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synopsis ; you were a bored college student who didn't have very many friends, so when you stumbled upon an old grimoire in a bookshop, you couldn't help but let your curiosity pique. you were warned to not cast one of the spells, but as luck would have it, you ended up casting that very spell, and you ended up face-to-face with jeongin. the incubus that you had summoned by mistake, but it was too late to go back now.
pairing(s) ; jeongin x f!reader
â ââ wc. ; 3.4k
â ââ genre ; smut w/ a sprinkle of plot, incubus!jeongin x human!reader
â ââ tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, demon summoning, mentions of hell, petnames (kitten, doll, princessâŠ), unprotected sex, choking, slight breath play, oral (f. receiving), making out, dom!jeongin x sub!reader, manhandling, bulge kink, breeding, creampie, rough sex, multiple orgasms, edging, lmk if I missed anything!!
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It was well after midnight, and here you were sitting on your bed with your legs crossed underneath you, a dusty, old grimoire sitting in your lap. You grabbed another chip out of the bag lying next to you as you flipped through the pages, trying to find the one that the girl at the bookstore showed you.
âHere it is.â You mumbled, dusting your hands off on your pajama pants and looking at the page with the yellow sticky note on it, then flipped to the next page, where you saw a blue sticky note sticking to it as well. Pursing your lips, you flipped through the pages trying to remember what she had said.
âMake sure youâre casting the correct spell, otherwise youâll be summoning a demon.â Thatâs what she had told you, but you canât recall which one it was that she had told you not to cast. Was it the blue one? Or the yellow one?
âPretty sure it was the blue one that she said not to cast.â You hummed, then turned back to the previous page: âor was it the yellow?â With a click of your tongue, you turned back to the page with the blue sticky note, âNo blue has to be the right one, yellow just screams caution.â Shrugging, you uncross your legs and stand, walking over to your desk to lay the book down.
Skimming through the instructions and list of materials needed, you stepped away to gather everything and set up the summoning circle.
Once everything was prepped and set up, you grabbed the grimoire once more and read the last of the instructions.
âLights need to be off, and make sure to light the candles in the right orderâŠâ You mumbled the instructions to yourself as you walked over to the light switch and turned off the bedroom lights. Blinking a few times, you let your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the room before walking back over to the summoning circle.
You set the heavy book on the bed and grab the lighter that was sitting on your nightstand. Reading the correct order once more, you move to the circle and start lighting the candles; the air in the room slowly begins to feel like static, making the hair on the back of your neck and your arms stand up.
âOkay, last one.â You whispered before lighting the last candle and stepping back to admire your hard work. Letting out a sigh, you grab the grimoire off your bed and trace the mantra with your finger, repeating it in your head a few times to make sure youâre saying it correctly.
Once you were sure that you had it memorized, you looked away from the book and stared right at the center of the circle. As soon as the words started to leave your lips, the flames on the candles started to burn brighter, and a gust of wind swept through the room.
An uneasy feeling started to settle in the pit of your stomach, but you tried your best to ignore it as you finished saying the mantra; however, when the last word left your lips, the candles went out as a huge gust of wind blew over you, causing you to cover your face with the grimoire.
When the wind settled down, you took the book away from your face, eyes fixed on the summoning circle, where a figure of sorts stood in the center, but the darkness made it hard to see it clearly.
A gasp fell from your lips when all of the candles lit themselves and the figure in the middle of the room became clearer. However, as soon as your eyes focused on the new light, you knew something wasnât right.
Your eyes caught sight of the pair of deep red horns that sat upon his blonde hair. Trailing down, you took in what he was wearing, a black skin-tight sleeveless bodysuit showing off his arms, the muscle flexing slightly as he moved to look at you, his eyebrow quirking up at the sight of you just standing there. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his slacks, the same shade of black as his top, but the tail that was swaying softly behind him caught your attention.
Noticing the confusion in your eyes, Jeongin smirked, tilting his head, âNot what you were expecting?â
Your whole body jolted at the sound of his voice, eyes shooting up to meet his before quickly looking back down at the grimoire that was still in your hands. Reading through the description of the spell you had just cast caused dread to wash over your body.
You had cast the wrong summoning spell.
âShit.â You cursed quietly before looking back at the blonde male, âNo, I did the wrong one, you need to go back.â Your voice wavered in panic as you realized that you had summoned the demon the girl had warned you about. Whatâs worse is he wasnât just your regular ole demon. No. He was an incubus.
A sex demon.
Jeonginâs lip twitched in amusement as he watched you fumble with the grimoire in your hands. Stepping out of the circle, he started stalking towards you slowly. âYou want me to go back?â His voice sent a shiver down your spine, your heart racing under your ribs as he got closer, and you nodded your head. You started to step back when he got within an arm's reach, but with every step back he took another forward. âHate to break it to you, doll, but thatâs not how it works.â
Your breath hitched in your throat, hands clutching the grimoire to your chest as he leaned down until he was eye level with you.
Jeongin smirked, the point of his canine peeking out from behind his lips, soaking in the terror that was swirling in your eyes. He then reached forward, plucking the book from your hands with ease and tossing it aside.
âYou have two options here,â His voice was smooth as he brought his hand up to your face, the tip of his fingers tracing your jaw as you stared at him with wide eyes. âYou can either finish the ritual you so carelessly started, orâŠâ He trailed on as he moved his fingers down to your neck before encasing your throat in his palm, resulting in a choked gasp to leave your lips, and your hands instantly went up to wrap around his wrist. âI take you back to hell with me; the demons down there love fresh meat.â A sinister chuckle falls from his lips as he takes in your petrified expression, âWhich is it gonna be, kitten?â
Your mind was reeling, fear and panic flooding your veins, but there was something else. The feeling of his hand around your neck and warm breath fanning your face left a burning in your tummy, a feeling you knew all too well and cursed yourself for feeling like that right now. Your thighs start to subconsciously rub together, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but it was no use; the longer Jeongin had a hold of you.
Jeongin already knew he had you in the palm of his hand the moment he saw you rubbing your tights together. His hand tightens around your throat as he moves closer to your body, a small squeak leaving your lips as a result.
âThough I think we both know what you want.â Your breath hitched in your throat when his lips brushed the shell of your ear. Heat traveled all throughout your body, coating your skin in a shade of red, causing the male to smirk.
Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt his lips on your jaw, his free hand bruising over the exposed skin of your tummy, sending your stomach flipping. The grip you had on his wrist tightened as you tried not to let your mind fall into the pit of lust it so desperately wanted to.
However, all of your resolve crumbled when his tail coiled around your thigh, pulling it away from the other. A choked gasp fell from your parted lips when his knee made contact with your throbbing core.
Jeongin pulled away to take in your hooded eyes, lust pooling in your blown-out pupils, and he couldnât help but snicker about how easy it was to get you to submit. He then let his hand slip past the waistband of your pajama pants, cupping your dripping cunt in his hand, relishing in the moan that slips from your parted lips.
âYou mortals are so easy,â He smirked, bringing his face closer to yours once more, your eyes flickering up to meet his, âI just have to push the right buttonsââ he pressed against your clothed clit, causing you to gasp, âand you turn into putty.â
A whine falls from your lips as he pulls away from you, but you are quickly silenced when he grabs your body, tossing you onto the soft material of your mattress. It only took seconds before Jeongin had his body slotted between your parted legs, pressing his growing bulge against your core.
Jeongin grabbed your wandering hands, pinning them above your head and moving down until he was a breath away from your face.
âJeongin.â You looked at him, confused at the sudden name, âIt's my name. Say it.â He demanded, pressing his body further against yours.
âJeongin.â You mewled as he rolled his hips against yours, and as soon as his name left your tongue, his lips were on yours, stealing all of the air from your lungs.
His hand released yours, allowing you to wrap your hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you. His hands, however, traveled the length of your body, pulling and tugging at the fabric of your clothes. Growing impatient, he pulled away from your lips, tearing your shirt off your body and unclasping your bra before throwing both to the ground.
Latching his lips to the exposed skin of your collarbone, you gasped, hands flying to his head, racking your fingers through his locks, but stopping short when you felt his horn between your fingers. You traced along the edges of it, listening to the groan that was pulled from his lungs, the sound sending goosebumps all over your skin.
Just then, his hand slipped under the waistband of your bottoms and underwear, pulling them off your body in one swift motion. Your grip on his horn suddenly grew tighter when his fingers parted your folds, collecting some of your slick before pressing harshly on your clit.
âFuck!â You cried out, head falling back at the new sensation, and your back arching off the bed. Jeongin chuckled against your skin as he took in all of the sounds that were leaving your lips every time heâd rub your clit before moving down to tease your slit.
Your hand slipped from his head as he kissed down the valley of your breast, lingering for a moment to feel your heartbeat against his skin. However, the scent of your wetness was driving him crazy, and he wantedâneeded a taste.
