deja vu | T.S
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summary; how well do we really know the people we love?
warnings ; dark!tommy, minor character death, description of violence , mentions of murder, arranged marriage!trope , slow burn, fem!reader
a/n ; please let me know what you think!
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you tilted your head and frowned , you're both standing at the garrison.
"tommy..." you mumbled in protest
"i know" he nodded "it'll be very short."
you clicked your tongue and then huffed "if you take longer than ..... 30 minutes i'm leaving."
"ya won't."
"get out of my sight." you muttered , taking a sip of your drink.
you sighed, looking over at the place. it was fairly busy, but not stuffy. sounds of chatter and men laughing echoing around, the lighting is dim. you made your way to the booth you were in, sitting down , eyeing your drink.
"when i heard tommy was marrying again, i would've never thought it's celest's little sister that he's trapped."
you recognized the voice before even processing the words, you look up, your brows raised and smiling in disbelief "lizzie?"
she's standing there, looking over at you. her blue eyes studying every inch of your face, a face she hadn't seen in a long time. and you hadn't expected to see her here , of all places.
"what are ya doing?" she speaks softly. you know the tone, you get the meaning; what are you doing with someone like him ?
you stand up, your gaze never leaves her , still smiling. "lizzie... i've not seen ya in so long..."
since she got involved with tommy , that is. lizzie and celest knew each-other , went to school together. lizzie would sometimes stay over , whenever your mother felt she wouldn't be safe otherwise. until the war.
she chuckles, "ya 'ave your mother to thank for that."
you chuckled too, still looking at her. "how did ya know about it?"
she gives you a look, her dark brow raised "everyone knows. i just didn't know it would be someone like *you*"
you lick your lips, "lizzie i know ya two share.... a history"
she scoffs , a bitter smile on her lips "i don't resent ya for this, i wouldn't." she shakes her head "i 'ave given up on 'im... a long time ago." her eyes look away for a moment before landing on you "whatever ya think of 'im, whatever ya believe he is , he's not." she speaks with conviction.
you don't reply to that, you're just trying to know what she means by it.
"thomas shelby doesn't know love like we do, what he knows is ownership." she chuckles bitterly, "learned what that meant the hard way. but ya shouldn't go through what i did." she shakes her head softly
"i don't understand...."
she stays silent for a moment "consider this a warning from a friend, this man , *will ruin you* , and when that 'appens ya will not recognize who you've become but he.... he will remain the same, unchanged not matter how hard ya try. he will always be what he always was, no love in the world can heal whatever is broken in 'im."
"ya don't understand, lizzie." you speak finally, "this isn't simple, for either of us. i can't leave"
"ya can't or ya won't?"
"i..." you pause for a moment, letting out a chuckle "i can't."
she studies your face , nodding "what does celest think? what does oliver think?"
"they're not thrilled."
"i know 'im more than most." she adds "and if i
knew what i do now when i first met 'im....." she looks away "i came here because i knew you'd be here and to tell ya that ya can come to me... if ya ever need help."
she places a hand on your arm, looking at you one more time before turning and making her way out of the garrison.
"she was always a nice girl" your mother sighed, taking a bite of her food
you and celest look at eachother before looking back at her,
celest knew why lizzie talked to you , and so did the rest of your family
"where's abraham?" you nod towards anna
she shrugged , "he had to do something before coming here"
"ya knew who i dreamt of?" your father pointed his fork at you "that teller boy, jeremy was it?. it was the strangest thing , i tell ya"
all the women at the table tried to stay neutral, keep their reactions to a minimum, you try to hide your uncomfortable reaction behind your glass of water "it is strange"
the whole table looks towards the front door, the sound of the door slamming open and not slamming back closed, and the heavy rushed footsteps
"i need to talk to ya," he appears in the living room doorway. he puts his hands on his hips, breathing heavily as if he ran to the house. he's disheveled, he pushed his glasses back on his nose with a shaky hand
"jeremy teller is dead." he speaks in a hushed voice, looking around to check that no one is listening, both of you standing in your parents bedroom. he didn't want anyone to hear , especially not renee or she might just give birth on the spot.
"what? no he's not." you laugh, looking at him. waiting for him to finish his joke
he looks at you, wiping a hand over his face. he looks at you "he's fucking dead."
your laugh falters slowly as you look at him, your face twitching with different emotions "how ? when? how do you know about it?"
"i heard. they found 'im murdered," he tries to not speaks too loudly "his throat was slit"
you can feel your blood go cold "do they know who killed 'im?"
he tilts his head, his hands still shaking as they rest on his hips. "ya know who killed 'im."
"no....no." you shake your head, laughing again in disbelief "no no no, no" you look away and step back, putting a hand over your forehead "that's impossible."
"listen to me" he grabs your shoulders, turning you to look at him "he did it, all of small heath knows he did and ya do too."
"no , he wouldn't." you shake your head again, your heart beating so fast you can hear it. "why would he do that? he wouldn't ."
he moves you gently, sitting you down on the chair in your parents room. he kneels , his hands move to your face "what do ya wanna do now ?"
the room feels so stuffy, you can hardly breath.
"i don't know." your chest feels like it might collapse. you try to stand up, but you can barely feel your legs, you try to blink away the darkness that takes over your vision.
but you knew it was coming, the darkness does take over.
here you are again, staring at that portrait that hangs opposite of your bed. you're filled with dread , fear and even anger , your eyes trace the portrait that you've already memorized.
your head on the pillow, your sister sniffling is another reminder, like a deja vu of that cursed night.
but you can see someone else in your peripheral vision sitting in the chair , those cold blue eyes cannot be missed. its as if his presence filled the room with a cold sort of air.
you try to get up,
"lay down"
"i don't want to." you mumble, letting out a breath as you lean your back against your bed frame. your eyes still on the painting, you don't even glance his way.
