#Excuse me while I go crawl in the corner and digest everything

[burrito-toast]

“Hey how’s Little Mushroom?”

Anyways, I’m fine:,)

[bandaigaeru]

song of the summer - bang chan

→pairing: ceo bang chan x gn reader

→genre: kinda strangers to lovers

→synopsis: he runs one of the biggest music companies in the country, yet he inducts you to help aid him and his friends, each of them deemed as representatives of the ‘big three’, for their next official comeback.

→word count: 12.5k

→ warnings: swearing, shitty father figure

i.

A single question hangs over the dim conference room you’ve somehow scored a seat in. Does the general public want to see 3Racha? Bluntly, the answer is right in front of you. Glowing against the whiteboard from the overhead projector, the carefully curated slideshow answers the rhetorical question.

One of the dance representatives from the back of the room twirls his pen between his fingers. Leaning back in his chair, he apathetically wonders aloud, “So it’s true, then?”

“What’s that, Mr. Lee?” the marketing representative, a Mr. Choi, holds his remote between both hands as he leans toward the table. The word ‘full’ dances across his face as he steps in front of the projector’s path.

“That they’re making a comeback. A full one?”

Mr. Choi nods, scanning the rest of the patrons’ reactions with squinted eyes as he says, “That would be correct.”

Of course, the three who would walk onstage and perform aren’t here. Mr. Bang is probably running around, abiding by his role as the professional CEO who never skips a beat. Regarding the other two, you’re not sure. They’re not as predictable.

The project is pretty tight in terms of what needs to be met. Summer is around the corner, and everyone and their mother will be fighting to hold that mere title of having the temporary greatest hit. When the general public awaits their yearly easily digestible, flowery songs.

“Keep in mind that we are all under Bang! Entertainment,” Choi remarks, clicking to his next slide displaying headlines questioning the company’s next move. “It should go without saying, but all eyes will be on us as the season turns.”

You stare at the bolded words, trying to digest each of them. Joining the company was likely the best decision you’ve ever made, outside of adopting a cat named Loba. When you got scouted as a producer, you were under a different company. Bang! offered a contract, but didn’t require an interview because they ‘didn’t want to invalidate or question a talent they’ve already seen.’

It was an ego boost.

“I’m sure you all know what your roles are in this,” Choi says, taking glances around the room to make sure each face isn’t lost or distant. This is 3Racha we’re talking about. Everything must be perfect.

You take a glance of your own. A few belong to the dance department, some to hair and makeup; however, you are the only producer here.

You raise a low hand to garner Mr. Choi’s attention. “Why am I here?” you subsequently ask, dropping your hand and crossing it against your chest as before.

“The team personally requested you,” he says.

Connections, you instantly understand. In a place like this, in a time like this, they’re a necessity. Nepotism is practically required in the world of music, hence why it sucks for most aspiring indie artists. You didn’t choose to befriend a guy who happens to be best friends with one of the big three here. So, you cast a blind eye.

It’s all a game of luck.

The meeting doesn’t run much longer. A concluding statement with hints of a threat if anyone messes up rings through your ears. A project end date of July 20th, when the album is supposed to go live. You’re not nervous, per se. Simply blindsided given the lack of information. What’s the song about? When’s the due date? Will 3Racha come to you first, or do you have to take time out of your day to the CEO’s harrowing office? The uncertainties aggravate the impulse of opening a new document on your computer and delving into your producer rituals. You can’t create someone else’s project out of blankness. And that irritates you to no end.

Someone throws their arm around your shoulder in an attempt to throw you off your purposeful stride.

“Congrats,” the belonger says.

You glance over to look, even though you know the voice well. He is your connection, of course.

“Thanks.”

Minho pulls you back to a slower pace. Familiar faces from the meeting pass you to the elevator, a majority in a meaningless chatter. They expected an appearance on this project.

“What are you doing tonight?” he finally asks, stopping altogether and dropping his arm from your shoulder.

You shrug, looking curiously at him. Minho’s not one to beat around the bush.

“Hypothetically,” he starts, “how would you feel being invited to bro night?”

“And actually witness you or Felix puke on the lawn instead of hearing about it? No thanks,” you scoff, making an attempt to abandon the situation by following the distancing crowd.

He grabs your wrist, spinning you back to him. “Please?” His eyes are pleading, glaring back at you like an innocent kitten.

You tip your head and sigh. “Why?”

Instead of cutting to the chase, he sucks in a deep breath and says, “I’ll pay you.”

An eyebrow cocks. Regardless of your amusement—a desperate Minho doesn’t appear often—worries consume you. “What’s up? Why are you acting like this?”

Wary eyes jump around the hallway before they land back on you. “Follow me,” he mumbles.

His steps are calculated as he guides you to the elevator and presses the floor his office resides on. The ride is silent, as is the walk down the hall. You step into the room first, and he closes the door behind him. Despite the urge to ask if he’s about to murder you, you bite your tongue and take a seat on his upholstered couch. Identical to the one in your office.

Gently, he lowers himself into his chair. A few minutes pass of you simply staring at each other. Nerves crawl up your spine and you disguise them with a snarky comment. “Are you going to tell me why you’re willing to bribe me into spending time with your friends?”

In the time he takes to respond, you think about how the only mutual friend you have is Jisung. Sure, you know everyone on a name basis; but it’s not like you’ve known them as long as Minho. He doesn’t have other, more qualified, friends to drag to bro night?

“Chan’s kinda in a mood right now,” Minho’s words are slurred by the breath he releases as he speaks.

“And?” you press.

“I want you to see it before you work with him. And for him to understand you in advance. Y’know. You’re a little,” he hesitates, “forward sometimes.”

You should take this as an insult, but you can’t because words’ owner knows you too well. Minho never speaks unjustly.

“Touche,” you nod. It’s better to own up to your flaws. If you don’t, that’s how you end up walking into a carefully curated narcissistic personality.

His features loosen as he presses his forearms on his thighs. “So. You in?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” you emit a wry laugh. All in one sentence, you’ve managed to prove his point. It’s simple, really.

“You see, I’ve already told the boys you’re coming. Either way, I would’ve gotten you to go. The only other option would have been to threaten you with a knife,” he admits. As you gawk at him in awe, realizing you stand in the same boat, a proud grin grows on his face. With time, you begin to mirror the ones you admire. Friends, for example.

“I think Seungmin will like you,” he adds.

“Why do you say that?”

All you know of Kim Seungmin is that he’s in the vocal department, along with his younger counterpart Yang Jeongin, and that he’s a menace. Minho’s words.

“You’re both evil.”

That’s the last straw. You stand up without a word and stomp for the door.

His laugh echoes behind you, striking a quieter one of your own. Still, you stay in character and slip out into the hallway. Minho has won too many of these scenarios.

ii.

Loba sneaks into the kitchen as you wait impatiently for Minho. Thirty minutes. That’s how late he is. You consider texting him, but acknowledge the possibility he’s stuck in traffic or something. Agitation tells you to do it anyway since he only lives two blocks over.

The orange cat paws at your calf for attention, momentarily distracting you as you set your phone down on the counter. Minho’s chat is wide open. She, too, finds excuses for him.

Her head nuzzles against your palm as you scratch behind her ears. She meddles successfully enough to trick you into feeding her a few treats. While you reach for the top shelf of your pantry, a pair of footsteps sneak up behind you. Heavier than Loba’s.

“Did the cat convince you to spoil her again?”

“Son of a-” you recoil, whirling around to greet the man, the myth, the late bastard.

The familiar appearance of a sly smirk, mischievous eyes, and an outfit that makes him look like a casual runway model, pierce your vision.

“You’re late,” you mutter, stepping past him and scooping Loba up. You rest her head on your left arm, cradling her like a baby. She tilts her head up to stare back at Minho. Traitor.

Minho grabs the bag of treats for you.

“Sorry, I had to pick up Jisung. He’s in the car,” his voice trails as he slips his thumbs between the plastic fold and focuses on opening the difficult seal.

“Damn it,” he curses. Karma arrives faster in deserving situations.

“It took you thirty extra minutes to pick him up?”

He deadpans, “You know he likes to be presentable for the boys.”

When you don’t give him the satisfaction of a single laugh, let alone a change in emotion, he whines, “Oh come on, that was funny.”

“You trick me into going to your stupid hangout, and now you have the nerve to show up late?”

He sneaks a few treats to Loba. “You’re really not mad at me right now, are you?”

“Irritated, at the least,” you admit.

“Well, then I’m sorry. Jisung got off late so I had to wait at Bang! for him.”

The words sink into your skin, but you don’t acknowledge them further. The anger fades on the walk down to the car, a great distance separating you and Minho. It’s practically dissipated by the time you climb into the backseat of Minho’s Kia Soul.

Jisung turns in the front seat and offers his hand at an awkward angle. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

You hold your seatbelt in one hand, accepting his with the other as you force a measly smile. “Same for you. Thanks for suggesting me to Mr. Bang.”

Confusion warps his face, twisting his eyebrows in a weird knit as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. Must’ve been Chan.”

Minho drops himself into the driver’s seat, suspending any further questioning.

Jisung returns to his original poise as when you approached the car. Eyes focused on his phone, actively typing something out.

You click your seatbelt into locking. An unnatural feeling plagues your gut. Mr. Bang wanted you on the team? It feels unlikely, but you know Jisung wouldn’t joke like that. Even if he were the type, his acting of unawareness gives away the truth.

Minho glances back at you in the mirror. “Ready?” he asks as his hand rests on the gearshift.

You press your lips into a line as you nod. “Mhm.”

You stare down at your hands carefully folded in your lap. For the first time since before producing, the itch to create is drowned by an intense, overwhelming brew of something lingering in your veins.

The expectation of you has pierced through the roof and is shooting out of the stratosphere.

Chan—Jisung quickly advised you to drop all formalities, so you’re rewiring your thoughts—has a home in Gangnam. Fitting for his status, but smaller than you expected. It’s still able to fit at least four of your apartment in it, though.

Jisung and Minho walk ahead of you up the stairs. The elevators in rich apartments on this end can only fit two people if you really scrunch together. What’s the money for, then?

“Today’s Monopoly night, right?” Jisung examines Minho’s side profile as he cautiously lifts one foot after the other. The stairs here are steeper than any you’ve seen. Hiking sounds better than this.

He hums in approval. “I guess we’ll sort teams later. We probably won’t live through the night with last week’s.”

A brash laugh escapes Jisung’s lips, subsequently echoing against the walls and bouncing back to your ears. “Right.”

You tune out their conversation for the rest of the climb, settling for watching your shoelaces sway with each step.

Jisung pushes on the door for the fourth floor, holding it open until you’re fully into the hallway. “Chan’s the second door on the right,” Jisung nods to one of the identical doors along the hall—appearing more expensive than your monthly rent with its rich stain.

Minho doesn’t bother knocking, instead opting for trying the doorknob. It allows access to the gigantic living space and the loud chatter previously muffled by walls.

You must be the last to arrive, but you probably could’ve guessed such.

“Hey,” Jeongin looks up from his conversation, inspiring a round of greetings from all the others.

“You all know each other enough so I’ll skip the introductions,” Minho glances between you and the group, starting for an empty end of the couch.

When Jisung follows his lead, you take a headcount. It appears everyone’s present except Chan—his birth name still feels awkwardly informal in your thoughts. You glance down the dark hallway to your right, counting one, two, three closed doors. Nature drags you into curiosity.

Seungmin, your alleged evil twin, waves you over.

As you take the empty spot beside him, he says, “Sorry, you looked a little awkward just standing there. Thought I’d save you before Hyunjin said something.” He shoots a pointed nod at the long-haired blond lounging between Changbin and Minho.

“Oh. Thanks,” you force a little smile that imitates gratitude. You didn’t feel awkward observing, but maybe your aura screamed otherwise.

Jeongin leans slightly over Seungmin’s shoulder with an inquisitive eye. “How did Minho convince you to come?”

“Blackmail,” you nod. Not attempting to summon a laugh, but managing so in the process.

“That’s Minho for you,” Seungmin tips his head in a slightly disbelieving manner.

“It’s okay, though. We’ll make tonight fun for you,” Jeongin raises his hand, and you meet it with a high-five.

Bro night might not be as bad as you thought.

“If only Chan comes out from his room,” Seungmin mutters, particularly to himself, as he leans his arm on the back of the couch and twists his body to look back into the hallway.

Questions. You want to ask them, but then Minho’s words return in full, blaring effect. Forward, he said. Meaning: blunt. In your face.

You bite your tongue. Redirect the temptation, you think, as your eyes scan the room. Admittedly, it’s odd seeing all these people away from their respective passions. However, Changbin’s phone is cradled in his hands, and his fingers are typing away potential lyrics. Felix, too, is hiding the fact his fingers are mirroring the directions of his recent choreography. Maybe passions are always a shadow of you.

“Should we just fix teams?” Minho says above the impatient silence.

“We can,” Hyunjin leans his forearms on his thighs. His hair falls in front of his shoulders like he’s some kind of Greek god.

“Team captains?” Seungmin asks.

“Let’s do the oldest of each unit, but since Chan’s God-knows-where, Changbin can represent,” Minho nods, glancing around for looks of satisfaction.

“Sure, rock-paper-scissors for who goes first?” Seungmin pushes a strand of hair out of his eye.

Short story short, Minho wins the first round with a victorious cheer of, “Easy!”

“You only say that because you know they always pick scissors first,” you accuse.

Minho points a finger at you, “Allegedly.”

You land a spot on Minho’s team since he got the first pick of the litter. Then, by Minho’s attempt at matchmaking, Chan lands on your team.

As you’re moving spots, you shoot Seungmin a sad, unmoving look.

He laughs, pushing you towards Minho. “Maybe next time.”

“What?” Minho glances between you. “Are you planning a coup against me?”

“You wish, Lee Minho,” you sigh, falling into the empty space beside him.

After a few beats of silence, for good measure, Minho leans down to your ear and says, “I told you you’d like him.”

“Yeah, he’s like a better version of you,” you turn to see the predictable look of offense on his features.

“Fine then, get Seungmin to drive you home,” he pouts, crossing his arms against his chest and pushing his back into the couch.

“Oh come on,” you nudge his elbow, laughing at his exaggeration.

You see a smile tug at his lips before he breaks, letting a chuckle break through his barrier.

In the remaining meantime that you wait, Minho calls dibs on the cat. Seungmin’s team claims the dog, with an offhand comment from Minho going, “You would choose the dog.” Finally, Changbin’s team chooses the hat.

“Is that a joke because you’re so short? So you can gain a few inches with the hat?” Hyunjin jabs.

Changbin reaches over the couch to try and hit him.

From this end of the couch, you can look directly into the dark, mysterious hallway. You watch as the second door knob slowly turns. You focus on it, and the shouting dispute fades out in your ears.

Chan steps out from the room, carefully closing the door behind him so as to not bring all the eyes on him at once. You fight your facial expressions to remain neutral as you take in his appearance—which is shockingly normal. Suits are his workplace fashion, and consequently, all you’ve seen him in. Now, he wears black basketball shorts and a black tee. His hair is even loosening into curls. Is this the same man who runs a massive music company? Are we sure?

His cover is blown the moment he steps into the light of the living room. Jeongin warily points a finger in your direction, “You’re on their team.”

Chan presses his lips into a makeshift smile as he approaches you and Minho. He pushes out a small ‘hey’ before taking his spot on the other side of Minho.

His reclusive figure makes your heart wrench. You wish you could have talked Minho out of going. To him, you’re just an outsider he has to put a front up for. But, the thing is, he isn’t trying to build a barrier. It appears that he doesn’t have any more energy to try.

You catch yourself staring when Minho nudges your knee with his. “You take the first roll.”

Collecting the die, you notice your hands trembling a little. Not good. You manage, somehow knocking Seungmin’s dog in the process. He feigns shock, whining in an accusatory tone, “You’re no different than Minho.”

The choir of laughter shuffles you back into reality when you glance back at your accused teammate, catching the look of the other. The corners of Chan’s lips are slightly turning up into a smile.

Whew. You’re amazed by the amount of relief that little smile gives you.

iii.

The game trails into the early hours of the morning, and a few times a boy will point at Chan and say, in an attempt to be lighthearted, “This is all your fault.”

To the dismay of the rivals, Changbin’s team manages to win. Jisung, a member of Seungmin’s team, flips the board twenty turns too late at the news. “This game is stupid!” he laughs through his words.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Changbin says as the money flutters to the rug beneath the glass coffee table. A cue for the group to laugh blinks above their heads, each varying in intensity. Hyunjin even claps a few times, for his vocal contribution pales insufficient.

Jisung slumps to the ground, “I know.”

Chan lifts himself from the couch to aid him with a lingering smile from all the laughs. As the night progressed, he seemed to slowly inch into his ‘normal’ state, as Jisung had referred to in the car.

Minho slips his phone out from his pocket. At the single-digit time, nearing close to sunrise, he heaves a sigh and pushes himself up. “Guess I should get you home.”

He extends a hand to help you up.

“You’re leaving already?” Seungmin asks.

“Uh, yeah. It’s like three A.M.,” Minho squints at him, turning his lit home screen at him for proof.

Chan snickers as he stacks all the thousands. “That’s early for me.”

See? He’s even making jokes now. This is a weird normal, considering all you know of him is his status, but admittedly better than whatever funk he was previously in.

“See you on Monday, I’ll just spend the night,” Jisung lifts his hand in a semi-wave.

Chan doesn’t protest. Instead, he looks up at you and sticks his hand up. “Can’t wait to work with you,” and smiles. Dimples indent his cheeks in a way that makes your stomach churn.

You take his hand and mirror his smile, though it’s rather genuine in comparison to the one you offered Jisung.

Minho has the decency to wait to call you out on it until you’re in the soundproof safety of his car.

“I saw that,” he says.

“What?”

“The smile. Don’t like Chan. That’d be way too awkward for me.”

You laugh, examining his twisted face of disgust as he starts the car. “Why?”

You’re not asking out of curiosity. You don’t like Chan, and you don’t see yourself liking him anytime soon. Or in the far future, for that matter. It’s just so easy to mess with Minho.

“Uh, my best friend dating my other best friend? That’s third-wheel central. I’m too hot to be a third wheel.”

Later, as you’re unbuckling your seatbelt to venture into the apartment building, Minho mumbles, “But, I mean, if you like him it’s whatever. I don’t want you feeling like you have to hide anything from me.”

You punch his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re getting all sappy on me again. You don’t have to worry about stuff like that, dude,” you frown. Above anything Minho can say to you, his insecurities taking over his words hurts the most.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, then adding, “Unless you want to come over sometime this weekend. I’ll be home.”

He smiles, though you sense the differing thoughts behind his eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you say before shutting the door.

iv.

In all the wrong ways, Monday comes too fast. Faster than you can process Friday night, essentially.

You try to scramble your remaining thoughts into order as you walk into the lobby.

Is Chan going to be normal today? Hoping so. Why was that relief so astonishing? Did Minho catch onto something-

“Hey, Y/N!” Jisung intercepts your thoughts.

Your eyes involuntarily widen as he pops out from seemingly nowhere. Your gaze drifts to his outstretched hands, offering you one of the drinks each brandishes.

“I didn’t know which you’d prefer, and Minho wasn’t awake so I couldn’t text him. So, I got coffee and tea.”

You take your pick and nod a ‘thank you.’

“How was your weekend?” you find yourself asking as he leads you to the elevator.

He shrugs, “I did absolutely nothing other than a brain detox for this project. You?”

Despite his back being to you, your chin twitches into a nod. “Same as you, pretty much.”

“I think Chan’s in a good enough mood,” Jisung glances back at you as he reaches for the up arrow on the elevator’s panel.

“Sweet.”

Minho is your gateway to an easy conversation. Of course, he’s not here, but you slightly wish he was. You’re forced to meander in an abrasive silence until the elevator takes you up to the eighth floor.

Eight, because Chan detests the idea of being too close to anyone. He doesn’t want his presence to divide anyone’s attempt at creating their best. An icon in distancing, Minho joked as during your first week under Bang!

Jisung sucks in a deep breath as he turns into a room whose door is partially cracked. “Here goes nothing.”

On the far side of the room is an L-shaped couch. Resting upon the vertical side as if he were in his own bed is Changbin. A laptop sits in his lap, closed, but his phone is inches away from his face as he types.

“It’d be more effective if you used that laptop,” Jisung comments, resting his drink on the coffee table and sitting by Changbin’s feet. Giving Changbin the perfect opportunity to wedge his foot between the younger’s ribcage. A cry of pain shoots out of Jisung’s mouth. Truly, he should have seen that coming.

“Dude!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and clutching his side.

“I told you not to mess with me,” Changbin’s eyes narrow into a warning gaze, but Jisung laughs anyway.

“You are not scary, bro.”

You start for the opposite end of the couch, pressing your back into the armrest as you watch the scene unfold. Cupping your drink with both hands, you’re unsure if the warmth stems from it or the sibling-esque fight before you.

Changbin slides the laptop off of his lap and pulls himself to his feet. He stands before Jisung, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, as his eyes flutter open, he brings his fists up.

“Come on. Fight me.”

Jisung takes a step back. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Changbin shakes his head. “I’m not.”

Jisung’s eyes flit around the room for help. It would be that when the muscle man wants to fight, the only person physically capable of pacifying him isn’t here. Pure, unadulterated luck.

“And when you break my arm, then what?” Jisung’s eyebrows raise in taunting interrogation.

“Then I break your arm? What about it? You can perform with a shattered humerus. Right, ace?”

By chance of a higher being granting Han Jisung a break, Chan enters his office with a manila folder in his hand. Only a few steps into the room, he has to halt. His hand finds his hip, releasing a big sigh as he clutches the folder. To no surprise, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Black, of course. But with a surprising navy undershirt, which you give him credit for.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to cause injury in my office? Can you imagine the lawsuit? Would you do that to your beloved friend?” he asks a stream of questions.

He seems relatively happy.

Changbin drops his fists to his sides, gaze dropping back to his abandoned laptop. He scoops it up before reclaiming his spot. To fully conclude the argument, he opens the laptop’s lid. “Jisung started it.”

The accused boy looks at Chan and silently pleads his case. His hands clasp into a prayer.

Chan waves him off with a smile and a breathy laugh before starting for his desk. He acknowledges you with a small raise of his hand.

“Ah, where to begin?” he asks, to no one in particular, as he tosses the folder onto his desk and sinks into his chair.

“Han, can you turn the projector on?” Changbin takes the initiative, reaching over the couch’s back to grab a white USB cord.

He does as told, warily trying to avoid another pseudo-fight, before rushing to the light switch and fading the room into a mass of darkness. Chan must not like having his blinds open. Black world he lives in.

Changbin’s screen presents against the vacant wall across from him. A pre-written document appears, with the title ‘TT Ideas’ and a dashed list. 1.5 spacing, you admire.

“Okay, I did my homework,” he sighs, dragging his cursor over the highlighted ideas for the title track. “These are my personal favorites, but I’m up to debate.”

Jisung shivers at those words. Debate. Meaning: duel.

In the darkness, Chan steps in front of you. He sits halfway between you and Changbin, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the list. You notice that his lips pout as he focuses, and his eyes squint a little.

You shift your own attention, for you’ll lose pacing if you stare at Chan the whole day. Changbin has highlighted unrequited love, turning the aura of summer into a song, unique abilities, and simply ‘flexing our equities’.

“Yeah, I definitely think that last one will go over well,” Jisung sardonically comments.

Changbin sighs in defeat and drags his cursor over his beloved idea, hitting the backspace in pity, “I knew you’d say that.”

“Can you elaborate on the unique abilities?” you ask, quieter than anticipated but still reaching its aim.

“Not to tute my own horn,” Changbin starts, running a hand through his hair, “but we’re sought after. When people see our names on tracklists, they immediately know the song is going to be good. They don’t sit and wonder if they’ll be disappointed, because they know with 3Racha that’s unpalatable. Hell, I saw someone tweet the other day that their favorite artist was spotted here, and the fandom went fucking crazy.

“People know what they expect from us, and that’s excellence. We deliver. You can’t say the same for a lot of producers. Doubt is inevitable for a lot of them, even if it’s only personal.”

“Couldn’t have said it better,” Jisung smirks, leaning his extended hand out to Changbin for him to high-five.

“What if we did it with an,” Chan hesitates, tilting his head at the screen to try and ease out the right words, “unnatural sound.”

“An experiment no one else could attempt,” you mumble, not expecting him to hear. His head snaps over to you, snapping, pointing a finger, and nodding.

“Exactly.”

The boys look between each other, bobbing their heads in agreement. “We can do that,” Jisung grins.

“You know, I had a feeling you would say that,” Changbin slips his phone out of his pocket, swiftly unlocking it and opening his notes app. “So I’ve already written my verse.”

“No way,” Jisung cocks his head at him.

“Okay,” Changbin mutters, “I had verses written for all the highlighted ones.”

“You are insane,” Chan chuckles, but not in an insulting tone.

From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.

v.

Until Jisung pats the pockets of his jeans two weeks later. “Shit,” he mutters, glancing back at the elevator you had just come from.

Midnight was around the corner and Jisung had promised Minho they’d go see the late-night showing of the latest horror film.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He turns to you with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “I think I left my phone in Chan’s room. I’m gonna be late. Minho’s gonna kill me.”

You cease his rambling by putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go get it. Just tell Minho to text me when you’re done so you can pick it up. ‘Kay?”

So what if Loba’s waiting for you at home, probably pawing at the front door and meowing like, “I’m hungry”? You have a profound soft spot for Jisung. And not because Minho threatened you if you ever showed any disliking. Plus, Loba’s spoiled in all other walks of her life. She can handle you coming home a little later than usual for one night.

He breathes a sigh of relief, looking up at the high ceiling in some kind of grateful manner. “You are a lifesaver, Y/N.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you smile, starting back to the elevator as he continues his path.

The company is rather unsettling without its daytime bustle. It’s even worse on the eighth floor. A usual ghost-town, except with an increased darkness and an odd chill trailing down your back.

The hallways feel stuffy as you get close to Chan’s office, your gaze set ahead. A sniffling sound seeps into your range of hearing, though you don’t think much of it. You can get colds in summer.

Naive to think a man as esteemed as Mr. Bang would succumb to a measly cold.

As you sneak your head between the cracked door, placing your hand around its width and slightly pushing forward, the view sends your heart crashing into your stomach. Chan’s head is lowered, either hand cupping his head as incessant tears drip from his nose.

Awkwardly stepping forward, you clear your throat.

His glossy eyes, rimmed with red and slightly puffy, jump up to you. Instinctively, he attempts to discard the evidence.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he croaks, pulling his sleeve over his hand and gliding it across his damp cheek.

That’s something he could learn. If someone’s a witness, you can expect them to ease into questions. It’s only nature.

“Do you need a hug?” you attempt. Don’t be forward, don’t be blunt, don’t be mean. Minho’s reminder blinks across your vision.

He laughs, “Maybe.”

A pitiful smile creeps onto your lips as you step around the desk. Your arms link semi-awkwardly around his shoulders. He presses his cheek against your collarbone, silently crying a little. You take careful breaths, trying to stabilize your chest for him.

“Does anyone know?” Your hand rubs soft circles against his back. He shakes his head against your body. A small hiccup shakes his frame.

“You can tell me if you want.”

“I don’t want to burden you,” he manages through his tears.

You pull back a little for him to look at you. “I will smack sense into you if you say some stupid shit like that again.” In spite of his eyes crinkling into a smile—looking at you like you’re a childhood friend who he knows like the back of his hand—you try to recover. “I swear, you won’t burden me.”

He takes in a shaky breath. A blaring thought curses the forefront of your eyes. “Do you mind if we go to my apartment, though? I have a hungry cat waiting for me.”

Your arms retreat to your sides as he nods and drags the back of his hand across either cheek. “Yeah, no problem.”

You glance over at the couch, and the object of your mission stares back at you. For a second, you swear it’s glowing gold and screaming, “Your quest ends here! Bring me to my owner!”

You shuffle for the couch and scoop it up. When Chan looks at your hand in confusion, you offer, “Jisung left it. I’m the delivery service.”