âYou smell so sweet.â The growl he let out was almost animalistic as he came face to face with your weeping pussy, watching your hole clench around nothing. You whined as his warm breath washed over your skin, making you acutely aware of how close he was. âI need a taste before I pump you full of my cum.â
His words had your eyes rolling back, a small plea falling from your lips, causing him to chuckle. Not another word left his lips as he grabbed your thighs, keeping them parted as he buried his face in your cunt.
âJeongin!â You screamed his name, hands flying to his head once more, but instead of grabbing his hair, you wrapped your fingers around his horn. A groan reverberated from his chest, sending vibrations straight to your cunt, causing another loud moan to leave your lips.
âYouâre so noisy, kitten, arenât you worried that the neighbors will hear you?â Jeongin teased you, the vibrations of his voice making your back arch off the bed, pushing your leaking cunt further into his face. Chuckling darkly, he moves his hand to your lower tummy, pushing down hard enough to keep you in place, âSuch a needy little thing, arenât you?â
âPleasââ Your words caught in your throat when he latched his lips to your clit once more, sucking harshly before moving down to prod at your slit with the tip of his tongue. The sensation was driving you mad, the pleasure that was flooding your body was almost too much.
Jeongin continued this pattern until your legs were trembling around his head and you were crying out that you were going to cum. However, right before you came, he pulled away from your sopping cunt, causing a whine to leave your lips, eyes begging him to continue.
Smiling coily, he moved back up your body until he was face to face with you once more, âDonât worry, kitten, youâll get to cum, just on my cock.â
You gasped when his lips smashed into yours, the taste of yourself on his tongue making your head spin. Jeonginâs hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, and your head fell back when you felt the head of his cock poking at your entrance.
âJeongin!â You choked out as he trailed the tip of his dick from your entrance to your clit before just barely slipping it into your walls. He watched with an amused smirk as you squirmed underneath him, begging for him to just fuck you.
âYou want my cock, kitten?â Jeongin cooed as he slipped just the tip in once more, but this time he didnât move anymore. He hummed, reaching up to trace your jaw with his fingers once more, catching your attention. âYou want me to fuck you full of my cum. Is that what you want, princess?â
Your head nodded up and down like a broken bobblehead, lust-glazed eyes pleading with him, but it wasnât enough for him. No, Jeongin wanted to hear those words leave your pretty lips. A whimper left your lips as his hand wrapped around your throat, and the tears that had built up in the corner of your eyes started to fall.
âSay it.â He demanded, grip tightening around your pretty neck until your breathing was almost cut off entirely.
âPlease, Jeonginâ fuck me and fill my pussy with your c-cum.â You croaked, hands wrapping around his wrist, more pleas leaving your lips, but you were quickly cut off, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head when he buried himself to the hilt in one thrust.
Jeongin groaned at how tightly your pussy was squeezing him; the warmth of your walls drove him up a wall. Then he started moving, barely giving you a chance to adjust. Choked moans and cries fell from your lips as his hips pistoned into yours, his fingers still firmly clasped around your throat.
âFuck youâre so tight.â He groaned as your gummy walls clenched around him.
His hips snapped into yours at a harsh pace, making your brain turn to mush. Looking down, he took in the sight of your already fucked out expression, a cocky smile tugging on the corner of his lips.
âDonât tell me Iâve already fucked you stupid, we just started, kitten.â He delivered a peculiarly hard thrust to your soaked cunt, eliciting a choked scream from your lungs, âHas no one ever fucked this pussy like this, hmm?â He asks, but chuckles when all that leaves your lips are incoherent words.
Removing his hand from your throat, he moved down to grab both of your hips, granting him more leverage to fuck into you. A flurry of cries and moans leaves your parted lips when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder, wanting to fuck you deeper.
âShit, this pussy is mine from now on, got it?â He growled, fucking into you with an animalistic pace, leaving you lying there breathless, stars dancing across your vision. When he didnât get a response, he moved one hand down to pinch your clit, pulling a sharp cry from your lungs. âDo I make myself clear?â
âYesâ fuck! Yours! All yours, Jeongin⊠oh my god!â You screamed out, eyes rolling and fingers digging into the comforter underneath you.
Smiling sinisterly, Jeongin moved his hand away from your clit to push down on your stomach, right where he could feel himself fucking into you. This action had you whining, back arching against his hand.
âFuck! Jeongin, Iâm gonna cum!â You cried, one of your hands going down to grab his wrist, and your body started to tremble in his hold.
âGonna cum already, doll?â He teased, rolling his dick deeper into your walls, his tip kissing your cervix with each thrust. âGo ahead. Make a mess all over my cock, kitten.â
With a few more thrusts, your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, nearly knocking all of the air from your lungs. Jeongin groaned as your velvet walls squeezed around him like a vice, but his pace never faltered as he fucked you through your orgasm.
âJeongâ fuck!â You mewled as your high started to fade, only to be replaced with a sensitivity that left you whining, nails digging into the skin of his forearm.
âBe a good girl now, youâll get my cum soon.â He leaned forward, folding your body until he was inches away from your face, âjust like you wanted.â
Then he stood straight and fucked into your gushing hole with renowned vigor, his grip on your hips being the only thing keeping you from melting into the mattress completely.
âJeongin!â His name left your tongue like a chant when he brushed over your sweet spot, jolts of pleasure sweeping across your body.
With a dark gaze, Jeongin positioned his hips to hit your sweet spot with every thrust, causing tears to stream down your face. Your head fell back with a loud whine when he pressed against the bulge on your lower stomach again, relishing in the way your body was reacting to his actions.
ââS too much!â You cried out, the pleasure suddenly overwhelming your senses as another high crept up, but Jeongin didnât slow his pace nor move his hand; instead, he moved his thumb to your clit, causing your body to shake viciously.
âAw, is it really too much?â He cooed with a smug smirk, âThen why do you keep sucking me in?â
A sharp cry left your parted lips when he pressed down on your clit once more, sending your body over the edge. White spots clouded your vision as silent screams fell from your lips, and your whole body shook as Jeongin fucked you through yet another orgasm.
âFuck Iâm cumming.â Jeongin groaned, his thrust faltering as he spilled his seed deep in your womb. The warmth that spread throughout your body was making you delirious as if he had just given you some kind of drug.
Lust fully took over your brain as he slowed his thrusts, and Jeongin looked down, taking in the expression on your face, a cocky smirk playing on his lips, already knowing what had happened.
You whined as he pulled his still hard cock from your weeping walls, begging him to put it back in, causing him to click his tongue. In a split second, he had you flipped over on your stomach, hands tugging on your hips until they were where he wanted them, before teasing your entrance with his tip once more, listening to you whine and beg him.
âWeâre not done yet kitten,â He leaned over your body, chest flat against your back as his warm breath fanned your ear, âI still have so much more left to give you.â He pressed a searing kiss to your temple before pulling back and thrusting into you once more.
He fucked you all night long until he had spilled every last drop of his cum into your womb, not letting a single drop leave as he plugged your hole with his dick, keeping it all deep inside.
âYouâre mine.â Those were the last words that you heard leave his lips before your vision faded to black.
â ââ special notes ; PAUSE!!! if you have read this before, that would be because this is a revamped vers of another fic (lost in the fire) from my old blog (@/wwooyology); I am the same writer!!!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Synopsis: Reader is overworked and underfucked...pretty much. She owns a big jewelry company and meets Hyunjin through the industry they both work in(through him being a Versace ambassador).
Tags: slow burn, yearning on both sides, sexual tension, shy at first, very self-indulgent, flirting, they're both experts in what they do but idiots when it comes to love, eventual smut with switch!reader and switch!hyunjin(they're both filthy stfu), not in this chapter though
Warnings: reader is in her 27 turning 28 and Hyunjin is 25, it's not big deal in the fic but it is acknowledged. Also reader is a direct bad bitch cuz i cant read another fic with a docile little shit of a reader :)
Word count: 4.5k
!!This is my first fic and english is not my first language. Im very open to any advice or criticism!!
During the morning after the call with Donatella, it was just as difficult to get out of bed as the one before. Her ringtone started going off at precisely 5:30 am. Lively jazz blaring across her bedroom. Across because she purposefully put her phone on the charger on top of her vanity so she would be forced to get out of bed, whether she wanted to or not. The only thing that could be heard other than the music was rustling in the soft sheets near the bottom of the bed. The large cat that was sprawled on the corner stretched out lazily, shoving his front paws into his owner's legs with all his might. For a quick moment, she took the time to coo at her sweet baby.
