#wayv x male reader angst | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sailorrlino · 8 months ago

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Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

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Any work is good work.

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor.

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.”

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.”

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first.

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy.

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever.

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it.

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top.

Any work is good work.

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?”

“Who is to say?”

“Just tell her I’m here.”

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.”

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.”

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?”

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.”

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face.

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.”

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.”

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches.

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.”

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.”

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt.

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here.

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock.

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.”

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.”

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.”

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?”

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time.

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,�� he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?”

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.”

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.”

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.”

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.”

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop.

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up.

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.”

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work.

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself.

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.

There was crazy, and then there was that.

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you.

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true.

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them.

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team.

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling.

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.”

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history.

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing–

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.

Irreversible.

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed.

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he?

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.

It’s clinical.

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work.

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.”

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf.

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers.

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.”

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?”

“You’d be surprised, Collector.”

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me.

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.”

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.

Act of faith.

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.”

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.”

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.”

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.”

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.”

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.”

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you.

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun.

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does.

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.”

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.”

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little.

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face.

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.”

“I… don’t have an argument.”

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?”

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.”

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you.

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?”

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.”

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not.

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?”

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?”

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t,

An act of faith.

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust.

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?”

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.”

“Who owns that place, anyway?”

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.”

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.”

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.”

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.

“Where are we going?”

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.”

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.”

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.”

Minho bites back a grin.

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.”

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.”

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?”

“Of course. Swan likes strays.”

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.”

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.”

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side.

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something.

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching.

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding.

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.”

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive.

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been.

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge.

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house.

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.”

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto.

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed.

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay.

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.”

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.”

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.

A little braver.

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.”

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?”

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.

You.

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead.

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.”

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?”

“Need it.”

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.

“Hmm. Sweet.”

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward.

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.”

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left.

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.”

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.”

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there.

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in.

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?”

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.”

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.”

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.”

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.”

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.”

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

#lee know smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #lino smut #lee minho x you #lee know fic #stray kids smut #stray kids fanfic #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know x you

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mint-yooxgi · 2 years ago

Text

{21} - Hotel California - Yandere!Demonic Entities!Ateez X Reader

Yandere AU & Demon AU - Based off of This ask and Hotel California by Eagles

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Slight Humor, Smut

Pairing: Ateez X Reader (Slight focus on Wooyoung & Jongho)

Words: 9,260

Warnings: Exhibitionism/Voyerism, Oral (Fem. receiving), a shit ton of praise. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: This is my first time writing a smut like this, so please bear with me. I really hope you all enjoy it, I didn’t actually end the chapter how I thought it would end, but I'll just end the next one how I originally planned this chapter to end. That being said, I don’t think the next chapter will be extremely long then, but I will warn you, shit is about to go down. For now, enjoy this fluffy smut! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Main Story - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty - Mini Masterlist

A low hum escapes your lips as you bury yourself deeper into the comfort of your warm blankets. It’s been about two weeks since you made up with Seonghwa, and currently, you’re taking things one day at a time. Now, they seem to have a council meeting every few days to see if any news has appeared regarding Miyeon and her two dangerous male partners. You don’t know why, but you have this ominous feeling that she’s going to act soon.

Just as you feel your subconscious fading once more into the land of dreams, you are reminded of what woke you in the first place.

The sound of buzzing coming from right beside your head has you groggily reaching towards your phone. Blinking a few times, you register faintly who’s calling you before you’re answering on the third ring.

“Reina?” Your voice is somewhat strained as you press your phone to your ear. “What’s wrong?”

A moment of silence before you hear her sniffling on the other end.

Immediately, your eyes are flinging open as you sit up in bed. Worry pulls at your features as you hear her crying over the phone.

“What happened?” You move the covers off of yourself, standing to your feet in an instant as you shove your slippers on.

“I-“ she sobs, “I-“

“Reina-“

“NCT!” She sobs into your ear, and you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief.

“For fuck’s sake, Reina!” You playfully scold her. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“WayV’s comeback!” She continues. “It’s… it’s… immaculate!”

“And here I was thinking your ex tried contacting you again.” You huff, shaking your head.

“Have you seen the Phantom music video, yet?” She asks, completely ignoring your statement.

“No, I’ve been sleeping.” You retort, sitting back onto the edge of the bed. “You know, like I usual do at this time.”

“Oh, shut up. It’s already noon.” The way she rolls her eyes at you is clear in her tone. “You need to go and watch this music video right now.”

“Babes, I-“

“Winwin has lines,” she cuts you off.

A moment of silence passes over you once more as you blink.

“The fuck! Why didn’t you lead with that?” You’re back on your feet in an instant, speeding to the cinema room down the hallway.

“Now, do you understand why I called you in tears?” She hums, and you can just tell she’s quirking a brow at you as she sniffs through the line again. “Actually, hold that thought. I’ll ask you again once you’ve watched it.”

“Okay, okay, hold your horses,” you trap your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you begin to set everything up. “I’m just pulling up YouTube now.”

“Oh, I can’t fucking wait for you to watch this,” she cackles maniacally. “Just wait until you see your biases.”

“Oh, no,” you chuckle.

“Oh, yes,” she cackles again. “Put me on speaker, I want to listen to the song again, too.”

“Okay, okay,” you say, doing just that. Taking a deep breath, you select the video. “Here we go.”

The opening sound of the drums fills your ears, and immediately you’re greeted by Ten appearing on screen. You blink.

“Okay, he looks mighty fine,” you comment.

“Oh, just wait,” she replies, and you can hear the grin in her voice.

Little do you notice the three males who have now appeared in the room, watching the screen along with you as the scene unfolds before their very eyes. Only Jongho dares to get close to you for the moment. A fact which you take every advantage of as soon as you hear one of the males on screen start singing.

“Winwin has lines.” Your mouth falls open in shock, turning to grab Jongho’s shirt as you begin to shake him frantically. “Winwin has more lines!”

