This is Mari from @mal-lunar-28. 20s. MDI. This a sideblog, where I re-blog AUs/fanfics. The purpose of this blog is to keep on track of the fics I haven't read yet and some other posts. I read mostly skz 18+ stories. my twitter.
.âą:ïœĄâ§ âĄ â§ïœĄ:âą kinktober materialist (the works are not mine)
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âł A class project requires you to interview the most successful entrepreneur in the city; a man whose reputation is as shaded as his heart. What to do then, when the attraction is so magnetic?
âł Bang Chan x female reader
âł 8.2k
âł A mini '50 Shades'-ish, strangers to lovers, love/lust at first sight, ceo Chan, economics student reader, whirlwind romance, smut throughout
! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !
âIf you were so set against going through with this, why did you agree?â she gripes.
âI didnât. You elected me in my absence and informed me by text message.â
Gina shrugs amidst an ornery grin. âShould have made it to class then.â
âMy car broke downââ
âAnd my mental state will be soon to follow if you donât stop complaining. You know how important this interview is for us. Professor Sims is already chomping at the bit for the finished project.â
One of the busy baristas calls a customerâs name from the counter, the rumble of coffee machines drowning out the inoffensive background indie music.
âThatâs because you hyped it up,â you remind her, sitting upright to mimic her pose and voice with more nasal inflection than is probably accurate: ââWeâre going to interview the Chan Christopher Bang for our economics project, itâll be the best!ââ
Gina grimaces into her latte. âYeah, alright. Point taken.â
You sag back into your seat. âI still donât even know how you managed it.â
âThe appointment? I have my ways.â
The look you afford her is dubious at best; she leans over the table, determination in her green eyes.
âI know what youâre worried about,â she intuits. âHeâs really not all that bad.â
Your stomach churns uncomfortably. That she even feels compelled to offer such reassurances speaks to the dire magnitude of things.
âYou canât possibly know that for a fact.â
She rolls her eyes.
âThe rumours around this guy are shady, Gina,â you add.
âOh, please.â
âThereâs no smoke without fire, is all Iâm saying.â Your hands come up in defence.
âI donât understand why you let it bother you,â Gina sighs. âEven if all the petty rumours are true, it doesnât change the fact that heâs a literal Tony Stark in the flesh and that interviewing him will give us so much extra credit weâll be drowning in it until graduation. Not to mention the clout weâll get just for having his name attached to us.â
You huff indignantly, as irritated by her insight as with your own sour mood. âI donât want the name of a psycho attached to me, thank you very much.â
âOh my god, spare me from the morally upright of this world,â Gina groans into the air. âDudeâs allegedly into a bit of bondage and that makes him a psycho?â
Gina finishes her latte, swiping the foam from her top lip. âAppointment is for twelve tomorrow,â she says flatly. âDon't forget the Dictaphone and make sure whatever notes you take are readable.â
She rises from her chair, stepping out from around the table. âIf you unclench enough to make it there, that is.â
Thereâs something unsettlingly portentous about it.
***
The corporate offices of B.C.C. Holdings are a monolith; a statement of power and money amongst the pond life of the city.
Stepping into the sleek marble lobby, the first and most prominent sensation is nausea. It seems that even despite your attempts to look the part with a (wholly uncharacteristic) pencil skirt and smart blouse, you very much donât feel it, and thatâll doubtless be the first thing anyone in this bloodhound kennel will notice about you.
Approaching the reception desk manned by a woman that can only have been poached from a Vogue editorial, you summon your courage.
âHello,â you smile. She glances up from her computer. âIâm here to see Mr. Bang.â
âMr. Bang sees people by appointment only.â She turns back to her computer.
âRâ Right, of course. Sorry; I do have an appointment? Twelve oâclock?â Quite why the irrefutable fact comes out like a question, youâre not sure, but the woman quirks a groomed brow and asks for your name. A few tip-taps on her keyboard, and she says, âElevator to the top floor, take a seat in the waiting room.â
âOkay. Thank you.â
The top floor, it transpires, is the thirtieth floor, and the vertigo of the elevator does nothing to ease the rising sickness that pangs your gut. Glad to be free of it when the doors glide open to reveal a neat and minimalist seating area, you teeter to the nearest cushioned chair and slump into it. The relief on your aching soles is pleasantâyouâre not so practiced in the art of wearing heelsâbut after ten minutes of waiting ticks to twenty minutes, then thirty-five, your impatience begins to make reckless suggestions.
You send a text to Gina to immortalise the moment; you want this on record.
<< still waiting for this asshole. even tony stark was punctual.
And as you send it, the elevator doors ping and slide smoothly open for the same model as was on reception. She smiles, looking over the top of your head as she says, âMr. Bang will see you now.â
You think about voicing a complaint for the tardiness, but are instead forced to hop up from your chair and jog down the connecting hallway after her hasty pace, just narrowly avoiding stumbling over your heels. At the end of it, she stops before a set of rich mahogany doors, knocking twice.
A voice comes from the other side: âEnter.â
She does so, pushing and holding the left door open for you. Hand in hand with trepidation, you step inside, and find you can no longer recall the image your expectations had created of this very place; how should the office of a man such as Chan Christopher Bang look? Well: floor to ceiling glass walls run the front and left-hand of the room, the view of the city from such lofty heights uninterrupted. On the plush crimson carpet rests luxurious furniture; a leather suite of armchairs around a short glass table, shelving built into the right-hand wall displaying a selection of books, liquors and crystal. A fireplace sits unlit near the leather suite, a rug of tiger skin sprawled out before it. Concealed spotlights track the length of the ceiling, the daytime hours rendering them surplus to requirement, but you imagine their glow to be soft come nightfall.
The clicking of the closing door accompanies the harsh click of your dry swallow.
âDo come in. Donât be shy.â
At the head of the room and seated at a grand desk of pristine burlwood is the man himself. Striking in every way one may strikeâand he does; make no mistakeâthe first impression is one of dripping expense. His dark tailored suit compliments the dewy pale of his complexion, the waves of his thick blonde hair reveal his high forehead. His features are strong; sharp nose, plush lips, deep cheekbones all unthinkably defined, and his fingers are beringed, his wrist adorned with a Rolex.
âYou must be my twelve oâclock,â he says, rising from his desk chair.
It says something to your addled state that on his statement, you scoff out loud. He stops his approach, face drawn with amusement as your mortification registers stiltedly. âI suppose we are late getting started, yes,â he smiles. âMy conference call ran over. Turns out doing business abroad takes some fine communication.â
Ground, swallow.
He crosses the rest of the office, hand outstretched when heâs close enough, which you take amicably.
âIâ Itâs nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.â God, your voice is chalky.
âChan, please.â He shakes your hand gently, an all-encompassing grip that might make your stomach clench just a little. In closer proximity, he appears even more attractive; kind eyes, you note. A slight slant to his smile. Veiny hands.
âWould you like to take a seat?â he then asks, gesturing with his other hand to the armchairs at his desk.
âSure.â
Moving to the designated area is done so under his (watchful?) gaze burning something of a hole into your back until youâre seated, and itâs with muted disdain that you narrowly stop from falling back into the sheer size of it; were you to sit with posture in mind, spine straight against the seat, your feet wouldnât touch the floor. Perching on the edge with legs crossed is as comfortable a position as you can manage.
Chan takes up seat at his desk, chin propped on his knuckles as he watches you fish your notepad and Dictaphone from your little bag.
âIs it okay to record this?â you ask as an afterthought.
Chan nods flatly, eyes trained to you. Something warm curls around your chest.
âAâ And I'll be taking notes too, if thatâsââ
âThatâs fine.â
Do you imagine the way his gaze drops brieflyâalmost accidentallyâto your legs? You clear your throat, pulse spiking. God.
âThis interview is for...?â he then asks.
Glad of an excuse to talk (if a little miffed at his apparent ignorance) you do just that: âA school project; our final project, I mean.â
âI see. What are you studying?â
âBusiness and economics.â
âUndergrad?â
You nod. âGraduating this year. This project makes up thirty percent of our final grade.â
âThirty percent, huh?â he muses softly, running his fingers absentmindedly under his jaw. You tear your eyes from him, down to your notepad.
âSâ So, if you donât mind, may I ask you some questions?â
He smiles. âThatâs what weâre here for, isnât it?â
âAlright,â you shift, balancing the pad on your knee, clicking the Dictaphone to record. âMr. Bang,â you begin. Chan purses his lips in something akin to disapproval; you continue regardless. âCould you tell me what inspired you to start a company?â
âI wanted to be rich.â
You glance at the Dictaphone, as though itâs an active audience. âOf course,â you indulge him. âLet me rephrase that: aside from financial gain, what was your motivation?â
âI wanted to be powerful,â he deadpans.
Irritation simmers under your skin. âCould you elaborate?â
Chan sinks into his chair, beringed fingers linked at his chest. âDoesn't everyone crave power?â he asks rhetorically. âPower brings control, and control is everything.â
You scribble that down in the notepad. âI see.â
âNot profound enough for you?â
Looking up at him, eyes lock over the desk; your pulse throbs. âItâs fine. Thank you.â
He drops into a smirk, though what precisely is so amusing to him escapes you. It strikes you that heâs not taking this all that seriously, which you would more fully be able to appreciate were it not for the taut knot of tension in your gut: heâs a powerful entrepreneur, youâre a pestering student, the worlds of which donâtâand shouldnâtâcollide. And thatâs the only reason youâre so out of sorts, you suppose. What other could there be?
Running too hot to be comfortable, blouse sticking to your clammy back, you shrug off your suit jacket quickly. âNext question,â you preface, glancing up at the man whose chin now rests on a formed fist. He lifts a groomed brow expectantly.
âDo you have a mantra, Mr. Bang? Or a motto? Something you live or do business by?â you ask.
He shakes his head slightly. âNo.â
âNo?â
âI make my own way.â
âAs in...?â
He runs his tongue over his teeth. âBusiness is a brutal world. If you end up in it, youâll understand what I mean by that, but until then rest assured that the one thing thatâll serve you well is loyalty. Whether thatâs to yourself or someone else is your choice, but whatever path you take, stick to it. Die on it. That consistency will earn you respect; itâll earn you anything you want. Those that work under meâthat are loyalâare rewarded handsomely for their services. Those that arenât? Well...â he shrugs gently. Ominously. Your pulse spikes again.
âI adopt the same philosophy in my personal life,â he then adds, and the voice at the back of your mind that pleads with you not to ask goes pitifully ignored.
âHow so?â
His teeth indent his plush lower lip, and then he says, âWithin sex, mostly.â
The illicit word rolling from his tongue sinks over you like sun-warmed honey; he rises slowly from his chair, rounding the burlwood desk, fingertips dragging across the polished surface as he goes. Perching on the lip of it and positioned right before you, the elegant length of his thick legs hugged by expensive fabric is apparent, the pinch of the suit accentuating his slim waist, further revealed when he undoes the single jacket button for it to fall open on him. Carefullyâas though aware the kitten he stares down may yet scarperâhe reaches across to click off the Dictaphone. Your breath hitches tightly, gut swirling a mix of emotions and wanting that are not only unfamiliar, but so heavily immediate itâs more a cause for concern than a sensation you dare to embrace.
And to that end:
âI, uh... I think thatâs everything, Mr. Bang. Thank you for giving me your time.â
Rising from the chair to haphazardly gather your belongings, your notepad slips from your hand as you hastily cross the office. Turning to retrieve it, he gets there before you do.
âYou hardly wrote a thing down,â he says thoughtfully, examining the page.
You laugh nervously. âItâs all up here,â you tap your temple, then reach for the notepad. Chan holds it still, his scrutiny moved from the item to you.
âMâ May I have it back, please?â
âAre you sure you have enough content?â
âYes. Plenty. Of course. So much. Thank you, Mr. Bang.â
His jaw ticks. âDidnât I ask you to call me Chan?â
âDid you?â
âMy; what a short attention span. That sort of thing can be trained, you know.â
He steps towards you, all authority and dark intent and inexplicable pull that only marginally has you fearing for your mortal soul; curse the rumours about him. Curse that you know anything about him, because itâs only that which stops you fromâ
âMy next engagement is in an hour,â he breathes, weighted gaze under thick lashes recognising the inchoate sparks in your own. He drops the notepad with a light thump, from his pocket retrieving a tiny remote control that he lifts to your eyes. A sharp click on the device and an electronic lock rings off; the doors?
Your bag falls from your arm, jacket and Dictaphone following promptly. Itâs harder to breathe in his space, and perhaps that poses the reason for your head spinning. In stepping towards him, he opens his arms to you; colliding with his broad chest and sinking into his embrace spells the end of the pretence.
You wonder if this is what is meant by âthe sparkâ; the tight coil of hunger that compels you to open to this stranger in ways youâd never ordinarily entertain with a regular person, let alone one so obscure.
Chan kisses you with the caution a child might possess in opening a new toy; theyâre fearful of breaking it, yet desperately keen to get beyond the plastic packaging. Soft and pliant against your mouth, you burn with the urge to have him fiercer, your clutching of his jacket lapels intended to that effect, but Chan resists it. Rather, he breaks away and seems so vastly put together in contrast to your gradually slipping state of mind. He licks his lips, takes your hand to lead you back to the seat previously occupied. Guiding you into itâfeet off the floor and spine against the seatâyou watch breathlessly as he shrugs off the jacket, folding it over his arm and to the desk.
âYouâll answer some of my questions, now,â he says, attention turned to his shirt as he untucks it roughly from his trousers. A slow undoing of the buttons from hem to chest reveal the definition of his abdomen; hard ridges, smooth planes, all strength. Wanting throbs in all unmentionable places. âHow do you like to do business?â
Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose thick forearms, he unclasps his Rolex, dumps it to the desk. Hands outstretchedâfirst left, then rightâhe peels the rings from each slim finger, similarly reckless in his depositing of them.
âI... I donât know. I donât really... do business.â
He hums thoughtfully. âShame.â And sinks to his knees, hands curled around the chair armrests for veins to protrude. âYou could strike a wicked deal or two.â
âI could...?â you ask uselessly.
He nods, and then rasps, âWith me.â
The metaphor clearly having transgressed to more intimate realms, the proposition is a blatant one; as bold as the man who seeks control in all facets of his life.
âYou intrigue me. Not much does anymore.â
Unsure what to say, the relief of his touch at your ankle purges you of need to speak anyway; you draw tight, biting back a breathless sigh. From ankle to calf he maps out a path, when at your knee he stops on the hem of your pencil skirt. Your body feels alight. Seconds away from outright pleading for it, he cranes up and leans towards you, voice kept low as he says:
âWith your agreement, Iâd like to make you come on my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock. Iâd like to make you come at my leisure, at my beck and call, at my convenience. Iâd like you to submit to me, darling, and Iâll reward you so lusciously you wonât even recall your life before me.â
The spreading of your legs is your non-verbal agreement; Chan seeks it anyway, your chin held by thumb and forefinger.
âIs that a yes?â
âYes.â
And the kiss is so true to his promise; a reward, firm enough to drag a longing sigh from you when he breaks it. Back to his knees he sinks, your legs hooked over his shoulders for heels to dangle from your toes. Skirt pushed up and the annoyance of underwear pulled aside, youâre barely permitted to catch a breath when he sucks his own middle finger, the digit slick for the glide of entrance to be just so: he fills you slowly, carefully, the ridges and bumps of knuckle and joint felt intimately.
âSo wet already,â he muses, and then, âHow does that feel?â
âGâ Good...â
Warmth coils around you, blooms out from the lower depths of your belly and in your groin. Chan works you patiently, a steady pace of fingering set to ease you into the freefall.
âYouâre tight, darling. So tight.â His index finger joins the effort. âCan feel you opening for me.â
Your moan is obscene; thereâs something to be said for the efficacy of Chanâs mouth, his voice, his words that accompany the building of pressure his fingers coax.
âGood girl.â
The consistent drag is delicious, your chasing of the sensation enacted by driving your hips down and grinding. Unabashed eye contact is held when Chan presses a kiss to your inner thigh, a high blush on his cheekbones, across his nose. The rolling pleasure peaks to a sharp spike; you gasp, then liquefy, managing only to choke out, âWâ What...?â
Chan grins, white and wolfish. âRight here?â He does it again; curls fingers up and presses gently, holding the pressure. Your body spasms, your moans come broken, and he hums in delight. âYeah. Right there.â
âChanââ
âYour g-spot,â he informs softly, as though the information be some grand revelation that should change the course of things. In a way, it is. Youâve never found it by yourself. How is that a man you met a little under an hour ago knows you better than your practiced hand?
And as the peaking pleasure orders your limbs to tremble, your pants to break, Chan presses his tongue to your centre, a wet drag across his fingers and your sensitivity.
âTaste good, darling.â
âOh, Jesusââ
The onslaught is near unbearable, and it is the perfect management of it that makes it so. The man knows beyond all reason when too much is just that, easing on fingers or tongue when one threatens to outdo the other in overstimulation. Buried between your thighs in a manner that would suggest heâs comfortable to call it home, itâs with lightheaded surrender you begin to fall into euphoria.
A strong, veined hand keeps your thighs spread and pliant, the fingers of the other still buried warm and snug. His attentive licking and mouthing of your centre muffles the exclamations of pleasure he himself emits; when you feel it coming, you warn him.
âChan... Chan, Iââ
He hushes you. âI know. Let it go. That was our agreement, wasnât it?â
And amidst convulsions that wrack you with more violence than grace, a rush of pressure is relieved by fluid that drips and gushes from youâsomehowâover his fingers, his chin. Chan pulls back, eyes ablaze with satisfaction and awe, the broken staccato of his name echoing around the office.
âFuck me,â he mumbles absently when the aftershocks are passed, when youâre more able to open your eyes, to be present. Up from his knees and over you he looms, a wet kiss planted on dry lips.
âPleasure doing business with you, darling.â
***
And a pleasure it is, doing business with Chan Christopher Bang.
A three-month long pleasure, to be precise about it, and when the man had so brazenly promised that life after him would be different, he had been sorely correct.
Living something of a double life came almost too easily, for it was as much a necessity in accommodating the manâs need for discretion as it was a thrill you took quietly. By day, the astute and studious economics student approaches the milestone that is her graduation. By night, the proverbial skin is shed and like a snake coaxed from its wicker, she wakes and slithers to her master, curling around him until her hold threatens to choke.
Yet such routine wasnât without effort: after the initial encounter in his office, you tumbled down the predictable spiral of crisis and regret. He was a stranger; how could you do such a thing with a stranger? He was a powerful man; a statement against everything the feminist in you stood for. So why, then, did she not raise her voice in protest when you fell to your knees for him? Why did she not drag you away by the collar when you fell into him? Why did she not slam the door on him when he turned up at your house a fortnight after the illicit event, a bouquet of delicate crimson in one hand and bottle of chilled Cristal in the other?
âBusiness requires an adaptive approach,â heâd said warmly and on your questioning as to how heâd found you, though in truth you suspected tracking someone down was not least among his many capabilities.
Regardless, the feminist had looked on with dissociative acceptance as the man in the suit worth more than your car ravaged you on the sofa, against the countertops, in your bed. Whatever of your dignity remained was left only by his grace; for all his persistence, Chanâs respect was apparent in his handling of you, both physically and emotionally. In tearing you to pieces he was allowed to put you back together, and now, at the three-month mark, you suppose protesting any longer is a waste of precious energy.
You are his; he is yours.
Thus your lifeânewly unpackaged and box freshâgoes on.
***
The raw obscenity of the moan you fill Chanâs office with might be apt to draw outside attention were it not for the (recently installed) soundproofing.
âGoodness,â he grins. âExtra vocal for me today, hm?â
Too highly strung to entertain being verbal, trembling around the rampant rabbit the man holds steady inside you, your clenched fists are forced undone when with a quiet click, he ramps up the intensity of vibration.
He watches the way your eyes roll back with quiet awe, then turns attention back to his work. You wonder how it is that he has such a knack for stripping you down to skin whilst remaining fully clothed himself; poised on his expensive burlwood desk, legs spread and vulnerable, the feminist shakes her head at you in dire disapproval.
You ignore her.
With one hand he taps and clicks the laptop, with the other sets a slow pace of aided fucking possibly designed to drive you mad before it drives you to any semblance of orgasm, and thatâs no product of inattention; Chan knows very well what he does, and why he does it.
âChanââ
He glances at you, all perfect nonchalance.
âPlease...â
âPlease?â he mimics. âWhat are we pleading for now?â The toy glides deeper; you liquefy inside.
âWant toâ Need toââ
âOh, you want to come?â He hums, then purses his lips. âFor such a vocal little thing you have an awfully hard time articulating, darling.â
He twists the toy, your sensitivity clenching around it.
âFuck... I wonât have a hard time soaking that laptop and your dumb suit in a minuteââ
Chan scoffs, eyes alight. âSo she does speak. Shame that itâs backchat.â He withdraws the toy carefully, slowly, the emptiness of sensation leaving you a deflated ruin. âMaybe Iâve spoiled you, darling. Been too generous in my affections. I have an empire to run, yet here I am, making sure youâre looked after.â
You swallow with a harsh click, his careless tossing of the rampant rabbit to the desk preceded by the way he grabs your ankles and drags you into his lap, straddling him. Strong hand closes around your throat gently, the pad of his thumb under your chin ensures your rapt attention. Plush lips speak against yours:
âTake my belt off.â
Your compliance is immediate; Chan noses down your jaw as you strip the leather from his waist. He takes it from you and says softly, âHands behind your back.â
In doing so, the belt is wrapped carefully around your wrists, secured by metal buckle. Unable to touch him or balance yourself or use them at all, Chan supports you by an arm wrapped around your body, lifting you briefly to free himself from his trousers.
âI should be more selfish,â he breathes, the blushed head of his cock a prod against your centre. âTake what I want.â
And in lowering you gently, he impales you. Gradual fullness renders you lightheaded, the stretch just shy of painful with the girth he offers; Chan is a powerhouse in all ways that matter. He draws tight and with a tug on the belt at your wrists, your back is bowed from him, your chest exposed. He licks a slow stripe through the chasm of your cleavage, a thrust of finality snapping him to full sheath.
âFuckââ
And the pace he sets is relentless, your bouncing in his lap and on his cock only controlled by the hand he keeps around your throat, anchoring you.Â
âThat better, baby?â he grunts. âThis what you wanted? To be stuffed so full you canât think?â
âNghâ Yesââ
âSuch a pretty little toy for me to play with, huh?â He snaps upwards, thrusts deep. âFit around me so wellââ
Weak in his arms and plummeting towards orgasmâthe tenderness of his earlier ministrations exacerbating the fallâyour chin is held up, hot lips speak against your mouth: âLook at me.â
Though glassy his visage is, the beauty of the man is unmistakable. Even when so steeped in his rampant lust, he maintains a level of composure that serves as a perpetual reminder of who he is, what he has, the things heâs done. Touched by hands that shaped the city, kissed by lips that commandeer thousands, itâs a head spinning notion to know that of everything he possesses, in this moment, he craves only you.
Held close, Chan urges you into collapse. âFinish with me, darling. Want to feel you.â
Breaths and groans amalgamating so that one voice may not be distinguished from the other, you find ruin in his embrace. Chan swiftly unwinds the belt from your wrists; your arms slung up and around his neck bring the satisfaction of soft blonde between your fingers, of his head buried in your neck amidst his firm thrusts that slow, that falter, that bring him to crumble just enough so his perfect countenance slips when he kisses your sweat slick skin and whispers, âThank you.â
A bittersweet thing that the weight of the statement is unknown to you.
***
With as much enthusiasm as you possess for economics, even you are inclined to admit that the lectures may induce occasional daydreams.
Notepad defiled with meaningless inky doodles and nonsensical words picked up from your Professorâs monologue, itâs a small joy when your phone on the desk buzzes for your attention. In checking it, a text message reads:
>> We have a thing tonight.
As presumptuous as ever, you inwardly grin.
<< we do?
>> Yes. Black tie, so wear something nice.
<< got a tie i can borrow then? lol
You chew your bottom lip as the response comes in:
>> No, but Iâve a few shirts Iâd love to see you naked in.
Giddy delight whirls through your gut; you pinch your forearm surreptitiously.
>> Car will come for you at 8.
Time enough to pop to one of the boutiques in the city and pick something decent to wear up, at least.
<< ok. see u later Mr. B
>> â„
***
With class finished and all present making their respective rushes to the exit, youâre no exception, gathering your things and slinging them into your backpack. Hitched over your shoulder and on your way out, your name is called across the lecture hall. In turning to it, Gina is barrelling towards you.
âHey! Wait just a damn minute!â
âGina, I really have to goââ
She grabs your wrist before you can scarper too far, the sudden and harsh contact on theâuntil now, pleasantlyâsore skin a shock to your system. You yank it from her; Gina stares dumbfounded until disapproval glooms her expression.
âWhatâs going on?â
âWhâ Nothing!â
âGirl, you better not think Iâm fool enough to believe your dirty liesââ
You reach out to her. âAlright. Okay. Something is, but I canât really give you details.â
She eyes you dubiously. You half expect the tantrum, but it doesnât come. She simply sighs, âBut youâre okay, right?â
âI am.â
âPromise?â
âPromise,â you reassure her.
She rolls her eyes, pulls you into a warm hug and on release, spins you about-face by the shoulders. âGo get yours, then!â she hollers, shoving you towards the door.
âIâll call you!â you grin.
âBetter had!â
***
Laden with shopping bags full of clothes on return to your modest one-bedroom house, you wonder if itâs as much the obvious testament to your indecisiveness as it looks.
With just enough time to shower and dress, you move to do just that, taking your treasures through to the bedroom.
Yet the bedroom isnât quite how you left it. Atop the neatly made bed and looking every inch the trap, is a flat, square red box finished with a black silk bow. Sufficiently dumbfounded and within the span of several seconds, you consider ringing emergency services (can you call for a bomb squad?), arming yourself or running away. If only you werenât already gravitating towards it. Unlacing the silk bow and lifting the lid, a neatly folded sheaf of chiffon paper is adorned with rose petals. A small card rests atop it, a handwritten message reads: âIn celebration of the best business deal I ever made. Wear this tonight. - Mr. B.â
Heart in your throat and moving it all aside reveals a dress: glossy, black silk runs down in waves as you lift it, the design a covered halter neck with exposed back. Nothing like any of the clothes youâd eventually settled on in the boutique, in other words. Material soft under your hands, your mind races lanes of thought that all arrive at the same finish line: however he managed it, he did it for you.
***
Eight oâclock on the dot sees a sharp knock on your front door.
Abound with nerves and feeling not unlike a fish out of water with your state of dress, you quickly answer it.
Chan leans comfortably against the porch wall, every inch the classic gentleman in a fitted tuxedo that does him so many wonders you canât bear to count them all. His hair swept back and styled neatly, silver glints in his lobes and at his neck betray the manâs inclinations to extravagance; he doesnât need the bling to shine, but covets it anyway. The subtlest smudge of dark eye makeup brings out the intensity of them; their smoulder, their life.
Stunted is the realisation that your awe is mutual; the silence holds as he takes you in from top to toe, his jaw clenching when he meets your gaze.
âIt seems Iâve made a terrible mistake,â he huffs as he stands from the wall.
âHow so?â
He quirks a groomed brow, gestures vaguely in your direction.
âYou donât like it?â you ask, knowing so much better.
âIâm rather inclined to tear it to shreds, actually.â
Deep arousal rolls through you; you hum thoughtfully, stepping out to join him. âMaybe later, love.â
Thereâs a black Bentley parked on the street, its headlights slicing through the dark. âYours?â you point to it and ask him.
He nods stiffly.
âShall we, then?â
A deep breath and puff of resignation, and Chan starts towards the vehicle, guiding hand at the small of your bare back.
âAre you going to tell me how you got this into my house?â you ask.
âNo.â
âAre you going to show me? When I least expect it? When Iâm fresh from the shower, perhaps?â
He grins down at you, mirth in his eyes. âWould you like that?â
You shrug. âI wouldnât hate it.â
The feminist watches from the lawn as you stride past her, her head in her hands, despair in her wailing.
Chan bends towards you, speaks into your ear, âYour wish for ravishment is my command, darling.â
***
Drawn close to Chanâs side in the back of the Bentley, the passing city is a melty haze of red, white and amber. The vehicle is equipped as fitting a man of unthinkable wealth and power; Cristal on tap and heated seats, armour plating (so Chan informed you) and a horsepower of needless strength.
None of it can compare though, you think, to the way his hand is linked loosely with yours, to the way he absently maps out the knuckles and joints of your fingers.
âCan I ask where weâre going now?â
Chan exhales softly. âItâs a charity dinner.â
âCharity?â you repeat, surprised. âI thought you didnât do charity.â
âNot publicly, no. I neither need nor can stand the clout of it all.â He sighs then. âStill, there are a few causes dear to my heart that I support behind the scenes. One such cause personally requested I make an appearance tonight. I couldnât well refuse.â
âDear to your heart...?â
Chan smiles; squeezes your hand. âAnother time, perhaps. Weâre almost there.â
What does the man who has everything hold dear? What pulls his heartstrings enough to bring him to dip into that which he has so ruthlessly earned and give it away? What does he value? All questions you ask yourself silently, with intent to one day ask him. You file them away alongside the dusty cabinet marked ârumoursâ, for those hold all the weight of summer rain by now.
The car rolls to a gentle stop; through the tinted windows and alongside the vehicle is a grandiose building reminiscent of a theatre. Old marble and high pillars, etched carvings in the stonework and a shallow flight of stairs carpeted red stretch out regally. Spotlights shadow the length of the building, an air of the dramatic lingers. The driver, on exiting the vehicle, opens your door politely, the chill night breeze nipping your skin. Thanking him quietly as Chan lets himself out of his side, he rounds the vehicle and offers you his arm.
âOkay?â he asks.
You nod. âYeah.â
And with that, he guides you up the carpeted stairs to be greeted by smartly suited staff at the door: âGood evening, Mr. Bang.â
âThank you,â Chan says amicably, pulling a seat out by the back. âSit, darling.â And then he gathers the other nameplates, handing them to theânow appropriately flusteredâmember of staff. âThatâll be all.â
He drags a second chair beside yours and sits close, longs legs crossed elegantly.
âAre we gatekeeping an entire table?â you ask quietly, still somewhat perturbed by the eyes on you.
âIf youâd rather be seated with the leeches of this city, I can call him back.â
âNo,â you laugh softly. âNo, thatâs quite alright.â
He reaches to your hand, pulls it into his lap where he holds it warmly. âGood.â
While glad of his confidence and apparent unshaking faith in you to handle this, the scrutiny with which youâre being examined is doing far more to keep you on edge. Youâre reminded, on looking around, that the occupants of this room are the very elite; the one percent. What place does an economics student have among them? What place does an economics student have beside him?
Chanâs hand finds your knee. âRelax.â He squeezes it gently; you hadnât even realised your nerves were bouncing it. âWeâll be out of here the moment the speeches are done.â
And youâre about to voice your gratitude when an uncomfortably shrill calling of Chanâs name pierces the moment: âChristopher! Oh my god, is that you?!â
In turning to the hollering, a wildly flailing woman approaches the table. Her dress is skin-tight, bust begging to be set free, long brunette locks falling to her waist. You withdraw your hand from Chanâs immediately.
When close enough she leans over the table, cleavage swelling to near disastrous results. Chan remains seated, blinks and says flatly, âGemma.â
âGemmaâ squeals; your teeth ache. âI thought Hellâd freeze over before I ever saw you at one of these things. How crazy!â
âJust keeping up appearances.â
âOh, I know all about that, babe,â she grins bleached white, and then twirls a strand of brown around her manicured finger. âWe should catch up some time. Iâve missed you!â
Chanâs jaw locks.
âHow about I swing by your office this weekend?â she proposes, her blatant ignorance of you an abject insult. âIâll bring a bottle of Cristal. Thatâs still your favourite, right? Do you still have that old tiger skinââ
âExcuse me.â
Unable to take much more of the gratuitous preening, feeling adequately sick to your stomach, you rise and walk away across the hall. Your name is called, yet in need of space and room to breathe, you donât stop to entertain it.
You rush to the nearest most obvious member of staff. âBathroom?â
âUp the stairs, madam. Third floor.â
âThank you.â
Gilded railing is cool under your palm as you swiftly traverse the carpeted flights; your name is called again. Rounding a landing and glancing down the central aisle reveals Chanâs figure bounding up the stairs after you; alight with trepidation you hastily make your way to the third floor, starting down the darkened corridor and ducking into one of many rooms whose doors all look the same, bathroom or not.
Itâs warmer in here; stuffy, the air thick with dust that brings you to a light cough. When the thump of steady footsteps passes by, you catch your breath, taking in the surroundings. A storage room, it becomes immediately apparent; the ghosts of furniture draped in cloth haunt the space, their shapes reminiscent of their purpose. A window is covered by wooden shutters at the right-hand of the room; you approach it and unclasp them, inviting in the sliver of pale moonlight. Looking out at the urban nightscape, your forehead pressed to the cool glass, you wonder on the reason for your overreaction; for your wanting to run. Indeed, itâs not so daunting a revelation that the man has a past; of course, there was a life he had before you, just as you had before him. But it is perhaps the differences in vibrancy which inspired such sickness. Chan has never been short of the beautiful things, the luxurious things, and to believe yourself among them makes you just another hopeless heart in the collection heâs surely amassed. You intrigue him, he once told you. And what should happen when that intrigue wears off? Will you, like Gemma and so many others, preen and hold out until the next chance encounter?
Itâs with these thoughts rolling around that the door opens slowly, that youâre finally found. Peeling away from the window to turn to him, Chan steps into the moonlight, his blonde iridescent with silver, his complexion a flawless, lucent canvas of beauty.
It is his expression, however, that renders you mute with shock; his brows are pinched together, his eyes wracked with pain. With a rushed few final paces, youâre taken into his arms, pulled close against his frame for him to curl around you.
âYou ran from me,â he whispers.
âChan...â
He pulls back enough that he can search your face, and what he finds brings him to say, âPlease, donât. Not now.â
âI just... I needed some space, was all. I couldnâtââ
âI know.â He trails a touch up your arm. âI know I asked a lot of you tonight. Iâd hoped to spare you from running into any of my... previous associates, but Iââ
âIs that what she is?â you ask.
Chan blinks, falters. âIt was a long time ago.â
And the way your heart sinks is testament to the depth of your feelings; why does it take this for you to see them?
âIâm not that person anymore,â he adds.
You wait, expectant. Chan inhales slowly, lips parting and closing around the words before courage enough is summoned.
âI hear the things people say about me,â he says. âThey think that because Iâm rich and beautiful, everything else about me must be rotten. In some ways, theyâre not entirely wrong. I sacrificed a lot to get to where I am; things that better people wouldnât have. In starting out I made some poor deals with bad people, and despite how far Iâve come since then, the stain wonât ever wash out.â
You reach up to cup his cheeks, thumbs running the angular bones. âEveryone has a past, Chan. It doesnât define you.â
He leans into your touch. âMaybe it should.â
âIt wouldnât change anything.â
His brow furrows.
âKnowing all the details of your past, no matter how grisly. It wouldnât change how I... how I feel about you.â
Chanâs eyes glisten in the moonlight, reflective pools of tender hope. âHow you feel about me?â
Your gaze drops; he lifts your chin to return it. âSay it.â
Heart thrumming to a new and giddy tune, so conditioned to practice obedience with the man, you suppose this one thing might be nice to keep to yourself for just a little longer. Clutching the lapels of his tuxedo, a brief kiss pressed to lips and a promise spoken, âIâll never run from you again.â
Chan simpers; your heart near bursts. Swept up into a carry of strong arms, youâre deposited on the nearest hard surface; a classic grand piano, the sleek ivory keys glinting temptingly, voicing their erratic and melodic complaints when Chan climbs over you. Cool surface against your bare and naked back, Chan tucks his arm beneath you amidst claiming your mouth. Tongues and teeth exchange groans of wanting when, with his free arm, Chan hikes the silk up your legs, calloused palms running the smooth expanse of your fleshy thighs. Tearing his bowtie to ruin and shoving his jacket from shoulders, the undress is a frantic affair, but all the more rewarding when topless and kissed by silver glow, Chan looms above you.
Pulling him back to you with a breathless sigh, Chan wanders under your dress, eyes flashing when skin meets skin and he hums, âNo underwear, darling?â
âThe dress doesnât really allow forâ Ohââ Sinking into your arousal with two slim digits, Chan hums nonchalantly. His working of you is practiced, patient, for the man is intimately familiar with what it is makes you tick; and really, thatâs not much more than him.
Withdrawing fingers and sucking them clean as an afterthought to the undoing of his trousers, Chan keeps a watchful eye on you. A sight you must be, you suppose: hot and bothered, in an embarrassing state of mid-dress, exposed and stripped back to rawest wants.
âYouâre beautiful,â he says, and the compliment sinks over you with heft.
Freeing himself from the suit, Chan keeps his strokes brief; unnecessary, really, when he throbs so temptingly. A comfortable angle found with arm tucked under and around you, and the man holds his breath until the initial breach is passed; he draws tight and groans gently, so taken with the way you wrap around him, velvety soft.
âGod, babyââ
A steady pace is set by his thrusts; the piano creaks but yet feels sturdy underneath you, the gathering of silk at your middle a luxurious sensation on your skin. The drag of his thickness is almost too effective, your helpless exclamations are muffled by the manâs mouth, as possessive of them as he is.
You wonder what it is that lives behind his eyes so warm and alive as he regards you with his weight on his forearms; your every micro expression. While sex has always been phenomenal, it strikes you that the tenderness in his fluidity, the closeness he seeks to you has never before been so important to him as simply seeing you to your crisis; he is enjoying this, savouring it.
Mapping out the slope of his broad shoulders and the swell of his biceps, Chanâs skin breaks to goose flesh. A high flush on his cheeks and across chest colour him rose under the waning light, and where once there was a man of power, there is now a man of desperation. A kiss to his parted lips, a slip of tongue sees his thrusts strengthen; Chan buries his head to your neck, his gravelly expletives muffled by skin.
He throbs inside you, the slick glide painting stars behind your eyes.
âFinish with me,â you instruct breathlessly, as you were once so instructed yourself. âWant to feel you.â
And Chan falters; veins in his forearms and neck speak to his exertion, to the precipice he tips over when your orgasm brings you to tighten.
He whimpers your name. âFuck, fuckââ and curls around you, the tremors of your euphoria melting into his. Silent, hot moments of weightless glow follow, and as breaths even out to allow for composure, the static crackle of a speaker sounds off outside:
âLadies and gentlemen, please be seated. Tonightâs event is about to begin.â
Chan laughs; weighted and thick, his chest rumbling atop yours. And this time, youâre not so stumped by what it is he finds amusing, your giggles filling the stuffy, sex-drenched room.
He clambers off you, lowers you gently from the defiled grand piano. Though legs are unsteady and your state of mind leaves something to be desired, your dress is rearranged to be outwardly presentable, your hands gathered to be kissed sweetly.
Chan is the image of fantasy: tuxedo trousers undone and loose on his svelte hips, chiselled abdomen heaving and flushed. He grabs his bowtie from the floor, slings it around his neck.
âWould I be crazy for suggesting we bail on this thing?â he sighs.
âYouâd be crazier for suggesting we stay.â
He offers his hand to you; the hand that shapes the city. He grins sincerely; the lips that commandeer thousands.
And he asks of you the one thing that obedience never came shyly for:
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy"
bang chan x fem!reader | 1.5k words
warnings: tension, infidelity, slight dubcon, heavy sexual tension, they are implied to have sex in the end, a lot of religious references
The light in the janitorâs room briefly flickers with a distant buzz, and you gulp, attempting to swallow down the uneasy feeling bubbling in your chest as you stay cornered between the shelf and his arms caging you in, leaving you no room to escape.
âThereâs nowhere to go now.â
Heâs looking at you with eyes hard with determination and something else that youâre too afraid to admit you understand. Heâs only a breadth away, nothing but air filled with tension and every last bit of your morality thatâs separating the two of you and stopping you from doing something youâd regret once youâve sobered up from the lust thatâs flooding your system.Â
His eyes dart to your lips, the ones youâve applied cherry lip gloss to moments agoâwatching how you dart your tongue over them absent-mindedly because of how dry they suddenly feltâbefore returning to your eyes, holding your wide-eyed stare. He feels the slight shudder in your breath as your pulse spikes, your pupils blown wide as adrenaline courses through your veins.Â
âYou can say no.â
His face inches closer, and you find yourself holding your breath, your body tensing up and freezing you on the spot. And as he stops by your neck, his lips centimeters away from your skin, you wonder if he could hear how hard your heart is drumming against your chest.
âYou can push me away, curse me out, run.â
Your vanilla-scented perfume floods his senses, the kind that smells even richer, sweeter, the longer you wear it, the one you rolled on hours ago with precision, right at your pulse point because you've read from somewhere that it helps make the scent stay longer.Â
It's the kind of scent that drives him absolutely crazy.Â
He hums before stating the obvious truth.Â
âBut you don't want to,â he huffs out an airy chuckle. âYou wouldn't.â
You can feel his breath fanning against your neck, mirroring yours, deep and ragged with every ounce of self-control quickly draining away. When his nose brushes against your skin, just to inhale more of youâ âChanâŠâ you whimper, your hands moving to push against his chest to create a little more distance, yet he doesn't budge. Not when your arms do not push hard enough to get him away from you, and you realize that he's right. You can run. You could push him away and curse him out and leave this cramped janitor's room and call it a day, and yet⊠you couldn't.Â
You didn't want to.
But the moment your eyes catch the glint from your engagement ring that rests on your finger as your hand stays on his chest, you're suddenly reminded that you're playing a very dangerous game.
You wouldnât even be here in the first place if you would've just ignored it allâignored him and the way he quite literally tumbled into the conference room on his first day, fashionably late and interrupting the meeting, all the while sporting a sheepish smile and muttered apologies, disheveled hair, with his tie haphazardly tied around his collar with zero finesse. You could have ignored the way he sat beside you, being the only spot unoccupied, fumbling to fix said tie in a way that made you realize that he has absolutely no idea what he's doing; you just had to butt in and offer to help. And you could have, and most definitely should have, ignored the way your cheeks heated up when your eyes met with his when he thanked you with a dimpled smile, or the way the smell of his perfume still lingered in the air the moment he got up to leave the conference room once the meeting was done.Â
But you didn't.Â
Instead, you decided to play along, to gamble even though you were sure to lose, just because you thought that everything between the two of you was innocentâor at least, that was what you tried to convince yourself.Â
Coy smiles, stolen glances, innocent touches that linger way too long, and jokes that start to blur the lines between humor and flirtingâtemptation really has a way of luring you into its trap, like a snake that would coil around you, wrapping around you so tightly as it sizes you up before devouring you completely.Â
Venom drips from Chanâs fingertips as he tilts your chin up so your eyes look up at him again, tearing your gaze away from the diamond that sits heavily on your finger.Â
âI know you want this,â he breathes out. âI know you want me.â Goosebumps break out on your skin when his thumb grazes your lower lip, the gloss sticky under the pad of his finger. âSo stop resisting it. Give in.âÂ
"I⊠I canât,â you whisper out. âIâm getting married soon andââ You shake your head as you pull away from his grip, shutting your eyes tightly as the shame and guilt creep up on you. âIf Minwon finds out, who knows what willâ"Â
âIf he finds out,â Chanâs words were laced with venom, dripping and intoxicating, the light above the two of you casting a dangerous glint in his eyes. âBut you wouldnât let that happen, wonât you?â He coils a piece of your hair around his finger, the strands gliding against his skin. âWouldnât wanna ruin this little piece of paradise between us.âÂ
Paradise.Â
You swore before that there was no harm done, that you were only being friendly to the new guy at work, and the coffee Chan leaves on your desk every Monday and Wednesday morning meant nothing. Or that the lingering touches that he leaves at the small of your back every time he has to squeeze past you in between cubicles during working hours were just a figment of your imagination. You didnât pay any mind to how, every time you had to work overtime, Chan was always there, more focused on helping you finish your reports instead of focusing on his own tasks, his body towering over yours as he clicked away at your work computer, his cologne filling your senses as he fixed the charts you were stressing over. You tried not to eavesdrop on your coworkersâ conversations in the break room, talking about how Chan was such a good lay and how he was able to draw out orgasm after orgasm just by using his hands and his lipsâgod, how much of an amazing kisser he is.Â
âYou know, I really donât mind waiting,â he says, tucking the hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheeks. His touch scorching your skin. âYou can go home with your lover and play house while the fun lasts.â Chan finally cups your cheek, turning your head to face him. âBut when youâre with me, we both know that youâre mine.â His lips nearly graze yours, almost touching. âYouâve been mine since the day I laid eyes on you.â
As Chanâs hand travels down to your neck, his fingertips brushing against the thin chain of your necklace, the snake tightens its coil around you, trapping you, his gaze locking you in place. âSay it,â he says, voice controlled but demanding. âSay youâre mine and I'll give you heaven.â Your heart thrums against your chest, desire pooling in your core; the human desire you kept locked up pulls against its restraints. And when he pulls you even closer to him by your necklace, gold twisted in his fingers, the shackles break and set your selfish desires free as he promises, âI might even take you there.âÂ
Your lips finally crash into his, a raw, desperate moan ripping from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him in even closer. Chanâs hands greedily roam all over your body, strong hands squeezing your breast and your ass, hiking up your leg to wrap around his hips just so he could press himself against you. Buttons fly in all directions as you claw at his dress shirt, just so you can run your hands across the broad expanse of his chest. And when you pull away, just so you can mark his neck, nipping at his Adamâs apple, your phone rings at your desk.Â
Minwon sits alone at a fancy dinner table, wondering if you can still make it to your 8pm dinner reservation.Â
a/n: it's been a while since i wrote something and this has been marinating in my drafts for quite some time. i wanted this to be a longer fic but in the middle of writing, it seemed fiting that this would be a shorter oneshot blurb kinda thing. anyway, let me know what you think!
pairing: non!idol/college student Minho x college student Y/N
warnings: angst, mention of trauma and past abuse, hurt to comfort?, fluff
summary: You never had a problem with men but after he showed his real face, you developed a trauma. You knew that not every men is bad but every time someone got close to you, the memories you tried so hard to suppress wash over you. That was, until Lee Minho stepped into your life.
author's note: hello again! Yes, I'm alive and I still write. Even though I'm realllyyyyy slow. But here's the first part of my mini-series đ«¶đ»
author's note: this is going to be about the very serious topic of past abuse! So, if you're not comfortable with this or may be triggered, please skip this and if you have been or are experiencing abuse, please let someone know who can help you!
The rustling of paper was the loudest sound in the room. Between the tall shelves, there was a smell of dust and old leather, of stories that had been read hundreds of times. Somewhere, a clock ticked quietly and the seconds dripped like water droplets into the silence.
This place was your safe space. Nothing could stop you here, in the library of your college.
Since the first day of college, you had seen this huge room full of poetry, science books and thick legal tomes as a place of safety. Here, it was quiet and people stayed in their groups or by themselves. Here, no one would speak to you or even touch you.
That was also the point why you even applied for the job of a cataloguer here so that you wouldn't drown in the endless bills that waited for you at the end of each month that wasn't covered by the scholarship you had been offered.
Your parents and you had worked really hard to let you study astronomy here, across the country in a whole other region without any familiar faces. And honestly, you were happy to be away from the toxic little town you had called home for all your life. The more kilometres were between you the better.
Silently, you moved a cart with newly returned books through the narrow space between the shelves that went all the way up to the ceiling. The other students didn't even lift their heads as you rolled past them, too focused on the books they were reading. Tapping your fingers soundlessly against the old wood of the cart, you let your eyes wander over the shelves, reading the section descriptions to find the right spot.
This was only your second week in college and at the library, hence it was still difficult to remember all the different sections and where they were located when this library was having literature for every single course that was taught here and even more.
You brought the cart to a stop when you reached the section of the history of dance and the different styles of dance. Nudging one of the old ladders that were spread through the whole library closer to sort the book in that went into higher shelves, you picked up two thick books, you stepped higher and placed them on their designated spot. You grabbed the next two, repeating the action until you had emptied the cart and pushed it away to sort the books that were already in the shelves.
Pulling out some books and placing them down to later put them in the right spots, you turned to the shelf again. A finger brushed your arm suddenly.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where the books about history of hiphop are?" A person behind you asked, his voice dark and indicated that he was a man. You shrieked and flinched at the sudden contact, pulling away as if you had burned yourself at the touch.
Your heartbeat picked up on speed and pure fear spread through your whole body. Backing away from the unknown man, you fell over the books and lost your balance. Your body hit the floor hard, and pain shot through your back. The people around you, sitting in the booths and corners looked up, some with worry and even more with annoyance. Quickly, you cast your eyes down, your face heated and your heart running a marathon, thrumming against your chest at a brutal pace. With wide eyes, you remembered the cause for your fall and looked up to the man that had touched you, your skin paling with every second. He was handsome, black hair and dark brown eyes like melted chocolate.
He seemed to be as shocked by your sudden action as you were by his touch. He knelt in front of you, holding his hand out for you to take but you flinched back a little, robbing back on the floor. His eyebrows knitted and he laid his head to the side as he observed you quietly.
"Okay, it's okay. I won't touch you" he answered then, raising his hands to show that he wasn't a threat for you. You were impressed that he realised so early that you didn't like when people got close to you, men in particular.
Your chest rose and fell fast, and you knew that if you didn't calm down now, a panic attack will follow. It wouldn't be the first one since you got here, if you were honest. But the first one someone here will notice if you don't find somewhere to hide. A college full of men was your personal hell and finding a seat in courses where no men would sit near you was nearly impossible.
A small smile filled with kindness spread over the stranger's lips as he distanced himself from you. "I'm sorry for spooking you" he added then and you took a deep breath despite your throat closing, fighting against the fear in your veins. Your legs were wobbly as you stood up shakily and the man in front of you did the same. "Sorry, you just spooked me and I kinda freaked out" you tried to play it down, cheeks heating in a red blush because of your embarrassment.
"So, you wanted to know where the history of hiphop books are, right?" you changed the topic and gave him a crooked smile. "Yes, that would be great" he hummed, following you slowly with a bit of a distance as you trailed through the narrow space between the shelves.
"It's your first semester, isn't it? I remember seeing you in the halls" he broke the silence during the walk. You nodded shortly. "Yes, I'm in my first semester. And you?"
"Third" he answered with a wink and a playful smirk. "I'm Minho by the way"
"I'm Y/N" you responded, stopping in the right section and pulling out a book from the shelf.
"Then, I'm pleasured to meet you, Y/n" he exclaimed and took the book from your hands, being careful not to touch you by accident and maybe sent you into another shock. "This should be the right book" you murmured.
"Thank you. And sorry again for scaring you!" he answered and turned around to look for a spot to sit down and study.
Meanwhile, a proud smile appeared on your face, and you brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. This was the longest conversation you had with a man for a whole while and you did so well, you thought. You stayed rather calm for your standards even though internally, you were still in a fight or flight mode with your heart nearly jumping out of your chest with how intense it was beating. Pressing a hand over your heart, you tried to calm down. Maybe, you could finally fight against your trauma and finally live without panic attacks threatening your daily life.
~~~
After the little incident with Minho, you had picked up your work again until the end of your shift and went to the dormitory where you had a small room for yourself. It wasn't much more, a simple bedroom with a bed, couch and a small kitchen area with a fridge, cooking place and a microwave. In addition, you had your own bathroom. It wasn't much space but enough for you alone when you spend much time in the library and in college anyway. This was more like a small little cave where you could rewind and calm down from panic attacks.
You had just placed your bag down and let yourself fall on the small bed that squeaked underneath your weight, when it knocked on your door. With a sigh, you pushed yourself up and opened the door. Lisa, your colleague from the library, and also your only friend here so far, poked her head inside with a grin.
"Hey girl, what's up?" She asked, closing the door behind you. She was the exact opposite of you. Extroverted, funny and also extremely good with guys. Not that she slept around, no, she was friends with many guys from different majors and wherever she brought you to an event to finally face your fear a bit, she was recognised and immediately entangled in a conversation.
"Not much, just came back from work and was about to study. What are you doing here?" you answered, making her some space on your bed while you had laid down again, Lisa quickly following you. The old bed squeaked again like it was groaning. Your friend giggled, shaking her head. "Damn, this bed isn't going to last much longer. It's so fragile that I'm surprised it hadn't broken already" she nudged your shoulder teasingly.
"I bet everyone thinks that you have amazing sex whenever you're changing your sleeping position" Lisa wiggled her eyebrows and you rolled your eyes in response. "Right, because so many guys are visiting my room. I can't do anything for this bed. I have this since I was 8" you complained.
"Well, time for a new one." She mused. "Today's a party at Jeongin's house. Are you coming with me?" You shook your head without hesitation. "Come on! You didn't even think about it!" Lisa exclaimed, poking your side with her finger.
Giggling, you squirmed away from her prying hand. "You know how I think about parties. I'm not a fan of small rooms filled with other men."
"I know, I know. I was just asking. I don't really wanna go today anyways. Much rather, I would love to watch our series and eat our cheap ramen on the squeaky bed" she winked, fishing her laptop out of her bag. You gave her a thumbs up.
"Great plan. I'm gonna prepare our noodles" you nodded, clicking on the electric kettle that heated the water while you put the ramen in two bowls along with the seasoning. Lisa and you loved these cheap ramen packets.
"Did you already finish the assignment for Monday? I struggled so much earlier and actually, put it on my to-do for tomorrow" Lisa murmured, her eyes trained on her laptop while she searched for your favourite show on the streaming platform.
"Yes, finding sources was a pain in the ass but at least it's finished now. I can give you my resources tomorrow. Then, you don't need to stress yourself so much after dodging it for the last week. You really need to stop procrastinating" You teased, placing the two hot bowls on your desk for the water to soak the dry noodles.