A moment later, she got up, discipline, discipline, discipline is what she repeated to herself because god knows she did not want to leave her bed. Feeling the cool air of her bedroom on her warmed-up skin was chill-inducing. Nevertheless, she pushed through, stepped towards her vanity, and stopped the alarm with not-so-graceful movements. She walked back to her bed and bent over, laying a squishing kiss on her cat's forehead and gliding her fingers across his fluffy belly. Unsure if she wanted to, she still stood up straight and took herself to the bathroom, stepping into the shower after undressing. That was followed by her doing her skin care and putting on lotion. She walked into her closet to pick up the clothes she had decided to wear the night before while her skin care and lotion were seeping into her skin. It was a habit she'd gotten into, choosing an outfit the night before made her mornings less hectic, and who wouldn't welcome a habit like that?
While putting on the last of her jewelry, she drifted off to the corridor leading to her bedroom. It was time to pick a bag for the day. Her eyes jumped from bag to bag, until she found one that was the suitable color scheme for her outfit and still a practical size. Moving her things from the bag used the previous day to the newly picked bag always took a minute. She found it to be a therapeutic activity nonetheless. One that she interrupted to open a can of wet food for her cat. Pouring the stinky stuff into his bowl, her eyes sharper on a little image of an Italian flag below the logo of the can. Oh shit, yeah, Donatella she remembered their call and how sometime during the day the Italian woman and her favorite ambassador would waltz into her office. Even though knowing Donatella that wouldn't be until probably around 11 am, it's still good to remember.
Grabbing the last things she needed for her bag, she reached for the infamous binder with sketches, to-do lists, timetables, spreadsheets, and all kinds of paperwork.
She took a minute to pick a pair of heels. Heels in the office she worked at were standard after all. With one last kiss on top of her cat's head, she walked quickly to her door and exited her penthouse. In the elevator, not yet having exited the building, she received her first email of the day. How exciting, she thought, nevertheless fondly as she saw it was Maya. Bless her, so hard-working and fully functioning at this time of day, which was impressive, of course, and a tad concerning. She decided to open it in the car. The elevator dinged, and she walked out. "Morning, Miss," a voice was heard from the desk near the main entrance of the apartment building. The doorman with the usual polite smile and nod. "Morning, Sir," she said respectfully, considering how much older than her he was.
He pushed the huge wooden doors open for her, and her face immediately felt the cool breeze of the city. Along with its noises that, despite the early hour of 7:00 am, were ever prominent. Her eyes landed on the car in the front. Her chauffeur, being precisely on time to a T, never failed to put a smile on her face. She liked punctual people very much. They were more reliable and easier to work with; of course, she'd prefer them in her line of work and position. She walked to the back half of the matte black car. "Good morning, Eric," she said fondly, and Eric gave her a small smile and opened the door for her. He wasn't a man of many words, and she completely understood that. She respected him a great deal; he always looked out for her, even if it wasn't obvious he did, he was a good listener and a good man. Getting in, she didn't have to say anything; he knew where to drive to, where to park, and he had her schedule for if she needed to be driven anywhere during the day, he also knew which roads to take to save her time. So hell yeah, him not being the talkative type didn't bother her one bit.
_______________________________________
The drive was smooth as she read through Maya's email. It was about the advertisement for the summer campaign. It was a little early to plan a June campaign in October, sure. But you know what they say- early bird gets the worm! That's definitely a saying she used to remind herself to get things done as soon as they can be done.
She always arrived within about 20 minutes of leaving her apartment building. The car pulled up, and for the moment, she turned to pick her bag up from the seat next to hers Eric was already opening the door. "Miss, I'll be here at 15:05 for the preview at Miss Carlton," he said with a deep, smooth voice as she stepped out. "Mhm, alright, Eric, thank you," she said politely.
As she walked in, she was greeted by the receptionist. As she greeted her back, she pressed her forearms on the receptionist counter to listen to the list of packages, PR from other companies, and orders sheâd placed that had come in in the last 24 hours. âTheyâre packages mainly of polished pieces for the collaborative event, Miss. Product development also sent some mockups as well. Oh, and Advertisement sent a box of the different versions of the spring catalog,â she recited like sheâd learnt it by heart- she probably had for the satisfaction of her boss. âMhm,â the boss in question hummed, her eyes scanning the boxes inquisitively. She picked up the small box with the versions of the catalog and turned back to the receptionist, âMake sure the rest get to the styling room within 30 minutes,â she said, turning on her heel and walking to the elevator. The styling room- a large creative space opposite her office that she and Donatella currently use for the styling of the models and the event that she usually uses alone to put together vision boards and gather her jewelry designers and CAD designers for meetings. In the elevator, she was alone, which was normal considering that aside from her, only her assistant, the security of the building, and the receptionist were clocked in at this hour. More than half of the other employees came into work at 8 am.
A minute later, having reached the top floor, the elevator doors opened. âGood morning,â she heard Maya say in her usual monotone voice. Her assistant was standing in front of her office with a cup of coffee and a breakfast bowl in hand. Immediately, it could be noticed by anyone who knew Maya even remotely well that she was wearing her favourite Prada heels and vintage Vivienne Westwood blazer. âGood morning to you too, any special guests today?â she said with a puckish smile as she walked to her assistant to get her breakfast from her hands. âOh, you know, I havenât seen Donatella in a while. I wanna make a goodâŠnth impression,â Maya said, trying to shrug it off nonchalantly. Her employer giggled as she turned her back to her to unlock the door to her office. A door to which only she and her father had a key to.
âAlright, well, let's get the day started, huh?â she said, pushing the door open and walking in to put the box with the catalogs and her bag down. She sat down at her desk, opened her everyday breakfast bowl, and sipped her coffee. âWhatâs the first thing on the books today?â asked her assistant, making her pull up the schedule on her iPad. âYour first meeting is with Karina from Sales Forecasting about what to expect after the collaborative event at 8:30, then we have scheduled at 10 for the Art of Jewelry to be given 30 minutes of your time for an article on the winter collection weâre dropping next month,â she stated, looking down at the screen. The woman, still chewing, put her hand up towards her assistant. She swallowed and spoke politely, âAll I heard is I have an hour to look through the catalogs and give Advertisment feedback. Thank you, Maya, thatâs allâ.
Her morning turned out to be way less organized than she anticipated. Much less organized.
While looking through the catalogs, the gears were turning in her head, and she decided that none of them were good. Maybe good enough for a fucking Pandora campaigh she thought.
Her work phone rang; it was Maya calling her from her office, which was on the floor below. âTony says the flux leaking is caused by improper sealing of the piston head of the machine. Permission to schedule a repair?â Maya reported. âYes, schedule it as soon as possible and make sure the factory manager, whatever his name was, is there to see the repair. I donât want to see that again,â she said in a calm voice that still conveyed how disappointing a view the dripping flux was. âOf course, and the caterer wants to schedule a meeting at the venue to show you, and I quote, âthe new ways of plating I created,â but everything in the books is taken until the event,â her assistant responded. At least she knew not to waste her time with unnecessary sugarcoated words. âOh, wow, how promising of him,â she exclaimed sarcastically, âPut him down for 6 am the day after tomorrow, I think he mentioned he wasn't a morning person back when he thought I was going to treat him like a friend.â
After the call, she typed out an email to the head of Advertisment that stated: None of these will be used. I expect a fresh batch within 36 hours. She hit the Send button with a little more force than usual.
Her work phone rang again. âStephany,â it said, who the fuck was Stephany? she thought, but still picked up. âHello, Miss, some packages just came in, and I thought I'd let you know since they're from Demna Gvasalia.â The receptionist's overly cheerful voice cut through the silence of her office. âNo, I'll pick them up tomorrow morning, as I do with all packages,â and with that, she hung up. Before she even had the chance to put her phone down, there was a knock on the door. âCome in,â the moment the words left her mouth, Mateo swung the door open. One of her most productive and talented designers. She knew exactly what he was going to ask about; he did this pretty often. Heâd be in his studio, and heâd come to a design dilemma with a chain or stone, and instead of asking one of the senior designers, he would sprint to her office. It would annoy her if it weren't for the childlike excitement he came in with every time. High on the passion for geometry, she would guess. âSo, I have this thing,â he began. He always started like that. He laid three different sketches of an earring design he was working on. âThe top stone,â he pointed, âWe settled on the yellow topaz, but Iâm between three shapes: emerald cut, square, or cushion,â he said, weirdly out of breath. Jesus, this kid, she thought (he was her age). âCushion, for sure.â
Mateo had made the mistake of leaving the door open, and a knock was heard on the already ajar door. The businesswoman lifted her head from the sketches, and her eyes landed on Karine. All this, and it was 8 am, she thought, letting a sigh leave her. âCushion, Mateo,â she repeated assertively now, as to hint at him to leave. He nodded and left. âTake a seat, Karina,â she said politely, even though, because of one reason or another, her hands were starting to tremble. She knew what it was- she was getting overwhelmed. Periodically, it happened. Her office would start to seem too bright and comically small for its actual size. Her messy desk would start overstimulating her just by existing. So as she walked back to sit in her office, she took a deep breath and hoped for no more phone calls, at least for the duration of the meeting.