Who the fuck is Winwin? Seonghwa grumbles as he steps into the room, Hongjoong following in his wake to see you continuing to cling onto the front of Jongho’s shirt while both San and Yunho stand off to the side of the room.

I’m assuming the one that just sung with the low voice. Yunho replies, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Reina, you bitch!” You turn on your phone in the next second, hearing her laughing on the other end. “You didn’t tell me Kun is living his gothic vampire fantasy in this!”

“I knew you’d appreciate it!” She replies giddily.

Your eyes go wide just as the second verse starts, hand coming up to be placed directly over your heart in shock, “Yangyang?”

“He looks good, doesn’t he?”

“Have you seen my son?” You blink, quite a few times. “What happened to my son?”

“Your son has become a man, Miss Girl,” Reina teases. “Ah! Winwin!”

“It is too early for this shit!” The hand over your heart grips desperately at your shirt. “I woke up, only to be attacked.”

“WayV always delivers,” she agrees.

“The theatre kid in me is screaming,” you comment.

“And the throne of swords? Bitch, I will gladly sit in any one of their laps in that throne,” her voice comes through loud and clear, and you cackle. “You know I would.”

“I know you would,” you grin, shifting your position so you’re holding your one elbow in your hand for support as you continue to grasp your phone in your opposite one. “I’m just mesmerized by the metal claws.”

“Oh, yeah, you did have a thing for that, even with Lion by G-Idle,” she says. “I’m just surprised you haven’t commented on the eyes yet.”

“I was getting there,” you sit on the edge of the couch just as the bridge hits. “Oh, we stan Xiaojun’s high notes once more.”

“You’re honestly acting much calmer than I thought you would be right now,” Reina notes.

“Well, to be fair, I just woke up,” you tell her. “Still, doesn’t mean I’m okay.”

More maniacal laughter can be heard from the other end as the song comes to an end.

Taking a brief glance around the room, you notice all eight of them standing around with pouts on their faces. Some, like Wooyoung, San, Yunho, and Hongjoong all stand with their arms crossed, too.

“Now do you understand why I called you in tears?” Reina repeats her question from earlier, a knowing tone to her voice.

“Yes, yes,” you reply, waving her off slightly. “You still scared the shit out of me.”

“Oh, believe me, if it was my ex I wouldn’t have been in tears,” she jokes.

“I would hope not, but you never know,” you reply.

“So,” she continues, “tell me your thoughts.”

At her words, you notice eight pointed looks sent your way. You quirk a brow.

“WayV never disappoints,” you begin, sitting yourself further back on the couch for the moment. “Though I will say, completely missed opportunity with not putting them in corsets.”

A loud cackle is heard on the other end as you watch both Seonghwa and San practically stumble over in their spots.

“You and I both know they would have been too powerful in corsets.” Reina’s voice rings out.

“Still, fucking SM strikes again,” you tut, shaking your head. “The chorus reminds me of Seulgi’s solo.”

“Oh god, this better not be another ‘Sticker sounds like a revamped Don’t Call Me’ thing.” She teases.

“It did!” You argue. “The beat was just sped up!”

“Don’t talk to me about the recorder trill song.”

“Says the ‘Two Bitches’ apologist.”

“At least that song was good!”

“In what fucking universe is ‘Two bitches’ better than ‘Sticker’?” You reply, eyes wide despite the fact she cannot see you right now.

“Um, in every universe, bitch,” she scoffs, clearly rolling her eyes at you. “Anyways, as much as I’d love to hear more about what is sure to be your hour long rant on men in corsets, I have to go to work.”

“Reina!” You sigh, exasperatedly. “You phoned me!”

“Yeah, because you needed to be aware of the absolute masterpiece that is Phantom.” She replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And it seriously could not have been sent in a text?” You huff.

“Clearly not!” She sasses back. “I may not be able to see you, but I know for a fact you’re sitting down right now.”

“Well, yeah, but-“

“Which part was it? Was it the flashing eyes? Ten? Kun’s gothic look? The metal claws? All of the above?” She giggles.

“Sounds like someone is projecting,” you mutter, leaning forward to hide your head in your hands.

“Guilty!” She laughs once more. “Anyways, I really have to go cause I may or may not have actually called you on my break. Talk to you later! Ciao!”

“Reina-“

However, before another word of protest can leave your lips, she ends the call.

Little does she realize the storm she left you sitting in as eight males continue to stare you down in the cinema room. You let out a long sigh.

“Um, good afternoon?” You attempt a greeting.

“Winwin, huh?” Yeosang is surprisingly the first one to break the silence, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looks at you expectantly.

You shrug in your own defence, “he got fucking lines, finally.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Jongho grumbles, pouting as he sits beside you on the couch.

“Whoops,” you chuckle, somewhat nervously. “Sorry about that, bubs.”

Reaching over, you pat his arm comfortingly, noticing how he immediately seems to relax the slightest bit beneath your touch.

“Is this a common occurrence?” Yunho quirks a brow, leaning against the wall.

“With WayV and Reina? Oh, yeah,” you nod. “I’m honestly surprised it took her this long to call. Last time she called me ten minutes after the music video dropped because she ‘needed time to watch it again first.’”

“You seem much calmer than she is, though,” Wooyoung observes.

“I am still processing in my semi-awake state,” you reply honestly, touching the tips of your fingers together as you lean forward, resting your elbows onto your knees. “Then again, it’d be a lot worse if it were a VIXX comeback, or SHINee. Still, oof.”

“Oof?” Mingi repeats, eyebrows raised.

“It’s a good song!” You shrug, defending yourself. “The concept is great, and it’s been a while since the last WayV release, so…” Then, more to yourself, “I wonder what the b-side release will be…”

“B-side?” Hongjoong quirks a brow.

“It’s usually also a banger,” you nod to yourself as if remembering something. “Mmmh, Action Figure.”