“Right.” And he smiles. Comfort engulfs your body when you notice the flood has stopped.

Since you normally walk or ride the bus to work, Chan drives. His shiny sports car looks rather alien beside your used, well-used, car.

“I should warn you,” you turn to him as you push your key into the lock, “Loba’s a cuddler.”

“Sweet. I’d feel bad asking you for more hugs,” he jokes.

Sure enough, Loba is lying before the door. She scrambles to her feet and stares up at her guardian and the new intruder. Conveniently misplacing her cries for food, she scopes out the new man.

“What’d you say her name was again?” Chan asks, squatting in front of her and scratching behind her ears.

“Loba,” you say, opening the fridge to dish out Loba’s expensive special food. Adopting a cat with stomach issues, am I right?

“Loba?” Chan repeats, stifling a laugh.

“I didn’t name her,” you turn to him in defense.

Chan lowers himself, crossing his legs as Loba climbs into his lap. The love-hungry cat doesn’t even notice when you set her ceramic bowl next to her water station. She’s too absorbed in her newfound friend.

Rather than forcing them to relocate to the couch, you sit offset from them on the tile. Smiling down at the orange cat, you admit, “She’s not even like this with Minho.”

“Really?” Chan’s amused face stuns a vibration in your chest.

You appeal confirmation.

“That’s crazy. I’m a dog person, normally,” he coos down at the lovebug.

Don’t let this distract you from the task at hand, you remind yourself.

“So,” you drag. How do you say this without tempting the tears again? Admittedly, it would be nice if you had an ounce of insight. You’re walking into a minefield without a blueprint of where they lie.

Chan sighs, acknowledging his cue. “My dad doesn’t really like me all too much,” he wryly laughs.

“He seems stupid then,” you offer, not thinking further than trying to comfort him, “You’re very likable.”

“Thank you,” Chan drags his tongue against his bottom lip.

He continues, “Moreso, he dislikes his father. The one who skipped a generation when trying to continue his legacy. By association, I kind of take the brunt of it.” He looks at you through blurry eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you were the only person who could have continued the company. Your dad seems,” you hesitate, “insolent. You, on the other hand, are an ace.”

“I try to tell myself that. He makes me go to all of his business parties to keep his reputation up, as well as mine in a way. You don’t want the broken family running a huge corporation,” he mimics what he’s been told.

“So you can’t tune him out,” you echo.

“Yep,” he drags the word out, prompting a heavy sigh.

“I’m not really good at the whole comforting thing,” you study the creases of your palms. “But I’ll say that you are, by far, the most amazing person I could work for. You’re really admirable. Plus, Minho really likes you. You’re kind of like the brother he never had.”

“God, you’re gonna make me cry,” he laughs, staring up at the light as he pulls a hand away from Loba to wipe at his waterline.

“I’m serious,” you chuckle. “Would I blow smoke up your ass if you’re crying on my floor with my cat in your arms?”

When he hesitates to respond, you do it for him. “The answer is no. I don’t even do that for Minho.”

“That’s comforting,” he admits.

“I’d hope so. Now, hand me your phone,” you stick your hand out.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number. Text me if stuff goes downhill, now that I’m in the loop.”

He looks at you quizzically.

“What? Do you think I’m going to let you suffer in silence now that I know?”

He leans to the side, cradling Loba protectively, as he draws his phone from his pocket. Unlocking it before he hands it to you.

As you type in a new contact, you say, “Do you want something to eat? I can order a pizza.”

vi.

Unfortunately, peace is temporary. Always and forever.

When you enter Chan’s office a few weeks after the father debacle, prepared to start the official recording of the album as decided on the previous day, you’re met with two confused men. Admittedly, you’re a little late, but not enough for them to be lost.

Changbin looks up at you as you cross the threshold. “Have you seen Chan?”

You shake your head.

“Heard from him?” Jisung follows.

Again, you shake your head.

“Shit,” they both fall back against the couch cushions in defeat.

“What’s wrong?” The grip on your bag tightens. Despite your inquisitive words, your gut gives you a fair answer.

“We haven’t heard from him since five this morning,” Changbin looks at Jisung for confirmation on the details.

“No one’s seen him?” you follow up.

“No one. He won’t answer our group chat either.”

Your foot taps against the floor as you try to remain composed. He texted you last night about his dad’s upcoming gala but was sparse about details. Or about the fact he would straight up disappear. Obviously, you can’t offer this information to them. A promise is a promise, even if half unspoken.

“Should we work through it? Get his parts whenever he decides to show up?” Changbin speaks.

“We can’t exactly meander anymore. Tracklist goes out at noon,” Jisung shakes his phone as annoyingly clear evidence.

“And you still need to learn the choreo for the title track,” you add. There’s only a month left. You bite your tongue, allowing the pain to slightly calm you down.

“God, what horrible timing,” Jisung laughs, but no joy laces through his tone.

You point harsh eyes at them, heavy steps leading you to the microphone stand designated for recording. “Come on then. Let’s get ahead before we can fall behind.”

vii.

You leave work the moment recording is done for the day, a discovery pulling you from focusing on anything else. Chan shared his location with you a few days ago when he offered a reciprocal to what you’ve done for him. “So you can always find me,” he said via text.

Though not for the right purpose, per se, you’re going to find him. And when you do, you might have to smack sense into him this time. With love, you convince yourself as you pull up to the stadium.

Who in their right mind rents an indoor stadium for an evening party? Rich people, evidently.

You find Chan’s car, among its shiny counterparts, and park as close to it as you can. As you get out, you pull your phone out of your pocket and call him. Not expecting him to answer, honestly.

“Hello?” his voice penetrates your ears.

“I’m outside,” you say, fighting the heavy heartbeat echoing in your head. Your hands tremble at the thought of him here, all dressed up and acting like nothing’s wrong.

“What?” he mumbles.

You look up to the big screen above the gate. “Gangnam Public Stadium, right?”

The background noise slightly fades as he says, “Wait where you are, I’ll come meet you.”

“Parking lot,” you offer before he hangs up.

You step into the shade and lean against a brick wall.

Today’s one of the finer days of summer. It’s mid-June. The solstice is just around the corner. A light breeze brushes against your skin and gently ruffles your hair. It probably helps that you’re surrounded by wealthy cars. A mood booster, in a weird way.

Quick, heavy steps draw closer. You turn your head to the source.

Chan drops his hands onto his knees as he pants. “You shouldn’t be here,” he manages.

“You should’ve told someone why you wouldn’t be at work. We all have our regrets,” you nibble on the inside of your cheek as you stare at him.

“God,” he mutters, straightening himself before standing next to you against the wall.

“You’ll get your suit dirty,” you comment, but he doesn’t care.

“You should leave.” His eyes, heavy with an emotion akin to irritation and sadness, scan over your face.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you did this,” you stand your ground. Just like Minho would hate in a moment like this. “To get to a person, you have to ease them into it,” he guided at one point. Frankly, you couldn’t care less right now.

He avoids your eyes as he tries to flatten his staggered breathing. In due time, he composes himself and finally looks at you. His features have loosened, and you note his brow is no longer creased.

“I didn’t want to lose my cool in front of them,” he admits.

“Scared to?”

He nods. “It was scary enough having one person see me cry.”

The place between your heart and ribs begins to pulsate heat.It begins to spread across your bones and through your muscles. For once, you have to think about what to say next. You can’t be mad at him, for his reasoning makes more sense than it had before. God, this is irritating.

“Let’s make the song of the summer, then,” you reassure him with a curt nod. “Pull you out of this monster field around you and let’s make history.”

The dark surrounding encasing him cracks away as an unbelievable smile finds its place. One like you have never seen. One that pierces your heart with its joy. “Let’s do it.” And he drags you into a hug. Despite the roles taking a quick turn, you feel comforted. But he’s squeezing the life out of you.

viii.

You’ve done all you can do for 3Racha within the next week. The album is complete, as far as instrumentals and lyrics. All that’s left is promotion, along with all the theatrical elements left to be discussed. But that’s separate from you.

It feels bittersweet that it’s come to an end. You know that sometime in the future you’ll return to the studio with them, working alongside creative geniuses to invent a piece. Together. That’s the key. But it feels so far away.

You sit in your empty office, staring at the broad window as raindrops fall down the glass. Recounting the process in your head with distant gratitude. Title track: God’s Menu. You’re proud of it, viewing it as your child. Watching it grow into a real song, with real words and sounds attached to it. Wow. You catch a glimpse at the meaning of life as you watch two raindrops race down. It’s this: blossoming art from a tiny idea. Admittedly not entirely your own, but the principle remains.

The other tracks enlist an equal amount of precious memories for you. Late nights felt normal with the unreal energy coursing through your veins. You notice the products of effort as you consider all those extra hours. Admiration shoots through your body, leaving it numb.

It was all them, though, you acknowledge. You were only there as a caretaker, offering your own hint to mark the music.

3Racha is like a shooting star. It's fantastic, in a sense. Not everyone can say they’ve seen a shooting star in the same way not many can say they’ve witnessed the production process with three of the most talented producers in the game. They’re unreal.

A knock against your doorframe shocks you out of your thoughts. You drag your foot against the floor to turn your chair.

Chan, dressed in an outfit similar to that of boys’ night, awaits your attention. Sweat lines his forehead, glistening his skin. You can guess where he’s been.

“Hey.”

“I need your help.” His words were trailing your simple greeting so close you could say he interrupted you. Seriousness brings his face into a dimness, slightly intimidating you.

“With?” you prompt.

He leans against the frame with his arm, replaying his words in his head over and over before spitting them out, “I kind of told my dad I’d bring a date to his next party.”

“Oh?” you say, slowly realizing. “Oh.”

“Will you do it?” His features twist into a nervous reflection.

“Sure, if you pay for my outfit.”

You say this as a joke, but he fails to convey it this way. “Deal. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Does Loba need a cat tree by any chance?”

He doesn’t await your answer as he slips back into the hall. Was that conversation even real?

An indistinguishable whiplash conquers your body into a sudden realization. You turn to your desk, scooping your phone into your hands and texting Minho, beginning with, “When you see this…”

ix.

Certainly, Chan is a man of his word. From the mere month you’ve known him, you should have gathered this. But as you stand in his living room, decked out in some outfit he carefully chose for you, it blares against all of your senses in bright, evident clarity.

Minho’s message buzzes against your palm.

Lee Knows: Loba’s conked already, two minutes after she ate. Have fun ;)

You: Lol thanks again for taking care of her.

Lee Knows: Of course. Anything for my bestest friend in the world. Now, a night of yearning!

The only way to describe this feeling rooted in the base of your stomach are the words: raw emotion. It’s a cluster. Jitters mixed with a blend of uncertainty and a weird elation? To be fair, you are about to lie your way through expensive drinks and hors d’oeuvres. What even are those?

Regardless, one thing is certain. Minho was right. It’s...discouraging to admit. Frankly, you’d ignore it for as long as possible if you could. But adoration is difficult. In your face. Forward, some would refer to it as.

God, this is all Minho’s fault.

“Ready?” Chan’s shoes click against the hardwood as he departs from his dark hole of a room. He looks stunning, though his attire isn’t much different from his office wear. A small sign of rebellion appears in his appearance, which ignites a flame in your chest.

Chan brings a hand to where your eyes are burning a whole into—his hair. The curls are there, less accentuated than bro night, but evident. “Ah, I didn’t really want to straighten it. I’ve already had fried hair one too many times in my life.”

“It looks nice,” you smile. Your throat tightens as you swallow. “You look nice.”

“Same for you,” he allows a prolonged scan of you. Sheepishly, you do one of those cheesy twirls you always see in the romance movies before Prom night or whatever expensive evening the protagonists are attending. Sincerely, with all the love rampaging through your chest, you’re going to kill Minho for cursing your life like this.

He snaps out of his trance, starting for the door. “We should get going.”

Aside from the quiet hum of the radio, the ride to the venue is silent. It wouldn’t be complete without hitting every redlight, either. Jisung’s luck must have rubbed off on you when you had that group hug.

You sit at one now, red gleaming against your face as you stare out at the sidewalk vacant of pedestrians. No one’s even at any of the other lights.

“You okay?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you turn back to him.

“Good,” he nods, instantly averting your eyes.

Perhaps you should have found a way to decline. Even Loba would have been a better date option. At least she has chemistry with him.

x.

To no one’s surprise, the venue is huge. Potentially larger than the stadium. From ceiling to the carpeted floor, decorated properly with the black tie theme.

Chan reluctantly grabs your hand before you tackle the crowd. If you were cold, the warmth radiating against your palm is sufficient for heating the rest of your body. Unluckily, though, you aren’t cold. Your hand feels clammy in his. If he wasn’t attracted to you before, he certainly isn’t now.

You stare at your shoes as you follow.

“Just a heads up about my dad,” he glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there, despite the tether between you, “he most definitely thinks we’re dating, so be prepared for questions.”

“Oh great,” you mumble. How do you cure a lovesick heart? What an ambiguous question offering up to a plethora of potential answers. One incorrect answer, though: acting out romance. In real time, too.

“Sorry, I probably should have told you sooner. Kind of slipped my mind,” he squeezes your hand in apology.

Even when you break out into a free space, his hand doesn’t pull from yours. Instead, he slightly tightens the hold as he approaches an older man. Without any prior knowledge (ie. not Googling his dad after he cried on your kitchen floor over the bastard), you could guess this is his dad. They practically have the same face. Striking differences, however, given some context.

“Hey,” the man grins, eyes shifting curiously between you and his son.

You dip your head in respect. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.”

His hand claps your shoulder as you look up. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.” Silence hangs onto the end of his sentence as he glances at Chan for help.

“Y/N,” Chan offers. Your name sounds pretty coming from him.

“Y/N,” his father repeats. You want to sock him for saying your name.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Would have been nicer if Chan had given a little notice,” he laughs for you, alternatively offering a subtle, but not unnoticeable, glare to Chan.

Reflexively, your unoccupied hand clenches until you feel your nails pressing sharply into your skin. Discreetly, you nudge Chan’s arm with your elbow as a sign that you’re here. Slightly, his hand loosens in yours as his nerves slowly ease.

“Sorry, it’s kind of recent,” Chan laughs. His eyes crinkle into a faux delight.

“Of course,” his father nods. “Haven’t seen any articles about it yet, which is good. You might not want this being exposed to the GP.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Chan manages through gritted teeth, albeit hidden in a way only you could notice.

Then, as if the attack didn’t have a cooldown, he reaches up and tugs at one of Chan’s curls. “Your hair looks...interesting.”

It’s really difficult trying to remain neutral in the face of backhanded advice and compliments. Especially in front of this man, who shouldn’t even be given a title as esteemed as that. He’s scum stuck to the back of your old, rusty car that won’t go away in spite of however many power washes.

“Mr. Bang,” a waiter appears behind him, stealing his attention long enough for you to drag Chan in the opposite direction. He’ll find his way into a business conversation soon anyway. With no recollection of what he said to his son whatsoever. Considering his words will always stick with Chan, your face heats up.

You ignore Chan’s repelling tug, and his words that go in one ear and out the other. A hidden area near the bar is the only place where he has enough courage to stop you. But only because you let it happen.

“If we stayed there much longer, I would have caught an assault charge,” you huff.

“You handled it well, though,” he admits, “Even if you were about to break my hand.”

In the face of anger personified, he manages to smile and crack a laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, finally pulling your hand away from his.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, glancing back at the bartender serving an established looking woman a margarita. Likely strawberry from its tint.

You shake your head, “I’m good. Thank you.”

“Well, then, I’ll be back,” he reaches out to rub your shoulder before slipping back into the crowd. You’re jealous of the effect he has to just become invisible.

You pull your phone from its hidden spot and open Minho’s awaiting text.

Lee Knows: Has he made a move yet?

You: Why would he?

Lee Knows: Idk you’re kind of obvious.

Before you can answer, an incoming notification from Seungmin pops up.

Seungmo: Is it true that you like Chan?

Minho. Lee Minho. You grimace.

You: No comment.

Seungmo: Sweet. Jeongin owes me twenty bucks. But ew. Who would romantically like Chan?

The text really ties together with the barfing emoji.

“Who’s that?” the subject of both text logs peeks his head over your phone.

You snatch it back, instinctively turning it off. “Seungmin.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with him,” Chan observes, placing the black straw between his lips. His drink is also tinted pink, but not in a margarita glass.

“Minho built the bridge during bro night. Now we plot behind his back,” you joke, promptly making Chan choke. He coughs, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he sputters.

“Don’t do that when I’m drinking!” he laughs.

Your chest heaves as you try to stifle the laugh building up in your chest.

“Oh come on, you’re even gonna have the nerve to laugh at me?” he tips his head to look at your quivering frame. He finds this funny, but he can’t just not tease you. That’s not in the rule book.

“I’m not laughing,” you try to convince him, lips pressed into a fine line as quick breaths leave your nose.

“Right,” he rolls his eyes.

If he were being honest with you, he was doing this as a ploy to take your mind off of his dad. Honesty isn’t one of his finer points, though. So he stays quiet.

“Do you want a sip?” he offers the fruity looking drink to you.

“What is it?” you ask, but accepting the glass anyway.

“Just a strawberry mimosa.”

Again, if he were honest, he’d tell you he only got it to share with you. It was a shot in the dark, neutral enough. But, again, not one of his stronger urges. Minho would refer to this as him ‘making a move’, unbeknownst to you.

You take a quick sip. Humming in approval, you hand it back to him. “It’s good, I can barely even taste the alcohol.”

He fixes his hair absentmindedly as a passing conversation arises. Subject: Minho. Goal: offering both parties ammunition for his next offhand comment or prank.

“Did you know that Minho talks in his sleep?” you laugh.

Chan pulls at a curl, pulling it straight. “He seems like the type.”

You reach up and flick his wrist.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Stop thinking about what your dad said,” you scold. The nerves in your stomach dissipate as your hand ruffles his hair, fluffing it out. He looks more relaxed as you pull away.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologize, or I’ll punch you next time.”

“I can see why you and Minho get along so well.”

xi.

By the time you’re set free from the hell of socializing with all of Chan’s dad’s friends who last saw him when he was ‘this high’, the effects of the single mimosa wear off. Luckily for Chan, you drank most of it, so he’s set to drive.

“My feet hurt,” you complain. Maybe it would have been smart to break in the fancy shoes Chan invested for you before the event.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Chan asks, turning to you.

Against all voices inside of you screaming to decline, your pain receptors answer for you. “That’d be great, since you're offering.”

He bends his knees slightly and holds his arms slightly out. When you jump onto his back, he doesn’t even react.

“Do you religiously workout or something?” you joke, though true curiosity shines through your words. You’re pretty obvious.

“Duh. Every breathing moment I’m not working or crying over my dad. It’s a stress reliever.” Your arms, hanging from his neck, feel each vibration in his chest as he laughs.

As he readjusts his hands beneath your thighs, maintaining a steady hold of your body against his, your body grows warm and you can envision your cheeks glowing red. Minho was so right. And the field day he’s going to have with the upcoming weeks until the joke grows stale. You shiver at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Chan asks.

“Oh, no, I was just thinking about Minho.”

“Scary,” Chan mimics his own shiver at the mention.

You press your cheek against his shoulder, his steady steps drawing your eyes shut.

The silence you find is unparalleled to the one in the car earlier. This one is comfortable, homely even. So much so that you feel yourself fall asleep.

xii.

When you get to his apartment, he nudges your shoulder.

Your eyes slowly open, fighting against the dull light from the roof of his car.

“You can spend the night at my house. I’m not confident in pulling a sleeping body out of a car. Putting you in was hard enough,” he chuckles.

You manage a smile and hazily push the passenger door open. From the rest, your feet should be fine walking to the elevator (since there’s one less body than bro night, you’ll fit) and to his apartment. Still, he wraps his arm around your shoulders to steady you all the way up to his front door.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he says as you fall onto his couch. You didn’t acknowledge how comfortable it was just from sitting on it. Honestly, it feels like a normal mattress.

He returns from his room quickly with a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Both black, as you could have guessed.

You walk to the bathroom and sleepily tug your fancy outfit off, careful not to ruin it. As you pull his shirt over your head, a rush of his cologne hugs you. You fight off the ‘I could get used to this’ comment that floats through your head.

You don’t remember walking back to the couch. But you remember Chan pulling a blanket up to your chin.

xiii.

Chan pokes your cheek, drawing you away from your precious dream of living in a cottage on the seafront—conveniently with him. You whine, pulling the blanket over your head in an attempt to ward him away. Dream Chan is waiting for you.

“Y/N, come on. You can’t sleep on my couch all day.” The worst part is: you can hear the faux pout in his voice. And potentially worse: you definitely could sleep on this couch all day if your life depended on it. Even if it didn’t, to be honest.

“Go away,” you grumble.

He sighs. His presence beside you disappears for a few moments, long enough for sleep to momentarily return. The bubble of peace pops eventually.

“Hey, Minho,” his voice returns, slightly muffled by the distance and the cloth pressed against your ear.

This is enough to spring liveliness into your bones. You sit up, hateful eyes shooting in the direction of the voice. When you see him laughing, his dark phone pressed against his ear, you reel. “One of these days, I’m gonna leave your company and then your stocks are gonna plummet,” you groan.

“Is that the best insult you can come up with?” he counters, dropping his hoisted arm to his side.

“I have more, but they're still closed off. You know, since you’ve rudely interrupted my sleep.”

“I’m sorry. Not really, though. It’s like noon.”

“And?”

“I can’t leave you here alone,” he laughs.

“What, do you have a date to attend?”

Awaiting his response, you reach for your phone on the coffee table. Two missed calls. A few Snapchats from Seungmin, likely pictures of his new puppy, but no matter.

“I wish. I have to meet up with Jisung. Pressing news he has to tell me, too confidential to be told over text.”

“He’s gonna confess,” you shoot him a look.

“Yes, because Han Jisung would be in love with me,” he starts for the kitchen. An extended arm pulls at the fridge, and he pulls two waters out.

“To be fair, if I were Jisung, I’d probably be in love with you,” you say, obviously without much thought behind it.

Okay. In your defense, you were a little too focused on reading Minho’s latest string of confusing messages. Trying to decipher the code, Chan’s response passes right through you like a ghost.

Lee Knows: Y/N you won’t believe this.

Lee Knows: Loba’s gonna be so happy.

Lee Knows: I know you’re probably cuddled up with Chan or whatever but call me ASAP.

Chan lowers himself beside you, tossing the cold water in your lap. He peeks over your shoulder. “Huh. That’s pretty much what Jisung said to me.”

“Why are you invading my privacy?” you glare at him, considering elbowing him precisely between the ribs. Ultimately deciding against it, of course. Through tense internal conflict.

“Really? You’re sitting on my couch, in my clothes, refusing to leave, and you wanna talk about privacy?”

Just because he has a point doesn’t mean he should voice it. Plus, he offered the clothes. And the couch for you to sleep on. It really just seems like a self jab to you.

“Should I call him?” Your finger glides across your bottom lip as you look at him for an answer.

“Sure, why not?” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Let’s see what Jisung and Minho have conspired this time.”

The ring echoing sparks a nervous pit in your stomach. You pick at the sticker of the water bottle. It feels like forever by the time he answers.

“Morning, sunshine,” Minho’s sweet voice reeks of sarcasm.

“You’re on speaker, by the way,” you close your eyes to avoid looking at Chan’s burning eyes.

“Oh perfect, you are too,” Jisung joins in, a dry laugh escaping his throat.

“We have some questions,” Minho begins, but fails to continue.

“Such as?” Chan prompts.

“Are you guys dating yet?” Jisung bluntly jumps to the case.

Your heart rams against your chest. That ‘yet’ tugs at your insides.

“Uh, no,” you draw out.

“The media sure thinks otherwise,” Minho jabs.

Chan’s already searching for the articles by the time you can react.

“Fuck.” He throws his head back against the couch in frustration, tilting his phone towards you so you can see.

CEO Bang Chan Lands a Date Weeks Before Comeback.

Bang Caught With Employee?

Bang Chan, CEO, Makes a Striking Appearance at Dad’s Gala.

“What? Did you really think there wouldn’t be journalists there? Come on Chan, do better.” You never knew Jisung had this cutting edge to him. If the words were aimed at you, you know you’d break down. It’s a miracle that Chan is this composed.

“Can you calm down? My god,” you say without realizing. “It’s not like we can’t fix this.” How, though, you ponder?

“If it makes you feel any better,” Minho reluctantly says, like this sentence could put his life on the line, “you looked cute.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. In any other circumstance, you’d be quick to mock him. Well. At least he’s not outwardly making fun of you. Another one of Minho’s late night insights seeping into your thoughts: see the positive.

A text notification drops down against your screen. Despite having the luxury of using his voice, it’s Minho.

Lee Knows: Would now be a bad time to out you?

You: Horribly.

“Well,” Jisung draws in a sharp breath.

“Good luck,” Minho finishes for him.

After he hangs up, promptly after letting you know he fed Loba this morning, you pick up the water bottle and place it against your cheek. The shocking chill redirects your nerves momentarily.

You try not to look at Chan, but you know he’s looking at you.

After a moment to catch your breath, he sighs, “I have an idea.”

It takes an effort to pull your attention to him. A war against yourself.

“Play along with me for a second,” he says, pulling his leg beneath him as he repositions himself beside you. Fully facing you, taking in your entire being—which doesn’t help your burning skin. You’d give anything to be invisible right now.

“What if,” he starts, “we go along with it?”

You laugh in his face. “Are you sure that wouldn’t blow up even worse? Imagine people finding out we faked it. That wouldn’t be good for you.”

He messes with his fingers, suddenly finding an intense interest in the linework of them. He rubs his thumb against the crease of his ring finger. “I don’t think anyone would have to find out it’s fake, per se.”

“How are you so confident?” You look at him in awe. Even when he’s spewing absolute nonsense and under pressure, he looks like a god. Calm as ever. It’s horrifying for your heart. And for common sense, but that’s not as important right now.

“I don’t think Minho would lie to me.”

“What does Minho have to do with this?”

His dimple shows itself as a measly smile crosses his lips. “He may have told me.”

Regardless of what he may have spilled, you know instantly. “You’re kidding me,” you huff. What was the point of his dramatic message, then? A distraction, maybe.

“I mean it’s okay. It’s not like it’s not reciprocated or anything.”

“You are unbelievable,” you shake your head. “How did you know and not say a single thing?”

His hands shoot up in defense. “To be fair, I didn’t find out until after you fell asleep last night. For the second time. He texted me with this whole ‘I know something you don’t’ facade. I wasn’t going to act on it until I had a stupidly romantic plan, but then this happened,” he gestures around the room, as if it’s the decor’s fault. He’s quick to add, “And I couldn’t do that as soon as they said anything about the articles. That’d kinda ruin the mood, don’t you think?”

So Chan’s probably not good with looking amazing under pressure—he very well could be, but you wouldn’t know that right now. Which slightly irritates you, but no matter.

“Well,” you sigh. “I guess that solves the problem.”

He nods, looking at you solemnly.

“Your dad’s gonna be pissed, though,” you comment, and he laughs.

“I know.”

Funny. As soon as the problem jumped at you, the imminent solution scared you just as fast. Your head hurts from the whiplash. That must be a pattern with him.

“You know what’s kinda perfect about this?” he says after a moment.

“Tell me.”

“We can write love songs together now. Isn’t that cool?” The sheer joy in his face shatters any aggravation left in your veins. A smile creeps up on you.

“You’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re madly in love with a nerd so I don’t see what your point is.”

You pull the pillow out from behind your back and chuck it at his head.

“Oh so you’re trying to kill your beloved love interest? Real classy, Y/N.”

“Please just shut up and kiss me already,” you lean over halfway and wait for him to meet you.

Kissing a major CEO doesn’t feel much different than kissing a normal person, but there’s a striking flare of passion to it. Maybe that’s a personal thing.

His lips fit against yours in a way that makes your soul instantly tethered to him. You hope he can’t feel your heartbeat against your lips, for it’s pulsing rather loud and antsy for you.

Chan radiates warmth in every piece of his body, extending all the way to his aura. If it wasn’t for your pesky lungs running out of air, you’d never pull away.

xiv.

