Rock-star Was A Really Good Album, But We Moved On From 5-star Way Too Fast. Those Songs Were ICONIC.

Rock-star was a really good album, but we moved on from 5-star way too fast. Those songs were ICONIC. Superbowl? Hall of Fame? TOPLINE?! They should have been promoted wayyyy more in my opinion. There should have been 5-star stages for more songs than just S-Class.

© IVANOVSSA | preview

I'm in love with this, this series is so well written I feel as if I'm watching a original movie. Every single leeknow biased stay needs to read this. I think this one maybe my favorite out of the entire series. I cannot wait for bangchan's fic

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE III: SPIDER

somebody has to make sure you make it through the firefight alive.

pairing: lee minho x reader | series masterlist (3/4) series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — mutually-pining fuck buddies. ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst word count: 23.5k rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode: above + combat leader!minho, disabled!hacker!reader, pov switches, time skips, reader has a prosthetic/cybernetic leg, loss of limb due to injury (not depicted, minimally described), ref. to hospitalization + recovery, sunshine/storm cloud dynamic, minho is kind of a dick, depictions of combat violence, minor character death(s), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n 1: this part required a lot more external resources than anything else i’ve written, so i’ve kind of… footnoted? what i used. see the note at the end of the fic for the list! a/n 2: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

Yours is the Black Screen’s worst kept secret.

The irony of that isn’t lost on you. Professionally, your most marketable skill is your ability to lower others’ defenses; to build and break walls as needed to take what you want for keeps. With finesse few can imitate, you vault over boundaries. Unfortunately for you, you don’t personally have any of those.

You’ve always been this way — no poker face, no affinity for bluffing, no discernible self-preservation instinct — and just the same, you’ve always wished you weren’t.

Time and again, your cards are on the table the second they’re dealt. If that alone wasn’t shitty gameplay, you and that relentless optimism of yours raise the stakes, double down. There’s no hesitating before you go all in; and there’s no surprise when you lose it all, either. Nothing you’ve ever felt has shocked anyone because they saw it coming in the previous turn.

Like Seungmin, for example, who won’t stop rolling his eyes at you from the other side of the room.

“If I took a shot every time you looked up at the door…” He sighs, gesturing from your corner of the Hub to its entrance, “I’d have died of alcohol poisoning six times over by now.”

The grimace you don’t want to concede can’t be hidden, so you reign your gaze in and direct it back at the screen in front of you. You don’t absorb any of the information flickering in front of you, however, because Seungmin has a point. Any second you haven’t spent staring wistfully out of the room is wasted on glancing at the clock. 

It’s close to nine o’clock now, which means your not-so-secret distraction is due any minute.

That reminds me…

You check again, wondering how many minutes have passed since you last looked, only to learn that it’s been less than one. That’s when the reflex takes over. Without your permission, your eyes wander from the glowing, green digits on the wall to the door — just in case.

No dice.

Damn it.

In a feeble attempt to cover your chronic — terminal — hopefulness, you try to refocus on your work. All it takes is a few seconds of staring before your eyes glaze over again. That disinterest isn’t reflected in your rigid posture, though. Your brain may be a flat tire, but your body is a bow drawn back, ready to fire.

Anticipation is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?

Seungmin crosses his arms. From the corner of your eye, you can see the knowing look he shoots you. He may not speak his favorite words, but that doesn’t mean you can’t hear them, loud and clear.

Told you so.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” he says instead. 

You know better than to be thrown off by his trademark, flat affect. This is the most amused you’ve seen the weaponsmith in weeks. The corner of his mouth even twitches slightly; it might be the closest he’s ever been to smiling. “He only steps foot in here when you do.”

With all the heat you can muster, you aim to warn him — to puff out your chest a little, just this once — but it just sounds like a whine. “Seungmin…”

As if on cue, light footsteps sound off from down the hallway, shifting closer with every muffled step and cutting your would-be bickering off in the process.

Even with Seungmin’s judgment focused elsewhere, you continue to pretend that the glaring, blue light in front of your face has garnered any amount of your attention. It doesn’t. It hasn’t and won’t, so long as you can feel the seconds tick by in your chest.

He snorts. “Like clockwork.”

Damn it.

For being as light on his feet as he is, Minho tends to drag them more, the longer the day lasts. You never point that out to him; he doesn’t need to know that you’ve noticed. That fact sits among the million others you try to keep to yourself, just like your ability to identify him by gait alone.

Besides, you think, he’d never listen if you begged him to slow down, even if it’s just for a night. Rest doesn’t feature on the short list of things Minho wants from you. Come to think of it, neither does advice or concern for his well-being.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” Seungmin sings out when the shuffling stops short. “You lost, hyung?”

The way your head snaps up has nothing to do with Seungmin’s mocking tone and everything to do with the flutter in your chest. You’d attempt to keep that a secret, too, but then Minho walks in, and it’s game set. 

He’s fatal with his tattered, grey t-shirt half-tucked into ripped, black denim; and you have to clench your jaw to keep it from dropping. Before your dry throat can choke you, you clear it, swallowing down the thought that Minho and his jagged edges are the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

It gets easier to get a fucking grip on yourself when Seungmin starts needling again: “No, seriously, are you lost? What are you doing here?”

Dark, cat eyes flick to you, then back to their target. Deadly, you think, just like the rest of him.

“Wishing you weren’t,” Minho responds without missing a beat. 

As usual, his tone is carefully balanced between bored and annoyed. You suspect that’s purposeful. A tactic. It leaves listeners in the dark about his feelings, so they have to guess whether or not they should run.

Nine times out of ten, they guess wrong.

This time, Minho deigns to give a hint. It’s quick enough that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been staring. Thankfully, his target sees the microscopic flex of his eyebrow, too. 

All that bark leaves Seungmin in a hurry, no bite to follow. With his tail between his legs and his palms raised in defeat, he skirts around Minho before slipping wordlessly out the door. 

You frown slightly as you watch him flee, although you sure as shit won’t mind his absence.

“Seungmin’s harmless,” you remind Minho quietly, although you don’t know why you bother. He’s never felt threatened in his life, as far as you can tell. You don’t necessarily hate it when he flexes that fact in front of you, but that doesn’t mean he should. “You don’t need to scare him off.”

Minho crosses his arms and tilts his head in a way that makes you only the slightest bit insane. “I’m not scary,” he rebuts matter-of-factly, as if that’ll make it true.

You make the mistake of looking him in the eye then. Like it always does in moments like this, heat immediately rushes to your face like a backdraft.

Like he always does, Minho senses the spike in temperature. To crank it higher, he meanders his way across the room to you, eyes glittering impishly all the while. Your heart thuds harder with each footfall. Stupidly, you wonder if he can sense that, too.

“In fact, I’m offended,” he corrects you as he closes in.

His palms press down against the opposite side of your desk once he reaches it. This close, you can read the mischief scribbled all over his face, which only serves to tear you in two — equal parts fucked up by his assertiveness and the rare playfulness that only comes in flashes, only with you.

Minho looms over you now, his hardened stare softening just slightly. Whispering through what almost looks like a pout, he adds, “And you’re mean.”

For a second, you think that the hand inching its way across the tabletop is seeking yours. Anticipation makes your fingers twitch. Try as you might, you can’t think of a single fucking thing you want more than to slip them between his. 

Proving once again that you’ll never read him right, Minho’s hand darts out to your side instead. You watch in slow-motion as he snags the bag of honey twists from its resting spot near your left forearm, which is nowhere near fast enough to catch him before he pulls away. Useless, your empty hand drops back onto your desk. 

You stare longingly at the stolen packet, so dejected that you really could cry, and mumble, “It took so much effort to get those.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Minho counters with a shrug.

He isn’t wrong, and you hate that.

The Black Screen’s demolition expert, Lee Jihoon, is as hard to crack as the shit he blows to pieces. His footlocker full of snacks — a rarity, given the whole everything going on in the world — is even more impenetrable. Charming your way through his stony exterior had been your only option to gain access. It took months, as well as unrelenting friendliness administered in small, persistent doses.

Just like —

Minho wouldn’t have wasted his time with flattery or nuance. He never needs to open his mouth to get what he’s after because his presence — from his stance to his intense, vaguely violent gaze — does all the talking for him. All he would’ve needed to do is blink in Jihoon’s direction, then he would’ve walked out of there with the older man’s treasure trove and the jacket off his back.

Having just been robbed blind yourself, you keep your mouth shut about that.

Shrugging once again, Minho throws down the gauntlet: “Finish your shit quickly, and I might decide to share them with you.”

How thoughtful.

If he’s expecting a verbal response, he won’t get one, you decide. The most you give is a disgruntled sigh. Dying star that you are, you collapse in on yourself, sinking deeper into your chair until you wind up as a half-crumpled heap on the desk below your monitors. It’s a perfect picture of abject failure, making this the only thing you’ve gotten right all day.

You don’t expect Minho to ask after your current state, so you’re not disappointed when he doesn’t. Or, at least, you will yourself not to be. In reality, your bated breath is held for a second or two before you remember who you’re dealing with. 

He does speak, though, which surprises you. Your first guess would’ve been that he’d give a hard pass on your dramatics and wander back out the door while your face was buried in your arms.

“Spider,” he sighs, and his tone is so gentle that it shocks the hell out of you. Intimate, almost, even if it is just a caricature. “Call it a night.”

More curious than cautious, you lift your head enough to blink up at him. Between his eyebrows, there’s a small crease that you don’t see often enough to competently translate. You stare at the tension there for a beat longer than you mean to before your gaze drifts downward to meet his.

See? Beautiful.

The second Minho sees your eyebrows raise slightly in question, a switch flips. He shuts the light off, irons out his expression. Whatever softness you found there is gone as quickly as it came.

He clears his throat, then huffs, “Come on.”

You frown and gesture to the screen ahead, pointing out the program you’ve spent all goddamn day working on to no avail. The silent protest doesn’t work on Minho. His stare only becomes more expectant the longer he levels it at you.

“Seriously. Fuck it.”

Having chosen the hill you plan to die on, you envision roots tying your unmoving body to the floor beneath you. Your frown deepens. No, you think emphatically, as if making your internal monologue shout will make him listen.

Minho tries again. “It’ll be here to ruin your day tomorrow.”

You don’t budge, and it pulls an exasperated noise out of him. Curling his right hand into a loose fist, he taps the knuckle of his index finger lightly against your elbow, like the contact will force your mental task list to shut down. 

“I’m bored.”

You know exactly what that means.

“Come up to the roof with me.”

Strike that.

“The roof?” You peep, hardened expression smashed to bits before you can blink.

Minho looks a little too pleased by your sudden concession. He even makes one of his own, chuckling slightly before he rolls his eyes and elaborates, “It’s nice out.”

It’s nice out, so you want to fuck me… on the roof?

The hand at your elbow pulls away and re-routes towards the back pocket of his jeans. When it returns to the space between you, there’s a dented, silver flask glinting in his grip. He shakes it, arches one eyebrow, and tops it all off with a wolfish grin that makes your stomach flip. 

“Stolen whisky tastes best in restricted areas, I hear.”

He nods his head towards the door, beckoning you to give in, and you’re on your feet without needing the invitation to be repeated. 

The sudden movement after sitting for so long means that your body isn’t as enthusiastic as your brain. A sharp pinch pulls a slight gasp out of you. That’s the extent of your own reaction, but Minho isn’t used to this the way you are. Alert eyes flick down to where your residual limb slots into your manufactured one, then back up to search your face. 

Once again, he asks without saying a word. You answer with a wave of your hand, “All good.”

Minho’s concern doesn’t immediately dissipate. To prove that you meant what you said, you snatch the packet of honey twists out of his unsuspecting hand and circle around the desk until you’re face to face. 

“If I’m on my ass for too long, my leg forgets how to leg,” you explain, grinning more out of triumph than reassurance. Then, you dangle your reclaimed prize from your fingertips because you are nothing if not a little shit. “I’m not a doctor, but I think science says that food helps.”

“Science says?” Minho snorts. 

You nod authoritatively, then you turn to the spare folding chair near your work station. Your jacket waits for you there, carefully folded on the cracked, plastic-coated cushion. Shrugging it on, you shove the honey twists in your right pocket and tease, “Sure does.”

The corner of his mouth tugs slightly upwards, and you swear there’s an affectionate smile threatening to break loose.

It doesn’t.

Instead, after pushing off his palms, Minho stands fully upright, nods his head towards the door a second time, and starts making his way towards it. You follow because you always do, biting back your lips to keep your giddiness to yourself.

As the pair of you exit and head down the hallway in comfortable quiet, you note his proximity to you. It’s always the same; he’s always close by but never near enough to touch. The edge of his shirt sleeve brushes against your arm, although his skin never does. 

You stopped wondering about that a long time ago, unwilling to figure out if this is a tactic, too.

Halfway to the nearest stairwell, Jeongin appears in a doorway. The room he emerges from used to be an office for the human resources department, back when the factory was operational — back when employers bothered with pretending to give a shit. 

Now, the room’s function lands somewhere between a bar and a bedroom. The latter only comes into play when the former makes staggering upstairs to the residential area too much of a hassle. From what you can see over the younger man’s shoulder, that’ll likely be the case tonight.

Jeongin gives you a cursory smile before directing his full attention to the man keeping cursory distance at your side.

None of it makes sense to you, all this effort spent to hide intentions. Maybe, you think, that’s why you’re so fucking terrible at it.

“Hey, hyung!” Jeongin chirps as the pair of you approach. He lifts his hand to wave, but it just looks like he’s shaking the deck of cards in his hand at Minho. “Do you want to —”

Without slowing down, Minho cuts him off mid-ask and at the knees. “No.”

And then his finger slips into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you along beside him as he keeps up the pace. You’re gone before you can see Jeongin’s face fall, but you’re sure it does. 

Yours would.

When you reach the stairs, Minho matches your careful pace, albeit much less awkwardly. For as life-saving as the chunk of metal and carbon fiber on your right side has been, there’s at least one problem it hasn’t solved: going up steps is a bitch. 

To compensate for your less dynamic knee, your left leg takes stairs two at a time so you can simply step straight up with your right. And even though you’re a bit out of breath from the extra effort, you open your mouth to comment on what you just witnessed.

Minho stops you before you can start. Shooting you a look you know far too well, he sighs, “Don’t.”

You’re as good a faker as you are a listener.

“He’s just trying to —”

He releases his grip on your belt loop. It’s the only reason you realize he’d still been holding on. Stopping at the landing, Minho turns to look back at you. “Can’t think of anything I want to do less than sit next to someone and have to hear about their fucking day.”

Eyebrows raised, you stare up at him. This time, you don’t say a word, letting your expression speak for you.

“With the ever-present risk that I’ll be murdered by the state tomorrow, forgive me if I’m not wasting today by listening to shit I don’t care about.”

There it is, you think.

The combat leader’s insistence that his life will only end one way: too soon and bloody.

That unexploded ordnance drops heavy between you. You step over it, joining him on the landing, and you don’t look back. Just at Minho, who watches you carefully for a reaction; whose tension leaves his muscles when the slight, upward curve of your mouth says, I understand.

Together, you climb the remaining flight until you reach the thick, steel door leading out to the roof. It’s barely functional, like the vast majority of the factory, and can’t shut all the way. With more force than is even remotely necessary, he kicks it fully open. The thick, rubber tread of his boot thuds against the metal. It’s quickly drowned out by the strangled squeak of its hinges.

You’re at least slightly thankful that those hinges don’t explode into a cloud of rust.

On his way to the ledge, Minho grabs two empty buckets from the pile of discarded odds-and-ends near the doorway. The rest of the pile — mainly two-by-four planks too busted to rehab and similarly spent range targets — threatens to collapse without its foundation, but neither of you stops to fix it. He leads, and you follow, ultimately coming to a stop near the ledge.

“So?” 

His insufficient question is underscored by the two buckets landing mouth-down on the concrete with twin thunks.

You’re still blinking through your confusion when he unceremoniously drops himself on the furthest bucket and when he stretches out his leg to tap the remaining one with the side of his boot. Coincidentally, you’re still waiting for the rest of his inquiry when you sit — much more gently — next to him. This time, it’s you who moves, nudging your chrome knee against his flesh-and-bone.

Minho finally takes the hint and continues, pulling out his flask as he does. “How was your day?”

The whiplash makes your neck ache.

Remind me again about the last thing you said to me.

After taking a swig without incident, he passes the flask to you. You take your sip — small, cautious — and immediately let out some clownish, choking noise when the strong notes of wooden barrel hit your taste buds.

“Oh, that’s —” You cough, nose scrunching. Whisky-laced breath slips out of your teeth in the form of a hiss. “Absolutely wretched, I fear.”

For the first time all night, Minho’s mask cracks, and a full-fledged laugh tumbles out of his mouth, high and clear as it cuts through the otherwise dead air.

“It’s not,” he counters. Without taking his eyes off your pout, he lifts a hand to catch the flask that you toss at him. “You’re just childish.”

In recompense, you swat his arm. 

He lets you.

“Shut up.” Your distinctly childish comeback is breathy because, like always, your laughter isn’t something you can successfully hide. “Am not.”

Another swig, no further incidents.

“Think you need to be demoted. Maybe I should start calling you baby instead of Spider.”

The violent flutter in your chest doesn’t seem to care that what it heard isn’t at all what he meant. For now, you let it happen. You focus instead on his creased eyes and barely-crooked smile; drink them in as quickly as you can, knowing that your window is closing.

As rare as it is, levity looks perfect on him.

While your laughter ebbs, the wind kicks up slightly, bringing a chill with it. You pull your jacket tighter around you as you watch browned leaves spin in pirouettes near your feet. Their presence here is surprising, given how devastating the War was to the ecosystem, but it’s welcomed. It’s a reminder sorely needed: nothing’s ever truly fucked beyond repair.

Minho pipes up suddenly, “You never answered me, you know.” And even though his voice is low, it startles you.

He’s too busy fiddling with the cap of his flask to see it when you turn your head to look quizzically at him. He probably missed the way you jolted just then, too, which is fine by you. Your goldfish brain is still trying to recall what he asked that went without a reply.

When you remain quiet, he supplies, “Your day.” 

As it turns out, you’re just as stunned by his question the second time he poses it. Part of you wants to remind him that he could be murdered by the state tomorrow, just in case he wants to reclaim his wasted time. The rest watches as his absentminded fidgeting stops, and his head lifts to look at you — not impatiently, not sardonically, but with the tiniest bit of insecurity scribbled into his slightly furrowed brow.

Oh.

Now, you’re frozen into silence for an entirely different, entirely devastating reason: he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t genuinely want to know.

A self-effacing laugh serves as a smokescreen for how fucking flustered that realization makes you. 

“Well, I had plans to go phishing, but they fell through.”

“Beach advisory?” He feigns a frown, making your lips curve upwards at the corners. “Those hypocrites at Thanotech really need to stop dumping their shit into the reservoir.”

At this, you laugh outright. 

This is the Minho that no one but you could pick out of a lineup: the one that will take a bit and run with it, who lets his guard down and catches you off yours. This one may not be yours — you know he isn’t, not really — but at times like this, when it’s just the two of you alone, it feels like he is.

“I’ll make sure to tell them you said so.” You pat his thigh, which tenses slightly in the second your palm rests on it. Redirecting your thoughts from where they’re headed, you pull your hand back and tuck it into your jacket pocket. “I really think they’ll listen if they know Lee Minho’s the one asking.”

His eyes roll in response, but the amused smirk he wears doesn’t dissipate. It’s still there when he slowly leans closer, making your breath hitch. His hand shifts closer, too, and your pulse hammers harder with every millimeter that’s cast aside.

There’s an old saying about where the shame should fall when a person gets fooled twice. You practically feel it collide with your thick skull when, for the second time, Minho turns the tables. He nearly turns your pocket inside out in the process, hand snatching the yet-untouched packet of honey crisps before you even know what’s happening.

Just like last time, you put up no fight when he settles back into his own makeshift chair with a smug glint in his eyes. A forlorn sigh is covered by the racket of plastic ripping, followed soon after by a faint crunch.

“Speaking of bait,” he snickers once he’s swallowed. “What are you dangling?”

You really want to hate him for that segue, along with all the rest of his committed atrocities, but you can’t. So, you offer up the only thing you still have: 

Technobabble.

“The plan is to sneak in a program to mine data. So long as nobody interrupts me —” You pause to shoot him a pointed look. “— I’ll finish coding it tomorrow and fire it off at some grunt in Ulsan’s fiscal department using a cloned, corporate email account.”

“You think they’ll fall for it?” Minho asks, curiosity piqued.

You flash a grin. “I know they will. Nothing spooks a low-level employee quite like an overdue, mandatory, cybersecurity compliance attestation.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he looks almost proud when he hears about the form of your Trojan horse. It’s certainly what you feel blooming in your chest, especially when you pluck the crisp from between his unsuspecting fingers and pop it into your own mouth.

“Once the program installs, it’ll start reaping what they have access to,” you explain. “I’m sure it’ll be limited at the start, quarterly budget reports and such.” 

You shrug dismissively, then look down at your hands. There’s no way this is interesting to someone that isn’t you, but he asked, and you’re answering, and you can’t seem to stop talking. 

“But those point me in the direction of invoices and their line items, which gets me to payment accounts, recipients, and other shit they don’t want me to know. It’s a paper trail leading to a paper trail, honestly, but it’s —”

“— how you weave a web.”

It stops your brain in its tracks, leaves your would-be sentence to peter out. You can’t remember the last time anyone followed where your explanations led, let alone saw the importance of all the tiny, tedious steps you take. All the intricacies of your carefully plotted architecture.

With you stalled out, Minho finishes that thought where he left off. “Strand by strand.”

“Yeah,” you exhale, warmth creeping from your chest to your cheeks. “Strand by strand.”

You sit on that bucket on the roof for however long it takes for your ass to go numb, and then you sit some more. Hours, maybe a day or two — irrelevant, as far as you’re concerned. You have Minho next to you and a burgeoning sunrise ahead; and you’ll bask in the glow you’ve found there for as much time as you can.

Minho, it seems, has other plans.

He sighs and flattens his palms against his knees before standing, causing the bucket he’d been occupying to scrape against the concrete. The noise is what gets your attention, not the movement. You turn to look up at him. Your disappointment is more than likely broadcasted all over your face.

“Stay with me,” you whine before you can stop yourself.

Needy isn’t normally a word you’d use to describe yourself; you’re far from it. Now, though… In this moment, it might be written in blaring red letters on your forehead, judging by the extremely brief flash of surprise you see in front of you. It’s gone as quickly as it came. The twinge of embarrassment you feel sticks around to keep you warm.

Minho is quiet for a beat, like he’s got something to consider. Whatever he decides on, it makes his head tilt to the side. A devilish look takes over his features, washing from his narrowed eyes to his tilted lips. All mischief, he counters, “Fuck me.”

Why do those things have to be mutually exclusive?

You don’t voice your question out loud, even though you kind of want to scream it, because he holds his hand out to help you up, and instant gratification together feels so much better than waiting through a delay alone. So, you take his hand, just like he knew you would, and you follow. 

Back to the door, back down to the second level of the factory, back to your room in an otherwise unoccupied wing, until the door is shut softly behind you.

Every single one of your rendezvous has been different from the last. The time, location, everything varies, not unlike the version of himself that Minho lets you see. Even though the steps change completely from tryst to tryst, they still feel like they’ve been choreographed and rehearsed ahead of time.

For example, he’s never caged you against a wall and pinned your wrists one-handed above your head before, but your body reacts as if this is the sole position it was made to occupy in life.

His teeth nip at the side of your neck, and your head falls back instinctively. You don’t give a shit about the muted thump of your skull against the brick, but Minho seems to. 

“Watch yourself,” he murmurs, lips fluttering against your throat. Despite the muted volume, his tone carries an authority to it that makes even your chrome knee weak. “If you wind up with a concussion, I’m not explaining it to Doc.”

You gasp when his tongue flicks out to soothe the sting his teeth leave behind. Beyond desperate, you push up on your toes to bring yourself closer to his mouth. It’s further out of reach than you remember — it shouldn’t be. Barely a week has gone by since he last had you like this. 

Embarrassingly breathless already, you ask, “Have you gotten taller? What have they been feeding you?”

His knee comes forward slowly to nudge yours apart. You make room, letting his thigh press into the gap created. If his left hand wasn’t keeping you stretched up to your full height, you’d be riding that thigh by now.

“You know what I eat.”

Your eyes roll back. You’re not sure if that’s a reaction to his line or the way he clenches his thigh, shifting it further into the space between your spread legs. Either way, that taut muscle is only millimeters away from your cunt now; the low hum that rumbles from his chest says that he can feel the heat rolling off you in waves.

You want so badly to be able to touch him, cling to him, scratch your nails across his scalp and pull him in by his hair. You want him to touch you — really touch you — not just to tease you the way he is, threatening to mark you up with his mouth without following through. 

If you try to tug your arms down, will he let you?

Part of you hopes that he doesn’t. 

At least, not without consequences.

Minho can tell how fucking restless you are. You’re not surprised; you vibrate with want at a frequency he’s always been attuned to. Speaking any of it out loud would be redundant, so you save your breath. His fans warmth over the shell of your ear, pulling the hammer back: “What’s the matter, Spider? You don’t like being the one in the trap?”

You can’t help but tremble at that.

“Fine,” he tuts, finger on the trigger.

Your eyes widen in anticipation when his hand drops its hold on your wrists; and your arms fold slowly back down when he retracts. There’s a muted ache in your muscles from the strain they’d been put under. You can’t say that you mind.

His hands move next to his belt buckle, deft fingers making quick work of the metal before the two pieces dangle on either side of his zipper. That’s the image burned into your brain when he leans in close enough to kiss you. He doesn’t kiss you — he never does — but he finally fires at point blank range:

“Turn around.”

Bang!

It’s so unexpected that you don’t register it as real at first. Neither does Minho, whose demanding gaze stays glued to you. The noise comes again, louder than the first, and you hear the cry that comes with it through the door.

“Spider, are you there?”

Hyunjin.

It’s his voice, you know, but it doesn’t sound right at all. The air of self-assuredness he usually carries is long gone. Whatever’s replaced it sounds completely unlike him in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Minho puts distance between your bodies in the time it takes Hyunjin to push open the door. You notice that he forgot to address his belt buckle, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. The youngest among you is too visibly shaken to see it as he stumbles inside with red-rimmed eyes.

Oh, fuck.

Panicked, you shoot a quick glance at Minho, hoping he’ll see your alarm and know what to do with it. His eyes are locked onto Hyunjin, who comes to a stop in front of you; Minho’s expression is the definition of illegible.

Your hand lifts instinctively to Hyunjin’s shoulder. Apparently, that reassuring touch is all it takes to break the dam; to break him down into sobs.

“Hey!” You gasp, knitting your arms around his frame and hauling him towards you. His face slots into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, allowing his hyperventilated breaths to hit your skin directly. “Hey, it’s —”

You know better than to lie and say it’s okay. 

Minho may be fearless, but it’s Hyunjin that’s the least flappable in the entire group by a long shot. If you were to search back through the last decade, you wouldn’t be able to find a single moment where he seemed annoyed or anxious, let alone fucking devastated to the degree he currently is.

This is the farthest from okay things could possibly be.

You can’t tell if it’s heartbreak, nausea, or both that swells when you fill your fists with the back of his jacket and hold on tight.

From his spot two meters away, Minho cuts to the chase. “What happened to you?”

Hyunjin can’t answer, not at first. 

Maybe, you think, saying whatever it is out loud will confirm the reality of the situation. You don’t push him. Instead, you stop holding him long enough to pull him over to the far corner of your makeshift bedroom, where he drops down to sit on the mattress held off the floor by two wooden pallets. Despite his wiry frame, the force of his collapse makes the wood clatter against the concrete floor below.

