Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

rule no. 2 – worshipping god is not optional

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway.

Fashion Week felt like a hallucination, too surreal. Seokmin hadn’t slept, and he’d eaten half a croissant. Hell he wasn’t even sure if he was still breathing.

Everything was too fast. The Empire’s Paris team worked like a Japan's bullet train, a machine, like time itself answered to them. Tailors sewed final stitches mid-sprint, while models rotated in and out. Hair and makeup huddled under one light, blending and brushing, while a translator barked orders under another. Somewhere in the chaos, someone kept adjusting the violin quartet’s sheet music, again and again, to match the ever-changing entrance tempo.

And Seokmin was holding his tablet upside down again. Sigh.. What did I get myself into?

The building they were using was a cathedral. Wait, let Seokmin repeat that to himself. A cathedral. A. Freaking. Cathedral.

Gilded edges, velvet-lined benches, marble floors so polished they might as well be fake, or maybe there were just mirrors. Stained glass windows were covered in sheer black to match the aesthetic. Candlelight flickered under each seat row, even though no one had lit a match. There was an eerie calm to it. Beautiful, but too much, like a place of worship.

And Jeonghan Yoon is still nowhere…but everywhere.

His face was on the posters outside, on the building's press wall, in the handouts, the digital screen by the lobby. Half the fashion staff wore lanyards with his face on them. Even the coffee cups had his initials.

God. The world is really Jeonghan Yoon's runway and kingdom .

Even half across the world, he was inescapable.

Seokmin watched as another group of models walked in. To be fair, they were beautiful, expensive-looking, even. Their cheekbones could cut through the wind. Their shoes probably cost more than Seokmin's monthly rent, and they floated across the cathedral like they belonged to a higher species.They probably do. 

But no one frankly cared. Even Seokmin. Because everyone was still waiting for the main event . 

A stylist clicked her pen like a metronome, while one of the directors kept checking the time. An assistant nervously fixed the same hemline on the same model three times. Seokmin couldn’t even tell the difference but the assistant swears there is a huge difference every time.

"So," Soonyoung muttered beside Seokmin, downing an espresso shot like water. "Still think we're exaggerating?"

Seokmin tried to play it cool. "...It just seems like a lot of pressure for one person."

Chan looked up from his clipboard. "One person named Jeonghan Yoon, who's also a creative director, a co-CEO, and the closing model for the twelfth time in a row. There was a time he was labeled as the omnipotent being next to God .”  

Well, they weren’t wrong. Soonyoung leaned over. "And that’s just this week."

Minghao walked in from the side wing, holding a black envelope. He handed it directly to Chan without a word. Seokmin blinked. "What’s that?"

Chan opened the note, eyes scanning. Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and turned to the production team.

"Lighting!" Chan called out. "Look 7. The stained glass on the left: blue hits the dress wrong. Jeonghan wants it covered before sunset. You have two hours."

The lighting director didn’t hesitate. "Got it. Moving."

Jesus, no one questioned it. There hadn’t even been a greeting. It was just a note, a quiet correction. Seokmin watched in awe as entire departments adjusted their workflow in real time over a single sentence.

Jeonghan Yoon hadn’t even shown up. But he might as well have, and that thought alone sent real-time shivers down Seokmin’s soul .

"How… how does he even know?" Seokmin whispered.

Soonyoung grinned. "He knows everything. Hence, the omnipotent being next to God,” tapping on Seokmin’s surprised shoulders once before moving.

Minghao, already sketching again, didn’t even look up. "The world is his show, his runway, his … Empire. We just breathe in it. Well, we’re lucky to breathe in it."

Wonwoo entered from the tech wing, tablet in hand. Chan gestured him over.

"Jeonghan says the audio sync is a bit late on the walkthrough video," Chan said.

Wonwoo was already typing. "Adjusting timestamp."

"Soonyoung," Chan continued, turning. "He wants the model entrance slowed by half a beat. The glide feels too sharp."

"Noted," Soonyoung replied. "I’ll run it again with the quartet."

"Jihoon," Chan called toward the hallway. "We need a warmer bass under Look 4. He says it feels too hollow."

"I can work with that," Jihoon said from behind the soundboard.