"feeling better?" his voice sounds colder than you ever remember it being. the smell of the cigarette smoke making you close your eyes shut, making your head spin. you reach for the glass of water on your bedside table, your hands quiver as you bring it to your lips
"yes" you put the glass back down
"ya look pale"
"hmm"
you can't shake that feeling, you're scared of looking at him and seeing the same view you did that day, the blood on his hands.
"ya killed 'im." you're almost muttering to yourself,
he doesn't answer you, and you don't ask again. you finally peel your eyes off of the old painting, glancing at him. the look on his face gave you the answer that you already knew.
he looks so calm , so collected , almost wicked. "are ya scared now?"
and it was your turn to not answer his question, but your eyes never leave his.
"did ya do it yourself?"
"yes" he looks right back at you "you're already aware of what i can do"
you just shut your eyes, your hands shake as they grip into the covers
"forgetting it is your fault, not mine." his voice sounds again
you don't even remember the rest of that day, his words were replying in your head.
you snap out of that trance a day later, you're in the living room on the chair by the window. you look straight at the window as your mind tries to make sense of everything, and then a figure down the street catches your eyes and you feel a switch go off in your head.
i have eyes around here.
and you realize , probably ears too.
your clothes swish as you run out of the living room towards your parents' room, your mother running behind you. the old wooden floor cried under your rushed footsteps
"what happened?"
you don't even hear her, you don't process what she's saying. you pull out the box from under their bed, you rummage through it , pulling out your dad's revolver.
the cold metal of the gun feels like it's burning through your flesh
"what the fuck are ya doing? where did ya get that?" oliver yells , his eyes opened wide as tries to run after you too.
the whole house freezes, all of them just still as if the slightest movement would set that gun off
you push that door open , it slams against the wall beside it. your feel take you towards the man standing in the street , a figure you've seen lurking around too many times to chalk it up to coincidences
you cock back the hammer, your hands are steady for the first time since yesterday.
"ya tell tommy fucking shelby that if he doesn't get ya fuckers away from me , i'll start shooting."
you move the revolver and point it to the pavement , missing his foot by a hair.
-
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KOREA'S MOST WANTED (DEAD OR ALIVE) : SUNBOKI
🎥 : Christopher Bahng x fem. reader ( with hints of other attraction ((mainly 3racha cause im a whore)) no poly )
TROPE. non-idol au, criminal! au, enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut
WORD COUNT. 6.8k & 33 minute read
WARNINGS. smut, blood, guns/weapons, shoot-out, murder, mentions of drugs and poison, descriptive violence, suggestiveness, manipulation, death(not major characters), cursing
PLAYLIST
AUG'S NOTES. a weird spin to a not-quite mafia au but i love the lore.. enjoy. if you decide to read, feedback is always appreciated!!
SYNOPSIS. Eight notoriously wanted criminals work solo. They always have. Except when their dark work and concealed identities are put at risk, they find themselves with no other choice but to work together—and what better place to do so than the back fields of a house in the middle of nowhere? The location was ideal, until you open the doors of your grandparents barn and accidentally meet Korea’s most wanted.
or alternatively
In which stumbling in the wrong place at the wrong time leaves you face to face with some of the most-wanted criminals in all of South Korea.
CRIMINAL #0001 — BAHNG, CHRISTOPHER.
CRIMINAL RECORD
Christopher has been convicted of illegal weapon trafficking on eighteen counts of federal offenses. He is notoriously dangerous. Please proceed with caution.
⭑ REWARD
⎯ CRIMINAL FILES (additional cases)
The only thing illuminating your walk to the barn is your phone light and the hardly helpful moon peeking between heavy clouds.
You’ve done this a billion times, but tonight there’s just something ..unsettling. You can’t put your finger on it.
Shaking the thought from mind, you fiddle with the small lock hitched onto wide, dark red barn doors, untangling rusted chains like routine. That is, until you hear a sound. An unusual sound, an unnerving sound.
By that time you’d already pushed open the doors, and the weight of what sat in front of you—the weight of what was responsible for the sound—made you feel faint.
“Who.. Who are you people?”
Every October you visit your grandparents (or whenever your schedule isn’t jam-packed, but most often in October) when the leaves are deep orange and red, dappling gravel driveways and leaving the once abundant trees bare of their spring greenery.
The weather, though overcast in the autumn season, never stays gray for too long if you wake up early enough. Your grandpa taught you that, how to witness the early morning view before being covered by clouds.
On this occasion, however, you certainly didn’t plan on waking up early, especially not while rooming in your comfortable old bedroom.
Your grandparents house, despite being in the middle of nowhere, was so homey, so familiar. You’d be sure to soak up as much of this easiness as you could before returning back to life, savor the moments the best you could.
“Have you heard?” Your grandmother utters, fingers expertly dicing fruits, gaze glued to the TV.
“Grandma, I just got here, so no I haven’t heard anything,” You laugh, dragging your luggage through the hallway while the drone of the latest news feature serves as background noise. Probably another celebrity split-up, you assume.
Surely, considering the stubborn woman’s frantic waving once you come back into the living room, beckoning you to watch with her.
“Look! They’re wrecking havoc everywhere recently. Folks are calling them ‘Korea’s most wanted.’” Shaking her head repeatedly, she points at the screen displaying a churned building left to nothing but ash.
You hum absentmindedly, listening to the reporter talk.
“Using the title the media has given, this building, once a printing firm, has been dissolved into ashes overnight. The attack is said to have been the doing of ‘The Arsonist’, a member of one of the most wanted people on the radar…”
“If you run into one of them,” Having completely forgotten about the other presence in the room, you flinch. “Call your Grandma, I’ll swat ‘em over the head with my shovel.”
