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“Are you sure there isn’t anything else you can tell us?”
Inspector Seo Junghwa’s words are polite, but her voice betrays the eagerness that must simmer just below the surface. Newly promoted, far too keen. It has Jongwoo’s lips pursing, and he rolls his tongue against the bottom row of his teeth, leaning back in his office chair. He circles a finger around the rim of his coffee mug. “Inspector, I really wish I could help you, but I’ve told you everything. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Oh, no, of course,” Inspector Junghwa is quick to reassure him, to placate. “I appreciate all of the help you’ve given us so far. I just want to make sure I’m not missing anything obvious.”
Jongwoo hums quietly but offers no reply. The silence stretches on.
“Um, are you still there?”
“I’m still here, Inspector.”
Inspector Junghwa hesitates. Jongwoo can hear her breath as she prepares to speak, falters, and then tries again. She’s careful as she says, softly, “We’re not investigating you anymore, Mr Yoon.”
“Can you promise me that?” Jongwoo asks, his neutral tone masking the frantic hammering of his heartbeat.
“You have a solid alibi, multiple people were with you at the time of the murder. It’s just that you have…” Inspector Junghwa trails off for a moment and makes a thoughtful sound. “Unique insight.”
“Unique insight,” Jongwoo echoes with a mirthless laugh. “You mean someone killed a person in direct homage to my book, and you want to figure out what it is about my writing that inspired them? Trust me, Inspector, I wish I knew.”
And Jongwoo isn’t lying. He wants to know. So badly that it scrapes and carves his insides, haunts his every waking hour. When he was shown the crime scene photos, all those months ago, back when he was still the prime suspect, it awoke something. Dark and yearning. A need, a compulsion to find the killer, has left him with sleepless nights, twitching fingers, and aching eyes. It’s fruitless to pretend that his motivation is one of vigilante justice. But he isn't quite sure what the alternative is. Morbid curiosity? Vanity? Jongwoo frowns, tapping a nail against his coffee mug.
There's something else at play here. A gnarled, grasping thing. Desperate to understand. And to be understood in return. It lurks behind his next question, one that he can't stop himself from asking. “Are you any closer to finding him?”
Obsession.
“Not since we last spoke, I'm afraid.”
“But have you figured out what piece he's alluding to? From the key signature carved into the victim, it's going to be difficult to narrow it do–”
“Ah, Mr Yoon,” Inspector Junghwa cuts in, clearing her throat delicately. “I'm not sure if that's…”
“I thought you wanted my ‘unique insight’, Inspector,” Jongwoo says pointedly, grip tightening around his phone.
“It's just…” There's a long pause. Inspector Junghwa sighs, tired and muted. “I think sometimes you forget that a real person was killed. This isn't in your book, Mr Yoon. It's not an exciting mystery to unravel. A man is dead.”
The chastisement has Jongwoo blowing out a breath. The chair beneath him creaks as he shifts uncomfortably. “I know that, Inspector. I haven’t forgotten.”
“I think we’re going to put a pin on finding the song. I’m not too sure if it’ll help us in the long run. We need to catch this guy before anything else.”
Jongwoo resists the urge to tut. “Ignoring such an obvious lead is a huge mistake. The killer copied this calling card for a reason, can’t you see? ”
“We’re not ignoring it, Mr Yoon,” Inspector Junghwa hastens to say, embarrassment colouring her words. “But it would take a lot of time and resources, something we don’t have. And with all due respect, your character didn’t get caught. I’m not sure if it’s even possible to find the right song just from–”
“I’ll do it, then.”
Inspector Junghwa forces out a small laugh. “Oh, no, no, you don’t have to trouble yourself, Mr Yoon. We have everything handled here.”
“Do you?” Jongwoo raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “The whole point of this phone call was that you asked for my help. I’m trying to offer it.”
“Ah, you’re right…” Inspector Junghwa relents. An awkward pause hangs between them, and there’s a dull murmur on the other end of the line, like there’s another conversation going on in the background. “Just try not to get too discouraged if it doesn’t work out, okay?”
Jongwoo takes a sip of his coffee. The bitterness doesn’t taste as pleasant as it did before. He gives the clock on the wall a cursory glance. The time makes his pulse jump and he springs out of his chair, hissing as he spills lukewarm coffee onto the desk in his haste. “Aish, sorry, I’m late for something important. I have to go.”
“Oh, right. Your book signing?”
Jongwoo blinks out of his panic, absently wiping the already stained desk with a tissue. “How do you know that?”
“I actually had plans to go, um, before everything that happened,” Inspector Junghwa says sheepishly.
“Really?” Jongwoo smiles, a subtle warmth rising in his chest. He throws the tissue in the trashcan by the door, patting his pockets for his keys. “I didn’t know you read my book outside of it being mandatory for the investigation.”
“There never seemed to be a good time to mention it. You know, when I was, uh…”
“Interrogating me?” Jongwoo snorts.
Inspector Junghwa’s laugh is strained. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“You were only doing your job,” Jongwoo reassures, doubling back to snatch his coat from the back of his chair. He shrugs it on, balancing his phone in the crook of his neck as he says, much kinder than he has been so far, “I’ll sign a copy for you. If that’s something you’d like.”
“Oh, yes, please. Thank you, Mr Yoon,” Inspector Junghwa can’t contain her excitement, the breathy quality of her voice unmasks it.
Jongwoo huffs lightly, the tips of his ears reddening. “I’ll have it sent to the station tomorrow. Consider it a gift for not arresting me.”
They say their goodbyes as Jongwoo hurries down the flight of stairs that lead out of the office building. He pockets his phone, resolutely ignoring the insistent buzzing that will no doubt be Yoojeong, his long-suffering editor. He already knows he’s late, a barrage of texts won’t change that.
The bookshop is a fifteen-minute drive away, and by the time he turns the corner onto the correct street, there’s a line out the door. It’s a mix of people, but it leans more towards the younger side. Each has a copy of his book clasped in hand, waiting with mounting impatience as the long queue of bodies doesn’t budge an inch. Jongwoo curses, swivelling his head around in a futile attempt to find a parking space that won’t get him a ticket for his trouble. The only spot he can see is one on the curb, right under a sign that says specifically not to park there.
Jongwoo parks there.
He rushes past the line of attendees, bowing his head with a smile that looks more like a grimace as he makes it to the door. He offers a feeble, “Sorry for the wait,” before he pushes it open and walks into the tightly packed space. Yoojeong is on him in a flash. Her smile is too wide, frozen on her face. Jongwoo can tell that she’s internally screaming from the slight twitch of her right eye as she leads him through the crowd toward the signing table.
“Can you move my car?” Jongwoo asks under his breath, smile stretching to match hers as he waves and bows at the people surrounding them.
“How many times have I told you that you need a personal assistant, Jongwoo?” Yoojeong says through her clenched smile. As he takes his seat, she holds a discreet hand out to him and beckons with her fingers. “Give me your keys. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”
Jongwoo presses them into her palm, mouths a quick “thank you,” before taking a small breath and turning to the first person in line. There’s a chair opposite him, and the young woman at the front sits down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s blushing, her movements shaky as she places the book down in front of him. But she meets his eyes, surprisingly bold.
“Hello.” Jongwoo nods at her, smile fixed and practised. He opens the book to the title page, clicks his pen and looks up, expectant.
“My name’s Seoyun,” the woman says after a brief pause, as if she’s forgotten why she’s here in the first place. Her face flushes a deeper shade of red, and she hides a nervous laugh behind her hand.
Jongwoo pats the space between them as he begins to write out his standard message, taking care to make his penmanship as neat as possible. “No need to be shy. I don’t bite, I promise.”
“Um, could you…” There’s a beat of silence. Jongwoo takes his eyes away from the page, settling his expression into something he hopes is encouraging. This seems to embolden her, and she reaches forward and taps the page. “Could you draw a heart next to my name?”
Jongwoo doesn’t sigh. But it’s a close thing.
It’s a very long two hours. Jongwoo soon discovers that there are three camps of people. The ones that are actually here because they genuinely enjoyed his book (the smallest camp), the ones that are here because they find him attractive (the biggest camp), and the ones that are here because of the buzz around the real-life unsolved murder case (the weirdest camp). As the line dwindles and the bookshop quietens, something sinks within him, slow and defeated. The turnout was better than he could ever hope for. But he still feels unsatisfied, left wanting. He lets himself slump as the tinkling bell announces the last person’s exit from the shop.
“What a waste,” Jongwoo says around a tired breath, resting his cheek on a fisted hand.
Yoojeong pokes her head around a bookcase. “Someone’s making a pot of tea, Jongwoo. Want some?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Jongwoo mumbles, clicking his pen in and out, a force of habit. He moves to stand, and he’s halfway out of his chair when the bell over the door rings again, clear and much too loud in the deserted space. He doesn’t have a good enough view of the entrance from his table, and he cranes his neck as he hears Yoojeong approach the latecomer. There’s a muffled exchange, one that Jongwoo can’t quite make out, and he leans forward, straining. But then there are footsteps, coming closer, coming towards him. He falls back into his chair, attempting nonchalance.