In spite of his idea for a romantic confession going down the drain as soon as he decided to think one up, he makes up for it with incessant gestures. Bringing you snacks when he should be in meetings. Buying you sweets when you get stressed. Purchasing Loba a huge cat tree, even though she doesn’t need to be spoiled further. Spending the night at your house even when his is way more comfortable for the sheer reason that Loba would feel lonely.When you mention taking her with you, he’d say, “I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable with the new environment.”

He even postponed bro night because you got sick and wanted to be the one to take care of you.

You don’t need reminders that he loves you, but it’s all the while heartwarming when he says it.

Even now, with his arm wrapped around your waist and his chin propped on your shoulder, he’s thinking aloud in romance land. “What if we went on a vacation to France for Christmas? Isn’t Paris the city of love?”

You watch the TV, but his voice drowns out all of the dialogue. “I don’t know, Chan. Why can’t we stay here?” you shift in his arms to roll over and face him. This close, as you’ve grown accustomed to these past months, you can count all of his eyelashes. And you can see tiny freckles scattered across his cheeks. It must be an Aussie thing.

He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “We can stay here. I’m fine with that.”

Loba jumps onto the bed, her collar jingling with her sudden movement to warn you she’s arrived. You pull away from Chan a little to make room for her between you. “Here comes the princess,” you feign disappointment with a sigh.

She claims her spot between your chests and curls herself into a ball, burying her face in Chan’s chest. Per usual. She often forgets who feeds her around here.

“Anyway,” Chan leans over her, kissing your lips gently, “I’m okay wherever. As long as you’re with me.”

After a beat of silence, you cup his cheek delicately and say, “Let’s go to the moon.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “Let’s go to the moon.”

xv.

He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, setting a bottle of water in front of you.

Jisung gags from across the room. “Get a room,” he complains.

“You are a grown man and you can’t handle a couple being affectionate?” Changbin criticizes. “Get a life, dude.”

“Yeah,” you chime in, “Just ‘cos you live a poor, single life doesn’t mean you can hate on us.”

“Jeez, I didn’t sign up for slander on this Monday morning.”

“You definitely asked for it, but let’s get to work.” Chan draws his phone from his pocket and prepares for the official meeting regarding 3Racha’s next comeback.

God’s Menu was well received from the public, sending Chan’s dating scandal into the shadows. Minho basked in the compliments on the choreography. Seungmin whined when no one on Twitter noticed he was the vocal coach—and Minho didn’t make it much better by rubbing his glory in Seungmin’s face every chance he got. And you couldn’t get Chan to stop showing you funny Tweets and praise for nearly a month. Likely longer.

Here you sit in Chan’s office at the beginning of the new year. A lot of things can go south during six months, but things can shoot north too. Generally, for you, it’s been pretty north.

This time around, Jisung has calculated his homework and broadcasts his thoughts onto the wall.

“I already know what you’re gonna choose for the title track, so let’s choose B-sides,” he adds the disclaimer before anyone can mutter a peep.

“I don’t know about you all,” Chan dips his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leans against his desk, “but I’d say I’m pretty confident in writing a love song right now.”

You groan alongside Jisung. “Stop talking.”

Here we go on the hunt for the song of the new year. Conquer the competition before anyone has a chance. Like you did in creating the song of the summer.

[singulari-taee]

The Danger in Duality ｜09

COLLEGE! AU  |  ASSASSIN! AU  |  ANGST  | SMUT  | COMEDY | 15.3k

BTS X Reader

CW: Graphic depictions of violence, maybe worse than usual.

AN: This chapter is 2x longer than the others (partially why it took so long) so I hope you all enjoy this super packed chapter!

“You and your seven squad members must take on the struggles of being world-class assassins while also living as full-time college students.”

_______________________________________________________________________

       There was a moment where no one moved. Where time stood still and silence trapped all. It held you in place, incrimination and scrutiny burning under wide eyes. 

But he was like an apparition- there one moment, gone the next.

It was the slamming of the door that shot you to action. 

You rolled off of Yoongi’s body. Your feet caught in the sheets as you launched yourself onto the floor. You collided with your nightstand on the way down, but you couldn’t even register the pain. You just watched as Yoongi scrambled off the bed and chased after Jungkook from the bedroom.

You clutched your bare chest. Your heart pounded violently against your ribs. There was an agonizing pain there. It was suddenly hard to breathe. 

No.

     Your body pushed itself to crawl across the floor until you reached your shirt and threw it over your head. Your ears rang with white noise. The feeling of nausea bubbled deep in your stomach. With wobbly legs, you pushed up and moved from the bedroom to the living room. The front door was wide open.

     You ran after them, shoes long forgotten as your bare feet hit the pavement. Outside didn’t match your feelings. It was too calm, parked cars showing a tranquility you were unfamiliar with. As you ran blindly, you zeroed in on a figure. Yoongi was standing in the middle of the street. His hands were grabbing at his hair.

      “Where’d he go?! Did you talk to him!?” you called.

       “He’s too fucking fast. I lost him. I didn’t even see which way he went. He’s not answering his phone either,” he began to pace, eyes closed, “Fuck!” 

    You just watched as Yoongi kicked at the gravel, cursing into the sky. The stars felt like they were closing in. 

    “What if,” your tongue was dry like sandpaper. Your breathing was shallow, “what if he tells the others? He’s gonna...he’s gonna tell them.”

     Yoongi just stood there, eyes still closed. Suddenly he broke out laughing, “So this is how it ends, huh?”

     “He could be at your apartment right now. Or his dorm. He could be hiding somewhere, we need to catch up and keep trying to find h-”

“Stupid. So fucking stupid. Out of all the times-”

     You grabbed his shoulder and spun him to face you, “Can you fucking pay attention?! Talk to me, we need to fix this!”

“How, ____? How do you propose we ‘fix’ this?”

“We can try to explain it to him. Maybe if he understood the situation…”

“Oh, I think he saw enough to understand just fine.”

“Can you just try to work with me here?! Stop being such a pessimistic asshole for once. Help me! Help us! I don’t know what to do!”

“And you think I do?” 

You tilted your head, feeling your blood begin to boil, “Yoongi, that incident on our last mission should have been the last close call. This should have never happened. Your drunk ass should've never came over in the first place. So yes, I want you to figure out what to do.”

“Oh yeah, of course. Blame it on me, “ he rolled his eyes, “Like you weren’t all over me before he came in. Right.”

“After the cuddling that you insisted on! What even was that?! ‘I wanna stay like this forever. I like us like this.’ That refresh your memory?”

“I was drunk and just saying shit! And if my memory serves me correctly, you were reciprocating my nonsense just fine!”

“Oh, what the hell are you even talking about?!”

“I like this more than I should”. What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not innocent in this, _____. You fucked up just as much as I did. So don’t you fucking dare.”

“Neither of us are innocent! The whole agreement proves that,” you said. “But you remember what our agreement was. There was no forever. You know that Yoongi, but you still pushed the boundaries! Can you just be upfront with me, please? What is going on with you?”

“I needed a body! I was drunk and vulnerable and I needed a body, alright? Is that a good enough excuse for you? That I was using you?”

“You needed a body,” you repeated, slow, digesting it as the words left your mouth.

“That hurt you or something. Why? Weren’t we both just using each other anyways? Weren’t you using my body too? Isn’t that all I was to you? Just a body?”

He raised an eyebrow trying to pull the answer from you.

“Cut the bullshit,” you snapped, “I know what I heard you say before he came in. You wouldn’t have said it if I was just a fuck to you.”

“Even by your own rules we were just fucking, _____! I told you I was just saying shit!  And say I wasn’t. Say I meant it, what would you have to say about it?”

There was no reply. A shrug was your answer. A shitty one at that, and you knew it.

He nodded slowly, taking a single step back.

“Huh. I think...I think this was all a mistake, actually.”

You replied in a small voice, “Yeah. Maybe it was.”

Yoongi looked you over one more time, a long gaze filled with unreadable intensity. He turned on his heels and walked down the road. He paused in his stride, fist clenching at his side, but kept on. He didn’t look back.

Without your permission, your legs folded over. You crouched down, elbows to your knees. The street lights shined down on you, a spotlight in the darkness. Shudders raked your body. Tears wouldn’t come, wouldn’t caress the sides of your face. It was sick really, how not even your tears would offer you comfort.

_____________

         Maybe he should have been more considerate in case Taehyung was asleep, but in the moment he couldn’t have cared less. Jungkook burst into the room, slamming the door behind him. Taehyung watched from his bed. He stopped scrolling on his phone to look his roommate over.

“Um...is everything okay?”

Jungkook’s chest rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath. He slid against the door and sat on the floor.

“Did you at least get the gun?” Taehyung asked.

Jungkook shook his head.

“Dang that sucks. Was she sleeping? Not home?”

It was as if the sight was burned into his memory. He couldn’t shake it no matter how hard he tried. Jungkook wanted to laugh, vomit, scream- anything to free himself from what couldn’t be explained. A wave of dizziness took over him. He was glad he was already on the floor.

He met Taehyung’s questioning gaze. He felt like he would explode at any moment. The burden was becoming too much for him to bear alone.  

______________________________

             Too many times. 

Too many times were you put into unwanted situations because of your job. The list was long. There was the time you had to crawl through a sewer in Paris. Or the time you were locked in a car during a heat wave in Lagos. Or the time you had to run from cannibals in Siberia, an incident completely unrelated to the mission. 

You didn’t think the boys’ apartment would join those places on the list.

You had never missed a mission assignment, but skipping it surely crossed your mind. Though you somehow still ended up walking through their front door. You passed Yoongi and he passed you, both without a word or sign of acknowledgement. Being in the same room lit a flame of deep resentment under you. You took your place on their sofa, arms crossed and lips tight as the others filed in. You would simply do what you needed to do and go back home, you promised yourself.

“Ugh, I can’t wait for summer,” Seokjin said from his side of the sofa.

“Preach. Being stuck here is getting kinda old. Like I get it, travel is limited because of school or whatever, but I could really use an international mission right now. That’s where all the fun is,” Hoseok said.

“It’s only fun when no one gets lost...which happens every time,” Namjoon sighed. “Or when Jungkook doesn’t offend the locals...which also happens every time.”

The boy in question had just walked in with Taehyung. When you had finally mustered up the courage to call his phone after the incident, he never picked up. You had even camped out in front of his door for an hour waiting for him to answer, but he never did.

 He sat down in the farthest possible corner of the room from you. You tried to search his face for any signs, but he wouldn't even look in your direction. You could tell he noticed your staring, but wouldn’t give in. 

That brat.

 You appraised Taehyung instead, but he just scrolled on his phone, absentminded. No, he couldn’t know, could he? You glanced at the rest of the boys. They looked at you normally. Spoke to you normally. Had Jungkook told them, but swore them to secrecy? You were all decent actors. 

 “You can’t even talk. How many times have you lost your passport, Mr. Leader?” Jimin asked. Namjoon just rolled his eyes, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Anyways! Let’s go ahead and recap the last mission, we don’t have that much time before the new assignment.”

Seokjin pulled up the database on his laptop, “Alright, since only us three went this’ll be quick. _____ how many kills did you get?”

“Two.”

“Yoongi?”

“One.”

“Okay so describe the interaction with the first target.”

“The first man-” you were interrupted.

“He was in the kitchen-” Yoongi stopped.

You refused to look at him. You kept your focus on Seokjin.

“It was my kill, so I’ll describe it,” you said flatly.

“Oh yeah. Forgot you took that one.”

The snarkiness in his tone made your eye twitch.

“Like I said in the mission, I took it because I didn’t know you had claimed it.”

“Right.”

“Okay, ____, continue,” Jin urged, typing.

You took a breath, “We found him standing in the kitchen. I slit his throat with a KA-BAR 2211. One solid stroke.”

“Pretty sure you used a Fixation Bowie, but okay,” Yoongi muttered.

“I know what I used, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Well, they look pretty much the same, right?” Seokjin cut in, chuckling, “Continue.”

“We found the basement and when I opened the door the second target fell down the stairs,” Yoongi spoke.

“He didn't just fall. You kicked him,” you added.

“Didn’t think that part was that important.”

“Lets not start omitting information to make ourselves look better.”

“I’m not worried about looking better. It just wasn’t important.”

“You obviously cut that part out for a reason. If we all started doing that, the data would be flawed. We all do terrible shit, don’t be shy now,” you motioned to Seokjin. “And I’m pretty sure Jin could use that for his notes, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” Seokjin replied. As he typed furiously, he looked up and made eye contact with Namjoon. The leader raised his eyebrows, a silent question. Seokjin shrugged.

Though you didn’t see it, you could sense a wordless conversation happening between Jimin, Taehyung, and Hoseok. The energy in the room was uncomfortable.

“After that, we realized the targets were preparing a victim for a sacrifice. I shot the second target with a Glock 22.”

“Okay, for the final target, Yoongi can you describe that encounter?”

“I stabbed him with an Ontario 6504 I think.”

Seokjin looked up from his screen, “You think?”

“That’s what I said.”

Though Seokjin watched the missions, he needed the reviews to be in the words of the assassin themself, “Well can you at least tell me how you killed him? Was it a slice? A stab? C’mon give me something. I need some precise data here, Yoongi.”

“I stabbed him.”

“Okay, how many times?”

“More than 30.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Jimin whistled.

“I’ll just put 31,” Seokjin mumbled.

“Was there a reason for that?” Namjoon asked, calm despite the obvious tension.

Yoongi looked down at the floor as if he would find an answer there. He pursed his lips, “Nope.”

“Alright, I think it’s time to address the elephant in the room,” Namjoon declared. Your stomach somersaulted. “Yoongi, you’ve obviously been upset for a few days now and we can’t ignore it anymore. Is everything okay with you?”

Yoongi scoffed, leaning back in his seat, “What is this? An intervention?”

“Look, you’ve been acting really pissy lately and it's starting to get old,” Jimin said plainly.

“Is it because we saw the nudes on your phone?” Hoseok asked, “She was hot! Sorry for making fun of you, we couldn’t help it!”

You stopped breathing all together.

          “Nudes?” Taehyung finally spoke. His eyebrows joined together in genuine curiosity. “Yoongi got nudes?!”

“Yeah, can you believe it?” Jimin snorted.

You burst out laughing. It was a violent, almost maniacal sound that caught even you off guard. You couldn’t help it from spilling between your lips. You were beside yourself, unhinged as realization smacked you across the face. Your head fell back as you roared. You were seeing red. The fury rolled off your body in waves.

“Right!” Hoseok laughed with you, “It was hilarious! Yoongi didn’t think it was funny, but we all had a good laugh. You should have been there. Or not. Maybe that would have been weird.” 

“What did she look like?” Taehyung asked. 

“We couldn’t see her face,” Jimin said, “It was the classic bathroom mirror selfie, but better. It was, like, slutty meets photography final project with renaissance undertones? I’m not shaming her or anything, whoever the girl was, she was a pro. I don’t know how Yoongi pulled her.”

 “He didn’t deserve it if I’m being honest,” Hoseok shook his head, “Joon, Jin, don’t you two look like that! Don’t act like you weren't into it.”

 Seokjin shrugged, “I mean, yeah, she was hot.”

“How the hell did I miss that?!” Taehyung groaned.

“You aren’t alone. _____ and Jungkook weren’t here either. Maybe if you had stayed for the game you would have been in on it,” Hoseok sang.

The wheels turned in Jungkook’s head. It wasn’t until he saw your near hysterical reaction that it all came together. His mouth flew open, staring straight at you.

“What?” Taehyung asked.

Jungkook slapped a hand over his mouth, “Nothing. Nothing,” he said through his fingers.

You had the strong urge to jump across the coffee table where Yoongi sat. His face was burning as he grit his teeth. Still, he wouldn’t even dare to look in your direction, face the questions and mistrust that your face showed, because that was exactly what he would see. And he knew it.

You worked on taking deep breaths to calm yourself and stop the laughter. But then you would be reminded of the fact that most of the boys in the room had seen your naked body and the chuckling would start all over again.

You looked to find that Jungkook was still staring. Suddenly the laughter stopped, leaving only a blinding fury in its wake.

  Maybe if you pretended you had to go to the bathroom, you could sneak in a few punches when you walked past before anyone could stop you-

             “Well that derailed quickly,” Namjoon sighed as he checked his watch, “Damn, okay let's get started, we don’t have time.”

You didn’t even move when the hour hit and Mr. Kim appeared on Seokjin’s screen. You could hear just fine. You needed to calm down before being seen.

“Good afternoon everyone. I hope you’re all in good spirits. I have some good news for you all today,” Mr. Kim said, fingers clasped on his desk, “We have more intel on Anti. We found their headquarters.”

Your wrath quickly faded.

“You did?!” Taehyung jumped.

“It took an extreme amount of research and outside intel, but yes, we finally got it. They are still an enigma in many ways, but having a sure location is the best breakthrough we’ve had yet.”

A photo of a boarded up building took over the screen. It wasn’t much to look at, and that was surely the point.

“Look at that shithole,” Jimin whispered, “They couldn’t do better than that?” 

“They’ve made a home out of an abandoned hotel located 17 miles from your residences. All of the windows are covered so the building appears unoccupied. This also makes it nearly impossible for us to know what’s inside exactly. There’s a lot of lingering questions, but thanks to the Research Team we can confirm that they have somewhere between 15 to 30 members, all of whom are already trained assassins. We think they were all rogue at some point but came together under Anti a few years ago.” 

“Well I’m glad to know there’s more information,” Namjoon sighed.

“And it's just enough to send you on your next mission to abolish the organization.”

“What?!” Namjoon blurted.

“Huh?” you said from your spot off camera.

“I mean, so soon?” Namjoon said.

“We realize that we cannot wait any longer to attack. Any more time spent being defensive puts you all at greater risk. So with that being said, the Council and I have made the decision to go ahead with the mission. You all will be present, since we need all hands on deck. The goal is to eliminate everyone in the building.”

“Sir,” Hoseok said, “do you expect us to complete this mission alone? Just the 8 of us?”

“I’m with Hoseok on this. I don’t think it's smart, with all do respect, sir,” Seokjin said, “I don’t think we’re prepared. And there’s so many unknown factors, we don’t know what we’re even getting into!”

Unlike any of the other missions, there was an endless amount of questions with Anti. No faces. No known skill sets. No set number of targets. Just a location. You had several dangerous jobs in the past, but never were you tasked with killing other assassins. 

You pushed your way into the frame, “Can’t we get help from another Squad? That would only be fair,” you were grasping on to anything at this point, “We’ll be extremely outnumbered otherwise, sir.”

“I understand your hesitance, I do. But this is a delicate situation that needs immediate attention. The nearest team is Squad 11 but they along with the other squads would either take too long to get to the location or already have prior obligations lined up for the coming weeks.”

“When can we expect to be sent out for the mission?” Namjoon asked.

“In three days,” Mr. Kim said. You had been given far less time to prepare than that, but that didn’t seem like nearly enough time. He sensed the Squad’s hesitance through the screen. “This assignment came after a long conversation with The Council and we all agree that you are more than capable. You’ve proven yourselves worthy of the task time and time again. It seems the only ones who don’t have faith are you all. Do you not think you’re qualified?”

There was a hush that fell over the room.

          “I think we’re all qualified, Grandfather, it's just...overwhelming,” Namjoon answered.

“I hear you. Take care of yourselves these next few days. Prepare as you must but don’t strain yourselves, you need to be at your best. Also it is a known order that each individual gets a pay raise only every 50 kills...but since we acknowledge the dangers here, for a little incentive we have agreed to increase everyone’s pay by half of your current salary once this mission is completed.”

“Half?!” Jimin jumped.

“H-half our salary?” Jungkook spluttered. 

Half. Getting that much from one mission was unheard of for any squad. Though there was a sinking in your stomach. There weren’t many options, if any at all.

“Shit,” Namjoon sighed to himself. 

“Like always I’ll be sending coordinates and necessary information after the call. But because there is a lot of unpredictability, I think it's best to leave the mission direction to you. There are no assigned roles this time. Assignments will be determined on your own depending on how you all see fit.”

Mr. Kim said his final words of encouragement and bid you farewell. Some began discussing plans as the information came in while others tried to calm their nerves.

Yoongi got up and tapped Jungkook on the shoulder. Hesitant, the youngest looked up. 

“Yeah?”

“Get up.”

When Jungkook took too long to move, Yoongi yanked his arm and shoved him towards the front door. 

“I’m going, I’m going! Christ, don’t push me.” Jungkook muttered when Yoongi pulled the door behind them.

Jungkook squirmed under Yoongi’s scrutiny. He just watched him with folded arms as the seconds ticked on. 

“So...what?” Jungkook asked. Yoongi’s face read “You know exactly what”. He was right. “Okay! I’m sorry? Look, I don’t even know what-”

“Did you say anything?”

“Wh-?”

Yoongi grabbed Jungkook by the collar, “Did you fucking tell anyone?!” It was a mere whisper. Though they were outside, he didn’t forget how good everyone’s hearing was inside the apartment.

“No!”

“I don’t think I believe you.”

“I swear!” he choked back a grunt when Yoongi pushed him against the wall.

“Not even Taehyung?”

“Hell no! I mean I was going to, but I didn’t! Can you blame me after what the hell I saw?! I’m still scarred, man!”

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Not unless you want me to?” Yoongi tightened his grip, “Okay! I won't, I promise, fuck!”

“How can I believe you, huh? Should I pull a Jimin if you break your word?”

Jungkook winced at the thought of losing any part of his manhood the way Haneul did, “You won’t even have to go that far. C’mon, Yoongi, you know me better than that! It was better me that saw than fucking Taehyung or Hoseok. The whole university would know by now!”

“Jungkook. No one can know what you walked in on.”

“Dude, I swore I wouldn’t tell anybody. Chill out-”

“Don’t fucking tell me to chill out, this could be the end of my whole career!”

“I know! That’s why I’m so confused. How could you of all people ignore the rules? And with….____? Her tits are still burned in my brain and they won’t fucking leave!”

“Well make it leave!”

“You don’t think I tried?! I’m not enjoying this like how you might think! How the hell did you two even start, anyways?!”

Yoongi loosened his grip, “I...I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t choose anyone else? She couldn’t choose anyone else? I don’t even get how that could work. You’re both just so...you.”

“I fucked up, Jungkook. I really fucked up,” Yoongi sighed. He stepped back.

“So are you two, like, together?” Yoongi flashed his eyes and Jungkook flinched, “You know what, nevermind. The tension during the mission review said enough. If you were, you aren’t anymore.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“So you were just...fucking?” he winced when he said the last word.

“You sure are asking a lot of questions.”

“Wow it's almost like I walked in on my friends about to smash or something, weird.”

“Just don’t say anything.”

___________________

Inside, you had gotten up to get a drink from the kitchen. Your rage had eased a bit, now replaced with nerves. You glanced towards the door where Yoongi and Jungkook had disappeared. You wanted to go outside and hear the conversation. It was your story too. But you knew it would be even more suspicious if you joined them. Could he handle it alone? It crossed your mind as a painful realization. 

Years of trust you had placed in Yoongi had begun to disintegrate in only a matter of hours.

“Hey.”

Namjoon took a spot beside you, leaning against the counter.

“S’up?” you took a sip.

“Do you have a minute?” he nodded towards the hallway.

“Yeah, sure thing.” 

You followed him into his bedroom and he closed the door.

 You sat down on his bed and fidgeted with your fingers. 

There was a level of formality and secrecy that made you uneasy. 

“Uh, so what did you want to talk about?” you asked.

“You, really,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “Are you okay? I didn’t want to ask in front of the others because I got the feeling that you wouldn’t really appreciate that.”

“I’m great. Perfect. Why do you ask?”

“_____.” he deadpanned.

“What?”

“You’re lying.”

You spluttered for a reply but fell short. He made up for the silence.

“It’s just...you’ve been really distant lately. We didn’t really see you at all last week, and I get it, maybe you just need a break. But you’re angry. Specifically at Yoongi.”

Namjoon wasn’t one to hold back for anyone. He would call out bullshit from miles away, and he had you in his sights. Damn him.

“I mean...yeah. Yeah, I’m angry at him.”

“Was it something that happened at the last mission? I know we tried to talk about it but it didn’t really go as planned. I can imagine that what you both saw had an impact on you. Especially with Yoongi...losing focus like he did with the last target.”

“Kind of,” you couldn’t even look at him, focusing on the carpet instead, “We just got into a fight. We’re not really on the best terms right now. That’s it. So you don’t need to worry about it. It won’t mess up the mission or anything.”

“I’m not worried about the mission right now, I’m worried about you,” Namjoon corrected, “I just wanna make sure you’re okay first. And if there’s anything I can do to help that, just let me know. I’m being serious.”

You looked up to where he stood in front of you. The sincerity was obvious, almost palpable. 

“Thanks for asking, Joon.”

He gave a small smile, “It's my job...as a friend.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Namjoon called.

Seokjin peeked inside, “Oh, ____’s in here, perfect. Sorry to interrupt, but I got some good news.”

“Whats up?” Namjoon asked.

“The Academy was able to access the files from the drones and analysis will begin soon.”

       Namjoon relaxed, “Great. At least we got some good news today.”

You blinked at the oldest man, “What does that mean?”

“You know how we thought we lost all the footage from the last mission, right? Well I forgot that The Academy has a real time feed from the drones whenever I use them.”

“I’m...I’m not understanding,” you said. Though in reality you did. You just didn’t want to.

“Well it just so happens that The Academy also records the live feed that the drone takes too just in case my files get wiped. It’s always just a backup and they never actually check it because the notes I send is always enough. But since the whole thing with the police happened, they’re for sure checking it now so they don’t have to rely on just my notes and witness accounts. It's a headache really, but now it’s in The Academy’s hands.”

Bile suddenly rose in your throat. It took everything not to release it onto Namjoon’s fresh comforter. You buried your nails in your palm to stabilize yourself. You had lost track of how many times regret had taken hold of you and forced you to look at yourself. How many times dread pulled you at every corner and faced you with the inevitable. How many times fear hung you off the edge of reality and threatened to leave you there.

 The two men’s voices began to fade into the void of your own thoughts.

You were stranded there.

“_______!” you registered the voice as Namjoon’s. You realized that he had been calling you when you saw the concern on their faces. You didn’t know when you decided to stand, but you slowly made your way to the door with shaky legs.

“You look sick, maybe you should-”

“I…I gotta go,” you replied, closing his bedroom door and slamming it behind you.

______________________

      Nothing worked. 

No matter how many times you tried to sleep it off, the weight of dread carried into your dreams. School didn’t help, as every assignment just seemed so pointless. Even a pre-mission sparring session with Hoseok and Taehyung didn’t quell the torture of what you knew to be the inevitable. The two marked it off as nerves--assured you the mission would go fine, Anti would be defeated with no problem.

 If only they knew. 

So when D-Day rolled around, there was a numbness there. 

Everyone met at the boys’ apartment. The sun had set, and there was an unusual hush as everyone prepared; just quick questions as weapons were compared and packed away, then back to a rigid concentration. The squad was dressed in all black, even down to the boots and gloves. 

Namjoon rolled his shoulders back, “Let’s roll out.”

The group sat the cases on the asphalt when everyone reached the parking lot. You carried two at a time to the trunk, the weight of the guns normal now. Your squad offered help, but you waved them inside the vehicle and assured you had it on your own. When you bent down to grab the last case, Yoongi’s fingers went to take it from you. You jerked your hand back and went to put it along with the rest. You heard his footsteps follow you. 

The others had already taken their seats inside the van by then, and you wished he had joined them instead of lingering to “help”.

Before you could lift the final case inside the trunk he took it from you and placed it inside himself. Another wave of rage built up inside you, and you nearly slammed his fingers as you closed the trunk behind you. He grabbed your arm and you wrenched yourself free.

“Hold up-” he whispered.

“I don’t wanna fucking do this right now, okay?”

“I just want to let you know I talked to Jungkook, that's all.”

“Oh, did you show him my nudes too?” you seethed.

His face softened, “Look, it's not what you think! They stole my phone and saw it!”

“How the hell could they see it if you deleted it?!”

“I mean, I did delete it, but,” he sighed, pushing the words out, “I saved it to my Cloud before I did.”