Taking a look around the room, you let out a sigh.

“Look, if you’re going to be jealous about it, can you go and do it somewhere else?” You spare a glance at all of them and notice how Jongho, Mingi, Yunho, and Yeosang seem to relax the slightest. “It’s been a while since I’ve been this excited over an NCT comeback.”

The way you see both San’s and Wooyoung’s pouts deepen causes you to let out another sigh.

“Just because you don’t like them, doesn’t mean I don’t like them,” you remind them all.

“We know, Darling,” Jongho replies, leaning further back into the couch. “It’s just difficult to watch you practically drooling over other men.”

“Do you honestly all think I’ve never thought about any of you in such ways before?” Your question has an immediate silence settling over the room. “Why would I want people who don’t even know I exist over eight highly powerful, extremely attractive Kings?”

Eight pleased growls echo around the room.

“Look,” you exhale a long sigh, standing back to your feet, “if there’s one thing I need you all to understand, it’s that despite wherever it may seem that we are in our individual relationships, I am committed to you, not anyone else. Yes, I joke, and yes I tease, but I would never act on such things. Loyalty is something I value above anything else, and you’ve all had mine since I started falling for all of you.”

“You’ve had ours since before you came to us,” Seonghwa voices the thought on all of their minds.

You turn to face him, a soft upturn to your lips. “I know. That’s why I don’t get jealous. I mean, I usually don’t, anyways, but you don’t think I’ve realized that you all probably have your own little fan clubs of demons pining for your affection?” You chuckle, arms crossed in front of your chest. “Just because I have interests, doesn’t mean I’m going to up and leave you all at the drop of a hat.”

They remain silent for the moment.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go change, and then I’m going to come back and spend the day either binging anime or music videos because it’s been a while since I’ve done either.” You say, already moving towards the door. “You’re all welcome to join me-“ at the way Wooyoung’s eyes gleam, you’re quick to add, “not while I’m changing.” Your narrowed eyes zero in on the way his pout is immediately back on his face. “As I was saying,” you continue, “you’re all welcome to join me when I get back. I would be more than happy to finally share some of my favourite things with you.”

Before you give any of them a chance to respond, you’ve left the room.

Not even fifteen minutes later you walk back into the cinema room to see all eight of them sitting in different spots, seemingly waiting patiently for your return. You smile, a fact which immediately brightens the room.

“I’m glad you all stayed,” you say, nothing but honesty dripping from your words as you make your way back over to the one couch to sit between Jongho and Yeosang, much to the other’s disappointment.

“We are always happy to learn more about you, Dearest,” Yeosang replies as he watches you sit beside him.

“Then, I think it’s time to show you all of my favourite songs,” you grin, already cuing up the next video on screen. “Warning: not all of them are happy.”

“We would love that,” Yunho smiles at you from across the room.

“Good,” you return the look, “because my favourite songs reveal more about me than I ever could.”

Little do you realize how each male straightens the slightest bit at your words. The significance and meaning of you opening yourself up in such a way washes over each and every one of them, hearts swelling in their chests. Attentively, they watch the screen.

For the next two and a half hours, you show them your favourite songs and music videos. Sure, a few of them, like Wooyoung, Seonghwa, and Hongjoong all still get jealous when you praise certain people on screen, but you notice it’s nowhere near as bad as it was before. Looks like your words truly did reassure them more than you’ll ever know.

“You seem to have a thing for dancers,” Yunho quirks a brow at you from across the way, and you notice how Wooyoung perks up immediately.

“Do I?” You hum knowingly. “I thought I mentioned how I appreciate good dancing before.”

“Once or twice,” Mingi grins, shooting a look towards San, whom then both turn towards Wooyoung in the next moment.

“I’d be more than happy to dance for you sometime, Gorgeous,” Wooyoung meets your gaze, and you notice how he rests his head on his one arm as he turns his whole body to look at you from across the room.

“I’d love that,” you smile back, and instantly Wooyoung can feel his heart absolutely pounding in his chest.

Just then, your phone pings, and you notice it’s a message from Reina. Only, when you open it, your eyes nearly bug right out of your head. That is, until the corner of your lips are quirking upwards.

Subtly, you shift your phone to show Yeosang the picture that is now displayed on your screen, seeing as you’ve taken the liberty to lean against him as more time had passed.

His reaction is immediate, and you can feel the way his breath hitches in his throat as his whole body tenses beneath you. His grip around your waist tightens ever so slightly, and you don’t even need to look at him to know that his eyes are glued to your screen.

Fucking hell, she’s trying to kill me. With each second that passes by, Yeosang finds it harder and harder to control himself around you, his gaze still never leaving your phone.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Jongho glancing towards you with a curious gleam in his own. So, of course, you turn your phone to show him now, too.

This time, his reaction is instantly verbalized as a low curse escapes his lips.

All heads turn to look at you. You quirk a brow, a knowing smirk pulling at your lips.

“Here,” you shift slightly, choosing your next target carefully, “catch.”

In an instant, you’ve tossed your phone at San, noticing how both Yunho and Wooyoung surround him on either side. Wooyoung’s eyes nearly bug right out of his head as he sees the photo onscreen, practically snatching the phone from San’s grip as he stares at the picture presented to him.

“What? What’s going on?” Mingi, oh so innocently, asks, sitting forward in his spot.

“See for yourself,” Yunho clears his throat, snatching the phone from an overly eager Wooyoung who whines as soon as the picture disappears from sight.

You notice San still sits frozen in his spot, hand still in front of his body as if he’s still holding onto your phone. You giggle.

I think the correct term is she’s trying to kill us. Mingi has to stop himself from physically panting once he sees the image appear onscreen in front of himself.

If one of you don’t tell us what’s going on right now- Hongjoong begins before being cut off by Mingi in the next second.

See for yourself, Mingi tosses your phone at his Captain, who catches it with ease.

