Set my throne upon the curve of your neck

The office is mostly silent, save for the steady patter of fingers against hard plastic. The frosted door of the entrance slides open, revealing a less than pleased looking man, with jaw grimly set, and a cold stare radiating a challenge that no sane person is willing to take. His strides are long as they cross the carpeted floor, and the heels of his polished brogues —Zegna of course (not that anyone expects less)— leave a trail of angry imprints that persist like a physical manifestation of his displeasure long after his presence has vacated. There is an almost audible collective breath of relief at the sharp click of said man’s door —he may be peeved, but professionalism supersedes everything else when one is a corporate partner—, finally snapping the tension that was uncomfortably hanging over everyone else’s head. A low murmur sifts through the cubicles — each word measured, and quiet, for none possess sufficient bravery (and foolhardiness) to bait the predator from his den. Wonsik looks up from the mess of reports scattered across his desk, the sudden noise snapping him from his concentration. He peers past the transparent walls of his room into his partner’s, his expression part concern, and part amusement. When his sight finally catches the other’s, the latter narrows his eyes, and proceeds to forcefully yank down the venetian blinds, effectively isolating himself from further curious (and badly concealed) glances from the floor. Wonsik sets his pen down, a light sigh escaping as he does. He straightens the stack of papers absentmindedly, and decides that starting the workweek with gossip is infinitely more appealing than the pile of (urgent) contracts awaiting his approval. Besides, he is certain the unvoiced warning sent his way earlier is more a product of the other man’s pride than an actual threat. As said man’s closest friend for the better part of the past decade, Wonsik knows his partner will more than likely abandon his quiet seething, and cave in to his temper the moment he is certain his privacy is uncompromised. So, he exits the peace of his own room —ignoring how the employees revert to a hushed silence the moment he steps out from his office—, hands casually slung in his tailored trousers, and whistles a jaunty tune under his breath as he ambles to the other man’s room.

Wonsik considers entering his corporate partner’s room without knocking, but ultimately gives the heavy oak door a short rapt before pulling it open when he remembers the look of murder the other had given him (and everyone else) earlier. “Good morning, Taekwoon,” he calls out cheerily as he gently shuts the door behind him. The older man delivers a pointed glare his way at the intrusion, but makes no further attempt to chase him out. Knowing that is about as good a sign of permission as he will get given his partner’s state of ire, he moves over to the leather loveseat —deliberately avoiding the heavy briefcase carelessly planted just off its centre— adjacent to the other’s desk. He stretches an arm idly across the armrest, and watches as Taekwoon loosens his cuffs, and rolls (or rather, bunches) his sleeves up. Wonsik continues to look at his partner, a small but expectant smile on his face, as his fingers drum lightly against the leather. “Don’t you have work to do?” his friend finally snaps at him irritably. The younger man lets out a bark of laughter, “Same goes for you,” and motions at the untouched sheaf of papers awaiting Taekwoon’s attention. Silence stretches between the duo, with neither willing to concede; the only difference in their stillness is the growing annoyance evident on Taekwoon’s face, and the easy teasing smile on Wonsik’s own.

