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Did It Hurt? | Flicker of Hope

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 15,057 ⚠️ Crass language, unwanted drunken advances, being drugged, blackmail, descriptions of past sexual acts, hidden desires, criminal activity, alluded to SA & potential human trafficking/disappearances, Tae has feelings he’s trying to suppress, scars/vulnerability over past incidents

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Taehyung, 100 years into exile, somewhere in Los Angeles

“Did it hurt?”

The words barely carry over the clamor of the nightclub. But, to Taehyung, they’re as clear as if they were spoken right into his ear. It makes his lips twist in disgust. Because who actually uses that line anymore?

Taehyung flicks his eyes over the scene in front of him. It’s a Friday night, and the place is filled with gyrating bodies and thumping bass. Some frat-boy wannabe is practically crawling into the lap of the goddess—and that’s thought with the utmost respect because it’s precisely what she looks like in her sleek black minidress, vibrant auburn curls, smokey makeup, and red-bottomed heels—sitting at the bar, trying to enjoy her fruity cocktail.

The way she angles her body away from the guy and pointedly stabs the little plastic red saber from her drink into a chunk of pineapple floating on top should be sign enough for the douchebag to clearly see she’s not interested.

“Idiot,” Taehyung murmurs under his breath before bringing his whisky on the rocks to his lips and taking a measured sip. He drums his fingers on the lacquered tabletop where he’s seated at one of the hightops a few feet away. This is one of his usual haunts, a place with the perfect blend of class and an underlying taste of debauchery. It should be the ideal hunting ground, however it remains to be fruitful. Though, perhaps his luck is about to change.

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Humor me. Did it hurt?”

There is a moment of hesitation with how the woman’s shoulders hitch up, and Taehyung watches as varying emotions flick across her face before she trains it back to a neutral expression. He can read her like an open book; too bad Douchebag can’t seem to. She’ll entertain him simply to avoid confrontation and make a scene. It's supposedly a polite way to try and thwart unwanted male attention; he’s seen it far too many times before.

“Did what hurt?” comes the exasperated reply. Her lips twitch into a strained smile that’s more of a grimace which Douchebag probably mistakes for being coy. The way her body curls in on itself, and she leans away from his pawing hands, makes Taehyung grind his molars. Human men are stupid; it's no wonder he’s had such a hard time finding any redeeming opportunities in the world.

“When you fell from heaven, angel.”

And there it is. Taehyung rolls his eyes, finishing his drink. “Insipid fool, of course it hurts to fall from Heaven,” he grumbles. A burning, phantom itch crawls up his spine, a reminder of just how much it hurts. It’s a moment in time that he relives every time he closes his eyes. Which, perhaps, can be blamed for why he’s grown so callous and flippant over the years. Nightmares will do that to someone, Seraphim or not.

“Does that really work?” the woman bites out before downing the rest of her drink and shoving the empty glass away. She’s out of her seat and trying to give Douchebag a wide berth before his snail brain can even catch up with her words.

It’s comical watching him finally get it. He throws his head back and guffaws loudly before stumbling in her direction. She goes to sidestep around him but is stopped short when she bumps into a barstool someone just slid back as they stood. Douchebag crowds her against the bar, and Taehyung is tempted to intervene, but something niggles at the back of his mind; he’s curious about what she’ll do.

“You tell me, is it working, angel?”

A saccharine smile curves her lips, baring her teeth in a mockery of flirtation. Taehyung wishes he could read her as easily as he did earlier, but somehow, she’s masking her emotions and intentions to the point her form nearly blurs across his vision.

“That remains to be seen. How about you let me try?” Her words are light and airy, intentionally being falsely sweet. Douchebag’s alcohol-soaked brain doesn’t pick up on the trap he’s about to fall into. Taehyung is thrilled. “Did it hurt?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at him. “Did what hurt?” Douchebag asks, teeth sinking into his bottom lip in what he surely believes is a sexy manner, but Taehyung thinks it comes off more like he’s constipated. “Me kneeing you in the balls.”

The words accompany the action. Her right knee comes up, and all Taehyung can see from this angle is the sudden doubling over of Douchebag. He sways heavily to the side, unsteady on his feet, as the woman pushes by him, a triumphant smile half-hidden behind a hand as she disappears into the crowd.

“How clever,” Taehyung muses to himself. He spares one last glance at the man still cupping the front of his jeans before following the tug of intrigue that’s swiftly escaping on 6-inch heels. He catches sight of the woman just as she slips out the front entrance of the bar.

It’s easy to pick her out on the sidewalk. Even if it weren’t for the distinct click-clack of her shoes on the pavement, he’d be able to follow her by sheer feeling alone. It’s been decades since he’s felt someone so clearly, so viscerally. Taehyung can’t stop until his curiosity has been satiated.

The woman doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She only goes a few city blocks down before she cuts across the street, her eyes flicking both ways as she crosses to the luxury apartment building on the corner.

Taehyung catches the flash of a sleek black and red card as she passes the porter. “Evening, ma’am.” The guard gives her a nod before bringing his attention back to the sidewalk.

There can only be one place that card gains her access to—the top floor penthouse. Taehyung gives the surrounding block a cursory glance, looking for the perfect vantage point. He appraises the angle of the top floor windows before skirting around the back of the building and quickly vaulting over the security fence. If his presence raises an alarm, he’s unaware of it as no one appears to question him.

It’s typical of these kinds of places. There is plenty of security on the front side, with no open windows and no direct buildings across that will allow someone to peep in on the residence. But, on the backside, past all the lavish greenery and the immaculate tennis and basketball courts? Taehyung glances up at the zigzag of the fire escape on the building directly behind the condominium highrise. Just as he expected, all it will take is him climbing the iron platforms, and he’ll have the perfect view through the backside of the penthouse.

He begins his ascent, easily pulling himself up and over the railing of the fire escape and making quick work of the several stories until he lines himself with the one he needs. The condominium is a few floors shorter than the building he’s scaling, making it even more comical that there is so little thought put into the security back here. Anyone worth their merit could do precisely what he’s doing. It’s laughable…and alarming.

Settling in on the fire escape platform of the eighth floor, he glances around to be sure whoever is attached to this particular landing won’t stumble across him somehow. The curtains over the windows are drawn, with no lights coming from within. Taking a calming breath of the tepid night air, he dangles his feet over the edge of the platform and rests his arms on one of the support bars of the railing.

Unsurprisingly, he made it up here faster than the woman, who he presumes must have taken the elevator. He’s always been known for his speed, even more so when he’s on the prowl for something. He might have lost his wings, but he’s kept nearly everything else: speed, heightened senses, and a penchant for picking up on the emotions of others. It’s insufferable, being neither mortal nor fully immortal, but a mockery of something in between.

From his vantage point, he can only see the penthouse’s elaborate sprawl of patio, the pool, and the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire back wall. The inside is dark save for the soft blue LED lights from the sleek kitchen appliances and an under-glow along the bottom of what he assumes is a flatscreen TV on the wall.

A few minutes pass, and then Taehyung watches as the light from the upper elevator lobby spills into the space, illuminating a sliver of the grossly opulent penthouse. The woman flicks a switch on a panel on the wall by the entry, and the living space floods with bright, white light. Everything is modern, with sleek lines and glaring metal.

Confusion makes Taehyung tuck his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to connect the decadent, vivacious creature that the woman is with such a jarring and emotionless space. It doesn’t make sense. Unless…

Taehyung smiles as he watches the woman pull out a black leather billfold from where it is hidden in her cleavage. She flips it open, briefly thumbing through the thick wad of cash and the pockets dense with credit cards. Even from this distance, with his heightened vision, he can clearly make out the license behind the plastic pocket. The smiling face belongs to none other than Douchebag from the bar. She picked his pocket. Taehyung can’t help but laugh with delight.

And now Taehyung is almost sure he knows why the penthouse doesn’t look like it belongs to her. It excites him to consider the prospect of finally getting an inkling of the mysterious puzzle that this goddess has become for him. In fact, he’s reasonably certain if he waits just a little bit longer, it will be confirmed.

A noise Taehyung can’t hear must draw her attention because she shoves the wallet back into her cleavage before spinning around. The door to the penthouse swings open, revealing a well-dressed businessman with a slimy grin on his face. Taehyung hopes all the more that he’s right about his guess.

The familiarity the man has with the place says it all. He tosses a set of keys onto the table by the entryway and toes off his brown leather brogues while undoing the buttons of his brown and cream tweed jacket. The jacket gets hung up in a closet, though the man’s eyes never leave the woman standing in the open living space. Her back is to Taehyung, so he can only guess that she’s speaking to the man with how he reacts and how attentive he’s being.

A predatory smile slowly forms on the man’s face as he advances on the woman. She stands her ground, her shoulders rolling slightly back as her chin tilts up. Before the man can grab her, she deftly moves to the side and pointedly directs herself to a wet bar across the living room. The man laughs, though it is silent to Taehyung’s ears, the thick double-paned glass proving to be more than even his hearing can work through.

It plays out like a silent comedy before Taehyung: the man gabs on, gesturing animatedly with his hands, probably boasting about his latest business conquest. At the same time, the woman remains silent, pouring him a finger of scotch. What the man doesn’t notice, for all his attention being focused mainly on himself, is the small packet of powder the woman produces that ends up tipped into the scotch glass.

She turns with a false smile on her face, offering the drink to the man. He takes it with a flourish and downs all the contents in one gulp. Carelessly tossing the glass to the side, where it lands on the leather sofa, he reaches for her again, only to come up short as he stumbles. He’s on his knees before he can right himself, a look of pure bewildered confusion on his face before his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he pitches forward in a heavy heap.

Taehyung smiles, his curiosity doubling as he tries to piece together what might happen next. What started as a bit of entertainment at the bar has come full circle into a spectacular show that Taehyung is grateful he has a front-row seat to. Maybe he’s finally getting a break after nearly one hundred years of searching. Perhaps this is his path back into the Arms of Grace…or the failure that will seal his fate in the 9th Circle. He sighs, resting his chin on his forearm where it’s draped over the support bar of the railing, and waits patiently.

🤍🤍🤍

Roy Simmons is an arrogant pig; there’s no doubt about that. Even passed out the way he is with his mouth open and drool beginning to drip from the corner of his lips, he still looks every bit like an asshole, which is precisely why you’re doing what you’re doing. He’s just the next rung on a long ladder of revenge.

This is your third time coming to Roy’s place. The first was to establish contact, the second was simply to dig your claws into him a little more, and now you’re ready for the grand finale. But, it’s not like you want to be here, not really. It’s just a means to an end. Well, multiple endings. It puts a stop to creeps like Roy from hurting innocent people, but it also puts you one step closer, the final step really, to him—Lorren Bianchi, the man responsible for the death of your best friend, Danika.

She died two years ago at the hands of Bianchi. It was supposed to be a routine night, just something to earn a little extra money as Danika put herself through nursing school. She had become an escort; nothing serious, just being arm candy for rich men. But, it went sideways…really sideways when she met Lorren Bianchi. The man put a leash around Danika’s neck and never let her go. It still pains you to think about it. The only balm to ease the ache is the prospect of watching him suffer the way she did.

Roy works for Bianchi. As have all the other losers you’ve sunk your teeth into over the last two years. They’re all part of the same end game. You’re climbing your own corporate ladder of sorts; one built from blackmail and seething hate. Speaking of which, you turn back to Roy, shoving his shoulder with your heel until he rolls over onto his back.

Grabbing his wrists, you heave and jerk until you manage to drag him across the floor and into the adjoining main bedroom. This penthouse is the one he uses when he wants a night away from his wife, which is more often than not. You know he gave her an excuse tonight of working late so he’d just crash at his downtown place before coming home tomorrow morning for the weekend.

It makes you feel bad thinking about the woman who attached herself to such a despicable man and how you’ve knowingly slept with her husband. But, it’s honestly the leverage you need to take Roy down. You know they signed a hefty prenup, required by her father when they got married. The perks of coming from another well-to-do business family, you suppose. If something happens, she walks away with over half his money and holdings in the business. He would go from being in the top ten wealthiest men in the city to just another blip on the radar. Which is why you know he’ll crack; he’ll give you exactly what you want.

Maneuvering him onto the bed is nearly as tricky as it is to strip off his clothing. You think maybe you should have waited to drug him until he was already naked and on the bed, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. Finally, once you’ve gotten him positioned into the middle of the bed, his pasty, fleshy body spread eagle, you dig for the restraints you know he has installed in the posts. You tighten them around his ankles and wrists, perhaps a little tighter than they should go, but you can’t find it in you to care; let him hurt.

Because he’s a sick fuck, you know there is also video recording equipment in the closet. The asshole has an entire box full of discs labeled with not names, no, but features. Big tits, round ass, blue eyes, braids, chin dimple…the list goes on, each DVD with their own scrawl in permanent marker. You stumbled across them the second time you were here when you managed to put him into a drunken stupor to the point he passed out in the shower, leaving you to snoop.

You were looking for anything that might hold a list of his personal contacts. In the end, you found that and so much more, which is why you bumped up your finale for Mr. Simmons. The sooner you take him down, the quicker his grubby hands stay to himself, and he can’t lure in any more unsuspecting women.

Grabbing the tripod from the closet, you position your phone on the contraption, angling it to get a full view of the bed. As you stand there, assessing your work, you get a weird tingling sensation between your shoulder blades. Oddly, you feel like you’re being watched. Though, you know, being in the penthouse, that should be impossible. There is no building directly behind the condominium.

No matter how much you twitch your shoulders and tell yourself to ignore the sensation, it won't disappear. So, to humor yourself, you turn and peer out the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the back wall of the bedroom. The glass stretches across the entire backside, broken up only by the backdoor and the vertical supports between each giant pane.

All you can see is the back patio. The lip of the pool is just barely visible, highlighted by the twinkling fairy lights strung around the garden. The closest building is easily a city block and a half away, with enough room for tennis and basketball courts to separate the condominium property and the next building. It would only be possible for someone to be watching you if they had some sort of telephoto lens or something.

But that would mean Roy knew, or someone else figured it out and had been following you. Which, at this point, let them watch. You have enough evidence to bury half the city as it is. What you’re doing might be illegal; blackmailing someone is never smiled upon, you don’t think. However, you’re confident you’d get a clap on the back for a job well done instead of a clap on the wrist with a bit of metal.

Roy begins to groan and shift around on the bed. Which means it’s showtime.

You click the button to record as soon as he utters, “What the fuck?” Only it comes out half coherent and accompanied by a generous dribble of saliva down his chin. It would be just like him to look like a blubbering man-baby as he comes to. He’s whimpering between mutters, finally gaining enough coherency to realize what’s happening.

“Hello, Roy,” you say, drawing his attention to where you stand behind the tripod holding your phone.

“Ginger,” Roy sighs what he believes is your name, in relief. “Ginger, baby, what are you up to? Is this some new kink you want to try out? I have to say, I don’t know if I’m a fan.” He chuckles nervously, tugging at the restraints. “Loosen these for me, will you, baby?”

“What’s the matter, Roy, don’t like being the helpless one?”

He smirks, tugging more, trying to sit up. The ties are tight, leaving little slack for him to move much other than his central bulk. His hips flex, the flabby meat of his stomach jiggling as he wiggles around. “Okay, baby, I’ll bite. What do I gotta do to get you to take these off?”

“Do you remember what we did last weekend?” you muse softly, laying the first layer of the trap.

Roy gives you an appreciative up and down. “You mean when I shoved your face in the pillow and pounded your sassy little tail until you screamed? Or how about when I shoved my cock so far down your throat that you gagged?”

You internally roll your eyes, not wanting to break character just yet. “Sure, Roy, what else?”

“Let’s see. Oh, can’t forget how I sprayed my cum all over those pretty tits of yours before I made you rub it into your skin.” The flaccid appendage between his thighs gives a jerk. “That was probably my favorite part.”