Again, his reaction is immediate. Hongjoong’s breathing deepens, and you notice his eyes swirling with that all too familiar blackness as he glances up at you. Even the eldest fairs no better, a low growl escaping his lips as he leans over to see what his brothers have had the pleasure of observing before him. No wonder they’re all reacting this way.

There, shining on the phone’s screen rests your figure, posing for the camera in the most intricate corset they’ve ever seen in their lives. The way a sultry grin pulls at your painted lips only adds to the image, captivating them at every glance.

“You can swipe right, you know,” you chuckle.

“There’s more?” Seonghwa practically moans out, grip deadly on the cushion beneath his hand.

Your nod is all the confirmation they need.

Instantly, San, Mingi, and Wooyoung are all on their feet, practically stumbling over each other as they race to see the other photos in the set. Jongho and Yunho are more subtle about it, but you can tell there’s an eagerness to their steps as they surround the two eldest still sitting on the couch. Hongjoong still holds your phone in his hand, grip trembling the slightest bit as he begins to swipe through the photos onscreen.

Turning your head slightly, you notice how Yeosang hasn’t moved a single inch yet. You can tell how badly he wants to go look, though, for his entire body is the most ridged its ever been beneath your touch.

Catching his eye, you simply quirk a brow at him, shifting your weight so he can move. Instantly, he’s stood from the couch, shoving his way through his brothers to see the images on your phone.

“Now, who are the one’s drooling?” You chuckle once more, shifting yourself so that you’re laying on your side on the couch.

“My Love, you cannot blame us,” Hongjoong meets your gaze, his eyes flashing black for the briefest of moments.

“I never said I did,” you grin, supporting your head in your one hand as you prop yourself up by your elbow. “Gives me a huge confidence boost knowing I can affect you all in such a way.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Mingi breathes out, both him and Jongho looking towards you out of the corner of their eyes.

“We’ve never-“ Seonghwa clears his throat. “We’ve never seen you like this before.”

“And you’re the only ones that have,” you reply, a devious grin to your lips. “Well, other than Reina, of course. She’s the one that took the photos.”

“You mean…?” Yeosang turns to look at you next.

“I’ve never shown those photos to anybody,” you confirm with a slight nod to your head. “Granted, I almost forgot they existed until she sent them to me again just now.”

“How…?” Wooyoung trails off, glancing between you and your phone, as if he cannot decide where he wants to keep his gaze. He swallows thickly.

“She dragged my ass to a renaissance fair, demanded we try on corsets, and then begged me to take photos for her portfolio,” you explain. At the questioning looks they continue to send you, you chuckle once more. “Reina is a photographer.”

“You mean there’s more photos of you like this?” San sounds a little too eager as he says this.

“Perhaps,” you smirk.

“Where?” Hongjoong’s eyes are near wild as he shifts his gaze to yours once more. “When?”

“Woah,” you giggle, and it does nothing to help the way each male feels in this very moment, “you’re all acting like I showed you my nudes or something.”

“You have nudes?” Mingi’s mouth goes dry, lips parting as he attempts to control his breathing for the moment.

Your eyes widen dramatically, raising your one hand in front of you in your defence as they all turn to look at you eagerly. “No, I do not have nudes. Don’t go snooping through my phone trying to find them, either. You will be severely disappointed.”

The way their shoulders all visibly seem to droop has your eyebrows raising even further.

“I show you several photos of me in a corset and you all decide to start asking for nudes,” you tut teasingly. “And here I thought I was the needy one.”

“You know,” Yunho clears his throat, “if you need any help sorting out those needs, we are more than happy to assist you.”

If your eyes go any wider, and you think that your eyeballs will fall right out of your head.

Then, a teasing grin is pulling at your lips as you quirk a brow. “All of you?”

“All of us.” San replies, breathlessly.

“At the same time?”

An air of stillness settles over all of them as you watch them stiffen.

“At the same time.” Seonghwa confirms, voice barely above a whisper as he meets your gaze.

“So, you would be okay with that?” You inquire, nothing but curiosity reflected in your tone. “If I wanted more than one of you at a time?”

“If that is what you so desire,” Hongjoong confirms, chest rising and falling dramatically as he meets your gaze. “As long as it was us, and only us."

“We only want to please you, Dearest,” Yeosang breathes, voice low and airy.

You nod, the corner of your lips tugging upwards in a smirk. “So, if I said only one of you could touch me while the others watched, you’d all be okay with that?”

Eight low growls reach your ears as their eyes flash.

“If that is what you wanted, Baby, we’d be more than happy to oblige,” San’s voice is but a low drawl on his lips, nothing but desire shining within his eyes as he trails his gaze over your figure laying on the couch. Of course, he’s hoping that he’ll be the only one able to touch you right now while the others watch, if that’s truly what you’re implying is about to happen.

“Seeing you experiencing pleasure would be enough for any one of us, as long as we got to experience it with you.” Seonghwa breathes, eyes locked on your figure as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

You cannot help it, your breath hitches in your throat, and you find yourself immediately sitting up. Crossing your legs over one another, you take the time to meet each one of their gazes, seeing nothing but sincerity and desire for you shining within their orbs. You swallow the sudden dryness in your throat.

“Whatever you want,” Mingi rumbles out.

“Whenever you need it,” Yunho adds, just as lowly.

Cautiously, Wooyoung takes a small step towards you. His eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them as he trails his gaze shamelessly over your body, locking in on the way your legs shift subconsciously the closer he gets to you.

“Please, won’t you let us experience you like this, Angel?” His voice is low, desperate as he comes to stand directly in front of your sitting form on the couch. Slowly, he begins to lower himself onto his knees in front of you, shaking hands reaching out to place them gently on your crossed legs. “I promise we’ll make this worth your while.”

“All we want is to please you,” San’s chest heaves with every breath he takes, dark eyes watching your every movement carefully.