A man rounds the corner. He’s dressed like he’s just got off work, a pair of glasses tucked into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit jacket. Everything about him is neat and composed, from his perfectly tousled hair to his shiny shoes. As he makes his way over to Jongwoo’s table, his mouth quirks into the semblance of a smile, soft at the edges. “I hope I’m not too late.”
His voice is warm, soaked in sugar. Jongwoo’s mouth is suddenly too dry, and he swallows thickly. The man’s eyes slide down to his throat, tracking the movement of his adam’s apple. His gaze is heavy-lidded and far too intense. It rests on his skin like a caress. There’s a sense of familiarity in how this stranger looks at him. Candid, knowing.
A chill shudders through Jongwoo, and he attempts to mask it by clearing his throat. He says, unnecessarily sharp, “You nearly were.”
The man doesn’t appear to be offended by Jongwoo’s tone. He bows his head and carefully places his copy of Jongwoo’s book on the table, pushing it forward with two long fingers.
And it’s–
It’s an author’s dream. The spine is wrinkled from excessive use, the cover has begun to fold in on itself at the edges. And the pages. Yellow post-it notes stick out at the top, along the sides, haphazardly done but still painstakingly purposeful. There are so many of them. It must be difficult to even read the book at this point, but the sheer amount implies that perhaps there’s no need to. It’s memorised.
Jongwoo stares down at the book. A quiet exhale rushes out of him. His face heats, it burns. He looks up at the man in front of him, unable to hide his astonishment, his awe. He motions with an eager hand to the seat opposite him. “Please, sit.”
The man smiles, a proper one this time. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He sits down, brushing a stray piece of hair away from where it falls across his brow. He tucks his chair in, brings himself in closer so that his stomach is pressing against the table. His arms fold, and he leans forward, head tilting. It’s an inquisitive thing, almost endearing in its animal-like nature. Jongwoo opens the book, resisting the impulse to flip through the man’s many notes on his work. But he does have a modicum of self-control left. No matter what his mother might say.
The click of his pen is an unwanted agitation that cuts through the strange atmosphere, and Jongwoo brings his hand down, ready to begin. But then, calloused fingertips press into the inside of his wrist. The touch has him glancing up, startled. The man is unapologetic as he draws his hand back again. It’s unsettling. Inappropriate. Jongwoo’s skin tingles at his pulse point.
“I was hoping we could discuss your book,” the man says casually, as if he didn’t just invade Jongwoo’s personal space within a minute of meeting him.
“You only get a certain amount of time with me.” Jongwoo twirls his pen between his fingers as he studies the other man. “This isn’t a Q&A.”
“There’s nobody else waiting.”
“It wouldn’t be fair.”
The man’s eyes widen, doe-like and glinting in the warm light. He leans in further, reaches a hand to trace along the edge of the open book. “Can’t you make an exception?”
Jongwoo sucks his teeth, makes a show of mulling it over. He puts his pen down. “What’s your name?”
“Seo Moonjo.”
Moonjo. It’s soft, gentle. Something tells Jongwoo that he’s nothing of the sort.
“So, Moonjo.” It’s far too familiar, bordering on offensive, but Jongwoo wants to give this man a taste of his own medicine. He gestures with a hand lazily. “What did you want to discuss?”
Moonjo smiles, small and pleased. “I couldn’t help but notice how you write the act of murder. It’s very…” he hums, considering. “Refreshing.”
“Refreshing?” Jongwoo’s brow creases. “In what way?”
“A lot of crime authors focus on the brutality of it, the straightforward violence. They’ll write from a killer's perspective but won’t allow themselves to truly embrace the psyche of a person with those thoughts.” Moonjo’s hand is moving as he speaks, and he brings it up to curl underneath his chin, pensive. His stare is penetrating, relentless. He continues, “There’s a certain sensuality to your writing. An understanding, of sorts.”
“There has to be some level of understanding. Or else it wouldn’t work.”
“Of course.” Moonjo moves his head to the side, conceding. “But that isn’t quite what I meant.”
Jongwoo crosses his arms over his chest, foot tapping an anxious rhythm into the carpet. “What do you mean, then?”
“You allow yourself to dip into the unsavoury, the taboo. Your pianist believes that he’s creating art. Your writing reflects that.”
A spark of excitement sets Jongwoo’s nerves alight, and he finds himself mirroring Moonjo’s position, moving his arms forward and leaning onto the table. He’s slightly breathless as he rushes to say, “Yes, that’s exactly it. He sees beauty in the act of taking a life. It would be a disservice to write it any other way.”
“And the strangulation isn’t enough for him, is it?” Moonjo murmurs, eyes glittering, darkening. “He carves a key signature into their skin as an act of vulnerability. He wants a physical representation of how it feels for him to kill. The pieces of music that he chooses are the only thing that comes close.”
Jongwoo slaps a hand on the table, giddy and sudden. “I spent so long choosing the right pieces for each kill. I wanted it to escalate, you know? And–”
“Ah, I hate to interrupt…” Yoojeong slices into their bubble, standing off to the side with an apologetic wince as they both turn to her. “But the shop is closing, I think. We should probably head out now, Jongwoo.”
“Oh, right,” Jongwoo says, a little forlorn. He blinks, shakes himself. The professional mask slips back on, and he picks up the pen. “Looks like we’ll have to cut this short.”
Moonjo hums. It’s cordial, but there’s a hard set to his mouth, a dissatisfaction. Jongwoo begins to write out a message, ignoring the sharp cut into his chest as he reduces it to the same bland gratitude that he always offers. It doesn’t feel right. Not for this man. But he does it all the same.
He’s never been good at sincerity.
“I did enjoy the very last murder from your story,” Moonjo tells him, soft and secret. Jongwoo smiles faintly as he continues to write, but he doesn’t look up. The sound of his pen scratching against paper fills the gap between them. A door snaps shut, someone coughs from the opposite end of the shop. The ceiling fan whirls above their heads. And then, hushed, goading, Moonjo speaks into the quiet, “D Minor was an interesting choice, don’t you think?”
Jongwoo’s pen hovers over the page, frozen. His skin prickles at the back of his neck, along his arms. Throat suffocatingly tight, he attempts to respond. The words stick to his tongue. The only noise that leaves him is an abrupt exhale through his nose. He tries again, wetting his bottom lip. It’s a hoarse, dry thing when he says, “That isn’t the right key signature.”
“Hm?”
“None of the victims had the D minor key signature carved into their skin.” Jongwoo finally meets Moonjo’s eyes. “Not in my book, at least.”
A minuscule twitch at the corner of Moonjo’s mouth is the only indication of understanding. He laughs, leans back into his chair. The small glimpse of something more is snuffed out in an instant as he waves a hand in self-deprecation. “Oh, goodness. I got myself mixed up, how embarrassing. I swear that I’m a better fan of your work than this, Mr Yoon.”
Jaw clenching with the effort to remain calm, Jongwoo signs off the message. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, and he closes the book with a decisive thud. He pushes it towards Moonjo, letting his gaze flitter across the other man’s face. There’s nothing to latch onto, no evidence. Just an expression of amiable openness. Jongwoo’s teeth scrape together in restrained agitation.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Moonjo says, getting to his feet. Jongwoo leaps up, much too fast, and it has Moonjo’s eyebrows jumping, a subtle dare. He holds a hand out for Jongwoo to shake. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Jongwoo’s hand grasps Moonjo’s, and he squeezes, a little too hard.
Moonjo squeezes back.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Jongwoo says as he pulls away, fingers dragging along Moonjo’s palm, right where his lifeline meets his wrist. “Be careful getting home. This area is dangerous at night.”
Moonjo’s eyes seem to drill right through him. He says nothing more, only bows. The perfect picture of courtesy. The book is held close to his chest as he leaves the shop.
In his absence, Jongwoo releases a breath of exhilaration.
…
It consumes his thoughts. Every hour that he’s awake. It even creeps into his dreams, ink-black and dripping.
D Minor was an interesting choice, don’t you think?
Jongwoo remembers the moment when he first saw the photos of the crime scene. The close-up of the victim’s neck. The symbol cut into the skin, a bloody ‘♭’, neat and clearly crafted by a meticulous hand. Jongwoo had needed to school his expression into something appropriately contrite, disgusted. But the heat that simmered in his gut back then has risen into a roaring inferno, flames licking at his insides, flaring up and out of him until all he can do is follow its trail.
He looks Seo Moonjo up online. There isn’t much. Jongwoo has an insatiable itch that he needs to scratch. He digs deeper. He learns that he’s a dentist who runs his own practice. It isn’t enough. There’s no social media presence, nothing to clue Jongwoo in on anything about the man aside from his profession. There’s a photo of him on his dental practice’s website. White coat, glasses, placid smile.
Jongwoo’s fingers flex around his computer mouse.
This can’t be it. He refuses to let it end here. A seed has been planted. He’s not crazy, he knows that’s what the bastard was intending. Hooking him, reeling him in, only to set him free and vanish from his life all within the span of a few minutes.
Jongwoo won’t let that happen.
If this is what he thinks, and it must be, then Moonjo will bite into whatever Jongwoo offers him. A man like that can’t help himself. It’s an unnerving echo of Jongwoo’s own clawing hunger, one that he’s strapped down in the depths of his conscience, one that he can’t allow himself to acknowledge for too long. One that he’s put down on paper.