"Hey! Not fair. I was busy. And tomorrow is only Sunday!" She retorted with a playful glint in her eyes. "Right, busy staring at Hyunjin"
"What? He's hot and funny" Lisa shrugged while wiggling with her eyebrows, meanwhile you acted like you were going to puke. "Gross" you teased with a smirk, gesturing to her mouth. "Is that spit?" She swatted your hand away.
"Just wait until you find someone that's gonna change your whole world, Y/n. Someone who understands your hesitation" she replied with a deep, truthful gaze and you swallowed thickly. You hoped that you could overcome your fear. You really did. But men are scary.
While Lisa didn't know why you were so afraid of men, she was quick to realize early in your friendship that you were very uncomfortable around men. And you loved her for not asking you out why. She understood that at some point, you were going to tell her the whole truth, just not today. And not with force.
"Yeah", you mumbled, turning your head away with a heavy gaze. If there was someone like that. Lisa knew better than to let the topic resurface and instead slurped her noodles.
After a night full of watching your favourite show, you two woke up the next day to your alarm going off too early for your liking. With half closed eyes, you silenced it and were about roll over again to sleep longer but it struck you that your shift will start in about an hour. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Yesterday, you two were definitely up too long and the few hours of sleep weren't nearly enough.
Yawning, you nudged Lisa's shoulder, earning a grumble as she rolled over to get back to sleep. "Oh no. You have to work too. You can't escape" you giggled and poked her side before climbing out of your bed that, of course, creaked at every move. "Noooo. I'm not going..." Lisa mumbled in a slurred voice, hiding her face in the pillow.
"At least you get to spend your shift with me today" you sing-sang, rummaging through your closet to find one of your favourite hoodies, the red one with a black dolphin printed on the back. "Lucky me" Lisa answered and you threw a sock you were just about to pull over your foot at her. She squeaked and quickly threw it back to you. Laughing you caught it and put it over your foot. You were just about to say something when Lisa's phone received a message and her eyes grew big.
"What?" you asked, leaning over her phone with a brush in hand to tame your wild hair.
"Hyunjin just invited me to his house party tonight?!" Lisa gasped, her eyes reading the message over and over again. "He really invited me" she repeated. You excitedly clapped your hands. "That's great! You must go"
"Not without you though" she replied, a pout on her lips.
"Why? You can flirt alone with him, you don't need my support" you joked, eyebrows furrowed. "Please, don't let me go there alone! I'll do everything you want, please. I just don't want to arrive there alone. Besides, he said that you could come too."
You shook your head no. "Sorry Lis, you know how I think of parties." She clasped your hand tightly, bringing out her big, round doll eyes to move you to change your opinion. "No, the puppy eyes don't work" you retorted with an amused eye roll.
"I'll do anything! Literally anything!" she pleaded. "I'll even come to work with you today" You snorted. "And why should this change my opinion? Lis, it's your work" you laughed, shaking your head mockingly.
"Well, you're right but I'll work somewhere else if you don't come with me" she added playfully.
"Uhh, then, I'll of course come" you teased her while rolling your eyes again.
"Okay, might not be my best argument, I must admit. Then, how about I'll buy you ramen for the next month?" You lifted your eyebrow. "Nope, no chance"
Lisa sighed, brushing her uncombed hair out of her face. "How about three? I know you love ramen. Come on, you just need to accompany me. That's all. I make sure to don't let any men near you" she tried again and you brushed your hand over your face. "You're not going to stop, right?"
"Nope" your friend smirked knowingly that you actually couldn't say no to three months of free ramen. No matter how much you wanted. So, you nodded in defeat while Lisa pumped her fist into the air. "Yes! You're the best"
"Sure" you hummed, throwing a quick glance at your clock. "And now you should rather speed up or else you're going to be late" Your friend cursed after checking the time and jumped through your room in order to throw on her fresh clothes for the day.
On the way to the library, she explained to you what she was gonna wear tonight to get Hyunjin's attention. "Or should I maybe go for a dress instead of a skirt and a top? Maybe the shorter red one?" Lisa threw her hands in the air, clueless what she should choose.
"that's the fifth outfit you planned out now. Don't you think that Hyunjin will like you in every one of them?" You shrugged, patting her back as you opened the door of the library and put your jacket on the racket in the backroom. "What? I wanna look great for him. So that he notices me" she exclaimed.
"Believe me, when he invites you himself, he definitely notices you." You replied with a smirk and grabbed the cart with books that has been burrowed and now returned and walked back into the main part of the library.
Just like yesterday, you sorted them back into the shelves, helping some other students find the right books. Lisa in the meantime, stood at the registration, checking out books that students want to burrow and taking the returned ones back. By midday, you had sorted most of the books and went back to the registry once again to get the returned books when Lisa held something into your face suddenly.
"What is this?" You leaned back and took the thing into your hands. It was a pudding with vanilla flavour. "Why are you shoving a pudding into my face?" You furrowed your eyebrows curiously.
"It's for you. It got dropped off here right behind the counter while I was in the bathroom. And this message was attached to it" she held a small yellow sticky note up into the air with a grin, swinging it up left to right. You tried to grab it, your ears heating while your mind raced. "Listen, it says: 'sorry for scaring you yesterday and thank you for the book. It helped a lot' ".
Immediately, the image of Minho plopped up inside of your mind. He was the only one who spooked you yesterday, it definitely couldn't be anyone else. "Your face tells me that you know who it wrote. Tell me now" Lisa demanded, leaving no room for argumentation.
"It must be Minho. He asked me for a book yesterday and kinda scared me" you shrugged, snatching the yellow note from your friend to read it again. He had a beautiful handwriting, kursive and very neat for a guy. "Minho. Lee Minho?" Lisa reassured herself, eyes wide with surprise. You hummed.
"Really? Lee Minho sent you such a cute note? How sweet! I can't believe that you are friends with one person from Hyunjin's friend group and didn't tell me!" She exclaimed happily, clapping into her hands eagerly. You shook your head no.
"I didn't tell you because we aren't friends. He just spooked me yesterday and that's it. Probably he felt guilty and wanted to thank me for searching for a book he needed. Nothing more" you told her truthfully but Lisa just furrowed her eyebrows.
"Come on. He is very popular since he is very talented as a dancer. He doesn't sent random notes to a girl just because you grabbed a book for him. And it's so cute! He likes you!" Lisa answered nonetheless, holding the vanilla pudding high in the air like it was a precious trophy that needs to be celebrated. At the noise, some college students lifted their head to see what was going on, some even rolled their eyes in annoyance.
"No, he doesn't. But I wouldn't want anything either way. You know how I am around men" you whispered to her, leaning over the counter to grab the pudding. "Come on, let me have my fantasy. Either way, what are you gonna do? Drop a letter into his books the next time he's here in the library? Leave your number with a pudding in front of his dorm?" She exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with every idea that came to her mind.
"No, definitely not. We aren't in a romance book, Lisa. I'm just gonna leave it." You answered, twisting and fiddling with the pudding. "Why?? It would be so romantic" she whined and pouted dramatically.
"Stop pouting, Lis. It's better that way." You replied calmly, caressing her shoulder and dropping the pudding in your bag. "And now we need to work again" you added with a crooked smile when Lisa only pouted more and dramatically grabbed the next book on the pile to scan it to mark it as returned.
~~~
"Shouldn't I rather switch to a top and a jeans instead?" Lisa thought loud, turning and posing in front of her mirror.
"Lis, you look beautiful in every single outfit you showed me the past hour. Hyunjin will love you in every single one of them, trust me." you answered while playing with the hem of your red sweater. Your friend laid her head to the side, nibbling on her bottom lip.
"I can't decide" she mumbled, brushing her fingers through her hair and you sighed, standing up from Lisa's bed and walked up to her without stepping on a cloth that she had dropped while changing. "Lis, you look good in everything. But in which outfit were you yourself?" you asked her, brushing through her short locks. Usually, she was the confidence in person but since she started talking and eventually developed a crush at Hyunjin, she wanted to be perfect for him. Even though she already was, you thought.
Lisa stilled shortly, rethinking all the outfits before her eyes landed on the red, shorter dress. "That's what I'm gonna wear" she exclaimed proudly, picking it up from the pile on the floor and threw it over. Once again, you were stunned by her beauty with her blonde locks that were cut to the length just above her shoulders and the tough face.
"Hyunjin will love it" you nodded approvingly with a big smile, hoping that Hyunjin will Lisa the attention she deserves. "And what's with you?" Your friend examined your outfit, the dark red sweater and the black jeans. "Is that your outfit?"
For a moment, you looked down on you and shrugged. You weren't going to really party anyway. Why should you dress up then? It's not like you had anyone to show your best dress to. "What else should I wear? I don't plan to stay long, Lis"
She poured dramatically. "Why? It's gonna be so much fun" you sighed. You knew she was right and that partys were mostly fun, in the past, you had loved partys. Hanging out with friends, throwing on the best outfits, dancing and laughing. But now, just the mere thought of someone you didn't know touching you, even though it may be an accident, made you shudder.
"Maybe because Hyunjin's tongue will be down your throat before you even notice that I'm gone" you giggled, watching how your friend's face got warmer and more rosy. "Do you think he will kiss me tonight?" She scrambled to the mirror, judging her lipstick and patting over her lips.
"Could be." You answered shortly with a grin as your friend fought her nerves. "Oh my god I need my smudge proof lipstick! Where is it? I can't spread my lipstick all over Hyunjin" she exclaimed, throwing clothes around and rummaging through drawers once again.
With a loud sigh, you turned around, grabbing the exact lipstick Lisa was searching for from her bed where she had dropped it earlier while doing her makeup. Grinning, you held it in the air. "Found it" her bright smile made your heart melt. Her nerves were going to make her crazy one day, you thought. Usually she wasn't that forgetful but you guessed that these circumstances where far from usual.
"Thank you! And I really can't change your mind about your outfit? I have a cute pink dress somewhere in this chaos that would look perfect on you" she asked again, already turning to her mirror. Without hesitation, you shook your head. You had no one to dress up for, plus, you liked this sweater and you weren't really in the mood for a party anyways. She could be proud of you that you didn't choose your pyjama just so that you could fall into your bed afterwards without changing clothes first.
"Nope, that's not negotiable. And now, we should leave. Ist already 10 pm. Your Romeo doesn't wait forever" you nudged, picking up your small bag for your phone and keys. "Is someone excited?" Lisa wiggled her eyebrows and pulled her own bag from underneath the tower of clothes. "Not at all. Let's just get this over with and then I can eat my ramen for the next three months" you murmured, your friends arm sliding through yours, pulling you close as you leave the dorms.
The walk was rather short, just 15 minutes away from campus was Hyunjin's house. Well, the house of his parents that were almost every weekend away for their job. At least that was what Lisa had told you. It was common for Hyunjin to throw parties and every person in the university would die for a personal invitation from him.
His parents were wealthy, that was what you could tell just by looking at the house. A big garden surrounded the white house with lots of flowers. The pavement to the door was decorated with lights, dancing and flickering in the dark. Inside, the lights had been dimmed and you heard the loud music before even entering. The party was already pulsing with energy and laughter. Oh my god, why have you even agreed?, you thought with panic, picking at the skin around your nails. You stopped, deciding that you had fulfilled your mission and you could go now, but Lisa tugged you forward with her hand in yours. "Nope, you're not going to ran away. You're already here, the least you could do is take a look. I promise I won't leave your side, okay?"
Her gaze was full of hope and gentleness. You knew that she wouldn't be angry if you don't want anymore but the thought of leaving her alone now, made you agree. You could spare a glance, right? Maybe it would be fun.
Your friend opened the door and immediately the loud noises and the smell of sweat mixes with alcohol and girls wearing too much perfume filled your senses. Your breath hitched and your hands got clammy. "I've got you" Lisa murmured, pulling you away from the door, quickly leaving the hallway to keep the ever-watching eyes off of you. It wasn't the first time she was here since she was part of Hyunjin's friend group and you were glad that she knew exactly where you could wind down.
"Let's go get a drink, shall we?" Lisa said, navigating you through the busy living room where some people were dancing to the loud music, others were lingering against the walls and corners, speaking to each other while some made out in front of all the people. You scrunched your nose at the sight, your pulse quickening as it brought memories up you didn't want to think about. In the kitchen, it was calmer and the music less loud. You recognised Jeongin and Jisung leaning against the counter, joking around.
"Hey Lisa! We almost thought you ditched us today" Jeongin greeted your friend with a wide, teasing smile. Lisa rolled her eyes playfully, giving them both a quick hug. "Of course I'm coming. I just couldn't decide what to wear"
"Like always" the youngest sneared. "And you even brought Y/n with you. That's great" Jisung spoke up, waving his hand at you and you repeated the gesture hesitantly. "Yes, you don't know to what lengths I needed to go to get my sweet little Y/n to agree to come with me. But it's totally worth it" she answers, leaning her head against your shoulder in an affectionate manner. You hummed and bathed in the contact, your heat calming for a second so that you actually managed to smile for a bit.
"So, what can I get for you both? Beer or some weird mixed drinks from Seungmin?" Jisung, questioned, already grabbing two plastic cups. Jeongin leaned over the counter, he lowered his voice a bit. "If I were you, I would choose the beer. A bit boring, sure, but we don't know what Seungmin put into those drinks and I wouldn't try it." Lisa laughed and grabbed a beer. "I'll take the safe option, thanks"
"Hey! I heard that!" Seungmin grumbled as he came through the door, grabbing another beer for himself. His sudden entrance had scared you and you flinched, grabbing Lisa's hand tighter and tenses your muscles. Soothingly, she drew form on your skin with her thumb. "It's okay Y/n, it's just Seungmin" she whispered into your ear. You nodded, wetting your dry lips.
"Come on, Min, not even you are choosing your mixture of hell" Jisung noticed with a amused laughter. And Seungmin just shrugged and sipped on his beer. "I just don't want to drink it. Plus, if it's too much alcohol for you, that's not my problem" Jeongin rolled his eyes and turned his eyes to you. "What do you want to drink, Y/n?" You gulped and fiddled with the hem of your sweater. "A cola will be fine" The youngest nodded and turned to the fridge, filling your cup and holding it out to you. Thanking him quietely, you took the plastic cup from him, careful, not to touch his fingers.
"I'm gonna search Chan, he's been very stressed with assignments lately. Need to check that he is enjoying himself" Jisung exclaimed, patting Jeongin on the shoulder. "And I think, Hyunjin is looking for you, Lisa" he added, wiggling his eyebrows. Your best friend perked up, her eyes sparkling with excitement. You knew she was burning inside to look for him but the way her eyes flickered towards you, showed her uncertainty.
You gave her a small smile, tightening your grip around her hand, then letting her go. "Go, Lisa, it's okay" you reassured with a nod. She furrowed her eyebrows, judging you quietely. "Are you sure. I can't leave you alone. I promised you to stay at your side" she argued, her gaze full of worry.
"Go, don't let him wait. I'm really okay" you reassured once again, giving her a peck on the cheek and pushing her out of the kitchen. "Okay, okay. But promise to find me as soon as you're uncomfortable and you want to go home, okay? Don't hesitate" she answered and you nodded sincerely, watching her walk off with the feeling of happiness. At least for her. Even when it meant that you needed to share a room with unknown men and just the mere thought of being alone with Jeongin, let shivers run over your back.
The music from the living room pulsed faintly through the walls, laughter spilling down the hallway in uneven bursts. You lingered near the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped tightly around the plastic cup filled with cola, eyes tracking every person that walked passed the door. "So, you're not really enjoying parties, right?" He stopped the silence hanging between you and you shook your head. "Is it that obvious?" You questioned faintly with a half smile, at least you tried, you told yourself.
"If it gets too loud, the garden is usually quieter. Just saying" he mentioned with a whole-hearted smile. Appreciating the information, you hummed a quiet thanks. A couple of people brushed past, squeezing themselves into the kitchen. Uncomfortably, you shifted slightly with your shoulders tending. Jeongin seemed to notice your discomfort but choose don't comment on it. "Do you know anyone here besides Lisa?" He wanted to know casually, leaning against the counter while making room for the people to get their drinks from beside him.
"No, I don't think so" you answered honestly. "Just her".
"Yeah, same. Of course, I know Hyunjin, otherwise I wouldn't be here. And the others of our friend group. But besides that, the semester just started. Plus, it's my first semester and all the others already know so many people around campus from various majors, it's actually scary." He gushed with a wide grin and his words made your gaze shot up from the red cup filled with the brown liquid.
"So, you're not exactly comfortable either" he shrugged at your comment. "It's just hard getting used to" he added, his face turning to Felix, the blonde haired boy, who called out his name. Jeongin's lips widened in a grin and quickly walked past you to his friend, greeting him with a tight hug. You distanced yourself from the youngest as he walked past you, trying to get as much space between you as possible without causing someone to notice.
"Felix! I thought you couldn't come! What a nice surprise" Jeongin laughed as the blonde ruffled through his hair. "Well, I couldn't let you alone with the other pabos. And my physio ended early since my back isn't hurting so much anymore"
"That's great. Wanna have a beer?" Felix shook his head. "Seungmin did one of his awful mixes again, right? So, I think I will stay safe with just a sprite today"
"Good choice." Jeongin exclaimed, handing him a bottle of sprite while giving you a gentle smile. As Felix looked up, he recognised that he wasn't alone with the youngest. His eyes turned into crescents with how wide he smiled. "Oh I'm sorry Y/n. I wasn't aware that you were here."
You lifted your hands silently. "No, it's okay. I didn't mean to interrupt you two. I think I'll check out the garden now. Thanks Jeongin" you quickly added with a shy smile.
While you didn't know anyone of their friend group personally, well besides Lisa, you had obviously heard about them. Wether from your best friend or others that were talking about how fine they all looked. They were literally the most wanted boys from campus and everyone tries to be friends with them. That's why, you were stunned to see that every single one of them seemed to know who you were. You were just a friend's friend. Nothing more.
Quietly you had retracted yourself from the kitchen, walking almost without any noise through the hallway to the glass door to the garden. Meanwhile, you turned your head and peaked into the living room, trying to find Lisa. As you spotted her wild blonde locks, you couldn't help but smile. She was dancing in the middle of the room, her arms laying over Hyunjin's shoulders and his hands played gently on her hips. Not on her ass, just on her hips. You felt your heart calm for a second as you saw your best friend save, swaying her hips to the rhythm of the beat with a laugh on her lips. They really were made for each other.
You decided that you couldn't just waltz in there and demand to go home, even if you thought that this was definitely enough exposure therapy for today and you wouldn't love to do anything more than jump into your bed with a book. Lisa deserved to be happy with Hyunjin. And she indeed looked so happy. That's all you wanted for her.
The air outside was fresh, even for the late summer, as you walked onto the wooden porch. Just the faint hum of music came from the inside and the few people that were in the garden interrupted the peaceful silence you desired. But at least it wasn't so loud anymore. Jeongin had been right, you thought, this was indeed a good place to calm your racing heart.
You decided to step down from the porch and sit down on a wooden bench underneath the big tree from where you would have a good view over the whole garden. Pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, you observed the couple kissing on the other side between the yellow rose bushes and you rolled your eyes amused. You weren't surprised to find people kissing in the comfortable quiet of the night. Small lights illuminated the darkness like stars. Just for a moment, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day letting you feel tired.
With a sigh, you leaned back and pulled your legs up to hug them. Laying your head on your knees, you focused on the group of people on your right at the end of the garden under the oak tree. They laughed loudly, goofing around and telling funny stories you couldn't quite hear. But from the intensity of their giggles it was clear that they had the time of their lives.
"Enjoying the night?" someone asked you from your left side and you flinched away and jumped up as fast as you could with your feet tangled. Your heart had picked up in speed as you quickly retreated to put some distance between you and the person. Slowly, he lifted his arms in surrender, a smile dancing over his lips.
"Easy, Y/n. It's just me. I have a talent in spooking you, haven't I?" The someone added with a chuckle and just now, you recognised the man as Minho. You tried to swallow the knot in your neck, moving a hand to your chest to stop your heart from beating so fast it almost escaped out of your ribcage.
He quirked his head to the side, an amused grin on display. "Seems so" you mumbled, hiding your blush that was forming on your cheeks with lowering your gaze. Calmly, he sat down on the wooden bench, tugging at his white shirt underneath the thin black leather jacket. His eyes were focused on you as he patted the spot next to him. You gulped, licking your lips nervously. Minho clearly wanted you to sit down next to him as if your heart didn't already run a marathon. And that without sitting next to him.
"Again, I'm sorry for scaring you" he answered, hoping that the words would nudge you to sit down. Biting your lower lip, your brain thought about sitting down. Minho wasn't going to give up and the rational part of you reminded you that this was maybe a perfect chance to slowly get used to being around men again. But the irrational part was very sure that all men were the same. That they would wrap you around their finger just to fuck with your self esteem and trust.
Almost unnoticeable, you shook your head. The irrational side was definitely overpowering but before you could think any more about this, you sat down, still far away from Minho to have some distance between you but at least you were sitting and not bolting through the door back into the house to search for Lisa and sprint back to your dorms. The man with the dark hair smiled gently, happy that you finally decided to join him on the bench.
Your fingers clawed at the wood as your entire body was on fire. Tense wasn't even describing it in the slightest. Minho observed your body language for a minute, silence spreading between you two like a fog. Then, he said. "I didn't think to meet you here tonight"
You hummed anxiously, letting your eyes wander through the garden, desperate to avoid his face and, more discreetly, his eyes. "Yeah, Lisa wanted to go and didn't accept a no. So, here I am while Lisa enjoys her night" you answered.
"Yeah, I saw her and Hyunjin dance together. It seems like they are glued together." He grinned. "I hope Jinnie asks her out tonight. I can't stand it a minute longer if he freaks out again and sulks when he didn't dare to ask her." He added with a roll of his eyes.
You nodded your head slowly. "They both are like idiots around each other. I helped Lisa with choosing her outfit and it was a disaster." You murmured quietly, deciding that your fingernails were already too short to nibble on them and opted to play with the hem of your sweater instead.
"And now, she has completely forgotten about you" he stated without any judgement. You hummed lowly. "She deserves her fun and it's not too bad here in the garden"
"I bet. When Jeongin told me, you were here at the party, I already thought that I would meet you outside."
Furrowing your brows, you risked to look at him properly. He sounded genuine like he had hoped you would be here. "You searched for me?" Your voice was high and breathy as if you were afraid to form those words. Minho nodded, his dark hair moving underneath the silver light of the moon.
"Of course. How else would I have known whether you liked the pudding?" He smirked lightly, leaning slightly towards you. "Well, before you answer - I know that it was just the regular pudding from the mensa. But my grocery store ran out of my favourite pudding I wanted to give you that day! So I had to improvise" he added, articulating with his hands widely to emphasize his words. A shimmer of a laugh came over your lips.
"It was good. Thank you. That day, I forgot my lunch and at least I had something to eat" you answered honestly. Squeezing his eyes shut, Minho shook his head in disapproval. "You need to eat properly. What if I hadn't brought you that pudding?! You would have starved."
"It wouldn't be the first time. Plus, I'm not going to starve if I miss one meal, Minho." You reassured with a giggle, the sound earning a triumphant smile from the dark haired man.
"I will need to make sure you always have something to eat then" he hummed, pleased with himself over the idea. "Really, it's just lunch. I always eat breakfast before my shift and dinner afterwards"
He shook his head with a sigh. "That won't do. From now on, you will always eat lunch. It's important for your health. Especially when you're lifting heavy books all day" he winked at you in the end, making a small blush form on your cheeks as your heart picked up on speed even though you were sure that wasn't possible anymore.
"And thanks again for the book. It really helped me. Bow I know whom to ask whenever I need a book" he added shortly after with a gentle smile which you tried to reciprocate but it turned out rather crooked like your muscles weren't really responding to you anymore. Wiping your clammy hands on your jeans, you were just about to answer when the door to the garden opened and a worried Lisa craned her neck to search for you. When she spotted you on the bench, you saw her visibly relax and walked up towards you.
"Y/n" she called out, her locks bouncing against her shoulders. "There you are. I thought for a second that you were already home if I hadn't run into Jeongin. I'm so sorry for leaving you alone with all those strangers" she gifted you a gentle smile, taking your hand in hers and caressing your skin.
"Don't be sorry. I didn't mind to be here." You mumbled, feeling yourself calm down in the presence of your best friend. Lisa hummed, smiling to herself. "I see you had good company. Hey Minho, thanks for looking after Y/n" Blushing at her words, you quickly moved your gaze to the other people in the garden.
"No need to thank me. It's easy talking to her" you heard him say and you slowly lifted your head to see the warmth in his eyes and the smile he addressed to you.
"Did you finally manage to get your eyes off Hyunjin? I saw you two dancing" you wiggled with your eyebrows and chose to ignore Minho's gaze. A blush crept up Lisa's face and she smiled like she was a toddler who just received a candy.
"Yeah, it was so much fun. He's actually grabbing drinks for us." she moved her hair out of her face and nudged you to make room for her on the bench. Hesitantly, you glided closer to Minho while still making sure to don't him at all. Lisa plopped down next to you, laying her head on your shoulder while circling your waist with your hand. "I hope he asks me to a date" she murmured into your hair. Petting her locks, you answered.
"He will for sure" you hummed, snuggling closer to her to bask in her warmth. It must be shortly after midnight and the air had cooled down, leaving your shivering slightly, even in your red sweater. Hyunjin stepped into the garden, followed by Seungmin, Jeongin and Chan who balanced three plastic cups in his hands. The boys stopped in front of the bench and Hyunjin gave Lisa her drink which she gratefully took, not without smiling at the fingers that touched hers "accidentally", of course. Chan greeted you friendly, bowing his head in aknowledgement while placing a cup into your hands. "It's just cola" he answered your questioning face.
Then, he turned to Minho and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Already wondered where you were." the oldest smirked and Minho rolled with his eyes. "I'm shocked you can actually leave your laptop for an evening. I thought this thing is already glued to your fingers" the dark haired replied dryly and taking a drink from him before Chan sat down like the others on the dry grass. "Where's Felix, Jisung and Changbin?" Lisa asked curiously, taking a sip from her drink. The other hand tracing patterns over your waist, giving you the comfort you really needed in a circle full of boys. Still, your muscles were tense and ready for any fight-or-flight-situation.
"Well, Changbin and Felix are dancing with their girlfriends and Jisung accompanies them like their child." Jeongin exclaimed with a snort.
"No, more like the best friend Steve" Seungmin corrected, smiling into his cup.
"At least their girlfriends will have an eye on him. We can't have him almost breaking his neck again because he overlooks the carpet in the livingroom after winning a round of beer pong." Hyunjin shrugged and Minho as well as Lisa giggled at the memory. Another shiver rocked through your body when another small gust of wind blew your hair around your face. As you quickly tucked the free strands of hair behind your ears, a warm jacket was thrown over your shoulders. At the sudden contact, you flinched away, pressing your body closer to Lisa's and felt your heart hammer against your chest
With your breath hitched, you turned your head to Minho who had given you his leather jacket. He leaned towards you, his voice low. "I saw you shivering. Don't want you to catch cold" he explained with a gentle smile. You swallowed the knot in your throat and nodded thankfully. "...thank you, Minho" You still felt the warmth Minho had left behind in the jacket as you pulled the leather closer over your shoulder, unwillingly inhaling his rich scent.
As you then concentrated yourself again on the conversation, you had absolutely no idea about what they were actually talking. But the new-found warmth and Lisa's presence soothed you, making you feel sleepy slowly. "I think we should get going now" you heard your best friend say after a while. Chan nodded approvingly. "Yes, I will take my leave too. I have a class at 8 tomorrow." You hummed.
"I already know that I'll have to force myself out of bed." you hummed, standing up and stretching. Lifting the jacket from your shoulders, you turned back to Minho, who was already on his feet, to give it back to him. Gently, he nudged the jacket into your hands again. "Take it so that you won't freeze on your way back."
Furrowing your eyebrows, you answered. "But then, you will get cold" he shook his head with a smirk.
"I'm staying here at Hyunjin's. I don't need it." Carefully he took the leather jacket and lifted it up to help you into the sleeves. Your cheeks burned and your heart ran a marathon. And the look on Lisa's face didn't make the situation better. You knew you were going to answer a lot of questions on your way back home. Great.
Pleased, Minho let his eyes wander up and down, taking in the sight of you in his clothe. "Suits you, Y/n. And you won't get cold" he hummed with a nod. You murmured a quick thanks and goodbye, following Hyunjin and Lisa through the house to the front door.
There, you waved Hyunjin and chose to walk a few meteres so that Lisa had some time alone with him. He won't be asking her for a date with you standing right next to her for sure. You hummed and pulled the leather jacket closer around your body. Even though it wasn't yours, it strangely brought comfort.
Maybe it was just the feeling of something wrapping around your shoulders that eased you or the thought that someone cared for you enough to give you their jacket. Either way, it silenced some screaming thoughts inside your head and brought up some new questions. Why did Minho give you his jacket? Was it just politeness?
"Y/n! Wait for me!" Lisa exclaimed behind you and you turned around to see her walking towards you. Her steps bounced and a smile was prominent on her face, her fingers interwined with yours as she catched up to you. "Good talk with Hyunjin?" you asked, bumping your shoulder against hers with a wink.
"He asked me on a date" she replied happily, jumping up and down. You laughed and rubbed her thumb. "Oh my god, finally. I'm so happy for you." She nodded, practically jumping and bouncing next to you. "I can't believe it actually happened!"
"I told you that he will ask you out. And after he danced with you - which looked totally hot by the way- I knew he was going to ask you today" you snorted.
"Was it that obvious? For everyone?" You answered with a 'jup' and Lisa's cheeks were slowly turning red. "Like two blind birds, circling around each other" you commented. Her shoulder bumped again into yours. While wiggling her eyebrows, a playful smirk appeared on your best friend's lips. "And what is going on between you an Minho?"
Shrugging your shoulders, you answered. "Nothing. Should there be something going on?" And that was the truth. You didn't think that there was anything special with how he treated you and, well, you treated him somewhat normal for your situation. "Nothing? Now you're the oblivious one." She scoffed.
"The pudding with the cute message, how he searched for you when he heard you were here today and, most importantly, the jacket? Come on, Y/n, you didn't even tell anyone that you were cold and it was already wrapped around your shoulders" Lisa pointed out and you tried your best to slip further into the jacket that was far too big on you. But you couldn't escape in the slightest.
"It's nothing. Okay? Absolutely nothing. He's just friendly" you retorted and your best friend snorted amused. "Right. Of course" she judged but luckily didn't pry further.
Synopsis: After getting dumped for loving too hard, soft-hearted lawyer Felix Lee decides to master the art of being âcasualâ â starting with his sharp-tongued, terrifyingly brilliant coworker. What begins as a no-strings arrangement quickly turns into the one case neither of them can control: each other. (14,9k words)
Author's note: As always, hope you enjoy this one too, loves. Don't forget to leave feedback after đâŁïž
Felix wakes up that morning with a strange mix of nerves and excitement buzzing under his skin.
Seungmin is coming back. His best friend. His courtroom partner. The person who makes the office feel less⊠overwhelming.
Felix didnât realize how much he missed him until he caught himself drafting emails and thinking, Seungmin would roast this immediately.
Heâs genuinely excited. Almost too excited. Which is why heâs currently standing on a stool in Seungminâs office, aggressively taping a banner to the wall.
âHigher,â he instructs the intern holding the other side.
âItâs touching the ceiling,â the intern sheepishly mutters.
âHigher in spirit,â Felix insists.
The banner reads: WELCOME BACK, OUR ACE LAWYER KIM SEUNGMIN!
There are balloons. Bunting flags. Two interns armed with confetti cannons on each side of Seungminâs desk.
Felix checks his phone again. Twenty-five minutes ago, Seungmin texted him that he got on a taxi to work. He knows that heâll be here soon. He jumps off the chair and dust off his hands.
At the same time, you step into the office last like always. You pause near the doorway, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes sweep across the decorations with slow, merciless judgment.
âIs there a five-year-old having a birthday party in here?â you deadpan.
Felix chooses to ignore it and focused on the plan. He straightens a balloon. Adjusts the bunting flags hung on the front of his desk again. Repositions an intern by two inches because symmetry matters.
âOkay,â he whispers urgently. âWhen he opens the door, we shout together. On three. Not two. Not four.â
The interns nod solemnly and Felix jogs to the door, head peeking into the hallway. Nothing yet. He checks his phone again and when he looks up. He sees it.
The interns nod solemnly and Felix jogs to the door, head peeking into the hallway. Nothing yet. He checks his phone again and when he looks up. He sees it.
Through the glass entrance of the firm, he sees Seungmin. Heâs walking carefully with crutches, slower than usual but still somehow carrying himself like he owns the building.
Felixâs heart jumps in excitement and buzzing nerves. âHeâs here, heâs here, heâs here,â he repeatedly hisses.
He rushes back inside Seungminâs office and quietly shuts the door. âPositions!â he whisper-shouts.
The interns scramble, body stiffens, confetti canons raised in the air like theyâre bracing themselves for battlefield instead of a welcome party. Felix takes the center front, ready to be the first to greet his best friend. You donât move but stay near the desk, unimpressed.
The hallway outside is quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of crutches tapping the floor. The anticipation stretches longer than Felix expected because Seungmin moves slower now.
The doorknob turns and everyone inhales. A second later, the door swings open.
âWELCOME BACK!â the room explodes.
Confetti bursts. Balloons bob violently. Felix completely forgot about the countdown and shouts the loudest, genuine joy ringing through his voice.
Seungmin freezes in the doorway and then laughs. A full, real laugh. He looks at the banner with his lawyer profile photo. The balloons hitting the ceiling. The bits of confetti now stuck to his hair.
âWow,â he says, clearly delighted despite trying to look composed. âThis is⊠excessive.â
The interns beam proudly as they still stand in their positions, afraid to move without Felixâs permission.
âThank you, you guys,â Seungmin says as he looks at everyone. His eyes stop at the three interns and points at them, âIâm sure Felix made you do all this but thanks and Iâll treat all of you to drinks later.â
Felix turns to at them and thanks them again. âNow all of you can go back to work,â he says.
The interns file out in a noisy cluster until itâs just the three of you now in Seungminâs office. Felix steps forward immediately and pulls Seungmin into a careful hug. âWelcome back,â he says properly this time.
âThank you, man,â Seungmin genuinely says as he pats his back. âYou really didnât have to do all this.â
 âIt was nothing! Everyoneâs just excited youâre back,â Felix gushes. A grin is plastered to his face.
âExcept me,â you cut in flatly.
Seungmin looks at you, amused rather than offended. He inhales softly, savoring this moment. âHow I missed your positive attitude!â he says at you.
âYeah,â you reply dryly. âItâs been fun without you. You should break your leg more often.â
Felix winces at and hurriedly stepping in between you and Seungmin. âYou must be tired,â he says as he gets to Seungminâs side. âLetâs have you seated.â
He helps Seungmin to his chair, carefully setting the crutches aside for him after.
Seungmin settles in with a satisfied sigh and smiles. âIt feels good to be back,â he says.
Felix lights up again as he looks at Seungmin back on his desk again. âYouâll be back in court in no time. Your cases are all in order. I handled everything. Mostly.â
âActually,â Seungmin says casually as he leans back on his chair, âI talked to the head of the firm.â
Felix nods eagerly, patiently waiting for the rest of the it.
âIt seems like Iâll be working alongside you,â Seungmin says as he gestures at Felix with both hands. âJust until Iâm fully back on my feet. Literally and figuratively.â
Felix responds too fast, too eager. âDonât worry, Seungmin. Iâm more than happy to help.â
Seungmin looks pleased at that. âOh thanks, man.â
When Felix turns his head slightly to the side and sees you glaring at him. His smile tightens a little. Itâs only gotten to him then that spending more time with Seungmin means more proximity. More conversations. More slip-ups waiting to happen.
It also means that the secret just got harder to keep.
And itâs only Monday morning.
-
Two shots. Extra ice. Felix remembers exactly how Seungmin likes his coffee â strong, cold, borderline aggressive.
Felix stands in the pantry, carefully inserting the pod. The machine hums as it starts processing, and he hums a song as he waits, leaning lightly against the counterâ
All of a sudden, he feels a hand yanking at the back of his blazer and jerks him backward.
âWhatââ
Before he can finish, heâs dragged around the corner of the pantry wall, out of sight from the open office and pinned. Your hand grips the lapel of his blazer, shoving him firmly against the wall.
Felixâs eyes fluttering in fear as you lean close, a little too close and staring into him with ice cold glare. âH-hey, I Uhm⊠Iâm making coffee,â he stutters, forcing a weak laugh. âDo youââ
You push him harder against the wall and he shuts up instantly. âLet me remind you that youâll be working alongside Seungmin,â you say, voice low and cutting.
Felix nods faintly.
âSo there is a very, very big possibility that youâll spill everything,â you continue.
âI wonât,â he blurts immediately. âI promise. I wonât tell him. Iâ I swear.â
You narrow your eyes and your gaze turns sharp. Dangerously sharp.
âDo you not trust me?â he asks, voice smaller now.
âYou think Iâd trust a mollusk like you?â you say flatly.
Felix presses his lips together to stop them from trembling.
âJust so you know,â you pause to lean in even closer, eyes locking onto his. âI have the mailing list for your wine club.â
Felix can almost feel the blood drained from his face the second he hears that.
âIf one word. One word,â you emphasize by shoving your index finger close to his face, âslips out of your slimy mouth about this arrangement, I will email every single member and tell them you serve your wine at room temperature.â
Felix gasps. Actual horror flashes across his face. The reputation heâs been carefully, finely built in his wine clubâŠ
âYou wouldnât.â
âI would,â you say without a beat. Then you shove him once more for emphasis before letting go.
He stays against the wall for a second, gulping. He watches as you turn to leave and thenâ You glance back at him, eyes scanning him in quiet judgement. You seem not pleased with what youâre saying but doesnât say anything and walk away, stomping your heeled feet against the floor.
Felix looks down automatically, aware of what heâs wearing and how the littlest detail could tick you. All of a sudden, it feels harder to breath so he loosens the tie around the collar.
The coffee machine beeps and Felix swallows as his outfit is the absolute least of his worries.
-
Felix insists on driving. Not because Seungmin canât. But because crutches and pedals feel like a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Seungmin settles into the passenger seat with a quiet grunt, adjusting his injured leg carefully. Felix glances at him every three seconds like heâs transporting fragile cargo.
âYou shouldâve stayed in the office,â Felix says as he pulls out of the parking lot. âYou couldâve rested. Reviewed files. Bossed interns around from your chair.â
Seungmin snorts. âAnd die of boredom? No, thank you.â
Felix keeps his eyes on the road and drives just above the speed limit.
âIâd go insane doing desk work all day,â Seungmin continues. âBesides, this way we can spend time together, have lunch after court.â
Lunch. Right. Felix can focus on that. Food is his forte, he can talk about it for hours and never running out of things to share.
Seungmin perks up immediately. âIâm thinking something good. Something celebratory. What do you feel like? Noodles? Barbecue? That pizza place you like? Or maybeââ
Felix nods along. He tries to join in on the lunch menu discussion but his head is still stuck to earlier. To your threat in the pantry. Your voice replays in his head like a warning siren.
ââor maybe we try that new place near the courthouse? I heard they have really goodââ
Heâs barely listening because heâs alone with Seungmin now. In a confined space. Just the two of them. And Felix is suddenly hyperaware of every word that could possibly leave his mouth.
If one word slips out of your slimy mouthâŠ
Seungmin is still talking about lunch with surprising intensity.
ââŠweeks without work and my brain is lagging. Anyway, I think we should have something good for lunch,â Seungmin finishes, turning to look at him.
Felix keeps nodding. Too much nodding. Itâs too quiet for a beat.
âWhy are you so quiet?â
Felixâs hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. âWhat? Iâm not quiet.â
âYou are,â Seungmin says slowly. âYou used to be so excited whenever weâre talking about food.â
Felixâs brain scrambles to make up an excuse, a lie. âIâm justââ he clears his throat, forcing composure, ââgetting ready for court. Itâs part of my ritual now.â
Seungmin eyes him. âA ritual?â
âYeah. Mental preparation. Silence. Focus. Law things.â
Felix shrugs too casually. âSince I⊠took over some of your cases.â
Thereâs a pause where Seungmin studies him like heâs cross-examining a witness. Then, eventually, he leans back. âYep. Make sense,â he says with a nod of approval.
He goes right back to lunch discussion. âSo. Any suggestions?â
Felix blurts the first thing that comes to mind. âShirako!â
Seungmin slowly turns his head. âWhat is that?â
âBlowfish sperm,â Felix simply answers.
Seungminâs face contorts in disgust.
âItâs a Japanese delicacy. It contains zinc and DHA. A brain booster.â
This time, Seungmin shakes his head in disapproval.
âServed raw with ponzu sauce. Itâs creamy, delicate and slightly sweet.â
Seungminâs brows are still knitted together, but he doesnât even dignify it with a full rejection. âNope,â he says flatly. âWeâre getting normal food. You know, something that has nothing to do with fishâs testicle.â
Felix nods immediately. Normal is good. Normal is safe. Normal doesnât involve secrets, threats, or wine club scandals. He keeps his eyes on the road and keeps his mouth very, very careful.
-
Felix walks out of the courtroom feeling lighter, adrenaline still buzzing pleasantly under his skin. He was confident. Focused. No stumbling, no overthinking.
Seungmin waits for him outside of the courtroom, crutches scrape the floor as he gets up to greet Felix. âYou did great in there,â he genuinely praises.
A praise from Seungmin means a lot to him but itâs nothing compared to the smile of relief on his clientâs face. Itâs another job well done and Felix feels proud of himself.
For lunch, Felix and Seungmin end up at a small restaurant near the courthouse â nothing experimental, nothing related to a certain animalâs sperm sac. Just good, normal food. Seungmin looks pleased with himself for overriding Felixâs earlier suggestion.
Felix, meanwhile, has discovered something important during the car ride: If he talks about food, he doesnât talk about secrets.
So he talks. Passionately. To distract his brain from sharing the one thing his best friend shouldnât know about.
âThis place uses a darker soy base,â he explains, gesturing at Seungminâs bowl like heâs presenting evidence. âItâs richer, slightly caramelized. And the scallions are cut thicker on purpose â texture contrast.â
Seungmin hums, already halfway through his meal.
âI actually found this place through a food vlogger,â Felix continues. âHe rated it an 8.7 but I think thatâs criminally low because if you consider the balance of salt and fatââ
Seungmin takes a little bit of everything into his spoon and shoves it into his mouth.
Felix keeps going. âAnd the chili oil? Itâs infused, not just mixed in. Thatâs why it lingers differently.â
Seungmin nods absentmindedly, clearly far more invested in eating than in the lecture.
Felix doesnât mind. Not talking makes him suspicious. Talking keeps him safe. The sound of his phone chiming with a new notification interrupts him. He grabs it, assuming itâs work-related. His heart skips a beat when he sees your name. Heâs so afraid to open it now but at the same time, he wants to know what you sent.
Itâs just a text message, he tells himself, how bad could it be?
With a slightly trembling finger, Felix clicks on the text. Itâs a photo. He pinches the screen to zoom in and his breath stops. Itâs the wine club mailing list. Names. Emails. All neatly displayed. The food in his mouth suddenly tastes like cardboard. He feels a shiver down his spine. His blood drains so fast he feels dizzy.
The threat is real. You have it. You actually have it. And he can almost imagine it â His entire curated image destroyed in one email blast.
âWhat is it?â Seungmin asks casually.
The phone heâs holding almost slipped out of his hand. âNothing,â he says too quickly, shoving it into his briefcase like itâs evidence in a crime.
Seungmin stares at him. Not buying it. âItâs definitely something,â he says, his tone full of suspicion.
âItâs nothing,â Felix repeats and forces a smile to look convincing.
Seungmin tilts his head slightly and smirks. ââŠIs it the wine club girl you banged last weekend?â
Felix almost chokes on nothing.
Seungmin bursts into laughter immediately. âMan! Youâre so easy to read,â he says, shaking his head in amusement.
Felix coughs, grabbing his water. âYeah. She just keeps texting. Wants to meet again,â he lies, recovering quickly.
He sips his water before shrugging, feigning indifference. âI told her Iâm keeping it casual.â
Seungminâs brows lift. âOoo⊠look at you!â He coos, impressed.
Felix forces a small scoff. âWhat?â
âYou finally learned to do casual right,â Seungmin nods approvingly. âGood for you.â
Felix smiles and nods. And keeps the expression steady. Inside, something twists. He hates lying to his best friend, Seungmin. But itâs thisâ
Or watching his pristine wine club reputation evaporate in a single, devastating email.
He picks up his fork again and the food still tastes bland.
-
Later that night, the firm floods into their usual bar, one they always default to for celebrations, casual gatherings, or just collective exhaustion. The head of the firm is treating tonight in celebration of Seungminâs return which means itâs loud, itâs crowded.
Which means Felix should feel relaxed.
He steps inside and immediately spots Seungmin at the counter, perched on a stool. Crutches leaned nearby. One elbow resting lazily on the bar. A drink in hand. Heâs sharing yet another of his false, embellished heroic version of how he got injured to Sal, the owner and bartender of the bar.
ââŠand then I told him, if youâre going to swing that metal pipe, at least aim properlyââ
Sal is already shaking his head while wiping his counter clean with a cloth.
Seungmin notices Felix approaching and grins.
Felix taps his shoulder in greeting before sliding onto the stool beside him. âSo glad you survived,â he comments at Seungminâs heroic story.
âBarely,â Seungmin replies with mock gravity. âIt was a battlefield.â
Felix doesnât correct him but raises his hand to order a drink.
Sal smirks knowingly and pours Felix his usual without asking.
Seungmin continues, now adding dramatic pauses and unnecessary detail about how he âshieldedâ someone before his tragic fall.
Felix listens, amused, nursing his drink. But after a while, he slips away from the counter to greet the interns crammed into a booth nearby. They cheer when they see him and before he forgot, he thanks them for helping with the welcoming party earlier.
As the interns comfortably share about their workload to him, he notices you occupying the small table by yourself, nursing a glass of liquor. Youâre already looking at him like youâve been aware of him the entire time. And like the sight of him is mildly exhausting.
Felix excuses himself from the interns and walks over. He slides into the seat across from you.
You donât smile or greet him. You just ask, flatly, âSo have you told your best friend about us?â
Felix immediately shakes his head. âNo.â
You squint. âAre you sure?â
âYes,â he says, nodding firmly. âEvery time I get the urge to talk, I just talk about food.â
Thereâs a pause as you process his answer and then give a subtle nod. You lift your glass and take a slow sip, eyes never leaving him.
Felix feels like heâs being evaluated. He lifts his drink and have a sip as well, just to have something to do.
When you lower the glass, you say casually, âWell, see you at my place later.â
The invitation comes so sudden. No buildup. No negotiation. Like youâve just decided at that very moment that you want him to come over to your place. âLater? Like⊠later at what time exactly?â he asks, worrying more about the time than everything else.
You donât answer but finish your drink in one smooth motion. You stand, glancing at him over your shoulder. âDonât be late,â you add.
And just like that, you walk away.
Felix stays seated but his heart is racing in his chest. He glances toward the bar where Seungmin is now laughing loudly at his own jokes. He looks back at the space you just vacated.
What time is later? Should he leave now? Should he stay a respectable amount of time? Should he pretend nothing is happening?
He has no idea but one thing is painfully clear.
You decide the time. You decide the place.
And heâ
He only follows.
-
By the time Felix gets Seungmin out of the bar, he regrets letting him switch to whatever Sal called a âwelcome back special.â
Seungmin is not wasted. But he is⊠spiritually unbalanced.
âCareful,â Felix mutters, arm hooked firmly around Seungminâs waist as they shuffle toward the curb.
The casted leg sticks out stiffly. One crutch slips and then it clatters to the ground. Felix nearly drops both of them trying to catch it.
âWhy do you have so many limbs,â Felix groans under his breath, juggling crutches, best friend, and dignity.
Seungmin squints at him. âIâm very aerodynamic right now.â
âYou are the opposite of aerodynamic,â Felix groans again as he steadies Seungmin to his side.
Time feels loud in his head. Felix checks his watch briefly. Too late to calculate what âlateâ even means. He raises his free hand and waves frantically at the street. âTaxi! Taxi!â
Finally, headlights slow and a taxi pulls to the curb.
âOkay, the taxiâs here,â Felix exhales more to himself than to Seungmin, already sweating.
He keeps one arm around Seungmin and stretches the other desperately toward the car door. It takes an embarrassing amount of fumbling, but he manages to yank it open. Carefully, he maneuvers Seungmin inside. First the body. Then the casted leg. He lifts it gently with both hands, sliding it into the backseat like itâs a fragile sculpture.
âCrutches,â Seungmin mumbles.
Felix grabs them off the pavement and hands them through the door. He leans toward the driver next. âSeoul Heights Apartments. Building C.â
The driver nods and Felix is about to step back when a hand grabs his wrist.
Seungmin peers up at him, eyes glassy. ââŠWhy am I in a taxi?â
Felix wipes the sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. âBecause itâs time to go home.â
Seungmin frowns slightly. âWhy arenât you driving me?â
âBecause Iâve been drinking too.â
After a while, Seungmin nods slowly. âRight. Yes. Alcohol.â
Seungmin leans back against the seat but when Felix gently tries to pull his hand free, he grips him again, sudden clarity flashing through his expression. âWhy arenât you getting in?â
Felix hesitates for half a second. âOur homes are in different directions.â
Seungmin studies him like he might argue and then, he finally lets go. He drops his head to the back and closes his eyes.
Felix steps away and shuts the door gently. He leans down once more to the driver. âPlease drive safe.â
The taxi pulls away and Felix watches it until it disappears down the street. Then he looks at his wristwatch.
12:07 a.m.
He doesnât know what âlateâ is but this feels like it. He curses under his breath and starts walking toward the main road to find his own ride.
Tie loosened. Running out of breath. And the unsettling feeling that whatever waits for him at your place, has already decided whether heâs on time.
-
Felix practically trips out of the taxi and into the lobby of your apartment building.
By the time he reaches your floor, his heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running. He smooths down his shirt first. He tugs at the hem, tries to flatten it with his palms. Then his hands move to his hair, pushing it back, fixing the part as best as he can using the faint reflection in the elevator doors.
He couldâve gone home first and get changed, freshened up properly. But the idea of being even later felt worse. He steps up to your door. He inhales air to brace himself and then knocks on the door.
Thereâs no answer. He checks the address again, matching the number of the unit. 13B. Heâs right. He knocks again and again. Still now answer.
Just when heâs about to knock again, the door opens and youâre there. Wrapped in silk bed robe. One hand gripping the door to keep it ajar. You just look at him with bored eyes. Long enough for him to feel examined. Judged. Measured.
âWell, well, well, look who finally showed up,â you finally say.
Felix immediately fumbles as he explains why. âIâIâm sorry. I came as fast as I could. I had to help Seungmin. Heâs drunk and then the taxi andââ
You donât look impressed. âYou made me wait,â you simply say.
The words are simple yet accusatory. Felix canât even find a word to say. He knows thatâs true.
âYou made me watch these 12 parts videos of a TED Talk on TikTok.â
Felixâs mouth parts open but heâs not sure what to say to that. âTED talk?â
You cross your arms together and lean the side of your body against the frame. âItâs about power poses and apparently, they affect hormonal changes. You know, like confidence. Dominance.â
You straighten slightly as you speak. âSo now Iâm more in the mood to go back to my room and practice my own power poses.â
Felixâs brain short-circuits as he tries to catch up to all this information and what it means to him. âDoes that mean, you uh⊠you donât want to have sex anymore?â he carefully asks.
You look at him like the answer should be obvious. âWell, you shouldnât have made me opened TikTok.â
The finality in your tone hits harder than he expects. Disappointment sinks in his chest before he can stop it. He nods slowly and weakly says, ââŠOkay.â
He takes a step back and turns toward the elevator. Maybe this is what he gets. Maybe âlaterâ had a very specific expiration time. Two steps laterâ
âHey, you,â you call, voice echoes in the empty hallway. âShelled gastropod!â
He stops walking and turns around immediately. He raises a finger at himself, hesitantly asks, âMe?â
Youâre still leaning against the door but something in your expression has shifted. Just slightly. âI changed my mind.â
His face brightens before he can control it. He stammers as he asks once again for confirmation. âDoes that meanâyou want toânow?â
You open the door wider and make a head gesture. âYouâd better get in before I change my mind again,â you say.
Thatâs all the invitation he needs. Felix practically jogs back toward you and steps inside before you can retract the offer.
The door closes behind him and whatever power pose youâve been practicingâ
He has a feeling heâs about to experience it firsthand.
-
Your apartment is a studio. Itâs open, intentionally so, nothing is hidden. He can take it in all at once.
The bed positioned near the window. A full wall mirror mounted on the other. A compact kitchen tucked close to the door. A sofa draped with a soft fur blanket in one corner. A shelf lined with fashion magazines, structured purses, and what looks like a carefully curated collection of crystals catching the low light.
You donât say anything but stand there and let him look.
He clears his throat softly. âThatâs a big uh⊠mirror.â
âItâs there to create the illusion of space,â you reply.
Felix nods slowly, but his curiosity is louder than his manners. âBut why is it facing the bed?â
You tilt your head slightly, like you already knew that was coming. âBecause I like waking up and seeing my face as it reminds me that Iâm blessed with beauty that could change the world.â
That tracks. Felix nods immediately and opens his mouth to ask about the crystalsâ
Felix plops onto the end of your bed. The silk sheets are unbelievably soft under him, and he actually gasps a little at the texture. âWhoa, silk bedsheetsâŠâ he sighs in awe.
You clap your hands once to get his attention and he straightens instantly, posture attentive, eyes locked on you. You stand before him, explaining the TED Talk with measured confidence. Demonstrating subtle shifts in posture â shoulders back, chin lifted, stance grounded.