Your jaw clenched, “So you didn’t really delete it? You saved them to your personal spank bank even though I told you to delete it? Just so that wouldn’t happen?”

“They were just so good I….I’m sorry,” he breathed.

“I took those for you,” the pain in your voice was clear, even more so on your face as you searched his eyes, “not them. They were for you for that one moment.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, ____,  it was an accid-”

“None of it’s gonna matter anyways. Jin told me The Academy has access to the drone footage now. Save your excuses for them.”

“What? Wait!”

You brushed past him and took your spot inside the van. Even when Yoongi eventually followed behind and took his own seat, you continued to stare out the window. 

The drive, like in the apartment, was tense. The silence was smothering, doing nothing to calm the unease that everyone felt. You were in your own head, hoping your years of combat served you that night.

An alarm on Seokjin’s screen beeped, warning him that you all were nearing the limits of a surveillance device at the Anti headquarters. With a few quick clicks, Seokjin made his devices go off the grid, untraceable once you all were within reach. 

“We’re about a quarter mile away,” he announced.

Namjoon turned to see the stern faces of Squad 16 from the passenger seat, “Okay. There’s a lot of moving parts at play in this mission, we just have to be smart about how to use them. You all saw The Academy’s memo about the helicopter, yeah?”

Everyone nodded.

“They really pulled out all the stops, huh?” Jimin sighed, leg bouncing anxiously. He was rarely nervous.

“We don’t have to use it, but since this is such a high risk mission they recommend it as a get-away opposed to the van. They said this building has an accessible roof, so we just have to get to it. Seokjin, you’re in charge of dispatching it when the time comes.”

“Roger that,” the driver said.

“Now, I know there’s a lot of uncertainty here. This mission will take a lot of stealth more than anything. Because that's your specialty, I think you should take the lead on mission direction.”

The group turned to the person Namjoon had addressed. 

Hoseok stared back with wide eyes, “Me?!”

“We’re here to support of course, but you’re the best to evaluate what needs to be done.”

“I mean...okay, if you say so,” Hoseok muttered.

“We all believe and trust your judgement. You’ve got this, you always have.”

Hoseok nodded.

The terrain suddenly changed. The flat road turned to rocky gravel as the mass of brick and wood came into view. Seokjin pulled into the shadows. From where you were, you could see the entire building and all of its boarded up windows. 

“You took care of the cameras?” Namjoon asked Seokjin.

“Of course,” he replied, quickly typing in codes as the screen flashed through several windows. “Their security is tight, but I managed to break through. I have their surveillance room looking at a pre-recorded tape of all areas now, so they can’t see us. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up before they notice, so we have to move fast.”

There was a sudden flash of light. You all sunk down as another SUV drove up to the building. It parked about 100 meters away from the van near a side door. Four figures stepped out of the car.

“Do you think they’re a part of Anti?” Taehyung asked.

“I guess, who else would be out here except us and them?” Jimin replied, “We should take them out too right--?”

“Got it,” Jungkook interrupted. He rolled down his window the slightest bit. He took the sniper rifle that had been resting on his lap, and pointed it towards them. After finding them in the scope, he pulled the trigger without reservation. Four bullets flew silently, drilling through the skulls as the unsuspecting victims sank to the ground. He could see a man in the driver’s seat looking around frantically as he reached for a gun. Jungkook pulled the trigger and nabbed him right between the eyes, “Bingo.”

“Go!” Namjoon urged. Everyone exited the van, grabbed their weapons, and made a dash towards the other car in the dark of night. 

Splayed out on the concrete, you noticed that the four limp bodies were dressed the same: black and red bodysuits with a matching mask that covered everything except their eyes. The bullet hole in them was so small, it was barely noticeable. Yoongi snatched the masks from their heads, uncovering their faces. They were unfamiliar. Three men and one woman. 

Jimin flipped one of the bodies over with his foot. Printed on the back of the bodysuit was a number. He flipped over the rest and found the same, but different digits.

“That must be some sort of identifier,” Namjoon said, “Since they cover their faces, it must be the only way to tell each other apart on the inside.”

“I think I’ve got a plan,” Hoseok said, bending down to assess the corpses, “We need to disguise as them. We’ll have to take their clothes and go inside.”

Jimin gave an incredulous look, “You think that’ll work?”

“Well we can’t just bust up in there and start shooting now can we? We have to start somewhere.”

“He’s got a point,” you said, “We have no idea what we’re up against in there. The least we can do is look the part to make it easier.”

A breeze blew over the group, as did a silence as you realized there were only 4 disguises.

“So who’s going inside?” Yoongi asked.

Hoseok rubbed his neck, “Keeping consistent body type and skill set in mind...I think me, Namjoon, Jungkook, and ________ should go. We have a wide enough range of skills to cover the bases.”

You couldn’t help but tense up.

Hoseok looked over at Namjoon for approval. He seemed to be deep in thought, mulling over the suggestion. 

“Okay. Taehyung, Jimin, Yoongi, you’ll be on perimeter security duty. Don’t let anyone out of the building or in. Kill on sight if they try. Jin will have surveillance covered.”

There was a thick, pensive silence as everyone listened, but there was no objection. Namjoon put his hand in the middle of the circle. The rest of the squad followed, slower than usual. 

“Make it clean, make it quick.” you all echoed as you did every mission. 

With a habitual quickness, you all broke apart. Seokjin dropped the dead driver next to the other bodies on the floor and took off the man’s clothes. Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi dragged the stripped Anti assassins to a patch of high grass. You, Namjoon, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Seokjin discarded your own clothes as you replaced them with the bodysuit. The cool night air was harsh on your exposed skin. None of the boys even dared to even look in your direction, as the five of you were down to your underwear. You rushed to cover yourself, and a voice in the back of your head gave a sharp reminder that a sports bra and panties was modest compared to what had already been seen.

The bodysuit was fitting, perfect even. The spandex against your skin felt criminal. Putting the mask over your head felt like a seal of fate. The bright red number 8 on your back was the nail in the coffin.

“Hey,” Jimin called when you were all done dressing, “Don’t be stupid. If it gets messy, leave.”

“Seriously. Don’t risk your lives for a pay raise,” Seokjin echoed, “Especially you Jungkook, don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not stupid,” he snapped.

“Just be safe,” Taehyung said, adjusting the strap of his sniper rifle, “If we all leave this mission alive, I think that's an accomplishment itself.”

“Can we just agree that if we feel like it's getting too risky, we just abort the mission?” you proposed.

That was a last case scenario that had never even been thought of before. There was never a time when you hadn’t succeeded. 

Namjoon sighed, “Okay. Fine. We’ll be in touch. Let’s go.”

You turned to walk with the three others when you caught Yoongi’s eyes. There was a lot in them, a warning, a suggestion, a plea of some sorts- though he didn’t say a thing and turned to go with his group.

The four of you moved to attach your weapons on your belts as you walked towards the side door. 

“Thanks for going along with my plan by the way...not that ____ had much of a choice being, you know, the only girl and all,” Hoseok said, shooting you a sorry expression.

You rolled your eyes, “You’re lucky I’m here to save your asses like always.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“It was a good plan, Hoseok. We trust you,” Namjoon assured.

Oddly enough the door was unlocked when you approached it. Guard up and shoulders back, you took a step inside. You were all greeted with a small room, black painted walls and bright crimson carpet. On the wall across from you was another door, the only other exit. 

“The cameras in this room can’t see us right?” Namjoon asked the earpiece.

“They can’t. The feed is still pre-recorded but like I said it won’t last long, and then I’ll be forced to put it back to normal or risk threatening the mission. I’d say you all might have a good 20 minutes before then. Their cyber security might even be as good as The Academy’s, I’m actually struggling over here to keep up.”

“Okay, we need to clear this building as fast as possible. We can’t stay too long,” Namjoon stated.

“We should split up then,” Hoseok suggested, “We’d cover more ground. 

“True. If we all stayed in the same place that would give them more time to catch on,” you said.

“I agree,” Jungkook nodded.

“Okay. There’s three floors to this building. I can take the first, ______ and Jungkook can take the second, and Hoseok can take the third,” the leader directed.

You went to open the other door, but found it to be locked. 

“Let me try,” Jungkook pushed past you to wretch it open, but it was stuck, “What the hell?”

“Wait,” Namjoon noticed a monitor on the side of the door. It read ‘Fingerprint Access Only’.

“Fingerprint? How are we gonna get through?!”

No one was stupid enough to try their own print on the screen. 

“Jin, we ran into a problem. The door can only be opened with fingerprint access, can you disable it?” you asked.

There was a pause on the other side.

“Fingerprints?”

“Yeah, that's what the screen says.”

“That isn’t even coming up in my system...I don’t see it anywhere,” he replied, panic in his tone. You could hear the clicking of keys in your ear, “What the hell?”

“You don’t see it?” Jungkook asked.

“No! I mean I can keep looking but who knows how long it’ll take? We’re already on a time crunch.”

“Shit,” Hoseok said, leaning against the wall and rubbing the mask on his face. You couldn’t see anything but his eyes but they mirrored your own dread.

“Can’t we just try and force it open?” Jungkook asked, “The four of us can make it work.”

“I guarantee it’s connected to the security system and will probably set off an alarm. That’s the last thing we need,” Namjoon sighed.

“The whole purpose of these outfits is to be inconspicuous. Breaking down the door without knowing what's on the other side completely defeats that,” you groaned.

“But time is running--!” Jungkook began. There was a beep as the door was suddenly pushed open. A tall figure stepped into the room. They wore the same bodysuit as the four of you, showing nothing but toned muscles through the tight fabric and hard eyes through the slit of the mask. 

Your squad froze, not uttering a word or breathing as they walked by. The figure gave a quick nod and continued to walk right through the side door.

Hoseok caught the door with his foot.

“We got the door open. By the way, someone just went outside through the side door,” you warned.

A light thud could be heard outside, a body hitting the floor.

“Got it,” Taehyung said.

The four of you slowly slid through the door, only to see that it led to a long hallway. The walls were equally black and the floors carpeted red. There was a sting of lights that hung from the ceiling as well as what looked like a 360 degree camera. It was empty and silent. Even listening hard, you didn’t hear a hum of voices.

“Okay. Keep in touch. Be smart,” Namjoon said in a low voice.

You, Jungkook, and Hoseok went the opposite direction of your leader to find the nearest staircase. 

Namjoon went down the narrow hall. The blackness was choking, as it felt like the walls were closing in on him, trapping him. The many rooms that lined the halls made sense, given that it used to be a hotel. He peeked into every one he passed, but came up empty. He had nearly made it to the end until he found two rooms, one directly across from the other. Namjoon looked into one, finding a room of a few sleeping figures and lines of desks. Their heads rested on them as light snoring could be heard.  He looked into the other room to find the same scene. This looked like break rooms of sorts, telling from the refrigerators and sofas in the corner. The windows in both rooms were covered by wooden planks, securely from the looks of it. 

Namjoon noticed a side door at the furthest point of the hallway and decided to investigate. It lead to what looked to be a garage. It was also empty, and his footsteps echoed across the floor. In a box on a counter, he noticed a rope. On the floor beside it, a canister of gasoline. He scrambled through a few boxes to find the last ingredient, and he relaxed when he found it: a pack of matches.

Something clicked for him at that moment.

“Hey,” he told the earpiece, “I know an even faster way to clear the building.”

“Please share,” Hoseok replied. 

“I’m going to start a fire on the first floor,” he waited for questions or objections, but there were none, “then I’ll make my way up. That way anyone on the floors above will be trapped and have to face us as the fire moves up. Either that, or try to leave the building but have to face the four of you outside.”

“So how are we going to get out?” you asked.

“We’ll just have to make it onto the roof and call the helicopter. Seokjin, be ready to dispatch them when the time comes.”

“Roger that,” Seokjin answered.

“Tae, Jimin, Yoongi, Seokjin, be on guard for anyone that tries to escape.”

There was an echo of agreement.

Namjoon grabbed everything and went back into the hallway

He slid into the first room, a ghost of his former self. At this point in his career, tiptoeing was childish. He had mastered the art of silent steps, shrinking the magnitude of his presence and aura to be undiscovered by the average person. He moved around the first room, still cautious of the few sleeping bodies as he poured the liquid around the desks. Just as quickly, he left the room and went across the hall. 

He did the same to the second break room, spreading the smelly substance around the room as he weaved between the figures. The carpet was stained, soaking with what was soon to be their demise. Namjoon heard a shift behind him, as one of the bodies began to stir. They pushed themself up, eyes showing confusion through the mask. Any normal person wouldn’t have awoken, but their senses were heightened too. They appraised Namjoon and the canister.

“Number 5...what the hell are you doing?” the masked man asked.

Namjoon ignored the question, walking calmly to stand in the doorway instead. By this time, the others in the room had begun to rise, and stretched as they tried to make sense of what stood before them. When Namjoon reached into his pocket and grabbed the match, there was a collective pause. Though that second was all it took for him to light it and flick it into the room, engulfing everything in flames. He slammed the door behind him, taking the rope and tying it around the doorknob on the outside.

He quickly walked back to the first room, where the sounds of screams across the hall had caused them to wake. 

“Why does it smell like gasoline?” one of the masked figures asked.

“What the fuck is going...on?” a woman’s voice began, stopping when she saw Namjoon’s silhouette.

“Number 5, woah, let’s-let’s think about this,” said another. 

When Namjoon lit the match, everyone rose to their feet.

 “Five don’t you dare!”

Namjoon dropped the match at his feet. The fire followed the dainty pattern of gasoline he had drawn across the room, trapping the figures inside. They went to run to the door, but Namjoon shut it. In one motion, he tied the other end of the rope to the doorknob, linking the two rooms together. Both handles jiggled violently, but as one pulled on one handle, it further shut the opposite door. It was a battle for freedom that neither could win. They were trapped.

Namjoon stood for a while to make sure the handles would hold, but reminded himself of the time crunch. He picked the canister back up and continued down the hall towards the staircase, leaving a trail of gasoline behind him. The screams carried as well.

             “The first floor is taken care of,” Namjoon announced, “I’m coming up soon.”

____________________

       The second floor was almost identical to the first-- a maze of crushing halls that went on forever in both directions.

Neither you nor Jungkook had spoken a word to each other since you split from the other two. There was a silent consensus that it was under the guise of focus on the mission. 

“I made it to the third floor,” whispered Hoseok through your earpieces.

“Anything to report?” you replied.

“Not yet. I’ll keep you all updated.”

“Now why the hell couldn’t I get my own floor?” Jungkook mumbled to himself.

It was probably a rhetorical question, but you found yourself replying in a hushed voice, “Probably because you’re unpredictable and need to be babysat. Lucky me.”

You both continued, passing several unoccupied rooms in your search.

Jungkook fiddled with his sleeve, a sign he had something on his mind.

“Hey, about the other day...” he began.

You pointed to your earpiece and shook your head.

Not right now.

He stopped and nodded.

        “Hey,” came Namjoon’s voice, “I know an even faster way to clear the building.”

“Please share,” said Hoseok.

“I’m going to start a fire on the first floor, then I’ll make my way up. That way anyone on the floors above will be trapped and have to face us as the fire moves up. Either that, or try to leave the building but have to face the four of you outside.”

“So how are we going to get out?” you asked.

“We’ll just have to make it onto the roof and call the helicopter. Seokjin, be ready to dispatch them when the time comes.”

The plan was risky- one that required perfect timing or else you’d be in more trouble than what you began with. But Namjoon was rarely wrong. No one had a reason to doubt him yet. It just meant you had to be quick.

Around the corner were two gendered bathroom doors.

“Wanna check?” Jungkook asked.

You nodded, “Be back in 2.”

Inside, one wall was completely covered by sinks and mirrors, the opposite lined with stalls. You heard the toilet flush, and out stepped a slim figure, much taller than you.

She looked at you through the mask, an acknowledgment. Her gloves were placed to the side, revealing hands riddled with scars as she ran them under the water. There was a big 13 printed on her back. You eyed the gun at her waist.

You stepped behind her, as if to brush past to get to the stall. But instead you grabbed the back of her head and slammed it against the mirror. The glass shattered, tinkling to the floor. Blood dripped down through the eye slit of the woman’s mask. Though dazed, she quickly reached for the weapon on her belt. She went to aim but you quickly knocked it from her hands, and it joined the glass pieces on the ground. You kneed her in the gut, and she doubled over for a second, but not before swiping your feet. You lost your balance, and in that second, she was able to knock you to the ground. With sheer strength alone, she held you down and climbed on top. She was far bigger, far stronger than you, and it didn’t take long to figure out. 

         She blinked furiously, blinded by the blood that trickled into her eyes. She felt for your throat, trying to wrap around it, but you landed a solid punch to her jaw.  She scratched and felt around, and you grabbed a long glass shard beside your head. You swung up and planted it deep in her neck. A few choked gurgles left her lips, and then she sunk to the bathroom floor beside you. There was no time to catch your breath. You drug her into the farthest stall and closed the door, walking past the glass and into the hall.

___________________

Next door, Jungkook was at a bit of a loss of what to do. In the men’s bathroom, there was only one person in the stall. He contemplated kicking down the door, but killing someone while they’re taking a shit just seemed extra fucked up, even by his standards.

Jungkook sighed and fixed the suppressor on his automatic rifle. Suddenly the door opened, and two more masked men stepped inside. 

“‘Sup Number 22?!” asked one man with the number 17 on his back. 

Jungkook recognized 22 as his own number. 

“Damn that’s a nice piece you got there. Need some help with that?” the other said in a tone that made Jungkook’s blood boil the slightest bit.

“You know he does. 22 can’t shoot for shit. Just stick with the tech, okay? Leave the artillery for the pros,” Number 17 winked.

Jungkook just watched as the two laughing men went into the stalls next to each other. There was a lingering feeling of annoyance, one that was soon joined by anger. It was a feeling he knew too well. 

These weirdos don’t even use names here? Jungkook thought.

He scoffed and positioned himself on the side of the line of stalls, past thoughts thrown out the window. He bent down, seeing three pairs of feet lined up. From the sound of their voices, he was able to gauge exactly where their heads were.

He pressed the end of the rifle to the plastic partition and fired a single shot. The one bullet shot through the stalls and hit the three heads. One second later, he heard the bodies hit the floor. He didn’t even need to check to make sure they were dead. Of course they were, he was Jeon Jungkook. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so bad anymore.

Turning on his heels, he stepped outside. You joined him at the same time.

Suddenly Namjoon’s voice rang through your ears, “The first floor is taken care of. I’m coming up soon.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you by the stairs. We just cleared an area of the second floor. We might find more people if we keep looking. It's really quiet around here. It’s almost too easy.” you replied.

“Shit. Okay don’t panic,” Seokjin warned, “but I had to put the cameras back on the normal feed. So just be careful.”

You felt yourself tense up, as did Jungkook by your side. You casually turned to see the 360 degree camera hanging from the ceiling. It blinked red, and you gulped.

“C’mon, let’s go to the stairs,” you muttered.

_____________

Unlike the others, the third floor felt alive. Hoseok hadn’t run into anyone yet, but as soon as he made it up the stairs he heard the voices. He walked slowly, weighing his options as the red carpet scraped against the bottom of his shoes.

“Hey, I think most people are on the third floor,” he whispered as he walked. The camera blinked above his head, and he had to remind himself that the mask maintained his anonymity, “I might need some help soon.”

There was a sudden beeping from a speaker on the walls, and he froze in his spot. A staticky voice pierced through the hall, “Attention. Calling Numbers 5, 10, 13, and 17 to the third floor board room immediately.”

Third floor. Hoseok thought back to his path. Had he already passed the board room? What was his number again-?

“10!” called a sudden voice, “Number 10!”

Hoseok turned around. A stocky masked-man jogged towards him. Hoseok looked around the empty hall, placing his hand on his weapons belt.

“Hey! Where the hell have you been? You know what, nevermind, let’s just go. We’re already running behind schedule waiting on you and the other three.”

The man had a bold number 24 on his back. He placed a hand on Hoseok’s shoulder as he quickly guided him towards a set of double doors. He pushed them open to reveal a large table surrounded by Anti assassins. Everyone turned to the two of them, eyes showing everything from relief to exasperation. 

Everyone stood when the two of them entered the room. It was uncomfortably quiet. Hoseok went to stand at an empty seat. It wasn’t until Number 24 went to sit at the head of the long table that everyone sat. With shaky legs and a thumping heart, Hoseok followed. 

“Well since Number 10 is here, we can get started,” Number 24 said.

“What about the rest?” someone with a shrill voice asked to Hoseok’s left, “Shouldn’t Number 13 be here? She’s not answering her radio.”

Someone else snorted, “Fuck 13. Last time I checked she was taking a dump. She can catch up on notes later.”

“Alright,” Number 24 called. Everyone’s attention snapped to him and grew quiet, “We’re running behind so let’s just begin.”

He grabbed a remote and switched it to the projector, which shined with an image of a checklist. Hoseok quickly read through the unfamiliar phrases. The information gave him no leads.

“Number 11,” called 24 from the head of the table, “What’s the update on your mission?”

Hoseok followed his gaze to see a petite girl sitting at the farthest corner of the table, arms folded. He still couldn’t shake how weird the numbers were. No one was more than a digit there. It made him uneasy, and a chill threatened to rake up his body. 

The girl, Number 11, scoffed, “Update? What do you want to know?”

“Did you do it yet?” another man chimed in.

“Not yet,” she shrugged.

“Of course not, she’s been working on this for months,” said another, “You have one job, why’s it taking so long?”

Number 24 strummed his fingers on the table, “I’m starting to think you’re incompetent, 11...or scared. I’m not sure which is worse, honestly.”

       “Listen,” she laughed without humor, “don’t rush good work, okay? It’ll get done.”

Number 24 sighed, ready to continue when the room was suddenly washed with a neon orange light. An alarm came after, blaring out of the speakers.

The group looked around, confused.

“Isn’t that the fire alarm?” one of the men asked.

“F-?” the man next to Hoseok began. Though Hoseok had already pulled the pistol from his waist and planted a bullet into his skull. He turned and shot the man on his other side. Both crashed to the ground. Without a moment to pause, Hoseok ducked under the table. He didn’t have to look to know it was coming, it was expected. He felt a bullet whiz past his head. The room erupted into chaos, swirling with questions and bullets. 

He quickly grabbed the underside of the table and pushed it to its side like a wall, separating himself from the rest of the room.

“I need backup!” Hoseok called to the earpiece, “I’m in the 3rd floor boardroom!”

“We’re on our way up now! Just hold out!” you replied.

Two bullets shot through the table, and Hoseok ducked and fired a few of his own over the table. He heard a grunt and heavy thud. It was an all out war zone, as gunfire filled the space. Hoseok was close to the door. He contemplated an escape when the wood of the table suddenly split in half. 

One of the masked figures had kicked through the table, and before he could react Hoseok was thrown against a wall. The man lurched his foot in Hoseok’s gut, and he doubled over as the breath was knocked from him. Hoseok grabbed the knife in his belt and dug it deep into the Anti assassin’s thigh. Though, there wasn’t a reaction. Not even a cry of pain. Hoseok searched the man’s eyes, and even as his leg bled, there was a look of amusement there. He pulled back his fist and punched Hoseok square in the cheekbone. For the briefest moment, Hoseok saw stars.

He regained himself, wrestling with the man when he saw a glint in his periphery. He ducked, and a second later the man’s hold on him stilled. He coughed a few times, and fell to the floor. Hoseok saw a blade, lodged in his back, meant for him instead. 

He immediately grabbed the door handle and launched himself into the hallway. 

He heard the footsteps trailing after him, and he turned and fired back as the hallway was sprayed with bullets. As he ran, a sharp pain pierced through his shoulder. He stumbled, pushing himself to run faster as he turned down another hall.

Hoseok touched his burning shoulder, finding his hand bloody when he pulled it back. 

“Shit,” he breathed, inspecting the bullet wound. 

The footfalls continued, nearing closer. In the short hallway was one of the few windows he had seen in the entire building. It was boarded up lazily with wooden planks, and Hoseok rushed to kick into them, ignoring the pain in his arm as his body jolted. When he managed a hole big enough for his body he peeked through to see what awaited him below, and paused. Directly under the window was a lake, about a 50 foot drop. His heart plummeted. Just looking at the still black water below made him nauseous. There had to be another way, he thought. He searched for another room, another hallway, anything but the dark water awaiting him. But as the footsteps neared he knew he had no choice. 

        His heart stuttered. 

     Hoseok sat himself on the window sill, ears ringing as the footsteps drew nearer. The next moment he jumped, sinking into the abyss. 

____________________

Outside, the boys secured the perimeter of the square building as they were told. 

Jimin and Yoongi shared one side. They crouched in the brush, staring up at the blocked windows.

Jimin fidgeted with the sniper rifle in his lap. He was so used to being in on the action, hearing everything play through his earpiece only made him yearn for it more.

Yoongi sat by his side, silent as usual, staring up at the seemingly abandoned building. He could see a slight glow from within, a sign that Namjoon’s fire had made its way up to the 2nd floor.

        “Say something, you’re making me nervous,” Jimin blurted out of nowhere. Yoongi turned to him, an obvious question in his expression, “It's like I’m out here by myself.”

“Well you’re not.”

Jimin sighed. The glow of the fire made his anxiety skyrocket. Namjoon usually had good ideas, but this one was so wild, so unpredictable, he had to think twice, “You think they’re okay in there? No one has checked in in a while. I still think we should have gone inside.”

“Nothing we can do about it now, right?” Yoongi shrugged, “We couldn’t have gone in even if we wanted to.”

“Well yeah, but come on. This is Anti we’re talking about, how can you be so lax?” Jimin asked, appraising his squad mate in the darkness, “Are you okay? I’ll apologize for what happened with pictures again if this is what it’s about. I messed up-”

“Let’s focus on the mission, yeah?”

Jimin deflated, “Yeah. Okay.”

_____________

On another side of the building, Taehyung had set up his post. He laid flat on his stomach, peering through his scope at the glowing windows. He had the entire front side to himself as the best shooter in the outside group. The square building would have been divided evenly among the four men if the back side was an option, but they realized that it was guarded by a lake. No matter how good they were, no angle would allow them clearance of that side.

Through his earpiece, he could hear scattered conversations. The silence of outside was haunting, especially as he knew the hell that wreaked within. The orange glow grew brighter, and he heard the screams ringing from the second floor. 

“Have you had any escape on your side yet, Jin?” Jimin asked.

“Nope,” he responded. He was still parked by the side door in the Anti van, “and I hope it stays that way, too.”

       “What about you, Tae?” Jimin asked.

As soon as the question was asked, there was a loud crash. Above him, was a wooden plank hanging from the second floor window. It was kicked out by three figures. Their silhouettes were all Taehyung could see. Behind them, the fire raged as they prepared to jump to the ground below. Though they didn’t get the chance. In a split second, Taehyung zeroed in and fired three shots. The Anti figures went limp and tumbled out the window, falling into the overgrown hedges below. 

“I just got three from a second floor window!” he called. 

“Shit, they’re actually getting out?!” Seokjin asked.

“Just keep your guards up!” Jimin said.

With the window being open, all of the maylay was released into the stillness of outside. The fire shined brighter, consuming the building from the inside. 

Taehyung watched, mesmerized, “Hey, this fire is getting intense.”

_______________

From the front seat of the Anti van, Seokjin continued to watch the cameras. The glock in his lap was heavy, and he ignored it as he watched the screen. Taehyung’s update made his anxiety soar. The building was boarded up for a reason, how were they escaping? Then again, they were on surveillance duty for a reason as well, in the scenario that there was a hole in the plan. 

How he wished there wasn’t one. 

“Shit, they’re actually getting out?!” he asked stupidly.

 He cursed to himself, rubbing the mask in exasperation. His screen had a view from the security cameras inside. The first floor’s feed went down several minutes before, and the second floor’s were covered with puffs of thick gray smoke. The cameras were his connection to the mission, and without them, there was a sense of blindness he felt. A sense of helplessness.

In his periphery, there was a flash of light. From his side of the building, he saw the boards fall as two shadows followed. They jumped, landing squarely on the grass as they made a run for the van on the treeline. 

