#dkseventeen

(Mafia Boss Lee Seokmin x FemReader)

Dark Romance, Thriller, Mafia AU, Strangers-to-Lovers, loyalty, betrayal, elegance, and bloodshed, slow-burn

content warning: This story contains themes of organized crime, violence, emotional trauma, grief, loneliness, and morally grey characters. It also include mentions of blood, death, cigarettes, and power dynamics that some readers could find triggering. Please proceed with caution.

The city didn’t sleep, but it bowed its head in silence when he walked through its veins.

Rain whispered against the windows of the Rosecourt building an opulent skyscraper nestled in the heart of the Eastern District. The penthouse glowed dimly, shades drawn, liquor glistening in crystal decanters, but nothing dared to shimmer more dangerously than the man seated behind the mahogany desk.

Lee Seokmin.

A name spoken like a warning and hope in equal parts.

He was calm. Always calm. But underneath that calm lived a precision that made even seasoned men tremble. Every move was calculated, every silence deliberate. Yet his men followed him not because of fear alone there was respect, unwavering and brutal. Because when Lee Seokmin promised protection, he delivered. When he swore vengeance, blood ran down the streets.

“Boss.”

He looked up.

His second-in-command, Myungho, stood at the doorway, soaked from the rain but unsmiling, eyes tense.

“They tried again.”

Seokmin’s gaze didn’t waver. “Which ones?”

“The Bertram remnants. In Busan.”

A flicker of irritation danced in his otherwise tranquil expression. “I buried their name three years ago.”

“They forgot that, apparently.”

Seokmin stood up. Even in a crisp black dress shirt, no blazer, sleeves folded neatly, he commanded the air around him like a monarch who didn't need a throne to be obeyed.

“I’ll remind them.”

His rise had never been bloody for the sake of blood. That was what separated him from the monsters he crushed. He didn’t delight in pain. He simply didn’t flinch from it.

Orphaned at 9. Lost his older brother at 14 in a betrayal by their own organization. By 18, he’d taken it back. Not with screams but with silence, steel, and eyes that stared straight into evil and didn’t blink.

He rebuilt the Eastern Circle from the ground up, renamed it Ardente "the burning ones." Now, the syndicate operated behind the veil of high-end art auctions, shipping routes, and global tech deals. Clean above the table. Ruthless underneath.

And through it all, Seokmin had one rule: Do no harm to the innocent. Never touch the undeserving.

Which made him unpredictable.

Which made him terrifying.

Because mercy was only granted to those who deserved it. And when he judged that you did not

You disappeared.

In the shadows of Ardente’s ballroom, lit by black chandeliers and veined mirrors, he watched his men celebrate a minor win.

Someone had intercepted a cargo of weapons meant to fuel another gang’s war. Seokmin didn’t flinch at their downfall. He only observed.

From the mezzanine above, glass in hand, he observed a world that never truly belonged to him. Even when he ruled it.

He was… lonely.

But he never let it show.

Because love was a liability.

Because kindness had gotten his brother killed.

Because attachment made you bleed harder.

And yet… somewhere, fate was moving.

Somewhere, a girl with ink-stained fingers and tired eyes from working two jobs would soon step into a world she had no business in.

Not yet. Not now.

But soon.

When her life would crumble.

And he would be the one holding the pieces.

But for now

Lee Seokmin remained untouchable.

A king in a glass tower.

Waiting.

Watching.

Bleeding in silence.

The scent of smoke always lingered longer than the fire.

Lee Seokmin sat in his office, the top floor of a discreet glass tower in downtown Seoul, watching the sun disappear behind the cityscape. A single cigarette burned in his fingers, untouched. He hadn’t smoked it in years but still lit one when memories clawed up from the shadows.

Tonight was one of those nights.

His desk was clear. No blood. No files. Just silence. Until a soft knock echoed on the steel door.

“Come in,” he said.

Myungho stepped in, crisp in a dark navy suit, no tie, hair slicked back. His second-in-command. Loyal since their teen years. And the only one who dared walk in when Seokmin was in this state.

“You lit one again.”

“Didn’t smoke it.”

“You thinking about them again?”

Seokmin didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Because yes he was thinking about that night.

The night that broke the last naive part of him. The night he learned that even family could sell you for power. The night his blood ran down the stairs of a home he built with trust.

He had killed them all with his own hands. Not out of rage. But out of lesson.

Loyalty is sacred. Betrayal is final.

“I need to find the leak,” Seokmin muttered, tapping ash into the tray. “One of the new boys is feeding intel to the Russians.”

Myungho leaned against the door. “Already on it. But Seokmin...”

“What.”

“Are you sleeping at all?”

A cold chuckle. “Does it matter?”

It did. Because when Seokmin didn’t sleep, people ended up with broken ribs.

Myungho studied him quietly. The white shirt. Sleeves rolled. Scars peeking just above the wrist. Eyes like wildfire behind glass.

"You know, it’s okay to want more than this."

"More than what?"

"This life. Fear. Control. Power. Maybe… someone to come home to."

Seokmin laughed softly, bitterly.

"That someone doesn’t exist for people like me."

He stood, walked to the floor-length windows. The city lights blinked like fireflies on concrete.

And somewhere down there, a woman who hadn’t entered his life yet was laughing at a joke she’d forget. Walking home with cheap ballet shoes in her bag. Thinking her past defined her.

He didn’t know her name. Not yet.

But fate was stitching their threads already.

Later that night, Seokmin walked into the lower lounge of his estate.

Three of his men stood lined up against the wall. Nervous. One was shaking.

“Turn around,” he said.

They obeyed.

“I’m not interested in excuses. Whoever handed off the port schedule last week you have sixty seconds.”

Silence.

Then trembling lips.

“I—I didn’t mean to, boss. I just—my sister, she—”

Bang.

Gun down. Blood on marble.

Seokmin turned to the other two. “Loyalty is life. Betrayal is death. Understood?”