Seokmin couldn’t believe it. This was supposed to be a preparation,but it felt more like an orchestration. He was surrounded by artists, all calibrated by a single conductor who hadn’t even arrived.

"Oh, and get this," Chan added, lowering his voice. "The last 24 hours alone, over forty designer brands sent emails practically begging Jeonghan to wear their pieces for the nth time. Even just casually. No ambassador title. Nothing. A post would do."

"They’re throwing everything they have," Minghao added. "Gucci sent this. Prada sent that. Valentino even sent their intern." He rolled his eyes.

Seokmin gawked. "He turned them all down?"

"Of course he did," Soonyoung said. "This is The Empire. The Jeonghan Yoon doesn’t beg. They do."

Seokmin looked around the room again. Everywhere, still, there was Jeonghan. And it hit him fully this time.

The Empire was a crown. And Jeonghan wore it, while also being the one who built the throne. 

They were only in rehearsal. And yet the world had already stopped to look, to worship.

D-day: Paris  Jeonghan Yoon Fashion Show

By the time the venue opened its doors, there was a line of people scattered around two city blocks and a private security team that looked ex-military. Cameras were already raised, flashes going off as lightning in slow motion. Badges were scanned, and the air was thick with the nonstop chatter that settled over everything.

Seokmin was still clutching a copy of the run order, pretending to be calm. Spoiler: he was NOT calm, not a bit. His fingers kept crumpling the edge of the paper.

The cathedral had changed overnight. Stained glass now glowed with subtle backlighting, casting soft golds and faint blues across the white marble aisle. The long pews had been replaced with cream velvet seats. Floral installations draped the edges and velvet ropes marked off the press pit. Rose and sandalwood filled the air. It didn’t smell like a venue.

It smelled like money.

Everywhere he turned, people were talking. So this is what it feels like to be in a show Jeonghan is included.

"He’s here, right?"
"He’s closing again. Twelfth time in a row."
"God, I would kill to dress him."

No one said the name, but everyone knew who they meant, of course. Who else would be the reason why people attend such things? No one, unless it’s Jeonghan Yoon . Wherever he goes, he was the event himself.

Some say it should just be called the Jeonghan Yoon Fashion Show . Can’t argue with that. Seokmin thought. No matter how stunning the venue, how influential the guests, how celebrated the designers—the only moment anyone cared about was the one name on the bottom of the program, the most expensive face to ever exist, the face that even Helen of Troy would join the launching of the thousand ships for him, Jeonghan’s.

The lights dimmed. Shit, this is really happening . 

One by one, the models came out. Cloaks, layers, black velvet, deep grays, lace gloves. Faces sharp, features glass-cut. Some were recognizable from Vogue covers, others were new. All of them looked stunning.

But no one clapped. Hell, no one even gasped. It may sound harsh but the reason is blatantly simple: no one cared, not really. The audience was polite, controlled, and watching with the kind of tension that came from expectation. Everyone was waiting, even Seokmin.

And then, the music changed, a minor key, a softer one. The music became something orchestral, god, almost celestial. That’s right, celestial was one way to describe it, and him .

A single spotlight adjusted, and then the long anticipated event happened. He happened.

Jeonghan Yoon appeared without an announcement, without a cue, without footsteps, even.

Jeonghan Yoon just… appeared, like time had stepped aside to make room for him. Backlit by gold, his silhouette melted out of the light.

God, it really was devastating. 

Long legs wrapped in tailored black. His shoulders looked sharp under a flawless jacket. One hand in his pocket, while the other barely swinging. His frame moved like liquid and marble all at once.

Even from behind the light, Seokmin could tell it was him from his ethereal silhouette alone. Jeonghan Yoon, what a celestial being you are.

His hair, tucked neatly behind his ears, still caught the light like it had been blessed. His cheekbones sculpted them. 

And his face, dear god, his face, was something the dictionary had long since given up on describing.

Jeonghan Yoon was too pretty for a woman.

Too handsome for a man.

Too celestial for anything human. And so the world settled on the only word that ever seemed to fit: God .

Everything about him was ethereal, celestial, perfect.

No one said it out loud anymore. Well, they didn’t need to, because every appearance, every campaign, every step he took was a goddamn pilgrimage.

Somehow, the world had collectively agreed:

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway.