“There has to be some way to lure him…” Jongwoo mutters to his empty office, drumming his fingers against the mess of papers scattered across his desk. The action has him pausing, glancing down. His work area is in complete disarray. There isn’t even a method to the madness. It’s just chaos, cluttered around and taking up too much space. He clucks his tongue, slouches back into his seat. He presses the end of his pen to his chin, eyes narrowing in consideration. A thought comes to mind, a ridiculous idea. It lingers.
Jongwoo needs a personal assistant, of sorts. Someone to organise his workload, someone to tell him what he’s doing on which day. It’s not a new development; Yoojeong has been harping on about it for months now. But there’s an opportunity here, a glimmer of potential. The chances are low, almost zero. Moonjo already has a job, a demanding one at that. And he probably won’t even see the job posting. The odds are stacked against every misshapen angle of Jongwoo’s plan. Despite this, he finds himself inching back towards his computer.
The job is posted on his professional social media an hour later.
Over the next few days, the applications come flooding in. Jongwoo rifles through each and every one. An aching tension begins to build behind his eyes. He refreshes his email so many times that it becomes a compulsion, a trigger-happy twitch of a finger.
Seo Moonjo doesn't apply. By the end of the week, Seo Moonjo still hasn't applied. Jongwoo becomes irritable, difficult to handle. Yoojeong avoids calling him, opting to limit their interactions to stilted text messages instead. This suits Jongwoo just fine. It gives him more hours during the day to stare at his inbox, nerves buzzing with ignited fuel.
It’s a Friday afternoon when his office phone rings. The unwelcome and shrill announcement of a visitor downstairs, waiting to speak into the intercom. Jongwoo is halfway through typing up the latest chapter of his manuscript, and it takes everything in him not to slam a fist onto the desk, because he’s finally making some headway, and if it wasn’t for whoever is loitering–
He unhooks the phone from the receiver, snapping out a harsh, “What is it?”
There’s a huff of amusement on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, Mr Yoon. I’d like to speak with you about the secretary position, if you’re still hiring.”
Jongwoo’s breath catches. That voice. It’s unmistakable. He sits up straight, heart stuttering against his chest. The words are tumbling out of his mouth, unbidden and far too hasty, “Come on up, I’ll let you in.”
The phone cord catches on a pot of stationary in his rush to hang up, and Jongwoo swears loudly as he attempts to catch it just in time. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers as he inserts the code to unlock the front entrance. He scowls to himself, rolls up the sleeves of his sweater in a half-ditch attempt to remain composed.
The knock at the door comes quicker than he expects.
“Come in,” Jongwoo calls out.
Moonjo steps through. There’s not a hair out of place. Everything about the man is insufferably deliberate. His wristwatch, his tie, his ironed trousers. A mild-mannered smokescreen. Jongwoo leans back in his chair, drags his eyes over him. “Seo Moonjo, isn’t it?” He tilts his head down, urging, “Take a seat.”
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.” Moonjo bows, a little lower than needed. He looks up, a dangerous sweetness coating his next words. “I believe this sort of thing is better done in person, don’t you?”
Jongwoo hums, beckoning with a hand.
The closer Moonjo gets, the harder it is for Jongwoo to keep up his pretence of calm. He watches, blood pulsing, as Moonjo sits down. A laminated piece of paper is placed on his desk.
“You printed out and laminated your application?” Jongwoo asks, eyebrow quirking.
Moonjo’s smile is innocuous. “I didn’t fill in the application. This is my resume.”
Jongwoo stares for a moment. A slight tightening of his jaw is the only reaction he allows. Then he’s picking up a marker, uncapping the lid as he slides the resume towards himself. He rests an elbow on the desk, spinning his chair gently from side to side. The marker hangs loosely between two fingers. His eyes hone in on the first qualification. An incredulous scoff leaves him, and he hides his smile behind a curled hand. His gaze cuts to Moonjo. “This is your dentistry resume.”
“Yes, it is.” Moonjo nods, expression serene.
“Okay, so how is any of this–” Jongwoo circles Moonjo’s medical school accomplishments in thick, red ink. “Helpful to me?”
Moonjo’s mouth twitches. “It shows dedication.”
“Dedication,” Jongwoo repeats.
“Years of hard work.”
Jongwoo’s tongue prods the inside of his cheek. “And how old does that make you, exactly?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“You want to be a secretary at thirty-eight years old with no prior experience?”
Moonjo’s eyes widen, mouth turning downwards. “I didn’t strike you as the type to discriminate due to age, Mr Yoon.”
“I’m not discriminating–” Jongwoo lets out an exasperated sigh, cutting himself off. He taps a nail on the resume. “Nothing here tells me what would make you a good fit for this position,” Leaning forward, Jongwoo gestures with his marker, points it at Moonjo. “So why don’t you tell me, then?”
It’s both a request and a challenge. Jongwoo wants to see this man jump through hoops, bend over backwards, contort himself into whatever shape that’s needed. There’s a selfish satisfaction that comes with the thought. Jongwoo was under the microscopic surveillance of the police for months and months. He nearly took the fall for a crime he didn’t commit. All because of a stranger. This stranger.
“What do you want me to say?” Moonjo asks simply.
Jongwoo blinks, taken aback. “Eh?”
“If there’s something you want to hear,” Moonjo places a hand on Jongwoo’s desk, and his head cocks to the side as a disconcerting innocence smooths out his features. “I’ll say it for you. If there’s something you want me to do, I’ll do it for you. Enthusiasm is a great motivator, don’t you think, sir?”
Sir. The word lands on Jongwoo’s heart. It sizzles.
“And your other job?” His voice comes out weaker than he’d like. Face flushing, Jongwoo attempts disinterest. “It shows a lack of enthusiasm if you’re running to me like this.”
Moonjo’s eyes glint. His fingers drum a disjointed rhythm against the desk. “Is that what you think I’m doing, sir? Running to you?”
“That’s not the part you should be focusing on.”
Something insultingly close to amusement flashes across Moonjo’s face. “This is a part-time position. I can change my clinic’s opening hours accordingly.”
Jongwoo raises an eyebrow. “What? Just like that?”
“Of course,” Moonjo says, light and coaxing. He rests an elbow on Jongwoo’s desk. His chin comes down to settle on top of his hand. “It’s the benefit of running my own practice.”
“Yah,” Jongwoo draws it out, low and scolding. “This is an interview. Act properly and get your elbow off my desk.”
“Mr Yoon,” Moonjo smiles, a slow, luring thing. “Authority becomes you.”
Jongwoo closes his eyes for a moment, tries to count to three, centre himself. His mind is far from clear when he opens them again, and he can’t quite meet Moonjo’s stare. “Are you a fast learner?”
“I can be anything for you, sir.”
Jongwoo’s throat clicks as he swallows unsteadily. His fingers squeeze around the marker. A tantalising heat travels up his spine. He has no excuse for what he says next. “You’re hired.”
Moonjo’s answering grin feels like a death sentence.
…
Two weeks later, it becomes glaringly apparent that Moonjo is not a fast learner. Or he’s trying his best not to be. Every day is the same routine. He strolls in, suit pressed and tie perfectly straight. He bows to Jongwoo in greeting. Approaches his brand new desk that Jongwoo forked out far too much money for. Then, he proceeds to sit around, and do fuck all. At this point, Jongwoo might need to make an appointment with his own secretary’s dental clinic just to show the result of a fortnight’s worth of teeth grinding. They’re in an odd sense of limbo, neither pushing or pulling, just waiting. It’s not a surprise that Jongwoo is the first to break.
“Alright,” he says one Wednesday afternoon, approaching Moonjo’s desk with a forced air of calm. There’s a teasing sort of expectancy on the other man’s face that has Jongwoo’s ire simmering just underneath the surface. He folds his arms across his chest, hip resting against the side of the desk. “This has gone on long enough. Send me the email, Moonjo.”
Moonjo blinks up at him. He taps the pen he’s holding on his bottom lip, mouth curving at the corners. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get round to it.”
“You’ll get round to–” Jongwoo begins to repeat, absolutely incredulous. He sighs loudly, noting how the sound makes Moonjo’s eyes shine. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he says, strained, “I asked you to send me that email an hour ago.”
“An hour ago?” Moonjo asks, eyes widening in exaggerated dismay. The lid of the pen pushes into his mouth, and Jongwoo watches, helpless, as he begins to suck absently. He speaks around the pen, “I must have lost track of time.”
A muscle tenses in Jongwoo’s cheek, and he’s putting his weight on the hand that comes down to rest on top of the desk. He moves in a little closer, angling his body towards Moonjo. Jerking his head at the monitor, he urges, “Do it now, then.”
Moonjo hesitates, just for a moment. The pen leaves his lips, and he retrieves his glasses from his shirt pocket. He pulls up a drafted email, and Jongwoo frowns, gesturing vaguely.
“It looks like you’ve had this ready. Why didn’t you send it?”
“I was waiting for the proper moment, sir,” Moonjo tells him airily. The light from the desk lamp reflects off of his glasses, obscuring his eyes from where Jongwoo is standing.
Something is off. Jongwoo rounds the desk, hovering behind Moonjo’s chair. He scans the email. And then, he sees it. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see it. “Where’s the file I asked you to attach?”
Moonjo doesn’t respond, only tilts his body to the side so that he can regard Jongwoo, eyebrows raised.