"Y-Yes, boss."

“Good. Clean it.”

Back in his quarters, Seokmin showered. Blood always clung to his collarbones like guilt.

He stared at himself in the mirror, water dripping from his jaw.

He had everything. Money. Fear. Power.

But he was starting to feel it.

The loneliness that crept in when no one dared ask you how you were.

The ache of knowing your kindness would scare people more than your rage.

He was the King.

But a king needs a home.

And that… he hadn’t found yet.

A cracked phone screen. An expired bus pass. A ballet shoe stitched three times on the side.

That was all Y/N had left of her past—and she was doing her best to pretend that was enough.

At twenty-three, she was the kind of woman people noticed, but never truly saw. Always polite, always helpful, always… invisible. But it was easier that way. The more invisible you were, the less you got hurt. And God, she had been hurt enough.

Her job at the community studio wasn’t glamorous. She taught ballet to children who cried about missing snack time and teenagers who rolled their eyes at every plie. But when the music played and her feet hit the floor, she remembered who she used to be.

Before everything.

Before the family that made her doubt her own worth. Before the father who told her love was earned. Before the mother who only looked at her when she bled.

Now, she lived alone. In a studio apartment with one plant she always forgot to water. Quiet. Clean. Forgettable.

She liked it that way.

Or at least, she convinced herself she did.

Until one night changed it all.

The moon was high when Y/N locked up the studio. Her shoes were in her bag, her playlist was on shuffle, and she walked the streets like she did every other Thursday night tired, but free.

But that night, something felt… off.

A black car. Parked too long at the corner.

A shadow in the alley that didn’t move right.

She clutched her keys tighter, heart picking up. Quickened her pace. The hairs on her neck rose as she heard it a step behind her.

And then

“Hey! You lost?”

A man. Too close. Grinning like a knife. Two more behind him.

She stepped back. “No, I’m just walking home”

“Aw, you sure you don’t want company, sweetheart?”

They came closer.

And then a voice cut through the night.

Deep. Calm. Deadly.

“She said no.”

They all turned.

Y/N couldn’t see his face at first. Just a black coat, black gloves, and the quiet click of expensive shoes. His presence didn’t just demand attention it commanded it.

Lee Seokmin.

He hadn’t meant to be there. He never walked on foot. But tonight, he had needed air and this was the route his feet chose.

The men looked at each other.

“Who the hell are y—”

“I said,” Seokmin repeated, removing his gloves slowly, “she said no.”

It was in the tone. That chilling calm. The one that meant he wasn’t going to repeat himself again.

They ran.

Y/N just stood there, frozen. He looked at her now really looked.

A woman with bruises on her confidence and a storm behind her lashes. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t loud. Just... achingly soft.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now.

“I… I think so.”

“Don’t walk home alone again,” he said.

“I do it all the time.”

“Don’t,” he said, more firmly this time.

She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

He looked at her for a moment. Longer than he should have. Like something inside him stirred and it didn’t scare him the way it should have.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

And she let him.

She didn’t know who he was.

He didn’t know her name.

But in the silence between two strangers walking under city lights, something bloomed.

Something sharp and slow and dangerous.

And maybe fate didn’t rush things

But it always made sure the stars aligned when it mattered most.

Y/N didn’t see him again for two weeks.

Not that she expected to.

The night he walked her home, she didn’t ask his name, and he didn’t ask for hers. It felt like a fleeting moment of fate—a kind stranger, a terrifying almost-incident, and a silent promise between two people who didn’t belong in each other’s worlds.

Except…

She thought of him more than she should.

The way his voice made her stop shaking. The calm in his eyes. The rage he didn’t raise, just owned. He wasn’t gentle. But he was careful with her.

And no one had ever been careful with her before.

Lee Seokmin hadn’t stopped thinking about her either.

He didn’t know why.

He’d seen beautiful women before. Dated some. Used others. It came with the territory of power. But none of them stuck not in his mind, and certainly not in his chest the way she did.

There was something about the look in her eyes. Not the fear, but the hurt she carried like a second skin. The way she didn’t ask for help but didn’t pretend she didn’t need it either.

And the quiet strength in her thank you. Like she was used to saving herself. Like he was just a glitch in her survival routine.

He found her name within 12 hours. Address, job, routine he had it all. Not because he planned to use it. But because he wanted to protect her, and in his world, protection meant power.

But Seokmin didn’t approach her again. Not yet. Not until the moment felt right. And he had learned patience the hard way.

Y/N was walking home again, umbrella tucked against the wind. The sky cried harder than she did the night she realized her mother never meant her apologies. The storm soaked through her coat and her socks. Still, she walked.

Then headlights flashed beside her, slow, deliberate.

A black Mercedes.

The passenger window rolled down.

“You’re really committed to getting into trouble, aren’t you?” a familiar voice said.

Y/N blinked. Her heart stuttered.

“You again?”

“You sound disappointed,” Seokmin replied with a small smirk. “Get in.”

She hesitated.

“You sure I’m not trouble myself?”

“I already did the math,” he said. “I’ll take my chances.”

She bit her lip, then slid in.

The car was warm. Leather seats. Music playing low jazz, slow and smoky. He looked different tonight. Less mysterious, more human. Still dangerously composed.

“So what do you do?” she asked after a beat.

“I work in logistics,” he said.

She snorted. “That’s a lie.”

“It’s not,” he replied smoothly. “I just didn’t say what kind.”

Y/N gave him a look.

He smiled wider.

“Transport, negotiation, business management.”

“You’re still lying.”

“Would it scare you if I told you the truth?”

“Probably.”

“Then maybe not tonight,” he said.

They talked the entire ride. About everything. About nothing.

She laughed really laughed and it hit him like a punch in the chest.

He hadn’t heard something so pure in years.

And when he dropped her off, she turned to him with a shy smile and whispered, “Thank you again. You’re kind… in a scary kind of way.”

