he asked as you gathered one of the baskets. “At a village on the other side of the mountain,” you replied. Jeongin rounded on you, holding the other basket. “On the other side of the mountain?” he asked incredulously. You nodded with a laugh and beckoned him to follow you inside.

Once inside, you stored your harvests away and led Jeongin over to the desk and pulled out a map from under the stacks of paper. “This is a map of this region,” you explained. Jeongin looked over it in awe. He’d never seen more than a map of the village and the forest. Your map had so much more on it.

And it was so detailed.

“Here’s the village you told me about and based on your descriptions, your cabin was around in this area,” you explained, pointing out spaces on the map. “Here’s where we are,” you continued, pointing at a small red x on the map. “The village I sell at is here,” you added, pointing to a black x on the other side of the mountain range.

“How long does it take to get there?” Jeongin asked, looking up at you. “Well, if you go around the mountains, it can take months,” you answered, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “But I use the mountain pass so it only takes a few days,” you added, pointing to two lines drawn over the mountain range connecting the two sides. “Who made this map?” Jeongin asked in amazement.

“Clover,” you answered, standing up straight. Jeongin followed your movements, standing upright as you walked over to the hearth and added a couple logs to the dying flames. “He makes maps of all the regions,” you added. “He’s a traveling wizard and cartographer,” you added as Jeongin stared at you.

“He stopped for a while to raise me here,” you explained as you stood up, brushing your hands off. “But now that I can care for myself, he’s back to traveling again, making amendments to his maps.” Jeongin shook his head as you moved over to the bedroom area, grabbing a small basket from the shelf.

Jeongin looked around the cabin. “So, now what?” he asked as you sat down on the armchair. You looked up at him. “Now we rest,” you replied with a smile. “It’s too soon to have dinner and I have some knitting to get done,” you continued, pulling out a project you must have been working on for a while.

“You can read any of the books if you’d like,” you said, nodding towards the shelves. Jeongin shook his head, instead grabbing one of his bags and opening it. He sifted through it until he found what he was looking for. The journal he’d been reading. He settled down on the bed, propping the pillows up against the wall so he could sit up against them.

Jeongin read as much as he could, absorbing his mothers words. He had reached the part of her journals where she had met his father and it was so enchanting to read about his father through his mother’s eyes. He discovered a new side to his father he’d never known. The romantic side.

Their courtship was long according to her and she initially rebuffed him as he was a human but he eventually gained her trust and she warmed up to him. After which, they got married, something Jeongin had never known. He thought it had been a short affair but the time and effort they put into their marriage told him otherwise.

He also learned that his parents had a hard time conceiving a child and that Jeongin was from their sixth attempt. He was the only one that made it full term.

Jeongin dropped his hands into his lap, the journal falling with it as he stared at the wall. You looked up at him. “You alright?” you asked, noticing he seemed catatonic. When he didn’t respond, you set your knitting aside and got up, moving to sit on the bed. “Jeongin?” you asked, waving your hand in front of him. That seemed to snap him out of it and he looked at you.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with concern. He nodded, clearing his throat and looked down at the leatherbound book in his lap. “Yeah, I just uh…” he trailed off before looking back up but not at you. He seemed to be looking past you but not at anything in particular. More like he was staring off into a place you could not see. “Jeongin?”

“I have siblings…” he finally said softly and your brows rose in shock. “What?” you asked.

He turned his head to look at you. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Random thought.”

You glanced at the book. “What are you reading?” you asked. Jeongin glanced at the book and closed it, keeping his thumb between the pages. “It’s private,” he explained. “Sorry,” he added. You shook your head. “No need to apologize,” you replied. “I meant no disrespect nor was I meaning to pry. Simply curious,” you explained.

Jeongin glanced down at the book again before taking a deep breath. “It’s a journal,” he finally sighed. You waited for him to continue. “It’s my mother’s journal,” he clarified. Your eyes widened. “Oh,” you said softly, uncertain of what else to say. “And you’re just now reading it? I’m not judging by the way,” you said quickly. Jeongin simply chuckled before setting the book aside and scooting off the bed.

You watched as he grabbed one of his bags and walked over, opening it for you to see the contents. Inside were a dozen or so leather bound books, all of them identical. You looked up at Jeongin in bewilderment as he set the bag down and joined you on the bed.

“My mother kept extensive journals all throughout her life. She left them with my dad when she left,” he explained. “Dad kept them for me so I could get to know her if she never came back. I think he knew she wouldn’t come back,” he continued sadly. “I’ve been reading them since my dad taught me to read.”

You looked back at the bag. “How many are there?” you asked, looking back at Jeongin. “Around fifty,” he answered, a hand reaching up to scratch his brow. “I’ve read about twenty of them so far.” Your eyes widened as you looked back at the sack lying unassuming on the floor.

“What’s in this one?” you asked, tapping the cover of the one on the bed before you froze. “I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “That’s none of my business,” you continued. Jeongin shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said, grabbing the book and opening it. “In this one, she met my dad,” he explained.