ââŠshe said that adopting power poses can boost confidence and influence successâŠâ
As you speak, Felix realizes something. This is one of the things he admires about you. Youâre not just confident. Youâre certain. You live by your own rules. You donât dilute yourself for anyone. You exist exactly as you are and expect the world to adjust accordingly.
âYou donât need all that,â he starts softly. âYouâreââ
He stops himself. Afraid finishing that sentence might annoy you instead of impress you.
You nod once and say, âYeah, I know Iâm powerful already.â
Of course you do. Then your eyes shift back to him. âThereâs one more power pose I want to try.â
Felix nods obediently. âYes, please show it to me,â he says with a pleased smile.
You hold his gaze as you untie your silk robe and let it slide off your shoulders. It falls to the floor in one smooth motion. Underneath, a slip dress clings to you, soft fabric tracing every curve of you.
Felix forgets how to breathe as you slowly walk toward him. You donât stop until youâre right there, until your knees press against his thighs. And then you get onto his lap.
The warmth of you on his lap makes his hands twitch instinctively. You donât move and just look at him as you straddle him.
Under your gaze, he feels both intimidated and undeniably drawn in. âI-is this the power pose?â he stammers.
You let out a low, amused laugh. You put a hand around his neck, lean in and then you kiss him. Itâs sudden. Rougher than he expects. Heâs caught off guard for half a second before he reacts, hands finding your waist as he steadies himself. He kisses you back eagerly, hungrily.
Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping just enough to keep him exactly where you want him. The other hand still cradles the back of his head as you deepen the kiss, controlling the pace.
Felix exhales into your mouth, and this time he doesnât hesitate. His hands move, tracing the line of your sides, learning the shape of you through silk. He pulls you closer instinctively, fingers sliding down the curve of your spine.
When his palms settle at your hips, you donât stop him. If anything, you lean into it. You shift your weight subtly against him, rubbing yourself on his crotch in slow motions that sends heat straight through his body. He tightens his grip without thinking as friction slowly builds and he lets out a low, strangled sound against your lips. You swallow it with a faint smile and then your tongue slips back into his mouth
-
Time loses shape.
Felix has no idea how long youâve been kissing him. It could be minutes, hours, something in between â but heâs burning everywhere. Heat pools between his legs, his arousal straining against the fabric of his slacks, painfully aware of how little space there is between you and him.
And still, he doesnât want it to stop. He wants your weight on his lap. Your warmth seeping into him. Your softness under his palms. Your mouth claiming his like itâs yours to take.
Heâs just starting to lose himself in it when you slowly pull away. Your lips part from his, swollen and flushed. Your eyes look slightly dazed but not lost. Never lost. Youâre always aware.
You look down at him like youâre assessing your work. Your fingers drift to his freckled cheek, then slide beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward you.
âSuch a pretty face,â you murmur.
The words land somewhere in his chest and for a second, you just look at him, almost admiring. Then your palm presses to his chest, guiding him down fully against the silk sheets. You shift, moving your legs until youâre kneeling over him. His head caged between your thighs.
From this angle, he can see the matching underwear youâre wearing beneath your dress. The faint sheen of fabric and the way it curves with you. He instinctively licks his lips at the sight.
You look down at him as you calmly say, âThis is the power pose.â
With that, you slowly lower yourself on his mouth.
To Felix, his world narrows instantly to your warmth, scent. Your softness. He exhales against you without thinking, arms instinctively curving around your thighs to steady you.
Thereâs fabric between his mouth and your cunt, but he doesnât hesitate. He presses closer, mouth opening and working through the sheer fabric, determined, hungry to please. You gasp softly above him and the sound alone makes him bolder. He closes his eyes, focusing on the way you react, the way your breathing shifts, the way your fingers tighten in his hair.
At one point, you lift slightly, just enough to give him air. He can see your underwear is now damp with both his saliva and your essence. He uses the moment to slips his fingers to the edge of silk, easing it aside. He swallows at the sight of your cunt, bare and wet, hovering just inches away from his mouth.
When he presses forward again, thereâs nothing between you now. You lower yourself back down with a slow exhale, and this time he doesnât hold back. He tastes you fully now, mouth moving with growing confidence, learning what draws that sharp inhale from you, what makes your hips subtly shift.
You smirk down at him when he gets it right and he absolutely notices. He becomes more deliberate. His tongue teasing your entrance, lips wrapped around your swollen clit, he applies the right pressure, he sucks gently and then hard â all tuned to the smallest reaction you give.
Soon youâre moving more obviously, rolling your hips back and forth, chasing the sensation heâs giving you. Sitting on his face, riding his mouth to your liking. You lift the hem of your slip dress, letting it bunch at your waist. Now you can see him. See the way he looks between your thighs. See the way his mouth moves. See how devoted he is to the task.
He dares to open his eyes and holds your gaze. Mouth continuously pleasing you. And there it is again â that smirk of approval.
You slide the straps of your dress down your shoulders, letting the fabric hunched around your waist. Then you take his hands and place them on your breasts, moving your hands together.
Felix doesnât hesitate. His fingers move eagerly, kneading gently, thumbs brushing over sensitive buds that respond immediately beneath his touch. Soon enough, your hard nipples are caught between his fingers as he fondles on your soft flesh. You let out a surprised, delighted gasp. A sound that fuels him further.
His mouth doesnât stop. His hands donât stop. At this point, thereâs no pride left in him. No hesitation. Just the singular need to please you, to keep you above him like this, to earn that smirk again and again.
Because right now, you hold all the power and heâs more than willing to surrender to it.
-
Felix doesnât know when the shift happens.
Youâre bent forward on the bed, hands gripping the sheet, knees steadily pressed against the mattress, slip dress twisted and ruffled around your waist, hair falling around your shoulders.
The sheets are a mess beneath you. So is he. One moment heâs following your lead and the next, heâs moving with intention. His hands settle at your hips, eyes focused on the way his cock slipping in and out of you. The rhythm between you builds, steady and controlled at first â something he can manage, something he can survive.
Then, you start to softly, breathlessly murmurs between your moans. âFaster.â
He shouldnât. You feel too good, wrapped so warmly, tightly around him. The pace heâs keeping is measured because he knows if he lets go completely, he wonât last the way he wants to.
âFaster,â you breathe again, needier this time.
For a second, he hesitates â not because he canât obey, but because obeying means losing control. And yetâŠ
The way you ask. The way your voice dips, stripped of its usual sharpness. He slides one hand up, catching the twisted fabric of your dress at your waist, gripping it as a leverage and gives you what you want.
The rhythm deepens. Quickens. Your reactions grow louder, less restrained. You donât hide it. You donât pretend composure. You let him hear what heâs doing to you and thatâs new.
He turns his head slightly and finds the mirror. He sees the reflection of the moment unfolding real time â your body moving with each of his hard thrust, his cock repeatedly slamming into you, the way your back arched to provide him more depth, the tension in his shoulders, the confidence in the way he holds you.
His eyes flick to your reflection next. Your head pressed into the pillow, hands helplessly gripping the sheets. Eyes screwed shut. Lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth. Completely undone.
A surge of something fills his chest. Confidence. Is this how you feel all the time? That unshakable certainty. That belief that youâre in control of the room, the moment, the outcome. Watching himself like this and seeing the way you respond, he feels that self-assurance that heâs doing well. That heâs capable of doing⊠this.
He moves with more assurance now, guided by your reactions rather than fear of losing himself. And when you finally fall apart beneath him, when your body gives in and your breath breaks in a way that tells him he did that, something in him tightens in response. He follows not long after, hitting his high and spilling himself into the condom.
The momentum slows. The room quiets except for the sound of both of you catching your breath. You collapse forward onto the sheets, and he lowers with you, chest pressed against your back.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The haze lingers but even through it, Felix presses his mouth to the side of your neck. He plants soft kisses along your shoulder, down the curve of your back. Appreciative.
When he finally turns his head slightly, his eyes catch his reflection in the mirror again.
He sees the aftermath. The disheveled bed. Your bodies tangled together. Chests rising and falling in sync. His arm draped over you. The side of his head rested on your back. He studies his own reflection and for once, he likes what he sees.
-
Monday morning comes with a strange kind of clarity.
Felix wakes before his alarm and rolls out of bed. He starts his day as usual. Cook breakfast. Eat breakfast. Shower. Then heads to his closet with purpose.
He moves in confidence as he owns a guide on how to properly dress now. All thanks to you and the link you sent to a Pinterest board you made with a title âStop dressing like a nervous intern.â. And obviously, he ignores the more extreme suggestions. Leather pants? Absolutely not for court. Fringed jacket? He values his employment.
Instead, he chooses strategically. A charcoal pinstripe suit and pairs it with a crisp black shirt instead of his usual safe white. He buttons it slowly and steps into his shoes. Then stands in front of the mirror and pauses.
For a second, he genuinely doesnât recognize himself. He looks⊠Good. Thereâs something deliberate about it. Something assured. The pinstripes elongate him. The darker tones sharpen his facial features. His posture naturally straightens. He adjusts his cuff once and smiles faintly at his reflection.
The smile doesnât look nervous. It looks knowing. And because he looks good, he feels good. The confidence isnât forced. It settles into his shoulders. Into the way he moves. Into the calm steadiness of his breathing.
Yeah, heâs no longer look like a nervous intern at all. He looks like someone who knows what heâs doing and doing great at it.
By the time he walks into the firm, his confidence radiating off him.
The cleaning lady notices first as she pauses mid-mop, eyes widening slightly. âMorning, Mr. Lee. You look very handsome today,â she says with a grin.
Felix beams, but itâs not flustered like usual. âThank you,â he replies smoothly.
He keeps walking, steadily gripping his briefcase in one hand and itâs subtle, but people glance twice. He makes tea like usual. Adds honey after. He writes his day neatly in his planner. Checks emails. Organizes files.
Everything is the same. But he isnât.
Thereâs a certainty under his movements now. He doesnât second-guess when he speaks. He doesnât hover before knocking on doors. He doesnât shrink when someone challenges him.
He realizes that confidence isnât just something he performs. Maybe itâs something he decides to wear. Maybe itâs inside him all along.
He adjusts his jacket once more and glances at his reflection in the glass of his office window. And yeah, he has a feeling that the rest of the day is going to be good.
-
Felix waits outside the hospital parking lot with the engine running and two iced coffees sweating in the cup holders. He checks the time and then checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. Just⊠checking. The pinstripe suits hug his body perfectly. Hair in place. Collar sharp. He looks composed.
The sliding hospital automatic doors slide open and thereâs Seungmin without the crutches this time. Instead, an orthopedic boot strapped around one leg, bulky but undeniably less tragic.
Felix grins when Seungmin spots him. Then gets out of the car and opens the passenger door. He patiently holds the door open as Seungmin walks slowly, still afraid in putting too much weight on his injured leg.
âThanks, man,â Seungmin beams as he carefully gets into the car.
Felix makes sure Seungmin is settling on his seat before closing the door and runs to the other side. The second he gets into the driverâs seat, he hands Seungmin the coffee without a word.
âTwo shots. Extra ice,â Felix says with a smile.
Seungmin takes a sip through the straw and hums in approval. âYouâd survive as my assistant.â
âIâd unionize.â
Seungmin snorts and settles into the seat, adjusting the boot slightly. âGod, I feel lighter. No more crutches. I can walk without feeling like a Victorian orphan,â he says, one hand resting on his knee.
Felix laughs, pulling the car out of the lot. âSo the check-up went well?â
âYeah. Doctor says Iâm healing perfectly. I graduate from crutches to this.â He taps the boot proudly. âItâs kind of cool, right? Like a limited-edition sneaker.â
âIâs very cool. Iâd like to get one of those,â Felix says automatically. The people pleaser in him just couldnât take a day off.
Seungmin looks at him and says, âNo, you donât actually.â
Felix smiles, glancing at him briefly before focusing back on the road.
Seungmin keeps talking about the relief, how he can finally shower without performing acrobatics. After a moment, he pauses mid-sentence. âWait.â
Felix briefly glances over. âWhat?â
Seungmin narrows his eyes slightly as he stares at Felix. âThereâs something different about you.â
Felix suddenly becomes hyperaware of himself. The suit. The posture. The way heâs holding the steering wheel. âWhat? No, I donât think so,â he says too quickly.
âThere is.â
Felix clears his throat and tries to sound casual as he says, âItâs probably just the new suits.â
Seungmin finally looks at him properly. Eyes dragging from the structured shoulders down to the clean lines of the pinstripes. He lets out a low whistle. âOh.â
Felix tries not to sit up straighter and grips the steering wheel tighter.
âItâs definitely the suits,â Seungmin says, sounding genuinely impressed. âIt looks really good on you.â
Felix feels warmth creep up his neck, but he keeps his smile controlled. âThanks.â
Seungmin nods approvingly. âYou look like you bill by the minute now.â
âI do bill by the minute.â
âYeah, but now you look like you enjoy it.â
Felix laughs softly and he realizes something. Heâs not shrinking under the attention. Heâs not brushing it off. He just accepts it. âThanks,â he repeats, calmer this time.
Seungmin leans back on his seat, having another long sip of his coffee.
Felix turns his eyes back to the road, but the smile stays on his face. He was right. This is a good day.
-
Felix stays half a step behind Seungmin as they enter the firm, ready to steady him if needed. The boot makes a heavier sound against the floor, but itâs steadier than the awkward tap of crutches.
They turn the corner and Seungmin bumps directly into you. Youâre holding a stack of freshly copied files, arms full, expression unimpressed by the collision.
Seungmin steadies himself first. Then you glance down, at the orthopedic boot.
âCool get-up,â you casually say.
Felix canât really tell if youâre being genuine or sarcastic. But Seungmin immediately lights up at that. âRight? It elevates the whole look.â
Seungmin puts his injured leg on a box pushed to someoneâs desk. âNo more crutches. I can actually function like a human being,â he says.
âThatâs a low bar,â you reply evenly.
Seungmin grins anyway. Then, like heâs just remembered something, he turns around dramatically toward Felix. âFelix, man, thank you for picking me up from the hospital.â
Felix waves him off. âItâs fine. I finished court early anyway.â
âNo, no,â Seungmin insists. âYou didnât have to. I appreciate it.â
Felix shrugs, trying to keep it casual. âReally, itâs nothing.â
âIâm treating you to drinks tonight,â Seungmin declares.
Tonight. He absolutely cannot do tonight. He clears his throat quickly. âI canât tonight.â
Seungmin pauses. âWhy not?â
Felix hesitates just a fraction too long and just for a second, his eyes flick toward you. âWine club,â he says smoothly.
Seungmin narrows his gaze immediately. âWine club, huh?â he repeats slowly.
Then he lowers his voice, but not enough to actually be private.
âIs wine club now code for you meeting that girl youâre casually hooking up with?â
Behind him, Felix sees you tilt your head slightly. One eyebrow arches in intrigue.
Felixâs brain works at record speed. âNah, Iâm just excited for tonight because weâre tasting the Rojo Caliente Red Chile Wine.â he says quickly.
âThe what?â Seungin asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
âItâs a bold, spicy red. Crafted with fiery red chile peppers. Very complex profile,â Felix continues confidently while nodding.
Seungmin looks genuinely horrified. âThat sounds like a crime.â
âItâs innovative.â
âItâs an abomination.â
âWhy donât you join me tonight?â Felix offers just to sound convincing.
Seungmin recoils immediately. âAbsolutely not. Iâll stick to draft beer like a normal person.â
Felix nods solemnly. âYour loss.â
Seungmin sighs and puts his foot back down. âIâll treat you to drinks next time.â
âSure.â
Seungmin resumes his slow walk toward his office and Felix watches him go. Then he looks back at you.
Thereâs something almost impressed in the way youâre looking at him now. Like you just witnessed something unexpected.
Felix straightens unconsciously. Confidence settling back into place. Secret intact. And maybe, heâs getting better at this.
-
Later that night, Felix is back at your apartment.
Youâre both on the sofa, the fur blanket half-draped over your legs, a bowl of popcorn balanced between you. The lights are dim, the TV casting shifting shadows across the room.
On screen, Magic Mike is doing what it does best, dancing to arouse the ladies attending the strip club.
Felix tries to look neutral as he watches the movie.
You, however, are studying the screen like itâs an educational documentary while shoving popcorn into your mouth, one kernel at a time.
At one particularly enthusiastic moment from Channing Tatum, you casually say, âRemember what I told you?â
Felix glances at you. âAbout what?â
âAbout moving your pelvis like that.â You gesture toward the screen with a piece of popcorn. âYou should move like that.â
Felix watches intently as Channing Tatumâs character doing his solo performance by dancing to an R&B track. It looks cool at first until he gets down and thrusting into the floor.
âDoes that mean you uh⊠want me to give you a lap dance?â he carefully asks.
You donât even look at him as you say, âI wouldnât dare to expect that much from you.â
The delivery is flat yet devastating.
Felix feels something in his chest spark. The humming confidence heâs been carrying all day â flares up instead of shrinking. âI think I can do that,â he manages to say it without wavering.
You finally turn your head slowly toward him. âYou think or you do?â
âI mean, yeah, I can,â he answers, adding a coy shrug to convince you.
You look at him. Then you shove a piece of popcorn into his mouth. âI didnât say you canât try.â
The smirk appears. Amused. Curious. Slightly challenging.
Felix chews slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He feels challenged. âYou know,â he says casually, setting the popcorn bowl aside, âitâs all in the hips.â
You lean back against the sofa, folding your arms. âIs that so?â
The TV continues playing in the background, bass thumping faintly from the speakers. Youâre still watching. Not the movie. Him. youâre not watching the movie. All of your attention, laser focused. Elbows resting on the back of the sofa. Chin tilted slightly up. Waiting.
All of a sudden, his confidence starts leaking out of him with every second of your silence.
Okay. Just do it. Stop thinking. He mutters to himself. He rolls his shoulders once and then he starts moving.
He moves slowly at first. A cautious sway of his body. It feels awkward immediately. Too stiff. Too aware of where his arms are, where his legs are, where youâre looking.
He pushes past it and shifts his weight. He lets his hips roll â back and forth, copying what he studied earlier from the movie. He even adds a hand movement, sliding it down his torso, tapping between his hips in a bold, committed gesture.
Commit. Commit. Commit. He repeatedly tells himself. For a moment, he almost believes it.
But not long after, he becomes painfully aware of himself again. It starts to feel less like dancing and more like⊠trying. He slows and eventually stops.
He clears his throat before attempting to casually ask you. ââŠWell?â
You look at him for a long, assessing second. âYikes.â
Felix actually hisses under his breath. âAhââ
âIâve seen inflatable tube men with more charisma,â you comment.
His head drops in defeat. Total defeat. He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose.
You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. âMaybe⊠take your shirt off?â
He looks up. âWhat?â
âYouâre relying too much on enthusiasm.â
Thereâs no teasing in your tone. Just a clinical suggestion. Somehow, that makes it worse. But also â
Fine. If heâs going down, heâs going down dramatically. He straightens. This time, he doesnât rush. He reaches for the first button of his shirt.
Pop.
Slow.
Your gaze sharpens.
Second button.
Pop.
He moves closer while undoing them, eyes never leaving yours. He lets the anticipation stretch, fingers dragging lower, opening the fabric inch by inch.
Third.
Fourth.
He parts the shirt open, exposing his chest, holding it there for a second like a reveal.
You give a subtle nod of approval and it encourages him to keep going. He shrugs the shirt off slowly and lets it fall to the floor.
âYeah,â you sigh while slowly nodding, enjoying the sight. âNow come on and seduce me. Make me cheat on my husband. Make me spend the money I donât have on you.â
Now he moves again. His hips roll, slower this time. More controlled. He angles his body to show you the lines of his torso, flexing slightly when he turns because heâs noticed the way your eyes linger when he does. He repeats the earlier motions, but this time with intention. More confidence.
Youâre watching him without blinking, popcorn completely forgotten and that alone keeps him going. Untilâ
He runs out of ideas and the rhythm slows. His breathing is heavier now. He looks up at you and weakly asks, âHow about that?â
You press your lips together like youâre holding something in. After a moment, you finally talk. âYou only need about ten more years of practice.â
Felix deflates again, feeling disappointed of himself. âBut I did my bestâŠâ he mumbles to himself.
âOh, you little booboo,â you coo softly, patting the sofa beside you. âLetâs just go back to the movie.â
No. No, absolutely not. He canât end on that.
âWait, I still have one move,â he quickly says.
You grab the bowl of popcorn and put it on your lap. âIâm hard to impress. So better save yourself from future embarrassment.â
âJust one chance. PleaseâŠâ he insists, almost pleading now.
You roll your eyes, sighing as you put the bowl of popcorn away. ââŠFine.â
He inhales deeply and braces himself. Instead of swaying his body, he drops to his knees.
Your eyes flicking down to him. Confused and intrigued.
He keeps eye contact as he lowers his hands to the carpet and shifts onto all fours. He holds the gaze for a moment and doesnât break it as he crawls toward you. He can see the way your expression is just intrigued now. The way your posture straightens. The way your eyes darken just slightly as he moves closer and closer until heâs at your feet.
There, kneeling on the floor, he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. Then gently reaches for your leg, uncrossing it. He hears that tiny hitch in your breath as he parts your knees open, holding your gaze as he does. Just enough to make it clear he knows exactly what heâs doing.
His eyes flick downward for a second, catching a glimpse of white lace beneath the hem of your dress before lifting again to lock with yours.
The air feels thicker now. Charged. He crawls forward until heâs close enough that your legs bracket his shoulders and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing his face against the warmth between your thighs through the fabric.
You gasp softly, leaning back into the sofa. Your hands reaching for his head, fingers tangled in his dark locks.
âOh, yeah,â you murmur, voice lower now. âThatâs the only move you need to do right.â
Felix smiles against your clothed sex. Big and satisfied. Confidence restored and then some.
-
It starts small.
âDrinks tonight?â Seungmin asks one afternoon, leaning against Felixâs desk like he always does, casual, expectant.
Felix doesnât even look up from his phone. âCanât. I have⊠hot yoga.â
Seungmin squints. âYou hate heat.â
âItâs⊠cold hot yoga,â Felix replies immediately. âThey blast the AC. Itâs a whole new thing.â
âWant to grab a bite before we go home?â
âCheese club.â
âThereâs a cheese club?â
âItâs very underground. Invitation-only.â
Seungmin nods like that makes perfect sense. âOf course it is.â
Another time:
âWeâre all having beers tonight. Youâre coming.â
âI canât,â Felix says, already rehearsed. âI have a fermentation class.â
âHuh?â Seungmin tilts his head in confusion.
âItâs a study on a biochemical process in which microorganisms like yeast and bacteria convert sugars into alcohol, gases, or acids in the absence of oxygen,â Felix eloquently explains.
Seungminâs face scrunches in disgust. âUgh.â
Felix shrugs and continues, âYou know that yeast is a crucial ingredient in brewing the beer youâll be having tonight. Itâsâ"
âYeah, okay, donât come,â Seungmin cuts in defeated and then turns away.
And thatâs when something dangerous starts growing inside Felix. Confidence in his lies. And he starts stacking them.
Experimental bread lab.
Silent meditation night.
A three-hour lecture on mushroom ethics.
Every time Seungmin just nods, mildly confused but ultimately convinced, because Felix is weird. Felix has always been weird. Thatâs his brand.
On the other hand, Felix starts thinking that heâs good at this. Lying. Better than Seungmin. Felix lies with a straight face now. Barely even feels the flutter in his stomach anymore. Heâs learned the trickâsay it casually, donât oversell it, add just enough detail to make it boring.
The more absurd the excuse, the more believable it becomes.
He tells himself itâs harmless. Itâs not like heâs doing anything wrong. He just⊠has other plans. Better plans. Plans that also has its own risks if he cancels them.  He tells himself Seungmin doesnât notice. He tells himself Seungmin believes him because he trusts him.
And somewhere under that confidence is the quietest flicker of something else.
Because the better Felix gets at lyingâŠ
The easier it becomes.
-
Felix doesnât even remember what lie he tells Seungmin that night. Something about a late yoga session. Or a specialty cooking class. Or maybe it was a wine appreciation club. Theyâre blending together nowâfabricated schedules layered on top of each other that itâs hard to keep track anymore. Heâs gotten good at it. Too good that Seungmin barely questions him anymore. He should feel guilty. Instead, he feels electric. Because he knows where heâs going.
You open the door before he can knock twice. You donât smile. You never do. But your eyes soften for a fraction of a second when you see him. âSo what did you learn in your Mediterranean cooking class?â you ask dryly.
He exhales a quiet laugh. âThe key to fluffy hummus mixture is by adding cold water while blending.â
âWhat a revelation!â you flatly say and then step aside to let him in.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should. He drops his bag by the entrance, toeing off his shoes. Youâre already walking toward the living room, confident in the way you move around your own space.
He watches you like heâs memorizing something forbidden.
âDid he believe you?â you ask, not turning around.
âOf course,â Felix replies, loosening his tie. âIâm getting better.â
You glance over your shoulder at him. âAt lying?â
âAt protecting our secret.â
The words slip out before he can reconsider them. Felix swallows air, afraid that he says the wrong thing as you stop walking and fully turn this time.
Your eyes staring at him as you slowly approaching and then stop right in front of him. Your hand reaches for his collar first, tugging him down into a kiss that starts deep and a little rough, like youâre testing him.
He responds immediately, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until thereâs no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepens. Slows. Then ignites.
Thereâs no rush tonight. Just the reckless relief of having carved out time that belongs only to the two of you. He walks you backward toward the bedroom, hands sliding over your sides. Every lie he told today. Every excuse. Every fabricated class. It all led here.
He takes his time with you, kissing down your neck, along your collarbone, listening to the way your breathing changes when he touches you just right. Your fingers move impatiently, pushing his jacket off, working at his shirt like you canât stand another layer between you.
Clothes fall away piece by piece, forgotten where they land. When you finally settle on his lap, it feels inevitable. Your back pressed against his chest. Your warmth seeps into him. Head turned to the side to capture his lips in a haste kiss.
Felix has an arm curved around your chest, firmly holding you against him. The other goes down south, hand palming your sex in slow, gentle motions. He teases your entrance with one finger, adding another to stretch you, to milk more arousal out of you.
The next thing he knows, your essence floods his hand, fingers slick now as he drags them between your folds. Youâre ready, more than ready to take him and heâs getting more impatient with each second he spent not being inside you.
One hand moves to back of your knee. Then he lifts your leg, just enough for him to rub his length, lubricating it with your wetness. Until finally, he aligns his cock to your entrance. his brows knitted in concentration as he looks down, eyes focused on pushing his length into you.
âOhâŠâ you breathlessly moan while watching yourself getting penetrated by his hot, stiff member.
Felix lets go of his hold around you, using his free hand to hold your other leg now, lifting them both as he pushes the remaining length in one slow, delicious thrust. Thatâs when he looks up and catches his reflection on the mirror. His body flushed, reddening in places. Arms steadily holding your legs and slowly opening them wider. He sighs in pleasure at the sight of his cock disappeared into you and wrapped in your warmth.
He sighs again as you subtly shift on his lap, making him feel how tightly you are wrapped around him. He hastily kisses your shoulder, neck and eventually your lips, taking a moment to savor this moment of your bodies connected as one.
When he begins to thrust into you from under, heat builds slowly then all at once. Youâre holding onto his forearms. Mouths lathering each other, nonstop. He continues to move in confidence, guided by the sounds you make, the way you take his cock so well in each thrust.
Thereâs nothing careful about it now. Nothing restrained. You meet him with the same intensity he gives you. How do you like to torture him by intentionally clenching around him as heâs about to pull back and donât hold back from showing how much you enjoy it.
Itâs so hot, so arousing. Raw and passionate. Felix doesnât even have to think but feel every little thing. How the world narrows to breath and skin and the steady rhythm of two people who chose each other tonight.
When it finally breaks over both of you, itâs not gentle. Itâs consuming. And as you pull him in for a rough kiss, Felix realizes something quietly dangerous:
Heâs not just lying to protect this.
Heâs lying because he doesnât know how to live without it anymore.
-
At this point, Felix moves around your apartment like itâs his own. Heâs in your kitchen, hair still messy from sleep but eyes focused as he flips an egg with more precision than necessary. Thereâs something grounding about cooking in someone elseâs space. It feels⊠intimate in the quiet way.
He opens cabinets carefully. Learns where you keep your plates. Your cutlery. Your mismatched mugs. He notes, silently, how empty your fridge is. Not empty-empty. Just⊠sparse.
Eggs. Butter. Two apples. A jar of something unidentifiable. A cup of Greek yogurt. He works with what you have. Toast. Eggs. Coffee brewed properly. He even plates it nicely, because he canât help himself.
As he pours coffee into your favorite mug, the chipped one with a face of your favorite actor printed on it, he sees you waking up from your sleep.
You take a moment to gather your senses before getting up, sheets slipping off you as you get on your feet. You donât care that youâre standing completely naked in the middle of your apartment, or how thereâs someone else in the apartment with you.
Felixâs breath catches, stunned. You look soft and unguarded as you stand there, bathed in pale morning light.
You walk calmly to the armchair where your silk robe is draped, slip it on with lazy elegance, tie it loosely at your waist, and move toward the sofa like this is routine. Like he belongs here enough to see this.
He looks down at the coffee heâs pouring before it spills. He carries the plates over, sets them down on your low table, watching you settle into the couch, legs tucked under you, robe barely containing warmth.
You eye the breakfast and purse your lips. âWhy does this look so drab?â
Felix stops mid-way as heâs about to sit. âDrab?â
You gesture vaguely at whatâs served in front of you. âIt looks like a hospital meal.â
He stares at the plate, mildly offended. âYou donât exactly have things in your fridge.â
You lift your coffee mug and lift it close to your mouth. âSorry Iâm not bill by the minute like you.â
That lands weirdly. In a matter-of-fact way. He doesnât like the way that line makes him suddenly aware of difference. He clears his throat instead of responding and shifts the topic to something else.
âDo you cook?â he asks lightly.
You chew your toast, considering him. âI know Iâm generally nailing everything in life.â
He nods instinctively.
You continue, âBut you canât expect me to be good at everything.â
Felix huffs a small laugh at that. He takes a sip of coffee and lets the silence sit between you. And then, and idea hits him.
âI could teach you,â he says.
You glance at him over your mug. âTeach me what.â
âHow to cook.â
You actually chuckle at that. Amused.
âI mean, not like⊠Michelin star stuff. Just simple recipes. Things you can actually make.â
You narrow your eyes slightly as you chew.
He watches you think. He watches the way you weigh things in your head before agreeing to anything.
After a moment, you nod once. âYeah, maybe I can be good at everything.â
Felix beams with a bright, wide grin. Heâs already planning it in his head.
Heâll grocery shop to buy the ingredients. Teach you how to hold a knife properly. Stand behind you and guide your hands if you let him. Make it fun. Make it yours. He wants to show you something heâs good at. Not just impress you, but to share it.
He takes another sip of coffee, trying to play it cool, but inside heâs buzzing. Because suddenly this feels bigger than just coming to each otherâs place and bang.
And Felix doesnât notice how quickly that thought settles in.
Just that heâs already excited.
-
Felix sits across from Seungmin at their favorite spot for lunch, sunlight bouncing off stainless steel cutlery, the weekday chatter filling the space between them. Seungmin is halfway through his meal but Felix, on the other hand, is busy making a grocery list on his phone note.
Onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms, potato⊠heâs going through everything and makes sure he doesnât miss anything. But he decides to ask you anyway if you want anything. And yes, he knows he can just ask you directly but texting you would be a faster way to get an answer. Youâre always on your phone anyway.
Going grocery shopping later. Do you need anything for tonight? he sends you, thumbs moving quickly under the table.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Seungmin glances up. âHey, can you come with me to the hospital later? Itâs time for my check-up.â
Felix answers before his brain catches up. âI have to go grocery shopping after work.â
The words leave his mouth too easily. He gulps air and quickly adds, âI meanâbecause I have an online cooking class later.â
He forces a casual shrug and adds, âBut I can drop you off first.â
Seungmin have a sip of water and then nods. âThat works,â he says, then goes back to eating.
Felix exhales quietly. His phone buzzes and looks down to check.
You: I want a silver Lexus.
Felixâs eyebrow shoots up, baffled. His phone buzzes again a second later.
You: Chocolate-covered strawberries.
This time, one corner of Felixâs mouth quirks up in a faint smirk. Then, another text comes.
You: And condoms.
Felix nearly chokes on air in that. He stares at the screen, struggling to contain his smile.
Across from him, Seungmin sighs. âMan, it feels like forever we havenât properly hanging out together,â he says lightly, but thereâs something under it.
Guilt pokes at him. Felix locks his phone and sets it down. He leans forward as he softly says, âItâs not like that.â
Felix doesnât mean to lie but since heâs already been lying and he doesnât have any option but to keep lying. He scrambles for something convincing. Something that fits the version of himself heâs been selling. âI just⊠after the breakup, I didnât want to sit around feeling miserable. So I signed up for stuff. You know, just to keep me distracted,â he says.
Seungminâs expression softens at that. âThat makes sense.â
Felix nods, doubling down. âWe can hang out next week. Properly. I promise.â
Seungmin brightens immediately. âYeah? Hopefully Iâll get this cast off soon.â
âYou will,â Felix says firmly. âYouâll be back on your feet before you know it.â
Felix means that. He hopes that Seungmin gets to walk properly without cast soon and already planning on making the time to hang out with him next week.
âI happen to know this great wine bar,â he excitedly shares, picking up his phone to show Seungmin.
âDonât tell me they serve jalapeno flavored wine or something,â Seungmin says with suspicion in his eyes.
âSadly no. But they have great selection of reds,â Felix moves his fingers so fast to send the link to the wine bar he mentioned to Seungmin.
He presses send at the same at the same time Seungmin stands and says, âBathroom.â
Felix nods, already composing a reply to you. Telling you no to the silver Lexus but yes to the two other things. But your reply comes even faster than he expected. He unlocks it fast.
You: ??
You: Are you getting wine for tonight?
WaitâŠ
Felix freezes as he realizes something. He sent the link to the wine bar to you and that meansâŠ
His eyes move slowly to Seungminâs phone. He taps on the screen and it lights up. Enough for him to see the notification.
Felix: Y/n, Iâm afraid the silver Lexus is also out of my budget but Iâll happily buy the chocolate-covered strawberries and condoms.
For a full second, his brain empties and then it detonates. He sent it to Seungmin. He sent it. To Seungmin. His heart slams so hard he feels it in his throat. From his peripheral vision, Felix catches Seungmin is already making his way back to their table.
Without thinkingâwithout even processing the insanity of itâFelix lunges forward, grabs Seungminâs phone off the table, and slides it straight into his own pocket. He sits back down. Posture straight. Feigns composed.
Felix forces a smile that feels stapled to his face. âHow was the pee? I mean, did you pee? How was the restroom trip?â
Seungmin chuckles as he picks up his chopsticks. âUneventful. Five stars. Would recommend.â
Felix laughs. Too loud. His pulse is roaring in his ears. And inside, everything is unraveling.
-
Back in the office, Felix feels like heâs walking around with a live grenade in his coat pocket.
Seungmin is beside him, passionately talking about the video game heâs been into lately. ââand then the boss fight switches phases, and I swear I almost threw my controllerâare you even listening?â
Felix nods automatically. âMm. Yeah. Thatâs crazy.â
He has no idea what phase means because all he can feel is the rectangular weight of Seungminâs phone in his coat pocket. Still there. Still incriminating. Still buzzing with the text preview that absolutely cannot exist.
Seungmin keeps talking as they step into the office space, blissfully unaware that his phone is not in his possesion. âAnyway, I think youâd like it. Youâre into strategy stuff.â
âRight,â Felix says faintly.
Strategy. Yes. He should try that sometime. They walk past desks, coworkers, the hum of keyboards and printers. Seungmin veers toward his office, still rambling about video games.
Felix slows and then pivots toward your desk. As expected, youâre there with your eyes glued to your phone, expression distant in that way that means you are absolutely not to be disturbed. He knows this. He has learned this the hard way. Still, he marches over and knocks rapidly against your desk.
You donât look up and just flick your fingers in his direction. âGo away.â
He knocks again. Harder. Frantic.
You heavily sigh, finally looking at him with a glare sharp enough to cut paper. âYou know what happens to people who bother me while Iâmââ
âItâs urgent,â he blurts.
You narrow your eyes. âI swear to God, if youâ"
He doesnât give you time to finish the threat. He reaches across, grabs your hand. Your skin is warm on his cold, clammy hand.
You look genuinely offended. âYou donât get toââ
But heâs already pulling you toward the empty meeting room down the hall. Not too far. Not too hidden. Just private enough.
The door clicks shut behind you. Felix runs a hand through his hair and tries not to hyperventilate. âI did something bad,â he swallows air before adding, âReally bad.â
You cross your arms and look at him with those bored eyes of yours. âDo I look like I care?â
He swallows air again. âYou should be.â
âWhat on earth did you do?â You ask, eyes turning intense.
He opens his mouth Nothing comes out. After a while, he tries again. âI sent the text to the wrong person.â
âWhat text?â
âThe one about me buying you the chocolate-covered strawberries and condom.â
Silence passes for a brief moment and then your face drains. âYou what?â
âI sent it to Seungmin,â he rushes, he learns that itâs best to just go with it, alive or not. âI meant to send it to you and I didnât check and I pressed send and then his phone chimed and I looked and it said my name andââ
You actually gasp. A real, horrified gasp.
Felix feels faint as he adds miserably, âI explicitly mentioned your name and the condoms.â
You stare at him like heâs just confessed to treason. âFelix.â
âI know!â
âFelix.â
âI know!!!â
He turns away from you, pacing once, twice. His heart is pounding so loud he can hear it in his ears. He turns facing you now, using his body to shield what heâs going to pull out of his coat pocket.
Your eyes widen in fresh disbelief. âDid you steal his phone?â
He winces. âBorrowed.â
âYou stole his phone.â
Before he can react, you snatch it from his hand. âWe should fling it out the window.â
âWhat? No!â He grabs your wrist before you can even consider moving. âHeâll get suspicious.â
âItâs called eliminating evidence.â
âItâs called getting arrested!â
You glare at each other for a beat. Then you exhale sharply. âFine. What are we going to do?â
Felix winces again because his plan involves on you knowing how to unlock Seungminâs phone. âI stole his phone because I was hoping you knew the password.â
You stare at him with fiery eyes. âWhy would I know his password?â
âYouâre his paralegal. You⊠I donât know. Maybe Seungmin once shared his password with you,â he vaguely reason.
âThat doesnât mean I have biometric access to his life!â
Felixâs panic spikes. As if summoned by his anxiety, the phone suddenly lights up in your hand, ringing. The contactâs name flashes the screen. Office.
Oh, no. Seungmin has realized. Somewhere out there, his best friend is standing in the hallway, patting down pockets, wondering where his phone in. And thenâ
âFelix?â Seungminâs voice echoes faintly from outside as he calls for Felix.
Felixâs heart actually skips.
He looks at you.
You look at him.
âThis is your fault,â you hiss under your breath.
âPlease justâfigure out the password,â he whispers urgently.
âHow?â
âGuess! Heâs predictable!â
The phone keeps ringing and Seungming keeps calling for Felix.
Felix backs toward the door. âYou find a way to delete the text and Iâll distract him.â
âYouâre leaving the evidence with me?â you whisper-shout.
But heâs already opening the door, stepping into the hallway and forcing his face into something that resembles calm as Seungmin rounds the corner, brows slightly furrowed.
Felix offers a bright, almost blinding smile. âHey, Seungmin, my best friend. Looking for⊠me?â
-
Felix is sweating through his shirt. Not visibly. Hopefully not visibly. But inside? Absolute monsoon.
Heâs crouched beside Seungminâs desk, pretending to check under cabinets while his pulse ricochets against his skull. Anxiety buzzes under his skin like static electricity. He cannot focus. He cannot breathe normally. He cannot stop imagining the words condom and your name lighting up Seungminâs screen in bold betrayal.
âMaybe itâs under here?â Seungmin mutters, limping slightly as he checks behind his chair.
Felix pops up too fast. âYeah. Could be.â
It is definitely not under there. Because itâs currently in your possession. Hopefully unlocked. Hopefully erased. Please.
They search for an eternity that is probably six minutes. Then Seungmin straightens, frowning. âMaybe I left it at the restaurant.â
Felixâs stomach plummets as his mind rushes through every possibility. One of them is the restaurant offers to check the CCTV only to show that his best friend, the one Seungmin had lunch with, was the one stealing his phone.
âNo,â Felix blurts.
Seungmin looks at him. âNo?â
Felix forces a thoughtful expression. âI donât think you brought it. To lunch.â
Seungmin tilts his head, doubting him. âIâm pretty sure I did.â
Felix shakes his head immediately. Too immediately. âI didnât see it. You were talking about the video game and your hospital check-up laterâyeah. I donât remember seeing it.â
Seungmin studies him for a second too long.
Felix feels sweat gather at the base of his spine.
Then Seungmin exhales and stares out of the window of his office. âMaybe I left it somewhere around the firm.â
âYes,â Felix agrees eagerly. âProbably here.â
Seungmin nods slowly. âYeah. Iâve been distracted.â
Felix nods so hard his neck might snap.
They resume searching. Seungmin checks drawers, the kitchenette, even the copy room. Felix trails him, useless, eyes darting around the firm. Where are you? Did you unlock it? Did you smash it? Did you fake a fire drill?
Felixâs heart beating faster, louder as theyâre running out of places to search in. He can feel the truth looming and the fact that heâll eventually have to confess. Eventually Seungmin will look at him with that betrayed, hurt that Felix cannot survive.
And then, you appear, walking down the hallway like nothing is wrong. And there, in your hand is Seungminâs phone.
Felixâs entire body locks. Horror floods him.
You stop a few feet away and calmly ask, âHey, bozos. Are you looking for this?â you ask, holding Seungminâs phone in the air.
Felix forgets how to swallow.
Seungmin exhales in relief. âYes. Oh my god. Where was it?â
Felixâs lungs burn.
You glance at Felix once and then back at Seungmin. âYou left it on my desk before lunch.â
Felix almost chokes on nothing.
Seungmin doesnât doubt it for a second. He walks up, taking it from your hand with total trust. âAh. That makes sense.â
Felix watches in slow motion as Seungmin unlocks his phone. The screen lights up, his thumb scrolling through the notifications. Emails. Missed calls. Texts.
Felixâs vision tunnels. He feels his knees weaken.
Then Seungmin turns around, smiling faintly. âThanks, both of you. I swear my brain isnât working lately.â
Felix laughs, too loud. âIt happens.â
Seungmin heads back toward his office, already unlocking another email, completely at peace.
The moment he disappears behind the door, Felix turns to you. With a slightly trembling, quivering voice, he says. âYou just saved the day.â
You only smile a knowing, triumphant smile and say, âItâs what I do. Every damn day.â
With that, you walk back to your desk like this was a minor inconvenience. Like you didnât just save his entire life.
Felix stands there for a second, heart still racing, adrenaline slowly draining from his limbs.
Then he exhales for what feels like the first time in an hour. He walks back to his office on unsteady legs. Closes the door. Leans against it. Relief floods him so hard it almost hurts.
He is never texting again.
Ever.
-
Felix decides two things that evening.
One: he is never stealing a phone again.
Two: if he survives this secret casual relationship, it will be because he controls what he can control.
Like cooking.
âOkay,â Felix says, tying the apron around your waist. âWeâre starting simple. Knife skills.â
You glance at him. âI know how to hold a knife.â
âThatâs not what Iâm worried about.â
You scoff.
He demonstrates first to you. His fingers curled under, blade rocking smoothly, precise little slices. Then, he hands you the knife.
You grip the way a killer would to stab their victim.
Felix watches you position your fingers flat against the vegetable and immediately steps in. âNo, no, youâre going to lose a fingertip. Like this.â He gently adjusts your hand, tucking your fingers inward. âClaw grip.â
You stare at your hand like itâs doing advanced calculus and try again. The slices come out uneven. Slightly aggressive. A little chaotic.
Felix instinctively reaches over you. âLet meââ
You stop and straighten, irritation flashing across your face. âYou know what? Just do it yourself.â
Ah. There it is. Felix pulls his hands back immediately. Abort mission. âNo, youâre doing fine. Yeah,â he corrects himself quickly.
You raise an eyebrow, shoulders still hunched like youâre about to jump at him and tear him limb to limb.
He softens his tone. âJust do what feels right. Iâll just⊠guide.â
You narrow your eyes like youâre deciding whether to stab him or the carrot.
Thatâs when Felix learned that he should treat you like you are a five-year-old who will absolutely throw the knife across the room if told youâre wrong. He leans against the counter instead of hovering and patiently guides you from the side. âTry slowing down. Smaller movements.â
You cut again. Still uneven. But less violent.
âThere you go,â he says immediately.
You glance at him suspiciously.
âThat one was better,â he genuinely says with a smile.
You huff, but you adjust your grip. Itâs not perfect. Itâs not symmetrical. But itâs progress.
Felix watches carefully, resisting every instinct to micromanage. He offers small corrections in a tone that doesnât poke at your pride.
And somehowâŠ
You listen and the rest of the cooking flows smoother than he expects. You measure ingredients without arguing. You stir when he tells you to stir. You even taste and adjust seasoning when he suggests it.
At one point you glance up at him and say, âIs that enough salt?â
He tastes and nods. âYeah. Thatâs good.â
And in that moment, something warm settles in his chest.
Youâre stubborn. Youâre easily irritated. You threaten to quit every five minutes. But when you decide to do something, you do it properly. You donât half-try. You donât give up. You listen. You adapt. You execute.
And apparently, youâre capable of following his lead.
-
Felix lights the small candle in the center of the table like heâs hosting a cooking show no one asked for.
You sit across from him, surprisingly calm, hands folded while he brings out the wine. He chose it with ridiculous care after reading three reviews and watched one very intense sommelier video at 2 a.m.
He sets the bottle down gently. âSo, this oneâs from a cooler region, which means the acidity is brighter. Youâll taste dark cherry, maybe a little spice. It pairs well with what we made becauseââ he drones on and on, slipping into lecture mode,
Youâre actually listening and watching him, chin propped on your hand. And it throws him off for half a second.
He clears his throat and continues, explaining tannins and aging like he didnât almost commit corporate espionage six hours ago. Then he carefully pours the red into your glasses. Then he sits and lifts his glass. He opens his mouth to initiate a toast. âToââ
However, youâre already sipping. Then you lower the glass, completely unbothered.
He awkwardly brings his own glass to his lips and takes a sip too, pretending that was the plan all along. He sets the glass down.
You donât wait to dig into the food you cooked. You take a little bit of everything onto your plate.
Felix should begin as well but heâs been dying to ask you about something. And since youâre relaxed right now because eating softens you, makes you less guarded. He leans forward slightly and asks, âMay I ask how did you do it?â
You take your time chewing and then ask back. âDo what?â
âUnlock Seungminâs phone.â
You swallow and take a smaller bite. Then casually say, âThereâs a tutorial on YouTube.â
Felix grips the stem of his wine glass. âSorry, what?â
âThereâs a tutorial on how to unlock a phone. Itâs not that hard,â you answer, adding a coy shrug at the end of the sentence.
Earlier today he was spiraling toward emotional collapse. He was sweating through existential dread. And you were⊠watching YouTube.
He exhales a small laugh of disbelief. âYou watched a tutorial video? On how to unlock a phone? On Youtube.â
You nod, sipping wine. âYeah.â
Felix leans back in his chair, shaking his head. The solution was that simple. He nearly died of panic while you calmly followed instructions from someone named⊠probably something absurd. And yet, heâs impressed.
You didnât hesitate. You didnât panic. You didnât scold him to death. You handled it well. Too well. And if heâs being honest, he wouldnât have survived today without you.
With that, he finally lifts his spoon and takes a proper bite of dinner and it hits himâ
Oh?
Oh!
He looks at you slowly.
âThis is⊠delicious,â he sincerely says in awe.
Still in disbelief, Felix scoops more with his spoon and eat it. itâs good. Everything is perfectly balanced.
âLike, seriously. So good,â he says again, utterly impressed.
You donât react immediately, but the corner of your mouth lifts. You knew. Of course you knew. You take a small sip of wine, eyes steady on his.
âCongratulations,â you say.
He frowns. âFor what?â
âFor being my villain origin story.â
Felix chokes slightly. âYour what?â
You tilt your head, gaze sharp and amused. âNo one can stop me now.â
He stares at you, confused. But he understands the energy. That triumphant hum under the skin. You both dodged a bullet today. Actually, two bullets for Felix personally.
One: Seungmin.
Two: surviving a cooking lesson without getting stabbed.
Felix feels absurdly proud of you. Of himself. Of this ridiculous partnership.
He picks up his wine glass again. âOkay. Proper toast this time.â
You mirror him, lifting yours.
He smiles, softer now. âTo you. For saving the world.â
You smirk. âAnd to user mortimer21 on YouTube.â
Felix laughs. âYes. To user mortimer21.â
You clink glasses and you both sip your hard-earned wine.
The candle flickers between you. The room feels warm. The night stretches ahead.
Felix leans back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his glass. He has a feeling that tonight is going to end well.
-
Later that night, the world feels⊠suspended.
It might be the wine. It might be the food you cooked together. It might be the reckless relief of surviving something that could have detonated both your lives. Whatever it is, it buzzes between you.
Felix barely remembers how you both ended up on the sofa. One second youâre finishing the last of your wine, the next your mouth is on his, and heâs walking you backward until your knees hit the couch. You fall onto it with a soft exhale and he follows.
Thereâs no rush. No frantic edge like earlier. Just heat and tension that keeps building. He kisses you deeply, savoring the way you respond, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you canât stand the layers between your bodies.
Youâre pinned beneath him, but not fragile. Never fragile. Your hands move quickly, impatiently, popping open the buttons of his shirt one by one.
Felix breaks the kiss only to finish the job himself. He shrugs the shirt off, tosses it somewhere behind him without looking.
When he lowers himself back over you, you softly gasp. Your legs wrap around his waist.
He exhales slowly against your mouth because it feels good. Too damn good. Itâs the warmth of your body under him. The way your fingers traling down the hair leading down into his slacks. The faint taste of wine still lingering on your lips.
He presses closer, grinding subtly, feeling himself harden as he rubs against you. The friction builds, slow and intoxicating. Your fingers slide into his hair, pulling him back down into another kiss that feels deeper, heavier, charged with everything you didnât say at dinner.
His hand moves along your waist, then lower, fingers slipping under the hem of your blouse and thenâ
He hears the faint sound of footsteps. But he ignores it thinking that maybe he imagined it.
You donât seem to notice as well, too focused on dragging your nails lightly down his back.
Then, thereâs a loud clatter of metal hitting tiles, cans rolling across the floor. Both of you immediately stop moving.
Felix lifts his head slowly and you turn yours at the same time. There, by the entryway with grocery bag tipped over and canned drinks scattered across the floor, is Seungmin. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide.
Staring at youâbeneath Felix.
At your legs wrapped around him.
At Felix shirtless, hovering over you.
The room goes dead silent.
Felixâs heart drops straight into his stomach.
Seungmin doesnât blink.
And neither do you.
After what feels like eternity, Seungmin closes his mouth.
When he opens it a second later, he curses, out loud. âWHAT THE Fâ"
-
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-
Chrisâ mouth and lips move before he can even comprehend what heâs doing. The sentence leaves him so naturally it takes the both of you off guard.Â
âDo you still want me to be your first?âÂ
Your eyes widen, legs almost nearly give in. Did you hear him right?
âWhat?âÂ
The damageâs already done. Thereâs no point in denying what heâs said. Chris does his best to calm down his nerves and swallow the thick lump in his throat. Itâs make it or break it.Â
âDo you still want me to be your first?â He repeats slowly, looking you in the eye. The straightforwardness takes you off guard. ââCause Iâll do it. If you still want me to be your first Iâll do it.âÂ
You look at him, trying to understand where all this is coming from. After all, he rejected you the first time you asked him. What changed now?
âYouâ I already asked you. You said no. How is that any different now?âÂ
Chris sighs. Technically, youâre right. But still, you donât know why he turned your offer down in the first place. Itâs not because he didnât want youâ quite the opposite, actually.Â
âI said no âcause I didnât want it to be an impulsive decision of you,â Chris explains. âI still think you should wait for the right guy. But youâre so stubborn and I donât want you to do something youâre going to regret with a random asshole that wonât treat you right.âÂ
âChrisâŠâ
âBut if youâre sure about this⊠if you want me to be your first, Iâm okay with it.âÂ
You shake your head. Chris feels as if his heart has stopped beating inside his ribcage.Â
âNo.â
Chris blinks. His stomach drops.
âNo?â
âYou shouldnât do it if itâs not something you want as well. I wonât force you. I couldn't bear to look at myself ever again knowing I made you do something you didnât want.âÂ
Chris sighs.Â
âItâs not because of that that I said no. I want you to be sure.âÂ
âI am sure. Why would I ask you if I wasnât sure?âÂ
âI donât know!âÂ
You stare into each otherâs eyes for a while. Then, you both burst into a laugh. Everything is always so easy with Chris. Thatâs how you know you arenât going to regret choosing him to be your first. The fact that youâd like for him to also be your last is another matter.Â
âAlright. Then I guess this means weâre having sex.â
summary: as a journalist, it's your job to keep your mind open, but when your colleague tells you the truth about his world, it's a lot to take in. especially the person he introduces you to.
genre: fantasy, urban fantasy, romance, strangers to lovers,
rated: M
word count: 2k
warnings: smut in the form of fingering (fem receiving), a lot of kissing, implied and spoken desires for more. consensual even tho mc isn't sure how much is fae influence or her hormones. that's about it.
a/n: thank you to the responses so far. this is a shorter piece and i don't usually title my chapters, but this one felt like it needed it. no beta so i apologize for any mistakes. enjoy!
dividers from @saradika-graphics
series mlist. ch. 1 ch. 2 ch. 3 ch. 4
Chapter Five - Interlude
You wake later disoriented and bleary. You rub your eyes and fight the quick panic at the unfamiliar surroundings. The previous night's events eventually settle in your brain and with a deep breath, your heart returns to normal.