Your skin crawls at the memory. You nearly scalded yourself in the shower once you got home, turning the water so hot it made you cry out, and the heat lingered long after. “I’m not the first, though, am I? The first you’ve done all that with, I mean.”

“Awe, Ginger, baby, all those other women meant nothing to me. You’re my favorite. Now, let me show you just how much I love that tight body of yours. Untie me.”

You step to the side of the tripod, and Roy’s eyes light up in triumph. “Hmm...I don’t think I will. Not until you give me what I want, at least.”

Roy wiggles his hips. “Come take what you want, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh, the peeling litany echoing through the room as you give in to the dark humor of the situation. “Oh, Roy, that’s hilarious. You could be a comedian.”

The smile slowly leeches from his face, and lines appear between his brows as he narrows them. “What the hell are you going on about? Untie me. Now.”

“It’s simple, Roy. The last thing I want is your wimpy dick. Once was enough and quite pitiful, I might add. Though, while we’re on the subject of sticking your dick in places, why don’t you say ‘hello’ to Miriam and explain to her why we’re even having this particular conversation?” You nod at the phone on the tripod.

He pales, sweat popping up along his receding hairline. “You’re lying.”

“Oh, how I wish I were,” you say, reciting off Miriam’s phone number to prove how much you’re not. “All I have to do is hit send, Roy, and you can kiss seventy-five percent of your assets goodbye. Prenups are a bitch, huh? If I’m not mistaken, part of it specifically says no affairs or adultery of any kind. Hell, with that, she might even try to take more than that for simply being the disgusting asshole that you are.”

His struggle stops, and you can audibly hear him swallow. “What do you want from me?” he asks, licking his trembling lips.

You reach back and turn off the recording, quickly sending it off to several different places, so you have copies just in case. You tell Roy just as much, giving him a pointed look when he tries to open his mouth to protest. “What I want is very simple, Roy,” you begin before laying it all out for him. His eyes grow wide as you explain, shaking his head in protest with each additional request until you’re almost sure tears are gathering in his eyes.

“That’s impossible,” he whispers thickly.

“You better hope it’s not, for your own sake.” You grab your phone and turn to leave, knowing the maid will find him when she comes by to clean in the morning. “Oh, and Roy?” You glance back over your shoulder at him, “Don’t do anything stupid, like trying to find a way out of this. You deliver, or I do.” You shake your phone, waving it at him as a reminder of what you have.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

In all his years among mortals, he’s never found himself so wholly and utterly intrigued. There have been instances, especially in the early years of his exile, where he found himself hounding after anyone who even remotely seemed like a redemption opportunity. He salivated at the prospect of serving his time and swiftly regaining his wings.

Heavens Above, there was even a time when Taehyung thought perhaps if he could find a damned soul and deliver them as soon as possible, it would curry favor with his Brothers, and they would welcome him back sooner than his one-hundred prospected years. He gave up that pipe dream around the twenty-year mark.

It’s not that he’s grown to enjoy the mortal plane, not exactly. There’s just something freeing about being able to live a little and breathe deeper without worrying about stepping on toes or crossing some divine line drawn in the sand. These thoughts are kept personal, of course.

Taehyung knows if his Brothers ever caught wind of his musings and the way he’s grown to resent them over the years, they’d slam the Pearly Gates and throw away the key along with his wings, which are probably covered in dust and molting away in a corner somewhere. That phantom itch comes alive once more, lingering heat and pain web across his shoulders before he can stop it.

Directing his focus back on the woman, he watches as she saunters from the room, all haughty confidence and severity. It’s not until she’s out of sight of the pitiful man on the bed that her shoulders droop like there’s a heavy weight bearing down on them. He can see it now, something he was distracted from before; there is a haggardness around her bright eyes and a tightness around the curve of her lips.

A sensation he hasn’t felt since—well, since one hundred years ago—twists in his chest as he watches her dig through the coat closet by the door. Taehyung’s brows draw down as she pulls out a backpack and stands there staring down at it. The fact she’s lingering in the penthouse worries him. He’s unsure what she’s doing or what the bag is for. She didn’t come in with anything that he could see, no purse or clutch. Spinning on her heel, she marches back to the bedroom, startling the man on the bed. He starts to yell at her, Taehyung thinks, based on how wide his mouth opens and how red he grows in the face.

It’s comical, watching the man cut off whatever he’s saying and nearly swallow his tongue when the woman holds up her phone threateningly. Taehyung wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but he’s slowly been putting together the pieces, he believes.

She moves to the closet, stooping down to the point Taehyung can only see the red bottoms of her heels and the barest hint of the curve of her ass. He swallows hard, tucking away the tempting thought that springs up with that appraisal. Sexual deviance is what landed him where he is. It’s a fine line to walk, which he’s mostly avoided for the last hundred years.

A few moments later, she emerges from the closet, the backpack bulging. The man closes his eyes, his lips pressed into a trembling line as she moves back across the room and exits once again. This time, she doesn’t stop, swiftly making her escape through the front door.

Taehyung looks down, contemplating how long it’ll take him to descend and make it back to the front side of the building in time to catch the woman coming out. He stands up, lightly brushing his hands along his slacks, and absently smoothes his white dress shirt. He might have dressed a little more appropriately if he had known he was going on such an adventure tonight. As it is, the suede Tom Ford loafers on his feet have acquired some scuffs and unsightly stains.

Before he can lament over his shoes anymore, he quickly makes his way down the zig-zag of the fire escape. Taking his time, he traverses the condominium grounds and easily climbs back over the fence before leisurely strolling down the service alley and onto the sidewalk just as the front door swings open and the porter bids a good evening to the goddess. If the porter finds it odd she is leaving with a bag she didn’t go in with, he doesn’t mention it.

Following a dozen feet behind, Taehyung watches as the woman slings the backpack over a shoulder and takes off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. Again, she doesn’t hail a taxi or head toward a railway station. She either lives nearby or perhaps has an ulterior motive to avoiding those places in particular.

Considering his long legs and stride, it doesn’t take much to keep up with her. The heels slow her down considerably as well, but Taehyung also realizes that she’s on the slighter side, height mostly being attributed to said shoes, it seems. It’s hard not to watch her body bounce and sway because of them, too. They cause an exaggerated sway to her hips, which already seem quite daring on their own.

Clearing his throat, he forces himself to think of something other than her hips, like what’s in that bag that was so important she chose to go back into that bedroom. Taehyung’s curiosity doesn’t need to last long as she turns down the next cross street and approaches a nondescript apartment building. There is no porter out front, just a simple iron gate in front of a quaint garden that she gains access through with a keycode.

If he were anyone else, he would miss the code completely, being several yards behind her. But he’s not anyone else; he’s Taehyung—a fallen angel complete with heightened senses, including eyesight. 1306, and he has just as much access as she does. Perhaps it should feel like a violation of her privacy, but considering what he witnessed her doing earlier, he feels it’s mildly justified. Now, to just get a little closer.

“Hello? Excuse me?” Taehyung calls out, shoving his hand in his pocket and grabbing whatever his fingers close around. He glances at his hand, noting the two rumpled one hundred dollar bills now pinched in his fingers. “I believe you dropped these just a moment ago as you crossed the street.”

Cool, calculating eyes flick over him before landing on the proffered bills. She didn’t drop them, but if anything he’s observed proves helpful, he’s reasonably sure she’ll take the bills–the bait–anyway.

Her appraising gaze settles on his eyes for a moment as if she’s trying to gauge whether or not he’s a threat before they dip to the money again. She hesitates only a second, long enough that Taehyung knows she’s far more competent than he gave her credit for. She’s cautious, which is good.

“Hm,” she softly hums. “So I did. Thank you.”

The touch of her skin against his is electric, a zing that he’s experienced a few times over the last century. It’s the feel of a soul on the brink of disaster, a subtle taste of darkness lingering around her edges. Taehyung doesn’t immediately release the bills, wanting to brand the feel of her fingers brushing alongside his for as long as possible.

“You’re welcome…” he trails off, raising his brows and tilting his chin in question.

“Ginger,” she offers, a fake smile straining her lips as she gives a sharp tug to the money, pulling it from his fingers.

The name grates, sliding over his mind like razors. A lie; of course she would give a false name. It’s poised on the tip of his tongue to call her bluff, to implore for her real name, but he knows he needs to tread lightly with this one.

“Ginger,” he repeats, the name pinching his tongue with the lie. “Charmed. I’m Taehyung, Kim,” he tacks on to see if the name might trigger something for her.

Her eyes flick over him once more, what might be mistaken as recognition flashing in their depths. “Yeah, okay. Thanks again, Taehyung. Have a good evening.”

It’s a dismissal. He knows that and can sense the unease that’s thrumming from her body, so he relents. Stepping back, he nods his head and makes to go back down the sidewalk from the direction he approached. “You, too,” he calls over his shoulder to the already empty sidewalk.

Taehyung stops just shy of the next building, listening to the telltale signs that she’s gone in. The soft snick of metal, the hushed tap of her heels over the front welcome mat, the equally quiet click of the door opening, and her murmured “fucking hell” before she steals away beyond it.

It’s easy to follow, punching in the four-digit code he observed. “Seventh floor,” Taehyung murmurs to himself as he watches the digital display above the elevator stop. It’s fitting, he thinks, considering she was just on the seventh floor of that highrise, binding that businessman to the bed. Maybe seven is her lucky number. He hopes so; he’s partial to it himself.

🤍🤍🤍

Tonight could have gone much better, but it wasn’t a complete disaster either. An easy smirk slides onto your face when you toss the two hundred dollars on the dining table. “What a fucking idiot,” you muse to yourself, proceeding to drop off your other winnings for the night. Douchebag’s wallet makes a satisfying thud on the glass surface, thick with cash and untold possibilities. “If you wanted to give up two just to say ‘hi’, I won’t complain.” Though there is something you feel you should know, something about his name almost seemed familiar.

You shrug and turn your attention to everything else. Fingering the zipper on the backpack sobers you quickly, the random encounter downstairs disappearing from your thoughts completely. The DVD collection is far less enjoyable of a prize tonight. It’s daunting to think about how long it will take to try and track down the victims. Because that’s what they are to you. Even if they knew about the recordings, which you’re certain most didn’t, it still feels like a gross violation that Roy hoarded them like sick treasures.

“So itchy,” you grump, grabbing a fistful of the stark auburn curls atop your head. With achingly slow movements, you ease the wig away. The tape and glue tug, but with a practiced hand, you finally get it off with minimal irritation. It joins the pile on the table, to be dealt with when you have more energy. Right now, all you want is a shower and your bed.

You don’t bother turning on any of the lights, intimately comfortable in your own space that you can navigate it with your eyes closed. Abandoning your heels by the table, you shrug out of the body-hugging dress, leaving it in a puddle somewhere between the living room and your bedroom, and make your way to the bathroom.

All you want to do is take a shower and fall into a near-comatose state for the next twenty-four hours while you wait for Roy to deliver. The shower part goes well; the hot water helps to relax the anxiety and tension that seem to reside permanently in your shoulders.

However, once you slip beneath the duvet and close your eyes for sleep, your body feels like it’s high-strung with electricity. Restlessness hums beneath your skin. Not wanting to spend the next several hours trying to convince your body it needs sleep, you feel around in the side drawer of your nightstand until you find what you want.

The sleeping pills go down dry; you don’t have the energy to get up and grab a glass of water. Now, to just wait for them to take effect. You fuss with the edge of the duvet, folding the fabric and rubbing it between your fingers over and over. The goosedown and satin set is one of the only luxuries you’ve allowed yourself over the last two years. It’s not that you’re punishing yourself. You just don’t want to waste extra time or energy on creature comforts when so much still needs to be done.

Your chest aches every time you stop to think about Danika. She would berate you for spending so much time focused on her rather than going out there and living your life. You just can’t help it; in many ways, you feel responsible for what happened. Sure, you didn’t make Lorren Bianchi kill her, but you might as well have delivered her right into his murderous hands.

It was your idea to sign up for the escort service, swearing it was just for fun and extra money; that surely all those movies and shows were just being dramatic for cinematic reasons. Oh, how you wish that were the case.

Not a single day goes by that you don’t think about how much you wish it were just an exaggeration. The icing on the cake, though? Lorren was supposed to be your client. But you got your schedule mixed up and overbooked yourself that night. Danika said she could use the extra cash and volunteered to take the commitment.

Everything changed after that. Lorren poured thousands of dollars into wining and dining Danika over the next few months. She slowly started to pull away, spending time with him even outside the allotted dates scheduled with the service.

Then, one day, you woke up, and she hadn’t returned to your shared apartment. It was excruciating waiting an entire twenty-four hours before calling the cops and an even worse week waiting for them to do something. They never did. It wasn’t until a month after you first reported her missing that something happened. Her body was found, floating down the Los Angeles River just outside Burbank. Strangled, tossed out with the trash.

You’ll never forget being called in to identify her remains. Danika had no family, just you. Her parents moved to the States from Russia when she was just a few years old. They both passed the summer before sophomore year in high school, putting her in the foster system. You met her freshman year of college. She was your dorm mate and started off so quiet and reserved. Little did you know she was just trying not to fall apart on the inside.

One night, you came in late from a cram session in the library to find her crying, sitting in the middle of the floor with faded family photos arrayed around her. She tried to apologize and beg off talking, but you slowly coaxed her into opening up. You had been inseparable ever since.

It’s not fair. She was far too young and had so much more to give in life. Graduation was just around the corner when it all came crumbling down. You try to summon the memory of her laugh, just to have something to cling to, but it’s muted as your thoughts grow fuzzy. The memories fade, and the pain and ache from the loss of Danika washed away on a pill-laden sleep.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

It’s been two hours since you–his goddess–disappeared upstairs. He doesn’t stop to think about how he’s already considering you to be his; it just feels right. And who is he to question that? Taehyung has long since stopped sending up prayers; they are never answered anyway. However, for some reason, he finds himself taking a moment to center himself, which consists of a quick mutterance of peace. It’ll have to do.

There are four units on the seventh floor. But it’s easy enough to guess which belongs to you. Two of the doors are decorated in full-blown holiday decor, bright colors and themed welcome mats. He doesn’t have to know you deeply to understand that’s not your style. The last two are more similar. Though, the closer he looks, the more evident it is which unit is yours, considering the ‘BYOB, bring your own babes’ welcome mat situated in front of one. For some reason, he doesn’t think that’s quite your style, either. The far more plain, yet inviting, ‘welcome’ is his guess.

The lock on the door is easy to pick. There is no security, no cameras or electronic keypads, which would ruffle his feathers—if he still had them. He’ll have to address that later, once he’s established himself within your life somehow.

The door to your apartment opens on silent hinges once he slides the small set of tools back into his wallet. They’re something he took to carrying around after locking himself out of his own place one too many times. A key is so easily lost, such a small, tedious, and fumbly little thing; even tucked in his wallet, it would often fall out.

Taehyung doesn’t have friends, per se, so it’s not like he can let someone hang on to a spare for him. He used to luxuriate in the solitude, spending countless hours sequestered behind closed doors as a means to reflect on his actions and seek repentance. Now, though, he realizes he’s grown quite lonely—no time like the present to change that.

Closing the door just as softly behind him, he toes off his shoes and takes in the space around him. He can tell instantly that he was right in this being your place, it smells of you. It’s not as lavish or garishly expensive as the penthouse was, but it’s also relatively devoid of personality. There is no permanence to the place. Very minimal, and as if you could easily pick up one moment and be gone without a thought of much effort.

So, you’re a runner. Or some close equivalent. That could prove troublesome for him if you decide to pick up and move off now that whatever game you were playing with the sleazeball from the penthouse seems to be done. He’s not sure how easy it would be for him to track you. So, he now wonders, is there anything else keeping you here? He hopes to find the answer to that somewhere among your scant things.