“She details their courtship and marriage,” he continued, flipping through the pages. “She wrote that it was a huge ceremony and that the reception lasted well into the early hours of the next morning and that they were both so exhausted from the party that they never actually consummated their marriage during the ceremony,” he said with a chuckle.

You smiled fondly, watching him look over the words on the page.

“What was your mother’s name?” you asked, drawing his attention. “Well, dad never told me her real name. He knew her as Eun-soo but while she was in Japan, her name was Yuki. So I’m not entirely sure what she was really called,” he continued.

You looked at him again, studying his features. The fox-like eyes, the orange irises, his blond hair. It suddenly made sense to you. He was like you. He was fox-folk.

“Was your mother a kumiho by any chance?”

Jeongin was caught off guard by the question. He’d never been asked so directly about it before and as he looked up, his eyes met your golden ones and he knew instantly why you were asking. It was like a switch went off in his head and suddenly everything made sense. 

Your golden eyes, the magic, being raised by a wizard. Well, maybe the last part wasn’t really all that related but in his mind, it still helped him to put the pieces together. You were like him, too. You were fox-folk.

“A…are you?” he asked softly, holding your gaze. He could tell by the way your eyes widened slightly that he was on the right track. “Or was one of your parents?” he continued, setting the journal aside. You nodded slowly. “Both of my parents were fox-folk,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongin leaned forward. “Both?” he asked in amazement. You nodded, shifting to face him. “Yeah,” you replied. “That’s amazing,” he breathed. “So you’re pureblooded?” he asked, to which you nodded. “Wow. I’m only half,” he replied. “Probably why I can’t do any magic,” he added with a chuckle.

You tilted your head at his comment. “All fox-folk can perform magic,” you said, drawing his attention again. “Wait, really?” he asked. You nodded, grabbing the journal from his hands and setting it aside. “Have you ever tried?” you asked. Jeongin shook his head no, watching as you pushed your sleeves up.

“It’s easy,” you explained. Jeongin rolled his eyes. “Oh sure,” he retorted but you pushed him gently. “I promise it is,” you replied. “It’s so simple, really. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Jeongin watched as you scooted onto the bed beside him, crossing your legs and resting your back against the wall. You closed your eyes, adopting a sort of meditation position. Jeongin watched but when you opened one eye to peek at him, you nudged him and he sighed, adopting the same position.

“Deep breath in,” you said. Jeongin followed your lead, breathing in slowly and deeply, filling his lungs. “And out,” you said and the two of you breathed out in unison. “Now, visualize a fire,” you said softly. “A fire? Why a fire?” Jeongin asked. “Ow,” he whined when you lightly slapped his hand.

“Okay, okay. A fire. Got it,” he said. “Wait, what color is it?”

“Whatever color you want it to be.”

Jeongin closed his eyes again, picturing a fire in his mind. Something bright and pink. “Now, imagine how it feels. Is it hot? Is it cold? Does it burn or does it tickle? Does it smell pleasant or is it rancid?” Jeongin imagined the fire was cool to the touch and it felt like the fluttering of wings. It had no smell.

“Okay,” he said. “Now what?” he asked, opening an eye. “Hold your hand out,” you instructed. Jeongin closed his one eye again and raised one of his hands. “Place it in my hand,” you continued and he did as you said, placing his hand in yours, palm up.

“Now imagine your fire and imagine it’s in your hand. Concentrate and picture your fire in your hand.”

Jeongin focused all his energy, holding his breath as he pictured the pink, cool, fire that fluttered. “Don’t forget to breathe evenly,” you reminded him. “Breathing is important.” He resumed breathing as he focused all his mental strength on the fire. He sighed, keeping his eyes closed.

“This is dumb,” he said. “I can’t do magic.”

“Is your fire pink and cool to the touch?” you asked softly and Jeongin hesitated. ‘Wait… is mind reading one of the abilities of a full-blooded kumiho?’ he wondered. “Uh, yeah. But how did you know that?” he asked. “Open your eyes, Jeongin.”

He did as you instructed and was met with your face drenched in the pink glow of a fire in his hand. The pink fire he’d imagined. He looked back up at you and then down to the fire in his hand. It was dancing, fluttering against his hand. “Are you doing that?” he asked and you pulled your hand away, conjuring up a bright blue flame. “I take it that’s a no?”

You laughed and the fires both extinguished as Jeongin lost focus. “I told you that you can do magic!” you said excitedly, slapping his knee and then pushing yourself up and climbing off the bed. Jeongin looked down at his hand, excitement bubbling in his stomach.

“I’ll get dinner started,” you said as you moved towards the door. “Keep practicing,” you said before opening the door and heading outside. Jeongin kept at it, conjuring a pink flame, making it dance and crawl around his hand as you prepared the fish for dinner. While it cooked, you made a side dish with rice and some of the mushrooms you’d picked earlier.