It clicks. And Jongwoo tuts, shaking his head. He crowds up against the back of Moonjo’s chair, leans over him so that he can take control of the computer mouse. It’s a gentle reprimand when he murmurs, “Why didn’t you just ask me how to do it?”
Moonjo turns his head, and they’re so close that his breath hits the side of Jongwoo’s cheek. “Would you have told me if I came to you and asked?”
“Of course I would have,” Jongwoo says, chiding. He brings his other hand up to rest along the curve of the chair, arm extending the length of it. “But you have to actually look when I’m showing you.”
“Yes, sir,” Moonjo practically demures, and Jongwoo feels the back of his neck grow unbearably hot. He shifts, makes a subtle attempt to distance himself. Moonjo tracks the movement from the corner of his eye, and his answering smile is nearly enough to have Jongwoo pull back entirely, impromptu computer lesson be damned.
“See this paper clip icon? That’s the attachment file. And we want…” He drags the last word out as he searches for the correct file. Moonjo points to the second one from the top. Jongwoo lets out a noise of appreciation, and the hand that is resting against the chair moves to pat Moonjo on the shoulder. “Ah, there we go. Good.”
Moonjo’s head swivels to Jongwoo, and he pushes his glasses up into his hair. “If you teach me more, I can be good for you again, sir.”
A hot jolt of arousal has Jongwoo exhaling abruptly through his nose. His grip clenches around the computer mouse, and it’s a fierce and gruelling battle to keep his tone level. “I don’t think there’s a lot of goodness left in you.” He flicks his gaze over Moonjo’s face. “Is there?”
The air between them thickens. Jongwoo waits for a playful rebuttal. He gets none.
“Thank you for taking the time out of your day to show me this, sir.” Moonjo’s voice is stiff, deferential. Jongwoo’s brow creases, and he steps back. There’s a stillness to Moonjo that he can’t decipher. His face is blank, a neutral pleasantness that scratches over Jongwoo’s organs. But something is lingering underneath his carefully crafted persona, and it pulses around him. Jongwoo swallows heavily.
“If you get stuck with this sort of thing again, just ask me,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his burning neck. “I don’t know what sort of boss you take me for.”
Moonjo picks up his pen again, thumbs over the lid, circling. His eyes are so dark as he runs them over Jongwoo’s body. The veil of placidness falls away, leaving only an unrestrained hunger that has Jongwoo flushing from his face to his chest. He stumbles back, almost knocking over a stapler in his haste. It’s a stinging realisation that comes to him.
He’s in way over his head.
Moonjo’s small, throaty laugh trails behind him as he flees.
When he’s in the safety of his own office, he collapses into his chair. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, vision whitening. He tries to expel the influence from his mind. It’s no use. Seo Moonjo has got his claws in his flesh, sinking in, clinging.
Jongwoo wants to let him tear off a piece, and feast.
…
Moonjo takes to writing everything down by hand. Jongwoo catches him at it, hunched over at his desk, scribbling with sloth-like urgency. He nearly laughs at the sight. Nearly. But he squares his shoulders, morphs his expression into something implacable. He says nothing as he comes to stand above Moonjo. His shadow looms over the desk. Moonjo’s hand stops moving, and he glances up from underneath his glasses.
“Is there something you need, sir?” he asks, a coyness shaping the smile that comes with the question.
Jongwoo is unmoved. “What are you doing?”
Moonjo gives a small sigh, straightening up and falling back into his chair. “I thought that was rather obvious.”
“Yah,” Jongwoo says with a tsk, mouth thinning. “If it’s so obvious, then you won’t have trouble explaining.”
“I’m writing out your schedule.”
Jongwoo brings a hand up to massage his temple. “Moonjo, that’s what your computer is for.”
“But sir,” Moonjo’s bottom lip forms into a pout, and an infuriating gleam sparks in his eyes, like he’s reveling in something. “I’m a lot more efficient if I do it this way. It’s better for the both of us.”
“Oh, you think so?” Jongwoo scoffs, pointedly avoiding staring at Moonjo’s mouth as the other man rubs it with his pen. He holds his hand out expectantly. “Let’s see if I can even read your handwriting, then.”
Moonjo tilts his head, bemused. “What makes you think you won’t be able to?”
“You’re a dentist. Or have you forgotten that’s what you do every other day of the week?”
“I haven’t forgotten, no,” Moonjo muses, an eyebrow quirking. He drops the pen from his mouth, at long last, and he leans forward on folded arms. “I think you’re getting mixed up, Mr Yoon. Doctors are the ones with bad handwriting. Mine is perfectly legible.”
Jongwoo doesn’t budge, and he curls his fingers inward, prompting, “Just give me the schedule, come on.”
Moonjo doesn’t hand it to him, only nudges the notepad towards the edge of the desk.
Fucking brat.
The thought comes to him, sudden, heated. Jongwoo’s jaw works as he snatches up the notepad.
“Moonjo,” he says, painstakingly careful. A finger traces the words on the page, attempting to soothe his rising frustration. He sets his eyes on the other man. “This is the half-finished schedule for next week. Which I needed yesterday.”
“Ah, so you can read my handwriting.”
“Are you serious–”
“But not well enough, it seems,” Moonjo cuts in, pushing himself to his feet with two hands on the desk. He moves around, steps in. He’s too close. His height has him bending his neck slightly as he leans into Jongwoo’s space, pointing to the date marked at the top. “This is the schedule for two weeks from now.”
Jongwoo’s ears redden. His mouth sets, stubborn. “Okay, so where’s my schedule for next week?”
There’s a huff, light and horrifically indulgent. Moonjo flips back through the pages, landing on what is, in fact, next week’s schedule.
Jongwoo rips the page out and shoves the notepad into Moonjo’s chest, liking the way he jerks from the force. His lip curls, and he stares up at him. Quiet and menacing, he says, “Don’t let this get to your head.”
Moonjo’s hand covers Jongwoo’s over the notepad. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
The touch is shockingly warm. Jongwoo wrenches away, fiddles with his collar. The air is suddenly too stifling, and he chokes around it, throat spasming. Moonjo’s eyes linger there, a near physical weight on Jongwoo’s skin.
“Just get back to work,” Jongwoo mutters, voice rough. He begins to walk back to his office, but he can feel Moonjo’s stare searing into his back, so he turns.
Moonjo is standing stock still where Jongwoo left him. The remnants of something yearning lingers on his face, despite his best efforts to conceal it with impassivity. A double exposure.
“What are you waiting for?” The mocking tone comes out slightly stilted, but Jongwoo persists, cocking his head to the side. “A pat on the head?”
Moonjo bows. He returns to his desk without another word.
Jongwoo closes his office door with unnecessary force.
He finds Moonjo when he’s on his break later that day. The alley beside their building is narrow and riddled with potholes, the concrete cracking under years of neglect. Jongwoo avoids it as best he can, opting to take the long way around on his snack runs. But then he sees Moonjo, head tilted up to the sky, a cigarette pressed to his lips. And he walks through the alley.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Is all he says once he’s within earshot, watching as Moonjo rolls his head to the side, taking him in.
“Hm, sometimes,” Moonjo utters softly, blowing out a breath. His suit jacket is gone, and the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, exposing his forearms. Jongwoo’s teeth click together as he eyes the long, thick scar that marrs the skin there. He walks closer, one hand disappearing into his pocket while the other comes up so he can take a sip from his overpriced coffee.
“Isn’t that kind of hypocritical for a dentist?”
Moonjo taps his cigarette, scattering ashes onto the ground. “Maybe. I haven’t given it much thought.”
Jongwoo snorts, resting his shoulder against the wall beside them. “I doubt that.”
“You’re quite presumptuous today, aren’t you?” Moonjo smiles around the cigarette, much too fond for Jongwoo’s liking. Smoke swirls between them as he speaks again, eyes bright, “There’s a lot of pent-up aggression in you, sir. Want to tell me what it’s about?”
“That’s not–” Jongwoo halts, gathers himself up with a sharp inhale. He tries again, stiff, “You know what it’s about.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” Jongwoo grits out. “You do.”
Moonjo makes a long, thoughtful sound. Like he’s trying to remember, like he doesn’t know exactly what–
“Why did you even take this job?” Jongwoo demands, overcome with something that’s been building within him for the past few weeks. He places a foot forward, inches closer until the burning orange embers of Moonjo’s cigarette threaten to cast a permanent glow to his vision.
Moonjo observes him mildly. His eyes betray him. They emit pure molten heat, intense and focused. He takes a drag from his cigarette. Smoke billows out of his mouth as he asks, impossibly quiet, “Why did you hire me?”
As the smoke fills the air around them, Jongwoo finds it difficult to breathe. But it’s not the scent of tobacco that has him heaving, backing away. He feels skinned alive, whittled down to his meat and bone. He feels cornered.
“I’m going back to the office,” he tells Moonjo in lieu of a reply, grip so unforgiving on his coffee cup that it almost caves in on itself.
Moonjo hums, an easy compliance that evens out his expression. He gestures with his cigarette towards Jongwoo’s coffee. “We have a coffee machine, you know. You can ask me to make you some.”
“Maybe I would have,” Jongwoo says, a spiteful, ugly thing. “If you didn’t forget to order the coffee beans, again.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns heel and retreats, heart lurching and mind in disarray.