Seokmin swore his soul left his body. His breath stuttered as his stomach turned inside out, and his palms went damp. It felt like reverence, the kind of dizziness that came from seeing something divine, something so celestial. There's that word again.

The music slowed as Jeonghan walked: not too fast, not too slow, it was just perfect. Everything about him is perfect anyway.

The marble runway gleamed under his steps like it had been waiting for him.

His suit, god, the suit. Black silk that clung in all the right places. No shirt underneath, a single pale collarbone peeking through. A flower pinned near his lapel. It was simple, soft, deadly and again, celestial . Seokmin really found a way to use that word, thanks to this ethereal being. His gaze was unbothered, like he knew the cameras would follow anyway, like he knew this was all for him.

When he reached the center of the runway, he stopped, turned his head, and looked directly into the crowd. Seokmin couldn’t tell who he was looking at, but he felt it anyway, like the whole room changed to stay in his orbit.

There was something in his presence that directly communicates to each person the words:

Look.

Breathe.

Obey.

The camera shutters burst, social media feeds exploded. His name trended globally before the second look ended.

#JeonghanYoonParisFashionShow #JeonghanxPFW #JeonghanYoon 

You see, Jeonghan hadn’t said a single word. And still, the show belonged to him.

“That,” Soonyoung whispered beside Seokmin who almost dropped his entire body as he was pulled out of his Jeonghan-religion-worshipping trance, “is why designer brands cry over him.”

“He wears their clothes once,” Minghao added, “and their stock goes up by morning.”

“No wonder they beg,” Chan muttered. “He’s flawless. He makes everything look divine.”

Seokmin couldn’t speak, he couldn’t even blink. Everything that they are saying is true. He is witnessing it with his own eyes right now.

Soonyoung leaned in. “We told you,” he said, half-smiling. “He doesn’t need to speak to change a room. He just… exists.”

And they were right. Because now, more than ever, Seokmin was sure of one thing:

Jeonghan was a force, an ethereal human being sculpted by God himself. Hell, maybe he was God himself after all.

And then, just as the spell began to settle, Seokmin’s eyes caught movement at the far side of the venue, near the pillars, and past the cameras.

A man in a dark suit, with a sharp jaw, and arms folded. His expression is unreadable, and his body is still. The man’s eyes were only on Jeonghan.

Seokmin’s breath hitched.

He shows up only when Jeonghan does . He remembers Chan’s words.

That must be him. Scoups.

The man didn’t move, didn’t even seem to blink. Even from across the room, Seokmin could tell that the rumors are true: this man would snap a neck without hesitation, especially if it meant keeping Jeonghan safe. Scoups never looked away from Jeonghan. He looked less like security…And more like judgment.

Two other men flanked him, eyes scanning the room. One watched the crowd, while the other watched the press.

Far from the usual ones, the afterparty was a feast, an event in itself. This was apparently a quiet tradition that no one spoke about but everyone expected. 

The Empire was not one to celebrate with champagne showers or loud VIPs, rather, they did it like this. Long white tablecloths, polished cutlery, golden light bouncing off Baccarat glasses, dozens of dishes laid out buffet-style from the best kitchens in Paris. 

Seokmin could barely blink.

“What… is this?” he asked, half-whispering.

Soonyoung leaned over to grab a tiny fig tart. “Dinner.”

Minghao snorted. “Get used to it. It’s always like this at every shoot, every show, every event. Jeonghan insists on feeding everyone. He says he can’t eat properly until everything’s done anyway, so at least the rest of the team should.”

“He planned all this?”

“Of course,” Chan said, adjusting the flowers in a tall crystal vase. “He chooses the caterer, the wine list, even the color palette. You think the napkins match the Pantone color of Look 7 by accident?”

“But … where is he now?” Seokmin asked.

“Off doing press,” Jihoon answered. “Red carpet, photo calls, brand dinners. He’s probably still wearing Look 13 while we’re already in buffet.”

“And he won’t eat until that’s done?”

“Unfortunately, there are times when he doesn’t eat at all,” Minghao muttered. “I once saw him pass out backstage in Milan. He still went on the runway, though. He still closed the show.”

Seokmin stared at his plate. The world is really his runway, his kingdom…. And his life. Even God rested on the 7th day. He probably is more hardworking than him. Damn. 

