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liveyun · 3 months ago

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WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he’s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

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oakskull · 2 months ago

Note

I wanna see your pony moshang 🥺🤲

ask and you shall receive!!

my drawings do come with worldbuilding rambling, terribly sorry (not sorry at all)

Side note: "windigos" are creatures in My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (FiM) and I am using them here, but I am changing the name to frost spirits and changing some of their behavior, they look the same.

Design Notes:

SQH has ink stains on his mouth because non magic users write like that. He was a unicorn pre-transmigration and mourns his loss of unicorn magic and technology regularly. The world he transmigrated from is like the far future of FiM, with modern technology and the internet. (not the latest gen, I honestly remember jackshit about the lore in that movie...)

I've seen Earth pony SQH and I get the appeal. But here me out: Pony maigu ridge needs Qinghua to fly! And he's literally a flight risk!

His cutie mark is a brush and a paper airplane, because its his pen name (get it?). PIDW (mlp ver) has a level of technology more similar to SVSSS, but instead of flying swords there's trains. Im taking away xianxia flying swords and giving you trains. Ponies on swords just look too silly! they'd be unstable! (not that this whole AU isnt very silly >w<)

The Northern Kingdom in this au would be the Crystal Empire equivalent, except there is no crystal heart. The Northern desert is kept in a perpetual blizzard by the frost spirits (there is a barrier against storms around the capital created by the northern kings, redone as part of the ascension ritual but otherwise free standing) Instead of love and light protecting the kingdom, the crystal ponies use the power of incredible violence to keep the umbrums at bay.

Additionally, the crystal ponies of PIDW (mlp ver) are physically stronger, have higher base levels of magic, and are generally more cold resistant, due to living near the frost spirits for so long. They are still flesh creatures; the crystal skin is more of a replacement for their coat rather than the skin itself. Crystal ponies are also hypercarnivores, whilst regular ponies are omnivores (this isn't FiM also the horses are magic. they have basically human diets)

I also couldn't decide on a coat color for MBJ so there's two versions. I'm leaning towards the white fur for contrast reasons. And yes, I Did forget to render the crystal part of crystal pony on MBJ, thank you for noticing (lmao)

MBJ's cutiemark is the flag for the crystal empire, because he's part crystal pony, he still has a cutiemark, but all direct descendants have the same cutie mark after they absorb their ancestors power. Before this, they do not have cutiemarks, and gaining a different cutiemark means the frost spirits didn't acknowledge them as a potential decendant, and they can no longer become king.

Pre-Asension Mobei-Jun:

In PIDW (mlp ver) MBJ is a crystal pony decendant of the frost spirits which keep the Northern Desert perpetually cold. They gave the first northern king their power in the war against the umbrums (the things that made King Sombra in FiM). There's no friendship fire to chase away the frost spirits because this is PIDW (mlp ver) it's a stallion novel (pun intended); Instead, the frost spirits are sated by the constant war. There was an umbrum unicorn created to infiltrate the Crystal Empire like in FiM but they just became a regular pony instead of trying to take over and basically just created a new clan of ponies with shadow powers. MBJ's mother was part of this clan, and the abyssal shadow pony ancestry cobined with his frost spirit ancenstry gives him the ability to shadow step/ teleport through the shadows.

MBJ didn't get his pretty hair until he absorbed his ansestors power, which works similar to SVSSS canon. The previous northern kings die and pass on their power to the next generation because they are technically still frost spirits, and not really alive in the same way that regular ponies are.

SQH in an MLP style coat:

Ponies in FiM don't really... wear pants, even when it's cold. In Airplane's world they definately wore pants, and SQH will never go back (like the opposite of SVSSS LOL). In PIDW (mlp ver) ponies don't wear pants for bad porn reasons, Airplane justifies this by pulling the history card (peerless cucumber is not impressed)

Also! you can see SQH's mane better because its profile view, he's not a crystal pony, but he wheres the crystal pony hair bands as an homage to a bun without me actually having to give him one. Because ponies have ears on their head it always feels to me that a bun takes up too much visual space, thus, fancy hair bands.

Moshang flirting:

SQH can dish out flattery all day but he absolutely does Not know what to do when MBJ returns the favour (lol)

Alicorn Shang Qinghua:

In PIDW (mlp ver) I like to imagine that Airplane cut out alicorns because acending through nice things like friendship and love did not fit the vibe. Alicorns were instead like, the old gods who controled elemental stuff, like Celestia and Luna (renamed in PIDW (mlp ver)). Ponies don't control the weather or sun and moon and have less inate magic (earth pony magic, pegasus magic, and unicorn magic), instead, all the alicorns dispersed into spiritual energy that controls the elements and weather and stuff. Ponies cultivate this spiritual energy to gain a golden core of their inate energy, and eventually immortality, but they don't get the trappings of an alicorn.

So, like there aren't really any gods in SVSSS, there aren't any (living) alicorns in PIDW (mlp ver) they're more like myths than anything, and reside in the heavenly realm. I won't be getting into this AUs binghe/ heavenly demon equivalent because this is a moshang post, but Heavenly Demons are changling royalty, which have their FiM powerset on steroids and are sort of corrupted alicorns.

So alicorn SQH is bascially this AUs equivalent of God!SQH. It's not nessisarily canon to the AU but this mostly exists for me and I really like God!SQH so it basically is. Schrödinger's canon.

("Small Matters" style is a reference to the series by Coffeetailor on Ao3)

#oakskull art #moshang #mlp au #shang qinghua #mobei jun #svsss #long post

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felixitate · 2 months ago

Text

one's elixir | lmh (teaser)

✩ pairing: lee know x reader

✩ genre/au: angst, smut, fluff? acquaintances to lovers, academic mentor, fantasy, wizard!au

✩ rating/est. wc: 18+ | around 20-22k (damn?)

✩ synopsis: you’re a walking disaster. not just in Minho's eyes but for anyone in the academy so when he was asked to supervise you, he had to agree to ensure everyone’s safety. but is it worth the risk to involve himself in something that even you can't control?

a/n: happiest birthday to my first-ever bias in stray kids! he went on live when it struck midnight here so i'm just 😩 i know you've all been waiting for so long so here's a small snippet at least

— part of the Spellbound Secrets series

"did you poison your entire class?" he starts, looking at you dead in the eyes as he drops the worksheet of potion formulas on the desk table. you're taken aback, both from his question and the fact that he's in front of you right now asking that.

"what? where did you hear that?" you almost stuttered, feeling a bit offended but thankfully, you recovered instantly. receiving questions like this isn't new to you knowing how much of a troublemaker you are.

your brain is still processing that the Lee Minho is your designated mentor. depending on the mentee, students who are chosen are seniors and graduate students.

out of all the ones in your department, it had to be him.

someone you've admired from afar for years now.

the idea of Minho having heard rumours about you fuelled further embarrassment in you. from what his friends told you about him, he never pays attention to these things unlike them.

his assumption must’ve been the result of hearing more from your professors. they know how he's like which was probably why the alchemy department sent him as your mentor.

it would definitely be effective but why did it have to be him? is he really the perfect one to possibly straighten you or were they just running out of choices?

you remember it clearly, being chosen to lead an experiment at the beginning of your potions class because of your exemplary record in your other courses. turns out, you're quite the opposite and you didn't just disappoint your professor but also endangered everyone in your class.

"i believe you have an idea already"

it wasn't like you planned it. realizing that using the wrong ingredient and missing the prescribed portion was inevitable. you didn't want to put anyone in danger.

you wonder how much Minho knows.

refusing to spare him another look, you grab the worksheets to distract yourself. while doing so, you did notice the small quirk on the corner of his lips as he sat down when you briefly took a quick glance.

a mix of emotions is bubbling inside you but you at least recovered from the shock. embarrassment, however, is still on a process since you essentially ruined your crush's first impression of you.

however, there's a small happiness in you along with an excitement of Minho being your mentor. this is your chance to know him more than what his friends have told you about him. they gave you a heads up that made you a bit hesitant at first since Minho rejected many girls before. you have no idea how to interact with him and it might end in him only considering you as one of his juniors.

you can still pursue him though so that's why you'll try to behave for now.

"you don't even know me"

"i know enough" he counters, not sparing you a look as he opens another book.