When you take a spot beside him, it’s much less quickly, no more graceful. Hyunjin doesn’t mind the hand you place on his shoulder to keep yourself steady. If he hears the click at your manufactured joint over the sound of his own barely-regulated breathing, he doesn’t say so.

Still standing where he was left — where he left you, more like — Minho’s narrowed eyes hone in again on Hyunjin. The expression on his face is just as unreadable as before, and he still won’t look at you.

As much as that bothers you, your own feelings are never your first priority. You turn your head to look from Minho to Hyunjin, whose hands grip the black denim of his jeans like a lifeline. When the latter finally does speak, the explanation hemorrhages out of him, spilling and flooding until there isn’t much air left in the room to breathe.

Three things in particular hit you like a train:

The Bliss Beta is infinitely more insidious than you could’ve imagined — even for Ulsan — and its mass rollout is closer than you ever would’ve guessed.

You now have the data you need to find the servers running the Beta, which means there’s a chance that the way things currently are is the worst they’ll get.

There’s a guillotine blade looming over the Professor’s neck, and it’s your hand on the rope, obligated to let go. It’s your scale that’s tasked with weighing lives.

Nausea, you realize, almost too late.

You grab hold of the wastebasket near the foot of your mattress and squeeze your eyes shut while your honey twists leave you in a hurry.

He loves her.

He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, and there are fifty-one-million faceless reasons why he can’t have her. You feel the weighted stares of every single one of them on you when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, silver datashard. It’s thin, flat with sharp edges, but it’s a bullet if you’ve ever seen one.

When Hyunjin places it in your hand, your fingers don’t close around it. You can’t even look at it without feeling faint; your body won’t accept the weight of it in your palm. You avert your eyes, praying that your object permanence disappears along with it. 

And then that reflex kicks in again, craving some semblance of safety.

Minho is already watching you intently when you turn your head his way. The relief you feel is immediate, and you don’t have the energy left to pretend that’s not the case.

You love him.

You love him, you love him, you love him, and this goddamn horror show you’re living through feels survivable while he’s around, even if it isn’t. 

Maybe, you think, if you live to see the end, his presence will help you hate yourself less for the things you’re about to do to get there. That’s been the case so far, anyway. You’ve got a decade’s worth of scorched bridges behind you, and the ash on your face has never made him see you any differently.

Hyunjin clears his throat, dragging you back into the moment you don’t want to be a part of. 

“She said there’s multi-level encryption on this thing,” he mumbles, voice weak. His hand envelops yours and gently folds your fingers over your palm, as if he knows damn well you won’t do it yourself. “I don’t have to tell you this, but be careful, Spider. One move too many, and we’re all dead.”

You freeze; he stands, wiping invisible dirt from the front of his jeans. Nothing he attempts will make him feel clean, you know, but you don’t fault him for trying.

Before he can take a single step back towards your door, you reach out and grab his hand, preventing him from leaving.

“Keys,” you croak.

His eyebrows knit together.

“Cryptographic keys — characters. Numbers, usually.” You shake your head to realign your thoughts. It doesn’t do much; your explanation still comes out sputtering. “Each encryption is going to have a different algorithm altering its data, and it’ll be faster if I don’t have to write a separate program to try and find the strings I need.”

Judging by his face, the explanation makes sense, but he still looks as if he has no fucking idea what the answers might be.

For the first time in nearly an hour, Minho speaks. The suddenness of his participation makes both you and Hyunjin flinch.

“Dates,” he offers gruffly. “Ones that are significant to the two of you, maybe.”

The suggestion cracks against your skull like a baseball bat. 

Of all the things you could’ve expected him to say in the presence of someone other than you, something sentimental didn’t even come close to making the list. Hyunjin, it seems, is just as startled by this — by the appearance of your invisible friend, who’s spent ten years refusing to let this side of him be seen.

You make a note to ask Minho where this idea came from. If there are any dates he holds onto, with no one the wiser.

Hyunjin’s brow furrows for a moment while he thinks. Then, the light bulb behind his eyes flashes.

Eureka.

Dashing now towards the door, he calls out to you over his shoulder. “I’ll make you a list,” he promises breathlessly before he disappears altogether.

Without Hyunjin’s voice to fill it, the silence of your room roars in your ears. You need to shrug it off you, physically; move around so that you stop feeling like you’re being hydraulically pressed. 

In a wordless request for help, you hold your hand out to Minho. The jury’s still out as to what you want when he takes it: to drag him down to you, to be hauled to your feet, or to simply have it held. 

For the first time — possibly ever — he doesn’t take it.

Well-practiced hands drop to his belt buckle instead of reaching out to you. He re-fastens it quickly, and over the clink of metal, he grunts, “Stop looking at me like that.”

You blink rapidly when that sucker-punch statement hits you. “Looking at you like what, Minho?” You ask gently, as if your excess will make up for his lack.

“Like I’m your future.”

And just like that, he’s gone without another word or a backwards glance.

Eleven days crawl by without you seeing or hearing from Minho. You struggle to keep count as they pass. You’re so preoccupied that there’s no real difference between them, leaving them all to bleed together. It doesn’t help that all ten nights so far have been more or less sleepless.

While you’d love to say that all your time awake has been productive, you’d be lying. Sure, you spend the vast majority of it with the bright light of your monitors boring into your retinas, but that doesn’t mean you’re actively engaging with the shit displayed there. Between your program and your spent brain, it’s your neural pathways that are most in need of re-writing.

“Goddammit,” you hiss when a shock jolts through your upper right thigh for the umpteenth time today alone. 

Halfway crazy from frustration, you glare down at your quad and see the remaining muscles there twitching violently. And even though it’s been over a year, your brain is still surprised to find that the source of your pain doesn’t exist at all.

That outburst from you certainly isn’t the first, yet it’s the one that catches Chan’s attention. Like you, he’s spent an unhealthy amount of his time in the Hub over the past week and a half, pouring over who knows what. It’s safe to assume that’s how he’d describe your work, too.

“Been especially bad lately, hasn’t it?” He asks, head popping up from behind a stack of files.

He probably doesn’t expect you to squeak out a laugh at the sight of him, but you can’t help yourself. 

“You look like a meerkat when you do that.” The frown you get in response only makes you giggle more, despite yourself. “Like an overworked, overtired, under-caffeinated meerkat.”

Chan works overtime to control his expression, steel himself. It doesn’t work. It never does, no matter how obnoxious you and your comrades are around him because at the end of the day, all he ever is, is fond.

He sighs as he sits up fully in his chair. “Spider.”

It’s funny, you think. He sounds just like your father when he takes that tone with you, although the name he uses is nowhere near the same.

“Talk to Doc.” Realizing he sounded more stern than he meant to, Chan’s mouth softens from a thin, straight line to a slight smile. He adds, “Please.”

And because you’re the best behaved of all his pseudo-children, you don’t put up a fight. You don’t roll your eyes the way Seungmin does, or do the exact opposite of what you’ve been told, like —

Don’t go there.

You just get up, ignoring the strong urge you feel to buckle at the knees and hit the floor, and push your chair back with the underside of your thighs. Chan sees the pained look on your face immediately and moves to stand up and help you. You wave him off.

“All good,” you lie through gritted teeth, bearing weight on your palm as you maneuver your way around your desk. 

Chan may not believe you, but he listens, nonetheless. While you guide yourself from your workstation on the far side of the room towards the door, you try very hard to ignore the thought that keeps ricocheting around your skull like a bullet, shredding whatever grey matter gets in its way.

There’s one person that line wouldn’t have worked on. 

It takes a considerable amount of time to hobble to Doc’s clinic, which is clear on the other side of the compound, but you eventually make it there without breaking too much of a sweat.

In a past life, the space was an employee locker room that featured shower stalls and toilets on one side, and numerous lockers and benches on the other. Jeongin tried his best, but the plumbing was fucked beyond repair; all the utilities were scrapped. Whatever useful parts remained were repurposed elsewhere, while the broken bits wound up in that pile of assorted garbage on the roof.

Don’t.

Due to the size of the space, there’d been a multi-day debate on what to use it for. In the end, the decision was made to give it new life as a makeshift field hospital because Minho was right. The tile and drainage system is ideal for —

Stop it.

When you push through the swinging, double doors and stagger inside, you learn that you’re not today’s only patient. On one of the cots up ahead, Doc’s nimble fingers work to stitch Scraps’ left eyebrow back together, while Felix paces in the background with his hands in his hair.

“I’m so —”

“Felix!” 

Scraps slaps her hands down onto her thigh. The sound echoes off the tile walls like a thunderclap, but she doesn’t flinch at the contact. Doc does, however. She freezes solid, needle-holder in hand.

If Doc is frustrated, she doesn’t show it. That bedside manner of hers is unparalleled. Her gentle voice sounds suspiciously like Chan’s when she pleads, “No violence until I’m done holding a needle near your eye.”

Scraps nods in acknowledgment, which only contributes to the panicked look on Doc’s face. You bite your lips to hold your laughter in as you amble closer and dump yourself onto a nearby cot.

“Seriously — stop apologizing,” Scraps calls over her shoulder. 

If it wasn’t for Doc’s gentle hold on her chin, you suspect that she’d turn her head to look at Felix outright. 

“I told you to raise the stakes, and you did. So, I owe you a gold star for being a good listener, I guess.”

The way he looks at her when she can’t even see him kind of makes you want to sob. That ache only grows when he puts his hands on either side of her head, leans down, and plants a kiss on her hair.

Meanwhile, Doc is muttering, “Please stop moving, please stop moving, please stop moving,” like those are the only words she knows. You feel as guilty as you do grateful; her distress is a sufficient distraction from your own.

“Done!” She chirps moments later. Relief washes over her in a heartbeat, releasing tension from every single muscle cell she has — like she’s successfully disarmed a bomb, rather than sutured a minor injury.

And even though she’s too polite to say it, you swear you can hear her thinking it:

Please leave now.

And they do. They fall into lockstep, with Scraps tucked under Felix’s arm and hers wrapped around his waist.

And you’re still staring at the door once it swings shut again, so lost in all your conflicting thoughts that Doc has to call your name twice to get your attention.

“You’re not due back in for another month or so.” She frowns. “What’s on your mind?”

As usual, you don’t know where to start. You don’t know how to turn the faucet on without overflowing the bathtub, either, so you just let it all pour out.

“Everything was fine — perfect, probably. Or the closest it’s going to get, I guess. Then — I don’t even know what happened, but he won’t fucking look at me now. Won’t talk to me, walks out of a room when I walk in, like he can’t even stand to ignore me in my presence.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth to make up for all the ones you skipped out on while you rambled on. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean you stop rambling.

“And I think it might be breaking my heart. I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t know what to do now. It’s very distracting,” you mutter, frowning. 

A laugh slips out to signal how uncomfortable you are with the sudden intentional vulnerability. it sounds more like the sort of hiccup that precedes a sob. 

“Stupid thing to fixate on when the world’s on fire, isn’t it?”

To say that Doc is taken aback would be an understatement. Her eyes go wide; her lips purse. She pauses for a moment before she ultimately whispers, “I meant your leg.”

You’d go dig your own grave out back if you could walk that far.

“Oh.”

Doc does you the favor of averting her eyes. She focuses instead on her lap, eyes widening without blinking, as if she’ll be able to see her way out of the conversation more easily that way.

Self-conscious now to the point of nausea, you play with the frayed edge of denim that lays over the end of your residual limb. You can’t help but wonder how many right-side pant legs you’ve chopped off over the last twelve months, and what those bits of fabric ended up being used for.

Maybe they’re in that pile on the roof.

“Is mirror therapy helping at all?”

You glance up at Doc. “Not as much as it used to,” you sigh. “I think my brain figured out I was trying to bamboozle it and threw another wall up. Those are all it has at this point — walls and holes.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. Now, you wonder if you’ve taken Doc out of her depth. You were her first — and thankfully remain her only — amputation. If anyone’s gonna stump her, it’s you.

You snicker at your own unspoken joke.

Get it?

“How much do you remember?” She asks, catching you off-guard. It was the fact that she asked you anything that surprised you, not the question itself, but she assumes she’s offended you. Quickly, she apologizes. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to talk about it.”

The truth is, the before and during are both incredibly vague. You know that you went with a small group to Ilsan, planning to fuck up one of WraithCo.’s supply lines, and that their ghouls caught wind of your plans. 

Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess. The audio underscoring this montage in your mind is warped to all hell; the faces and voices are blurry, as if they’ve since been censored. Deleted, just like the lower two-thirds of your leg.

As for the after… All that comes to mind is pain, in one form or another.

Fighting off an infection, which left your waking hours in some fever-filled daze that only stopped when the various meds worked their magic and knocked you back unconscious.

Being bed-ridden for an eternity after that fever broke and the infection cleared, too exhausted and depressed to keep your eyes open. 

Aching all over as you forced your body to remember how to walk, too obsessed with your newfound crumb of independence to let anyone see you stumble.

Self-imposed isolation to hide the toll it’d all taken on you, and the frustration that came with knowing what you were doing but being unable to stop yourself.

“Nothing I wouldn’t mind forgetting” you finally say.

Doc hums thoughtfully but offers nothing beyond a tiny frown. The part of you that wants to know why she’s asking is overrun by the part of you that fears what she’ll tell you; clearly, she’s similarly torn.

Add this to the list of things you’ll have to learn to live without.

Time continues to both slip and crawl by. Days are gone before you can blink; nights encase you in cement, trap you in place. You know it’s not a coincidence. You’re only alone after dark.

Still, it’s not all bad. You’ve certainly been more productive lately, whether or not you truly want to be. That’s not a coincidence, either. You’re capable of accomplishing quite a bit when the only person you truly want to talk to has no interest in listening.

If he did want to listen, you might tell Minho that he was right about the keys to the encryption being linked to dates. You could thank him, if he’d hear you out. Maybe you’d finally summon up the courage to ask where the idea came from.

What if…?

These little hypotheticals of yours only get more painful, the longer you steep in them, and you’re no good at reining your mind in when it starts wandering. It runs off in the same direction every time it goes — back to the night you finished peeling back all the layers.

You know there’s no point in imagining the ways Minho would’ve distracted you then because he didn’t. He was nowhere to be found; and you cried alone in your room, overwhelmed by both the relief of having answers and the all-consuming guilt of knowing what — and who — it cost to get them.

A familiar, prickling feeling at the corners of your eyes pulls you back to the present. You tilt your head back and blink rapidly to keep the dam from breaking. Part of you is proud. This might be the first time you’ve ever managed to keep your feelings to yourself.

“My halmoni always said that holding back your sneezes like that takes a year off your life.”

With a jolt, you snap to attention. Your neck does the same, head falling back down so quickly that your teeth click painfully against one another. The surprise — and the inadvertent scowl it prompts — melts away when you register Jeongin in the doorway.

You frown, although you laugh a little. “That’s horrifying, kid.”

If Jeongin sees you swipe the back of your thumb over your cheekbones, he doesn’t say so. He simply ambles into the Hub and finds his usual spot at the far side of the central table. 

“She said the same thing about being under streetlights when they burn out,” he tuts, taking a seat. He blinks through thoughtful silence for a moment before re-focusing newly-widened eyes on you. “Now that I think about it, she did die young...”

You would’ve loved to hear that theory play out, but the opportunity flies out the door as soon as Hyunjin walks through it. The comment you want to make about his surprising punctuality is swallowed down just as quickly as it bubbles up. His expression tells you that he’s not up for much of anything, let alone teasing. With a cursory nod, he acknowledges that he is, at the very least, capable of noticing his surroundings.

Unfortunately, you’re not capable of looking at him — seeing the state of him — without your bleeding heart cracking right in half.

Chan serves as a sufficient distraction, thankfully. He enters shortly after Hyunjin with both Seungmin and Doc in tow. He ignores the former’s nagging about who knows what and ushers the latter to the chair next to the head of the table. He doesn’t sit, though you wouldn’t have expected him to; he never does. Instead, he stands at the back of his chair with his eyes flicking expectantly over to the door.

In the time it takes you to cross from your workstation to your usual folding chair, the guest list doubles. Holding up the wall in the corner, Jihoon stands with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. To his right, Scraps sits on a rare patch of free space on Chan’s desk, legs swinging idly as they dangle; and to his left, you spy the cat-eyed girl whose name you still haven’t learned. All you know about her is that she works under Hyunjin, and they’re so in-sync that people have taken to calling them siblings.

You see no similarities between them now, however. She has light left in her eyes.

Several others filter in as the minutes pass, most of whom you haven’t yet crossed paths with. Well, you might have. Your days all run together; your short-term memory isn’t firing on all cylinders. You don’t take the opportunity to register their faces now, though. Your eyes only linger for the second it takes to confirm who they aren’t.

Chan turns his head to you, earning your attention. “Where’s —?”

Doc shoots him a look that interrupts his question before he can finish it. She knows what he doesn’t, after all: You’re currently the worst person to turn to for information on Minho’s whereabouts, even though you used to be the first.

Behind you, a heavily-accented voice chimes in, “He’s with little Yongbokie on an errand. They should be back soon.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who’s speaking. Sierra, as she’s known within the collective, has the sort of presence you can feel, even when she can’t be seen. It’s still unclear to you how she wound up a world away from the island she grew up on, but you’re glad that she did, and that she’s on your side. If she wasn’t —

Well…

Suffice it to say, there’s a reason why this foreign mercenary is called what she is — two reasons, actually, according to her native language — and neither bodes well for enemies. Specifically, there’s a mountain of bodies behind her, all of them hacked to bits by those blades she’s so fond of. 

Yeah, you think. Definitely better to keep her close.

“Just start without them,” she snaps at Chan, eye roll evident in her tone. 

Despite outranking her, Chan can’t hide the uneasiness that comes with being addressed by Sierra directly. You watch him swallow the lump in his throat before he clears it fully. “Everyone, listen up,” he says with the sort of gentle authority only he’s capable of. 

You can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s such a stark contrast to the tone that goaded him to speak in the first place.

Still, a hush falls over the Hub immediately.

“I know some of you have heard whispers about this. I don’t necessarily trust that the rumors swirling are accurate —” 

Pointedly, Chan looks at Jeongin, who’s often the point in the relay where things go horribly wrong. The youngest never intends to pass on off-base gossip, but his attention span is about as poor as his audio processing. Jeongin ducks his head down; the tips of his ears go a dangerous shade of red.

“— so I’d like to make sure our record is straight.” Chan claps his hands, and as he rubs his palms together, he turns on his heel towards your side of the table. “Take it away, Spider,” he sings, beaming.

You turn your head quickly to the left and then to the right, searching for whoever the hell he’s truly cold-calling because it simply cannot be you. He knows better; he has to. For the decade you’ve worked together, you’ve hidden behind your screens because you don’t have the stomach for this leadership shit — especially not public speaking. It’s why you nominated him to run the show.

Eyebrows disappearing into your hairline, you stare incredulously back at him, silently begging him to pick the gauntlet back up.

Meanwhile, at least twenty pairs of eyes burn holes into you, like sun rays through a magnifying lens.

Fitting.

“Well,” you eventually manage to squeak out. “I — um… I spent the last month or so spelunking into confidential files relating to the — uhh — the Bliss Beta?”

It’s not a question. You don’t know why you made it sound like one.

Collapsing in on yourself, you knot your fingers on the table in front of you and stare down at your hands. “There’s a facility, it turns out, in — umm —”

“Is this going to take long? If it is, I can go and grab snacks.” Seungmin, from his spot across the table, smirks at you in such a way that you might — for the first time in your life — choose violence. 

That is, if his jokes at your expense didn’t have your nervous stomach churning even harder, sending bile up your throat.

That is, if a cold voice didn’t fly out of nowhere, primed to eviscerate Seungmin before you can even process your own reaction. 

“It’ll be a bit hard for you to chew after swallowing all your teeth, don’t you think?”

You hadn’t noticed Minho enter, but you find him easily now that he’s given himself away. He leans casually against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, leaving his tone as the only indication that he is, in fact, bothered. Everyone that had previously been standing near the door must’ve cleared a perimeter at some point — undoubtedly without being told to.

In response, Chan’s warning look is bifurcated, shot off to both men with equal, albeit subtle force. Seungmin’s face gives way to something apologetic. You can see it in his eyes that he thought he was being funny; that there’s no malice, only an inability to read a fucking room. To the contrary, Minho’s expression is pure venom, jaw set so tight that his teeth could crack.

He may have just interjected on your behalf, but he doesn’t look at you for more than a split second, as if he didn’t mean to concede even that much time.

And even though it feels illegal somehow, you keep your eyes fixed on him, as if you’ll catch another sliver of acknowledgement.

“In Cheongju,” you continue shakily. Your voice barely registers above a whisper, like you’re speaking to a single person, rather than a room full of them. “There’s a facility in Cheongju. All the servers currently associated with the Beta are operating out of there.”

Despite your anxiety, you manage to laugh. “They’re sitting ducks, really. Terrible planning from a security standpoint — either stupidity or arrogance.”

“Both,” Jihoon adds gruffly. If you’re not mistaken, he directs his next line at Seungmin. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You know it wasn’t his intention, but you crack a tiny smile, nonetheless. “Comorbidities, aren’t they?” 

As soon as you say it out loud, your cheeks set to burning. You send a panicked glance to Doc and duck your head, like your fear of looking stupid isn’t on full display. “Please tell me I used that term correctly,” you mutter, feeling instant relief when she nods and a profound sense of comfort when she pats your still-clenched hands.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Sierra cuts to the chase, as she often does. “Arson?”

Her eyes sparkle at the suggestion. You find yourself surprised that she’s offered something so tame. Only a week ago, her response to seeing a cockroach in the canteen was to shoot at it.

Not for nothing, you’re also surprised by how endearing you still find that little anecdote — but maybe you shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time you’ve developed a soft spot for someone so sharp.

Reflexively, you look over at Minho. You see his eyes flicker, like he’d averted them just in time to miss yours. It’s the only reason you have to believe that he’d been watching you, save for the inexplicable warmth you’d felt crawling up your neck.

You don’t know what to do with any of that.

“Destroying the servers would only be a bandage,” you sigh. “I want to fully eradicate the program itself, which means those servers need to remain intact — for now.”

“So, we do it like Daegu, then?” Felix suggests. Judging by his sudden participation, he’s overjoyed to have something to contribute to a conversation he wouldn’t normally follow. “We broke in and set up that…. thing for you, in that room that was like an…. air-conditioned microwave?”

You bite down on your lips to keep from laughing. It’s a miracle that he remembers the Thanotech raid at all with the concussion he sustained in the process. It’s even more incredible that he remembers the non-technical explanation you gave for the server room within that data center.

Shaking your head, you frown. “I need to be on-site for this one.”

“Absolutely not. Fuck no.”

Across the room, Minho now stands fully upright. His hands are no longer in his pockets; they hang at his sides, clenched tightly.

You can’t help the incredulous scoff you let out. Bold of him, you think, to write you off completely and then attempt to dictate where and when you get to exist. That slap in the face still stings, but you keep your tone as light as possible. 

“If something goes wrong, or if things have changed from the schematics I was able to access, I won’t be able to handle it remotely. I need to be there to troubleshoot.” And even though it goes without saying, you remind him anyway: “We’re not getting a second crack at this.”

“I know you don’t remember Ilsan, but I do,” Minho glowers, tone as dark as his eyes. The rest of the room falls into a charged silence; everyone is too tense to breathe, let alone speak. “I remember carrying three-quarters of your body out of Ilsan and spending weeks at your bedside.”

Just like that, the air in your lungs turns to cement. 

How do you admit to not knowing he was even there? 

And what the hell are you supposed to do with this information now that it’s reaching you for the first time — a year after the fact — in front of an audience? 

You try to start somewhere. “Minho —”

“No.” His voice is sharp when it cuts you off, but there’s a crack in the blade, so microscopic that you wonder if you’re imagining things. He clears his throat to try and keep himself even. “You don’t get to make that call.”

Here comes that prickling feeling again, causing tears to spring up at the corners of your eyes. You clench your jaw and try to wish them away.

It’s Chan that speaks next. “You’re right. Spider doesn’t get to make that call,” he concedes. Then, his expression turns to stone. “I do. She said there’s no way around it, so she’s going —”

Minho seeks to interrupt, but Chan raises his hand and stops him in his tracks. You want to argue, too, because you’re right here and don’t need to be spoken about, as if you’re not in the room. The leader plows through, unaffected.

“— and because you know what the stakes are, your only job is to keep her safe.”

If the anguished look on Minho’s face says anything, it’s that he wants nothing to do with the burden of keeping you — what’s left of you — in one piece. 

The briefing continues after his outburst, but Minho doesn’t hear a word of it. It all flows past him, waterlogged and warped, without sinking in. He finds it hard to give a shit about that fact, though. 

Clearly, his input doesn’t matter. Worse, the sole order that’s been made of him is fucking redundant. He can’t imagine that the rest of them would mean much, so what does it matter if he didn’t pay attention?

He’s halfway out the door by the time Chan wraps up. Dodging eye contact, Minho turns to leave outright, to disappear somewhere and lick his wounds. One last lash manages to hit him as he goes: 

When you cross the room, you’re not headed his way. No, your quick steps take you straight to Jihoon.

Minho knows that he has no right to feel this bitter. He should be grateful that his pushing you away is having the intended effect — that you might’ve found someone other than him to lean on — but the relief he’s been waiting to feel is nowhere to be found.

It never is.

The quick fixes he’s gotten of you in back rooms and shadows didn’t satiate him, either. Cutting you out completely has only proven to be more of the same ache.

Unwilling to watch the consequences of his own actions unfold, Minho turns sharply out of the doorway. Automatically, his feet carry him down the hall, up the stairs towards the roof. His brain might tell him otherwise if it wasn’t currently swimming, but his body acts on its own, seeking out the last place and time where he didn’t feel like this.

It’s a bad call, he realizes as he ascends.

He’ll never be able to recreate a scene with half the cast absent. The stage directions are fucked now. There’s no reason to take the steps one at a time now that he’s alone, but he still does. Without context, his motivations make no sense; and his hands don’t know what the hell to do without a belt loop hooked underneath one of his fingers. They twitch in the absence of denim. 

With every step, he repeats his only line:

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And when he reaches that busted fucking door and kicks it with everything he has, no one looks at him with amused disapproval.

It’s all wrong.

Steel hits cement with a sickening clang that’s still ringing out as he stalks over to the ledge and drops himself down on a familiar, overturned bucket. Its counterpart sits unoccupied at his side. Minho can’t look at it, can’t get up to throw it off the fucking roof, can’t do anything except simmer in his rage because —

Your only job is to keep her safe.

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and shouts into the void above, “Fuck!”

As if he needs to be told. 

As if he hasn’t been trying to do exactly that for all the years he’s known you, driving nails further into his own goddam coffin with every second spent in your web.

Elbows come to rest on his knees. His face falls, too, until it drops into his palms. No matter how hard he tries to control his breathing, it comes out through gritted teeth, seething.

The fucking audacity.

Even if Minho hasn’t given you a reason to know better, Chan should. He’s seen better, firsthand.

Every time Chan stopped by the clinic to check in on you, he found Minho already sitting next to your glorified cot, watching your sleeping form like a hawk for any sign of distress. 

Chan didn’t need to ask how your hair ended up in poorly-executed braids because the unskilled hands that made them were wringing themselves at your side. He never needed to ask why, either. When you finally stopped thrashing through nightmares, you didn’t wake up to find yourself tangled in inescapable knots.

Keep her safe.

That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? 

When his candle gets snuffed out — and he knows it will, can feel it in his bones that this is it — who’s going to keep you safe? 

Hyunjin doesn’t have the capacity — not anymore. Minho was there with you the night Hyunjin’s whole world exploded into pieces. You saw love, but Minho saw your future. He sees it every time he looks at Hyunjin, who’s still listless, still lingering on the periphery like a fucking ghost. Hyunjin will never be the same, and if Minho lets himself get any closer to you than he already has, you’ll wind up just as empty.