“Say the word, Darling,” Jongho cannot tear his eyes away from yours as he slowly begins stalking towards you. “Say the word, and we’ll do everything in our power to please you.”

You lips part the slightest as you find yourself uncrossing your legs. The whole time, Wooyoung’s hands never leave your body, fingers subtly pressing into the skin of your lower thighs as his palms rest over your knees. His chest rises and falls dramatically as he can hear your heartbeat racing in his ears, along with the way your scent spikes with arousal. His eyes flash once more, and he knows for a fact that he isn’t the only one this affected by you right now.

“Please,” the word is a near whimper on his lips as he looks up into your eyes, “won’t you let us?”

You blink, swallowing thickly as you are surrounded by their lustful stares. You cannot deny the way your entire body heats beneath their gazes, a fire lighting in your veins as they continue to stare at you with nothing but desire in their eyes. This is just as intense for them right now as it is for you, and you cannot help the way need courses through you.

“Okay,” your response is but a whisper on your lips as you stand to your feet.

Collectively, their breaths all catch in their throat as they watch you shift your hand to undo the button on the front of your jeans.

“You mean…?” Seonghwa’s mouth goes dry, eyes flashing as he watches you meet his gaze.

“Yes,” you confirm, your own eyes flashing. “Two of you may touch me while the others watch.”

Wooyoung’s grip on you tightens, and he can feel his whole body tense. None of his brothers have to hear his thoughts to know that he’s just daring them to try and move him from his spot kneeling before you right now.

“Who-“ Wooyoung can barely get the words out to ask you which two of them you want to touch you. His whole body begins to tremble at the thought of being so close to you, yet you choosing someone else.

The grin that pulls onto your features says it all, “whoever else can get to me first.”

The way their gazes all flash black is instantaneous, growls resonating throughout the room as they spare glances at each other out of the corner of their eyes. You have half a mind to quirk a brow at them all until you feel a warmth standing at your back, pressing himself further into you as his arms wrap around your waist.

You notice Wooyoung smirk.

“Like hell I’m letting you have all the fun,” Jongho’s voice is low, right beside your ear as he leans into you. “If we do something you don’t like, you let us know right away, Darling.”

Your heart warms as a soft smile paints your features, “I will.”

Jongho’s hands begin to toy with the hem of your shirt as you feel Wooyoung slide his own up your thighs. Slowly, the elder of the two begins to drag the zipper of your jeans down, eyes locked on your own and searching for any signs of hesitance or discomfort. He finds none.

“May we?” Wooyoung’s voice is low, and you can feel the way his fingers shake against your skin as he barely hooks the tips beneath the waistline of your jeans.

Six pairs of eager eyes watch you closely from around the room, each male settling into a spot where they can see you clearly. They will savour this moment for eternity, for as long as you will allow them to indulge.

“You may,” you confirm. However, your hand on top of Jongho’s pauses his movements of stripping you of your shirt. “But, my shirt stays on. I’m not being the only one naked in a room full of eight men. Sorry boys, that’s one power dynamic I do not like.”

“As you wish, My Queen,” Jongho’s voice is low, nothing but a drawl on his lips as he releases the material of your shirt from his grip.

“Whatever makes you most comfortable, Dearest,” Yeosang smiles softly at you from across the room, and you notice all of them staring at you with such fond looks in their eyes.

“We are just happy to be sharing such a moment with you,” Yunho says, lips parting as he watches Wooyoung drag the material of your jeans down your legs.

“Our Queen,” San’s voice rumbles out, eyes flashing as he trails his gaze over your body.

Eight pleased growls reach your ears, causing a shiver to run up your spine. A fact of which both males holding onto you feel, making them smirk.

Jongho’s hands settle on your waist, thumbs gently stroking over your skin as Wooyoung helps you step out of your jeans. In the next moment, he hooks his fingers through the waistline of your panties, eyes shining as he meets your gaze once more. As soon as he sees you give him a nod of confirmation, he slowly begins to drag the offending material down your legs.

Again, a shiver caresses your spine at the feeling of his fingers trailing over your skin.

The full scent of your arousal begins to fill the room, echoed only by the low growls you can hear as they all take a deep breath. You can practically feel Jongho’s chest humming against your back as he pulls you the slightest bit closer into him for the moment.

“Fuck, you smell so good, Darling,” Jongho begins to nip at the skin of your ear, his voice but a low rumble. Several growls of agreement echo throughout the room. “Makes me desperate for a taste.”

The way your breath hitches is music to all of their ears.

“You’re not the only desperate one here, brother,” Seonghwa practically growls at the youngest, dark eyes trained in on the apex of your thighs.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see Yunho smirk, licking his lips knowingly.

“What I wouldn’t give for a taste right now,” San pants, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he clings onto the couch he’s sitting on for dear life.

Never would you have expected the effect of feeling all of their hungry gazes on you like this. The desire alone you can see swimming beneath the blackness of their eyes sets your heart racing, feeling yourself clench around nothing the more comments that keep slipping passed their lips.

Glancing down once more, you see Wooyoung bring your panties up to his nose, inhaling deeply as a low groan escapes his lips. His whole body shudders as his eyes flash open, instantly captivating you at the darkness swirling within.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “just as perfect as I remember.”

You cannot deny the way your stomach twists in pleasure.

Slowly, you reach a hand out to cup the side of Wooyoung’s face in your palm, noticing how he immediately leans into your touch. You smirk.

“How about we let someone else enjoy these for now, hmm?” You hum, shifting your grip slightly to snatch your panties out of his one hand.

As soon as you right yourself, you see six pairs of eyes locked intently on your figure. Stepping out of the two youngest’s hold, you begin walking towards one male in particular who straightens in his seat.

Hongjoong can feel his heart absolutely pounding beneath his chest as you come to stand in front of him with those hooded eyes of yours. He swallows thickly, watching you with dark eyes of his own as you gracefully drop your panties into his lap.

