#jongdae writing

At precisely 20:02 on a Tuesday evening, Kim Jongdae appeared from nowhere to land in a dilapidated alley, pressed between a Macy’s department store on one side and the graffitied Winchester building on the other. Of which, the latter structure happened to contain New Stratford location of your office.

Jongdae was lucky, in that you were the only one in the alleyway at that particular time. Nearly everyone who worked in the Circle left before 18:00, overly concerned by trains, traffic and the time of commute. You alone were trudging between the buildings, paying little attention to your surroundings when he appeared from thin air.

It is hard to say what, exactly, happened. One second, you were adjusting your air pods with one hand, holding a jacket overhead to block out the rain with the other, not looking at all – and then, Jongdae was there.

He slammed into your body, making you stumble.

“Run!” he blurted, staring at you wide-eyed. The rims of his were red; a stark, bloodied color. His knuckles were white, gripping what appeared to be a gun in his hand. It was like no gun you had ever seen, though. “Run – run!” he gasped, breathing hard. “Why aren’t you running?”

Glancing over your shoulder, you saw no one. “I’m sorry.” You returned to him. “Are you running from something and telling me to run, too? Or, are you the thing I should be running from?”

Petering out, Jongdae’s run slowed to a halt in several, quick strides. He stopped right before you, glancing up at the sky. Freezing in place, he stared. “The sky,” he muttered, blinking abruptly. “It… isn’t orange anymore.”

“I – yeah.” You, of course, were not looking at the sky. You were looking at him, the gun that he held and wondering if you were about to die in an ally. “Is it usually orange to you? Are you colorblind, or something?”

Maybe you were witnessing a miracle. Y/N Y/L/N, of questionable age, witnessed the medical marvel of returned sight at 20:02, Tuesday evening in the fair month of – fuck, was it May already?

Jongdae shook his head, as though to dislodge water from his ears. “I,” he exhaled, bewildered. Twisting around, he stared up the ally, then down it. When he returned to you, he slowly lowered his weapon. “Where am I?”

Shit. This guy was probably drunk, although – you leaned in and sniffed. He did not smell like alcohol. “Uh,” you blinked, hastily retreating. “In an ally outside of Macy’s? It’s over there,” you pointed. “Are you looking for the Nike store? Tourists usually are.”

Jongdae stared at you as though you had spoken indecipherable gibberish and, in a way, you had. “Nike?” He blinked. “As in, the goddess? She has a marketplace?”

This was when you realized he was not from your world. You meant that in the loosest way possible, since you did not yet suspect the truth of the matter. Jongdae, with his strange manner of speaking, odd gun and orange sky, was from another world entirely.

Well. He was from your world, but a different version of it. A parallel universe, existing side by side with your own.

At that time though, you did not imagine any of that. All you knew was that this seemingly crazy man had accosted you in an ally, spoke of ancient goddesses like fact and thought the sky was orange. The one explanation was that he was insane and yet, you saw sanity in his gaze. It is hard to explain. You, yourself, were having trouble deciphering.

“I’m late,” he exhaled, glaning around. “The Empire. They need to know – they must know. There’s been a breakthrough, at the Academy and…” He shook his head. “There isn’t time. Where is your closest transport?”

Awkwardly, you pointed him in the direction of New Stratford Train Station. When he kept on blabbering though, you led him a block in the right direction, but this was when Jongdae seemed to realize the horrible truth of the matter.

On the corner of Clark and Monroe, he turned in a slow, stumbled circle. His gaze moved slowly from the tiered buildings to yours. “Am I… still on Earth?”

Multiple responses ran through your mind to this question, most of them impertinent. Something to his gaze, his tone, though, made you stop. He truly seemed distressed, which made you want to help. Damn your weak spot for lost causes.

“Yes,” you said to him gently, unsure what response he expected. “We’re on Earth.”

Briefly, Jongdae’s grip on his gun tightened. Then, he relaxed and – reluctantly – slid this into his pocket. “Not my Earth, though,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He seemed stunned by this prospect, a bit woozy and perhaps that is why you took pity on him. “Hey,” you said, waiting until he looked your way. “Would you… do you need help?”

Jongdae looked up, sharp. “You would willfully help a stranger?”

There was a strange undercurrent to his words; one you did not yet understand. Still, you nodded. “I mean, I live by the golden rule, or whatever.”

Jongdae’s brow furrowed, tilting his head to one side. “Is that rule of trial by combat, or fire?”

Awkwardly, you choked on the breath you inhaled. “What?”

“If one of us breaks the oath,” Jongdae explained, as one might to a toddler. “Is the golden rule here to kill the other by combat, or fire?”

Staring, you began to wonder if you had entered the pages of a strange, feudal science-fiction novel. “I – neither,” you insisted, incredulous. “God, we need to work on your small talk. Asking those you just met how they would like to die is kind of creepy.”

The corner of his lip twitched. “If there is no blood consequence to your oath, then – how do you ensure it is kept?”

His question left you baffled. “I,” you paused. “I don’t know. We just kind of trust each other, I guess.”

Jongdae stared. An errant breeze from the lake ruffled his hair and you realized then that he was quite attractive, when he was not threatening you with a gun in the middle of an ally.

“Trust.” Jongdae said the word as most would say moist – a phrase generally agreed upon by society to be dubious, at best. Arching a brow, he added, “A risky business, that.”

“Well.” Oddly emboldened, you took a step closer. “Do you have any choice?”

His brows ticked higher. “It would seem not,” Jongdae exhaled. “I suppose that, in return for your help –”

“Y/N.”

“In return for your help, Y/N – of other Earth.” A humorous glint entered his gaze. “I, Jongdae, of the Eighteenth Dynasty of the name, born in the Twentieth Century after the defeat of the Pretender, Christ –”

“Wait, what?”

“–pledge to owe you one favor.”

You fell silent, staring at him. “A favor?”

Solemnly, Jongdae nodded. His jawline was sharp, like his gaze and you found you could not look away. For a moment, the voices of reason ran through your mind. You did not know him. He seemed fucking insane. He spoke of alternate worlds, people and theories which defied common sense – and yet.