Then who?

Chan is too busy. Doc is just as preoccupied, and as kind as she is, she’s never understood you — not really. Felix and Scraps can barely manage themselves; you’ll fall through the cracks amidst their bullshit shenanigans. Neither Seungmin nor Jeongin can be trusted with anything —  or anyone — this important. They’re both fucking disasters in their own right, although Jeongin may eventually grow out of that. Changbin is too reclusive, and so is Jihoon; Jisung’s an anxious mess. Sierra is, at absolute minimum, insane.

And Minho may be the worst of them, but he tried his best for you. He’s still trying, even though that means keeping you as far away from him as possible.

“Fuck,” he repeats, albeit much less strongly.

That pathetic, choked-out word hits the air and dissipates quickly, leaving Minho alone in self-imposed exile. He stays there until sunrise, when the unoccupied bucket to his left becomes too visible to tolerate.

The next time Minho steps foot in the Hub, it’s much less crowded than the last. In fact, for what might be the first time ever, he’s beaten everyone else in. It’s no wonder; his stomach has been churning for hours now, and it was useless to keep laying in a bed he couldn’t sleep in.

Because life is far from fair, you’re the second to arrive. He doesn’t have to see you enter to know it; definitely doesn’t need to look up to confirm that it was your deliberate, slightly uneven footfalls he heard coming up the hall. It’s a reflex, though. His gaze lifts just in time to meet yours.

“Oh,” you peep, eyes bright despite the dark circles below them. “Hi.”

You seem startled to find Minho here ahead of you. Warranted, he thinks. The sunshine you cast on him isn’t, but you don’t try to withhold it — or maybe you can’t. As much as he loves that about you, it confuses the shit out of him and scares him just as badly. You either didn’t get the memo when you chose this life, or you don’t feel the crushing weight of it yet: 

Sparks like yours can’t last forever.

His voice sounds like gravel after last night’s anxious reflux, but he echoes you, nonetheless, “Hi.”

And then Chan walks in. He stops short when he sees the two of you, eyes flicking from your face to Minho’s with barely-hidden intrigue. Somehow, he misses the daggers Minho shoots at him with eyes alone.

“I re-routed everyone else to the vans and told them to load their shit. You ready?” Chan poses the question to both of you, but his focus is fixed solely on you. It lingers for a moment, like there’s some secret, second question hidden between the lines. 

Minho doesn't know what’s going on, but he does know that he hates whatever it is.

You nod. Whether that’s in response to what was asked or what wasn’t, he can’t say. Your mouth sits in a tight, straight line. That, Minho can easily translate to feigned confidence. You’re not ready; you’re not good at bluffing, either. 

He sees his window in that bit of doubt and tries to leap through it. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

It doesn’t sound as firm as he wants it to. If you listen closely — and you always do — it probably sounds like he’s pleading, which feels both alien and illegal to Minho. He clears his throat. “We can do this without you, Spider. I’m serious. Tell me how to get you set up for remote access, and I’ll —”

“I don’t know how many more times I have to say this for you to understand: You can’t do this without me. You need me.”

Despite what you say, there’s no heat in the way you say it. It sounds like you’re pleading, too; scratching at the door to be let in. He knows you well enough to catch the subtext; to know that you’re not just talking about the job. But Minho can’t make his mouth move. Likewise, he can’t turn away.

Stop looking at her like she’s your future.

Chan doesn’t have time for the thousand of things going unsaid, so he interjects with an exasperated grunt, “Vans.” He points to the clock before gesturing between you and Minho. “Ten minutes, or you’re both walking to Cheongju.”

Neither of you moves once he clears the threshold and disappears again. Say something, he tells himself. Say anything.

He doesn’t.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” you muse, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. It’s not a question. There’s no uncertainty in the way you look at him, although that’s nothing new. “I read somewhere that peppermint gum helps with reflux.” 

You shrug, like it’s simply a fact you’re sharing. It’s not. It’s the millionth way you’ve found to say “I love you” without using those words.

Minho slips off the empty workstation desk he’s been sitting on, dusts off the back of his jeans once he’s back at his full height. With a nod of his head, he gestures to your workstation. “Take what you need,” he advises quietly.

When he moves towards the door, you move forward into the room. Your paths cross in the middle, but Minho keeps his distance, too aware of that magnetism of yours to take any risks now. Upon reaching the door, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder to call out your name. As if you were anticipating it, you look up from the desk drawer you’re combing through.

He freezes for a moment, although he doesn’t mean to. You might be the only person capable of catching him off-guard. Once his brain stops lagging, he says only half of what he wants to: “Don’t forget your mask.

Hurriedly, like you really would’ve forgotten, you pull open a drawer and fish out a black gaiter, which you then tuck into the zippered pocket of your jacket. Instantly, Minho’s posture gets a little less rigid. Not for nothing, yours does, too.

“Thanks,” you sigh. The corners of your mouth raise slightly. From what he’s been hearing lately, this might be the closest you’ve been to smiling in weeks. Your reaction stops when you notice the way he’s halfway out of the room. “No need to wait on me. I’ll meet you in the loading dock in a minute.”

Minho stalls, feet unwilling to move, until you go back to gathering items. He nods once, as if you’ll even see his acknowledgment, then slips off into the hallway without you.

The loading dock he’s headed for is on the opposite side of the factory, but his anxiousness propels him there in half the usual time. His team is loitering around the two vans when he reaches them: one unmarked, one branded, both stolen.

Felix grins from the hood of the primary vehicle, where he sits cross-legged. He slaps his hands on the white metal below and proudly states, “I told you it would work.”

“Let me guess.” Minho looks over at Scraps. “You were the one who hot-wired them.”

She glances apologetically at Felix, then turns back to Minho with a shrug and a sheepish smile. “He tried his best,” she sighs. “If we had all day, he probably would’ve succeeded.”

At this, Felix’s grin droops into a cartoonish frown. “What do you mean probably?”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Enough — and go put a hat on, or you’re getting a full balaclava.” He points to the mess of blue hair spilling onto Felix’s shoulders. “If your fashion statement gets us pinged on a security camera, I’ll kill you myself —”

A laugh rings out behind him. He turns on his heel to find Sierra snickering at Felix’s reddening cheeks, both tattooed hands covering her mouth as she does.

“— and you know better,” Minho snarks, pointing straight at her. “Gloves. Now.”

Scraps’ eyes are as wide as the moon when Minho swivels back towards her. She doesn’t give him the opportunity to say it; she’s already shoving her decorated arms into the sleeves of a plain, black jacket and zipping it up as high as it’ll go. He hears relief leave her in a quiet sigh when his focus finds who he’s truly been looking for.

A few meters away, Jeongin is buried so far under the hood of the secondary van that his feet barely touch the ground. With his target now acquired, Minho crosses to the neighboring bay.

“Well?” He demands, “Did you find them?”

The younger one startles at the sudden questioning; there’s a dull thud when he smacks his head on the underside of the hood.

Jeongin groans, “Aigo,” and carefully ducks his head until it clears the obstacle above him. His cheeks are pink and smattered with both dirt and grease — and the mess only gets worse when he mindlessly wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his semi-blackened hand. 

“Behind the radiator on this one.” Jeongin then thumbs over his shoulder to the van Felix sits on. “That one was attached to the undercarriage, near the fuel tank.”

With a grunt, Jeongin exhumes himself from the engine compartment and hops to his feet. It’s completely unnecessary, but he drops the tracker he just detached onto the concrete and smashes it under his steel-toed boot. 

“You won’t need the GPS blocker anymore, so make sure to turn it off,” he advises. And he clearly didn’t learn his lesson thirty seconds ago because he taps one of his temples, leaving a dirty fingerprint behind. “Otherwise, it’ll interfere with your comms.”

Jeongin then blinks up at Minho like he’s expecting a pat on the head. 

Over my dead body. 

Minho instead points at the shards of plastic littering the ground. Affect flat, he tells his junior to clean that shit up, which is the closest he will ever fucking get to you did good, kid. The second Minho steps away, Jeongin drops down to hurriedly scoop the broken bits into his palm.

While he waits on the rest of the group — namely you — to roll up, Minho busies himself with checking supplies. 

The unmarked van will carry the backup team to a rendezvous point half a kilometer away from the Ulsan facility, just in case. For this reason, it’ll also carry the big guns, which — like the vans themselves — were nicked from corpo rats. The seats inside were gutted immediately to clear out a cargo area. The trip sure as shit won’t be comfortable, but six people and a few ammo bags will fit inside without much issue. 

Most importantly, there’s enough room for Minho’s crown jewel: a goddamn, motherfucking anti-tank gun. He’s been dying to try it out since the WraithCo. raid that brought it into his possession, but he has a sinking feeling that he never will.

Moving on to the primary van, Minho notes the logo emblazoned on the side. This one was harder to steal than its counterpart, but you stressed the necessity, and he made it happen. Now, when the infiltration team drives up to the facility, it’ll be under the guise of the outsourced IT company that Ulsan uses for routine maintenance. 

According to the data you managed to reap, Ulsan’s made two glaring security errors, likely because they assume they’re infallible — not handling their own shit in-house, and scheduling their tech contractors to pop by on the same dates every month. Both details were barely footnoted in the reports; anyone but you wouldn’t have thought twice about them.

Something twinges in his chest when his thoughts start wandering in your direction, so Minho shakes his head to clear them. It doesn’t work. Instead, it seems to summon you. You step onto the loading dock a few seconds later.

You’ve changed since Minho left the Hub. The lapse in time makes sense now that his eyes sweep over your frame. The black jeans you’re wearing now aren’t chopped halfway up the right side. In order to conceal that highly recognizable part of you, you struggled through the significant extra time it takes to get your artificial foot through the openings — and he didn’t have to tell you to do any of this, unlike the rest of the team.

It’s been so long since you’ve been one of the boots of the ground that he underestimated you. Clearly, he shouldn’t have because you haven’t skipped a single detail. The treads of your boots have been filed down; but the platform sole remains intact, concealing the brand and size, as well as your true height. Specially-designed black gloves cover your hands, so you can utilize whatever touchscreens and keys you come across without leaving your trace behind. Likewise, the gaiter you grabbed at the last minute rests just below your chin, ready to cover your mouth and nose.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees the long-sleeved black top hanging loosely and hiding your figure. He wants to ask if you remember, but he doubts you do. You borrowed it from him so many years ago that it might as well be yours now.

To stop himself from staring, Minho starts to address the group. “Now that our guest of honor has shown up —”

“We still need Jihoon,” you interject with one finger raised, gently asking Minho to wait.

“What?” Minho can’t keep the confusion off his face, and he can’t wrap his head around this curveball you’ve thrown. Incredulously, he scoffs, “It’s a covert break-in.”

There isn’t a single reason he can think of to include the demolitions expert in something requiring finesse.

You don’t respond with words; your eyes flick to Chan, which is enough of a hint. The two of you are planning something — keeping him in the dark about something — but Minho can’t figure out what or why. The leader doesn’t provide much in the way of explanation. All he offers is, “We need a driver and an extra pair of eyes,” as if that’s the whole truth.

Whatever.

The second Jihoon finally walks through the door, Minho immediately starts his briefing.

The main team — including you, Chan, Felix, Sierra, Jihoon, and Minho himself — will head straight to the facility. The reinforcements — Scraps, Changbin, Eunjae, Sunwoo, Hongjoong, and some fucker from Texas known only as “Cowboy” — will wait just outside the property line with range weapons, ready to party with any gatecrashers.

On site, Felix and Sierra will take out security at the gate; only two men guard that post at any given time. Meanwhile, you’ll slip in and disable the remaining security measures: cameras, mainly, although the alarm system is your biggest priority. To get everyone inside, you’ve cloned the badge of a mid-level researcher who, like the Professor, has authorization beyond the front desk.

From there, the interior group will divide into watchdogs and infiltrators. Given the relatively small size of the building, it shouldn’t take long to get you to the control room, where you’ll take a crack at the main computer housing the Beta’s program. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be in and out within 30 minutes.

Nothing ever goes as planned, though. That Ilsan mission was simpler with significantly lower stakes, and it was a fucking nightmare. Minho can’t think about anything else when he crawls into the back of the van next to you.

For over two hours, Minho has been sitting cross-legged on the floor of this godforsaken van. His brain, unlike his body, is wholly fucking incapable of staying still. Now matter how hard he tries to ground himself, he can’t shake the chill running down his spine or the voice in his head. It just keeps repeating the same thought, over and over: 

This van will be missing passengers on the drive back.

“It’s your turn, Minho.”

His head snaps up. Instead of Atropos and her scissors, it’s Felix staring back at him, smiling curiously. Warmly. Minho’s pulse should ease up at the realization, but it doesn’t.

He clears his throat, although his voice still comes out jagged. “My turn?”

“He’s asking everyone what they’re going to do with their lives when this is all over,” you explain. Minho turns his head to look at you. For once, he can’t decipher the look on your face. You laugh when you squeeze his bent knee gently, adding, “Don't worry. I didn’t have an answer, either.”

But it’s not an answer that he lacks, it’s time.

Don’t you know that I’m already dead?

The van slows considerably, shifting from paved roads to gravel. Then, it stops entirely. Jihoon turns in his seat and squints through the holed, metal divider between the cabin and the back of the van. 

“Spider?” He calls out over his shoulder, and it’s no wonder he struggles to identify you. Everyone sitting in this unlit area is cloaked in black from head to toe. 

To help him out, you raise your hand and wave. Even if the dark gloves you’re wearing aren’t visible, your smile is. Your voice is just as bright when you chirp, “Over here!”

Minho sees Jihoon smile for the first time in all the years he’s known him. If he was anyone else, that flicker at the corner of his mouth wouldn’t count for shit; but Minho’s no stranger to steel or your uncanny ability to bend it. He knows your impact when he sees it.

“End of the line,” Jihoon reports. “The next time I stop, you’ll need to sneak out the side. I can see a camera positioned directly above the security vestibule, pointing downward from the left. The van will create a blind spot if you stay low to the ground.”

Now, Jihoon’s involvement is starting to make sense. He’s one of only four people who joined the Black Screen within the last year — after the Ilsan disaster, which led to the incorporation of masks into all field ops. Out of the entire organization, his face is one of the only ones that won’t tip off the guards.

Until the next news cycle, Minho thinks ruefully.

Once the driver is satisfied that the passengers are on the same page, he turns around and sets the van back into motion. Every dip in the uneven road below throws your shoulder against Minho’s; and every time you collide, he wants to wrap his arm around you to keep it from happening again. He doesn’t. Eventually, the opportunity disappears along with the faint crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

The brakes squeak slightly when the van stops a second time. Minho can’t hear the conversation Jihoon is making with the security staff from where he sits, just the slow-motion movements of you, Felix, and Sierra as the three of you inch the side door open and spill onto the driveway like molasses.

All Minho has left to do is wait — for you to come back or for shots to be fired. His pulse picks up when seconds slip by without either of those options playing out. 

It’s funny, he thinks as he pulls his rifle into his lap, that the thing bringing him comfort now is designed to take it away. His thumb hovers over the selective fire switch, flexing in anticipation. Any second now, all his best laid plans will explode. 

It’s only a matter of time until —

“All clear,” comes your voice through static.

Minho flinches. In all the tense silence, he’d completely forgotten about the earpiece he’s wearing. The breath he’d unknowingly been holding leaves him in a hurry, taking the tension in his shoulders with it as he deflates.

“Meet us at the fire exit on the northeast side. I shut off the emergency alert system, too, so we shouldn’t have any issues getting into that stairwell.”

Jihoon is already pulling the van around by the time you finish speaking. In a matter of seconds, he pulls up to the door in question and shifts gears to park. 

You’re standing in the doorway when Minho’s feet hit the ground, eyes crinkling when you see him with a smile he can’t otherwise see. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he addresses Sierra first. She’s got blood on her temple, and Minho can’t tell whose it is. 

“You didn’t make a mess, did you?” He asks, frowning slightly.

“This is business, not pleasure, so no.” She rolls her eyes. The sigh she lets out reeks of disappointment. “Wrung out their necks like chickens and shoved their bodies into cabinets.”

Glancing quickly at Minho, Felix figures out where his leader’s eyes are focused. “Not hers,” he clarifies, nodding to Sierra. With the back of his sleeve, he reaches over and gently wipes the blood from her face, like he’s cleaning gochujang off a child. “Didn’t leave a trace, though.”

That’s all Minho cares about, so he asks no further questions. Instead, he checks his watch before looking up to check on you. He doesn’t pose the question, but you answer him, regardless; and when you do, you accompany it with your thumb raised.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“All good!”

You then gesture with that thumb to the stairwell over your shoulder and ask, “Shall we?”, as if you’re inviting him to dance.

“You two —” Minho points to Felix and Sierra respectively, drawing their attention. “Station yourselves along the main hallway. If anyone so much as pokes their head out of a doorway, blow it the fuck off. No witnesses.”

Both nod in acknowledgment, but it’s not enough, not when your life is in his hands. He glares expectantly at them, waits in silence until they get the hint.

In tandem, they repeat, “No witnesses.”

Good enough.

Wordlessly, Minho waves his hand and sends them on their way to the second floor. He doesn’t budge until he sees the tops of their heads through the window, disappearing past the landing. Seconds later, Felix’s voice sounds off in Minho’s ear to advise him that the area is clear.

He turns back to the three people standing behind him to ensure they’re ready to move in. The second he sees the pistol in your grip, his stomach lurches so violently that he really might vomit on his boots. 

It’s categorically fucked — so fundamentally, intrinsically wrong — that you’re standing here now with lethal force in your hands. Over ten long years, you’ve never fired a single shot in combat; never stolen the light from someone’s eyes while you’re staring into them. Still, no matter how nauseous the image makes him, the irony of it all can’t be ignored. 

You only know how to shoot because he taught you.

“Let’s move out,” Chan says when Minho doesn’t.

Minho takes point with you close behind him. Behind you, Jihoon follows with an inexplicable duffle bag strapped to his shoulder. By now, Minho knows better than to question what’s going on here. He wouldn’t get an honest answer if he did; and Chan makes no excuses for it as he trails after Jihoon up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, you tap Minho’s shoulder, prompting him to stop. When you gesture up ahead, his eyes follow, gaze sweeping down the long corridor towards the southwest side of the building. Near the end of the hall, a pair of glass doors interrupts the path to the server room, which sits further down on an intersecting corridor. Somewhere between that server room and the bulletproof barrier in front of you is your target: the main computer running the show.

All the signage he can spot declares the area secure and for authorized personnel only. You’re neither safe nor sanctioned, but the badge you pull from inside the neck of your — his — shirt will let you pretend to be. 

Lim Namseok, it reads.

That poor bastard will probably be dead before sunrise for the things you’re about to do. Minho doesn’t have any higher hopes for himself, but he wonders whether or not you’ll be able to sleep when this is over.

No, he ultimately decides. You won’t.

You keep glancing down at that man’s photograph, swallowing hard like you’re choking down an apology. Committing those features to memory, as if you’re obligated to remember each one of the creases in his forehead.

It’s not a question of if that face will pop up in your nightmares but when.

Minho’s both unwilling and unable to let you keep torturing yourself, so he shifts his assault rifle to his non-dominant hand and reaches out to you. Neither of you says a word as he gently removes the badge from between your fingers and lets the lanyard unfurl. You watch the ID flutter downwards until it rests against your chest; his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Come on,” he says softly. “There are fifty-one-million Namseoks out there that still need their asses saved.”

You don’t want to laugh. Your furrowed eyebrows inform him that you’re trying very hard not to, like your half-hearted glare will override the muted chuckle that slips through your mask. His attempt at levity worked, though. You start moving again when he does.

On the way to the first set of security doors, the four of you pass both of your lookouts, who’ve taken up posts half and three-quarters’ way up the corridor, respectively. Not for nothing, both look bored by the lack of action.

When Felix sees Minho, he complains, “Why is it always unpaid fucks like us who have to work on weekends? Shouldn’t these goons be here to justify their salaries?”

He’s not wrong. This place is a fucking ghost town, and although the datashard you combed through said this would be the case, the emptiness still makes the hairs on the back of Minho’s neck stand up. Whether or not he can put his finger on it, something feels off.

“Wouldn’t mind a desk job,” Chan muses, more to himself than to the rest of the group.

Minho leans into the assumption that he wasn’t meant to hear it. If he was, he’d have no choice but to point out that Chan hardly leaves his fucking desk as it is. So, to keep the peace, he keeps his smart mouth shut.

When several more meters come and go, the four of you reach the security checkpoint. With the badge back in hand and nerves evident in your tone, you hold it to the scanner and mutter, “Here goes nothing.”

Nothing is precisely what you get. No sirens wail, no trap doors give way to swallow you all down. The glass panels simply part with a click before sliding outwards along their respective tracks. Your shoulders sag with relief, unlike Minho’s. He carries tension in every single one of his muscle cells; and he only grows more rigid with each passing second.

To keep his pulse down, Minho counts each step he takes towards the control room. It’s an exercise in futility, of course. He’s a goddamn mess, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

16…17…18…

Present moment excluded, he can only think of one other in which he’s ever experienced fear. Real fear, that is; the kind that begs his limbs to lock. It’s no coincidence that he can barely function now. How could he, with the common denominator trailing behind him like a shadow?

19….20…21 —

Suddenly, you hiss, “Shit!”

By the time he wheels himself around, you’re frozen in place with your pistol aimed through a doorway that wasn’t open when he passed it. A woman in a lab coat stands there with her hand still on the handle, eyes doubling in size when they land on you. Immediately, the coffee mug in her hand drops, sending both liquid and shards of ceramic flying. Both of her hands are in the air before the pieces can settle at her feet.

You fire once, panicked, and strike her in the upper arm. It’s a shit job, one that’ll give her time to call for help before she bleeds out on the floor, so Minho’s instinct takes over.

“Turn around,” he tells you. 

You do. 

From her knees, the woman clutches her bicep and begs Minho to lower his weapon. She still wants to have kids someday, she tells him, sobbing. She’s too young to die.

Unaffected, Minho aims at the space between her brows. “Aren’t we all?”

Bang!

Her body drops to the floor like a bag of cement, lifeless. Although the shot still echoes, it’s otherwise dead silent until you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Stepping to the side to look at you, Minho furrows his brows. “Don’t be. We can’t leave witnesses.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t do it right,” you clarify, voice wavering but louder than before. “You taught me better than that.”

For a minute, he forgets where he is; loses track of the two people standing on eggshells behind you both. There’s definitely still a corpse lying two meters away, but all he sees in his peripheral vision is proof: You may have chosen this life, but this life hasn’t chosen you.

Despite the bullets and the viscera making a mess of the tile nearby, you’re still the person he met a decade ago — someone with the instincts to do what’s needed but too much heart to be swallowed by them.

He hopes you never change.

“There may be more people that we haven’t accounted for.” Chan’s reminder forces three pairs of eyes to focus on him. He urges, “We need to get this done. Spider, where’s the control room?”

With his gun and without a word, Minho gestures to an office several doors down from where the group currently stands. In giant, black letters, it states, “CONTROL ROOM”. Your answer would be redundant at this point, so you don’t bother giving it. Moreover, Chan can fucking read.

“Oh,” is all the leader says before the group presses onward.

You swipe the badge again when you reach the control room. As was the case with the previous door, this one opens without any theatrics. All four of you slip inside before they close on their own, several moments later.

As soon as he steps foot inside, Jihoon whistles. “Damn.”

Damn is right.

The room feels even larger than the dimensions he saw on the blueprints; and with the forced air flowing from the overhead vent, it’s far less welcoming than Minho expected. Halfway between an operating theater and an airplane, the crisp whiteness of his surroundings seem both sterile and stale. He’d wash the feeling off himself if he could, but he can’t, so his skin continues to crawl.

Consuming the back half of the room, a U-shaped desk boasts multiple monitors, keyboards, and switches. Minho has no fucking clue what any of this equipment is supposed to do — he doesn’t give a shit, either — but he sees your eyes go wide with that childlike wonder he’s always been stupefied by.

Your hands twitch, likely from a desire to touch every surface they can find, so you hold them close to your chest while you look around. After studying all the options at your disposal, you take a seat behind the monitor at the left end of the desk.

Jihoon asks what everyone else is wondering: “Is the main computer not the one in the middle?”

Normally, this is the sort of thing you'd laugh at. You don’t, though; you barely seem to have heard it. Transfixed, you simply mumble something about that computer being hardwired to the server room. Minho doesn’t catch the rest of your explanation, but he hears the words “temperature control” and “ventilation” before concentration makes your voice peter out mid-sentence.

The next few minutes pass by without you noticing. Nobody speaks, nobody breathes too loudly for fear of interrupting your train of thought. That’s not to say it’s silent; far from it. Your rhythmic typing takes over the room, and the effect it has on Minho is borderline hypnotic.

A siren song, sort of.

In response to its call, Minho’s mind picks up and races from the room you’re in — back to the Hub, where this all started; to the countless hours he’s spent just like this, watching you work. As mundane as those moments might be in the grand scheme of things, they’re still his happiest.

Maybe he’d count this moment among them if the Sword of Damocles wasn’t swinging so blatantly overhead.

Out of nowhere, you slam your fist down on the desk, startling everyone else enough to flinch. It’s not just the noise that has Minho, Chan, and Jihoon on high alert; it’s the fact that none of them have ever seen you explode like this.

“Goddamn it!”

Immediately, Minho rushes over to where you’re sitting. His eyes dart from your face to the screen, then back again, finding no obvious answers for your distress. 

“What?” He demands, “What’s wrong?”

Eyes glued to the monitor, you continue to mutter, “No, no, no —“

“Spiders, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on, so we can fix it.”

“They fucking —” You smack the desk again, like hitting something will knock your thoughts loose. “Fuck!”

For a second, you let the rage simmer. Then, the defeat you still haven’t articulated settles in. You slump down in your chair with your face in your hands, forcing your breathing to slow. 

“They must’ve added it after the Professor defected. I can’t — It wasn’t referenced anywhere on that datashard, Minho. There was nothing.” 

All your panic is funneled directly into the palms of your gloves, making it difficult to decipher what you’re saying. Minho leans closer just in time to hear you cry, “They built a failsafe.”

Minho is out of his fucking depth. In fact, he’s drowning. 

“A failsafe?” He asks, “What, like a back-up program?”

“No, as in, any attempts to delete or alter the program data will invalidate the study.” 

Based on your phrasing, Minho assumes you’re quoting something directly. Swallowing back the acid rising in his throat, he opens his mouth to ask you what the fuck that means. Before he can hurl his question out, you look up at him with abject hopelessness in your eyes; and suddenly, he can’t speak.

“All of their research subjects will be purged,” you spit.

On the other side of the desk, Chan and Jihoon exchange a look — a grim one, but not one of surprise. They’ve arrived at the conclusion before Minho can leap to it, and they’re still talking without saying a single goddamn thing out loud. 

Minho can’t take it anymore. He shouts, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“If Spider wipes the beta, everyone with that chip goes with it,” Chan sighs. He scrubs his hands over his face until it’s red. “If they don’t drop dead immediately, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that their brains will be permanently and irreparably fucked as a result.”

Now what?

Now what?

Minho’s legs grow less steady by the second. He presses his palm flush against the desktop to keep his knees from buckling. He knows damn well it won’t make a difference; his spinning head will bring him down if his body doesn’t. Everything — including the pulse hammering in his ears — is simultaneously too quiet and too loud.

What the fuck was this all for? The time, the energy, the lives everyone keeps sacrificing to this fucking cause — any of it. 

All of it. 

What’s the point of fighting this hard if Ulsan will always be ten steps ahead?

“Minho!”

His head snaps in your direction only to see that you weren’t the one calling his name. He blinks, confused. Who —?