You close your eyes, but youâre not sleepy anymore. You glance at the clock. 4pm. He should be back.
You slide out of his bed, feeling dehydrated or something. You need something.Â
You open the door to the living room and see him.
Heâs sprawled out on the couch, his legs too long to fit, so his feet are hanging over the arm. Thereâs a blanket twisted over him. You tiptoe closer to see heâs no longer in his work clothes, dressed in a faded blue t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Your heart has a little stumble at the green socked feet.
His hair has fallen over his forehead, making him seem boyish. You need to stop staring, but though your intellect reminds you that the elixir has probably run out and you should take more, you canât make your feet move away. Your hand reaches of its own accord to brush his hair out of his eyes. The long lashes fan out on his skin and your fingers linger, reveling in the feel of his hair; soft and thick. Still mildly damp from a shower, he smells more like soap than whatever faerie scent encompasses the building.
Sleeping Beauty flashes through your mindâs eye, his lips tempting. You take a deep breath, one more pass of your hand through his hair before starting to straighten and leave him.
Your arm is grabbed and youâre yanked down and around, and before you can react (you are still half-awake) you are sitting on his legs, wrists both gripped in his hands. He sits up, breath short and eyes locked onto you.
âItâs just me,â you whisper, feeling stupid for getting caught staring at him (how moony-eyed can you be?). âJust 돞ìží.â
His hands loosen and his head drops as he lets out a dry chuckle. âJust 돞ìží.â There is a pause and you feel his legs shift restlessly under you before he raises his eyes back to yours. âWhy are you up?â
âThirsty.â
He nods slowly, his thumbs now rubbing your wrists. He looks across the room to another clock.
"Well enough. We should get going." He doesn't move, nor do you.
You're sitting on his legs. You can't quite compute that, that intimacy of sitting on a partner's lap, them taking your weight.
His hands still encircle your wrists. His eyes never waver from yours.
âWhen did you get in?â
âAn hour or so ago.â
âWhy are you sleeping on the couch?â
He raises one eyebrow. âYou want to wake with a man sleeping next to you?â
Yes.
You bristle. âItâs your bed. And itâs plenty big enough.â
âYou wouldnât have swung out and hit me?â he asks playfully.
"Not too hard. And at least you'd be in a bed that fits you."
His grin is quick before it fades into thoughtfulness. His long stare makes you fidgety.
"I'm sorry I woke you. I slept the day away, you can't be all that rested." You don't know if a half-fae needs more or less sleep than a human. Seungmin often napped when you drove, chasing some story.
"I'm fine." He cocks his head to the side. "Where's the driven reporter, ready to chase every lead, no rest needed?"
"She recognizes she needs you at your best. If we're to get anywhere today." You reach out to move his hair out of his eyes, even though he hasn't let go of you. "You still look tired. How on earth could you even hear me? I was so quiet."
His eyes soften. âI can smell you. Iâd have to be dead not to be aware of you. Even sleeping.â He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours. âYou need more tonic.â
âOr not.â You can barely hear your own voice. Foreheads touching, all you can smell is him, hear his breath, practically taste him. "I think that tolerance you spoke of is kicking in." You move closer a little.
He stills, but doesnât move away. âYouâre still susceptible, 돞ìží.â He shudders when you lean in to warm your nose in the crook of his neck. He finally lets go of your wrists, and you rest your hands on his chest, absorbing his heat. âAs much as I want you, we need to prepare. I donât know what this evening will bring.â His words donât match his actions as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.
You breath him in, hearing his 'as much as I want you' loop in you mind. His scent overpowers the fae air, like you've . Your lips seek his skin, a quick taste as if to prove there is no way he could taste as good as he smells.
Your heart pounds when you kiss his neck again. His arms tighten around you.
âNakkeo,â you hear in your ear. Itâs both pained and wanting. His cheek rubs against yours as he moves, lips pursuing, until youâre molded together.
It's like time freezes for a moment when his lips meet yours.
Soft, indescribably soft and opulent. Neither of you move, as though to do so would rip through the suspended fragility.
But then he moves, mouth brushing yours.
It's heat. Searingly hot and when his tongue seeks, you are helpless to resist.
Your hands run along and around his torso to splay on his back. He bends his legs up, so you slide closer to him. He holds your face in his hands, angling your head to kiss deeper, and though itâs demanding, itâs slow-going as though he is savoring you along with still being mostly asleep.
He drops one hand to your thigh, reminding you that you are still in only his t-shirt, and your underwear. He curses, words you know and taste as his lips barely leave yours to voice them.
"I should have found you bottoms," he mutters, hand sliding up to your hip, darting under the fabric of his shirt. "I should haveâ"
You cut him off, moving his hand to where you ache. He jerks at the contact, but doesn't pull away. He gazes at you, one finger sliding along the damp barrier between you and him.
"HyunjinâŠ" your voice is thready, desperate. "Please." His finger catches the edge of the gusset, catches and holds, unmoving. Your hips buck by instinct, craving more. You capture his face in your hands, kissing, tasting.
The lightest touch along your entrance, making you whine. He kisses you, pressing a little harder on your clit. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders as he continues.
"Wanted you," he murmurs, in between kisses along your jaw and down your neck. "The moment I saw you."
"Cause I'm human?" You can barely speak when one finger slides into you, his thumb still playing your clit gently.
"Hardly." He raises his eyes to yours. "You more dangerous to me as a human that you realize."
"How on earth am Iâ" He presses that spot deep in you, stroking with ease. Is he good at this through experience or just being magical? You don't know. You want to ask, but breathing is difficult right now.
He nibbles along your collarbone, and you rock in rhythm with his hand.
It doesn't take much longer. If you were in your right mind, you'd be embarrassed at how easily you fall apart in his hands.
He covers your mouth with his to as you pant, your orgasm breaking through then falling into bliss. You shudder, slumping into him. He kisses your forehead, your closed eyelids, your nose.
"Pretty," he whispers. You blink a few times at him, making him laugh. "Good, then?"
You attempt a scoff. "Good he asks." You kiss him back, coasting on the endorphins, savoring how he lingers and takes his time with kissing. His fingers, wet with you, grip your thighs, the only evidence that he craves as you do.
"Humans invented kissing," he murmurs.
You draw back, surprised. "We did?"
He nods, humming his affirmative. "Amidst all the terrible that humanity can inflict, isn't it nice that someone stumbled into someone else, lips first and found something so lovely?"
"What about the fae?" you ask, hands sliding down his chest. "Nothing invented like kissing?"
He nuzzles you, sucking lightly under the curve of your jaw. "I think some of the more deviant forms of pleasure can be attributed to the fae. Only they would come up with some of that."
"Like whatâ" You're too curious for your own good and it doesn't matter because he's kissing you again, lips moving, hands tightening with one drifting up the front of your (his) shirt to cover your breast. You moan at the contact.
Not to be outdone by his talented hands, you tuck yours under the waistband of his pajama pants to find him hard.
"Nakkeo."
"Let me." You lean in to kiss him again, he melts into you as you stroke him. "Let me."
"Would rather be inside you." He removes your hand carefully, his thumb caressing your palm.
"Okay." You want that too, you don't need much persuasion. You go to pull off your (his) shirt, but he stops you. "What is it?"
âWe canât.â
âPretty sure we can.â You look down. "Felt pretty much the same as a human to me."
He chuckles. âAllow me to rephrase. We can, but we shouldnât.â
You bump his nose with yours, your mouth taking his hotly. âI disagree.â
He smooths your hair with one hand, gripping the back of it to pull you away firmly. âSeungmin.â
Your arms drop. âI hate you.â
He kisses you again, lingering before pulling back reluctantly. âWe need to find SeungminâŠwhen we doâŠâ Another kiss, desperate. âWell, weâll see.â He ushers you to your feet and off of him. He pushes himself up.
"Are you sure you shouldn't nap for a bit?" His eyes look tired, skin a bit pale even with the sun coming through the curtains. You worry.
He looks down at you, fingers coming to hold your chin. "I doubt I'll sleep." His expression is pointed and you blush despite yourself. His mouth lingers on your cheek. "Too many thoughts of you." When he draws back, his fingers drop from your skin and he looks away, as though embarrassed.
"Hyunjin, Iâ"
"Get dressed," he cuts you off. "We'll need some supplies today. You alright carrying a small rucksack?"
"Of course." His change in subject throws you. Your body is still humming from his touch and he's walking toward his cabinet of tinctures and tonics. "You think who we see tonight will be worse than Duri?"
"Nam-gil. Yes. Or just as awful, but in a different way." He fills said small rucksack and hands it to you. "Please, I know you prefer to ask questions, but I beg of you tonight to stay quiet."
You lift your chin, ready to argue.
"If you see, or know Seungmin is there, rescue him. Let me deal with Nam-gil."
"You think he'll be withâŠthis fae?"
"It seems likely." He heads to his bedroom and stops at the unmade bed. Staring.
"What is it?"
"I can smell you. Your scent lingers on my sheets." He glances at his hand, reminding you where those fingers where just minutes ago.
"I'llâŠgrab my trousers," you slip by him, gathering your clothes and then slipping back into the main room. He reaching out to catch your arm. "I thought we were going."
"We are, we areâŠ" he stares down at you, as though you're something to figure out. He then shakes his head, before pulling you into his arms. "IâŠsometimes I don't believe you're real."
The idea that he, half-human and half-fae, finds you to be the unbelievable thing makes you want to laugh, but being in his arms stirs up everything again and you tug down his collar to kiss the exposed skin.
"Dangerous," he says again before releasing you. "Dress, and we'll find something to eat and be on our way." He shuts the door to his bedroom, leaving you in the living area, a mix of hormones and worry.
Description: An unexpected appearance from a most elusive gentleman has caused quite the stir, particularly as he arrived already spoken for, or so we are told. Curious how swiftly the ton loses interest when they believe a heart unavailable. One canât help but wonder how much of courtship is desire⊠and how much is simply convenience.
Pairing: Lee Minho x Reader
Tags: Fake Dating au, Bridgerton au, Regency au, Earl!Minho
Word count: 11k
Part of the Love, As the Ton Misunderstands It series (but can be read as a standalone)
A/N: Boy howdy was this one a slog. I genuinely thought I wouldn't get through it; thankfully, it rained where I lived, and I always feel inspired when it rains. Not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I just think that this one was the one I was looking forward to most, so I got picky. Thanks for all the love on the last post, hope you like this one :))))
â-----------------
The Tonâs Observer
A Regular Publication Concerning Matters of Society, Conduct, and Consequence
Among the many eligible gentlemen navigating this seasonâs obligations, few inspire such consistent interest and consistent absence as the Earl Lee Minho
While others appear determined to make themselves agreeable to society, the Earl has taken the far more effective approach of making himself scarce. His reluctance has, predictably, only increased speculation. Mothers speak of him with hope, daughters with calculation, and the Earl himself with apparent indifference.
It remains unclear whether this indifference is genuine or merely the privilege afforded to a gentleman certain of his desirability.
Elsewhere, one may observe the quieter corners of the ballroom, where those without titles or expectation move largely unnoticed. It is in such places that societyâs truest nature is revealed, not in those who command attention, but in those it chooses to overlook.
One wonders whether the Earlâs continued absence is a coincidence⊠or a preference.
Yours Truly,
A Keen Observer
â-----------------
The title of wallflower had never offended you. It was accurate. You preferred corners. Preferred observation. Preferred the quiet safety of being unnoticed. What offended you was the assumption that invisibility meant insignificance. Thatbecause men were not lined up outside your door with calling cards and bouquets, you were somehow less.
The drawing room existed for one purpose: waiting.
Waiting for callers. Waiting for an opportunity. Waiting for something to change.
You had long ago accepted that no one was coming for you. Your sisters had not.
âI have a very good feeling about Mr Jones,â Ester announces, smoothing her skirts as though she can already feel the weight of a proposal ring. âI truly believe he could be the one.â
You turn a page of your book, though you havenât absorbed a single word in several minutes.
Chloe leans forward eagerly. âI hear Viscount Seo Changbin intends to find a wife this season.â
Ester gasps. âWe must make ourselves known at the next ball. Though I suppose we shall have to pry him away from that dreadful woman who keeps lingering near him.â
You cannot help it; a quiet, involuntary huff escapes you.
Esterâs head snaps in your direction. âOh,â she says sweetly, âwe had quite forgotten you were here.â
You lower your book.
âIt must be exhausting for you, Y/N,â Chloe sighs.
You know better than to ask. You ask anyway. âWhat do you mean?â
âTo attend every ball,â Ester continues, âand yet never be remembered.â
The giggle that follows is light. Practised. Polished.
You look to your mother for intervention. She does not look up from her embroidery. The thread moves. The needle dips. Silence answers you.
âPerhaps,â Ester adds thoughtfully, âsome people simply are not meant to marry.â
Something inside you, something quiet and carefully contained, splinters. It is not the words. It is the certainty with which she says them. As though it has already been decided. As though you have already been dismissed.
You tell yourself you do not care. You tell yourself marriage is a convenience, not a necessity, but that is not true. You want to be chosen. Not pitied, not tolerated. Chosen.
The rage comes quickly, bright and blinding and humiliating and before you can stop yourself, you hear your own voice say:
âI am already spoken for.â
Silence crashes into the room.
Your motherâs embroidery stills.
Chloe blinks. âWith who?â
You do not think. You do not weigh the consequences. Your gaze lands on the pamphlet resting on the side table, The Tonâs Observer, its headline bold, accusatory, ever-watchful.
And his name surfaces.
âEarl Lee Minho.â
The air changes. Even you feel it. It is an outrageous choice. He is titled. Reserved. Practically mythical in his absence from society. A man mothers chase and daughters whisper about, and a man who has never once looked at you.
Your heart begins to pound.
Ester scoffs first. âHe has never called.â
âHe is a private man,â you reply evenly. You are surprised at how steady you sound. âWe correspond.â
Your mother finally looks up. âWhere did you meet him?â
âAt the gallery opening last season.â
You had seen him there. From across the room. He had stood apart from the crowd, indifferent to the performance of it all. No one had noticed him observing. No one had noticed you, either.It makes the lie easier.
âYou have been courting that long,â Chloe presses, âand there has been no proposal?â
âIt did not begin as a courtship,â you say smoothly now, the story building itself. âIt was a friendship. Only recently did he admit to deeper feelings.â
The words feel dangerous. Exciting.
âCan we see the letters?â Chloe demands.
âNo.â It comes out sharper than intended. âThey are private.â
A pause. Ester studies you carefully. âYou do realise,â she says slowly, âwe shall not believe it until we see it.â
âThat is fine,â you answer, your pulse loud in your ears, âI know the truth.â
And the truth is that you have just constructed a lie far larger than yourself, but something has shifted. You see it in their expressions, the doubt laced with something else. Jealousy.Because for the first time, you are not the forgotten one. For the first time, you have been chosen.
Even if it is a fiction.
When you leave the drawing room, your hands tremble slightly. You tell yourself the lie will stay contained. You tell yourself this room holds it. You tell yourself the Ton will never hear. But even as you close the door behind you, a small, treacherous part of you feels victorious because for one brief moment you were not overlooked.
â-----------------
You had forgotten something vital. The Ton does not require evidence; it requires only suggestion. A few days later, as you promenade with your sisters beneath a sky that feels far too bright, you begin to notice it. Not immediately.
At first, it is only a pause, a fraction too long, in a ladyâs greeting.
Then a bow from a gentleman who has never before looked at you twice. Then a whisper that dies when you turn your head.
It is subtle, but it is unmistakable.
They are looking at you. Not through you. At you.
You keep your expression composed, though your pulse begins to climb. Your sisters walk a little straighter beside you. You see it in the way they adjust their gloves, the way they glance around as though measuring the shift.
Two young ladies you recognise from last season incline their heads as you pass. âMiss L/N.â Their tone has changed. It is not warmer. It is calculating.
You hear it again, just behind you.
âIs that her?â
âThey say he has been corresponding privatelyââ
âEarl Lee Minhoââ
The name moves through the air like a spark through dry grass. You should feel dread. Instead, for one dangerous moment, you feel something else. Power.
It is astonishing how quickly society rearranges itself when a titled man is attached to your name. Doors open. Smiles sharpen. Men who once drifted past you now hesitate.As though they are trying to solve a riddle. What is so special about her?
You almost laugh. The only thing that has changed is the lie, and yet the respect feels real. That is what unsettles you because if admiration can be manufactured so easily, then perhaps it was never about worth at all. Perhaps it was always about proximity.
You tell yourself this will fade. The Ton grows bored quickly. There will be another scandal. Another misstep. Another foolish debutante. You will quietly slip back into obscurity.
You almost manage to believe it until the pamphlet arrives.
The footman brings it in with the rest of the post, careless and unaware of the destruction folded neatly within its pages. Your mother reaches for it first, as she always does, and your stomach drops when you recognise the masthead.
The Tonâs Observer.
You do not breathe as she skims. You do not breathe as her brow lifts. Then she lowers it slowly onto the table.
Your name is there.
Not hidden. Not implied. Printed.
The words blur for a moment before your vision sharpens enough to read:
âAmong the seasonâs most intriguing developments, it appears the elusive Earl Lee Minho has finally formed an attachmentâŠâ
Your ears begin to ring. It is no longer a drawing-room whisper. It is ink. The lie has outgrown you.Â
Your first thought is not embarrassment. It is him. He will see this. He will know. He is the only person who can unravel it entirely.
You swallow. Perhaps he does not read such things. He does not seem the type. He avoids society. Avoids noise. Avoids spectacle. Perhaps he will not care. Perhaps he will ignore it. Perhapsâ
Your mind begins building fragile hopes.
Perhaps you will survive this. Perhaps he will never seek you out. Perhaps everything will remain contained.
You fold the pamphlet carefully, as though neatness might restore control. Your hands are shaking.
â-----------------
âEarl Lee Minho!â
Minho does not look up immediately. He already recognises the voice, loud, unfiltered, incapable of subtlety.
Han Jisung.
Minho sets down his glass before turning in his chair. Jisung is already halfway across the room, followed closely by the rest of them, all wearing expressions far too delighted for whatever accusation is about to follow.
âHow could you keep this from us?â Jisung demands.
Minho arches a brow. âKeep what?â
âThat you have been courting someone.â
The room seems to be still for half a second.
Minho almost laughs. âImpossible,â he says calmly. âI would remember.â
âDo not pretend ignorance,â Jisung replies, thrusting a folded pamphlet into his hand. âIt has been published.â
Minho suppresses a sigh. Gossip columns are noise. Irritating, persistent noise. He unfolds it anyway. His name appears within the first paragraph. That does not surprise him. It has happened before. His continued absence from society tends to invite speculation.
He skims, and then he stops. Because your name is printed directly beside his.
ââŠa private courtship conducted by correspondenceâŠâ
Minhoâs expression does not change, but something in him tightens. He reads the line again.
Miss L/N.
He tries to place you, but nothing comes immediatel which unsettles him more than it should. You are not someone who cornered him at a ball. Not someone whose mother paraded her toward him with expectation in her eyes.
You are unknown, yet apparently, you have attached yourself to him publicly.
A lie.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Gossip is one thing, speculation is expected, but fabrication is deliberate.
He finishes reading in silence.
âSo?â Jisung presses.
Minho folds the pamphlet carefully before handing it back. âWhat about it?â
Felix leans forward, amused. âWe would very much like to hear about the lady who has succeeded where the rest of society has failed.â
Minho ignores the comment. He does not feel anger. He feels something else.
Curiosity.
You must have known what you were doing. You must have known his name carries weight. You must have chosen it intentionally. The thought irritates him.
âI will speak with Miss L/N,â he says evenly. âIt would be ungentlemanly to discuss a lady without first addressing her directly.â
A chorus of groans fills the air.
âDoes that mean,â Jeongin asks slowly, âyou will attend tomorrowâs ball?â
Minho considers this. He has avoided such events deliberately. The noise. The performance. The endless pursuit. But if this rumour is to be corrected, it must be handled publicly.
And there is something else now. He wants to see you. To understand what sort of woman invokes his name so confidently?
âI suppose,â he says at last, rising from his chair, âthat it does.â
His friends erupt into noise behind him. Minho barely hears it. His thoughts are elsewhere.
Miss L/N.
He does not know you, but he intends to.
â-----------------
The ballroom is brighter than usual. Or perhaps it is simply that you are no longer permitted to hide in its shadows. You feel it the moment you step inside, the shift. Conversations falter. Glances linger. A ripple of interest follows you like the train of your dress.
You had once blended into this room. Now you are being measured.
You miss the wall.
âDid you see whoâs here?â Ester hisses, breathless with excitement.
You barely have time to answer before she and Chloe step aside. At the top of the grand staircase stands the Earl.
Earl Lee Minho.
He is dressed in black, as though the rest of the room is merely a backdrop. He does not smile. He does not preen. He simply stands, and the room accommodates him.
Your stomach drops. He has read it. Of course, he has read it. You take an involuntary step backward.
Ester grips your wrist. âArenât you going to greet him?â
âIââ Your throat tightens. âHe will come to me.â
You do not wait to see whether this is true. You disappear into the crowd.
Across the ballroom, Minho descends the staircase slowly, aware of the way heads turn in expectation. He braces himself for the usual onslaught. It does not come. No mother advances.
No daughter flutters. No calculated interception occurs. He reaches the bottom of the stairs unaccosted.
It is⊠peaceful.
Changbin notices first. âYou look confused.â
âI am accustomed to being ambushed,â Minho replies evenly. âHave women developed restraint in my absence?â
His friends all shrugged, but Hyunjin spoke up, âItâs because youâre taken in their eyes, Minho. There is a limited window in the social season to secure a husband; women arenât going to waste their time pursuing a man who has clearly made his choice. Why do you think I go unbothered at these events?â
That makes sense Minho thought. Hyunjin had practically been engaged since childhood, and he was almost jealous of the ease with which Hyunjin was able to navigate these events.
Minho exhales softly. So this is what it feels like. Silence. Space. Freedom. The lie has granted him what years of avoidance could not.
Jisung claps him on the shoulder. âMeans we finally get you at balls.â
Minho nods absently. He scans the room. âHave any of you seen Miss L/N?â He hoped he played it off enough to seem like he just hadnât seen you and not that he had absolutely no idea what you looked like.
Hyunjin gestures toward the far side. âBlue dress.â
Minho follows the direction of his gaze and finds you. You are not surrounded. Not commanding attention. You stand slightly apart, posture composed but guarded.
You do not look triumphant. You look⊠anxious.
That unsettles him. This does not look like the work of a social climber. This looks like someone bracing for impact.
He studies you for a moment longer than necessary.Â
Then he moves.
The ballroom notices. Of course it does. He feels it, the collective inhale as he crosses the floor.Â
You feel it too. Your throat tightens as he approaches. Ester and Chloe step back, eyes gleaming.
He stops before you. âMiss L/N.â His expression reveals nothing.
You curtsy. âEarl Lee.â
The formality feels like a shield. He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that his words cannot travel.
âMeet me in the garden,â he murmurs. âTen minutes.â
Your pulse jumps. âThat would be improper,â you whisper.
His gaze sharpens slightly. âMore improper than attaching my name to yours without consent?â
The words are quiet but not gentle.
You look down, guilt flaring hot in your chest. âFine,â you say.
He straightens immediately. No smile. No further exchange. He steps away as though nothing has passed between you. The ballroom exhales in disappointment. No confrontation. No declaration. No spectacle.
Ester rushes back to your side. âWhat did he say?â
You swallow. âNothing. He wished to greet me.â
But your hands are trembling and across the room, Minho does not look at you again.
Not because he does not want to. But because he is calculating and, for the first time, this situation interests him.
â-----------------
You check behind you twice before reaching the doors. Three times before stepping into the garden. The air is cooler outside. Quieter. Lantern light flickers against trimmed hedges and pale stone. Every rustle sounds like witnesses.
You round the corner, and he is there. Leaning against the estate wall as though he had been waiting without impatience. Without agitation.
Composed as though this is a negotiation.
You do not let him speak. âPlease,â you rush out, words tumbling over one another. âI did not intend for this to spread. My sisters were being cruel, and Iâ I said something I could not take back. I have never been courted, not properly, and they were laughing at me, and your name was there andââ Your breath stutters. âI never meant to involve you. I swear it.â
He says nothing. You keep going. âI know you owe me nothing. I know I have overstepped. But I cannot be humiliated publicly. I cannot go back to being the joke of every drawing room. Please do not expose me.â
Silence. The garden feels smaller now.
Minho studies you carefully. He had expected ambition. Manipulation. A calculated attempt to force his hand.
Instead, he sees something else. Not greed. Not a strategy.
Desperation.
Not for status but for dignity.
It unsettles him. You used his name to be seen. He avoids society to remain unseen.
Opposites.
He thinks of the ballroom. Of walking unbothered. Of speaking with his friends uninterrupted. Of the silence around him. He had not realised how exhausting it was to constantly deflect pursuit.
Tonight, he did not have to because of you.
âYou chose well,â he says at last.
You blink. âExcuse me?â
âThis is the first ball I have attended in years where I was not intercepted within moments.â
You stare at him, uncertain whether this is mockery.
âIt was⊠peaceful.â The word surprises even him.
You frown. âI do not understand.â
He straightens from the wall. He does not move closer yet. âSuppose,â he says carefully, âI wished to attend more balls.â
You stare. âYou cannot meanââ
âWithout interruption.â
Realisation dawns slowly. âYou want to continue the lie?â Your voice rises instinctively.
He moves before you can finish. His hand is over your mouth in a single smooth motion. Not rough but firm.
âYou appear determined to create scandal in increasingly creative ways,â he murmurs.
Your breath warms his palm. The contact is brief. He removes his hand as though it burns.
âIf I confirm the rumour,â he continues evenly, âsociety will leave me alone.â
âAnd I,â you say quietly now, âwill no longer be pitied.â
He holds your gaze. âYes.â
There it is. Mutual benefit. No romance. Just strategy. He tells himself that is all it is.
âSo we continue?â you ask carefully.
âFor a time.â
âHow long?â
âUntil it no longer serves us.â
It is a clinical answer. You study him. He does not look like a man asking for affection. He looks like a man negotiating control.
âDo we have an agreement?â he asks. He extends his hand.
You hesitate because you understand something now. If you take it, this is no longer an accident. It is intentional.
You place your hand in his. His grip is steady, but his pulse is not. It betrays him for half a second. A flicker.
The garden feels different suddenly, as though something invisible has shifted into place.
He releases you first.
âThen we are agreed.â
And neither of you says what you are both thinking: this will not remain simple.
â-----------------
The next morning, your house becomes unrecognisable. Calling cards accumulate like fallen leaves. Five gentlemen request an audience.
Five.
Your sisters do not attempt to conceal their astonishment. Your mother nearly drops the tea tray. You endure them politely. The first speaks at length about his investments. The second about his hunting dogs. The third about his auntâs estate. The fourth compliments your dress but never asks your opinion on anything. The fifth attempts charm and fails spectacularly.
You smile. You nod. You respond. You wait for something to stir. It does not. It is almost cruel, how desperately you had wanted this, and yet now that it is here, it feels hollow. You had imagined a conversation that moved. That deepened. That reached somewhere beyond polite exchange.
Instead, you are interviewed.
When Minho arrives that afternoon, you feel something dangerously close to relief. He is punctual. Controlled. Composed. As though the world has not shifted around you at all.
âMiss L/N,â he greets evenly.
âEarl Lee.â
He inclines his head. âA promenade?â You accept too quickly.
The park is crowded. Eyes follow you both openly now. You expect him to acknowledge it. He does not. He walks beside you with the kind of effortless composure that suggests the scrutiny does not touch him. He adjusts his pace without comment. Not too fast. Not too slow. Matching you exactly.
It is subtle but deliberate.
You walk in silence for several minutes. You should feel compelled to fill it. You do not. The silence is not strained. It is simply shared. You realise you are not performing. Not curating your responses. Not attempting charm.
You are just⊠walking.
Beside him. You catch him looking at you.
âWhat?â you ask.
He looks forward again. âNothing.â
You wait. He exhales softly. âYou do not seem to fear silence.â
You consider that. âShould I?â
âMost people do,â he replies. âThey speak to avoid it.â
âAnd you?â
âI prefer it.â
You glance at him. âThen why does it surprise you?â
He hesitates, just briefly. âBecause you do not use it as armour.â
The observation is quiet. Too perceptive. You are not sure whether to be flattered or unsettled.
âIs that a flaw?â you ask.
âNo.â He looks at you again, slower this time, âIt is rare.â
You walk a little further. You are aware of a group of young ladies watching you from across the path. You are aware of two gentlemen pausing mid-conversation to glance in your direction.
Minho notices. He says nothing but he shifts slightly, placing himself just a fraction closer to the outside of the path. Shielding. You do not comment on it. He likely does not realise he has done it, but something inside him has begun to calibrate. Not for strategy.
For you.
The silence resumes. It feels less like performance now and more like ease.
â-----------------
The library has always felt like a sanctuary. It smells of dust and paper and something faintly sweet, like time itself has settled into the bindings. No one expects you to be charming here. No one expects you to perform.
You choose the window seat instinctively.
Today, you escape into Camelot. Into knights and loyalty and impossible love.
Guinevere and Lancelot.
You linger over the passages where affection is restrained by duty. You tell yourself you enjoy it for the drama. Not for the ache.
The sunlight warms your shoulders. You almost forget the Ton exists until the light disappears and a shadow falls across the page.
You look up. Minho stands before you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. He looks out of place here and yet strangely not.
You straighten instinctively. âMy Lord, I did not expectââ
âDo not rise,â he says quietly. The request is soft. Almost gentle.
You hesitate, then remain seated. âWhat brings you here?â you ask.
âI went to your house,â he replies. The words land differently than they should.
You blink. âYou did?â
âYes.â A small pause. âYour sister suggested the library.â
There is something unspoken in that, something deliberate. He could have left, but he did not
âOh,â you say, recovering. âDid you wish to promenade?â
âI did,â he admits. âBut it appears I have interrupted something far more important.â
You glance at your book. âIt is only a book, one I have read before at that.â
He studies the cover briefly before speaking. âMay I?â
You shift slightly, making room. He does not sit immediately. He glances around first, at the empty tables, the quiet patrons, the distance between you and the door.
Then he sits beside you. Not too close, but close enough that your sleeves nearly brush.
âWhat are you reading?â he asks.
âGuinevere and Lancelot.â
âGood choice.â
You turn to him fully now. âYou have read it?â
âYes.â There is no irony in his tone.
You narrow your eyes slightly. âTruly?â
He notices. âWhat?â
âI would not have guessed it was your preference.â
âAnd what precisely is my preference?â
You tilt your head. âStrategy. History. Treatises on discipline.â
The corner of his mouth moves. âIt contains swords,â he says evenly.
âAnd love,â you add.
His gaze flickers. âYes.â
The word is quieter than the others. You study him more closely.
âYou like romances,â you say softly.
âI appreciate structure.â
âIn Guinevere and Lancelot?â
âTragic inevitability is a form of structure.â
You stare at him. âThat is the most unromantic way to describe longing I have ever heard.â
The tips of his ears betray him. He clears his throat, âDonât you know youâre not supposed to talk in a library?â
You bite back a smile. He reaches for a book from the nearby shelf without looking too carefully. You attempt to return to your reading. You fail because he has chosen Sense and Sensibility. You see it when he opens it.
You lower your face quickly to hide your grin.
He notices. âWhat?â
âNothing,â you murmur.
âYou are insufferable.â
âAnd yet you came looking for me.â The words slip out before you can measure them.
Silence. He does not deny it.
Instead, he says quietly: âI find I prefer quiet in your company.â
It is not a confession, but it is closer than anything he has said before. You do not know how to respond, so you return to your book and for the first time in your life, reading is not an escape.Â
It is shared.
â-----------------
You tell yourself you are anticipating the ball for perfectly reasonable reasons. The new gown. The new attention. The novelty of not standing unnoticed against the wall. It has nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
The ballroom hums as you enter. The whispering has shifted, something about a Duke and an absurd list of requirements, society has found fresh prey.
You should feel relieved, and yet your eyes search anyway. You find him before he finds you. Standing at the base of the staircase. Waiting. He does not look distracted. He does not look impatient. He looks⊠certain.
When he lifts his gaze and it lands on you, something in your chest tightens. He does not smile but his attention sharpens, and suddenly the staircase feels steeper than usual. You descend slowly. Aware of the way his eyes do not leave you.
It is not admiration. Not exactly. It is an assessment. As though he is confirming something to himself.
You miss the final step. The world tilts. There is a collective intake of breath from the room, and then his hands are on you. Firm and certain. One at your waist. The other steadying your arm.
You are aware of three things at once: The strength beneath his gloves, the way your palm has landed against his chest and the fact that neither of you has moved.
For a second too long, you remain suspended there. Close enough to see the concentration in his expression. Not embarrassment nor amusement but concern.
His fingers tighten slightly before he seems to remember where you are. Who you are. He releases you carefully and offers his hand as though the previous moment never happened.
âAre you injured?â he asks quietly.
âNo.â Your voice is thinner than you intended.
He nods once and leads you into the ballroom. You are acutely aware of the warmth lingering at your waist. Of the imprint of his touch.
You force your mind toward something practical. âI told my family we were corresponding,â you say, once you are far enough from the staircase. âIt would appear suspicious if there were no letters.â
You focus on the logic. The safety of it.
âThey need not be sentimental. Only formal. Arrangements. Appearances.â
You risk a glance at him. His expression is composed again.
âThat is sensible,â he says. He pauses. âI will send one tomorrow.â
It sounds like an agreement, a transaction, but there is something beneath it now. Something you cannot name.
Later, when you lie awake in the dark, you tell yourself the evening was uneventful, yet when you close your eyes, you feel the weight of his hands at your waist. The steadiness. The hesitation before he let go, and you wonder why it felt less like rescue and more like recognition.
â-----------------
The first letter arrives exactly when he said it would. The paper is thick. The seal is precise. Your name is written in a hand so controlled it borders on severe.
You hold it longer than necessary before opening it. It should feel like paperwork. It does not.
âMiss L/N,
It has come to my attention that our supposed understanding has already become gossip of the pastâŠâ
You read it carefully. Measured sentences. Strategic tone. Gratitude framed as practicality. He speaks of fewer interruptions. Not of you.
You read it twice anyway.
When you fold it, your fingers trace the curve of the L in his name. Controlled. Restrained.
Earl Lee.
The second letter arrives four days later. You tell yourself you were not waiting. You were.
âMiss L/N,
Lady Everleigh has informed me that your sisters were emphatic in describing our âdeep mutual understanding.â I commend your commitment to consistencyâŠâ
There is something dry in the wording now. Almost amused. He confirms the fiction publicly. He remarks upon societyâs willingness to believe. He says he is enjoying his time with his friends.
He signs
ââL.â
You stare at it.
The absence of âRespectfully.â It should mean nothing, but you canât help but feel it does not.
The third letter arrives on a rain-soaked afternoon. You open it by the window.
âMiss L/N,
You mentioned you prefer novels to poetry. I find myself compelled to ask why.â
No mention of appearances. No mention of events.
Just a question. You smile before you can stop yourself. You answer immediately. You sign with your initial. You do not include your surname. You stare at it for a long moment before sealing it.
The fourth letter is different. You see it before you even open it. The handwriting is less rigid more⊠personal.
âY,
I do not believe poetry is evasive. I believe it is preciseâŠâ
You stop reading. He has addressed you without formality. He has chosen precision over structure. He has chosen to debate you.
You continue. He calls you optimistic. He says he would like to hear which novel you believe is worthy of faith.
He signs
ââM.â
Not Earl.
Not Lee.
Just M.
The familiarity is deliberate. You fold the letter slowly. You tell yourself this is still strategic.
It is not.
The letters begin to change shape. They lengthen. They wander. He begins describing small things. The way a conversation bored him, the way a certain piece of music lingered, the way the park felt quieter than usual.
He asks questions he does not need to ask. You answer. Sometimes, too honestly.
Then one evening, a letter arrives later than it should. The seal is imperfect as though it was pressed in haste.
âY/N,
Lady Danvers informed me you were uncharacteristically quiet at the promenade.â
You stiffen.
âI trust this was by choice and not by consequence. If the latter, I would prefer to be made aware of it.â
You read the line again. Prefer to be made aware. It is not a strategy. It is concern. You write back before you can second-guess yourself.
âM,
It was by choice. Though I admit I have grown accustomed to fewer interruptions.â
You hesitate. Your hand trembles slightly.
âIt is⊠quieter beside you.â
You consider crossing it out. You do not.
His reply arrives the next morning. Too quickly, as though he did not sleep.
âY,
Quiet is not always absence. Some things are clearer when not drowned by noise.â
You feel it then. The shift. He is not discussing society. He is discussing you and himself, but neither of you names it, and that makes it dangerous.
Weeks pass. The letters become ritual. He begins writing in the evenings. Later. Longer. There are moments where the ink thickens, as though the pen hesitates. As though he almost wrote something else. He never crosses anything out, but you sense restraint. You sense the boundary he is holding in place and the effort it takes to hold it.
Then one night, long after the house has gone silent, you unfold a letter that makes your breath stop.
âY/N,
I had intended to inform you that we ought to be seen walking together on Wednesday.â
There is a pause in the handwriting. A shift in pressure.
âInstead, I find myself wondering whether you are sleeping.â
You freeze.
âI suspect you do not.â
And then:
ââMinho.â
Not M. Not Earl Lee.
Minho.
Your candle flickers. Your pulse stutters. He has removed the final layer of distance. There is no strategic value in asking whether you are sleeping. No public benefit. No performance. Only awareness.
You sit very still. Because you understand something now. The lie has rules. The lie has structure, and this is not that.
You fold the letter carefully. You press it flat against your desk. You tell yourself this is still pretend. You tell yourself names do not matter. You tell yourself midnight questions are harmless.
And when you take up your pen, you do not write âMy Lord.â
You write:
âMinho,â
You do not correct it, and somewhere across the city, a man who prefers distance realises he has closed it.
â-----------------
At the beginning of the season, you would have laughed at the idea of anticipating a ball. Now, you measure time by them. They are where you see him without excuse. Where you do not need to pretend that coincidence exists. Where you are allowed to stand at his side.
You watch him from across the ballroom. He stands with his friends, but his attention drifts. Not constantly. Not obviously. But it returns to you.
You pretend not to notice. Earlier, when you tried to send him toward his friends, he resisted longer than usual.
âGo,â you had insisted, nudging him gently.
He hesitated. âIf anyone bothers you,â he said quietly, âcome find me.â
âI can manage,â you laughed.
âI am aware,â he replied. âThat does not negate the offer.â
You had brushed it off. You are not brushing it off now because he is watching. Even while speaking to the others. You turn away first. You do not want to examine what that means.
âExcuse me.â
You face a gentleman you vaguely recognise.
He bows properly. Polite. Earnest. âI was hoping to claim the next dance.â
You consider it. You have already danced with Minho once. The rules of the Ton are unforgiving, twice invites speculation, and the man seems harmless enough.
You open your mouthâ
âShe is otherwise engaged.â
The words land behind you. Cold. Final. You do not need to turn to know it is him, but you do.
Minho stands far closer than he had been moments ago. His expression is controlled. His eyes are not.
The gentleman falters immediately. âIâ I beg your pardonââ
Minho does not look at him.
The boy retreats without further encouragement.
You turn back to Minho slowly. âThat was unnecessary.â
He tilts his head slightly. âWas it?â
âYes.â Your voice is sharper than intended. âHe seemed kind.â
Minhoâs jaw tightens. âHe was presumptuous.â
âI was about to accept.â
That does it. Something flickers across his face before he can mask it. You see it, and it unsettles you.
He recovers quickly. âYou are free to do as you please,â he says evenly. âBut not with him.âÂ
The contradiction hangs in the air. You fold your hands in front of you. âThis arrangement,â you say carefully, âwill end eventually.â He does not respond. âI would not mind having prospects prepared when it does.â
It is logical that he knows, and yet it feels like a physical blow. He had told himself this was temporary. He had told himself that was the appeal, but the idea of you turning your attention toward someone else, of you smiling at another man, dancing with another man, writing to another man. He does not feel it is an inconvenience.
It is something sharper.
Replaceable.
The word lodges in his throat.
âOf course,â he says finally. The distance in his voice is immediate.
You study him more closely now. âAre you upset?â
âNo.â Too fast. He looks away.
You soften slightly. âI did not mean to wound you.â
âYou did not.â Another lie.
Silence stretches. The music resumes around you, oblivious.
You take a breath. âWould you like a refreshment?â
He considers declining. He considers retreating. Instead, he offers you his arm. The contact is formal, but his fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours as he leads you away.
As though reminding himself, you are not yet gone.
â-----------------
âWhat exactly are you meant to be?â Minhoâs voice is low as he looks you over.
You spin slowly beneath the lantern light, the gold fabric catching flame in the glow. Feathers shimmer at your sleeves and neckline, delicate and deliberate.
âA songbird,â you reply.
His eyes linger. âWhy the cage?â
You lift your hand to the mask, fine gold wire framing your face like bars.
You shrug lightly. âIt felt appropriate.â
He studies you for a second longer than necessary. You cannot quite read his expression. Approval? Disapproval? Recognition?
You look him over in return. Black velvet. Silver thread-like claw marks at the cuff. A sleek cat mask obscures the top half of his face.
âSubtle,â you remark. âVery⊠feline.â
âI do not see the resemblance.â
âYou avoid noise. You dislike being handled. You watch before you move.â
The corner of his mouth shifts. âAnd you?â he asks softly. âDo you sing for approval?â
Your breath catches. âI suppose that depends who is listening.â
Silence. The music swells around you.
âAre you going to purr for me later?â you ask lightly, because it is easier to retreat into teasing than to stay in that tension.
His gaze darkens. He steps closer. Close enough that you feel the warmth of him even through layers of costume.
âIf you ask nicely,â he murmurs near your ear. The words are playful. The tone is not.
A shiver traces down your spine before you can stop it.
âShall we?â he asks.
You take his arm. The dance begins. He moves as he always does, precise, fluid, deliberate but tonight there is something looser in him. Something less guarded. You feel it in the way his hand rests at your waist. Not possessive but certain. As though he expects you there.
âYou make this easier,â he says quietly as you turn.
You glance up at him. âThe dancing?â
His hand tightens almost imperceptibly before guiding you through the next step. âNo.â The music softens. âThe season.â
You search his face behind the mask. That is not practical. That is not strategic. That is not about uninterrupted evenings with his friends.
âOh,â you say softly.
You too.
The words do not leave your mouth. But he hears them anyway because something in his expression shifts. Just briefly. Like a door almost opening. And then he pulls it shut.
âYou nearly missed that turn,â he says lightly, redirecting you.
You know he is changing the subject. You let him, but the air between you feels different now. The cage on your mask suddenly feels heavier because you understand something.
You are dressed as a bird in a cage, but you do not feel trapped when he is near.
And that is the most dangerous thing of all.
â-----------------
Now that youâve recognised the change, you understand it is not in what he says. It is in what he avoids saying.
The ballroom is suffocating. Laughter is too loud. Perfume too heavy. The orchestra is too determined.
Once, you would have retreated. Now, you do not because he is beside you. Not touching. Not claiming but positioned, slightly angled toward you, subtly discouraging interruption without appearing territorial.
It is a posture he has mastered. Distance disguised as proximity.
You are speaking with Lady Fairbourne when a gentleman approaches. Polite. Earnest. Harmless. He looks at you first. Then at Minho. Then back at you.
âI had hoped,â he begins carefully, âthat perhaps Miss L/N mightââ
âShe is spoken for,â Minho says evenly as if stating the weather, but there is no hesitation. The gentleman retreats immediately.
Lady Fairbourne raises a brow, amused. âHow fortunate.â
You wait until she departs before turning to him. âI asked you not to do that.â
âI had to.â
âFor appearance?â
His gaze flickers toward you, then away. âFor consistency.â
You hold his gaze. âOf course.â
But neither of you steps back and neither of you pretends the word did not land heavier than it should have.
When the music begins, he does not ask. He simply extends his hand, and you take it. The first measures are precise. Polite. Measured. Then something shifts. He steps closer than required. Not scandalously, but enough that you feel him through layers of fabric. You do not correct it. He does not retreat. Your hands remain linked half a second too long at the turn. Half a second is deniable, but you both notice.
Later, seated on a narrow settee designed for one and a half people, he chooses the space beside you. There are other seats. He does not take them. Your skirts overlap his knee. Your sleeve brushes his. Neither of you adjusts.
âYou must visit my house in the country,â he says lightly. âThe library would suit you.â
âWill it?â
He considers. âIt is quiet.â
âThat was not my question.â
His mouth curves faintly. âI know.â
Silence settles. Anyone looking at you now would not see performance. They would see something settled. You should move. You do not.
When he escorts you to the carriage, there is no audience left to convince.
The street is dim. The air cooler.
âYou need not walk me this far,â you say.
âI know.â He does not step away.
âYou understand,â you say carefully, âthat this cannot continue indefinitely.â
âOf course.â The answer is immediate.
âWe will have to end it.â
You wait. You wait for him to say âwe do not have toâ or âI do not wantâ to or even ânot yet.â
He says nothing. Instead, he reaches for your glove. It does not need adjusting. You both know that. His fingers slide along your wrist. The inside where your pulse beats. The touch is brief but not accidental.
Your breath stutters. His eyes lift to yours. You see it clearly now. The restraint. The calculation. The fear of stepping beyond something that has no defined rules.
He releases you first. âAs agreed,â he says quietly, âthis remains practical.â
The word feels like a blade. âYes,â you reply but your hand lingers in his.
And when the carriage door closes, he does not move. Not immediately.
Later, you lie awake. There had been no confession. No impropriety. Nothing to name and yet something has undeniably altered. You do not fear the end of the lie because of humiliation anymore.
You fear it because of loss.
Across the city, Minho sits alone at his desk. The house is silent. A letter lies unfinished before him.
He has written:
âY/N,â
And nothing else. He stares at the page because what he wants to write is not strategic. It is not efficient. It is not contained.
It is:
I do not wish this to end.
His jaw tightens. He folds the paper before the thought can become ink. For the first time since this began, he does not know which outcome unsettles him more: That this is still pretend or that it is not.
â-----------------
You know something is wrong before you see it. It settles in your chest like a weight. The house is too quiet. When you enter the breakfast room, conversation halts. Your mother does not look up from her teacup; your father folds his paper slowly; Ester will not meet your eyes; and Chloe looks as though she might cry.
âWhat?â you ask. Your voice sounds smaller than you intend it to.
Ester slides the pamphlet across the table. You do not want to touch it. You recognise the masthead immediately.
The Tonâs Observer.
Your pulse begins to pound before you even read.
âOn Pretence and Protection
Society has spent weeks whispering that the Earl Lee Minho has at last been claimed, a quiet, private courtship conducted away from prying eyes.
This author regrets to inform the ton that the arrangement was never a courtship at all.
The relationship between the Earl and the lady in question was, by mutual agreement, a pretence, one entered for convenience rather than affection.
And yet, one must ask: if a lie brings peace where truth brings chaos, which is the greater cruelty?
The Earl may soon discover that false attachments offer no shield once exposed, and that the ton is far less gentle when it believes a heart once claimed is suddenly free.
Yours Truly,
A Keen Observerâ
You read the words once. Then again. The room begins to tilt. The pamphlet trembles in your hands. The Observer does not name you. It does not need to.
Everyone will know. They always do.
Your ears ring. Someone speaks, perhaps your mother, but the sound does not reach you properly. The only thought that cuts through is him. Did he know? Did he tell someone? Did he decide it was no longer worth preserving?
The possibility claws at you.
You set the pamphlet down carefully because if you grip it any tighter, it will tear. You stand. No one stops you. You leave the room without permission. Without decorum. Without dignity.
You do not remember climbing the stairs. You only remember the door slamming shut behind you and locking it. You press your back against it as though the world might attempt entry. And then the tears come. They spill hot and relentlessly.
You had known the lie would end. You had prepared for that. What you had not prepared for was this. Public exposure. Public ridicule. Public reclassification from âchosenâ to âdeceived.â
Your mind replays every moment. Was it all calculation? Was it all convenience? Had you imagined the shift?
You press your hands to your face. The worst part is not society. It is not marriage prospects. It is not even humiliation.
It is the possibility that what felt real was never meant to be.
You do not know which hurts more. The idea that Ton believes it was a pretence or that he might agree.
â-----------------
Minho does not go to you immediately. He wants to. The impulse is violent. To see you. To fix it. To undo it.
But instinct wins. He retreats. He tells himself it is strategic. He tells himself appearing too quickly would invite more attention. He tells himself space is sensible. All of it is cowardice.
Jisung tells him what people are saying. The laughter. The speculation. The suggestion that you engineered the entire thing to trap him.
His blood boils. Not because of the insult to his reputation. Because of you. Because you are facing it alone. Because this began with his suggestion. His control. His lie.
When Jisung drags him into the carriage, he does not resist hard enough. Jisung tells him he is going to the gentlemanâs club.
When the carriage stops in front of your house, his stomach drops.
âWhy are we here?â he demands.
âBecause you are going to stop hiding,â Jisung replies.
Minho considers running. Truly He thought about making a run for it, but Jisung was surprisingly fast and would no doubt tackle him to the ground if he tried that, and he didnât need to be causing gossip anymore right now. And besides, he has already run once. He cannot do it again.
He knocks and the door opens. He steps inside and is led. He feels the weight of your familyâs eyes from the hallway. He waits. And then you enter.
He does not recognise you at first. Not because you look different but because something in you has gone still. You have not dressed. Your hair is loose. Your eyes are rimmed red. But there are no tears now. Only exhaustion. Only distance.
He would rather you shout.
âIâm sorry,â he says. It sounds hollow the moment it leaves his mouth.
You look at him as though measuring whether that is all he brought. âIs that it?â
He swallows. âI did not know how to prevent this.â
âThat is not what I asked.â
He runs a hand through his hair. He is good with structure. He is not good with this.
âIt will pass,â he says finally. âThe Ton moves quickly. They will find something else. Chan is likely to propose soon. That will redirectââ
âI do not want it to pass.â
The words are quiet. He blinks. âWhat?â
You step closer. âI do not want it to pass.â Your composure fractures. âNot because of the embarrassment. Not because of the ridicule.â Your voice trembles. âI want it to go back because I do not want this to end.â
He goes very still.
âI want to dance with you,â you say, the words spilling now. âI want to write to you. I want to sit beside you in silence and not feel alone.â
Your breath catches.
âI want you.â
There it is.
No performance, just truth.
It hits him like an impact because he had told himself he was in control. He had told himself he could step away at any moment. He had told himself this was safe, and now you are asking him to choose, and choice means risk. Choice means permanence. Choice means losing you if he fails.Â
He panics. âIt was just pretend,â he says. The moment the words leave him, he knows they are wrong. A shield thrown up too late.
You flinch as though struck. âI know,â you say quietly.
That is worse.Â
âBut it did not feel like that to me.â Your voice breaks. âI suppose that was my mistake.â
He steps forward instinctively.
You step back. The distance between you is no longer inches. It is final.
He wants to say âit was not only youâ, âI did not mean it to changeâ, âI do not know how to keep you without losing myselfâ, but he does not say any of it because he does not know how.
âJust go,â you whisper, and that is the first time you sound truly tired.
He stands there for a heartbeat longer than he should. Then he leaves. Outside, the air feels colder.
Jisung looks at him expectantly. âHow did it go?â
Minho cannot answer. Because the truth is, he chose safety and in doing so, he lost you.
âPlease,â he says instead, voice barely audible, âtake me home.â
Jisung does not ask another question.
â-----------------
You lose track of the day. Morning blurs into afternoon. Afternoon into dusk. You sleep in fragments. You eat when forced. You exist. That is all.
The house continues around you, muffled and distant. You do not step outside your room. You do not answer knocks. You do not read. Even the letters on your desk remain untouched. It is easier not to think.
The door bursts open. You do not startle. You barely turn your head.
âI truly cannot endure any more humiliation,â you mutter. âIf you have come to remind me of it, please do so quickly.â
Chloe crosses the room in three strides and tears the curtains open.
Light floods the room like accusation. You hiss at the brightness.
âGet up,â Ester says. It is not unkind. It is firm.
You close your eyes. âNo.â
âWe are not allowing you to dissolve into your mattress,â she replies.
You let out a hollow laugh. âWhat difference does it make?â
Ester sits on the edge of your bed. You notice she does not look triumphant. She looks⊠remorseful.
âWe were cruel,â she says quietly. You blink. âDuring your debut season,â she continues, âyou were radiant.â
You almost scoff.
âYou were,â Chloe insists. âAnd we hated it.â
Ester exhales slowly. âWe thought if we dimmed you, we would shine brighter.â
You stare at them. This is not what you expected.
âWe were wrong,â Ester says simply.
Silence settles. You do not have the energy to process forgiveness. You barely have the energy to breathe.
âIt does not change anything,â you say finally. âHe still said it was pretend.â
Chloe exchanges a look with Ester. âThe Earl is a fool,â Ester replies.
You stiffen.
âHe is terrified,â Chloe corrects gently. âThat is different.â
You close your eyes again. âIt does not matter.â
âIt does,â Ester insists. âBecause whatever this began as, it did not end that way.â
You swallow.
âYou cannot fake what you had,â Chloe says quietly. âNot unless you are both the most convincing performers in the Ton.â
The words hurt because part of you hopes they are wrong.