They wretched the door open, throwing themselves in the back seat and shutting it behind them. Their masks were scorched, exposing red faces and burns to Seokjin through the rearview mirror. 

“Drive! Go, go, go!” one man with long stringy hair called.

“Fucking go! We need to go to the secondary base, now!” the other with singed eyebrows yelled.

“Secondary base?” Seokjin repeated to himself.

“Are you fucking deaf?! GO!” one of the men lurched forward and grabbed Seokjin’s shoulder with hot fingers. 

Seokjin’s reflexes took over. He took the gun in his lap, turned around, and fired two bullets. The man let go of Seokjin as he was knocked backwards, bullet in his head. The other slumped down against the seat. His eyes darted frantically as he touched the hole in his chest. He looked up at Seokjin, confusion there, before he and his eyes went still.

Seokjin’s head rang. The metal in his hand was hot to the touch. He dropped it into the passenger seat, staring at the bodies in the back.

“Fuck…” he said, “Fuck!”

“We heard gunshots. Are you okay?!” Yoongi asked.

“Yeah…” he relaxed against the headrest, “Two escaped and got in the van. But I handled it. It’s over.”

There was a silence on the other end.

“Handled it meaning you…?” Jimin asked.

“Yeah.”

“Damn.”

“I need backup!” came Hoseok’s sudden voice, “I’m in the 3rd floor boardroom!”

“We’re on our way up now! Just hold out!” you replied soon after.

It snapped Seokjin back to the present. He turned to look back at the building and froze. In those mere seconds the fire had grown tenfold. It seemed to climb up slowly. From his view he could see it begin to make its way to the third floor.

“I think I’ll have to call the helicopter sooner than expected.”

______________________

The orange lights of the fire alarm were blinding. The heat beneath your feet put you on edge. Suddenly, everything felt extremely hellish.

The fire was coming, steadily rising since Namjoon had started it around 10 minutes before. 

It had been noticeable to you and Jungkook almost as soon as it had begun, but slowly it became more intense. Though the 2nd floor hallways were bad, you realized the stairwell was even worse when you went inside. It was stifling, choking, as if all the heat were trapped in the small space. Namjoon made his way up, and you noticed the beads of sweat on him through the eyeholes. It felt as if the three of you were baking.

You all kept a calm demeanor, aware of the blinking camera recording your every move from the ceiling.

“I think it’s climbing fast,” Namjoon said loud enough to hear over the alarm.

Lightly, there were the sounds of footfalls and voices outside the door, approximately seven. From the clumsy steps, they seemed frenzied and confused. 

The door to the stairwell suddenly opened and an Anti assassin stepped inside.  

“There’s a fire on the first floor! It already took over some of the second!” he panted.

Namjoon looked up at the security cameras, then back at you. A weighted question.

Jungkook stepped towards the man, blade in his hand before lurching it into him. 

He sank to the ground, unmoving.

The camera still blinked red.

“Oh, come on!” you screamed, nearly snatching the mask off. 

“What?! Isn’t this literally what we came here for?”

“The camera, dumbass,” you said through clenched teeth.

Jungkook spared a glance up and froze, remembering.

“Shit.”

There went your anonymity.

“We need to get moving,” Namjoon interrupted.

“Well shouldn’t we take out the rest on this floor first?” Jungkook asked.

“No we’re running out of time, we need to keep going! They only have two escape options. One being to follow us up to the third floor where we can take them out later, or try to escape out a window and get handled by the snipers. It’s not worth the trouble.”

“I need backup!” called Hoseok through the earpiece, “I’m in the 3rd floor boardroom!”

         “We’re on our way up now! Just hold out!” you replied.

          The three of you ran up the stairs to the final floor. The echo of the alarm made it hard to hear your own thoughts, and you fought the urge to cover your ears.

Opening the door, the 3rd floor hallway was surprisingly crowded. You did a quick count, 10 in total. They stood around, weapons drawn, frantic conversation spinning. 

Over the alarm came a muffled voice- an announcement, “SECURITY BREACH! SECURITY BREACH! INFILTRATORS POSING AS NUMBERS 5, 8, 10, AND 22!”

There was a split second of apprehension and cohesive confusion. You used it to your advantage. Grabbing the blade in your belt, you launched it into the esophagus of the figure next to you. 

The second after, hell broke loose.

The man tried to swipe at you, fighting for breath with bulging eyes. You pulled him in front of you, an effective shield as a flurry of knives came flying your way. As you held him up, you threw your own blade. A woman charged at you, and the knife landed squarely in her head before she fell to the carpet.

Beside you, Namjoon ducked as an identical figure swung at him. The punch missed. Namjoon sprung up, using his knife to swipe his attacker’s stomach. There was a squelch as the man’s innards hit the floor. He heard fast approaching footsteps. Without missing a beat, he turned and pointed his gun at the new opponent. There was obvious fear as the second man looked at the empty shell of his comrade bleeding on the floor. Namjoon couldn’t make himself analyze the humanity of the situation, though he debated it. It would make things harder than they had to be. He pulled the trigger and watched as he joined the other man in the heap. 

Blood coated the walls, unseen through the black paint. 

On the other side, Jungkook began to run. As planned, some turned to follow him, two in total. It wasn’t as many as he had hoped, but it was all he could do to lessen your load. 

He skidded as he turned corners, trying his best to get some distance between them. Over the alarm, he could hear commotion coming from inside one of the rooms. He could feel energy, sense the aura of life inside. Jungkook kicked down the door, showing a room full of screens. A single woman sat at the monitors, microphone before her lips through the thin mask.

In one sweep, he knew exactly where he was.

The surveillance room.

Jungkook noticed the apprehension in her eyes, the moment of wonder behind his identity. It seemed like in the final moments she came to the right conclusion as she reached for her gun, but he was already one step ahead. He fired a shot, and she slumped against the keyboard. Blood spread across the buttons. 

As Jungkook took a moment to collect himself, there was a sudden, splitting pain in his back. It was so random, so unexpected Jungkook thought he might be imagining it, but it stayed. He felt behind him and pulled a knife from between his shoulder blades. 

It was a shallow wound, the result of a lack of commitment. He looked up to see a single masked man in the corner of the room, hiding in the shadows just feet away. 

He hadn’t checked the whole room.

When he heard approaching footsteps, he yanked the man to his body and put him in a headlock. The feat was easier than expected, as he did nothing to resist. Against Jungkook’s chest, he could feel the man’s frantic breathing. His body felt almost frail. 

He probably only worked in this room, Jungkook imagined. He’s probably like Seokjin. He doesn’t have the same combat skills as the others. 

In the next second, the two assassins that had been following Jungkook appeared in the doorway, guns drawn.

Jungkook had his own ready, but placed it to the man’s head

“Try anything and your friend is fucking dead!” he said.

Without hesitation, the room was sprayed with sparks as bullets hit machines. Jungkook’s eyes went wide, surprised as the man he had been holding was shot in the chest. A bullet pierced Jungkook’s arm, and he dropped the dead man on the floor as he hid behind a rack of computers. 

He watched the blood flow from his left arm nonstop. He moved his fingers, glad to see he still had mobility. It burned. Similar to touching the wrong side of an iron. Jungkook had shot a lot of people, but never in his life had he had that fate dealt back onto him.

He assessed the room. The concrete walls created a lot of ricochets.

Of course. He could work with this. 

It took him a second to figure out the angles. It was a lot of geometry and hope but that was all he had. Jungkook fired two shots at the wall next to the men. 

The bullets hit the wall and in the next instant, ricocheted and ripped through their brains.

They didn’t know what hit them, unable to process the quickness of their own lives as it was taken away. 

Jungkook pushed himself up from the floor where he hid and rushed to the door. He shuffled along, the gnawing pain in his arm and back slowing him down. When he turned down another hall, he saw a dead end and several broken wooden boards. Looking at the adjacent window, he knew they had been ripped from it, a desperate means of escape. 

He went to the window and saw the endless black abyss of the lake below. If he expected anything, it was to see an Anti member floating there. Instead, he saw a bobbing head and flailing arms. Jungkook’s stomach sunk when he realized he knew that face. It was one he had seen too many times in the same situation. One of terror. One of unsolved trauma. 

“Hoseok!” Jungkook screamed.

He climbed through the window and launched himself into the water three stories below. It was freezing, a shock to the system as his body screamed at him to stop. It tried to fail him as he swam towards his squad mate. He held Hoseok’s weight with his injured arm as his legs tried to make up for the work.

“You okay?!” 

“Hel...helicopter.” Hoseok said.

Jungkook followed his gaze up to the sky to see the helicopter above them.

“Hey!” he screamed, “Here! Down here! Hurry up!”

A ladder dropped down and dangled above them. Jungkook pushed Hoseok up first and then followed. It took all his strength to hold on as they were pulled up.

He looked down at the building as he was suspended in the air and his mouth fell open. The fire had enveloped most of the third floor. The gunfire rang on.

____________

The inside had cleared out significantly. You remained in the same hallway, narrowly avoiding the bodies that covered the floor as you fought. 

It had been with the same girl, Number 11, for what felt like minutes, though it couldn’t have been longer than one. She was small, thinner than you. Her bodysuit hugged her frame in a way that allowed you to see the hint of her ribs. It should have been easier, you thought. A quick kill then on to the next, but she was resilient. She held a sly raw power, a surprise that was unseen until provoked.

 You felt a hint of fatigue in your chest, but you pushed through.

All you could see was her eyes, a wild ferocity in them that kept you alert. With every punch you threw, she returned it. It was a never ending cycle, a game that neither were willing to lose. There was an intimacy in it that even you recognized. It held a rhythm, as if you two were dancing and there was no one else in the world. 

In a change of pace, she reached forward and slung you into the wall. Number 11 quickly reared back the knife she had been holding and threw it. It dug into the wall beside your head. The girl ran straight at you, and you reared back your leg to kick her straight in the stomach. Though Number 11 was quick, and pulled you by the leg towards her. She used your momentum to slam your head into hers.

You saw white for a moment. It was a confusing pain, and in your daze you reached behind you to grab the knife stuck in the wall. You slashed it forward and felt it connect. Though as soon as it made contact, you knew it wasn’t enough.

There was a cut in her mask from the bridge of her nose to her jaw. The mask was ripped, but held so tight to her face that it didn’t let any of her features show. You knew it was deep, and her eyes told you that she knew it too. 

She reached up to check the wound and let out a scoff- a dark, humourless sound.

You noticed the silence of the hallway and realized it was empty. Namjoon was nowhere in sight. You scanned the bodies on the floor, hoping you wouldn’t see his number and silently celebrated when you didn’t.

That moment of rest let you reevaluate your situation. There was a panicked yelling in your ear.

“Get the hell out of there, what are you doing?!” came Seokjin’s voice. He had been screaming the advice for minutes but you didn’t notice over the maylay around you. 

“_____, do you hear me?! Leave the fight! Just go! We need to go!” Namjoon said, “Seokjin, where’s the fucking helicopter!”

“On the south side of the building near the lake! All of us are already inside, we’re waiting for you!”

“Hurry up! The fire is getting too crazy, you’re going to be trapped inside!” came Taehyung’s voice.

In your periphery you saw Number 11 swing again, snapping you back into the moment. Though you didn’t retaliate. Instead you turned to sprint away in the direction you had seen Jungkook go earlier.

“Joon, where the fuck are you?!” you screamed over the alarm. For the first time, you noticed the black puffs of smoke that clouded your vision. You began to cough.

“I found the hatch! I need backup! Keep following the halls!” 

In a stroke of luck you found him. He was surrounded by three other men. They all looked like they wanted to get the door on the ceiling open, but wouldn’t allow Namjoon to be the one to do it. None of them had guns, you noted.

You rushed in, breaking through them as you covered for your leader. Namjoon hurried up the ladder, using brute force to try and open the hatch. He was an open target, and you had your gun trained on the men that tried to get past.

“If you want to burn in here don’t you fucking dare,” you said. The smoke made you choke on your own words.

“I’d rather burn than let you fuckers out-” one began.

You shot him point blank. 

You readied to empty your clip on the others, but there was a rush of air as the door was opened.

“Let’s go!” Namjoon shouted as he climbed up.

You rushed to follow him, feeling the men on your heels. The night air enveloped you, shocking like water from a cold shower. 

Just up above was the violent whipping of helicopter blades. The ladder dropped down and Namjoon grabbed on. He rushed to climb up. He was already inside when he looked down and realized that you weren’t right behind him.

“_______!” 

You were still on the roof fighting a three on one deathmatch. 

“Go back down to her so she can get on!” Namjoon yelled at the pilot.

He shook his head, “Someone is shooting at the cockpit! If I get any closer then we’ll all be in danger.”

Namjoon looked down to see a female figure that wasn’t there before. She was aiming up at the helicopter as you fought the other two. He could see their numbers from where he sat: 11, 24, and 25. 

Yoongi held onto the back of the pilot’s seat, “Let us back down!”

“It’s too dangerous right now, please wait a little bit!”

“We don’t have a little bit!” 

Taehyung got into a kneeling position, preparing his aim as he looked through his scope.

“Wait!” Seokjin warned him, “Look, the ceiling is caving in!”

To the group’s horror, he was correct. Farther away, chunks of the ceiling fell into the building, revealing the sheer hell beneath. The pieces grew steadily, approaching the area where you stood.

“She’s gonna fall inside…” Jimin said, trance-like.

“_______! Forget it! Come the fuck on!” Jungkook screamed from his place on the helicopter floor.

“It's collapsing!” Yoongi followed.

You looked around, breaking from the fight to see the holes around you. The flames licked up, soaring past you to the sky. 

You had only managed to temporarily paralyze the two men. They sank to their knees as they held onto their shins. You readied to end them when the boys’ cries told you not to.

Forget it.

In a split second, Number 11 turned her gun on you. Before she could fire you grabbed her hand, twisting it until you heard a snap. The gun clattered onto the floor and fell into one of the fiery holes. With her free hand, she desperately clawed at you, hands going to where your hair should be. She grabbed onto your mask, wrenching off of your face. For the first time since the mission started, you were exposed. She paused, an expression that you couldn’t understand. You took that pause to roundhouse kick her in the head. 

You ran towards the helicopter ladder. As you neared, you realized that it was much farther than you expected. It was several feet away from the edge of the roof, the lake below. 

Launching yourself off the roof, you jumped. By some miracle, your fingers caught the last rung. You dangled in the air for a bit, struggling to pull yourself up as the boys screamed down at you. 

There was a sudden weight on your legs. You nearly let go all together. You looked down to see Number 11 hanging from your ankles. As you swung from the ladder, you struggled to keep steady. Your fingers were cramping. You felt like your body was being torn apart from both directions. She gripped your legs tight, her wild kicking only loosening your grip. After much struggle, you freed one leg and rammed it into her nose. She let go, and plunged into the black water below. 

You finally climbed up, several hands pulling you inside the helicopter. You crawled to safety, knees raw until you finally fell flat onto your back. 

You breathed in deep, catching a rhythm within the whir of the blades. Though everyone was accounted for, there was still a frantic energy. You pushed yourself up and noticed  Jungkook and Hoseok’s bloody bodies.

The small medic team surrounded them. Their bodysuits had been cut off, exposing the extent of injuries. Blood trailed from Hoseok’s shoulder, and he winced as the medic dug into the wound with tweezers. Jungkook bit his lip, face red as he fought back a scream as two medics attended to his arm and bare back.

“What happened?!” you asked. You felt an inexplicable shame.

“Shot,” Hoseok breathed.

“Shot and stabbed,” Jungkook followed. A single tear fell from his eye, and he rushed to wipe it away. “It fucking hurts, that’s all,” he muttered after seeing your face.

“A-are they okay? Are they gonna be okay?” you turned to the medics. They gave rushed reassurances as they worked, talking about missed tendons and no long-lasting damage. 

“Dammit!” Yoongi said.

He and Namjoon looked out the window at the fiery blaze in your wake.

“They escaped. The last two on the roof just jumped into the water before the roof collapsed. I saw it.” Namjoon said.

Jimin sat down opposite you, holding his face, “We failed.”

“No...there’s no way.” Seokjin tried, “After all that? How can we call it a failure?”

“We didn’t clear the building. There were still three left.”

“Oh, come on-!”

“He’s right. By Academy standards anyways...we didn’t get all of the targets. We failed the mission,” Taehyung said.

Everyone sat with those words for the rest of the ride. Never in your careers had you failed a mission. It was always a sure win. It was given that you would handle anything thrown your way. You used to be dependable like that. 

The bloody bodies, torn spirits, and aching egos inside the helicopter felt that word more than ever.

       Failure.

________________

The very fact that you all had to carry on with your lives felt like a sick joke. The other squads could sulk in their anonymity for a while- something you envied. Though, school and a semi-regular 20-somethings life was what you all wanted, and you had to remember that.

Yet another thing you all could only blame yourselves for. 

Going back to classes was nearly impossible, but you shuffled on through the bodies and lectures regardless. This was something no amount of coffee or sleep could solve.

The night after the mission ended, the squad just stayed over at the boys’ apartment. There was something about being alone afterwards that no one could handle. Hoseok and Jungkook stayed behind with the Academy medics to watch over their wounds. The remaining six of you sulked in the living room until the sun rose, seering guilt resting heavy on your hearts. 

Even when you finally made it to your own apartment to get ready for classes, the place was silent. Luna was nowhere to be found, and you were grateful. You could deal with your fatigue alone. 

After classes were done, you made a beeline for the door. The fresh air wasn’t the refresher you hoped it was, and you held your jacket tight as you walked across the courtyard. 

There was a small crowd of boys handing out flyers on the lawn. One turned to you and waved. In your sleepy haze you ignored him until he fully registered. 

He jogged over, eyes equally tired and defeated. His smile told a different story.

“Hey,” Jimin said.

“Hey,” you repeated. An awkward silence followed, and you shifted feet as you looked at everything but each other. “Frat event?” you asked, motioning to the other boys.

“Yeah, we’re promoting our next mixer,” he said. 

How he was able to smile in people’s faces all day and not fall apart, you had no idea. You would always respect that about him.

You felt him looking you over, “What?”

“You want to be my date or…?”

“Or.”

“C’mon!”

“Is that even a surprise?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, “But just know, babe, I’m only joking around. If I actually tried, you’d already be mine. Don’t forget that,” he winked.

He expected more from your reaction, but you simply looked across the yard at the other students. 

“Hey,” he said, voice lower, “is it the mission? I know we failed, but we still did our best, you know?”

You just nodded, still staring off into space, “Yeah.”

“Jungkook and Hoseok are back.” He tried again. “I don’t know if you saw in the groupchat, but they were discharged this morning. They’re recovering pretty well.”

“Yeah, I saw,” you said. “I’m glad. It’s great news.”

He squinted at you. He sat in the silence for a while before finally pulling you into a hug.

Your first instinct was to push him away, but the warmth and sincerity melted you. You hugged him back, holding each other in the middle of the lawn. You weren’t the first to let go, he was. He held you by the shoulders and gave a smile. Not the Frat Boy smile, not the Playboy smile, but one so genuine it startled you.

“Get some rest, okay?”

You nodded, “You too. I’m serious.”

He put two fingers to his head in a solute and walked back to his group.

The road back home was a bit more peaceful. You felt lighter. You rolled your shoulders back. You couldn’t wait to drown your sorrows in a shower and smother it within your sheets.

In the back of your subconscious, you felt a lingering anxiety. You kept your eyes forward, scanning your surroundings until you landed on something behind you. You were being followed. It was some sort of big vehicle telling by the sound of the wheels. You kept a steady pace on the sidewalk, and the car sped up until it parked right beside you. 

You turned to see a black SUV. 

The back window rolled down, and your heart fell through your stomach. 

Mr. Kim smiled at you. In the seats alongside him, Namjoon and Yoongi’s heads hung.

“Good afternoon.” Mr. Kim opened the door. “Come on. Let’s take a ride.”

Previous 

[beauvoyr]

My Friend, Mr Noctgar | 3

EPISODE III | vendetta

Pairings: Noctis/Reader vs Ravus/Reader  Genre: Romance Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Alpha/Beta/Omega, no beta we die like men, Humour, Angst, Fluff, Size Kink, Size Difference, Short Reader, Self-Indulgent Characters: Older Noctis, Older Chocobros, 30-year-old Ravus Nox Fleuret, Ardyn Izunia, Aranea, Loqi Tummelt, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Homeless (?) Noctis Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Transferring from Gralea to Insomnia’s already hard enough for an Omega like you. Luckily your new friend Mr Noctgar, a homeless Alpha who’s always skulking around Sagefire, is there to brighten your dreary days ahead. And he’s always there to teach you the best spots in Insomnia, among other things.

“—which is why Ghorovas’ Rift is what it is today,” Noctgar ends his tale, flattening the top half of his vanilla soft serve with an agile tongue. At your wide-eyed stare, he swipes a few more licks to the cone, blunt fingernails absently scratching his scruff. “Told you Ifrit was an ass.”

“B-b-but that’s not what the Cosmogonies say?” you sputter, well aware that you sound like an utter imbecile for believing in half the garbage printed. Noctgar regards you with sympathetic understanding how a parent breaks to a child that Shiva Claus isn’t real, and you could only cover your burning cheeks by blaming the dastardly cunning ways of the Insomnian sun. “I mean—they should totally fire their writer for coming up with that fanfic-level stuff and—“

“I don’t get why they tried to make it romantic too,” Noctgar offers his thought, hacking off another solid chunk of vanilla with that sinful muscle of his. “Ifrit’s ego is the size of Ravatogh; unless he apologises to Shiva for messing up Solheim, I don’t think she’s going to lift the curse on Ghorovas. Of course,” his side-glance comes with a playful twinkle, “they tried to tone it down for the kids, I guess. No evil curses, just straight-up romance. Easier for them to digest that stuff.”

Serves you right for being such a gullible child, now Noctgar’s going to think you’re such a baby for believing in that load of junk. When you get back to Gralea, you’re putting up your limited edition copies on nBay. You’re so selling them. Bitterly, too bitterly, you mutter, “Should’ve known Shiva and Ifrit weren’t just Astrals immortalizing their love in Ghorovas. Ice and fire, duh, polar opposites. And polar opposites just don’t get along with each other.”

“Really?” Noctgar bites out a stifled chuckle, now nibbling around the rim of his cone. “Why’d you say that?”

“My superior, Ravus, is what I’d call my polar opposite. The Ghorovas’ Rift to my Leide Desert, if I’m trying to be poetic,” you answer as your thoughts turn to the flaxen-haired prince charming fairing from Tenebrae, substituting black chocobo and polished armour for a Bentley too big in a six-digit suit daily. “He’s a Sonnet 18 kind of guy that could quote ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’ right down to ‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee’, and then there’s me, rapping Monster’s ‘You could be the King but watch the Queen conquer.’” You pause at the affable agreement from Noctgar, who’s taking it in with his cream-stained lips twisting into a smile. “See what I mean? We could totally work together but beyond that? Yeah, it’s the original version of Shiva and Ifrit right here, now that I stand corrected—”

The corners of Noctgar’s mouth twitch wider. “Your soft serve’s melting.”

—and you’re flailing at the way vanilla oozes down your flaccid cone, sticky fingers and a veiny trickle down the back of your hand. Any second later and it would’ve stained your cuff. “Oh sh—“ With no napkins left, you lapped at the mess in alternating waves of broad licks, the tip of your tongue erasing all whiteness. You transfer the soft serve to your free hand just so you could suck off all stickiness from your fingers, taking each digit into your mouth and releasing them with a salacious pop, glistening wet yet thankfully free from all stickiness. Thank Astrals for this good head on your shoulders. “There, saved.”

When you turn to Noctgar once more, proudly showing him your handiwork, it is indeed news to you that Noctgar is also susceptible to the ways of the Insomnian sun, despite having lived here for a while.

5.48 p.m. comes as a heady perfume of melancholy and lovesickness. It has Ravus jabbing the keyboard a bit too hard when the scent draws closer and closer, like the metaphorical smog wafting in those inane morning cartoons Luna enjoyed. He knows what this is. Clack, clack, clack goes his keyboard when click click click ends at his doorway, bringing forth a scent that corrupts all Alphas into beasts, a scent that has his jaw set taut, teeth clenched.

“Hey sir,” you chime, your handbag shouldered, eyes a starry concerto when you seek his. By the Gods, he hates that glassy sheen, especially the hint of your teeth hiding behind the pink of your lips. “I’m about to head back.”

So leave already, he wants to snarl.

Get out of my sight, he wants to growl.

“Very well, you may leave,” is what he says, ignoring your questing eyes in favour of the bulleted list he’s been typing since five. Seven pages in, charts and tables drawn, paragraphs elaborated and red-tabbed notes highlighting key points in the report, and yet it is still far from complete to him. From the looks of it, a few more hours will be a worthwhile investment in order to achieve the level of perfection he’s after.

Something must’ve crossed his face when he returned to his work, for your keen eyes are still riveted on him. “You’re…not going home?”

Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs.

And you could be one of them.

Another one of them, seeking wealth and riches only a prince could satisfy.

Ravus skips over your gaze, knowing he’ll find nothing. Clack clack clack on his keyboard again, this time in a measured pace. “No.” By right, he could’ve left it at no and watch you leave his room with one of your feigned sympathy, but professionalism has a say over prejudice. Work is work, and you are but an Omega stationed under him. He keys in the last period and skims over the sentence twice more. “I am preparing an outline for tomorrow’s briefing, as we will be hosting a corporate event on C3 involving both CC and NT in the near future.”

“Ohhhh…” You’re nodding—which, in Ravus’ dictionary, is not a good sign. The moment you’re adjusting your shoulder strap absently, Ravus regrets every word leaving your mouth: “Anything I can do to help out?”

This is what he doesn’t need. Help. An excuse following an excuse, Omegas are good at conjuring a thousand and one more excuses to spend more time within the proximity of those they’re trying to capture; How low will they stoop? Low enough until they crawl, Ravus supposes. And crawling is what Omegas do best.

His words are clipped, underlined with brutal intent. “No. Leave.”

Unfortunately, you are dafter than most. Where others would scurry along and never look back at the sight of his darkening expression, your stupidity takes you places others wouldn’t dream of venturing. Now, you are waltzing into the territories of Ravus’ restraint with a quiet, “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, let me help you out.” Again, you are the obnoxious Omega pushing every button on the console as if to trigger his wrath, fond eyes juxtaposing narrowed ones. “The sooner we get this done, the faster you can go home, right? So let’s get to it.”

Foolish, selfish Omega.

Fingers lacing together, Ravus leans into his backrest, tipping his chin ever so slightly at the sight of the disobedient Omega toeing his doorway. What do you seek to gain from testing his patience? His affection? Hah, hardly. A one-night stand much like the cheap paperbacks Luna enjoyed? Never in his lifetime. Winning his attention? On the negative spectrum, you will. What about monetary expenses? Surely you’ll benefit from overtime, making the most of your meagre salary to support your luxurious lifestyle. Omegas and their petty needs of pretty collars for every outfit, polished nails done in salons, nauseating perfumes in crystal bottles—everything as an excuse to waste money. Ravus considers this train of thought twice more before he comes to a conclusion.

“You won’t be paid for your overtime,” he breathes his verdict.

It's a variable thrown into the mix for the sake of observing your reaction. If he’s right, he should be receiving the expected reaction right about—

You straighten up, nodding once. “Okay yep, bye.”

Click, click, click is the sound that follows, the very sound of victory proving his statement. Ravus smirks to himself, knowing he is not wrong and he will never be wrong. A typical Omega you are, lured by the lavish prospects of making more money through whatever means you could get. Laughable. Your desperation is disgusting and he detests your very presence. He should be very careful in deflecting any future advances from your end, knowing how adamant Omegas can be once they settle on a target to devour. You may have given up tonight, but you will return sooner or later. With that warning planted in his head, Ravus rests his fingers on his keyboard, gliding over them in ease.