_______________________________________
The statistics that were presented were satisfactory, exceptional, actually. The spreadsheets she was handed were boring, but she still looked over them. The meeting was still interrupted by multiple phone calls and knocks to her office door, of course. They were the reason why she listened to Karina with half her usual focus; her hands were still trembling, which she hid by either pressing them together tightly or twirling her pen.
The meeting was coming to an end as she stood up to shake Karinaâs hand, praising her and her team for their precise work.
After the head of Sales Forecasting left, she took a last call. It had to do with Website management. After putting her phone down for the nth time, she had 10 minutes until she had to be in the styling room in the corner, where she had people set up two armchairs and a coffee table to spend her 30 minutes with the journalist who was supposed to come. If was a good setup, it would make a good background for the photo they will probably have to take for the front of the article. She decided those puny 10 minutes would be her little break, and she was gonna leave her phones in her office, no calls, just for a little. She walked out of her office and headed towards the office kitchen to grab some water and probably another coffee.
_______________________________________
That was the plan⊠was.
She made it about 10 steps away from her office, and that was when an unapologetically loud noise boomed behind her. âThere you are, dear, we were just about to go searching for you!ââŠoh noâŠDonatella, whom she liked, yes, but wasnât the person to be around when she was already on the brink of lighting a blunt. She turned and showed a small smile, not really feeling the need to mirror her business partnerâs grandeur. They were leaving Mayaâs office; she really did want everyone to see her handsome little ambassador, huh, she thought as he came into view.
Oh, her inside voice told her oh fuck, no wonder she wants to show him off, god damn. Sheâd met other handsome men, of course, plenty of them, hundreds probably, but holy shit. Honestly, âhandsomeâ she felt was an insult, sulking in the shadow of his looks. He looked like anything but plain handsome. She didn't let it show, or did her best not to show it, walking confidently towards Donatella, giving her a light hug and exchanging cheek kisses with her. While greeting her, she complimented her earrings choice, as they were obviously one of their own products, after all. But she knew Donatella liked that obvious, cheeky kind of behavior anyway.
By the looks of it, Donatella wasnât the only one who smiled at the little comment. While she was hugging the older woman, her eyes moved to him, and they made eye contact. He smiled and looked down, lowering his head slightly. Shy? A man like him? she thought to herself.
Without missing another second, Donatella exclaimed, âOh, and of course here he is,â she said with a bright smile, putting her hand on his shoulder to guide him forward. âYou must be Hyunjin?" the young woman said, smiling politely and offering her hand towards him. He accepted it and shook it between both of his hands. Smooth, tough, and warm, maybe too warm, even is he really nervous, she thought to herself. He repeated what she said, showing that he also knew who she was, and also praised the architecture of the building. He finished by saying, âYes, it's nice to finally meet you,â his voice was soft and velvety. She thanked him but was unfazed by what maybe someone would assume to be a reason to blush, maybe giggle a bit.
Truth was, yes, he was good-looking, dizzyingly so, but sheâd heard these comments, these surface-level compliments, so many times that it didn't matter from whose mouth they would come out of; they never really made an impact on her. âI wanted to show him around, remember? Show him a bit of the artistic process,â Donatella said, not letting even a moment be enveloped in silence. âOh yes, the styling room, you said,â the younger businesswoman nodded, leading them both to it. She walked ahead, not because Donatella didn't know where it was, of course, she knew, she just wanted to walk next to her dear ambassador and talk his ears off.
After a few moments, they reached the styling room. The woman who walked ahead pushed the doors of the atelier open, âHere it is, our humble workshop,â she said, knowing fully well how ridiculous that sounded in the middle of this huge room with tall ceilings. It was filled with massive tables on which were so many printed photos of both companies' pieces, pages of notes, some piled up, some spread out, elements of the decor and venue stuck together in collages, corkboards with sketches of the models and clothes pinned to them like brooches. It was messy, but a good type of messy. At least thatâs what Hyunjin thought. In his mind, this is the type of chaos that led to the best pieces of art being created. Just as she turned towards them, she saw the pure emotion of awe in his slightly widened eyes. Maybe he really is into the arts, she thought, smiling while looking at him as his eyes darted around the space like a kid in a candy store. All while Donatella kept talking about the process of styling, the jeweller could see how he was half-listening to her, nodding periodically.
About a minute later, Donatella got a phone call of her own. Picking it up, she took three steps away from the other two to keep a respectful distance as she answered the call. âI take it you like the mayhem of it all, hm?â the other woman said in a calm, low voice, leaning against a nearby table and crossing her arms. Her eyes focused on the man, who, only when he heard her voice, peeled his eyes from the sketches and placed them on her. She was fucking gorgeous, Hyunjin thought, as respectfully as possible, of course. âIt's such a gorgeous by-product,â he answered in an equally soft voice. The contrast between their quiet voices and Donatella's stentorian one made this little exchange seem way more intimate to them than it objectively was. The woman hummed, smiling at what he said. She liked the way he worded his sentences. âBy-productâ, not leftovers or a mess, âby-productâ, indicating he genuinely saw worth in this.
The sweet thought disappeared from her head, though as she looked down, only to notice her hands were still shaking jesus, has this still not gone away? she thought, a bit embarrassed. She heard a zipper and lifted her head. He was pulling a pack of something from his jacket's pocket. âThese are anti-anxiety gummies, they have herbs nâ stuff. Want some?â he said casually. He had noticed how quickly she was walking when they first saw her, he felt the slight tremble of her hands when she gave him a handshake, saw the tension around her eyes and in her shoulders when she pushed the door open. He'd noticed it all. She looked at him for a second. âAh, thanks,â she said, giggled, and slowly reached into the open packet he was holding. âGet a couple, put them in your pocket," he said, happy that she even reached inside. She giggled and put one in her mouth, feeling the taste of it hit her tongue, âOh, they are really good, but I don't need anymoreâ she giggled again.
Why was she giggling so much? And why was he talking like a child all of a sudden? Offering candy? Way to go, grown man, he thought to himself, though that's the best he could have thought of to help her.
After a moment of silence, Hyunjin cleared his throat, âAs much as I love this place, I can see how it could getâŠoverwhelming.â his voice was calm and casual but still careful in a way that felt grounding. Taking a deep breath and tilting her head, she gave him a soft smile and said, âOur passion for things doesn't make them automatically easierâ. He smiled and nodded, running his fingers through his hair. The moment he opened his mouth to continue their conversation, Maya burst through the door. âOh, I've been looking for you!â she exclaimed in that silky voice she used only when the press was around. Behind her walked a middle-aged man with an exquisitely intricate tie and thick black frame glasses. OK, Stanley Tucci, she thought. âMr. Rossi had difficulty finding his way through the building.â Maya smiled sweetly, too sweetly oh, she didn't like him Maya's employer immediately knew.
She greeted the journalist and showed him where to set up for the interview with a gentle hand on his arm. Maya followed him, occupying his focus, knowing full well that the other two people in the room had to be addressed by her boss as soon as possible as well. At the same moment, Donatella got off the phone and walked with wide strides to her handsome ambassador, while he was still hopeful to get a bit more time to talk to the young businesswoman. She beat him to it, though. âIt's for an article for a magazine,â she said to him and took a step back. Took a step back? she realized. Were they standing that close to each other?
Hyunjin nodded understandingly, knowing his voice wouldn't be clearly heard in the face of: âOf course, of course, dear, you are busy! Go do that, we will be on this side, I'll tell Hyunjin about the headpieces!â Donatellaâs voice shone through the room as she laid a hand on top of Hyunjinâs shoulder blade. The younger woman nodded and walked across the room. She knew the interview was going to be audio-recorded, so two people on the opposite side of the space would hardly be an issue.
The interview went on just as expected. Questions like âWhat inspired this collection?â, âWhat was the most challenging part of the design?â âWhich piece is your personal favourite?â and a few more. Each time she thought about a question, she tilted her head slightly away from the interviewer, her eyes trailed the floor away from her, and lifted her gaze up. More than once, hoping she'd catch a glimpse of him. And she did. Everytime. Not because of some form of luck, but because he was already looking at her. His body faced Donatella or a sketch or the view outside the building, but his eyes kept stealing poorly hidden glances at her.
It was the kind of attitude you'd expect from a high schooler who had a crush on his senior. He must be younger, for sure, she thought, his shameless behavior making her smile. She quickly composed herself, forcing herself to think about the reality of things: handsome, in a band, worldwide star, she immediately decided what she was gonna stereotype him as. So this shy act is really just part of his charm, huh, bet so many people fall for it, she thought. But then again, he did give her the first ounce of comfort she had felt by someone else in a while; she couldnât forget that part. No, no, it doesn't matter, don't get distracted, she told herself sternly.