It doesn’t take long to browse through the kitchen and the living room. There are only a few dishes in the cabinets, nothing fancy, just the basics. There is a sofa in the living room and a small flatscreen TV sitting on the floor. The thin layer of dust sitting on the remote lets him know you don’t spend your free time keeping up with the latest TV drama.

The space is minimally furnished, but there is still a class to it. It’s a newer building, and the living area is expansive compared to most places in the city proper. The dining table sits between the kitchen and living room, holding the only items that seem to be remotely interesting.

Taehyung recognizes the backpack and the billfold. Derrek Lanier, a fitting name for Douchebag. He sets the wallet back down, going for the bag next. It’s filled with DVD cases; the matte covers all sporting white stickers with handwritten titles. However, titles are a loose interpretation of what these seem to be. The labels all just list physical features instead of proper names. Taehyung almost wishes he had visited the penthouse after you left. This isn’t painting a pretty picture for the guy.

Before his anger can get the best of him and make him abandon this in favor of doing just that, his eye catches on a pile of red fluffy curls sitting behind the backpack. He fingers a ringlet, holding back a chuckle when he realizes it’s a wig. It's a very fine, quality wig. He’s pleasantly surprised. What other astounding things do you have waiting for him? He’s even more eager to get to your bedroom now.

The hardwood floor is cold under his socked feet as they whisper down the hall. There are three doors, two closed and one ajar. Peeking into the open door, he gives the bathroom a once over. It’s clean, smelling lightly of floral body wash with an underlying burn of bleach.

Taking his chance on the first closed door, he slowly turns the knob and pushes it open. The room beyond is empty, completely devoid of furniture or belongings. The air feels stale, like the room is never used, perhaps even forgotten. He’s just about to turn and close the door when he notices that the closet door of the room is not closed all the way.

Perhaps it's his curiosity about why the door is open when no one is clearly using this room, or maybe it’s a sixth sense Taehyung has that draws him to it. But he gnaws his bottom lip for a moment before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He approaches the closet tentatively, readying himself for disappointment.

The click of the light switch sounds muted in comparison to the gasp he emits when light floods the small space of the closet. If he weren’t so distracted, he might have cursed himself for being so careless like that.

“Hells Fire,” he whispers, taking in the four walls completely covered in pictures, sticky notes, and sheets of paper.

It’s like something straight out of a crime show. He’s wiled away enough hours consuming that kind of brain rot to know. The only thing missing is the red yarn stretching between push pins connecting the scatter of photos.

It’s a murder board. That much is clear, though. Some of the images have red Xs drawn on them. Looking close enough, he recognizes some of the faces—well-to-do businessmen, just like the one from tonight. There are a few scanner copies of autopsy reports and some X-ray photos, though none look masculine. As far as he’s aware, none of these men have died. They’re all still very much alive and still very wealthy.

So, maybe not a murder board…but what?

Pulling out his phone, Taehyung takes a few photos of the display, hoping to be able to spend more time deciphering it when he’s not sneaking around your apartment with the risk of getting caught.

A small cardboard box sits in a corner. Taehyung peels back one of the flaps, peeking inside. There are two pictures, both in frames, a small wooden jewelry box, and a deflated Valentine balloon still attached to the plastic stick.

Grabbing one of the frames, Taehyung squints at the grainy, dated photo. It’s of a man and a woman, the sepia tones indicating its age. There is some water damage along the edges, as if the image were saved from a damp space before being put into the simple black frame.

The other frame is more stylish, reminiscent of the 90s, with rainbow flowers and smiley faces around the rim. He recognizes one of the two girls in the picture. At least, he believes it’s a younger version of you. The girl has the same eyes, if more full of life, and the same mouth, just less severe.

The girls are laughing, arms wrapped around each other as they face the camera. Taehyung can’t help but smile as he looks at it. Their joy infectious even through a snapshot like this. He brushes a finger over your smile before letting his digit swipe over the platinum blond hair of the other girl. Her twinkling blue eyes pour into the camera, holding a vibrancy that speaks of a careless and loving attitude.

A line forms between Taehyung's brows. The longer he looks at the photo, the more it sparks a recollection. Straightening from where he was crouching down beside the box, he holds up the picture and looks from it to the wall and back again–searching.

Dread, a cold trickle, seeps down his spine when he realizes why the girl looks familiar. Looking closer, he compares the black and white photocopy from the autopsy report to the smiling blonde in the frame. It’s easier to connect the dots now. Clearly, something happened to this girl—Danika Petrov, according to the report—and you’re out for revenge of some sort.

Shaking his head, Taehyung takes a quick shot of the photo in his hand before returning it to the box and turning out the light. He’s learned a lot, far more than he thought he would. There’s a lot to mull over. But first, he has one more place he wishes to explore before he leaves.

Taehyung is extra quiet as he eases the door open to your bedroom. It’s just as devoid of things as everywhere else. Your bed sits against one wall, centered between two heavily curtained windows. The mound in the middle of the bed calls to him. But, first things first, a look around so he doesn’t miss anything with the distraction.

There is no bathroom attached, just a walk-in closet that holds scant clothing and shoes. The single bedside table has a phone, lamp, and a white pill bottle sitting on it. Upon closer inspection, Taehyung sees that the bottle is sleeping pills. It makes him curious about what kind of nightmares you have in order to need assistance sleeping. With everything he’s seen so far, he doesn’t have to imagine much.

Easing open the small drawer on the nightstand, he smiles in triumph. Peeking out under the corner of some miscellaneous items, a blank notepad, pen, hair ties, tweezers, and a tube of lip balm, he sees the edge of a passport. Delicately extracting the tiny book, he flips it open and beholds the most coveted information he could have hoped to find.

There, displayed before him, is all your information. Your legal name–well, that is unless this is a fake, and at which, if it is, then Taehyung has to admit it’s a damn good fake–date of birth, birthplace, it’s all the basics he needs.

Movement on the bed beside him makes him freeze, not even daring to breathe as you roll over and unconsciously push the duvet down around your waist. You sleep in the nude. Of course you do. Taehyung swallows thickly, eyes glued to your sleeping form. It’s like you’re begging him to screw this up, to make a mistake.

Biting his tongue until he tastes the tang of blood, he tears his gaze away from your pebbling nipples and deftly replaces the passport, making his escape back into your living room. He’s breathing hard, heart beating erratically in his chest. The front of his trousers is tight, uncomfortable, as he battles against his baser desires.

You’d think being a holy being would mean he had better control over these things. Apparently, Angels–even fallen ones–are just as culpable of unholy thoughts as humans—guilt twists in his chest. It’s things like this that are what landed him here, to begin with.

Shoving aside the intruding thoughts and feelings, he smoothes a hand down the front of his dress shirt before shoving his feet back into his shoes. Now, he has an idea of who you are and what your game is. He just needs to figure out how to make himself a part of it—starting with finding out more about Danika; she seems to be central to your motivations, and now she’s part of his.

🤍🤍🤍

It’s disconcerting to wake up and feel like someone has invaded your space. Yet, nothing is amiss no matter where you look or how hard you try to find something. It’s similar to what you felt last night in Roy’s penthouse, that itch between your shoulder blades like someone had eyes on you, except now it feels like they’re beneath your skin; just a breath away.

Chalking it up to a bad trip with the sleeping pills, you carry on with your day. You have a lot to do and little time to accomplish it.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite vigilante. To what do I owe this pleasure, Ging?” Ryan’s sleep-rough voice crackles through the line of the burner phone you’re using.

“Morning, Ry. Put the pot on. I’ll be over in a few. Got something for you to sink your teeth into.”

Before he can respond, you disconnect the call, knowing he’ll be far too curious to turn you away when you show up at his door. Ryan Weller is as close to a friend as you’ve got these days. He’s been a good guy to you over the years, always treated you like a little sister, the same as he treated Danika. They were fostered together after her parents passed. When she died, you were all each other had left of her, a sort of pseudo lifeline to Danika—you both refuse to let go.

It only takes twenty minutes to walk to Ryan’s place. You pull on some jeans and a t-shirt, grab the backpack and wallet, and lock up on your way out. As your key slides out of the knob, you can’t help but stop and brush your thumb over the smooth brass handle. It looks the same as it always has…except, does it feel looser? You jiggle the knob and then shake your head, puffing out your cheeks. Your paranoia must be getting the best of you.

Slinging the backpack over your shoulder, you hit the call button for the elevator. The street is bustling, just a typical Saturday morning for this area. It wasn’t your first choice of places to live, but after Danika, you needed to get away from the apartment you shared but also wanted to situate yourself closer to the wolves you’d be hunting.

Ryan lives in the area by choice, having moved there almost a year before Danika was lost. He’s not the typical well-to-do-business guy, but he makes plenty of money as a private investigator. Or, at least, that’s what the placard on his door says he is. Considering what he does for you, you know it’s not all on the books or legal, which is just fine by you.

You don’t bother knocking, knowing Ryan will have unlocked the door for you already. His space is open-concept, all the rooms–sans the bath and bedrooms–bleeding together. The windows along the back wall are open, letting in a flood of daylight that dapples the space in warmth. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand. “What do we have this time?”

Dropping the backpack on the floor beside the dining table, you gesture at his laptop that’s already sitting open on the surface and set the wallet beside it. “Some money for you, for starters. And this,” you nudge the bag with your foot, “has videos of about a dozen girls I’d like you to try and track down using your magic machine.”

“Magic machine?” he asks, raising a bright strawberry-blond eyebrow.

Ryan is conventionally attractive, with natural russet highlights feathered through his wheat-colored hair and charming moss-green eyes, with a straight aristocratic nose sitting above perfect bow-shaped lips. If he were anyone other than who he is, he might have been someone you’d pursue. As it is, though, the thought of Ryan like that gives you the ick. He looks like a model; his grey sweats and a crimson jersey knit top belong in some Abercrombie ad for loungewear.

“Coffee first,” you whine, making grabby hands toward the cup he’s holding. “Then I’ll explain.”

Ryan laughs, handing off the cup and grabbing another for himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the only reason you ever come by to visit is for my coffee and to ask favors.” His tone is light, joking…but it hits a little too close to an uncomfortable truth. You can’t remember the last time you bothered to ask Ryan about something not Danika-related.

“I know,” you whisper, letting the guilt wash over you. “I’m sorry. It’s just, we’re so close…I’m so close to Bianchi, Ry. I’m so close I can’t stop now. I can’t risk losing momentum. I have to strike while it’s hot, and right now, it’s like the surface of the sun.”

That sobers him, his easy smile slipping from his face—you hate to see it go, the guilt festering even further in your heart, but you can’t let it show, not when it’s imperative you don’t crumble yet.

“Tell me what you need,” he implores, settling at the table where his laptop sits. “Where do we start?”

“Facial recognition is probably best,” you explain, thankful for the transition into more comfortable territory; the one without messy emotions.

Several hours and cups of coffee later, Ryan gets his first break. He sits back in his chair, fingers laced together on top of his head, his green eyes looking bleaker. “It’s not good, Ging, not good at all.” Even though he knows your real name, he still humors you with the persona you’ve adopted for your revenge plan.

“Tell me.”

Ryan sighs, dropping his hands into his lap. “I ran some cross-references just to be sure, but all these girls”—he nods toward the backpack now sitting on the table, disc cases spilling from the opening—“are missing. Every single one. Some of these are a decade old, cold cases at the bottom of some detective's desk at this point.”

The fact Roy Simmons is a monster isn’t a surprise to you. But the news still makes your blood boil. It makes you want to return to Roy’s penthouse and get a little creative with a knife instead of just holding blackmail over his head.

You swallow past the bile in your throat. “Send it. Let him rot.”

Ryan has a contact at the FBI, someone he trusts implicitly—someone who doesn’t know about you and doesn’t ask questions when Ryan dumps some evidence in his lap, either.

“Are you sure?” Ryan asks. “Simmons needs to get his, sure. But aren’t you worried it might alert Bianchi to the fact someone is getting close to him? Especially after what happened with Hurst.”

Sazi Hurst was your target before Roy. He found himself in FBI handcuffs after you told Ryan he could send all the information you scrounged up on him, and it almost cost you your first date with Roy; he was so paranoid after one of his biggest business venture partners ended up in custody, singing like a canary.

You hate the conflicting feelings waging war in your mind right now. The desire to see justice served and give these girls’ families peace weighs heavily against your own need to see this whole thing through to the end, with no mistakes made.

Finally, you relent, “You’re right. Fuck. Okay, give me until the end of next week.”

“You think you’ll get to him that soon?” Ryan gives you a wide-eyed stare, lips parting in surprise.

“As long as Roy gives me what I need. He has until midnight tonight,” you say, glancing at your phone for the time. Just a handful of hours to go. “Oh, did you get my little surprise last night?”

Ryan’s nose wrinkles as he makes a disgusted sound in his throat. “You mean the gross video of the naked pig on the bed? Yeah. I got it alright.”

You nod, satisfied for now. You stand from the table, drop your empty mug off in the sink, and head toward the door. “I’m going to go take care of some stuff.” By that, you mean wallow in a little bit of self-pity before the other shoe drops tonight. “If I don’t get what I need, you’ll take care of it?”

That sweet smile flashes on Ryan’s face once again. “Of course, I will. We’re in this together, Ging. And not even just because of Dani, but because I care about you, too, okay? Be careful out there. Call me if you need me.”

You let that linger between you, choosing not to respond to his kindness. It could be the nerves and how high-strung you are right now, but you know it’s deeper than that. It’s far too dangerous to get so close to someone again, even if it’s Ryan. Keeping him at arms-length when it comes to things of the heart is easier, safer…better that way.

Back on the sidewalk, you decide to stop by your apartment before going on the prowl. Pulling out your phone, you check one of the many fake social media profiles you’ve created to keep tabs on your targets. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a few precious hours to prepare before initiating phase number one of your final mission.

You move on autopilot, letting yourself be swept away by the normalcy of everything around you. The rest of your day is a blur. You’re not even sure what you spent your time doing. It doesn’t matter now; however, all you’re focused on is what’s before you: a closet full of things that will make the perfect disguise tonight.

Two hours later, you find yourself dressed to the nines, wig firmly in place, and a forced smile on your face as you approach the frosted glass door to Liquid Inferno, the city's hottest, most exclusive nightclub. Pulling out the fake golden access card that Ryan made for you, you flash it at the bouncer. The door swings open without so much as a questioning word.

Thumping bass vibrates through the soles of your heels as you zig-zag your way through the pulsing crowd—strobes of different colors flash, the whole place coated in thick neons thanks to the overhead blacklights. The coral mini dress you decided to wear takes on the brightness of a pink highlighter.

What you really want to do right now is head to the bar and order a drink, but you know that’s just the nerves setting in. Instead, you angle your path toward the darkened VIP area on the second floor.

A set of brutish-looking men stand at the bottom of the stairs. The one closest to you gives you a once-over before asking, “Looking to climb into the lap of a king, princess?”

You grit your teeth to keep from snarling at him in response. “Something like that,” you say, letting your words dripping saccharine sweetness as you bat your lashes.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no one is allowed up without a pass.” The other bouncer leers at you, blatantly eyeing your cleavage and the curve of your ass.

You fish into the top of your dress, intentionally shifting around your tits. “Oh, you mean one of these?” you ask, pinching the black VIP card, that you’re glad you had the forethought to nab from Roy’s place, between your thumb and forefinger.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the second guy whistles appreciatively. “Looks like she’s good to go, Mike.”

Mike turns his glare on his counterpart. “I know all VIPs, and she isn’t one.” His focus swings back to you, looking slightly more murderous this time. “Where’d you get it?”