Seokmin stared at her.

“Don’t mistake what I do with who I am,” he said quietly.

“Then who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Just held her gaze until she stepped out and closed the door.

The engine purred.

The storm outside didn’t matter anymore.

That night, Seokmin called off a hit.

The man deserved to die. But Seokmin was thinking of Y/N’s voice. Her laughter. The way she looked at him like he could be good.

And for some reason, he wanted to be.

Even if only in her eyes.

Y/N didn’t hear from him for three more days.

It bothered her more than she expected.

There were no texts, no sudden car pulling up on the curb, no faint jazz slipping from a luxury dashboard. Just silence. And it left a hollow ache in her chest she didn’t want to name.

Until the envelope came.

Tucked in her mailbox, handwritten in dark ink on creamy paper.

You said you weren’t scared. Let’s find out. Friday. 7 PM. I’ll wait for you at the rooftop. — S.

She read it five times.

The rooftop?

Was this supposed to be cryptic or romantic?

She didn’t know. She only knew she’d be there.

Friday. 6:58 PM.

Her heels clicked along the empty corridor of the high-rise. Floor 32. Wind hummed like a secret behind the metal door. She pushed it open.

The city greeted her.

It glittered like a sea of stars scattered across black concrete. Wind tangled through her hair, cool and quiet.

And then she saw him.

Standing at the edge, coat billowing, back turned.

Like a man who didn’t just own this rooftop he ruled everything below it.

“Hi,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Seokmin turned slowly, his eyes sweeping over her. His gaze paused for a fraction of a second too long on her lips.

“You came.”

“You said you’d wait.”

“That I did.”

He gestured to the small table set near the railing. A candle flickered beside two glasses. Wine poured. Cheese, strawberries, and dark chocolate arranged like an artist’s palette.

Y/N raised a brow.

“A rooftop picnic?”

“I don’t do restaurants,” he said. “Too public.”

“What do you do, then?”

“I prefer knowing all the exits,” he said, voice soft. “And who’s holding the knives.”

She shivered. Not from the cold.

He pulled out her chair, his fingers brushing hers as she sat. It was the first time they touched.

And neither of them breathed for a second too long.

They talked again. But this time it wasn’t about the rain or fear or survival. It was about favorite colors and music, the comfort of silence, childhood dreams that didn’t make it out alive.

She saw a piece of him tonight raw, thoughtful, surprisingly poetic.

But there was something dark beneath it all. Not just his world, but something he carried like a wound under velvet.

Y/N leaned her cheek on her hand, studying him under the moonlight. “Why are you really doing this?”

Seokmin met her eyes.

His voice was quiet. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the night I met you.”

That stunned her.

“I don’t expect anything,” he continued. “Not your time. Not your touch. I just… I wanted to know if I could still feel something real. If I could want something without breaking it.”

She blinked. Her throat tightened.

“Do you want me?” she whispered.

He stood slowly.

Walked to her side. Paused.

And then, with the softest reverence his fingers grazed her cheek, cupped her jaw. It wasn’t lust. It was longing.

“I want you,” he whispered, “in every way that scares me.”

But danger follows those with too much to lose.

A red laser blinked from the rooftop next door watching. Recording.

And Y/N, still unaware, smiled up at the man who would turn her world inside out.

Y/N hadn’t meant to find the folder.

She didn’t even know she was in danger when she leaned over the wrong file cabinet in her office, searching for printer paper. A manila envelope, unlabelled but thick, had fallen to the floor.

And curiosity had always been her curse.

She opened it. And the moment she saw his name on the file, her breath left her lungs like a betrayal.

SEOKMIN, LEE — alias DOKYEOM Known Affiliations: White Talon Syndicate Territory: Seoul Central + Jeju Involvement: Organized crime, underground trafficking, financial laundering (alleged)

Photos. Receipts. Witness accounts. Her fingers trembled.

This can’t be real.

He’s not like this.

But the name. The date. His face. There was no mistaking it. Her Seokmin the man who knew how she liked her coffee and always kept tissues for her in his car, the man who looked at her like she was the first light in a city of shadows was the mafia.

She slammed the folder shut, her breath uneven.

Her phone rang.

Seokmin.

That Night.

Y/N was waiting before he even arrived.

Her silhouette, rigid by the railing, arms crossed over her chest like she was keeping her ribs from cracking. The night was colder than usual.

Seokmin stepped out of the stairwell, frowning softly.

“I got your text,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“You lied to me.”

His expression didn’t change.

Not a flinch. Not a twitch. That silence that made men cower.

“I found a file,” she said. “With your name. Your face. Your real name.”

Still, he said nothing.

“That’s why you don’t do restaurants?” she scoffed. “Why you know all the exits? Because you’re scared of being caught?”

He walked closer.

But she took a step back.

“I don’t care if you’re a criminal,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I care that you made me feel safe in a world you built on lies.”

“I never lied about how I felt about you.”

“That’s not enough,” she said. “I needed honesty. You gave me roses with knives in their stems.”

Seokmin’s jaw tightened.

“I’ve spent my whole life protecting the things I cared about,” he said quietly. “You’re the only one I didn’t protect from me.”

She left.

And he let her.

But that night, the city held its breath. Because when a man like Seokmin loses something precious he doesn’t sleep. He bleeds.

Two Days Later

She hadn’t answered a single message. He’d sent twelve. Voice notes. Apologies. Confessions he hadn’t even told himself before.

But nothing.

Until he stood outside her apartment door, coat damp from rain, a bouquet of peonies in his hand.

He didn’t knock.

He just stood there.

Until the door opened.

Her eyes were puffy. She’d been crying.

But her voice was small. “Why are you here?”

“Because I still see your face every time I close my eyes,” he said. “Because I can’t protect you from me, but I’d burn the whole world before letting it touch you.”

Tears spilled again. This time from her.