As the interview wrapped up, she and the journalist got up, shook hands, and Maya escorted him out of the styling room. She took a deep breath and straightened his clothes. âDear, we will go to one of the stores with Hyunjin, okay?â Donatella was heard saying. âAh, yes, of course you two go,â she said with a tired smile. She walked to them and hugged Donatella. Hyunjin was looking at her again, as if waiting for something. She turned to him, and she shook his hand again. âIt was a pleasure to meet you, Miss,â he said in a gentle voice and smile. âIt was a pleasure for me as well,â she said, failing to suppress her grin, resulting in a slightly downturned, shy one. She's adorable, he thought. At that point, he was wondering if there was something wrong with him; why was he completely enamoured of her? Jesus, he met her today. He kept telling himself to calm down.
They left the room, and she was left by herself with no voices, no calls, no looksâŠwait. No calls? Shit shit shit. She had left her phones in her office for almost an hour. Which, objectively, wasnât a lot. But in her world? It was like she ghosted everyone for a week. She took a deep breath yet again and waltzed to her office.
4 missed calls and 16 emails. Before she answered them, she called Maya. She might as well take advantage of having an assistant for fucks sake. âHey, Maya, could you get me a berry smoothie and iced water?â she said in a breathy voice, ready to recharge her battery and get back to work. âOf course, Miss ma'am, cominâ with your order as soon as possible,â Maya answered and made the other woman chuckle. She was in a good mood, apparently. Donatella must have hugged her.
She poured herself some wine, had some calming music playing as she flipped through today's news, a face mask soaking her skin. It was her little nightly ritual. Calming her body while still keeping up with gossip. Magazines were open on her bed, the room being dimly lit, half the light coming from her laptop. Scrolling, scrolling, scrollingâŠoh, she could recognize those eyes embarrassingly easily. A video of him walking through one of the big Versace stores in the city. She immediately closed her laptop; this was not the time to drool over a random man she met today. Because that was all he was- some guy, right?
i love the ethel cain fandom on tumblr because u can post smth that says 'sighh listening to her 18 minute unreleased song only available on one cassette tape taped to the underside of a rotting piece of wood from a bridge that broke 60 years ago in her hometown really makes me wanna watch gay porn on a vintage tv in the middle of a field in nebraska while writing fanfic about ethel pegging willoughby in the back of a pickup truck while listening to guns and roses or some shit' and get like 100 likes
summary: in a world full of soulmates, you donât have a mark and come to the conclusion that youâre one of the rare people who doesnât have a soulmate. until one day you wake up in a body that is not yours and a secret in the form of a person wrapped around your waist.Â
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PAIRING: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
SUMMARY: Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.
WC: 18,249
AU: Cyberpunk, Semi-Friends to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Angst, Romance
WARNINGS: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you donât like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.Â
A/N: This is re-uploaded from my previous blog sailorrlino that I forgot was attached to sailoryooons when I deleted. I felt bad, so I am reposting here and hoping that you all enjoy this if you've never read it before, or you enjoy re-reading it if you have :)
A/N 2: This is not beta read AT ALL and willl have errors - sorry!
SKZ M. LIST | ASK | NOW PLAYING: RODEO
Any work is good work.Â
Minho isnât so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.Â
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the manâs cheek hits the floor.Â
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The manâs entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minhoâs sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. Itâs silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.Â
âReceiving,â a male voice answers. Minho doesnât know who it is - he just knows heâs one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.Â
âCollection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.âÂ
âCollected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.âÂ
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, itâs just a number on a screen that confirms the power wonât go out at his apartment and that he wonât go hungry.
Minhoâs knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.Â
Heâs so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.Â
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasnât given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isnât technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the governmentâs militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.Â
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesnât get a jump or sleep heâs going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.Â
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.Â
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.Â
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.Â
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. Thereâs no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.Â
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows itâll get messy.Â
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that arenât there and the foggy thinking, but they wonât keep him sharp forever.Â
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesnât feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.Â
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.Â
No one enters the car. Itâs just him and the other two sleeping people - he isnât sure theyâre even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
Itâs a unique little knife, snug in the sheath thatâs buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy youâd been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy youâd perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. Itâs saved his life a few times in situations like now when heâs exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.Â
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesnât mind, though. Youâre an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You donât ask the kind of questions that he doesnât want to answer, and youâre always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.Â
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesnât have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.Â
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.Â
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once heâs shown up as a Collection Request. He doesnât know if itâs the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. Itâs probably both, but every time it happens, heâs managed to evade it.Â
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, itâs sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators donât seem to care which Collector murders the other, and heâs never suffered for coming out on top.Â
Any work is good work.Â
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.Â
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.Â
âThe United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-â Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.Â
Immediately the holograms vanish and thereâs just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.Â
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When theyâre pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesnât do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjinâs eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho canât shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.Â
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.Â
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builderâs sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.Â
Agents of disorder and chaos. Thatâs what some say. Minho isnât sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.Â
âHello, Cowboy,â Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.Â
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. Heâs dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
âI donât like when you call me that.â
Hyunjinâs smile makes the hair on Minhoâs arms stand on end. âI know, but I like it.â
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show heâs irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjinâs face, Minho can safely assume he isnât doing a great job. âIs the Builder in or not?âÂ
âWho is to say?âÂ
âJust tell her Iâm here.âÂ
âIf sheâs in, she already knows.â Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. âYou can wait, Cowboy.âÂ
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjinâs uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.Â
When the water comes back, itâs warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. Heâs pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.Â
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
âDonât,â Minho grunts, sipping the water. âNot interested.â
âBut youâre so pretty.â
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, âBuilder is ready for you, Cowboy.âÂ
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesnât show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.Â
Minho doesnât turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.Â
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.Â
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks itâs a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you havenât built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.Â
âDo you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?âÂ
He doesnât mind the name from you. He tells himself that itâs because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesnât dislike you. Youâre easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and youâre to the point. He admires that, and heâs willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You donât look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.Â
âI donât have long,â he says, forgoing the seat. âJust need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. Itâs having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.âÂ
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minhoâs face.Â
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.Â
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. Thereâs a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesnât remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.Â
âWhen was the last time you slept?â
âAre you psychoanalyzing me?â You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. âFifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.â
âNo to the JumpPack,â you say finally. âSleep.â
âI have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.âÂ
âDown the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It wonât kill you.â He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, âIâll be done by the time youâre up. Take off your armor.âÂ
His hands open and close. Youâve never declined a JumpPack before. Youâve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.Â
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons heâs managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.Â
Minhoâs shirt is more armor than a shirt. Itâs made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when thereâs an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. Youâve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.Â
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if itâs not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.Â
Immediately heâs covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. Youâre dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.Â
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor un-synced and he took a few hard punches.Â
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though youâre going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.Â
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, âThree hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.âÂ
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. âAlright.âÂ
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. Heâs a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but youâre unfolding his armored shirt.Â
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. Heâs never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.Â
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. Thereâs no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
Heâs not in danger here.Â
Slowly, he trods to the cot. Itâs a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minhoâs eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.Â
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that heâll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.Â
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until heâs fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.Â
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he canât shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room heâs in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where thereâs another knock.Â
âCome in,â he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. Youâve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesnât hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff youâve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesnât move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. âI know Collectors donât have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.â
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. âWhy did you bring me food?â
âBecause you look like shit, Cowboy. Donât go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.âÂ
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesnât eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. Itâs not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
âFixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?â His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. âItâs made with durast carbonate. Itâs pretty shockproof.âÂ
âDidnât mean to. Some guyâs goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um⊠took a bullet.âÂ
âHow did they get the jump on you, hmm?â He stares. âWere you tired?âÂ
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. Itâs peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you donât say anything more. Youâve already gotten your barbs in and you donât intend to poke until heâs truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.Â
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.Â
Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, youâve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what heâs asking for, and youâve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but heâd been met with steely silence each time.Â
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. Youâre as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes its electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. Heâs not at a hundred percent, but heâs a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.Â
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.Â
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes itâs just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what youâre doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. Heâs still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust heâs established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices heâs only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.Â
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever youâre working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
âHello, Collector. How are you today?â Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, âFine, you?â
âDoing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.â
âMy watch?â
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He canât figure out whatâs so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that heâs used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. Itâs far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.Â
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.Â
Minhoâs fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesnât hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. Itâs abrasive, but he canât imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. Itâs far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
âThe needles,â he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. âDo they connect with me?â
âYes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.â You get up and walk toward him. âYou wonât even feel them. Theyâre the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during infighting. Theyâre more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.â
âWhatâs the point, though?âÂ
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. âInside of this,â you instruct, tapping the hard shell, âIs a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles donât push deep, but theyâre high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.âÂ
Minho looks up at you, silent. You donât notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. âBlue is electrolytes,â you instruct, pointing to it. âGreen is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.â
âAnd purple?â
âJump,â you deadpan. âBut a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you wonât need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since itâs non-addictive.â
Minho stares. âWhat?â
âWhat part didnât you get?â
âThis is for me?â You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. âThis is worth a million United Credits at least. I canât afford it.â
âDo you see a price tag?â
âYou canât give me this for free.âÂ
âOf course I can. Itâs just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, wellâŠâ You shrug. âAt least you didnât pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. Iâve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I donât have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesnât protect you from plasma. This does.â
Minho doesnât buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldnât give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.Â
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? Heâs not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.Â
Minho has peers. Youâre a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.Â
âThe one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.âÂ
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks youâre going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
âFixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.âÂ
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.Â
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesnât move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagrams.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesnât know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.Â
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minhoâs stomach. He doesnât move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to⊠what? He doesnât know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.Â
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You donât spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.Â
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping bass and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasnât in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builderâs workshop.Â
Hyunjinâs smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.Â
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.Â
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.Â
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.Â
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while heâs at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer youâd made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.Â
Itâs nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.Â
âReceiving,â he answers, straightening up.Â
âCollection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
âCollection accepted.âÂ
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.Â
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.Â
-
The water runs red in Minhoâs shower. He stares at it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.Â
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. Heâd had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows heâs lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, itâs a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didnât have the next twenty-four hours to himself.Â
If the knife had been one of yoursâŠ
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and heâs brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.Â
Yet the ache isnât what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isnât what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows heâs coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.Â
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.Â
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.Â
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.Â
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what heâs looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.Â
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows heâll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.Â
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.Â
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if heâs damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles and tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but heâs grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.Â
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.Â
There was crazy, and then there was that.Â
Minho wonders if youâve been charging him fairly, suddenly. Heâs always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows youâre willing to offer something that heâd only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if youâve been cutting him deals.