One false move or misspoken word, and you can kiss this chance goodbye, you know that. So, treading carefully, you choose your words in hopes they’ll believe the semi-lie, “Roy Simmons. He gave me his card and told me to meet him here.” You turn the card so the thick, black lettering of Roy’s last name can be seen on the back.

“Roy didn’t mention giving his card to a floozy,” Mike grunts.

You hold up your hands, the card's shiny surface catching in the strobing lights. “I’m just trying to do as I was told.” You enunciate the word ‘told’, layering on extra meaning to it.

A knowing smile curves on the nameless douchebag's lips. “Sounds like Roy to me,” he chuckles, elbowing Mike lightly in the ribs. “Let her up so she doesn’t get in trouble, huh, Mike? Wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like her getting spanked for being a bad girl.”

Mike doesn’t laugh with his partner. He just stares at you with a challenging gleam in his eyes. Finally, he relents, stepping back and snatching the hook that’s holding the velvet rope across the bottom of the stairs.

“First sign of trouble from you, princess, and you’re out on your ass. Got me?”

You give him a subtle nod, demurely dropping your chin as you pass and hurry up the stairs. Cold sweat beads along the nape of your neck, and you feel like you might pass out. There is a small alcove at the top of the stairs, just before the floor opens up to the VIP lounge, and you duck inside to catch your breath.

The side seam of your dress buzzes. You nearly bust the stitching in your haste to pull out your phone. A message from Ryan flashes on the screen.

Let’s have bacon in the morning.

It’s code. Roy Simmons quickly earned the moniker ‘The Pig’, and Ryan has been joking about wanting to eat bacon ever since you put that leg of the plan into motion. Having bacon in the morning means Roy has provided you with what you wanted. Which is perfect; one more loop in the rope you hope to have Bianchi with.

Being here tonight might be a mistake, now that you’re taking a moment to think it through. What you should really be doing is going home and digging through everything Simmons gave up. Yet—you peek out from the alcove, scanning the VIP area—you’re far too close to give up this chance.

You’re generally not so reckless. Getting this close is making you sloppy, you decide, and you can’t have that. Taking a deep breath, you roll your shoulders back and remind yourself why you’re doing this and that you can’t make a mistake—not now, before stepping out of the alcove and into the den of wolves.

Testing the waters tonight can’t hurt…much.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Following you has been all too easy for Taehyung. His body doesn’t need sleep, so instead of retreating back to his own apartment, he stationed himself outside of yours. It was a surprise to see you leaving so early this morning but an even bigger surprise to see you looking so decidedly normal. You weren’t wearing any fancy clothes, the wig, or painted up with rouge like you had been the night before—yet, you’re still the image of a goddess to him.

Taehyung has decided he likes you more when you’re just being you, not when you’re playing what is obviously a character part. It’s a clever rouse. He’ll grant you that. You’re good; he would have been none the wiser had he not let himself into your space last night.

You were moving fast, and Taehyung nearly lost you a few times as you worked your way toward another apartment building. It was like striking gold when Taehyung could repeat his trick from the night before, scaling the backside of the adjacent building. Only this time, the windows were open, and he could hear everything you and Ryan were discussing.

It’s been a long time since Taehyung tasted the bitter tang of jealousy. It’s a very unbecoming emotion for someone of his stature. Yet, watching how that blond Adonis fawned over you and how comfortable you seemed around him made Taehyung want to chew through the metal railing of the fire escape he was on. He hated seeing you together.

Now, though, you’re alone. Or as alone as someone can be in a packed VIP area of a nightclub. Taehyung can taste the nervousness coming off of you in waves. He can feel the erratic thump of your heart from where he’s standing in the shadows a few feet away.

Getting past Dumb and Dumber at the bottom of the stairs was comical; all it took was a whispered name, and they let him up without even asking for a card. He might not have any friends, but Taehyung has plenty of connections in this city. It would be wild if he didn’t, considering he’s been prowling these same streets for a hundred years now. Not many people know his face, but plenty know his name.

You look like a newborn fawn tiptoeing through a pack of wild, rabid wolves, eyes wide and lush lips parted as you edge yourself closer to the back of the space. He knows where you’re going; he’s just not sure why. The conversation he overheard between you and Ryan was enough to fill in some of the puzzle pieces concerning your venture. He also spent the majority of the night surfing the web on his phone and scrounging up everything he could on you, Danika, and whatever connection you might have to the man you’re now fast approaching.

Lorren Bianchi—world renowned flesh and drug trader kingpin—is sitting in a dimly lit booth, surrounded by a few scantily clad women holding champagne glasses and half a dozen muscle-thick bodyguards who aren’t bothering to cover up the pistols hooked to their belts.

Taehyung knows who Bianchi is and has spoken with him a handful of times as well. He’s never liked the oily fucker, far too pretentious and corrupt for Taehyung. It clicks then, and Taehyung curses himself for being a fool and not seeing it sooner. The box with the sentimental items you have tossed into the closet of the spare room, the smiling, beautiful blond girl with you in the photo—Danika. It all makes sense now, and if Taehyung doesn’t do something, you’re going to find yourself in someone else's cherished box in a closet.

🤍🤍🤍

You’re so focused on picking your way through the crowd, eyes honed in on the one man you’ve been gnashing at the bit to draw blood from, that you miss the man closing in through your periphery until you walk solidly into his chest. You blink a few times, dragging your focus up a narrow chest covered in a white button-up until you meet familiar golden-brown eyes.

“Ginger, what a surprise.”

A surprise is one way to describe it. However, surprises are far too close to being coincidences to you, and you stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. Consider it a product of the deep distrust you’ve developed over the years. Running into the same man twice in less than twenty-four hours should be immediate alarm bells for you…yet, surprisingly, they remain silent.

“Sorry, can’t talk right now,” you mumble, intending to skirt around the guy and be on your way without further interaction. But he follows your step, blocking your way yet again. It’s hard to tell if it’s intentional or if he was stepping aside at the same time as you were.

He laughs, a warm, rumbling note that makes you look up just to make sure it’s really coming from him. “I’m sorry.” He moves to the side, gesturing with his arm toward the darkened back corner. The look in his eye is unreadable, making it hard to judge his intentions, but you’re not going to balk at the opportunity to get away, paranoia a thick collar slipping around your throat.

If you weren’t so on edge, you might give up your endeavor for the night and take the opportunity to slip a hook into this odd man. It would be easy enough, another chance to practice before the big take down. You’d be honest in saying you could use a bit more practice, if the way your hands shake is any indication.

But, no matter how hard you contemplate that idea, it won’t stick. There’s something about the man that screams innocent, which is also probably why your alarm bells refuse to ring. A man like that doesn’t deserve your torment, so you continue, not sparing him another glance.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping past him.

A hand on your arm brings you up short, though. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Your gaze cuts to the man—Taehyung—before flicking down to the slender fingers wrapped around your upper arm. His palm is warm against your skin, contrasting with the chill from the AC blasting overhead.

“What?”

Taehyung flicks his eyes toward where Lorren is sitting. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“All men are dangerous,” you snap.

Taehyung searches your eyes, for what you’re not sure, but whatever he sees there must disappoint him because his lips form a thin line, and he gives a subtle shake of his head. “I hate that that’s your reality.” He glances back toward the table where Bianchi is sitting. “Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you along to an empty seat a few feet away.

“What are you—Oh!” Your protest cuts off as Taehyung slumps into the vacant seat and drags you onto his lap. “What the hell!?”

“Calm down, or you’re going to draw attention to us.” Taehyung pulls you back against his chest, angling his head around yours so his words ghost over your ear, “Humor me a little, won’t you? Tell me what you see.”

“What I see?”

Slender fingers graze underneath your chin before hooking against it and tilting your head. For anyone else, it must look like Taehyung is whispering sweet nothings in your ear, plying you with his big hands. Every part of him that touches you is warm and inviting. But, you can’t let yourself get caught up in that.

Your eyes catch on the far table once more. Bianchi is laughing at something, his head thrown back and his mouth hanging open, though the sound doesn’t carry to you. You’re here for a reason, and you’re not going to let some bozo you ran into last night stop you.

Shifting around on his lap, you try to brace your heels on the floor to gain leverage, but Taehyung bands an arm around your hips and clears his throat. “Stop that, and before you ask, yes, I know him, and no, I don’t care for him. Now, look closely. Tell me what you perceive about the people around him. Tell me why if you would have approached that table tonight, it would have been short-lived and you’d be sorely disappointed that you wasted your chance.”

You lick your lips, willing your racing heart to calm down so you can focus. You know you should be scrambling off his lap, yelling obscenities, and cursing him for being a creep. Only, he’s, in fact, not being one. The only thing that’s disturbing is the fact that he somehow knows you’re here for Bianchi. A man who is nothing more than a stranger who gave up two hundred dollars last night is now acting like he knows all your dirty little secrets.

“How do you know that’s what I was going to do? Maybe I’m just here trying to have a good time, and you’ve gone and ruined it.”

“You’re easier to read than you think. Now, tell me.”

Taking a deep breath, you refocus on the table. Lorren is sitting in the middle, two girls on one side and one on the other. All blond, very young, petite with large eyes and lips. They could be triplets for all you can discern between the three of them. Everything you know about Bianchi flashes through your mind as you try to connect the dots. Of course, you should have seen it before. “Blond. He likes blondes. Fuck,” you mutter. There is a soft sound of approval from Taehyung, a low hum that vibrates through his chest. “Now, should I let you go make a fool of yourself, or would you like to hear what I have to offer?”

“Why are you even here? Have you been following me?”

Taehyung grunts as you begin to wiggle in earnest in his lap. “It’s not like that,” he says.

Now, the alarm bells do start to ring because that’s as good as saying ‘yes’. “Let me go.”

“I will, on one condition.” You twist in his lap, ready to lash out at him, but he catches your upraised palm and urges, “Let me help you with whatever you’re trying to do.”

“No, fuck you, jackass,” you hiss, trying to jerk your hand from his grip. “Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow, and a smirk crooks up the corner of his mouth. It’s the first time his angelic demeanor has taken on a dark note, and you’re not sure if you like it or not. “Do you really think screaming will make any of these snakes come running to your aid?”

You swallow hard against the truth of that. A woman screaming is probably as common as a millionaire snorting coke in this place. Which judging by the tray covered in lines of white powder you can see on a table to your left, you’d wager the odds aren’t in your favor.

“Please,” you try for your best impression of desperation. “Please, let me go. You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you know,” Taehyung whispers in response before standing, bringing you up with him, and dragging you toward the top of the stairs. You try to twist and protest, but his hand is like a vice around your wrist, and your pleas go unanswered.

It takes little time for Taehyung to haul you through the crowd. It’s like the surge of bodies part around him, making the escape smooth and seamless. The air outside is light and crisp compared to how suffocating it was inside; you hadn’t even noticed until now that you can take your first real, deep breath since you went in.

“Who the fuck even are you?” you snarl, finally jerking yourself free from Taehyung’s grip, though that might have more to do with him letting you pull yourself free than anything.

The look on his face is unreadable for a moment before a placating smile spreads across his lips. “I’m just someone with your best interest in mind and who is trying to help.”

“I already said I don’t need your help.” You make to step around him and head back inside. Even if your chances of introducing yourself to Bianchi tonight won’t go as planned, you can still do some more recon, and gather more information—but those slender fingers find themselves cuffing your wrist all over again. He drops his grip on you when it seems he’s certain you’re not going to try and run again.

“Look, just hear me out, and if you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll provide you with the proper look and introduce you to Lorren Bianchi myself.” That earns him a narrow look filled with suspicion.

You look around, contemplating whether or not this man is full of shit or not. If you agree to hear him out, you might miss out on your opportunity to get closer to Bianchi tonight. But if he’s telling the truth, you might not need to do all the legwork anyway.

Taehyung looks hopeful as he waits for your response, bouncing ever so lightly on his toes, hands clasped in front of him. There is still that unmistakable sense of innocence about him, even though he just bodily dragged you from inside the club and somehow has a personal connection to Bianchi.

Ryan would urge you not to move so quickly tonight. He might also balk at the idea of you entertaining a stranger who seems to sneakily know more than he should…but which would earn you the most ire? Ryan would definitely find out about your attempt with Bianchi tonight, but he might not necessarily have to find out about Taehyung. Maybe you can play both fields.

You tug your phone from the inner seam on your dress and shoot off a text to Ryan, asking him to send you everything he can on Taehyung Kim and how he might be connected to Bianchi and to be quick about it. You add please to the end of your text, hoping you seem less demanding in your request.

“You have thirty minutes. If I’m not impressed, you introduce me, or I’ll make you wish you’d kept your two hundred dollars.” You give him a pointed look, the ruse from last night taking on a whole new meaning now. Clearly he was trying to make a connection to you and is now taking it a step further.

Taehyung holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay. Deal. Follow me.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to ask any more questions. You have to skip a few steps, your heels clicking against the sidewalk, to catch up with him as his long strides carry him away from the club.

You’re taken aback, thinking he’d surely lead you to some apartment or a hotel, somewhere there is a mild bit of privacy. Though an empty park wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, it does afford you the privacy.

“Start talking,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. You set a thirty-minute timer on your phone already and have it clutched in your hand so you can feel it vibrating either from time running out or with any messages from Ryan.

Taehyung’s back is to you, his attention directed somewhere overhead. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“What?” you ask, confused, feeling like you’re being whiplashed by the sudden change in conversation.

He glances at you over his shoulder, and you’re stuck by just how gorgeous he is, bathed in the soft glow from the lamps lining the walkway through the park. “The sky, it’s beautiful.”

“Um, yeah, sure.” You’re honestly not certain of the last time you took the time to actually look up at the sky and admire it. Living in the city, the light pollution and dirty air doesn’t really have an appeal anyway.

“Look,” he says, nodding back in the direction he was looking in before.

You sigh, irritated, but if he wants to waste part of his thirty minutes looking up at the smog-filled sky, who are you to—your thoughts trail off as you finally gaze up. The moon hangs full and low in the sky. You can see a smattering of stars as if they’re demanding to be seen despite the blazing city lights. It takes your breath away for a moment, grounding you in a different reality, one not filled with plots of revenge and loneliness.

Dragging your attention away from the sight and to the man so nonchalantly standing there, wasting his time, you say. “Your time is running out.”

“I’m not from here.” His words come as a whisper, barely carrying to you from over his shoulder. “The view is so different here, no matter how many times I look up, it’s never the same.”

“So, you’re from some other city. What’s that got to do with any of this? Is that how you know Bianchi?”

Taehyung turns, giving you his full attention. You feel bared to him, somehow. As if his eyes are taking stock of your every sin and folly. “I’m not from some other city. I’m not from here,” he emphasizes the word, drawing it out intentionally slow.

“I don’t have time for riddles,” you grunt, growing more irritated by the second. You should have known this was a waste of time. Your phone buzzes in your hand, and a wash of relief swells inside you. Ryan is just in time to confirm this is a complete waste.

Why are you asking about him?

Please don’t tell me you’re wanting to target him. Don’t be an idiot, Ging.

Seriously? You’re not going to answer me? Fine.

There are a few texts that are several minutes old. You must have been so distracted you missed your phone vibrating with them. A flood of new texts come in as you’re reading.

He’s one of the good ones. There’s a link to a website attached. You click on it and scan the opening page. ‘Kim Taehyung, Billionaire With No Billions’ is the headline. The article is filled with statistics and data showing that every cent Taehyung earns with any of his business ventures goes toward charity or medical research.

He’s a literal saint. Like, there isn’t a single mark against this guy. Targeting him would be doing the devil’s work. His connection to Bianchi seems to be one of rivalry. He’s the one who stopped Bianchi from opening up that one casino, you know, the one that was going to serve as an underground skin trade, but the evidence magically disappeared before his court hearing?