She stepped forward. Hit his chest. Once. Twice. Her fists soft but full of fury.

“You made me love you,” she sobbed, “and then made me question everything about you!”

“I know,” he breathed.

“I hated you for it.”

“I hated me too.”

Then she fell forward into his arms.

And he caught her like something fragile and holy.

They stood there for minutes hours maybe on the threshold of something too broken to be perfect but too precious to lose.

One Week Later

They were... trying.

It wasn’t perfect. The silence sometimes still swallowed them. Y/N flinched when the news showed crime reports. Seokmin looked away when she touched the part of his hand where a burn scar lived one she never noticed until now.

But at night, she still ended up in his arms.

And he always pulled her in tighter.

Because some things didn’t need fixing. Just time.

Y/N’s POV

Seokmin never asked me what I saw in that folder.

Maybe because he already knew.

He didn’t bring up the past, and I didn’t push until I found the ring box in his drawer. Not an engagement ring no, something else. Sleek, black metal. Engraved with an unfamiliar name:

"CHOI YOUNGSOO"

I asked him about it that night.

He went quiet.

Then he whispered, “That’s the name of the first man I ever killed.”

I felt my blood run cold. But not from fear.

From the pain in his voice.

Seokmin’s POV

“I was nineteen,” he said. “And my sister had just turned sixteen.”

Y/N sat across from him, legs curled up under her, a pillow hugged to her chest.

“He was a cop. My sister’s teacher’s husband. He used to come to our neighborhood and… he picked on girls who didn’t have anyone to protect them. She was one of them.”

Y/N didn’t speak.

He didn’t stop.

“I begged my father to do something. He was in the syndicate already, but he said we couldn’t risk war with someone protected by a badge. So I did it myself.”

He held the ring in his palm. It didn’t shine under the light.

“I made it after. As a reminder.”

Y/N leaned forward. Voice soft. “Reminder of what?”

“That there are monsters,” he said. “And I’m one of the few that chose to kill them before they kill us.”

She didn’t cry.

He thought she would.

But she just reached forward and took the ring out of his hand. Held it like it meant something.

Like he meant something.

That night, Seokmin kissed her like he never had before.

Like the blood on his hands meant nothing in front of her warmth.

And she let him because she was starting to understand him.

Even when she wasn’t sure she could forgive what he’s done.

The next morning, Seokmin stood in the middle of the conference room.

He didn’t usually bring Y/N’s name into business.

But she had been seen with him too often. And rumors had begun to spread.

“She is not leverage,” he said, voice low. Deadly. “She is not a tool. Not a pawn. The next man who mentions her name without respect will lose his tongue.”

None of them spoke.

But every man there understood something important:

Their boss wasn’t just a shadow in a throne anymore. He was a man in love. And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

Nightfall

The rain was relentless. The kind that blurred everything—the skyline, the road, the mind.

Y/N never made it home that evening.

She had only left for thirty minutes—wanted to pick up Seokmin’s favorite pastry from that little corner shop he secretly loved but never admitted to. A dumb, soft gesture. A piece of normal in a life of chaos.

And just like that, she disappeared.

Seokmin’s POV

He knew the moment something was wrong.

It wasn’t just that she didn’t call. Or that her phone died.

It was the silence.

The kind that didn’t just ring it screamed.

“Track her,” he ordered.

His voice was like winter steel. Freezing. Sharp. Controlled only by the years of training not to kill on impulse.

When Jihoon arrived at his side, expression pale, phone shaking in his hand, Seokmin already knew.

“It was Lee Sanghwan.”

One of their own.

One of the older lieutenants. A man Seokmin had spared once. Too merciful. Too trusting.

Now Y/N was gone.

And mercy had left the room.

Y/N’s POV

She woke up tied to a chair.

Not bruised. Not bleeding.

But terrified.

There was something worse than physical pain it was uncertainty. The kind that settled under your skin, wormed into your lungs.

Lee Sanghwan stood before her with a crooked smile. “He chose you over the empire,” he said. “I wonder if you’re worth it.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Because she knew something he didn’t:

He was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

Seokmin’s POV – One Hour Later

He moved like a ghost.

Three men were unconscious before they could scream. He didn’t need guns tonight. Just his hands. Just his rage.

He found her tied to a pole in the back of the warehouse, a gag in her mouth and eyes wide with both fear and relief.

He didn’t say anything.

He just fell to his knees in front of her, trembling fingers ripping off the gag.

“You okay?” “I’m—” Her voice cracked. “I’m okay.”

She didn’t cry.

Until he pulled her into his arms.

And then she couldn’t stop.

Back at the Safehouse

He hadn’t let go of her hand the entire ride home.

She was trembling.

So was he.

“Seokmin,” she whispered, eyes rimmed red, “I—why didn’t you tell me it could be like this?”

He looked at her. Really looked.

And for the first time, he let her see the broken in him.

“Because I didn’t want to scare you away,” he murmured. “Because when I’m with you… I’m not him. Not the boss. Not the monster.”

Her breath hitched.

And she touched his scarred knuckles.

“You’re still Seokmin,” she said. “You’ll always be him to me.”

That night, they slept on the couch, limbs tangled, TV flickering quietly.

He watched her sleep.

Because now he knew.

If she ever disappeared again he wouldn’t survive it.

One Week Later

There was a shift in the air.

The kind you feel in your bones before the storm touches the skyline. Seokmin had been quiet since Sanghwan’s betrayal. Too quiet. The mafia boss with a sharp tongue and quicker fists now stood often in front of windows, watching the horizon like it might swallow him whole.

Y/N noticed. She noticed everything.

He hadn't spoken much about that night, about what happened afterward. He hadn’t mentioned the man whose body was found at the edge of the pier his signature etched in the brutal nature of the kill.

But she knew it was him.

Seokmin didn’t talk. He acted.

“We’re being watched,” Jihoon muttered, standing at Seokmin’s side in the meeting room.

