long live the chief

She rests her crossed arms on his sculpted chest and leans forward to plant a small kiss on his lips, briefly scrunches her nose in fear of morning breath, but then melts into his figure anyway. She spoils herself with staying in this position for what seems like hours—but really only amounts to a minute—as she admires his perfectly chiselled jaw and handsome features; and then like an energised bunny, she jolts up and shrills, “happy Valentine’s Day, Dean Bean! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go; I have so much planned for today!”

Jennie quickly props herself up on her knees and clasps her hands together as she stares into the distance, her eyes sparkling as she reveals, “we’ll get heart-shaped eggs for brunch, take some art classes and paint portraits of each other, maybe even kill someone… it’ll be so romantic! Oh, oh, we could even get some dinner after! Dinner under the stars…”

And with a satisfied sigh, Jennie is lost to the world, held captive by the perfect scenarios conjured up by her wild imagination. She rests her chin on her clasped fingers as she wears a dreamy expression, and the only thing that shakes her from this haze is the thought that her daydreams have the potential of becoming reality: if only her baby gets his lazy ass off the bed and squeezes his cute butt into some well-fitting jeans. And so Jennie flicks her gaze towards him, and as she flutters her eyelashes for added effect, she pleads, “please, daddy?”

It is the first Valentine’s Day that Jennie has celebrated in a long time, and she’s got to admit: already, this has got to be the best one yet.

a deep sleep comes easy to a hard working man.

It all happens in a blur of midnight black.

One moment, there he calmly sits, fiddling with the drink in his hand, and the next, he’s in front of her, his black orbs dancing across her figure like a demon appraising its human prey. (God, she doesn’t think she will ever get used to this Goddamn mutation. He seems to have come straight out of a horror movie, and thus, jump scares are only part and parcel of those damned things.) Jennie has half the mind to scream, but she knows better than to give off the impression of distress. She is sure that he is no different to all predators, and like all predators, they are attuned to the scent of fear.

And really, there is no reason for her to be afraid. Because Jennie has this all planned out, as per usual. Killing her only guarantees his death in the hands of her current moderators who may be subpar at actually moderating, but make no mistake: the reason she had employed them in the first place is because they are all natural killers too, much like the man in front of her.

(So why, oh why, does her knees scream threats of giving way? Her teeth sink into her curved lips to the point where she is almost sure they will draw blood.)

A pained groan spill from her lips without her permission as her back is brutally slammed against the door, and for a moment, she entertains the thought that perhaps, she’ll actually die here. It is a brief flash in her mind before she shuts off the stream of noradrenaline that pours into her brain, giving her the calm mind and courage to match the smile on his lips.

“No, but I have a feeling you’re about to show me,” she snarks as she brazenly meets the bottomless pit that is his eyes, and her teeth finally relents in its abuse against her lips as she edges forward in the little space that she’s given from him holding her in place, “and as much as I’d love to find out, I think you got a little lost in translation. The blood that will be shed is not mine, and I’m not offering myself up like some gutted pig.”

The smile cemented on her lips can only be described as having a hint of condescension, and despite the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat against her heaving chest, she doesn’t give into the want to struggle against his hold. She has a clear enough mind to realise that it’s no use to even try; in terms of strength, she is sorely lacking, but her tongue is as sharp as a knife tipped in lethal venom, and so she charges forth with the weapon.

“I’m making an offer, and it’s best you accept it! But while we’re on that, I’ve got to say: your customer service really needs improvement!” she complains, and her lack of self-preservation can only be blamed by her immense confidence in any situation, given that she is a careful planner, “how about you let go of the poor lady, big boy, and we can get to the business part of the deal? Hmm?”

Slim fingers reach up to pat his chiselled jaw twice, as though signalling for him to move, because such is her audacity. Jennie moves on tip-toes as her lips edges closer to his ear, and she barely whispers, “oh, and if you kill me here, I hate to break the news to you but you’re probably gonna die, too. I’d hate to kill you, hot stuff, but we gotta do what we gotta do!”