"rumours don't equate to the real me"

"regardless, i only agreed to this because you're a hazard to everyone"

hearing that from someone you admire did sting a little but it's reasonable. he's just concerned for everyone's safety but you're kinda hurt that he'd think that way even if it's technically your fault.

minho could tell that what he said struck something in you cause you never bothered answering him.

"we'll have to set a learning plan for you" he starts, breaking the awkward silence that rules between you both.

"alright, let's get this started"

e/n: very long fics are not my forte that's why it's taking me so damn long to finish this one lol. add that @temptaetions and i had to re-outline/rewrite most of the fics (me mostly) since posting the series masterlist because of the extra stuff added during the fanmeeting (vcrs. etc.). thank you for your patience so far, we've been writing behind the scenes to finish them all up so we can release them back to back when the time comes :)

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the-kr8tor · 9 months ago

Text

Mr and Mrs Smith AU: When Jane met John

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 9k

Summary: Joining a spy agency? Check ✓ Hired in said agency? Check ✓ Getting a new fancy house? Check ✓ An entire armoury of weapons at your disposal? Check ✓ A new Husband? Check ✓ wait, what?

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), Hobie and R call each other by fake names (ie: John, Jane, Smith etc), spy AU, CW suggestive, CW food mentions, TW blood, CW violence, CW vomit mention, TW death.

A/N: Happy 1k! Happy reading!!!❤️

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Buy me a ☕?

The waiting room seems like it's designed to make you extra anxious. From the bright fluorescent lights that whir above, to the carpet that smells like a very harsh citrus soap. Add the metallic chairs that's incredibly cold under your slacks— It all makes you bounce your leg from the bundle of nerves inside your stomach. The people waiting around you don't help either, they all look like they came out of magazine covers. Hair all tied up in a perfect bun, pencil skirts that cinch their waist perfectly. Button ups that are ironed until there's no crease in sight.

You bite your lip, eyes glued on the steel door, to where your last resort is, to where your entire future depends on. Looking around the room full of models, it doesn't seem like you're applying for a security job.

Maybe you should've worn that pencil skirt that's gathering dust in your closet.

Even though you technically don't know what kind of job it is, you really need to get this one, or else. Your savings could only get you so far. An old ‘friend’ of yours recommended this ‘company’. It operates at the highest security, the risk is just as high, but the pay is higher. More than what you've ever earned in the five years you've worked anyway.

Flicking your eyes above the door, the light finally turns green from red, and a chiming sound can be heard as the door clicks open on its own. You still wonder where the applicant goes after their interview since you never saw them exit out the same door. A morbid thought passes by your mind: a gun plus a bullet to the head. The image makes you grab the rubber band on your wrist to slap it against your skin. It leaves the stinging pain for only a moment, but it's enough to throw away the vision from your brain.

An applicant enters and you look down at the piece of paper in your hand— you're next.

The number, 2715 is written in Times New Roman. You can recognize that font anywhere, for it's the same font used on newer gravestones, the same font on his— you slap the rubber band against your wrist again. This time harder than the last. The stinging stays for a minute more. Your heels tap against the carpet, the clock ticks, the fluorescent whirs, someone coughs and you want to punch them in the face— you slap the rubber band against your skin again.

Your ears perk up at the familiar chime like you've been Pavlov’d by the sound after waiting for three hours on that uncomfortable metal chair that has tiny holes that you've gotten your pinky finger stuck in on hour two.

With a deep breath, you saunter your way towards the creaking door, trying to summon all the confidence in your body. They may be watching so you do your best to not look as nervous as you feel like.

As you enter the room, the large screen in the center raises a curious brow. The light from the monitor shines a spotlight on the singular office chair right in front of it. The room is dim, save for the single light. The screen reminds you of one of those mall touch screens that shows you the map of the building. There's another door on the opposite wall, now you know where all the other candidates exit, and it's definitely not from a bullet judging from the clean floors.

With a tentative step, you cross the distance. Sitting down, the chair is a comfortable welcome from the last one you sat on.

“Am I supposed to push a button?” You roam your eyes over the circular shape up top. You surmise that it's the camera.

The calming sky blue screen flashes words,

> Hihi, welcome

“Hi?”

> Insert nail clippings

A box slides out below the screen, prompting you to take the ziplock with your nail clippings from your bag. It slides back in with a mechanic hiss once you place the plastic on the drawer, and the screen blinks to a couple of questions that you answer honestly.

> What's your ethnicity?

You don't falter. Answering it truthfully.

> Height?

You clear your throat, the lump is either from the nerves or how your voice faltered when you answered.

> Are you willing to relocate?

You wring your hands together on your lap. “Yes, absolutely. Nothing's holding me back.” Then the dreaded question pops up on the bright screen.

> Tell me about yourself

“Uh, I graduated top of my class.” You scratch the back of your neck. “MI6 agent for three–no, uh four years.” Chuckling shakily, you continue. “I got high merits…w-well until the thing— but I was on the road to promotion b-before it happened.” God, you hate interviews.

> Words that people would describe you with?

You blink, sucking in a breath. “Truthfully?” Joking, the screen doesn't appreciate your humour.

> Yes

“Oh, p-people would describe me as a… someone who has initiative. Cunning…” unfeeling— you slap the band on your wrist again. Sitting up right, you gaze at the camera like your eyes could see the person typing behind it. You guess it's a person at least. “Passed all my training with flying colours, infiltration, marksmanship, hand to hand, you name it. You tell me the job and I'll do it with no questions asked.”

> Are you okay with high risk?

“More than okay.” You answer quickly.

> With a team or alone?

“I'm alright with either, but I prefer alone.”

> Why did you get fired?

“You know why.” You say intensely, eyes boring holes into the screen. For a second you thought you flubbed it but the screen continues to flash a new question.

> Have you killed anyone?

> And why?

The question turns into what you're more accustomed to. “Yes, approximately…” you inhale sharply. “Forty three. Two unintentionally, the rest with various…weapons.” You mindlessly play with the loose thread of your blazer to get rid of the flashing images in your head. “As for why, that's confidential information.”

The robot or the person behind the screen seems to accept your vague answers for it moves on with the interview.

> Favourite food?

Your eyebrows knit at the sudden turn of question. “Uh, I have a sweet tooth, ice cream. I think. But I can't resist good popcorn.” Your tone wavers at the end.

> Have you been in love?

You laugh, but the question still flashes on screen, unchanged and unamused. Clamping up, you feel for the rubber on your wrist.

“I-I'm sorry but what is this part for?”

The screen remains the same.

“—No,” you remember that they've probably already known everything about you even before you applied. So you decide to answer vaguely, that seems to work out before. “Once, just once.”

> When was the last time you said ‘I love you?’

“A long time ago.”

> To whom?

“You know who.”

—

You're surprised that you got the job even after the disastrous interview. The suitcase is light in your tightly clasped hand. The belongings you've tossed inside are sparse, only packing the ones you only need.

The large wooden door looms in front of you, the street behind you is bustling and right across your new home is an expansive park. A park that looks like you need to pay just to get inside. The neighborhood that you're situated in can be described as exclusive, rich and very suburban. The kind of setting where parents would do anything to raise their kids in. Something you've never thought in your dangerous life to live in, more so even step foot in.

With an exhale, you unlock the door. It clicks open surprisingly, you doubted the company for a second when you pushed it in. Maybe they gave you the wrong address? Maybe something went wrong in their system and your name popped up instead of someone more worthy? Someone who's a better shot, someone who isn't as bat shit insane as you.

The long hallway greets you, the low warm light brings comfort to your rattling bones. Its carpet runner is soft beneath your sneakers, red and blue threads weaved around the thick cloth. Framed art is posted on the walls, the artist's name you recognize from some pretentious reality tv about selling mansions that you once drunkenly watched alone on a friday night.

You leave your baggage in the hallway. Opting to explore the cinnamon scented home. Its rich walls remind you of chocolate that you once got for your birthday. The furniture doesn't look like it came from Ikea, the oak is sturdy under your palm, no rough surface, no protruding nails that slashes your flesh.

You snap the rubber band on your wrist for the umpteenth time today.

There's an ornate door sitting on your right, robins and roses are carved on the wood. The biometric scanner is placed right next to the door, it’s a stark contrast to the traditional home. Flipping the cover open, you place your thumb on the smooth surface of the scanner. After a half second, the door clicks open, revealing a steel elevator. The bright light above it almost blinds you.