When it was ready, Jeongin joined you at the table and the two of you ate in silence. “Thank you, Jeongin said suddenly, making you look up, eyes wide and bewilderment on your face. “For taking me in after you bashed my head in,” Jeongin continued. “For caring for me and teaching me magic.”

Your expression morphed, a smile spreading across your face. “I couldn’t leave you out there after I hit you with the branch,” you explained. “Clover would have but I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I left you to the elements. And besides,” you continued. “It’s nice having some company that isn’t Clover for once.” 

Jeongin looked down at his food, cheeks growing warm.

“You know,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “If you want to stay longer, you’re more than welcome to,” you added. “I really enjoy your company.” Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Really?” he asked, trying not to sound too excited. You nodded, smiling at him. “But you might have to get used to sharing a bed,” you said. “There’s not enough room in here for another bed and I refuse to let you sleep on the floor,” you added.

Jeongin’s cheeks grew even warmer at the thought of sharing a bed with you but he played it off.

“Sure,” he said softly. “No problem.”

It was indeed a problem he later discovered. While the bed was big enough for two bodies, it wasn’t big enough for two bodies and a space between them. Jeongin wanted to respect you and give you as much space as possible but with the size of the bed, it put him right on the edge of the mattress and in danger of falling off.

The next day consisted of about the same routine, some foraging but in a different spot. You taught Jeongin all about the herbs and weeds you used to make ointments and medicines, showing him what cured certain ailments. Afterwards, he helped you on the other side of the garden where the bee boxes were and held the jars for the honey while you handled the bees.

The day after that, you took him fishing with you and he was impressed by the spot you had. No one else was around and as you sailed out on the lake in a boat you proudly told him you helped Clover make, the two of you sat in silence, rods propped up while you knitted and Jeongin read more of his mother’s journal.

He’d made it to the part where she was pregnant with him and close to her due date. She wrote how she knew he was a boy and how she knew he was going to take after her in both looks and mentality. Jeongin checked his fishing rod before returning to his reading. He heard you clear your throat and looked up to meet your gaze.

“So what else does she say?” you asked, nodding towards the journal in his hand. “Oh,” he said softly. “She’s pregnant with me in this part,” he explained. “She wrote about how she knew I was a boy and that I would take after her,” he continued. You smiled at him as you tied off and wove the yarn tails into the scarf you were making. “She also says she got a letter from a woman named… Anitta?” he said and looked up at you.

You merely shrugged and set your knitting needles aside, picking up the scarf and throwing it around his neck. “There,” you said with a smile. “It’s done.” Jeongin’s cheeks burned as he looked down at the soft garment. “It’s nice,” he said softly and started to take it off. “It’s yours,” you said, grabbing it and wrapping it back around his neck.

“I was going to give it to Clover but I figured I can always make him another and you need one now so,” you trailed off, smiling at him. Jeongin toyed with the material, cheeks burning as he tried to think of something to say before finally settling on a simple and soft thank you.

Fishing ended with the two of you catching a small basket of fish and Jeongin managing to catch a little crawfish which he promptly dumped back in the water. Once the boat was pulled ashore, the two of you headed back down from the mountain lake to the cottage to hang up the fish and settle in for the night.

You made roasted rabbit and potatoes and after dinner, you settled down with your knitting to start another scarf for Clover while Jeongin got to the end of his mother’s journal. He closed it, wrapping the twine back around it and got up from the bed, moving over to his bags.

He reached in for another, pulling the trinket box out so he could dig for the right one.

“What’s that?” you asked, looking down at the box. “Oh, just a box my dad made,” Jeongin said as he dug through the bag. “May I?” you asked, setting your things aside. “I’m kind of nosey,” you noted with a laugh. Jeongin chuckled and shook his head. “Go ahead,” he replied.

You grabbed the box and set it on your lap, opening and inspecting the contents.

The box was a beautiful dark wood with a soft lining. It was beautifully crafted and you wondered if Jeongin’s dad knew how much he could have made by making and selling these boxes. Inside the box were a few items, some of great value and others you suspected were more sentimental. There was a silver ring, a loose but rather large gem, some gold coins, and a silver locket. You picked up the stone to inspect and deduced it was a sapphire and was definitely worth a lot.

“This could fetch you a lot of gold,” you noted, holding up the stone for Jeongin to see as he looked up. “Dad found that,” he said, reaching up to rub his eye. “Found it while digging around the outside of our cabin to add to the garden when I was a kid,” he continued and held out his hand.

You placed the gem in his palm and he brought it to his face to look at it. “He thought the same thing,” he continued. “Thought we could sell it for some gold in case we ever needed it. I forgot it was in the box,” he added, handing it back to you to place in the box.

Next you picked up the silver ring. There was nothing of note about it. It was a crudely forged ring made of pure silver. “Oh,” Jeongin said, noticing the ring and grimacing. “Dad made that. Was trying his hand at smithing,” he added. “It’s ugly but he was proud of it. He made it himself without any help. He wasn’t much of a blacksmith. He was more of a carpenter,” he explained.