Gesturing with an imaginary shovel in hand, you can’t help but laugh at her silliness, quickly shaking the lingering thought away.
Korea’s most wanted here? Here’s probably the last place they’d show up, too busy massacring the big cities to care about this old house.
Resorting to scurrying onto a kitchen stool, you fill in the nosy old lady on what life has been like, how work has been treating you, and all the other nosy questions your grandmother thinks up slicing apples.
By the time you look out the window, the sky is almost fully dark, until a sudden flash of headlights tells the household grandpa’s back from work, hopping from his rickety blue pickup truck to greet you.
There’s a smile gracing his wrinkled features, regarding you like you were still eight years old. He’s a man of few words, but when he speaks, everyone listens. Similarly, when he tells you he loves you—something he barely does—the moment, whatever it may be, is special.
Settling in for the night, you help wash dishes and insist the stoic woman takes a seat before she breaks her back leaning over the sink, which she rolls her eyes and ignores no less.
Not like you expected anything else, she’d wash these dishes till the end of time knowing her.
“Y/n, dear, would you mind making sure the barn lamp is shut off? I’m worried it’ll catch fire if I forget.”
Speaking of the end of time, you hadn’t stepped foot in the barn in what felt to be decades, too occupied with the house and town to remember that ramshackle building outside.
Of course you said yes, deciding this was a prime opportunity to not forget in the process of slipping on a sweater to help battle the cold, approaching the barely visible building.
You think you hear someone talking but choose to ignore it, pretending it was the wind or something along those lines. It’s autumn and you’re plenty far away from suburban areas, so most likely an animal lie responsible.
That was, until you pry open the barn doors.
Immediately, a stranger with cat-like features has a serrated dagger held to your throat.
Closing your eyes instinctively, you wait to feel the cold metal breaking skin, hesitantly cracking open an eye to meet the attacker’s chilling stare boring into the side of your face.
He takes a few seconds to exchanges glances with another in the dimly lit space then back to your stock-still frame. Briefly, you feel your phone get pulled from your pocket but don’t budge, worried one wrong movement would automatically have the cold metal slitting your throat.
“Walk. Make the slightest move and nobody finds your body, understood?”
Shakily, you nod, feebly inching forward before getting shoved onto the container your grandpa kept extra tools in, splinters piercing the back of your thighs.
Wonderingly, your eyes flicker to each stranger surrounding you. Counting eight in total, some taller, some shorter, you gulp, outnumbered by a large margin you’re sure would be nearly impossible trying to escape from.
Without exchanging a word, one of the shorter, more muscular men steps forward, seeming to inspect you. His rough grip finds your chin, jerking your head from side to side then up to meet his honeyed brown eyes. They’re surprisingly kind compared to his demeanor.
“She’s pretty. Might earn us a good penny if you want, Bahng. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” Cocking his brows, you swiftly rip your head out of his hand, wrinkling your nose with disgust.
A frothing dread fills your gut, and you think for a moment letting that man with the dagger kill you off would’ve been a better doom.
“Hands off, Bin. If we wanted to get a price we need her to be in good condition.” A voice from behind this so-called “Bin” responds, and you feel the overwhelming urge to hurl.
They’re talking about selling you, like you’re not even human. A pretty porcelain object available at their disposal.
Good condition? You feel sick. You can’t see the man who replied, but you doubt it’d make your gut feel any more uncomfortable.
“Aw c’mon guys,” Another voice you finally spot to your right interjects, sporting chubbier cheeks and appearing quite out of place in this group. “You’re scaring her, go easy.”
Bin scoffs. “Should she be comfortable? We’re gonna kill her anyway, Jisung. Right, Bahng?”
God. Who is this Bahng guy that’s apparently in charge and why does “Bin” want you dead so badly? Didn’t he just call you pretty, or were you blacking out?
“..Right, Bahng?”
Bin falters, backing up as the face belonging to “Bahng” ushers him to the side.
Bahng, at least in the scarce lighting, is scarily handsome. Dyed hair nearly an auburn shade, a strong jaw, and calculating, dusky brown eyes that appear equally as kind as Bin’s.
You’ve learned to not trust the deceit.
Suddenly, a thought strikes.
Any minute now your grandparents will realize how long you’ve been gone and start to worry.
Your heart drops.
No. Don’t come here, stay in the house. No no no no.
Automatically, words stumble out of your mouth.
“Please- kill me, sell me, I don’t care. My grandparents- they’re gonna come here, I can’t have them here. If they find me here I... Please.” Chest rising and falling unevenly, you continuously glance at the door.
Waiting, waiting.
“Please spare them. I don’t want them to get hurt.”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t make any expression apparent on that handsome face of his. Observing.
You’re a spectacle, an interesting one at that.
“And if I spare you, what do I get in return, hm?”
You’re caught off guard.
In return? What does he mean in return?
Think. Think. What the hell could someone like him want? He has enough money, you’re sure.
Fine. Make it broad.
“Anything. Anything, I promise.” Pleading, you anxiously shuffling atop the box, swearing to have heard the sound of moving outside. Somewhere behind the two of you someone chokes a laugh. You can’t find it in yourself to care.
Poking his tongue into his cheek thoughtfully, he eventually signals to the others before you’re being escorted through the back door by a not-so gentle Bin and a very much apologetic Jisung, sparing a glance back to the home you’d only seen for one day.
And if what Bin said about killing you was true, you wonder if you’ll ever see it again.
.. .
Ducking into one of the two cars parked directly behind the barn, you’re assigned the passenger seat, accompanied by Bahng who’s driving, Jisung, and a long-haired boy sitting beside him in the backseat.