Your curiosity makes you enter the steel cage, roaming your eyes, you spot the buttons.

“Might as well.” You say to the emptiness of the house.

As the elevator door closes, the front door opens.

There's a lack of elevator music, perhaps that's the best since you always hated the cheery chiming of it. The second the door opens, you take a peek inside. The weird smell combination of chlorine and butter hits your nose.

“Holy shit,” you mumble in disbelief at the indoor pool and theatre. “A fucking pool under the house? And a fucking theatre screen in front? Which rich fuck decided that?” Your voice echoes, bouncing off the tiled walls of the pool.

Roaming the large room, eyes wide and strides small, you marvel at the high ceilings with the same warm tone lights hidden in the coves to soften the lights. You crouch down, letting the warm water lap at your hand.

There's a handful of sun loungers on the side, tables in between them for drinks and whatever rich people put on it. A projector hangs above the pool, an electrical hazard, you thought and an image of an entire pool party getting electrocuted lingers in your mind. You snap the rubber band against your wrist.

The popcorn machine helps distract you from the intrusive thought. Opening the machine, the popped kernels are still warm against your skin. You quickly scoop up a handful of it in your palm, the butter slicking your hand and your mouth as you eat it like how a baby deer eats grass.

You've had enough of the overly decorated basement, getting back on the elevator, you finish off your popcorn with one big bite. Still chewing, you wipe your hands on your trousers to press the shiny buttons on the elevator. The doors close as you chew loudly, eyes up on the screen showing the floors of the house, you don't notice the stranger standing outside of the opened doors.

Butter on your lips, you almost smack him on his pretty face.

“Christ!” You yelp, almost choking on a kernel.

“Close, but no.” He smirks, eyes flicking at the sheen on your lips.

Your husband, the title echoes in your popcorn filled head. His smile captures your attention, a ten megawatt grin that could power the entire posh neighborhood. His piercings glimmer in the warm light, and your eyes are glued to the ones on his eyebrows. Hazel eyes, the left one seems to be lighter than the other, watercolour eyes stare back at you, scanning your features. If you stare long enough you swear you can see patches of green and gray in those expressive eyes.

“John Smith.” He introduces himself, your husband, your partner. John doesn't raise his ringed hand for you to shake, instead he nods at you, waiting patiently for you to say your name. As if he doesn't know.

Clearing your kernel filled throat, you quickly run your tongue across your teeth (with your mouth closed of course) because you don't want to embarrass yourself further by having popcorn stuck in your teeth.

“Jane, Jane Smith.” You reach towards him to shake his hand, he raises a brow at you in turn.

“I don't do that, love, sorry.”

“Shake hands?”

“Yeah,” he looks to the left of your face, his eyebrow twitches slightly— a tell.

“Are you a germaphobe?” You ask before you could stop yourself.

“Not really, I've got issues…with intimacy.” John shrugs, the metals on his leather jacket clinks together. You think he'd rather be a model or a rock star instead of a spy with how he dresses and carries himself with confidence.

You smile knowingly, “We all do, but you don't have that issue. It's our first day of marriage and you decide to lie to your wife?” You click your tongue, eyebrow raised. “Not a very good first impression, John.”

He'll never get used to being called that basic name. ‘John’ takes your hand, it's warm, searing hot under your slippery hand. You'd thought his warmth would cook your flesh, you guess the butter on your palm would work wonders. You're starting to regret snacking. The calluses on his palm matches your own, a large scar across his palm tells you a story untold. Silver rings decorate his long fingers. There's a more simple silver bracelet on his wrist, a stark contrast to the ornate rings he sports on both hands.

He's handsome, you think, rightfully so. With his chiseled jaw that rivals any greek statue and eyes that could be mistaken for stars; he's tall too, so that's a plus. You lucked out on the fake husband department. Well, there's worse men to fake marry out there. Just judging from first impressions, you're glad he's the one you have on your side,

“How'd you know?” He asks, eyes narrowed.

“I'm very perceptive.”

“Trained?”

“Nope,” you hide your bundle of nerves with your casual tone. His hand is still clasped on your own, you don't notice it. “Just very good at reading people.”

“Did you have a stint at the BAU too?”

Too? You ignore it for now. “No,” chuckling, you finally notice the heat on your palm so you let him go. “Just…natural talent, I guess.”

“What’s under the house?” John asks, stepping aside so you could exit the elevator.

“A beating heart.” You curse yourself, fingers already reaching for the rubber band on your wrist.

To your surprise, John laughs. The sound is genuine, eyes crinkling in the corners. “I got the reference.”

“I figured.”

“I saw a black box in the office, you wanna check it out?” He points behind him with his thumb.

“Why? Do you think there's a beating heart in there too?”

“Maybe.” He plays along, walking beside you. “You never know with the company, for all we know there's a head in there.”

“Morbid.” You joke as he opens the door for you.

“Says you?” John keeps reminding himself of his real name whilst he memorizes the side of your face. He already wants to tell you his real name, not the one assigned to him by the suits behind the faceless screen he has grown familiar with. He says his name in his mind again, if he accidentally blurted it out, well, c'est la vie.

“Says me,” you shrug casually, trying to keep up with his wit and charm. You already think you're losing. You scrunch your face at the painting above the mantle. It's an art of two lovers doing the tango, if tango excludes clothes and includes intense snogging.

He chuckles right next to you, an airy laugh that has you smiling too. “A very brave choice. Not my taste, but whatever floats the company's boat. What's inside is a bit better though.” Your ‘husband’ reaches towards the frame of the painting, gently pressing down, it releases a metallic click as it reveals a secret compartment full of weapons.

You hide a snort behind your hand. The cabinet reminds you of your own. Unimpressed, you flick your eyes down at the office table, the large black box sitting on top of it is just begging to be opened.

Without a second thought, you open it. Taking out the bottle of expensive looking wine, you read the card that is tied in a neat ribbon around the neck.

“‘Good luck on your first day of marriage’” you look at the man beside you. He's incredibly close to you, his elbow grazing yours, lips slightly parted whilst he takes a peek at the wine. He smells of burgundy and leather, it calms your senses for some odd reason. “I prefer coke.” You practically shove the bottle in his hands. The glass clinks against his metal rings.

“The snorting variation or the fizzy one?” He asks, placing the bottle down on the narra table with an almost silent thud.

“The fizzy one.” You take his question at face value. He doesn't question why you don't prefer alcohol. Sitting down on the plush office chair, you open the laptop in front of you. It dings, needing a password to open it. “It needs a—”

Before you could even finish the question, he gives you a scrap of paper from the numerous envelopes inside the box. The password is printed on it with the same font as the one from the piece of paper you held a couple of weeks ago.

You type it whilst he rifles through the box. The home screen pops up, nothing too fancy or out of the ordinary. Except for the single application in the corner that's only labeled as ‘S’

Clicking it, a chat box appears.

> Hihi, follow man

John snakes up next to you, the harsh light from the laptop shines on his pensive face. You return your attention towards ‘your boss’. A picture of a young blond man pops up in the chat, there's a mole near his left eye, he sports dark eyebrows. And a look that says ‘daddy paid for my college!’

> 40.748817, -73.985428

“That's downtown I think.” John pipes up next to you, and you look at him like he just said the sky is green and the grass is blue.

> Take keys, take car. Bring car here

> 51.505554, -0.075278.

“A car?” You rhetorically ask.

“Must be a very expensive car, or an important one.” John answers back as he leans further down to take a better look at the monitor. His hand is on the back of your chair, his necklaces dangle on his neck like a pretty chandelier.

You both wait for more instructions but it doesn't come.

“Hihi isn't very talkative, huh?” Your voice echoes in the awkward silence.

“‘Hihi?’”

“Yeah, I thought I'd give it a nickname.” You think he's weirded out but with an amused laugh he pats your shoulder nonchalantly.

“Cute.” You don't know if he's referring to you, or to the nickname you dubbed your electronic boss. “I've separated our papers.” John says as you still contemplate his last comment. “Here's yours.”

“Thanks.” You scan the pile in your hands. Your own face greets you as you flip through it all.

“It has everything we need. Credit card, ID's, carry permit and a passport.”

“What's that one?” You point at the larger envelope next to John's pile. A smaller black leather envelope sits atop it.