Your entire life had been spent in classrooms, in universities, in office spaces and conference rooms. All your life, you had wondered what if there was more – and here, at last, was more.

Determinedly, you tilted your chin upwards. “Alright,” you exhaled, outstretching your hand.

Blinking in surprise, Jongdae grasped your hand in his.

The heat which traveled your spine made you gasp, but you did not pull away.

Jongdae seemed startled as well but still, he straightened to look you in the eyes. “Then,” he said, shifting his weight. “Let’s get started.”

FBI AND DEA BUST MIAMI’S NUMBER ONE DRUG CARTEL

Publication: Miami Herald, The (FL) Author: LUCINDA PAGE, Herald Staff Writer Date: September 10th, 1980 Section: LOCAL Page: 1B Word Count: 242

It was in the wee hours of the morning, Miami, FL when Byun Baekhyun, infamous leader of the South Beach Drug Cartel was led away in handcuffs. Taken from his penthouse apartment on Collins Avenue, the drug lord is currently being held in the Miami-Dade County Jail on multiple charges of drug trafficking and money laundering. This arrest comes as the result of a year-long investigation by a special anti-narcotics detective squad within the FBI and DEA. This arrest marks the first of many, necessary steps to reclaim the streets of Miami from the current state of drugs and violence.

Today’s arrest is due to the intel of one, male FBI agent operating undercover within the cartel for the past six months. The arrest of Byun Baekhyun was the final in a series of arrests which occurred over the past forty-eight hours. Also taken into custody were: Kim Junmyeon, ‘The Cleaner;’ Park Chanyeol, ‘The Bruiser;’ Oh Sehun, ‘The Greaser;’ Zhang Yixing, ‘The Eyes;’ Kim Jongin, ‘The Diversion;’ Kim Minseok, ‘The Pimp;’ and Federal Agent, Do Kyungsoo.

Over one billion U.S. dollars of cash and cocaine were found hidden throughout various hiding spots in the Miami area. Still at large is the ninth member of the cartel, known only to federal agents as The Money. Any civilians with information on this individual’s whereabouts should inform their local police immediately. Proceed with caution, as they are presumed to be armed and highly dangerous.

Sweating profusely, Jongdae folds his newspaper delicately in his lap. There’s an ink stain on his right hand and he wipes this casually, trying not to appear like he’s running. Which he is, Jongdae is running from the very article on the front page of that newspaper. At least it’s a relief to see that the Federal Bureau of Investigation still don’t know his name.

Kim Jongdae, the Money of the South Beach Drug Cartel. Jongdae used to be a no one, nobody before meeting Byun Baekhyun. He was one of many analysts on Wall Street, barely made enough to afford his monthly studio rent in New York City. When he met Baekhyun, it was pure coincidence. Jongdae was on vacation, visiting a friend from college who worked in a new bank sprung up along Brickell Avenue.

Jongdae joined his friend hopping from club to club, overwhelmed by the amount of booze, chicks and spending. It was sometime around the third nightclub that he ran into Baekhyun. Jongdae didn’t know it at the time, but Club Medallion was Baekhyun’s personal headquarters, in addition to home of the infamous South Beach Cartel. Jongdae wasn’t aware when he began to barter with the bartender, wasn’t aware when he managed to get him to drop the price for several expensive bottles. He never imagined anyone above him would care, never someone might be watching from above.

Yixing cared, of course and when he overheard this twenty-two year-old kid swindling the pants off half his club – he nearly wet himself laughing. “Baek,” Yixing’s voice cracked over the radio with static. “Get off your ass and go look downstairs. You know how we need a new finance guy?”

That was an understatement. They needed a new finance guy, since the last one attempted to sell out the entire organization. Baekhyun drove that lying, manipulative cunt out to the Everglades himself.  

“Little busy,” Baekhyun grunted. He was in the middle of fucking what was, at the time, just a burgeoning romance. “Call back later.”

Yixing rolled his eyes, waited another minute before Jongdae began scamming an entire Blackjack table. “Boss,” he chuckled, taking a bite from his apple. “Honestly. You’re going to want to see this.”

“For fuck’s sake, you disgruntled wombat,” Baekhyun abruptly pulled out his cock. This, despite the repeated threats he was receiving. “This better be good, or I’m going to stick your shit-poor excuse for a head on the Rickenbacker Causeway.”

“Not your best comeback,” Yixing chewed loudly. “That time you called me a cock-sucking, shit-faced, bastardized train-wreck who’s cum lit the flames of hell. THAT was creative. Anyways, there’s this guy,” Yixing grinned. He was the only one who got to talk to Baekhyun like this – they both knew he was necessary. “He just scammed both the bartender and a bunch of high rollers in what – an hour? Tops. How long do you think he’s been here, Kai?”

Silence from Kai’s radio.

“Kai?” Yixing repeated, then sighed. “Eh, he’s fucking someone – damn! Two someone’s. Anyways, this kid. You’ve got to talk to him.”

Baekhyun was already buttoning his pants, tossing an exaggerated kiss to the most dangerous woman in Miami. “Bye, babe!” he called cheerfully, ignoring the sounds of her heels hitting the door. “Alright,” he grumbled, sauntering down the staircase. “Time to go and make dreams come true.”

That was the first time Jongdae met Baekhyun. The first time they met, Jongdae thought he was going to die. Baekhyun had that look about him, a manic smile and dark eyes gleaming. Then there was the matter of the six-foot giant beside him, his expression unreadable and gaze tight.

“Let’s talk,” Baekhyun shrugged – and before Jongdae knew what was happening, he was being offered a job.

It was the job of a lifetime. An opportunity Jongdae couldn’t pass up – and he didn’t. Barely hesitated, before saying yes. Ever since graduating college, Jongdae had worked as an analyst on Wall Street. Putting in hundred-hour weeks, sleeping on office floors, barely able to pay the rent on an apartment he never saw. One Jongdae shared with three other dudes, all of them crazier than he was.