âEven if that is true,â you whisper, âit changes nothing.â
âIt changes everything,â Ester says. âBecause right now, the Ton expects you to hide.â
You look at her.
âThe longer you stay unseen,â she continues, âthe more they will narrate your grief for you.â
You sit slowly. âWhat do you suggest?â
âCome to the ball tonight,â Chloe says. âNot to win him back but to show them you are not broken.â
Ester nods. âYou will look exquisite. You will smile. You will dance. And the only thing society will have left to discuss is why the Earl has not shown his face.â
That lands. You had not considered that.
âWhat if he does not come?â you ask quietly.
Ester shrugs. âThen he proves us right.â
âAnd if he does?â
Chloeâs mouth curves slightly. âThen you will not be the only one with something to lose.â
Silence. Your room feels less suffocating now. You look at yourself in the mirror across the room. You do look like someone abandoned. You hate that.
Slowly, deliberately, you push the covers aside. âFine,â you say.
Your sisters do not cheer. They simply act because this is not about spectacle. It is about reclamation, and when they pull you to your feet, it is not unceremonious. It is determined.
â-----------------
Minho hated balls. Now more than ever. He hated every mother and daughter who approached him, trying to vie for his attention. He hated anyone who said anything untoward about you, especially to his face. He hated that you werenât standing beside him. And he hated that it was his own fault.
He stands where he always stood, near the edge of the room, posture immaculate, expression neutral, presence unassailable. He is alone. He had once preferred it that way, but tonight, it feels different.
He does not look for you. Why would he? He doubts you would show up. If he were you, heâd be in hiding too. He has only come tonight to try to do damage control and clear your name. He doesnât care if his reputation is ruined, only that yours is saved.
Suddenly, he hears gasps and snickers from members of the Ton, and he looks up, and to his utter surprise, he sees you standing at the top of the staircase looking like a vision in emerald green.
You are aware of people watching you and their aversions, so you do your best to hide. You stand in the corner. Back to the wallflower you were always destined to be. Despite your best efforts, you are acutely aware of Minhoâs eyes on you. You wish he would look anywhere else. You feel like you are drowning under his gaze.
A group of young ladies approached you. You could hear their snickering. âSo Y/Nâ, one of them says, âhow do you feel about becoming a spinster?â
You roll your eyes. You couldnât care less about being a spinster. You had accepted your fate a while ago, and now you doubt youâd ever find someone you loved as much as Minho, so what was the point?
âBe niceâ, another chided, âBut tell us, Y/N, what does Earl Lee like, as I imagine heâll soon be back on the market looking for a courtship. A real one this time, of course.â They all giggled, and you knew you couldnât do this.
What were you thinking coming back into society? It was too soon. You werenât ready. You quickly apologise to your sisters who beg you to stay, but your mind is already made up. You make your way to your carriage and leave as fast as possible, unaware that Minho had watched the entire thing.
â-----------------
Back in the safety of your home, you cannot bring yourself to change. The emerald silk still clings to you, heavy and luminous. If this were the last time you would ever dress for a ball, you intend to remember how it felt.
A knock interrupts the silence. Your ladiesmaid enters, hesitant.
âThere is someone here for you, miss.â
You glance at the clock. Eleven.
âAt this hour?â
She nods. âHe said it was urgent. He also paid me an alarming sum not to alert your father.â You do not ask who. You know.
Your pulse betrays you anyway. You smooth your skirt once, for composure, not vanity, and make your way downstairs.
He stands in the drawing room. Not composed. Not untouchable. Just a man who looks as though he has not slept.
âYou should not be here,â you say evenly.
âI know.â
He does not move, and neither do you. The silence stretches, thick and aware.
âI owe you an apology,â he says.
âFor what?â
âFor lying.â
A humourless breath escapes you. âWe both lied.â
âNo.â The word is quiet but unyielding. âWe lied to society. I lied to you.â
The distinction lands.
âYou said it was never real.â
He swallows. âI said that because I was afraid.â
Your breath falters not because of the words, but because of the way he says them.
âAfraid of what?â
He hesitates.
âOf needing it,â he says finally. His eyes lift to yours. âOf needing you.â
The room feels smaller. He steps forward slowly as though approaching something fragile.
âI have built my life around distance,â he continues, âPredictable outcomes. Controlled variables.â His voice lowers. âYou disrupted that.â
You should step back. You do not.
âIt was meant to be efficient,â he says. âA mutual arrangement. I convinced myself that was all it would ever be.â
âYou were protecting yourself.â
âYes.â No defence. No excuse. Just truth.
He is close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that you can see the exhaustion in his restraint.
âI do not know when it changed,â he says softly. âI do not know which letter did it. Or which evening. Only that at some point I stopped attending events to avoid societyâŠâ His gaze drops briefly, then returns. âAnd began attending them to see you.â
Your heart stumbles.
âAnd when the column exposed us,â he continues, âI thought I was furious about losing control.â A faint breath escapes him. âI was terrified I had lost you.â
âYou did,â you say.
It costs you to say it. His expression shifts, not defensive.
Understanding. âI know.â
It would have been easier if he had argued. If he had insisted. Instead, he accepts it and stays.
âI cannot offer you the safety we constructed,â he says. âI cannot offer convenience. Or structure.â His voice drops lower. âI can only offer you myself.â
The simplicity of it makes your throat tighten. âAnd what does that mean?â
âIt means I would rather risk humiliation, uncertainty, and the very real possibility that you will reject meâŠâ His hand flexes at his side. ââŠthan return to a life in which I never risked you at all.â
You do not realise you have stepped closer until there is almost no space left between you.
âYou made it look easy,â you whisper. âWalking away.â
âIt was not.â
âYou did not come after me.â
His jaw tightens. âBecause for the first time, I understood that choosing you meant surrendering control.â
He lifts a hand, slowly giving you every chance to refuse.
His fingers brush your wrist. The same place he touched you before. Your pulse jumps beneath his skin.
âI did not want to trap you,â he says. âThe way I felt trapped by my own fear.â
Your breath trembles. âAre you asking to court me properly?â
âI am.â
âAnd if I refuse?â
The words cost him something. âIf you choose another, I will not stand in your way.â
You search his face. There is no arrogance left. Only vulnerability.
âYou are insufferable,â you murmur.
âI am aware.â
âBut you are no longer safe.â
âNo.â
âYou are no longer practical.â
âNo.â
You step into him. Not timidly. Deliberately.
âWhat if this fails?â
He does not hesitate. âThen it fails honestly.â
That does it. That is what undoes you. Because the lie was safe. This is not. You reach for him. Your fingers lace with his.
He inhales sharply, as though he had not dared hope for that.
âI do not want the lie either,â you say.
His forehead rests briefly against yours. The contact is gentle.
âThen we will not pretend,â he whispers.
âNo.â
His other hand slides to your waist, not to claim but to hold. And when he kisses you, it is not hurried. Not desperate. Not consuming.
It is careful. Intentional.
A promise rather than a demand.
And when he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek as though committing the moment to memory.
âFor the record,â he murmurs softly against your temple, âI would have come after you eventually.â
You smile faintly. âI know.â
And for the first time since this began, there is no lie between you.
â-----------------
Minhoâs hands cover your eyes as he guides you down the corridors of his home.
âMinho,â you warn, fingers curling around his wrist, âif I collide with something, I shall return to London and leave you to your chaos.â
He gasps dramatically. âIt deeply wounds me that my own darling wife, whom I love with reckless devotion, possesses so little faith.â
âI can feel you smiling.â
âBecause I am.â
A door creaks open. The scent reaches you first. Paper. Polish. Dust warmed by sunlight.
Your breath stills.
âReady?â he murmurs near your ear. âOpen.â
His hands fall away. You blink, and then you do not move.
Before you stretch an entire wall of shelves. Then another. And another.
Books climb toward the ceiling, their spines catching the light from tall windows you do not remember being so bright. It is not simply stocked. It is curated.
You step forward slowly, fingers brushing familiar titles. Arthurian legends. A first edition of the novel you argued about in your letters. New releases from London presses. Margins marked discreetly.
You turn. âMinho.â
He stands a little apart, watching you the way he used to at balls, observant, quiet, unreadable to anyone but you. âI may have reorganised a few sections,â he says lightly. âThe previous arrangement was⊠distressing.â
You laugh softly, still stunned. âYou did this?â
âI supervised,â he replies modestly. âI am told I was insufferable about categorisation.â
You look back at the shelves. There are small, deliberate touches. A reading chair near the window. A writing desk.
âYou said once,â he continues more quietly, âthat novels demand endurance.â Your heart softens. âI thought if this is to be your home, it should hold the things that shaped you.â He steps closer now. âAnd the things you have yet to discover.â
You turn fully toward him. âYou remembered.â
âI remember everything you have ever written to me.â The words are not dramatic. They are matter-of-fact. And that makes them devastating.
He reaches out, brushing his thumb over the spine of Sense and Sensibility where it rests deliberately on a shelf at eye level. âI suppose,â he adds lightly, âthis makes us even.â
âFor what?â
âYou made the season bearable.â
You smile. âYou made quiet less lonely.â You close the distance between you. âHave I told you how much I love you?â you ask softly.
He studies you, not teasing now. Serious. âNot as often as I deserve.â
You laugh. He reaches for you slowly. His hand rests at your waist, the same place he steadied you that night on the staircase. A memory now.
âI loved you long before I admitted it,â he says quietly.
âMinho.â
âI did not know how to live with it.â His forehead rests against yours. âBut I could not live without it.â
You breathe him in. Paper. Ink. Home.
âI love you,â you say, and this time, there is no restraint left.
His kiss is slow. Not the kind that steals breath. The kind that steadies it.
When he pulls back, he brushes a strand of hair from your face.
âGood,â he murmurs. âBecause I built you a library.â You laugh against him. âAnd I would rather not have to fill it alone.â
You lace your fingers with his. âThen we shall endure together.â
He smiles at that, and in the quiet of the room, surrounded by stories of risk and devotion and improbable love, there is no lie. No performance. No structure to maintain.
Love, As the Ton Misunderstands it
Stray Kids x Reader Bridergton!AU
The ton prides itself on knowing love.
It knows how to arrange it, announce it, improve it, and, when necessary, expose it. It knows which matches are sensible, which affections are respectable, and which truths are best delivered in ink rather than spoken aloud.
Across one social season, eight lives unfold beneath that certainty. Love is measured instead of felt. Hidden instead of claimed. Spoken through letters, through pretence, through silence, and through gossip that mistakes revelation for mercy. Some cling to duty. Some wait too long. Some step aside, believing themselves unworthy. And some believe that if a truth exists, it must be told, regardless of who is harmed by hearing it.
But love is not a narrative to be curated, nor a problem to be solved.
As whispers become headlines and secrets are forced into the open, each must decide what they are willing to risk: reputation, control, pride, or the quiet safety of never saying what they feel.
Because love, as the ton misunderstands it, is orderly and observed.
Love, as it truly is, demands courage.
Bang Chan x Reader: Read here
It seems one gentleman has mistaken matrimony for a ledger, and affection for a set of requirements. One wonders whether perfection is truly so rare, or if the fault lies with the one doing the measuring. After all, a list may choose a wife, but it will never make a man loved.
Lee Know x Reader: Coming Soon
An unexpected appearance from a most elusive gentleman has caused quite the stir, particularly as he arrived already spoken for, or so we are told. Curious how swiftly the ton loses interest when they believe a heart unavailable. One canât help but wonder how much of courtship is desire⊠and how much is simply convenience.
Changbin x Reader: Coming Soon
Some affections bloom loudly, while others are content to remain quietly in service. It is often the most loyal companion who applauds the loudest for a happiness that will never be theirs. Still, one must ask: how long can devotion go unnoticed before it becomes its own kind of heartbreak?
Han x Reader: Coming soon
Romance has taken a literary turn this season, with letters said to rival poetry itself. How fortunate for some to be so eloquently adored, and how convenient, one suspects, for those who know precisely what to say, yet never dare say it as themselves.
Felix x Reader: Coming Soon
A masquerade promises mystery, but it rarely delivers truth. One gentleman appears quite taken with a woman he cannot name, chasing a memory through crowded ballrooms while overlooking what stands plainly before him. Perhaps the greatest trick of fantasy is convincing us it is more real than the present.
Seungmin x Reader: Coming Soon
The ton has long praised those who arrange happiness for others, mistaking foresight for wisdom and influence for benevolence. But one should be careful when striking sparks on behalf of another, for in playing with matches, you risk being burned.
Jeongin x Reader: Coming Soon
First seasons are often remembered for their eagerness, though seldom for their restraint. Yet there is something rather noble about the gentleman who turns away from a closed door rather than forcing it open. Timing, it seems, is not merely a matter of chance, but of character.
Hyunjin x Reader: Coming Soon
Secrets, once whispered, have a habit of becoming ink. And ink, as we all know, does not fade quietly. This season has proven that no matter how carefully a narrative is curated, the truth will eventually demand its due, from those who hide it, and from those who believed they were only watching.
Love, As the Ton Misunderstands it
Stray Kids x Reader Bridergton!AU
The ton prides itself on knowing love.
It knows how to arrange it, announce it, improve it, and, when necessary, expose it. It knows which matches are sensible, which affections are respectable, and which truths are best delivered in ink rather than spoken aloud.
Across one social season, eight lives unfold beneath that certainty. Love is measured instead of felt. Hidden instead of claimed. Spoken through letters, through pretence, through silence, and through gossip that mistakes revelation for mercy. Some cling to duty. Some wait too long. Some step aside, believing themselves unworthy. And some believe that if a truth exists, it must be told, regardless of who is harmed by hearing it.
But love is not a narrative to be curated, nor a problem to be solved.
As whispers become headlines and secrets are forced into the open, each must decide what they are willing to risk: reputation, control, pride, or the quiet safety of never saying what they feel.
Because love, as the ton misunderstands it, is orderly and observed.
Love, as it truly is, demands courage.
Bang Chan x Reader: Read here
It seems one gentleman has mistaken matrimony for a ledger, and affection for a set of requirements. One wonders whether perfection is truly so rare, or if the fault lies with the one doing the measuring. After all, a list may choose a wife, but it will never make a man loved.
Lee Know x Reader: Coming Soon
An unexpected appearance from a most elusive gentleman has caused quite the stir, particularly as he arrived already spoken for, or so we are told. Curious how swiftly the ton loses interest when they believe a heart unavailable. One canât help but wonder how much of courtship is desire⊠and how much is simply convenience.
Changbin x Reader: Coming Soon
Some affections bloom loudly, while others are content to remain quietly in service. It is often the most loyal companion who applauds the loudest for a happiness that will never be theirs. Still, one must ask: how long can devotion go unnoticed before it becomes its own kind of heartbreak?
Han x Reader: Coming soon
Romance has taken a literary turn this season, with letters said to rival poetry itself. How fortunate for some to be so eloquently adored, and how convenient, one suspects, for those who know precisely what to say, yet never dare say it as themselves.
Felix x Reader: Coming Soon
A masquerade promises mystery, but it rarely delivers truth. One gentleman appears quite taken with a woman he cannot name, chasing a memory through crowded ballrooms while overlooking what stands plainly before him. Perhaps the greatest trick of fantasy is convincing us it is more real than the present.
Seungmin x Reader: Coming Soon
The ton has long praised those who arrange happiness for others, mistaking foresight for wisdom and influence for benevolence. But one should be careful when striking sparks on behalf of another, for in playing with matches, you risk being burned.
Jeongin x Reader: Coming Soon
First seasons are often remembered for their eagerness, though seldom for their restraint. Yet there is something rather noble about the gentleman who turns away from a closed door rather than forcing it open. Timing, it seems, is not merely a matter of chance, but of character.
Hyunjin x Reader: Coming Soon
Secrets, once whispered, have a habit of becoming ink. And ink, as we all know, does not fade quietly. This season has proven that no matter how carefully a narrative is curated, the truth will eventually demand its due, from those who hide it, and from those who believed they were only watching.
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Love, As the Ton Misunderstands it
Stray Kids x Reader Bridergton!AU
The ton prides itself on knowing love.
It knows how to arrange it, announce it, improve it, and, when necessary, expose it. It knows which matches are sensible, which affections are respectable, and which truths are best delivered in ink rather than spoken aloud.
Across one social season, eight lives unfold beneath that certainty. Love is measured instead of felt. Hidden instead of claimed. Spoken through letters, through pretence, through silence, and through gossip that mistakes revelation for mercy. Some cling to duty. Some wait too long. Some step aside, believing themselves unworthy. And some believe that if a truth exists, it must be told, regardless of who is harmed by hearing it.
But love is not a narrative to be curated, nor a problem to be solved.
As whispers become headlines and secrets are forced into the open, each must decide what they are willing to risk: reputation, control, pride, or the quiet safety of never saying what they feel.
Because love, as the ton misunderstands it, is orderly and observed.
Love, as it truly is, demands courage.
Bang Chan x Reader: Read here
It seems one gentleman has mistaken matrimony for a ledger, and affection for a set of requirements. One wonders whether perfection is truly so rare, or if the fault lies with the one doing the measuring. After all, a list may choose a wife, but it will never make a man loved.
Lee Know x Reader: Coming Soon
An unexpected appearance from a most elusive gentleman has caused quite the stir, particularly as he arrived already spoken for, or so we are told. Curious how swiftly the ton loses interest when they believe a heart unavailable. One canât help but wonder how much of courtship is desire⊠and how much is simply convenience.
Changbin x Reader: Coming Soon
Some affections bloom loudly, while others are content to remain quietly in service. It is often the most loyal companion who applauds the loudest for a happiness that will never be theirs. Still, one must ask: how long can devotion go unnoticed before it becomes its own kind of heartbreak?
Han x Reader: Coming soon
Romance has taken a literary turn this season, with letters said to rival poetry itself. How fortunate for some to be so eloquently adored, and how convenient, one suspects, for those who know precisely what to say, yet never dare say it as themselves.
Felix x Reader: Coming Soon
A masquerade promises mystery, but it rarely delivers truth. One gentleman appears quite taken with a woman he cannot name, chasing a memory through crowded ballrooms while overlooking what stands plainly before him. Perhaps the greatest trick of fantasy is convincing us it is more real than the present.
Seungmin x Reader: Coming Soon
The ton has long praised those who arrange happiness for others, mistaking foresight for wisdom and influence for benevolence. But one should be careful when striking sparks on behalf of another, for in playing with matches, you risk being burned.
Jeongin x Reader: Coming Soon
First seasons are often remembered for their eagerness, though seldom for their restraint. Yet there is something rather noble about the gentleman who turns away from a closed door rather than forcing it open. Timing, it seems, is not merely a matter of chance, but of character.
Hyunjin x Reader: Coming Soon
Secrets, once whispered, have a habit of becoming ink. And ink, as we all know, does not fade quietly. This season has proven that no matter how carefully a narrative is curated, the truth will eventually demand its due, from those who hide it, and from those who believed they were only watching.
Summary: No more. You couldnât sit and watch this abuse any longer. Fuck the internship. Fuck the potential job. Chanâs life should be more than the institutionâs walls. He should be able to feel the grass under his feet and fresh air through his fur. It was a perfect plan except for one tiny detail: the full moon is here.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI with adult content. Monsterfucking, forced submission, nonconsensual sex/breeding, oral(f. receiving), knotting, size kink, a concerning amount of drool and cum. Captivity for research at the start. Heâs nonverbal but of sound mind.
Word Count: 14,800 and some change
Authorâs Note: Check the warnings! 2026 is the year of selfish writing(Thank you bestie, you know who you are.). Just go with the werewolf lore I made, okay? Monsterfuckers, enjoy. We're unedited because I'm sick and don't have spoons.
Umbra Xenobiology Solutions. A mouthful of a name plastered across a massive building on the edge of a sleepy college town. With its tall barbed-wire fences and small windows, the property gives off a prison-like atmosphere. Beneath the logo, a slogan glows in clean white letters: Research First. It was the first sentence on the website, in their brochures, and even in the billboard ads. A phrase polished, yet so secretive.Â
For all their sleek professionalism, no one outside the walls actually knew what was being researched. The company released no public papers, no press statements, not even a single tour. Yet locals agreed on one thing: Umbra secured your future if they hired you.
You were no different from the thousands who applied the moment internships opened. You had the credentials. From glowing recommendation letters from professors who adored you, hundreds of volunteer hours logged and verified, fluency in sign language, and a double major. Psychology and speech pathology. A strange combination to some, but Umbra seemed to love it.
Two weeks after submitting your application, you learned why.
A lead executive assigned you to Project Fenrir, located on the fifth floor of the facility. The name alone conjured images of wolves; maybe it would be some behavioral study involving canines. You didnât specialize in animal psychology, though you figured you could still be useful. Collect data and observe behavioral patterns. Nothing too complicated.
Then, after hours of legal paperwork to swear confidentiality, they handed you a stack of files.
Right there, printed in bold black ink on the top, was a species you had never seen in any textbook: Homo sapiens lycanthropus.
A lycanthrope, or more commonly known as a werewolf.Â
A creature you had only ever encountered in folklore listed in a clinical font as if it were just another primate subspecies. Umbra had discovered them. Several, judging by the spreadsheet on page ten that listed more than a handful of subject numbers. All tucked away behind reinforced doors and layers of non-disclosure agreements.
Now you would work with one.
Today is more of the same. Half a leftover breakfast sandwich and straight black gas station coffee that had sat too long in the pot filled your stomach. You donned a soft, cozy sweater to keep you warm in the lab, paired with nice black dress slacks to keep it as professional as a college graduate can. The sound of your heels is the only noise in the long hallway after the first security clearance. Once past the second door, youâll reach the offices. You barely spend time in your assigned cubicle. Usually emails in the morning, typing up all your session notes after lunch, and answering another round of emails that dropped in after observation hours.Â
However, Doctor Richardson is a new addition to your routine today.Â
He stands at your desk, in conversation with another associate. You donât even know their name. Everyone here keeps to themselves, heads down, focused on work, trying to mind their own to stay off the board of directorâs radar. The money Umbra paid for your silence could fulfill even the wildest of dreams, and only a fool would risk their job security.
If a company can buy your devotion, what can they do when you are a threat?
Probably a question you should have focused on instead of being lost in the daze of numbers on your first paycheck.Â
You clear your throat as you close the remaining distance to your desk. âGood morning, doctor. Are you here for me?â
âAh! Exactly the person I was waiting for.â He answers with a smile. âI was going to join you on your climb upstairs.â He supplies, tucking his hands into his long white lab coat. âIf thatâs not too much trouble?â
âNo,â you answer, shaking your head lightly. âLet me put down my jacket, and we can go. I donât want to keep you.â
âItâs appreciated.â
Even if Doctor Richardson is your supervisor, you donât see him in person often. You met him once on your first day, then a handful of times throughout the months. Most of your interactions are his brief replies to your long emails. Though his showing up today causes your heart rate to spike. You approached the board of directors with a request, and perhaps they have reached a decision. Surely if it was a no, it would have been an email response.Â
Quickly, you move around him. Jacket placed on the back of your chair, lunchbox placed momentarily on your desk as you reach for a slotted tote bag next to your computer. Inside are your notepads, pens, a folder of worksheets, and two childrenâs books. All materials issued by the facility are required to remain on the property. Even a single pen leaving with you will result in termination.
It takes a second to double-check all the supplies are still inside your bag. The lunchbox you brought slides in perfectly at the top. You offer a weak smile, slinging the straps of the bag onto your shoulder. âAfter you, doctor."
Doctor Richardson spins on his heel, leading the way to the ominous elevator sitting at the end of the maze of cubicles. You follow eagerly as if his own shadow and as silent as one, watching him tap his name badge against the reader. The two rows of buttons for each floor light up thanks to his expanded access. He presses on floor five, where your subject resides. Itâs different when you use your badge; only one floor will be accessible. From eavesdropping, you learned that each floor is a designated project for the company. It helps with organization and keeps peopleâs clearance simple.Â
The soft ding from the elevator announces your arrival on the floor. Doors open, and the environment differs from downstairs. Gone are the carpeted floors, the stationed cubicles, the vending machines, and the break room that make the workplace appear like any other office setting. Up here is more clinical. White hallways with harsh fluorescent lighting. Tiled floors that shine with pristine care. Which is expected for a facility that has experiments.Â
Instead of a laboratory, there are rooms. No, isolation cells. There are eight on this floor. Every cell has large, wide one-way windows, revealing every single one houses a werewolf under Project Fenrir. You guys stop in front of the cell you spend most of your time in.Â
Doctor Richardson finally expands on why he visited you in person today. âI just wanted to say the board thinks youâre doing wonderful with subject 325. As a result, weâve permitted your request.â
Time stops for you. As his words take hold, your breath catches in your throat. The request was approved by the committee. It actually got approved. You asked for extended teaching sessions with the subject, stating the more comfortable he was, the more progress you could make with his lessons.Â
Subject 325 responds well to you. The exact words Doctor Richardson used on multiple occasions. As much as that is true, the werewolf only prefers you because you donât poke and prod him for bloodwork. Unlike the scientists, you donât push him to his limit with strength and endurance tests. You donât call him by his computer-generated subject number.Â
No, you call him by his name, the one you worked with him to learn.Â
âNow,â Richardson retrieved a small electronic card from his pocket. A special access name badge with a built-in keycard just for you. One to use whenever you want instead of being forced to request entry from security. He offers it to you, continuing to speak in a firm tone. âWith this responsibility, you may extend your time with him only if he continues to improve. If he declines, we will revoke the card. Do you understand?â
âYes, sir.â You say, nodding while taking the card. âThank you and the board for the consideration. I wonât disappoint you.â
âIâm glad to hear that. You have real potential here. Keep up that great work, and perhaps one day you can join those on the committee.â
Your gaze isnât even on your supervisor anymore. Itâs locked onto the windows of Chanâs so-called room. There is no way he can see you two, nor hear you, and he sure as hell shouldnât be able to smell you with the level eight bulletproof glass separating you. Heâs a specimen, kept from the elements and most contaminants.Â
Regardless of what you know is impossible, Chan perks up from where he sits, gaze boring into the window where you stand. Despite the strong fluorescent lights, his eyes were wide, pupils expanded so much that only a small part of the brown was noticeable. He rises to his feet a second later, face full of confusion, glancing between the digital clock on the wall and back to the window. Itâs too early for you to be here. You come around his scheduled lunchtime at noon. Currently, itâs only a little after nine.Â
The werewolf hesitantly takes steps toward the window. Itâs not the same movement as if he were sneaking up on prey; itâs more cautious. Maybe concerned that he won't find what he's looking for on the other side of the glass.
A speaker above you crackles with the sound of whining. Chan is growing distressed. The rise and fall of his chest is shallower than before as his breathing becomes quicker, not quite hyperventilating but close. Although the key card consists mostly of thin hard plastic, it feels heavy in your hand. You could go in there right now to confirm Chanâs suspicions. However, you remain rooted to your spot, observing the new behavior.Â
Chan begins to pace. Bare feet padding to the door and back to the window. Itâs frantic, reminiscent of how your dog circles back and forth from the front window to the door, excited that youâre finally home after a long day.Â
Itâs confirmed.Â
He knows itâs you.Â
Somehow he knows and is growing impatient.Â
âSir,â you say with a polite smile on your face. âI apologize for cutting this conversation short, but Iâd like to get there and get started.â
âOh, of course," he answers, giving one last glance at Chan. A hint of disgust crosses his features before he reins his true feelings back in. You donât call him out; instead, let him say his parting words. âKeep in mind what weâve discussed. If you have any concerns, please reach out to us.â
And then what?Â
Your so-called âconcernsâ go ignored again? You fought multiple times with the head of security over the forced sedation. Chan only reacts violently to the medication because heâs terrified. Then he wakes up with lost time and less trust. None of this helps his temperament.Â
The real question is, how can you look at Chan and be proud of the work you do? Just because you donât hurt him doesnât mean you help him. You are an accomplice to everything that happens. Arguably, the worst person out of everyone because of your kindness.Â
This is not a life here for Chan or any of the creatures stuck here. Heâs a bug under a microscope of people who couldnât care about his happiness.Â
If anything, you can at least try to make Chanâs day better.Â
With a swipe of the new card, the chamber door opens. Chan backs away out of precaution, in case itâs not you. It wouldnât be the first time security has come in to collect him with tasers out, looking for any excuse for conflict.Â
His lips curl up into a wide smile, a dimple popping up on one side of his cheek. The tense shoulders relax now that he knows itâs safe. Still, he doesnât move until you step inside and the heavy metal door shuts and locks back into place.Â
Chan is upon you a second later, arms wrapped tight around your body, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His cold nose presses against your skin as he inhales the scent there. A range of vanilla from the shampoo you use, the jasmine in the body wash, and white lily from a perfume paired with your own natural scent. Despite his human form, he holds onto a lot of canine traits. Scent is a primary one based on the research you read. It helps them hunt, sense danger, and find their way back to each other.Â
For him, your combination melds together, reminding him of his freedom, of his home away from this awful place. Reminds him of simpler times of waking up to a sun cresting over the mountains as he lies in the grass. So you allow him to remain in your hold, seeking solace in the comfort your scent brings him.Â
You force yourself to think of anything else, not wanting to cry about his captivity once more. Those moments are for when you canât sleep at night as your moral compass haunts you. Not here when the werewolf in front of you needs a distraction.Â
Rather than sitting in negative thoughts, you focus on Chan. He settled on a clump of white fur stuck in the fibers of your otherwise red sweater. A soft giggle slips through your lips. âDo you smell Henry? I swear I canât get all the dog hair off.â
Chan pulls away without a response, moving to the table in the middle of the room. Two chairs sit on either side. Itâs where most of the lessons take place. The blank paper and crayons are scattered on top. It appears he finally caved and started drawing since you left yesterday.Â
You come closer, thanking him for the way he pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sitting you down for dinner. He moves around the table, plopping down in his own chair. With a blue crayon in hand, he writes in legible and precise handwriting that heâs practiced for hours with you on the top of a blank sheet: Why are you here so early?Â
âI got some good news for us.â You reply while placing your tote bag at your feet. âI talked to some of the higher-ups, and theyâre allowing me more time with you. Youâll be seeing me more.â
Chan smirks before jotting down another sentence: Iâll have to check my schedule.
âDonât be a brat!â You say with playful anger. Itâs nice seeing more of Chanâs personality shine through after all this time. Hopefully, this means heâll be more receptive to your learning plan. âBut this means I need you to try harder, okay?â
His smile falters. A loud sigh fills the room as he dramatically throws his head back. Itâs understandable; heâs tired of the routine. Language lessons, speech therapy, and sign language practice. Day in and day out. Heâs come so far, but not to Umbraâs standards yet.Â
âChan, I mean it.â You say, leaning forward to place your hand over his. âThat's why theyâre allowing it.â Your voice gets softer, pulling his attention back to you. âPlus, donât you want to talk to me?â
He finds his crayon to scribble across the paper once more: I talk to you.Â
âWith your mouth, Chan. I know you have a beautiful voice. I want to hear it.â
A few specialists above you have examined Chan. His vocal cords are intact and developed. He can scream, hum, and groan just fine. There is no reason he shouldnât be able to speak. At first, you assumed he didnât want to. Umbra took him from his home, and now he is a prisoner. No one in his circumstances would want to chat. Selective mutism was another possibility. Being in a foreign place, he doesnât feel safe. The anxiety or fear could be triggering him, resulting in him being unable to speak even if heâs comfortable with you. If thatâs the case, then he may never find his voice.Â
Part of you holds out hope it'll happen.Â
For now, you will continue the lessons. The sign language is slow going, but Chan picks up unfamiliar words. He knows the main language the company uses and can transcribe it thanks to you. You have normal conversations every day with him as if he were a regular man at his age.Â
He's not a fool, though.Â
When interviewed or interrogated by board members, he will respond with simple answers. There is no elaborating. There is no communication about himself or others of his kind. Chan is protecting his species. He is well aware of what these humans want, and the last thing heâs going to do is endanger anyone else to these monsters. This protection extends to you as well. You are part of this company. Chan may have more trust in you than the rest of the humans, but he is aware of who you answer to. He shuts down the more you press to find out, building up those walls to keep himself secure.Â
Though in times like today, you get brief glimpses when you peek through the cracks. Your eyes scan over the images Chan drew. There are eight wolves in total. Each with different fur colors and markings. Chan has mixed shades of crayons to differentiate them all.Â
You pull the page closer to you. âIâve never seen so many wolves together.âÂ
The page you hold has a thin, nimble, yellow wolf. Heâs followed by an orange one thatâs a tad larger. Then two brown wolves appear to be playing together. The only difference is that one has red spots along its fur.Â
You move to the other page. Another yellow wolf that Chan clarifies is actually white. Itâs playing with two grayish wolves, and finally, at the bottom is a large black wolf watching over the entire group. Chan extends his hand, pointing at the lone wolf and then to himself.Â
âOh?â You smile at him, understanding what heâs trying to communicate. âThatâs you, isnât it?â
Chanâs plush lips curl up in a smile as he nods. The mood in the room shifts a few seconds later; broad shoulders sink as his smile falls. Chan stares at the drawn wolves with a sense of longing. He lets out a shaky breath, focusing fully on himself to collect his bearings.Â
Part of you wants to change the subject. Get his mind off âhis loneliness. De-escalate his emotions to an easier topic. However, the looming presence of the company is so loud in the silent room. You have to push for the answers they want. If you donât, Chan is going to lose the one thing he can take for granted will be for him in this hellscape.Â
You lean over the drawing, fingers brushing along one of the smaller brown wolves. âWho is this? Are they part of your family?â
He ponders his answer, head tilting to the side. You watch silently as he draws lines to connect each of the wolves together but places a little âxâ on each of the lines. The very first symbol he learned is for no. The wolves are connected, just not as a family.Â
You attempt to supply an answer. âAre they your pack? Is that it?â
Chanâs eyes light up at the word. He makes a fist with his hand, moving it up and down a couple of times: yes.Â
The lump in your throat is hard to swallow. Your body is fighting to keep the words from leaving your lips. âDid you let yourself get caught so your pack would be safe?â
Chanâs expression shifts, lips turning down into a grimace, and nods. Heâs so selfless, the more you think about it. The werewolf formed a pack and became a leader, losing everything to protect his own with no idea about their well-being. He sacrificed himself, and now heâs a lab rat being tested on.
âIâm sorry, Chan.â You reply, fighting to keep your voice stable. âI know itâs hard being here.â
Chan reaches for the crayons once more. His frame hunches over âhis drawing. You sink back in your chair, observing the character he adds to his image. This time itâs a human, one with a red shirt and black pants, the very same colors you currently are wearing, placed right next to his wolf. He circles them with a green circle and then draws an arrow from his feet towards the edge of the sheet. Once Chan finishes, he sits back, eyes on you.Â
âYou want me to take you somewhere?â You ask curiously. Chanâs arm raises, and he points towards the door. In response, you attempt again to say what he wants so that you understand. âYou want me to take you out of the room?â
Chan lets out a moan and gestures toward the door once more, with more aggression. Then it all clicks together. Freedom. Pain blossoms in your heart like a bruise. He wants his freedom. Your voice comes out softer. The cameras recording are going to pick it up regardless, but still you try. âYou want me to take you away from here?â
The werewolf nods. He places his dominant hand against the center of his chest and rubs in a circular motion to sign a word: Please.Â
âChan, I canât. Theyâll hurt you and then hurt me if I try.â You sigh as you respond. As though a strongman showing off his muscles, Chan lifts his arms in a flex. He follows it up with chomping his teeth. Itâs not enough. You give a headshake. âHoney, you're weaker in this form. The security has padding and weapons.âÂ
The sound of a shutter door opening and closing provides a perfect segue for the conversation to shift. âHere, letâs change the subject and have lunch. Youâre hungry, right? Iâll grab your food.â
Chan exhales in a huff, offended that you would offer to get the tray. He stands while placing a firm hand on your shoulder to push you back down into your chair. The look of disbelief remains on his face as he crosses the room to where a deposit box sits for his cell.Â
You roll your eyes when he's not looking. He often refuses to let you help him. For his species, many of them are hyper-independent. Typically, the pack will hunt separately, but the alpha will drag food back for those who are ill or too old to fend for themselves. Even if he doesnât hunt anymore, the collection of the tray is still his responsibility.Â
He joins you once more, eager to see what the staff has given him. When in human form, werewolves can adopt an omnivore diet. However, in order to keep their strength, higher protein levels must be maintained. If the company does nothing else right, Umbra recognizes and accepts that.
Chan is giddy when seeing the slab of cooked meat when lifting the metal cloche, keeping the food warm. Heâs less interested in the steamed carrots and boxed juice. Still, you encourage him. âThereâs a new juice to try. It's a mixed berry.â
Immediately, he places the juice next to you, a scowl etched on his face. You giggle in response before placing it back on his tray. âHey now, it doesnât necessarily mean there are blueberries in there.â
His upper lip curls up in a snarl. There is no aggression against it, only playful banter. It keeps your heart warm as you retrieve your own lunch. On occasion, Chan will be curious about the food you bring. He mostly critiques that you donât have enough meat and says there should be far fewer plants. Despite hating most of your diet, he gets excited on days you bring in something new he hasnât heard of. His personal favorites so far are fresh strawberries and the chocolate pudding cups you occasionally bring.Â
âToday is a special day for us. It's been a year since Iâve met you, so I brought you something.â You say with a soft smile. Chanâs head lifts when you open the plastic container. Thereâs an unfamiliar smell for him. His nose crinkles âcuriously as he sniffs the air. âWe call it pineapple. I donât know if youâll like it. The fruit grows with a tough skin, and this yellow part is acidic. Itâs how the fruit protects itself.â
Cautiously, Chan reaches for a piece to plop in his mouth when the container is offered. He chews for a second before his eyes go wide and his face lights up. Both hands rise up immediately, fingers opening and closing repeatedly to demand more of the pineapple.
You giggle, handing the fruit over to him. âI knew youâd like it. Have all of it.â
Chan accepts the fruit with a content hum to himself. The smile stays glued onto your face to where your cheeks hurt. Heâs come so far with his temperament. When you first worked with Chan, he refused to acknowledge your presence. You were beneath him, not worth his time. He wouldnât even glance over when you sat at the table in the center of the room. Every day you state why you were there in a calm voice and wait for the allotted session time to end. Nearly two agonizingly long weeks of the same thing passed until Chan realized you werenât going anywhere.Â
The first time he sat across from you, his demeanor was the opposite of today. His eye contact burned through you with the heat of the sun to intimidate you. The broad frame sat like a rock with how tense he was. He waited, almost ready to pounce, listening to you explain why you were here. Even after that, he still wouldnât move or react, assuming some sort of trick was being played. Everyone else here hurt him, so he assumed it was only a matter of time until you would.Â
The door to the isolation room opening pulls you from your memories. Chan is already on his feet before anyone steps in. He places himself between the door and your sitting frame, creating a wall of protection. The behavior is instinctual. He's ensuring that the food you hunted, or in this case brought, isn't taken away from you. A low growl from him fills the room as four security guards walk in.Â
The electrical hum of tasers being turned on causes you to shoot out of your seat, knocking the chair over. Your voice rises with the anger coursing through you at the immediate hostility. âWeâre having lunch!â
âItâll have to wait," one man answers. â325 is needed upstairs.â
When you attempt to pass Chan to defend him, he simply pushes you back with brief acknowledgment. Dread quickly fills you when the group of men comes closer. This isnât going to end well. Your voice becomes desperate when you speak. âHe fights because you use aggression! Heâll behave if you ask him!â
âWeâll take it up with Richardson.â
Itâs hard to tell who strikes first. The room erupts in a fit of screaming. Chan manages to tackle one guard despite two tasers connecting with his skin. Another hooks his arm around Chanâs neck to cut off his air supply, forcing him to let go so he can claw at the padded forearm.Â
âChan, donât fight!â You cry out, tears running down your cheeks, hearing his choking gasps. âDonât hurt him! Please!â
It takes all four men to subdue Chan. At some point in the scuffle, one of the security guards pulled out an emergency tranquilizer. He sticks Chan right in the meaty part of his biceps. The werewolf immediately settles in their hold, growing weak. His eyes roll back into his head, his body becoming limp and easier for the men to manhandle.Â
The group exits with the werewolf in tow, leaving the cell quiet minus your panicked breathing. Today is a breaking point. Umbra isnât doing anything for the sake of science here. Chan doesnât deserve this. You need to get him out of here. Even if itâs the last thing you do.Â
The plan for Chan's escape took months to come to fruition. Initially, the idea of breaking him out seemed impossible. Doors with double key card access, security cameras and alarms, and an imposing 8-foot perimeter fence topped with extensive barbed wire.Â
What if you could walk him out?
The longer you observed how the company operated, the more you noticed little cracks in the framework. Associates finished mundane tasks haphazardly. Because of time restraints and security's laziness, some records are forged. Everyone was comfortable in their position. As long as the board of operatives received the requested results, no one batted an eye.Â
No one would watch a new intern who already proved their compliance.Â
Especially on a government holiday that most of the staff took off, minus a handful of security. Two in particular that you spent the last week flirting with guard the entrance you wanted to use. You also learned that security has clearance to open all cells to help staff. There would be no need to use your keycard left at your desk. These two guards would also be the only ones at this end of the building. It would be a shame if you slipped sedatives into the break room coffee and offered them both a cup while batting your eyelashes.Â
Not even two minutes after consuming the tainted coffee, both men dropped like sacks of potatoes, feet crumbling underneath them. You didnât hesitate, reaching for both key cards clipped to their belts. The plan was proceeding as intended. You left the break room straight to the elevator up. All the motions were a blur until the doors chimed on your arrival on the fifth floor.  Â
Even if it was the same floor you knew, it was darker this time around. Not all the artificial lights were in use, and the lack of workers left the silence deafening. Your feet barely connected with the floor, the balls of your feet only touching long enough to propel you down the hallway quickly. As you arrive at Chanâs chamber, that's when the rush of the entire plan finally courses through your body. Shaky fingers of yours fumble to grip the key card correctly. The red error light only stirs agitation in you. You donât have room for mistakes. It's impossible to know how long the security guards will remain unconscious. The longer this process takes, the higher the chance of others catching wind.Â
You take a deep breath before sliding the keycard once more. This time, you successfully opened the door. An automated message plays, the very one heard a million times, telling everyone to stand clear. You donât wait long, forcing yourself to prop against the doorjamb where the sensor will recognize a human is blocking it and refuse to close.  Â
Chan is in a corner of his room, finishing a set of pushups. He rises to his feet, face contorting into a look of surprise at seeing you. Heâs shirtless, with the pajama pants issued to him hanging low on his hips. His skin was flushed red from his ears to his hips. Sweat dripped from his messy curls on his head. Veins in his arms are more pronounced thanks to his ongoing workout that you interrupted. Â
Heâs a carved god.Â
Heâs beautiful.Â
Your breath hitches the longer you take him in. Some sort of feeling twists in the pit of your gut. A foreign feeling that may not be nerves; rather, itâs some attraction you still battle with to keep your relationship professional. You mentally fight to shut down any distracting feelings. Thatâs not why you are here. You need to pull it together and get him out of here.Â
You force yourself to speak. âCome on. Letâs go.â
The werewolfâs feet remain glued to the floor. He lets out a chirp while scanning the wall clock before returning his gaze to you. With a raised eyebrow, he seemed to ask why you were here. Itâs late, heâs already had dinner, and no tests run into the evening.Â
âChan,â you say firmly. âWe donât have time. Come with me.â
His head shakes, feet shuffling backwards, further into his room, until the backs of his calves knock into the base of his bed. A small noise of distress leaves him. He knows to be suspicious. This could be a trap, another test to check how obedient he is.Â
âPlease, Chan. You wanted out, right?â
He clenches both hands into fists, extending his index fingers. One digit strikes the other, signing a word: Canât.Â
âYes, you can," you plead, trying to keep your frustration in check. Heâs scared. Of course, heâs scared. You told him what would happen if he tried to leave. Still, you insist. âWe must leave now. We won't get another chance."
He never sees you acting aggressively or in distress. When he struggles with every aspect of his daily lessons, you have never yelled at him or shown your annoyance. Here you are now, acting in a way that is unfamiliar to him. Another high-pitched, panic-tinged whine emerges from the back of his throat. Itâs a wretched noise you wish never to hear again.Â
He wants to trust his favorite human.Â
God, he wants to.Â
Yet, he doesnât move.Â
An automated voice comes from above you. âPlease keep all cell doors clear.â
You canât hold the door open for much longer. The defense system is seconds away from kicking in. Not only will cell doors shut, but all hallways will lock regardless of security clearance. Then you two will be trapped, and the security guards in the next tower will receive an alert.Â
âChan, come on.â You say while maintaining eye contact with him. Thereâs no telling what the company will do, and you donât want to find out. The words you speak are more honest than theyâve ever been. âIf we donât go now, theyâll kill both of us.âÂ
The threat to your safety gets him moving. He quickly shuffles his bare feet on the tile. You extend your hand with a smile. âYes! Good boy. A few more steps.â
His large palm is warm in yours. Your grip tightens as you turn on your heel to drag him along to the elevator. Even though you may use this hallway almost daily, the same few steps seem three times as long tonight. Chan continues to follow closely behind you, whining every few breaths. You want to comfort him, offer words of reassurance, or do anything to keep him quiet as you focus on getting him outside. Â
On the ground floor, you are not greeted by either security guard. Itâs a clear shot out of the building now. You tap both keycards on the sensor; a green light flashes, and the sound of the door unlocking rewards you. Chan finally realizes his freedom is achievable. The large, clear doors reveal the setting sun lowering behind the woods surrounding the building. He picks up speed, dragging you along to the last door. His whines shift into small, nervous hums as he waits for you with the cards. His eyes are wide, desperate that this isnât some sick joke. The rise and fall of his chest quickens as you tap the last sensor.Â
One door automatically opens. You drop the keycards at your feet and lead the werewolf through the threshold. The outside world is beautifully quiet. No cars on the interstate running parallel to the building. No birds chirping or annoying chittering insects. If anyone stepped out, all they would hear would be the two heartbeats pounding rabidly from the adrenaline of possibly being caught and the thrill of a successful escape.Â
Now you have to create distance.Â
Even if Chan could run free, far from this place, he stays in pace with you despite being barefoot. In no time are you two panting from exertion, and still you run deeper and deeper into the woods, determined to leave the facility until itâs nothing more than a tucked-away memory.Â
Temporary safety is a crumbling cabin four miles south of the lab. The heat of the sun has long set below the horizon, plummeting temperatures low enough to make the tips of your ears hurt. Moonlight shines brightly through the breaks in the leaves, illuminating parts of the forest floor.Â
The second part to secure Chanâs release happens now. You would wait here, collect your breath for a few minutes, and then head to the back where you stored a vehicle. Then you would be on the road, creating a larger gap and hopefully a trail the company will struggle to track.Â
You scoped this location out weeks ago thanks to an aerial view you searched on an online map database. Storing the car was even easier. Whoever owned the property clearly considered the small buildings condemned and let time hopefully bring them to the ground instead of wasting resources. It was perfect.Â
The inside of the cabin is dark. A few pieces of furniture long forgotten litter around the one-room cabin. You left a small battery-operated lantern when you brought the car. However, the light it throws falls short of any actual distance. It doesnât matter; you donât need it for long. Just until the cramp in your side goes away.
Chan hasnât made much noise since entering the forest. He kept his head low, not even signing a response when you asked about his feet hiking in the woods. He used to tell passionate stories of running with his pack back home. No one was faster than him. His body could handle any terrain. Despite knowing all of that, you asked to be polite. A test to see where he is emotionally about being free. You expected excitement or a sense of drive to leave you behind to start a long journey home, even if he didnât know where to start. Thereâs neither, just blind following as if he were a lost puppy.Â
âWe wonât be here long, okay?â You say more to yourself.Â
Chan still doesnât acknowledge you. He leans against one wall, eyes still trained on the ground. It could be in shock the more you think about it. A fight-or-flight response that is tied to his survival mode. Itâll have to run its course through his body. Once on the road, he can get some sleep, and thatâll help him relax.Â
You kick off your shoes with a huff. Unlike Chan, the soles of your feet ache. All that time planning Chanâs freedom, and you forgot the one key detail of putting on a pair of athletic shoes that could withstand the hike. Tomorrow there will be several large blisters. Future you can worry about it later.Â
A painful cry comes from behind you. You spin on your heel to see Chan slightly bent over, both arms wrapped around his middle. His jaw is clenched with a pained groan filling the room. Whatever is troubling him is getting worse.Â
âChannie,â you ask, rushing over to him. âAre you okay?âÂ
A snarl slips past his lips as he finally meets your eyes. The angry gaze halts you just shy of touching him. His pupils shrink and expand repeatedly as if unable to adjust to the low light from the lantern. Heâs begun to pant as fresh perspiration covers his forehead.Â
âWhat is it? How can I help?â
Chan shakes his head, violently conveying a no. He doesnât want help? You canât help? Is it an effect of a test today out of anyoneâs control? Maybe he needs to rest, sit, and let whatever is happening pass.Â
His skin burns under your palm when you try to offer reassurance. Words donât leave your lips, trapped in your throat at the sudden shove from Chan. The force he used is stronger than you expected, resulting in you landing on your ass across the room. He now has full-body trembles as his brown eyes frantically scan the room. You donât need your âyears of studying to recognize his behavior. Heâs looking for an out, a way to get space away from you. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
Then, like a lightbulb turning on above your head, it all connects.Â
Heâs shifting.Â
A full-body shift?Â
That only means one thing.Â
Your eyes land on your smartwatch as you bring your arm closer. Fingers tremble opening the calendar. Right there on tonightâs date confirms your worst fear. It has one added icon: a full moon.
No. No. No.Â
You broke Chan out on a full moon.Â
His hesitation back at the lab makes sense now.Â
Chan wasnât afraid of leaving.Â
He was afraid of shifting while near you.
Chanâs noises become more distressed as he kneels. Howls of pain bounce off the walls of the small cabin as each of his limbs twists at unnatural angles. Bones snap loud as thunder, shifting under the skin to extend. Patches of black fur push through the layers of skin, slowly expanding to cover his body. Long, sharp, black nails extend out of his hands, forming claws that dig into the wood, easily scraping through the material as if tearing through a ripe peach.Â
You watch in horror, paralyzed by the way his teeth extend into fully elongated canines. The familiar face shifts next, contorting as his snout extends and ears on the top of his head form. It takes nearly two minutes for the full transformation to occur. One you have only seen pictures of until now. Senior staff were the only ones permitted to observe full transformations behind several walls of glass to be safe.Â
Plumes of air rise in the cold temperature around his mouth as he pants like a dog. His fully formed tail lightly sways behind him while the werewolf is taking stock of his being. Golden eyes scan the room before settling on your quivering body.Â
âChan?â You ask, voice timid.Â
His head tilts to the side. Recognition, you hope. The stack of files never mentioned coherency during shifts. Chan wasnât part of that study. He could be in this beast form and aware of you in front of him. Or, maybe heâs tucked far away, as the animal has its own independence. Regardless, this is a dangerous situation. One that you must tread carefully.Â
The werewolf takes a step. Then another, slowly crawling to close the distance between the two of you. Your eyes focus on the floor, avoiding direct eye contact. Thoughts race in your head as you try to remember more of the information you consumed in his file. Werewolves share mannerisms with other species of canines. It could help you now. Avoiding eye contact is the first big tip you learned. Some species interpret direct eye contact as a threat or an initiation to challenge them. Â
Warm breath fans over the crown of your head when Chan stops in front of you. His claws rest on either side of your thighs. Up close, you notice the way his onyx nails start deep in the nail beds, extending nearly two inches where the tips of his fingers once were. Your stomach sinks at the thought of damage he could do.Â
Play this safe, you tell yourself.Â
Slowly, you tilt your head to the side to expose more of your neck. Sweat from the journey clings to your skin, dotted right along your collarbone despite the cooler weather. Chan should be able to smell your natural body odor. Several breeds of canines can tell pack mates from their scent. Werewolves are similar in that regard as well.Â
You gasp lightly at the faint brush of his nose in the crook of your neck. As motionless as a statue, you let him breathe you in for as long as he wants. Your daily ritual, he remembers. He should know it's you even if the wolf is in control. Heâs spent the most time âwith you out of everyone on the project.Â
A surprise headbutt against your chest sends you falling backwards. Your head connects with the harsh wood, sending a sharp pain through the back of your skull down to your spine. The werewolf yips a playful sound with another head tilt. To his credit, you could argue heâs trying to play with you.Â
Chanâs right hand presses down on your stomach before you can sit back up. The jutting claws dig through the thin shirt straight into your skin, just enough to be a warning. Stay where you are. Because if you donât, a bit more pressure and your skin will tear as if it were paper.
In the next second, you cry out at the harsh tug on your waistband. The fabric of your jeans and underwear rips cleanly down. Out of reflex, your legs try to close at the first instance of cold air against your skin. Except Chan is quicker, using his wide chest to keep your most intimate area exposed to him.Â
âChan, whatâŠ?â Your words trail off. With gentle, controlled hands, your fingers wrap around his forearm. The fur here is coarse and thin compared to the rest of his body. His eyes connect with yours. Itâs a hungry gaze. Confirmed by the way drool drips from his teeth. You may as well be a steak in front of him. Thereâs nothing but fear in your soft voice. âWhat are you doing?â
The ears on his head twitch; heâs heard you but doesnât care as his snout slowly dips to prod at your pubic bone, not bothered by the small patch of hair there. Instead, heâs fascinated. Female werewolves have scent glands around their genitals. Itâs where Chan knows pheromones should be when with a mate.Â
Your breath catches at the sound of his curious sniffing traveling south. His cold, wet nose is jarring against your warm, flushed skin. This isnât right; you need to stop this and need to get away. This entire night was a mistake. You should have waited for a different opportunity to break him out.Â
The press of his rough tongue against your folds pulls you out of your thoughts. Heâs tentative at first, lightly prodding, as if heâs testing the waters. However, despite how much you plead for your body to not react, a wetness forms from the stimulation. Chan gives a pleased hum of approval when tasting you. The hand on your stomach untangles from your grip with ease, moving down to your thigh, holding the squirming limb in place. His other hand mirrors, leaving your lower half pinned to the cabin floor. The supernatural strength keeps you from struggling and leaves him the perfect opportunity to shift his stance. He sinks lower between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clit, and tongue picking up speed the longer it swipes between your folds right across your hole, still determined to get more of you.