He opens the large envelope, giving you the contents of it. “Marriage certificate. And this one…” shaking the leather envelope, whatever is inside of it clinks. Taking it out, he shows you the gold bands. “...our wedding rings.” Heat rises in your cheeks unavoidably once he says it softly. “May I?” Open palm reaching out, he beckons.

You try to remember which hand wears it. With a split second decision, you place your left hand atop his own. Carefully sliding the cold ring in your marriage finger, you stay locked in on his eyes that's concentrating like he's disarming a bomb.

John pats your hand and then inserts his own ring in his finger, mirroring yours.

“Guess we're married.” You shrug casually like your heart doesn't beat against your ribcage, like it's trying to escape its confines. “It feels kind of weird?”

“We are,” he flashes you his signature smirk. “And we'll get used to it, hm, wife?”

“Yeah, I'll adapt.” You say just barely above a whisper, hands suddenly clammy.

“That's my girl.” Throwing you a wink, he walks away from a flustered you.

Yeah, you got lucky.

—

Morning comes and you had the best sleep you've had in years. Even if you slept on an empty stomach last night, you still slept like a baby on the eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton blanket. You stare blankly at the beige ceiling, hands roaming around the soft bed sheet like you're making a snow angel. Sleep ridden eyes roam around the expansive master bedroom to which your new husband has graciously let you take.

Speaking of ‘John’, his bedroom is just across your own. Surprisingly enough, he hasn't woken up yet based on the silence in the hallway outside, you hadn't pegged him as a late riser.

Breakfast calls for you when your stomach rumbles loudly, but you're too comfortable to even move from your spot. Something taps from your window that's facing the foot of your bed. A soft tippy tap of something hitting the glass that has you sitting up. Eyes blinking rapidly, you stare off a pigeon perched outside. Its iridescent feathers shine in the early morning sun, its beak tapping rhythmically at the window.

Sliding your hand behind you, blindly grasping at a pillow, you fling it across the room to scare off the bird. The pillow hits your mark and out flies away the annoying pigeon. With a sigh, you get off your ass to get ready for the day ahead. You don't want to be late to your first day out in the field, no use in rotting in your luxurious bed if you can't keep it after you get fired for being late.

You dress for the day and for the cool weather. Spring has come but the freezing temperature has decided to stay for a little while. With a cozy turtleneck and comfy slacks, you forgo the torturous device called ‘heels’ for a pair of trainers. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you shrug with a huff. And you snap the rubber against your skin once again.

Taking the chair off the doorknob and then unlocking the door, you exit your sanctuary. Closing your door softly, you find yourself in front of John's room. Judging from the soft snores, you notice that he’s still sleeping. You might be his fake wife but it's not your job to wake him up. So you continue down the hallway and into the kitchen to fix yourself a bowl of cereal.

Bowl in hand, you chew as you walk up to the rooftop. Unlocking it, the sun greets you with a comfortable heat, and you frown at it. You keep eating whilst you explore the space. There's a bountiful garden in the corner, raised garden beds full of fresh vegetables and fruit that is ripe for the taking. An outside dining area sits in the middle, you recognize the long table from a catalog you once read to pass the time at the dentist. You remember that it doubles as a grill and leg warmer in the winter.

“Fancy,” you murmur with your mouth full of grainy goodness. Sipping the leftover milk in the bowl, you place it on the expensive table to crouch down next to a bushel of strawberries to sniff. “Almost ripe,” you figure from the softness of the fruit.

A bird flies above you, it's shadow casting over you. With the sound of fluttering wings, the bird perches on the table, black orbs staring at you, head tilting like it's observing your presence.

“Are you the same fucking bird?” You question the pigeon. It coos at you, and then pecks at the ceramic of your discarded bowl. “Motherfucker—” standing up, you have the look of someone ready to square up with the feathered creature.

“Why are you fighting an innocent bird?” John appears with a mug of tea in his hand. You forgot to make tea.

“I wasn't fighting with it.”

“He,” your partner crosses the distance, the bird doesn't fly away from the close proximity. You raise an eyebrow at that. “might be hungry.” He gestures towards the strawberries behind you with his chin. “Think you can grab us one, lovie?” You're gonna need some time to get used to that term.

“It's not ripe.”

“I don't think he's picky.”

“It's too sour, it might upset his stomach.”

“He's a pigeon, he's used to eating shit off the pavement. I think that's fine, love.”

With an awkward nod, you pick the one that's redder than the rest. Throwing it towards John, he catches it with a practiced hand. He sits down before laying the fruit in front of the bird. You watch it unfold, the pigeon hops on the table, beak pecking at the seeds. You're intrigued at their interaction.

John sips at his drink, still in his sleep clothes. Toned arms in full display from the loose tank top he sports. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, silk bonnet on his head. He only has one sock on his feet, you tilt your head.

“What happened to your sock?” You point at his bare foot curiously.

“Hmm?” He looks down, and he chuckles like he just realized the missing article of clothing. “Don't know, probably kicked it off while I was sleepin’”

“Oh,” you blink, “you should get ready, we might miss our target.”

He fakes salutes at you, drinking casually from his mug as you leave the rooftop. He doesn't miss how you didn't take your dish with you. Sighing, he watches the pigeon eat his fill.

—

You and John arrive at a pub. It's dim inside with only a few miserable patrons sitting sparsely at different corners of the musty establishment. They all look miserable, all having expressions from different points of the human emotion. But there's only one face you're observing— your target.

He sits alone on the bar stool, back hunched, eyes red and nursing a half filled pint of beer. Holding his face in his hand, blond hair raked in between his fingers, bomber jacket hanging loosely on his form, bags under his sagging eyes. He's the picture of someone who's on the bottom of the barrel.

John guides you with his hand hovering on your back. Not touching, at the same time still close, you are supposed to be a couple after all. You slide into a booth that has the perfect view of the target, but still out of his sight and out of earshot. The leather seat is worn down, tiny bits of it are ripped, at least it's not sticky. He orders for you, and you observe how he slyly roams his eyes towards the man, looking out for the keys.

He comes back with a plate of chips and dip. “Thought it would be weird not to order anythin’”

“Good call,” you take a chip whilst your eyes only briefly leave the target's back. “Thought you'd buy me a pint.”

“Did you want a pint? This early? Do you want to talk about it?” He half jokes as he takes a smaller chip.

“No,” you scoff, “and no. I just thought you'd order it instead of this.”

“You're not the only perceptive one in this relationship.” John looks over his shoulder to quickly do a once over at the forlorn man.

“Did you see where he's keeping it?”

“Inside his jacket, right side.”

You nod, “Is he carrying?”

“Not that I can tell.” He shrugs, licking the salt off his finger. “So, why'd you join?”

“Really? We're doing that?” You watch as the man gulps down his remaining drink and then orders a new one immediately.

“Yes, we're doin' that. Won't that make us work better together? To get to know each other a bit more?”

“Fine,” you silently huff. “No one else would take me, this is a last resort, I guess?”

“Bullshit, love, I think anyone would be happy to have you in their…agency?”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere, birdman.” A small smile appears on your lips, he beams at you. “Besides, who else is hiring for someone with the specific skill set that I have?”

He hums, while turning subtly to take a peek at the target. Returning his attention to you after seeing the blonde man still hunched in his stool, John takes another chip. “True, did you get kicked out from the last one?”

“Not really,” you stare at the crack on the wooden table. “You?”

“Not really,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes.

“You MI6?” He asks casually. “This your first time in London?”

“I'm not answering either of those questions.”

“C’mon,” he wiggles his left hand, the wedding band shines in the pub light. “Husband, remember? ‘sides, I won't tell anyone.”

You place your elbows on the table, smiling sarcastically at him. After a beat for his anticipation, you grin wider. “No.”

His shoulders fall, a chortle escaping his lips. “Cheeky.” Pointing an accusing finger at you, he quickly looks behind him, only to find the target sluggishly exiting the pub. “He's on the move.”

You both follow the drunk man like gravity is pulling you towards him. Walking the streets of busy downtown London, stranger's faces whizz past you. John has his hands casually in his pockets, yet he stays close to you, eyes flicking in the corners to check on you.

“Why don't you ask me a question? Y’know tit for tat?” He waits patiently for you to answer back, hell he'll even take a grunt at this point.

“Okay,” you surprisingly start the conversation on his behalf. “Have you killed anyone?” The passing pedestrians don't seem to notice you and the morbid subject.