Most of the week Jongdae lived on cup ramen and apples, occasionally he didn’t eat at all. When Baekhyun dangled this dream before him, gave him the opportunity to escape and make money now – Jongdae jumped. Baekhyun just told him how high. Jongdae didn’t return to New York, just called his roommates from a pay phone and told them he’d wire the last month’s rent. The amount didn’t matter, Baekhyun offered him ten times that much as a signing bonus.

Things quickly spiraled. Within months, Jongdae was living in a penthouse on Brickell Avenue. He was smart with the cartel’s money, more than could be said of the others. This was the advantage of having Jongdae as your man – he understood money. He lived and breathed those large, corporate organizations. I mean hell, most legitimate businesses in New York were Ponzi schemes. What did it matter then, if Jongdae was paid by someone paying taxes or by Baekhyun? Not much. If anything, Baekhyun was the more generous employer. At least he cared about those working for him.

Most other cartels were hotheaded, only cared about the now – not about what happened next. Jongdae thought about everything. He spread out their assets, diversified their funds. Tied them to offshore accounts, random assets and real estate ventures. If the cartel ever got caught, at least their money would be safe.

Which is why it is safe. That’s why the feds are looking for Jongdae; they only found a portion of Baekhyun’s massive empire back in Miami. On the last seat of the bus now, on his way to Middle-of-Nowhere, Alabama, Jongdae closes his eyes. This is Baekhyun’s brilliance, really. To keep Jongdae as far from the others as possible, with only Lay and Chanyeol knowing his face – only Yixing his name.

It’s for his own protection. If any other member got caught, they couldn’t out Jongdae. If they couldn’t explain Jongdae, then the money of the cartel would be safe. Baekhyun might’ve been one arrogant, son-of-a-bitch but he wasn’t dumb. He knew the risks of his operation, he knew he could get out of any jail sentence he was given, with so many people on the inside. What he didn’t have – what he needed Jongdae for – was the guarantee that his money would be waiting.

Jongdae’s fingers tap nervously against his seat. He feels as though he might throw up Or faint. It’s a wonder he hasn’t already, truly. All his friends, all the cartel – gone. When he opens his eyes shakily, Jongdae lets out an exhale.

It’s Kyungsoo’s fault. Jongdae grits his teeth. If he wasn’t such a fucking pussy, if he’d just trusted Baekhyun or maybe asked what the hell was going on – Jongdae rubs at his temples. Goddammit. It started with the mole. Junmyeon knew about the spy for months, knew there was someone within their operations who shouldn’t be trusted. Baekhyun knew it too, being well-versed in everything Junmyeon thought. They were trying to flush out the weasel themselves, though everything went to hell when they discovered the other shit going on below their belts. There was a rogue worker in Minnie’s organization, for one. A shady guy who bought girls and whored them out for profit. Minseok had two very strict rules in his establishments. Number one: everyone who worked for him, worked voluntarily. Second: his employees were extremely well-compensated. Minseok had dealt with enough shit in his life to know that unhappy people talk. Say what you will about Minseok, he wasn’t evil – or stupid. He knew most of his girls were illegals. Knew most wouldn’t get jobs elsewhere, so he offered them less-than-reputable work – but paid them well and treated them decent. It was a good opportunity, until they were able to get on their feet. Then Minseok let them go, usually with a fake ID and social security number. People who love you, are more willing to spy. That was the whole model of Minseok’s operation, so when a certain male worker began to engage in human trafficking – well, Baekhyun went ballistic.

Not even Chanyeol was able to talk him down from the rage. Baekhyun was seething, he grabbed two Uzi submachine guns and left, tires of his Lamborghini Miura screeching when he pulled out of the parking garage. Chanyeol wasn’t sure Baekhyun even made it to the Everglades before he killed the guy. Junmyeon received a terse phone call later on with specific instructions on where to clean his shit up.

The girl Kyungsoo was in love with was one of the ones Baekhyun liberated in his operation. Sure, Jongdae knows there was some sort of negotiation which went down – some front Minseok put up which made Kyungsoo think he owned her or something. Minseok typically only did that with outsiders though, guys he was suspicious of and didn’t want to let in. Better to be feared, than perceived as weak.

It was Kyungsoo’s words which made them suspect something strange going on in the first place. Not that they let him know this, of course. Kyungsoo never found out about any of it, since he never bothered to ask. Jongdae’s lip curls, remembering the way Kyungsoo turned a blind eye when he found out about Taewon. He knew the asshole was undercover in their cartel. Maybe not at first, but eventually he found out – and once he did, what did he do? Nothing.

Jongdae knows this now through bits and pieces, snippets of conversations he overhead on Yixing’s radio. A small laugh crosses his lips, thinking about Kyungsoo being trapped in that prison with the rest of them.

Taewon also worked for the FBI. Taewon was the once-partner of some woman in Kyungsoo’s department until he was sent to the field, undercover. Jongdae actually recognized the name, after the fact. Taewon was low-level in the cartel, someone whose car Sehun worked on. Someone who Junmyeon occasionally called in to help clean up messes. Apparently though, he was much more than that.

It was their own fault, really. Members of the cartel got arrogant. They got cocky, they thought a little roach like Taewon couldn’t wreck their entire operation. All it took was Taewon catching on to Lay and Kai. The shadow twins, the ones making sure all the transactions went smoothly. If any boat came in, Lay saw. If any police were on the roads, Kai circumvented. When Taewon realized who they were, everything went to shit. He broke into Lay’s apartment, stole the coordinates for their next drops.

Jongdae remembers the phone call vividly. Baekhyun was in his apartment at the time, drinking a glass of McKenna, neat. Jongdae’s land line rang – when didn’t Lay know where they were? – and to Jongdae’s surprise, the call was for Baekhyun.

The boss took it out on the balcony, overlooking the blue horizon while his lips tightened with displeasure. The longer Lay spoke, the colder his gaze grew and when Baekhyun finally turned to look at him, Jongdae shivered. The boss threw his glass at the wall, shattering it into a million, tiny pieces before hanging up the phone. “Got to go,” he barked, motioning for Chanyeol to follow. “Some little prick thinks he can mess with us.”