You flick a brow at him teasingly, that damned smirk pulling at your lips as you drawl out an, “enjoy, Captain.”

Hongjoong has half the mind to pull you into his lap right this very second, and claim you in front of the others like he’s always desired. Oh, so badly does he want to grab you by the hips, and kiss you until you’re breathless, pleasing you until he is the only thing on your mind.

Alas, Hongjoong is a patient man, and he is more than content with this turn of events. Besides, he knows that when the time finally comes where he can finally make you his in every meaning of the way, it will be that much more sweeter.

Reaching down, he’s quick to grasp your panties in his one hand, feeling the jealous stares of his brothers on him as he shamelessly raises the material to his nose and inhales deeply.

A shuddering moan escapes him as your scent fully surrounds him, his fingers tightening subtly on the material in his hand. Hongjoong can feel his already semi-hard cock twitching beneath his slacks, dark eyes locked on your figure as you situate yourself between the two youngest once more.

As soon as Jongho’s hands are back on your waist, you feel him pulling you down onto the couch behind you. His chin rests on your shoulder, back pressed against his chest as he holds you in his lap. He smirks, hearing you let out a small gasp as you feel his hard cock pressing against your ass.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Wooyoung shift the slightest bit forward.

In the next second, Wooyoung’s hands are back on your knees, his thumb gently stroking over your exposed skin. You notice how your legs seem to be hooked around Jongho’s for the moment, and you have to swallow the sudden dryness in your throat as you feel them both beginning to spread you open for all to see.

The feeling of Wooyoung’s hands running up your inner thighs has another shiver caressing your spine, lips parting in a silent moan. The way Jongho’s thighs tense beneath you has you practically keening against him as you look down to see Wooyoung staring, completely transfixed, at your weeping entrance.

“Fuck, what a pretty pussy you have, Angel,” Wooyoung moans, fingers pressing that much firmer into your skin as he spreads you even further apart.

You cannot help the way you clench at his words, hearing several other low moans echo throughout the room.

“So fucking beautiful,” Mingi growls out, chest rising and falling dramatically with each breath he takes.

“So fucking perfect,” Yeosang groans, eyes fluttering shut as he absolutely revels in this moment right here, right now, with you.

“And all ours,” San practically snarls, eyes flashing black along with all of his brothers’.

“Our Queen,” Hongjoong’s voice is but a low growl as he continues gripping onto your panties for dear life, black eyes locked on the way your dripping entrance clenches around nothing once more.

An unabashed moan tumbles from your lips as your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back to rest against Jongho’s shoulder.

“My Kings,” your voice is breathless as you practically whimper out those two simple words, but the effect is still immediate.

Eight pleased snarls fill your ears, hearing their breathing all deepen in the next moment. You even feel Jongho twitch beneath you, a fact which makes you smile.

This is everything they could have ever asked for, and so much more. The fact that you trust them enough to indulge in such fantasies with them, that you are allowing them to even see you in such a state, means more to them than you’ll ever know.

“Fucking hell, she looks so good like this,” Mingi pants, his whole body visibly shaking. “All spread out for us to see.”

“Look at her,” Seonghwa moans, fingers digging harshly into the couch beneath him as he attempts to maintain some form of control over his body for the time being. “She’s practically dripping, and we haven’t even touched her yet.”

“Just how wet is she?” Hongjoong asks the question on all of their minds, gaze focussing in on that pretty pussy of yours on full display for every single one of them.

Wooyoung meets your gaze for the briefest of moments, noting how you nod ever so subtly as he leans even further into you. As soon as he has your consent, he’s shifting his one hand, running a tender thumb over your dripping entrance and feeling just how wet you are.

Shamelessly, a moan tumbles from his lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands begin to shake. The way your own chest rises and falls dramatically does nothing to help any of them right now.

“She’s soaked,” Wooyoung groans, eyes flashing once more as they settle on your weeping entrance.

“Pretty Baby,” San hums, drawing your attention to him to see him practically devouring you already with his eyes. “Are you enjoying this as much as we are right now?”

“Yes,” your answer is immediate, nothing more than a moan on your lips.

They all groan in response, and you feel Jongho twitch once again beneath you.

“Tell us, Petal,” Yunho’s voice rumbles out, low and seductive, as he draws your attention to him next. “Have you thought about this before? Have you fantasized about one of us touching you? About one of us pleasing you while the others watched?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow thickly. “Yes.”

Eight pleased snarls sound around the room.

Wooyoung licks his lips, inhaling your scent deeply once more as he slowly begins to lean into you. His hands shamelessly trail up your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as his eyes dart to your own briefly.

“Then, let me make all your dreams come true, Angel.” The warmth of his breath ghosts along the skin of your entrance, causing your whole body to tremble in anticipation. Yet still, he waits for your nod of confirmation.

The feeling of Jongho trailing his hands up your sides and beneath the material of your shirt makes it increasingly harder to think. Still, you manage to nod your head, a breathless ‘please’ falling from your lips in the next second.

The word has barely finished falling from your lips when Wooyoung’s are on you, tongue darting out to finally taste you after so long of simply fantasizing about it. At the same time, Jongho takes this opportunity to cup your breasts over your bra, giving them an appreciative squeeze.

Your reaction is immediate. Your eyes flutter shut as a low moan escapes your parted lips, head being tossed back onto Jongho’s shoulder. Your one hand instantly moves to tangle in Wooyoung’s hair, fingers tugging at his roots as he lets out an appreciative groan.

The second swipe of his tongue between your folds is synonymous with the way Jongho practically tears your bra off of you, tossing it somewhere in the room in the next moment. Your protest practically dies in your throat as you feel Wooyoung beginning to suck your clit into his mouth at the same time Jongho’s hands return to your breasts, kneading the tender flesh beneath his grip. In the next moment, his fingers move to pinch at your hardening nipples, eliciting another of the sweetest moans from your lips as he rolls them between his thumb and forefinger.

