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[abeycostore]

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[30birdss]

Now is Ever

[bambooinwind]

SPY AU.

Summary:You work in the Stables, an escort company operating in the web of lies and eyes of a government service simply known as the Box. A terrible mistake put you in contention with your boss and stuck on the bottom rung of the career ladder. The journey to regaining his trust, and your self-respect, proves an eventful one.

Pairing Min Yoongi x Fem! Reader

Content: Short Black-belly Boss! Suga x Tall Muscle Head! Reader; Wrangler! Jungkook, Honeypot! Jin, EXO Crossover Hoodlum! Chanyeol and ensemble; Bar fights, Hotel fights, Bathcurtain fights; Nookie Snu Snu; Read with caution, abandon morals all ye who enter etc etc... blt...

A/N: L/N mentioned stands for 'last name'. Rhea is reader's code/nickname, three guesses why, winner gets one situation written into subsequent chapters. Author starting to depise the use of Y/N, please suggest alternate names. Later chapters with explicit content will be posted on AO3.

_ _ _ _

You were breaking into a man's house when your earpiece crackled.

"Rhea," Jungkook whispered into your ear. "Rhea, you've got to answer me. Where are you?"

You coughed. "Um, good morning."

"Morning? It's fucking two a.m. Why aren't you in your hotel room?"

"Because the target isn't."

"… What."

You grimaced. "He gave me the slip. We talked about me making him breakfast, something silly like that. Then we went to bed. He did a bunk after he thought I fell asleep."

"Okay, so? He's commitment phobic. Op isn't working, we'll hand him off to the the Dogs. If he blabs to them, it's off to the basement. End of story."

"Not okay, and not end of story," you hissed. "I'm so bloody tired of mooching around hotel rooms and bars and back alleys of clubs. This man has never once invited me to his house. He calls ahead a week before a meetup and he always arrives an hour before we do. "

Static on his end. Bloody typical. "He's used to surveillance. Like he's got something to hide. And that bug we put on his phone is giving us nothing. I'm sure it's a burner. Cookie," you said, "you read the dossier; he associates with known agitators. Why can't we dig deeper ourselves?"

"Because we'd need a juicy fat signature from the big guns before we do anything beyond our job detail." Jungkook hissed back. "Sealed and sanctioned. If that's what'll tick your clock, we'll do that. Bring in Moles, bring in more techies. Find a time he's not at his office and his hou- oh, my god. Please," he swore up a storm and you winced as your eardrums bore the brunt of it. "You're at his house aren't you?"

"Technically," you looked down, "I'm on his drain pipe."

You were clinging to it like a chimpanzee. Wearing all black, sweat had pooled in the hollows of your joints. Your plams were slippery too.

Any more of that and you'd come slipping off it like a soused pole dancer. You'd already wasted enough time with Jungkook.

"I followed the target to this house after several detours. I think it's his real place. He's probably conked out on his bed. I'll be quick, in and out."

"No, you come down from there this instant! Rhea!?"

"It's fine," you gasped. Your arms were beginning to strain. "If he catches me, I'll just pretend to be crazy. Say I fell in love with him, and I was desperate. Apologize for stalking him and jump out of a window."

"You are crazy."

"Sure," you huffed. You started climbing again. You were close to the target's study window on the second floor. Just a stretch of hands and you could start picking the lock.

"Look," Jungkook pleaded, "I can put in a request first thing in the morning, and we'll run this thing tidy as you please. Anyway," he continued, "you kept your earpiece in, and that means you must have wanted me to ping you, right? Right?"

"Uh-huuh." With your tongue between your teeth, you pried open his window with a chisel. Lucky it was a sash type, and lucky you snagged that chisel from Jungkook's emergency toolbox in his van. The lock gave with a quiet pop. You slid the frame up. The opening seemed so sinister, the darkness inside like some gaping wound.

"Listen," you whispered. "I'm going to have to go."

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, Chief Min is going to fucking skin us."

Chief Min? Your heart thumped. Whether it was nerves for what you were about to do, or the thought of Chief Min, his face frozen in displeasure-- you couldn't say. But it was too late for second guesses.