Worried that his friend is about to break the fountain pen —that Wonsik had gifted the other man a couple of years ago— in his unforgiving grip, the younger male relents, “Too much, or too little?” Taekwoon resists the urge to rolls his eyes —uncertain if the other is that obtuse, or wilfully ignorant—, and expressly angles his bare forearms towards Wonsik. “Oh. Too little,” Wonsik scans his friend’s unmarred skin once more, brows creasing before he corrects himself again, “Or not at all.” Taekwoon retracts his arms, and folds them tightly across his chest, the look of distaste on his face unchanging. Wonsik returns his gaze to the other man, and can’t help but find the scowling image before him reminiscent of a petulant child sulking at his unmet demands. Against better judgment, he chooses to tease his partner instead of offering words of comfort, “Since you’re so violent, I’m not surprised no one believes you are a sub.” The younger man motions to the fountain pen still trapped in Taekwoon’s tenacious hold, and the former can almost hear the black resin groan in protest under its owner’s whitened knuckles. “I’m not giving you another if you break this,” Wonsik admonishes, “Especially since you haven’t given me anything half as expensive as a Mont Blanc in return—“ Before he can finish his sentence, Taekwoon has already left said pen forgotten on his desk, and swaps it in favour of a loose headlock that Wonsik now finds himself in. After several agonising (satisfying) seconds of hearing the younger man squirm, and beg for forgiveness, Taekwoon releases him, the frown he was wearing earlier now replaced by a triumphant smirk. Wonsik escapes from his seat, and opts to stand just out of reach from his partner. He straightens his rumpled tie, and attempts to smoothen out some of the creases from his shirt. When the stubborn few refuse to yield to his presses, he raises his eyebrows accusingly to prove his point. “I’m not violent,” Taekwoon retorts, and when his partner gives him a look of utter disbelief, the latter can’t help but chuckle slightly, “You were asking for it.” He crosses his arms once more before continuing, “And that has nothing to do with whether I’m a sub or not. They aren’t mutually exclusive.” Wonsik can’t help but notice the bite in his friend’s words, and the tensing of his posture. “But I am more sadistic than masochistic,” the older man admits slowly. “Point proven,” Wonsik pretends to wince as he touches his neck, but the yelp that escapes later is one of genuine pain when he receives a hard smack on his arm.

After Taekwoon has decided that Wonsik is truly repentant, they sit themselves back in the sofa, and the latter backtracks to their initial topic, “So, yesterday… Was he a professional Dom?” The other man nods, mouth still set in a tight line. Wonsik struggles to word his next question, lest he sets his friend off again, “Then how—, or why did he... Fail in his execution?” When he doesn’t get a reply, he presses further, a hint of concern in his voice, “Did he recognise you?” Another nod. “You used the same company, right? I’ve seen their contracts. Their clauses are pretty tight, and with our long-term partnership with A&G, their employees won’t dare to—“ “You know that’s not the reason, Wonsik,” Taekwoon interrupts bitterly, “He saw me, realised who I am, and lost his nerve. Couldn’t even me.” Wonsik feels a tug of sympathy in his chest, and immediately winces at the crash of realisation that follows: Taekwoon’s moodiness is probably the aftereffect of the previous night’s drop. He rests a hand on his partner’s shoulder, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. The other man exhales deeply, the stern line of his mouth partially relaxing at the gesture, and leans slightly into Wonsik’s touch. “Maybe you should try a different company, or give freelance Doms a shot,” the latter carefully starts. He feels Taekwoon bristle at his suggestion, and pulls himself from under Wonsik’s hold. “I’m using the most reputable company in this city’s scene,” his partner replies flatly, “If this is the best, I don’t need to experience anything worse. And I’ve told you before, I only deal with agents.” The younger man fights the urge to sigh exasperatedly, but holds his ground, “It’s still playing Russian Roulette anyway, Taekwoon.” He looks over to his friend, only to see his expression harden, so he quickly supplements, “Okay, look, Bean used to be in the industry, and I’m sure he can recommend someone good. You’ve seen the circle he hangs out with. They’re all pretty solid. He can definitely find someone suitable for you.” Taekwoon bites back the urge to point out how Hongbin’s friends mostly operate without agents at his partner’s sudden earnestness, but maintains the tentative look on his face. “I don’t like taking risks, Wonsik.” As if the latter can read his mind, Wonsik counters without missing a beat, “I still have the contract Hyuk drafted for me back then, before Bean, and I, you know… Got together,” —despite being attached to Hongbin for the past four months, Wonsik finds himself flushing whenever he mentions their relationship—, “I never had problems using it. You can get him to modify it for yourself if you want.” Taekwoon tries to hide the smile pinching at the sides of his lips when he hears his normally eloquent partner’s fumbling words, and notices the dust of crimson against the other’s tanned skin. Even though he is still unconvinced, Taekwoon comments warily, “You got Sanghyuk to draft your contract.” “He’s young, but he’s still in A&G,” Wonsik defends, “And it’s easier than asking a senior associate, or a partner for a service contract.” The older man considers the alternative, visibly grimaces, and instantly returns a grunt of agreement. “And he’s a nice kid, sharp too.” Taekwoon shrugs noncommittally. Wonsik ignores his partner’s scepticism, and takes advantage of the latter’s lack of resistance to push forward with his plan, “I’ll get Bean to send his list of referrals to your personal email by Wednesday. That should give you enough time to plan your weekend.” He sees the older man stand at his statement, and return to his desk, signalling the end of their conversation.

