Set my throne upon the curve of your neck

It is a normal Wednesday for almost everyone else, but Taekwoon finds himself uncharacteristically fidgety, and his normally resolute concentration wanders after every other paragraph of the superfluous report he is attempting to finish. After the conversation with Wonsik at the start of the week, Taekwoon did gradually settle back into normalcy after the weekend’s drop, and has even managed to successfully shove the unpleasant incident into a forgotten corner of his mind. That is, until he received a cheery text from Wonsik’s other partner —real partner, as Hongbin had corrected him many a time, reminding Taekwoon that Wonsik’s partnership with him is an affair at best— informing him that a carefully curated list has been delivered to his inbox earlier in the afternoon. After reading (and rereading) said message, Taekwoon finds the near invulnerable drive that has allowed him to bulldoze through two tedious meetings, and an equally painful presentation earlier in the day waning alongside his productivity. With each tick of the clock, the incessant restlessness cumulates into a series of inconvenient slips of his pen from his impatient tapping against the stationery, and a sore lower lip courtesy of his unconscious chewing. He steals another glance at his wristwatch —a classy Patek Philippe as opposed to his partner’s more obnoxious Vacheron Constantin—, fingers itching again when he sees the delicate metal hands glide just a smidge closer to the six o’clock mark. Even though his firm’s official working hours are nine-to-six, he has never left the confines of his office earlier than eight in the recent years —even those instances are few, and far between, for when one market closes, another opens—. Despite that tradition, Taekwoon is falling for every taunt from his irrational side, teasing him with the potentially tantalising knowledge hidden inside the message. He knows he is very likely overreacting to the contents of said email —with Hongbin’s choice of a real partner, who knows what his idea of a carefully curated list is?—, but given how his productivity (or rather, lack thereof) is barely grazing ground zero, he may as well relent, and finally put an end to his self-imposed torture.

The moment six o’clock arrives, Taekwoon pushes his (still impressive pile of) documents aside, and hovers his pointer over his email. He contemplates looking at Hongbin’s message, but after consulting with the ounce of rationality still embedded in him —better be safe than sorry; after all, what is another hour compared to the waiting game he has been playing for most of the day?—, decides to hold off until he is in the safety of the apartment. After calling his chauffeur to ready the car, Taekwoon collects his essentials, and grabs a stack of proposals from the day’s pile to stuff into his briefcase —more out of habit than anything else, since given today’s trajectory, it is unlikely he will be that productive at home either—. He pauses for a moment by his ceiling-high window, and gazes at the sprawling Gangnam Business District around him. The sky is still a bright shade of blue, so instead of the familiar sight of twinkling coloured lights sprinkled across the uneven skyline, Taekwoon is greeted with a much more sombre forest of greys, and black, interspersed with the occasional reflected silver. He traces the gradually filling roads, following how the maze of weathered asphalts snakes, and coils around the base of each concrete behemoth before disappearing behind the dense cover of properties once more. His departure is temporarily forgotten as it sinks in how surreal it is that the absence of light has become an inherent indicator of diligence, and thus success to him.

Taekwoon is no longer the wistful teenager bounded by the romanticised notion of a happily ever after —no one in the right frame of mind would be after they have experienced the bitter taste of corporate reality—. Instead, he stands firmly by the notion that success necessitates happiness —first assuming a high enough level of the former to make the latter a natural by-product, of course—. Because of that, he likes to think he knows what happiness is: it is the glow of satisfaction that ebbs in every branch of his veins for weeks after his team’s proposed solution has been implemented successfully; it is the knowledge of security for his aged parents, and his siblings when he crawls into his empty king-sized bed past midnight, his bleary eyes certain that their lifestyle is secured despite the throbbing fatigue-induced headache he has to endure the day after; it is the polite praises, and congratulations from both strangers, and family alike that play on loop at various events, and the weight of envious stares shot at his receding back; it is the willing sacrifice that comes with a round-the-clock meticulous control over every aspect of his life — an endless fine-tuning necessary to maintain, and to further the success of his company. To an outsider, Taekwoon is amongst the untouchable elites of his industry, one who wields tremendous power over not just his own life, but the fates of countless others as well. It is that tremendous responsibility that he is forced to shoulder on a daily basis, resulting in the creation of an authoritative persona that few dare to challenge. That facet of his character is birthed more from reflexive self-preservation than from an overt manifestation of the existing, therefore, he is pressured to swallow the person he once was for his career to thrive. His former self lies simmering amongst the skeletons of his past, but the vulnerabilities it hides have never fully decayed with time. It is these weaknesses that he strives to overcome (or ignore), but against the unrelenting opposition that he has to constantly defy, even the usually infallible Jung Taekwoon finds himself falling victim to lethargy, and doubt at times. After all, he is only human, and it is during days like this when he isn’t completely immune to losing himself to the occasional fantasy, relishing in the momentary reprieve as he relinquishes control of the reins, content with being a spectator for once. He knows his streak for self-discipline thus far isn’t perfect, but it is definitely more than admirable when compared to most others. There is an exception for everything, and today just happens to be one such (prominent) outlier —especially with how for the first time in years, he has allowed his irrationality to interfere this much with his work rhythm—. That observation temporarily releases Taekwoon from his impulsiveness, and for a moment he feels his anticipation wavering. He stares blankly at the view, eyes unfocused as the absurdity of his behaviour for the day finally hits him. Before he can reconsider his course of action, his phone buzzes, prompting an involuntary sigh of annoyance in return.