And then she assumes the original position he’s put her in, her back firmly against the door and her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she curiously awaits for his reaction. She looks up at him through her fluttering lashes, and the innocent smile that tugs at her lips is aimed to taunt him. She waits a beat, two beats, and then because Jennie is overcome with impatience, her once perfect posture sinks as she whines, “oh, come on. Please? I haven’t even gotten to the part where everyone kills each other! You know: the fun part!”

A cutesy pout and furrowed eyebrows that grace her feline features do terribly at expressing her annoyance at the situation, and for that, she has her wired personality to blame. But it doesn’t stop her from the semi-glare she throws his way as her eyes study his handsome features in disdain.

the groan that emanates from soft pink lips sends a pleasant shiver down dean’s spine and it takes everything in his being not to want to elicit more of them. the thought of having that pretty little mouth of hers cry out for mercy in his name seizes him and before any involuntary chemical reaction could cause trouble for him, dean banishes it to the far recesses of his mind. as if on cue, her smile suddenly causes his to falter and he’s amiss at what she could possibly be smiling at. surely she’s at a loss here… he could draw her life to an unfortunate end, he’s certain she’s aware of what he can do. somehow, her actions translate to him as her being fearless and this strikes a rather discordant chord within him. it’s not entirely jarring, in fact he fails to place a finger on what he feels towards her. perhaps an amalgamation of contempt, admiration, and he even dares, desire.

as she closes the single iota of space between them, dean’s fury seems to subside and curiosity takes its place. her words reek of confidence, a trait he holds ever so dearly to his marble heart, and in the face of danger, he must give it to her; she’s making quite the impression. so, he takes in her iron gaze and her declarations to match, allows them to sink in as he attempts to make sense of what this situation will exactly transpire to. she definitely cannot do without his help, that much is evident in her persistence, and of course he finds a way for that fact to elevate his ego. which is why he filters her comment about his insufficient customer service, refusing to let such a slight make any place in his thought processes, the hitman already on cloud nine.

yet the sudden touch solicits a small smirk to shift across his lips and he has half a mind to bite at the appendages that graze his skin before they disappear from range. her audacity is one he can reckon with; in any other instance, an offence like this one would render her fingerless but dean laps her outlandish behaviour up, the woman before him an exception to the rules. “don’t tell me you’re getting all soft for some pussy” a voice inside his head taunts him.

would that be so wrong? he retorts inwardly.

chuckling, he finds it amusing how she has to tiptoe to find his ear, yet the words she utters into them coaxes more of throaty laugh to escape him. how cute. she thinks i can be killed. with a roll of his neck, he releases her before black smoke engulfs him once again and he appears a few paces away from her. that smile on her lips, oh the many ways he could wipe it off clean. he wonders, if she could still maintain that smile if he had her luscious locks wrapped around his fist as he ravages her neck with his lips, his teeth… but before he could picture the scene any further, his curiosity piques at her next set of words.

“what are you proposing?” he demands, regarding her expression with an acute irritation that taints his words. he notes how she pairs killing and fun in the same sentence and for a second he wonders if he’s looking at his female counterpart. sure, there’s people who kill for fun, but there are very few for that matter.

“you have my full attention… if i remember correctly, it’s jennie, right?” he asks, an eyebrow arching. now that his rage is nonexistent, clarity assumes. a plethora of questions deluge him instantaneously, but most importantly his interest lies in who’s life, or lives, he’s going to end.  

“I….” Jimin began, taking a breath in so he could compose himself, “what are you doing here? Why do you have a gun, and could you lower it please?” Jimin asked, which was odd having been the victim in the scenario but if his memory served him correctly, he knew how to speak to Dean for better results, for things to end up in his favor. Jimin would know, spending his early twenties with the psychopath. A literal psychopath. As in, mental hospital, needs medicine psychopath. 