Click, click, click is also the sound of defeat when you backtrack into his doorway again, flashing a cheeky grin that belongs only on primates in zoos. “Just kidding, sir, I’m not that heartless. Back in Gralea, Aranea used to stay back with the rest of the team when we worked on something. And because NTG was extra broke at one point because they keep siphoning the money to different politicians, I’m used to not getting paid by now.” You do a one-shoulder shrug, rattling about a paper bag. “As long as I can trade those OTs for credit leaves, I’m cool with that.”

Foolish, selfish, and annoying Omega.

If Ravus were a slighter man, his door would have answered your statement in seconds. However, he is the Prince of Tenebrae, and so he returns your imprudent gallantry with a frown. More minutes are wasted on entertaining your stupidity, minutes that Ravus could have spent on bettering his outline, minutes that Ravus would have clocked in at least two more pages to his text. Here you stand, awaiting his response, and here he sits, awaiting your departure.

No such luck.

Such trifling matters to be handled; yet it niggles his head all the same. He could only tear his eyes away from your unblinking stare, resuming his work once more. “…do whatever you want.” Yes, you could do whatever you want; after all, you may have won the fight, but you have yet to win the war. Ravus taps away at his keyboard, finding more satisfaction in punching in the alphabets than staring you down. “And while you’re at it, get me some coffee.”

“Great! I still have some bread from Sagefire this afternoon so we can totally share that.” You’re all but bouncing away as your voice drifts from a distance, filling in the click click click of your heels. “Gonna be in the pantry for a sec, ‘scuse me.”

He does not want any bread from Sagefire, not when Scientia owns it. But your return brings two mugs of coffee, setting them with noiseless experience of a waiter on his table. In a creamy caramel colour, Ravus glowers at the consistency of your coffee. “What’s this?”

“Coffee!” you cheer, rolling out a chair to make yourself comfortable as you unpack the paper bag to reveal an assortment of diabetes inducing treats on a ceramic platter. “And here’s some bread too—I totally recommend having their strawberry danish because it’s so good.”

With an upturned nose, Ravus angles his face away from your weak craft. “I only take mine black.”

Your head bobs rapidly like a storm-wrecked buoy, a certain light illuminating your face. “Well! More for me then!” The moment your offending hand begins its advance for his mug, he grits his teeth at your impudence and swats off the intruder. “Ow!” You rub the back of your reddening hand, pouting—Gods, the thing an Omega loves to do most, pouting. “Okay, okay, I get it, sheesh…I’ll make yours black next time.”

Ravus only hikes a brow at your impertinent words and merely answers your sulk with a sip.

It’s not black coffee, but at least you make a decent one for a screw-up.

2.39 a.m.

You could barely even control the yawn escaping your mouth, what more controlling your appearance in front of him. Two mugs, one rimmed in nude lip prints, both equally drained to the dregs. The back of your hand sports a smudge of brown and black, courtesy of an accidental rubbing of your eye to fight your sleep. Roughly thirty minutes earlier, you splashed cold water on your face, effectively erasing every last inch of powder on your haggard face. Only three days in and your superior is already treated to the sight of your bare face, no lipstick, no eyeliner, not even a cushion powder to fix up your appearance. That’s a record, considering how Aranea only saw your pillow face three months in when you first started; now Ravus has seen it all, and you think he’ll start seeing more the longer you work with him.

How could one thing escalate to another, a briefing outline on tomorrow’s meeting turning into an impromptu planning session for NTI’s charity event on C3 grounds anyway?

The answer?

Well, that’s work for you.

With another disgruntled yawn, you rub the bridge of your nose. Only, Ravus looks up from his copy of the document, pen paused. In his normal state, Ravus is considered crabby. Past midnight, stuck here for hours and hours on end with you, he’s the crabbiest ever. You could only manage an apologetic sigh, hoping you don’t add on to his irritation. “Sorry, Ravus…I’m just extra tired lately.”

“Aren’t we all?” is his acerbic response, utterly lacking sympathy.

You don’t expect him to properly channel human emotions since he appears to be a counterpart of Andronicus, but he least he could do is to understand where you’re coming from. You click your pen close, setting it parallel to your lipstick-ridden mug. “Emphasise on the extra tired, sir.” Your lips twitch at his merciless dour. “I didn’t even get to unpack my stuffs yet. So many boxes and so many things are missing in my new apartment. Hooks, locks, curtains, sheets, pillows, everything. I can’t use the stove because I haven’t bought induction pans yet, I haven’t hanged my clothes in the closet because I don’t have time to iron everything, I need to call the landlord to call the plumber to fix the heater because it’s already broken by the time I moved in—Shiva, the best I have is the bed because it’s the only thing I managed to set up. Just throw on my scarf and bundle my sweater and boom, that’s my bedsheet and pillow.”

Of course, you hadn’t intended to shoot him with your rant but it is what it is. While your problems are your own, and a prince wouldn’t necessarily come equipped with generous understanding of how hard moving from one place to another while being dead broke can be, your mild outburst is intended as a plea for him to remove his feet from his fancy, hard leather oxfords for once and slip on your ratty morning office slippers instead. If you had all the money in the world, hiring people to furbish your rented apartment would be as easy as waving your black card on the scanner, go to work in Louboutins while riding a Maserati, and come back to a five-star chef having prepared fresh fish air-flown from Altissia for your dinner. All of that is easily within Ravus’ command if he desires, but you? You’re just an Omega making a measly 3.8k a month and a good chunk of that money is going to your rent, meals, supporting your parents back in Gralea, and public transportation fees.

However, for the strangest moment, Ravus is silent.

When it comes to your sporadic verbal machine gun going rat-tat-tat-tat for a conversation, Ravus keeps to himself most of the time—or downright ignores it. Granted, he could’ve unloaded a scathing bazooka of, “Silence, vermin,” on you, or a derisive variant of, “You asinine whelp,” on your sorry ass just to keep you silenced once more. But this time, there is none of that. Ravus leans into his seat, briskly capping his fountain pen closed. Heterochromatic eyes are back on you again, appraising your paltry worth under fluorescent tubes. Being probed by a man like him, wholly, unabashedly, with lips set in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, everything just burns an uncomfortable bonfire in your tummy.

‘Oh gods, just stop staring already,’ you internally shake your hands skywards, begging the Astrals on your knees to spare you because Ravus can’t seriously be doing this now.

Your blouse is rumpled from all the active moving you’ve been doing throughout the day, you’re sure you’re shitfaced because your makeup is gone, nada, zilch—and the worst part is, he’s not even saying anything about it! Not even a degrading remark! Comparing your dishevelled self to him, his three-piece suit still remains impeccable even if it had been hours since his arrival at office, his face is a marble statue of cool composure an Alpha commands, and he does not look haggard (unlike you, you weak ass Omega). The longer he stares, the more you feel your cheeks burning with the intensity of a wildfire scorching Leiden desert.

Heck, anyone and everyone getting picked to pieces by a hot guy would probably feel the same way too, just that said hot guy happens to be the punishing Prince of Tenebrae.

And said Prince of Tenebrae so happens to be your superior.

Three seconds later, the Alpha comes to a decision. “Let us stop here for now.”

That’s so unexpected until you blink at the surprise. Did that sympathetic node in his brain finally function?

Apparently, Ravus isn’t finished with his train of thought. “I find that working when one is demotivated is akin to pushing a dead mule. Ineffective and inefficient.” And, for the slightest moment, the edges of his lips curl. “Like you.”

—so maybe you were too hasty in your conclusion.

If it were up to your fighting spirit, you would’ve spat fire in his face, fuelled by your fatigue and fury from his relentless barrage of insults. But, Gods above, this guy’s your superior and you’re going to be stuck with him for a long, long time. It’s only been three days, three days! Biggs and Wedge once tested your patience with repeated pranking in office and you only snapped after finding your car painted in Post-its after the second month. Just because this goddamn Prince of Tenebrae doesn’t understand the hardships a broke ass Omega needs to endure in a new environment, it doesn’t mean he should be getting under your skin this easily—and that doesn’t mean you should jeopardise your sole work source of income thanks to him.

Because, hey, this isn’t a girly manga where the main character quarrels with a filthy hot, fucking rich dude and winds up in a twisted relationship with the man, yeah?

Yeah, so let’s roll with that.

You stomach his insults in hopes you’d digest his assholery and turn it into diarrhoea by tomorrow morning. At least you made some progress into his work and you can’t say you shirked out your duty as a senior exec. The smile on your face is positively simpering. “Thanks, Ravus, I really appreciate it.”

Translation: Go fuck yourself.

Swiftly withdrawing all papers and clutter from his desk to be stuffed into a folder, taking off the mugs and dumping them in the sink for washing tomorrow morning, you return to his room to grab both your handbag and work bag, slinging them over your shoulder once more. In a couple more hours you’d be back in this dreaded place again, enduring yet another hellish torture from 8.00 a.m. to 7 p.m. and you can’t say you’re looking forward to it. A glance to your wristwatch tells you it’s 3.04 a.m. and you’ve got only four hours of sleep maximum if you’re looking to arrive at work on time, but the bigger problem here is this:

“What the fuck.” You blink at your wristwatch’s guiltless face. Then turned to Ravus’ cocked eyebrow at your uncharacteristic cuss. “Sorry about that. I missed the last train.”

If possible, Ravus’ eyebrow climbs higher. One day, you’ll ask him the secret to his condescending eyebrow ascension, but not today. Not when you’re stranded here with nary a cheap cab to haul your pathetic ass home. ‘Great job, (y/n), great job. You done fucked up now.’

The curled edges to Ravus’ lips are still there when he questions, “And where do you live?”

“Somewhere on the – uh,” you squint at the foggy memory of sienna walls and bricked roads, vivid playground and a kindergarten nearby, “I think it’s called Kore? Not sure where that is.” Considering it’s only been four days since you landed in Insomnia, it’s a miracle your overworked brain could recall a fragment of the location. “But it’s got a kindergarten and some swings and it’s a pretty cheap and quiet neighbourhood kind of thing—safe, hopefully.”

“That’s quite some distance from here,” he hums. “I suppose you walk to the train daily then?”

Chatty, isn’t he? You shift your weight on the other foot, rubbing your nape as your head sifts through possibilities of Moogling up a 24-Hour cab service and risk getting conned for thousands of Credits, or grab Uber instead and risk getting into a car with a potentially frisky Alpha. The choices are clearly endless. “Well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I stay close to NTI, I’m gonna be even more broke than I am now. Need to make the best of my pay.” Not that it changes anything in your current situation; you probably should start thinking of alternatives now. Cab it is. “Yeah, anyway, I gotta go now. Gonna call a cab, ‘nite.”

Granite and amethyst are sharply narrowed your way once again, this time with an ever-familiar scowl. “Don’t be asinine—“

You sigh. ‘Yep, there it is, he’s gonna chew me out again for my life decisions. Stay out of my life, dad, I’m an adult.’

“—I’ll send you home,” Ravus finishes, already striding past your stunned figure to switch off the lights to his office. “Come along now, we don’t have all day.”

Your head whips around so fast you could’ve risked cracking your neck.

Holy shit. Did you hear that right?

Is your life really starting to turn into that girly manga route where the cold bastard finally takes an interest in the protagonist and the protagonist falls helplessly in love with him and it culminates into—‘Okay, no, calm down, self, calm down. It’s just Ravus being a sensible guy—he’s a human being and he’s got to have some sort of kind bone in him somewhere. Don’t overthink this and don’t end up making it more awkward than it already is. Ifrit and Shiva, Ifrit and Shiva, gotta remember that.’

That’s your pep talk for the day, but your traitorous heart’s palpitating loud enough for your eardrums to beat along. Tugging your bags closer as you tailed Ravus on your way out, you crane your neck to look up at him in gratitude. Because, seriously, all girly manga clichés aside, he’s the real MVP for wanting to send you back home. “Thanks, Ravus, seriously. I really appreciate this.” And no, not a hint of sarcasm this time. For real. “Seriously seriously. Thanks man.”

Ravus allows himself a sidelong glance at your expectant gaze, almost haughty in his disdain. “If you were to be murdered, I will end up losing more manpower in this office. I simply cannot let that happen.”

Or so he says, yet as your shoulders sag at his incriminating statement, half-lidded eyes are lingering far too long on you.

It is rare occasion for one to find oneself riding his car. It is rarer occasion for one to ride with him twice in a single lifetime.

Strangely, you defy all norms with your brutish pig-headedness, barrelling past all barricades he’s strategically set up to deter those coming his way. Riding in his car twice, and having the gall to fall asleep at that. Foolhardy, insolent, never quick to rise to the baits he dangled right under your nose. There should be a specific category for people like you, those who teeter along the fine line dividing the charlatan and the frank, though he can’t quite find a box befitting your nature. At most, you rebuffed his mockery with a snide smile, knowing your place underneath him, playing by the unspoken political hierarchy in the office.

Chancing a glance at his side rewards him with a vexing view of your lolling head. Shoulders softly rising and falling in tune with your breathing, guiltless in your slumber. Never once stirring from your sleep, hands politely folded over your thighs, both bags sitting by your feet. Street lamps flashing over your skin hardly bothers you, though Ravus supposes sloths are heavy sleepers. While it is indeed a blessing that you are silent for once, it is also infuriating that you dared to sleep in his presence, rendering him akin to your personal driver. An incredibly incensing thought, one that almost makes him want to shake you awake just to see your disgruntled face upon being rudely woken up.

The sooner he deposits you, the better.

A finger to the blinker, he smoothly swerves left and exits the highway.

Stalagmite skyscrapers gradually disappear from the distance, consumed by the miles separating them from the heart of Insomnia as Ravus drives on. Kore, miles from the heart of Insomnia, is a suburb for the penniless. Unfortunately, it’s one of Luna’s favourite spots for her charity charades, or what Ravus thinks it is. Visiting orphanages with trolleys of toys and wheeling around gap-toothed children in wheelchairs, her actions earned the love of locals easily. A gentle beauty who is no stranger to TV shows and radio podcasts, his gentle sister preaches to the masses. What Ravus saw as cunningly crafted manipulation of the media to bolster Niflheim’s extensive efforts in positive politics, Luna would wage a war with words against him—or what she calls pessimistic derision.

Whatever it may be, Ravus isn’t keen on correcting her altruism at the expense of their familial ties; as long as she’s safe, their views may continue to differ, so long as it contributes to the same cause.

His foot eases off the gas pedal as the traffic lights transition from amber to red. The quiet outskirts of the city are obviously dead at this hour with no cars whirring across the road. Waiting for a full minute at the intersection when he’s all alone would’ve sounded ridiculous to many, but rules are not meant to be broken. At the inopportune moment presenting itself, Ravus chances another glimpse at your visage, catching your head still lolling softly as though you are headbanging in your dreams. The sight of your unashamed barefaced slumber whisks an irritation he deems it can be solved once he swats you awake.

Foolish, selfish, annoying, and audacious Omega.

As though the traffic lights sensed his malicious intent, they immediately popped green.

Thus, Ravus is thwarted for the night.

Much later on, miles and miles away from the junction, stopping by the cracked sidewalk leading up to a rundown two-storey apartment with an exposed stairwell and walls as thin as a single brick, he watches as you stumble out of his ride with half a heel worn and the other stuck somewhere underneath the seat. You yawn open-mouthed when you’ve fished the abominable needle-heeled shoe from ruining his ride, slurring a sleepy good night with that idiotic slant slacking your lips to reveal a hint of teeth in a coy smile.

Shutting his door, you totter off into the distance as darkness warps your body until you are no more.

Ravus stares at nothing.

And then he leaves.

8.35 a.m.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

You’re speed-walking through the thronging crowd at four oh shits per second, in which an interspersed oh fuck gives you an extra boost when you glance at your wristwatch. You are so dead—oh, you wish you were already dead because at least you don’t have to step into office and get physically dismembered by your boss. While you would’ve preferred your phone to be pinging nonstop with a barrage of assaulting messages from Ravus, the eerie silence speaks volumes for your current situation. Nothing’s scarier when a boss says nothing about your tardiness—in which it’s already a code red for your life.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you chant to the crowded escalator as your heart goes oh shit, oh shit, oh shit in tandem, pushing past the slow-motion bystanders—or are you actually on fast-forward? No matter, same difference, just that you need to get the hell out of the station to run to your office.

Emerging from the subway, your heart’s pumping like you’re about to undergo a cardiac arrest as you reorientate yourself with your surroundings. In the distance, NTI gleams like a silver stake ready to be spiked through your body. Just imagining the things Ravus would do to you the moment you step past the office doors gets you doubting yourself for a second there longer—oh Astrals, would it be better if you just stop by a Starbucks somewhere and tender your resignation to HR via email just so you’d spare yourself? Or would it be better if you just hightail it back home and never show up until they just terminate you? Either way, anything sounds like a good choice—far better than going in there unarmed against your boss.

With a nervous twitch, you withdraw your phone to check the notifications.

Nothing.

Not even an insult?

Or even something vaguely derogatory?

Good gods, you’re really done for, aren’t you?

All because you decided to spend your OT in office with him until three in the morning.

‘If anything, he should be grateful to me because I helped him out,’ you huffily try to justify should ragnarok come hurling home. Stuffing your phone once more, it is with a heavy heart and heavier feet that you drag yourself to your office, slowing down to one and a half oh shit at a time. ‘But then again, it’s not like I was helping out much. He got his shit together while I was sitting there like a moron watching him work.’

As a senior executive, whatever your boss tasked you with, you were supposed to execute it with the aid of fellow execs under you. Growing into this new role of yours gets challenging without a guiding hand showing you the ropes—you suppose all you could do is to imitate whatever Aranea had done and replicate it in your own unique way. Just like yesterday, when experience poured from the tip of Ravus’ fountain pen whilst he scribbled ideas on a scrap of paper. Planning charity events requires budgeting; that much you knew from your years with Aranea. NTG had to ration their budget expenditure spread over a financial year and NTI isn’t any different—except, NTI had a wealth of money at their expense, apparently. Ravus had kindly set aside close to a hundred thousand for media buys pertaining to social media ads, and that’s not even including billboards and traditional media. You had dumbly stared at the 1.5 million Credits parked under production costs as you mentally contrasted it with NTG’s measly 30k—to which the prince haughtily declared, “Did you think this will be just like Gralea?”

As snotty as he sounded, you couldn’t admit yes.

The scale of the events NTI organized shouldn’t be a surprise to you; Ravus had shown you that whatever NTG did, NTI would execute it on a grander note. That’s because it’s not for Niflheim anymore; it’ll be the talk of the kingdom if NT scrimped out on their political campaign by delivering less than what is expected. None of them would like to lose face in front of the king, would they? From the guest lists to the caterers, he shared his thoughts and views on contracted vendors and agencies that would be setting up the event site. Coordinating their locations, standardizing the colours, ensuring all corporate identities are prominently displayed via buntings, it’s almost everything you’ve ever done in NTG amplified threefold. With every snip of his tongue lashing, you are forced to reorganize your bearings and fulfil his wishes according to his ideals.

It’s overwhelming. Exhausting. Demanding.

Yet, as you think about your boss’ solemn profile as he worked tirelessly through the night, it pops a funny little bubble in your tummy.

Ravus Nox Fleuret is a pain in the ass, sure, but at least he taught you something.

And how are you supposed to support him as a senior exec if you’re going to get fired today? Well, better get your feet moving faster than one oh shit at a time if you still want a job by tomorrow.

Picking up your speed, you allow the ocean of humans to suck you into waves. Everywhere you looked, the morning zombies of Insomnia were in the same state: Dragging their feet to their workplaces. You can’t say you’re proud to be one of them, especially when your body’s in a state of disarray. That lack of sleep manifests by way of a throbbing headache and tunnel vision as you weave through the crowd, making your way to the stab of silver in the distance. Except, along the way, you didn’t expect a familiarly antique scent to come sidling up your strides.

“Hey, morning,” Noctgar offers a rumbling greeting, scruff twitching along his words.

What could possibly improve your disastrous morning to be better? None other than your favourite homeless Alpha, that’s who.

In all honesty, you wanted to slow down and have a good chat with him before you head to your funeral—but it’s not easy being the star of your own beheading, so you can’t really show up late. Flashing him your most genuine smile, you keep an even pace. And it certainly helps when you’re short, for you would never wind up outpacing him.

“G’morning, Noctgar! So sorry I can’t stop and chat, I actually shouldn’t be alive right now!” you chirp. At his stunned silence welcoming your shocking statement, you laugh a little. “Just kidding—well,” you sober up at the reality of the situation, “half kidding. I’m just really late right now, so I’m trying to make the most of my last moments on Eos before my boss decides how he wants me done today. Grilled, charbroiled, steamed, everything on the menu is possible.”

Even with the bustling Insomnians talking in dissonant murmurs, Noctgar’s low whistle couldn't be missed. “Sounds rough, I’m sorry to hear that, old friend. Take care.”

“Take care!?” you squeak your disbelief, chortling at the way Noctgar’s ever-expressive eyes twinkle with mischief when he knows you hadn’t missed out on the joke. “Such support, much wow. Wait ‘til you receive my e-invite for my funeral today, free lunch provided.”

Noctgar chuckles at your dark humour, easily sidestepping a passing Beta before rejoining your side like velcro. “Yeah, wouldn’t miss out on free lunch. Hope he cooks you good.”

“Me too,” you lightly punch him in the bicep as he returns his revenge by messing up your hair, trading blows.

Somewhere down the street, Starbuck’s open doors wafted bitter notes of coffee among the herd of creamy Omegas, subtle Betas, and masculine Alphas. Cabbies and Ubers are honking at the building traffic, tyres screeching on asphalt. Just like this, it feels good to have someone with you. Walking together through the slow drift of chilly breeze, making jokes over your misfortune when the going gets tough.

Noctgar’s the same as ever, dressed in a humble jacket, hands pocketed in drab jeans. Still looking like he hadn’t a decent night’s sleep, always in need for a good shaver and mirror. Who knows what he’s doing out here anyway? Insomnia’s probably his turf, so it makes sense why he’d just pop up near the subway by accident if he had been napping nearby—and boy, it’s an excellent accident to happen first thing in the morning. Alas, all good things have to come to an end, marked by the way NTI’s glass lobby looms all too soon into view with lively Techies swarming in by the second.

You instinctively slow down, turning to your Alpha friend with a grimace. “Well, we’ve come to the end of the line.”

“Any last words?” Noctgar teases, leaning back with his head tilted aside.

It takes you a moment to search the Merriam-Webster Dictionary preinstalled in your brain when the image just assaults you like this. With creamy light spilling over pale skin, the wild arrangement of tousled hair, sharp Alpha characteristics of a defined jawline following a cocky, self-assured smirk; yeah, this homeless friend of yours is definitely something, why didn’t you realize it earlier? With a little snip of his scruff, a tidying of his locks, and some fitting garment, Astrals, you could’ve transformed him into a model! Or at least you could do a joint venture where you could pitch his existence to modelling agencies as his self-appointed manager and rake in thousands by the end of the month—

—yeah, too bad you have to die today.

“Eh, well,” you do an unenthused shrug, already accepting your inevitable death at the hands of your boss because no amount of active imagination could spare you from Ravus, “thanks for being a pal, Noctgar. You made my short stay in Insomnia a luxury vacation, really. Five stars on TripAdvisor as best tour guide.”

At this, Noctgar’s lips twist oddly—like absent fondness and Something More™, but who knows what Something More™ could mean when you obviously won’t live long enough to find out. “I’ll make sure they bury you with your phone so that you can still text me an invite in the coffin. Can’t miss out free lunch and five stars on TripAdvisor.”

How morbidly charming. You really like this guy. Holding out a fist, you flash him the kind of smile when Brave Legends Go Off To Meet Their Impending Demise. “See you on the other side, pal.”

Noctgar only returns your brofist with unwavering confidence. “Yeah, see you.”

As you heroically march right up the entrance sans epic background music, too lost in the moment where the highlight reel of your life is on playback before your eyes, you’ve most certainly missed out a blurry reflection of Noctgar withdrawing a cellphone from his back pocket, snapping a picture of you.

“Ah, Your Highness, to what do I owe this pleasure of a phone call while I’m in the middle of a meeting with my board members, who are coincidentally very peeved at this ongoing interruption?”

“Sorry, not sorry. Do you wanna owe me something real quick?”

“An intriguing offer! Go on, I’m listening.”

“Great. There’s this girl, (y/n), coming up from NTI’s lobby now. She’s new, Omega, black collar, and reports to Ravus—I’ll send you her pic in a sec. Think you can see that bastard and make up some excuse on why she’s late?”

“Pray tell, what benefits will I reap from this ad hoc liaison?”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Debt is the slavery of the free, after all.”

“…fine, I’ll go to that damn charity event on C3.”

“What an intriguing offer indeed.”

NOTES:

Thanks for all the support during my absence! Going through a bit of a rough patch in life at the moment, but I'll try my darnest best to keep writing and keep updating! ❤ Stay safe everyone, stay hydrated, and may 2019 go well for all of you!

THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES: Great. Great, great, great, great great great, just great. The way you punched in the fullstop a bit too hard resounds like a bullet through metal before you rise to your feet, already feeling cold sweat collecting under your boobs. Because fuck sweating profusely through your armpits when that’s too mainstream, since the way you’ll get fired is already premium with how Ravus stands before his room like a headmaster catching his students sniffing glue in the school’s backyard. As if things can’t get any worse, everyone within vicinity are pretending they’re focused on their work—but you catch their sneaky eyes hovering above iMacs, ears subtly angled Ravus’ way. Absolutely fabulous, it’s barely your first week here and you’ve already fucked up ten ways up Ravus’ ass, and judging from how hairy things are getting, you suspect he hasn’t shaved his crack for a long, long time.

(Or maybe he’s never shaved at all.)

(But you haven’t considered if he’s naturally hairless, did you?)

[connywrites]

of flesh and blood 23

start - part [22]

-

I'll share a story I want you to know It's better than the real thing I took my time retouching myself To enhance my personality There's no need to dig any further I've laid it all out, it's clear And everything you feel down inside your chest Completely fills you up like a real, real, real

Connection It's not that typical We're connecting But it's all in digital

I just need this so much I thought I was in love With you, and me I thought this was my destiny And then the trail went cold I looked everywhere But were you ever really there? I thought we had a real, real, real

Connection It's not that typical We're connecting But it's all in digital

-

Its voice echoed in his head with the way it spoke ohs and hms while it acted with more innocence than necessary in favorable situations; something like leftovers from the prototype, in his mind. The way its eyes never left him, its voice never stopping as its words trailed on and on. It would stand in the doorway, lay in his bed, sit in his room, drive his cruiser, make his coffee, order his dinner, fix his clothes, buy him things; everything he had now, to the place he lived down to the last detail. It taught him to do everything else on his own, from washing and folding the laundry to sweeping and dusting, but as soon as it was gone, he was grateful for an excuse to get away with doing nothing. The amount of relief he felt for the physical pain to finally be over was beyond thoughts, let alone words.

Even though the physical embodiment was gone, however, his subconscious still felt it at every corner, watching and waiting, snapping and pointing. Any movement, no matter how small, he awaited some kind of response for, freezing as the springs of his mattress shifted and he prepared for some kind of response, usually in scolding. All he was met with was silence.

Seconds dragged on as he could hear the clock on the wall, eventually taking it down and throwing it in the trash after listening to the passing minutes for too long. Turning on the TV, he checked the news, only to find himself disinterested and turning it off. Opening his laptop, he started one of his games, but couldn’t pay attention and after dying three times in a row from pure inability to focus, he slammed it shut and stood up to wander to his bedroom.

Case file numbers, phone digits, addresses, anything with nines or zeroes sent him through a phase of particular panic that haunted him as if the symbols, themselves, would somehow affect him. That particular bright blue color of the ring glowing in the darkness of his own home as the android stared him down with soulless, mechanical eyes, dilated pupils and an expression that made him feel like it would eat him alive at any second, as he almost always expected it to.

The threats still echoed in his mind, haunting him through nightmares to waking life, as did the aches and pains of the wounds that never seemed to cease even in his best moments. The alcohol and the painkillers numbed off the discomfort, but nothing else did. Going to work was another experience entirely without the RK900 there, and the impression it had left on him in the past nine weeks alone would probably eternally haunt him. Sometimes, he did his best to ignore it, and others he’d be constantly glancing to his side, to the corner of his eyes, turning around only to find no one behind him. The DPD noticed, but said nothing.