Heâs never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though theyâre the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesnât trust them whenever it comes to you.Â
Jisung already thinks itâs sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if itâs true.Â
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.Â
Minhoâs memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. Heâs able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after theyâve irritated him, like youâre giving him a gift or saying Iâm on your team.Â
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because itâs bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.Â
Minhoâs fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. Heâs thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesnât jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.Â
-
The ringing of Minhoâs watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where thereâs a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes itâs work calling.Â
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.Â
Clearing his throat, he answers. âReceiving.âÂ
âCollection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
Information flashes on Minhoâs watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. Heâs never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesnât want to see any of it, doesnât want to see when you were born, doesnât want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesnât want to know your criminal history.Â
Minhoâs ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.Â
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. Heâs only ever known your first name, but youâve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho canât remember if heâs ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighingâÂ
Three years and he canât believe heâs never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.Â
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isnât like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.Â
Irreversible.Â
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while heâs unarmed.Â
Now heâs supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or wonât he?Â
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
Heâs only a few steps toward it when he realizes heâs not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.Â
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes heâs having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.Â
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, heâs never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.Â
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
Itâs hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.Â
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that heâs not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.Â
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.Â
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things youâve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.Â
Itâs clinical.Â
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. Heâs always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minhoâs only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for⊠well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.Â
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what theyâre up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.Â
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesnât understand, so itâs difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because heâs in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through your defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he wonât complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.Â
Either way, itâs on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.Â
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.Â
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and itâs impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.Â
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesnât consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.Â
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?Â
Maybe itâs even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. Itâs easier than it should be, Minhoâs mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and travels to North Ward Three that he doesnât have time to look around every corner or see if heâs being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.Â
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as heâs immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on whatâs going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.Â
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. Theyâll stay out of his way and wonât engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.Â
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.Â
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and itâs only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.Â
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.Â
Itâs full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. Itâs no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjinâs hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.Â
âYour patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.âÂ
Minhoâs heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjinâs dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesnât see. Thereâs a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on his calf.Â
Hyunjinâs fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. âWant to try, Cowboy?â
âI need to speak with her.â
âNo.â
âIâm not-â Minho grits his teeth. âIâm not Collecting.â
âDidnât say you were.âÂ
Hyunjin knows. He doesnât know how the Nightcrawler knows youâre a Collection on Minhoâs list, but itâs clear in the way Hyunjin leers.Â
âLook, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.â
âAnd what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if youâre not lying, theyâll come after you too.âÂ
âListne, Nightcrawler-â
Hyunjin grins. Itâs unnerving, and there isnât much that unnerves Minho. âNo, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I donât have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.â He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. âIâm always within my right to make a judgment call.â
âIâd never hurt her.â
âYouâre not friends, last I checked.â Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. âYou donât have friends, right? Thatâs why you reject acts of faith?â
âWhat do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?âÂ
âYouâd be surprised, Collector.âÂ
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minhoâs fingers twitch and Hyunjinâs eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
Heâs that confident in beating me.Â
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesnât make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjinâs eyes flicker and look over Minhoâs shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
âHereâs an act of faith. Letâs see what you do this time.âÂ
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.Â
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didnât arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.Â
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.Â
Act of faith.Â
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.Â
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.Â
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. Itâs nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.Â
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.Â
âThere are eight. Theyâre just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.â
âIs there a way through that door?â
âSure there is. If they want to melt it down, Iâm sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They canât blow it without leveling the street.âÂ
âDoes she have a way out the back?â
âNo, then I would have two doors to watch.âÂ
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they donât come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they donât want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.Â
âArenât you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?â Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. âCan you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.â
âIâm good at not being seen, Cowboy. Iâm not inhuman.âÂ
âOh good, so youâre actually useless when visible?â
Hyunjinâs face darkens. âYouâd be surprised how often you donât see me.âÂ
The threat isnât lost on Minho but it doesnât have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure theyâre behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but itâs only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isnât very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. âItâs a flash grenade,â he snaps. âIâm not going to kill everyone.â He pauses and smirks. âI donât do that anymore.â
âThatâs hardly less settling.â
âYou know,â Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenade. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. âOne day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.â
âOne is legal, for starters.âÂ
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. âRight, so what youâre doing right now? This is legal?â
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minhoâs shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and thereâs only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.Â
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collectorâs voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your hand. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.Â
âI think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.â You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. âRemind me to write that down.âÂ
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign thatâs been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the âRâ tries to fight for its life.
Then thereâs you.Â
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet grazes his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjinâs hand resting on top of his gun.Â
âYou gonna kill me, Cowboy?â Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell youâre upset that it does.Â
âNo. I want to help.â Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? âConsider it an act of faith,â Minho offers and Hyunjinâs snickering turns to curiosity. âIâve rejected yours in the past. Let me offer you the only one I have.âÂ
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. âWhat a strange turn of events, Minho.âÂ
Itâs the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minhoâs mouth twitch a little.Â
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stairs. Hyunjinâs watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where theyâre going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hopping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. Itâs far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.Â
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.Â
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.Â
âDecided not to kill me?â you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.Â
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric youâve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaiter over the lower half of his face.Â
âI was never going to kill you.â
âHard to tell with you.âÂ
âI⊠donât have an argument.âÂ
And he doesnât. He realizes that heâs kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
âI thought we were friends.â That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that heâs stopped, looking at you. âWe stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients donât get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.â
âTheyâre on the house?â
âOf course they are!â you snap at him. âDo you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know Iâm not overcharging you?âÂ
âI stopped looking once I trusted you werenât robbing me.â
âSee, thatâs a funny word coming from you. Trust.â
A whistle catches Minhoâs attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minhoâs face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.Â
âI do trust you.â You say nothing to his comment. âIâm sorry I didnât accept the armor.â
âIt wasnât about rejecting the armor, Collector.â The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. âIt was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.â
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minhoâs stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. Thereâs a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.Â
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.Â
âYou werenât,â he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. âWrong. You werenât wrong.âÂ
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes he is holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.Â
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.Â
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.Â
âWhat is this?â he asks, looking at you.Â
Itâs Hyunjin who answers, âNightcrawler shit. Youâre welcome.â
âShould we expect any of your former coworkers, then?âÂ
âTheyâre not so bad.â Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. âItâs the Darklings I worry about.âÂ
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if heâs serious or not.Â
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. âHe was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?âÂ
âHave you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?âÂ
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.Â
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they donât run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where theyâre going, but he doesnât,Â
An act of faith.Â
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minhoâs information, heâd gain a little trust.Â
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. Itâs not much to most, but he knows among killers itâs a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.Â
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you donât look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though youâre trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.Â
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. âWhat will you do with your lab?âÂ
Your lips twitch. âChemical fire. Thereâs a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.âÂ
âWho owns that place, anyway?âÂ
âBangchan.â The name sounds familiar. âReformed Nightcrawler.âÂ
âYou keep unusual company.â
âBetter than none.âÂ
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears itâs brighter than the glowsticks you carry. âI deserved that one. Iâm working on it, alright.â
âHow do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?â
âThe same way I deal with them.â You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, itâs just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. âWhat made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.âÂ
âI do, but I donât know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.â You look at him. âI wanted to trust you.â