“Which is why the box is so nice,” he added, gesturing to the box in your lap.

You dropped the ring back into the box and Jeongin returned to his bag, digging for a specific journal as you lifted the silver locket. It was engraved with a simple fox head on both sides. You carefully opened it and smiled at the first portrait. It was of a young child with light hair. There was no mistaking this was Jeongin.

You turned the locket to look at the other portrait as Jeongin pulled the correct journal from his bag and his eyes fell on the locket in your hand. The other portrait was of a woman. An all too familiar woman. She had the same blonde hair Jeongin had, the same fox-like eyes. It was his mother.

“Oh, that’s,” Jeongin darted forward, his hand closing around the locket and closing it before he took it from your hand. “That’s my dad’s. Was my dad’s.” he said softly, looking at the silver locket. You shut the trinket box and handed it back to him. “Sorry for prying,” you said softly as he took the box.

“No, it’s okay,” he said as he brushed the silver surface with the pad of his thumb. “I honestly forgot this was even in there,” he added as he looked up and gave you a sad smile. “She’s very pretty,” you said softly, drawing his attention. “Your mother,” you clarified.

You tilted your head, offering him a playful smile. “I guess you’re pretty, too,” you added, noticing the way he averted his eyes and his cheeks turned peach. He opened the box and placed the locket back inside, closing the lid and setting back with his things.

After he read a bit more and you started to yawn, you called it and set your knitting aside. “It’s going to storm tonight,” you said softly as you got up. “I’m going to put the covers down on the windows so it doesn’t rain in.” Jeongin watched as you exited the door and returned to his book as you disappeared.

Outside you undid the hooks holding the covers up and let them down into place, securing them with the wooden rods that slid through two rings on the side of the cabin as well as a ring on the end of the shutter. 

Clover had done some interesting things when building this cabin but as odd as they were, they worked. You placed the covers for the other three windows down, locking them in place as the wind picked up. 

You also grabbed the cloth Clover had for covering the garden and hooked it in place with the four hooked stakes in the corners of the garden. You repeated the process, covering the bee boxes before gathering all the fish and bringing it inside to hang up by the fire.

As you closed and locked the door, you could hear thunder in the distance and Jeongin looked up from his mother’s journal. “We’re safe here, right?” he asked and you nodded, moving to stoke the fire and then joining him on the bed. “This is probably the most stable building in the region,” you explained as you settled down on the side of the bed you’d claimed and looked up at him.

“You can stay up if you want,” you said, shifting, pulling the covers over you, and getting comfortable. “Just try to keep the noise down,” you added with a wink which made Jeongin crack a smile. “Okay,” he replied. “I’ll try.”

You shut your eyes and tried to focus on sleeping.

But you couldn’t. Your mind was full of the portrait in the locket. You rolled onto your back and sighed, opening your eyes and staring at the cave ceiling. Jeongin didn’t seem to notice but when you sighed again, he looked up. “You alright?” he asked and you took a deep breath before sitting up and turning to him. “I need to tell you something,” you said, taking his journal and setting it aside.

Jeongin looked from the journal to you as you took his hands in yours.

“What I’m about to tell you might sound outrageous but keep in mind I’m much older than I look because as you said before, I’m pureblooded fox-folk.,” you started. Jeongin met your gaze and nodded slowly. You took another deep breath before explaining.

“Your mother’s name was Keiko. She was from a small island off the coast of Japan. The locals there called it Fox Island. She came to this land as a child with her mother to live in the palace of the king centuries ago. Her mother was a highly sought after healer and the king’s wife was incredibly sick.”

Jeongin said nothing as you continued.

“When your mother was nearing maturity, her mother overheard a plan to marry her off to the king’s son but her mother had heard that the first prince was a cruel man who abused those around him. She did not want your mother to suffer at his hands so she ran away, taking your mother with her. They left the palace and ran and ran until they reached the coast, hoping it would be far enough away that the king’s men would never find them.”

You cleared your throat and continued the story.

“Your mother continued to live on the coast, in a small fishing village for many many years and eventually, she grew into a great beauty. Many men tried in vain to marry her but her mother drove them all off. When her mother finally passed from old age, your mother left the village and traveled inward, hoping enough time had passed that the king was no longer looking for her and she was right.”

“The king and his son had both since passed and a new ruler was on the throne. Your mother traveled the land until she found this region and moved here, settling down in a cave in the mountains. Rumors circulated of a great beauty that lived in the mountains but some of those rumors painted her out to be an enchantress that devoured the souls of men. It was here my mother met her,” you explained, watching Jeongin’s eyes widened but he said nothing, allowing you to continue.