âOhâWait,â you whine, eyes wrenched shut, mind racing, thinking of anything to stop the growing arousal. âChâChan, you canât.â
The werewolfâs nose continues to grind against your sensitive clit with every swipe of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to aid the growing heat in your core. Your body tenses; the rush of pleasure is inevitable. This creature between your thighs is going to make you come, and time is running out to stop him.Â
All you have to do is get him away for half a second. Thatâs all you would need for the rush to die out. Your shaky fingers reach between your legs to tangle in the soft fur on the crown of his head, right between his ears, and in one last attempt to push him away, you shove with all your might.Â
Chan barely moves, unbothered by your effort, too hyper-focused on your taste. The sides of the invasive tongue slightly curl in on itself for easier access to dip deep inside your hole, the tip chasing the new wave of wetness thatâs forming along your walls. Never in your life have you felt a sensation like this. Itâs mind-melting, addictively intoxicating enough to neutralize any self-preservation as your orgasm overwhelms you.Â
âFuck,â you whine out, âtrying to arch off the floor while you continue to battle your body over how euphoric this creatureâs tongue feels.Â
Much to your relief, Chan pulls away completely, head bowing to look between his thighs. While heâs distracted, you use the opportunity to sit up slowly, using the palms of your hands as leverage to scoot away and create distance. Unease creeps under your skin. Even in the pale light of the room, you can see what heâs staring at.Â
His cock rests heavy between his legs, fully erect with more length and girth than any human man. Hell, it's bigger than most sex toys you have seen. The lump in your throat is hard to swallow the longer you look. Gears shift in your head. Chan is young for his kind, not even fully mature yet, meaning heâs yet to mate because of his captivity.Â
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears at the thought. Heâs expected to go through a werewolf puberty phase. A natural progression to be driven to breed with one of his kind. "Rut" is the word that the scientists have used. Stabilizers typically keep his hormones in check, though there are limits to how much he can take to avoid impeding his development. And judging by how his body is reacting, the doctors didnât give Chan his medication this month.
Now here he is, a dilemma on his hands, and a body demanding he react.Â
Chanâs gaze comes back to you, and with his heightened senses, his nostrils flare, taking in the smell of your arousal thatâs still permeating the air in the space between you.Â
Itâs now or never. You need to get away from him. Tonight escalated far worse than it should have. Running away may be a death sentence, but you have to try even if itâs futile.Â
At a snailâs pace, you rise to get on your feet. Chan mirrors, standing up straight on his rear legs. He is a bipedal werewolf. One thatâs taller than you expect; the tips of his ears nearly brush against the ceiling of the room. The longer you take him in, the more you realize how tiny you are. You are no match for him; you barely come up to the middle of his broad chest. The width of his shoulders takes up an entire doorframe. If you let him catch you, there is no escaping. You push the thoughts away as you turn on your heel to face the exit of the room.Â
One of Chanâs growls comes out. Itâs low, rumbling deep in his chest, and reminds you of an irate dog giving one last warning before an attack. It stops you in your tracks, giving you time to recognize your error.Â
Heâs an apex predator.Â
You have turned your back on him and not submitted yourself to him.Â
Itâs a challenge against him.Â
You donât wait any longer, pushing off the tips of your toes, bolting to cross the room, to the one door that could separate you from the werewolf.Â
Half a second later, Chan crashes into your body with the force of a freight train, knocking all the air out of your lungs and successfully stunning you for a second. Adrenaline courses through your veins, keeping the fight inside you alive, burning like a raging wildfire. Your frame twists away from the snapping jaws in an attempt to get anywhere from his grasp. Though his sharp talon nails manage to hook into the thin material of your shirt, tearing it to mere strips of fabric as he scrambles to keep his hold on you.Â
With all the strength you can manage, you push off the ground, trying to get your feet under you once more to get to that sweet safety thatâs a few steps away. Chan is miles faster, using only a hand to swipe at your unsteady legs, sending you back to the floor in a pile of limbs.Â
Before you can even acknowledge the pain from the fall, two burly, fur-covered forearms come into view, trapping you under his body. Chan, as a human, was already muscular from his daily exercise to pass his time. Now, in his true form, the extremities have far more mass and more definition. Truly a cage to keep you from escaping.Â
You whimper in response to the sound of Chan snapping his jaw by your ear. Itâs a polar opposite of the sweet man you know. Heâs not the same soft guy who blushes when you bring him new food to eat or the one who gets dramatic when you start his daily lessons. Heâs a complete stranger, a different being.Â
This is a monster.Â
Yes, you knew this side of him existed; it was inevitable he would shift, but he was going to be released before he needed to.
Chanâs sharp teeth are too close for comfort as he growls above you. Your eyes wrench shut, too scared to look at him, too scared of the bite that could occur. It wouldnât kill you nor infect you; itâs the pain that terrifies you.Â
Instead of the impending doom, you flinch reflexively as drool drips down onto your bare back as he assesses you under him. You are no wolf. However, heâs coherent and smart enough to know you are a human with a hole he can use. Your teeth sink deep into your tongue to fight the noise of distress trying to escape you at the sudden tug at the waistband of what remains of your jeans. Same as before, the rest of the denim shreds as effortlessly as before, leaving you completely bare under him.Â
âChan, please.â You beg again, trying to reach for the human part of him that is still in there. Your anguished voice is unrecognizable even to yourself. âDonât do this. It doesnât have to go further.â
If the werewolf understands your words, he doesnât appear to care. Too busy scraping one of his claws repeatedly along the soft flesh of your hip, attempting to force you onto your hands and knees. The searing burn of the scratches is enough to make you comply.Â
His knees slip between your legs, spreading you wider to accommodate his massive thighs. Anticipation of what is coming next causes your whole body to tremble under him. If your heart hammers any faster in your chest cavity, it may explode. Silently you pray it happens to escape this fate.Â
Chanâs hips shift to angle his cock against you. Your breath catches at his first attempt to push inside. He really is going to try to bully his cock inside you. There is no physical way. You arenât even prepared for a regular cock.Â
âChan, wait. You canâtâŠâ Your words trail off, too distracted by the way the tip of his cock slips from the wetness, now nudging against your clit each time he thrusts forward. You can feel every ridge of the thick veins running along the length as he continues to rub so intimately against your folds, searching blindly for the hole heâs desperate to bury himself into.Â
His noises of complaint fill the room with his growing frustration. Itâs not right. He knows he needs to be inside. Though with his size he will rip you open. He could do irreparable damage.Â
One of his hands moves to curl under you. The expanse of the wide claw covers your entire stomach as he brings you flush against his body. With a few more awkward shifts from his hips, the hot, angry tip of his cock finds home in the entrance heâs looking for.
âAh, fuck.â You cry out as the girth of his cock forces your walls to accommodate around him. Your voice grows more wretched. âChannie, please!â
Thank goodness for the patience Chan suddenly found. Perhaps the beast understands the noises of discomfort slipping past your lips. Even though he doesnât stop the whole ordeal, he waits to press another inch deeper inside only after your helpless noises quiet down.Â
The following thrusts are timid initially. He drives his cock gently from the tip to the length heâs managed to sink into you. Each minute creeping by feels like hours, a never-ending cycle of moments that ignite the arousal in your core to the fear of another inch being pressed inside.Â
When Chan makes the mistake of pulling out too far, you take the opportunity to attempt shifting your legs to sit down on your ass. Itâs futile. Blocked not only by his thighs but also by the claw still resting against your stomach. The hold tightens, not allowing you to squirm away. He merely shifts you back where he wants you, cock easily pressing inside; this time he ruts quicker and quicker as his patience grows thin.Â
Your breath catches as the sharp prick of teeth sinks into the back of your neck. Chan is unaffected by the hair in the way, only focusing on keeping his grip tight. Not enough to pierce through the soft skin. More globs of thick saliva drip from his mouth, caking into your hair and sliding down your neck. A low, tamer grumble follows, another warning, and another familiar trait among the wolves.Â
Chan is scruffing you.Â
Most of the time, a mother animal will scruff their young to carry or move them. Itâs different with werewolves. This is a sign of dominance. A command for you to freeze and not move till heâs done. There are even studies at the facility showing mated pairs may scuff each other to calm their partners through distress. This instance is a mix of the two, especially with the warning noise he delivered. The last thing Chan wants right now is you moving away from his increasingly aggressive thrusts. He doesnât understand it hurts, doesnât understand how big he is for your human form. All he sees is more disobedience, and he wonât tolerate it. Not when heâs in control and not during the confusion of his rut. He knows he must breed, and you will accept it.Â
Perhaps the werewolf is right.
The less you fight, the quicker he finishes, and the faster this whole affair will end.Â
Chanâs thrusts are consistent thanks to the lack of your interference. Your pussy accepts his thick cock greedily, sheathing around him again. All of your attention is on the floorboards below you as you try your best to release the tension in your body. Accept him and his cock. Thatâs all you need to do right now.Â
Just when you think you can handle the events of tonight, an additional issue arises.Â
Chanâs cock appears to be growing at the base.Â
No, bulging the more you focus.Â
The last part of the mating process.Â
Your human biology was never intended to accommodate a physical knot that werewolves have. Still, it doesnât deter Chan from shoving as much of the bulging gland as he can into you. You cry out, feeling impossibly full, the tip of his cock pressing right against your cervix. No matter how you shift or squirm, thereâs no way to dislodge yourself until the swelling goes down. Mercifully, the thrusts have stopped. Instead, Chan now grinds against you, giving himself just enough stimulation to reach his high.Â
Itâs a flood. No, more of a tsunami as warm seed erupts from his cock, adding to the uncomfortable pressure. You bring a hand to your lower stomach, moving his claw, now feeling where your body extends as more cum seeps inside of you. Itâs dizzying and never-ending as his cock continues to pulsate inside of you.Â
You sink to the floor, defeated and accepting your fate. You wonât be able to move for a while. Werewolves can stay locked together for hours to ensure the seed takes. Those in their rut can take even longer since their bodies arenât used to mating. Chan is working on pure instinct with his muddy, hormone-fueled brain. He wonât understand he canât get you pregnant.Â
Speaking of said werewolf, he shifts his face, releasing his hold on your neck to drag his tongue against the planes of your sweaty back. Another recognizable behavior: Heâs grooming you, showing you affection for the successful coital tie.Â
The worst is over.Â
By some miracle, you endured.Â
Judging by the chime of your watch, it takes nearly an hour for the swelling to go down enough to unlock. You know, by the way your pussy begins leaking sperm around his softening cock. Itâs a welcome relief. Â
Chan doesnât stop you from dislodging yourself away from his cock or when crawling out from underneath him. All of your movements are slow and cautious to not rile the werewolf, but accepting the adrenaline rush is long gone. The fatigue is settling into every muscle in your body.
You shift to sit on your ass a few feet shy of the beast. There's no care for your nudity, nor the filth of time caked onto the floorboards you rest on, and not even the mess still leaking between your thighs. All you want is to settle your racing heart.Â
However, Chanâs rut continues to rage on.Â
His snout presses against the wood flooring, right into the expanding trail of fluids, and he growls, offended at the way his hard work has spilled. This cum is supposed to stay inside of you. Thorough breeding is necessary. Itâs the only way he can get pups.Â
âChannie,â you plead, desperate as tears burn your lash line. âIt wonât take. Iâm human.â
A corner of his lip curls as he snarls. Itâs a cruel, angry sound. You are disregarding his wants once more. The alpha wolf in the room. A new wave of panic courses through as he takes a step forward. He doesnât make another noise. He doesnât have to; you know what that piercing look means.Â
No more games.Â
You will take his cock a second time.Â
You will stop fighting his mating attempt.Â
âOkay,â you say softly, hands raised to halt him. âI understand.â
His golden eyes watch as your throbbing limbs shift. This time heâs not upset as you willingly turn away from him, back on your hands and knees. Your front presses flat against the wood. Both knees shift wider to leave room for him. The position is an invitation. You are presenting your pussy to the wolf, a universal sign of submission.Â
Chan chuffs, happy at the display. His claws tap lightly against the flooring as he nears. Your heart thumps erratically in your chest in anticipation. Silently you pray to whatever higher being will listen that his second round will be quicker. Your pussy aches, still puffy and swollen from the abuse itâs endured.Â
One claw comes down to rest next to one of your ears, followed by the other mirroring on the other side of your head. His firm stomach muscles press against your back, keeping him physically close to you while he stays mounted over you.Â
This time around he doesnât struggle to find your hole. His cock slides right in with a loud squelch. Your walls donât fight his size anymore. The excessive amount of mixed fluids makes each of his cautious thrusts glide back and forth easily. You groan to yourself in disgust, hearing the drips from your pussy splatter against the wood flooring. There was so much of his cum, and still it wasnât enough to satisfy his rut-filled brain.Â
This night appears to be far from over unless you can help him along.Â
One of your hands slips under your body, allowing your fingers to brush against your neglected clit. Jolts of pleasure run up your spine the longer you rub messy circles in the way you know will let your own orgasm rush over you.
It takes only a handful of seconds before your own moans slip past your lips. Chan whines high and pitifully when your tight walls spasm around his cock, trying to milk his cum out of him. He must love the sensation. His hips snap faster, trying to shove his knot back inside to feel this where heâs the most sensitive. Your plan is working. The knot is already swelling back up to its previous size.Â
Call it guilt for the life heâs had in the facility, call it selfishness for wanting this to be over, or maybe itâs buried feelings locked deep in your heart that you refuse to acknowledge. Just justify the whole night how you want. Your fingers continue to rub through the fall of your orgasm, pushing for another. You know your body best; you can force another orgasm.Â
You can give Chan what he wants.Â
The pleasure he deserves.Â
Those bulky forearms of his wobble as he struggles to not collapse on top of you. His head hangs right against your face. The soft fur tickles your cheek as he pants heavily from exertion. Heâs getting as worn out as you. He must be right on the edge.Â
Get him there, you say to yourself. Make it happen, and itâll be over.Â
With the perfect pressure against your clit, you dive headfirst over the edge. Your moans are shameless; no one else is here to witness you. Let yourself be honest and enjoy the pleasure. Accept the way Chan eagerly pushes his knot firmly against your hole to assure a successful lock back into place. Same as before, the hot seed gushes inside you as the werewolf above howls in satisfaction. Itâs a rewarding rush of power as you ride out the entire length of your orgasm.Â
Your own limbs are faring no better than his, now caving to fold under you from the exhaustion. You cry out at the harsh tug of the knot, unable to dislodge it. Though Chan sinks lower immediately to ease the pain for you. His soft fur is warm across the expanse of your body, enveloping you in a comforting, safe embrace. He rests his face against yours, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth to lightly drag over your cheek. Heâs content, rut settling.Â
The rest of the world feels worlds away. You know there is still the threat of the company on the horizon, but Chan needs time to shift back. Then you can get him out of here. Itâll just be delayed. Thereâs no telling how long until he's human again. Records stated his last full shift was five years ago. Itâll happen when his body is ready. You should stay awake to keep an eye on him. Yet, no matter how hard you fight, your eyelids close as you fall asleep.Â
Itâs hours later when you wake.
Mercifully, on the couch that was tucked away in the corner. Chan must have moved you when he shifted back. Thereâs heat cocooning your body. A moth-eaten blanket was tossed over you. You donât care how old or dusty the cushioning might be. Itâs a blessing after all the time spent on the wood flooring.Â
Gradually, you assess your health. Every part of the body hurts. Besides soaking, a bath is necessary to remove the sticky mess between your legs. Overall, it's not intolerable. You still have a drive ahead of you and should be able to manage. You donât have a choice though; the security guards are awake by now, and Chan isnât safe yet. He needs to get out of these woods.Â
Your eyes scan to the left. Next to you is a small corner table with two apples and a handful of wild berries that were not there last night. Chan must have left them as a gift. Dread sinks into the pit of your stomach the longer you stare at fruit. He left the cabin. He doesnât know that the company owns drones that can scan the entire area. Not to mention plenty of thermal cameras.Â
Where is he?Â
You fight the fatigue to sit up, voice struggling to come out of your parched throat, âChannie?â
A human whine slips out across the room.Â
Chan is in a corner. Heâs tucked his limbs tightly against himself to be as small as he physically can be. His red, teary eyes briefly meet yours before falling back to the floor. He whimpers, something sad or hurt. He looks guilty and must feel it too.Â
Your heart hurts; he remembers what occurred. His favorite human hurt by his own hand, the one person he trusted and felt safe with. Now unable to even look you in the eyes, worried about how you feel. Surely, he assumes anger, perhaps hatred, or even fear of his true self.Â
Yet, there are none of those emotions flowing through you. Last night was your fault. You took him from that awful place at the worst possible moment. The animal inside him only acted as its biology told it to do. He canât fight his own nature.Â
âChan?â You whisper, keeping your voice low. âItâs okay, honey.â
More heart-wrenching whines leave him. He turns his face away, burying it in the crook of his arm. His entire frame trembles as he begins to sob. You canât even comprehend the emotional turmoil heâs going through. Werewolves mate for life unless in dire circumstances. Poor thing probably is wrestling a heavy conscience when he doesnât need to.Â
âChannie, come here," you say, firmer. A painful knot twists in your stomach. Not only does he need comfort, but after everything that occurred, you need him. "Please.â
Chan doesnât rise to his feet when he finally moves. No, he scampers closer on all fours. He sits on the floor, physically as close as he can be, with his head low, anticipating some sort of punishment. Â
It never comes, and it never will.Â
âNone of last night was your fault. Iâm not upset," you say, with fingers tangling in his greasy curls to scratch at his scalp. His eyelids flutter shut. The touch is soothing, solacing enough for his crying to settle. It takes a few minutes for Chanâs tension to melt away. You only speak again once his breathing regulates. âWe need to move soon.â
Chan pulls away as if your touch burns. His head shakes, telling you no. One of his hands comes up to his lips, signing a word: Eat.Â
âI will," you answer. âBut you shouldnât have gone out.â
Chan huffs; itâs an offended sound. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration that he canât communicate what he wants. His body twists, searching the room for anything the previous owners left so he could use it to help vocalize his response.
You bring a hand to his shoulder, softly squeezing the warm skin, âDonât worry about it. I know what you're doing.â
He forgets the stacks of research you consumed over the year. The only reason he left the cabin was to find you food. Itâs his job to provide a meal after a successful mating session. He knew enough about the human diet to not bring you a dead animal. Instead, he picked a safer option, one probably from memory with all the times you ate lunch with him. You shared countless apples with him, and the berries are similar to the blueberries you offered him despite his hatred for them.Â
Once more Chan signs for you to eat. This time, more assertive. He pulls away to crawl across the room only to return with a bucket he must have found somewhere in the house. Thereâs water inside. He traveled to the nearby river you passed on the way here.Â
âHow long were you out there?â Your tone comes out more aggressive than intended. His eyes are wide with panic, taken aback. Plush lips start to part, but only a groan comes out instead of a word. He wants to plead his case. He doesnât get the chance, not with your continuous prodding. âDid anyone see you? Did you hear anyone?â
Chan shakes his head, shoulders tense as the questions keep coming. His breathing becomes labored as the stress of your words overwhelms him. He slams the bucket down, causing you to flinch. Water sloshes over him onto the floor. He doesnât particularly care, instead bringing his palm to cover your mouth, shushing the words of interrogation.Â
The mood around you shifts. Chanâs cheeks are still puffy and tear-stained, though his eyes have narrowed. Theyâre not as round and curious. No, this gaze is serious, almost commanding. Similar to last night, when Chan established his power over you. He maintains the burning alpha wolf's gaze while his free hand blindly reaches for one of the apples to drop it into your palm. Â
Heat spreads across your skin with how flustered you become. Sparks of arousal curl deep in your core. Itâs followed by shame at how your body reacts to his display of dominance. It's a humbling reminder that you are no longer at the lab and Chan chooses to follow your lead. He can overpower you at any moment, but he doesnât. All because he respects you.Â
He releases his hold, and for one last time signs for you to eat. His eyes donât leave yours; he doesnât blink, just watching as you bring the apple to your mouth to take a bite. That appears to be enough to appease him, and he falls back to a seated position on the floor.Â
Minus Chanâs nudity and dirty feet, heâs in good shape after his shift. This is good, very good for you. Occasionally, some werewolves fall into a deep slumber to recover. There was a genuine fear that you might have to try to move Chanâs bulky body, and you are in no shape to do so.Â
âWe have a long day ahead of us. How are you feeling?â You ask timidly before biting into the tart apple again. The werewolf at your feet merely shrugs in response. That's a good enough answer for you. Youâll finish this damn apple so his provider mentality is satisfied and then get moving.Â
When tossing the blanket to the side, cold air sinks straight to the bone. Itâs no different from dunking yourself straight into a lake in the middle of winter. Yes, itâs time to leave and never leave the warmth of the car heater. Damn Chan and his heightened body height. The cool weather is probably a blessing to his skin.Â
âHelp me up.â You say while slowly maneuvering your limbs to sit on the edge of the couch. âWe have to get moving.â
Chan motions over to you and back to himself. You donât need him to speak to understand. The lack of sunrise will keep the forest a maze. Both of you are nude, and in no shape to be back out in the woods. Especially you, with what you endured.Â
âI planned ahead. Donât worry. We just need to get me to the shed in the back.â
Instead of being a shoulder for you to lean on, Chan stands upright before reaching for your frame. His strong arms wrap around your middle, pulling you up and away. You gasp at the sudden display of strength, wrapping your arms around his neck and securing your legs tight around his hips. With one final adjustment of his hold, Chan sets off through the decapitated cabin and straight for the smaller building.Â
The ice-cold cement slab the shed is built on burns against the blisters on your feet once they connect to the ground. You work quickly, hands reaching for the blue tarp you placed here a couple of nights ago. It slides off easily, revealing the car underneath. The vehicle is nearly two decades old. Bought with cash from a car lot two towns away to have no ties to you. It took a couple thousand dollars to make sure it would be up and running for the long journey, but at the end of the day the cost didnât matter. Just as long as Chan was free.Â
Slowly you hobble to make your way around to the trunk. Chan follows, hands outstretched around your frame just in case you were to fall. Itâs charming how much care he has for you. Again, itâs part of the werewolf in him. In his culture, you two are bonded partners for life now. He could be shunned from his pack if anything bad happens to you. He doesnât even know where they are, but the values instilled in him remain regardless.Â
Could you handle a lifetime with Chan?Â
Donât you have the answer already?Â
Your fingers search for the handle, and with some effort, the lid pops open. Inside the trunk are a few supplies. Mostly clothes and shoes. You reach in, grabbing the set for Chan first. He accepts the pants first, wasting no time to pull them on. The tee shirt is a bit tight for the broad frame, but he appears unaffected. Finally, he accepts a hoodie. Itâs on the large side. Loose for him to hide in, including his face. You help zip it up before reaching around his neck to pull the hood up.Â
Itâs perfect.
Well, almost. The shoes are a lost cause because his feet donât fit, but you donât plan on bringing him anywhere near people. Not until you know itâs safe. Chan merely tosses them away. Heâs always preferred being barefoot, anyway. He never used the lab-issued slip-ons the entire time he was there.Â
To your surprise, Chan takes the sweatpants you packed for yourself and kneels at your feet. His touch is gentle, using one hand wrapped around your ankle to lift your foot up so he can guide your leg through. He mirrors the other before hoisting the waistband up to rest comfortably at your hips. His gaze lingers on your stomach. Even in the low light, he notices the several small cuts from where his claw pressed onto your skin. His lash line is wet as he gently covers your belly button with his palm.Â
"No pups," you murmur.Â
Chan lets out a relieved sigh. Another pressing question that had likely been bothering him was answered. He moves his hand only to quickly press his plush lips against each of the scabbed-over cuts. On the last one, he looks up at you, lips brushing your skin. Heâs mouthing words, though no voice comes out: Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry.Â
If only he knew how much guilt you were battling. There will be time in the future to heal and reflect. For now, you accept his words and allow him to help you dress if it eases his pain. The tasks appear to be a good distraction from the spiraling thoughts. He obeys your command to open the shed doors due to you not having the strength to fight the rotting wood. It gives you a moment to get the car running and warmer by the time he slips into the backseat with an excited chirp.
Yes, you feel the exhilaration too. Itâs time to get the hell out. Your palms adjust their hold on the steering wheel as you pull onto the old dirt road. Itâs bumpy and slowly being reclaimed by nature. Chan giggles in the back with every large dip, amused by how the car rocks. Itâs a wonderful noise to hear. Once this is said and done, youâll do everything in your power to hear all the time.Â
Eventually, the lack of gasoline forces you to pull off the interstate. Chanâs stomach had been rumbling for the last hour, so a pit stop was needed. You could fuel up and find him some food forâ both of you. Something more substantial than fruit. Then keep driving until you hit the hotel tucked right over the state line.Â
Tucked off a few miles from the highway is a gas station you settle on. The building is no bigger than a two-car garage. Each of the walls is weathered from the years in operation. Several windows are boarded up with wood, and the roof has pieces of sheet metal used to repair leaks. Business probably only continues in service thanks to the random cars traveling through and a handful of locals. This is ideal; the chance of security cameras is low. People out here tend to mind their own business, and you will pay in cash. There is no way the company will know you were here.Â
âChannie, I have to go inside for a minute.â You say while pulling out your stashed wallet in the center console. The cash is still confirmed inside. Your body twists toward the back to face him. âWill you be okay staying here?âÂ
Chan nods softly, face barely peeking from the hood. He doesnât move from his lying position.Â
Smart boy, he knows to hide.Â
The store attendant doesnât even acknowledge you entering, too invested in the newspaper heâs reading. You slink through the aisles, scanning the food. Two packages of jerky, one dusty can of pineapple, bottles of water, and a couple of overpriced handmade sandwiches from the cooler. Itâll hold you guys over until the next town. You donât want to waste much time inside; you need to get back to Chan.Â
Even at the register, the worker still doesnât speak when you pay. Just a simple nod in acknowledgment at what pump the car is at. This guy is simply going through the motions, probably thinking about how long till his shift is over. Itâs a blessing; you wanted to avoid painful small talk.Â
Back outside, the sun is high in the sky. Itâs a nice day. The weather is warming up despite how cold the temps dipped the previous night. Birds chirp in the distance. Thereâs not a cloud in the sky, you realize, as you silently pump the gas. Perhaps a sign of âbetter days ahead for you. The property you bought to remain under the radar is tucked away in the woods, nearly thirty minutes away from a one-stoplight town. There is genuine fear of how the company is going to react once they find out one of their test subjects is gone. You used most of your savings making it self-sufficient. Anything to make sure you donât have to be seen.Â
Will it last forever? No, but itâs enough until Chan decides what he wants to do with his life.Â
Speaking of said werewolf, isn't he a little curious about the food you bought?Â
Once securing the gas cap, you peek into the back seat.Â
The familiar feeling of dread hits fast and hard.Â
Heâs not inside.Â
âChan!â Your voice cracks across the parking lot. The dirt parking lot has no fresh tire tracks, no strangers. Just dust and a pair of footprints trailing the opposite way from the car. The grocery bag slips from your fingers as fear turns the blood in your veins into ice.Â
Heâs gone.Â
Just like that?
You scream louder this time. âChan!â
A second later, Chan appears from the side of the building. He jogs back over to the car, head ducked low, shoulders tight. A sight similar to a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Guilt written all over him.Â
âI said stay in the car!â You exclaim, the anger in your voice thin and shaking. Loss, anger, and relief crash into you so hard your knees nearly give out. Itâs a whirlwind. Nausea hits next, causing stomach acid to burn the back of your throat. âYou should have waited. I was worried.â
Chan signs two words: Toilet. Sorry.Â
He circles the car to grab the fallen bag. When he straightens, his hood slips off his head. Sunlight catches in his curls, wind teasing the brown strands, and it shows off all the different shades of color.Â
Chan came back to you.Â
He didnât have to.Â
It was the perfect opportunity to leave you behind.Â
He is choosing to stay, right?
In a perfect world, he would find his pack and return to his family. Though that dream might be impossible. You donât even know where Chan is originally from. Umbra ships creatures from around the world. The other werewolves could be oceans away.Â
Now the insecurities inside you are trying to guilt you. You are all he knows now. He is still in survival mode. Heâs accepted his fate. Being with you means heâs not a lab rat. Of course he would pick being out here. That thought stings more than the scratches healing on your hip.Â
You want him to stay because he wants to.Â
Maybe thatâs selfish of you.Â
The fear of losing him lingers in your chest, raw and undeniable. There is no shoving your feelings away anymore. You care for him. No, you love him. You would do anything for him. Able to see him here free, enjoying the sunshine, is priceless. Everything you have done and endured seems worth it. You would do it a million times over. This is what you wanted for him.Â
For the first time, the voice you desperately wanted to hear speaks beside you. It's trembling, strained, and soft. âLâLâLoveâŠYou.â
The world stills. These are Chanâs first vocalized words to you. After a year of working every day. Itâs not letters or numbers. Not rehearsed sounds practiced for hours at a time. Not a forced syllable squeezed out of frustration. All of it has paid off.Â
He is expressing his true feelings.
You knew Chan was fond of you. Yes, you also knew of his deep emotional attachment. You arenât blind. He sought you out in that horrible place. You were his comfort; of course he would grow attached. This makes your plan for his release harder on top of all your complicated feelings. The goal was to let him run free up in the thick woods near the mountain. Very few humans travel up there, so he could shift freely and safely from danger. There is a dense population of wildlife that would be perfect for him to hunt. Now youâre unsure if you could let him out there if he didnât want to stay with you.Â
âChan,â you whisper.
His eyes stay on the ground like he expects the words to be wrong somehow. As if heâs bracing for correction. It isnât perfect. It doesnât have to be. Not when itâs music to your ears.
He swallows and tries again, stronger this time. âLove you.â
âI love you too, Channie.â You answer with tears burning your lash line. Cautiously bring a hand to his cheek, cupping his face before leaning close to place a soft kiss on his plush lips. Chan pulls away immediately, face flushing a deep shade of red, and gaze falling to the dirt below his feet. Heâs shy about such sudden affection, but the wide smile on his face tells you he enjoyed it.Â
âCome on.â You say with enthusiasm, turning to open the door for him. âWe still have a long way to go.â
Chan slips into the passenger seat, closing the door behind himself. His eyes lock onto you, watching you walk around the front and enter on your side. He allows you to buckle his seatbelt without a struggle. His fingers fiddle with the cloth strap, completely distracted by the mechanism, curious how it works.Â
And with that, you two are back on the road.Â
If Chan minds the soft music playing, he doesnât show it. He eats quietly beside you, scarfing down a sandwich and a bag of jerky in a handful of minutes. The pull tab on the can of pineapple gives him a small fight, but he chirps in excitement when realizing whatâs inside. He eats one piece at a time with his fingers, savoring the fruit.Â
The car ride was fairly silent after that. Chan rests his head against the cool glass, focused on the scenery passing by. Cautiously, you bring one of your hands to his, intertwining your fingers to hold. Out of your peripheral, he glances down at the hold and tightens the grip.
The two of you will figure out what to do about his next shift. Your new home has a basement. Though the idea of chaining him down doesnât seem too appealing and is rather cruel, maybe heâll understand. However, the real question is if you can werewolf-proof your home just in case itâs not enough to hold him. Sure, you live outside the city in the woods, but there are still neighbors miles down the road.Â
Those thoughts donât matter right now.Â
After all, you have time until the next full moon.Â
ïžAbiaswreck | Do not copy, repost, or translate | As always, reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to comment, reblog with feedback, or send me an ask. Iâd love to hear from you; it helps with motivation. I hope today is kind to you. <3
Additional A/N: What do we think? Sequel maybe? I have ideas but want to know what you guys think.
PAIRING: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader
SUMMARY: Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable.
WC: 18,249
AU: Cyberpunk, Semi-Friends to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Angst, Romance
WARNINGS: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you donât like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.Â
A/N: This is re-uploaded from my previous blog sailorrlino that I forgot was attached to sailoryooons when I deleted. I felt bad, so I am reposting here and hoping that you all enjoy this if you've never read it before, or you enjoy re-reading it if you have :)
A/N 2: This is not beta read AT ALL and willl have errors - sorry!
SKZ M. LIST | ASK | NOW PLAYING: RODEO
Any work is good work.Â
Minho isnât so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building.Â
Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the manâs cheek hits the floor.Â
Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The manâs entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minhoâs sharp face.
Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. Itâs silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down.Â
âReceiving,â a male voice answers. Minho doesnât know who it is - he just knows heâs one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co.Â
âCollection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.âÂ
âCollected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.âÂ
The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, itâs just a number on a screen that confirms the power wonât go out at his apartment and that he wonât go hungry.
Minhoâs knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers.Â
Heâs so goddamn sore.
Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket.Â
While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasnât given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.
The gun isnât technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the governmentâs militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.
Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows.Â
At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesnât get a jump or sleep heâs going to pass out.
Whichever comes first.Â
Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward.Â
He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep.Â
Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.Â
The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. Thereâs no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways.Â
He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows itâll get messy.Â
Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that arenât there and the foggy thinking, but they wonât keep him sharp forever.Â
As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesnât feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes.Â
He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife.Â
No one enters the car. Itâs just him and the other two sleeping people - he isnât sure theyâre even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.
Itâs a unique little knife, snug in the sheath thatâs buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy youâd been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy youâd perfected.
When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. Itâs saved his life a few times in situations like now when heâs exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery.Â
A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesnât mind, though. Youâre an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You donât ask the kind of questions that he doesnât want to answer, and youâre always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious.Â
But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesnât have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over.Â
The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get.Â
Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once heâs shown up as a Collection Request. He doesnât know if itâs the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. Itâs probably both, but every time it happens, heâs managed to evade it.Â
A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, itâs sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators donât seem to care which Collector murders the other, and heâs never suffered for coming out on top.Â
Any work is good work.Â
Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop.Â
Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable.Â
âThe United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-â Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch.Â
Immediately the holograms vanish and thereâs just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards.Â
They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When theyâre pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.
True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.
Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesnât do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.
Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjinâs eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho canât shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure.Â
Nightcrawler.
Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood.Â
And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builderâs sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.
Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic.Â
Agents of disorder and chaos. Thatâs what some say. Minho isnât sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.
Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat.Â
âHello, Cowboy,â Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth.Â
His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. Heâs dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.
âI donât like when you call me that.â
Hyunjinâs smile makes the hair on Minhoâs arms stand on end. âI know, but I like it.â
The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show heâs irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjinâs face, Minho can safely assume he isnât doing a great job. âIs the Builder in or not?âÂ
âWho is to say?âÂ
âJust tell her Iâm here.âÂ
âIf sheâs in, she already knows.â Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. âYou can wait, Cowboy.âÂ
Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjinâs uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars.Â
When the water comes back, itâs warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. Heâs pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass.Â
A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.
âDonât,â Minho grunts, sipping the water. âNot interested.â
âBut youâre so pretty.â
A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, âBuilder is ready for you, Cowboy.âÂ
The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesnât show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door.Â
Minho doesnât turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top.Â
The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.
Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder.Â
Minho hates calling you that. He thinks itâs a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you havenât built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand.Â
âDo you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?âÂ
He doesnât mind the name from you. He tells himself that itâs because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesnât dislike you. Youâre easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and youâre to the point. He admires that, and heâs willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.
Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You donât look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver.Â
âI donât have long,â he says, forgoing the seat. âJust need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. Itâs having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.âÂ
That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minhoâs face.Â
Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data.Â
Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. Thereâs a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesnât remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face.Â
âWhen was the last time you slept?â
âAre you psychoanalyzing me?â You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. âFifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.â
âNo to the JumpPack,â you say finally. âSleep.â
âI have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.âÂ
âDown the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It wonât kill you.â He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, âIâll be done by the time youâre up. Take off your armor.âÂ
His hands open and close. Youâve never declined a JumpPack before. Youâve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on.Â
Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons heâs managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow.Â
Minhoâs shirt is more armor than a shirt. Itâs made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when thereâs an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. Youâve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft.Â
Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if itâs not the most expensive piece of technology he owns.Â
Immediately heâs covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. Youâre dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver.Â
You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor un-synced and he took a few hard punches.Â
Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though youâre going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her.Â
That, and that she chose to leave him.
Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, âThree hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.âÂ
You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. âAlright.âÂ
With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. Heâs a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but youâre unfolding his armored shirt.Â
Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. Heâs never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him.Â
The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. Thereâs no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.
Heâs not in danger here.Â
Slowly, he trods to the cot. Itâs a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minhoâs eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in.Â
He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that heâll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises.Â
The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until heâs fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep.Â
-
A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he canât shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room heâs in.
He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where thereâs another knock.Â
âCome in,â he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.
A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. Youâve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesnât hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff youâve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.
Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesnât move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. âI know Collectors donât have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.â
He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. âWhy did you bring me food?â
âBecause you look like shit, Cowboy. Donât go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.âÂ
Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.
You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesnât eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. Itâs not half bad, making him hum in fascination.
That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.
âFixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?â His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. âItâs made with durast carbonate. Itâs pretty shockproof.âÂ
âDidnât mean to. Some guyâs goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um⊠took a bullet.âÂ
âHow did they get the jump on you, hmm?â He stares. âWere you tired?âÂ
Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. Itâs peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.
Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you donât say anything more. Youâve already gotten your barbs in and you donât intend to poke until heâs truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.
Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently.Â
Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that.Â
Minhoâs relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, youâve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what heâs asking for, and youâve never sold information about him.
Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but heâd been met with steely silence each time.Â
He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. Youâre as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.
Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes its electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. Heâs not at a hundred percent, but heâs a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection.Â
When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy.Â
In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes itâs just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what youâre doing.
Minho only relaxes marginally. Heâs still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust heâs established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices heâs only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.
You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why.Â
As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever youâre working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.
âHello, Collector. How are you today?â Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.
Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, âFine, you?â
âDoing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.â
âMy watch?â
It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.
An interface lights up again. He canât figure out whatâs so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that heâs used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.
He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. Itâs far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal.Â
Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web.Â
Minhoâs fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesnât hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. Itâs abrasive, but he canât imagine what it is.
Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. Itâs far more sophisticated than what he came in with.
âThe needles,â he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. âDo they connect with me?â
âYes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.â You get up and walk toward him. âYou wonât even feel them. Theyâre the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during infighting. Theyâre more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.â
âWhatâs the point, though?âÂ
You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. âInside of this,â you instruct, tapping the hard shell, âIs a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles donât push deep, but theyâre high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.âÂ
Minho looks up at you, silent. You donât notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. âBlue is electrolytes,â you instruct, pointing to it. âGreen is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.â
âAnd purple?â
âJump,â you deadpan. âBut a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you wonât need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since itâs non-addictive.â
Minho stares. âWhat?â
âWhat part didnât you get?â
âThis is for me?â You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. âThis is worth a million United Credits at least. I canât afford it.â
âDo you see a price tag?â
âYou canât give me this for free.âÂ
âOf course I can. Itâs just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, wellâŠâ You shrug. âAt least you didnât pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. Iâve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I donât have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesnât protect you from plasma. This does.â
Minho doesnât buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldnât give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know.Â
It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.
Did you make this specifically for him? Heâs not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of.Â
Minho has peers. Youâre a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you.Â
âThe one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.âÂ
You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks youâre going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.
âFixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.âÂ
Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces.Â
The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesnât move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagrams.
Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.
Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesnât know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave.Â
It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minhoâs stomach. He doesnât move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to⊠what? He doesnât know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood.Â
So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You donât spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface.Â
As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping bass and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasnât in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builderâs workshop.Â
Hyunjinâs smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it.Â
Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now.Â
The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses.Â
Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go.Â
Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while heâs at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer youâd made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be.Â
Itâs nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring.Â
âReceiving,â he answers, straightening up.Â
âCollection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
âCollection accepted.âÂ
The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.
Any work is good work.Â
Minho leaves the apartment to take another life.Â
-
The water runs red in Minhoâs shower. He stares at it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less.Â
The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. Heâd had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.
Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows heâs lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, itâs a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didnât have the next twenty-four hours to himself.Â
If the knife had been one of yoursâŠ
A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and heâs brutally aware of just how much everything hurts.Â
Yet the ache isnât what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isnât what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows heâs coming.
What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made.Â
Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating.Â
Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way.Â
Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it.Â
âFuck,â he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel.Â
Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what heâs looking for.
Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates.Â
The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows heâll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl.Â
DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process.Â
Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if heâs damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles and tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.
The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but heâs grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline.Â
It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him.Â
There was crazy, and then there was that.Â
Minho wonders if youâve been charging him fairly, suddenly. Heâs always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows youâre willing to offer something that heâd only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if youâve been cutting him deals.
Heâs never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though theyâre the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesnât trust them whenever it comes to you.Â
Jisung already thinks itâs sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if itâs true.Â
Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.
He remembers almost every one of them.Â
Minhoâs memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. Heâs able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after theyâve irritated him, like youâre giving him a gift or saying Iâm on your team.Â
Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because itâs bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl.Â
Minhoâs fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. Heâs thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesnât jerk away at the idea.
He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch.Â
-
The ringing of Minhoâs watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where thereâs a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes itâs work calling.Â
Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight.Â
Clearing his throat, he answers. âReceiving.âÂ
âCollection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.â
Information flashes on Minhoâs watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. Heâs never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.
It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesnât want to see any of it, doesnât want to see when you were born, doesnât want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesnât want to know your criminal history.Â
Minhoâs ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning.Â
Your name. Your full government name and ID number. Heâs only ever known your first name, but youâve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho canât remember if heâs ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighingâÂ
Three years and he canât believe heâs never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill.Â
Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isnât like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection.Â
Irreversible.Â
Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.
Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while heâs unarmed.Â
Now heâs supposed to murder you?
Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.
Will he or wonât he?Â
Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.
Heâs only a few steps toward it when he realizes heâs not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning.Â
The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes heâs having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit.Â
What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, heâs never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth.Â
What was it that Jisung said about panic?
Itâs hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again.Â
Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that heâs not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room.Â
Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves.Â
There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things youâve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave.Â
Itâs clinical.Â
Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. Heâs always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minhoâs only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for⊠well. If you ever needed it.
Any work is good work.Â
Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what theyâre up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers.Â
Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesnât understand, so itâs difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.
That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because heâs in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through your defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he wonât complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list.Â
Either way, itâs on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure.Â
From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman.Â
Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and itâs impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments.Â
Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesnât consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too.Â
So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone?Â
Maybe itâs even a combination.
Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. Itâs easier than it should be, Minhoâs mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and travels to North Ward Three that he doesnât have time to look around every corner or see if heâs being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway.Â
The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as heâs immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.
From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on whatâs going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.
Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him.Â
The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. Theyâll stay out of his way and wonât engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops.Â
Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible.Â
Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and itâs only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside.Â
Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair.Â
Itâs full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. Itâs no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjinâs hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door.Â
âYour patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.âÂ
Minhoâs heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjinâs dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.
An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesnât see. Thereâs a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on his calf.Â
Hyunjinâs fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. âWant to try, Cowboy?â
âI need to speak with her.â
âNo.â
âIâm not-â Minho grits his teeth. âIâm not Collecting.â
âDidnât say you were.âÂ
Hyunjin knows. He doesnât know how the Nightcrawler knows youâre a Collection on Minhoâs list, but itâs clear in the way Hyunjin leers.Â
âLook, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.â
âAnd what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if youâre not lying, theyâll come after you too.âÂ
âListne, Nightcrawler-â
Hyunjin grins. Itâs unnerving, and there isnât much that unnerves Minho. âNo, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I donât have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.â He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. âIâm always within my right to make a judgment call.â
âIâd never hurt her.â
âYouâre not friends, last I checked.â Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. âYou donât have friends, right? Thatâs why you reject acts of faith?â
âWhat do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?âÂ
âYouâd be surprised, Collector.âÂ
Hyunjin is unmoving. Minhoâs fingers twitch and Hyunjinâs eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.
Heâs that confident in beating me.Â
United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesnât make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjinâs eyes flicker and look over Minhoâs shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.
âHereâs an act of faith. Letâs see what you do this time.âÂ
The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd.Â
Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didnât arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force.Â
Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking.Â
Act of faith.Â
Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable.Â
Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires.Â
Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. Itâs nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him.Â
Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes.Â
âThere are eight. Theyâre just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.â
âIs there a way through that door?â
âSure there is. If they want to melt it down, Iâm sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They canât blow it without leveling the street.âÂ
âDoes she have a way out the back?â
âNo, then I would have two doors to watch.âÂ
A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they donât come any closer.
They want to make the Collection, but they donât want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together.Â
âArenât you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?â Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. âCan you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.â
âIâm good at not being seen, Cowboy. Iâm not inhuman.âÂ
âOh good, so youâre actually useless when visible?â
Hyunjinâs face darkens. âYouâd be surprised how often you donât see me.âÂ
The threat isnât lost on Minho but it doesnât have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure theyâre behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but itâs only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isnât very large.
Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. âItâs a flash grenade,â he snaps. âIâm not going to kill everyone.â He pauses and smirks. âI donât do that anymore.â
âThatâs hardly less settling.â
âYou know,â Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenade. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. âOne day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.â
âOne is legal, for starters.âÂ
Hyunjin lobs the grenade. âRight, so what youâre doing right now? This is legal?â
Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minhoâs shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.
It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and thereâs only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun.Â
The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collectorâs voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.
Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your hand. Minho blinks a few times in surprise.Â
âI think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.â You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. âRemind me to write that down.âÂ
Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign thatâs been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the âRâ tries to fight for its life.
Then thereâs you.Â
You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet grazes his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjinâs hand resting on top of his gun.Â
âYou gonna kill me, Cowboy?â Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell youâre upset that it does.Â
âNo. I want to help.â Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? âConsider it an act of faith,â Minho offers and Hyunjinâs snickering turns to curiosity. âIâve rejected yours in the past. Let me offer you the only one I have.âÂ
No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. âWhat a strange turn of events, Minho.âÂ
Itâs the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minhoâs mouth twitch a little.Â
The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stairs. Hyunjinâs watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where theyâre going.
You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.
Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hopping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. Itâs far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over.Â
Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel.Â
Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert.Â
âDecided not to kill me?â you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face.Â
Minho can barely hear you over the fabric youâve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaiter over the lower half of his face.Â
âI was never going to kill you.â
âHard to tell with you.âÂ
âI⊠donât have an argument.âÂ
And he doesnât. He realizes that heâs kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.
âI thought we were friends.â That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that heâs stopped, looking at you. âWe stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients donât get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.â
âTheyâre on the house?â
âOf course they are!â you snap at him. âDo you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know Iâm not overcharging you?âÂ
âI stopped looking once I trusted you werenât robbing me.â
âSee, thatâs a funny word coming from you. Trust.â
A whistle catches Minhoâs attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minhoâs face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again.Â
âI do trust you.â You say nothing to his comment. âIâm sorry I didnât accept the armor.â
âIt wasnât about rejecting the armor, Collector.â The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. âIt was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.â
Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minhoâs stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. Thereâs a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin.Â
Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down.Â
âYou werenât,â he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. âWrong. You werenât wrong.âÂ
You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes he is holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.
Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.
Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.
Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light.Â
Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours.Â
Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark.Â
âWhat is this?â he asks, looking at you.Â
Itâs Hyunjin who answers, âNightcrawler shit. Youâre welcome.â
âShould we expect any of your former coworkers, then?âÂ
âTheyâre not so bad.â Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. âItâs the Darklings I worry about.âÂ
You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if heâs serious or not.Â
Jeongin steps up next to Minho. âHe was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?âÂ
âHave you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?âÂ
Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly.Â
-
Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they donât run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where theyâre going, but he doesnât,Â
An act of faith.Â
It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minhoâs information, heâd gain a little trust.Â
Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. Itâs not much to most, but he knows among killers itâs a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers.Â
You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you donât look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though youâre trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens.Â
Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. âWhat will you do with your lab?âÂ
Your lips twitch. âChemical fire. Thereâs a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.âÂ
âWho owns that place, anyway?âÂ
âBangchan.â The name sounds familiar. âReformed Nightcrawler.âÂ
âYou keep unusual company.â
âBetter than none.âÂ
That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears itâs brighter than the glowsticks you carry. âI deserved that one. Iâm working on it, alright.â
âHow do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?â
âThe same way I deal with them.â You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, itâs just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. âWhat made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.âÂ
âI do, but I donât know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.â You look at him. âI wanted to trust you.â
He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. Heâd been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing.Â
âWhere are we going?âÂ
He looks up at you. âHyunjin didnât tell you?â
âNo, just said to trust you.â Minhoâs brows shoot up and you snort. âI know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.â
âItâs a safe house on Isla de Suenos.â You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. âMy mother belonged to a very well-off family. Iâm not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.â
âShe didnât choose you?â He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. âNo wonder you donât choose people either.â
Your candor is a relief. You donât tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. âThere are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if sheâd taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.â
âWhat is it now?â
âI donât have one. My father was servant-class. We donât have family names.âÂ
âHe worked for your motherâs family?â Minho nods. âLee. I like it. Will you keep it?â
âMaybe. Itâs who I have to be, now.âÂ
âNo longer the Collector?â He shakes his head. âGood. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.âÂ
Minho bites back a grin.Â
By the time they get to the surface again, theyâre just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline.Â
They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence.Â
Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. Itâs cauterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern.Â
Seeing the injury, you get up wordlessly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.
With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minhoâs shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh.Â
You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist.Â
âMy mom liked to paint,â Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. âThatâs one of the few things I know about her. She had artist hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.âÂ
âHmm, I wouldnât say Iâm an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.â
âItâs a kind of art.â
âI suppose it is.â
Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesnât open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation.Â
He can almost pretend you both havenât thrown your life away to head to some house heâs never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive.Â
âDoes it hurt?â he shakes his head at your question. Your voice is soft and raspy, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Youâre so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. âIf you let me give you better armor, plasma wonât hurt you.â
Minhoâs eyes flutter open. âYou brought it with you?â
âOf course I did.â Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. âI donât want you to get hurt.â
Hyunjinâs voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. âHello, yes, the child and I are still here.âÂ
âIâm not a child!â
âThe child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin is waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.â
You whirl around. âYouâre leaving? What do you mean youâre leaving?â
âI have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. Iâm taking the child to stay with Swan.âÂ
Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. âYou would do that? Take him to stay with her?âÂ
âOf course. Swan likes strays.âÂ
âI am right here,â Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. âAnd Iâm not a child.â
Hyunjin grins at him. Itâs real and not a leer, something that Minho doesnât think heâs ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. âEnjoy your evening. Iâll be around, Minho.âÂ
âWait!â you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjinâs face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like heâs intruding. âHere.âÂ
You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjinâs hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minhoâs side.Â
Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.
Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. Itâs hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldnât have carried them all, but itâs something.Â
Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesnât let go until heâs sure youâre okay, eyes searching.Â
A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.
You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide.Â
Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does.Â
You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. Heâs thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean.Â
The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.
For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertainly. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slow down as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse.Â
You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didnât know he was holding.Â
It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane.Â
The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.
âMinho, thereâs a-â
âItâll let us through.â He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping itâs true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then theyâre through the shield. The water is flat calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. âItâs biometric.â
âAnd you were sure that was going to work?â
âMostly.âÂ
âMostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.âÂ
It takes a second, but he realizes youâre calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesnât mind the diminutive.Â
Even in still waters, he doesnât remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them.Â
The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night.Â
Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isnât holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island.Â
Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that itâs coded to his biochip and that itâs always been there if he needs it. He doesnât know if itâs stocked or if the electricity is on, or if itâs been raided and taken over. He doesnât even know if there are codes to get access.
It is the most unprepared he has ever been.Â
A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. Itâs made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within.Â
It is exquisite. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows thatâs what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but heâs still on edge.Â
At the door, thereâs a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him.Â
Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. Itâs sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and casts a warm, gold glow in the house.Â
âYouâve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?â you deadpan from the door.
No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. Itâs three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities.Â
âI didnât know what was here, honestly.â He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. âI assumed she didnât leave me something grand.âÂ
âItâs a good start on an apology. Sheâs still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.â
A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home.Â
Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.
The house is extravagant. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. Thereâs a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by thick palms and palmetto.Â
Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. Heâll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while itâs existed.Â
After youâve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injured arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesnât bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.
Steam fills the bathroom. Heâs a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes thereâs no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.
A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesnât know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.
Minho doesnât know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you.Â
Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of consciousness has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if youâre okay.Â
Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel.Â
A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you donât expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling.Â
Minhoâs lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.
âSorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.âÂ
He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. âCome on in.â
âAre you sure?â
He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. Youâve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.
Now, Minho does smirk. âIâm at your mercy.âÂ
âSorry. I know itâs hurting you andâŠâ
âYou donât want me to hurt,â he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.
You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesnât know if itâs his acceptance that youâre more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling heâs always pretended wasnât there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder.Â
A little braver.Â
âI never had a chance to thank you.â
âFor what?â You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. âAnything. Everything. I donât think Iâve ever said thank you.â
âThereâs a lot of things you havenât said.â
âSo let me.â You dart a look at him, nervous. When you donât interrupt he continues, âYou were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and Iâve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldnât be hurt. Or hurt others.â
âAnd now?â
âI realize it was silly.â
âHmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.âÂ
He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you donât move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look.Â
âWhyâd you offer me that armor?â
âI was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Whyâd you reject it?â
âI didnât want to hurt you.â
Thereâs a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. Youâre only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. âWhat if I want you to?âÂ
Minho needs no other permission. Itâs like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist.Â
You donât push him away. Worse, you melt into him like itâs natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his.Â
Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like heâs burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans.Â
Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous.Â
You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane.Â
You.Â
The one thing heâs let himself trust. The one person heâs let in, even when he didnât want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else.Â
Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth.Â
The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.
Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple.Â
Fuck.
Heâs greedy, sucking gently on your pert bud, ensuring to scrape his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too.Â
Minho looks up at you through his lashes. Youâre a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes.Â
Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and heâs drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on whatâs between yours instead.Â
Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesnât yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell itâs been for him to pretend he wasnât yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in.Â
âMinho,â you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. âPlease.âÂ
âYeah?â he switches legs, biting your calf. âWant it that bad?âÂ
âNeed it.âÂ
He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.
Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound thatâs almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger.Â
âHmm. Sweet.âÂ
âBet itâs better from the source,â you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is.Â
âTrue,â he agrees, leaning forward.Â
Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. Youâre warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.
One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesnât mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.Â
Itâs wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth.Â
He doesnât have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat.Â
âFuck,â you gasp. âFuck fuck fuck.â
âCome on,â he mouths against you. âTake what you want, baby.âÂ
The endearment slips from him more naturally than anything heâs ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as they begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart.Â
He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.
âMinho,â you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. Youâre eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. Youâre going to kill him. âMore.â
Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. Thereâs nothing he wouldnât give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.
You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like youâll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until thereâs nothing left.Â
Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between your legs. Youâre a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it.Â
Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. Youâre putty in his hands but heâs a mess in yours, too. Heâs shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating.Â
Minho looks up at you. He already knows thereâs no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. âAre you sure?â
âIâve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.âÂ
âWhat a stupid man I am.â
âYes,â you agree. âBut mine.âÂ
That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together.Â
Youâre warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.
Itâs not delicate, but it isnât the same ferocity as earlier. Itâs something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again.Â
Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but youâre both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.
How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldnât leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen.Â
No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.
But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink into the very core and live there.Â
âMine,â you growl as though you can read his thoughts. âEven though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.â
When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until youâre sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.
Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. Youâre his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgement almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you.Â
Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. Heâs still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesnât care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.
His arm burns where heâs used it. Heâd been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesnât care. Heâd do it again a thousand times.
Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands donât let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down.Â
Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesnât want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that heâs all in, he wants to stay all in.Â
âWe should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.â He cracks an eye open at you to realize youâre hiding a grin as you look up at him. âYou know, since we canât go back to Neon Rodeo.â
âWhat is it with you and rodeos?âÂ
âYou find Cowboys at the rodeo.âÂ
âOh?â
âAnd youâre here⊠so⊠itâs a rodeo.âÂ
He blinks at you. âYour intellect is astounding.âÂ
You laugh and itâs like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling.Â
âWhat do you say then, hmm?â he growls, nipping your bottom lip. âWant to go for another ride?â
âThat joke was terrible.âÂ
âYou know what they say. When at the rodeo.âÂ
You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo.Â
[ 2:16 pm ] âlook at our pretty little kitty, finally all obedient and shit. chan, what do you think?â
a combination of arousal and humiliation washes over you when student council president!chan cocks a brow and licks his lips at the sight of the cat ears on your head and the choker with a golden bell on your neck thatâs all student council vice president!minhoâs doing. the corners of his lips quirk upwards once his eyes go lower and stop at your dripping heat.
youâre keeping your thighs spread apart with your hands, feeling the heat rise up your cheeks as chan eye-fucks you. a part of you just wants to become one with the swivel chair youâre sitting on because fuck, cat ears are one thing but having to wear a fucking collar with a bell attached in the office where anyone could walk in is something completely different.
âcute,â is everything chan says before he steps closer to tap the bell, making it jingle softly. âshe looks so embarrassed but sheâs still enjoying it.â youâre trembling when he shamelessly lets his eyes roam your body once more, resting at the one bra strap that fell off your shoulder.
ân-noâŠâ your breath hitches when minho enters your peripheral vision with a bullet vibrator in his hand. he shoos chan to the side before he drops on his knees and sets the vibrator on its highest setting, the sound making you tense up.
âoh yes.â he grins. âitâs what you deserve after being such a brat and disobeying our rules.â
you howl when he presses the toy against your clit. the vibrations cause your body to jerk, making the bellâs ring echo inside the room.
âwhat a loud kitty. so shameless,â minho chastises but amusement fills his tone and he forces the vibrator harder against the bundle of nerves. âbut finally obeying. keep your legs spread apart like that.â
your legs weigh heavy against your hands and it costs you your entire sanity to not shut them. the vibrations send ripples of ecstasy through your entire body and you feel your orgasm approaching sooner than expected. you throw your head back once he starts fingering you with his free hand, the high pitched tone of the bell reverberating louder. youâre already causing so much noise, so you bite your lip to muffle your moans.
âdonât hide your voice,â chan warns sternly a few meters away from you. âdonât hold back at all.â
âi canât possibly do that! someoneâs going to find out!â you manage through grit teeth, jolting up with a wail once minho adds a second finger and curls them, landing on your sweet spot.
âthen let somebody find out.â
and with that, chan kicks the door open. your eyes widen as you see the other desks and the couch in the empty room. no no no, please, no, he canât be fucking serious right now. itâs only a matter of time until lunch breakâs over and the rest of the student council makes their grand entrance. all they have to do is look to the right once they step a foot inside, and your current pathetic state is the first thing theyâll be welcomed with.
âif thatâs the only way to teach you a lesson, then so be it. for all i care, let the entire school know that our number one delinquent is actually a whimpering bitch whoâd go this far to have a dick fill her up.â
chan takes a few strides until heâs right behind you, fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to look straight ahead. he props his chin on your shoulder and his breath fanning your ear gives you shivers. his free hand trails down your heaving chest and briefly stop at your bra, before he yanks it down and lets the garment hang even lower against your skin. the cool air hits your revealed nipple and you bite off a moan at the coldness.
chanâs hand wanders even further south until heâs dangerously close to your cunt, just ghosting over your inner thighs. minho slides one finger out of you and you nearly complain, until chan stuffs a finger inside. you groan at the uncoordinated rhythm the two have set.
âthis is your final warning unless you want the biggest punishment of your life. keep your legs spread apart, be loud, and look at the fucking door. weâre going to make you come even if someone barges in, so the least you can do is watch him as we fuck you over to oblivion.â chan growls. you nod wordlessly, but the silence doesnât last for long until he starts pumping his finger in and out in a ruthless pace. minho speeds up too as well as moves the vibrator in circular motions, and you thrash around as the two do whatever they please.
âiâm sorry! please let me cum now! i donât want anyone to watch!â
âeh? but imagine how shocked hyunjinnie would look yet heâd still manage to grow hard. you know, he gets turned on easily and isnât necessarily the gentlest. or is changbin your type? seungmin? felix?â minho taunts and doesnât miss the way you clench around them. âmaybe we should let the entire school council watch this little show.â
ân-no! not that, please, iâm begging!â
âfilthy liar,â chan snarls. âwe can feel you tightening around our fingers, kitten. plus, you shouldnât have been a brat in the first place and caused a ruckus on school grounds again.â
the pressure of their fingers and the toy is too much. your mind is hazy and overworked from all the sensations, and you donât realize youâre borderline screaming when you cum on their fingers. the two keep going even after youâre all milked out. itâs when you slump against the chair and whine weakly due to the overstimulation that they stop, but they still keep their fingers inside and minho sets the vibrator on the lowest setting before placing it on your hardened nipple.
âg-guys, i already came. iâve been a good kitty, i donât want to be punished anymore,â you sob in your post-orgasm daze, body trembling.
âyouâve been a good kitty,â minho starts with a sweet smile, âbut we have to make sure that youâre really sincere.â
âh-huh?â
âin other words,â chan mumbles as he nips on your neck, âyour lesson isnât done yet.â
once upon a time still exists in this age, albeit in unconventional ways. alternatively, stray kids in fairy tales that were revamped and modernized to the point where itâs sometimes near impossible to decipher which tale the story was derived from.Â
genre:Â university au, romance, drama, humor, porn with plot/smut
a/n: i like fairy tales, i like stray kids, and i like smut, so why not combine all three into one? there is no update schedule and the fics are only very loosely inspired by the fairy tales, so it can be that the story goes completely off track from the original. descriptions might be altered when i reckon iâm straying away from the initial outline. the series does not have to be read in order as theyâre all independent from one another!Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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pairing: boyfriend!changbin x female!reader
genre: nsfw! university au, established relationship, romance, drama, porn with plot/smut
word count: 13k
synopsis: while your boyfriend looks the part of the stereotypical bad boy in every teen romcomâyes, he even got the sleeve tattoo down and goes to bars in the shadiest neighborhoodsâheâs actually a science geek who is too whipped for you and refuses to take you anywhere that could put you in danger. done with his babying, you decide to act more recklessly, leaving changbin to clean up your mess which includes astronomical hangovers and severe side effects from a science experiment gone wrong.Â
part of the forever after series
tags: mdni. medicinal chemistry major!changbin, anthropology major!reader, changbin has a comically low pain tolerance but that doesn't stop him from getting more tats, heavy alcohol consumption, changbin makes recreational drugs in the name of science, cameos of hyunjin, itzyâs chaeryeong and ateezâs wooyoung, jisung being subjected to mandatory community service is the start of a running gag and i will die on this hill
smut tags: dom!changbin (soft/pleasure/hard he can do it all!), aphrodisiacs and unknowingly ingesting them, fingering, pillow and thigh humping, multiple orgasms, protected sex, also unprotected sex, missionary, creampie, begging, praise, corruption kink, blue balling, aftercare
a/n: icb i revived this ancient remnant of a blog to spread the agenda of big buff bad boy binnie aesthetic + 3 smut scenes = ABSOLUTE CINEMA
Thereâs no other person in sight when you and Changbin step into the tattoo parlor. The place is dimly lit and the walls are decorated with tattered concert posters of bands you only recognize by name, as well as several framed pictures presumably displaying the tattooistâs work. The tattoos vary in all different sizes and colors, but the artistâs personal flair stays consistent throughout; bold strokes and intricate shading are prominent in every design you can think of.
For Changbin, this place is his scene. For you, this place screams shady all over.Â
It doesnât help that the parlor is hidden in a small alleyway. As if trying to navigate through a labyrinth, you and Changbin had to take many turns through back streets that looked all the same before arriving at the run-down building. The only closure you have is that the artist is someone Changbin has known for the longest time, and since they were the one who did all of his previous tattoos, you can take your boyfriendâs words for granted.Â
âAre you alright?â Changbin asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.Â
You blink. âWhy shouldnât I be?â
âYouâre crushing my hand.â
Upon realizing that you are indeed, seemingly about to crush his hand, you instantly loosen your hold but keep your fingers intertwined. In an attempt to ease your nerves, Changbin continues, âWe can leave if you wantââ
âNo!â you cut him off with a raised voice that pierces through the Whitesnake song playing from the speakers in a moderate volume, then add in a softer manner, âThis is just new to me. Besides, I asked if I could come along. See it as a new experience for me.â Truth be told, you didnât ask; you annoyed him until he reluctantly agreed to let you join him to his appointment.
Then again, you werenât supposed to catch wind of it in the first place. Blame Jisung for being a loudmouth who canât keep his mouth shut. What goes around comes around, and he sure is repenting by completing his mandatory community service.Â
Changbinâs about to reply when a sharp voice cuts in. âYah! Seo Changbin!âÂ
A young woman emerges from the employees only room. Her jet-black hair is tied into a high ponytail, and a lopsided grin is etched on her lips. Sheâs dressed in black, the sleeveless tee showcasing the abundance of tattoos on her left arm. Long, black branches are inked all over her shoulder and stop midway below her elbow. There are only a few pink petals sparsely decorating the branches, the rest cascading down her arm until the last specs of ink reach her wrist. Besides the delicate petals, other patterns are adorning her skin, strokes much bolder than the tree. You faintly make out the outlines of a billiard table and poker cards, the art style reminiscent of pop art comics. Despite the opposite art styles of the intricate tree and casino concept, the combination looks oddly harmonious.
âIâm older than you.â Changbin scowls, but the playfulness in his eyes still shines through.
âSince when do you care about formalities?â She snorts and they complete a complicated handshake before her gaze flits to you. âYou brought company this time? Thatâs new.â Although thereâs no judgment in her tone, you still feel like youâre being interrogated. The woman eyes you curiously, and after a while, she outstretches her hand. âIâm Chaeryeong. Interested in getting inked too?â
You notice her firm grip when you accept the handshake. Youâre about to reply when Changbin beats you to it first. âSheâs only company,â he says sharply, then detangles your fingers to wrap an arm around your hip, tugging you closer to him. Startled by his actions, you blink at him alertly, but he remains indifferent. Seems like Chaeryeong is also stunned, but then a beat passes, and the corners of her lips tug into a small but knowing smile.
âGlad to know that you listened to my advice and came here with emotional support in tow. You really need it,â she hums before turning to you. âYou know, his pain tolerance is nonexistent. I almost fucked up all of his tats because he wouldnât sit still and went on a crying rampage. For God knows how many hours straight, he was like âWah, Chaeryeong, Iâm gonna die!ââ Her rendition of Changbinâs tantrum is comically exaggerated, yet it earns her a giggle from you and a punch in the shoulder from Changbin.
âCâmon, letâs get this over with,â he grumbles, ignoring Chaeryeongâs whines that he shouldnât have hit her dominant arm. (âYou do know that Iâm going to be drawing on your arm with this hand, no?!â)
Fortunately for him, Chaeryeong doesnât prolong it further and leads the two of you to a different, more sterile-looking room. As Changbin slips out of his leather jacket and makes himself comfortable on the tattoo chair, Chaeryeong points you to the stool beside him.Â
âSo, Mr. No pain tolerance, how are you feeling?â you tease once Chaeryeong is out of earshot. Changbinâs ears sport red.Â
âJust so you know, Chaeryeong was blowing things out of proportion,â he insists, âIâm a big boy.â
With the jacket gone, his bare arms are on display and youâd be lying if you said they werenât a sight to see. Changbinâs gym endeavors have fruited impressive results, and the half sleeve tattoo on his right arm complements the muscle heâs built up. Out of all the intricacies that stop at this elbow, the wolf is by far the most mesmerizing one he wears, with its sharp gaze, ragged fur and bloodshot eyes.Â
It wasnât until you moved in together that you found out he had tattoos in the first place. You accidentally walked in on him in the bathroom, jaw slackening at the sight of him shirtless and his right arm on full display. Changbin mirrored your stunned expression, racking his brains for any reason to justify the tattoos, but every word that left him flew past your ears. All you could focus on was the black ink cascading down his upper arm, coming to life with every movement his muscles made.Â
Hence, the start of your Changbinâs arms hyperfixation.
Chaeryeong returns, this time with vinyl gloves covering her hands. âYou better not be screaming like a bitch like last time.â She sends Changbin a pointed look before she takes a seat and begins with the prep work. Changbin instinctively locks his free hand into yours. You look at him bewildered at first, but at closer inspection, you notice how heâs slightly trembling even though all Chaeryeong did so far was apply rubbing alcohol to disinfect his lower arm, then use a disposable razor to shave off any fine hairs. Trying to make him relax, you squeeze his hand in reassurance. Fortunately it works, and he reciprocates the gesture.
âBrace yourself, the next step is where he usually cries,â Chaeryeong says offhandedly once she peels the stencil off. She was nice enough to elaborate on all the crucial steps she was taking before she could use the tattoo gun. Changbin stayed silent throughout the ordeal, gnawing on his bottom lip while she was explaining how the stencil transfer made her job much easier.Â
âDoes it really hurt that much?â you quip.Â
âFuck, yes.â
âDepending on your pain tolerance.â
They share an unreadable look for a moment, Chaeryeong being the one to break eye contact first. âAnyway, I need complete silence while I do the linework. And yes, that includes as little squirming as possible, Seo Changbin.â
âAlways dropping the honorifics,â Changbin swears under his breath, earning a slight elbow jab from the other. âOw! Is this how you treat a customer?!â
âThis is the preferential treatment only you deserve. Mwah.â Chaeryeong sends him a crooked, half-assed smile. Stamping the conversation as done, she turns around to prepare the tattoo machine.Â
When Chaeryeong said Changbin had no pain tolerance at all, she wasnât lying.Â
You donât know much about tattoos and your very limited knowledge about the process of getting a tattoo is courtesy of Google. According to the Reddit forums you browsed through in the middle of the night, it should only hurt for the first minute or so before you get used to the sting. It varies from body part to body part, but generally, the forearm shouldnât hurt so much.
Changbinâs still wheezing in pain ten minutes later.Â
Luckily he isnât squirming erratically, but the pained cries that leave him arenât any more pleasant. He winces as Chaeryeong works silently, lips pressed together in a firm line. Meanwhile, you feel like heâs about to break your bones with the iron grip his hand has engulfed yours in. But you manage to suppress a whimper.Â
The only reason Chaeryeong keeps up with him is because theyâre childhood best friends, and if she could endure his bullshit from twenty years ago, she can endure it now. Besides, she lacklusterly admitted that she likes tattooing buff people. Itâs easier to work with, or so she claims.Â
Most of the work is done once she finishes tracing the outline. By the time she takes a quick break to grab water for all of you, Changbin looks like heâs gone through an out-of-body experience.
âIs it over yet?â he asks dazedly.Â
âOnly shading left.â Changbin groans at Chaeryeongâs reply, squeezing his eyes shut and probably questioning if this was truly worth the pain.Â
âYouâre still alive. Donât act as if Iâm taking you to hell right now.â Chaeryeong rolls her eyes in unbothered annoyance. Changbin doesnât lash back, only grabs the cup and downs it in one go.Â
âHeads up, the worst part is over already,â you say softly in an attempt to perform damage control. While your boyfriend doesnât reply and gives you a weak smile that reaches his eyes, Chaeryeong hums approvingly.
âYouâre right. The worst is over. Usually heâs all numb from the outlining, so shading should be a breeze. Also, heâs more bearable and can actually hold a proper conversation now.â
Sheâs right. Changbin is certainly more receptive to talking and much saner than before. Itâs almost as if his lapse never happened. Though occasionally he inhales sharply as Chaeryeong works the ink into his skin.Â
âHowâs uni going?â she asks to distract him further from the pain.
âThe usual. Though lately Iâm cooped up in the lab for this project and itâs killing me,â Changbin sighs, enjoying the way you run a thumb over his knuckles.Â
âOh, really? Tell me more about it.â
âWeâre recreating drugs.â Chaeryeong does a double-take. Her eyes meet yours and you know that youâre looking just as mortified. Now, this is the first time youâre hearing that. However, Changbin doesnât seem to notice the gravity of his words and continues casually, âWeâre trying to find a way to make use of the euphoric effects drugs provide but take out the risk of addiction.â
âYouâre recreating drugs,â Chaeryeong repeats blankly. She blinks a few times before she resumes her work. âDoes that mean you can make ecstasy?â
âAre you hearing yourself?â Changbin scoffs, as if that was a stupid question to begin with. âOf course I can.â
âSweet. Can you hook me up with it?â
âNo.â
âJeez, I was just joking,â she deadpans but quickly drops the subject. She catches a glimpse of you before speaking again. âHow long have you two been dating?â
âUh.â The question came unexpectedly and youâre not even sure if Chaeryeong is asking you, but given that nobody has interjected yet, you clear your throat. "Itâs about to be six months.â
âAnd we live together,â Changbin adds a tad too proudly for your taste.
Chaeryeong does another double-take. Not only is she at a loss for words, but sheâs definitely thinking how sketchy that is, going by her furrowed brows. âYou havenât even been dating for half a year and already live together?â As quickly as the outburst came, it disappeared in a matter of seconds and she continues her work, voice much calmer this time. âLooks like Changbinâs really whipped, then.â
âYeah, I am.â Your heart skips a beat when you hear the fondness in his voice. But then you see that heâs looking straight at you with the same fondness, a fondness that only someone madly in love could wear on his face, and your heart stops dead in its tracks.Â
Admittedly, you can understand why a few question marks popped up when people found out you shared an apartment. Only fools would move in together after dating for mere three months. But what can you say? Like every college student who was financially independent from their families, you saved money wherever you could. You were both in need of a roommate, you both trusted each other, and with your biggest fight being a debate about prioritizing the purchase of a rice cooker vs. an air fryer, you didnât have any worries.Â
Besides, at least you can now make out without the fear that someone could walk in.
âGod, youâre so tacky. You should introduce your girlfriend to the rest of us soonâno, you shouldâve introduced her to us much earlier!â Chaeryeong sulks until all of a sudden, she looks up to you with sparkles in her eyes. âHey, weâre meeting at the Topline next week and you should definitely join us!â
Before you get to ask what on earth the Topline is, Changbin dismisses the prospect sternly. âThatâs out of question.â
âWhy not? Iâm hurt,â Chaeryeong fires back with her eyes glued to his skin, tattoo gun buzzing in her grip.
âAnd let half of you impose your corruption kink on her? I think the fuck not.â
Corruption kink? Is that really what Changbin thought of you? You may not be the most experienced there is out there (God forbid the first time you gave Changbin a blowjob; it definitely was⊠your technique had room for improvement. Lots, even. But hey, you improved and thatâs all that matters!) but itâs not like you didnât read the nastiest guilty pleasure fanfics on the internet when you were a teenager.Â
âMost of us have the decency not to try something with someone taken.â Chaeryeongâs voice snaps you out of your thoughts.Â
âThere you go. Most of you.â
Upon that comeback, Chaeryeong doesnât have anything to deflect with. In the end, she settles with âAs if youâre not one of them too, monogamist.â Changbin shoots her a warning glare.
The topic dies down soon after and Chaeryeong stops talking at some point, too immersed in completing the tattoo. Changbin reminisces a bit about his joint past with her, back when they were still toddlers and Chaeryeong shit her pants in the backyard, but she soon lashes back with a set of embarrassing endeavors Changbin went through in his teen years. You fight the urge to laugh then and there, and promise Changbin to take his moments of shame to the grave, yet silently thank Chaeryeong for providing these stories.Â
Hours pass and eventually, Chaeryeong does the finishing touches to the new sleeve extension. Positioned right underneath the head of the wolf, itâs a pine forest that takes up the entire space of his lower arm.Â
âI donât expect any other customers today, so take your time,â Chaeryeong says after bandaging him up and leaves the room first to clean her equipment.Â
Changbin rolls his shoulder back to get rid of the numbness in his right arm before he carefully slips into his jacket. Youâre contemplating bringing up the topic of meeting his friends again because that thought hasnât left your mind and Changbinâs reaction didnât sit right with you. Youâre thinking of dropping it altogether since he must have his reasons and you donât want to foul his mood, but thenâ
Oh, fuck it. You donât have anything to lose.
âSo, about the ToplineââÂ
âNo.â His answer is firm and before you can counter, he sighs deeply and meets your bummed expression. âItâs not that I donât want you to meet the rest of my friends I grew up with, but itâs better if you donât.â
Your brows scrunch in irritation. âWhy? As long as youâre there it shouldnât be a problem, no? Unless thereâs some dubious backdoor business theyâre partaking in?â
âDubious backdoor businessâGod, no, itâs nothing like that,â Changbin grabs you by the shoulders and stops in his sentence after a moment of hesitation. âIt's just⊠letâs say there are a lot of physical confrontations at that particular bar.â
âChaeryeong made it sound like you still frequent that place quite often,â you mumble. You donât process what you said until seconds later, and when you see the perplexity on Changbinâs features, you realize you stepped on a landmine. âSorry, I didnât mean it like thatââ
âItâs alright. I get it. Sometimes I ask myself why I still go there too.â He says it like someone whoâs accepted the fact that their cigarette addiction is going to last for the rest of their life. âRemember when I told you I used to be a troublemaker who did some questionable things? We didnât do illegal stuff or anything thatâs super messed up, just questionable. I mightâve grown from that phase, but some of them didnât. Youâre better off not knowing some of them, really.â He means the last part, almost as if he wished he never met them himself.Â
Before the mood can get any more depressing, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss on your lips. âThe only person worth meeting is Chaeryeong, to be honest. Sheâs the one who stuck along since day one.â
âWell, she did tell interesting stories about your past. The cherry pie incident was amusing to hear,â you muse, earning a warning glare from him.
âWe donât talk about the cherry pie incident. You promised you'd take that story to the grave,â he reminds you stoically, but the facade drops in an instant when you peck his lips. Gone is the unreadable expression as you reduce him into a flustered mess.Â
âCross my heart and hope to die,â you swear, giving him a wink before leaving the room.
Chaeryeong looks up from her phone when you finally step foot into the⊠lobby? Main room? Room filled with band posters and blasting Green Day from the speakers? That room.
The payment goes smoothly. Changbin pulls out several banknotes from his jacket and you gawk at the amount heâs brought. No sane person would carry that amount in cash, but perhaps itâs an unspoken tattoo culture thing. The two banter a bit and Changbin eventually decides to go to the toilet, leaving you with Chaeryeong.
âIt was nice meeting you,â she says, the corners of her lips quirking upwards.Â
âHuh?â You have to stop being so caught off guard by the casual sentences. âI mean, likewise.â
If Chaeryeong finds your initial reactions off-putting, she doesnât let it show. After a moment of deliberation, she pulls out a small business card and starts scribbling something on the back of it. Once sheâs done, she walks around the counter until sheâs standing right in front of you. You flinch when she grabs your hand without warning and drops the business card in your palm.Â
âIn case you ever feel like stopping by at the Topline. The directions on the internet are a little confusing.â Chaeryeong sounds like an angel, but the mischievous glint in her eyes tells otherwise. You stare at her wide-eyed, slowly peeking down to give the card a slower inspection. You recognize the main street and surprisingly enough, the bar isnât too far away from it and not hidden in a maze like the tattoo parlor. âOur little secret, yeah?â
You return the smile. âOur little secret.â
âQuit hogging my girlfriend.â
You quickly hide the card by pulling down your sleeve. Luckily, Changbin doesnât seem like he heard a word of your conversation. After saying your goodbyes, he additionally flicks Chaeryeongâs forehead because âitâs what she gets for dropping honorificsâ. Chaeryeong jabs him playfully in the chest as payback.Â
âYou got yourself a good one, Seo Changbin,â she says after engulfing you in a hug. Changbin only rolls his eyes but the slight blush that dusts his ears doesnât go unnoticed. âStop by again soon!â
The weeks pass by uneventfully.
Once Changbinâs skin stopped peeling off three weeks in, he almost threw a party for being able to wear his long-sleeved compression shirts again, leaving little to the imagination.Â
Then again, he resorted to fitted tank tops instead or ditched a shirt completely whenever he was at home, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Your brain ran haywire every time Changbin stretched and reached for something, zeroing in on the ink moving with his muscles. You also found yourself imagining him with tattoos covering his other arm, first wondering which designs would suit him (perhaps a little more color besides red?), but it quickly morphed into a daydream of how delectable his arms would look in sleeveless shirts, both covered in ink. Once that image solidified in the forefront of your mind every time he entered your peripheral vision, along with thoughts so degenerate you didnât know your mind could conjure, you knew you needed an orgasm for a brain reset.Â
An alternative would be to ask him to just get a second tattoo sleeve done, or even gift him a surprise appointment because he did tell you in the past that he plans on getting his left arm done eventually, but that reeks a bit too much of self-gratification.Â
Unfortunately, as a byproduct of being paranoid about infecting the new tattoo, the best Changbin could offer you was a peck on the lips when all you wanted was for him to throw you on the bed. You forced yourself to touch some grass every day to keep your sanity intact and not reach into the depths of your mental spank bank, pull out the vibrator and cum then and there. As much as you were lusting after Changbin, you were not giving him the satisfaction of your sexless-induced meltdown because he wouldnât pound you into the mattress. You briefly debated whether you should just get yourself off while he wasnât at home, but youâre a terrible liar and he reads your face like an open book.
Suffice to say, it devastated you that the weeks passed by so uneventfully.Â
The more rewarding it is once he frees you from his self-imposed sex ban and is sitting on the couch with you grinding on his lap, both of you still fully clothed. His hands latch onto your hips and set a moderate pace as your lips crash onto his. The neediness takes him by surprise, but heâs quick to match the energy and slips his tongue into your mouth, enticing a whine out of you. Itâs downright pathetic how fast heâs reduced you into a whimpering mess, begging for more, and you hope he doesnât realize youâre more sensitive than usual.Â
âSomeoneâs impatient,â he pants into your mouth, struggling to hide the smile and the groans forming at the back of his throat. Another uncoordinated lip lock, then he pulls away to bunch your skirt up and grant himself access to your damp underwear. He wastes no time pushing your panties to the side and runs a finger over your slick folds.Â
âA-aaa-ah, fuckâ and whoâs to blame for that?â you choke out, digging crescents into his buff upper arms. Changbin isnât even applying a lot of pressure and youâre already at the brink of seeing stars. Youâre too far gone to be surprised, too drunk on his touch to notice the growing bulge under his pants.Â
âTalking back? Thatâs new.â Changbin raises a brow at you, followed by an appreciative hum. âI like that.â
With one arm wrapped around your waist for stabilisation, he spreads your folds apart with his other hand to ghost a finger above your clit. You lurch forward at the motion, body trembling from the slightest microactions.Â
âChangbin, m-moreâ hnhg,â you plead, aching to thrust your hips into his touch. But heâs holding you steady by the waist, rendering every movement useless.Â
It hasnât been that long since you discovered that Changbin loves it when you ask for him more, demand more. Although you are still struggling to get past the indignity of verbalizing anything further specific than âmoreâ, he doesnât mind.Â
Itâs okay, he said. Baby steps, he said.Â
He doesnât keep you waiting for so long and as you wish, flicks your clit in a steady rhythm. Smugness settles on his features as he relishes the broken sounds coming out of your mouth. âThatâs it. Attagirl.âÂ
The remark is all it takes to send you six feet under. Coincidentally, it hasnât been that long since you discovered that you love it when he talks you through it. Ever since Changbin clocked that, alongside the way you clench around him every time he praises how good you are to him, how perfectly your tight pussy is taking him to the hilt, heâs been abusing your weakness like a cheat code.
But he isnât unfair. Heâs a giver through and throughâa generous one, so.Â
âWant more, huh? Fuckâ Iâll give you more. Everything my baby wants." The words drip from his mouth like honey, a proud smile painted on his lips as you unravel under his touch. The pretty sounds from your lips, the way your fingers grip his arms for dear life, he drinks it all in and it still isnât enough.
Everything you want is everything you get, so he slips a finger inside of you while his thumb flicks over your clit with more pressure than before. Itâs everything you want and yet, itâs too much at once that youâre writhing under his control, incapable of forming any coherent thought.Â
Meanwhile, Changbin settles on assaulting your neck in kisses and nibbles, adding a second finger while keeping the pace of his hand constant. âFuck, baby, youâre so, so good to me.âÂ
The arm around your waist has loosened and by the time you realize it, youâre already riding his hand like a maniac. Your moans reverberate across the living room, so loud and unfiltered that an innocent bystander would think you were a freak virgin if the walls werenât soundproof.Â
Youâre so close to chasing your high, close to tasting it, when all of a sudden the default iPhone ringtone blares from Changbinâs phone. The ear-deafening sound rips you a new one, and Changbin is just as delirious, hand coming to a freeze.Â
The ringtone stops. A beat passes. And then his phone rings again.Â
Irritation makes its way onto Changbinâs face, and before he can throw the phone across the room, the ringtone stops again.Â
âI cannot be bothered with this shit,â he mutters before leaning in for a kiss, ignoring the obnoxious ring to the best of his ability.Â
The phone rings a third time. This time, the standard ringtone is replaced by a Tiger JK song. Changbin tenses.Â
âFuck, supervisorâs calling,â he curses under bated breath and tears away for good this time, âIâm sorry, I really have to take this.â
Before you can complain, he pulls his fingers out of you, lifts you off his lap and gently sets you on the couch. In a matter of seconds, heâs scrambling for his phone on the coffee table and rushes into your bedroom to take the call, leaving you utterly confused with a throbbing core and the fading reality of an orgasm.
You blink.
What the fuck just happened?
You still havenât recovered when he reappears in the living room, fixing his hard-on in his pants to be less noticeable. A wave of frustration and regret flushes on his face as he slips on his leather jacket.
âYouâre leaving me. Just like this? Thatâs it?â The crack in your voice is all it takes for Changbinâs face to fall. It is cruel after all; weeks of the slightest of touches and the most innocent of kisses, waiting patiently for most of his tattoo to healâall that for a build-up of a much-needed and very overdue orgasm that vanishes through a single phone call from his supervisor.
âEmergency at the lab.â Words cannot describe how thick his guilty conscience is weighing on him. âI promise Iâll make it up to you.â
âTonight?â
âIâll be coming home late.â Upon hearing those words, your expression sours. The justification that follows isnât any better: âI bailed on my friends too many times and Chaeryeong will have my head if I donât show up today.â
âAt the Topline?â you ask.
Changbin nods. âIâll be back before you realize it, promise.â
And just like that, he leaves you alone in your apartment.
Now, you know where Changbinâs loyalties lie. Hell, youâre not one to make him decide between you and his friends. He always prioritizes you over everyone else, as proven in the case of Felix and Yeonjun.Â
However, heâs never left you with figurative blue balls before. And to expect you to suck it up after the past weeks?
The audacity.Â
Out of courtesy and respecting his wishes, you refrained from contacting Chaeryeong even though the Topline has been gnawing at the back of your head ever since you met her. The business card is still hidden in the pocket of your coat, with her number and directions to the bar.Â
Changbin played himself out of that courtesy with his stunt.Â
The text you send to Chaeryeong is a mere one-liner. âHey, itâs me! I heard youâre meeting at the Topline today, would love to join!â. Ten minutes later, your phone rings with her contact lighting up the screen.
âI was wondering if you would ever reach out,â Chaeryeong muses once you pick up. âSo, what did he do this time?â
The direct question startles you. How often does Changbin get into trouble for her to break the ice with this?
You donât bother questioning the rationale and reply, âI want to get back at him.â
âDamn, he mustâve fucked up. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.â A laugh escapes from the other line. âAlright then. Meet me at the subway station at 9. Come as your best. See you then!â
Come as your best, said Chaeryeong. Who are you to question her?
For someone who is not well-versed in the art of a sultry smokey eye, pride fills your chest when you add the finishing touches to your makeup. It took you approximately an hour to complete this makeup look, and prior to that, a run to the next department store followed by a loss of ten bucks on your bank account for purchasing a drugstore eyeshadow palette that you will solely use for this occasion.Â
The little black dress clinging to your skin is barely long enough to forego the safety shorts, but it hugs your figure in all the right places. You take a mental note to wear this dress more often, even if it requires you to go out at night more often. Then again, this is the only appropriate going-out dress you have in your wardrobe. Thank God you didnât throw it away during your last closet cleanout. Otherwise you wouldâve been stuck with the choices: 1) flowy skirts and basic tees, 2) gray joggers youâve owned for five years counting along with the ugly pink furry sweaterâitâs so ugly itâs cuteâor 3) paying too much money for a cheaply produced polyester dress that you will only wear once.Â
And because you are only doing this to subject Changbin to a night of pain and suffering and another round of blue balls, you slip on his favorite leather jacket before hurrying to the subway station. Some would call it pettiness; you prefer karmic retribution.Â
âYou arenât here to play,â Chaeryeong whistles as she eyes you from head to toe, visibly pleased with what sheâs seeing. âTonight will be fun, especially since there will finally be another woman at the table!â
Wasting no time, you head over to the Topline. Reminiscent of Chaeryeongâs tattoo parlor, the moderately packed bar is designed in rocker fashion with dark wooden furniture, band posters and political stickers sticking haphazardly on the wall. It reeks of smoke and musk and if it werenât for Chaeryeong by your side, you wouldâve stuck out like a sore thumb.Â
As Chaeryeong guides you to the round booth tucked in the far left corner of the room, the guy already sitting there looks up from his phone and spots you immediately. A wolfish grin flashes on his lips as his eyes linger a beat on your jacket, immediately clocking the context.Â
âIâm Wooyoung,â he grins at you after hugging Chaeryeong. âBinnieâs been hiding your identity for so long. Now I can place a face and a name to the lucky lady.âÂ
The silver ring dangling on his bottom lip glistens in the lighting, and you see the faint outlines of a tattoo peaking out of his high collar. Perhaps Changbin had a point with his reluctance to introduce you to this set of friends. Itâs not like heâs keeping you a secretâyou crashed plenty of his and Felixâs Genshin sessions, and proofread Yeonjunâs assignments too many times for Changbinâs comfort. But their personalities and first impressions weren't as brash as Wooyoungâs and certainly didnât make you feel like prey served on a silver platter.Â
Blame it on the tattoos and lip ring. Although by that logic, Changbin should also count as someone you should be wary of.Â
âYou came in time.â Wooyoung tears you out of your inner monologue. âJinnieâs ordering the first round for us andâ ah, speak of the devil.â
Your jaw nearly drops when your line of sight focuses in on the newcomer, the strands of jet black hair and abundance of jewelry on his neck all too familiar.
âHyunjin?â you gawk.
Hyunjin mirrors your expression, blindly setting the tray of Baby Guinnesses on the table. âWait, youâre Changbinâs girlfriend?"
âYou two know each other?â Chaeryeongâs eyes flit between the two of you, grabbing one shot glass as she slides into the booth. âSame major or something?â
âWe work at the museum together,â you answer.Â
âSimilar majors,â Hyunjin adds, âShe does anthropology, I do fine arts.â
âIt isnât similarââ
âItâs similar enough for these dumbasses.â
âWhat a small world we live in,â Wooyoung interrupts your banter and slips a shot glass into each of your palms. âWe can reminisce later. But first, bottoms up!â
To your surprise, you down the shot with ease, the taste of sweet coffee liquor lingering on your tongue. Hyunjin was smart enough to order two glasses for everyone and before you know it, youâre holding the second shot to your lips and finishing it in one go.Â
From then on, everythingâs a blur.Â
Time passes in the blink of an eye. One moment, Hyunjin is bombarding you with questions on how you met Changbin and how the fuck he never made the connection since he sees you twice a week and has to mute Changbinâs number whenever he overthinks what to cook for you. In the next, an abundance of shot glasses and soju bottles appear on the table out of thin air. At a certain point, Chaeryeong leaves your group and directs her attention to the hot bartender mixing up tequila sunrises, while Wooyoung is trying to convince you in slurred syllables to also get tatted up or at the very least, commit to a lip ring too. This sends Hyunjin into a spiral of complaining in solidarity with Jisungâs absence, and he brings up the conspiracy theory that Jisung unjustifiably ended up doing mandatory community service because the cops mistook him for someone else who also happened to have a lip ring. Place your bets on whose fault it is that Jisung got a lip ring?
Sandwiched between the two as they bicker, you only laugh at the absurdity of it all and reach forward to pour yourself a new soju shot. Wooyoung takes this opportunity for mischief and snatches the bottle away from you, gulping the remaining liquor in as few sips as possible. It takes all clogs in your brain a hot minute to understand what heâs aiming for and a cut later, youâre balancing your half weight on him to steal the bottle back.Â
âThe fuck is going on here?â
Your vision is also too blurry to make out the details of his face, but the familiar voice rings in your ear, causing you to jump off Wooyoung and grin sheepishly.Â
âThe man of the hour is here!â Wooyoung ignores the comment happily and then adds in a sharp tone. âYouâre late!â
Changbinâs eyes are set ablaze as he stares you down in silence, processing the entire predicament. Youâre too far gone to notice the harshness in his gaze or the way he swallows once he realizes that youâre wearing his jacket, only giggling as an aftereffect of the alcohol flowing through your veins.Â
Changbin opens his mouth and shuts it quickly, deliberating where he should start. In the end, he settles with, âSome fucking sleazeballâ,â if looks could kill, Wooyoung wouldâve been dead yesterday, ââignored the lab calls so I had to step in and take care of it.â
âAs you always do! I can always count on you!â
âFuck off, Wooyoung,â Changbin sighs and then turns to you, âMore importantly, what are you doing here?â
âWhat do you think?â you snicker, more than tipsy.Â
Changbin narrows his eyes. âHow much did you drink?â
âNot a lot.â
âAnd now the truth,â he deadpans, unimpressed by the exasperated theatrics you give him.
âI wasnât lying!â
By then, Hyunjin made some space for Changbin to slide next to you. He tilts your chin up, closing the gap between your lips. Youâre leaning in closer, giddily awaiting the kiss when he pulls back and mutters, âYeah, your breath says something else.â
âSeo Changbin, you donât tell a woman her breath stinks!â
âShut up Chaeryeong.â Changbin rolls his eyes, earning him a scoff from Chaeryeong, who just returned from the bar with more concoctions she probably sweet-talked the poor bartender for free, with empty promises of a hookup after his shift. Changbin grabs your wrist and tugs you out of the booth with him. âWeâre leaving.âÂ
âBut you just arrived!â you complain.
âWeâre leaving.â The finality in his tone leaves no room for bargaining. He doesnât even give the rest of his friends an ounce of his attention or the opportunity to say goodbye, even though he swore to go crazy with them tonight.
All sequences happen in rapid succession, from leaving the stuffy bar to the cold wind on the streets, from All Time Low blasting in your ears to the faint sounds of traffic on the main road. Changbin maintains a fast tempo, his grip a vice on your wrist. Coordination was never a skill of yours even while sober; therefore, it comes to the point where heâs dragging your drunken figure through the alleyways as if you were a ragdoll. Everything happens so fast that your legs struggle to keep up with his footsteps and your head is moments away from spinning with vertigo.Â
âChangbin, too fast,â you pant, not able to tell whether he caught your plea or not. Alcohol has never been your strong suit, and the consequences of not figuring out your limit when you were still in high school bite back in this moment. Something is bubbling up in the back of your throat, constricting your ability to speak. You try another attempt at catching Changbinâs attention with a measly pat on his arm, and when that doesnât work, you force the words past your lips. âI think I need toââ
Before you can register anything else, youâre hurling over a trash can and your legs give up.
The next time youâre conscious, itâs in the safe haven of your bed, accompanied by a raging hangover.
âEasy there.â Changbin is sitting on a chair next to you, eyes lifted from his phone.Â
âMy head hurts,â you groan as you push yourself up on your forearms, annoyed by the sunlight glaring into your face. All you remember is the absurd amount of liquor you basically inhaled in a span of a few hours. Perhaps also bantering with Chaeryeong, Hyunjin and Wooyoung. Maybe even how you left the Topline with Changbin and maybe, just maybe, how he was holding your hair up as you were puking your guts out into a public trash can.Â
Oh, how becoming one with the bed would make last nightâs events disappear in an instant.
âIâd be surprised if your head didnât hurt after you blacked out.â Changbin grabs the cup of water by the nightstand and holds it up to your lips. âDrink.â
His lips are pressed into a fine line as you obey him diligently, only pushing away his arm once the cup is empty. Silence envelopes the room as he keeps a close eye on you adjusting to the daylight. Once he deems you conscious enough, he picks up the plate of scrambled eggs, sausages and toast and places it on your lap.
âNow eat.â
Glad that heâs not spoon-feeding your breakfast to you, you ask groggily. âWhat time is it?âÂ
âMidday.â
Lunch it is, then.
Itâs a rare occasion that Changbin only watches you without any comment. Usually heâs one to spill everything going on in his mind, be it about the research project that he only begrudgingly agreed to for the prospect of skipping mandatory exams, or date ideas, because unlike public perception, he is the resident romantic between the two of you. Which is why his silence concerns you even more, because the only times Changbin is very careful about choosing the right words is when itâs very serious.
âAbout last night.â You shut your eyes in defeat once those words leave his mouth, knowing whatâs coming next. âIâm not even going to question how everyone there already knew that you were coming along. I told you not to go there. What were you thinking?â
âDoes it matter?â
He sends you a look of disbelief, as if you were dropped multiple times as a baby. âYes, it does! Itâs your safety weâre talking about!â
This is ridiculous. You literally just woke up, trying to pull through the aftermath of the drinking fest and Changbin thinks this is the best time to reprimand you for your lapse of judgment?
The toast in your mouth begins to taste vile. âAre you saying I cannot take care of myself?â
The bitter undertone in your voice doesnât go unnoticed. Changbin runs a hand through his messy hair. Realizing that the conversation is slowly turning south and so not what he was hoping to achieve, he tries a different angle along with a softer voice. âMy friends are a lotââ
âChaeryeong is nice.âÂ
âSheâs the exception. Hyunjin for exampleââ
âHeâs my colleague. We work together. Which, by the way, you probably knew of yet you didnât bother telling us.â You arch a brow.Â
Changbinâs shoulders slump in defeat. âOkay, itâs just Wooyoung. Heâs the textbook definition of trouble.â
âI thought that was Jisung?â
âThe point is,â he stresses and takes a deep breath before resuming with, âYou got blackout drunk. God knows what wouldâve happened if I werenât there.â
âBut you were there.â
The rational part of you knows better than to egg him on. This is already a sensitive issue for him, this overprotective side of himâor so he likes to call it. In your eyes, it is something more akin to guilt or obsession or a culmination of both. But neither has there been the right timing to bridge that conversation, nor is it in your best interest to start the war now.Â
The damage has already been done though, judging by the way Changbin clenches his jaw.Â
âI think I should go to the lab now.â He presses a chaste kiss on your forehead that comes off more as a gesture of obligation before standing up from your side. âGet enough rest. If you need more meds, I put them on the kitchen counter.â
Before you can regret your attitude, he is already out the door.
Contrary to popular belief, Changbinâs love languages are acts of service and gift giving. You know better than what most people would assume. Therefore, it doesnât surprise you when he arrives home at dinner time with a takeaway bag from your favorite restaurant in his hand.
That being said, Changbin also has his way with words. Thereâs a reason why he first considered a music career before settling for the more realistic prospects of a STEM degree. (Technically speaking, he applied for the forensics program, just so that he could blow up cars in the lab and call it his job, but wasnât accepted. Medicinal chemistry followed as a backup plan after an eye-opening conversation with one of his seniors who raved about the pay of big pharma.)Â Â Â
You cut to the chase as he puts the paper bag on the kitchen counter. âSorry about last night. In retrospect, that was really stupid of me to do so.â
âSorry about this morning,â Changbin responds, a soft smile etched on his lips. âI didnât mean to lecture you like that.â
Heâs halfway through unpacking the contents of his takeaway order when you engulf him in a hug, face buried in the crook of his neck. Almost instinctively, he wraps his strong arms around your waist and the two of you linger in silence, the soft, brimming sound of the fridge filling the void.Â
âAlready forgiven ButâŠâ you trail off, choosing your next words carefully, âdid something happen that made you so⊠overprotective?âÂ
The question startles him. He blinks and for a brief pause, you second-guess whether now is a good time to bring up the question burning in the back of your skull. Perhaps itâs a little too early to stir up that hornetâs nest.
âI guess,â Changbin starts and you release the tension in your shoulders that youâve unconsciously built up, âsince we sometimes have vastly different circles, I didnât want to scare you off. I know you sometimes find my preferences quite intimidating.â
You squint. âYou think you scare me off? Even though I was the one who suggested moving in together?â
At the mention of that, Changbin chortles. âYou have a point. I know itâs stupid, Iâm probably projectingâ hmpfââÂ
Sometimes, for his own good, he talks too much. Cut off by your kiss, it takes him a second before he reciprocates earnestly. Changbinâs kisses are slow and controlled, filled with love that takes up all the space in your lungs. All insecurities and previous arguments are long forgotten as you try to coax more out of him.Â
As they say, forgive, never forget. And while Changbin makes you relent in many things, not even his lips can make you forget how he left you drowning in frustration.
The kisses grow in intensity, deeper and more forceful. You lightly tug on his bottom lip, drawing a breathy moan out of him. Anything for him to finally get it. Addicted to the constrained sounds he is making, you wrap your arms around his shoulders and tug on the tufts of hair at his nape. The unexpected force takes him by surprise and you can only imagine his dick twitching in anticipation.
Changbin recognizes your ulterior motives too late. He groans into your mouth once you force a thigh between his legs, pressing hard on his bulge. Though it cost him his entire willpowerâyou know, because he is a weak man when it comes to youâhe breaks off the kiss and places his forehead on yours, breath shaky and hands trembling.
âFoodâs getting cold,â he says weakly. Itâs a final warning; if you donât take the bait, heâs going to devour you.
âFood can wait. You still owe me from blue balling me yesterday.âÂ
Changbin doesnât need to be told twice.
His hands are cupping your face and his lips never detach from yours as he blindly guides you to your bedroom. He doesnât let go of you until the back of your knees hit the bedframe, then wastes no time stripping you out of your clothes. Youâre about to complain why heâs taking his sweet time, but then he pushes you on the bed and hovers above you.Â
âYesterday really did a number on you,â he says, discarding his own clothes with a subtle smirk on his face, and your eyes canât help but center on his tattoo-covered right arm and the flex of his bicep. It costs you everything not to tackle his arm and leave marks on it.Â
âA-ahâ all your faultââ is all you can manage as he leaves open-mouthed kisses on your collarbone and lets his hands freely roam your body. Not a single crevice of your body stays unexplored. His breath lies heavy on your skin, unrelenting as he sucks on your most sensitive spots. All you can do is lie there and take it, hands gripping the sheets as marks you all over. You shiver when the pads of his fingers graze over your nipples, and arch your back with a contained moan when he flicks both of them.
âItâs all my fault youâre like this. Iâm sorry.â Even though his ministrations tell a different story, he really means it, given the tone in his voice. âIâll take care of you.âÂ
True to his word, he knows how to take care of you.
âShame on me for not giving my pretty girl what she deserves,â he sighs and you jolt when he snakes a hand down to your bare cunt. âLook how wet you already are, and all I did was kiss you.âÂ
Changbin has his way with words, and your reactions to them donât escape his attention. Deep down, youâre certain he has a mean streak and finds pleasure in the way you writhe underneath when he showers you in care, taking the heavy work off you. Even if heâs looking at you with stars in his eyes, thereâs an underlying edge to his gaze that you havenât quite grasped yet.Â
He wastes no time slipping two fingers into you, slowly pumping them in and out. Your stomach swoops, bucking your hips to chase the feeling. A cry leaves you when his thumb simultaneously flicks your clit, and you actually feel like crying when he doesnât pick up the pace. Itâs so slow, too slow, and you start to believe that this is an even worse treatment than being denied your orgasm when youâre seconds close to reaching it.Â
âChangbin, Iâm going crazy if you donâtâ hhhââ the desperation is dripping from your voice, and yet, he stares down at you in awe, ââif you donât put it in right nowââ
âPatience, baby,â Changbin mutters, though he doesnât make any attempt to change his actions, âI promise itâs worth the wait. Iâll treat you good.âÂ
He speeds up a little and thatâs all it takes to have you gripping his shoulders for dear life. His fingers hit all the right spots that send you into overload and have your toes curling, but itâs the last curl in the right angle that has you sobbing uncontrollably. Itâs a dream come true, how Changbin gives you everything and more, but before you can reach the height of your climax, he pulls his fingers out.
Youâre about to whine in retaliation, because this is far from good treatment, until he brings his fingers up to his lips and brazenly sucks your slick off his digits, eyes never leaving yours.Â
âTastes sweet,â he grins.
Hell, this man is out to ruin you.Â
You donât have a comeback prepared for this. Too dazed to do anything except tremble beneath him, your mind is still short-circuiting from everything, but Changbinâs hard cock lies flush against your thigh, grounding you back to reality. Precum is oozing out of his tip and youâre about to reach down to give him any semblance of pleasure, but heâs quick to pin your wrist to the side.
âLet me take care of everything,â he mumbles as his left arm reaches for the nightstand to fish out a condom from the drawer. You shiver at the warmth in his voice; he really is hellbent on making it up to you.Â
Changbin works in quick movements, ripping the condom packet open with his teeth and sliding it onto his leaking cock in one swift movement. Your heart is hammering against your ribcage when he lowers himself on you, and a mewl escapes you when he teases your folds with the tip, drags it up to your clit and then down to your entrance, smearing your precum around.Â
Luckily for you, Changbin doesnât linger and slowly pushes into you. Every time he puts it in, he makes sure to be careful. Itâs the same story every time, because you always have to get used to the stretch of his girth. Inch by inch, he draws out every thrust with a stifled groan, because youâre always so tight every time, and he keeps checking your face for any sign of discomfort.Â
âTell me when to go on,â he grits once heâs halfway in, but you can tell itâs costing him a lot to stay level-headed. Itâs hard to keep any sense of reason with the way your pussy holds him in a vice grip. You can share the sentiment with the way his cock is stretching you out in a way your hands canât even begin to fathom.Â
He fills you up so well that youâre rendered speechless, so you resort to prodding his lower back with your heel, stirring him into motion. The thrusts start out gentle, but they soon gain in intensity and you drown in the pleasure and I got youâs heâs whispering in staggered breaths.Â
Soon enough, heâs diving into you with such strength that it has you seeing white. An arrangement of uncontrollable whines and heavy grunts fills your ears, and you feel your stomach coiling. The final nail in the coffin is when you meet his gaze, fully blown with adoration.Â
When you fall apart underneath him, itâs with your head on could nine, a stream of love confessions, and your hands intertwined with his.
The hallway that leads to the lab Changbin works at is as sterile-looking as the dentistâs.Â
You decided to pick up Changbin after another long day for him at the lab, because the past few days he always came home looking like the devil incarnate â most likely his supervisor â sucked the life energy out of him in the form of countless self-experiments because they are short on time and it is just not possible finding enough people for the needed sample size.Â
Itâs probably against every safety procedure and general lab etiquette that the break room, where all students enjoy their cheap coffee amidst the tedious chaos in academia, is just a door away from the lab. Practical for all parties involved? Definitely. Legal? Debatable.Â
Youâre about to knock when the door of the break room swings open, revealing a familiar face.