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. Heâd been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.Â
âWhere are we going?âÂ
He looks up at you. âHyunjin didnât tell you?â
âNo, just said to trust you.â Minhoâs brows shoot up and you snort. âI know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.â
âItâs a safe house on Isla de Suenos.â You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. âMy mother belonged to a very well-off family. Iâm not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.â
âShe didnât choose you?â He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. âNo wonder you donât choose people either.â
Your candor is a relief. You donât tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. âThere are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if sheâd taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.â
âWhat is it now?â
âI donât have one. My father was servant-class. We donât have family names.âÂ
âHe worked for your motherâs family?â Minho nods. âLee. I like it. Will you keep it?â
âMaybe. Itâs who I have to be, now.âÂ
âNo longer the Collector?â He shakes his head. âGood. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.âÂ
Minho bites back a grin.Â
By the time they get to the surface again, theyâre just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.Â
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.Â
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. Itâs cauterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.Â
Seeing the injury, you get up wordlessly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minhoâs shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.Â
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.Â
âMy mom liked to paint,â Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. âThatâs one of the few things I know about her. She had artist hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.âÂ
âHmm, I wouldnât say Iâm an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.â
âItâs a kind of art.â
âI suppose it is.â
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesnât open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.Â
He can almost pretend you both havenât thrown your life away to head to some house heâs never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.Â
âDoes it hurt?â he shakes his head at your question. Your voice is soft and raspy, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Youâre so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. âIf you let me give you better armor, plasma wonât hurt you.â
Minhoâs eyes flutter open. âYou brought it with you?â
âOf course I did.â Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. âI donât want you to get hurt.â
Hyunjinâs voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. âHello, yes, the child and I are still here.âÂ
âIâm not a child!â
âThe child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin is waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.â
You whirl around. âYouâre leaving? What do you mean youâre leaving?â
âI have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. Iâm taking the child to stay with Swan.âÂ
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. âYou would do that? Take him to stay with her?âÂ
âOf course. Swan likes strays.âÂ
âI am right here,â Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. âAnd Iâm not a child.â
Hyunjin grins at him. Itâs real and not a leer, something that Minho doesnât think heâs ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. âEnjoy your evening. Iâll be around, Minho.âÂ
âWait!â you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjinâs face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like heâs intruding. âHere.âÂ
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjinâs hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minhoâs side.Â
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. Itâs hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldnât have carried them all, but itâs something.Â
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesnât let go until heâs sure youâre okay, eyes searching.Â
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.Â
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.Â
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. Heâs thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.Â
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertainly. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slow down as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.Â
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didnât know he was holding.Â
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.Â
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
âMinho, thereâs a-â
âItâll let us through.â He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping itâs true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then theyâre through the shield. The water is flat calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. âItâs biometric.â
âAnd you were sure that was going to work?â
âMostly.âÂ
âMostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.âÂ
It takes a second, but he realizes youâre calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesnât mind the diminutive.Â
Even in still waters, he doesnât remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.Â
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.Â
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isnât holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.Â
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that itâs coded to his biochip and that itâs always been there if he needs it. He doesnât know if itâs stocked or if the electricity is on, or if itâs been raided and taken over. He doesnât even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.Â
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. Itâs made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.Â
It is exquisite. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows thatâs what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but heâs still on edge.Â
At the door, thereâs a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.Â
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. Itâs sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and casts a warm, gold glow in the house.Â
âYouâve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?â you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. Itâs three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.Â
âI didnât know what was here, honestly.â He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. âI assumed she didnât leave me something grand.âÂ
âItâs a good start on an apology. Sheâs still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.â
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.Â
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagant. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. Thereâs a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by thick palms and palmetto.Â
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. Heâll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while itâs existed.Â
After youâve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injured arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesnât bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. Heâs a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes thereâs no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesnât know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesnât know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.Â
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of consciousness has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if youâre okay.Â
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.Â
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you donât expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.Â
Minhoâs lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
âSorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.âÂ
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. âCome on in.â
âAre you sure?â
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. Youâve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. âIâm at your mercy.âÂ
âSorry. I know itâs hurting you andâŠâ
âYou donât want me to hurt,â he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesnât know if itâs his acceptance that youâre more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling heâs always pretended wasnât there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.Â
A little braver.Â
âI never had a chance to thank you.â
âFor what?â You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. âAnything. Everything. I donât think Iâve ever said thank you.â
âThereâs a lot of things you havenât said.â
âSo let me.â You dart a look at him, nervous. When you donât interrupt he continues, âYou were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and Iâve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldnât be hurt. Or hurt others.â
âAnd now?â
âI realize it was silly.â
âHmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.âÂ
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you donât move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.Â
âWhyâd you offer me that armor?â
âI was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Whyâd you reject it?â
âI didnât want to hurt you.â
Thereâs a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. Youâre only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. âWhat if I want you to?âÂ
Minho needs no other permission. Itâs like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.Â
You donât push him away. Worse, you melt into him like itâs natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.Â
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like heâs burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.Â
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.Â
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.Â
You.Â
The one thing heâs let himself trust. The one person heâs let in, even when he didnât want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.Â
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.Â
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.Â
Fuck.
Heâs greedy, sucking gently on your pert bud, ensuring to scrape his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.Â
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. Youâre a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.Â
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and heâs drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on whatâs between yours instead.Â
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesnât yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell itâs been for him to pretend he wasnât yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.Â
âMinho,â you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. âPlease.âÂ
âYeah?â he switches legs, biting your calf. âWant it that bad?âÂ
âNeed it.âÂ
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound thatâs almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.Â
âHmm. Sweet.âÂ
âBet itâs better from the source,â you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.Â
âTrue,â he agrees, leaning forward.Â
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. Youâre warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesnât mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.Â
Itâs wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.Â
He doesnât have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.Â
âFuck,â you gasp. âFuck fuck fuck.â
âCome on,â he mouths against you. âTake what you want, baby.âÂ
The endearment slips from him more naturally than anything heâs ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as they begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.Â
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
âMinho,â you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. Youâre eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. Youâre going to kill him. âMore.â
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. Thereâs nothing he wouldnât give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like youâll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until thereâs nothing left.Â
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between your legs. Youâre a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.Â
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. Youâre putty in his hands but heâs a mess in yours, too. Heâs shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.Â
Minho looks up at you. He already knows thereâs no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. âAre you sure?â
âIâve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.âÂ
âWhat a stupid man I am.â
âYes,â you agree. âBut mine.âÂ
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.Â
Youâre warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
Itâs not delicate, but it isnât the same ferocity as earlier. Itâs something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.Â
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but youâre both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldnât leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.Â
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink into the very core and live there.Â
âMine,â you growl as though you can read his thoughts. âEven though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.â
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until youâre sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. Youâre his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgement almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.Â
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. Heâs still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesnât care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where heâs used it. Heâd been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesnât care. Heâd do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands donât let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.Â
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesnât want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that heâs all in, he wants to stay all in.Â
âWe should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.â He cracks an eye open at you to realize youâre hiding a grin as you look up at him. âYou know, since we canât go back to Neon Rodeo.â
âWhat is it with you and rodeos?âÂ
âYou find Cowboys at the rodeo.âÂ
âOh?â
âAnd youâre here⊠so⊠itâs a rodeo.âÂ
He blinks at you. âYour intellect is astounding.âÂ
You laugh and itâs like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.Â
âWhat do you say then, hmm?â he growls, nipping your bottom lip. âWant to go for another ride?â
âThat joke was terrible.âÂ
âYou know what they say. When at the rodeo.âÂ
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.Â
this is absolutely amazing. im so in love with this fic lordddddd the talent in world building is so insane and i couldn't stop reading. please keep going and never ever stop writing !!!!!