They’re all strikingly beautiful opposed to the blood you’re sure has stained their hands, especially the one next to Jisung with features resembling that of a prince. Everything about him seems too elegant to do any harm. You know that’s a lie.
Mapping out your surroundings, you shuffle in the leather seat, waiting until all three men get situated to slam the door ajar and run. Second instinct, no thoughts, just survival.
You run, run and run as fast as you can while the thump of shoes echo behind you. Far away, you have to get away. Get away get away get aw— a force slams into you from behind and you go toppling down.
Gasping as the air mercilessly ripped from your lungs returns, your vision adjusts, squirming thanks to the identity keeping you still. Bahng has you trapped below him, breath labored, effortlessly intimidating.
“Let— go of me!” You yell, voice betraying the utter desperation overtaking every fiber of your being.
He holds you down, meeting your eyes without fail as you struggle and shout. Shouting and screaming so loud into the darkness in fact, that the man finally covers your mouth with a hand as you tremble, watery gaze fixated on his. Burning, venomous hatred.
“I’m afraid that isn’t an option, sweetness. So you either walk back to the car or I go through things the hard way. What will it be?”
He thumbs the sweaty strands of hair stuck to your forehead, hand finally pulling off your mouth.
Hypocrite.
“Fuck you.” You spit, and the man’s brows lift, lips pulled into an amused smile as he wipes his cheek.
“Hard way it is.”
Instantaneously, you’re hauled over his shoulder, not straining a bit despite the incessant kicking and pounding of your fists against his shoulder.
And just to prove how much he wholeheartedly deserved that fuck you, he made sure to lock the vehicle twice right in front of your face, receiving an equally as distasteful glare through the windshield in return.
The car ride was quiet, only interrupted by him asking if the air was too cold which you responded to with the middle finger. Jisung giggled.
Wee hours of morning peer through thick clouds, the road briefly illuminated by your headlights, corn stalks for miles lining either side. A barely palpable trace of life noticeable in a church’s steeple in the distance—once stark white, now stained and evidently aged.
Looking in the mirror, you locate the other vehicle tailing, assumed to be carrying the additional boys. Considering where your lone source of communication may be hidden (a.k.a your phone), you strain trying to spot it in your peripheral.
No use. Just you and this shit-hole of a situation.
Either way, what would you even say? “Please help me I’ve been kidnapped by eight of Korea’s most wanted criminals”? Yeah, they’ll definitely believe that.
There’s a hum from the prince-like man.
“This is the perfect place for a murder,” He speaks so nonchalantly, as if he referred to the weather and not killing someone.
Chills spread along your arms.
Jisung chuckles. “You’re right, no traces at all. Either way, even if someone did find them they’d likely already be rotten.”
You’re nauseous.
“Say, do you know how long it takes for a body to rot out here?” He asks, and your dizziness keeps you from realizing he’s referring to you, stomach threatening to spill all of its contents any second now.
And they expect you to know that?
Your silence leads to Jisung earning a smack from his backseat companion, scolding him hushedly.
Bahng stays quiet, one hand holding the wheel and the other splayed on the center console. Occasionally though you’ll see his eyes flit elsewhere, or maybe it’s your imagination.
Car eventually falling mute with a few passengers sleeping, you get close to doing the same before the harsh jerk of the car stirs everyone wide awake, clutching onto their seats.
You’d swerved into a small expanse of corn, wheels crushing the crops beneath them. Instantly the three reach under their seats, instinctively grabbing out pistols and pushing open the doors slowly, bodies crouched low.
Preparing to hide to the best of your ability, a hand on your arm keeps your movement at bay, discovered to belong to Bahng.
“Just keep in mind what Jisung said, by the time anyone finds you you’ll be rotted, pretty thing.” He sends you a sickeningly sweet smile, cocking the hammer of his gun and disappearing out the door where you hear someone shout: “I fucking knew we were being followed!” Prior to the loud ricochet of bullets being fired.
You duck down in the passenger seat, attempting to be as small and forgettable as possible out of sight. That is until a gunshot strikes the side of the car, narrowly bypassing where you’re curled up on the floorboard.
An involuntary scream escapes you, and your palm clamps over your mouth, shuddering and shaking like a leaf.
It’s a natural reaction, shrinking away, too horrified to act. So when your door is violently swung open, you prepare for the worst before recognizing Bin’s face, who legitimately rips you from the seat and drags you away.
Stopping beside a minimal clearing, you observe he isn’t carrying a weapon of any kind, a factor that makes your hopes slightly plummet. Granted, it’s not that you don’t think he’d be capable of defending himself (and you), but his fists against a gun didn’t sound too promising.
Swiftly instructed to not move, he races off, effectively tackling a man to the ground and leaving a pool of blood seeping where he lay.
Except, Bin abruptly evades your vision, leaving you to notice the prince-like boy in his stead, waving his arms and yelling something you strain to recognize.
“Behind you!” He had been shouting.
Your soul fills with dread.
In an instant you brace for impact, ears picking up the whirring of an object against the wind before the crack of a bat makes contact with your attackers head. The man goes down like a sack of bricks.
Bin, holding a nail embedded baseball bat propped on his shoulder, appeared just on time.
He had a streak of blood smeared across his cheek which you guessed belonged to someone else, and his knuckles lay bruised and torn despite the massive shit-eating grin slapped on his face.
“You alright, sweetheart?” He asks, voice hoarse and rough despite never looking more alive. It’s terrifying.
Shaken, you give yourself a once over, hurriedly shaking your head. He barks a laugh.
Gunshots eventually dying off, the nine of you regroup, some suffering minor injuries and others standing untouched.
Among them, the dagger-wielding criminal is one of the untouched. You’re not surprised.