“Minho, they’re coming! Lim Namseok — terminated yesterday. His badge — it flagged —” 

Scraps’ voice comes shrouded in gunfire. The weak connection makes it even harder to hear her; whatever isn’t exploding is crackling due to the distance. Each word fizzles at the end, as if lit by a fuse.

“— to get out —”

Hand flying to his left ear, Minho presses down the button at the center of his ear piece. “Who’s coming?” He barks, “Scraps, what the fuck is going on?”

When she doesn’t respond, someone else takes over.

“It’s the fucking retention team. A sniper took Eunjae out before any of us even saw them coming,” Hongjoong yells. “They’ve got a unit on the ground and one in the air. I’ll try to shoot the chopper down, but you need to get out of there now.”

“Hongjoong, do as much as you can to tear them up, but don’t push your luck. If you’re outnumbered, fall back before we lose anybody else. Do you copy?”

He doesn’t get a response.

Jihoon moves closer to the door to listen for any incoming footsteps. Hearing none, he growls, “Who the fuck called the boogeymen? Don’t they only deal with defectors?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chan waves him off, “They’re here, and we need to be anywhere else.”

Despite what he just said, the leader doesn’t move; doesn’t budge a centimeter in any direction. Chan simply glances across the room at you, and when you stare back at him, it’s with the same, eerie calmness. Some quiet resignation that makes no fucking sense under the circumstances.

“If I can’t kill the program entirely, I can make it inoperable long enough for the existing chips to be removed,” you say, like you’ve already had this idea in your pocket. “Force quit, so to speak.”

You don’t elaborate, leaving Minho’s frustration to drive him halfway out of his goddamn mind. Worse, you ignore the way he’s staring so fucking desperately at you and address the person standing several meters behind him. 

“Jihoon, did you bring the party favors?”

In response, Jihoon slips the duffel bag off his shoulder and holds it out to you. Only then do you move. Chan follows behind as you cross towards the door; neither one of you says a thing when you pass Minho, who’s still cemented in place.

“What the fuck are you planning?” He demands, although his voice shakes. “What fucking secrets have you been keeping, and why?” 

Once you secure the duffle bag on your own shoulder, you finally bring yourself to look at him. Above your mask, your eyes soften. They crinkle at the corners, as if you’re smiling, but there are tears brimming at your lash line, threatening to fall.

Please don’t look at me like you don’t have a future.

“For what it’s worth,” you start. Then, you sniffle, breath hitching as you try to get the rest out. “You’ve always had my heart. All of it — every stupid piece.”

And with nothing more than a nod to Jihoon, you’re gone, running out the door with Chan towards the server room before Minho can say a single word to you; before he can even think of chasing after you. 

In the blink of an eye, biceps wrap around him like a vice, pinning his arms behind his back and gripping tighter with every kick he tries to use for leverage.

“Spider!” Minho yells.

He fights with all he has to break free of Jihoon’s hold, to throw one or both of them to the ground, to get to you, but the older man doesn’t bat an eye. As if Minho weighs nothing at all, Jihoon begins hauling him back down the hallway towards the fire exit.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he grunts as he thrashes. “Let me — go —” 

Jihoon doesn’t say a word, doesn’t waste a breath, doesn’t stop pulling. Whatever strength he has left in the reserves, it’s wielded against Minho, not on making apologies. 

Minho bucks again, throwing all the weight from his legs to his back. It does nothing apart from exhaust him, but he can’t stop. He’ll never stop. 

“Spider!”

Close to feral, his anguished shouts devolve to desperate, growling noises. “I swear to god, I’ll bury you for this, Lee —”

He digs his heels into the ground to slow the older man’s momentum. His knees could snap at the force with which he’s resisting. He doesn’t give a shit if they do; he’ll crawl to you if he has to.

“I’ll splatter your brains against the fucking wall when I get my hands on you,” Minho spits. “I’m your commanding fucking officer!”

The next time he kicks, someone grabs him by the ankles to help carry his restless body down the stairs. Felix, judging by that pathetic, apologetic look in his eyes. Minho resolves to kill him, too, when he gets his limbs back. He’ll burn the whole goddamn compound to the ground for standing in his way; for letting you do this.

It should be me.

You’re the best of them, and they’re letting you die. 

It should be me.

They’re going to stand here, watching while you —

A sob he wasn’t prepared for bursts out of his chest in the form of your real name. With it, his threats dissolve into pleas, so goddamn pitiful in comparison to the violent way he still flails.

“Please!” He cries, voice raw. Making himself louder doesn’t make him heard. Incapable of doing anything else, he begs, “Please don’t let her do this. She’s all I have — All I want — Goddamnit, please! I need to get her out of there —”

So useless.

“I have to get her out,” he sobs with one final burst of energy rattling through otherwise spent limbs. 

The arms and hands around him still don’t relent. Over and over, he repeats his only thought in rapid succession until his voice gives out: 

“I have to get her out.”

Two seconds before they drag his body over the threshold, the whole facility shakes, like the earth below has opened up to swallow it down. Even from the opposite side of the building, Minho can hear shattered glass hitting the ground like sheets of rain. With the heavy, black cloud swirling over the southwest section of roof, he might’ve believed in some storm.

He might have.

But now, Minho sees the flames licking at the sky above, and he no longer believes in anything.

There are 244 kilometers between Cheongju and Changwon. By car, the distance flies by in fewer than three hours, assuming the expressways aren’t clogged with corporate commuters. All things considered, it’s not a trip that disrupts a person’s day. It’s straightforward, and above all, it’s easy.

What isn’t easy is crawling on your stomach underneath a blanket of smoke, only to drag half of someone else’s body weight with you down a flight of stairs.

There’s nothing straightforward about slipping through alleyways and ditches, trying to avoid nearby police blockades as they pop up; or attempting to conceal clothes that are singed in some places and actively smoking in others.

That distance does not fly by in three hours, even though the expressways aren’t clogged, because there’s disruption after disruption: 

Starting on foot, only to steal — and later dump — a car when the walk becomes unbearable. 

Wandering blindly without a working mobile, unable to access assistance or a map, and learning that your best guesses are wrong turns more often than not.

Avoiding phones in general due to the localized surge in cell surveillance, knowing even a coded message could wind up with you and any recipients dead.

Stopping repeatedly with burning lungs to check on someone in far worse shape than you, pretending not to hurt for their sake.

No, the estimates are all fucked. 

It takes twenty-one hours to travel the 244 kilometers between Cheongju and Changwon; and you feel the weight of every single one of them when you hobble through the front doors of the factory just to drop, exhausted, onto the floor.

News of your survival spreads like dandelion seeds throughout the compound. Within minutes, it seems, everyone you’ve ever made eye-contact with swings by the clinic to pat you on the back. 

One of them — Sierra, of all people — does you the greatest kindness of all: bringing you a change of clothes and then refusing to stick around for a chat. 

Half of them have never spoken to you before now, though you try not to hold that fact against them. 

Almost all of them throw the word “brave” around like it’s weightless. 

You know better.

What you did was useless in the grand scheme of things, and knowing that is heavy. Crushing, even, so much so that you find it hard to catch your breath. No, you’re sure, what you did was peak cowardice.

You need to get out of this clinic. You need all of these well-wishers to stop looking at you like some tragic hero. You need —

You push off the cot you’re occupying without giving it a second thought. The lightheadedness threatens to take you right back down again, but the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. You stay on your feet, even though you sway, by sheer force of will.

That’s it. There you go.

Doc gave you once-over when you were first hauled in. Neither one of you truly felt like you were a priority. She may have been justifiably distracted, but in forming her expert opinion, she saw your bruised — not broken — body and declared you “good enough”. You take that glowing assessment at face value now and promptly discard the bit about “needing to stay for observation”.

Her primary concern is that you shouldn’t sleep with your concussion. Baseless, you think ruefully. You’ve been awake for two days and don’t see that changing any time soon.

Before you attempt to make a break for it, you glance at the far end of the clinic. There, a white screen stretches longways across most of the area for privacy, leaving two exits on either side. You don’t see the point of it; it doesn’t hide a thing. Two work lights shine so brightly from their spots by the wall that every movement in front of them is broadcasted on the thin, nylon divider.

As expected, the shadow puppet you’re looking for is still hovering around an unmoving mass in the center of the screen.

Chan.

He’s alive, even though he doesn’t look it. He’s talking, too, which is a marked improvement from the state he was in just a few hours ago. The morphine drip must be helping, you figure. Until now, he had a belt between his teeth to quell the pain, which would’ve kept him quiet.

Otherwise, there’s only one explanation for the corner he’s turned over the past few hours: The love of his life hasn’t left his side since he was carried into the clinic; and he knows she’s there. 

You’ve learned the hard way that both of those conditions must be met to make a difference. 

One without the other isn’t enough.

You can’t hear what they’re murmuring to each other, and you don’t want to. It’s theirs. Thankfully, their hushed tones give you the only confirmation you need: neither of your pseudo-parents will catch and scold you for leaving against medical advice. They’re oblivious; they’re fine; they have each other. You have —

Do you, though?

The person you want to see is coincidentally the only one in the entire compound that hasn’t come by seeking proof of life.

At first, you feared the worst; ripped your cuticles to shreds when the faces passing by weren’t his. No one mentioned his name or asked you if you’d seen him, as if there was no him left to see.

Then, you saw Jihoon walking around with his cheekbone stitched together. There’s some sick comfort in knowing that Minho at least lived long enough to beat his knuckles bloody. You’ve apologized to Jihoon three times now for the effect you caused, but he’s shrugged off every single one of them, like yesterday was just another day at the office.

Wasn’t it?

You creep out the door undetected and make your way to the nearest stairwell. The quiet throughout the halls in the factory isn’t comforting in the way it used to be. No part of the deeply familiar landscape is. 

It should be.

It’s the only real home you’ve ever known — one you thought for sure you’d never see again.

But every empty doorway you pass may as well have a body in it. You still see that woman and her unspent aspirations everywhere you look. You still hear the way she begged for her life before she lost it.

And when the stairs ahead finally come into view — ones you’ve taken a million times — they’re insurmountable. Your body aches automatically, like you’re still pulling Chan’s phantom weight out of the fire. That memory is muscle-deep now, you fear. There’s no getting rid of it.

At the landing, you force yourself forward. The siren song only you can hear is far stronger than the call of your own bed. It lures you around the corner whether or not you’re ready to follow it.

You aren’t, you realize as your steps continue automatically. The guilt threatens to eat you alive, and frankly, you’re prepared to let it. You deserve it. 

Somehow, despite your bullshit insanity and your numerous violations of trust, you still managed to skate through with a life left to live. Considering what you did, you figure it’s only fair that you pay this price — feel this fucking awful — for the rest of your unearned years.

Maybe. 

You don’t know. 

You’re in uncharted territory now because your plan didn’t include an after. 

As your footsteps draw closer to Minho’s room, it dawns on you that you don’t have a plan at all now. You don’t know what the fuck to say to him, let alone where to start. You wonder whether or not you should bother at all. 

If Minho knows you’re back at the compound, that means he made a choice not to find you. You have no right — none whatsoever — to take away his options a second time.

He’ll never forgive you, you tell yourself. If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same.

Maybe.

You don’t know.

You can’t take those hypotheticals and draw conclusions because Minho has never — would never — put you in the position you stranded him in. He wouldn’t hijack a mission you created or exclude you from a half-baked, shittily-executed contingency plan. He’d never force a friend to make some destructive, deathbed promise; wouldn’t have you dragged out of blast radius, kicking and screaming and fighting and spitting, just to drop you in a front-row seat.

He’s the best of all of you, and you did your absolute worst to him.

It’s selfish, walking up to his door now. You know it is. Despite that, you can’t make your body stop moving now that it’s started; can’t keep that boulder from rolling down hill. One last look, you tell yourself. That’s all you need. 

Even if he never looks you in the eyes again, this can be enough.

You raise your hand and reach out to the scraped-up wood with your knuckles leading the way. They’re dirty, you note, caked with soot in every crease. They shouldn’t be. You scrubbed them raw to get the blood and plasma off your skin. It’s possible — likely, even — that your brain is fried beyond fixing, and that you’re imagining things.

Maybe.

You don’t know.

You don’t hear an answer when you finally bring yourself to knock. No, you correct yourself, that’s an answer in and of itself. Acting selfishly once again, you don’t heed that silent reply. You don’t knock again, either. Heart hammering against your ribs, you wrap your hand around the knob and twist.

Part of you wants to laugh. Of course, his is the only door in the whole fucking factory that doesn’t squeak horrifically on its hinges. His tolerance level for annoyance has always been low.

Inching your way over the threshold, you call out, “Minho?” 

And once again, you don’t hear a response.

Standing now inside his room, you don’t see him — not at first. He certainly doesn’t see you. His back leans against the window frame while he slumps on the ledge, presumably staring off in the opposite direction through the glass. His defeated posture is as telling as the position he’s in. 

The Minho you know never sits with his back to a door. It’s too big a risk and too broad a target; an invitation for a nasty surprise. He’s said it a thousand times: whoever kills him needs to look him in the eyes.

This is what it looks like when a person’s given up, you think. 

This is what you did.

Throat thick, you call his name again. This time around, it barely qualifies as a whisper; all your breath is caught up in that tangle in your chest. There’s no way he heard it because you barely did. Really, you should —

“Fuck off,” Minho growls without turning around. “I won’t tell you a third time.”

His words don’t carry the same venom they usually do in circumstances like this. He just sounds hollow, and it devastates you so completely to hear the emptiness that tears start falling without your permission. You don’t move from where you stand, too overwhelmed to process both ambulation and falling apart at the seams.

The lack of footsteps tips him off to your ongoing, unwanted presence.

“When will you people give up? ” After slamming his left fist against the window frame, he pushes himself abruptly off the ledge to his feet. “I don’t want your goddamn sympathy. All I’ve ever fucking wanted is —” 

He wheels around then, fists clenched and ready to swing. All the air in his lungs leaves him when he sees you standing there. The rest of that thought is strangled, and it drops lifeless on the floor.

“You.”

You can’t guess what comes next: screaming, blame, silence, violence. You don’t even know which of those things would be worst — just that he’s entitled to all of the above, and you’ve earned the lot.

What you end up with isn’t an outcome you ever would’ve anticipated. It’s him, his quivering mouth, and his exhausted, red-rimmed eyes taking several steps forward on shaky legs. It’s a desperate bid to close the distance, and a look built on so many conflicting emotions that you can’t even begin to take inventory.

At first, your hammering heart tells you to back away; that he may hate you enough to hurt you. 

But he doesn’t.

He falls to his knees in front of you when his legs ultimately give out. Boneless, he crumples forward onto his palms until his head hangs low between his arms. From where you’re standing, it almost looks like he’s praying. That is, until you notice the way his shoulders shake.

Of all the people you’ve met in your life, Minho is the only one who seemed to be incapable of crying. Nausea swells now that he proves you wrong. It feels like a violation to see him this way, especially knowing that you’re the reason for the state he’s in.

Through a clenched jaw, he begs for answers you didn’t anticipate needing to give: 

“I’m hallucinating, aren’t I? I’ve finally lost my fucking mind?”

Oh.

Without a second thought, you fall to your knees, too. Chrome and carbon fiber scrape against concrete as you scoot yourself closer, and you pray that your proximity will be proof enough that you’re here.

It’s not.

“I left you for dead, and now I’m seeing ghosts. Is that it?”

Heartbroken, you try your best to get through, “Minho, no.”

Tentatively, you reach out to touch his shoulder, thinking that you might be able to ground him, even if you can’t comfort him. Before your fingertips find him, he senses your movement and lifts his head. Your hands automatically reroute to claim either side of his face, fingers sliding into unkempt hair. To your surprise, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, Minho studies your features intently, like he’s ruling out translucence; like his sanity is on the line.

Maybe it is.

More desperately than you ever have before, you drink down the sight of him. Beautiful, you think, even like this. 

Now that you’re able to see his face in full, you find it tear-streaked. Somehow less alarmingly, his right temple is scraped to hell and back, while his left is black-and-blue. It’s a perfect portrait of the fist that struck him. The darkest shades of indigo demarcate where the knuckles dug in deepest; and the scabbed, scarlet lines on his other side illustrate the state of the ground he fell to.

Gravel.

You have to stop yourself from asking who hurt him. After all, it doesn’t fucking matter whose name he’d drop. You already know who’s to blame. 

Nevertheless, Minho sees the question in your eyes, and he tells you, “I tried to run in after you once the bomb went off. After the fire started.”

Of course he did. What did you expect?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as if that’ll ever be enough. It doesn’t and won’t erase what you did, yet you repeat it anyway, “I’m so sorry.”

Opening your mouth was a mistake, you quickly realize. The dam breaks, and you can’t keep the words from spilling out. They all pile up, overlapping in time and urgency. 

Every word you say comes out in one breath; sputtered, as if your head has finally broken through the surface of rushing water. “I should’ve told you about the contingency plan, but I knew you’d try to take my place, and I couldn’t —”

“I couldn’t leave you there,” he swears, as if you left him with any other choice. “Even if I was too late to save you, I needed to bring you home.” 

Minho suddenly shifts, prompting your hands to fall from his face. To erase the distance he’s created, he sits back on his knees and pulls you into the space between them. You melt into his body when his arms wrap around you. Just as easily, you give in to the thousandth conflicting reason you’ve found to cry:

He’s never held you like this before.

With his cheek pressed to the side of your bowed head, you can feel his runaway tears. Though his voice wavers, his intentions are rock solid. “I fought like hell to get back to you. They had to knock me out just to get me into the fucking van. I didn’t want to leave you. I swear, I wouldn’t —”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t stop the rollout,” you cry. “Keeping you in the dark was the only way to keep you safe.” You bury your face into the front of his shirt and repeat it even more emphatically, “Minho, I’m so fucking sorry.”

For a moment, he stays quiet. As curious as you are about his silence, you don’t pull away to look up at him. You think you’d rather actually die than sacrifice a single second of the closeness you walked through hell and back to find.

Eventually, without prompting, Minho does speak. His voice is so soft that his question hardly reaches you. “Why did you do it?”

You pause, unsure of which part of your explanation he wants repeated. If he’s truly asking you to start over from the top, you will. You’re prepared to rake yourself over those coals forever, but you doubt he has the time. 

“In the control room,” he explains when you don’t arrive at the point yourself. “You told me that you love me, and then you ran off to blow yourself up. Why did you leave without letting me respond?”

Once again, you’re thrown; so disoriented that you can’t find the starting line. There were several reasons for running out the way you did: fear that he’d stop you if he caught on too quickly, or that he’d follow before Jihoon could drag him to safety. More than anything, as you sheepishly admit, “I didn’t think you’d say it back.”

He goes silent again. His arms pull you even closer, though you didn’t think it was possible. 

“I think Medusa had it easy,” he confesses, sounding almost self-conscious for the first time in his life. 

Though you’re caught off-guard, you don’t interrupt him. 

He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I think my curse has it all backwards. I turn to stone when people look at me, not the other way around.”

At this, you finally unearth your face from where it’s buried in his t-shirt. His body goes slightly slack without your frame to hold him up; the look on his face is just as deflated. 

Turning in your spot to face him, you frown, but you tell him the truth. “I’m not as good at reading you as I thought I was.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink.

Minho lifts his hand and cups your cheek. “Please,” he begs, thumb brushing over your skin. “Say it again, so I can get it right this time.”

You lean into his palm, allowing the warmth of it to radiate until you feel it everywhere — feel him everywhere. From there, as is always the case, the reflex takes over. “I love you. I think I always have.”

“I love you,” Minho echoes emphatically. “And unfortunately for you, I think I always will.”

It strikes like a pickaxe, sending cracks through a well-built wall. You swear you can hear the pieces of it falling. If you look closely, you can see the light as it rushes in.

There you are, you think. I knew you were in there somewhere.

He kisses you then, scrambling your brain so thoroughly that you almost forget it’s the first time he ever has. But he’s no stranger to you, and he proves it. Calloused hands maneuver you into his lap without resistance, without interruption, and lean arms snake around you as you straddle him, pinning you against his chest.

In an instant, you thread your fingers through his hair, hellbent on clinging to whatever parts of him you can get your hands on. That desperate grip of yours has always made him lose his mind; tonight isn’t any different. He groans into your mouth when you tug those strands now, proving that you’re no stranger, either.

His tongue flicks over your bottom lip, like he’s scratching at the door to be let in. You let him, let out some needy, mewling sound as he licks into your mouth to claim it.

Yours, you think. Yours, yours, yours.

When he unexpectedly pulls away from you, those little whines of yours only get louder. Kiss-bitten, Minho’s lips flatten into a thin line that indicates he’s fighting off a smile. 

“Spider, I know vulnerability is your thing,” he sighs. His left hand releases its hold on the bottom of your thigh. With it, he gestures to the other side of the room. “But did you mean to leave the door open for this?”

Whipping your head around, you confirm that you did not, in fact, close the door behind you. Heat rises to your face before you can stop it. No matter how thoroughly you rack your brain, you come up short. There’s no excuse— not even a bad one — for a cybersecurity expert being this abysmally accessible offline.

You’re in the middle of questioning your qualifications for the role you occupy when Minho gently pats the side of your leg, wordlessly asking you to leave his lap. With great difficulty and a dash of awkwardness, you do. Just as soon as you’re back on your feet, your body riots. All the exhaustion and soreness you’ve been ignoring screams for acknowledgement.

Minho must hear it. 

“Bed,” he murmurs, punctuating his instruction with a quick kiss to your temple.

Also a first, you note. 

Despite your long history of entanglements, you’ve never once ended up in his sheets. Your heart flutters involuntarily at the prospect; the fever-grade burning in your cheeks only gets worse. Thankfully, with his back now turned to you, Minho doesn’t see how eagerly you stagger towards the stolen bed frame in the corner. You hope he doesn’t hear the relieved moan you let out when you collapse in an aching heap on his mattress.

Across the room, the lock clicks. Footsteps follow so quietly that you would’ve missed them if you didn’t have his gait committed to memory. The person walking back to you looks unfamiliar, though — somehow. There’s no trademark sharpness at the edges now. There’s no want darkening his eyes, but something delicate that softens them.

It’s need, you realize when he comes to drape himself over you. It’s gentle, the way he compensates for your strained muscles and takes it upon himself to shed your clothes, layer by layer. And it’s trust, finally letting him see the way you exist on your own — with your artificial leg removed from the equation and set carefully off to the side.

After positioning himself between your thighs, Minho pauses. His forearms rest on either side of your head, caging you in against the pillow below. Time doesn’t seem to pass while he gazes down at you, and you certainly don’t mind the delay. Of all your moments, this one — here, with him —  is your happiest.

“In case it doesn’t go without saying,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours. “I forgive you for doing what you had to do.”

Blinking quickly doesn’t do much to dispel the tears prickling in the corners of your eyes. You bite your bottom lip and nod to the extent that you can. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Do me a favor, though?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me,” he requests, and you do.

When your mouth is finally on his, he rolls his hips forward with deliberate precision, length sliding through your arousal until he enters you, groaning. He maintains that slow, careful pace; coaxes you open for him until the stretch melts from pain to pleasure.

Eloquent as ever, you mewl with your lips still pressed to his. It’s muffled, of course, but there’s no context to miss. “Oh, my god.”

Once you acclimate to his size, Minho could ramp up the intensity if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He takes his time, grinds against you so perfectly that you’d never dream of rushing through this. 

At this pace, every stroke hits deeper than the last; each languid drag of his cock along your walls converts more and more of your thoughts to static.

It’s such a change-up from every other time you’ve wound up underneath him. Part of you wishes that you could scrap all those trysts and pretend that this is your first. In a way, you suppose, it is. There’s a drastic difference between being fucked by Minho and being loved by him. For obvious reasons, you don’t plan on going back to the way it was before.

His length grazes your g-spot, pulling a whimper out of you. Dizzy from the sensation, you don’t notice the way your cunt clenches down on him until he curses under his breath.

“Shit,” he moans, “Wish you knew how perfect you feel wrapped around me. I swear, I’m not leaving this bed as long as you’re in it.”

Another stroke hits you exactly where you crave him most. 

“Please,” you gasp, back arching off the bed. He leans in to capitalize on the length of neck you’ve left exposed; the heat of his tongue on your flesh drives you absolutely insane. “R-right there, Minho. Please, I’m so close.”

Other people have described Minho as defiant, but you have to disagree. He does precisely what you beg of him, angling each thrust to get you gushing around him. And even after he has you shaking underneath him, he refuses to slack off.

The orgasm he pulls from you is so overwhelming that you feel it tingling in your scalp, resonating down your spine until every nerve in your body is a live wire. You’re still somewhere in the stratosphere when Minho unravels, twitching and spilling inside of you until he’s got nothing left to give.

Spent, he pulls out of your heat, maneuvers himself carefully around you, and collapses at your side to catch his breath.

His eyes are closed when you regain enough motor function to turn your head his way. Across his forehead, stray strands of black hair stick to a thin veil of sweat. The slow rise and fall of his chest says he’s halfway to sleep, and with how hypnotic you find it all, you’re nearly there yourself.

Just a few more minutes, you tell yourself. It’s too hard to look away from him. You’d never had the chance to see him this way before, and you know better now than to waste it. 

“Please don’t ever stop looking at me like that,” he mumbles with his eyes still closed.

Your quiet laughter doesn’t prompt him to look at you, but it does spark the hint of a smile. “Like what, Minho?”

“Like I’m your future.”

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

series taglist:

@saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet @ldysmfrst @obeythemasters @moni-logue

stray kids permanent taglist:

@variety-is-the-joy-of-life @sourkimchi

multi permanent taglist:

@jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz, @/variety-is-the-joy-of-life

resources used

regarding prosthetic limbs: tiktok users @/bren_hucks @/footlessjo @/alex1leg @/bionickick; amputee coalition regarding hacking + world-building: gurps: cyberpunk guidebook by loyd blankenship

---

jury's still out | one-shot

pairing: hyunjin x f!reader | wc: 12k | genre: rivals to hooking up ; smut with plot |  general warnings: workplace rivalry ; only one bed ; hate sex ; mild violence (slapping) | explicit sexual content, this work is for adult audiences ; explicit warnings under the cut | Author compiles major/relevant warnings only. Reader discretion is advised.

Every Monday was more of the same—you checked your schedule which contained way too many meetings, and then you looked at the assigned cases for the week. And every single Monday, Hwang Hyunjin was assigned the best, most interesting case. 

*Installment of The Red Lights Chronicles

explicit warnings: slapping (m receiving) ; kinda dom!hyunjin ; mild/moderate degradation ; rough unprotected sex ; no aftercare — every act taking place is consensual. 

“You’ve got to be FUCKING kidding me! Him again?” 

You slammed your fist on your desk, causing a few drops from your coffee to spill over your cup and land on a file. With yet another grunt, you hurried to grab a tissue and try to prevent too much bleeding through the sheets. The intern in the cubicle next to yours shot a worried glance at you, swirling his chair to face you. Jeongin arrived here just last week, and your manager stuck him with you because you had ‘enough time’ to ‘show him the ropes.’

“Miss? Should I make another copy of those?” he asked, rising from his chair and motioning toward the file, which was in fact one of the files from a case you had just won. 

Jeongin was a nice boy, a good intern, but you just lacked the patience with interns, despite remembering being one not so long ago. You took a deep breath, making sure that none of the sheets had been ruined by coffee. “No, it’ll be fine. Thanks. Did you fill out the forms I asked you for today’s meeting?”

“Almost done, miss,” he said with a dip of the head, adjusting the thick black glasses over his nose. “Are you… alright?”

With a sigh, you turned to your screen again where you had been looking at the schedule for the week. Every Monday was more of the same—you checked your schedule which contained way too many meetings, and then you looked at the assigned cases for the week.