That was the last time Jongdae saw Baekhyun. Taewon took those coordinates he stole and began to stalk Baekhyun’s movements. Jondgae assumes it was sometime during this, he saw Baekhyun’s woman. The dragon, as Jongdae liked to call her, since her father’s cartel was el Monstruo. The monster. Baekhyun was dating the monster’s daughter – a woman who had fire all on her own.

Once Taewon found this out, he went straight to the head of el Monstruo. Taewon gave the man two things that day: photographs of his daughter with Baekhyun, and the coordinates he stole from Lay. Then it was the simple matter of sitting back and letting it happen. El Monstruo arranged a fake shipment, one to set Baekhyun’s people up.

Baekhyun wasn’t at the drop, but others were. Baekhyun’s head waitress from Club Medallion was there. His main distributor for the Miami area was. After several hours in custody, they gave up. It wasn’t long before the feds were knocking down Baekhyun’s door and dragging members out on their asses.

Everyone but Jongdae.

Jongdae still wonders if it was a mistake, the call he got from Chanyeol. All he said to him was, “Run,” but Chanyeol said it with such panic, Jongdae took him seriously. He now wonders if Chanyeol knew. If he got some heads up, a warning to get the hell out – but was too damn stubborn to leave himself. It seems like a very Chanyeol thing to do, if Jongdae is being honest. Go down with the ship because, though Chanyeol loved himself, he loved Baekhyun more. They were blood brothers, sworn to protect one another.

Once again, Jongdae lowers his face to his hands. He feels like a coward. He feels like a traitor, but he knows Chanyeol called him for a reason and that out of all of them, he’s the one who can’t be caught. Jongdae is the one with the money, which means he must be free.    

Baekhyun would happily slit Jongdae’s throat, if he appeared in prison. Thinking this, Jongdae swallows. He likes his throat. Would love to keep it whole and intact. This is why he’s sitting here now, on this bus. Getting the hell out of Dodge.

Metaphorically speaking, of course. Miami is much worse than Dodge City ever was.

The only thing is, once he reaches his destination – Jongdae isn’t sure he’ll be welcomed. It’s been years since he’s laid eyes you. Years, since the day Jongdae packed up and left. He didn’t want you involved in this, in his current lifestyle but now that it’s gone – you’re the only place he wants to be.

The Alabama air is hot, sultry and Jongdae is sweating within two minutes of getting off the bus. The scratchy vinyl of the seat sticks with him, its imprint an itch he can’t scratch while walking down main street. The last he heard, you lived over on Peach. This sounds so cliché, like a bad romantic comedy but then, you’ve always liked things like that. Quaint things, stability. It’s why Jongdae stayed away from you for so long.

The day is humid, though the sky is surprisingly clear. Nothing like Miami, choked with the smog of ships and cigars. Cuban, hand-rolled, nothing like the ones he’ll have to put up with here – Jongdae exhales thinking about it, long and slow. He pulls his glasses from his pocket, sliding them onto the bridge of his nose. In Miami, he usually went without. In Miami, Jongdae preferred not to see.

The walkway to your house is small, slightly off the beaten path. The door is bright blue, which makes Jongdae smile. A pop of color is so like you. The classic Colonial frame, a wrap-around porch with beige shutters – but then, an electric-blue door.

Chrysanthemums sit in buckets and Jongdae stares. First at these, then at the frame. He stands there like that, clenching and unclenching his fists. One second passes, then two. All the way up to sixty, before Jongdae starts over. Finally he exhales, lifting a hand.

Footsteps, the soft rise and fall of feet which sound like socks on wooden floors and when you fling open the door, Jongdae forgets what he had to say. The smile on your face fades.

Jongdae’s heartbeat drowns out everything else. “I – hi,” he breathes, well-aware this isn’t enough.

You don’t speak, only stare.

Jongdae rubs the back of his neck, wondering if he’s going to throw up. “Do you have anything you want to say to me?” he asks, somewhat awkwardly.

“Oh, fuck no,” you groan, then slam the door.

Jongdae drops his hands to his sides. “Ah, Y/N!” he yells, knocking on the door. “Y/N! Come on, don’t be like that! Please – just hear me out. Give me five minutes!”

You don’t respond, though Jongdae doesn’t hear you walk away.

“Please,” he groans, lowering his head to the door. “I know I was an ass. I know I am an ass! I’m sorry I left. Just please – please let me in,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N – you’ve always been the better person here!”

“Well, sure,” you call from the other side. “That’s not hard to do.”

Unwillingly, Jongdae smiles. “I know! Look,” he steps back, raising both hands overhead. Slowly, he sinks one knee towards the ground. “I’m here on bended knee, begging you to let me in.” When you don’t answer, Jongdae exhales. He looks down at the porch and adds softly, “Y/N. I have nowhere else to go.”

There’s a long pause. A moment where Jongdae thinks he’s really fucked up. Thinks he was wrong, that you won’t be able to forgive him but then – the door cracks open.

Jongdae slowly looks. “Was it the ‘please’ that did it?”

You stand framed in your doorway, arms crossed. “Don’t make me shut the door again,” you warn, tilting your head. “Actually, it’s still tempting. I wouldn’t push me, if I were you.”

When he moves to stand, you hold up a hand. “What?” Jongdae asks, wobbling slightly. “You want me to just kneel here?”

The corner of your mouth twitches. “Maybe I do.”

Jongdae rolls his eyes, stands anyways. “Can’t we at least pretend I have some pride?”

“No,” you say simply. Then you leave. “Door’s open,” you call, waving a hand over your shoulder.

Jongdae hovers, then follows. He steps into your foyer, dragging his suitcase behind him. The door is shut hastily, he doesn’t even notice the newspaper fluttering to the ground behind him. Jongdae pushes glasses up his nose. “So,” he clears his throat. “How long have you been here?’

“Don’t make small talk with me, dickwad,” you call back.

Jongdae winces, lowering his suitcase to the ground. He walks down the hallway and when he sees you standing in the kitchen, he freezes. It reminds him too much of an earlier time. A different morning, when you were still in college. You used to wake up early to make him toast, eggs – just that, since you couldn’t cook anything else. Jongdae would laugh when he saw the crisped toast or burnt butter – only you could burn butter – and then he’d wrap his arms around your waist.