Jisung is cussing wildly, leg ripped up pretty bad while leant against said dagger-wielding criminal, sending his counterpart a sour glare.
“Those motherfuckin’ assholes need ‘ta learn some fuckin’ manners..” Jisung spews curses, lips pulled up in a sneer as the others help him into the bullet-embedded car.
Reversing out of the densely packed foliage, no one dares say a word the entire rest of the drive, preoccupied with going back to their interrupted sleep or blankly gazing into the night.
The destination, appearing to be a company building by its exterior (and the lack of daylight), easily averages the size of an extreme warehouse. You curve into an enormous parking garage, every other space occupied by some multimillion dollar sports car.
Upon walking inside though, you’re left in the main entrance with Jisung while the remainder slip into a separate room.
His leg is bandaged thanks to “Jeongin”, whom, after briefly seeing them in brighter lighting, you guess is the youngest-looking one. Light hair and a smile you’re certain breaks all law-breaking guidelines.
Arrangement of chairs mimicking that of a doctor’s office, you guess the decorum is used to disguise what actually goes on here.
Clearing your throat, you debate on speaking about the question burning a hole through your skull.
“Why do you want me to live?”
Managing to haul himself backwards on a chair, Jisung shrugs.
“Why not? It’d be fun having someone other than those boneheads around.”
Typical Jisung reaction, you assume. This is the same dude bringing up murder like it’s a daily occurrence after all.
“Plus, we’re normally workin’ solo. Some circumstances forced us to work together.” He absentmindedly waved, and you bite the urge to ask about these so-called “circumstances”.
With Jisung, you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious. You have a feeling asking him about it though would only lead to a response along the lines of: “Hey, it adds to the fun, right?” as if murder was a leisurely hobby.
You can’t help but feel baffled with how casually he talks about the additional men. Friends, as if they’re friends. Not like they would be, Jisung said it himself, “circumstances” pulled them together.
However, the danger they’d pose working as a team would be unreal. You didn’t even want to consider the possibility.
Goosebumps crawl upon your forearms.
"Y’know, I used to protect people like you." Han Jisung, whom you now recognized as The Arsonist, tilted his head to the side when he said that.
Strikingly beautiful, just like the others. Soft, round cheeks. Dark, soulful eyes and pursed, puffy lips.
You recall your grandmother telling you some of the prettiest flowers carry the most poison. Now it makes sense.
Blinking, you choose your words rather carefully.
This man, the one who upon first glance looks like he couldn’t harm a fly, burned down a printing firm yesterday. The same man alongside seven other notorious criminals discussing your fate.
Korea’s most wanted.
“Why’d you stop? Protecting people, I mean.” Coming out mumbled, you watch him click his tongue and change posture, not phased whatsoever.
It was a genuine question, considering whatever job he had before —if it came down to protecting— seemed to be something linked to the law. Unusual, for a criminal or his level.
“I got bored,” He yawned, lower lip jutting out.
Talk about a juxtaposition to his psychotic tendencies.
Bored. Han Jisung, The Arsonist, got bored of being a good guy.
It gave you a whole new perspective to insane.
“..You ask a bunch of questions, huh. I guess that makes sense since you might die- no! Not die- well, I’m not sure but- you’ll be fine!”
Wow Jisung. You seriously suck at convincing.
Oh how you wish your grandma would appear with her shovel right about now. Scratch that, you wish she would’ve swatted them over the head much earlier than now.
“Alright, but where will we keep her while Bahng decides on the cover up?” The seven go quiet, and if it wasn’t for the whirring of a fan overhead you would’ve guessed they were telepathically communicating, few sparing hasty glances at each other, waiting for someone to speak up.
Changbin was the one who asked, but he didn’t continue, nor even meet Bahng’s eyes despite his normal, boisterous behavior.
If there was one person they all had a running respect (and fear) of, it would be Bahng. He’d brought up the idea of working together, and he’d be the one leading in result.
Freckle Boy (the name The Hitman had came up with before learning Felix’s’ name) opens his mouth.
“I can—“
“She’ll stay with me.” Bahng interjects, and no one lifts a finger.
Changbin sees the blond’s pinched expression through his peripheral.
“But I have an extra—“
“You heard me, Felix. She stays with me,” He sternly repeats, and the younger deflates, mumbling something to himself after Hyunjin sends him a reassuring nod.
The atmosphere eased up slightly opposed to how suffocating it had been earlier, enough to where the men occupying their individual chairs took deep breaths of air they hadn’t know they’d been holding.
The door opens and they disperse in different directions while Bahng lags behind, speaking to Jeongin about something hushed.
You, on the other hand, are greeted with a rather sympathetic smile from the blond, telling you whatever they talked about wasn’t good.
From your right, Bin clears his throat, effectively giving you an unprecedented heart-attack.
“For the record, we weren’t planning to sell you.”
A grin grows on your face, taking this sweeter opportunity to pick some fun. You’re stuck here anyway, right?
“We weren’t? I think you were.”
He huffs, crossing muscular arms over his chest stubbornly. Behind him, a neighboring coffee-haired man snickers, earning Bin’s slap on the shoulder and a quiet “Yah.. Seungmin..” That completely sabotage any chance of taking him seriously.
“..I wasn’t.”
Mhm, definitely. Like the tips of his ears weren’t blood red.
The whiplash you’re getting from being treated you like a rag doll earlier becomes quite ironic.
Wasting time incessantly teasing the man, it’s not until he’s lead off by Bahng that you quiet down, awkwardly shifting your weight to either heel.
“..So?” You interrupt the silence, only given a jerk of Bahng’s head as a signal to follow. Talk about vague.
Overflowing with endless questions, he finally stops and turns to you, brows furrowed.