And every single Monday, Hwang Hyunjin was assigned the best, most interesting case. 

“Look at this shit, Jeongin. Tell me what’s wrong with this.” Maybe this would be the best way to prepare him for his life as a defense attorney—it would be best if he was fully informed about it. You had known this was a competitive line of work, but nobody had prepared to be faced with someone whose ego was as big as Hwang.

Jeongin leaned over the computer, reading the screen carefully. “Uh… Miss, I don’t know, I—”

“Look at the Kang/Seon case.” You even showed him the names, pointing your index at the screen. “Remember, we talked about this case yesterday?”

“Oh yeah, the conflict of interest case, right?” As though you were a literal teacher and him the student, Jeongin straightened up to describe the case that you had reviewed with him. “Mr. Kang was named executive director in Mr. Seon’s company, but that was deemed a conflict of interest due to Mr. Kang’s financial involvement in Seon’s old bank.”

You nodded. “That case can make a career, Yang. It can unmake it, too. But if Changbin assigned it to Hwang…”

With a sigh, you leaned back into your chair. Of course they would give that case to Hwang. The up-and-coming star, the handsome, conceited prick who went through law school on his parents’ money. God’s favorite. He always had it so easy. 

“Do you think it means Mr. Hwang will be up for the promotion you want, then?” Jeongin questioned, his eyes suddenly turning big and inquisitive. 

There was an ongoing rumor about a big promotion coming up among the junior associates, and it was the talk of the moment. Hell, some people were even betting on who would get it, and whether it came with a window office and a decent parking space. As in betting with money on it.

And, of course, like any other promotion, it would come with a significant raise in salary.

“If he wins,” you admitted reluctantly, “he’ll probably be promoted. Yes.” And this was not the first big case that Hyunjin was given in the past few months, which meant nothing good for you.

Your assigned intern clicked his tongue, shaking his head. You let silence fill the immediate area, but you could hear conversations in the distance and a lot of frantic typing on keyboards. You recognized the usual ambiance before the Monday morning meetings—everybody getting ready for it, reviewing their files, catching up on stuff with others if they had to.

“But what about you?” Jeongin questioned. “What case did they give you, miss? Is it a good one? What if it’s a case that could make your career, too?” 

You hadn’t even thought about it, too upset that you didn’t get the Kang/Seon case. You scrolled further on the page, looking for your name. 

“The fuck?” You read the line one, two, three times. “THE FUCK?”

The words Kang/Seon were also written next to your name. 

“But that’s great news!” Jeongin cheered, clapping his hands once as a sign of victory. “And two associates on the same case means it’s a lot more likely you will win the case!” 

You stared at your screen, speechless. Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking crazy, actually, that they’d have you work on a case with Hwang. Hwang was known for being just about the worst when it came to teamwork, preferring the lone-wolf kind of lifestyle. He was sort of famous for it, too. For winning cases on his own when they should have been handled by two attorneys. He took great pride in that, walking around with a self-satisfied grin on his pretty face when he came back from the courthouse.

Seeing that you had been assigned to that case should have been good news. It should have made you excited. Instead, you had to take a few deep breaths to calm down and not cry minutes before the meeting, or else your mascara would be ruined.

You being on this case with Hwang only meant one thing: he would shine because he was the favored one. And you would be invisible, no matter what.

Could it be revenge? Could it be that Changbin had heard about the job offer you got from another firm and that he simply wanted you gone? You hadn’t said a definitive no to the other firm because their offices were closer to your place. But you liked working here. Most of the time anyway. 

With a sigh, you grabbed your things, getting ready to make it to the conference room. “Let’s go to this meeting and get this over with.” 

“Just a note about the new paralegals—please let them do some of the work.” Your boss’ smile faltered slightly as he spoke. Changbin sat opposite from you at the large conference table, but was addressing everyone. “Let them do more research, something, anything. If management keeps thinking we don’t need them, they’ll cut my budget even more.” The declaration was received with a few faint chuckles around the table, but you could barely hear anything that was going on.

Click click. Click click. Click click. 

Click click. Click click.

Also sitting opposite of you but farther down the table was Hwang Hyunjin, always with that smug expression on his pretty face, fidgeting relentlessly with his retractable pen. Click click. Click click. Click click. He chuckled with the others at Changbin’s comment, his stupidly broad shoulders shaking with his frankly derisive laughter. You glared at him, crossing your arms over your chest and taking a few deep breaths. Click click. Click click. 

“Can you stop that?” The words blurted out of your mouth before you could stop them—not that you wanted to stop them anyway. “Can you stop?” 

Hyunjin raised a pair of amused eyes at you. He had the eyes of a doll, and perfect eyebrows, too. His nose was just as perfect, but everybody knew Hwang Hyunjin had the best pair of lips in the whole office. Including himself—he was very aware of the way he looked, and the effect he had on people.

He ran his fingers through his short, thick hair, and it fell back into place perfectly, as though he was freshly out of the hair salon. God’s favorite, truly. “Stop what?” he retorted, tilting his head to the side with a grin on his face. “I’m literally just sitting.”

You tsked him. “You know exactly. The pen. Please stop playing with it. We’re trying to work here.” 

Hyunjin smacked his pretty perfect lips together, observing you. Warmth spread all over your face—Changbin had stopped talking and all the attention was on you. Hyunjin had the kind of eyes that really studied people, too, and it always felt as though he could read them. You had once speculated that he could genuinely read minds, which had sent you into an immediate panic—you did not want him to know everything going through your head.

Hyunjin had another chuckle, more amused this time. His eyes, briefly, turned into crescents. “Well, I’m so very sorry ma’am for disturbing your peace. I shall cease this activity right this second. Ma’am.” With that sarcastic retort, he dramatically let go of the pen and placed it next to his unopened notebook. He always brought a notebook with him although he exclusively used his laptop to take notes, and you suspected the fancy leather-bound journal was just for show.

Ma’am?! You wanted nothing more than to insult him to his face and, for once, make him see that he was not the main character, despite him obviously feeling like he was. But the many pairs of eyes on you were more than enough to pacify you. You had been assigned a big case, and even though you were partnered up with that prick, you needed to be professional if you wanted any sort of positive outcome for yourself.

You cleared your throat, swallowing the fuck you that you so badly wanted to spit at Hyunjin. “Thank you so very much for your cooperation, sir. From the bottom of my heart. I profoundly enjoy being able to hear and focus on what my boss has to say, you see—just a stupid habit of mine. Sir.”

You sat straight in your chair, turning away from Hyunjin before you could even see what face he was making. Changbin seemed amused by the situation, concealing a laugh into a fist over his mouth. To his left, Felix, a senior associate, was also avoiding eye contact so as not to laugh openly. The interns show a little more restraint, but not by much. 

Changbin coughed, wiping a tear off the corner of his eye. “Okay, last order of business before someone ends up with a pen in their eye—the Kang/Seon case. Sir and Ma’am, I assume you know the basics of the case. What’s the angle here?” 

Thanks to Hyunjin’s annoyingly attractive nonchalance, you managed to speak before him.

“Well, it’s quite evident that there was a certain bias, so I think we should state that Mr. Kang took the job because of his involvement in the company, fully aware of the situation,” you replied. “To make it seem like he’s some sort of fanboy.”

Changbin took a few notes on his phone. “Interesting. Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin let out a snort.“Obviously, our best approach is to deny everything. It’s not like Kang doesn’t have several millions to invest—his financial involvement with Seon might appear significant to us, but in reality, it’s nothing for this guy. Who cares?” 

The audacity. Hyunjin stared at you from his chair, raising his eyebrows and shrugging with a stupid smile on his face. You chewed on your bottom lip, annoyed to no end. If looks could kill, you’d be staring at a dead body at this instant. It was as though you were in purgatory and Hyunjin had been sent to test you. He could not be more your exact opposite. 

“As we go into this case, you guys are gonna have to pretend like you consulted each other once in a while, okay?” Changbin commented, but he didn’t seem mad. A corner of his lips was curved into a half smile. “I actually like both of these angles, which doesn’t help anybody here. But since it’s our first case of the sort, I arranged for you two to meet with some of my friends from down south tomorrow. They’ve dealt with a lot of similar cases, and they agreed to lend a hand as a gesture of friendship for me. We met in law school, and they’re good people.” 

“Damn, I haven’t seen Chris and Ji in forever, I’m actually jealous!” Felix protested with a large smile on his bright face. “If I wasn’t so busy with the Nam case, I’d go along.” 

“Well, I need you on the Nam case,” Changbin pointed out. “Besides, I’m certain that these two can come to an agreement.” Your boss spoke directly to you and Hyunjin in alternance. “Don’t embarrass me. Hyunjin, don’t fucking play with your pens and shit. And you,” he added, turning to you, “work on your acting. It’d be great if you didn’t look like you’re about to commit murder during dinner, or worse—in front of the judge.” 

Oh, fantastic. You didn’t need psychic powers to know you were about to have an awful next couple of days. Maybe this really was a test, not necessarily from God, but from your boss. What if this was his way to verify your loyalty to the firm? By forcing you to work with your—and there really was no other way to put it—enemy? Maybe he thought that if you did stay after that, you were a solid attorney and human being, and worth investing in. 

Or maybe Changbin just really enjoyed watching you lose your temper. In which case he must have had a blast during the meeting.

“Wonderful,” Hyunjin said flatly, his large eyes on you. “I so cannot wait to work with you, ma’am.”

He had a death wish, didn’t he? He had to. Why else would he have such nerve? As though being pretty and tall gave him every right. 

“I’m so looking forward to this,” you replied with the exact same voice. “Sir.” 

Changbin gave the wooden table a gentle slap. “If you guys promise to behave, I’ll make sure you stay in a great hotel with a hot tub! Four stars and all!”

It literally did not matter the number of stars—you were going to hate this. Nothing that could possibly happen would make working with Hwang even a little bit more pleasant.

“Can you check again?” 

“I just checked three times, miss. I’m very sorry, but the only reservation I have in your name is for the one room.” The hotel receptionist gave you yet another contrite look. “Under the names Hwang Hyunjin and Y/LN Y/N.” 

You felt panic take over you, looking everywhere around you. The lobby of the hotel was impressive, as promised by Changbin. The whole hotel was furnished in a very modern style but with elegant ornate details. You knew one thing—you couldn’t afford to pay for a room here with your own money. Actually, you feared that if you did use your credit card here, your bank would assume that your card had been stolen and would block the transaction. You were still paying your student debt, after all, and avoided spending large sums of money.

Behind you, Hyunjin cleared his throat, approaching for the first time since you had attempted to check-in. He rolled his fancy suitcase along with him, leaning his arm over the lavish counter, looking as dapper as always despite being fresh off the train. “There’s been a mistake,” Hyunjin argued with poise and a seducing smile. “We’re not a couple. I believe the person who took the reservation must have misunderstood.”

The hotel employee stared at Hyunjin a little longer than she needed to. She glanced at her computer before looking up again. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Hwang, but it seems the reservation was made online, and that the honeymoon suite has been specifically requested.”

Hyunjin closed his eyes, clicking his tongue and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You’ve got to be shitting me…” he cursed under his breath. “Are there two beds in the room?”

The employee blinked a few times. “It is the honeymoon suite, Mr. Hwang.” 

You stared behind you, where a line of a few other clients was starting to form, and they didn’t look particularly patient. “Can’t you just get another room?” you asked Hyunjin in a low voice, leaning closer to him. 

He looked appalled. “Why me? My name came first on the reservation, I think I should keep it.”

“That’s so fucking childish!” You let out an irritated sigh. “You and your fancy-ass suits can definitely afford a room!”

Hyunjin shook his head. “If you think I’m so fancy, why shouldn’t I get the good room? Get one of the basic ones, it’s just one night, who gives a shit?” 

The receptionist interrupted you before you could even reply to him. “I’m very sorry, but we are fully booked for the night—there are two conventions currently going on in the city. If I may—the honeymoon suite had been booked as of a few days ago, as there was a last-minute cancellation. I can only assume that whoever made the reservation for you did not have any other choice. I’m truly sorry, but as of right now, I cannot offer you another room.” 

Fucking great. You grunted, shoving your hand into the pocket of your jacket to retrieve your phone, unsure of what you even wanted to do. Maybe you wanted to look for another hotel—if they even had anything available nearby. Maybe you wanted to call Changbin. But then you caught a glimpse of what time it actually was.

“Shit, Hwang. We gotta sort this out, we have to be at dinner in an hour.” Changbin had also made a reservation in a restaurant right by the hotel. Unless he had somehow messed this up as well. “What do we do? I wanted to shower and get ready…”

Hyunjin grunted softly and turned to the receptionist again. “Can we please get the keycards? But I’ll make sure to get to the bottom of this.” 

The receptionist seemed relieved when she handed you your keycards. You and Hyunjin took off, walking at a quick pace toward the nearest elevator. 

“I’ll make sure to get to the bottom of this,” you said in a perfect imitation of Hyunjin just moments ago. “Is your middle name Karen or something, Hwang?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Hyunjin frantically pushed the elevator button, as if it would make it go any faster. “There’s no way Changbin actually booked the honeymoon suite for a business trip.”

“And yet he did.” The elevator made it to you with a ding. When the door slid open, you let people walk out of it, often shooting glances at your phone to look at the time. 

“I mean—yes, he booked it, but it was a prank. Against me. I’m willing to bet Minho is in on it.”

“The big boss? In on it?” You scoffed, walking into the elevator. “And you’re on a first-name basis with him?” 

Hyunjin shrugged. “We went for beers after I won the Jung vs. Kwon case a few months back. He’s pretty cool once you get to know him.”

You watched the numbers on the elevator screen as they went up. So Hyunjin was friendly with Mr. Lee himself. That wasn’t nothing—Mr. Lee had founded the firm along with Mr. Kim. 

God, so this was all a joke. The case, this partnership. It was a fucking joke—and you were a goddamn clown. There was no way Hwang wasn’t getting that promotion if he was an ass-kisser. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised you nearly as much as it did.

“Minho is very meticulous, checks everything that goes on in the company. Obviously, Changbin would have needed to explain why he booked a honeymoon suite for this trip. They must have had a blast planning this. They like pranks.”

They like pranks, as though the three of them had shared a womb or something. “Ha. Ha. Ha. I’ve never seen anything that funny in my entire life.” You sighed, relieved to see the elevator had made it to your floor. “Whatever. Let’s just get ready for dinner. We should also talk about what we’re gonna tell these guys.”

You tried to keep up with him in the hallway, but Hyunjin’s long legs made him much more efficient at walking than you, and he was always several steps ahead.

“Talk? About what?”

Was he even for real? “About the fucking case, Hwang! What else?”

Hyunjin bit into his smile, pulling out his keycard from a pocket of his jeans and unlocking the door with it. “Why would we talk? Let’s present our angles to them. They’re the consultants. They’ll advise us. May the best attorney win.”

If you weren’t in such a hurry, you would actually open your mouth and reply with something witty. Instead, you simply followed him into the room and closed the door behind you.

The room was large and luxurious. The bedroom was separated from the rest of the room by a wall but it had no door, just an entrance to it. There was, however, a hot tub at the far end of the main room, right by the wide windows from which you could see the sunset. Everything was very clean, and very classy—exactly as promised by Changbin. Except that now that you were thinking about it, he had never explicitly promised two rooms… Prank or not, he would hear your thoughts on the matter as soon as this meeting was over. 

There was a couch on the opposite corner of the hot tub. Both you and Hyunjin were staring at it. “Maybe one of us could sleep on the couch,” you offered. Not that you would have been happy to spend a whole night in the same room as Hyunjin. 

“I guess it makes sense,” Hyunjin replied with a shrug. “We’ll have to write down our thoughts and cross-check our notes together after dinner anyway, it’ll be too late to find another hotel or something. Whatever, I don’t care.” If he did care, it didn’t show—the Hwang nonchalance was unmatched, as always.

You did a quick tour of the room—the bathroom was nice and spacious, with one of those really fancy showers that had all sorts of attachments and jets to them. When you returned, Hyunjin was on his way to the bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” 

Hyunjin didn’t even look behind him. He rolled his suitcase into the bedroom and removed his jacket before stretching his shoulders and neck. “What do you mean? I’m getting ready, same as you.”

“But why are you over there? In the bedroom? Aren’t you going to sleep on the couch?” Had he never heard of the concept of chivalry?

This time, Hyunjin did turn his head to look at you. He was squinting. “Why should I get the couch?”

“Because in books or in movies, dudes always offer to take the couch and they let the girl sleep in the bed!”

Hyunjin burst into laughter. “Oh my god, what’s next? Do I also need to put my jacket on your shoulders? Do I need to carry an umbrella for you?”

What an insufferable asshole. “Fuck you, Hwang. You know what? I’ll sleep on the couch because I’m not a spoiled brat like you.” 

“That has got to be the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard. Honest.” 

“Then you must not have heard yourself speak very often.” 

“Oh my god, just shut up.” With that, you left him by the door frame of his bedroom and went to the couch to take a few things out of your suitcase.

At least, the couch was excessively comfortable, and you also found a couple of clean blankets in a closet. You managed to find the cocktail dress you intended to wear for dinner as well as your accessories and shoes. While you were getting everything ready, Hyunjin went towards the bathroom.

At the last second, he dramatically slapped his forehead and swirled to face you. “Shit! I forgot! I was going to wash up, but maybe it’s required by law that I let you get the first shower since you’re a girl. Tell me—law school was forever ago—should I also lie on the tile so that you can use me as a shower mat? Are dudes required to do that?”

You very seriously considered throwing him the shoe that you were holding. “You’d like that too fucking much, Hwang.” 

He disappeared into the bathroom with a heartfelt laugh. You chuckled as well—at least, sometimes, his banter could be funny, no matter how annoying he was.

The restaurant was nice—it was actually a fancy cocktail bar right by the boardwalk, and it had a nice view of the sea, too. You made it in time for dinner, and met with Changbin’s friends—Chris and Jisung. 

Chris had a warm, dimpled smile and kind eyes. He laughed easily and made you comfortable immediately. Jisung was a little more introverted, but just as kind, and eager to know everything about your current case. Still, you ordered some drinks and appetizers to get to know each other. “Let’s drink and eat a lot, it’s all on Changbin’s card!” Chris pointed out, which caused the rest of you to laugh a little too much, but you and Hyunjin especially. Chris wasn’t wrong—maybe this would be your way to get back at your boss somehow. 

You focused on the case two drinks in. It was a business meeting but it unfolded more like a friendly discussion. Chris and Jisung were both knowledgeable on cases such as yours and they actually recounted many of them to you and Hyunjin. You took as many notes as you could on your phone and noticed that Hyunjin did the same. A pleasant surprise—you had imagined he was the kind of guy to be chatty but to get very little work done. However, he asked good questions and was even polite.

Maybe the drinks were doing him some good. He was certainly loosening up a little, as though his usual self was only a facade, or something exaggerated. That didn’t necessarily surprise you—maybe he was a little bit of a hypocrite, acting all cool and pretentious at work, but being just a regular guy in his personal life. Maybe he felt like he needed to have a strong personality to match his good looks.

You immediately connected with Chris, perhaps because he was sitting closest to you and had ordered the same meal as you. Damn, I have no choice but to order the same thing now, or else I’ll be wanting to eat off your plate! 

You took a lot of notes while waiting for the food, drinking another gin and lemonade. Jisung and Hyunjin were talking about their respective schools—despite not studying at the same university, they had had a professor in common and he was known to be just about the worst. Their anecdotes were funny and made you grateful that you had gone to the school you did.

Eventually, though, Chris slid his chair a little closer to you to strike up a conversation while the other two were reminiscing. He told you about his most successful case in another conflict of interest situation, except this time it had been about somebody being given personal information they perhaps shouldn’t have due to their bias. It was in a medical context too, which made everything even more interesting since you had briefly considered going into medical law.

“I can’t believe you won that one,” you admitted, impressed. You leaned back into your chair, raising your glass at Chris respectfully and taking a sip from it. “Good work.”

Chris was a humble guy. He made a dismissive motion of his hand. “It was an interesting case, that’s all—I don’t want you to think I told you all about it to brag! Soon enough, it’ll be you guys retelling the story of your case and how you won it because you found just the perfect angle.”

Without saying a word, you and Hyunjin looked at each other over the table. Yeah, the perfect angle… 

Jisung, however, didn’t skip a beat. “So how do you guys intend on approaching this anyway? What’s the plan?” He took a bite from his lemon chicken, looking at you, then Hyunjin, then you again. 

You took a sip from your drink, then another. For the first time since you had met him, Hyunjin seemed to have nothing to say, despite both Chris and Jisung waiting eagerly for more details.

You cleared your throat. “We, huh, disagree on the best course of action,” you admitted, and maybe you would have worded that differently if you were sober, but you were not sober. “Hwang thinks there is no conflict of interest, that there’s not even a case to be had. I, on the contrary, believe we shouldn’t shy away from it. If Kang appreciated the business over at Seon’s, he did, and that is all—who knows what proof of that the opposition has? I just think it’s too risky to pretend there’s nothing there. I’d rather go for the it was all in good faith angle.”

It was Chris and Jisung’s turn to exchange a quiet glance, but not for long—both of them laughed softly, shaking their heads and drinking more to wash down the food as they laughed. 

Hyunjin frowned, and you saw the arrogant prick in him make a grand return. “What’s so funny about it?” 

Chris, seeing that Hyunjin was upset, dipped his head politely, but his smile was just as wide as it had been. “Oh, no, no, it’s not like that, sorry!” he apologized with a wink for you. “It’s just that you guys are just like us.”

“We disagree all the time,” Jisung confirmed with a stern nod. “It’s frustrating as hell at first, but that means Changbin was right to put you two together on the same case. He’ll probably do it more in the future, too. Disagreements like these lead to better results—you’re unlikely to miss details if you keep working like that. It’s good.”

“It’s very good,” Chris added. “Unless the parties are too proud—then that makes things complicated… but you guys seem good, yeah?” 

It took every single atom of your being not to scoff derisively at Chris’ comment. Instead, you made yourself breathe and drink some more. You noticed from the corner of your eye that Hyunjin was doing the same thing. 

“I think they just want to have our opinion on it,” Jisung pointed out, elbowing Chris playfully. 

Chris nodded slowly, his smile turning softer, almost endeared, as he stared at the both of you. When his gaze fell on you, it lingered on your face but quickly trailed down to your mouth and then below your neck. You tensed up—it was impossible not to notice that he was checking you out—and blushed violently, but tried to conceal it by hiding your face behind your glass as you drank more and more. Chris was an excessively charming guy, funny, handsome, very intelligent. He talked a lot but he was also a good listener. 

You couldn’t deny that it flattered you that he was checking you out. 

“You guys are about to be disappointed,” Chris admitted with a chuckle. “Because—and I’m certain of it—Jisung would probably agree with Hyunjin. And me, I would agree with our lovely lady here. So I’m afraid we are not of much help.” 

Lovely lady. The red on your face turned crimson, and now your glass was empty so there was no concealing it. Chris dragged his tongue on his bottom lip, eyeing you carefully. 

“But you would have to agree though,” Hyunjin insisted, leaning over the table almost as though he wanted to grab Chris’ whole attention. “Like, at some point, you’d have to decide on something, right?” 

“We would, but it would take several hours of discussion and case study,” Jisung explained. “We’d have endless debates on it, and, after some time—a week, two weeks, a month even—one of us would admit that the other is right and that we have the better chance to win this case with this or that angle. But no stone would have been left unturned in the process of getting there, ensuring the better outcome.”

“Those cases take time,” Chris said. “It’s still too early to come to an agreement, but we’ll keep in touch.” He turned to you, pulling a business card from the inner pocket of his thin blazer, along with a pen. On the underside of the card, he quickly scribbled another number. “That’s my personal phone. Feel free to call or text at any time,” he added, handing you the card. He put it in your hand, his fingers gently caressing yours, sending shivers down your spine. 

For a minute, you imagined flirting back, you imagined finishing up dinner and going to the bar section to have a nice, intimate time with Chris. You’d ask him about his personal life and him about yours. Both of you single and too busy with work to really cultivate any sort of relationship. He’d make a point to touch you, a brush of the arm, maybe going as far as pushing your hair behind your ear. He might kiss you even, and you’d kiss him back, and invite him back to your hotel room. Except that your hotel room was the honeymoon suite which you shared with Mr. Asshole. Maybe Chris would ask you to come to his place, but he had mentioned he lived on the other side of the city, and you had an early train tomorrow morning…

You sighed, swallowing your short-lived fantasy of a steamy, passionate one-night stand with the handsome attorney. Instead, you made yourself smile, sliding the card in your purse. It felt strange not to, so you handed him one of your business cards in exchange for his. “Thank you so much, Chris. And—you guys have helped more than you think. It’s reassuring to know that divergence of opinions can actually be helpful. I think I’ll go back to the hotel—we’re leaving early tomorrow and there’s a lot of work to be done.” 

Chris stared at your lips for a few seconds. “Sure thing. You call me if you need anything, yeah?” He offered you one of those bright warm smiles. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll work on a case together someday!”

You also said your goodbyes to Jisung who eagerly shook your hand, and then you walked away. Hyunjin could spend the entire night with them for all you cared, but all of a sudden, the realization that a fun night with Chris wouldn’t be possible had been too disappointing, and you didn’t want any of these guys to see it on you.

If she were here, your best friend would tell you that you had just self-sabotaged yourself, that there would have been nothing wrong with spending a little more time alone with Chris. She would remind you that you were a lonely, overworked woman and that you needed to get your shit together or else you would never find a partner. Not if you don’t let anyone in, she had told you some time ago. And maybe she was right—you did agree with her on that, but you didn’t want to think about this part of your life. Not now, not while you were just starting to work on your most important case so far in your short career as an attorney. 

The night was cooler than it had been earlier and you found yourself wishing that you had brought a jacket with you. Instead, you walked faster, hoping to catch the pedestrian signal before it turned off at the intersection—unfortunately, you didn’t make it in time and had to wait by the road leading you to your hotel. 

“Hey, hold up!” 

You let out a disgruntled sigh when you heard Hyunjin’s voice behind. Part of you had hoped that he would have stayed with the other guys for quite a while, leaving you some privacy. 

When the pedestrian signal came on again, you didn’t wait—you simply began crossing the street. Hyunjin caught up with you easily. “Damn, you really are in a hurry,” he pointed out, walking beside you. You hugged your arms, seeking some warmth, keeping your gaze on the hotel ahead of you. “You okay there?”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.” Then, imagining it was obvious that something was troubling you, you decided to add, “It’s just a little cool, that’s all.” 

Hyunjin did not hesitate. “Ah, that’s right. You’re a girl, I’m a boy and there are laws about that sort of thing. Hold on.” Before you knew it, Hyunjin had removed his blazer and carefully placed it on your shoulders. It warmed you up immediately—the fabric was warm from him, who seemed to keep a high body temperature most of the time. It also smelled nice, and you realized you had never paid much attention to Hyunjin’s smell before. “There, ma’am. I am at your service. What else might I do for you?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, annoyed with his arrogant, sarcastic tone. You took the blazer off and handed it back to him. He held it over his shoulder with two fingers, exactly the way the male love interest would in a K-drama. You figured that Hyunjin must actually believe he was the main character in everyone’s life.

Hyunjin let one second pass, not more. “He really was shooting his shot, wasn’t he? Chris, I mean.” 

You shrugged as you made it to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. “Why do you care?”

It was Hyunjin’s turn to sigh. “Well, it wasn’t very professional of him to hit on you during a business meeting.”

You pressed your lips together, repressing a smile. “You’re just jealous because he agreed with my angle.”

“Jisung agreed with mine.” 

“But Chris is the senior.”

“Doesn’t mean shit to me,” Hyunjin retorted, now walking faster than you, as though he was racing you to the hotel. “Age is just a number.”