Jongdae squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, he sees you looking his way.

Setting your spatula down, you wipe your palms on your jeans. “Why did you leave?” you ask quietly.

Jongdae is silent for a long moment. “Which time?”

Your gaze darkens, knowing he’s left more than once. “My apartment. Why did you leave my apartment and go to New York?”

Jongdae doesn’t have an answer.

The two of you dated on and off throughout college. There was always this cloud, though. Always this knowledge that the two of you wanted very different futures. Jongdae wanted more than what you had. He grew up in a shit household with an absentee father, drug addict mother. It’s why he never touched an ounce of the cocaine himself, working for Baekhyun. When Jongdae was little he didn’t receive care, love or attention – which saddled him well into his adult years with this awful urge to prove himself.

It’s what drove him to college. It’s what took him to Wall Street. It’s what ultimately, brought Jongdae to Miami. You never wanted that, you just wanted him. Which is why Jongdae left. He was trying to save you from himself, trying to protect you from a gaping hole you couldn’t possibly fill. Jongdae thought money might, thought prestige could.

What he learned though, was that this hole wasn’t something that could be fixed on the outside. Not by you. Not by money either, nor fancy cars or boats or apartment suites. It was something only Jongdae himself could do – and it’s something he’s been trying to work on, lately.

“I don’t know how to explain,” he says and even to his own ears, he sounds defeated. “I was bad for you.”

Slamming your frozen peas onto the counter, you turn to face him. “Bad for me?” you laugh, shaking your head. “What gives you the right to decide that?”

Jongdae’s mouth opens, then he closes it. “I wanted something different than what you did.”

“Oh, yeah?” your eyes narrow, opening the refrigerator. “How’s that worked? Are you happy,” you snort, “because you can buy a fancy suit and shiny suitcase?”

“No.” Jongdae says simply, without any fanfare. “I’m not happy.”

At this, something in your gaze softens and slowly, you shut the fridge. “What are you running from, Jongdae?”

He doesn’t say anything, just swallows.

“Why,” you ask him, expression curious. “Are you here now? Why is your newspaper,” you nod towards the front hall, where the black and white sticks out of his bag, “folded over and over, as though you want to break the contents?”

Jongdae exhales. “God,” he looks away, cracking a smile. “You always were smarter than I was.”

“Again, not hard,” you mutter, before brushing past. You stalk down the hall, feet loud on your wooden floorboards. When you reach his suitcase, you yank the paper free.

Jongdae groans as he follows. “Y/N, wait,” he declares, heart loud. “I can explain.”

You’re frozen though, eyes locked on the headline while slowly, your gaze moves from side to side. “Holy fuck,” you mutter.

Jongdae doesn’t know what to say then, twisting his hands before him. “This is – it’s not what it looks like,” he pleads.

Your eyes lift from the paper to his face. “No,” you whisper, lips pale. “No, no, no, no – Jongdae you are not involved in this.” Shaking the paper, your expression turns furious. “Do not tell me you’re involved in this!”

“Alright,” Jongdae shrugs, grabbing the paper away. “I won’t tell you.”

Letting out a noise of frustration, you punch him in the shoulder. “Fuck you, Jongdae,” you fire. “This isn’t funny.”

“Ow,” Jongdae winces, rubbing the spot. “You’re right – this isn’t funny and it’s why I’m here,” he explains, turning serious. “Listen. I asked for five minutes, right?”

Silently, you nod.

“Alright,” Jongdae continues to look at you. “Give me five minutes. I will explain to you and if you still want to throw me out – you can. Okay?”

After another long moment, you walk past. Sinking onto your couch and looking up at him. “What are you waiting for?” you declare, tapping your watch. “Four minutes, fifty seconds.”

Jongdae moves. Hastily lowering himself onto a chair and nearly falling in the process. “I don’t even know where to start. Ah, shit – don’t get up! Okay,” he grips the armrests tighter. “Baekhyun offered me a job. Finance,” he grins but upon noticing your frown, his smile disappears. “Sorry. I ran the financial operations for his cartel. Look,” Jongdae rubs his forehead. “I’m not saying it was morally sound. I was pulled in by the money, the power, the perks.”

“The women?” you demand, jabbing a finger at his paper. “One of the people arrested was called the pimp.”

“Oh, no,” Jongdae scoots hastily to the edge of the chair – then back, noticing your expression. “I mean, yeah. Minseok’s girls were prostitutes but they worked voluntarily, it – ah,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know what to say, that has nothing to do with this. Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you, though I’m not sorry I left.”

“No?” You stare at him, expression unchanging. “Maybe you should hear then, what happened when you left.”

“Does this count as part of my five minutes?”

“Choke on a dick, Jongdae. When you disappeared,” you continue, as though he hasn’t spoken. “I cried. For days, weeks – I lost track, somewhere along the way. I knew the breakup was coming because you’re right, we wanted completely different things. I grew up moving from house to house, I never really had a home. You grew up in a home, but had no power – that was all you wanted.”

Jongdae looks up, when you hit the nail on the head.

You exhale. “I wasn’t surprised that you left. I was surprised you didn’t even say goodbye,” you admit, cheeks flushed with anger. “You didn’t have the courage, the decency to tell me.”

Jongdae stares back, completely helpless. “I couldn’t.”

“Bullshit,” you scoff, turning away,

“I couldn’t,” Jongdae repeats, well aware he’s getting louder. He stands, pushing a hand angrily through his hair. “Do you know,” he insists, “how long I stood there? How long I watched, stared down at you and tried to convince myself to leave? I had to physically tear myself away, Y/N. Leaving you was the fucking hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

You narrow your eyes. “No,” you whisper. “I didn’t know any of that – because you never told me, Jongdae. You just left,” you exhale, standing abruptly. “You bailed, didn’t even leave a note. Tell me,” you insist, looking at him. “Did you even love me, Kim Jongdae?”

“Yes,” Jongdae whispers. His eyes are dark with things unsaid. “Too much.”