The core team gathered around the long marble table, plates stacked with rare cuts and smoked cheeses. Despite the luxury, they looked like they could finally breathe.

“So, did you feel it?” Soonyoung asked, voice quieter now.

“Feel what?” Seokmin said.

“The silence. When he stepped out. The way everyone stopped breathing.”

Seokmin took a deep breath and thought back to the exact moment. That silhouette, that face, that voice that didn’t need volume to command a cathedral. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t? Before he could even speak, Jihoon had taken over the conversation.

“You’ve seen it now,” Jihoon said with pride. Understandable . “That’s Jeonghan Yoon.”

“There’s something in him,” Chan murmured, eyes distant. “Something not quite real. Like he’s walking between two worlds and just visits us when it’s time to collect his applause.”

Amen to that.

“He’s exhausting,” Minghao said, then took a long sip of red wine. “But God, he makes it worth it.”

“No matter how tired we get,” Soonyoung added, “he appears, and it’s like everything resets. Like, okay. I’d die for that man, so I might as well do it the right way. Besides, he works harder than any of us, though.”

And Seokmin believed it. For once, he understood why people worshipped beauty, why they worshipped him, because if you were going to build your life around someone, Jeonghan was a good, no, the ONLY choice.

But just as he was settling into that wonder, he noticed something strange. A group of men by the corners of the hall, not in black tie, not in suits, not part of the security team either. Their eyes were sharper. Their stances were still. Their suits were darker, simpler, and they weren’t mingling with anyone.

“Uh… who are they?” Seokmin asked with a hint of nervousness in his tone.

Wonwoo looked up. “Not Empire guards.”

Jihoon smirked. “Those are Jisoo’s men.”

Seokmin nearly choked. “W-What? In Paris?”

“Yeah. Look at their cuffs,” Chan said. “They have no comms, no earpiece. They’re not coordinating with the press or security. They’re watching the room.”

“Watching for what?”

“For who, Seok” Soonyoung said. “Anything that could pose a threat. Creeps. Paparazzi. Business rivals. Just people who stare too long.”

Seokmin’s eyes widened. “They look like they could kill.”

“They could, and rumors say they already have,” Minghao said. “But they probably won’t tonight, unless you try something.”

Before Seokmin could respond, a butler wheeled in a small barrel, carved wood, metal details, and an emblem in gold.

Everyone went quiet. Minghao raised an eyebrow. “Oh well, speak of the devil.”

Seokmin frowned, seriously confused at what was happening. “What is that?”

“Wine,” Wonwoo said, almost whispering. “Rare. Expensive. Illegal in five countries.”

“From Jisoo,” Chan added, voice low as well, like they would get their ribs crushed if heard “You’ll know by the mark.”

Seokmin leaned in and spotted it: a small, minimalist fox curled into a crescent. Wealthy-looking. Sophisticated. Dangerous.

“What’s… the logo? I haven’t seen it before”

“Speakeasy,” Soonyoung answered, almost whispering. “Jisoo’s speakeasy beneath The Empire building in Seoul. It’s literally underground.”

“Wait...like a secret bar?”

“Not open to the public, no” Jihoon said. “Not even to the staff. The speakeasy has no signs, no door. Only a select few even know it exists, that includes us, but we haven’t been to it either.”

“They say it’s where underground meetings happen,” Chan added. “Negotiations. Deals. Debts. The Devil's ‘works’ if you may”

“Rumors say it’s where the mafia holds court,” Minghao said. “Though no one would ever say it out loud.”

“And it’s owned by Jisoo?” Seokmin asked.

“Every square inch.”

Seokmin sat back slowly. The wine had been uncorked, poured, and toasts were made, but he barely tasted it. His mind spun. He had just seen a God walk down the runway, an embodiment of grace, elegance, and light. Jeonghan Yoon. How could someone like that share the same blood with someone like Jisoo, at least based on the rumors he has heard so far?

Jeonghan walked in the light. Jisoo lived in the shadows. One is ruling the world with his beauty and greatness. The other is running it with fear.

And yet…Wait, don’t get him wrong! Seokmin was terrified. Everything they’d said about Hong Jisoo made his bones shiver , only it wasn’t the same kind of fear the others carried. It was a curiosity, a really dangerous one. For Seokmin, there was something about Jisoo, something behind the smoke and silence, behind the bodyguards and the rumors, behind the name that made CEOs stutter.