Your partner snorts, nose scrunched up, eyes glued on the staggering target. “Nah. Have you?”

“I call bullshit,” you dodge a distracted woman scrolling on her phone. “Anyway, I have. I'm not exactly proud of it or flaunting it if you're thinking that I'm doing that.”

“Good, once you start flaunting it like a bloody trophy, you've lost it.”

You hum in agreement, the sound of a deep rumble in your chest as you two turn a corner. “Why do you think hihi needs us to nick the car?”

“Hihi” he chuckles, you turn to him with a serious face. “There's probably a stash of confidential information in the trunk or somethin’”

“Maybe a stash of weapons?” The man in front of you stumbles. “I don't see him as the type to harbor secret documents.”

John nods, “a highly infectious disease then?”

“Christ, we better drive carefully once we get a hold of it.” You turn to him briefly. “Maybe it's a really expensive sports car and he's all sad and mopey because he's gone broke after buying it?”

“Got a whole story now, huh?” He pushes you lightly with his leather clad shoulder, and you smile softly. “You good at pickpocketing him?” Your partner gestures with his chin, said target is walking into traffic. He seems unbothered by the oncoming vehicles. John curses under his breath.

“We should do that now before he kills himself.” You speed walk across the crossing, grabbing the drunk man before a car hits him.

Arms enveloping around his bomber jacket, swiping him away and quickly carrying him to the footpath, you save him before an suv hits you both. The car honks loudly and angrily as your target groans in your arms like he's about to hurl the contents of his stomach.

John punches the hood of the car, pointing at the driver accusingly. A distraction for you to take the keys hidden in the man's jacket.

“You almost hit my fuckin' wife, you wanker!” Your partner yells, covering the sound of jingling keys in your expert hand. He plays the part well.

Surprisingly, the target straightens up in your hold, a split second after you pocketed the car keys inside your own coat.

“Y-you,” he slurs, feet struggling to keep himself upright. “Dickhead!” Slamming his fists on the hood with a loud *thunk, he joins John who gives you a look and a shrug. The drunken yelling gets louder and the driver now exits his car with an equally angry look.

John takes this opportunity to come back to your side, hand holding your elbow, he leads you away from the screaming match as more and more people try to intervene.

“Got it?” He whispers closely to the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps to rise in your arms.

“‘course I did.” You jingle the keys inside your pocket. “I'm not an amateur.”

Playing along, he laughs, hand still holding your elbow softly. “Good job, missus.”

With an awkward chuckle, you lean away from him. “Just so you know, I'm not in this for…the romance.” You bite the inside of your cheek. “I'm not looking to date my co-worker.”

John raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine by me. if the situation calls for us to actually act as a couple—”

“We'll act as a couple, I won't fuss if that's what you're saying.”

“Good, now let's get this bloody car.”

—

“A fucking ‘99 toyota corolla?” You stare in disbelief at the rusting metal. “At least it's one of the good models.” Kicking the wheel, you expect it to tumble over like in an old timey cartoon.

John is crouched way down to check the bottom of the car. “It's clear.” He stands up fully, cleaning his hands on his jeans. You wince at his movements. “What?”

“Nothing.” You open the driver's side, the smell of alcohol and something musty hits your nose. “Nasty.” Coughing, you air it out by opening another door.

“You know your cars?”

“A little bit.” You say with your nose pinched. Sparing him a look, he stands in the parking lot like he's still waiting for the rest of the story. “What?”

“Throw me a bone here, love.” You roll your eyes. “Why do you know so much about cars?”

��I said I know a little bit.” You place your hands on your hips like an exasperated mother whose son keeps asking weird questions about dinosaurs. “I dated a mechanic.” You say flatly.

“Really? Did you date a pickpocket too? Or do you date people so you could absorb their skills like kirby?”

“Are you jealous?” You tease him with a comment you didn't have the foresight that it would backfire.

“We are married.” He says matter-of-fact with a killer smirk and eyes glinting with mischief. “And this is technically our honeymoon so—”

“Get in the fucking car, birdman.”

—

The wheel is sticky under your hands, you have an intense urge to wash your hands or to at least grab a sanitizer. Apparently your disgust shows on your face, for John chortles next to you.

“What?” You say through gritted teeth.

“Nothin’, you just look like someone shat in your tea.”

“The wheel is sticky.”

“I have a handkerchief with me, d’you want me to?” Taking out the dark green cloth from his jean pockets, he's already twisting in his seat to wipe it clean.

“Please,” you ask softly, hands sliding down to make space for him.

Your hand never left the wheel while he cleans it for you. John's seatbelt is unclasped so he could have more movement, his face is close to your vision, warmth blanketing over you. He's so close that you can smell his cologne, it's a different one from yesterday, it's more flowery with a hint of mint. You spot a hidden mole under his ear. A tiny dot that is just begging to be poked.

Without thinking, you press softly with the pad of your finger. He yelps, flinching away instinctively. Looking at you with wide eyes and mouth agape, you're ready to be called a nasty nickname, or be cussed out with a loud voice. Instead of what you're anticipating, a laugh bellows out, a rumbly laugh that makes you smile and let out an almost silent chortle.

“I think you found my mole.” John holds the side of his neck with a grin. “You let your urges get to you, love.”

“Sorry,” you keep your eyes on the road to hide your embarrassment.

“It's fine, your hand was just cold. Ask me next time, I have a few more cute moles on me.”

“Nevermind, you ruined it.” With a roll of your eyes and a smile, you park at the coordinates. “Nice acting back there, I see an Emmy nomination for you in the future.”

“Thanks, I barely remember what I said. You sure this is the place?” John peeks at the map pulled up on your phone. “Shit, we're here.”

The entire street is suburban, large colonial houses lining the sides, tall pine trees decorate the sidewalks. There's not a lot of people walking by, save for a couple pedestrians walking their dogs, the place is devoid of people.

“What now?” You unclasp your seatbelt to twist around in your seat so you could observe the neighborhood.

“Hihi told us to bring it here, so maybe we should—?” John lets out a high pitched scream that also has you yelling in surprise, not from whatever made him shriek but from the sound that escaped him. “What the fuck!”

Leaning slightly to look at what had his knickers in a bunch, you stare blankly at a bespectacled man in a bespoke suit. The man gives you and your partner an apologetic look, he points for John to open the window.

He turns towards you with an eyebrow raised. “Should I?”

“Yeah, I think you should.”

“What if he's got a gun?” He whispers.

“We also have guns, John. I'll cover you, don't worry. Maybe this is what hihi asked us to do.”

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one opening it.” He gives you a glare before rolling the window down an inch. “Hi, mate. What can we do for you?”

“The car,” the stranger points a lengthy finger at the wheel. His voice is crackly and gravelly, like he just smoked a pack of cigarettes before he went up to the car. “You're late, but that doesn't matter. How much do I owe you, folks?”

“Uh, the usual.” You say with fake confidence.

“Good,” the lean man straightens up, “mind gettin’ out of the car then?”

“Right, sorry, bruv.” John, gives you one look before exiting the car. He's nervous and so are you.

As the doors shut, the man flexes his open palms expectantly for the keys, to which you hand off immediately. He gives you bad vibes, maybe your intuition tells you to run for the hills.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I'll wire the money to the usual account.” The nickname sends shivers down your spine.

He closes the door and starts up the car. With a splutter of the exhaust, he slowly drives away. You and John watch, standing side by side in the middle of the street in confusion.

“He was weird, right? Not to mention it was too easy.” You turn your head to look at him. “Maybe they're trying to ease us in?”

“It was all weird, not just him—” A blast coming from the car interrupts him, the sheer force of it sends you two down on the rough pavement.

Your cheeks are incredibly warm from the searing heat of the bomb. The light from it blinds the two of you.

Palms skinned, trousers slashed at the knees, your ears ring loudly like an annoying buzz from a broken microphone. Coughing loudly, smoke fills your lungs, debris is scattered around the once pristine neighborhood. There's blood on the concrete, you can't hear John calling for you, your vision is blurred by the cloud of smoke. His hand reaches for you, and your instincts tell you to run.

“Fuck!” He yells, running beside you at full speed. “What the fuck!”

“Keep running!” You yell as he turns around to check on a woozy you. “I'm fine!”

Someone behind you screams for you to stop so you and your partner run faster. Knees aching, thighs burning, you don't stick around to look who's running after you. The unmistakable click of a gun’s safety is loud in your eardrums, even if your lungs threaten to give out, you sprint right next to John as he turns a corner and into a carwash.