…
It’s a week later when things begin to unravel. Jongwoo spends most of his workdays sequestered away in his office, trapped within his own hazy headspace. He has deadlines now. Something he never had to consider before, back when he was a struggling intern just hoping to get by, writing in his spare time as an escape, a lifeline. But there are expectations, book deals to adhere to. Yoojeong is on his case every single day.
He can’t force the words out. The quality won’t be the same.
This is what he tells her, day in, day out. She doesn’t understand. The pressure is on her head too, she can’t afford to understand.
Whatever gold mine his sponsors believe he’s tapped into, it can’t be rushed. He didn’t create his pianist for acclaim or monetary gain. It came from a smouldering impulse, deep in the quiet of the night. It was a hushed rumination, smudged into a moleskine that he kept under his pillow.
None of that matters now. Not when his editor is breathing down his neck, begging for proof of his progress.
“Yoojeong, you know the way I work takes time.” Jongwoo’s plea falls on deaf ears.
“You don’t have time, Jongwoo,” Yoojeong says reproachfully.
Jongwoo covers his mouth with a hand for a moment, taking time to sort through an appropriate response. His eyes drift to his office’s tinted glass window, watching Moonjo’s outline as he moves to the coffee machine.
“Jongwoo? You didn’t hang up on me again, did you?”
“Eh? Oh, no, sorry.” Jongwoo flushes, moving his hand down to fiddle with a sticky note on his desk. “I’m trying to get this done for you, Yoojeong. I even let out this stupid office space just so I could focus properly.”
“I know you’re trying…” Yoojeong trails off, unconvincing. She clears her throat. “How is that secretary of yours doing? Is he making things easier for you?”
Jongwoo almost snorts. “We’re still getting used to each other.”
“Well, maybe you can bounce some ideas off of him. Isn’t he a fan of your work? You two seemed to get along at your book signing.”
Jongwoo’s hand scrunches around the sticky note. There’s a light knock at his door, and Moonjo appears before he can even grant entry. He’s standing with a mug of coffee, leaning against the door jamb. Jongwoo’s voice is faint when he speaks now, “I have to go, Yoojeong. I’ll send you the chapter draft by the end of the week.”
“The end of the week? Jongwoo–”
He slams the phone down onto the receiver. There’s a prickling irritation that creeps up on him as he takes Moonjo in. He says, tone clipped, “I’ve told you this countless of times. Knock and wait. Don’t just wander in.”
Moonjo doesn’t have the decency to look ashamed. He pushes off the door jamb and approaches Jongwoo, coffee mug held out in offering. “I thought you might need this, sir.”
A stinging pain shoots across Jongwoo’s eyebrow, and he winces, touching it with a finger. “Just put it down on the desk. I can’t deal with this right now.”
“You’ve been quite tense this past week,” Moonjo observes as he places the mug beside Jongwoo. He doesn’t move away.
“Oh, really?” Jongwoo scoffs, takes a hurried gulp of coffee. It’s just how he likes it. “What gave you that idea?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
The statement itself is harmless. From anyone else, perhaps Jongwoo would feel valued, comforted.
The only thing he feels, staring up at Moonjo now, is agitation.
“Moonjo, I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me,” Jongwoo says through clenched teeth, glowering. “Thanks for the coffee, whatever. Can you please go?”
Moonjo hums quietly, but then he’s leaning in closer, and his hand is coming down to clasp around Jongwoo’s shoulder. He rubs, absent and gentle, “Perhaps I can help you, sir.”
Repressing a shiver, Jongwoo feigns nonchalance. “And how would you do that?”
“Ah, Mr Yoon,” Moonjo sighs, moving to stand behind Jongwoo. His other hand comes down, and he’s grasping both shoulders, a subtle confinement. He presses lightly against Jongwoo’s suit jacket, and the touch burns through the fabric. Ducking down, Moonjo asks softly, “Have you ever had a massage?”
“No.” Jongwoo swallows, thick and slow. He feels Moonjo’s breath fan across his ear, an intoxicating presence. “I don’t see how that–”
Moonjo slides Jongwoo’s suit jacket off his shoulders. He hangs it on the back of the chair. Jongwoo doesn’t protest.
“A moment of your time.” Moonjo’s voice rumbles between them, igniting a white-hot need that Jongwoo has to stifle around a bitten lip. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Jongwoo ignores the shrill alarm bells that ring inside his head. He ignores the foreboding chill that stems from having this man outside his line of sight, behind him. He ignores all of this, and gives a curt nod.
Long, dextrous fingers knead into his shoulders. It’s firm and deep. There’s an ache that comes with it, a dull sensation that gives way to bliss as Moonjo pushes further, and Jongwoo’s eyes fall closed. His back hits the chair, and he melts, pliant.
“Have you done this before?” The question comes out too breathy.
Moonjo smooths a hand between Jongwoo’s shoulder blades, pausing at the knob of his spine. “Why do you ask? Does it feel nice?”
Jongwoo doesn’t answer.
“You can tell me, sir,” Moonjo coaxes, stepping in closer. His hand moves from Jongwoo’s back, gliding along until it grasps his shoulder again, digging in. He keeps at it, relentless, finding the knots twisted inside of Jongwoo and untangling them, one by one.
Jongwoo sucks in air through his teeth. His legs open wider as he sinks further down into his chair, lost in the allure of Moonjo’s touch. “That’s…”
“Yes?” Moonjo prompts. An eagerness drips from his words, an unnerving desperation. And then, he lifts a hand. It hovers over Jongwoo’s throat.
A heated barrier forms between Moonjo’s fingers and Jongwoo’s skin. An anticipation. Jongwoo’s lip trembles on a breath. Something cracks in the atmosphere, and a thumb pushes down, strokes around Jongwoo’s adam’s apple.
He gasps, shivers. His head tilts back, and Moonjo is staring down at him, a ravenous urgency glittering in his eyes.
Jongwoo leaps out of his chair.
“Do you feel a little more relaxed now, sir?” Moonjo asks him innocently, eyebrows inching upward.
Undoing the top button of his shirt with shaky fingers, Jongwoo refuses to look the other man in the eye. “Just–go back to your desk.”
Moonjo obeys without comment.
Near the end of the day, Jongwoo finally comes out of hiding. His nerves are flighty, his movements jumpy. He doesn’t know what to expect. His throat still tingles with the traces of Moonjo’s thumb, an invisible brand.
And he tries to ignore Moonjo as he walks past his desk to get to the coffee machine. He tries. But he’s still so pent up. A boiling stream of desire simmers through his veins. So he sneaks a glance, discreet and quick. And his stomach drops.
Moonjo is sucking on a lollipop. A ruby red, heart-shaped lollipop. It’s dangling from his mouth as he types, brows furrowing in concentration, keys clacking lethargically. His glasses are balancing on the edge of his nose, like they’ve slid down, and he hasn’t bothered to correct them. A strand of hair falls over his eyes. The image it paints is far too delicate for a man like him. An oxymoron.
Jongwoo walks over. Perches on the edge of Moonjo’s desk. His hands clasp in front of him, and he runs his eyes over full, pink lips, sticky with artificial sweetness. He doesn’t think before he speaks. “Do you always need something in your mouth?”
Moonjo’s fingers pause over the keyboard. He turns to Jongwoo, blinks at him. Popping the lollipop out of his mouth, he considers it, pensive. “It helps me focus.”
“Well, it doesn’t help me focus,” Jongwoo blurts out, pulse throbbing as Moonjo wraps his lips around the lollipop again, suckling, licking.
Moonjo hums, inquisitive. A provocative smile forms around the lollipop. Jongwoo’s jaw grows taut.
“How are you going to make calls with that hanging out of your mouth, huh?” he asks, hackles raising alongside the heat in his gut. He unclasps his hands, placing one on the desk as he leans in. “You still need to call Shin Jaeho for me. He’ll be on my ass if you forget.”
“Of course, sir.” Moonjo nods, adjusting the position of his glasses with a finger. His tongue pushes the lollipop into the inside of his cheek. “I have it penciled in.”
“Penciled in,” Jongwoo huffs, amused despite himself. “You talk like an old man.”
“Do you like that?”
Jongwoo’s smile fades.
“You’re a shitty dentist,” he says abruptly, relishing in how Moonjo’s expression flattens in his confusion. It sparks a flame within him, and he’s moving forward, reaching out. He grabs the stem of the lollipop and pulls, dragging it across Moonjo’s bottom lip as he eases it away. Jongwoo’s lips close around the lollipop, and his voice is gruff when he murmurs around it, “It’s bad for you.”
Moonjo inhales, sharp and fast. His stare blackens, his head tilts to the side. It’s a measured, calculating thing.
Jongwoo stands, twirls the lollipop in his mouth. He points to the phone beside the computer. “Make the call. Don’t forget.”
Moonjo fucking forgets.
Shin Jaeho is on the line, scolding Jongwoo like it’s his birthright. All because Moonjo–
“I’m trying to help you out here, Jongwoo,” Jaeho is telling him, pompous and smug. “You were smart to connect with me on this. My company can advertise your upcoming book, no problem. But you have to work with me. How hard is it to call me when you promise? That doesn’t foster good professional relations, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” Jongwoo forces out, like it’s choking him. “There was a mix-up with my secretary–”
“You have a secretary?” Jaeho howls, his laugh carving its way into Jongwoo’s ear. “What do you need a secretary for, Jongwoo?”