What kind of man loved his brother so much he erased worlds for him? What kind of person burned for someone else’s light?

God , Seokmin thought, clutching his glass.

He wanted to know. He had to.

His thoughts were cut short when two tall men entered the lounge. Another one?  They didn’t grab food or drinks, they were rather calm, quiet, yet close-grained looking. Seokmin recognized them instantly. He’d seen them earlier, flanking the man whose glare could split marble. The one who never took his eyes off Jeonghan. The one who had to be Scoups.

The two men approached a group dressed differently from the rest of the Empire’s uniformed security, less like staff, more like operatives, a.k.a. Jisoo’s, leaned in. A few of those men nodded, then peeled off, and followed them out. Before Seokmin could ask, Soonyoung was already beside him, sipping a glass of champagne like he hadn’t just witnessed what looked like an intel exchange.

“There they are,” he said. “Scoups’ men”

“Technically Jisoo’s,” Minghao added. “But Scoups was allowed to handpick his own team. That’s them.”

Seokmin’s mouth moved before he could stop it. “Was he the... scary-looking one?”

“The scariest,” Jihoon deadpanned.

“He doesn’t blink,” Chan added, nodding toward the door. “Literally. You’ll know it’s him because wherever Jeonghan is, that man is always three steps behind, or less. He never looks away, never walks ahead. He is always watching, always ready.”

“Never eats,” Minghao said. “Never smiles, and never leaves until Jeonghan does.”

Soonyoung leaned in, eyes forming these uneven crescent-moon slants, like two tilted half-smiles. “Here’s a secret, Seok. Wonwoo’s probably going to kill me for this but... he has a crush on one of them.His name’s Mingyu,” 

Soonyoung continued, grinning. “Taller. Muscular. Silent type. Wonwoo used his actual hacking skills to find out his name.” Seokmin turned around smiling. Wonwoo’s head didn’t move, but his death glare shot across the table like a sniper rifle. Still, his cheeks betrayed him, pink, caught, utterly doomed. Cute . Seokmin thought to himself.

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “You hacked security?”

“Technically just the staff directory,” Wonwoo mumbled. Jihoon didn’t answer, and just sipped his wine like this was a normal exchange for them.

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Jihoon, by the way, it looks like Soonyoung is gossiping about you.”

Soonyoung shot upright. “I am NOT!  Shut up, Jeon Wonwoo.” His voice cracked slightly.

Seokmin blinked. oh… OH! So Soonyoung has a crush on Jihoon. Noted .

Minghao cackled and raised his glass toward Seokmin. “Don’t mind these romantic losers. This is them whenever they’re not working. Pathetic. Thank God for Jeonghan Yoon, right? for making them normal again, even for a few hours.”

There was a soft chime on Chan’s phone. He immediately stood up after checking.

“Sales are in, everyone” he said.

All heads turned. Chan grinned. “Up. Again. Exponentially. We just broke another record. Expected, but still, Un.fucking.believable.”

Minghao whistled. “That’s the power of Jeonghan Yoon.”

“And proposals?” Jihoon asked.

Chan showed them the screen: an entire folder of emails, millions of brand headers, and millions of requests.

“They’re begging, as expected,” Chan said. “Every major house. All of them are throwing their budgets into the void for a chance. Some of them don’t even want him as ambassador anymore. Well, they can’t afford him anyway, so they are begging him to wear something from their brand, even just once.”

“A brooch,” Soonyoung muttered. “Hell, even a thread.”

Seokmin smiled to himself.

This was The Empire, and Jeonghan is its crown, as well as the God sitting on the throne that Jeonghan built himself (along with his brother, so they say).

Seokmin once again looked everywhere around him where Jeonghan’s face was plastered almost everywhere. It feels like a sin to be looking at something so ethereal, for free.

Recalling everything from the show, all Jeonghan did was grace the runway, and now brands are throwing all their fortune just to have him wear something from them. 

If Jeonghan ever decided to start a religion, the whole world wouldn’t even need time to convert. They already worship him anyway. 

Understandable, because Seokmin would even join in kneeling before him.