Attractive. My god he’s attractive.
“Would you just tell me where we’re-“You’re staying in my room for the time being.”
To say you felt shocked barely brushed the surface of your internal wasp nest, endlessly buzzing and swarming. His room? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“I mean,” He notes, looking amused now. “Unless you plan on staying in the other rooms with cameras and giving security a show then—“
“Fine.”
Sending you a smug grin, it’s hard not feeling bewildered as he rounds a corner, revealing one, the fact that he has literal guards standing on either side of the double doors, and two, that his “room” is the short story of a penthouse.
Wow.
.. .
Turning off the ignition, Changbin stuffs the keys in his pocket upon slipping inside, scrunching his nose at the sight before him.
“Fuck dude, you’re a tank.” The man groans, eyeing Chris who’s currently doing handstand push-ups on wooden parallettes.
When Chris is nowhere to be found, he’s here, hidden away in this partially abandoned gymnastics studio on the outskirts of Incheon. Small, though with all materials intact.
Occasionally teenagers would come roaming around, having heard of hauntings and gruesome murders they want to stick their noses in. It’s plausible, sure, the murder part at least.
Changbin didn’t believe in hauntings, because no horrific spirit ever dared deter him from enjoying his job, over and over. He didn’t have remorse, he didn’t feel.
Life was easier that way, without emotion driving your decisions.
In fact, he can’t recall the last time being a hitman scared him. Call it crazy, but if you think about it in terms of “eliminating those that shouldn’t be there”, he’s doing the world a favor.
He wouldn’t tell Bahng that for many reasons.
“And your mouth is still as bad as usual.” The older says through gritted teeth, slowly lowering his legs, coated in a sheen of sweat that greasily muss strands of hair.
He barks a laugh. “‘Can’t fix it.”
“That’s for sure,” Chris responds, grabbing the towel The Hitman held out with a thankful pat on the back.
Arranging the equipment back into its designated places, Changbin leans against the doorframe, brows lifted curiously.
“She’s sleeping, if you’re wondering.”
Telepathically, the man answers his unspoken question, referring to you who he imagines is prettily slumped in Chris’ bed.
Prettily. Did he say prettily?
Forget it.
Unknown to both your name and whereabouts, you begrudgingly pull the comforter closer over your head, successfully blocking the sunlight for a few more minutes of sleep. Your entire body is sore, and a numbing buzz has settled in your head, drowning out any cognitive ability to think.
Well, the extra time is amazing until your bladder decides to sabotage you.
Blindly blundering off the mattress, you idly navigate around, blinking a foggy haze from your vision.
Step, step, and then thump! You slam right into something—someone.
Finally granted a clear view, you swear your brain short-circuited.
It’s Bahng, staring down at you with a towel wrapped around his neck while water droplets cling to his skin—to his chest—that you notice is quite bare at the moment.
“Christ— Jesus—“ Slapping a hand over your eyes, you take multiple strides backwards, feet stumbling prior to hands grasping your wrists.
Easing you up right, he kindly leads your sleep-consumed form into the bathroom, big hands momentarily maneuvering your hips to the side on his way out.
Effectively stalling his movements, you silently drag him back closer to you, thumbs reaching up to smoothing his deep eye-bags.
He freezes, words he planned to say cut off.
His eyelids flutter shut in contentment, and in those tender seconds, you stand there, palms delicately cupping his cheeks, relaxing the hard lines of his face whilst steam gives the mirror a bleary cast.
Any other situation and you would’ve admitted yourself into a psych ward, but the alarm clock on his nightstand reading 7:18AM told you whatever you did next was all a lucid dream.
“You don’t sleep much.. do you?” Softly mumbling, he hums against your touch, own hand holding yours against his face.
Bahng cracks a barely there smile.
“Hard sleeping when the world’s after you,” He comments, remark laced with humorless hilarity. You can’t say you disagree.
Although, most good things—all good things—end far too quickly. Because when Changbin bursts through the door, voice choked in his throat, you hesitate your movements.
“.. Just uh, wanted to say the car’s waiting- I mean, the car’s ready for you. Yeah. Bye.” Awkwardly shuffling, he made a direct beeline for the door.
Never in your life did you expect a Hitman to be so awkward. And not just a Hitman, thee Hitman, Bin. Who, although you’d never say it to his face, definitely stuttered.
Unfortunately forced to separate, you’re handed one of his jackets once you managed to convince Bahng to let you come along.
Taking the elevator to the parking garage, an assistant who (you assume) routinely fetches the keys to an otherworldly expensive Lamborghini bows low, greeting either of you with a mandatory please-don’t-hurt-me smile.
You don’t ask where you’re headed, knowing the answer would only lead to more questions instead.
Bahng’s like that, you’ve discovered. Unpredictable to everyone but himself. Private.
Alternatively, compared to what you had imagined (something like a shed or a slaughter-house), he pulled into the gravel driveway of an old home, wooden docks on the roof sticking in strange directions, evidently battered from years of storm turmoil.
Sporting a confused expression yourself, he steps from the scissor doors, ushering you to follow suit.
A bit out of place, you decided. It’s not every day you witness a Lamborghini parked in front of a house like this.
“We’re visiting my grandmother, I visit every week.” He announces, and you could’ve seriously bet money on how uncharacteristic that move was.
This man, the man who ran disappeared at ungodly hours of night with unknown intentions, the man who killed with no remorse, was visiting his grandmother.
First Bin and now Bahng. What a wild card.
Living up to the title, Bahng couldn’t have been more opposing to his usual demeanor, shrugging off his coat and shoes at the doorway and fixing Barley tea for the short woman residing in her rocking chair.
Struggling to unzip his jacket that’s massive size engulfs your frame, you curiously explore, noting the sheer normality.