So that’s why Taehyung is familiar to you. You didn’t pay much attention to the casino thing, just kept tabs on it in passing in hopes it could lead you to gathering another connection to Bianchi.

Thanks. You hit send, thumb out of the timer you set, and tuck your phone away back into your dress.

“Ready to hear what I have to say now?”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck. Mild embarrassment is a bitter taste in the back of your throat as you feel thoroughly chastised even though he’s not speaking to you in a demeaning way.

“I’m listening.”

“Perhaps where I’m from is not important, not that you’d believe me anyway. So, perhaps the best place to start is acknowledging that I know what you’re going through. I’ve experienced what you’re experiencing, the pain and grief of losing someone you love.”

It’s like a white-hot dagger to the heart, a mix of indignation and sympathy. “You might think you do, but I don’t know.”

“I was punished for loving someone, they were taken from me, and I was… ostracized. I’ll never be the same. I still”—he rolls his shoulders and winces—”ache.”

His words are cryptic, but you’re fairly certain they’re only the surface of his experience, as there is evident pain laced within his whispered confession.

Slowly, his slender fingers nimbly work at the ivory buttons along the front of his shirt. One by one, they reveal the subtlest hint of flesh. The lighting that wreathed him in a halo glow just a moment ago now casts his features in stark relief as he moves closer to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Making myself vulnerable to you, in hopes of earning some of your trust.” With painfully slow movements, Taehyung turns and shrugs down the top of his dress shirt. It’s confusing, at first, trying to decipher what you’re seeing in the dim lighting. Ripples and bumps form two narrow swaths to either side of his spine, just within his shoulder blades; scars, jagged ones, made of tight, shiny ridges. The placement, the mirrored precision…it almost, almost looks like he had wings ripped from his back. “Not ripped,” he murmurs and you realize you spoke your thought aloud. “They were shorn from my body by my Brother Michael.”

“Your brother did this to you?!” you ask incredulously.

“Brothers,” he emphasizes. “But, only one wielded the blade.”

You balk at him, unable to comprehend how someone could do this to another human being. Before you can think better of it, you brush a light finger over one of the ridges. Taehyung shudders so intensely under your touch, that you’re afraid you might have hurt him. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, snatching your hand back.

He clears his throat. “Nothing to apologize for. It’s just that, well, I haven’t been touched by another being in a very, very long time. I had almost forgotten what it felt like, a tender touch like that.”

“You shouldn’t have suffered at the hands of your brothers.”

“Water under the bridge at this point,” Taehyung sighs, pulling his shirt back up and redoing the buttons as he turns to face you once more. “I know what you’re trying to do with Bianchi, and even if you manage to get close enough to him, you’re not going to be able to go through with it. You can’t kill him.”

“I can and I will,” you state fiercely. “I have to.”

Taehyung gives you a sad smile. “There’s too much good in your heart. You’ll hesitate, and then he’ll turn the tables. He’ll give you the same fate as your friend.”

“You don’t know anything about her!” you shout, wincing at your own outburst as your words echo through the park and startle some birds out of a nearby tree.

“I know that you love her. I know that you’re on a path of revenge for her. A path that is going to lead you to an eternity of damnation even if you do succeed. Please, let me help you. I promise Bianchi will suffer for what he has done, but we have to do it the right way.”

“And what exactly would you consider the right way?” Anger eats at your eyes, making them burn with tears you refuse to shed.

Looking deep into your eyes, Taehyung explains, “If you kill him, that’s the end of it. But, if you tear down his empire, make him lose everything, brick by brick…he’ll endure a lifetime of suffering, which, to a man like him, is far crueler of a punishment than bringing his miserable life to an end. He’ll probably do it himself by the time we’re done with him.”

“Why is it, exactly, that you want to help me again?”

“I’ve dealt with Bianchi on a few occasions. Unfortunately, he rubs elbows with a lot of the same people that I do. I suppose money doesn’t care if someone is a good person or not.” Taehyung fits his hands into his pockets, leaning back on one heel in a relaxed manner as his eyes flick over your features. “I’ve never had the right justification for bringing him down. He’s always managed to slip between my fingers. Now, though, you’re presenting me with the perfect opportunity, the perfect justified means to take him down once and for all...and well, if it means I can save you, then I’ll take that, too.”

The fact this man seems to care about you, care about Danika, doesn’t seem all that unusual. His eyes are open and full of warmth, so welcoming and completely unalarming in their charm and sincerity. You can’t help but accept. “What do you propose we do? Where do we start?”

That seems to put a little pep back into Taehyung’s demeanor. “Simple, of course. We start where it will hurt him most, his bank account.”

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Did It Hurt? | Sweet Kiss of Hellfire

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 12,706 ⚠️ Struggle with faith and beliefs, on-screen violence, allusion to murder, references to death & dying, kissing, hesitant sexual exploration, guilt over sexual desires, v. sex, creampie, damnation

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Taehyung

To say Taehyung is nervous would be a gross understatement as he walks a few feet behind you. It’s not even the idea of being welcomed into your personal bubble that has his knees knocking with every other step. It’s more the idea that, for some reason, he feels like he wants, no, needs to impress you. As if you somehow find him lacking, you’ll slip between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to hang on—and it’s not even about putting you on a path for redemption, not wholly, at least.

This is what he’s been waiting a hundred years for—his moment of being pulled back into the good graces of his Heavenly Brothers. Yet that’s the furthest thing from his mind right now as he watches your hips sway with your every step. He’s nervous because he wants you to like him. He wants a reminder of what it feels like not to be alone…maybe even more than he wants his wings back.

The further you lead Taehyung from the park, the more he realizes you’re heading toward the same place you went this morning: Ryan’s apartment. If he were a lesser man—fallen angel, really—he’d probably try to coax you into taking him to your place instead. But he doesn’t want to send you running for the hills when it already seems like he’s walking a knife’s edge with whether or not you trust him.

“The place we’re going isn’t too much further. I hope you don’t mind me including my friend. He’s kind of been my tabkeeper on everything. Plus, I still don’t know if I trust you completely or not,” you inform him, confirming his suspicions.

“That’s okay. The more information, the better.” Taehyung has to remember this isn’t just about you, no matter his thoughts from just minutes ago, but that he has a stake in this being successful, too.

So if that means suffering through mister-perfect-body-and-face-Ryan, then, by Grace, he supposes he’ll endure. Though, perhaps he can find a way to get some more one-on-one time with you just to solidify that connection he knows he needs to secure for this to work out for him in the end.

The familiar highrise comes into view as Taehyung rounds the corner after you. He watches as you breeze your way through the entrance, waving at the porter with a smile, and move on autopilot in the elevator. In a matter of minutes, Taehyung finds himself standing outside Ryan's swanky apartment with you.

It’s a nondescript door painted a plain green color. There is no welcome mat or other decoration. The only indicator that someone might occupy the space within is the small brass-colored ‘Weller P.I.” placard sitting above the 12 of the apartment number.

You knock on the door, lacing and unlacing your fingers together in front of you in an inpatient manner.

“Ging, is that you? I wasn’t expecting—” The door swings open, revealing Ryan standing there in all his blond, mossy-eyed glory, grey sweats slung low on his hips and shirtless. Even to Taehyung, Ryan looks delectable, which couldn’t rankle him more. “Who’s your friend?” Ryan asks, his brows knitting together in confusion. He leans his body against the doorframe, muscles bulging as he crosses his arms over his lean chest.

“Don’t start with that alpha male posturing. We don’t have time for it. If you want to challenge Taehyung to a dick-measuring contest, do it when I’m not around,” you huff, pushing by Ryan and stomping into his apartment.

“Taehyung?” Ryan's eyes widen, and his arms drop. “As in The Taehyung? Kim?”

“Seems you know who I am, yet I have no clue as to who you might be,” Taehyung offers, not at all feeling contrite over being a bit big-headed or intentional with his words.

Taehyung catches your eye over Ryan’s shoulder, and you roll your eyes, biting your bottom lip in what Taehyung hopes is a way to stifle your laughter at his choice of words.

Ryan frowns. “You didn’t tell him about me?” he asks you over his shoulder. It’s kind of cute, the way he’s pouting. However, that only lasts for a moment before he turns back toward Taehyung and straightens his shoulders, standing to his full height as if he could try to tower over Taehyung somehow. Yet, he only comes eye to eye with him, making Taehyung smile smugly. “I’m Ryan. Ginger’s best friend.”

“Only friend,” you call out as if that’s an important distinction. Taehyung likes to think it’s your way of saying that if you had more than one friend, you wouldn’t consider Ryan your best one.

That makes Ryan a bit red in the face, but he doesn’t comment further; he just steps back and gestures for Taehyung to come in. “Well, Ryan, only friend to Ginger; hopefully, we can all work together to make her life a little better, yeah?”

“You’re going to help?” Ryan asks, all pretenses dropping in the light of that revelation.

“That’s the plan. I know Lorren Bianchi, and I’ve promised our friend here that I might have an easier, perhaps more fulfilling, way to take him down. One that most likely won’t have a jail-time potential at the end of it.”

“Most likely?”

Taehyung gives Ryan a withering look, one he never would have dreamed of giving someone before he came to this desolate place known as the mortal realm. One hundred years can really take a toll, Divine being or not. He straightens, chest subconsciously puffing out. “Not everything is foolproof, pretty boy. Surely even you know that.”

“That alpha posturing and dick-measuring thing I mentioned? You don’t get to do it either,” you snark, waggling a finger at Taehyung from where you’re pulling beers from the fridge on the other side of the kitchen. “Even if it were entertaining to see you both strut around naked.” Then under your breath, “It would be the highlight of the last few years, I’d bet, but still not the time.” You clearly don’t mean for Taehyung or Ryan to hear you, yet your words might as well be an intimate caress against Taehyung’s ears.

Shaking himself away from the intrusive thoughts that come with your little secret fantasy, Taehyung gives you his attention. “Right, of course. Shall we?”

Ryan sighs but nods in concession. “Let’s hear this plan of yours.” He moves to the table where you’re settling with beers in hand. “Thanks,” he says, accepting one of the proffered bottles.

Taehyung sits at the table across from you and Ryan. He takes the beer you grabbed for him between his hands and considers the amber-colored glass before taking a sip. The bitter notes of the brew spark on his tongue, fading to a caramel finish as he swallows.

“Well,” Taehyung begins, taking another sip before laying it all out there for them.

🤍🤍🤍

You and Ryan take turns asking questions, clarifying details, and offering alternatives to a few of Taehyung’s ideas. But, ultimately, in the end, you have to begrudgingly admit it’s a perfect plan. It is far better than your pitiful blackmail and con artistry could accomplish in years.

Though, all your hard work isn’t for nothing. It’s agreed that you’re going to use all the juicy evidence you’ve gathered over the last two years on Bianchi against him. He’s going to be his own downfall, his own fatal stroke. And all you have to do is dress up one last time, play the part, and let all the pieces fall into place.

That might be easier said than done, though. You’re on board with not outright killing Bianchi. But your desire for blood hasn’t lessened in the last two years, to say the least. You want him to bleed, even if it’s just a little. Ryan and Taehyung have both assured you that once Bianchi is taken into FBI custody, he’ll bleed plenty. That’s not to say the FBI is going to make him bleed, but being in federal lockup and in the prison system, he has plenty of enemies.

You’ve also pointed out that he might have a lot of friends, too. To which Ryan conceded that it was a valid concern but a risk that would need to be taken. There are some doubts, but you’re trying to have some faith in your friend and your new…partner? You’re still not sure what to make of Taehyung yet.

You add a fourth empty bottle to the others at the center of the table, making the number alarming high. Ryan’s beer stash is starting to look relatively meager after the four hours the three of you have spent drinking and planning.

“I think it’s about time I call it a night,” you announce, pushing back from the table. You stand on wobbly feet, the heels you’re wearing not helping at all.

Ryan shoots to his feet beside you. “I’ll go with you. You’re in no condition to walk by yourself this late at night.”

“Nonsense. You live here. There’s no reason for you to leave just to have to come right back,” Taehyung declares. “I can walk you home,” he tells you. “You don’t live far from me anyhow.”

That pout turns Ryan’s lips down again. “But I’m her best friend,” he argues.

“Only friend,” Taehyung corrects. “For now, at least.” He winks at you, giving you a charming smile.

“Taehyung can walk me home. It’s fine, Ry. You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Ging, really?” Ryan throws out a hand toward Taehyung. “You’re choosing him over me?” Ryan can be cute when he’s petulant, like a child. You’re surprised he’s not stamping his foot, too.

Blinking to clear your head a bit, you give Ryan a pat on the shoulder and what you hope is a warm smile. “It’s not about choosing him over you, Ry. It just makes more sense this way. Now, to bed, go. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Ryan reluctantly disappears into his bathroom to get ready for bed, but not before pulling you into a tight hug and glaring daggers at Taehyung’s back as he waits by the door. Perhaps you should have stopped the beers much sooner, though it does make you feel good to be fought over like this. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself enjoy some freedom in a really long time.

There’s something about Taehyung, despite being still somewhat of a stranger, that makes you lose your inhibitions. You feel a sense of ease around him, even though you know you shouldn’t. It’s odd, yet you find yourself longing for it all the more.

The air outside is thick with noise, typical of the city. Taehyung walks beside you in companionable silence that’s a balming contrast, his arm occasionally brushing yours. You feel lighter already, knowing that everything you’ve worked for over the last two years is about to come to a head.

There is one feeling, though, deep down inside that you weren’t expecting: worry. You’ve been focused on revenge and taking down Lorren Bianchi for so long that you’re unsure what happens next. Money isn’t an issue; you’d been saving for years before this, and Ryan supplements you as needed through his FBI contact. To say the least, you’ve been handsomely compensated for all of your work, legal or not.

So, you’re not sure what comes after. What will there be for you when no one is left to take down? You haven’t really given yourself the liberty to think about that…until now. It’s scary, so daunting that it makes your hands shake.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung’s voice breaks you out of your revere.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The lie comes easy, a natural response to a question you’re asked far more than you’d like to be.

Taehyung clears his throat. You can hear the wet sound of his tongue swiping over his lips as he licks them. “You’re not being honest with me.”

The beer must be hindering your ability to be convincing. “I will be fine once we take Bianchi down.”

“Two more days. Monday night, everything will change.” There is an underlying hint of longing in the way Taehyung says those words. They’re clearly meant to comfort you, but you can tell he’s just as passionate about accomplishing it.

You’ve been trying to piece together that for several hours now. Sure, Taehyung has expressed the desire to see Bianchi ended, but he hasn’t honestly explained why or what his personal interest is in this whole plan.

“Why do you care so much about helping me?” you ask because, clearly, the beer has also removed your brain-to-mouth filter.

Taehyung slows to a stop, and that’s when you realize you’re standing outside your apartment. He must have directed you here because you don’t remember the walk at all. He fits his hands in his pockets and meets your eyes, the silence stretching long after your inquiry.

Finally, he says, “You could say that by helping you, I’m seeking my own sort of redemption. Delivering you from a path of destruction to one of absolution will allow me to remove some of my own personal shackles and make up for wrongs from my past.” You see his shoulders twitch, a slight grimace sliding over his face. It lasted only a moment, but it was there.

“Your back,” you whisper. “What you were punished for? You think helping me will make up for whatever you did to earn those scars, is that it?”

His eyes, once so full of fire and life, close over until he’s an unreadable mask. “Something like that,” he says. “Well, I’ll let you head up. Call me on Monday before noon. We can coordinate our arrival and plans then.”

Taehyung turns and only makes it a few feet down the sidewalk before you call out to him. “Wait, please. Umm, do you—do you want to come up, maybe?” Regret instantly burns down your throat, being so forward like that. It’s apparent he’s uncomfortable and is about to reject you.