Despite his rapid walking, you caught up with Hyunjin in the hotel lobby as he stood by the elevators. Neither of you said a word as you waited. Your mind was fuzzy from the drinks, from the food, from the scent of Chris’ cologne lingering in your nose… no, that was Hyunjin’s. It was just the two of you in the elevator, and it was strong, smokey, and vaguely floral with sweet and amber undertones. It stuck to your skin, to your dress, all that from the two seconds it had been on your body. Breathing deeply didn’t help you at this moment, so you waited until you were back in the hallway to do so. It eased some of your tension, but it certainly didn’t make you any less tipsy than you were.

The room was just as you had left it. You quickly got out of your heels, relieving your feet, but were overcome with the need to wash up—would that scent follow you even after? Perhaps it wouldn’t, not if Hyunjin also washed up. 

You didn’t ask for permission and simply locked yourself in the bathroom. You tied your hair into a bun and got under the fancy shower, letting the warm water wash your worries away and, with them, Hyunjin’s scent. You felt a little better after despite being rather troubled still, and dried yourself before getting into more comfortable clothes—shorts and a tank top. Of course, you hadn’t planned on having to share the room with Hyunjin, but if he was indisposed by your outfit in any sort of way, he was welcome to look somewhere else. 

You found him sitting at the table with his laptop. He didn’t even glance at you but left for the bathroom when you sat with your own computer to clean up the notes you had taken over dinner. There were a lot of them and they were all messy, so it was best to do this right now before you forgot too much about your evening. 

You heard a text notification from your device while you were typing on your laptop but ignored it. Either it was Chris and that would disappoint you even further after your ruined night, or it was Changbin checking up on you to verify the potency of his prank, and despite him being your boss, you wouldn’t be able not to be rude. So you did not look at your notifications—to save yourself the trouble.

Hyunjin, much like you, had showered the evening away. He returned to the table in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I like to go to bed feeling clean,” he even told you, and you nodded in agreement while going over your notes. “Aren’t you cold though? There are robes in the bedroom if you’d like.”

You didn’t feel like hearing his relentless nagging. “I was only cold outside. I’m fine.” 

“We could fire up the hot tub,” he added. His tone was lighthearted and he was typing as he said it, so you knew he didn’t mean it and you just let it go. 

The next few minutes were quiet, only punctuated by the sounds of typing and the occasional sigh from either of you. You found that working alongside Hyunjin was not so awful when he didn’t talk. You also noticed his leather-bound notebook by his laptop—every page was filled with paragraphs of his tiny handwriting. It also contained several doodles, or rather, sketches. They weren’t bad at all. Flowers, a chair… you recognized the coffee machine on the second floor from the office. The back of a woman’s head and her shoulders… so he did use the notebook after all. Why only use it in private? You almost wanted to ask him, but figured it was none of your business anyway. All that you’d get would be a sarcastic, witty, and unpleasant response.

Sometimes, he would hum the melody of a song heard on the radio earlier at the restaurant, and his voice was pleasant, albeit a little distracting—you had just made a major breakthrough in your notetaking and were frantically typing before you could forget everything. 

Maybe Changbin had been right after all—well, not about the honeymoon suite—but about having them come here to meet Chris and Jisung. Maybe your and Hyunjin’s angles could be combined, maybe the true defense wasn’t so much in Kang’s motivations but in the actual wording of your debate and the logic behind it. It would require a lot more coaching of your witnesses to make sure they didn’t use the wrong words and tone during their testimony, but it could be done. 

“Hey, I—” you started, but as if on cue, Hyunjin was already pushing himself up and heading toward the mini fridge in the room. You watched as he opened it, stared at its contents for a few instants, and grabbed a handful of those miniature liquor bottles before returning to his laptop. “You gonna work drunk?”

He shrugged. “I’m already almost drunk.” He didn’t look too pleased, as though whatever he was looking at on his screen caused him some serious irritation. “It’s just a big case and I’m tired. And before you come for me, I know that liquor won’t help me be less tired or more focused, but it’s just what I want right now.” With this, he slid a couple of bottles toward you and opened one for himself. 

You twisted one Hennessy and drank a large gulp from it. It was crisp and cold and strangely refreshing. You took a second sip, savoring this one while you stared at Hyunjin at the other side of the table. He had never admitted to you that this case was difficult. In fact, he had never admitted that anything in his life ever caused him any kind of issues. You figured that his tipsy state must make him more inclined to say the truth.

“Want to look at my notes?” you suggested, and it was an honest offer.

He didn’t even look at you, slamming one empty whiskey on the table while scrolling on his laptop. “Don’t need to.”

You repressed a chuckle, although there was nothing humorous about the situation—after all, if Hyunjin struggled, it meant you would struggle at some point too. No matter how annoying he was, he was still assigned to the same case as you. “I think I found an angle, though.”

Hyunjin looked at you over his computer while he unscrewed another bottle. “What kinda angle?”

“Exactly the kinda angle that would be a compromise between your idea and mine.” 

You studied him while he tasted some spiced rum, his deep gaze, his traits so handsome that he didn’t look real. Perhaps this was why he had annoyed you from the very beginning. Literally, since you two had been hired on the same day. Because he looked too good to be real. Nobody should look like that, it was frustrating. No, infuriating. Those lips, too, and the way he wrapped them around the bottle to drink… 

God, I need to get my shit together. You straightened up into your chair, finishing your Hennessy in one last swig. “You think Changbin will pay for that?” you questioned with a frown. “I doubt that the hotel minibar was part of the deal…”

At this, though, Hyunjin did chuckle, almost choking on his bourbon. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He better fucking pay up, I’ll tell you this. I’d love to see Seo Changbin—or even Lee Minho—try and charge me for it.” He burst into full-on laughter, and although you could recognize that it was a bit of a nervous chortle, you laughed with him.

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s not like they could fire you or anything. Since you’re like, besties with Minho.”

Hyunjin let his laugh die down and stared at you intently with just the hint of a squint. He drank bourbon and licked his lips dry. He scoffed for himself only.

“What’s so funny?” you inquired, keeping the empty bottle in your hand just in case you needed to throw it at him. And you would. You really would if he gave you a reason to.

“Nothing. I’m just trying to decide if you’re drunk or jealous.”

You grunted, wrapping your fingers a little more tightly around the bottle. If it weren’t for Hyunjin’s phone that rang, he would have gotten that empty Hennessy launched straight on that pretty face of his. 

It was a text message, which he read and put his phone back on the table with the screen down. For some reason that annoyed you to no end.

It might have been the Hennessy, it might have been the gin at the restaurant, or the fact that he looked annoyingly good and nonchalant, sprawled on his chair, with his long ass legs in these stupid fucking gray sweatpants—in any case, you couldn’t not say something. You didn’t even try to stay calm either. “Who the fuck is texting you at this hour of the night anyway? Is one of your several booty calls missing you or something?”

Hyunjin slammed the empty bourbon on the table just a centimeter next to the empty whiskey. He stood, and for a moment you thought he was just leaving for his bed, but instead he took a step toward you, resting his elbows on the table. He was close enough that you could smell the hotel’s fancy body wash on him and the liquor on his breath. “And that’s how I became a successful attorney? Because I have all this extra time to fuck as many girls as I want? You know what, I think you actually are jealous.” He leaned forward, a smirk painting itself on his full lips. “Do you think I have two, three girls on my cock every night, baby? Is that it? You want some of th—”

In your whole life, you had rarely experienced such whiplash as you did at that moment. You sprung to your feet, enraged. “BABY?” You let out a growl, pushing two fingers into his chest when he dared come any closer to you.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes with a click of his tongue. “Relax. Ma’am. The text was just Chris saying he’ll swing by tomorrow morning to talk about the case again… but he also asked why you ignored his text. I think the Aussie misses you already. You should call him, maybe he’s jerking off thinking about you as we speak.”

“You’re fucking classless, Hwang.” You nudged him away, but he barely moved. He just stared at you. And at your tits. “My eyes are up here, by the way.” You had to be drunk because there was no way you would be this bold if you weren’t. “I think you’re the jealous one here. Are you all pissy because he wants the same toy as you? Spoiled prick.” 

Hyunjin towered over you, his boozy breath caressing your face softly. “You call me a spoiled prick, but you’re the one acting all weird.”

“All weird? The fuck? You’re the weird one, talking about girls on your cock and shit. As if I cared about that? Or is that how you flirt with girls? You quite literally have the biggest ego I’ve ever fucking seen.”

This seemed to strike a chord. Hyunjin’s body language switched from annoyed to straight-up pissed off. He suddenly grabbed his crotch—really grabbed it, too—and spoke louder than you had ever heard him do. “Oh, you wanna see something big, baby?”

You slapped him. In the face. You weren’t able to control it—in fact, it felt as though you were witnessing something that you were not a part of, and yet you felt it, his skin underneath your hand. You had never seen him reach this level of cockiness before, and Hyunjin seemed to be able to bring out a very specific type of rage within you. Who did he think he was? 

And yet it shocked you just as much as it shocked him—you gasped loudly, retreating your hand immediately. Hyunjin frowned, reaching for his cheek where his skin was turning pink. He stared at you, dumbfounded, the silence in the room heavier than his gaze. You stared at him too. Back and forth, eyes dancing over the other. His lips. Your lips. Below your neck. His raw cheek. Below your neck again. His lips. Your lips. 

Hyunjin cocked his head to the side, his eyes unfocused, leaning rapidly closer to you. For a second, you thought he was about to retaliate, but something else entirely happened.

He put his large hands on your arms and pinned you to the wall to kiss you hard. It took your brain a second or two to process that—your back on the wall, the impact of it. The impact of his mouth on yours, devouring you, his lips warm and wet and eager. You kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. His mouth tasted a lot like liquor and maybe a little like regret, but he was fucking yours with his tongue and it made you moan. 

He pulled away for a second and you could breathe again, your head falling back, exposing your neck to him. He buried his face there and you ran your fingers through his hair. It was silky, soft, it felt good to touch but not better than his mouth leaving scorching kisses all over your neck and exposed shoulders, nibbling at you, sucking your skin. That fucking mouth of his. Sassy, arrogant. Pretty. Leaving bite marks and hickeys all over you. 

Hyunjin grunted when you tried to pull him back up for more kisses. “Let me,” he protested, leaving a trail of spit on your throat. “I want Chris to see you like that tomorrow. Marked. Claimed.”

“You really are a prick,” you retorted, but you let go of his hair to slide your hands underneath Hyunjin’s shirt. His skin was hot to the touch. You pulled him closer, feeling him underneath your fingertips. His toned abdomen, his strong body. “I fucking hate you.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal,” Hyunjin said, still busy down your neck. He pushed you flush to the wall, leaving no space between your body and his, cupping your breasts in his big hands while his lips played with the skin on your throat. “I hate you just as much, but you look fuckable as hell. Just look at those tits.”

You bit your lip, repressing a whimper. Already, warmth was pooling at your core and you felt less and less strength in your legs. You held onto him, resting your forehead on his collarbone. Hyunjin pulled your tank top down, exposing you to him, allowing him to kiss you there too. He played with your nipples, swirling his tongue around them, lapping at them, sucking onto them, leaving them swollen and flushed. 

You found the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged at it, causing Hyunjin to moan while he squeezed your breasts, his hands too big for them almost, but agile nonetheless. In no time, you shoved your hand in his pants, cupping him—he was hard already, his cock straining against the fabric of his underwear. Your knees almost gave out as you palmed him, really taking in the feeling of him. His cock was big. Big enough to make your pussy throb. 

Hyunjin pressed his lips on yours again, groaning into your mouth while you were rubbing him over his boxers. Feeling him grinding onto your palm sent electricity throughout your entire body and it settled between your legs, becoming a distracting pressure. 

“You’re liking this huh? Baby?” Hyunjin smirked, rolling his hips, fucking himself onto your hand. “Can I call you baby? Or are you going to slap me again?”

You took his mouth, kissing him, squeezing his cock just a little too hard. Hyunjin bucked his hips, laying a hand flat on the wall behind you, his face flushed. For the first time ever, his hair was disheveled. It looked good on him, though. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t fucking like it,” you warned in between kisses. “Or I’ll just do it again and you’ll blow in my hand, right here, right now.” You weakly—and playfully—smacked his cheek. 

Hyunjin inhaled you, your hair, your neck. You smelled him too, pleased to realize that despite his shower, the scent of his cologne lingered faintly on his skin. “Fuck you. I’d bet you’re soaked right now.”

“And what do you want to bet, handsome?” 

You knew very well that he was right—you could feel yourself oozing into your shorts, you just wanted to see what he had in mind. 

Hyunjin thought about it for a few seconds while playing with your tits, making them bounce in his hands or flicking at your nipples gently. Each caress, each touch, made you dizzier than the last. You could feel the warmth emanating from your body, and you wondered if he could feel it, too. 

“If I touch your pussy right now and you’re wet, you let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin offered after considering his options. “Because then it just means I was right all along—you’re a fucking slut, no matter how hard you try to pass as a righteous bitch.” 

You let go of his cock but not without another strong squeeze, causing him to hiss almost painfully. “Do your thing, Hwang.” 

He snickered at you, wasting no time pushing your shorts to the side to feel you. His fingers found your soaked folds. He rubbed you, caressing you, coating his fingers with your slick. “Fucking hell…” he breathed. “No panties? You’re soaking into your shorts just like that? So I was right. You’re just a whore. You play hard to get but you leave the scent of your pussy everywhere you fucking go, don’t you?” 

Hard to get? “Fuck you, Hwang.” But he kissed you again, pulling you with him toward the bedroom. You took his t-shirt off him and he did the same with your shorts.

The back of his knees hit the mattress and you both collapsed onto the bed with you on top of him, not breaking the kiss once while you tried to tug his sweatpants off him. You’d show him. You’d show that prick how hard to get you were.

You finally got rid of his pants, freeing his erection. He had left the bedside lamps on, allowing you to see his beautiful, smooth cock, as pretty as the rest of him. It was heavy, too, and big. You wrapped your hand around it while you climbed onto Hyunjin proper, resting your knees on either side of him. 

“Told you it was big,” Hyunjin teased. “Can you even take it?” 

Your hand traveled down his shaft, his base, finding his tight, straining balls. You fondled them while Hyunjin caressed your bare thighs with his large hands, his thumbs always stopping closer and closer to your pussy. You tilted your head. “Maybe you should chill with the nagging. I’m literally holding you by the balls.” 

He shrugged. “Just raising concern for my colleague’s wellbeing.” He lifted his chin toward you. “Look at that pussy. So pretty and tight. I’ll fucking ravage you.”

Hyunjin used his knee to part your legs open, allowing him to see your glistening folds. He hissed, cupping you, rubbing your pussy with his palm, and pulling you in for another kiss. He was a good kisser. His mouth felt good so you relished just a little longer in the feeling of his languid kisses and his hand between your legs, teasing your clit and your hole. 

You lowered your body, properly straddling him now, both your hands on his perfectly defined abdomen, his cock resting against your throbbing pussy. Carefully, you took him in your hand again, loving the feeling of it there, too, and curious to see how it would feel inside you. You propped yourself up, wasting no time guiding Hyunjin’s cock toward your entrance.

He was handsome, especially in that moment, as you pushed his tip into you. You gasped and whimpered and moaned as you sank down onto his cock, adjusting to his size. “Oh fuck…” Hyunjin’s hands traveled all over your body—your waist, your thighs, your tits, still spilling out of your tank top. “Fuck—” 

He was bigger than your favorite dildo. Your breath hitching up, you kept sinking further down to take more and more of him, the stretch delightful. “Are you taking your time on purpose?” he sighed, sweat pearling on his forehead. “Fuck this, I’ll do it myself.” He slid his hands from your breasts to your hips, pushing you down, forcing you onto his cock. “Aaaahhh fuck, don’t clench so much—” 

You both came to a stop when he bottomed out. You bit into your lower lip, pleasure taking over you just from the way his cock filled you. You adjusted your weight on him, placing your hands on his torso to keep your balance, and slowly rolled your hips. 

It set you on fire. And him, too. You retreated a little, clenching involuntarily around his cock, and slammed onto him again, causing both of you to cry out. Again.

And again. You quickened up your pace, your movements made easier by how wet you were. Hyunjin grunted every time you rolled your hips, staring at the way his cock disappeared into you. “Fucking hell…” he managed, landing a gentle smack on your ass, not hard enough to sting. “You’re creaming me up real good.” 

You leaned down to kiss him, his throat, his pretty collarbones. What a fucking jerk. You filled the room with your moans as you fucked yourself onto him, using him the same way you would use an inanimate toy, taking as much of his cock as you could, your pace relentless. You bit him the same way he had done to you earlier, tugging at his hair to expose his throat for you. “See how I take it?” you panted, rutting on him as though you were in heat, seeking more and more of this. You had never been filled like this before—every second was pure bliss. “See how I take that big cock of yours, Hwang?” 

He looked unreal under you, your fist in his hair, hickeys all over his throat, his perfect body covered in sweat. He smirked at your remark and before you knew it, his hand found your face. He cupped it by your chin, pulling you closer until he was looking at you in the eyes. You were no longer in control. His slender fingers dug into your cheeks, but your brain did not register that sensation as painful. You clenched so hard around him that he growled. 

“You really take me like a cock-hungry slut.” He released your face only so that he could hold your waist and fuck you from below, pushing himself deeper and deeper. “Isn’t that what you are, huh? Don’t you love the way I stretch your tight cunt? I didn’t know you were so horny…” 

Hyunjin chuckled as he wrapped his arms around your body to roll you under him. You cried out when his large cock slipped out of your hole, humping into nothing. That cock was pure heroin. Addictive enough that you needed it. Again. 

But he wouldn’t hear you beg, no. You’d rather die than beg Hwang Hyunjin. 

“Look at you…” He was kneeling in between your legs, keeping them open for him. He reached for your pussy, caressing you very softly. “You’re all stretched, all puffy down there, baby… What a sight.” 

You rolled your hips to rub yourself against his hand, chasing your high. You could feel it—a pressure, a storm swirling deep within your core, your pussy throbbing for it. 

“Tut-tut, hold on. I said I was going to ravage you, but I want to play a little.” He grabbed one of the pillows and slid it underneath your lower back.

It took no time for the caresses on your cunt to start again, more insistent this time. He teased your hole with his skilled fingers, pushing two inside. The wet sound it made was lewd enough to make you clench hard on his digits. 

He laughed. “Cute.” He moved his fingers inside you, massaging your walls very precisely. He knew what he was doing—soon enough, he twisted his wrist and curled his fingers to hit that one spot. The pressure rose within you and you could feel your pulse in your cunt. “Now, listen—in a little while you’re gonna feel like you have to pee. Don’t panic. Just relax,” Hyunjin said, his voice low and calm, but all that you could do was lie there and stare at him, his hard, leaking cock, flushed dark. His panting chest, his hair sticking to his face. 

Hyunjin began finger-fucking you like a madman, pumping his fingers in and out of you, using his other hand to rub circles on your clit. Skin heating up, you held onto the sheets, to his arm, to yourself, but you were losing control. Every time Hyunjin pushed his fingers—now three—inside you, he hit the spot he needed to hit. Every. Single. Time. 

“HYUNJIN!” You felt it. The pressure, rising fast, too fast. 

Instead of pushing his fingers in and out of you now, Hyunjin pressed them on your g-spot, focusing there only, massaging you frantically. “Give it to me. Fucking give it to me, show me how much of a whore you are. Make a mess for me. I’ll give you my cock after. Come on, give it to me.” 

You tried to keep your eyes open but your eyelids fluttered too hard, and it felt as though your soul was ascending away from your body. The finger-fucking, the relentless rubbing on your clit, the lewd squelching sounds, Hyunjin’s smooth voice… 

You broke.

You felt it take over you. That storm, that heat. You arched into him and suddenly everything was very wet and the pressure was relieved immediately. You cried out, melting into the bed as you came, your walls fluttering, your mind blank. There was nothing except the waves of pleasure between your legs. Wet, warm. Hyunjin played with you until your breathing had returned almost to normal.

When you opened your eyes again, you found your thighs covered in your arousal. Hyunjin pulled his fingers out of your still-sensitive hole, bringing them to his lips to lick them clean. 

“Did I—” 

Hyunjin leaned over you to kiss you and you tasted yourself in his mouth. “You squirted like the pretty little slut you are, all over me, too,” he told you in between kisses. “Let’s see how you take my cock now that you’re fucked out.”

In just two seconds, you found yourself laying on your stomach, your ass propped up by the pillow on which your hips rested. Hyunjin pushed your legs open, rubbing his cock all over your soaked cunt. You whined into the mattress, using the last of your strength to look behind you. “Are you afraid to blow too fast or what? You know, some women consider premature ejaculation as a complim—” 

You couldn’t finish your sentence—with a grunt, Hyunjin pushed his hard cock inside you, slamming into you, bottoming out in one thrust. You let out a cry, quivering under him. “Take me. That’s it. God, you’re so fucking wet…” Buried into you, Hyunjin fondled your tits, fucking you slowly at first, almost like he was getting used to it. “Like this? This is good?” 

“Yes, yes, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” He was too slow. He was stretching your pussy and you loved it. “Fuck me, come on!” 

You felt Hyunjin’s sweaty chest pressing itself onto your back as he forced his cock deeper within you. “Do you remember our little bet earlier?” he asked, whispering into your ear. “I’ll fill you real good. I’ll fill you so much that the other dude—the Australian—he’s gonna smell my cum on you tomorrow morning.” 

It spilled from your lips before you could stop it. “Please,” you breathed, trapped in between the mattress and Hyunjin’s body. His weight on you was heavenly. “Just fuck me. Just fuck me, Hwang.” 

And he fucked you.

He pounded into you, rolling his hips skillfully, taking up all the space within you. “That’s it, baby. You’re being such a good cocksleeve for me. Didn’t think you could take me like that. Suck on these for me, show me how you use that mouth.” He shoved a couple of his fingers into your mouth and you closed your lips around them. They tasted like sex, like your pussy. You moaned as you sucked off his digits, wishing he would let you do the same with his cock.

“Maybe once I get that office, you’ll have to come visit me there. Maybe I’ll make you kneel under my desk and I’ll fuck your throat just like I’m fucking you right now. Let those other guys smell my cock on your breath the rest of the day. You’d like that, huh?” He slammed into you again and again, frantically, desperately. “GOD, you are tight, don’t clench, don’t clench—” 

But you couldn’t help it. You could feel the pressure rising again, overstimulated from all of it, from Hyunjin pumping his cock so hard inside you that you were certain he would bruise you. From the sound of his voice tickling your ear, his hot breath on your skin, your sweaty bodies entangled together, the wet noises of your flesh colliding. 

Hyunjin fucked you into a sloppy, loud mess. You let out a series of staccato moans as he chased his high—he was so close that you could feel him twitch inside you—grabbing onto the sheets as though you could fall down the bed. “Oh god, that’s it—” he rasped, pulling his fingers from between your mouth to hold your waist, keeping you in place for him. “Take me, take me like that, take my cum—take all of it—” The rest of his sentence became inaudible as he lost himself in his bliss, burying his face into your hair.

His fucking became erratic, deeper, too, and you could feel yourself closer and closer to the edge. He was fucking you so hard that you were about to cum. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t stop—” you panted, eyes rolling at the back of your head. You hated him for how easy it was for him to make you cum. Hated him for how fucking big his cock was, driving into you. You hated him for how good it felt, and how you loved the sensation of falling into a pit of lava, your entire body engulfed in wet heat. 

You clenched around him, and it was over for Hyunjin. He snapped, arching into you, moaning and whimpering, hips stuttering as he sprayed his thick cum into you, pulsing around your snug heat. He fucked himself onto you, fucking his cum deeper inside you in powerful thrusts. “There’s so much cum baby, can you feel it?” he panted. “Such a sweet cunt you have. Cum for me again. Milk me, come on.” 

But you were already cumming, dissolving into pleasure, into nothing, into the mattress. You came in a series of long, drawn-out moans, fluttering around his sensitive cock. He moaned with you, spilling the rest of his seed as you came, fucking you through your orgasm at a slow, languid pace, allowing you to really feel it. The waves of pleasure were strong, and they gently became ripples before they calmed down. 

Neither of you moved for what might have been an hour. It took a while before Hyunjin managed to prop himself onto his hands and remove himself off you—a large amount of cum dripped out when he pulled his softening cock out of your swollen pussy. He lay next to you, staring at the ceiling. 

“Bet you’ll still look fucked out tomorrow. I’m gonna text Chris and tell him to be here early,” Hyunjin said with a smile. 

The whole room smelled like sweat, like sex and you liked it in a deranged way. “You’re very competitive,” you pointed out, still wildly out of breath. “I wasn’t gonna sleep with him, you know?”

“I don’t care.” Hyunjin rolled on his side to look at you. His eyes, much like yours, were sleepy but content. His pretty cock was glistening, coated in cum—both yours and his. “You know what? Keep the bed. You made a mess in it anyway, squirting all over it like the pretty whore you are.” He giggled, struggling to keep his eyes open. And he stayed right there in the bed with you, taking most of the space on it. What a prick.

You managed to roll off the supporting pillow underneath you, feeling the damp sheets on your skin. If you could still walk, you’d at least try to clean up a little, but you were far from that.

“Fuck you.” 

“You just did that, baby.” He chuckled sleepily at his own joke, licking his lips. “Do we still hate each other by the way?” 

You giggled too, drifting off to sleep, sore, content, and full of cum. “Jury’s still out on that one, Hwang.”

a/n: just a little something for the Red Light Chronicles! I had fun writing about my cunty attorney. You guys take care!

permanent taglist: @abiaswreck ; @accalus ; @aimeexx ; @b4kuho3 ; @binstitsweat ; @casualtaelyn ; @cb97percent ; @changbinheart ; @chans1aptop ; @chartrucewhore ; @djeniryuu ; @dwaekkiracha ; @erispancakes ; @fwess ; @hanjingin ; @hwan-g ; @hyuneyeon ; @hyunfruits ; @hyunjinswifeee ; @hyunniethepooh ; @hyunsungbased ; @hyuwunjinie ; @hyyuniverse ; @iam2out ; @imseungminsgf ; @inkybird ; @jollchacho ; @katsukis1wife ; @lilbabiebunni ; @leedunno ; @lotus-dly ; @miraworldsstuff ; @moasworld ; @neosracha ; @revehosh ; @skzfelixlove ; @straydhampir ; @straykids5star ; @suhomylife ; @sunlitwilderness ; @thestarseeker ; @ven-fic-recs ; @yourmercibeaucoupsblog

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Let’s Fall in Love, IRL | Prologue

pairing: Jisung x fem reader

genre: smau, crack, angst, fluff, non!idol au, Pen pals to lovers, friend of a friend to lovers

pov: 1st/2nd person (depending on how you view it)

warnings: swearing, mention of food

summary: When she was a child, L/n Y/n was in a horrible accident that left her face disfigured.  After getting bullied relentlessly by her classmates for her appearance, Y/n escaped to the digital world where she meets Felix. Now an adult, Y/n has be come a complete social recluse, only talking to her 4 childhood best friends and roommates and her only friends. When Felix goes AFK one day in the middle of a game, Felix’s roommates decides to step in. Is this the start a new relationship or will Y/n’s crippling social anxiety get in the way?

taglist: CLOSED

word count: n/a

screenshot count: 12

masterlist | next

©feelbokkie (2023) — all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated.

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Buy me a coffee?