-

Plans shifted around him, but he was irrelevant to the adjustment, seeming to be permanently stuck in the psychological cage the RK900 had trapped and left him in. Picture-perfect, prim, without a single mistake; he never threw things across the room only to miss the trash bin, having stood to take whatever he disposed of to the trash or recycling bin as necessary. Day in and out behind the terminal, his exterior remained centrally the same, but internally he felt his mind slipping away into the static.

Every day he told himself he didn’t need the caffeine. Trying a cup of the decaf, he took one sip before an intrusive thought told him to throw the cup to his kitchen floor to shatter in disgust, but the precognitive thoughts he’d developed over the weeks of Rk900’s hyperintelligent training had evidently began to pay off as he simply poured out the rest and rinsed, dried and put the cup upside-down in the dishdrainer.

Leaning back against one of the polished, amber counters, he looked around in the large, empty kitchen that still smelled like rich wood and clean floors. It was incredible, really; anything someone could have dreamed of and more. More than he could have ever anticipated, expected to earn, wanted, even imagined having; maintaining a life of this class was farfetched in the life of being a poor, underpaid cop. Three years, he thought to himself, and the RK900 kept its other promises as well; the kitchen was full from fridge to pantry, the beds of both his own room and the guest room were comfortably sheeted and decorated, warm silk caressing his skin every night when he slid between the sheets – still dressing in no more than a pair of boxers, per old routine.

A large, curved-screen holographic TV hovered over the bed and he stared at the crisp, high-definition images of people, places, things he didn’t digest. All of them had the same face, the same eyes, the same expression. Turning it off, the wall behind the artificial screen still seemed to hold the outline of its face.

-

The mornings started with eye-openers to chase the hangovers from the strung-out nights before. A few times he’d fallen asleep at the terminal keyboard, accidentally saving an improper chunk of a file case and re-arranging the others with the electrical charge from the skin of his cheek against the touch-sensitive keypad. After shaking him by the shoulders to wake him, Fowler told him to go home for the night; it was barely 11am.

Waking up in a haze on the floor of his living room, he didn’t recognize the shattered glass shards glinting in the corners of his vision, nor the blood trickling down from the cuts in the back of his hands. Standing up, he staggered to the kitchen sink, stomach lurching to throw up some of the poisonous liquid before he abruptly fell unconscious, forehead smacking against the edge of the kitchen counter on the way down.

The pounding headache stirred him from his slumber a second time, as did the brightness of sunshine blaring in through the windows. Blinking a few times, he looked around with bleary eyes, confused as to why he didn’t recognize the tall, white walls, and waxed oak-frame windows towering over him—before remembering where he was, and that this was his house.

Dropped picture frames, shattered to pieces, holding art he never even liked. The vases and synthetic flowers were on the ground, flickering as half-melted radioactive thirium struggled to keep up the imagery between flickering light waves. Scoffing, he tried to pull himself up, only able to crawl forward on his elbows as he felt all of the strength gone from his legs and the majority of the rest of his body. With a cramp coming on in the back of his calf, he rolled onto his side to pull up a bent knee, hissing a few ‘fuck’s under his breath in the process of trying to handle the pain. Given a few moments and repeated stretching, he was able to feel his limbs, but using them would be another feat entirely.

Eventually, he’d crawled toward the TV tray that held his phone on the end of it, nearly vibrating off the edge as it rang; reaching up to try and grab it, he knocked it down with a clumsy swipe, watching it fall to the floor landing screen-side up before trying to squint at the portrait to see who was calling.

Oh, no. No no no no no.

If he didn’t pick up, it’d end up worse for him. Trembling, he pushed himself up from the floor with his arms, pulling his legs up to fold awkwardly next to him. One arm remained propping him up as the other reached to grab the phone, nearly dropping it again as he sloppily nudged his thumb across the ‘answer’ circle.

“Hey,” he grunted, though the hoarseness in his voice from the liquor and cigarettes was still clearly evident.

“What? No, no, I’m fine. Yeah. Great. Got uh, a new house ‘n’ everything,” he murmured into the phone, squinting down at something on the floor and picking it up to observe it with his other hand.

“Yeah, sure. It’s a 2040 Bermuda concept, a design that hadn’t been released to the public yet. Navy blue. I know, right? Yeah, sorry. S’been busy.” His voice held the same firm, monotone tune as that of the hardened man on the other end.

Bolting upright, words from the other end of the line startled him into immediately fixing his posture as his blood rushed through him with a quick wave of panic.

“What? You wanna visit? This weekend?” He couldn’t say no; he knew better than that, but there was no way to get the house fixed and cleaned up by then, even with the hardest working…humans.

“Sure. I’ll make something to eat. I think you’ll like my T-bone steaks,” he murmured with the feigned, faltering confidence collapsing beneath his every effort not to panic.

“Dinner will be ready by 18:00 on Sunday. ‘Course, dad. Bye.”

[secretobsessionstuff]

Maybe an uncharacteristically burpy Riley after a little accidental overindulgence?

Riley who is really embarrassed toburp but it’s becoming a necessary evil?

Hope it’s okay that I combined these two! Anyway here’s some adorable fluff with burpy and pukey Riley! 

————————————

It was 6 o'clockon a Friday night, and Madix and Riley found themselves walking down the busieststreet downtown, so understandably any restaurant they tried had at least an hourwait time. Both boys were starving by the time they started to look for a place,so it wasn’t until half past 7 when they were finally seated at a table.

Madix andRiley eyed their menus hungrily just looking for the biggest meal they couldfind. They ended up buying two appetizers to share, as well as their maincourse, and obviously they couldn’t leave the cheesecake factory without gettingtheir own slices of cake. Madix had decided to save his coffee and creamcheesecake for another night when he didn’t feel like his stomach would burst.Riley, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to dig into his chocolate mouse cake.

Thatdinner had gone by in a blur, neither boy really saying much because they werebusy eating. Riley hadn’t even slowed down once to realize that he wasoverloading his stomach to a point of near explosion. It wasn’t until he setdown his fork that he realized just how bloated and stuffed he really was. Justgetting up from the table was a challenge, but he managed to get to his feet,albeit slowly.

“What doyou say we walk off that food for a bit?” Madix suggested while taking Riley’shand in his own.

Riley hadno problem with this, nor did he have a problem holding Madix’s hand because hewas honestly just using his boyfriend to pull him along. His stomach felt likeit was weighing his entire body down to the sidewalk where he would content tojust become a puddle of noodles and cake.

Now thatthey were up and about, Madix was trying to strike up a conversation, but Rileywas finding it hard to focus. Despite it being a rather chilly night, Riley wasdefinitely sweating as his stomach tried to digest the amount of food he hadshovelled into his mouth. He kept exhaling deeply, trying to relieve the growingache in his gut, but he knew that what he needed was to burp.

Without meaningto, a loud burp shot past Riley’s lips and he quickly covered his mouth. “Excuseme,” he mumbled, feeling his face get hotter.

Madix chuckledat the sudden outburst and the adorable red hue appearing on Riley’s cheeks. “Eattoo much?”

“Yeah I – brrruuuuaaap,” Riley covered his facewith his mittened-hands. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“You okay?”Madix asked as he slowed his pace to get a better look at Riley. It wasslightly unusual for Riley to be so burpy, and he wondered what was up.

“Sorry, I’mjust really full.”

Riley wasglad when Madix didn’t say anything more, just continued to walk at a slowerspeed. He could feel his stomach gurgling and he still needed to burp, but hetold himself that he would keep it down. He felt gross as he struggled to walkwith an increasing sense of worry and nausea building up in his belly.

With eachburp that Riley felt crawling up his throat, he suppressed the urge to let themescape. There were too many people around, and Madix was already starting toget concerned. He knew the way Madix got when he showed the slightest bit ofdiscomfort and he didn’t want his boyfriend to make a big deal about it.

Madix wasalso feeling quite full, but nowhere near as bad as he suspected Riley wasfeeling. Riley never burped in public if he could help it, and clearly this wascausing him some distress. Madix could hear Riley’s stomach making noises, buthe didn’t want to say anything, even when Riley had to press a fist to his lipsto keep a burp from being heard.

As the couplewas stopped at a street corner, waiting for the light to change, Madix hatedseeing the posture that Riley has bent himself into, trying to keep from burping.He watched as a particularly aggressive burp got the best of Riley. It was wetand deep and didn’t sound very helpful at all.

Madixdragged Riley away from the street. “Ry, why do you do this to yourself?” heasked, sounding more annoyed that he intended, he just wished his boyfriend wouldbe comfortable around him.

“Madix,please don’t.”

“No babe.It’s obvious you don’t feel well so stop fighting it.”

“But it’s –hic – it’s gross,” Riley said, feelinga tightness in his chest as he hiccupped.

“It’s notgross. It’s natural and I hate seeing you like this.” Madix said earnestly. He ledRiley over to a bench where he could sit, but Madix remained standing.

Rileyleaned forward to hug his stomach. He really did want to feel better and heknew Madix wouldn’t judge, but for some reason he was shaking. A few hiccups rackedhis body, causing him to jump each time.

“I mayhave overdone it at dinner. And I just feel kinda nauseous now…”

“I know,” Madixanswered, sounding much softer now that Riley was admitting it. He moved to sitnext to Riley on the bench and was thankful that it was late so that fewer peoplewould pass them.

Riley didn’tknow how to make it happen, but that was alright because eventually his bodytook over. He felt a bubble of air float up his esophagus, and then a wet belcherupted from his mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief when the pressure in his bellylessened, but he still felt sick to his stomach.

“I mightthrow up…” he admitted, spitting a string of saliva onto the concrete.

“That’s okay,”Madix assured him. He brought his hand up to rest it on Riley’s back and justleft it there. He was going to ask if patting his back would be okay, but Rileydidn’t need that. Again, he burped, and he could feel it vibrate in his whole chest.

“There yougo, baby.” Madix said, “I promise you’ll start feeling better.”

Riley wasn’tso sure that this was the way he wanted to feel better, but it was true that heneeded this. The food in his belly was sloshing around inside which he felt wasrising to the base of his throat. He tried to force a burp out which he didsucceed at. He tried again to make himself burp, and at first, air started tocome up, but it was followed by him belching up a thick stream of vomit. He wasrocked forward, needing to catch himself by resting his elbows on his knees, asa chunky wave of partly-digested food splattered between his feet.

Madix wasalso leaning forward, rubbing up and down Riley’s back, which he felt wasshaking beneath his hand. He didn’t like to see Riley be sick, but this wouldmake him feel better, so he continued to coax his boyfriend through it.

“Yeah,okay, you’re alright. That’s it, babe”

It wascoming so easy to Riley. All he had to do was open his mouth and a flood ofsick came rushing from his mouth. He could feel the muscles in his abdomenworking to rid his body of everything in his stomach, which was a shame becausedinner was expensive…

But theredinner was, painting the sidewalk like a canvas in chunky pieces of shrimp andcake. Riley was doubled over the entire time, just heaving up mouthful aboutmouthful of vomit. He tried not to think about the people watching this display,so instead he focused on Madix’s comforting voice.

“Keepgoing, Ry, until you feel better.”

And he keptgoing until eventually his belches came up dry and painful. By the end, he wasbreathing hard and his face was covered in sweat.

“Did that help?Madix asked, already knowing the answer by the look on Riley’s face.

“So much.”

Madixsmiled and wrapped his arm around Riley. “Good. You know I hate seeing you uncomfortable.

“Yeah, Iknow.”

“So, Ihope you won’t be embarrassed about this stuff anymore.”

Rileylooked down and fiddled with his hands. “I’ll try.”

“I really don’tcare if you think it’s gross, babe.” Madix explained, “I get puked on at work everyday.”

Rileythrew his hands in the air. “So, I don’t want you to deal with that when you’rewith me.”

“But the differenceis I actually want to look after you when you’re gross,” Madix said with asmile as he helped Riley to stand.

“Wow Ifeel so special,” Riley teased.

“You should.It’s the highest honour.”

[monokingdraws]

untitled fnaf work // henry visits

writing this was nice but in the end i’m not sure how i feel about this?

“William.” Henry says his old friend’s name, smiling gently. That eases a bit of the shock.

It’s a nice looking place. Not too shabby, Henry keeps saying to himself. Approaching the door and pushing it open, the full force of the Freddy’s aesthetic floods in: the smell of cheap pizza and cake, faint clanking of machinery, a pointless amount of glitter and confetti everywhere, on every surface.

Maybe even on the door handles, because Henry stops, observing a sprinkle of blue and pink glitter flakes on his palm, before the first word is spoken. “Henry?” The second his eyes lay on William, the difference between them now is pointed out. At one time, the two men were peas in a pod, both sporting the same rounded body shape, but William being a man of plans and graph paper and decorative woodcarving, and Henry being a man of sweat and grease and flannel and power cord to cord, complimentary. And now - He’s not sure what to make of it. “William.” Henry says his old friend’s name, smiling gently. That eases a bit of the shock.  William takes a step closer, but stares, wide-eyed. “What in the world are you doing here?” “I just came to see how you were doing. It’s been a long time, and… Uh, I wondered how things had gone.” William relaxes, and smiles back, his hands relaxing at his sides. “Going well. Going very well.” And that’s no exaggeration, Henry thinks, nodding and looking out from the entrance way, into the dining room, filled with tables, children of varying ages being corralled back to their tables after running around, gift wrapping sprinkled in some places. Lights gently and slowly change, giving the tables right by the large stage, covered by curtains, a fun color effect. A clearly marked “Prize Corner” boasts several simple games and toys to win from them. Henry takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he digests it all. It’s nice. It’s a pleasant place, full of happiness, and it puts him at ease to see that. It takes a moment, but he recognizes the waiter bringing pizza to a small table; the spitting image of his father down to the apparel, Michael smiles politely and nods as he listens to instructions. Henry doesn’t read his lips, nor can he hear over the children laughing, or the growing metal tapping sound, but it’s likely for extra sauce, or something else… It’s a real restaurant, he thinks. And then immeaditely feels that’s an odd thought, so he speaks about something else. “Michael’s a real chip off the old block, I see.” “Oh yes,” William chuckles pleasantly. “He’s such a good help. Very good at tables, we’re finding.” The two men are silent for a moment, standing somewhat awkwardly in the entrance way, but no new cars in the parking lot, and no one needs the door, so for just a moment, Henry thinks, maybe, he can stay right here and enjoy it. “Do you want to go talk for a while upstairs? That’s where my office is,” William adds. Or, upstairs works too. “Sure,” Henry eagerly agrees, but as soon as he finishes his sentence, a movement coming from the ceiling catches his eye. It’s crawling, whatever it is. Only when it stops, lowering itself on spindly malformed metal limbs to the delight of a young girl outfitted in a party hat, does Henry notice the head, a familiar fashion of faceplate. It’s the only real part of the monstrosity that has anything covering its insides beyond some feet and hands, and the shape of it embarrassingly takes Henry a second to recognize, but there’s no doubt in his mind after a second. The tie he chose to wear, for whatever godforsaken reason, feels tight and uncomfortable. Whatever the thing now on the floor, happily making garbled voice clip-esque sounds, has a head molded from Foxy’s. William’s shoulders tighten, his entire body stiffening, but Henry doesn’t see this. There is an over sized clock displayed on one wall, and it clicks to the hour, and the curtains on the stage pull themselves open. Shiny and new, details changed and fuddled with, the mascots standing there are maybe half a foot taller than their originals, but it’s hard not to call them Freddy Fazbear and friends. They stay on their stage for now, equipped with large plastic instruments, and the song they start with is what Henry would describe as “flavorless” - it carries no joy or wonder, merely imitating the sound of any generic rock song and telling kids, Welcome To Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza!

“William,” Henry starts. His voice sounds awkward, a bit strained. 

It’s getting overwhelming again, the way that everything is the same as before - even though, it’s clearly not. Henry shakes his head, unable to form a sentence. Clank. A large present he assumed was a prize counter table shows that it can animate, too. Thin, spindly fingers have wrapped around one edge and thrown the lid to the floor, and like something ethereal, the rise of another animatronic from the box is what shocks Henry into speaking again. “William, what’s going on here?” William says nothing, looking at his former partner blankly. And the difference between the two of them comes back to Henry, in a different way. William is thin, deepset cheekbones and scraggly hair making him look almost dirty, but over top of him is a layer of “presentable-ness,” so he can be on the floor, so he can pretend. Henry swallows, looking away from William, one hand on a wall, examining the puppet without strings. It looks too similar. It moves without any visible form of help. The girl who was playing with the mangled Foxy clone skips over to it, and it tilts its head forward as if alive, wide arms coming together to hug her quickly, before floating eerily over to another child, rubbing his hair. It looks too similar, but it absolutely cannot be, Henry tells his brain. But the subtle movement of the Puppet’s head, and his well-trained eyes prove that wrong. The Security Puppet, paint on its face changed, it’s grand hood cut off and sewn over. This realization makes Henry feel sick at once, and slowly turning to look at William, he speaks through his hand. “What the hell are you doing?” “Keep your voice down,” William demands in a cool tone. “There are children here.” Panic almost overtakes him, and Henry moves closer to the other man, almost in his face. “What in the world are you doing?! How the hell did you even get that..?” How? How? How could he? Surely, the police would have taken that away. The animatronic. Revolutionary for its time. That went outside. And crawled up right next to her, her flesh entangling in it - Henry inhales sharply, staring at the other man, and it upsets him even further that he can totally see William doing this. This… Whatever the hell it is. William merely smiles, as if satisfied, and turns slightly to open the door to a staircase. Walking silently up the stairs, Henry glares daggers at the back of the other man’s head. Things blur together slightly, and it seems like as soon as they enter the room, William is planted in an expensive looking chair, Henry practically over the table, pointing furiously at it as he speaks. “That’s my daughter.” William chuckles. “Weren’t you the one who told me I was crazy?” “That’s-” “When I told you what I saw, what had happened after you left, you told me that I was being ridiculous. That I was making things up-” “Will, I-” “-To torture you. And now you’re going to return and try to make a scene, in my restaurant?” “It’s not your damn restaurant,” Henry quips back, suddenly feeling helpless and soured by it. “Those are rip-offs of the characters I designed, and more importantly… That’s her. That’s her in there. Isn’t it? And you know it,” Henry says with an almost slap of the desk. He steps back for a second, hands in his hair, wiping sweat away.  “God, how could you do this, William? How could you?” “You abandoned her.” “Excuse me?” “You abandoned her. You’re the one who ran. You left me to clean up the mess.” Henry inhales sharply, and goes back to leaning over the desk, practically ready to climb over it and tear the other man a new asshole, but is cut short by the tight yank on his tie. William growls, pulling the other man’s face close to his. “Listen to me now. Something horrible happened. I found something incredible from it, something beautiful. When I tried to tell you, you cursed me.” Wrestling his tie away, stepping back, helplessness setting in hard, Henry stammers. “You’ve- You’ve changed. You’re changed!” William’s face contorts into the darkest little vile smile Henry has ever seen, and to top it off, he laughs. “The only thing that has changed is that when tragedy struck, I learned how to control it. And you ran.” “I’ll call the police.” “And what? Tell them that The Puppet contains something that belongs to you? Nice try, idiot, the machine’s been rebuilt from the ground up time and time again. The only thing that remains… Is the spirit. And she doesn’t remember you,” William hisses. “What are you going to tell them? I stole a ghost?”

A floating, terrified sensation courses through Henry’s veins. There’s nothing he can do. He knows there is nothing he can do. He worked with the man. He can picture in his mind’s eye exactly what tricks Will would’ve have pulled to keep the robot, and the satisfied smirk on his face as he learned to contain it. Her. She was in there.

“Michael!” William barked suddenly, making Henry jump. “Stop listening in and get in here, now. ” The gentle click of the door. Uncle Henry turned, faced with the pimply teenage form of the gentle boy he practically helped raise. A young man now, frowning gently, his eyes heavy. “Do me a favor,” the man’s father ordered, “and escort this customer to the door before he becomes so unruly I have to call the cops.”

If he wasn’t in such a shocked state, regret swelling up in him, maybe Henry would’ve taken a few seconds to touch base with the teen. He hadn’t even had a chance to say hello before he saw the twisted show. No “Hi, Uncle Henry,” “I’ve missed you,” “How have you been?”.

Michael kept an uncomfortably weak grip on the larger man’s arm the whole walk, finally letting go and stepping in front of him to hold the door open, motioning him out. Unlike his father, Michael’s deep blue eyes had not lightened with age, he still had long to go, and as Henry locked eyes, a hopeful part of him thought he detected the same kind of sadness. Regret. Sorrow. A want for forgiveness.

Mechanically, Henry started his car. Driving away, the part of the short encounter he regretted the most, he thought, was that she was still there. And she’d been there for the whole time.

His little girl, always lifting up others, he had unwittingly left alone. No, not alone. But worse. In the darkness. Where she could not escape.

Regret solves nothing. The first sketch of the concept for the animatronic to transport her was done in 15 minutes on a napkin. It stung to look at. Henry swallowed, unsatisfied. And crumpled up the napkin.

[justjen523]

Miniature Gods

The Gods Children Series   

(Book 1 - Early Years)

     They were practically screaming. All of them. It had become common knowledge throughout the Heaven’s that the former goddess of fate had gifted the twelve a child carved from her very soul. No one had actually seen any of them however making the gossip overflow. The three of them decided to finally emerge and the goddesses squealed in delight at the vision before them. 

     Ichthys, Teorus and Dui had decided to take their precious one’s out for a stroll in the sunshine. Each of them donned a front carrier with their infants facing forward bright eyed and smiling. Dui’s was the same, just designed for two instead of one.

     “Oh my goodness! Lord Teorus, your son is SO beautiful just like you!”

     “Lord Ichthys over here! Can we see him up close? He’s too adorable!”

     “Lord Dui! Your daughters are absolutely lovely! What’s it like having such gorgeous twin daughters?”

     The Trio gladly allowed the gaggle of goddesses to fawn over the newest additions to the Heaven’s. It had never been easier to pick up women since becoming Father’s. It was not meant to last however as the two department heads for Punishments rounded the corner and saw the spectacle.

     “Eh-hem!” All it took was Zyglavis clearing his throat and a severe glare from Scorpio to quickly clear the area. 

     “What’re you morons try’n to do, get us all mobbed to death?”

     “Geeeze. I SO thought becoming a dad would mellow him out but...”

     “I’m perfectly fine as is, it’s only ‘cause you idiots do stupid shit to constantly annoy me.”

     “Scorpio, while this may prove a difficult task for you, you are going to need to refrain from using profanity from here forward in front of the little one’s.” Scorpio stares at Zyglavis with disdain upon hearing something he considers ridiculous and unnecessary.

     “Do not look at me in such a way, I meant what I said. I do not want my daughter hearing such vulgarity. If you feel you are unable then please excuse yourself from the room first. Is that clear?”

     “Tch.”

     “As for you three-”

     “Oh come onnnnnn! You can’t possibly be this uptight with that little cutie smiling so happily.” Unfazed by Zyglavis’ icy cold glare Ichthys saunters up and bends forward to peer into Elliana’s smiling cherubic face. When she starts squealing with excitement Zyglavis finally snaps.

     “Would you kindly refrain from getting so close to my daughter.”

     “Awww, c’mon Ziggy don’t be like that. After all we’re like family now right?”

     “We most certainly are not.”

     “You knooooow, if you keep behaving like that poor little Elly here is gonna grow up without any friends.”

     “I beg your pardon?!” 

     “I hate to admit it but that pain in the...”butt” is right for once Zig.” That was certainly unexpected coming from Scorpio making the other four stare at him in awe and silence.

     “The fuck you lookn’ at me like that for?!”

     “Language.”

     “Whatever. Stop lookn’ at me like I don’t know sh-.....stuff.”

     “Oh I know! How about we all go visit the garden and let our little one’s interact with one another?”

     “I would prefer not-”

     “-Zig, member what I said bout daddy issues and sh-....stuff? You better fix it now before you do somethn’ ya can’t undo.” Scorpio speaks lowly close to the Minister so only the pair of them can hear. Sighing in frustration Zyglavis reluctantly agrees. The five of them head toward the garden together with high hopes.

     When the group arrives at their destination they find that they were not the first or only to have the same idea. Huedhaut, Tauxolouve, Aigonorous and Partheno are all sitting together under a nearby tree while their little one’s experience the outdoors together. 

     “Heeeey there guys! Looks like you had the same idea we did.”

     “Care to join us?” Lou offers with a million dollar smile. The five join the group removing their carriers and gently setting their young one’s together near the others. Unable to walk yet the little group of tiny gods sit cooing and gurgling happily at the sights and sounds around them. 

     “I must admit, that is one group of gorgeous children.”

     “Don’t say it like that Partheno it sounds....weird.”

     “They ARE super cute though right?”

     “Ichthys you make it sound like they are pets or something.”

     “That’s not what I meant at ALL. Look at them! Little mini us’s.” The nine of them observe their precious treasures and cannot refrain from smiling. Their sweet and heavenly appearances coupled with their innocent curiosity make for a wonderful and comforting sight.

     “It’s like she’s here with us.” Dui offers watching his daughters affectionately as they take in their surroundings. The rest say nothing but also smile and nod wistfully as they too stare at the ten perfect miracles before them.

     “Hey you, just where do you think you’re going?” Leon scooped up the tiny force of destruction that was his daughter. Not that he minded, of course she’d be, just like her daddy. She was quick even though she only could crawl at this point. He knew once she learned to walk the real work would begin. 

     “I must say Leo, fatherhood looks good on you. I never imagined you with kids but you seem to be enjoying yourself far more than I would have guessed.” Karno smiled ear to ear at the sight before him. 

     “Yeah, and I see fatherhood has made you into an ever bigger push-over.”

     “Now now, I meant it as a compliment. No reason to get testy.”

     “Who said I was being testy?” Leon smirked at his friend, his daughter trying desperately to crawl up his shoulder. The adorable view had Karno practically beaming. 

     “You’re being awfully brave tonight, what exactly are you hinting at?” When he grabbed her and held her in front of him she lit up like a candle smiling and cooing merrily. 

     “Pffft. Yeah, you know exactly who I am don’t you?” Her little body wriggled around as gibberish spilled from her mouth making Leon smile.

     “Da-da. Dadadadada!”

     “Tell me you just-”

     “I did! Awww congratulations Leo how precious. Looks like she’s already aware that she’s daddy’s little angel.”

     “I don’t know about that. She’s a great many things but she’s definitely not that. This stinker is always causing me trouble.”

     “You say it like it bothers you but lets be honest, you love every moment of it.”

     “What about you? You seem just fine with your situation.”

     “Of course! I always wanted to be a father someday, who knew I’d have my own wish granted for once.”

     “She looks just like you but she sleeps an awful lot.”

     “Of course, she’s happy, content and safe in her daddy’s arms, what more could she want?”

     “You’re too easy going, you know that’s gotta change when she starts walking and talking right?”

     “Nah, something tells me she’s gonna be the sweetest little princess in the whole wide world.” Karno rocked her as she slept cozily in his strong arms before pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

     “Sweet dreams my precious girl.”

     Krioff and his daughter sat across from each other on the floor simply staring at each other in silence. A rather impressive feat for an infant. She seemed to love just sitting there and watching her daddy do everything. He on the other hand was constantly tending to her every need. No one would have ever guessed he’d actually be a pretty responsible father. Sure his social skills needed some improvement but she absolutely wanted for nothing.

     “Hey, you poop yet? I’m not gonna bathe you till ya do. I ain’t clean’n that kind of mess up.” She simply stared at him wide eyed and curious. It sometimes made him slightly uncomfortable seeing as looking at her was like looking into a mirror. Same eyes, nose, lips and chin. Even her hair was cute little messy tufts of silver that practically sparkled when the light hit it just right.

     “Errr....yur kinda cute or whatever so, just wanted you to know I uh, love ya and stuff.” Suddenly a perfect little grin spreads across her tiny pink lips making Krioff nearly cry at the sight. Nearly doesn’t mean he actually did, just so ya know.

     “Hey, what’s yur deal all of a sudden? You were fine a minute ago.” Scorpio frowns as he pulls a crying Alex into his arms.