Jongwoo’s fist clenches. “I’m starting to ask myself the same thing.”
“Well, you’re lucky this was just a courtesy call. The big talks start soon. Maybe find yourself a new secretary by then, eh?”
Jaeho hangs up.
Jongwoo takes some deep breaths. In and out. In and out. The anger doesn’t dissipate. He storms out of his office. But Moonjo isn’t at his desk. Because, of course, he isn’t. Jongwoo’s eye twitches. He stomps down the corridor, intending to reach the stairwell and catch the fucker when he’s outside on another smoke break, corner him and–
There’s a noise. Muted. Muffled. But Jongwoo hears it. A gasp. His head whips around, and he scans the hallway, eyes narrowing. There’s a rhythmic, wet sound that follows. Jongwoo’s heart pounds against his ribs, painful and all-consuming. His feet move towards the door that’s slightly ajar. The bathroom door. The noises become less muffled, more obvious. Jongwoo’s face reddens, but he can’t stop himself. Pure disbelief has him approaching the door. He takes care to be as silent as possible. And he peeks through the gap.
Moonjo is only partially within sight. His back is turned, and he has one hand splayed against the wall, while the other–
Arousal cuts straight into Jongwoo’s core, so visceral that his knees are almost weak with it. He steadies himself. Internal loathing needles him as he shifts his weight onto his other foot, trying to regain an ounce of composure. But he can’t. Because Moonjo is panting lightly, working a frantic hand around his cock, and the slick, dirty glide of it has Jongwoo’s mouth watering, his blood crooning. He can’t see much, it’s the suggestion of it. The held-back grunts, cut short before they can gain momentum. The subtle twitch of Moonjo’s hips. Jongwoo’s breath grows heavier, and he grits his teeth, tries to conceal it.
He wants to see it all.
Carefully, barely taking in air, Jongwoo steps forward. His shoe scuffs on the hallway carpet. He freezes, watches the subtle movement of Moonjo’s head, how he angles his ear a little more towards the door. It’s like he’s been waiting, hoping. And then, Moonjo throws his head back. He groans, bucks into his hand, chases his pleasure with a delirious, frenzied need. It’s so much faster now, like he’ll die if he doesn’t finish. Like the lust will consume and swallow him whole if it’s not expelled, released. Jongwoo wants to encourage, to urge. But he can’t speak, won’t speak. Instead, he watches.
Moonjo’s fingers flex against the wall, and his voice takes on a whiny, breathy quality as he shudders, “Touch me.”
Jongwoo feels like he’s going to collapse in on himself. He’s trapped, eyes wide and wanting.
“Touch me,” Moonjo begs, dragging in a lungful of air. “Sir.”
Jongwoo staggers back just as Moonjo comes.
…
They don’t talk about it. Not explicitly. The only thing that Jongwoo allows himself to say is an off-handed, clumsy thing.
“Why weren’t you at your desk when I needed you to be?”
Moonjo’s reply is simple as he spins his chair to face Jongwoo. “I was in the bathroom.”
They stare at each other. Moonjo crosses one foot over the other, eyes glimmering with a heated challenge.
Jongwoo doesn’t bring it up again.
The rest of the week passes, sluggish and unproductive. There’s a fraying thread that tugs between them, on the precipice of snapping. Jongwoo hardly has the time to think on it. He’s buried in his work, forgetting to eat, sleep, breathe. The phrasing is all wrong, the sentences are clunky, uninspired. Jongwoo wants to tear his hair out. Something is missing. An integral cog in the machine, oiling the flow of words. It’s on the tip of his tongue, the nib of his pen.
Frustration bubbles up inside of him, threatening to burst. He rests his elbows on the desk, shoves his face in both hands. He digs his nails in, just for a moment, to ground himself. When he uncovers his face, Moonjo is standing in the doorway, a stack of papers in hand.
“You didn’t knock,” Jongwoo says sharply, rubbing the skin under his eyes.
“You left the door slightly open, sir.”
Jongwoo exhales, sifting through the pages of his manuscript. “And that makes it okay, does it?”
Moonjo cocks his head, practically saunters inside. “I could ask you the same question.”
Jongwoo’s head snaps up. His lips purse as he taps a finger onto the sleek wood of his desk. There’s a bite to his tone when he says, “I need to get this done, Moonjo. Give me Yoojeong’s notes.”
With a flicker of a smile on his lips, Moonjo begins to make his way towards Jongwoo. It’s almost artful, the way the pointed tip of his shoe somehow catches on the leg of the desk. Paper scatters everywhere, and Moonjo stumbles to the floor in a graceful heap, landing on all fours. Eyes growing huge, he glances up at Jongwoo through his lashes. “Oops.”
Jongwoo closes his eyes, long-suffering and exhausted. He considers leaving, just–driving all the way home. Moonjo speaks before he gets the chance.
“Sir,” he says, buttery soft. His gaze slides down, down, down. It settles on Jongwoo’s crotch. “You’ve been so stressed lately.”
“Don’t,” Jongwoo warns. His legs inch apart of their own volition, and Moonjo’s eyes track the movement, flashing with renewed hunger.
“I can make it go away,” Moonjo promises, placing a hand forward, like he means to crawl. “You deserve a break, sir.”
Jongwoo chews the inside of his cheek. It’s a bad idea– no, a terrible idea. But it’s ensnaring him, the thread between them pulling taut and wrapping around his ribs.
“Come here, then.”
Moonjo’s eyes go dark. He moves, on his hands and knees, entering Jongwoo’s space. He kneels before him, the desk pressing against his back. Jongwoo’s heartbeat slams in his ears, and he opens his legs even wider, making room. Moonjo shuffles closer, runs his hands up and down Jongwoo’s thighs. A tingling need trails in the wake of his touch. It’s sensual, intimate. A muscle in Jongwoo’s jaw tenses, and he puts a hand underneath Moonjo’s chin, lifting his head upwards. “I’m going to look over these notes. And you’re going to keep me relaxed. Think you can manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” Moonjo breathes, his fingers tightening around Jongwoo’s thighs.
“Okay.” Jongwoo nods to the discarded papers. “Pick those up for me.”
Moonjo follows his line of sight, almost in a trance. He jumps into action, gathers them up. Jongwoo’s mouth twitches. The papers are pushed into his waiting hand, and Moonjo crowds back into his space. He doesn’t make a move. Jongwoo realises something. It’s a heady, clawing thing that sturs below his navel.
Moonjo is waiting to be instructed.
“Go on,” Jongwoo urges, placing a hand behind Moonjo’s head.
Moonjo ducks down, traps Jongwoo’s zipper between his teeth, and pulls. It sends a searing bolt of pure want right down to Jongwoo’s waiting cock. He wets his lips, brings his elbow down to lean against the arm of the chair. Scanning the first page, Jongwoo tries to focus. Moonjo draws his cock out into the warm air, and the first touch of his hand has Jongwoo stiffening, impossibly fast. A thumb circles over the head, teasing and cruel.
“Yah.” Jongwoo yanks Moonjo in by his hair, feels his breath stutter against his cock. “None of that. Just get to it.”
The hot, wet press of Moonjo’s tongue is obscene, inescapable. Jongwoo hums quietly, strokes his fingers along Moonjo’s scalp, digging in. He rereads the first line of Yoojeong’s notes, brows drawn. Moonjo licks up the shaft of his cock, steady and firm. Jongwoo’s nostrils flare, his thighs clench. He carries on reading.
Moonjo takes him in fully, mouth stretching around the head of his cock. The silky heat is pure sin, and Jongwoo curses, drags his eyes towards the man in between his legs. It’s a pretty picture. But Jongwoo wants more. He guides Moonjo further onto his cock, watches as his head bobs up and down, taking in more and more of him. He glances away again, but his hand doesn’t let up, teaching Moonjo how he likes it, a silent demand. Moonjo gags, his throat convulsing. Jongwoo shushes him, eases his cock in deeper, hips twitching at the slick sound that fills the room. The words swim on the page, and he finds himself thrusting forward into Moonjo’s mouth, just once.
Moonjo’s answering moan vibrates around his cock. So he does it again. And again. Tiny thrusts, barely a roll of the hips, but it has Moonjo drooling, panting. He’s making muffled, shameless sounds, like he can’t help himself. He’s so responsive, so pathetically wanton. Jongwoo turns to the next page of notes, he slows the roll of his hips. He finds himself oddly engrossed in his work. A fuzziness envelops him, the lewd heat of Moonjo’s mouth fades, dims into a gooey, warm distraction.
It carries on like this. Jongwoo is quiet, focused. He leads Moonjo up and down his cock with a calm hand, listens to his muted groans. He even leans forward at one point, grabs a pen from his desk. The movement inches his cock further inside Moonjo’s wet mouth, divine and deep. Moonjo gets a little bolder, wraps a hand around the base of Jongwoo’s cock, uses it as leverage to sink himself down. He presses his tongue, flat and unforgiving, against the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. A rising coil of pleasure shudders through Jongwoo, and he slaps the notes down onto the desk, gasping. He moves Moonjo’s head back and forth, like a noisy, needy toy. Pre leaks onto Moonjo’s tongue, which only seems to spur him on more, and he hollows his cheeks.