“Your mother and my mother became good friends and then… I came along and I can remember how your mother doted on me. She wanted a child of her own but she had no luck in finding a husband. It was when she’d given up hope of ever having a child that she met your father. I was a young child by then but I still remember the day she came to us, announcing she had found someone,” you said with a smile, remembering back to that day.

“My mother and father were so thrilled she’d managed to find someone who loved her. Someone she could start a life with. She wrote to my mother, telling her of the ceremony and the time after. She shared her troubles conceiving with my mother in those letters. And then, she got pregnant. And it lasted,” you said softly, looking up from your hands to find Jeongin’s eyes filled with tears.

“She gave birth to a healthy baby boy and she named him Jeongin. She wrote how she was so in love and she’d never known a love like that before. The love of a mother. She loved you so much,” you said softly, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. This pushed him over the edge and a small sob escaped him, the tears finally falling. You pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Why did she leave?” he whispered into your shoulder. “She had to,” you explained, gently stroking his hair. “The people in the village branded her a witch and she feared if she did not leave, they would come for her. So she left you with your father and she went north,” you continued. “I’m sure it was her intention to come back but I don’t know much else,” you added.

You continued to stroke his hair, rocking him gently as he sniffled. “Sorry I got snot on your shirt,” he said softly. You chuckled, patting his head. “It’s okay,” you replied. “I’ve had worse things on my shirt before,” you added as you pushed him back, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I just needed to tell you because if I didn’t, it would eat me alive.”

You pulled him in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You deserved to know the truth about her. She was a remarkable kumiho. I really looked up to her,” you added. Jeongin smiled, reaching up to wipe his eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” he said softly. “And who knows,” you said suddenly.

“Maybe she left some clues in her journals as to where she went.” Jeongin looked down at the journal and then back up at you. 

“Then I better get to reading, I guess.”

After the talk, it must not have taken you long to fall asleep because you were woken by the sound of thunder.

Your eyes opened and you noticed that it was mostly dark, save for the fire in the hearth. You peered over your shoulder to find Jeongin had finished his reading and gone to sleep as well. You lay back down, closing your eyes but another clap of thunder sounded and the rain whipping against the side of the rain made you realize what had actually woken you and it wasn’t the storm.

It was the way Jeongin shook each time the thunder clapped or the shutters rattled against the windows.

He’d told you how his home was battered by storms and he wasn’t able to keep up with repairs as he wasn’t a carpenter like his father. He said he’d grown accustomed to the fear that at any moment, the entire hut would collapse, trapping him inside.

‘He’s probably terrified out of his mind right now,’ you told yourself.

You turned over, eyes finding Jeongin curled up in the dark beside you. Sitting up, you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” you asked softly over the sound of the rain battering against the roof. Jeongin rolled back to look up at you. “Sorry,” he said just as softly. “It’s just the storm…” he trailed off.

“I have… bad memories.”

Your expression softened as you pulled the covers back and gently grabbed his arm. “Come here,” you whispered, tugging him towards you. Jeongin followed, allowing you to pull him into your space where your arms went around him protectively, his head ducking under your chin and into your chest as he wrapped his arms around you.

You gently stroked his hair, humming softly as you tried to drown out the sounds of the storm. Your humming turned into singing, trying to lull him to sleep. “What is that?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by the cloth of your night shirt. “It’s a song my mother used to sing to me,” you replied, continuing to stroke his hair. “It sounds familiar,” he continued.

You nodded silently before speaking. “Your mother probably used to sing it to you when you were a babe,” you answered. “Most fox-folk know the song.”

Jeongin fell silent, tightening his hold on you as he nuzzled further into your warm embrace.

“Do you feel better?” you asked softly, smiling when he nodded. “Good,” you whispered, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. Jeongin pulled back to look up at you. Neither one of you said anything, staring at one another until he finally made the first move, closing the distance and pressing his lips against yours.

Almost as quickly as it happened, he pulled back, stuttering apologies and trying to explain himself. You cut his words off, taking his face in both your hands and pulling back in for another kiss. He relaxed under your touch, lips pressing more firmly against yours as he leaned into the kiss.

“Don’t apologize,” you said when you pulled back. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Jeongin pulled you back in for another kiss, more hurried and rushed this time. You didn’t fight it when he pushed onto your back or when he climbed over you, never breaking the kiss as he settled between your parted thighs.

You sighed against his lips, almost moaning when you felt his tongue slip into your mouth. He moved his hands, sliding them up to your cheeks and pulled back, breaking the kiss. “Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes looking between yours. “For what?” you whispered, placing one of your hands atop his.

“For saving me,” he continued, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I now know it was you that killed those guys following me.” You stared up at him. “I’ve had time to think about it and it makes sense,” he added.

“So thank you for taking me in and for protecting me.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him down into another kiss. “You don’t have to thank me,” you murmured between kisses. “I’m sure you would have done the same in my position,” you added. Jeongin shook his head. “I’m shy and antisocial,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have gotten involved.” You pushed him back slightly so you could see his face.

“You’re not antisocial,” you countered. “You were tormented and abused. There’s a difference.”