The smell of soap and heavy pine scented car freshener hits your bloody nose. He tugs you towards the plastic curtains and inside what you presume as the employee lounge, someone yells after you but it falls on deaf ears as you and John continue your escape.

Exiting the establishment, the metal doors open to a messy alleyway. Boxes upon boxes of trash and god knows what are littered all around. The pungent smell makes you want to hurl, or maybe that's the adrenaline having a weird effect on your stomach.

You two find reprieve for a second, huffing, trying to get oxygen back in. Hands on your aching thighs, the concrete below you slowly turns crimson as your mysterious injury drips precious blood on the messy ground.

“You're bleedin’” He says in between inhales. There's rustling of fabric next to you, and you feel the warm cloth placed on your forehead.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Waving the drenched cloth away, you scoff lightly. “Don't.”

“What am I supposed to do? Let you bleed?”

You stand up straight, blood coating your lashes as you stare at him. “I've got a better idea.” Placing your palms on the source of the pain, you let your blood coat it.

“What—?” You roughly smudge the warm ichor all over his face and shirt, the plain white of his t-shirt turns a dark pink shade with your touch. Leaning away, he gives you a slow nod of understanding. “Ease us in, huh?”

“I'm rarely wrong and this is one of the rare instances.”

“Let's hope you're right about this one.”

—

You kick the backdoor open with ferocity. It bangs loud against the wall, getting the restaurant staff's attention.

“Help please! My husband!” John's limp arm is around your shoulders, your hand gripping on to his waist to add that one detail that would convince them of your innocence. “There was a bomb!” You don't let the bystanders touch you or John whilst you quickly lumber through their dinghy bathroom. There's murmurs and chairs scraping on the tiled floors as you lock the door behind you.

The bathroom is small, tiles yellowed from the years, the stench of bleach itching your nose. The lightbulb above you whirs like it's about to burst out. He leaves your side to take off his bloodied jacket, tossing it outside from the window— his exit, you presume.

“Your phone.” He holds his empty hand out to you, when you only raise an eyebrow at him, he sighs, eyes turning soft, adrenaline melting out of his system. “Please, c’mon, love, you got me sayin’ please and shit.”

“What for?” You try desperately to wipe the blood off your face.

“To contact you, just in case you need help.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can, how else did you get the job then? Just let me,” his voice wavers a bit but he corrects himself with a timed clear of his smoke filled throat. “Please, Jane.”

After pausing, you take your phone out from your pocket to give it to him. He enters his number after seeing your home screen of a basic mountain range.

“There.” Giving the phone back, you expected him to give his too, but he doesn't as he's already halfway out of the window. “I'll see you at home?”

You let out a chuckle, “yeah, I'll see you at home.” He gives you one last smile as he exits the small bathroom and into the streets where numerous sirens go off from ambulances and fire trucks.

—

It was a blur the entire trip home, you bought a loose hoodie from a thrift store and then promptly discarded your blood soaked coat in the bottom of a dumpster. It was a shame though, you liked that coat, it had real wool in the lining. The uber drive was thankfully uneventful, if the driver noticed the remnants of dried blood on your skin he didn't mention it. You gave him five stars for it.

An empty house greets you, John's shoes are nowhere to be seen in the hallway, nor his jacket. You worry for a second, mind rushing through possibilities. The rubber band burns as you pull it back and release it with a harsh thwack against your skin.

The water is cool as you shower, your blood mixing in and pooling around your feet and into the drain like a macabre whirlpool. You don't let your mind wonder about the man that you turned into a street pancake. Instead, you focus on yourself in the mirror.

You stare at the gash near your hairline, the skin around it is angry, leaving a throbbing sensation. There's also a few scratches on your face, especially around your chin. Your main concern is the large gash. It doesn't look like it needs to be stitched together though, which is a good thing since you don't have the energy to even tend to the tiny scratches on your palms. Cleaning and bandaging the wound, you put on clean pajamas and head to bed.

You stop in your tracks when you see John lying face down on your bed. Still in his iron soaked clothes, save for the jacket. You glare at his boot, it's off the bed but you still grit your teeth at the thought of it grazing your bedsheets.

He senses your presence, and he lifts his head up, chin helping prop himself up. “Your bed is better than mine.” His multi coloured eyes are laced with exhaustion, dull yet there's still a spark when he looks at your annoyed gaze.

“Who are you? Goldilocks?”

“Yeah, I ate your porridge too.”

“Damn, not my porridge.” Too tired to fight him, you slither into bed next to him, an arm's length away from his equally tired body. Staring at the ceiling, you feel his eyes on you. “What's up with your eyes?”

“It's called heterochromia—”

“I know what it is, I'm asking why you're staring at me like you're about to devour me.”

“I could devour you if you want.” He says nonchalantly but with the charisma of a man who knows what he's talking about.

“Maybe next time.” You blindly pat his shoulder which ended up with you patting his cheek. He hums at your touch, a deep rumble that you felt through the mattress. “Not bad for our first day huh?” Lifting your hand away, he twists on the bed to mirror your position. Now you're both gazing at the beige ceiling like it owes you money.

You're tired but for some reason you're fighting off the sandman from sprinkling sand in your heavy eyes.

“I lied back there, I've killed before.” His voice is merely above a whisper but you heard it as loud as a trumpet blaring in your ears.

“I know, you wouldn't be here if you haven't.” You answer with empathy. “If it makes you feel better, I've been to London before. Twice, on a family trip and a decade later…on vacation.”

“Glad to know.” He taps the inside of your elbow as a thank you for trusting him. “You CIA?” He blurts out above the comfortable silence.

“God no.” You truthfully say.

“And here I thought you're an alumni of the culinary institute of America.”

For the first time in years, you let out the loudest laugh you could muster. Snort and all.

Your ‘husband’ joins in with his own rambunctious laughter, the bed shakes at the loud guffaws. The happy sound fills the room, and your heart feels like it isn't as heavy as before. It's still there, the heaviness, but it isn't as cumbersome. You now realize that you've only snapped the rubber band on your wrist a couple times today.

An annoying tapping sound interrupts you both. Simultaneously sitting up by the elbows, you two tilt your head at the intruder.

“It's that pigeon again.” You actually smile at the thought of the same bird coming back to your house like a white strand of hair that keeps growing even after you've pulled it out. “I think we should name him. Something like Terry or Flanders.” You chuckle softly.

“Jeff.”

You shake your head. “Nope, doesn't suit him, what if it's a she?”

“His name is Jeff.” John turns to look at you, eyes full of certainty.

You turn to him, blinking rapidly in realization. “He's yours. He's your bird, isn't he?”

“You are insightful.” He smiles, a soft one that fills you with endearment that you haven't felt in years. “Met him a few months ago, fed him once and now he wouldn't leave me alone. I guess he followed me here too.”

“Y’know, pigeons are really smart, kinda like crows. He probably thinks you're his daddy.”

“Does that make you Jeff's mummy?”

“I don't want to be Jeff's mom.” Said bird taps on your window again, like he senses that you're currently talking about him.

“Too bad,” he raises his marriage finger, showing you the gold band. “He's our kid, love.”

You smile, hiding it with a huff and by laying back down with a gentle thump.

“Can I tell you somethin’?” His face pops up in your vision, you nod in place. “My real name is—”

“Let me stop you right there.” You sit back up, almost hitting his head with your own at how fast you sat. “There's a reason why they gave us fake names. Whether we like it or not, It's John,” You point at him. “And Jane Smith.” You point at yourself. “Until they dismiss us, that's our names. Not whatever you were about to tell me.”

“But you know it's not our names, right?”

“Of course I do. You don't look like a John, John.”

“And you don't look like a Jane. I just…” He sighs. “Just want someone to know my real name. We almost died back there, what if we stayed a minute longer inside that car? What then? I don't want to die with someone else's name written on my grave.” His words are genuine, but it sounds like he has said these words before.

Still, you sympathize with him. You've gone undercover before, taken someone’s name instead of yours for months. Those missions were so long and tiring that you almost forgot your own name. But it was…survivable because he was with you. John has no one, and this time you have no one. No one that calls your real name, no one that can identify your body if you suddenly croak in the middle of a mission.

No one else but John and Jane Smith.