“Then why,“ you start to ask, but he interrupts.

“It was too damn hard,” Jongdae blurts. He pushes himself up, standing inches away from you. “It was too hard to look, too hard to wake you up and explain to your face. I had to go then, while you could still bear to look at me. I had to get out before this hole in me,” he chokes, pressing his hand to his heart, “became a hole in us.”

You’re still staring at him, chest gently rising and falling.

“And you know what,” Jongdae laughs, somewhat manic. “You know what I discovered? After years of trying to make myself happy, I realized the only time I was actually happy was being with you! How’s that for irony,” Jongdae chokes, turning around to face the wall. “I ran away trying to save you – only to realize you were the one saving me.”

There’s complete silence, a sign which Jongdae takes to continue.

“I’m not going to apologize for the Cartel,” he whispers. “Truthfully, I don’t regret that at all. It was the first time in my life I felt important. Baekhyun trusted me, believed in me – he protected me, when the rest of them got caught. What I’m sorry about is what happened before,” Jongdae admits, lowering his head.

He hears you shift behind him, take a half-step closer. “Why did you come here?”

You sound tired and Jongdae looks up, still not turning around. “Because I missed you. Because,” he falters, realizing the truth. “When I had nowhere to be – you were the one place I wanted to go.”

Jongdae listens to the sound of footsteps, the soft noise of you leaving the room.

“You can stay,” you say simply, and then you’re gone.

The next few weeks pass by slowly. You barely look at Jongdae, barely speak to him if you can help it. Each morning you go to your bookshop. Each evening you return. Always late, always after sunset, having already eaten both lunch and dinner. You eschew the work of your intern in favor of doing inventory yourself, something you haven’t done for years but it’s more appealing than being with Jongdae.

Not because he’s unpleasant, exactly the opposite. The more time you spend with him, the more you remember. It’s true, things are not the same. Jongdae is different and so are you but what’s strange, what’s scary, is that he’s better than before.

Before, he’d have these moments. There were days, weeks at a time where Jongdae would withdraw. He’d stop speaking, grow taciturn and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it. All you could do was leave him alone, watch him stand at the ledge and hope he’d step back.

Nothing like that happens now. You keep watching him. Keep waiting for the same, old insecurities to manifest but Jongdae is oddly solid. It’s strange, and you find you don’t understand the cause. Perhaps it’s just that he’s older. Perhaps it’s just that whatever he’s been through, it’s been enough for him to know what he wants.

It’s why it’s better for you to stay away. You can’t help but notice the way Jongdae’s eyes follow you, entering the room. Can’t help but notice the way he doesn’t touch, would never touch, but he looks. The way he catches himself looking and then blushes. Turning quickly so you can’t see – but not before you find yourself wanting to run to him. Wanting to turn to him. Wanting to look at him and face him and talk to him.

He says words which catch you off guard.

You’re walking out the door one day, swinging your purse up and over your shoulder when Jongdae looks up. “What happened to the green purse?” he asks, sounding curious.

“The what?” you ask, stopping at the door.

“You know,” Jongdae lowers his newspaper. It’s not the same one he came with – no, Jongdae hadn’t spoken about the cartel at all since his arrival. “The forest green purse. You wore it a lot with that suede jacket.”

You pause. “You remember that jacket?”

“Remember?” Jongdae ducks his head, sheepish. A strand of hair falls over his glasses. “That’s what I see when I close my eyes,” he admits hesitantly. “You in that jacket, the fall. Laughing at something stupid I’ve said – probably a pun, or worse.”

Looking over, your breath catches. “When… you close your eyes?” you repeat, unsure what else to say.

You think about Jongdae that way, too. You thought about him often, too much, these past years. You hate admitting this – even to yourself. When you close your eyes, you see him. You see Jongdae in that white turtleneck sweater he loved, those black framed glasses while he laughs. He had this brown leather jacket, and sometimes he’s wearing that, too. You can’t ignore this. Can’t ignore the fact that when you close your eyes, when you can choose whatever you want to think about – you think about Jongdae.

“When I close my eyes,” Jongdae explains, his voice hoarse. “I see you.”

You turn to leave, screen door slamming shut behind you.

One week after that, you look up from your breakfast table to find Jongdae readying himself to go.

“What do you do all day?” you ask, curious.

Jongdae hesitates, one hand on the door. “To the library,” he says. “There’s a phone and I call people, make sure the funds are in order. I move them around often enough they aren’t traceable. I’m still the money guy,” he admits quietly, offering you a smile.

For some reason, you return the gesture. “I guess you are.”

Jongdae hesitates. Then he nods, and leaves.

Another week passes.

You’re making dinner, chopping tomatoes for a pasta sauce. That new Donna Summers song comes on the radio and you start to sing along – well, not really sing so much as hum beneath your breath and occasionally let out a word or two.

The song is nearly over when you realize he’s there. Jongdae’s soft tenor weaves in and out of the radio, and you fall silent. Your fingers close around the top of your spoon, breath slowly coming to a halt. Or maybe you’re still breathing, but time has stopped. Slowed for Jongdae, for the sound of his voice and the feel of his presence.

You don’t turn around. Can’t, since you’re inadvertently thinking about what Jongdae said that first day. He couldn’t say goodbye because waking you, speaking to you would have been impossible. Any gesture would have been enough to make him stay.

If you turn around and look at him now, you’ll let him to stay.

Instead, you just stand there. Facing the window and pretending you can’t hear. Pretending you don’t feel his fingertips, when they wrap around your wrist. When they set your knife gently down on the counter. You can’t hear, can’t hear the shaky inhale of breath he makes. Can’t feel his hands, when he turns you around to face his body.

His arms cage you against the counter, while you close your eyes. “Jongdae,” you breathe, shaking your head.

“Open your eyes,” he asks softly.

You do.

Jongdae kisses you, parting your lips with his. His tongue slides between your teeth, hips pressing forward and when he pulls away, you breathe him in. His hands slide up your body and cup your face, pulling you closer. The touch of his fingertips are light and eager, needy and controlled and when he pulls back from your body – he finds you breathless.