Before Jeongin could say anything else, you interrupted with another kiss.

You rolled over, pinning him against the bed as you straddled him, directing his hands to your waist as you continued to kiss him. You felt him tense under you as you rolled your hips, grinding against the growing bulge in his pants. You pulled back to look at him, noticing the look of hesitation on his face.

“Was that too far?” you asked, fearing you may have crossed a line and moved to climb off him but his hold on your waist tightened. “No,” he croaked. “It’s just that…” his voice trailed off as he swallowed thickly, trying to find the right words.

“I’ve never… I’m a…” he was failing to form a complete sentence but you knew what he was saying.

You cupped his cheek tenderly. “You’ve never done this, have you?”

He shook his head and you smiled warmly, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Do you want to stop?” you asked and watched as he contemplated it. Just when you thought he was going to say yes, he surprised you by shaking his head. “No,” he finally answered.

“Don’t stop.”

You pressed your lips against his, taking the lead. Your hips rolled slowly, grinding against him, eliciting the sweetest moans you’d ever heard come from a man before. “You sound so sweet,” you whispered, lips brushing against his cheek as you moved to whisper in his ear. “So innocent,” you continued, kissing down the side of his neck.

Jeongin let out a moan as you nipped at his neck, smiling before pulling back to look down at him. “Do you want me to keep going?” you asked, slowing your movements, enjoying the desperate way Jeongin whined and pulled at your hips, urging you to move.

“Y-yes,” he whimpered. “Keep going, please,” he begged. Instead of doing so, you climbed off him, ignoring his protests and pleas as you tore the blankets back. “What are you doing?” Jeongin asked as you nestled beside him. “Just trust me,” you said softly, reaching to turn his head towards you, pulling him into a kiss.

With the distraction of your lips against his and your tongue slipping into his mouth, Jeongin didn’t notice the way your hand moved down his chest, slowly until he felt your palm against the bulge in his pants. Moaning into your mouth, one of his hands moved to grab yours but you pushed it away.

“Are you going to be a good boy or will I have to restrain you?” you asked darkly. Jeongin let out a little whimper and shook his head. “You won’t be good?” you asked, cocking your brow. He shook his head again. “I’ll be good,” he blurted out and you pulled him back in for another kiss, letting your hand wander again.

This time, he didn’t move, only moaning as you started to palm him through his trousers. Considering how hard he already was, it didn’t take you long to get him begging and whining for more, his hips bucking up against your hand.

You made quick work of his pants, untying the string and sliding your hand under the waistband, your palm coming into contact with the hot skin of his dick. Jeongin let out a soft whimper as your fingers wrapped around him. “Have you never been touched like this before?” you asked, watching his face as he shook his head.

“Not even by yourself?” you asked, tilting your head. He hesitated before nodding. “I’ve…” he swallowed thickly. “I’ve touched myself a few times,” he answered. Your smile grew slightly. “Do you want more?” you asked, watching the way his brow furrowed as you stroked him at an even pace.

“P-please,” he murmured, hips bucking into your hand. You removed your hand from his pants, moving and pulling his pants down, throwing them to the floor before climbing over and straddling his hips. Jeongin looked up at you as you leaned over. “Do you want to stop yet?” you whispered, your smirk growing even more when he shook his head.

You toyed with the hem of your night shirt, watching the way his eyes flickered from your face to your hands and back up. Finally, you decided to not tease him any more and lifted the material up over your head, dropping it to the floor and allowing him a moment to adjust to your nakedness.

His eyes were all over your form, taking in every inch of exposed skin. You took his hands and guided him to your waist. “You can touch me, you know,” you said softly, snapping him out of his trance. “O-okay,” he answered, his voice barely audible over the sounds of the storm.

“Wait, I can?” he asked as if just registering what you’d said. You nodded instead of replying verbally and waited patiently as his hands moved of their own accord. His eyes followed the movement of his hands up to your chest, hesitating before cupping both your breasts.

His lips parted in awe as he gave a gentle squeeze.

He’d never done anything like this before. He had no idea what was allowed and what wasn’t or what felt good for you. “Is this okay?” he asked, looking up to meet your gaze. You nodded, reaching one hand up to place over his, pushing his palm against your chest more firmly.

Jeongin groaned at the contact, eyes flickering back down to your chest. Without a word, he sat up, his hand under yours moving aside. You pulled your hand back as he leaned in, glancing up at you for permission which you gave in the form of a nod. His eyes fluttered shut as he took your nipple in his mouth, tongue swirling around the bud.

You let out a sigh, combing your fingers through his hair as his tongue flicked against your skin. You arched your back, pressing your chest into his face as he gently sucked, letting your nipple fall from his mouth before repeating the same process on the other breast, one of his hands moving up to cup your chest. His other hand moved around to your back, hovering just above your ass.