No weapons, no apparent knowledge of Bahng’s illegal activity patterning the household.
In this house, it’s just a grandmother and her grandson. Not Bahng, but Chris.
The name sounds strange on your tongue.
She wholeheartedly welcomed you in, scolding him for his prominent scars and holding hands that had unforgivable violence wedged between fingernails.
Somehow, watching him felt like betrayal. And although you doubt his grandmother would love him any less despite the gruesome reality, to know so much occurred behind the scenes made things, well, uncomfortable.
You be sure to introduce yourself, spending a good hour and a half entertaining the wrinkled woman before bidding your farewells and returning to familiar stifling tension on the drive home.
Your piling conscious suggests you say something, but you second guess yourself, ultimately garnering the courage after many failed attempts of making small talk once you both returned back to his room.
He’s wearing glasses now, and you swear you’ve never seen someone so unbearably beautiful in your life. Hell, him merely breathing has any comprehensible phrase disappearing instantaneously.
“Have you told anyone about what you do?” You start, causing him to lean over from his place on the side of the mattress, fiddling with something on the nightstand.
You crane to hear his response.
“Sometimes it’s best to lie to keep both parties happy.”
…That’s a no.
“Then, Chris, would you rather be happy living a lie or sad knowing someone’s honest truth?”
Chris.
Though his real name, the words still sound foreign, especially aloud.
He seems to have felt the same, head snapping your direction.
Grinning.
“And what do you know about lying, sweetness?”
“It’s not what I know, it’s what you want to know.” You scoot closer to him, mimicking his cocky smile. “Here’s an example, would you be happy not knowing I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, or sad hearing that I didn’t plan to tell you?”
A low chuckle.
“Did you learn the manipulation part from Minho?”
“Is it working?”
Eyes flickering back and forth from his lips to his eyes, you find yourself lingering centimeters apart, both intoxicated on each bated breath.
“A little bit,” He whispers, unwavering stare flickering to your parted lips before he pulls the glasses off his face and tilts his head to capture your lips.
You hastily climb onto the bed, fingers tangled in his tousled curls that peer from straight hair.
New, but not. As if you’ve kissed him all your life.
Working down your neck, his warm grip eases your legs apart, transitioning from kneading the flesh of your inner thighs to your ass.
“Oh— fuck.” You sigh out, delicious pressure applied right where you needed him most, stirring a deep wave of pleasure radiating throughout your entire body.
The Gunsman has you wrapped around his finger. A man whose power owns guards that stand in front of his seemingly normal door, a man whose power leaves you helplessly entangled in his every move, neck accessorized in his love bites.
Its wrong. Everything is hopelessly wrong.
You can’t get enough.
.. .
Index dragging across the fabric of sheets, your attention bursts alive, body jarring in a hold, someone else’s hold.
Bahng’s hold.
His head is tucked into your neck, arms hugging your bare back against his equally bare body. Bahng feels like comfort, home.
You never thought you’d be referring to a criminal when you said that.
Adjusting, you manage to roll over, admiring his ever kissable lips puckered in a pout, bed-hair forming strange shapes in the side of his pillow before mesmerizing brown eyes begin fluttering open.
Quickly rolling back around, you attempt at pretending to be asleep to no avail, because Bahng buries his face closer to the nape of your neck, sighing a lengthy groan.
Hands exploring you absentmindedly, he ensures to squeeze your chest at least once, otherwise keeping a tender touch settled on your tummy.
“G’morning…” He grumbles hoarsely, barely awake prior to his phone buzzing on the nightstand and his hushed “fuck” earning a giggle from you.
Caller ID: Hwang Hyunjin, the screen reads.
Without even a proper warning, he’s simultaneously thrown into a shark tank the moment the call’s accepted.
So long for the morning afterglow.
“It’s ready,” The Physic utters, and the soft fizzing of chemicals in the background do nothing to cease his foaming pit of guilt.
Grateful you couldn’t see the tight-lipped expression he burns the wall with, he grimaces, sparing you a longing glance.
So peaceful, so beautiful.
This world truly is cruel.
Rising to his feet, he throws on a white button-up, adorned by one of the many black trench coats lining his closet. Discreet, convenient.
Reminding you to stay in bed till he gets back, he finds his footsteps faltering on the way down to the lab.
Bahng, Christopher Bahng, The Gunsman, is nervous.
You’ve really done something to him.
Although, before he can make a move Felix pries the door ajar, and from how he furiously chews his bottom lip immediately answers Chris’ question.
The final part of their cover-up? Getting you back.
Because everyone, including himself, knew he’d fall in love. And he couldn’t. He couldn’t, wouldn’t dare put you through that.
Wafting fumes invade his nostrils entering (essentially) Hyunjin’s lair, multiple cloths layered in a clear box.
“Chloroform, I messed with it a bit. It’s not concentrated enough to be lethal. It’ll just put her out for a little bit.” He pats the top of the box, tugging medical gloves off ringed fingers.
From across the room, Chris can feel eyes on him.
“And how do you know if it won’t kill her?” The person asks, Changbin asks, critiquing gaze fixated on Chris despite regarding Hyunjin.
“Because I tested it? Since when did you care?” Moodily, The Physic cross his arms.
“Since now.”
“Why? Weren’t you the one who wanted to sell her?”
Chris can smell the uprising tension from a mile away.
“Because I’m allowed to care about someone! Am I not, your fucking highness?” Changbin shouts, but hidden by Hyunjin’s irked facade, Chris notices the slight tug of his lips, the peeking amusement.
Turns out Chris wasn’t the only one falling.
What a twist of events.
Interrupting their face-off, he hoists the moderately heavy box up, curtly nodding to Hyunjin.