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Taglist

Red means that it wouldn't let me tag you (either at all or properly)

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @phtogravi @lilcutieana @veedoesntknaur @yongbbokkie @brain-empty-only-draken @thisisnotjacinta @thefangirloncrack @chlodavids @heartz4chuu @sunshinessky @reverse-soe @its-hannjisung @angelsandtimelords @zeejones @liknws @marked-unknown @sansona @aaasia111 @jhstayy @aslou @hyunbae-35 @kangaracharacha @skz-streamer @btskzfav @weird-bookworm @jihanniee @everglowdaisies @puppysmileseungmin

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jury's still out | one-shot

pairing: hyunjin x f!reader | wc: 12k | genre: rivals to hooking up ; smut with plot |  general warnings: workplace rivalry ; only one bed ; hate sex ; mild violence (slapping) | explicit sexual content, this work is for adult audiences ; explicit warnings under the cut | Author compiles major/relevant warnings only. Reader discretion is advised.

Every Monday was more of the same—you checked your schedule which contained way too many meetings, and then you looked at the assigned cases for the week. And every single Monday, Hwang Hyunjin was assigned the best, most interesting case. 

*Installment of The Red Lights Chronicles

explicit warnings: slapping (m receiving) ; kinda dom!hyunjin ; mild/moderate degradation ; rough unprotected sex ; no aftercare — every act taking place is consensual. 

“You’ve got to be FUCKING kidding me! Him again?” 

You slammed your fist on your desk, causing a few drops from your coffee to spill over your cup and land on a file. With yet another grunt, you hurried to grab a tissue and try to prevent too much bleeding through the sheets. The intern in the cubicle next to yours shot a worried glance at you, swirling his chair to face you. Jeongin arrived here just last week, and your manager stuck him with you because you had ‘enough time’ to ‘show him the ropes.’

“Miss? Should I make another copy of those?” he asked, rising from his chair and motioning toward the file, which was in fact one of the files from a case you had just won. 

Jeongin was a nice boy, a good intern, but you just lacked the patience with interns, despite remembering being one not so long ago. You took a deep breath, making sure that none of the sheets had been ruined by coffee. “No, it’ll be fine. Thanks. Did you fill out the forms I asked you for today’s meeting?”

“Almost done, miss,” he said with a dip of the head, adjusting the thick black glasses over his nose. “Are you… alright?”

With a sigh, you turned to your screen again where you had been looking at the schedule for the week. Every Monday was more of the same—you checked your schedule which contained way too many meetings, and then you looked at the assigned cases for the week.

And every single Monday, Hwang Hyunjin was assigned the best, most interesting case. 

“Look at this shit, Jeongin. Tell me what’s wrong with this.” Maybe this would be the best way to prepare him for his life as a defense attorney—it would be best if he was fully informed about it. You had known this was a competitive line of work, but nobody had prepared to be faced with someone whose ego was as big as Hwang.

Jeongin leaned over the computer, reading the screen carefully. “Uh… Miss, I don’t know, I—”

“Look at the Kang/Seon case.” You even showed him the names, pointing your index at the screen. “Remember, we talked about this case yesterday?”

“Oh yeah, the conflict of interest case, right?” As though you were a literal teacher and him the student, Jeongin straightened up to describe the case that you had reviewed with him. “Mr. Kang was named executive director in Mr. Seon’s company, but that was deemed a conflict of interest due to Mr. Kang’s financial involvement in Seon’s old bank.”

You nodded. “That case can make a career, Yang. It can unmake it, too. But if Changbin assigned it to Hwang…”

With a sigh, you leaned back into your chair. Of course they would give that case to Hwang. The up-and-coming star, the handsome, conceited prick who went through law school on his parents’ money. God’s favorite. He always had it so easy. 

“Do you think it means Mr. Hwang will be up for the promotion you want, then?” Jeongin questioned, his eyes suddenly turning big and inquisitive. 

There was an ongoing rumor about a big promotion coming up among the junior associates, and it was the talk of the moment. Hell, some people were even betting on who would get it, and whether it came with a window office and a decent parking space. As in betting with money on it.

And, of course, like any other promotion, it would come with a significant raise in salary.

“If he wins,” you admitted reluctantly, “he’ll probably be promoted. Yes.” And this was not the first big case that Hyunjin was given in the past few months, which meant nothing good for you.

Your assigned intern clicked his tongue, shaking his head. You let silence fill the immediate area, but you could hear conversations in the distance and a lot of frantic typing on keyboards. You recognized the usual ambiance before the Monday morning meetings—everybody getting ready for it, reviewing their files, catching up on stuff with others if they had to.

“But what about you?” Jeongin questioned. “What case did they give you, miss? Is it a good one? What if it’s a case that could make your career, too?” 

You hadn’t even thought about it, too upset that you didn’t get the Kang/Seon case. You scrolled further on the page, looking for your name. 

“The fuck?” You read the line one, two, three times. “THE FUCK?”

The words Kang/Seon were also written next to your name. 

“But that’s great news!” Jeongin cheered, clapping his hands once as a sign of victory. “And two associates on the same case means it’s a lot more likely you will win the case!” 

You stared at your screen, speechless. Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking crazy, actually, that they’d have you work on a case with Hwang. Hwang was known for being just about the worst when it came to teamwork, preferring the lone-wolf kind of lifestyle. He was sort of famous for it, too. For winning cases on his own when they should have been handled by two attorneys. He took great pride in that, walking around with a self-satisfied grin on his pretty face when he came back from the courthouse.

Seeing that you had been assigned to that case should have been good news. It should have made you excited. Instead, you had to take a few deep breaths to calm down and not cry minutes before the meeting, or else your mascara would be ruined.

You being on this case with Hwang only meant one thing: he would shine because he was the favored one. And you would be invisible, no matter what.

Could it be revenge? Could it be that Changbin had heard about the job offer you got from another firm and that he simply wanted you gone? You hadn’t said a definitive no to the other firm because their offices were closer to your place. But you liked working here. Most of the time anyway. 

With a sigh, you grabbed your things, getting ready to make it to the conference room. “Let’s go to this meeting and get this over with.” 

“Just a note about the new paralegals—please let them do some of the work.” Your boss’ smile faltered slightly as he spoke. Changbin sat opposite from you at the large conference table, but was addressing everyone. “Let them do more research, something, anything. If management keeps thinking we don’t need them, they’ll cut my budget even more.” The declaration was received with a few faint chuckles around the table, but you could barely hear anything that was going on.

Click click. Click click. Click click. 

Click click. Click click.

Also sitting opposite of you but farther down the table was Hwang Hyunjin, always with that smug expression on his pretty face, fidgeting relentlessly with his retractable pen. Click click. Click click. Click click. He chuckled with the others at Changbin’s comment, his stupidly broad shoulders shaking with his frankly derisive laughter. You glared at him, crossing your arms over your chest and taking a few deep breaths. Click click. Click click. 

“Can you stop that?” The words blurted out of your mouth before you could stop them—not that you wanted to stop them anyway. “Can you stop?” 

Hyunjin raised a pair of amused eyes at you. He had the eyes of a doll, and perfect eyebrows, too. His nose was just as perfect, but everybody knew Hwang Hyunjin had the best pair of lips in the whole office. Including himself—he was very aware of the way he looked, and the effect he had on people.

He ran his fingers through his short, thick hair, and it fell back into place perfectly, as though he was freshly out of the hair salon. God’s favorite, truly. “Stop what?” he retorted, tilting his head to the side with a grin on his face. “I’m literally just sitting.”

You tsked him. “You know exactly. The pen. Please stop playing with it. We’re trying to work here.” 

Hyunjin smacked his pretty perfect lips together, observing you. Warmth spread all over your face—Changbin had stopped talking and all the attention was on you. Hyunjin had the kind of eyes that really studied people, too, and it always felt as though he could read them. You had once speculated that he could genuinely read minds, which had sent you into an immediate panic—you did not want him to know everything going through your head.

Hyunjin had another chuckle, more amused this time. His eyes, briefly, turned into crescents. “Well, I’m so very sorry ma’am for disturbing your peace. I shall cease this activity right this second. Ma’am.” With that sarcastic retort, he dramatically let go of the pen and placed it next to his unopened notebook. He always brought a notebook with him although he exclusively used his laptop to take notes, and you suspected the fancy leather-bound journal was just for show.

Ma’am?! You wanted nothing more than to insult him to his face and, for once, make him see that he was not the main character, despite him obviously feeling like he was. But the many pairs of eyes on you were more than enough to pacify you. You had been assigned a big case, and even though you were partnered up with that prick, you needed to be professional if you wanted any sort of positive outcome for yourself.

You cleared your throat, swallowing the fuck you that you so badly wanted to spit at Hyunjin. “Thank you so very much for your cooperation, sir. From the bottom of my heart. I profoundly enjoy being able to hear and focus on what my boss has to say, you see—just a stupid habit of mine. Sir.”

You sat straight in your chair, turning away from Hyunjin before you could even see what face he was making. Changbin seemed amused by the situation, concealing a laugh into a fist over his mouth. To his left, Felix, a senior associate, was also avoiding eye contact so as not to laugh openly. The interns show a little more restraint, but not by much. 

Changbin coughed, wiping a tear off the corner of his eye. “Okay, last order of business before someone ends up with a pen in their eye—the Kang/Seon case. Sir and Ma’am, I assume you know the basics of the case. What’s the angle here?” 

Thanks to Hyunjin’s annoyingly attractive nonchalance, you managed to speak before him.

“Well, it’s quite evident that there was a certain bias, so I think we should state that Mr. Kang took the job because of his involvement in the company, fully aware of the situation,” you replied. “To make it seem like he’s some sort of fanboy.”

Changbin took a few notes on his phone. “Interesting. Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin let out a snort.“Obviously, our best approach is to deny everything. It’s not like Kang doesn’t have several millions to invest—his financial involvement with Seon might appear significant to us, but in reality, it’s nothing for this guy. Who cares?” 

The audacity. Hyunjin stared at you from his chair, raising his eyebrows and shrugging with a stupid smile on his face. You chewed on your bottom lip, annoyed to no end. If looks could kill, you’d be staring at a dead body at this instant. It was as though you were in purgatory and Hyunjin had been sent to test you. He could not be more your exact opposite. 

“As we go into this case, you guys are gonna have to pretend like you consulted each other once in a while, okay?” Changbin commented, but he didn’t seem mad. A corner of his lips was curved into a half smile. “I actually like both of these angles, which doesn’t help anybody here. But since it’s our first case of the sort, I arranged for you two to meet with some of my friends from down south tomorrow. They’ve dealt with a lot of similar cases, and they agreed to lend a hand as a gesture of friendship for me. We met in law school, and they’re good people.” 

“Damn, I haven’t seen Chris and Ji in forever, I’m actually jealous!” Felix protested with a large smile on his bright face. “If I wasn’t so busy with the Nam case, I’d go along.” 

“Well, I need you on the Nam case,” Changbin pointed out. “Besides, I’m certain that these two can come to an agreement.” Your boss spoke directly to you and Hyunjin in alternance. “Don’t embarrass me. Hyunjin, don’t fucking play with your pens and shit. And you,” he added, turning to you, “work on your acting. It’d be great if you didn’t look like you’re about to commit murder during dinner, or worse—in front of the judge.” 

Oh, fantastic. You didn’t need psychic powers to know you were about to have an awful next couple of days. Maybe this really was a test, not necessarily from God, but from your boss. What if this was his way to verify your loyalty to the firm? By forcing you to work with your—and there really was no other way to put it—enemy? Maybe he thought that if you did stay after that, you were a solid attorney and human being, and worth investing in. 

Or maybe Changbin just really enjoyed watching you lose your temper. In which case he must have had a blast during the meeting.

“Wonderful,” Hyunjin said flatly, his large eyes on you. “I so cannot wait to work with you, ma’am.”

He had a death wish, didn’t he? He had to. Why else would he have such nerve? As though being pretty and tall gave him every right. 

“I’m so looking forward to this,” you replied with the exact same voice. “Sir.” 

Changbin gave the wooden table a gentle slap. “If you guys promise to behave, I’ll make sure you stay in a great hotel with a hot tub! Four stars and all!”

It literally did not matter the number of stars—you were going to hate this. Nothing that could possibly happen would make working with Hwang even a little bit more pleasant.

“Can you check again?” 

“I just checked three times, miss. I’m very sorry, but the only reservation I have in your name is for the one room.” The hotel receptionist gave you yet another contrite look. “Under the names Hwang Hyunjin and Y/LN Y/N.” 

You felt panic take over you, looking everywhere around you. The lobby of the hotel was impressive, as promised by Changbin. The whole hotel was furnished in a very modern style but with elegant ornate details. You knew one thing—you couldn’t afford to pay for a room here with your own money. Actually, you feared that if you did use your credit card here, your bank would assume that your card had been stolen and would block the transaction. You were still paying your student debt, after all, and avoided spending large sums of money.

Behind you, Hyunjin cleared his throat, approaching for the first time since you had attempted to check-in. He rolled his fancy suitcase along with him, leaning his arm over the lavish counter, looking as dapper as always despite being fresh off the train. “There’s been a mistake,” Hyunjin argued with poise and a seducing smile. “We’re not a couple. I believe the person who took the reservation must have misunderstood.”

The hotel employee stared at Hyunjin a little longer than she needed to. She glanced at her computer before looking up again. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Hwang, but it seems the reservation was made online, and that the honeymoon suite has been specifically requested.”

Hyunjin closed his eyes, clicking his tongue and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You’ve got to be shitting me…” he cursed under his breath. “Are there two beds in the room?”

The employee blinked a few times. “It is the honeymoon suite, Mr. Hwang.” 

You stared behind you, where a line of a few other clients was starting to form, and they didn’t look particularly patient. “Can’t you just get another room?” you asked Hyunjin in a low voice, leaning closer to him. 

He looked appalled. “Why me? My name came first on the reservation, I think I should keep it.”

“That’s so fucking childish!” You let out an irritated sigh. “You and your fancy-ass suits can definitely afford a room!”

Hyunjin shook his head. “If you think I’m so fancy, why shouldn’t I get the good room? Get one of the basic ones, it’s just one night, who gives a shit?” 

The receptionist interrupted you before you could even reply to him. “I’m very sorry, but we are fully booked for the night—there are two conventions currently going on in the city. If I may—the honeymoon suite had been booked as of a few days ago, as there was a last-minute cancellation. I can only assume that whoever made the reservation for you did not have any other choice. I’m truly sorry, but as of right now, I cannot offer you another room.” 

Fucking great. You grunted, shoving your hand into the pocket of your jacket to retrieve your phone, unsure of what you even wanted to do. Maybe you wanted to look for another hotel—if they even had anything available nearby. Maybe you wanted to call Changbin. But then you caught a glimpse of what time it actually was.

“Shit, Hwang. We gotta sort this out, we have to be at dinner in an hour.” Changbin had also made a reservation in a restaurant right by the hotel. Unless he had somehow messed this up as well. “What do we do? I wanted to shower and get ready…”

Hyunjin grunted softly and turned to the receptionist again. “Can we please get the keycards? But I’ll make sure to get to the bottom of this.” 

The receptionist seemed relieved when she handed you your keycards. You and Hyunjin took off, walking at a quick pace toward the nearest elevator. 

“I’ll make sure to get to the bottom of this,” you said in a perfect imitation of Hyunjin just moments ago. “Is your middle name Karen or something, Hwang?”

“Oh, fuck you.” Hyunjin frantically pushed the elevator button, as if it would make it go any faster. “There’s no way Changbin actually booked the honeymoon suite for a business trip.”

“And yet he did.” The elevator made it to you with a ding. When the door slid open, you let people walk out of it, often shooting glances at your phone to look at the time. 

“I mean—yes, he booked it, but it was a prank. Against me. I’m willing to bet Minho is in on it.”

“The big boss? In on it?” You scoffed, walking into the elevator. “And you’re on a first-name basis with him?” 

Hyunjin shrugged. “We went for beers after I won the Jung vs. Kwon case a few months back. He’s pretty cool once you get to know him.”

You watched the numbers on the elevator screen as they went up. So Hyunjin was friendly with Mr. Lee himself. That wasn’t nothing—Mr. Lee had founded the firm along with Mr. Kim. 

God, so this was all a joke. The case, this partnership. It was a fucking joke—and you were a goddamn clown. There was no way Hwang wasn’t getting that promotion if he was an ass-kisser. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised you nearly as much as it did.

“Minho is very meticulous, checks everything that goes on in the company. Obviously, Changbin would have needed to explain why he booked a honeymoon suite for this trip. They must have had a blast planning this. They like pranks.”

They like pranks, as though the three of them had shared a womb or something. “Ha. Ha. Ha. I’ve never seen anything that funny in my entire life.” You sighed, relieved to see the elevator had made it to your floor. “Whatever. Let’s just get ready for dinner. We should also talk about what we’re gonna tell these guys.”

You tried to keep up with him in the hallway, but Hyunjin’s long legs made him much more efficient at walking than you, and he was always several steps ahead.

“Talk? About what?”

Was he even for real? “About the fucking case, Hwang! What else?”

Hyunjin bit into his smile, pulling out his keycard from a pocket of his jeans and unlocking the door with it. “Why would we talk? Let’s present our angles to them. They’re the consultants. They’ll advise us. May the best attorney win.”

If you weren’t in such a hurry, you would actually open your mouth and reply with something witty. Instead, you simply followed him into the room and closed the door behind you.

The room was large and luxurious. The bedroom was separated from the rest of the room by a wall but it had no door, just an entrance to it. There was, however, a hot tub at the far end of the main room, right by the wide windows from which you could see the sunset. Everything was very clean, and very classy—exactly as promised by Changbin. Except that now that you were thinking about it, he had never explicitly promised two rooms… Prank or not, he would hear your thoughts on the matter as soon as this meeting was over. 

There was a couch on the opposite corner of the hot tub. Both you and Hyunjin were staring at it. “Maybe one of us could sleep on the couch,” you offered. Not that you would have been happy to spend a whole night in the same room as Hyunjin. 

“I guess it makes sense,” Hyunjin replied with a shrug. “We’ll have to write down our thoughts and cross-check our notes together after dinner anyway, it’ll be too late to find another hotel or something. Whatever, I don’t care.” If he did care, it didn’t show—the Hwang nonchalance was unmatched, as always.

You did a quick tour of the room—the bathroom was nice and spacious, with one of those really fancy showers that had all sorts of attachments and jets to them. When you returned, Hyunjin was on his way to the bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” 

Hyunjin didn’t even look behind him. He rolled his suitcase into the bedroom and removed his jacket before stretching his shoulders and neck. “What do you mean? I’m getting ready, same as you.”

“But why are you over there? In the bedroom? Aren’t you going to sleep on the couch?” Had he never heard of the concept of chivalry?

This time, Hyunjin did turn his head to look at you. He was squinting. “Why should I get the couch?”

“Because in books or in movies, dudes always offer to take the couch and they let the girl sleep in the bed!”

Hyunjin burst into laughter. “Oh my god, what’s next? Do I also need to put my jacket on your shoulders? Do I need to carry an umbrella for you?”

What an insufferable asshole. “Fuck you, Hwang. You know what? I’ll sleep on the couch because I’m not a spoiled brat like you.” 

“That has got to be the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard. Honest.” 

“Then you must not have heard yourself speak very often.” 

“Oh my god, just shut up.” With that, you left him by the door frame of his bedroom and went to the couch to take a few things out of your suitcase.

At least, the couch was excessively comfortable, and you also found a couple of clean blankets in a closet. You managed to find the cocktail dress you intended to wear for dinner as well as your accessories and shoes. While you were getting everything ready, Hyunjin went towards the bathroom.

At the last second, he dramatically slapped his forehead and swirled to face you. “Shit! I forgot! I was going to wash up, but maybe it’s required by law that I let you get the first shower since you’re a girl. Tell me—law school was forever ago—should I also lie on the tile so that you can use me as a shower mat? Are dudes required to do that?”

You very seriously considered throwing him the shoe that you were holding. “You’d like that too fucking much, Hwang.” 

He disappeared into the bathroom with a heartfelt laugh. You chuckled as well—at least, sometimes, his banter could be funny, no matter how annoying he was.

The restaurant was nice—it was actually a fancy cocktail bar right by the boardwalk, and it had a nice view of the sea, too. You made it in time for dinner, and met with Changbin’s friends—Chris and Jisung. 

Chris had a warm, dimpled smile and kind eyes. He laughed easily and made you comfortable immediately. Jisung was a little more introverted, but just as kind, and eager to know everything about your current case. Still, you ordered some drinks and appetizers to get to know each other. “Let’s drink and eat a lot, it’s all on Changbin’s card!” Chris pointed out, which caused the rest of you to laugh a little too much, but you and Hyunjin especially. Chris wasn’t wrong—maybe this would be your way to get back at your boss somehow. 

You focused on the case two drinks in. It was a business meeting but it unfolded more like a friendly discussion. Chris and Jisung were both knowledgeable on cases such as yours and they actually recounted many of them to you and Hyunjin. You took as many notes as you could on your phone and noticed that Hyunjin did the same. A pleasant surprise—you had imagined he was the kind of guy to be chatty but to get very little work done. However, he asked good questions and was even polite.

Maybe the drinks were doing him some good. He was certainly loosening up a little, as though his usual self was only a facade, or something exaggerated. That didn’t necessarily surprise you—maybe he was a little bit of a hypocrite, acting all cool and pretentious at work, but being just a regular guy in his personal life. Maybe he felt like he needed to have a strong personality to match his good looks.

You immediately connected with Chris, perhaps because he was sitting closest to you and had ordered the same meal as you. Damn, I have no choice but to order the same thing now, or else I’ll be wanting to eat off your plate! 

You took a lot of notes while waiting for the food, drinking another gin and lemonade. Jisung and Hyunjin were talking about their respective schools—despite not studying at the same university, they had had a professor in common and he was known to be just about the worst. Their anecdotes were funny and made you grateful that you had gone to the school you did.

Eventually, though, Chris slid his chair a little closer to you to strike up a conversation while the other two were reminiscing. He told you about his most successful case in another conflict of interest situation, except this time it had been about somebody being given personal information they perhaps shouldn’t have due to their bias. It was in a medical context too, which made everything even more interesting since you had briefly considered going into medical law.

“I can’t believe you won that one,” you admitted, impressed. You leaned back into your chair, raising your glass at Chris respectfully and taking a sip from it. “Good work.”

Chris was a humble guy. He made a dismissive motion of his hand. “It was an interesting case, that’s all—I don’t want you to think I told you all about it to brag! Soon enough, it’ll be you guys retelling the story of your case and how you won it because you found just the perfect angle.”

Without saying a word, you and Hyunjin looked at each other over the table. Yeah, the perfect angle… 

Jisung, however, didn’t skip a beat. “So how do you guys intend on approaching this anyway? What’s the plan?” He took a bite from his lemon chicken, looking at you, then Hyunjin, then you again. 

You took a sip from your drink, then another. For the first time since you had met him, Hyunjin seemed to have nothing to say, despite both Chris and Jisung waiting eagerly for more details.

You cleared your throat. “We, huh, disagree on the best course of action,” you admitted, and maybe you would have worded that differently if you were sober, but you were not sober. “Hwang thinks there is no conflict of interest, that there’s not even a case to be had. I, on the contrary, believe we shouldn’t shy away from it. If Kang appreciated the business over at Seon’s, he did, and that is all—who knows what proof of that the opposition has? I just think it’s too risky to pretend there’s nothing there. I’d rather go for the it was all in good faith angle.”

It was Chris and Jisung’s turn to exchange a quiet glance, but not for long—both of them laughed softly, shaking their heads and drinking more to wash down the food as they laughed. 

Hyunjin frowned, and you saw the arrogant prick in him make a grand return. “What’s so funny about it?” 

Chris, seeing that Hyunjin was upset, dipped his head politely, but his smile was just as wide as it had been. “Oh, no, no, it’s not like that, sorry!” he apologized with a wink for you. “It’s just that you guys are just like us.”

“We disagree all the time,” Jisung confirmed with a stern nod. “It’s frustrating as hell at first, but that means Changbin was right to put you two together on the same case. He’ll probably do it more in the future, too. Disagreements like these lead to better results—you’re unlikely to miss details if you keep working like that. It’s good.”

“It’s very good,” Chris added. “Unless the parties are too proud—then that makes things complicated… but you guys seem good, yeah?” 

It took every single atom of your being not to scoff derisively at Chris’ comment. Instead, you made yourself breathe and drink some more. You noticed from the corner of your eye that Hyunjin was doing the same thing. 

“I think they just want to have our opinion on it,” Jisung pointed out, elbowing Chris playfully. 

Chris nodded slowly, his smile turning softer, almost endeared, as he stared at the both of you. When his gaze fell on you, it lingered on your face but quickly trailed down to your mouth and then below your neck. You tensed up—it was impossible not to notice that he was checking you out—and blushed violently, but tried to conceal it by hiding your face behind your glass as you drank more and more. Chris was an excessively charming guy, funny, handsome, very intelligent. He talked a lot but he was also a good listener. 

You couldn’t deny that it flattered you that he was checking you out. 

“You guys are about to be disappointed,” Chris admitted with a chuckle. “Because—and I’m certain of it—Jisung would probably agree with Hyunjin. And me, I would agree with our lovely lady here. So I’m afraid we are not of much help.” 

Lovely lady. The red on your face turned crimson, and now your glass was empty so there was no concealing it. Chris dragged his tongue on his bottom lip, eyeing you carefully. 

“But you would have to agree though,” Hyunjin insisted, leaning over the table almost as though he wanted to grab Chris’ whole attention. “Like, at some point, you’d have to decide on something, right?” 

“We would, but it would take several hours of discussion and case study,” Jisung explained. “We’d have endless debates on it, and, after some time—a week, two weeks, a month even—one of us would admit that the other is right and that we have the better chance to win this case with this or that angle. But no stone would have been left unturned in the process of getting there, ensuring the better outcome.”

“Those cases take time,” Chris said. “It’s still too early to come to an agreement, but we’ll keep in touch.” He turned to you, pulling a business card from the inner pocket of his thin blazer, along with a pen. On the underside of the card, he quickly scribbled another number. “That’s my personal phone. Feel free to call or text at any time,” he added, handing you the card. He put it in your hand, his fingers gently caressing yours, sending shivers down your spine. 

For a minute, you imagined flirting back, you imagined finishing up dinner and going to the bar section to have a nice, intimate time with Chris. You’d ask him about his personal life and him about yours. Both of you single and too busy with work to really cultivate any sort of relationship. He’d make a point to touch you, a brush of the arm, maybe going as far as pushing your hair behind your ear. He might kiss you even, and you’d kiss him back, and invite him back to your hotel room. Except that your hotel room was the honeymoon suite which you shared with Mr. Asshole. Maybe Chris would ask you to come to his place, but he had mentioned he lived on the other side of the city, and you had an early train tomorrow morning…

You sighed, swallowing your short-lived fantasy of a steamy, passionate one-night stand with the handsome attorney. Instead, you made yourself smile, sliding the card in your purse. It felt strange not to, so you handed him one of your business cards in exchange for his. “Thank you so much, Chris. And—you guys have helped more than you think. It’s reassuring to know that divergence of opinions can actually be helpful. I think I’ll go back to the hotel—we’re leaving early tomorrow and there’s a lot of work to be done.” 

Chris stared at your lips for a few seconds. “Sure thing. You call me if you need anything, yeah?” He offered you one of those bright warm smiles. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll work on a case together someday!”

You also said your goodbyes to Jisung who eagerly shook your hand, and then you walked away. Hyunjin could spend the entire night with them for all you cared, but all of a sudden, the realization that a fun night with Chris wouldn’t be possible had been too disappointing, and you didn’t want any of these guys to see it on you.

If she were here, your best friend would tell you that you had just self-sabotaged yourself, that there would have been nothing wrong with spending a little more time alone with Chris. She would remind you that you were a lonely, overworked woman and that you needed to get your shit together or else you would never find a partner. Not if you don’t let anyone in, she had told you some time ago. And maybe she was right—you did agree with her on that, but you didn’t want to think about this part of your life. Not now, not while you were just starting to work on your most important case so far in your short career as an attorney. 