Your breathing comes in jagged pants, a low curse escaping you in the next moment as you feel Wooyoung laving his mouth over your entire pussy. He pulls you closer, moaning shamelessly into you as his eyes flutter shut.

“Is she as sweet as she looks?” Seonghwa licks his lips, eyes darting between the way Wooyoung devours your dripping entrance, and every beautiful expression you’re giving them right now.

“Sweeter,” Wooyoung moans, feeling you clench around his tongue in response.

“Fuck- look at you,” Jongho groans lowly in your ear, his teeth finding purchase on the skin of your neck in the next second. “Look at you getting lost in the pleasure only we can provide for you.”

Another whimper escapes your lips, fingers tightening their hold in Wooyoung’s hair as you pull him closer into you. A fact which he is more than happy to oblige.

“So fucking beautiful, Starlight,” Mingi growls out once more.

“No idea what you do to us,” Hongjoong snarls, gaze never leaving your figure for one second as he indulges in this moment right alongside his brothers.

“Our perfect Queen,” Yeosang’s voice rumbles out, low and sultry as you just manage to meet his gaze.

Wooyoung moans against you, feeling you clench once more around his tongue at his brother’s words. Greedily, he continues to lave his mouth over your wet cunt, tongue delving between your folds before coming up to flick at your clit. He can feel your sweet nectar flooding his every sense, absolutely loving the way you begin to drip down his chin as he sucks your clit into his mouth yet again. This is everything he could have ever wanted, and so much more.

Nothing could have prepared them for the next word that falls from your lips.

“Yours.”

The eight snarls that greet your ears are unlike anything you’ve ever heard before.

“I don’t think I will ever grow tired of hearing you say that, Petal,” Yunho groans, his entire body visibly shaking as he continues to watch your face contort in pleasure.

“Oh, fuck- Wooyoung-“ your breath hitches as you toss your head back, thighs twitching slightly as both your hands now bury themselves in his hair. “Just like that.”

A pride unlike any other fills his chest as his eyes flash black, a pleased rumble reverberating against your core as he feels you pull him in closer. Wooyoung has to see you fall apart because of him. He just has to. So, he does what he does best. He pulls you even closer, redoubling his efforts as his tongue delves between your folds once more.

You find you can barely keep your eyes open, the pleasure thrumming through your veins drowning you in an ecstasy unlike anything you’ve felt before. The added fact that you can feel their heated gazes on you, noticing how most of them begin to stroke themselves over their pants in time with your breaths has your stomach twisting in pleasure. Never have you ever felt so desired before in your entire life, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

What makes this moment all the more intense is the love you can see dripping within their eyes as they continue to stare at you. You can feel it in your bones: they don’t view you as some object to them, but as their equal. Always, and forever, you are theirs, just as much as they are yours.

So, you decide to remind them.

“My Kings,” your voice is low, airy as you can feel your release building within you. You know you have their complete and utter attention as that coil continues to tighten within your lower abdomen, seconds away from snapping. “You’re mine.”

The words are barely out of your mouth when you feel your release washing over you like a wave upon the shore. Your eyes squeeze shut, a loud whine escaping you as your whole body trembles within both Jongho’s and Wooyoung’s hold.

The grip you have on Wooyoung’s hair is deadly as he continues to ride you through your high, tongue greedily devouring every last drop you have to offer him of your sweet nectar. Even Jongho finds it difficult to catch his breath, chest rising and falling right alongside your own as he gently strokes his hands over your sides for the moment.

All that can be heard throughout the room is the sound of heavy breathing and your muted whimpers as Wooyoung laves his tongue lazily over your folds.

Slowly, Jongho begins to trail his lips over the side of your neck, placing tender kisses against your skin and muttering subtle praises into your ear.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, fingers digging into your hips. “So perfect.”

“You did so well for us, Angel,” Wooyoung hums, slowly trailing kisses over the skin of your inner thighs as he helps to calm you further, grounding you back to reality with every press of his lips against you. “For me.”

“Our Queen,” Seonghwa hums, looking towards you through hooded eyes. “Thank you, for letting us indulge,”

You smile faintly, still attempting to catch your breath as you are more than content to rest in Jongho’s arms for the moment.

“I didn’t realize that would be so intense,” you manage to get out, resting your one hand over your stomach. Briefly, you spare a glance around the room as a heat blooms on your cheeks. “Did you all, uh-“ you swallow the sudden dryness in your throat as you feel all eight pairs of eyes on you, waiting patiently for you to continue. “Did you all enjoy it?”

You can feel the way Jongho smiles against your skin as you see the others all glancing at you with nothing but a tender fondness in their eyes.

“More than you’ll ever know, My Love,” Hongjoong is the one who answers, speaking the thoughts on all of their minds. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, some of us need to change.”

Your lips part in mild shock, heart fluttering in your chest as you realize the implications behind his words. Now that you think about it, you do feel a small wet patch against your ass right where you had previously felt the press of Jongho’s hard cock.

“Oh,” you giggle, and again, the sound is like music to their ears.

In the blink of an eye, all of them except for both Wooyoung and Jongho disappear from your sight.

“Are you okay, Darling?” Jongho keeps his voice low as he leans into your ear for the nth time this afternoon.

“We didn’t push you too far, too fast, did we?” Nothing but concern is reflected in Wooyoung’s eyes as he lovingly runs his hand over the skin of your one thigh.

“Not at all,” you shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “I rather enjoyed that.”

The brilliant smile that paints Wooyoung’s features sets your heart racing in your chest. A look you’re sure is mirrored on Jongho’s face as he tightens his arms around your waist, hugging you to him as he buried his nose into the side of your neck.

“Next time, don’t tear my bra, though,” you poke Jongho’s one thigh, feeling the way he chuckles beneath you as he slowly closes your legs.