You climbed into the house.

_ _ _ _

The mild susurration of grass accompanied you in dreams. You seemed to feel the green blades on your cheeks, smelling fresh scents of daisies and sandalwood.

 … Sandalwood? Now that didn't seem quite right. But the meadow was so comfortable, your back so warm, that you stretched your limbs in bliss and turned on your side.

 “L/N.”

 “L/N!”

It sounded like a foghorn blaring straight into your skull. You jerked awake. Your boss had wrenched open the door. One hand clenched around the doorknob, the knuckles whitened. The other was perched on his hip.

 He eyed you like he would a maggot, and you remembered, that you weren't, in fact, spending a weekend napping on the grass in some Austen-described Derbyshire meadow.

You were in the discreet townhouse building that served as the Stables. You had your bum parked on a cheap plastic chair right outside his office, and you were supposed to be sitting to attention, awaiting his summons.

 Well, he'd summoned you now. That susurration were whispers from the other office populace. The shout that woke you up had reduced them to an appalled silence, as if the Chief had just smacked all their mouths with a fly-swat. They were bent over their desks, avidly scanning their computer screens while sneaking peeks at the two of you.

 You cast a desperate glance around, but right now, they wouldn't help you if God themself had popped up with an early retirement offer and a lifetime pension.

 “And?” Min Yoongi snapped. “Am I supposed to roll out the red carpet, L/N? Or do you need a blanket for that lovely nap you've just had on government pay?”

 “No, sir,” you muttered.

 You got up. Even in flats, you towered over him. A full head and a half. He had to tilt his neck a full sixty degrees to meet your eyes. One of your colleagues had measured the angle once at a dinner party, while you were trying desperately not to ogle the Chief.

You wondered if that was the moment he'd started hating you in earnest, the way his lack of inches had become the seeming butt of an office joke. Min Yoongi never liked being disadvantaged.

 He let you precede him. As you inched past, you heard him scoff, a puff of warmed air between your figures. Then he slammed the door shut, muting the sounds from the outer office.

 “I'd invite you to sit,” he said, “but I think you've had enough of that.”

 He stalked to his desk, and sat in his chair. They were polished cherry-wood. So lush and expensive looking, mirroring their owner. You approached him, feeling like an ant.

 “Oh no, stand over there,” he shooed you away to a foot from his desk, “so I don't have to throw out my neck looking at you. Our bosses advise me to mark that spot with an 'X' just for you, considering how much time you spend in here. Tell me, L/N” he said, “are you some goddess of misfortune disguised, or do you simply enjoy performing so abysmally?”

 You grimaced. “I know it looks bad.”

 “Looks, she says!” He huffed. “Do tell, how is breaking the arm of the man you were supposed to seduce into giving away information,” Chief Min paused for breath, “part of looking bad? It is bad.”

“That was-- he was resisting--”

“You couldn't extract the intel during your dates, so you followed him home. In the middle of your misbegotten search, he came upon you. He mistook you for a burglar and tackled you. Then he pulled off your fucking sock--”

“--Balaclava,” you corrected miserably.

“--Sock,” Chief Min continued inexorably, “--at which point he refused to listen to your excuses and got aggressive."

Aggressive was putting it lightly. After escaping the house, you called Jungkook. He ran several red lights getting you to the nearest ER.

"So you pulled him into a twist, fracturing his humerus and tearing his rotator cuff in the process, and knocked him unconscious with a flowerpot. After all that…you came away with a USB full of pictures of his cat. And it wasn't even encrypted decently. Two hackers and a cryptanalyst on overtime pay for blurry fucking Maine Coon JPGs. That's what your report said. Quite a read, if I say so myself.”

"It was hidden in a false drawer. I believe I had legitimate reason to suspect it's contents."

Chief Min rubbed his temples. “It could have been hidden in the Queen of England's toilet for the good it did. He won't be so easily fooled again. If he really is the real deal, he might even have done away with incriminating evidence after that late night drama you enacted in his house. And look what he did to your face.”

He gestured at the pattern of black and blue across your cheeks and jaw. But his mention of them irritated you. The target had left more along your sides and back, but the Chief didn't talk about those. He was just looking for something to pick on, and the fact that this was coming from a man's mouth stung.