Jongwoo groans, the back of his head hitting the chair. He stares up at the ceiling, teeth gritting. His grip slackens. Moonjo pulls off of his cock, eyes glassy, lips puffy. He nuzzles into Jongwoo's hand.
“Don't stop.” His voice is scratchy, fucked out. There's an unquenchable thirst behind his stare. “Show me what makes you feel good, sir.”
Jongwoo twists his fingers back into Moonjo's hair, listens to his breath hitch. He smears the head of his cock over spit-slicked lips. Moonjo sucks lightly, swirls his tongue across the slit.
“A little more,” Jongwoo tells him, on the verge of encouragement. Moonjo takes his cock in, gradual, full of misplaced worship. It casts a devilish glow on Jongwoo's heart. He begins a slow, grinding pace, transfixed at how easily Moonjo's mouth gives way for him. The noise is intoxicating, damp and filthy. He speeds up, sweat glistening across his neck.
He gets too enthusiastic, too hasty, and he hauls Moonjo down the entire length of his cock. He shivers, grunts. His orgasm convulses through him. It’s so sudden, almost violent in its intensity.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, holding Moonjo still against his pulsing cock, making him swallow all of him, down to the last drop. He releases him with a shuddering gasp, and Moonjo slumps back against the desk, a vision of pure debauchery. His hair falls into his eyes, his lips are come-smeared and red from abuse. And he’s heaving out hurried breaths of air, chest rising and falling in quick succession. He looks ruined.
“Sir,” Moonjo rasps, sitting back on his heels. His gaze is entreating, clinging. “Was I good?”
Jongwoo tucks himself back in, zips up his trousers. A detached sort of curiosity is what moves his hand forward, and he rests the pad of his thumb on Moonjo’s bottom lip. He smudges the glistening remains of come from his mouth and pushes his thumb inside, eyes glinting when Moonjo’s jaw slackens, obedient. Retracting his hand, Jongwoo wordlessly extends his leg, rubbing the heel of his shoe against Moonjo’s cock, agonisingly slow. Just as Moonjo’s hips begin to tilt into the touch, he withdraws.
Leaving his leg stretched out leisurely, Jongwoo turns back to the notes on his latest draft.
It doesn’t take long for Moonjo to understand.
He scrambles forward, lines his clothed cock up against Jongwoo’s trouser leg, and grinds down. It elicits a small moan, and he does it again, fucking Jongwoo’s leg like he’s an animal in heat. He’s so loud about it. He presses his forehead onto Jongwoo’s thigh as he ruts into him, one hand wrapping around his calf and the other clutching the side of his shirt. Jongwoo does nothing to help him. He barely looks at him, despite the tightening grip on his shirt, how it tugs and pulls, begging for attention.
“Please,” Moonjo pants, hips working a staggered rhythm that has him grunting with each hurried drag. “Sir, I–”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” Jongwoo dismisses gruffly, ignoring the whine that follows his words.
Moonjo continues to chase his own release, and his pace quickens, grows more disjointed. He’s so close, Jongwoo can feel it in the twitch of his hips, the wet, panting breaths against his thigh. He’s nearly on the last paragraph of the third page when Moonjo pushes his face into Jongwoo’s crotch.
It’s too sensitive, too much. Jongwoo hisses, flinches. He pulls Moonjo up by his hair, teeth bared. “You fucking brat.”
Moonjo’s mouth opens on a low, trembling groan. He’s coming, shaking through it, grasping onto Jongwoo for dear life. When he stills, goes lax against him, that’s when Jongwoo applies the subtlest of pressure. It’s vindictive, mean. It makes Moonjo convulse, arch his hips away. But Jongwoo’s hand shoots down, bunches into the expensive fabric at Moonjo’s lower back. Keeping him from escaping. He grinds his leg against Moonjo’s spent cock.
“Ah, wait,” Moonjo tries to say, brows creasing as he looks up at Jongwoo, bleary-eyed.
“Do you not like this?” Jongwoo asks, applying more pressure, watching Moonjo squirm.
The only response he gets is a bitten-off moan, and it constricts in Moonjo’s throat, like he isn’t sure if it’s from pain or pleasure.
“Are you punishing me, sir?”
Jongwoo quirks a brow. He pushes Moonjo’s hair out of his face, deceptively kind. “Is there something you need to be punished for?”
Moonjo’s pupils dilate. The next time Jongwoo’s leg presses down, his hips move with it.
“Could you come again? Rutting on my leg like a dog?” Jongwoo says, a low murmur. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. What horrible, malicious side of him that Moonjo brings out, sharpened and honed.
Moonjo winces, gasps. “I can try.”
Jongwoo tuts in disbelief. He pulls his leg back. “I don’t think that’s in your job description. Go and clean yourself up; you’re a mess.”
Moonjo blinks rapidly, careening to the side. Like a puppet with its strings cut. He staggers to his feet, and Jongwoo eyes the wet patch that stains his front.
“Do you have a spare change of clothes?” he asks, trailing a finger over Moonjo’s crotch.
“I do.” Moonjo swallows, throat bobbing.
Jongwoo locks eyes with him. “Don’t change into them.”
Moonjo nods, runs a hand through his hair. He bows, a little half-hearted, a little lost.
When he’s just about to leave, Jongwoo speaks up again.
“Moonjo,” he calls, waits for him to turn. Scratching his cheek, Jongwoo says, reluctant, “My mind is clearer now.”
Moonjo’s expression gives nothing away. But there’s a pleased tilt to his mouth, and his shoulders loosen. He bows again. “Glad to be of service, Mr Yoon.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
…
Jongwoo writes that next week like he’s possessed. His fingers race across keys, uncaring for errors or punctuation. He just needs to get this down. It’s so risky, probably bordering on irresponsible. But his pianist is moving, breathing, living. And he’s in the next room. So, Jongwoo writes. And writes.
It’s a dreary morning when he chucks the printed out chapter onto Moonjo’s desk, something he’s never done before. He hasn’t let Moonjo read any of his work, not in all the time that he’s been his secretary. This is different. This is important. Jongwoo pushes the file forward.
Moonjo eyes it hungrily. His fingers make an aborted movement, like he wants to touch. He looks up at Jongwoo. “What do you want me to do with this, sir?”
“Read it.”
Jongwoo says nothing more. He returns to his office. And waits.
About an hour later, Moonjo knocks on his door.
“Come in.” Jongwoo’s voice threatens to waver, but he holds strong.
Moonjo walks through. There’s a hard set to his mouth. His gaze is flat, almost accusing.
“Oh,” Jongwoo says, exaggerated and mocking. “I guess you don’t like it, then.”
“I don’t understand.” Moonjo takes the seat opposite Jongwoo’s desk, mirroring the interview that started this thing. This game.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why would he escalate in this way?” Moonjo brings a hand to pick at his bottom lip. “Killing so openly, in a public space.”
Jongwoo feigns ignorance. “Serial killers can get cocky.”
Moonjo’s stare pins him in place. “It’s almost like you want him to get caught.”
“He won’t get caught,” Jongwoo assures, leans forward on his elbows. “He’s good at what he does, right?”
“You seem quite sure of that.”
Jongwoo kisses his teeth. “Are you trying to tell me that my writing is unrealistic, Moonjo?”
“Not unrealistic,” Moonjo counters, crossing his arms. “Just…confusing.”
“You’re a smart man,” Jongwoo says, blunt. “You’ll figure it out.”
Moonjo goes still. His face is blank, eerily so. He’s trying to read Jongwoo’s eyes, gauge his meaning. It’s obvious in the way his gaze sharpens as he regards him. Jongwoo doesn’t falter. His eyebrow inches upward, slowly. An unspoken challenge.
Go on. The air between them whispers, tempting. Here’s the murder I want. Let’s see if you can make it happen.
Moonjo’s head tilts . “I’ll re-read the chapter again, sir. Perhaps I’ll gain a better understanding.”
Jongwoo feels a red-hot prickle of excitement. He doesn’t smile, but he’s certain that his approval shines through the cracks of his armour, a beam of sunlight, casting a foreboding shadow.
“I look forward to your feedback.”
It happens sooner than he expects. A mere day after. It’s the first time Inspector Junghwa has contacted him in months. Jongwoo barely hears her. His ears ring. He nearly drops the phone in shock, incredulity. Because–
It’s real now. A tangible thing. A direct order, cloaked in doublespeak.
“The body was found in Namsan Park?” he hears himself ask weakly.
“Yes,” Inspector Junghwa sighs, tired. “We don’t know how the killer wasn’t seen. But it’s a large space. It’s possible.”
“And…” Jongwoo wets his lips. “It’s the same person? From before?”
“Definitely. They even carved in the same key signature.”
“Oh, fuck.” Jongwoo blinks, feeling weightless.
“I’m sorry, but I need to ask,” Inspector Junghwa hesitates, voice rising in pitch. “Where were you between the hours of eight and nine o’clock last night?”
Jongwoo takes a breath. The lie comes far too easily. “I was working late. I didn’t leave my office until ten.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Yes.” Jongwoo traces Moonjo’s figure with a heated gaze through the tinted window. “My secretary was with me.”