He made Jimin’s life hell for the time being, and was part of the reason Jimin didn’t continue with his career in psychiatric nursing. It’s true, he was that traumatizing but that was something Jimin never told anyone. Especially not the man in front of him, how would he look? Giving Dean that much power? When Dean hadn’t budged, Jimin pleaded once more, “please put it down, Dean.” Despite Dean’s cool demeanor, Jimin knows the other male is often too unhinged to be predictable and he could end Jimin’s life in a snap, and he probably wants to just for the hell of it.

the surfacing recognition that graces the other’s face brings a certain joy to tickle dean’s ego. it’s been several years since he has met with the man, a distant time that evokes a ghostly smell of disinfectant and other unfavourable odours that come with a mental hospital to briefly infiltrate his nostrils. how poignant nostalgia could be, he ponders briefly before returning his attention to jimin. a wide grin creases his profile, lips stretched taut at the other’s barrage of questions. 

“i…” dean mimics, even taking the extra measure to inhale a sharp intake of breath before adding “i’m working of course. well, i just finished. i do hope you have a suit and tie, you’ll be attending a funeral soon!” the gun still aiming at the other, he situates himself on top of one of the desks in the room. what are the odds! and how strange it is to find jimin in here at a school, presumably teaching, by the looks of it. why else would he be at a school this late?

the hitman gives the other a quick once over though his assessment is cut short as the other utters a request this time. an ancient fury furls slightly within him as jimin’s voice settles in his cognition, registering and eliciting memories of his time at the hospital to resurface. his tone involuntarily relaxes the monster that aches to rip him into pieces and dean can almost feel the effects of a powerful sedative although nothing is being administered to him. his smile soon dissipates and as soon as it comes, the calmness vanishes and dean is on his feet barking at the other; “do not presume that you can talk to me like i’m beneath you! those days are long gone…” he cocks his gun, the click ringing through the air adding to the tense energy that surrounds the two. dean craves to pull the trigger, oh how his finger itches to squeeze down on that trigger.

 but our jimin is a friend, no? 

a few days before they meet up, bogum gives himself a fake name and even gets a fake identification card made up for said person. he meets with a few grunts of the gang, insisting he must speak with their leader about a hit case. after all, he supposes gang leaders can’t resist lots of money (even if their grunts are too stupid to realize it’s fake).

so here he is on a tuesday afternoon waiting in an old part of a warehouse bunker he’s rented for the day, waiting for a gang leader so he can immobilize and question.

not the weirdest day, but definitely not the most normal.

the right course of action fails dean when his men come to him with news of a forlorn proposition; some individual with the intention to pay copious amounts of money for a hit. everyone who knows what the hitman is about knows he isn’t in favour of the unnecessary theatrics. a simple letter in his postal box with the adequate information and money is enough to for him to get the job done. but the guy insists on meeting dean in person, which sends alarm bells ringing in dean’s anarchy-riddled mind but the compensation in the form of currency all but silences them.

dean promenades towards the location, a fierce wind whipping dark tendrils about his eyes as if a sort of pathetic fallacy. something eerie about this whole scenario niggles  at his thoughts now and then, however he boasts a confidence that borders on irrationality, and his reliance on his ability to escape almost any sticky situation keeps him on his steady path.

he reaches a barren warehouse bunker, a smirk fixing itself across his lips momentarily as he’s brought back to a familiar scene with a particular woman. it dawns on him that the other party is late, even though dean took his precious time in making his way there. eyebrows knitting in irritation, he takes another gander around the space and suddenly his eyes settle on what appears to be someone in the shadows. it half surprises him, half since the people he usually meets are reluctant to show themselves to the killer. however, since it is dean who obliges the summon he cannot see why this person needs to conceal themselves. weren’t they so desperate to meet him?

“so where are we drinking tonight?” he grins, cutting straight to the point and totally ignoring the fact that the main reason dean was here was to get information, not to bring wooseok out for drinks and drag his drunk ass back.

dean likes to think he knows it all; just like his mother, he believes he possesses all there is to know about those who are important in his type of sector and although he would like to boil it down to his expansive knowledge, he wouldn’t be where he is now, if not for the kid he’s about to see. clad in his work uniform, black from head to toe, he adorns a sunglasses-at-night-time sort of pomp and a cockiness accompanies his succession of raps on wooseok’s door.

the door opens and dean meets a bright expression that only manages to elicit a small smirk to grace his small lips. you see, dean harbours a plan, one that cements at the confirmation of the two being on the same page; drinking. excitement doses his bloodstream, making a home along with the amaranthine mischief that never seems to dissipate no matter what means is made to do so. tonight wooseok is going to die. not in the literal way, although that wouldn’t be too much of a bad thing. everyone dies, eventually.

no, dean is going to witness the suffering of wooseok from the ever so potent green poison they call absinthe. dean knows of the hidden gems in the form of hole in the wall type bars in incheon that sell the illegal, good stuff. now knowing what wooseok is like, how eager the young one is for self-destruction, he thinks it’s only fair he aids the kid to the end of the world.