So with bated breath, you give him the go ahead. “Okay, tell me. But I can't promise that I'll call you by that name.”

“Don't want to get in trouble with hihi?”

“No,” you scoff. “I don't give a shit what that robot says. I just don't want to die with a stranger's name. So fuck it, tell me yours and I'll mine.”

He smiles the same smile that he gave you before he went out of that dinky bathroom window. The smile that reassures you, a smile that tells you everything will be alright.

“It's Hobie,” Hobie finally says. “Hobie Brown.”

“It suits you better. Thought it was Jeff.” You whisper, and you give him your real name. The same name you were born with, not the fabricated ones your former agency has given you, not the ones your new company has given you.

He whispers back your name, tongue rolling off it like honey. Then, Hobie smiles again, nodding and those heterochromatic eyes bore into you comfortably like the sun's rays kissing your skin in the summer.

“You look like one. Definitely suits you better than Jane.” You smile shyly as you lose the fight against sandman.

In Hobie's mind, he hopes that knowing your real name is enough, enough to keep you alive, enough of an incentive for him to keep you safe, since you're not just a typical Jane anymore that the company randomly selected for him, no, you're Y/N L/N, and he'll do anything to protect you better. Because maybe, just maybe, knowing your real name this early would work, and you'll outlive all the Janes that he himself has outlived.

As you fall asleep next to him, he stares at Jeff the third. In that luxurious house, within those bulletproof walls, and in your room lies a deep anger in him. An anger that keeps him sane in all those years trying to pay his debt. He needs to end the cycle, not just for him but for all the agents that are in the same shoes as him. For now he lets you sleep soundly, for now, he plots the demise of the people behind the screen.

The laptop flashes a new message from the company.

> Mission complete: 3 fails remaining

> Good job, next mission?

Support banner by @cafekitsune ❤️

A/N: thank you for reading!!! Please consider reblogging if you liked it ❤️❤️❤️

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http-tokki · 1 year ago

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~ choso kamo x fem!reader (tattoo artist choso au) ~tags/cw: tattoo artist choso, fem reader, tattoo artist au, tattoos, needles, satosugu is canon, modern au, choso has a scar over his nose instead of his markings, strangers to friend to lovers (strangers rn) tiny lil man verbal bashing cause men are weak lil babies when getting tattoos, reader is a lil chubby, choso is on antidepressants, smoking/vaping, drinking ~ wc: 2.9k ~ "Dude, he is so fucking hot. I wasn't expecting him to look like that!! What do I do?!! Help?!?"

You: Wednesday 8:45pm Hi, I was just wondering if your books were still open? It says they are in your bio but in case I've missed it and they're closed, please ignore this message, sorry! :)

Kamo: Wednesday 9:23pm Hey. No, they are still open. When were you looking to book? Do you have a specific design? Or are you looking for a flash?

You: Thursday 11:36am Oh, hi, awesome! Thank you for getting back to me so quickly! I was looking to book next month, towards the end. On a weekend if that would be possible (I don't mind the time), and for the design, just a flash (design 3A) on your latest post on my upper arm, around 15-20cm. :)

You: Thursday 11:52pm Unless you think it should be smaller or somewhere else, I'm not picky! I really want something of yours tattooed on me :)

Kamo: Thursday 12:15pm Sure, no problem! I have the 24th free at 12pm. Does that work for you? The spot and size are fine, but I'll make up smaller and bigger stencils on the day in case you change your mind. The total would be $600 for the piece. However, I require a $100 deposit to secure your spot. I can send you the payment details once you confirm your interest. Please read through my FAQs on cancellation policies and further information.

You: Thursday 12:20pm 24th at 12pm is perfect! Thank you!! I'll send a deposit through now! Ahh, so excited! :)

Kamo: Thursday 1:07pm You're welcome. Here is the link x. Please send a screenshot of your payment as proof. For the rest of the amount, I accept cash only. If you have any other questions, feel free to message me. See you on the 24th.

You: Thursday 3:30pm Sending it now! Yay! Thank you so much! Super excited, see you! :)

Kamo: Thursday 4:35 pm Seen

"I sound like an idiot, don't I?" you grumble as your friend reads over your chat with a tattoo artist.

You watch your friend tilt their glasses down, squinting at the screen as their mouth curls into a grimace. They try to hide it with a sniffle, disguising their obvious disgust over your intense enthusiasm.

"Not an idiot," they hand the phone back to you, a frown set in the crooked way it always did when they were uncomfortable. "Just really, really eager, which can be cute if you like that."

Choso is growing tired.

At what? There are too many contributing factors to the headache that had begun blooming his eyes five minutes after stepping into the studio to pinpoint the main culprit of his budding exhaustion. Maybe it was the late night/early morning combo, or perhaps it was the horrific lack of water and food he hadn't consumed in the last twenty-four hours. When was the last time he had taken his medication? Choso begins to run through the previous days in an attempt to remember when he had even glanced at the Zoloft sheet sitting in the bottom drawer of his trolley, but his attention is diverted from his lack of self-care to the man sitting in his tattoo chair.

It is coming up on the two-hour mark since his client walked in. With a brazen attitude that could rival a Greek god, the man had outlined what had to be the simplest fucking tattoo known to man. Choso had rolled his eyes at the frankly impressive and thorough drawing done by the twenty-something gym bro before shifting the paper off to his younger brother.

"Come on, it's easy! An hour tops, and then you've got like two fifty in your hand! You technically owe me an observation session, and this can be it." Yuji had gripped his brother's sleeve, tugging on it the way he used to when they were kids.

Taking in his younger half-brother as his apprentice was a good idea in theory. The two lived and worked together, so there was ample time for obvs and practice, but today was already busy, and Choso was feeling like complete and utter shit.

"Yuji, I don't want to do this. I have a client coming in at twelve for a full session, and I've got this headache and-"

"It's easy money, come on! Please." it technically was easy money. The design was a small band wrapped around the bicep, with no adornments or script, just a flat black line; it was the client himself that made Choso apprehensive.

"Fine." Choso sighed, and Yuji almost jumped into the air in excitement. "You prep and clean him; I'm not doing anything but the actual tattoo."

Yuji nodded eagerly and just about ran into the front room to confirm the walk-in appointment.

That was almost two hours ago, and Choso is still here, finishing up the outlines of the band on a guy twice his size but carrying on like a toddler. Each touch of the needle on skin had the man flinching and hissing through his teeth, and there is only so much Choso could take.

Choso eyes the clock nervously, his next appointment slot ticking closer but the second. There isn't going to be enough time to get out and grab a coffee or snack from the corner store. After another quick glance at the amount of work before him, Choso calls it fifteen minutes to twelve and clicks off the tattoo gun with a disappointed sigh.

"Hey, I'm sorry, but we might have to split this into two sessions."

He looks back over at this current client, who is sweating profusely. It takes everything in him to scowl in disgust at the once brazen man before him, but not the look on his client's face; Choso knows some form of repugnance had slipped through his composure.

"Yeah, sure, man, no sweat," the client replies, relief blatant in his sigh. "Sorry for taking so many breaks. I've got a weak pain tolerance."

That makes Choso feel a little bad.

"You're fine. I've just got a pre-booked client coming in like ten and need to set up." A little lie to hurry the man up.

Hope is so close. So attainable that Choso can almost feel the sun on his face, but the shop bells slice through any dream of a break.

"Hi, I'm here for my twelve with Kamo?"

Choso slouches, attention now on the conversation happening in the front room. It's not even twelve yet! Why would she be here so early?

"Yep! We've got you down for twelve, but Choso's still with someone, so if you wanna wait here, that's okay!" Yuji giggles in response.

"Ohh, I'm just here to ask if umm…Choso wanted a coffee or anything?" his name is a question on her tongue. "I'm going to go get one and wanted to ask if anyone wanted anything so you don't have to wait in line."

That's nice. Choso thinks and leans back on his chair, attempting to glimpse his new client, who has Yuji giggling at every word.

"I was just about to step out to get coffee so I can come with you, but I can get Cho's; you don't need to pay for him." Another giggle. God, his younger brother is shameless.

"That's okay! I can get them; just write your orders down so I don't forget!" the girl insists.

"Ohh, but-"disappointment fills Yuji's voice.

"Yuji, can you come here please!" Choso shouts down the hall, pulling his brother away from his new crush.