Although his partner’s temper seems to have subsided significantly, Wonsik can’t help but notice the lingering tightness in the former’s motions. “Don’t worry, I’m sure Bean will find you someone!” he calls out, as he removes himself from the comfort of Taekwoon’s couch. “And if not,” he continues playfully, “I’m free this weekend…” A loose ball of paper smacks Wonsik’s shoulder in reply. “Don’t be disgusting,” Taekwoon chides, glowering at his partner —but the younger man is certain the glare carries more concealed mirth than outright malice—. Wonsik rubs the sore spot gingerly —surprised that paper can hurt this much—, before raising his hands in surrender. “Just wanted to make sure you don’t waste another weekend. I also know you well enough to dom—“ —a second paper pellet hits him squarely in the solar plexus, the impact smarting a lot more than its predecessor—, “Ok! Geez, don’t kill me!” Wonsik cries as he retreats to the door. Taekwoon looks at his partner with an eyebrow arched in amusement, and casually rolls another ball of paper in anticipation. “I don’t have to,” the older male continues smoothly, “Hongbin will kill you before I can.” He takes pleasure in seeing his partner gape wordlessly at him, the latter’s face a deep scarlet as he struggles to form a reply. “Sadist,” Wonsik finally retaliates, the blush on his face still as obvious as before. He blatantly ignores the self-satisfied quirk of his partner’s lips as he moves to take his leave. Before he exits the room, he turns back to the older man, his tone a shade more serious than before, “Hey, if you’re still feeling rough… Call me, ok?” He sees his friend shift slightly in his seat, the droop of his normally alert eyes betraying the fatigue, and dejection courtesy of his drop. “I’m fine,” Taekwoon answers, and gives the younger man a half-hearted smile. Wonsik considers asking his friend to take the rest of the day off, but without knowing the extent of Taekwoon’s drop, his suggestion may prove counterproductive instead. He trusts his partner to reach out to him if work is insufficient a distraction, and reminds himself to check on the other again later in the day. Wonsik is about to leave when he hears Taekwoon call out to him, “Don’t forget to send your contract over.” The twinge of embarrassment in his friend’s quiet voice is not lost on him, so Wonsik laughs heartily, and flashes the other man a victorious grin over his shoulder. He gives the latter a short wave of dismissal before leaving the office, closing the door just as he hears the hollow thud of a paper ball contacting the sturdy wood behind him.

A/N: I can't believe I'm going to try my hand at a chaptered fic here! (Now please keep your fingers crossed that I'll be able to finish this in a timely fashion...) Thank you for reading this... Awkward attempt at writing a !AU without going down the PWP route (also because I can't write , so semi-realism is the only route I can take to mask said gap in my writing ability). Please let me apologise for the badly written dialogue here (because the business major is me is conflicting with my attempts at giving each character a more distinct voice...)! I'm still not used to writing dialogue (admittedly, I prefer my previous attempt at a dialogue-heavy fic...), and on top of me stressing over the eventual y times, my brain lacks the capacity to create a clearer distinction between the characters here. Also, I'm sorry for potentially misleading any of you out there since this chapter doesn't any in it! /hides. I just don't write succinctly enough for there to be any in this chapter, but there will be some later on! /gets shot and returns to hiding under my rock. I can't believe I'm going to be eventually delivering something this sub-par as a gift fic /hides in a hole in shame...