“my friend, i’m going to take you to paradise.” he utters in a drawl, one that suggests he might even be heavily inebriated already, his lips twisting grotesquely into something close to a smile. “it’s actually called paradise, and they sell all types of foreign spirits. you and me both know how fucking brutal they can be.” a chuckle punctuates his statement and the hitman gestures towards the space behind him a callous jab of his thumb, before continuing , “my guys are waiting for us so if you’re done getting pretty, let’s go!” dean twists his wrist in a wheel type motion to gesture movement and turns his back to the other, moving away from the threshold. as soon as his face is out of vision, a sinister expression takes place. the killer is far from unintelligent, but if anything, he’s more paranoid and he thinks wooseok is holding out on him. a little punishment in the form of extreme liquor should be adequate in his books, and if the little punk fails to keep his head above water, well it would only be his fault.

@advdean

Seulgi was playing a Game.

She opts for her black combat boots this time round. She’s learnt, from their previous encounter, that Dean is a slippery fellow. (And yes, that is the only thing she’s learnt; she has not yet extrapolated from his broken phone and hostile words that he is all too trigger happy, or the way that his eyes rest on her neck is a testament to his bloodlust, or that all of these summed up together tells a tale of danger, his possessive lover.) So she’s ready to chase him down with her trusty boots, as much as someone like her is able to catch up with someone like him.

In an extra effort to lure him into her trap, she’s put on the work attire she stole from the pizza delivery guy down the street, too.

In hindsight, the effort is wasted because it is highly doubtful that someone as low profile as Dean would ever order pizza and voluntarily offer up the address of his home, but nevertheless Jennie is humoured by the way the attire drowns her small figure, so she supposes that is a good enough reason. As she approaches his residence, feline eyes zoom onto the blinking light beneath the number pad of his security system, and her pink lips tug into a cocky smirk. How careless of him to rely on such a pitiful device to protect his home, when said device can so easily be hacked by even hacker novices. It takes her a mere moment to gain access into his house, and the high-pitched ping signalling access granted is like music to her ears.

Hands reach up to push against the door, and her eyes rest on his seated figure on the couch, the corners of her lips tugging further into a shit-eating grin.

“You don’t mind if I don’t take off my shoes, do you?” she breaks the silence as she saunters further into his space, one leg kicking the door closed behind her, “alright, let’s try this again, shall we?”

And then Jennie forms her fingers into the shape of a gun and points it directly between his eyes, a childish “pew pew” rolling off her tongue. She giggles at her display, mostly basking in the fact that she’s successful this time round, and before she loses track of what she’s come here for, she finally requests, “as I said before—but you probably already forgot about it so I’ll say it again—I’d like to hire your services, Dean-Hyuk!”

dean’s not entirely sure when his obsession with retaining his private living quarters, private, was born into existence. hardly submitting himself to the confines of his own apartment, dean is the enigma who mostly frequents clubs to formulate plans and schemes rife with mischief and anarchy. his lullabies thump into his skull with every beat of the bass, soothing him into the passage to his mind mansion (which, to no one’s surprise only features the imagery of scenery akin to Ruben’s “Massacre of the Innocents”). none of his subordinates possess the knowledge of his location, nor did they really know where the hitman goes to rest his head, should it ever be weary. most of them rely on their limited imaginations that feature the male in a salacious haven or between some lover’s sheets.

for the most part, they have the right of it. if he isn’t spending lusty nights in some acquaintance’s bedroom, or roaming the rooftops of incheon in search of his prey, he’s usually sat in his luxurious apartment, doing… ordinary things. yet to this day, no one but himself (and the real estate agent who sold it to him the day he moved in) has ever set foot in his apartment. which is why when his security system springs to life, uttering a chime of acceptance, he almost succumbs to a heart attack. his biological response to fight or flight fail him, instead opting for the “freeze” alternative, as he witnesses the door open to behold…

the woman.