“By who?” Seokmin didn’t look away from the files in front of him.

“Everyone,” Jihoon replied. “Since Sanghwan’s body surfaced, the others are circling. Waiting. Smelling blood.”

A pause.

“And the girl?”

A stillness passed between them.

“She’s none of their business,” Seokmin said quietly. But his voice dropped like an executioner’s axe.

“She is now,” Jihoon replied, not unkindly. “You made her the business of every man who hates your empire.”

Seokmin didn’t respond. But something flickered in his eyes like a match dragged across stone.

Y/N’s POV

Y/N hadn’t seen Seokmin all day. Again.

She wandered the halls of the estate, feeling like an outsider in a place that used to feel like a safehouse. A sanctuary. But things were changing. Fast.

Her bodyguard, a kind man named Minho, trailed her silently. She didn’t like the new detail. But Seokmin insisted.

You don’t argue with a man who has scars on his soul deeper than the cuts on his hands.

She found Jihoon by the greenhouse.

“Jihoon?”

He looked up.

Her voice was soft. But the tremble in it was louder than thunder.

“Is he pushing me away?”

Jihoon looked at her for a long time before saying quietly, “He’s trying to protect you.”

“By disappearing?”

“No. By preparing to burn everything down for you.”

Seokmin’s POV

That night, he found her asleep on the leather couch in his office. Curled up in his hoodie. The TV was on low, casting soft light over her face. His heart twisted.

She had no idea what wars were being planned in her name.

No idea what he’d already done for her. What he was still willing to do.

He sat beside her slowly, not waking her.

“I can’t let them touch you,” he whispered to the air, barely breathing. “Even if it means they bleed.”

She stirred slightly in her sleep. Mumbled, “Seokmin…”

His hand hovered over hers.

But he didn’t touch.

Because love, in his world, wasn’t gentle.

It was a battlefield, and she was already bleeding without knowing it.

Two days later, a box arrived at the estate.

Inside was a lock of her hair. And a note:

“Take your dog off the leash, Seokmin. She’s cute. Would hate to see her bark.”

He crushed the box in his hand.

Something feral slipped into his gaze. Something old. Something deadly.

That Night

Y/N found him pacing in the courtyard, hands clenched.

She stepped outside barefoot, despite the cold.

“Seokmin.”

He turned. His eyes were wild storm-choked.

She didn’t speak. Just walked to him slowly and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

He flinched. Just for a second.

“Please,” she said, her voice shaking. “Don’t disappear from me.”

He turned.

And this time, he did pull her into his arms. Desperately. Like a man drowning.

“I’ll protect you,” he murmured, burying his face in her neck. “Even if it destroys me.”

She looked up. Eyes brimming.

“But who will protect you, Seokmin?”

And for the first time in a decade, he didn’t have an answer.

Perfect. Let’s go deeper into the storm. The game is no longer quiet.

One Hour Before Dawn

The estate was silent.

Not the comforting kind of silence, but the kind that grips your spine suffocates before you even realize you’re gasping.

Seokmin hadn’t slept. He stood in the war room, fingers tracing the edge of the threat letter again and again, memorizing the curve of the ink like it was carved into his bones.

Jihoon arrived without knocking.

“Park Yongwoo.”

Seokmin didn’t move. But the name settled like frost on iron.

“The bastard?” he muttered.

“He’s back. Rumors say he’s building a ring in the south.”

“And targeting her.”

Jihoon nodded.

“He’s not after your empire, Seokmin. He’s after your heart. He wants to see you beg.”

Something in Seokmin snapped, but it didn’t break. It sharpened.

“He’ll see me bleed first.”

Y/N’s POV

Y/N didn’t know about the box.

She didn’t know that every second she laughed, Seokmin was gathering weapons. That behind every look he gave her, there was fear disguised as discipline.

All she knew was… he was colder again.

She hated it.

At breakfast, she reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t squeeze back, either.

And that said more than silence ever could.

Two nights later, Jihoon caught Seokmin alone in the courtyard.

“She’s cracking,” Jihoon said gently.

“I know.”

“She’s starting to think you regret her being here.”

“I don’t.”

“Then say it.”

“I can’t.”

Jihoon stepped closer. “Why? Because she’s your weakness?”

“No,” Seokmin whispered. “Because she’s the only thing left that keeps me human. And if they touch her, I’ll never be human again.”

Y/N was walking through the hallway when a hand slipped a phone into her back pocket.

She paused. Looked around.

No one.

The screen lit up.

Hi sweetheart. You smell like fear. Tell Seokmin I said hello. – YW

She dropped the phone. Her legs gave out. Her chest tightened.

Seokmin found her minutes later shaking, pale, gripping the floor like it was her lifeline.

He didn’t ask questions. He just lifted her into his arms and took her to the room.

“I need to tell you something,” she whispered into his shirt.

But he already knew.

He had eyes on her. Always.

Seokmin’s POV

That night, he sat beside her bed while she slept.

She was trembling in her dreams. Mumbling his name.

He felt his own nails dig into his palms.

She deserved peace. Softness. Not monsters and memories.

And yet… she chose him.

That’s what haunted him most.

He leaned forward, kissed the back of her hand. Whispered against her skin.

“You didn’t fall for a man, did you? You fell for a broken god who can’t even give you heaven without blood on the gates.”

Meanwhile… In the South

Park Yongwoo smiled at the photo in his hand.

Y/N stepping out of a flower shop. Alone.

“She’ll be the ruin of him,” he said to his men. “And I’ll be the author of the end.”

He lit the photo on fire.

Great. Time to unravel another layer of secrets.

Three Days Later – The Warehouse Ambush

It was supposed to be a simple recon run.

Seokmin didn’t even wear gloves.

He’d sent Jihoon ahead with a small team. A warehouse drop, routine, untouched for months.

But nothing was untouched anymore.