Junghwa lets out a laugh, sounding relieved. “Ah, you authors and your working hours. We’ll have to run this by him, of course. It’s nothing personal. Just a precaution.”
“He’ll say the same thing as me,” Jongwoo affirms.
“Oh, yes,” Inspector Junghwa rushes to say. “I know he will. It’s just so we can officially rule you out.”
Jongwoo hums.
“I’ll, uh, be in touch soon, Mr Yoon.”
“Good luck, Inspector.”
The line goes dead.
Jongwoo stands, limbs buzzing with barely contained need. He moves, as though in a dream-like haze. He opens the door to his office, hangs around the frame by one arm. He whistles, relishing the way Moonjo’s head whips around, eager, ready.
“I need to talk to you. Come on.”
Jongwoo sits in his chair, leg bouncing. He runs a frenzied hand through his hair, pulls on it. Moonjo appears in the doorway, backlit by the golden glow of the overhead lights behind him. An angelic demon.
Jongwoo curls his finger, beckoning. Moonjo lurches forward, like it’s a compulsion, like there truly is a thread that connects them, and he’s helpless against its pull. He gets closer and closer. Jongwoo resists the urge to stand and meet him halfway, to take. But he stays in his seat, hiding behind the last remains of his patience.
Moonjo rounds the desk. And he sits. On Jongwoo’s desk. Legs splayed, expression open and daring. “What did you want to talk about, sir?”
Jongwoo rises. He places a hand on either side of Moonjo, boxing him in, caging him. Moonjo’s eyes glint in satisfaction, and he settles himself more securely on the desk, moving back. Jongwoo follows him, steps right into his space. Their breaths mingle. He lifts a hand, smooths it up Moonjo’s arm, feels him tremble from it. He hums, stroking his fingers across the skin of Moonjo’s neck. His grip is a gentle entrapment.
“You’ve been busy,” Is all he says before he surges up, slanting his mouth over Moonjo’s in a hot, feverish kiss.
The sound that Moonjo exhales into his mouth is wretched, wild. He fists a hand in Jongwoo’s hair, pulls him in, moulds their bodies together. Jongwoo tightens his hold on Moonjo’s neck, slides his fingers up, digs into his jaw. He licks into his mouth, liking the way Moonjo yields to him, angling his head back to deepen the kiss. His other hand sneaks behind Moonjo, grasps the small of his back and yanks him towards him. Their mouths separate, and Jongwoo needs. It’s not a want anymore. It’s a fixation, a drug.
“Are you going to fuck me?” Moonjo asks, desperation making his words shake. Jongwoo kisses him again, fast, urgent. He cups Moonjo through his trousers, kneads at his cock, making him gasp, choke.
“Bend over,” Jongwoo presses it against Moonjo’s lips, a breathy order.
He steps back, makes room for Moonjo to do as he asks.
Moonjo turns, bends at the waist. The sight makes Jongwoo pause. His cock throbs. It’s a hasty, impulsive thing that has Jongwoo undoing Moonjo’s belt from behind, tugging his trousers down with vicious impatience. Moonjo exhales through his nose, chest shuddering against the desk. Jongwoo unbuckles his own belt. He drapes himself along Moonjo’s back, and forces a hand underneath his chin, palm cupped.
“Spit.”
Moonjo obeys, drools over Jongwoo’s fingers.
“This will probably hurt,” Jongwoo says, patting Moonjo’s flank. He rubs his spit-slicked fingers up and down his cock, and he knows it probably won’t be enough, the friction might chafe, burn. But he needs it. And Moonjo needs it, too.
He presses the head of his cock against Moonjo’s hole, and slowly, almost carefully, eases inside. It’s not smooth. A guttural sound is torn from Moonjo’s throat as Jongwoo grinds his hips, works himself in deeper. He clenches a hand around the side of Moonjo’s thigh, keeping him still, pliant. Jongwoo's cock is surrounded by tight heat, and he lets out a muted groan, fucking into it. Moonjo jolts against the desk, and he shivers, pushes back.
“Please,” he pants. “I can take it.”
Jongwoo huffs, places a hand on the nape of Moonjo’s neck. “If you say so.”
He starts fucking him, sudden and fast. Moonjo scrambles for purchase. His back arches, and he’s moaning, short and stuttered. With every thrust, he gulps in a breath, gasping into the dark wood. His hand shoots out blindly, reaching for anything to steady himself, but he only ends up knocking over Jongwoo’s afternoon coffee and it splashes to the floor.
Jongwoo tuts, winds a punishing hand through Moonjo’s hair, hauls him up. He leans in, his cock sinking in so deep, so perfect. His tip is dribbling pre, and Moonjo’s hole is pracitcally sucking him in now, the rough, uncomfortable drag long forgotten. He hisses in Moonjo’s ear, a little mean. “You’re cleaning that up after.”
“Yes, sir,” Moonjo slurs out, fucking himself back on Jongwoo’s cock. His hips twitch, and he whines, jolting forward like he’s been stung.
“Is that your spot, then?” Jongwoo hits it again, feels Moonjo buck into him.
“Sir, I–”
Jongwoo grabs Moonjo’s tie, and shoves it into his mouth. He nudges Moonjo’s legs apart with his knee, spreads him wider, and grinds his hips, relentless. Moonjo lies there, flat against the desk, and just takes it. There’s nothing else he can do.
“Have you thought about this?” Jongwoo asks, thrusting into Moonjo again and again, delirious. “Getting fucked over my desk like a whore?”
Moonjo’s moans are muffled, and he nods his head helplessly, eyes scrunching shut.
Jongwoo grunts at the admission, pushes in further, so far that he might as well be in Moonjo’s guts. He pulls out, only to slam back in again. Moonjo convulses around his cock, tries to grind his hips into the desk. He’s saying something, garbled and restrained against fabric. Jongwoo tugs the tie out of his mouth, and it lands on the desk with a dull, wet sound.
“Can I– ah,” Moonjo moans on the next, greedy roll of Jongwoo’s hips. “Can I come, sir?”
Jongwoo laughs. He can hardly believe it. A man with a soul as black as pitch is deferring to him, begging him. Asking permission.
He chooses not to give it.
“You don’t finish before I do,” he insists.
Moonjo’s mouth goes slack, and his eyes almost roll into the back of his head as the tip of Jongwoo’s cock brushes that spot inside of him again. The vulnerability of his position, the willingness to give himself over completely. It sets Jongwoo’s blood on fire.
Pressing himself along the arch of Moonjo’s back, Jongwoo asks a question, hushed. “Did you kill them?”
Moonjo opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Jongwoo slows his pace, grinds into him, slick, deep. Moonjo’s jaw tightens. He seems hesitant. Something is holding him back. Like he’s reluctant to give ground after so long.
Jongwoo traces a finger across the cut of Moonjo’s cheekbone. “I want to hear you say it.”
Moonjo lifts himself up on his folded arm, turns to face Jongwoo. His eyes are wet, wanting.
“I killed them.”
Jongwoo inhales. And then he’s fucking into Moonjo, rougher than before. He’s met halfway with heaving, pleading groans.
“Would you do it again?” Jongwoo urges, stifling his moan. “If I wrote it down, told you how?”
“Yes.” Moonjo jerks against him, voice strained. “Yes.”
“Just how I envisioned it, right?”
“Just how you envisioned it,” Moonjo repeats, a groaned-out promise.
“Fuck,” Jongwoo gasps. “Good boy.”
His orgasm steamrolls over him. He spills inside Moonjo, pulsing and thick. His cock twitches at the disgusting squelch that sounds between their bodies. Moonjo is stock-still beneath him, unnaturally so. Like he’s trying to hold himself together, not daring to even move.
Jongwoo pulls out. He swipes a hand over his forehead, grimacing at the sweat gathered there. Running his eyes over Moonjo, he sees that despite everything, his cock is still rock hard, weeping.
Jongwoo smiles faintly. He caresses the swollen head, feather-light. “That looks like it hurts.”
Moonjo’s hips stutter towards him. Jongwoo pulls his hand back.
“I suppose you deserve some kind of reward,” Jongwoo murmurs into the quiet. He kneels behind Moonjo. He spreads Moonjo’s cheeks apart, watches his own come drip down. His voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “Try not to move too much.”
He laps at Moonjo’s hole, experimental and curious. Moonjo chokes, almost pulls away. But Jongwoo tightens his grip, humming around him. He begins to work Moonjo open with his tongue, sliding in and out, feeling him quiver. There’s a bitter taste to it, his come slides into his mouth, and he fucks his tongue in deeper. Moonjo pushes back, and the noises he’s making are unhinged. He sobs on a breath as Jongwoo’s tongue curls inside of him, his thighs shaking with the effort it takes to remain standing. Spit runs down Jongwoo’s chin, mixing with the slick mess of come. He lathers his tongue over Moonjo’s hole. And then, he sucks.
Moonjo is coming with a breathy, fucked-out whine. He collapses, panting into the desk,
Jongwoo sits back, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. He stands, stares down at Moonjo’s pathetic, flushed form.
“I’m not going to include that chapter in the published version, you know,” Jongwoo tells him, threading his hand through Moonjo’s hair.
Moonjo chuckles, ragged. “I don’t think prison would suit either of us, sir.”
Jongwoo smirks.