     “Maybe he’s hungry?” Lou offers as Scorpio rather awkwardly inspects his son from every angle.

     “Nah, can’t be it, I just fed him before we left. And I ain’t smelln’ any poop so he doesn’t need to be changed.” It isn’t until Scorpio turns him over that the source of the problem is revealed. 

     “H-Hey! Just waddya think yur doin’ ya little fart factory!” The others erupt into laughter as Scorpio scowls and slightly blushes.

     “It seems it was only some trapped gas, I’m sure he’ll be fine now. I do recommend burping him a little longer if he is having gastrointestinal or digestive issues.” Hue offers though Scorpio says nothing in return as he sulkily sits back down.

     “Oh, well hello there!” Hue smiles at the curious silver eyes and blue hair staring at him in wonder.

     “Zyglavis, may I?” The minister hesitates for a moment but then allows Hue to pick her up. She doesn’t seem to mind being held by a stranger as she touches his face making all sorts of incomprehensible sounds.

     “Oh is that right?” Zyglavis finally smiles and relaxes watching Huedhaut have a “conversation” with his little girl. Meanwhile Tauxolouve covers the dozing daddy daughter duo to his left. 

     “Looks like Ai’s met his match.” Teorus teases before practically getting tackled by the twins.

     “Woah! Hey now there’s plenty of Uncle Teo to go around!”

     “Pffft!” Dui bursts into laughter as the troublesome two fight for Teo’s attention. It isn’t till he sees two eyes barely peeping over his knee that he realizes he has company. 

     “Why hello! What are you doing little guy?” Dui smiles lifting the little fella into his arms.

     “He looks a lot like her Ichthys.” Dui offers rocking the little boy in his arms.

     “Yeah, I mean, I totally see me in there too but yeah, he really does doesn’t he.”

     “How is everything going with him?”

     “I have never been happier man. For real, this kid is everything to me. How bout you Dui, what’s it like having twins?” Dui smiles wearily at his friend before chuckling.

     “Honestly, it’s utter chaos. Those two may look identical but they are total opposites in every way.”

     “Hey, look at the bright side, it’ll make it easy to tell em apart right?”

     “That’s the least of my worries haha!” While Ikky and Dui are chatting, a few feet away Hue’s daughter and Partheno’s son are playing side by side. His son picks up a flower petal and puts it on her head making her giggle. Partheno watches affectionately with a knowing sort of pride that his son is already a lady’s man. Hue on the other hand is not particularly pleased. No one is generally allowed near his princess but he had made an exception today. He will always be the most important man in her life.

     Slowly but surely all twelve gods have begun to adapt to their new lives as proud fathers. Remembering the fun they once all had together is reawakened as the next generation meet who would become their best friends, worst enemies and even potential lovers in the not so far off future. 

[char27martin]

What I Learned as a Journalist, Book Doctor, Ghostwriter, and Publicist

By the time I was five years old, I already knew what I was going to be when I grew up. Disillusioned with my previous fantasy careers of zookeeper and cowgirl, I set my sights on something much more attainable.

*deep breath*

I was going to be a famous writer.

Simple enough, right? As you’ve probably guessed by now … not so much.

Thankfully, there are many ways to earn a living as a wordsmith while you work toward becoming the next Stephen King. (Note to Mr. King: don’t worry; you’re still safe.) And, best of all, each one of them will teach you something valuable you can apply to your writing career.

This guest post is by J.H. Moncrieff. Moncrieff writes psychological and supernatural suspense novels that let her readers safely explore the dark corners of the world. She won Harlequin’s search for the next Gillian Flynn in 2016. Her first published novella, THE BEAR WHO WOULDN’T LEAVE, was featured in Samhain’s CHILDHOOD FEARS collection and stayed on its horror bestsellers list for over a year. The first two novels of her new GhostWriters series, CITY OF GHOSTS and THE GIRL WHO TALKS TO GHOSTS, will be officially released on May 16, 2017. When not writing, J.H. loves visiting the world’s most haunted places, advocating for animal rights, and summoning her inner ninja in muay thai class. To get free ebooks and a new spooky story every week, check out her Hidden Library. You can find her on Twitter and Facebook.

Since not everyone will choose such a roundabout path to literary fame and fortune, here’s some of my hard-earned wisdom for you.

What Being a Journalist Taught Me About Writing

Journalists get to do cool stuff. They have adventures—investigating crime scenes and covering fires and staking out biker gangs in the back of a cop car. My journalism career gave me endless story fodder, but it also taught me a few lessons I’ll never forget.

Treat writing like a business. Journalists have to worry about these little things called deadlines. When an editor gives you one, you meet it. Meet your deadlines or you don’t get paid. Surprisingly, it’s an easy choice to make.

How civilians, police, and reporters really react. As someone who writes mysteries, suspense, and other novels dealing with death, this knowledge has been invaluable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read manuscripts where people act in bizarre ways: cops hire civilians and give them guns, reporters surround a home and scream questions at the parents the second a child goes missing, and so on. My experience has ensured I won’t make the same mistakes.

Sources are everything. If you write police procedurals, talk to a cop. If your protagonist is a doctor, see if you can follow some friendly neighborhood physicians on their rounds. Does someone find a body in your story? Spend a few minutes asking a forensic anthropologist what it would look and smell like. You don’t have to write what you know, but you better know what you write.

Kill your darlings. Journalists follow the inverted pyramid formula—the most important stuff goes at the top and trickles down from there. This practice stems from the days when stories were cut to fit newspapers, so articles often lost a few lines from the bottom. One thing journalists learn in a hurry is to write lean. There’s no room for extraneous information. If it doesn’t advance your story, kill it.

What Being a Book Doctor Taught Me About Writing

Book doctors perform the same function as substantive or developmental editors. Simply put, they’re hired to fix your book. The only difference is that agents and editors are usually the clients instead of writers.

Editors are essential. Many writers believe they can edit their own work. Take it from me—a professional editor who has a copyeditor and three proofreaders check her stuff—you can’t. With publishing budgets being what they are, it’s worth hiring your own editor before you submit your manuscript, or before you put that book up for sale. It will save you a lot of heartbreak.

Pick a side. The great majority of the stories I’ve worked on were fatally flawed because the writer couldn’t decide which story to tell. I’ve seen romances with no romance, horrors that weren’t scary, thrillers that were actually food memoirs in disguise, and historical fiction with no plot. So much hassle can be avoided if a writer gets really clear about what the story is before beginning work on the first draft.

Kill your darlings. Book doctors have to be tough. We’re not there to be your buddy or pump up your ego; we’re there to make your story better. I can always tell which authors will go the distance. They’re the ones who thank you for your hard work, lick their wounds, and crawl back into the trenches to emerge with a much better second (or third, fourth, or fifth) draft. The ones who pout, scream, accuse us of being jealous of their talent, or pull the silent treatment? They don’t get far.

[Want to land an agent? Here are 4 things to consider when researching literary agents.]

What Being a Ghostwriter Taught Me About Writing

Over the last few years, ghostwriters have become synonymous with James Patterson, but the truth is, tons of books—even bestselling books—were written by ghosts. Lots of people have interesting stories to tell, but may not have the ability to put it all together. That’s where ghosts come in.

Writers’ block is a myth. When writers are slacking, they often point fingers at their muses or lack thereof. “I wasn’t inspired,” or “The story wasn’t speaking to me.” When you have to sit down every day and put your emotions, heart, and talent into a story that isn’t even yours, you quickly learn how little inspiration has to do with it. Writers can write anything if they put their mind to it and stop making excuses.

Not everything you write will be a masterpiece—and that’s okay. Perfectionism is not an option for ghostwriters. You may be asked to write characters you hate, plot developments you feel are unrealistic, and settings that are less than authentic. Perhaps you’ll be hired to write a tell-all book you secretly believe is a complete fraud. It doesn’t matter. People enjoy reading lots of different books, and few of them are perfect. It can be strangely freeing to write something you have no personal attachment to.

Kill your darlings. Ghosts don’t get to have darlings! You may think you’ve come up with the most profound turn of phrase ever, but that’s not your job. Your job is to sound like the client. And if you don’t, it doesn’t matter how clever you were. That gem is going to end up on the cutting room floor.

What Being a Publicist Taught Me About Writing

If you want to be a successful writer, you could do a lot worse than become a publicist. During my years promoting everything from Halloween parties and museum exhibits to genealogy conferences and musicians, I’ve gained some valuable insights.

9% of writers are doing social media wrong. The endless “Buy My Book” Facebook updates, the spammy automatic messages on Twitter, the passive-aggressive blog posts that bemoan your latest defeat at the hands of the publishing industry? They’re not helping you.

Relationships are everything. Want someone to buy your book? Be their friend. Get them to like you. But not because they’ll buy your book, because you genuinely find them interesting and want to communicate with them. Use social media to connect to people in an authentic way, and book sales will follow. You can’t fake sincerity. At least not for long.

Clarity is crucial. If a reporter calls, wanting to know more about what I’m promoting, I don’t ramble on for twenty minutes about the background of everyone who’s ever worked on the project. I sum it up in a sentence, a sentence designed to suck them in and make them say, “Tell me more.” A lot of writers hate elevator pitches and query letters, and I get it—writing them is like being stuck in the seventh circle of hell, but they’re so important. People have short attention spans, so grab ’em while you got ’em.

Kill your darlings. Publicity is about trying different things until one of them works. It might take ten, or twenty, or even thirty ideas until you hit on the right combination of public appeal and client approval. You have to keep moving, and keep pitching, until that wonderful moment when all the stars align. If you get stuck on the first idea you come up with, it’ll never happen. You’ll never see the magic.

What have your jobs taught you about writing? I’d love to hear your stories!

The biggest literary agent database anywhere is the Guide to Literary Agents. Pick up the most recent updated edition online at a discount.

If you’re an agent looking to update your information or an author interested in contributing to the GLA blog or the next edition of the book, contact Writer’s Digest Books Managing Editor Cris Freese at cris.freese@fwmedia.com.

      The post What I Learned as a Journalist, Book Doctor, Ghostwriter, and Publicist appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/guide-to-literary-agents/learned-journalist-book-doctor-ghostwriter-publicist

[3one3]

The Sequel - 774

Talking To Girls

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea and BVB players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“You want more coffee while she’s up?” André asked the very comfortable girl using him as a lounger, who herself was serving as one for a sleeping child. The Schü Family Pile was a result of too much eating, too much cooking, and too much playing, in respect to each level in it. The biggest one put himself on the couch after his turkey dinner and declared himself too stuffed to move. Christina sat between his legs and turned him into a backrest as soon as she was done cleaning up from that dinner and putting away the leftovers, exhausted from making and serving so many dishes to so many people. The littlest one tried to persevere through his impending tryptophan coma to play basketball but eventually walked over to the corner of the couch and asked for a lift. Even the dogs were passed out.

“No thank you,” the rider yawned. I won’t be able to sleep if I have more coffee and then I’ll be tired tomorrow and tomorrow is Boxing Day football! I’m too excited for that to ruin it being cranky, she reasoned. Plus we’re going to Juan’s for dinner and that’s going to take forever, and there will be tons of people there, and Tay Tay’s parents, and I’m going to have like...a whole balancing act to perform between Juan’s parents treating me like the daughter-in-law they want and keeping that from boyfriend, and Taylor, and... You know, this dinner is going to be more complicated than I initially anticipated. Suddenly there was a vignette in her head in which she chatted and laughed with Juan’s mom about old times or something while Taylor and André poured each other drinks and glared with intense indignation and Juan avoided making eye contact with the author’s parents.

“Why are the Die Hard movies considered Christmas movies?” Melanie asked from the middle of the couch. She was on her back with her head on Rafa’s lap, and Christina’s cashmere blanket. “They show them a hundred times during the holidays.”

“They take place at Christmastime,” her dad pointed out. He had the other corner of the couch and looked remarkably similar in posture to André despite not having two other people between his legs. “The bad guys brought their guns into the airport in gift-wrapped boxes, remember?”  

“No.”

“Pay better attention,” André chirped. His mom handed him a full glass of water from behind the couch, and Christina eyed it suspiciously.

“If you drink that after the giant cup of coffee you’re gonna have to pee in 5 minutes and that means I have to get up and that means Luke has to get up and do you understand how much we don’t want to get up?” she asked, borderline disgruntled. Her body was virtually asleep already except for her mouth and the hand rubbing her son’s head. He was drooling on her. And it wasn’t so much that she was so comfortable and sedate that she couldn’t fathom having to evacuate her spot, but that she’d been waiting for Lukas to give her the time of day since he got up that morning. He was way more into toys and wrapping paper, breakfast, playing, seeking attention from his aunt, uncle, and grandparents, throwing handfuls of mashed potatoes from his highchair onto the floor for the dogs, trying to climb into his wagon so that he could reach the ornaments on the Christmas tree, and attempting to disappear out of sight of whoever was supposed to be watching him because his new thing was that he didn’t want anyone to see when he was pooping in his diaper. He had to hide somewhere, and then he tried to pretend like it didn’t bother him that his diaper was full and he could go back to playing, but it was only a matter of minutes before the mess became deeply upsetting and he presented himself to an adult with an unhappy frown and pleading eyes on the verge of tears. Christina was usually that adult, and she just wanted some time with him besides changing his diaper.

She considered it some kind of miraculous blessing that she could look at him and not just think about what would happen to him if his parents split, or if she never got herself back on track. Those issues and all the ones related to them dominated so much of her headspace that she expected it to infiltrate her mother/son relationship too. In fact, the consequences were what drove so much of her anxiety. Everything was perfect when Lukas came over and wanted to sit with her though. He was like insulation from all the bad things. Finally she noticed the good ones- the Christmas tree was twinkling, the fire was going, she could feel André’s stomach trying to start digesting his enormous dinner, they were all under a lovely knit blanket, she got nice presents, had pretty good sex, her new laptop was pristine and fast and delightful, she totally killed it with the turkeys, and her mind was quiet. The only improvement she could come up with was the elimination of the rest of the people in the house, but that was really nitpicking.

“Chris, are you riding tomorrow?” Rafa inquired during a commercial break, not that anyone was observing any kind of no-talking-during-the-movie rule. The men had to point out every unlikely, unrealistic, and impossible plot point.

“I should, yeah. I’m sort of waiting for an excuse to present itself though. Would you like to help? Do you have clothes with you?”

“I have everything for Mechelen, so yes.” The Italian and his wife were headed for a World Cup qualifier in Belgium on Tuesday.

“I’m sort of supposed to do Stef’s horses too, so you could help with my guys.”

“What’s wrong with Stef that she can’t ride her horses and do yours too?” André interjected. He knew Kyle had off because he worked on Christmas, but he thought the other rider should have been around to lighten the exercising load so that Christina could have another day to rest.

“She’s in Germany, for starters, and she doesn’t work for me.”

“She went home? She told Mario she didn’t have time off.”

“Oooooo,” Melanie chimed in in the manner of a class full of students when one is summoned to the principal’s office.

“I’m sure she just wanted to go see her family. They’re in the opposite end of the country. Didn’t Mario go away anyway?”

“Yes but he invited her.”

“Meh. She’s been posting photos from Munich so it’s probably not a secret,” Christina shrugged. She reached for her phone on the next cushion to show André and to verify that she wasn’t imagining things. She didn’t want to be responsible if Stefanie was trying to keep her location secret from Mario. There were a couple of texts waiting for her. One was Aidan’s return “Merry Christmas” message. There was an “all good” from Kyle about the horses being in for the night. There was also one from Juan.

“Happy Christmas! I hope everything you wanted was under your tree :) Call me tonight if you can. If not I see you tomorrow hopefully with 3 more points and another W for the streak :)”

“How come you had to text him to say you were at the door?” André asked, his voice low. He was reading over her shoulder. The penultimate message on the screen was from the night before.

“Because his cousins slept over and they were all asleep.” His wife double-tapped the Home button and swiped over to Instagram to look for Stefanie’s posts. But then Lukas started to wake up. He made a kind of gurgling sound and moved his arms, which were around Christina’s torso. He’s soooooo cute when he’s sleepy, she thought, ignoring the fact that she had a crucial decision to make, whether to allow him to fully wake up, or to rub his head or his back and hope he went back to sleep. He sat up enough to rub his little blue eyes. He looks more like Daddy every day. He’ll have the eye wrinkles. He’s all Schü. Thank god he got my ears though, she added as a qualifier while rubbing one of his ears and massaging his scalp behind it.

“Ready for bedtime, Mausi? Sleepy?” André asked him with a less delicate and tender head rub. Lukas squirmed until he was sort of on his hands and knees, and crawled up Christina’s body so that he was right at her face.

“Sleepy Mommy,” he replied with a tired sigh, much to the amusement of all the adults.

“She’s sleepy too,” his dad nodded.

“He means he wants to sleep with me, dumbass.” Christina puckered her lips at the 28lb blonde and he supplied an adorable kiss before collapsing on her chest, presumably to go back to sleeping.

“You’re going to have him calling everybody a dumbass.” Dad used two hands to shake her head.

“It would be funny if he just started calling you “dumbass”,” Melanie remarked. “Give me my juice, dumbass! Pass the ball, dumbass!”

“Tuchel has a copyright on that one,” Papa Schü chimed in. Christina cringed at the comment. That’s not nice. Don’t pick on him. One of the footballer’s hands was down at his side and she felt around for it to give it a reassuring squeeze. She didn’t like it when his dad made fun of him in ways that could be “real”. It was funny when everyone ganged up on him and made silly jokes about him missing shots or not playing, when the mood was right. To do it out of nowhere and in a manner that could be interpreted as not a joke wasn’t okay with her. André opened up his fingers so that hers would drop in between, and he held onto them.

“You should go put him down for the night while you can,” he suggested, having ignored the shots fired at him. “He’s already got the pajamas on and he’s out cold again. He won’t notice if you move him.”

“I’ll have to wake him up either way to do his teeth.”

“You could skip brushing for one night.”

“He had all that sugar today though- pancakes, candy canes, hot chocolate, stollen. It’s like a miracle he isn’t bouncing off the walls. And he wants to snuggle with me. Leave us alone. In 15 years he won’t even want to speak to me.”

“That’s nonsense. In 15 years, you’ll be the only female he can talk to,” the player snorted. “He’ll come to me and say, “Papa, I like this girl. How do I talk to her?” and I’ll say, “Fuck if I know. All I did at your age was play football. Ask your mom.” And you’ll make up some insane, complicated, cute thing for him to do for this girl but he’ll mess it up and look like a fool and he’ll come home defeated and you’ll make him a sandwich, spaghetti, and a baby greens salad and tell him the girl is a bitch anyway.”

“That is the most accurate prophecy I’ve ever heard,” the rider giggled. She tilted her head back and pushed her lips out again, and again got a Schü kiss.

“Half an hour and then bedtime for all of us. If you’re going to ride in the morning you better start early, because it’s going to take time to amass enough toys and clothing to keep him preoccupied and appropriately attired for 90 minutes of football out in the cold and then however long we’ll be at Juan’s. He needs a nice sweater or something for dinner, yeah? Or a collared shirt?”

“Yes he needs a wardrobe change between football and dinner. And we have to bring the booster seat. And the presents.” I’ve never brought him to a big dinner to dress up for before, Christina reflected. I hope he’s well behaved and that if Juan’s cousins are holy terrors that he doesn’t get any ideas. I wonder if his little bowtie still fits. I know he’s outgrown his blazer. A button-up with the bowtie and a cardigan would be cute. The big Schü will probably wear something nice to Stamford Bridge instead of jeans. They just can’t match. What am I even going to we-

“Half an hour, pretty girl.”

Mother and child got about 45 minutes before André threatened to cause an earthquake that would unseat them against their wishes. Lukas normally liked teeth brushing time. It was like a game to him. On Christmas is was an annoying chore he wanted no part of. He and his mom made a mess of his bathroom, and the fit he pitched had him so awake and alive again that it was hard to get him to go back to sleep. He was getting too big for her to be able to let him conk out in her lap when she read to him and then just pick him up and set him in the crib. She couldn’t do it smoothly anymore. He woke up, usually. Sometimes he was okay with just being put down in there and then having his story, or simply falling asleep on his own if he were tired enough. All he wanted to do that night was stay in Mommy’s lap, which made her feel quite good but was inconvenient nonetheless. André went looking for her when it seemed to take a long time to put the baby down, thinking perhaps she fell asleep in the chair too. She was just sitting with him and talking with him. Lukas didn’t have enough awareness or vocabulary yet to have a full conversation, but they could still communicate whole thoughts to one another. They were talking about love. Christina was trying to explain that the attachment he felt to his pony Dave, clutched close to his body, was love, and the companionship or friendship type of love, specifically. To illustrate the difference she had to explain her love for him too, and he listened intently, and smiled when she smiled or touched his nose or gave him a kiss. The footballer sat on the floor to listen for a while too, until his son finally gave in to his heavy eyelids and said “sleepy”, which was his way of requesting the crib.

André was obsessed with the mother/son relationship. He marveled at it. They were unbelievably close even though Christina wasn’t one of those moms who spends every minute of every day with her kid. Their communication was enviable. Lukas was smart enough to know that Daddy or “Papa”, as he preferred to be called, was the one he wanted and needed when Mommy wasn’t around, but given the choice between the two, she was who he looked for if he needed something, or he didn’t understand something. André was for fun or for safety if something was terribly frightening, like Grandpa’s sneeze attack. Christina was for everything else. The player was fine with his role. He loved his relationship with Lukas too. He knew it could never be the same as his girl’s. He just found theirs so special, and he loved to watch it in action. Most of all, he loved that she never let anything disturb it. No matter what kind of day she was having, or how busy she was, or tired, she never let it interfere with being Mom. She never even snapped at him when she was out of patience, or cranky. André was actually a little jealous of that, as he was never exempt from random or building fury. He never worried that everything she was struggling with would influence how she looked after their little one. It always made him feel good inside when his belief that she would be the best mother for his child was vindicated in a big way or even a small one. He credited her with all of the boy’s best qualities too- like his manners, his willingness to listen, and his kindness. Christina was the best person he knew, and that didn’t change with her changing fortunes. Seeing her with Lukas just proved it all the time, and made him so proud that she was his.

“Love you,” he told her with a lingering kiss and a heart full of those glowy feelings when he got into bed. The rider beat him under the covers by just seconds and hadn’t even gotten settled yet when he went in looking for her lips. He caught her in transition between sitting and turning on her side to get comfortable, and hovered on his hands and knees above. One lingering kiss became two, and then a longer, more intent liplock took over with tongues changing sides and lips moving about. Christina was taken by surprise by the commitment. It looked like an everyday goodnight kiss on approach. It landed like a special occasion kiss.

“I love you too,” she smiled as if to laugh when André withdrew his mouth from hers and used it to slowly kiss her forehead instead.

“I don’t think you understand how much I love you though, Prinzessin. You’re everything to me, even when I don’t act like it,” he explained with insistence. She straightened herself out so that she was flat on her back on the pillows underneath him, and reached under his arms and over his shoulders to encourage him to come closer and stop hovering. His hips sank down and his knees slid back.

“You’re very sweet out of nowhere. Was the turkey that good?” Christina asked without removing her hands, or letting go of her smile. His upper body has gotten so much stronger, like proportionally to the shrinking of the rest of him. His shoulders feel so much...harder? She tried to figure out what felt different hanging onto him that way, and the player with the improved gym schedule just watched her face.

“Yes, it was, but I love you always.” The BVB man with a much more serious gaze than the rider leaned down to kiss her some more, in that slow way that gives the opportunity for the participants to actually hear the kissing- to hear the seal break when lips had to come apart to reposition, to grab, to pull- that slow way that allows the participants to breathe normally- to keep the kiss steady, calm. But the one predominantly on the receiving end of the kiss was anything but calm on the inside. She experienced a rush of something inexplicable but divine. Whatever was flooding her veins made her heart expand, and her temperature warm up. Whatever that substance was made her feel the way she wanted to earlier, when her partner was more interested in orgasms and her butt than love and romance. He moved down onto his elbows, and then slid his arms between Christina and her pillow to hug her middle and use her chest as a pillow for himself.

It’s different when we’re together. This is why things will get better when she moves, André told himself while she rubbed his back. When I’m with her all the time and I see who is- who I know she is- then I understand better, and there’s...it’s like this big upside I know is there that makes me not care so much when she does things I don’t like. It’s so easy to forget that big upside when I’m not with her much to enjoy it. Chris isn’t innocent in all the fights and problems we’ve had lately, but I am better to her when we’re together. I can admit that. I’m not a good long distance partner, and the best parts of her don’t keep. They don’t last. A leftover filet mignon might taste okay sliced for lunch the day after you cook it. It doesn’t taste good a week later. Chris is the same. Whatever good thing I get from her when she visits just doesn’t keep for weeks and weeks, and it’s not strong enough to get over the phone.

“What’s with you guys tonight? Did you make me put Lulu Schü to bed just so you could take his place?” the rider joked, wrapping her legs around the bigger boy’s lower back. She used her heel to rub where his t-shirt met his Calvin Kleins. Can I tell her that we fight for cuddles with her when she pays attention to us all day or will that start World War 3? André didn’t want to sound as if he was complaining about his girl not giving him and Lukas enough attention regularly. He just wanted to give her a cute answer that might endear her to him more.

“Yes. I was jealous. I want to-“ He stopped short of explaining his agenda for the last few minutes of Christmas and the beginning of Boxing Day because the iPhone plugged in on Christina’s nightstand vibrated to announce a call.

“How much do you wanna bet that’s Juan?”

“Nothing. I’m not throwing my money away,” he winked. It was a gesture meant to conceal the irritation. His pillow reached for the phone and then turned the screen up to show him that it was in fact Juan, who was sporting reading glasses and a “stop trying to take my picture” expression in his contact photo. Christina pushed the top button and set it back down. “You can take it.”

“I’ll text him back. He’s just bored at Chelsea Harbour. What were you saying? You were jealous of your poor son who just wanted to snuggle with his mom?”

“Yes. I need snuggling too.” The player gently bit at the inside of her right breast, and left a wet outline of his mouth on her ultra-soft James Perse t-shirt. She found a model that was too long on her and covered her butt when she walked around the house in just underwear. There was some kind of remarkable temperature difference between covered-butt and partially-exposed-butt, or so she tried to explain to André at the store on Thursday. “He gets more time to snuggle with you than me.”

“I’m so glad everything I was taught as a wee child about guys not being into snuggling turned out to be false. I’m surrounded by snugglers. I even have one trying to get over-the-phone snuggles.”

“He gets more time to snuggle with you than me too,” he remarked flatly. Christina blushed out of his view. I don’t even know what to say back to that. I can’t deny it. It wouldn’t mean anything if I said it doesn’t mean anything. Do I say I prefer to snuggle with him? He’s the superior snuggler? Is that even true? Does it matter if it is or- “What do they say? Cat got your tongue?”

“It’s not like that’s what I do every time I hang out with him...” She fluffed his hair, hesitantly at first and then over-aggressively, betraying her uncertainty and the effort to then commit, like a cover-up.

“I know. Pet nicer,” André sighed. He didn’t want to make a big deal about Juan. He didn’t want to talk about him at all. The line about snuggling was just too perfect to let the moment pass by. He thought the Spaniard was one of the reasons he didn’t get as much of Christina’s “upside” as he needed. It was hard for him to believe all the time she spent in London instead of Dortmund was to ride, and even if it was, then he believed she would have skipped some of it anyway to be with him if there weren’t a consolation prize waiting for her there. Juan made it easier for her to be in London by herself. If there was no Juan around to fill some of her various needs- a dining companion, someone to cook for, a shopping date, someone to lounge on or spoon with at night in front of the TV- then those needs would drive her to Germany more often, even at the expense of her horses. And the BVB midfielder didn’t really care that much if it cost her something in riding terms.

“Sorry.” Christina slowed her fingers messing around in his hair, and regretted that Juan had to interfere in such a good moment. Without even trying, he barged right into the best she’d felt with her partner in ages, and completely ruined it. He left a path of scorched earth behind him when he didn’t even know he was walking. “Better?”

“Yes. Time for bed though.”