The moment Jihoon stepped inside, the floor clicked.

Trap.

“MOVE!” Jihoon screamed, but it was too late.

The explosion sent them flying.

Y/N, watching through live cams in Seokmin’s office, saw everything. Her scream ripped through the halls as Jihoon’s feed cut to black.

And Seokmin he didn’t breathe for five seconds straight.

One Hour Later

Jihoon survived.

But two of his men didn’t.

Seokmin found him coughing blood in the backseat, clothes torn, vision blurred.

Y/N ran out barefoot, still in a silk nightgown.

“Jihoon!” she cried.

Seokmin didn’t even look at her. He carried Jihoon inside, barking orders, ripping off his own jacket to stop the bleeding.

Y/N stood frozen. Her hands shook at her sides.

She wanted to help. But no one noticed her. Again.

Y/N sat in the hallway alone. Knees to chest. The house was quiet.

But her thoughts were screaming.

She was nothing here. A shadow. A pet.

She had nothing to offer but quiet concern.

Why did he even bring me here?

She hadn’t seen Seokmin since the incident.

But she didn’t know he was in the basement, interrogating the last traitor who let the leak happen. And by “interrogating,” he meant turning the man’s memories into nightmares.

Seokmin POV

He came upstairs hours later, clothes stained, fingers numb.

But he didn’t go to his room.

He walked straight to the hallway. Something told him to.

That’s when he saw her.

On the floor. Sleeping against the wall like a stranger in her own house.

Something inside him snapped.

“Y/N.”

She woke with a gasp.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know where else”

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “You belong in my bed. You belong home.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Then show me, Seokmin. I feel like a ghost.”

His jaw clenched.

He hated this. Hated how fragile she looked. Hated that his war made her feel invisible.

He walked over, crouched, pressed his forehead to hers.

“I don’t say it enough. But you’re the only part of this world that doesn’t make me feel like a monster.”

And she broke.

Tears flooded her cheeks as she threw herself into his arms.

And for the first time in years, Seokmin let himself cry too.

Meanwhile In A Hidden Cellar, South Gwangju

Park Yongwoo poured himself tea. Smiling.

“She’s unraveling,” he muttered. “And he’s getting sloppy.”

Behind him, someone emerged from the shadows.

A familiar voice.

“She’s starting to remember who she was before him.”

Yongwoo raised an eyebrow.

“Perfect,” he said. “Let’s use that, shall we?”

Seokmin’s bedroom — 3:17 a.m.

The room was dark, save for the faint hum of the city below.

Y/N lay curled under the sheets, her breathing soft, but restless. Sleep hadn’t come easy. Not since the explosion. Not since Jihoon nearly died.

And not since Seokmin held her like she was the only thread keeping him from shattering.

He sat at the edge of the bed now, shirt off, head bowed, bruised knuckles resting on his thighs.

He glanced back.

She stirred, murmured his name in her sleep like a whisper meant only for the shadows.

“Seokmin...”

That sound his name from her lips anchored him.

Slowly, carefully, he lay beside her.

At first, he didn’t touch her.

But then she turned in her sleep, unconsciously reaching for him, hand grazing his chest like muscle memory.

And this time, he didn’t freeze.

He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and pressed it to his heart.

“You’re not invisible,” he whispered, voice hoarse and low. “You’re the only thing I see.”

Silence answered back. But it was soft. Warm. Not hollow.

Then

Her arms wrapped around his waist. Eyes still closed, tear marks still on her cheeks.

She held him tightly. Desperately.

Like she knew he’d break the moment she let go.

And so, neither of them did.

Not that night.

Not until the sun began to rise, spilling gold over a house full of secrets, scars...

…and love that was just starting to bloom between the cracks.

yall.. i saw a lemon sunshine air freshener while practicing facial anatomy 🫩 lowkey had no hope cause i despise learning fundamentals.. but it turned out better than i thought :PP

lowkey made this my whole art acc personality 😔 id kiss kiss if you drop a follow… ehehehe @sourcandyaple IG

THE KITCHEN

LeeSeokmin x costumedesigner!reader

It's late, and Seokmin has an audition in the morning for a new musical. You are a costume designer living across the street- completely unaware.

Genre: slice of life

WC: ~2.1K

Warnings: voyeuristic imagery (nonsexual), introspection, no smut (but maybe eventually in the series), female terms used for the reader, his perspective v reader's perspective

A/N: First time posting. Idk why I am way more nervous about this section than the actual post. lol. If I missed some warning that should be noted, please let me know. I saw Between the Lines off-Broadway when it was running, and I can't help but think DK would be the cutest Oliver. Give it a listen, watch it on Prime. It's adorable. I cry. This will be a series. But I have a million things I am doing, so get ready for the slowest burn ever. Also, I think I did different tenses from each perspective. I am too tired to go re-edit that soooooo..... deal

The city lights of Seoul cast a faint glow throughout the apartment as Seokmin returned from work. By the time he slipped off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, the exhaustion had settled into his bones. He could still hear echoes of laughter from the practice room, fragments of lyrics looping in his head long after the speakers had gone quiet. There was comfort in that chaos-- it was home-- but it didn’t leave much space for stillness. How could it with all thirteen of them hyping one another through each difficult dance move and every challenging riff?

For the past week, Seventeen had spent long days filming new content between rehearsals for their upcoming comeback. Each day brought something new. Often, Seokmin didn’t even know what they’d be doing until he arrived at the studio. Still, the Carats loved the photos and videos, and the group genuinely enjoyed making them, even if it meant running on little rest.   

Tonight wasn’t ideal for a Weverse live. He had an audition the next morning for a new off-Broadway-style musical opening in Seoul. The producer had personally invited him after seeing his performance as Arthur, and though Seokmin didn’t need a change of pace, he couldn’t deny how good it sounded-- a steady schedule, consistent rehearsal, a stage again. Something tangible. Something that wasn’t dictated by shifting content calendars.. Life, while full of fun and laughter, was still work. 