You feel like such an id— "Okay.” His response takes you by surprise. Pleasantly, though. “Maybe for just a bit.”

The thought of sex is so far removed from why you asked. Though, now that the question has been put out there, you can only imagine that’s what he’s thinking you’re asking for.

“I just, uh, well—it’s not for sex or anything like that. I just don’t want to be alone right now.” There. Now you’ve made it clear and also made a bigger fool of yourself in the process. You’re not sure what’s going on with you. Fuck. You need to get inside before you say something else.

Taehyung follows you quietly, his eyes sparkling once again with that fire and life from before. Perhaps he finds your babbling amusing. Which, weirdly, makes you feel even giddier. This guy…is something else, like an alien or something, because no human being should have this kind of effect on someone else just by being near them.

For once, since moving in, you feel like your apartment could be better. You feel like Taehyung will undoubtedly think you’re some weirdo with no personality or love for life. Not that that isn’t far from the truth for the last two years, but there’s something about inviting someone into your space when it’s so utterly devoid of anything that’s genuinely you.

“Nice place,” Taehyung compliments as you let him in. He immediately toes off his shoes, something you don’t even do in your own space but now feel the need to.

Leaving your heels by the door, you flex your toes on the hardwood floor to encourage some feeling back into them. “Thanks, it’s nothing really special. Sorry it’s so boring.”

That charming smile is once again in place as Taehyung turns toward you. “Don’t discount yourself so much. You have a lot on your plate. I understand that this,” he gestures around your apartment, “is most likely not an accurate representation of who you are as a person.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to simply make me feel better about myself or actually flirt with me,” you mutter, half to yourself, half uncaring if he hears. “Um, would you like something to drink? A water, perhaps, to help cut off the buzz from all those beers? I know I sure could use some.”

You move into the kitchen, grab two glasses from the cabinet, and fill them with water from the filter pitcher in the fridge. Taehyung graciously accepts a glass, tips it up, and takes a sip.

“Funnily enough, I’m not all that buzzed. The water is still nice, though, thank you.”

There were at least seven empty bottles in the center of Ryan’s table that were put there by Taehyung. Either he actually is an alien, or he’s lying about being buzzed. Ryan’s beer preference isn’t known to have a low ABV.

“How is that even possible?” you ask, moving over to sit on the couch. The leather squeaks a bit, not used to being sat on. You bought it as a means to fill up some of the space, the same as the flat-screen TV that you haven’t turned on in…well, you can’t remember how long.

Taehyung swings around the end of the couch and settles at the other, turning with one knee bent onto the cushion beside him. “I told you, I’m not from here.”

“Extraterrestrial. I knew it.”

That makes Taehyung laugh. “More like celestial.”

“Celestial?” you question. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Taehyung looks down at his cup of water, fingers flexing on the glass. “Not celestial as in space, but celestial as in divine…holy.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “You’re trying to tell me you’re what, an angel?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Taehyung asks. You continue to chuckle, but it tapers off as you realize Taehyung isn’t laughing or smiling with you. In fact, the look on his face is quite severe.

“You’re being serious?”

A pregnant pause settles between you, feeling stifling and thick. The tension snaps when Taehyung smiles and shrugs his shoulders, somehow melting the awkwardness. “Let’s pretend for a moment that I am being serious. Is that so hard to believe?”

You lick your lips, intent on telling him that you don’t believe in that kind of stuff and that angels, demons, heaven, and hell are just words to you. Yet, when you open your mouth to do just that, the words get clogged, and you find yourself genuinely thinking about it. There is so much evil in the world, evil that you’ve witnessed firsthand, that you could believe the devil or demons exist.

But, the other side of the coin? If there was such a thing as god or angels, then why aren’t there more miracles or good in the world? Why do innocent children die? Why do harmless women become victims, just another drop in the bucket of endless souls lost?

That’s a hard pill to swallow. Either there is no god, or god isn’t as all-loving as they make him seem. Maybe even god is actually the evil one. After all, what’s a more incredible deception and evil than making up some obtainable holy divinity if you just worship him when there’s only nothingness that awaits beyond life?

Before your thoughts can continue to spiral, you startle at realizing Taehyung’s sudden close proximity. He must have slid closer while you were mulling over your answer. His discarded water glass is set on the floor beside the couch, and he’s staring intently at you, his knee brushing your thigh.

“It’s not hard to believe, I don’t think.” Because it’s not, really. Maybe you wouldn’t call it the power of god or the malevolence of evil, but it’s not hard to think there might be something out there, even if you’re just humoring this odd man who makes you feel all fluttery and warm inside.

Taehyung drifts closer, and your body automatically angles toward him. You watch as his eyes flick from yours to your lips and back. “It feels good to be believed in,” he whispers, the ghost of his words puffing against your lips.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice breathless and airy.

He shakes his head slightly, a line forming between his brows. “I don’t know. It’s been so long since I allowed myself to be this close to another being, to have someone express belief in me…it’s—” he sucks in a deep breath before jerking back from you, putting several inches between your body and his. “Forgive me. I don’t know what—”

“Don’t,” you urge, pressing your index finger against his lips and cutting off his apology. You’re not sure you can bear it if he makes whatever is happening between the two of you into something terrible.

Your lips replace your finger, the action one of panic but quickly morphs into desire. Taehyung’s mouth is hesitant, his lips tight lines under yours, at first. But, with a few plucks of your lips against his, he melts into it. You coax his lips to part with the tip of your tongue, luxuriating in the heady taste of him when he opens for you.

It feels good to get lost in someone just because you want to because you choose to do it for your own pleasure and not to advance a plot or plan. The glass of water in your hand slips, clattering to the floor beside the couch, surely spreading water across the hardwood. But you couldn’t care less. Taehyung is pliable under your touch, allowing you to angle his head and slide your fingers into his hair for leverage.

You’re not sure the last time you kissed someone like this, giving it your all and accepting all in return. Taehyung makes soft mewling noises as you gently bite his bottom lip before plunging your tongue back into his mouth. His hands land on your hips, fingers kneading gently.

You slide a hand from his hair down to his shoulder and further until it rests over his rapidly beating heart. His chest is firm under your palm, warm and comforting. When your hand starts to drop lower, Taehyung breaks the kiss and begins to move along your jaw to your throat.

His mouth is greedy as it dances over your pulse point and clavicle. You can feel his hot breath over your already heated skin, setting a fire that drips down your spine and settles between your thighs.

Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath through his nose when your hand makes it to his lap, his entire body going so rigid it’s alarming. His cock is so hard you can feel how it’s straining the zipper on his slacks. It lasts only a moment, the pulse of fear and panic you feel emanating from him before he’s practically crawling over the back of the couch to get away from you.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Stumbling upright as he slides over the back of the couch, he stands there wide-eyed, staring at you. “I–I think it’s b-best for me to go. I’m sorry. You’re lovely, really. As cliche as it is, it really isn’t you. It’s me. I, uh,” he glances down at his crotch and the very evident bulge there, “this…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

It’s like his body is not his own as it moves with phantom actions he hasn’t done in decades. He folds his hands under his chin, his lips muttering a bit of the Lord’s Prayer before he brings a hand to his forehead, drops it to his sternum, and then crosses to his left shoulder before ending on his right.

He instantly feels disgusted with himself. Though, whether that’s for bending to the temptations of the flesh once more or with how much his past life is coming back to control him, he’s not sure.

The look on your face is like Michael’s sword all over again. He can feel the burn lancing across his back as he takes a few shaky steps backward toward the door. Slowly, you seem to pull yourself together and plaster a placating smile on your face.

“No, I should be the sorry one. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, not without asking first. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I guess that’s what I get for drinking so much.”

Only Taehyung knows it wasn’t the alcohol, and he doesn’t want you to be sorry for what you did. He wants to beg you to keep going, to call him a fool and come after him, take him to the ground, and ravage him. And he has to get out of here before he asks you to do just that.

“I’ll see you Monday?” Taehyung offers from by the door. He feels like an idiot running away like this, but he can’t ruin this now. Not when he’s so close, and the idea of throwing away one hundred years should be enough to make him keep going out the door.

You stand up from the couch, adjusting your dress along your hips. “Yep. I’ll call you.” Thankfully, Taehyung had the forethought to give you his number much earlier in the evening.

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams,” Taehyung says quietly before opening the door and stepping out. He barely catches your ‘goodbye’ in reply as the door closes.

Taehyung groans, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands in frustration. “Fucking fool,” he mutters to himself. “Way to almost ruin everything.”

However, as Taehyung walks home, he can’t help but lament how conflicted he feels. Sure, he knows this is the exact kind of situation that put him here in the first place, the whole reason he’s even getting close to you. Yet, deep down, he knows he’s always been a far more carnal creature than most of his kind.

He can remember, many, many centuries ago, long before his own fall, how close he was to his Brother Yaqum. There was also Sariel and Armaros, as close to him as he once thought Michael and Raquel were. Yaqum, Sariel, and Armaros were all a part of the big fall, cast out for their salacious couplings with human women. The very crime Taehyung almost just committed for a second time.

Taehyung’s apartment is cold when he gets home, just as desolate as his soul feels currently. He reluctantly takes a shower, silently pained by washing away the lingering tingle of your touch. There are only a few more hours before the sun rises, and Taehyung wants nothing more than to lie in his useless bed and replay what transpired on your couch over and over again, regretting having washed you away so soon.

In all the years Taehyung has been in his exile, never before has a human so completely turned his existence upside down like this. Perhaps he should take it as a good sign, indicating that he’s chosen correctly for redemption. However, there is a sadness that won’t go away. It’s ebbing in around his edges, fraying them and coloring them in shadowed tones.

Rolling over to face the window beside his bed, he watches as the early morning pinks and oranges begin to bleed through the blues and indigos of twilight. If everything goes according to plan, in just forty-eight hours, he could be watching a completely different sunrise, one from a Heavenly vantage point, a sight he has longed for for so long.

Watching the sunrise was one of his favorite things to do. Heaven is a unique place, both physical and ethereal, a limbo of existence. But the sunrise was always something of the material plane, a sight that transcended the barrier between the mortal realm and the Holy one. It’s also where Taehyung met her.

Taehyung hasn’t let himself think about Hana since that day in the Divine Chamber of Justice. But he can still remember her smile, the light in her eyes, and the way they crinkled and her body shook with laughter. Little did Taehyung realize that one moment watching the sunrise together would lead to countless stolen moments and smiles.

There is nothing anywhere that expressly states Angels are not to fraternize with their flock. Though, Taehyung supposes, after what happened during the Great War of Heaven, there probably didn’t need to be something written down. There shouldn’t have to be some ‘How To Be An Angel’ guidebook.

It wasn’t enough that Taehyung was cast into exile for his actions. They had to punish Hana as well. Though, she won’t remember it. That was her punishment, her memories removed and being placed in another Angel’s flock for care. She’ll never remember the moments they shared together, never remember Taehyung. He sometimes wishes they would have taken his memories, too.

Not able to take the painful reminiscing any longer, Taehyung turns his back on the sunrise, burying his face in a pillow, hoping for more pleasing thoughts. He thinks of you, so hungry and aggressive in your pursuit of discovering what was behind his trousers. The satin pillowcase is smooth against his cheeks as they heat with that thought. He never considered the possibility that he’d find himself revisiting these kinds of sordid thoughts and experiences during his exile. Yet, here he is, willing his erection to go away once again.

Thinking about Hana didn’t help. He just can’t help himself, though, now that the image of you—his goddess—is firmly in his mind. Taehyung can picture Hana naked and begging… lying beside you on a giant bed. Both so desperate for him. Taehyung clears his throat and shakes his head, dispelling the sin-filled fantasy.

He stays like that until Monday morning, flipping between lush fantasies and chastisement. Taehyung throws back the blankets and drags himself from the bed in hopes he can take his mind off all his uncertain and worrying thoughts. There are plenty of other things that could use his attention, like preparing for the gala tonight.

Waiting for your phone call is torture. Around eleven, Taehyung starts to think maybe he permanently ruined things with you Saturday night. But, you put him out of his misery just before noon. He answers on the first ring.

“Hello?” you ask when he doesn’t say anything at first.

Relief floods through him. “Hey, hi, hello. Sorry, I’m here.”

“Oh, did I call at a bad time?”

“No, no. You’re fine. Now is great. Tell me about what you’re thinking of wearing.”

There is some shuffling on the other end, the sound of fabric swishing over the line. “Crimson silk, off the shoulder, floor length.”

Taehyung swallows around the thick knot forming in his throat. “Send me a picture? Just for color clarification purposes,” he’s quick to add.

You laugh softly, the sound growing faint as he assumes you pull the phone away from your face. A moment later, his phone buzzes. Putting it on speaker, Taehyung clicks through to his messages, and a moment later, an image of you pops onto the screen. It suddenly feels far too warm in his apartment, and his suit pants far too tight.

The silk hugs your curves, a plunging neckline accented by the dainty necklace around your neck. You’re smiling in the bathroom mirror, the shot cut off at your hips, but Taehyung doesn’t think he needs to see the whole thing to get the perfect picture of how utterly divine you look right now—every inch his goddess in truth.

“How’s that?” your voice breaks through his admiration.

“Great, perfect. I think I have just the tie to match. The gala starts at three. Shall we meet there at a quarter til?”

Your sigh whistles through the line. “Yeah, that works.”

“Hey, everything is going to be okay. I promise. We’ve got it all worked out, and we’re going to bring Lorren Bianchi to his knees.”

You hum in agreement. “Ryan says he has a surprise for us but won’t tell me any details. But, he is going to meet us around back at three-thirty to drop off what we need and give an escape once the shit hits the fan. Are you certain you can’t get him a pass in, too?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. This was an argument that was hashed out Saturday night. “A surprise? I don’t like surprises. He better not screw any of this up. And not this late in the game, sorry. I only had an extra ticket already because I had submitted for a plus one, thinking I’d be bringing a business venture partner.” In reality, Taehyung could probably swing it where Ryan also got in with some sort of media pass. But, it’s an added risk that Taehyung isn’t sure is worth the trouble. As well as, the farther Ryan stays away from you, the better Taehyung will feel.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll see you then. Quarter til.”

“See you then.”

Even though there are still a few hours to go, Taehyung leaves immediately after changing his tie to one that matches the color of your dress, thinking it’s better to wait for you there than to spend any more time hanging around his apartment twiddling his thumbs.

It’s a relatively short walk, considering the amount of foot traffic crowding the sidewalk near the hub of downtown. Once there, though, time seems to drag to a standstill, minutes ticking by feeling like hours.

Taehyung rolls his shoulders as he lounges against the brick wall outside of the state building where the gala is being held. The burning itch seems to grow more persistent with every step he takes toward redemption. Thankfully, a beautiful distraction dripping in red comes along to take his mind off of it.

“Hello,” Taehyung greets you brightly as soon as you come into view from around the corner at promptly fifteen minutes until three.

You’re like a breath of fresh air in your crimson slip dress. The slit comes nearly to your hip on the right, the black pumps on your feet making it so the dress is just an inch from brushing the sidewalk. Your makeup is light, with a subtle smokiness around your eyes and a smear of gloss on your lips. Taehyung wonders if it’s flavored.

“Hi.”

“You look beautiful.” Taehyung watches as your eyes dip down and a faint smile traces your lips.

“Shall we?” you ask, flicking a hand toward where there are various bubbles of people gathered outside the doors to the building, all waiting for entrance.

Taehyung offers you his arm and delights at the feel of your hand settling into the curve of his elbow. It feels good to have you touching him, even in such an innocent manner. Almost too good, which is alarming, and Taehyung has a moment of weakness where he considers shaking your hand free and pretending he didn’t offer you his arm to begin with.