You rolled your hips, brushing your sex against his cock and making him gasp. Your fingers in his hair tugged, tilting his head back to look up at you as you rolled your hips again. “How does that feel, sweetheart?” you asked softly, cupping his cheek with your free hand.

“S’good,” he moaned, his hands grabbing your hips, trying to guide your movements but feeling unsure of what he was doing. “You want me to ride you, little fox?” you whispered, leaning in so your lips brushed against his. He gulped loudly. “Y-yes,” he pleaded. “I wanna feel you.”

You took him in a messy kiss, tongue dancing against his. “You wanna feel me? Feel me from the inside?” He nodded quickly, eyes sliding shut as you rocked your hips, grinding against his cock, coating it with your arousal.

“Wanna fill me with your cock?” you purred. Jeongin let out a choked moan as you ground harder against him. “Fuck! Y-yes, please!” he whimpered.

You reached down to grab the bottom of his shirt, tugging it off him and letting it fall to the floor as well before placing your hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the mattress. You allowed your eyes to scan his body, taking in his lean frame as you lifted your hips.

“Are you gonna be a good boy for me?” you asked as you reached between your bodies, taking his cock in your hand and giving him a couple of strokes, coating all of his cock with your slick. He nodded urgently, biting into his bottom lip. “I need to hear you say it, Innie,” you cooed, lining the tip of his cock with your entrance. He nodded again. “Yes,” he finally managed to croak out.

“I promise I’ll be good.”

Without another word, you sank down on him, his cock gliding easily as your walls welcomed the intrusion. Jeongin let out a long groan as you enveloped him completely with a sigh. You felt him twitch inside you and you leaned over, placing your hands on the mattress on either side of his head.

“You promised you’d be good,” you said, meeting his gaze. He nodded, blinking slowly as his hands moved to your thighs. “I promise,” he whispered. “Then you can’t cum yet,” you replied, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. “You have to wait until I say you can cum,” you continued. “Can you do that for me, baby boy?” He nodded again. “Yes, I c-can,” he answered.

You slowly raised your hips before sinking back down on him, his cock burying into your cunt. Jeongin moaned against your lips, fingers digging into your skin. “Feels s’good,” he muttered as you set a slow, steady pace, hips rising and falling, driving his cock repeatedly into your pussy.

“Such a good boy,” you cooed, leaning over to kiss along his jaw, making him tilt his head, giving you more access to his neck. “Letting me fuck you like you deserve.” Jeongin whined in response, his hands moving up to your waist. “Mmore, please,” he begged, gasping when you obliged, your hips bouncing against his. “Shit, shit,” he gasped, fingers tightening around your waist.

“Wait, m’close!” he warned. You immediately stilled, his length buried in your walls. You raised your hand to push his bangs back from his forehead, leaning over to press a kiss against his skin. “You’re doing so well,” you praised as he came down from the edge.

“Filling me so well. Such a good little fox.”

Jeongin whimpered as you rolled your hips. “Do you want me to keep going?” you asked sweetly. He shook his head. “Give me a moment more,” he murmured. You sat up, moving your hands to his chest, sliding them down to his stomach and back up past his shoulders and onto the mattress.

“Do you want me to stay on top of do you wanna take control, little fox?”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours. “I can take control?” he asked softly. You nodded. “You want to try that?” He nodded hesitantly, hissing as his cock slipped out of you.

You pulled him on top as you laid back, your thighs wrapping around his waist. He looked down at you, cheeks burning as he took in your fucked out expression. “Go ahead,” you urged.

Jeongin looked down, eyes widening slightly as they landed on your glistening sex. “It’s okay,” you added, drawing his attention. “Take your time.” Jeongin took himself in his hand, guiding the tip to your slit, watching as the head of his cock slipped past your folds, finding your center easily.

He groaned, watching as your walls sucked him in until his hips met yours. His eyes moved up, meeting yours as he tried to control his breathing. “I don’t…” he trailed off. “Just follow your instincts,” you said gently. He nodded, taking a deep breath before pulling his hips back, watching your face as he snapped forward. You let out a moan, eyes rolling back.

Taking that as his cue to keep going, he repeated the action, quickly setting a steady pace. It was different than when you were in control, he was able to drive his cock deeper into your walls, making you moan louder than when you’d been on top.

“F-feels s-s’good,” he stammered, his head falling into your chest as he continued to thrust into you. “Ah~ fuck, that’s it, Innie,” you encouraged him. “Keep going.” Following his instincts, like you’d suggested, he cupped his hand against the back of your thigh and pushed your leg against your stomach, sinking his length further inside you with a groan.

“S’ so deep,” you moaned, eyes fluttering shut. Jeongin kept his eyes open, watching to watch your face as he fucked you. He’d never seen someone so beautiful before. “Faster,” you gasped. Jeongin complied, his thrusts gaining speed. “Oh f-fuck,” he groaned. “M’gonna cum.”