You stand there like that, just listening to him. Hearing the breath he takes, the sound of his heart. When you look up, you find him looking down. “Dae,” you manage, voice cracking.

He just shakes his head, nose brushing yours. “I’m going to bed,” he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to take advantage of you and I know this is a shock, me being here. I know that I messed up when I left – even if it was the right thing to do.”

You say nothing, because this is true. He hurt you badly, hurt you for a long time. You’re stronger now, but it’s hard to forgive. Harder, to forget.

Jongdae sighs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “Just tell me,” he asks quietly. “Tell me if there’s a chance because if there’s not – I’ll leave tomorrow. I don’t know where I’d go, but I’ll do it. I don’t want to hurt you any further.”

“I,” you pause, licking your lips. When your gaze lifts, the room seems to fade out of view. “Don’t go.”

Jongdae’s gaze softens. “Then I won’t.” He drops both hands from your face. “I’m going to sleep. When you forgive me, tell me. When you forgive me, I’m here – I never left, really,” he confesses, turning softly back around.

Jongdae walks away, doesn’t look back.

He wants to know when you’ll forgive him. The problem, you realize, is that you already have.

Three more weeks, and Jongdae doesn’t try to kiss you again.

He leaves every morning, goes into town and uses the phone. He comes back every night, never asks for food and you assume he’s eating somewhere during the day. At the end of that third week though, you make dinner for him too. Nothing difficult, since you’ve never been that much of a cook. Just enough for him not to starve.

“Thank you,” Jongdae says, when he first notices the plate.

You nod, don’t respond any further and Jongdae retires early to sleep.

Things continue like this until the first weekend of November. It’s unseasonably warm, enough for you not to wear jacket to work. Not many people come into the show that day so you end up closing early, telling your workers to go and get some rest. As you step onto the main street of town, you flip your shop sign from open to closed.

Farther along, Jongdae steps out of the library. You don’t know why, but you hang back. You should call out, should tell him you’re going the same way but somehow, the words stick in your throat. You can’t think of what to say to him, because you want to tell him everything.

Halfway home, the clouds open up. You weren’t looking at the sky, weren’t even paying attention to the weather so as soon as the thunder cracks amidst the rain, you swear. Jongdae hears this and turns, surprised to see you following. When you flush, beginning to run – he follows.

“Hey!” Jongdae calls out, shoes splashing through mud. “Y/N! Wait up!”

You run faster, laughing when the wind whips your face. You feel carefree, reckless and you turn around when you near the house – running backwards to face him. Jongdae’s footsteps are close, gaining on you with each step and when you reach the porch, he crashes into you. Arms wrapping quickly around your waist, pulling you close.

“Hey,” Jongdae whispers, before he opens your mouth with his.

The wood of the porch is coarse, panes of his body wet while you pull him to you. “I forgive you,” you whisper, sliding hands beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Jongdae groans in happiness. “I love you,” he whispers, kissing roughly down your neck.

You nod, head hitting the wood. “I want you,” you admit, hands fumbling with his belt.

“I never stopped wanting you,” Jongdae insists, loosening this to drop onto the ground. His glasses are next, you take these gently and set on the windowsill. Rain drums on the roof overhead, but when Jongdae moves to leave the porch, you shake your head.

“Here,” you murmur, pushing his jeans down. “I want you here.”

Jongdae’s pupils dilate and he nods, hands sliding gently up your thighs. He lifts your skirt above your waist. “My back pocket,” he mumbles, thumbs tracing over damp panties. “There’s a condom.”

You find it quickly, pull it out and rip open the package. Shoving both Jongdae’s pants and boxers to the ground and moaning when you see how hard he is. Jongdae inhales, pressing his lips to your jaw, neck while your hands roll the condom on.

“I’ve thought about this for a long time,” he murmurs, hand sliding between your legs. His finger slips inside, forcing a noise from the back of your throat. “Please Y/N, I just need to fuck you.”

You nod, chest rising and falling when Jongdae wraps both hands around your legs. Picking you up, bracing you against the wall and thrusting inside. His movement is slow, purposeful and you gasp as he fills you. “Faster, Dae,” you whimper, and he nods.

Jongdae pulls back out, sliding in while his hand braces against the wall. One hand wrapping your leg tighter, his hips thrusting forwards. You let out a soft moan, hitting the porch when he kisses your neck.

“God,” Jongdae mumbles, stilling inside you. “You’re so fucking tight. I forgot how tight you were.”

“Maybe it’s just how big you are,” you murmur, catching his ear between your teeth. “You’re so fucking hard, Dae. So big, you fill me right up.”

“Yeah?” he groans, tilting his hips. When he moves again, it’s the perfect angle. Jongdae fucks you harder, hips hitting the wall behind you with each thrust. “I promise later,” he pants, sliding into you with precise, even strokes. “I’ll eat you out and make you come hard – but right now, I just need to be inside you.”

“No,” you gasp, already losing yourself. “I’ll come, just keep doing that.”

Jongdae nods, kissing you again. His tongue tangles with yours as his hands open you further, pulling you higher. He fucks hard, fast while his body slides over your clit.

You’re saying words to him, mostly swears. This mixes with his dirty talk – Jongdae has always been vocal. He talks about your tight, little cunt, how pretty you look full of his cock and you start to lose it. He calls you baby, calls you bitch and then tells you that you fucking own him. That he can and will do anything to be inside you, to be yours. He moves harder, faster and when his hips start to bruise, you feel your walls tighten around him. It’s suddenly too much and you scream out his name, biting down on his shoulder when your orgasm shatters through you.

Afterwards you murmur your affirmation, burying your face in Jongdae’s shoulder and shuddering around him. His legs buckle when he lets go, arms just barely keeping you up. His chest rises and falls. Wet hair falling in your eyes, as he presses his lips to yours over and over again.

“You forgive me?” Jongdae repeats, hardly daring to believe.

You nod, as he slides out of your body. Jongdae ties the condom in a knot, pulls his pants up around his waist.

“I love you,” you whisper, and Jongdae freezes.