Mite wanna go home b4 u open beanies mail

u nid a break dnt wry nthing i cant handle here^^

Taekwoon lets out a breath of relief he hadn’t realised he has been holding. On top of actively repelling the near instantaneous flush of his cheeks, he finds himself wrestling between a scowl, and a grin at his friend’s text. He settles for a grimace instead: the most appropriate expression for how understanding, yet exasperating Wonsik can be, and an apt response to the latter’s appalling spelling, and grammar. Nevertheless, the older man silently thanks his friend for being understanding, appreciative of how the light-hearted tone of his words has somewhat lessened his hesitation. Before the logical corporate side of him regains control once more, Taekwoon switches his phone to airplane mode before shoving it into his blazer’s pocket, fingers of his other hand still stubbornly wrapped around the handle of his briefcase. He knows there is a very plausible chance of disappointment, and frustration when he finally opens the email, but sitting in denial in his office for the next few hours isn’t too attractive an alternative either. Since his brain has decided to halt all activity until said distraction has been dealt with, Taekwoon rationalises how it is better quell the (unfounded) optimism growing inside him, so he can switch back to his usual efficient self as soon as possible. Finally satisfied with his justification, he composes himself —leaving just a hint of a frown between his brows—, and leaves his room. Taekwoon can’t stop himself from glancing at Wonsik’s room as he makes his way towards the exit. He regrets his decision almost immediately when he sees his partner send a less-than-subtle knowing wink his way after flashing a smile that is already too toothy for his liking. He quickly diverts his attention to making his escape, blatantly ignoring the mist of hushed whispers that gathers in the shadow of his strides until he is behind the cover of the elevator doors.

The ride back to his penthouse takes much longer than what Taekwoon is used to. He finds himself drumming his fingers impatiently against the leather of his seat as his driver carefully weaves through the worst of Seoul’s peak hour traffic. Irritated at the lack of progress, he opens his personal inbox —deliberately ignoring the starred email sitting at the top of the page—, and pulls up the contract Wonsik had sent earlier in the week. Still a little disinclined to admit that he may have judged Sanghyuk too hastily, he gives the (surprisingly detailed) contract a quick once over. Taekwoon finds that it covers most, if not all of his areas of concern: non-disclosure agreement, decision-making, duties, compensation, duration, liabilities, conflict resolution, and termination.  Although that discovery is not entirely unexpected —Wonsik did not get to where he currently is through blind trust alone—, he feels his impression of the young lawyer-in-training improving after he has finished the list of provisions. Even though Taekwoon isn't trained as a lawyer, years of scrutinising contract after contract on a daily basis have given him utility of what many would deem as incomprehensible law jargon, and a discerning enough eye to pick up on the finer points that separate a well-crafted, from a badly woven contract. Besides how the document reads a little too much like a corporate partnership agreement than something more tailored to a Dominant-submissive relationship, he is unable to find any major flaws in the contract. With that, he decides to temporarily rest his case, and begins to take note of potential areas of personalisation in preparation for when he gets home.

Taekwoon stares at the file opened on his computer, his initial surprise giving way to a look of incredulity as he tries, and fails to find the rest of the document. He may not be a technology whiz —his company’s tech team can confirm that Taekwoon is indeed more likely to claim that he is computer illiterate—, but after checking for the umpteenth time, he is certain that Hongbin’s list comprises of just one person. He loosens his tie roughly, and tilts his head back to break eye contact with the offending article, a growl of aggravation betraying his usually stoic demeanour as he glares daggers into the ceiling. The sun has finally started to set, its dying light pulling at the shadows of his study until they grow, and elongate into the edge of the walls. Taekwoon feels the residual of his edginess beginning to gnaw at his insides again, and the weight of his watch aches against his wrist. He is thankful that he has retained sufficient rationality to bring some work home as a buffer, so not all is lost even if his endeavours for the day have been for naught. He reminds himself to give Hongbin a piece of his mind (or to throttle the other when Wonsik’s back is turned) for wasting his time. When his ire has finally subsided, Taekwoon takes a deep breath, and pulls himself back upright before turning his attention back to the document.