The night was cooler than it had been earlier and you found yourself wishing that you had brought a jacket with you. Instead, you walked faster, hoping to catch the pedestrian signal before it turned off at the intersection—unfortunately, you didn’t make it in time and had to wait by the road leading you to your hotel. 

“Hey, hold up!” 

You let out a disgruntled sigh when you heard Hyunjin’s voice behind. Part of you had hoped that he would have stayed with the other guys for quite a while, leaving you some privacy. 

When the pedestrian signal came on again, you didn’t wait—you simply began crossing the street. Hyunjin caught up with you easily. “Damn, you really are in a hurry,” he pointed out, walking beside you. You hugged your arms, seeking some warmth, keeping your gaze on the hotel ahead of you. “You okay there?”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.” Then, imagining it was obvious that something was troubling you, you decided to add, “It’s just a little cool, that’s all.” 

Hyunjin did not hesitate. “Ah, that’s right. You’re a girl, I’m a boy and there are laws about that sort of thing. Hold on.” Before you knew it, Hyunjin had removed his blazer and carefully placed it on your shoulders. It warmed you up immediately—the fabric was warm from him, who seemed to keep a high body temperature most of the time. It also smelled nice, and you realized you had never paid much attention to Hyunjin’s smell before. “There, ma’am. I am at your service. What else might I do for you?”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, annoyed with his arrogant, sarcastic tone. You took the blazer off and handed it back to him. He held it over his shoulder with two fingers, exactly the way the male love interest would in a K-drama. You figured that Hyunjin must actually believe he was the main character in everyone’s life.

Hyunjin let one second pass, not more. “He really was shooting his shot, wasn’t he? Chris, I mean.” 

You shrugged as you made it to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. “Why do you care?”

It was Hyunjin’s turn to sigh. “Well, it wasn’t very professional of him to hit on you during a business meeting.”

You pressed your lips together, repressing a smile. “You’re just jealous because he agreed with my angle.”

“Jisung agreed with mine.” 

“But Chris is the senior.”

“Doesn’t mean shit to me,” Hyunjin retorted, now walking faster than you, as though he was racing you to the hotel. “Age is just a number.”

Despite his rapid walking, you caught up with Hyunjin in the hotel lobby as he stood by the elevators. Neither of you said a word as you waited. Your mind was fuzzy from the drinks, from the food, from the scent of Chris’ cologne lingering in your nose… no, that was Hyunjin’s. It was just the two of you in the elevator, and it was strong, smokey, and vaguely floral with sweet and amber undertones. It stuck to your skin, to your dress, all that from the two seconds it had been on your body. Breathing deeply didn’t help you at this moment, so you waited until you were back in the hallway to do so. It eased some of your tension, but it certainly didn’t make you any less tipsy than you were.

The room was just as you had left it. You quickly got out of your heels, relieving your feet, but were overcome with the need to wash up—would that scent follow you even after? Perhaps it wouldn’t, not if Hyunjin also washed up. 

You didn’t ask for permission and simply locked yourself in the bathroom. You tied your hair into a bun and got under the fancy shower, letting the warm water wash your worries away and, with them, Hyunjin’s scent. You felt a little better after despite being rather troubled still, and dried yourself before getting into more comfortable clothes—shorts and a tank top. Of course, you hadn’t planned on having to share the room with Hyunjin, but if he was indisposed by your outfit in any sort of way, he was welcome to look somewhere else. 

You found him sitting at the table with his laptop. He didn’t even glance at you but left for the bathroom when you sat with your own computer to clean up the notes you had taken over dinner. There were a lot of them and they were all messy, so it was best to do this right now before you forgot too much about your evening. 

You heard a text notification from your device while you were typing on your laptop but ignored it. Either it was Chris and that would disappoint you even further after your ruined night, or it was Changbin checking up on you to verify the potency of his prank, and despite him being your boss, you wouldn’t be able not to be rude. So you did not look at your notifications—to save yourself the trouble.

Hyunjin, much like you, had showered the evening away. He returned to the table in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. “I like to go to bed feeling clean,” he even told you, and you nodded in agreement while going over your notes. “Aren’t you cold though? There are robes in the bedroom if you’d like.”

You didn’t feel like hearing his relentless nagging. “I was only cold outside. I’m fine.” 

“We could fire up the hot tub,” he added. His tone was lighthearted and he was typing as he said it, so you knew he didn’t mean it and you just let it go. 

The next few minutes were quiet, only punctuated by the sounds of typing and the occasional sigh from either of you. You found that working alongside Hyunjin was not so awful when he didn’t talk. You also noticed his leather-bound notebook by his laptop—every page was filled with paragraphs of his tiny handwriting. It also contained several doodles, or rather, sketches. They weren’t bad at all. Flowers, a chair… you recognized the coffee machine on the second floor from the office. The back of a woman’s head and her shoulders… so he did use the notebook after all. Why only use it in private? You almost wanted to ask him, but figured it was none of your business anyway. All that you’d get would be a sarcastic, witty, and unpleasant response.

Sometimes, he would hum the melody of a song heard on the radio earlier at the restaurant, and his voice was pleasant, albeit a little distracting—you had just made a major breakthrough in your notetaking and were frantically typing before you could forget everything. 

Maybe Changbin had been right after all—well, not about the honeymoon suite—but about having them come here to meet Chris and Jisung. Maybe your and Hyunjin’s angles could be combined, maybe the true defense wasn’t so much in Kang’s motivations but in the actual wording of your debate and the logic behind it. It would require a lot more coaching of your witnesses to make sure they didn’t use the wrong words and tone during their testimony, but it could be done. 

“Hey, I—” you started, but as if on cue, Hyunjin was already pushing himself up and heading toward the mini fridge in the room. You watched as he opened it, stared at its contents for a few instants, and grabbed a handful of those miniature liquor bottles before returning to his laptop. “You gonna work drunk?”

He shrugged. “I’m already almost drunk.” He didn’t look too pleased, as though whatever he was looking at on his screen caused him some serious irritation. “It’s just a big case and I’m tired. And before you come for me, I know that liquor won’t help me be less tired or more focused, but it’s just what I want right now.” With this, he slid a couple of bottles toward you and opened one for himself. 

You twisted one Hennessy and drank a large gulp from it. It was crisp and cold and strangely refreshing. You took a second sip, savoring this one while you stared at Hyunjin at the other side of the table. He had never admitted to you that this case was difficult. In fact, he had never admitted that anything in his life ever caused him any kind of issues. You figured that his tipsy state must make him more inclined to say the truth.

“Want to look at my notes?” you suggested, and it was an honest offer.

He didn’t even look at you, slamming one empty whiskey on the table while scrolling on his laptop. “Don’t need to.”

You repressed a chuckle, although there was nothing humorous about the situation—after all, if Hyunjin struggled, it meant you would struggle at some point too. No matter how annoying he was, he was still assigned to the same case as you. “I think I found an angle, though.”

Hyunjin looked at you over his computer while he unscrewed another bottle. “What kinda angle?”

“Exactly the kinda angle that would be a compromise between your idea and mine.” 

You studied him while he tasted some spiced rum, his deep gaze, his traits so handsome that he didn’t look real. Perhaps this was why he had annoyed you from the very beginning. Literally, since you two had been hired on the same day. Because he looked too good to be real. Nobody should look like that, it was frustrating. No, infuriating. Those lips, too, and the way he wrapped them around the bottle to drink… 

God, I need to get my shit together. You straightened up into your chair, finishing your Hennessy in one last swig. “You think Changbin will pay for that?” you questioned with a frown. “I doubt that the hotel minibar was part of the deal…”

At this, though, Hyunjin did chuckle, almost choking on his bourbon. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He better fucking pay up, I’ll tell you this. I’d love to see Seo Changbin—or even Lee Minho—try and charge me for it.” He burst into full-on laughter, and although you could recognize that it was a bit of a nervous chortle, you laughed with him.

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s not like they could fire you or anything. Since you’re like, besties with Minho.”

Hyunjin let his laugh die down and stared at you intently with just the hint of a squint. He drank bourbon and licked his lips dry. He scoffed for himself only.

“What’s so funny?” you inquired, keeping the empty bottle in your hand just in case you needed to throw it at him. And you would. You really would if he gave you a reason to.

“Nothing. I’m just trying to decide if you’re drunk or jealous.”

You grunted, wrapping your fingers a little more tightly around the bottle. If it weren’t for Hyunjin’s phone that rang, he would have gotten that empty Hennessy launched straight on that pretty face of his. 

It was a text message, which he read and put his phone back on the table with the screen down. For some reason that annoyed you to no end.

It might have been the Hennessy, it might have been the gin at the restaurant, or the fact that he looked annoyingly good and nonchalant, sprawled on his chair, with his long ass legs in these stupid fucking gray sweatpants—in any case, you couldn’t not say something. You didn’t even try to stay calm either. “Who the fuck is texting you at this hour of the night anyway? Is one of your several booty calls missing you or something?”

Hyunjin slammed the empty bourbon on the table just a centimeter next to the empty whiskey. He stood, and for a moment you thought he was just leaving for his bed, but instead he took a step toward you, resting his elbows on the table. He was close enough that you could smell the hotel’s fancy body wash on him and the liquor on his breath. “And that’s how I became a successful attorney? Because I have all this extra time to fuck as many girls as I want? You know what, I think you actually are jealous.” He leaned forward, a smirk painting itself on his full lips. “Do you think I have two, three girls on my cock every night, baby? Is that it? You want some of th—”

In your whole life, you had rarely experienced such whiplash as you did at that moment. You sprung to your feet, enraged. “BABY?” You let out a growl, pushing two fingers into his chest when he dared come any closer to you.

Hyunjin rolled his eyes with a click of his tongue. “Relax. Ma’am. The text was just Chris saying he’ll swing by tomorrow morning to talk about the case again… but he also asked why you ignored his text. I think the Aussie misses you already. You should call him, maybe he’s jerking off thinking about you as we speak.”

“You’re fucking classless, Hwang.” You nudged him away, but he barely moved. He just stared at you. And at your tits. “My eyes are up here, by the way.” You had to be drunk because there was no way you would be this bold if you weren’t. “I think you’re the jealous one here. Are you all pissy because he wants the same toy as you? Spoiled prick.” 

Hyunjin towered over you, his boozy breath caressing your face softly. “You call me a spoiled prick, but you’re the one acting all weird.”

“All weird? The fuck? You’re the weird one, talking about girls on your cock and shit. As if I cared about that? Or is that how you flirt with girls? You quite literally have the biggest ego I’ve ever fucking seen.”

This seemed to strike a chord. Hyunjin’s body language switched from annoyed to straight-up pissed off. He suddenly grabbed his crotch—really grabbed it, too—and spoke louder than you had ever heard him do. “Oh, you wanna see something big, baby?”

You slapped him. In the face. You weren’t able to control it—in fact, it felt as though you were witnessing something that you were not a part of, and yet you felt it, his skin underneath your hand. You had never seen him reach this level of cockiness before, and Hyunjin seemed to be able to bring out a very specific type of rage within you. Who did he think he was? 

And yet it shocked you just as much as it shocked him—you gasped loudly, retreating your hand immediately. Hyunjin frowned, reaching for his cheek where his skin was turning pink. He stared at you, dumbfounded, the silence in the room heavier than his gaze. You stared at him too. Back and forth, eyes dancing over the other. His lips. Your lips. Below your neck. His raw cheek. Below your neck again. His lips. Your lips. 

Hyunjin cocked his head to the side, his eyes unfocused, leaning rapidly closer to you. For a second, you thought he was about to retaliate, but something else entirely happened.

He put his large hands on your arms and pinned you to the wall to kiss you hard. It took your brain a second or two to process that—your back on the wall, the impact of it. The impact of his mouth on yours, devouring you, his lips warm and wet and eager. You kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. His mouth tasted a lot like liquor and maybe a little like regret, but he was fucking yours with his tongue and it made you moan. 

He pulled away for a second and you could breathe again, your head falling back, exposing your neck to him. He buried his face there and you ran your fingers through his hair. It was silky, soft, it felt good to touch but not better than his mouth leaving scorching kisses all over your neck and exposed shoulders, nibbling at you, sucking your skin. That fucking mouth of his. Sassy, arrogant. Pretty. Leaving bite marks and hickeys all over you. 

Hyunjin grunted when you tried to pull him back up for more kisses. “Let me,” he protested, leaving a trail of spit on your throat. “I want Chris to see you like that tomorrow. Marked. Claimed.”

“You really are a prick,” you retorted, but you let go of his hair to slide your hands underneath Hyunjin’s shirt. His skin was hot to the touch. You pulled him closer, feeling him underneath your fingertips. His toned abdomen, his strong body. “I fucking hate you.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing personal,” Hyunjin said, still busy down your neck. He pushed you flush to the wall, leaving no space between your body and his, cupping your breasts in his big hands while his lips played with the skin on your throat. “I hate you just as much, but you look fuckable as hell. Just look at those tits.”

You bit your lip, repressing a whimper. Already, warmth was pooling at your core and you felt less and less strength in your legs. You held onto him, resting your forehead on his collarbone. Hyunjin pulled your tank top down, exposing you to him, allowing him to kiss you there too. He played with your nipples, swirling his tongue around them, lapping at them, sucking onto them, leaving them swollen and flushed. 

You found the waistband of his sweatpants and tugged at it, causing Hyunjin to moan while he squeezed your breasts, his hands too big for them almost, but agile nonetheless. In no time, you shoved your hand in his pants, cupping him—he was hard already, his cock straining against the fabric of his underwear. Your knees almost gave out as you palmed him, really taking in the feeling of him. His cock was big. Big enough to make your pussy throb. 

Hyunjin pressed his lips on yours again, groaning into your mouth while you were rubbing him over his boxers. Feeling him grinding onto your palm sent electricity throughout your entire body and it settled between your legs, becoming a distracting pressure. 

“You’re liking this huh? Baby?” Hyunjin smirked, rolling his hips, fucking himself onto your hand. “Can I call you baby? Or are you going to slap me again?”

You took his mouth, kissing him, squeezing his cock just a little too hard. Hyunjin bucked his hips, laying a hand flat on the wall behind you, his face flushed. For the first time ever, his hair was disheveled. It looked good on him, though. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t fucking like it,” you warned in between kisses. “Or I’ll just do it again and you’ll blow in my hand, right here, right now.” You weakly—and playfully—smacked his cheek. 

Hyunjin inhaled you, your hair, your neck. You smelled him too, pleased to realize that despite his shower, the scent of his cologne lingered faintly on his skin. “Fuck you. I’d bet you’re soaked right now.”

“And what do you want to bet, handsome?” 

You knew very well that he was right—you could feel yourself oozing into your shorts, you just wanted to see what he had in mind. 

Hyunjin thought about it for a few seconds while playing with your tits, making them bounce in his hands or flicking at your nipples gently. Each caress, each touch, made you dizzier than the last. You could feel the warmth emanating from your body, and you wondered if he could feel it, too. 

“If I touch your pussy right now and you’re wet, you let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin offered after considering his options. “Because then it just means I was right all along—you’re a fucking slut, no matter how hard you try to pass as a righteous bitch.” 

You let go of his cock but not without another strong squeeze, causing him to hiss almost painfully. “Do your thing, Hwang.” 

He snickered at you, wasting no time pushing your shorts to the side to feel you. His fingers found your soaked folds. He rubbed you, caressing you, coating his fingers with your slick. “Fucking hell…” he breathed. “No panties? You’re soaking into your shorts just like that? So I was right. You’re just a whore. You play hard to get but you leave the scent of your pussy everywhere you fucking go, don’t you?” 

Hard to get? “Fuck you, Hwang.” But he kissed you again, pulling you with him toward the bedroom. You took his t-shirt off him and he did the same with your shorts.

The back of his knees hit the mattress and you both collapsed onto the bed with you on top of him, not breaking the kiss once while you tried to tug his sweatpants off him. You’d show him. You’d show that prick how hard to get you were.

You finally got rid of his pants, freeing his erection. He had left the bedside lamps on, allowing you to see his beautiful, smooth cock, as pretty as the rest of him. It was heavy, too, and big. You wrapped your hand around it while you climbed onto Hyunjin proper, resting your knees on either side of him. 

“Told you it was big,” Hyunjin teased. “Can you even take it?” 

Your hand traveled down his shaft, his base, finding his tight, straining balls. You fondled them while Hyunjin caressed your bare thighs with his large hands, his thumbs always stopping closer and closer to your pussy. You tilted your head. “Maybe you should chill with the nagging. I’m literally holding you by the balls.” 

He shrugged. “Just raising concern for my colleague’s wellbeing.” He lifted his chin toward you. “Look at that pussy. So pretty and tight. I’ll fucking ravage you.”

Hyunjin used his knee to part your legs open, allowing him to see your glistening folds. He hissed, cupping you, rubbing your pussy with his palm, and pulling you in for another kiss. He was a good kisser. His mouth felt good so you relished just a little longer in the feeling of his languid kisses and his hand between your legs, teasing your clit and your hole. 

You lowered your body, properly straddling him now, both your hands on his perfectly defined abdomen, his cock resting against your throbbing pussy. Carefully, you took him in your hand again, loving the feeling of it there, too, and curious to see how it would feel inside you. You propped yourself up, wasting no time guiding Hyunjin’s cock toward your entrance.

He was handsome, especially in that moment, as you pushed his tip into you. You gasped and whimpered and moaned as you sank down onto his cock, adjusting to his size. “Oh fuck…” Hyunjin’s hands traveled all over your body—your waist, your thighs, your tits, still spilling out of your tank top. “Fuck—” 

He was bigger than your favorite dildo. Your breath hitching up, you kept sinking further down to take more and more of him, the stretch delightful. “Are you taking your time on purpose?” he sighed, sweat pearling on his forehead. “Fuck this, I’ll do it myself.” He slid his hands from your breasts to your hips, pushing you down, forcing you onto his cock. “Aaaahhh fuck, don’t clench so much—” 

You both came to a stop when he bottomed out. You bit into your lower lip, pleasure taking over you just from the way his cock filled you. You adjusted your weight on him, placing your hands on his torso to keep your balance, and slowly rolled your hips. 

It set you on fire. And him, too. You retreated a little, clenching involuntarily around his cock, and slammed onto him again, causing both of you to cry out. Again.

And again. You quickened up your pace, your movements made easier by how wet you were. Hyunjin grunted every time you rolled your hips, staring at the way his cock disappeared into you. “Fucking hell…” he managed, landing a gentle smack on your ass, not hard enough to sting. “You’re creaming me up real good.” 

You leaned down to kiss him, his throat, his pretty collarbones. What a fucking jerk. You filled the room with your moans as you fucked yourself onto him, using him the same way you would use an inanimate toy, taking as much of his cock as you could, your pace relentless. You bit him the same way he had done to you earlier, tugging at his hair to expose his throat for you. “See how I take it?” you panted, rutting on him as though you were in heat, seeking more and more of this. You had never been filled like this before—every second was pure bliss. “See how I take that big cock of yours, Hwang?” 

He looked unreal under you, your fist in his hair, hickeys all over his throat, his perfect body covered in sweat. He smirked at your remark and before you knew it, his hand found your face. He cupped it by your chin, pulling you closer until he was looking at you in the eyes. You were no longer in control. His slender fingers dug into your cheeks, but your brain did not register that sensation as painful. You clenched so hard around him that he growled. 

“You really take me like a cock-hungry slut.” He released your face only so that he could hold your waist and fuck you from below, pushing himself deeper and deeper. “Isn’t that what you are, huh? Don’t you love the way I stretch your tight cunt? I didn’t know you were so horny…” 

Hyunjin chuckled as he wrapped his arms around your body to roll you under him. You cried out when his large cock slipped out of your hole, humping into nothing. That cock was pure heroin. Addictive enough that you needed it. Again. 

But he wouldn’t hear you beg, no. You’d rather die than beg Hwang Hyunjin. 

“Look at you…” He was kneeling in between your legs, keeping them open for him. He reached for your pussy, caressing you very softly. “You’re all stretched, all puffy down there, baby… What a sight.” 

You rolled your hips to rub yourself against his hand, chasing your high. You could feel it—a pressure, a storm swirling deep within your core, your pussy throbbing for it. 

“Tut-tut, hold on. I said I was going to ravage you, but I want to play a little.” He grabbed one of the pillows and slid it underneath your lower back.

It took no time for the caresses on your cunt to start again, more insistent this time. He teased your hole with his skilled fingers, pushing two inside. The wet sound it made was lewd enough to make you clench hard on his digits. 

He laughed. “Cute.” He moved his fingers inside you, massaging your walls very precisely. He knew what he was doing—soon enough, he twisted his wrist and curled his fingers to hit that one spot. The pressure rose within you and you could feel your pulse in your cunt. “Now, listen—in a little while you’re gonna feel like you have to pee. Don’t panic. Just relax,” Hyunjin said, his voice low and calm, but all that you could do was lie there and stare at him, his hard, leaking cock, flushed dark. His panting chest, his hair sticking to his face. 

Hyunjin began finger-fucking you like a madman, pumping his fingers in and out of you, using his other hand to rub circles on your clit. Skin heating up, you held onto the sheets, to his arm, to yourself, but you were losing control. Every time Hyunjin pushed his fingers—now three—inside you, he hit the spot he needed to hit. Every. Single. Time. 

“HYUNJIN!” You felt it. The pressure, rising fast, too fast. 

Instead of pushing his fingers in and out of you now, Hyunjin pressed them on your g-spot, focusing there only, massaging you frantically. “Give it to me. Fucking give it to me, show me how much of a whore you are. Make a mess for me. I’ll give you my cock after. Come on, give it to me.” 

You tried to keep your eyes open but your eyelids fluttered too hard, and it felt as though your soul was ascending away from your body. The finger-fucking, the relentless rubbing on your clit, the lewd squelching sounds, Hyunjin’s smooth voice… 

You broke.

You felt it take over you. That storm, that heat. You arched into him and suddenly everything was very wet and the pressure was relieved immediately. You cried out, melting into the bed as you came, your walls fluttering, your mind blank. There was nothing except the waves of pleasure between your legs. Wet, warm. Hyunjin played with you until your breathing had returned almost to normal.

When you opened your eyes again, you found your thighs covered in your arousal. Hyunjin pulled his fingers out of your still-sensitive hole, bringing them to his lips to lick them clean. 

“Did I—” 

Hyunjin leaned over you to kiss you and you tasted yourself in his mouth. “You squirted like the pretty little slut you are, all over me, too,” he told you in between kisses. “Let’s see how you take my cock now that you’re fucked out.”

In just two seconds, you found yourself laying on your stomach, your ass propped up by the pillow on which your hips rested. Hyunjin pushed your legs open, rubbing his cock all over your soaked cunt. You whined into the mattress, using the last of your strength to look behind you. “Are you afraid to blow too fast or what? You know, some women consider premature ejaculation as a complim—” 

You couldn’t finish your sentence—with a grunt, Hyunjin pushed his hard cock inside you, slamming into you, bottoming out in one thrust. You let out a cry, quivering under him. “Take me. That’s it. God, you’re so fucking wet…” Buried into you, Hyunjin fondled your tits, fucking you slowly at first, almost like he was getting used to it. “Like this? This is good?” 

“Yes, yes, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” He was too slow. He was stretching your pussy and you loved it. “Fuck me, come on!” 

You felt Hyunjin’s sweaty chest pressing itself onto your back as he forced his cock deeper within you. “Do you remember our little bet earlier?” he asked, whispering into your ear. “I’ll fill you real good. I’ll fill you so much that the other dude—the Australian—he’s gonna smell my cum on you tomorrow morning.” 

It spilled from your lips before you could stop it. “Please,” you breathed, trapped in between the mattress and Hyunjin’s body. His weight on you was heavenly. “Just fuck me. Just fuck me, Hwang.” 

And he fucked you.

He pounded into you, rolling his hips skillfully, taking up all the space within you. “That’s it, baby. You’re being such a good cocksleeve for me. Didn’t think you could take me like that. Suck on these for me, show me how you use that mouth.” He shoved a couple of his fingers into your mouth and you closed your lips around them. They tasted like sex, like your pussy. You moaned as you sucked off his digits, wishing he would let you do the same with his cock.

“Maybe once I get that office, you’ll have to come visit me there. Maybe I’ll make you kneel under my desk and I’ll fuck your throat just like I’m fucking you right now. Let those other guys smell my cock on your breath the rest of the day. You’d like that, huh?” He slammed into you again and again, frantically, desperately. “GOD, you are tight, don’t clench, don’t clench—” 

But you couldn’t help it. You could feel the pressure rising again, overstimulated from all of it, from Hyunjin pumping his cock so hard inside you that you were certain he would bruise you. From the sound of his voice tickling your ear, his hot breath on your skin, your sweaty bodies entangled together, the wet noises of your flesh colliding. 

Hyunjin fucked you into a sloppy, loud mess. You let out a series of staccato moans as he chased his high—he was so close that you could feel him twitch inside you—grabbing onto the sheets as though you could fall down the bed. “Oh god, that’s it—” he rasped, pulling his fingers from between your mouth to hold your waist, keeping you in place for him. “Take me, take me like that, take my cum—take all of it—” The rest of his sentence became inaudible as he lost himself in his bliss, burying his face into your hair.

His fucking became erratic, deeper, too, and you could feel yourself closer and closer to the edge. He was fucking you so hard that you were about to cum. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t stop—” you panted, eyes rolling at the back of your head. You hated him for how easy it was for him to make you cum. Hated him for how fucking big his cock was, driving into you. You hated him for how good it felt, and how you loved the sensation of falling into a pit of lava, your entire body engulfed in wet heat. 

You clenched around him, and it was over for Hyunjin. He snapped, arching into you, moaning and whimpering, hips stuttering as he sprayed his thick cum into you, pulsing around your snug heat. He fucked himself onto you, fucking his cum deeper inside you in powerful thrusts. “There’s so much cum baby, can you feel it?” he panted. “Such a sweet cunt you have. Cum for me again. Milk me, come on.” 

But you were already cumming, dissolving into pleasure, into nothing, into the mattress. You came in a series of long, drawn-out moans, fluttering around his sensitive cock. He moaned with you, spilling the rest of his seed as you came, fucking you through your orgasm at a slow, languid pace, allowing you to really feel it. The waves of pleasure were strong, and they gently became ripples before they calmed down. 

Neither of you moved for what might have been an hour. It took a while before Hyunjin managed to prop himself onto his hands and remove himself off you—a large amount of cum dripped out when he pulled his softening cock out of your swollen pussy. He lay next to you, staring at the ceiling. 

“Bet you’ll still look fucked out tomorrow. I’m gonna text Chris and tell him to be here early,” Hyunjin said with a smile. 

The whole room smelled like sweat, like sex and you liked it in a deranged way. “You’re very competitive,” you pointed out, still wildly out of breath. “I wasn’t gonna sleep with him, you know?”

“I don’t care.” Hyunjin rolled on his side to look at you. His eyes, much like yours, were sleepy but content. His pretty cock was glistening, coated in cum—both yours and his. “You know what? Keep the bed. You made a mess in it anyway, squirting all over it like the pretty whore you are.” He giggled, struggling to keep his eyes open. And he stayed right there in the bed with you, taking most of the space on it. What a prick.

You managed to roll off the supporting pillow underneath you, feeling the damp sheets on your skin. If you could still walk, you’d at least try to clean up a little, but you were far from that.

“Fuck you.” 

“You just did that, baby.” He chuckled sleepily at his own joke, licking his lips. “Do we still hate each other by the way?” 

You giggled too, drifting off to sleep, sore, content, and full of cum. “Jury’s still out on that one, Hwang.”

a/n: just a little something for the Red Light Chronicles! I had fun writing about my cunty attorney. You guys take care!

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