"If that compromises my value, maybe you could market me as a battered woman for my next op," you said stone-voiced. "Some people find that attractive."

He stared at you like he couldn't believe what you'd just said. He crimsoned at the ears.

"My instructions were to extract that information through whatever means necessary,” you pressed on.

It was bloody career suicide, but god if it didn't sound good.

“Within your capacity!” Chief Min shouted at a volume you'd not heard from him before. "If you want to play bloody word games you can quit this job and join Scrabble competitions for a living! Don't you dare try to out-bureaucratise me!" He was turning purple at the nostrils.

Harsh breathing, deep lungfuls of air. It took you a moment to realise both you and Chief Min were synchronised in agitation.

"You--" he started, then coughed, sharp whipcracks of sound. He paged his secretary.

“Margo, get me some tea, and some antacids. Margo?" He barked.

Radio silence.

“Margo, you old hag, if you're still alive in that cubicle of yours, I want some tea, at least.”

You winced. Old Margo Lam had served a total of five Section Chiefs before Min Yoongi had even been potty-trained. The bosses at the Box didn't know what to do with her, and no one wanted to axe her from the job in case she might die of shock. She was nearly deaf, extremely short-sighted, and took three calcium pills a day to stave off osteoporosis. Any day now you expected to find her expired and shrivelled up in her little anteroom.

A croaky noise that you figured was static issued from the speakers. But the Chief proceeded to have a whole conversation on his end, with garbled interjections from the static- no, Margo.

“Sometime this century would be nice,” he grumbled at last. You supposed his order had finally gone through. He slumped back in his seat, staring a head at the window in the corner. It was a slit in the wall, shuttered. It left his office in the gloom of a constant evening.

What light there was came from a old standing lamp, with a lace doily Margo had probably crocheted forty years ago. It lent his face a sheen akin to a South Side pearl. He had the sort of delicate features that rendered him beautiful, unequivocally. Somedays they filled you with envy. On other days--

Chief Min sighed, and hunched over his desk, looking like a little Vogue-sanctioned dictator. You clenched your fists; ignoring you had the desired effect. You felt incredibly insignificant. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and uncapped a Montblanc. He began scribbling furiously. From your vantage point, you could see the papers were forms.

“Remind me again, L/N, what this place is?” He asked without looking up.

Ah. A weight settled in your gut. “The Stables, sir,” you answered,

“And what are the Stables?”

“An escort service serving as a front for select information gathering, otherwise unattainable through conventional means. We handle outsourced espionage work from the Box-- the um-- the government, sir.”

“That's right.” The Chief looked at you. “You are a honeypot,” he said pleasantly. Mildly. “A sweet flower meant to attract birds and bees.”

A shiver ran up your spine. You eyed the pen he was gripping and shifted on your heels.

“If you wanted to simply beat intel out of persons of interest, I'd recommend you to the basement guys. You know who those are?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, you don't know. You shouldn't know because no one in their right mind would ever want to know about the basement guys. Every morning they go to Intelligence HQ, that huge black tower they call the Box, and then they take the elevator down to floors that don't exist. And they talk to suspects. Milkmen, florists, the auntie you always meet at the bus stop. And if the basement guys aren't happy with what they hear, they'll stop 'talking'. They'll bring those people out of the Box, in bags.” He cracked a smile. Cold-eyed. "The end."

The spit pooling under your tongue felt like glue. Swallowing was painful, and seemed especially loud after his measured narration.

“Do you still know about basement guys?”

“No, sir,” you said.

“Good. Because basement guys are called Butchers. First thing you learn on the job is how to pack up those bags neatly, so you don't get too much blood on the floor. But Butchers," Chief Min said, "do not make up excuses about love and yearning for their targets. When they're in a pinch, they bash brains in."

"So you are not Butcher material, after all."

He signed the last of his forms with a flourish and rummaged in his desk drawers. Holding up his official stamp between two slender fingers, he surveyed you. You surveyed back. He was always like this, eyeing you as if he'd found an outlier he couldn't quite place. A specimen under a microscope.