He ordered food and stepped into the shower. Warm water soaked into his tired muscles, steam clouding the mirror as the sound of running water drowned out the rest of the world. It was rare- this kind of silence. For a moment, he could almost forget the constant hum of managers, cameras, and expectations.

 As he lathered up, he rehearsed the monologue they’d sent him. The character intrigued him- Oliver, the storybook prince who longs to break free from the pages of his own fairytale. 

Oliver was trapped in a story written for someone else, repeating the same perfect lines over and over until a girl from the real world- Delilah- reads the book and changes everything. Over the course of the musical, their connection evolves from a parasocial fantasy to something painfully human. But she is real and has to move on. He is trapped in the book, left to perform his story again and again so the next reader can grow, learn, dream- while he remains behind every time. A fragment of his memory clings to every reader who passes his way. It was whimsical, romantic, and a little melancholic- a story about wanting to be more than the version of yourself everyone expects. 

Seokmin could understand that feeling better than most. 

He tilted his head back under the spray, letting the heat loosen the tension in his shoulders. The words of the monologue rolled easily off his tongue, bouncing softly against the tile walls. He adjusted the tone each time, hearing where he could breathe more emotion in certain lines, where Oliver’s longing might sound gentler or sharper. When he finally shut the water off, he felt steady. Grounded. Ready. 

Now it would come to tomorrow’s audition, and whether the producers liked what they saw. 

The food arrived just as he’d dressed. He set up his camera by the window, adjusted the lighting, and went live. Within seconds, Carats flooded the chat-- the usual mix of hearts, compliments, and affectionate chaos. 

“Did you eat?”

“You look tired but handsome!”

“Sing for us, Dokyeom!”

He laughed through it all, answering questions, teasing the fans, smiling between bites. There were always a few overzealous comments, but he’d learned how to navigate those-- a gentle acknowledgement without feeding the obsession. Mostly, it was light and genuine, and he enjoyed it. The familiar warmth of their affection always grounded him in a strange, digital sort of way. 

When the meal was done, he leaned into the camera, flashing that smile that everyone swooned over. “I’ll see you soon,” he said softly, winking before ending the live. 

Afterward, silence settled over the room. The kind that felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real. 

He sank into the chair, glancing out the window as the lights of Seol glittered below. Then he caught movement across the street. 

One floor down, through the wide glass of an apartment window, someone was dancing. 

You. 

Loose, clumsy, completely uncaring. The light from your kitchen framed you in warmth as you spun a dishtowel in your hand, singing into a spoon before laughing at yourself. You had no idea anyone could see you. Why would you? You were home, barefoot on the tile, moving to a rhythm only you could hear. Well, you and perhaps your next-door neighbors. 

He couldn’t help it- his lips curved into an easy smile. Elbows on the table, chin in his hand, Seokmin watched the moment unfold like a secret shared with no one. You were so alive in your own little world, so genuine in your joy. Whatever song you were listening to had you moving like no one was watching-- head bobbing, hands in the air. He even recognized a few challenge moves- Ateez, Le Sserafim- though none from Seventeen, which made him huff a quiet laugh.

You fumble the spoon, caught it in midair, then bowed dramatically to an imaginary audience. He chuckled under his breath. It should’ve felt intrusive to watch, but it didn’t. There was something to pure about it- the kind of happiness that didn’t perform for anyone. Just a person being happy because they could be. 

He found himself thinking about how fleeting moments like that were. How easy it was to lose them when the world demanded you be someone else all the time. 

And maybe, he thought, watching you twirl with your silver spoon microphone, that was what Oliver had been chasing too- that kind of freedom. 

The kind where no one’s watching, no one’s waiting for perfection. Just joy, messy and real, burning bright in the quiet glow of a Seoul evening. 

Your keys jingle in the lock as you push open the apartment door. A soft buzz vibrates in your pocket. One that doesn’t hold the recognizable strength or pattern of a phone call or text- nothing urgent, probably an app notification. You ignore it for now. The lights flick on with a low hum, the kind of background noise your brain filtered out as your foot presses into your heel, slipping off your shoes and into slippers. The day has been long. More like the week has been long- paperwork, swatches, research, meetings that drag into each other until you can barely remember what show you were talking about an hour earlier. 

Everything has been through endless rounds of approvals. Lighting wants new swatches. Set wants to renegotiate logistics for two quick changes you warned them about months ago. Every department has a question, a concern, an opinion. You just want your cast finalized. Without casting, the rest of the design timeline has stalled, and you’re starting to feel that familiar anxiety at the forefront of your head. Missed deadlines, tightening schedules, hell week fast approaching. Egos heightened and flared from one talking head to another. 

Only one costume is still stuck in the approval process: Oliver’s. It has gone through more revisions than anything else in the show, but the latest version is solid. Clean and whimsy. It hits all the beats you want to communicate in the story from the moment he first steps on stage. The perfect fairytale prince that would make any girl swoon. Now you wait to see if production agrees. 

The clock is ticking. Most modern looks are sitting in a cart, ready to be purchased as soon as the cast's measurements are collected. The fairytale characters are being built piece by piece in the shop. You’ve been juggling this show between the other productions you’re designing, but now, finally, you’ve carved out space to breathe and dive into “Between the Lines” fully. This one feels special. A fresh new story that only briefly gained some attention in the States. 

As the costume designer, you had already spent months working on the new production of “Between the Lines” in meetings after meetings between the other shows you were designing. It had finally come through, the time you could devote most of your focus to this delightful new musical.

Rumor has it that casting has a surprise for everyone.

You let the curiosity drift as you walk into your kitchen. A few dishes from breakfast lay waiting in the sink. Nothing lingered longer than the morning. You pull out your phone at last, thumb sliding across the screen. The earlier notification reads across the screen. Dokyeom is live on Weverse.