You took him by surprise, rolling him onto his back during his momentary lapse in control. Without giving him a chance to regain the upper hand, you took his hands and pinned them against his head. “Gonna cum already, little fox? I thought you’d last longer,” you said with a scoff. Jeongin whimpered, his cock twitching as his orgasm impending as you rocked your hips with renewed vigor.

He tried to pull his wrists from your hands but your grip was too strong. “Don’t fight me for control,” you said, leaning over to kiss him. “You gonna cum for me? Can’t even wait for me to say you can cum. Pathetic,” you scoffed. Jeongin bucked his hips up to meet yours.

“Please,” he begged. “Let me cum.” You shook your head. “Only good boys get to cum,” you retorted. “You haven’t been good.” Jeongin shook his head. “I have been good!” he argued, moaning at the end of his protest. “I’ve been good,” he repeated.

“Please let me cum, Y/N.”

You chuckled, slowing your movements, holding his wrists tighter when he protested.

“Such a greedy little slut. Wanting to cum first,” you snapped, rolling your hips. “F-fuck Y/N, m’gonna cum. Shit, shit, shit,” Jeongin whined, hips bucking up as his orgasm washed over him. You slowed your hips as his cock twitched, Jeongin releasing inside you with a whine.

You sighed, your hips coming to a stop as you looked down at him. “Couldn’t even wait for me to finish with you,” you said softly. Jeongin opened his eyes. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “I tried to stop but it just felt so good.” Your lips twitched into a smirk. “It’s okay,” you replied, releasing one of his wrists to cup his cheek. “But now you’re gonna have to lie there and let me finish,” you continued.

Jeongin looked up at you, leaning into your touch. “That’s okay,” he replied, letting out a gasp as you rolled your hips, his cock still lodged inside you. “You’re in for a long night, little fox,” you said softly, taking his wrist and pinning it again before sliding your hands to lace your fingers with his as you continued to rock your hips, feeling him slowly start to get hard again.

“A really long night.”

Jeongin awoke the next morning to the smell of meat and opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep and allowing his eyes to adjust to the sunlight that filtered into the cottage.

He rolled over, peering at you by the fire, cooking breakfast. He stretched his arms, whining at the soreness in his muscles. You chuckled as he pushed himself up, realizing he was shirtless. You, on the other hand, were fully dressed. “What happened last night?” he asked, reaching up to scratch his head.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten,” you said as you plated breakfast and walked over to the bed. Jeongin felt heat rise in his cheeks. “No,” he answered as you sat on the edge of the bed, presenting him with a plate. “I just forgot how many times,” he murmured, adding a thanks at the end.

You chuckled as you dug into your own food. “More than a few,” you answered. Jeongin looked up and then out the window. “How late is it?” he asked. You shook your head. “Not that late, It’s not even noon,” you replied. The two of you ate in silence, Jeongin thanking you again as you took his dirty plate.

“Where are my clothes?” he asked, noticing they were not on the floor where you’d left them the night before. “I washed them first thing this morning,” you answered. “They’re probably dry by now,” you added and headed out the door to retrieve them.

Upon entering, you handed the clean clothes to Jeongin who dressed himself in silence. “What do you plan to do?” you asked softly as you stoked the fire. Jeongin looked up and then down at his hands. “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I’d like to go find my mother,” he added.

You turned to look at him, a warm smile on your face. He got up and walked over to where you stood, his hands resting on your waist and pulling you closer. “But part of me wants to stay here with you.” You smiled, eyes shutting as he leaned his forehead against yours. “Stay here and maybe build a life with you.” Your heart swelled at the thought but it was quickly deflated by another thought.

“I think you should follow your heart,” you finally said, pulling back to press a kiss to his forehead and turn away. Jeongin opened his eyes and sighed. He looked around the cottage and then at his bags on the floor near the table where he could see one of his mother’s journals peeking out at him.

His mind was made up for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, pressing his lips against your shoulder. “It’s okay,” you reassured him. “Do what you have to do,” you added. Jeongin turned you to face him, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I will come back,” he said softly, eyes flickering between yours. “I promise.”

With his rucksack packed full of supplies you could spare and a map in hand, you pointed him in the right direction. Jeongin pulled you in for one last kiss, resting his forehead against yours for a few moments after. “I mean it,” he said, pulling back to look at you. “I will come back. Regardless if I find her or not.” You nodded, smiling and keeping the sad feeling lingering in your stomach at bay.

“Be careful,” you said, giving his hand a squeeze. Jeongin pulled away and started through the forest in the direction you’d pointed him. The last place you’d heard his mother had been spotted. North towards Mongol territory. As he reached the edge of your property, he turned to look back at you.

He raised his hand, waving which you returned and watched as he turned back and slowly disappeared from sight. With a sigh, you continued to stare after him. “You better come back,” you whispered to yourself, moving your hand to rest against your stomach.

Smiling to yourself you turned away and headed back into the cottage to tend to your chores, hoping Jeongin found what he was looking for sooner rather than later.

He only had nine months after all.