He looks at you then, his gaze bright. “You’re home, for me.”

You don’t respond, just grab his hand and walk inside.

It’s over one year later, there’s a knock at your door.

Jongdae is awake. He makes the two of you breakfast, smiling when you wrap your arms around him. Soon after he became a permanent fixture, he insisted on doing all the cooking. You giggle when he sets your omelet down before you, noticing he’s picked out all the mushrooms.

“It’s not funny,” Jongdae grumbles, collapsing into the seat across from you. “I forgot you hate them.”

Grinning, you’re about to respond when – the knock.

Jongdae suddenly stills. “Were you expecting company?” he asks.

You shake your head no.

His gaze darkens. “Wait here,” Jongdae cautions, before standing.

Buttoning the front of his shirt, Jongdae walks away. He stops at the table, grabs his fully loaded M1911 pistol and sticks this in his belt. You ignore his warning, standing to follow him anyways. When he reaches the entryway and sees you beside him, Jongdae rolls his eyes and opens the door.

Jongdae stiffens. He freezes and though he doesn’t look scared, you can see he’s surprised. You look beyond.

Three women stand in a row on your porch. Women you don’t recognize, though you see immediately why Jongdae is wary. None seem like the kind of person you’d want to meet in a dark alley.

Jongdae leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “The dragon herself,” he smiles, thought the gesture doesn’t meet his eyes. “Come to my humble abode. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Your eyes widen.

Over the past year, Jongdae has told you pretty much everything about his former life. ‘The dragon,’ is his pet name for the woman Baekhyun was in love with. Her father was the one who arranged the fake drop which got Baekhyun and his entire cartel arrested. Every time you questioned whether this woman was involved, Jongdae just shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he’d sigh. “For all their faults – which were many – I think they were truly in love.”

The woman tilts her head now. “Dragon?” she laughs, the sound of it sweet. “I like it. Applicable, too – since I’m now the head of el Monstruo cartel.”

Jongdae sucks in his breath. “What about your father?”

She waves a hand, though her gaze is cold. “He betrayed me, I betrayed him. All’s fair in love and war,” she allows, smiling gently.

As you swallow, Jongdae moves in front of you. “What about them?” he asks, nodding at the other two women. “Who are they?”

The woman on the left smiles. “Ah, don’t you recognize me, Dae? I suppose that’s how Lay wanted it. I’m the behind the scenes,” she winks, walking through your front door. “The one who gets the equipment to save your ass.”

Jongdae frowns, following her with his eyes. “And that woman?” he asks, jerking his thumb sideways. “Was someone from the cartel fucking her, too?”

The woman doesn’t smile, gaze flicking up Jongdae’s body. “I don’t let men fuck me, I fuck them,” she arches a brow. “Also – you can call me Detective. I’m the reason you still have balls, Kim Jongdae. Don’t you like having balls? Who do you think tipped Chanyeol off in the first place?”

“Detective?’ Jongdae’s brow furrows. “Why would you tip Chanyeol off, if you’re with the FBI?”

“Reasons,” she folds her arms. “I liked Chanyeol. My former partner kidnapped me the morning after, thinking he was saving me. All of which I’m still kind of pissed about. Who’s the girl?” she asks, gaze sliding to your own.

You bristle at this. “I’m the girl,” you roll your eyes, “who’s been keeping your money safe this past year.”

The dragon smiles. “Excellent,” she announces, walking inside. “Let’s not waste any more time – Jongdae, we need to talk numbers.”

“Numbers?” Jongdae repeats, allowing her past. “What do you mean?”

The dragon doesn’t respond, gliding into the room. Her gaze traces every surface and you get the feeling she’s cataloging. “Nocti,” the dragon allows, sounding almost bored. “Search for bugs, will you?”

“On it,” Nocti sniffs, wrinkling her nose at your ancient television set. Disappearing into the next room, the detective follows her.

Once they’re gone, the dragon looks at you and Jongdae. “We’re going to break my husband out of jail,” she nods, oddly serene about the whole thing.

When Jongdae gapes, you recognize her words’ significance. Husband. Gaze lowering, you spot the ring on her left hand. Jongdae notices this at the same time you do and his eyes widen, while the woman exhales.

“The wedding was held in secret,” she explains quietly. ‘A month before – well, before.”

Jongdae shakes his head, slightly dazed. “You want to break Baekhyun out of jail? That’s impossible.”

“Not impossible,” the detective re-enters the room.

“Improbable,” Nocti nods, right behind her.

“That’s right,” the dragon allows, looking from Jongdae to you. “We have a plan. I assume you’ve kept the money safe?”

Jongdae nods. “It’s all there.”

“Excellent,” she claps her hands, smile bright. “Let’s get started.”

9:42 AM, Friday, December 15th

A black, Pontiac Grand Prix rolls to a stop at the junction of some random, dusty lane and Everglades Highway. Beside a sign which reads, ‘careful – gators,’ stands Kim Jongdae. He’s wearing a pristine navy suit, hair styled carefully away from his face with your arm looped through his.  

The car comes to a stop, dust rolling from the wheels to settle on the ground. There’s a long moment while the driver scans the horizon and then – the back door opens.

“Thank the fucking lord,” Baekhyun groans stepping outside. He’s dressed immaculately, his suit more expensive-looking than Jongdae’s. “Fuck,” Baekhyun stretches both arms overhead. “Do you know how awful it was, being locked in that car with Chanyeol and the detective for over an hour? She practically de-pantsed him the second he got in.”

Jongdae stifles his grin, saying nothing when Baekhyun walks forward. You should feel nervous about this, should feel sacred to meet this notorious man – instead, all you feel is a vague sense of curiosity. The past month has taught you a newfound perspective on black and white. These people might be powerful, might be ruthless but they would do anything – anything, for the people they love.

This includes you, since you’re one of them now.

Baekhyun exhales. “So,” he whips off glasses, squinting up at the sun. “Who the hell do I have to fuck around here to get a mojito?”

When the second car door opens and a woman steps out, Baekhyun’s lips lift in a smile.

“Welcome home, baby.”

[The Cartel Master List]