The file contains a comprehensive list of personal information of Hongbin’s supposed ace recommendation in a resume-like fashion. The page is nearly filled to the brim, elaborating on every item in minute detail. Taekwoon is tempted, but ultimately resists the urge to associate said man—, Cha Hakyeon, with the numerous amateur job applicants he has had to deal with over the years for now. He skims through the man’s particulars (same age; tertiary education; slightly, but still shorter; average family background; dancer), and the more intimate specifics (long-time professional Dominant; quite a list of comfortable scenes, and kinks; an even longer list of past partners, albeit with quite a gap from the last until now; unexpectedly well-endowed). He can feel a slight stirring in his pants as the printed words fuel the frustration he has been starving off for too long (that has to be an exaggeration; everyone that hung is either fictional, or a star). Biting back a groan as his mind forcefully conjures up a helpful image of said organ, he scrolls past the wall of words, and into the collection of photos. Taekwoon leans forward in surprise as he is met with a boyish looking man staring back at him. Although he shouldn’t be promoting stereotypes since he isn’t exactly poster boy material for submissives himself, Taekwoon confesses that he is expecting someone a little bigger in stature. The man in the photos is of a slighter build than his, and not someone others would associate with authority, or control at first glance. Instead, with his disarming smile, Hakyeon looks like the typical boy-next-door mothers would be fawning over as a prime match for their daughters. However, —as evident from the now obvious bulge he is sporting— he will admit that besides his unnaturally long neck, Hakyeon is very easy on the eyes: his eyes are bright, his smile is radiant, his features are symmetrical, his skin is the colour of warm honey, his slender form is mostly lean muscle —a true dancer’s body, Taekwoon muses—, and he must be brilliant at Photoshop (how else did he manage to edit himself to fit the aforementioned measurements?). With the information he has garnered, (on paper at least) Hakyeon seems like a promising fit for him: he is a seasoned scene Dominant who isn’t only focused on the kinkier, and rougher aspects of the sub-culture. Despite not having an agent, Hakyeon’s long list of referrals from his even larger base of satisfied clients serves to alleviate some of Taekwoon’s concerns. Given the other man’s supposed knack for adaptability, the problems remaining are less contingent on Hakyeon’s suitability as a scene partner. Instead, they are more centred around Taekwoon’s suspicions towards why Hongbin chose to recommend only Hakyeon, and the reason behind the abrupt stop in the latter’s activities as a professional Dominant.

Taekwoon scrolls to the end of the document again in hopes that other profiles have miraculously appeared since. Finding none, he sinks into his chair grumpily, and pulls open the top two buttons of his shirt. After weighing his options once more, Taekwoon decides that with Hongbin’s (and thus by association, Wonsik’s) vouch, and given the less than ideal state he is, and has been in, he has more to lose not pushing on than vice versa. Besides, he is certain if he continues his stint of celibacy, the inevitable plunge in his productivity at work would likely prompt Wonsik to literally take matters into his own hands. He cringes visibly at the thought, and gulps down a bottle of water to chase the sour taste of revulsion from his tongue. Stomach still churning —but at least the tent in his pants has finally deflated—, he retrieves his phone, and punches in Hongbin’s number. This has better be worth his time, or Lee Hongbin will very soon get reacquainted with why his moniker is Leo.

A/N: I'm sorry for not reaching the part of this series yet!! /bows! (Yes, it isn't supposed to be long, but I after going through the skeleton of the entire story, I had to do a little bit of reshuffling to reduce the potential for confusion.) Because I was stuck in a writing rut for the past week plus (honestly, I could barely string together a coherent sentence, let alone write a chapter), I slipped back into my no-dialogue semi-introspective/descriptive route in attempts to get over said problem. Obvious pitfalls of that include a slower progression of the story, and this chapter being a collection of lengthy sentences that have way too many clauses in them. (I did try to chop some of them up! When my pen flows more naturally again, I'll revise this chapter in attempts to shorten them even more! /hangs head in shame/) That said, I didn't force in an introspective portion just to buy myself more time — it was initially meant to be interspersed throughout the next chapter, but after reconsideration, I figured that would hinder, rather than aid the flow, so I moved the entire chunk here instead. I'm so sorry if it feels too abrupt as a result! Thank you if you still want to stick with this even after this messy attempt at moving the story forward... I'll try my best to get my act together for future chapters! /retreats under rock once more