Sweaty palms press against the door handle as she enters yet another warehouse, and because she is overcome with pessimism at this point, tired eyes that land on the lone man’s back widen in surprise because him, she’s sure it’s him. Her features adopt their characteristic grin once more, and then her pumps are making a disruptive crack against dry cement that bounces off the walls of the empty warehouse with each step as she saunters towards his direction.

“Hellooooo!” she sings a little too loudly, “you’re the hitman, aren’t you? Dean? Or Hyuk?”

She slows to a stop as she furrows her eyebrows, a quick, “why do you even have two names?” muttered under her breath—for her own ears, but Jennie has never understood the concept of an ‘inner voice’—but she shakes the inconsequential inquiry away and says instead, “anyway, I’m Jennie! I wanna hire you! But it’s not really just one target, it’s many, and I don’t actually know if I need you yet, but— is there a long term thing that you do, or do I have to keep coming back when I need you? Do you have a ‘standby mode’?”

A light giggle bubbles from her chest.

“I don’t really know how this hitman thing works, oops.”

large, dark and empty spaces are wont to be draughty and hold cool temperatures, so its no wonder the warehouse is tantamount to dean’s own chest. whilst he muses over the news of one his own being incarcerated, the only pressing thought that brings his eyebrows to meet each other in disdain is, how much would he have to pay his mother to keep the kid from speaking? perhaps not much. but it’s all such a blip in his well-designed plans. a silent rage furls from the pit of his stomach yet a few deep breaths is all it takes to stifle the rumbling inferno within him.

it doesn’t stop him, however, from hurling his phone across the vast space, finding repose in the sound of some sort of destruction.

he’s not one to dwell. what’s the point? dean likes to think that men are dispensable and when one falls, another rises. though the thought irks him to an extent. is he not man? does that statement not apply to him?

but some consolation comes from the very fact that he knows he’s far from the piles of flesh that report to him with their cruel expressions and mindless mantra of “yes sir” and “how high sir?”. that’s why he hired them of course; the more typical and inane, the better. he begins to pace, the corners of his lips stretches taut, something akin to a smile decorating his features. how utterly boring the world is! a god walks among them, sanguine and savage…

only a god could destroy a god.

the sound of someone else entering the warehouse draws him from his headspace, although he doesn’t think too much of it since he’s sure its one his henchmen. they come in and out to his dismay, as they see fit. there’s only so much he can take of the cretins which is why dean finds himself in his own quarters when they decide to all congregate at the warehouse. today it’s rather quiet, everyone seems to be in hiding knowing that one of their own has been taken. like roaches they all wait in their grungy corners where the light doesn’t shine until darkness resumes. then’ll they return.

its the displeasing din that usually comes with heels on concrete, however, that has the killer pivoting on his heels, only to meet eyes with a woman. this stranger’s words are perhaps a tad too chirpy for him at any time of the day, and the apathetic look he graces her with turns increasingly stony. he hides his bafflement of her presence since no one except those who work for him actually has the details to this location. it’s either someone’s tongue has been a little too loose and needs fixing, or he’s not being discreet enough. dean cannot fathom anything other than the former statement.

“what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he questions, completely ignoring her deluge of questions. “if you know anything about me, you know that that is not how i do things.” his tone is monotonous, where it is usually full of unnecessary mirth and inflection. his displeasure of her being here, this jennie, adds more fuel to his fire. he finds himself wondering whether it is necessary to kill her and just how easy it would be to snap her slender, rather attractive, neck. no one would know. though someone must have seen her walking around here, strutting around as if this is some sort of fashion outlet. a smirk betrays his countenance. he refuses to take anything that’s happening right here seriously. his smirk soon transforms into a sneer and he inches closer to her.