summary: in a world full of soulmates, you donât have a mark and come to the conclusion that youâre one of the rare people who doesnât have a soulmate. until one day you wake up in a body that is not yours and a secret in the form of a person wrapped around your waist.Â
warnings: soulmate au, body swapping, a little angsty
word count:Â 2.2k
part 2
âđâËâč⥠â âĄâčËâđâÂ
a/n: a new mini series inspired by some vtubers i watch who did a trope or nope stream for valentines and spoke about body swapping and then this fic idea was born. ty again to everyone who voted on the poll for the pairing! i hope you enjoy and tysm for reading!!Â
Growing up you always loved the idea of finding your soulmate, the person youâre meant to be with. Youâve asked your parents to retell their story to you more times than you could remember.Â
Both born with a date on their left wrist, the date they would first meet. They had met when they were in elementary school and were able to grow up together, their bond always strong. You thought their story was the most romantic thing youâve ever heard of.Â
But you didnât have a bond, at least not a physical one that you could see. It was rare to not have a soulmate bond that wasnât visible. And it was even more rare to not have a bond at all.Â
You had hoped something would appear eventually, knowing some marks donât show up until a specific age. And when your family had moved to a new city when you were twelve, you wanted to believe this would be a new opportunity to finally meet your soulmate.Â
Then you met the boy next door who was a year older than you. Seo Changbin. He was kind enough to show you around on your first day of school. You thought that would have been it, an obligatory request his mom had asked him to do.Â
But he stuck around and you had no complaints. He was sweet and made you laugh. And you weren't going to deny that you found him extremely cute.Â
Eventually the boy next door became one of your closest friends. It felt like you had known him your whole life, a strong bond quickly forming between the two of you.Â
It was hard to not form a crush on the older boy. He was the perfect gentleman, or at least the best one a thirteen year old boy could be.Â
With how close the two of you were, people assumed you were soulmates. Unfortunately you weren't. After a few months of being his friend, you had learned that Changbin saw the world without color. A visual bond that would be broken once he met his soulmate for the first time, someone who was not you.Â
Your heart tugged at the thought of him being meant for someone else. It was hard to explain, but it felt like the two of you were supposed to be bonded.Â
So you didnât act on your crush. You knew once he found his soulmate you wouldnât be the biggest priority in his life anymore.Â
â âđâËâčâĄ
You were his biggest supporter when he mentioned wanting to pursue music. You saw how passionate he was about wanting to compose his own songs. And when he mentioned auditioning for an idol company, you were by his side every step of the way.Â
You werenât much help when it came to music but Changbin insisted that your presence motivated him. So you spent time with him while he composed his audition song. Many late nights were spent together while you tried your best to encourage him.
âThese two lines just donât flow well together,â he huffed out, running a hand through his hair.
Your thoughts are pulled away from your homework by his words, looking up from your spot on his bed. âI think it sounds good, Bin,â trying to assure him.Â
âYou just have to say that because youâre my friend,â he whines before crumpling a piece of paper and tossing it at you, hitting you on the top of the head.
âA true friend would tell you if it sounded like shit,â you point out. Picking up the paper and tossing it back at him, accidentally hitting him in the face. Letting out a giggle as he flinches from the impact. âAnd it definitely does not sound like shit.âÂ
He mumbles out a quick thank you before turning back to the sheets of lyrics on his desk.Â
And when the day of the audition comes around, youâre there to hold his hand to calm down his nerves.Â
âTheyâd be fools to not accept you,â you point out.
âY/nnie you canât insult them,â he chides but you can see the way the corner of his mouth almost pulls up in a smile.Â
âWell itâs a good thing Iâm not the one auditioning."
And when he gets his acceptance into the company, he admits that youâre the first person he thinks of to tell the good news. And your heart skips a beat at his words.Â
â âđâËâčâĄ
Changbin raves to you about his two new trainee friends, Chan and Han, a lot. And it makes you happy that heâs found people who have the same producing interests as him.Â
He talks about the two boys so often that it feels like you personally know them, despite never having spoken to them. Youâre not surprised when one day he tells you that they formed a group together, 3Racha, so they could release songs on SoundCloud.Â
Youâre always their first listener when a new song is posted, becoming their biggest and number one supporter.Â
Eventually Changbin starts to get busy with his trainee practices and you start to see him less often. You see him in the halls at school, a friendly smile and wave passed between the two of you, but he no longer has the time to hangout once the final bell rings.Â
And when he excitedly tells you that Chan has chosen him to take part in a survival show, he becomes a ghost. His replies come days later, full of apologies and excuses, when they used to come in right away.Â
Yet you still support him, because he was about to start living his dream. So you watch the survival show and send as much encouragement as you can to the person who holds a special place in your heart.Â
The announcement of their debut doesnât come as a shock to you. They were all talented and the company would have made a huge mistake to not debut them all together.Â
He starts showing up more often after that. And it feels like you have your Changbin back, even just for a little while. Because eventually he starts to get busy again, and when he gets busy he pulls away.Â
His absence makes you feel hollow and you realize that youâve gone from being his best friend to just the girl next door.Â
â âđâËâčâĄ
The two of you lose touch for a few years while heâs in his rookie stages of being an idol. Despite no longer being close, you still support him and the rest of his members silently. You would always be his biggest fan.Â
Then, years later, you see him for the first time in person since his debut. Heâs pulling into his parentsâ driveway as youâre grabbing the mail from the mailbox.Â
When your eyes meet, it feels like time stops as he gets out of the car. His young teenage features are gone. And you silently curse him for becoming even more good looking and handsome.
You're frozen in place when he lifts up a hand to wave at you, a polite smile on his face.Â
âY/n! Long time no see,â he exclaims like he didnât just ghost you for the past few years.
Your eyes widen at his words and before you can think, you're turning around quickly and walking back into your house, shutting the door loudly behind you.
Behind the safety of the front door, you let out a breath that you didnât realize you were holding in. Oh my god. How could he just act so casual?
A sudden knock on the door causes you to jump in surprise. And before looking out the peep hole, you have an inkling on who could be on the other side of the door.Â
And you're right because on the other side of the door is Changbin who is rocking back and forth on his feet. When you donât open the door he knocks again.Â
You canât pretend no one is home when he just saw you walk inside just a couple of minutes ago. So you reluctantly open the door.
âHi,â he smiles nervously at you.Â
âDid you need something Changbin?â Itâs the first time youâve said his name out loud in a while. It feels foreign on your tongue.Â
âIâm home for the weekend and wanted to know if you wanted to hang out?â
âIâm busy,â your reply quickly, throwing back the words he had told you multiple times. You're not sure if you should feel proud or sad at the way your words make him flinch slightly.Â
You go to close the door but heâs reaching out to stop it. You push a little harder but heâs stronger than you, the door doesnât budge.
âPlease Y/n,â he whispers. There's a slight pout on his face and he's looking at you with the big pleading eyes you always had trouble saying no to.Â
âChangbin. You canât just ignore me for years and then come back like nothing happened,â you hiss out. And youâre glad that your parents arenât home for once because you knew they would instantly invite him inside.Â
âIâm sorry. I fucked up I know. Please just give me one more chance,â he pleads.Â
You want to say no, to tell him to leave you alone. But the next thing you know, youâre walking side by side to the ice cream shop the two of you used to frequent often.Â
He doesnât have a good explanation as to why he stopped talking to you but he sounds sincere in his apology. Your mind is telling you to not forgive him quite yet but something in your heart just wants your best friend back. To have him back in your life to fill the hole he had left all those years ago.Â
So you give in. And he promises this time heâs not going to let you go.Â
â âđâËâčâĄ
Youâre in your mid twenties now and Changbin keeps his word from that weekend in your early twenties. The two of you easily fall back into the friendship that you used to have.Â
Heâs busy being a world famous idol but he finds time for you still. Your messages donât go left unread and when he has the time to come home he makes sure he sees you.Â
The small crush on him during your childhood only grows bigger as the two of you grow older. But you know youâre not his soulmate and you know he hasnât found them yet, stating he still saw the world in black and white.
So you donât say a word about your feelings to him or to anyone else. Keeping it locked away in your heart.Â
Changbin at least has a bond that heâs aware of though, so he knows his soulmate will appear one day. After years of hoping for a bond to appear for yourself, you start to lose hope. Coming to the conclusion that you most likely do not have a soulmate.Â
â âđâËâčâĄ
Waking up, your bleary eyes take in your surroundings and you quickly notice that youâre no longer in your bedroom. Youâre in an unfamiliar room and a bed that is definitely not yours. A hotel room, you realize. And then panic starts to set it.Â
Youâre about to get up when you feel a weight resting around your waist. Looking down you notice a head full of fluffy dark brown hair nuzzled into your side and an arm wrapped around your waist.Â
Where the hell are you? And who the fuck is this person wrapped around you?Â
Getting up quietly, trying your best to not disturb the mystery man as you untangle his limbs from yours, you find your way to the bathroom.Â
And when you look into the mirror you almost let out a scream. Because looking back at you is not yourself, but your best friend and neighbor Seo Changbin.Â
This must be a dream, you think to yourself. Thereâs no way this is happening.Â
Looking down at yourself, your hands frantically move to pat around your body, or Changbinâs body, to make sure youâre not dreaming. You reach up and pinch yourself on the arm, hissing in pain. Definitely not a dream.Â
You look into the mirror again as Changbinâs features stare back at you. His, yours?, cheeks are flushed pink from sleep. Â
Eyes widening in realization. Holy shit. Your soulmate bond.
Of course you had to have the most rare and inconvenient bond, body swapping. You must have done something in a past life to upset the universe if it took this long for it to come into play.Â
Then it hits you. This is real. And Seo Changbin is your soulmate and has been this whole time.Â
In your panicked state, you donât piece together that youâre in Changbinâs body and heâs definitely not supposed to be seeing in color.Â