Yuji groans, then the shop bells ring again, and then the sound of footsteps shuffles down the hall.

"Yes?"

"Can you wrap him up and finish the payment? I need a smoke." Choso rolled back from the bed, handing over the second skin he has yet to unwrap.

Choso's brother sighs but offers the male client a friendly smile, sits down in the now vacant rollaway stool, and begins to prep the skin for wrap-up.

"I'll be back in five; if anyone needs me, tell them to wait." Choso grumbles the last part and offers a stiff wave to his current client before disappearing into the hall.

The knots in Choso's shoulder have been building for days now, and no amount of rolling or stretching seems to relieve the tension in his muscles, but it is nice to stretch and feel the blood move around him again. Heavy boots echo through the small shop as he stalks to the front desk, floorboards creaking under the weight of thick rubber soles. His fingers slip into his back pocket to reach for the small pack of menthols hastily shoved down after the abrupt end of his morning break.

Stepping out into the world, Choso is blinded by the sun. Having forgotten about the passage of time while being stuck indoors all day, he now stands stunned in the small alcove of the shop's entrance. The sun nears the centre of the sky, beating down the world in a heat never seen before. It wasn't even the beginning of summer, and the sweltering days were breaking temperature records. Choso shields his eyes with a hand, and even then, his vision is blurred as his retinas adjust.

The street is quiet; an abnormal silence had fallen over the usually busy road, but with the rising blistering temps, he suspects people aren't willing to brave the heat to shop or eat. Choso finds the familiar recess in the wall, a door had been there years ago but has long since been boarded up and now acts as refuge for him and his brother. Through any weather, time of day or season, the small alcove is a sanctuary for tired and burnt-out artists needing a second away from the constant buzz of tattoo guns.

Choso scans the few open cafes and bars for his mystery client. Mainly office workers on lunch break and mothers with strollers waiting for the afternoon pick up; he can't see anyone that fits the image he had concocted in his mind on the short walk over until he spots a girl standing in line across the way. The tattoos that adorn her legs are what Choso notices first. Patchwork pieces from different artists in black and white with pops of colour here and there, but for the most part are monochromatic, all spaced far enough to be their own pieces but not so much that they seem gap-y. He is impressed at the choice, knowing that when getting patchwork pieces, they are usually slapped in any available location, but from what he can see, every piece flowed into each other and told a story against her skin. Her arms are equally as covered, though with more room, and he is eager to see the works up close. A flash of pink catches his attention, and he narrows his attention on the pink My Melody backpack that she swings at her side, pink wallet clutched in her free hand as she shifts her weight from her toes to her heels. Choso smirks at the bag and finds himself willing her to turn so he can see the face of the girl who we had been staring at for the past five minutes.

He is staring and he needs to stop before he gets caught. Shifting his attention from the random woman, he fishes out his phone and focuses on the seemingly endless DMs and texts stacked on the lock screen. Sometimes, he wonders if he really should have gone into a career where his livelihood relied on communicating with strangers. With expert precision and one hand, he pulls a cigarette from the crumpled packet and slips the filter between his teeth. Biting down the filter, the taste of menthol fills his mouth, and relief floods his veins before settling in the deep groves of his brain. The cigarette isn't even lit yet, but his nervous system knows that the taste of mint will soon be followed by nicotine, and all will be well for a few minutes. Breaking the habit of smoking has been on Choso's New Year's resolution lists for the past three years, but he only ever lasts a few weeks before turning back to the comfort of those overpriced joints. Maybe next year will be the year. Choso digs through his pockets, fingers grasping for the lighter he keeps in his right pant pocket, but there is nothing. Maybe the other side? Still nothing. Third pocket? Fourth pocket? Nada. Zilch. Zero. Fuck.

There isn't enough time to go back inside to search for matches, and he had already popped the filter and doesn't want to waste the smoke, but it would get gross sitting in the packet- his headache grew.

"Choso?" a soft voice asks from above.

Choso looks up from his lap and is greeted by the most stunning woman he has ever seen. Breathing is no longer automatic as he stares at you, and when his lungs start to contract almost painfully, he realises and takes in an all too obvious breath.

It wasn't fair to look like that. With the sun illuminating your silhouette, cradling you in an angelic aura that has Choso debating on whether he should get on his knees and pray to you, but too much time has passed since you spoke and he acknowledged you that he has to say something, but all he can manage is a muffled yeah?

"I'm your twelve, but you look like you need a light?" you hold out a bright pink light between pretty pink manicured fingers.

Choso offers a tight-lipped smile to prevent the cigarette from falling from his mouth and takes the lighter, flicking it to life. "Thanks, I owe ya."

He holds the flame to the tobacco, and only when it glows bright does he pull the disposable away.

"It didn't cost me anything, so nothing to owe."

There is a beat of silence as you throw the light back into your bag before bending down to pick up the coffee you had set at your feet. "Also, a coffee." another offer towards him.

"The guy at the desk gave me your order, and I always buy my artists something before a session. I'm not hitting on you."

Your admission of this not being a move stirs something in him. Choso accepts the cold cup with a soft thank you, angling his hand away from yours, careful not to burn you with the lit smoke.

"I'll meet you inside. Give you a moment to yourself." you nod towards the door of the studio, feet already turning to start walking towards the entrance.

He watches you walk away, a smile creeping on his face despite not knowing why. You're as cute from the front as you are from the back, and he's glad the girl he had seen in the coffee shop is you. Soft curves make up your figure, dipping at your waist before filling out again over your bust. Choso feels his stomach twist in that familiar feeling, but he can't think of you like that; you're a client and nothing more. There is a mesmerising way in which you walk that has Choso unable to look away, and even when you've stepped into the studio, his gaze lingers on the empty space you once stood in until the rancid taste of burnt filter fills his mouth. Never in his life has he been as thankful for coffee as he is in that moment when burnt paper fills his senses. Taking a big gulp of the sweet but still bitter drink, it takes everything in him not to spit in the street, but he was raised better than that and will wait until he is in the small bathroom to spit up the gross contents.

When Choso returns, you are sitting on the small couch in the waiting room, filling out consent forms. Head down as you read the number of your ID and scribe it down in the open line; he walks past you, suddenly horrified by his heavy choice of shoe. The thick thud of the rubber soles on the hardwood has you lifting your head and smiling at your artist. Choso feels his stomach flip.

"So," Choso starts, but the smoke still in his throat chokes the word. He clears his throat and restarts his sentence. "So, do you smoke, or do you just carry the lighter?"

"My best friend smokes, so I just carry it 'cause you never know when you're gonna need a light." Your laugh is contained, almost forced, as if the interaction you are having is uncomfortable for you. Had he done something wrong?

"Ohh." Is his only reply as you return to the balanced folder on your lap.

Another moment of silence before Choso steps towards the hall. "I'll let Yuji check you in, and then just come in when you're ready." Had he already made you that uncomfortable in the two minutes you had spoken outside? Choso takes a deep breath as he steps into his space and suddenly wishes the whiney baby was the one getting tattooed.

You: Saturday 12:05pm Dude, he is so fucking hot. I wasn't expecting him to look like that!! What do I do?!! Help?!?

Number ONE best friend: Saturday 12:06pm suck his dick? ik guys like that :P

You: Saturday 12:06pm Idk what I expected from you. I need actual advice, please Saturo. U owe me!

Number ONE best friend: Saturday 12:07pm ooh first name, you're kinda scary. Okay, here is what you do. You act like a normal human and then flirt a lil and suss out if he's into it and then ask him out to drinks?

You: Saturday 12:08pm That works if I KNEW HOW TO FLIRT. Ugh im screwed, he's so fine fuck

Number ONE best friend: Saturday 12:09pm eww, you're getting ur jizz all over the screen. just breathe and be normal okay, pretend he's me.

You: Saturday 12:10pm Ignoring the first comment. Im gonna sneak a pic and show u BRO YOU NEED TO SEE HIM

Number ONE best friend: 12:10pm creepy but okeeeeyyy. Sugu also says to breathe and be normal but to ignore anything you think I would do

You: Saturday 12:11pm Thanks, Suguru, please kill him for me, ill talk to u guys in a bit

Number ONE best friend: good luck bestie 8======D

a/n: okay so there is going to be a part two but I'm not sure when, please give me feedback if you want it or want me to stop, put the laptop down and go outside lmao lil texting format, lemme know how y'all feel about that

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