“I can just buy you a new one, Darling,” his voice playfully rumbles out.

“Or I can just make one for you,” Seonghwa reappears instantly, drawing your attention across the room. “I have quite a few ideas after today, anyways.”

“Let me guess,” you grin knowingly, “there’s a corset in there somewhere, isn’t there?”

“Guilty,” he chuckles, just as Mingi appears with a glass of water held in his hand for you.

Taking the glass, you thank him lightly. “Then, there better be one for each of you in that order of yours.”

Immediately, all of their eyes are on you.

“What?” You grin. “I’m not wearing one unless all of you wear one. Make them matching for all I care, but I’m serious about absolutely loving men in corsets.”

You notice all of them swallowing thickly.

“But of course,” Seonghwa breathes, just as the rest of his brothers reappear in the room.

“Anything for you, Dearest,” Yeosang smiles as he hands you a fresh pair of pants and underwear.

“Hehe,” you giggle as you take the clothes from Yeosang’s outstretched hands, “yay!”

A moment of silence settles over the nine of you as you move off of Jongho to slip your fresh pair of panties on.

“Oh, so you don’t want these back?” Hongjoong quirks a brow, your other pair held in his one hand.

You meet his gaze, blinking a few times at him in response. That is, until a devious grin is tugging onto your lips. “I told you to enjoy, didn’t I?”

The way you quirk a brow knowingly at him has him disappearing instantly, hiding your panties somewhere safe in his room before he reappears in the next second.

“No fair!” San whines just as both Wooyoung and Jongho reappear in the room with a fresh set of clothes on. “I want a pair, too.”

A laugh escapes you just as you slip your new pants on, noticing how he’s not the only one who wears a large pout on his face.

“Oh, relax, will you,” you tut teasingly at Mingi, San, and Wooyoung. “I have more panties, you know.”

At your words, all three of them instantly perk up, and you notice Jongho attempting not to look too eager out of the corner of your eyes. You laugh once more as you sit back on the couch, muttering about your damn horny Kings all the while. A fact which makes pleased growls build in their chests yet again.

“Speaking of, you all really do owe a lot to Reina,” you chuckle. “How many times now has she instigated something between us without knowing?”

“So, she’s a photographer, huh?” San inquires, a grin tugging at his lips.

“How many more shoots have you done for her portfolio?” Yeosang asks, oh, so innocently.

“What other types of pictures has she taken of you?” Mingi inquires, an eager look shining in his eyes.

You quirk a brow, noticing how they all stare at you intently.

“Where’s my phone?” You chuckle, shaking your head slightly. “I’ll just get her to send me all of the photos when she has a chance.”

Instantly, Hongjoong has your phone in his hand, tossing it to you in the next second. A moment later, and you’ve sent the message off to Reina, telling her to send you all of your past photoshoots with her when she gets a chance.

The excitement you can feel radiating off of them alone has a smile tugging at your features.

“Now, we wait,” you hum, tucking your phone beneath your one thigh as you lean back on the couch.

“Well, hopefully she doesn’t call you crying about WayV again,” Wooyoung jokes, plopping down on the couch beside you and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“She might,” you tease back, a playful quirk to your brow as you lean into him.

Little do you see the brilliant smile that takes over his features as you do so.

“You mentioned something about her ex making her cry?” Mingi’s brow furrows as he recalls your words from earlier.

Immediately, your expression is darkening. “That good for nothing bastard cheated on her. Twice. And then, had the audacity to both blame her for it, and then beg for her back in the next breath.”

“He still contacts her?” Seonghwa’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Sometimes, he tries to,” you reply. “But then he is, oh, so kindly reminded about what I would do to him if I ever saw his face again.”

“More of those delightful violent thoughts of yours, My Love?” Hongjoong grins, knowingly.

“The bloodiest,” you smile, not so innocently back. Then, more to yourself, “serves him right after what he did to her.”

At the few looks you see them sending you, you let out a small sigh.

“I have no sympathy for people like that. People who fall under the categories of the three worst things I believe you could do to another person.” You explain.

“Which are?” Yunho inquires.

“Cheating, for one.” You begin, holding up your finger in the air for emphasis. Then, you’re raising another finger as you list the second, “any form of sexual assault, or rape. I absolutely despise people who feel entitled to another person in any way, shape, or form.”

They nod, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“And the third thing?” Yeosang voices softly, swallowing the sudden dryness in his throat.

You meet his gaze, “making someone believe you have feelings for them, or are in love with them when you couldn’t care less about them.”

A silence settles over the room as the eight males all share a worried glance. They can tell from your body language alone that something happened which made you believe this. Something bad.

“Not even murder?” San jokes, attempting to lighten the mood.

You grin, “nope. Different circumstances. Sometimes, it’s in self defence. I would never despise someone for killing their abuser, or their rapist. Though, on the scale of things, it’d be close fourth, but again, depends on the circumstances.”

“Literally, you could not be more perfect,” Wooyoung sighs dreamily as he rests against your side.

“That being said,” you add, and you notice how you have all of their attention on you once again. You just want to know something, and your curiosity is getting the better of you for the moment. “If I ever wanted you guys to kill someone for me-“

“Done.” Hongjoong replies, a little too eagerly.

“Say the word, and its yours,” Seonghwa breathes.

“Woah,” you raise your hands as much as you can while being held by Wooyoung. “I was just curious, is all.”

“You know we would do anything for you,” Yeosang reminds you. “That includes disposing of or protecting anyone you tell us to.”

You blink, clearly caught off guard for the moment. “Duly noted.”

San takes this opportunity to sit on your opposite side, sliding his arm around your waist where Wooyoung’s hold is scarce.

“Whatever you want, whenever you need it,” he whispers lowly into your ear, successfully causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You reach over and pat his knee, a smile tugging at your features all the while as you shift your attention back to the screen in front of you “Now, if you don’t mind, a certain red-haired emperor of the sea is calling my name.”

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