You're not the type to sit there spamming the comments in the chat section, but you’ll listen in. His voice fills the kitchen while you whip together a quick and simple dinner. It held the pretense and comfort of someone talking to you on the phone. 

You've followed Seventeen for years. Dokyeom had caught your eye and heart early on. You watched performances online, attended a concert when you could manage, and followed his excursion in Xcalibur. You still catch yourself daydreaming sometimes: what it might be like to design for a production he's in, to see him step into clothing you built, to have a brief, albeit professional moment where world's crossed. Nothing ridiculous or lewd- just the cool surrealism of working with him.

Your apartment is a haven of creation and art. On the wall perpendicular to the window hangs a growing collection of sketches. From across the street, the wall is just out of view. The wall is pinned with inspiration photos, sticky notes scribbled with questions and concerns, and receipts. It’s a map of the whole show from your perspective, thrown visually in a web that made sense only to you. Notepads with half-completed to-do lists, pens, and fabric swatches litter the table where you eat. As DK talks about filmings and rehearsals, you catch yourself smiling. Work has been relentless. The communication and back and forth is challenging as everyone tries to bring their vision into he picture. But this part- the creation and dreaming still sits on your chest with excitement. A satisfaction that part of you was getting to be shared. 

His live ends right as you finish eating. You set your phone aside, click on your music, and let shuffle decide your fate. The exhaustion of the day weighs heavily on your shoulders, but the right song lifts you up. Energy surges back in with a step and a smile. You move without thinking. A heel-step here, swaying of your hips, shimmy of your shoulders. The kitchen becomes your solo stage, your sanctuary of safety and comfort as music frees you from stress and deadlines. Everything is a microphone: the spoon, the spatula. The broom an imaginary duet partner as you sing and dance to your favorites. Your attempt to harmonize is off-key. But who cares? This is your private space. 

In the warm glow of your apartment, you feel content. The job is demanding, but it is the dream. You have your routine, comfort, and security. What more can you ask for? You have a social circle, friends who have your back. For a moment, the stress fades, replaced by serenity and joy. 

You have no idea you’re being watched. You are too happy to care if you were.

But there, across the street, behind a window you can’t see from here, someone you admire pauses. Someone looking in at the exact moment you laugh as the spoon, dripping in soapy bubbles, slips from your fingers. 

Life feels steady. Predictable. Good. 

You have no way of knowing that this moment, silly and harmless, has started something you never planned for. Something you couldn’t fathom in reality. In dreams, maybe. Absurd, ridiculous dreams. 

You’ve unknowingly stepped between the lines of your own fairytale.

Kim Chunja

It was the name printed on her ID card.

It was her name, yes. But it should not be there.

She did not want this slip of plastic that hung loosing from the black string around her neck. It felt more like a noose than a necklace, and the ID was her passport to hell.

She looked up at the tall building in front of her. So many rooms. So many people. So much work. So little time. And she was right in the middle of it

Pledis Entertainment.

The name was written on the side of the building as well as across the top of the badge. And here she was. A rival of this company, the daughter of an SM Entertainment manager. After spending 12 years of her life with the company she was now working for someone else. And she did not like it one bit.

With a sigh, she pushed her way through the heavy doors to the building.

She followed the directions she had been given in her head. Head for the elevators. Go to floor 3. Walk to the room at the end of the hallway. Open the door. Make a right. Arrive.

Inside awaited one man. He stood proud and tall as he stared at the city outside. Just as she closed the door he slowly turned around.

"Mr. Han" She bowed lightly, unsure of how to act in this situation. Should she be happy for her new job? Or should she curse the ground the man walks on?

Mr Han nodded to the girl and walked over to the lounge that sat near the window. "Come sit, Mrs. Kim." He said and motioned to the other end of the sofa.

The girl looked to the door, her only means of escape, then look to the man on the couch. Her only hope of making her father happy rested in his hands. She reluctantly walked over and sat herself down on the other arm of the seat.

Mr. Han was silent for a second. He just watched the bustling people on the streets as they ran about.

Chunja tried to see what he was so focused on but it seemed like nothing popped out to her.

"You have been in this line of work for quite sometime. Haven't you Mrs. Kim?" He asked.

The woman watched as a yellow taxi picked up a man who seemed to be in a hurry before rushing off. "I grew up in this line of work Mr. Han. I have ever since I was eight years old." She said

Mr. Han looked pleased with her answer. "Good. I think someone like you is just what we need."

"In return for my silence towards your family's secret, you are to serve under my company." He said the words as if it was any ordinary business deal. But it wasn't. Chunja was sighing her life away if she chose to work with this man. But then again... if she didn't she was destroying her fathers life.

"I understand the terms of our agreement Mr. Han. I have reviewed the contract and can recite it as if it were on the back of my hand." She pulled a thick booklet of paper out of her backpack and held it in her hands.

The contract. It strangely felt like a boulder weighed in her palms opposed to stack of ink and paper.

"Then you've read the many rules and regulations that come with the position. As in. You yourself will be living as an idol." He said the word so nonchalantly it almost seemed like what he was saying made sense.

Chunja swallowed the lump in her throat before looking away. "Yes."

Mr. Han seemed pleased. "I am glad you have chosen to accept our terms Mr. Kim. Now there is only one thing left for you to do." He reached into his breast pocket to reveal a red pen. It was embroidered with a gold metal and the point of it looked sharp enough to cut.

He handed the pen over to Chunja without saying a word. "You're job with be to look after 13 young boys. They can't seem to keep one manager for longer than 6 months. With your signature we could change that." He placed the pen in her hand. It felt strangely light as opposed to the paper in her hands. "You've basically did the same job while watching over 11 men before. Imagine this as your last job but with two more boys and the title."

Chunja stared at the signature line. In one motion, without giving herself time to think. She had sold her soul to the devil. In exchange for her untarnished family name.

Mr. Han smiled widely.