Maneuvering around the warehouse back toward your room, he fastens a mask onto his face, spreading a few separate cloths into a smaller container.
Felix and Hyunjin’s doing, Chloroform cloths.
There were a few recommendations. Minho suggested knocking you out and going about, Seungmin with the grand idea of blackmailing you into leaving, and Jisung who wanted to keep you here.
Chloroform it was.
Returning to his bedroom, he finds himself understanding Changbin’s anger the longer he watches you, drifted back asleep, angel-like.
Fuck.
This hurts.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he delicately caresses the skin of your cheek, squinting to marvel, to study. The way your eyebrows furrow, exhaling a big breath. Infatuating.
“Can I take you to my favorite place?” He inquires, and you dazedly roll around, small frown gracing oh so tempting lips, swollen from the night before.
“Your favorite place..?”
Even your voice is infatuating. Dreamy.
Chris hums his reply.
Lifting yourself up, you agree, letting him take care of you, brush your teeth for you, undress you. Things oddly mundane for a person like him to want to do, but oddly sweet all the same.
Not sexual, but intimate. Dearly, dearly intimate.
The drive winds along backroads, slowing to take a right down a barren, rocky road situated between countless trees. In the distance you make out the faint glow of light, a clearing.
Upon breaching the forest, your expectations are instantly blown away.
Sundown, evidence of how long you’d slept (and how long Chris had kept you up), gloriously paints the sky dazzling hues.
No picture could encompass this view.
Putting the car into park, you perch on the hood, legs aimlessly swinging, breeze idly passing by.
Admire.
“I asked Jisung, but now I wanna hear it from you.”
He stays quiet.
“Why did you want me to live?” You mischievously pique, fingers drumming.
Bahng approaches nearer, turning to stand between your legs where you sit.
“I like you,” He nonchalantly responds, and the overwhelming need to push him further, dance over that thin line becomes irresistible.
“Only ‘like’ me?”
Licking his lips, he unexpectedly tilts your head to meet him. Tender, gentle.
Your heart hurts. Because unlike previously, this kiss feels regretful, feels sad.
Your arms, once clutching onto that trademark trenchcoat, wrap around his neck, his finding purchase upon your hips.
Yet, you could tell it wasn’t greed driving him. Your earlier ravenous desire, your lust, was gone.
Instead, he was carving you into his memories, starting with his lips. He’d already done so with his hands, with his body the night before.
“I’m sorry,” He whispers, and before you could ask any questions he forces your attention back to his eyes, swimming with an emotion you didn’t know Chris could exhibit.
Hurt.
Inexplicable hurt overwhelm that stare. Creases his always-taut brows.
“Just trust me, please.”
Please.
“Chris,” You hesitate.
There’s been that gnawing sensation ever since getting roped into this circus. Because this was only temporary, undoubtedly headed to an inexplicable conclusion.
You wonder if perhaps this is your end, your end with Bahng, with Chris.
Someone you’ve fallen in love with. So, so fucking hard.
And from the way he’s looking at you, it looks like he has too.
But you trust him. You trust him more than you had ever trusted anyone before, and so you nod.
“Chris, I love..”
Your volume dissolves upon the cloth being held to your face, eyes rolling back into your head as you fall limp into his arms, fingertips still touching his skin.
“..Love ….you.”
He kisses you once more, slower this time, cradling you in his arms.
“I’m so sorry, I love you.”
Speaking softly to avoid his pain betraying him, Bahng carefully situates you into the passenger seat, ignoring the drone of the engine from how rapidly the speedometer climbs. Numb to anything, everything.
The Aventador’s screen alights with a call.
“What,” He rasps, gleaming traffic lights casting red and green shadows across the car’s black interior.
“Is she...?” Felix asks, and Chris eases slightly. Subtle shuffling in the background reveals the others presence, awaiting the bottom line.
“Yeah.”
The freckled boy hums in response, dejection apparent.
Nevertheless, not a peep sounds, unusual for the usually rowdy crowd. Chris can tell some of them walk away, some staying.
Corn stalks ghosting past signify his location.
He hangs up.
He’ll apologize later.
.. .
Waking up inside your grandparents house feels like a fever dream, like your body isn’t your own and when you open your eyes you’ll still be snuggled into Chris’s arms.
But you aren’t, and you’re also violently kicked out of that fantastical daydream when your grandmother shows up, all smiles, no “I’m so relieved to see you’re safe” or “where did you go?” apparent on any of her features.
“Why, you never told me you had a boyfriend!” She smacks your arm and you flinch back, wearing an expression only comprehensible as puzzlement.
Perhaps Chris payed them? Bought their silence and hid from the law in return?
But that’s not your grandparents. They wouldn’t keep their mouths shut about something like this.
So what the hell did he do?
“The handsome young man who drove you here from the airport!” Waddling over to point an accusing finger at the doorway, your head frantically snaps in every direction.
Your suitcases are zipped up, and no evidence of you ever even arriving here shows around the room.
That is until you notice your phone has miraculously returned on your nightstand.
Immediately swiping to scroll through messages, your thumb stops, lingering over a message from an unknown number.
Pausing, you click.
Don’t come looking for me, but if you need me, text this number.
You would’ve found the text eerily creepy if you didn’t have an idea of who sent it.
You do.
Because there’s no one else that says ‘don’t come looking for me’ and ‘if you need me’ in the same sentence other than him.
Bahng.
FIC TAGLIST. @lizzetmv @skzhoes @fylithia @sunshineshouyo @stayconnecteed @starlost-andfound @seo--changbin @lynlyndoll @browniesandsunshine @stay278 @surefornext @pororolifeblog @httpsjuno @d7n3
sunboki, may 2022 ©
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