Pressing beyond the swell of confusing and contradicting thoughts, he turns his attention toward making it inside the gallery hall. The sooner he gets things rolling, the sooner he can put all this behind him and finally be whole again.

There is a small procession leading inside, photographers capturing snapshots of guests in front of a giant Bianchi Holdings backdrop just inside the atrium entrance. It rubs Taehyung the wrong way how there is so much money being flaunted here when just a few city blocks away there are homeless encampments. The rich really are a different breed of monster, all sharp fangs and poison.

“Did Ryan tell you any more about that surprise he has planned?” Taehyung asks, eyeing roving over the crowd for familiar faces.

Your hand flexes against his elbow. “I wish,” you murmur.

That’s concerning. Taehyung doesn’t like surprises. He’s still thinking about fitting his hands around Ryan’s neck and teaching him a lesson as the photographer snags a few photos, and you lead him inside.

The hall where the gala is being held is decorated in flashy opulence. Everything is gold. Shimmering fabrics cover the tables, and golden statues sit as center pieces along the drink bar. The chandelier hanging in the center of the banquet hall reflects the warm, yellow sunlight coming in from the large glass skylights overhead.

Just as Taehyung is steering you toward the drink table, he catches sight of Lorren Bianchi standing on the far side of the room, talking to none other than Roy Simmons. “Do you want to meet him?” Taehyung asks in a low whisper.

You stiffen by Taehyung’s side, your fingers digging into his arm, and he’s almost certain he can hear your molars grinding together. A few moments of silence pass, and Taehyung is about to say to forget it when you respond, “A drink first.”

With a whiskey in his hand and a flute of champagne in yours, Taehyung slowly ushers you across the room. He stops periodically, introducing you to other attendees, nameless cogs that are part of the big machine. Finally, Taehyung catches Bianchi’s eye, and with one flick of his Rolex-encircled wrist, he beckons you both over.

It’s no surprise that as soon as Bianchi’s attention is diverted from him, Roy Simmons slinks away into the shadows, eyes wide like he has seen a ghost when you come into view. It makes Taehyung want to laugh, but he bites his tongue instead.

Taehyung keeps half his focus on you, making sure you’re okay as you come face to face with the man who altered your entire world a few years ago, the man who has been your number one enemy since he stole the light from your life and the smile from your face.

“Ah, Mr. Kim, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t sure you were coming after I heard you canceled on Ms. Torshen.”

It takes tremendous effort for Taehyung not to grimace. It’s not such a bad thing, having canceled on his prospective business venture plus one. If things go according to plan, then Taehyung won’t even be needing that business prospect anyway.

Giving you a fond smile, Taehyung says, “Yes, well, as you can see, I’ve discovered something far more…alluring.”

He can see it, the irritation in your eyes at being referred to in such a manner, but it was discussed heavily on Saturday night that Taehyung might have to act a certain way at the gala if he was to make it believable that he’s as a typical guest.

Bianchi’s eyes sweep over you, devouring the plunging neckline and high slit of your dress. Taehyung has the sudden urge to gauge them out. Lorren Bianchi is a snake, complete with green-grey soulless eyes and too-red lips that part around a slick tongue as he licks them.

“Lorren Bianchi,” he introduces himself, offering you a be-ringed hand.

There is a mild tremble to your free hand as you slip it into his. He brings your hand up and brushes his lips over your knuckles. “Ginger. Ginger Weller.” It was agreed that tonight you would continue to be Ginger, one last performance.

“Weller? As in the old Weller Conglomerate?”

As insisted by Ryan, you nod. “Yes.”

You’d never taken on a last name for your persona, but Ryan has enough big ties to his name that it would be impressive in a place like this while not drawing too much attention. Ryan’s adoptive father retired and sold off the business for a hefty sum before filling Ryan’s bank account and running off with his mistress to Bali.

“Father?”

“Step,” you offer quickly. Taehyung can tell you’re panicking about it with this line of questioning, and now he wants all the more to throttle Ryan for this stupid idea.

“If you’ll excuse us, I need to get my donation in before I forget,” Taehyung says, interjecting into the conversation to try and steer it away from you. You’re only supposed to be his proverbial arm candy tonight, close enough to get the job done but far enough that you won’t get caught in the crossfire when things go south.

Bianchi, his gelled-back black hair glinting like a knife in the overhead light, claps Taehyung on the back. “See to it that you do. Ms. Weller, a pleasure.” He gives you an oily smile before turning and stalking away.

Taehyung sighs, steering you toward the other side of the room. “I’m going to strangle your only friend,” he mutters. “What a ridiculous idea. His surprise better be a good one, or I might just…” he trails off, shaking his head and not finishing his line of thinking. If Taehyung were to voice such dark thoughts aloud, he might just think the heat he felt along his neck was the kiss of Hellfire instead of annoyance.

“Give him a break. He was just trying to be helpful since you weren’t able to get him a pass in,” you grump beside Taehyung, but he can tell you’re not putting much effort into the chastisement, your thoughts clearly elsewhere.

It would seem suspicious if Taehyung didn’t actually stop by the donations table and at least put on the front that he’s donating. So he tugs you toward where the familiar face of Bianchi’s assistant is sitting at a table covered in a gold-crushed velvet tablecloth with a laptop in the center.

There have only been a few occasions where Taehyung has interacted with the young woman, but she doesn’t even look up from where she’s tapping away at the keys on the laptop when she says, “Mr. Kim, how much are you donating tonight? Will you be using the same method as last time?”

Taehyung clears his throat, garnering him a quick glance over the rim of her glasses. Giavona Bonetti is just as much of a snake as Bianchi is. She’s complicit in all of his devious ventures, her hands just as much covered in blood as his, except hers also gloat a tinge of green. Taehyung knows she’s tremendously jealous but also extremely greedy. Bianchi pays her for her discrepancy and infallible loyalty. When he goes down, her ship will sink, too.

“Fifty large, same method,” Taehyung says, earning a bewildered look from you. He shrugs, not sure what you expect from him in this situation, he’s trying to make it all look believable.

Giavona clicks a few things on the laptop, her eyes flicking to him once more before she gives him a saccharine smile that turns into a viper’s sneer when her eyes slide to you and says, “Done.”

“Thanks,” Taehyung murmurs, eager to get you away from the woman before she says something that would actually make him voice some very dark, choice words aloud.

“Friend of yours?” you ask, clearly amused now. Which, to Taehyung, is better than the anxiety he felt rolling off of you moments earlier.

Taehyung just gives you a pointed look that makes you laugh softly, mischief twinkling in your eyes. Taehyung decides he likes that look on you. Almost as much as he loves the dress you’re wearing, even if it is a bit distracting right now with how the fabric pulls tight every time your chest rises with your inhales.

“Come on, we should be able to make it out the back without drawing too much attention now.” Taehyung watches as the light slowly dims from your eyes, and your lips press into a thin line, bringing you back to why you’re here in the first place.

It’s easy to find a way out the back entrance. The hallways and rooms outside the banquet hall are mostly empty, with just a few service workers diligently running trays of drinks and refills on napkins. Their heads are down and ears closed, as is expected of them during events like this.

A blacked-out utility van is parked in the service alley near the dumpsters as Taehyung leads you outside. Ryan’s stoic face is barely visible through the driver's side window. He pops open the door and jumps out, complete in a full black outfit, as if he’s about to crawl through some air vents in a spy film. Taehyung rolls his eyes.

“Ready to set the world on fire?” Ryan asks you, digging in his pants pocket, his easy boy smirk rubbing Taehyung the wrong way.

You finally let go of Taehyung for the first time since you took hold of him out front. He feels bereft and suddenly far too cold for the mild weather outside. Taehyung watches as you step toward Ryan and accept the thumb drive he holds up.

“It’s all here?”

“Everything.” Ryan nods, confirming.

Taehyung steps up beside you, eyes focusing on the small stick of plastic pinched between your thumb and forefinger. “What’s the surprise you have?” he asks Ryan without taking his eyes off the flash drive.

Ryan claps his hands, rubbing them together. “I was worried that the local PD might not make it here on time to arrest Bianchi before he could slip away into the shadows, so I let on with my FBI contact that something big would be going down tonight. I sent him a copy of everything on the flash drive, and he’s ready for the show to go down before he makes a move.”

Taehyung begrudgingly has to admit that’s a good idea, a pleasant surprise. Yet, he doesn’t want to give Ryan the satisfaction of saying so, so he just grunts in response. But you, you throw your arms around Ryan and give him a hug like one Taehyung wishes you would afford him.

It’s as endearing as it is irritating, watching you have a moment of vulnerability and tenderness with Ryan. Taehyung might not care for how close Ryan is to you, but he’s glad you’ll have someone to lean on and move on with once he’s gone. It’s not that long now. Taehyung can feel it; his redemption draws closer with every step he steers you away from the path of vengeance and toward one of justice instead.

The fact that he’ll get to one day watch over you, guard you through the rest of your life, is what keeps him moving forward. It’s what helps take the sting away from realizing he’ll have to let you, this goddess that brought him so much vigor and light in such a short amount of time after a hundred years of bleak desolation, go.

“Thanks, Ry,” you say, finally pulling away from the embrace. “Are you ready?” you ask, turning your big, bright eyes on Taehyung. You’re full of life once more, ready to take on the world—or, more so, take on Lorren Bianchi. Taehyung wonders what you must be thinking, knowing everything you worked so hard for the last two years is about to pay off. He can taste the adrenaline pumping just beneath your skin. The excitement twinged with mild dollops of trepidation like lemons and cream on the back of Taehyung’s tongue.

“Ready,” Taehyung affirms, offering you his arm once more.

🤍🤍🤍

You hope Taehyung can’t tell how nervous you are. The rush of blood in your ears and the pounding of your heart have become just background noise to you at this point. You can feel the electric tingle of adrenaline under your skin. It’s what’s keeping you going.

The flash drive is cupped under your fingers, resting in the crook of Taehyung’s elbow as he leads you back inside. Ryan has the back door of the van open, waiting to take you and Taehyung away once you’ve delivered the crushing blow, toppling Bianchi’s empire.

It wasn’t easy, agreeing to follow the path Taehyung offered you instead of pursuing your original desire just to murder the bastard. You want him to suffer, just as you’re certain Danika did. Yet, you were always struggling with the fact that death was less than he deserved. You just weren’t sure how else to go about giving him an eternity of misery.

All you have to do is fit this little piece of technology into the projector that’s set up in the media room and let it play out. Roy Simmons provided everything you asked him to. Which, if you’re being honest, surprised you.

You spent the entire day yesterday pouring over everything you’ve collected over the last two years, the stuff Simmons gave you included. It was horrific, digging through all the memories and the disgusting piles of evidence. But, in the end, you know it’s going to be worth it. The evidence is irrefutable. Ryan said with all the additional information he’s been feeding the FBI over the last two years, Bianchi is dead to rights.

The added bonus that Ryan’s FBI friend is hanging out somewhere in the crowd is comforting. That was something you weren’t sure about with Taehyung’s plan. There was no guarantee that releasing all this evidence and proof of Bianchi’s foul deeds would see him suffer the way Taehyung promised he would. Now, though, you can see it all playing out perfectly.

“The speeches will be starting soon,” Taehyung says, nodding toward the stage where you can see Bianchi’s assistant setting up. There is one of those giant fake checks sitting on a rack behind her, the amount box blank for now.

“Did you really give up fifty large tonight?”

Taehyung flashes you a smile as he leads you back through the main entrance of the banquet hall. The media room is accessed from the staircase in the central lobby of the state building.

“Worth it.” He shrugs. “As dangerous and depraved as Bianchi is, most of the money is actually going to be donated to The Children’s Fund. There are mediators here that will see to that as long as the FBI doesn’t put a freeze on the accounts…which, well, is possible. I guess I’ll just have to make another donation myself.”

A thoughtful yet dark expression crosses Taehyung’s face for a moment, but it’s gone before you can think more about it. He’s still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to you, yet he feels like a lifelong friend already. There is just something enigmatic about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on but find yourself hungering for.

When you started your journey for revenge, you never thought you’d get a life beyond the final act. You were ready to go down swinging against Bianchi, ready to take that fall, knowing you did right by Danika for the mistake you made all those years ago. Yet now, you can almost taste the freedom that will come after—the life you hadn’t thought was possible.

You’re about to make a remark, something about the FBI tying up the donations, but it dies on the tip of your tongue as Taehyung stops in front of a closed door. The placard above the door reads ‘Media Station Ballroom 1 & 2’.

Trying the handle, it rattles in place. “Locked,” you state, suddenly feeling very stupid for not thinking ahead about this potential.

“Not to worry,” Taehyung assures you. He steps away from you, letting your other hand drop to your side, where you clutch your fingers around the flash drive. The sudden urge to wrap your hand back around Taehyung, to touch him in some way, overwhelms you and nearly takes you to your knees. But, you force the feeling down, steeling your shoulders and holding your place,

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, Taehyung produces a small set of tools from inside the folds of leather. “A lock pick?” you ask. He’s just full of surprises.

“It comes in handy sometimes,” Taehyung says, giving you another one of those winning smiles. “Here we are.” There is a soft popping sound and then the door swings open, revealing the darkened interior. Whoever set up the audio for the event is long gone.

Taehyung reaches for your hand and you let him take it. The feel of his slender fingers cupping around yours is even better than holding onto his elbow. It feels right, like his hand was created to fit around yours perfectly. What you wouldn’t give to step into this room with him, close and lock the door behind you, and stay there forever. No more blackmailing, no more Bianchi, nothing else would matter.

Your brow pinches together as you snap out of the fleeting fantasy. It’s not possible to just close the curtains and fade into the background. You’re not even sure where these thoughts are coming from. Focusing back on the task at hand, you point out the large panel display on the far side of the small space.

“Do you want to stay and watch the show for a bit before we disappear?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re scared to speak too loud, not for being overheard and caught, but because it feels like if you talk too loud, you’ll break the spell of what is about to happen.

Warm brown eyes, made to look more greenish with the blue glow from the electrical panel, meet yours, and the warmth you find there is comforting. For once, everything doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, like this is the true path you’re supposed to be on instead of the one from before Taehyung walked into your life.

“Maybe for just a little bit,” Taehyung says just before he helps guide your hand toward one of the USB ports on the control panel.

The flash drive slides in, clicking into place. There is a view window that spans the width of the room over the panel. It’s one-way glass that looks out over the banquet hall. From this far up, Lorren Bianchi looks like a gangster figurine from a kid’s toy set; almost harmless, but you know better. He’s accepting a mic from Giavona.

Audio filters in through a small monitoring display showing volume levels and mixer channels. The column for microphone one lights up green, the bars jumping as Bianchi’s voice reaches your ears.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us at this year’s annual Bianchi Holdings Charity Gala. We are honored for each and every one of your donations. They will be going to a wonderful cause.” Applause fills the silence following his greeting. As it tapers off, Bianchi gestures with a hand to the blank projector screen behind him. “We have prepared a short presentation to highlight the goals we are setting this year, and so you can get a glimpse into what you may look forward to from your generous donations.”

Giavona points a slender remote at the small hub beneath the screen, and the whole thing illuminates with the beginnings of the presentation the marketing team under Bianchi put together. There is a murmur of appreciation as information scrolls across the screen, introducing the list of city-wide planned projects.

Little do these people know that Ryan spliced the presentation, one of the many things Simmons provided, so it initially appears to be just as it should be. Slowly, there are subtle changes: images that were once smiling and laughing children playing in the new Bianchi Park, to ones of emaciated children locked in cages.

You watch—poised beside Taehyung, his hand still firmly around yours—as realization bubbles through the gathered masses. You can’t hear the words he’s saying, but you can see Bianchi yelling at Giavona, his face red and his hands flying through the air as he gestures wildly at the screen.

