superloverholic. (_tabris) wrote,

big bang; if i sang you a not-love song (devouring mix)

if i sang you a not-love song (devouring mix)
r, top/g-dragon, 1006
au, vaguely iris!verse, also my first time writing in this fandom which was both nervewracking and a lot of fun. :D a remix of for the love of the job by aoki_unleashed for kpop_ficmix (originally posted here).

It’s an accident when you run into him at the club, really. He’s a magnet for the spotlight, drawing everyone’s eyes without trying, never mind the fact that he looks far too young to be in a place like this. You watch from the shadows, fascinated despite yourself, and when he approaches the bar for a drink (a shot he downs as if it were water), you ask his name before your brain can kick in with what a bad idea this could turn out to be. “G,” he says with a calculating stare that’s gone so fast you know anyone else would have missed it. You give him another shot in lieu of your name. Thirty minutes later you’re tasting salt on his inked skin and pressing him against the stall of a bathroom that’s nearly too dirty to take a piss in, wondering how your real name would sound in his mouth.

Incoming Message: Mission details, target information. (1 attachment)

No expression passes over your face when you’re introduced to him the next day but you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes before he goes blank, intensity of the night before channeled into something you recognize all too well. He’s promising, you think, nodding in greeting as you finger the grip of your pistol, comparing it to the feel of his wrists under your hand.

Outgoing Message: Target acquired.

Making yourself hit just to the left of dead center takes more concentration than you’d expected, fighting your instinct not something you’re required to do all that often. In your line of work, efficiency is the key to survival, but this time the key is blending in. You try to remember the kinds of mistakes you made five, ten years ago, back when you were learning how to shoot instead of studying for high school entrance exams like all of the other boys your age. After all, you’re a trainee now.

Incoming Message: Timeline has been extended. More information needed.

His wrists are as slender as you remember although his legs are stronger, breaking your hold with a well-placed kick at odds with the open grin on his face. Later that night, you challenge him to a private rematch in your bed instead of under the watchful eyes of your instructors. You don’t mind him on top of you nearly as much when his thighs are gripping your hips and his head’s thrown back, breathing entreaties to gods neither of you believes in anymore.

Outgoing Message: Target proving competent.

You’re assigned together for your “first” mission. Under the cover of nightfall, instinct is impossible to fight and this time you don’t even try. The two of you move together fluidly with an ease that doesn’t surprise you as much as you think it should. There’s something a little like admiration in the way he looks at you afterward. A lifetime ago you might have felt guilty. All you feel now is the heat of his mouth on your cock, the warmth of your gun at your side, and how surprisingly soft his skin is when you smear the blood and gunpowder streaked across his cheekbone.

Incoming Message: Hold position and assess threat level.

Following him is child’s play. That’s not to say he isn’t efficient—he is, completing his mission objectives with a growing ease—but his optimism hasn’t quite worn off yet. You do quietly make sure that you’re the only one, though.

Outgoing Message: Acquiring data.

He catches on to your little tagalong game the fourth time out and that spark of eternal optimism bursts into a flame of anger that draws you in, making you reckless in a way you haven’t been in years. This time you taste more copper than salt and there’s a dangerously sharp blade flat against your jugular. You haven’t felt this alive in a long time.

Incoming Message: Report data.

On your next assignment, he’s the one tailing you and you let him play his own game for as long as he likes. He’s a quick learner and no one can say he’s been slacking off on his lessons. You lose him in the crowd only to announce your presence with your mouth on the back of his neck and your arms trapping his by his sides. In seconds, his gun is digging into your ribcage, safety off, and he’s taking over your mouth with hot breath and sharp teeth. You fuck him on the edge of a rooftop sixty stories above the bustle of Seoul’s nightlife; the marks his nails leave in your forearms, your thighs, your shoulders last for weeks.

Outgoing Message: Current threat level 6, approximately. Potential threat level much higher.

You’re up with the sunrise and out his door before the morning fog has started to burn away. Streetlights shut off, leaving the streets in murky half-light as sleepy businessmen pass by either side of you, lost in their thoughts.

Incoming Message: Remove threat.

Sleep isn’t something you come by often in the presence of others, distrust far too ingrained into your subconscious to let your guard down even the slightest bit. It’s ironic, you think, as you wake to his lips on your skin with words far too sweet for either of you spilling out from between them, that he would be the one to break that barrier. Still, it’s not love. You’re not entirely sure what it is, if you’re completely honest with yourself, but you do know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s personal. His pulse is fast under your thumb, too fast, speeding faster as you curl your fingers under his jawline just to feel him arch into your touch. He doesn’t fight back for long—you know the movements of his body almost as well as you do your own by now, the beats of his heart slowing with every second you squeeze his throat. Your only regret is never finding out how he’d sound breathing your name.

Outgoing Message: Threat neutralized. Mission complete.

bbf | dw | ao3

Tags: # r, % big bang, & big bang: top/g-dragon
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