In contrast, he was always perfectly turned out; shirts and suits starched and ironed. Hair styled like he couldn't put a foot wrong. He radiated competence, informing the world that human failings were for peons, and he was above it all. Like he was a flower stuck upon a dunghill of rejects.

Not for the first time, you wondered why he was here at the Stables. He seemed altogether familiar with the work of Butchers, and the Box men seemed to respect him, if nothing else; their overseers from the Box rather considered the Stables underhanded for even spys. Maybe he was here as a stark reminder that there was, in fact, a sliding scale of human achievement. And he occupied one end of the spectrum, while you and poor Margo Lam rusticated at the other end.

“As of today, you're not even a honeypot,” Chief Min was saying.

“You're a peat bog. No one will want you working P&S jobs for a good while. You've always scraped through your ops, so even though I questioned the validity of having you in the field, I was beginning to have hope you could stick it. That, you can attribute to the team you've got behind you. But you proved me wrong. And I've got one very long meeting ahead of me, trying to explain to the Box why I've been letting imprudency fester in my Stables."

Disappointment dripped out with every word. He sounded like every teacher you'd ever let down, every phone call from your estranged mother. And you shied away from it.

"You evaded your support team, ignored their caution, and attempted a rogue intervention, the results of which provide me with all the answers I need.”

“Sir, I--” What could you say? That you were so tired of feeling like a second rate agent? That the superficial compliments of Box heads, talking about your 'skillset' were nothing compared to a single sharp nod of approval from Chief Min? That you wanted…what was it you wanted?

"Yes, go on?" He said, waving a hand. But shame welled in you. He just watching you struggle with yourself. You hated having these kind of thoughts. They left you feeling pitiful, and gutless. Vulnerability showing on your face like spilled ink. You pulled your lips in, ignoring the sudden urge to cry.   Chief Min cleared his throat. "You obviously need more time understanding what those answers are. Since you seem to want a break from escort duty, I'm assigning you to support and wrangling. You can reflect on your actions while bin-diving in your next op."

He stamped the forms. His actions should have sounded deafening for the impact they had on you. It was practically a Hall of Infamy induction. The Box would never let you live this down.

"Dismissed, L/N. I'll show you out." He stood up. You followed him, your head feeling stuffed full of cotton.

"I was trying to help," you said at last, as he was about to open the door. Oh, you were bitter, because harsh as he was, he was right. And he was going to shoulder the blame for your recklessness. Sharp-tongued and a heart made of pudding; a more hardline superior would have done things by the books and sent you to an office in the arse of nowhere filing traffic violations. Or cut you loose, simple as that.

"I was impatient. I just wanted to bring in something by myself. To be proactive, for once," you said to his shoes.

You heard him sigh. And that quiet rustle, which meant he had taken of his scholar's glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"You really don't get it, do you?" He said softly. "Nevermind. You'll start fresh next week. In the meantime, go home and get some sleep. Your man had some hard fists. Put some ointment on those bruises."

He sounded almost pitying, and you felt your shoulders rise in defence, remembering the ill-conceived nap earlier. He just had to be painfully observant. Making suppositions all on his own.

"And don't--sleep on you sides like earlier. You'll put pressure on the ones he left there."

'I could really hate you for this', you thought.

You muttered a "Yes,sir," under your breath, in case he was waiting for a response. He let you leave. You hurried out, wanting air, wanting to get away and find a corner to bawl in solitude. Everyone outside, clearly in the middle of gossip, once again fell into a watchful, empty quiet.

"Don't hate me too much," you thought you heard him murmur, the frayed ends of an errant wish. You turned back, but he had shut the door in your face already.

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[josawesome]

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[zinchik]

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[zinchik]

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Excited to share the latest addition to my #etsy shop: VAN GOGH ART Blue Shower Curtain Starry Night Over The Rhone Shower Curtain Bath Curtain Polyester Curtain Shower Curtains Print Curtain #vangogh #bathcurtain #bathroomideas #showercurtains https://etsy.me/2WMloNm https://www.instagram.com/p/CC9X00zppsG/?igshid=worfxpwh6ww7

[batrosebellstuff]

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