Giavona holds up the remote, and you can see her thumb jamming away at the keys, to no avail. The program Ryan encrypted on the flash drive is designed to take over full control. The only way someone can shut down the now very incriminating presentation is with the passcode Ryan set himself, which even you and Taehyung don’t know.

The screen flashes, changing from the slide-show style to a shaky phone recording. This is the moment you were dreading the most, what you weren’t sure you could stomach seeing. Yet, you hesitate to turn away, feeling like you owe it to Danika to witness this.

Her face fills the screen, with dark bruises under her eyes and her hair hanging in greasy blond clumps around her face. Bianchi moves into the frame, shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it fall to the floor beside where Danika kneels. Her hands are in her lap, her chin angled down, a slight tremor rattling her shoulders.

You refused to watch this when Ryan was putting together the flash drive on Saturday as you worked together, compiling all the information you needed to take Bianchi down. He offered to let you watch it at your own pace to prepare yourself for eventually seeing it. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe you were trying to punish yourself, but you wanted to watch it at the same time as Taehyung, at the same time as everyone else in the gathering below. You wanted to feel that searing heat and pain of devastation, a reminder that even after everything, you’re still human inside.

Taehyung’s hand tightens around yours as you both watch on, bile slowly trying to work its way up your throat. Bianchi is trying to rip down the screen now, but even as the sheet ripples, you can plainly see him walk up behind her and strip his belt off. He’s talking to the person recording, but the audio isn’t clear, just the scratching sound of fabric.

You know Roy Simmons is the man behind the camera, his phone tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. When you caught wind that there was a video out there somewhere, being passed around the inner circle as a laugh, you knew that was your ticket. That was what you needed to put the last nail in Bianchi’s coffin. Roy Simmons was a fool looking for his own source of blackmail and just so happened to end up on your list because of it.

By this time, Bianchi has abandoned the screen, trying to make his way through the crowd towards an exit, but a group of men in black suits block his path. It plays out just how you imagined it in your head, Bianchi meeting his downfall as Danika struggles for breath on the screen, belt firmly wrapped around her throat.

You gasp, jerking around, unable to watch any longer. Taehyung gathers you into his arms, pressing your face into his chest. “It’s over now,” he coos. “Shh, it’s okay.” You don’t realize you’re crying until now, heavy full-body sobs. “Come on.”

It doesn’t bother you, being swept up into Taehyung’s arms. If anything, you burrow further into his chest and cling to him as he carries you, bridal style, down the stairs and through a service hallway to one of the back entrances.

Lorren Bianchi isn’t the only one getting what’s coming to him today. The list you’ve been checking off for the last two years was sent to Ryan’s FBI friend, along with everything else you collected. There are easily two dozen people inside that will be leaving the building in restraints.

Police sirens are blaring in the distance, angry yells echoing from inside. But all you can seem to focus on is the warm body supporting yours. Everything is a blur. You don’t remember getting in the van or the drive to your apartment. You’re only vaguely aware of the semi-argument that Ryan and Taehyung have about who should take you up to your place, but it seems Taehyung wins out because minutes later, he’s settling you on your bed.

“Please don’t go,” you rasp when he steps towards the door.

Taehyung stops and slowly turns back to face you. “You should get some rest.”

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you say. You’ve spent the last few years seeking solitude, worried that if you let someone get too close, you’d hurt them when you ultimately found yourself paying for your revenge—a price you’ve never thought twice about paying. Only now, that price tag is a bit different, things are different, thanks to the man standing there with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his angelic face.

He gives you a slow nod before moving back over to the bed and giving you a gentle nudge. “For a little bit.” Taehyung smiles, helping you move over so he can sit with his back against the headboard. He guides you back down and seems surprised when you rest your head in his lap, but he doesn’t insist you move.

It could be minutes or hours later, but there is no longer sunlight peeking around the heavy drapes covering your windows, and you feel thoroughly wrung out. Your emotions sit heavy on your chest, a constant pulse that waxes between numb and aching.

Taehyung has been silent. You’d think he had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the way his thumb periodically traces soothing circles over your shoulder. Even though his presence is definitely what’s keeping you from falling apart right now, you need a distraction...a way to feel something other than that pulse sitting in the middle of your chest.

Maybe you’ll look back on this moment and chalk it up to a moment of weakness, but right now, you don’t care. You just need…something, anything. Taehyung startles as you move, pushing up onto your knees. “Taehyung,” you whisper his name like an evocation of prayer.

“What is it?” he asks, eyes searching your face.

“I need,” you begin, wringing your hands to try and keep them to yourself. It doesn’t work, your fingers capture in the lapels on his jacket. You use them as leverage to fit yourself into his lap, the slit of your dress parting over your right thigh to let you press your knees to either side of his hips. “Please.” You’re so close you can feel his accelerating breath puffing against your parted lips.

You watch as Taehyung’s throat works. His entire body is tense under yours, like he’s fighting against the urge to toss you aside and run away. Which, maybe, he is. Your thoughts flicker to how he reacted when you were touching him on the couch two nights ago, how quick he was to get away from you.

“I–I don’t…you haven’t even told me your real name,” he says, a line forming between his brows as he fists his hands into the duvet to either side of your knees.

A light laugh escapes you, and it feels good. “That’s easy,” you say, pressing yourself closer until your mouth is right beside his ear. You whisper your name before capturing his earlobe between your teeth and eliciting a moan from deep in his chest.

“Fitting for a goddess,” he murmurs. “But, I…there’s something…this isn’t—”

You lean back, smoothing your hands over his crumpled jacket, luxuriating in the feel of his lean chest under your palms as you do so. “Please, Taehyung. Make me feel something else, remind me that it was all worth it.”

Taehyung mutters something under his breath, sounding strangely prayerlike. He wraps his arms around you and anchors you against him. Conflicting emotions are dancing in his eyes, and he’s shaking his head, but his mouth meets yours in permission and acquiescence.

Opening to him comes easy, unbidden desires flaring to the surface to take over your lips and tongue. The dress slides smoothly over your head, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. Whether removed by your hands or his, clothes begin to disappear. You both pull and tear, fighting to remove all the barriers between your bodies.

You settle back on his lap, shuddering at the feel of his hard cock pressing along the slit of your pussy. Warmth kisses your skin wherever Taehyung touches. Deft fingers skate over every revealed inch, lingering to knead and savor. Heat envelopes your nipples, one after the other, as he wraps his lips around them and sucks.

“You’re so beautiful.” Taehyung emphasizes his words with vigorous sweeps of his hands over your ass and nipping bites down the valley between your breasts. “Heaven is Hell compared to you.”

You moan, enthralled by his words. Shifting your hips, you begin to rock against him, the head of his cock catching on your clit with every fervent motion. “I need you,” you gasp as he flexes his hips under you as you continue to move.

“I’ve, uh, it’s just that I haven’t—” Taehyung chokes out when you stick a hand between your thighs and grip the base of his cock, intent on sinking down onto his length.

It all makes sense now. Though, how Taehyung has managed to go his entire life remaining a virgin is a wild thought you’ll have to think on later. “Do you want to?” you ask, poised over him. You won’t do anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you might want it.

Taehyung pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, a storm brewing in his eyes. You’re certain he’s about to turn you down—gently, of course—but when he opens his mouth, it’s a pleasant surprise, “Yes.” His mouth hangs open, tongue poking out over his bottom teeth as he works a hand down alongside yours, helping you fit him against your entrance. “I do,” he grunts as he slides into your tight confines.

The swell of him inside you is the perfect mix of pain and pleasure. He’s almost too big, stretching you full, but as you begin to rise and fall over him, it turns into nothing but a swirl of hedonistic euphoria.

His exhale becomes your inhale, the breath shared between you tastes of lust and desire in ways you’ve never felt before. You’ve heard good sex described as a godly experience, but you thought it was simply an exaggeration. But the way Taehyung makes you feel, the way his body moves with yours in perfect sync, seems to transcend all your previous experiences, a level worthy of epic stories and star-bound fantasies.

You move over him, undulating your hips in a way that has you both letting out soft moans. His cock is stroking so deep you’re certain he’s connecting with your soul, washing away all of your misgivings and sins with each stroke.

“I’m going to cum,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him in an effort to pull him in even deeper. Your fingers graze over the sharp ridges and bumps on his back, and his entire form shudders against you. The puckered skin is blazing, emanating a heat you’ve never felt before. Taehyung buries his face in your neck and groans, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass as he drags you up and down his cock even faster.

It feels like reaching the pinnacle of your existence, a frozen moment in time full of stilted breaths laced with ether as you both shatter in shared rapture. Taehyung cries out, the pulse of his cock accompanying a flood of warmth between your thighs. It builds, starting at your fingertips and toes and rippling inward, feeling like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your body contracts, clamping down around him as if it’s been starved of his essence, and the only way to satiate it is to take as much of him in as possible.

With every quiver of your body, you feel Taehyung’s cock throb in tandem. It’s overwhelming, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine makes your head fuzzy. Suddenly, you feel like you’re floating, arms and legs numb but weightless.

“My beautiful goddess,” Taehyung’s voice is faint like he’s talking to you from underwater or at the end of a long tunnel. You try desperately to hang on to that rough baritone whispering sweet words, but your consciousness narrows to a point before winking out, and darkness sweeps in.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Staying isn’t a good idea. As much as it pains him to move, Taehyung knows he has to get out of here before he does something stupid like fuck you again. Squeezing his eyes shut to dispel the erotic images of you writhing in the throws of ecstasy above him, he gently untangles your body from his and retreats with his clothes into your living room.

He’s messed up. Again. Taehyung can feel the burn of gluttony and lust coating his skin. Skin that is still sticky from your sweat and cum. There is a distinct knot in his chest, a thrumming point of awareness that tells him despite his fuck up, he’s still succeeded in his mission. You’re on the right path. He’s brought you to absolution. Perhaps, if he could leave quickly enough, none of his brothers would have noticed his latest transgression.

Dressing quickly, Taehyung takes stock of everything else he feels. There is a very prominent burning ache where his wings once were, your touch still lingering on the scarred flesh. He hates to leave you like this, especially after what the both of you just shared, but it’s for the best. At least you’ll still retain your memories of him, and you have a bright future ahead of you, or else all this was for nothing.

Taehyung shoves his feet into the shoes he left by the door and then pulls it open. The hallway is empty, the elevator beckoning him on. The first step into the hallway is easy, but the second feels like he’s trudging through mud. He can’t even take a third.

“You just can’t seem to quit, can you?”

Fear lances through Taehyung as that voice registers to him. It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in one hundred years. A flash of fiery light at the end of the hall reveals Gabriel in all his Divine and Angelic glory, a face like lightning and eyes that blaze with flaming power.

“Brother Gabriel,” Taehyung chokes on his brother’s name, shame thickening his tongue.

“I knew we were far too lax in your punishment, Taehyung. One hundred years and yet you still couldn’t keep it in your pants. You’re a disgrace,” Gabriel spits, eyes flashing with rage.

“Brother, please—” Taehyung tries.

“You are no brother of ours!” Gabriel cuts in, lashing a hand through the air.

With a sad look in his eyes, Raquel steps out from around Gabriel. Taehyung catches a glimpse of the Divine Chamber of Justice behind them. “You are no longer welcomed within our Sacred Groves or Holy Lands, Taehyung. Heaven casts you out. We, the Council of Grace and Purity, cast you out. May your soul rot for all eternity in the Fiery Pits of Hell for your sins and folly.”

In the next instant, Taehyung is falling, cartwheeling through a cloud of brimstone and smoke. He hits hard, the impact cratering the dry, pocked dirt beneath him. The air is so hot it sears his lungs with his first ragged breath. Something twitches under him. Agony blares through his body as he realizes his wings, once again where they should be, broke his fall.

Only now, they are not the snow white of before but a black so deep it seems to suck up the feeble light around him. They are splattered with red, crumpled feathers and shattered tips. They droop pitifully down his back and over the dusty ground as he sits up, fighting back the urge to scream from the pain.

Taehyung is whole once again, yet more broken than ever before. Despair rages through him, but not at his own loss but for the thought that maybe his brothers are now punishing you, too. It’s torture to think of them removing the memory of him from your mind. Taehyung lets out a heart-wrenching scream, the sound echoing far and wide in the emptiness around him.

“Peace, Brother.” The voice infiltrates his mind, cutting off his ragged scream.

“Who’s there?” Taehyung asks, voice raw with emotion.

The most beautiful creature materializes a few feet away. Lithe body, hair the color of bottled ink, and eyes darker than any pit. Dark wings flare out, casting dappled starlight over Taehyung that kisses his pain away.

“Your salvation.”

“Samael?” Taehyung whispers in awe as his once brother steps closer.

There is a coy smile on Samael’s face. “I’m surprised you recognize me, Brother. It’s been quite some time since I last saw your handsome face.”

“What are you doing here?”

Samael throws his head back in a full-body laugh. “Oh, dear sweet Taehyung, you get cast down into my realm and need to ask me why I’m here?”

Taehyung looks around, but there is nothing else here, just an endless stretch of the same gritty, ashy dirt. He slowly climbs to his feet, swaying only slightly as his body adjusts to the weight of his wings on his back once more.

“This is the 9th Circle?” he asks hesitantly.

“Holy Hells, no,” Samael chuckles, much more subdued this time. “This is Limbo, Purgatory, whatever you may want to call it. It’s an in-between place. A place where new souls come before I decide where they go. Those pompous white-fuzzed peacocks in Heaven think they get to choose where in Hell beings go, but they are sorely mistaken. No one makes that decision but those of us who rule this Hellspace.”

Taehyung swallows thickly, ready to accept his fate. “I’m ready. Send me to my fate, then, Brother.” It feels right, to bequeath Samael his proper title of Brother. He may not have seen Samael in that light for a long while, but Taehyung is part of this faction now…he’s as fallen as Samael and the others.

Samael claps his hands together, the stone-colored robes he’s wearing swish as he strides closer to Taehyung. “So eager to burn in Hell? All for some pussy. I always knew you were one of us, Brother. A breaker of the rules, someone crafted to go against the grain.”

“It’s not—it wasn’t,” Taehyung wants to protest what Samael is saying, but even he knows the truth and can’t bring himself to lie anymore. “It was worth it.” That truth sits better on his tongue. Because, even though he’s now facing an eternity of torment for it, seeing you smile and get lost in him will be the memory that sees him through to his end.

“Given the chance, would you do it all over again, just the same?” Samael asks, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Taehyung doesn’t have to think too hard about that. Sure, there are a few things he’d do differently, like sock Ryan in his perfect mouth for insisting you use his last name at the Gala for one, but everything with you? The only thing Taehyung would do is introduce himself to you sooner.

“More or less,” he finally says.

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Samael points a slender finger at Taehyung’s chest. “Your potential would be wasted in Hell. So, I have something else to offer you.”

Taehyung listens to Samael with rapt attention, his eyes growing wider and the hunger in his heart increasing with every word. It’s simple to accept the offer, Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. Moments later, deal signed, he finds himself standing back in front of your apartment door.

Creeping back into your place, Taehyung leaves a trail of his clothes as he makes his way back into your bedroom. He’s not sure how much actual time has passed, but you’re still soundly asleep, the sun nowhere to be seen outside your curtains.

It feels good to slide beneath the sheets. Even asleep, you reach for him, cuddling close with a contented sigh. Your memories haven’t been tampered with, Samael assured him of as much.

The phantom feel of his wings tickles along his spine. It’ll take some getting used to, having them back but shrouded the way they are. It’s part of Samael’s deal, keeping his wings. He’s now one of the Fallen, a guardian of the outcasts, the beloved beings that don’t always fit into the mold set forth by Heaven.

And the best part? He gets to keep you, too. Which, in the end, makes falling not hurt all that much. No, it doesn’t hurt at all.

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