âWooyoung?â
âHey!â He beams back. âSurprised to see me?â
Surprised is an understatement. Having only seen him in all black and an abundance of piercings dangling from his ears, the current version of Wooyoung in a lab coat, glasses, and a missing lip ring makes him a completely different person.
You nod. âI didnât know you also studied medicinal chemistry.â
âAlmost. My major is in biochemistry.â Wooyoung flashes you a cheeky grin. âBinnie and I are working on the same research project.âÂ
âThe one where youâre recreating drugs?â
âAh, thatâs the one!â
âHowâs that going?â
âEh,â Wooyoung shrugs, âNot bad but not good either. Anyways, what brings you here?â
âI was looking for Changbin,â you reply. Â
âOh, he was just out for an errand. He should be back in 10.â He gestures for you to step inside. âCoffee?â
Naturally, you take him up on the offer. While he boots up the coffee machine, you sit in one of the white IKEA plastic chairs. Wooyoung occupies the chair in front of you and sets two paper cups on the table, sliding the left one in your direction. The coffee tastes as good as you expected from cheap coffee in a break room that doesnât even provide ergonomic chairs. You would ask for some sugar if it werenât for the fact that Wooyoung already added two packs and a boatload of creamer into your cup.Â
âYou know, it doesnât surprise me that Binnie fell in love with you,â he begins mindlessly in between sips, âYouâre totally his type.âÂ
If this is how he normally starts his smalltalk, you wonder how many people grew repulsive of him the moment he opened his mouth. That doesnât stop you from playing along though.Â
âAnd that entails?â
âYour personality. You need a backbone to tolerate Binnieâs antics,â he remarks. Thatâs the most generic response one could even think of. âAlso, your sense of fashion. Thatâs the biggest giveaway. Binnieâs really into the cute aesthetic and skirts and shit.âÂ
You give him a look. âAha.âÂ
He has to be trolling. Yet upon further pondering, you begrudgingly admit that he may have a point. In hindsight, Changbin did stare a beat too long whenever you wore your flowy skirts in combination with one of his hoodies.
You miss the way Wooyoung observes you closely as all gears in your head are churning overtime, trying to find as many instances as possible that corroborate his statement.
âBy the way,â He grabs your attention once more as he fidgets in the pockets of his lab coat. âMy roommateâs birthday is coming up soon and heâs the biggest sweet tooth there is, so I decided to make him some self-made candy. I need opinions.â
The Gudetama tin in his hand stares back at you. The last thing you expected Wooyoung to carry was a tin of an egg yolk with a face. If people thought Changbin was a walking contradiction, they clearly havenât met Wooyoung yet. Oblivious to your puzzled expression, he adds proudly, âCherry flavor, and I promise this shit will rock your world.âÂ
âDonât mind if I take one,â you mutter and pop one in your mouth. In your opinion, itâs not the best there is, but it isnât inedible either. But with the way Wooyoung is waiting expectantly with large puppy eyes, you donât have the heart to talk about its mediocrity and say, âTheyâre really good.âÂ
Wooyoung leans back in his seat with a satisfied nod. The two of you fall into casual conversationâa mild debate about almond vs. soy milkâuntil Changbin announces himself loudly as he enters the break room.Â
âAnd this is my cue to leave. See you around,â Wooyoung winks at you and delivers a hard slap on Changbinâs shoulder as he brushes past him. In response, Changbin trips him, causing the other to stumble and throw a string of profanities at him.Â
Once Wooyoung disappears from your eyesight, Changbin embraces you in a bone-crushing hug and kisses the top of your head. âHave you been waiting long?âÂ
âNo. Besides, Wooyoung kept me company.â Your voice comes out muffled as your face is squished into his chest.Â
He holds you close for a moment longer, allowing you to wallow in his scent. The mixture of disinfectant, musk and cedar wood makes you light-headedâstrangely intoxicated, even. Youâre usually not sensitive to scents, but the smell creeps into all of your senses, materializing in a foggy vision and clammy skin. Itâs so overwhelming that you struggle to breathe, and before you know it, all strength leaves your body and you slouch on Changbin. The motion catches him off guard, forcing him to steady himself with a palm on the table.Â
Something isnât right. Luckily, Changbin catches it too.
âYou donât look well.âÂ
âI donât feel well either,â you croak.Â
âShit. Let me clock out, then weâll head straight home.â
Itâs a chain reaction. All alarms go off in Changbinâs head as he guides you to the chair, then strips off his lab coat and frantically shoves all of his notes into his bag, as if it were a race against time before you burst.Â
Perhaps it is one. It sure feels like one.
It definitely is one.Â
The drive home usually takes 20 minutes tops. This time, it feels like 20 years.
Everything is a blur and mix of colors, yet you see Changbin as clear as day.
While concern is bleeding into his expression, you couldnât care less. Instead, you focus on the way he bites on his bottom lip, his jaw clenches, and how youâd do anything to run your fingers through his soft hair. Screw that leather jacket heâs wearing, concealing his beefy arms and tatsâat this point, youâd prefer his compression shirts that are a pain to get off.
Then thereâs his damn scent. It grows more tantalizing, consumes you the more seconds pass. Everything reeks of Changbin Changbin Changbin and all you can think about is how you crave his strong hands on your thighs and spreading them wide apart, his tongue lapping up all your juices like a predator toying with his prey, his kind yet firm gaze forcing you to grip the headboard and astral projecting you three dimensions over.Â
Unaware of the hunger building in your eyes, Changbin gently wipes the sweat away with the washcloth. âYouâre burning up.âÂ
So it comes off as a surprise when your hand latches onto his and you tug him onto you, causing his upper body to crash into you.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Changbin hisses, searching your eyes for answers. Before he gets to push himself up, you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in the crook of his neck.
âNeed you, now.â Itâs not a request, and he knows it.Â
Nonetheless, he tears away from you, shooting you an incredulous look. You try to reel him back, but he manages to get away from the bed and takes two steps back. Heâs trying to figure out the logic in your behavior; you see the cogs working overtime in his brain, but he falls flat.
âSeriously. Did you eat something bad?â
âJust had coffee in the office with Wooyoung and some of the cherry candyââ
âCherry?â And just like that, he pieces the puzzle together. The next thing you know, Changbin is pacing around the room with clenched fists, spitting out every curse under the sun.Â
When he turns back to your clueless face, he sighs. Whether itâs in anger or in defeat, you canât tell. âThose were aphrodisiacs. Wooyoung made them a while back but he fucked up the formula and I thought we threw them all away, because our supervisor would have our heads if we accidentally gave them to our test peopleâand you hadâfuck, Iâm so going to fucking kill him.âÂ
He proceeds to walk back and forth, grumbling and blaming himself for letting it happen, but heâs so far up his head that he ignores the elephant in the room. He doesnât look when you clear your throat, doesnât register that you sit up. You can only take so much of the blatant disrespect that when you raise your voice, itâs fueled by anger.
âBefore you get to fucking kill him, get to fucking me first.âÂ
The brashness in your tone gives him whiplash and causes him to stop dead in his tracks. Finally, he looks at you. He sees the slight tremor in your hands, your half-lidded eyes, and your chest heaving. Gone is the concern and anger, now replaced with confliction.
Changbin has standards, morals, but his resolve is growing weaker by the second when he sees you panting with want. The sight of you has his blood rushing south straight to his dick. Heâs never witnessed you this agitated, this needy before. But even if it breaks him, he will not cross that line. âNo. Absolutely not. Youâre not in your right mindââ
âAnd I donât care!â You yell. The damage has been done already, so what is he hesitating for? Neither is Changbin stupid enough to start a full-blown lecture on not taking things from strangers (even if the stranger is Wooyoung), nor does he have to do some soul searching to find the cure to your current predicament. âIâm horny, Iâm burning up and youâre the only one who can help me. Youâre the only one who can help me but you donât want to help me because of your strange self-imposed righteousness to not act on your corruption kink!âÂ
If he was still fighting his inner demons of taking you then and there, you took him out of it. In place, shock has settled on his features. âWhat?! Thatâs not whatâs happening.â Changbin says, but it sounds more like heâs trying to convince himself.
âStop lying to me! Chaeryeong alluded to it during your tattoo appointment, something about how half of your friend group is into that. Wooyoung said something about your fascination with my skirts?! If that isnât enough proof, I can also ask Hyunjin about it. I bet 20 bucks that he will say something along those linesââÂ
âOkay, sure, say I admit to that. That also proves that you want me to be that way!â He visibly cringes at the weak rebuttal. It isnât even a rebuttal at all.Â
âI donât want you to hold back,â you cry, scrambling for any words that might trigger a switch in him. âI want it rough, I want it mean, I want whatever it is that you want to do to me.â
Changbinâs demeanor changes. As if the winds have changed, his expression turns cold, and all of a sudden, heâs the calmest heâs been in this whole ordeal. You canât tell if youâve pushed it too far, or if this is another one of his meditation exercises, albeit unconventional in a situation like this. It doesnât stop you from growing wet with excitement though.Â
âYou want it rough?â His voice is low as he lets his jacket drop to the floor with a thud, revealing the plain black tank top that brings the best out of his arms.Â
You nod shakily. All at once, you realize that you may have triggered more than you bargained for.
âYou want it mean? Fine, Iâll give you mean.â
Expecting a hand bunching up your hair or rough hands roaming your body, you brace yourself for what is to come. However, nothing happens.Â
Instead, Changbin drags the desk chair to the foot of the bed at a painstakingly slow rate, then makes himself comfortable. With his arms draped behind the back of the chair and legs spread out, showcasing the prominent bulge straining against his jeans, heâs watching your every move like a hawk.
âYou say only I can help you? Show me how much you need me.âÂ
Your mouth runs dry. Where should you even begin? Changbin doesnât give you the luxury of any pointers; simply waits for your next moves. Despite the simple pretense, itâs a lot heâs requiring from you. Heâs usually the one to initiate, to talk you through it. This is the moment where your inexperience shines through.
Once the silence gets too loud, you look at him with helpless eyes. âHow do I do that?â
Changbin raises a brow. After a moment of deliberation, he says, âStrip. Use your creativity. You can start with that.â You gawk when he points at the pillow next to you. âYou want to try out new things? Nowâs the chance to do all that.â
Is he really implying what you think he is? Your face burns even more with the way he speaks so nonchalantly, as if he does this every other Thursday. At least heâs given you directions, you figure, so you ignore the humiliation running in your veins straight to your core, and slip off the clothes until youâre left in nothing but your underwear.Â
âTake off everything.â
It takes you a bit of hesitation to slip out the remaining pieces of clothes. Even though it isnât the first time heâs seen you naked, youâve never seen him outright eye-fuck you like this. Changbin merely cocks his head to the side, giving an appreciative hum as his eyes rake down your figure and burn every last detail into his memory. âCâmon baby, give me a show.â
You shakily reach for the object in question and place it between your shaky legs and you instantly hate. The silk is soft and it doesnât put up any sort of resistance, deflating in an instant. But the petname makes you want more, makes you want to be good for him like you always have, so you suck it up and bunch it up as tightly as you can before you rub yourself against it. Despite the pressure being nonexistent, the contact of it on your clit has you jolting forward. Itâs then and there when you realize how much the aphrodisiacs are heightening your senses.
You try to rock back, but the pillow falls flat. What youâre displaying doesnât even deserve to be called a show, just a haphazard attempt to experience any semblance of friction against your folds; a clumsy sequence of you adjusting the pillow and gliding once, then rinse and repeat. Frustration and tears bubble up as any variation you make to fold it doesnât hold. This is a new level of degradation Changbin is subjecting you to and all he does is sit and stare in silence, relishing your state.
Sooner than later, your thighs are on the brink of giving up and you cannot be bothered anymore; not with the lazy smirk on Changbinâs face, not with the entire assignment. You throw the pillow to the side and look at him in frustration. All you get in response is an expectant look.Â
He wants a show? Fine, a show heâll get.Â
Changbin looks unimpressed when you clumsily move towards him and slide a leg between his to sit on one of his thighs, though the raging hard-on heâs sporting begs to differ. He opens his mouth, about to breathe out a remark but jerks when you claw your nails into his shoulders and start rutting his thigh like a cat in heat.Â
âThe pillow was n-not enough, hnghââ you gasp as you use his thigh to get off. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your cunt, and youâre pretty sure he can throw this pair away with the amount of your slick youâre spreading on it, but youâre too busy chasing your high to care.Â
And because he wants a show and you want to be good, you throw your head back, allowing the unfiltered moans to leave your throat. The effect is immediate; Changbin sucks in a sharp breath of air and flexes his thigh, giving you more room to work with.Â
âFucking hell,â he grits as his hands latch onto your hips and dictate a rough pace while youâre riding his thigh, âyouâll be the death of me.âÂ
The grunts donât stop and it all becomes such a blur that you are soon reaching sensory overload, stars covering your vision when Changbin plants his lips on your collarbone and nips on the skin.
âLet me see how much you need me,â he coos, followed by a string of words of encouragement.
The sensations rush to your head and you canât tell left from right apart, the heat of it all coiling in your stomach. At a certain point, you no longer comprehend what heâs saying, just that heâs saying something. Your hips stutter relentlessly, crashing against the pattern that Changbin is giving. Itâs reaching flow state in its most degenerate form, and youâre not really aware of it when you cum on him with a cry. His hands are brutal as he encourages you to ride out your high, drenching his jeans to the point past saving.Â
Itâs still not enough.Â
Luckily, Changbin thinks the same and carries you back to the bed, letting your back fall against the mattress. He wastes no time stripping his own clothes and before you know it, his mouth is on yours.
âYouâre doing so good. So good for me,â he groans in between kisses, his length lying heavy on your abdomen. The praises donât stop coming in, even when he props himself on his forearm to reach for the drawer of the nightstand, but you stop him at the wrist.Â
âNo condom.â
Changbinâs eyes widen and the corners of his mouth twitch. âYou sureââ
âI swear to God, if you donât put it in me right now, then Iââ you choke, body spasming when Changbin bottoms out in one fluid motion without warning. The immediate stretch has you moaning in pain, and before you get to adjust to his sheer size, he starts moving with slow, controlled, deep thrusts.
âChangbinâ f-fuckââ you weakly hit his shoulders in a lazy attempt to get him to back off, âI canâtââ
âWrong, you can do it,â Changbin says it with such conviction that you believe him. He shudders, overstimulated by feeling you bare for the first time and almost topples over from the sheer force youâre sucking his cock in. âMy babyâs so good for me, taking it all.â
You roll your eyes back, reveling in the compliments he showers you with in between grunts. Soon enough, the stings turn into pleasure and once Changbin senses that your hips are bucking up for more, he throws one of your legs over his shoulder and deepens the angle. The intensity of it all has you babbling nonsense and clutching the bedsheets.Â
âIâm close,â you sob, sensing your demise climbing up to you at record speed.Â
âCum for me,â Changbin orders in between groans, then adds, âBe a good girl and cum on my cock.âÂ
Your orgasm crashes onto you like a tidal wave. Changbinâs name leaves your mouth like a broken record and youâre pretty sure youâre drooling from how good heâs fucking you through your orgasm still, but you cannot be bothered to care. Heâs close moments later and just when heâs about to pull out, you wrap your legs around him, locking him into place.Â
Panic flashes in his eyes, because heâs running out of time and cannot hold it in anymore but you beat him to it. âWant you to cum inside of me,â you beg deliriously, âIf youâre going to ruin me, do itâ h-haahâ do it properly.âÂ
The last comment makes him capitulate. Shivers ripple down his spine as he spurts white inside of you with a deep groan. His broad frame is trembling as your pussy milks him dry, cum hot and sticky as your fluids mix with a loud squelch. Heâs still heaving when he pulls out of you and stares at the aftermath in awe; you spent under him, cum pooling out of you. If only he were well-versed in photography, because itâs the prettiest you have ever looked and itâd be a shame to keep this image only in his memory.
You wonder how Changbin still has the energy to get up when youâre as spent as a ragdoll. The fog in your vision gradually clears as you stare up at the ceiling, unable to do anything else.Â
âHow are you feeling?â Changbin grabs the washcloth from before and begins to clean you up to the best of his abilities, keeping his touch light and gentle. Itâs not enough to entirely clean the mess between your legs, but it should suffice for now, until he has regained the energy to carry you to the bathroom and wash you off properly.Â
âThat was incredible,â you breathe, still basking in the afterglow.Â
Changbin drops the cloth aside to grab the glass of water and let you take small sips out of it. He finishes whatever is left before he joins you in bed, wrapping an arm around your frame and pulling you close.
âThis will not be the last time, right?â you ask.Â
Changbin smiles and plays with a few strands of your hair.
âIâll ruin you as much as you want.â Â
Wooyoung is grinning like a Cheshire cat, oblivious to the impending storm when Changbin enters the office.Â
âBinnie! How are youââ
âJung Wooyoung, Iâm going to kill you.â
The next thing Wooyoung knows, heâs in a headlock at the mercy of the other. This is one of the moments where Wooyoung wishes he never quit taekwondo. It is also one of the moments where Wooyoung finds it unfair that Changbin still knows the moves by muscle memory despite having quit martial arts in middle school. Damn that black belt.
âBefore I die, pray tell, did I do any good to the cause?â Wooyoung wheezes, tapping incessantly at Changbinâs bicep to ask for air. It is all in vain though, as Changbin purposefully squeezes tighter. Where the fuck is their supervisor when Wooyoung needs her the most?!
âGive me some from your aphrodisiacs stash and you might live another day.â
Summary: Even when the world ends, there isnât much you wouldnât do for Minho. Including nefarious activities with your communityâs leader.
Word Count: 10,900 and some change
Warnings: 18+ minors DNI due to adult content. Questionable mentality/morally gray characters, Oral(F. receiving), protected PIV, tit fucking, vaginal fingering, use of pet names, and minimal degradation(my usual), Chan has a sir kink (What a fucking surprise. I'll give you a daddy kink at some point).
Authorâs Note: Someone asked me to write a tit fucking scene like a year ago. So whoever you were, this is for you, I guess? Also, Iâve wanted to do a zombie AU for so long. So, Iâm testing the waters. I have more written about the conflict between Minchan, but I donât know if anyone would be interested. So please let me know. And before you say it, yeah, I know Iâm slow, but Iâll still write it. đ Also Also, be gentle, okay? Itâs been a long time since Iâve posted. I'm just a girl battling her fibro brain fog.
âŒïž Tag List:âŒïžGOING FORWARD I AM NO LONGER USING MY TAG LIST. Iâve decided Iâm not active enough to have one. Sorry, guys. If there is enough outcry, we'll start another one, but otherwise I won't bother.
Minho checked three times. Three times, you tell yourself. The door is secure. A whole damn industrial printer sits in front of the office door. Hell, it took both of you to move it. Not to mention the stairs are crumbling away to the point no one is going to make it up here in the middle of the night. Human or otherwise.Â
All the precautions do nothing to soothe anxiety. The subconscious dances with your fears to create the worst potential outcome in your latest attempt at sleep. The imagery results in you bolting awake with a scream followed by flailing limbs, fighting off a nonexistent threat.Â
Minhoâs voice came first, then the tight embrace. âShh, I have you.â
âSorry.â You say, clinging to his shoulders, and eyes rapidly blink the lingering haze of the dream away to assure the sight in front of you is reality. Guilt hits hard. The scream was undeniably loud. âIâm so sorry.â
A makeshift fire still burns in the metal trash can in the middle of the room, providing just enough light to confirm you are lying on the same dingy couch you fell asleep on. The sleeping bag you initially pulled to your chin is now tangled around your lower limbs. There are no monsters, no extremities holding you down, and no teeth gnawing at your skin. You live another day, avoiding doom.Â
So does Minho.Â
Time has aged the jacket he wears. Your nails dig into the fresh stitches where you sewed the sleeve back on. He needs a new one. However, finding clothes has been rough the last three runs. You were lucky with the boots. He could only duct tape the toe box so many times.Â
The material under your fingertips tells you heâs physically holding you. Itâs not comforting. Itâs not reassuring enough. All of your senses recognize him. From Felixâs homemade lavender soap, which Minho used to wash up in the river earlier, to the lingering fumes of paint thinner spilling onto his jacket during the scuffle in the art store.Â
âBreathe, baby. How I taught you.â More words spill from his lips, yet your racing heart pounds as the terror courses through you. Even if you could crawl into his chest cavity to hide, it wouldnât be enough to soothe you. âCome on. Breathe with me.âÂ
Minho knows you well. He doesnât budge, keeping you in his suffocating embrace until your body runs its course through the adrenaline rush. No matter how much you squirm, he waits, grip never faltering until your body releases the tension.
âI never used to be like this.â You say as embarrassment creeps under your skin. âNot even as a kid.â
âThatâs because there wasnât real danger out there until now.â
Minho is right. Young and carefree you never even considered the possibility of the dead rising. It was fiction rooted in old folklore. A popular trope used in storytelling for years. Not reality. Now here you are sitting in a dilapidated building that used to be in the middle of a busy city, trying to round up supplies for your compound.Â
âWhy did we do this?â
âBecause we have to.â He says, not missing a beat. âWe need supplies.â
âBut why us?â
âWeâre good at what we do. Plus, you hate working the wall.â
âUgh,â you groan at the thought. âI fucking hate working the wall.â
âAnd thatâs why Chan sends us.â
You pull away once Minho finally releases his hold, needing the space to stand and stretch your limbs. Some pacing by the large windows will help get the blood flowing to work out the prickly pins and needles sensation in your extremities.Â
Minho doesnât seem bothered, plopping back down on the couch near his bag. He pulls out a small bag of deer jerky. Minhoâs specialty when he makes it. The dried meat lasts for a while. Perfect for these trips. Weighs nearly nothing, is easy to store, and is full of protein for energy. Itâs a bonus when Minho rehydrates the jerky. He uses it in a handful of recipes at home.Â
Home.Â
Home sounds good right now. Â
A two-day trek still. Only one day if you can catch the hunting group on their way back. Maybe you will get lucky again. Chan expects both groups to return at the same time. He doesnât enjoy having his people away for too long. Just in case something goes wrong at home.Â
âHomeâ sits tucked away amid the mountains. The head of the valley is rather rough to traverse thanks to the wide river. Easy to defend, though. When you first arrived, the reinforced barbed wire fencing stood tall around the property to protect a hydroelectric power plant.Â
This means electricity.Â
The river powers actual electricity in this day and age by pouring through the dam. There are a few people in the compound who maintain the turbines. Another handful of electricians take care of the power lines. With the growing community, Chan ensures the knowledge can be passed on to others to ensure longevity.Â
One nice thing about a small population is that the town doesnât use much power. Not compared with what the dam used to supply in the surrounding area. Unless a massive drought lasts several years, there is no genuine concern about a lack of power supply.Â
Chan has done wonders for the town. Heâs built up a commendable community where people share supplies the best they can. Everyone pulls their weight from agriculture to maintenance. Whatever it takes to keep the group stable. The real question is how dirty the leaderâs hands are to keep bandits and undead out.Â
No dirtier than the military in quarantine zones swearing to protect the population.Â
A cold shudder runs through you at the memories. You never want to relive those experiences again. You will do whatever Chan asks of you if it means you can stay.Â
You glance over at your partner in crime. His eyes are closed as he silently snacks. A sigh leaves him. You know the answer to your question, yet you still ask. âHave you slept?â
âA little.â
âIâm sorry if I woke you.â
âYou didnât.â
No, because Minho barely sleeps when outside the wall. Guilt still hangs heavy on his heart. One close call was enough to change his routine. He canât lose you. As grim as the mentality is, you are his only reason to continue going. The day he loses you is the day he puts a bullet in his head. He refuses to turn into one of those disgusting creatures.Â
You donât blame him. If your worst nightmare happens, you may do the same if you have the courage to do it. The dark thought sends a wave of nausea through you. No, donât go down this route. You need to stop thinking.Â
Your eyes turn back to the window, straining to take in the view of the street. People donât realize how dark the world becomes without electricity. The visibility is low. Even more so when several floors high. The full moon barely helps illuminate parts of the parking lot below you. Itâs not enough. Shadows play tricks, but you are smart enough to know there are undead creatures down there. There are always at least a handful.Â
This town is small, smaller than heavily populated areas or capitals. Hordes from those cities havenât reached out here. Not yet, at least. Perhaps the military bombings cut those cities off. You wouldnât count on it, though. Itâs only been a few years.Â
âHow many bullets do you have?â
âTwo clips.â
âSame as last time you askedâ is what you expected Minho to say. He doesnât. He never does. Maybe itâs a blessing to have a patient partner. He understands you canât control âanxiety. So he replies as if itâs the first time you have asked. A million times if he has to. Heâll never call the excessive questioning out. No point.Â
Although two clips of ammo are hardly anything. Ammunition is hard to find. Chan has a few people in the compound who make ammo, though itâs rationed out by need. The pair of you could ask for more. Minho isnât particularly fond of guns. Only choosing to rely on one in emergency situations. Guns are far too loud, attracting more bad things than good. He prefers his axe, reliable while serving multiple uses, and above all, itâs quieter.Â
His axe isnât his only silent weapon. No, his bow sits next to yours in the corner. The ultimate stealth weapon. Arrows are cheap to make and retrievable unless broken. Plus, the quiver is fairly light when carrying supplies home.Â
The only problem is the damn bastard is nearsighted. He leaves the long range to you most of the time. Especially when scoping out an unfamiliar place. You climb up to a high vantage point before taking out as many as you can. Minho stays low to finish the remaining stragglers. Sweetheart even retrieves arrows as he goes.
In addition, if anything goes wrong on his end, you still have a clear view with your rifle. The system works well for the two of you. The pair of you have cleared hundreds of undead this way.Â
Minhoâs voice comes from across the room. âGet out of your head. Youâll have another nightmare.â
âIâm trying.â
âCome here.â
You spin on your heel, taking in the sight in front of you since you woke up. Minho pushed the second couch in the room to face the one you fell asleep on. He created a makeshift bed of sorts. This way, the two of you could sleep next to each other. Minho hates being called out for his subtle romanticism. So you simply smile while the other turns his flushed face away to hide. Maybe he does it for you to help ease the situation. Though you like to think these actions help him just as much. The sucker just wonât admit it.Â
Minho shifts to lying across the length of his couch. His backpack, now on its side, is used as a pillow. You mirror him on the other with only a couple of inches separating the two of you. Heâs close enough that you can smell the remnants of the spices he used to season the jerky. The poor guy has dark rings under his eyes. Only two more days, and then he can sleep as long as he wants until the next mission from Chan.
Your hand reaches forward to touch the ends of his hair. âItâs getting long.â
âItâs annoying.â He huffs in distaste. âConstantly in the way.â
âIt looks good. I like it.â Minhoâs nose scrunches in more dramatic fake disgust at your words, causing you to chuckle before you continue. âIâll cut it for you when we get back.â
âTry not to cry when you do. Iâd like it to be even on both sides.â
The playful punch against his chest only causes him to grin wider. His hand finds yours to hold it against him. Itâs moments like these that remind you how much Minho contributes to what your happiness has morphed into. Is it fair that he is your only motivation to keep fighting every day? No, and it's selfish. You know this; you have accepted that. However, typical life has long gone out the window.Â
As the room falls into silence, Minhoâs fingers trail over your arm, traveling down to your hip. The shirt you wore rose during your movements to expose a sliver of skin. Goosebumps formed across your body as the pads of his fingers ran over your hip. He had no intent in mind, just repetitive little circles to soothe your buzzing nerves.Â
Out of instinct, you shift onto your back, thighs parting slightly. Minho takes the open invitation to slide his hand between your thighs. Desire sparks in your core in an instant. You thrust your hips up, allowing yourself to grind against his palm, the clothes between offering some pleasurable stimulation against you.Â
Itâs when Minho moves to undo the button on your jeans that your hand covers his, halting his hand from progressing further. âWe shouldnât.â
âDo you want me to stop?â
âNo. I want to. I justâŠâ
âHey,â Minhoâs voice is softer, reassuring you. âWeâre safe.âÂ
âFeels wrong. We are technically working.â
âGot nothing else to do to pass the time. A few more hours till sunrise. Though I may have something to sway your decision.â Your eyebrows knit together, watching Minho pull away to dig through his bag once more. He retrieves a tiny box and then throws the object your way. âNot expired either.â
You canât hold back your laughter. Condoms. The fucker has found some sealed condoms. A rare commodity these days. âPlease tell me you found more than this.â
âThree boxes.âÂ
Three boxes are a lot. Minho could barter these away for some expensive things on your wishlist. Thatâs if Chan doesnât confiscate them himself. The selfish part of you wants to keep them, but you have been eyeing the extra pistol that Jisung owns.Â
âShould we keep them?â
âI found them. What is Chan gonna do? Take them? Itâs none of his business if we bring what he asks.â Minho grumbles, mildly annoyed at his own words. âAnything else is ours.â
Heâs always believed the supply runners should get first pick on any items found. Itâs only fair when they are the ones risking their lives. Thatâs a discussion for a different day, though. You hold out the box for Minho to take. He does, turning to show you the base. The bottom of the box has a printed date next to the barcode. âBesides, I have two years till they expire, and I plan to use all of them with you.âÂ
âWonât last long. We fuck like rabbits.â
âThen stop being a goddamn goddess then.â
âUgh,â you playfully cringe. A smile on your face. âStop being so in love with me. Itâs gross.â
âCanât help it.â He says before leaning closer for another kiss. Itâs tender, full of love, like the ones he often places on your forehead. This time his voice is softer when he speaks. âBaby, let me help you relax. You can let go for a few minutes.â
Heâs not wrong; it's still a few hours till sunrise. You are in no mood to try sleeping again so soon. Not to mention the two of you wanted to fuck at the river this morning when washing up. Minho didnât cave to the idea regardless of the sexual tension. The clearing was far too open; even if the pair of you hadnât run into other humans, it doesnât mean the risk of bandits went away.Â
âYou know, your tongue could sway me in another way.â Â
Minho playfully swats at your knee. âHands and knees, baby. Iâll show you how persuasive I can be.â
With that remark, you rise, positioning your body to face away from him. Both knees sink deep into the cushions while your arms rest on the back of the couch for stability. Minho shuffles around behind you while anticipation pools in your gut. His gentle hands slip under your waistband, swiftly pulling down your clothes, leaving you bare.
A second later his wet, hot mouth follows, finding your pussy. He flattens his tongue to run up and down your slick folds to lap at the juices already forming. You can hear a muffled moan of contentment. This just might be one of his favorite places to be.Â
Minho loves testing how long it takes to have your pussy dripping down his face and chin. He enjoys the way you buck back against him, not caring if you suffocate him. Yet nothing is more self-indulgent than when you try to squirm away when he moves to tease your clit relentlessly.Â
You havenât forgotten the last time you were in this position; his grip is iron, unmoving until he decides you have endured enough. However, tonight isnât about his selfishness; no, it's about proving his mouth isnât only good for reassurance.Â
âOh Min, that feels so good.â You say while shifting the angle of your hips, trying to bait him to your buzzing, neglected clit. His tongue remains dipping in and out of your hole while his fingers surprise you as they messily circle your clit. Itâs the perfect pace and pressure. You wonât last long like this. You couldnât hold your orgasm back even if you wanted to. He knows your body too well after years of relationship. More curses slip out. âOh, fuck, just like that. Donât stop.â
Minho doesnât obey âmany people in his life. For you though, he keeps up his actions without fail, and in record time, your orgasm peaks, washing waves and waves of delicious and much-needed pleasure over you.Â
âAh, fuck,â you mewled under your breath, head bowed, breathing tight and labored. Even with oversensitivity creeping up, itâs not enough just to come. Deep down inside of you is an itch you canât scratch. Yes, the orgasm was blissful, but not enough to satisfy the long wait you endured. The want, that growing desire, is insatiable tonight. âBaby, please.â
His words come out muffled, not wanting to stop. âMiss my cock that much?â
âI need it.â Your arms wobble as they struggle to hold you up. âPlease fuck me.â
âHow badly do you need it?â Minho asks, finally pulling away from your dripping hole. âTell me.â
âYou will lose any future opportunities if you donât take your chance now.â You say with some bite in your words.Â
That seems like enough of a threat to him. There was a rustle of clothing behind you, followed by a crinkle from the plastic covering the box of condoms. Minho curses under his breath as it fights him. Heâs just as desperate to have you. The opportunity to fuck consistently slipped away with how busy you two have been. No thanks to Chan, who scheduled back-to-back supply runs. Antibiotics were a necessity and one unable to be delayed.Â
âBad timing, but you know he wants you, right?â
You ask for clarification, even knowing who he means. âChan?â
âMhm. He talked to Jisung about you. He asked about your favorite things. If Iâm with you romantically."
Your curiosity peaks. This is new information for you. Chan typically treats everyone the same, professionally and diplomatically. He takes his leading role seriously. No room for what he deems isn't vital to survival. A mentality you believed for a few short months before realizing how lovesick you were for Minho.Â
You prod for more info about their discussion. âWhat did Jisung say?â
âThat you love guns and donât care for love.â
âHe gets points for lying.â
âWhat part?â Minho asks, slightly muted while tearing open the foil packaging of a condom with his teeth. He knows the answer even if he is asking. Heâs not one for validation; he just enjoys hearing it from your lips.
âYou damn well know Iâm yours.â You pause for a moment, turning back to hold his gaze. âIâd only fuck him to get what we need.â
âI know. I donât question your loyalty.â Minho responds while his hands find your hips. The soft pads of his thumbs rub reassuring circles into your skin. Itâs a sweet moment to be sincere but is just kindling to the growing fire inside of you. âWhen we get back, I want you to go for it. Fuck him and get some horses secured before he assigns more runs.â
You laugh in response, knowing damn well Minho is being serious. You both would do whatever it took to survive. No price is too high, no risk too dangerous. It wouldnât be the first time you have used sexual favors for resources. Chan would be no different. At least heâs clean. Takes care of himself. Heâs not bad-looking.Â
âFine, Iâll try. But if you donât fuck me right now, youâre losing privileges. I wasnât kidding.â
âMaybe I just wanted to hear you beg again? Ever think about that?â
Your response never gets voiced. All annoyance disappears when the tip of his cock briefly prods at your entrance. Minho isnât slow like he typically is; instead, he sinks every inch of his cock in one rough thrust. A satisfied groan leaves him as your tight walls give in to his length. Heâs always a pleasant stretch. Your low moan slips past your lips when his hips press flush against your ass. You wanted to tell him he was good to move, but words failed you, stuck in your throat as you enjoyed the fullness.Â
There was a chuckle behind you at the way you immediately push yourself back onto his cock the second he pulled away. âDonât worry, Iâll fuck you stupid.â
His grip on your hips tightens, almost bruising as he pulls your body back to meet every thrust. Your head rests on the couch while Minho finds his pace. All thoughts of the trip, where you are, and the threat outside fade for a moment. This isnât some sweet lovemaking, nor did you want it to be. All you needed right now was for Minho to keep fucking you till you couldnât move or think. He seems happy to oblige, judging by the needy noises leaving him.Â
âYou love my cock, donât you?â He goads while panting lightly. âFilling you up and stretching you open.â
âYes,â you say while trying your best to nod. âCan feel you so deep.â
âShit,â Minho groans low; it's nearly a growl. âBaby, youâre perfect. So fucking perfect.âÂ
Your hand slips down to your clit to sloppily rub at the sensitive bud. Another orgasm already sneaking up on you. Minho has to feel the way your pussy clenches around his cock. His voice is rough, almost feral. âYouâre gonna come again so quickly? Give it to me.â
âClose. So fucking close.âÂ
Your words are a plea not only to Minho, but to your own body as well. Both of your thighs tremble from how tense your body is. The promise of another orgasm is right there, waiting to flood all of your being.Â
Relief finally hits, and it's explosive. The short-lived high feels like an entire lifetime. Colorful stars dance across your vision while you finally let out the breath you were holding. The only thing you can hear is the sound of skin on skin slapping.Â
Minho only speaks once your orgasm dies down. âHe may get to fuck you, but youâll never be his.â
âYours.â You reply without hesitation. âAlways yours.â
Minho pants over you, exertion getting to him. His thrusts were getting clumsier, telling you he was close to his own release. You were ready. You wanted him to bury his cock inside you and fill you to the brim. He has the same idea. âIâm gonna come and youâre gonna take it.â
Part of you almost caves, telling him to pull the condom off. Keep true to his word and stuff you full.Â
âFuck, baby.â Minho whines in desperation. The need is all-consuming. Itâs been months since being able to finish inside your tight hole. Heâs accepted your mouth, hand, or ass. Anything with less risk of consequences.Â
"Deep inside." You coax, pressing back to keep him buried to the hilt. âI wanna feel it.â
Minho stills as his seed fills the condom. His cock twitches inside you as he enjoys the momentary bliss.
âGod, I need to worship you more.â Minho says while pulling away to remove the condom, discarding it in an old trash can. You roll your eyes in response. âMy pussy canât be that life-changing.âÂ
âOh, baby, you have no idea. Absolutely no idea.â
The two of you return to the previous position, facing each other as you lie down on the couches. Minhoâs lips waste no time finding your own, pressing a flood of soft kisses to your chapped lips. Itâs full of love and appreciation. Minho would worship the ground you walk on if you would let him. You wonât though, not in this lifetime or the next. You are equal.Â
Gradually the kiss deepens, and there is a hint of you still on his tongue as he explores. Minhoâs eagerness tells you he still wants more of you. Heâs not sated yet. Youâll let him take as much as heâs craving.Â
A hand sneaks back between your thighs a moment later, knocking one away to spread you back open for him. His fingers are slow-moving when they find your sensitive clit. He circles the bundle of nerves just enough to keep the fire of desire going.Â
Though itâs inevitable, heâs going to press for another orgasm out of you. You can feel it building in your core; the high will be slow and molten when it peaks. The perfect way to wind down and let the stress still clinging to your brain melt away.Â
The next time you wake up, Minho is finally out cold. One arm dangles off the couch, his leg hooked awkwardly over the backrest, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. He doesnât stir when you slip from your sleeping bag. Good. A couple of hours is better than none. Heâll need whatever energy he can scrape together just to make it home.
You pull on your clothes; the chill of the morning cuts right through the warmth you left behind. Pink and orange hues draw your attention to the large windows again now that the sun is rising over the horizon. What you believed to be shadows last night wasnât playing tricks on you. Thereâs enough light to reveal an impending problem.Â
Zombies. More than a handful. Â
A sigh escapes before you can stop it.
âWhat?â Minho groans behind you, voice rough with sleep. âWhat is it?â
âA small horde. About twenty, maybe.â
âThereâs nothing we can do about it now. Weâll have to wait a couple of hours.â
âAre you gonna radio in?â You question, gaze fixed on the street below. One zombie stumbles over a heap of debris, collapsing face-first into a bus bench. If the sight werenât so familiar, it might almost be funny.
âMhm.â Rustling fabric signals Minho getting up, pulling on his clothes. âIâll let them know weâre delayed.â
Of course, Minho wants to deal with the zombies. You understand why. Itâs dangerous to attempt going home. A horde that size could do a troublesome amount of damage not only to you two but also to the outside wall of the compound. A risk not worth taking. Bandits already push the limits; no sense in giving the dead an opening too.
Minho is fully awake now, mind already moving ahead. You ask the inevitable anyway: âWeâre taking them to the hole?â
âYeah. I guess Hyunjin is shit out of luck with that paint thinner. Iâm gonna have to use it.â
You frown; Hyunjinâs been asking for months. âWe can check for gas. Iâm sure weâll find some.â
âNo. A storm is coming through today. I want to be home before it hits.â Minho digs through his bag for the battered radio Chan requires you to bring along. The very one that barely reaches the distance of the compound. âTry to sleep some more. Iâm gonna find a higher elevation for a clearer signal. Iâll let you know what Chan says.â
There is no meeting up with the hunting crew.Â
Dealing with the horde and the incoming storm hindered the trip home. The rain came down in large, pelting drops, soaking âboth of you to the bone in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, a crumbling farmhouse was nearby and suitable enough for the evening.Â
However, you werenât the only ones delayed in returning home. Â
The wagon the hunting group uses is still being unloaded when the two of you cross back over into the safety of home. Minho makes a note of the substantial quantity of deer carcasses. The hunting group was incredibly successful.Â
This is wonderful news. Winter is coming quickly, and the storms will start forcing everyone into their homes for days at a time. Therefore, the town will store half the deer in a freezer and use them to feed the town as needed. The remaining will undergo a drying process for a longer shelf life. Chan always wants a backup plan just in case the dam canât provide electricity.Â
If there is extra meat outside of Chanâs established quota, it will go to a building known as The Supply, where townsfolk can barter. Minho saves any extra resources for these moments so he can make more jerky for trips outside the city. Chan always offers to supply food for runs, but Minho hates relying on him fully. Though he craves the bread Felix makes.Â
The entire process of checking back in takes about half an hour. Guards do a thorough check for bites or symptoms of the infection. Typically searching for jaundice of the eyes, a high temperature, and motor problems or lack of coordination. When they deem you healthy, you finally surrender over supplies and head home.Â
Chanâs crew appears pleased to see the stash you two have brought back. Several bottles of isopropyl alcohol, amoxicillin tablets, moxifloxacin, oxycodone, questionable but usable penicillin, and a handful of suture kits. Minho doesnât stick around to hear their praise, already slipping away when you decide to sit down to catch up on town gossip.
Minho is still in the shower when you slip inside the shared home half an hour later. It was a gift from Chan after the first year of supply runs. The one-bedroom home was probably a prime bachelor pad for someone in another life. There were minimal repairs needed when you first moved in. Whoever the previous owner was, they took care of their property. It took weeks of reassurance from Minho for you to feel comfortable even calling it home. You held onto a lot of guilt, not knowing if they were alive or if they would ever come home. Societal rules have changed, Minho would say. You need a roof over your head, and this home was far better than the cots the military used to offer in the capital.Â
A lot more private as well.Â
The hot water was a genuine surprise. A few of the properties in town had wells instead of using the public water system. A solar pump brought water inside, and with the help of an electric water heater, it would be heated. Talk about a true luxury.Â
A long shower is the first step to feeling good about being home. You shed your clothes before joining him under the cascade of water. No funny business occurs, not with Minho dead on his feet. The rings under his eyes are more prominent, and he struggles to get his thoughts together. He only mumbles out a few words when you offer to wash his back. His goodbye kiss when stepping out barely lands on your lips, more cheek than anything.
Minho is asleep by the time you return to the bedroom to get dressed. He pulled on an old pair of pajama pants and collapsed on the bed. There wasnât even an attempt to slip under the covers. Itâs further proof that he truly could fall asleep anywhere. You quietly dress before draping a spare blanket over him.Â
He looks at peace. The rise and fall of his chest are slow and paired with his little snoring. You would give anything in that moment to stay with him, to fall asleep next to him, and to have those few domestic moments that make you feel like a proper couple living a normal life.Â
The mission isnât over yet, and with that thought, you give one last glance at his sleeping form. Your discarded backpack is still at the front door, now a lot lighter when you pull the strap over your shoulder. Â
Your trek towards the center of town doesnât take long. Several groups in the community are enjoying the evening weather. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar is being played while another person sings a classic tune. A handful of children are playing tag in the middle of the street. Further down, the monthly axe-throwing competition is underway. A pity. Minho will be upset that he missed it.Â
There really is an entire community here. Families are having a safe space to flourish, a real chance to have a future regardless of how grim the world is outside these walls. You dare say itâs almost normal living again.Â
Hopefully, you can take it for granted.Â
Your walk continues, getting closer to an old hotel in the middle of town. Itâs tucked next to the city hall and the townâs small library. The towering building houses Chan and his oldest friends. Though all are welcome, âthe large kitchen and dining hall are open to the public during scheduled meal hours.Â
In the lobby sits one of Chanâs minions, known as Seungmin. He sits behind the check-in desk with his muddy boots resting on the counter, only bothering to look up from his open book when you clear your throat.Â
âWhat do you want?â His tone is flat, impatient that someone is ruining his free time.Â
âIs Chan in?â
âChris?â Seungmin asks before nodding. âYeah, he just came from the dining hall.â
Chris. Only the inner circle gets away with calling your leader by his real name. A reminder that Chanâs trust is earned, not given. Though it makes you wonder what someone did if they needed to change their name after the world ended.Â
Seungmin immediately goes back to reading as you begin your ascent up towards Chanâs room on the second floor. Thankfully, it isnât higher; the thought of dragging yourself up twelve flights after a run would be torture. The elevator still exists, but it is not maintained, and thatâs a risk you wonât take.Â
Gold numbers, tarnished with age, glint in the middle of each door in the long hallway. The silence feels heavy up here, as if no one dares risk disturbing Chan. You slow when you reach the last door, pulse hammering.
This isnât anything new. Chan typically asks to see you when you come home. Though this is the first time you are asking something big of Chan. Self-doubt is a mean little voice on your shoulder. Maybe he doesnât have a crush on you. Perhaps he wonât even agree to your terms, and heâll send you home, tail tucked between your legs.Â
Itâs now or never.Â
You bring your hand to the door before lightly knocking. Chanâs voice comes from the other side a second later, encouraging you to enter.Â
Cozy is the first thing you think of when stepping inside, closing the door softly behind you. His room could have been a honeymoon suite at some point. The small area is now an apartment. Itâs well furnished, like one, despite the end of the world happening outside. A decorative throw rug lies under the newer couch and his cherry wood desk. He made his bed nicely, no doubt using quality sheets and plush bedding. Since your last visit here, he has hung new artwork on the walls.Â
Must be nice being in his position, always getting first pick of supply runs and constant gifts from people trying to be in his good graces. You inwardly laugh to yourself because you are no different.Â
Chan stands across the room where an old record player rests by the wide window. A black plastic milk crate holds his vinyl collection, mixing old classics with a few newer finds. Heâs always had a soft spot for smooth jazz after dinner, claiming it helps him unwind. He gently guides the needle over the edge of the vinyl, and a few seconds later, the soft hum of music fills the space.
You waste no time plopping down onto the couch across from his desk, backpack at your feet. âI figured youâd want to see me.â
âI did.â Chan replies without missing a beat. âI wanted to talk about the details of your run.â
Heâs dressed casually today. A dingy old tee with paint specks on the fabric paired with some faded denim. Thereâs a good chance he was probably in town helping with house repairs to further improve his standing among the townsfolk.Â
The townâs golden boy, or some shit, the old ladies would love to say.Â
âWhereâs your other half?â He asks, glancing over.
âResting. You know how he is when he gets home.â
âIâm starting to think he doesnât like me.â
You scoff in disbelief, a playful tone creeping into your voice. âMinho? Oh, honey, if he didnât like you, youâd know. Trust me. He didnât sleep well last night.â
He gives a curt nod in response. Chan understands Minho will stretch himself thin to protect you. Itâs expected of him. Some ingrained protector mentality bullshit they have, even though you are more than capable of doing the same. Though because of Minho keeping you safe, Chan tends to be lenient with him about these required follow-up meetings.Â
Chan notices your hands moving toward your bag and steps âcloser. âGot something for me?â
A smile tugs at your lips. âYouâll have to forgive me for not surrendering it. But I knew youâd like this.â
In your hands is a large sealed container of powdered drink mix. One he recognizes instantly. His face lights up, like a kid in a candy store, and he reaches for it. âYou spoil me.â
âOnly the best for you,â you reply, voice soft.
âYou want a drink?â
âIf you feel up for sharing. I got it for you.âÂ
You knew from the first time you brought him the pineapple lemonade drink mix that Chan was wrapped tight around your finger. It wasnât the pineapple juice he craved, but it was a damn good substitute.Â
And now, here he is, offering to share it with you.
A devilish little voice whispers in your mind, nudging you to follow through with that half-formed plan youâve been toying with. You want to argue heâs just being kind and civil with you. Yet deep down you know thatâs not true. There have been several meetings in his space where heâs only offered water with the drink mix in sight.Â
Chan steps away briefly, heading to the bathroom. You hear the sound of running water, followed by the clink of a spoon every so often against glass as he stirs the drink.
Minhoâs conversation with Jisung is present in your mind again. Chan hasnât taken an interest in anyone in the city in the entire time you have known him. He doesnât mingle more than he needs to; he doesnât flirt. His priorities come first, and yet heâs asking about you with questions that go beyond curiosity.Â
Chan returns, snapping you out of your thoughts. âWould it be worth heading back?â
âYes.â You nod, accepting the glass he hands you. The drink itself is tart and chalky, still miles better than the typical well water you are used to. âWe took essentials like you asked. Stashed a bit more under the building. Itâs discreet. No one will find it.â
âWhat about the horde? Which way did they come from?â
âDo you have a map?â
Chan shuffles around his desk to sit. He places his own glass on the edge of the table before rummaging through his desk drawers. Towards the bottom is a larger compartment, and after a few seconds of digging, he pulls out a thin book.Â
You raise an eyebrow. Itâs not a book at all when you inspect it. Rather, itâs a goddamn road atlas being sprawled out in front of you. Itâs a historic relic, used long before the world went to shit. The map on the page is outdated. You recognize the highway numbers, the same river where you washed up, but the city on the map is way smaller than it is now.
âThey came from the south.â You say, rising from your seat to lean over the desk. Your fingers trace down the page towards the old capital. âProbably from here if weâre honest.â
Chanâs jaw clenches; he doesnât like the answer. Rightfully so, large groups of zombies are unpredictable and dangerous. If they are moving toward the compound, he needs to be prepared. You silently watch as he pulls a pen out of his pocket to mark the area in question. âI guess I will send you out. Scope it out and see if there are more of them. I just donât like you guys being so far away.â
You smile, a little teasing. âAww. You do care, donât you, Channie?â
âYouâre valuable,â he says, his voice flat. âThereâs a difference.â
âSure.â
Heâs the same person who dropped everything two months ago when you came home injured. A few bruises, a gash on your calf from climbing over a broken fence. He still showed up, no hesitation and carried you to the med bay himself. He was worried about infection, and even after the all-clear, he stayed to change your bandages. You will never forget the way Minho silently seethed, glaring at the leader while he fussed over you. Heâd muttered curses under his breath the rest of the night when Chan criticized him for his first-aid skills. You had completely forgotten about it until now. Itâs just more proof for you.Â
Chanâs voice grows serious. âHow soon are you two willing to go back out?â
âSooner rather than later. The weather is getting colder.â
Chan nods, retrieving another book from his desk. Itâs a logbook, the one where he keeps track of everything. Pages and pages of assigned jobs, security patrols, hunting missions, and finally the supply runs. All kept together so he can make sure there is a minimum number of people to defend his community. He never spreads his people too thin.Â
âHyunjinâs group is coming back on Friday. If there are no complications, I can send you out the next day. Is that enough time for you?â
Four days? Thatâs more than enough time. The extra meat brought in today should be available at The Supply before then. Thatâs all Minho would care about. He gets antsy if he is stuck in town for too long. Aside from Jisung and Felix, he doesnât care for anyone else here. You have tried to get him out of his shell, to make him connect with more people, but he wonât. He doesnât want to form any bonds. The more attached he is to others, the harder their deaths are to deal with. He canât afford that kind of grief anymore.
âYeah, weâll be fine.â
âYou sure? You look like you want to say something else.â
âWell⊠there is something.â Your voice is steady, yet you can feel every single one of your nerves crawling under the surface. Chanâs brow furrows for a second, his face briefly clouded with concern. Then it shifts to confusion as he watches you lean forward, palms flat on the desk, the oversized shirt hanging loosely around your frame. âA different business matter.â
Itâs one of Minhoâs shirts; the pastel plaid flannel is very thin from years of use. In the right light, the shirt is practically see-through. You purposely avoided the first two buttons. Nothing too unusual, just enough to tease your leader with. He falls for the bait easily. Chanâs gaze flickers down, almost involuntarily, lingering on your chest. In that moment, you know you have his full attention, his breath catching as his eyes snap back to yours when you speak. âI want to make a deal.â
A smirk plays on his plush lips; he fights to try to hide it, pretending to be annoyed. âSo, what? You walk in here with your tits on display and make demands?â
âI know you want me. Youâre not exactly shy about it.â
His eyes fall back to his desk. He squirms in his seat trying to find a response. There isnât an immediate denial. Heâs still fighting, fighting himself and the battle of trying to hold on to his collected persona. Itâs a clear losing battle. The giveaway is the way his body reacts to you. The tips of his ears flush a bright red. His voice comes out hesitant, curious. âWhat do you want?âÂ
âI want two horses when you send us out and then first in line at the supply store for a year.â
âA year? Thatâs a little greedy, donât you think?â Chan scoffs, clearly thrown off. âWhat the hell are you offering me?â
With that, you reach back into the backpack at your feet, pulling out one of the sealed boxes of condoms Minho gave you. As much as you would prefer to spend this rare commodity with him, you will always do your best to better his life. If heâs okay with you sleeping with the leader, then itâs no skin off your back.Â
Frankly, you want to see what the leader can do. You have witnessed his strength and stamina firsthand out in the woods when chopping down trees for firewood. He hides a toned body under those layers. Not to mention his stamina rivals Minhoâs. A small, gluttonous part of your brain wonders what the two can do together if given the chance. Itâs a thought youâll never vocalize but store in your mental filing cabinet for nights alone. Â
âMyself.â You reply, tossing the sealed box of condoms across the desk. Chan catches it without hesitation, eyes flicking over the box as his mind runs through the possibilities. You continue your spiel. âA warm, submissive hole on demand. What more could you want?â
Chan freezes for a second, eyebrows furrowing. Suspicion clouds his face as he glances back up at you. âAnd what does Minho have to say about this?â
âIâm not his property.â You shrug, indifferent. âHis opinion doesnât matter. Do we have a deal or not?â
Chan contemplates, sitting in his thoughts as the gears turn. Perhaps heâs waiting to see if this is some sort of sick joke. Heâs wondering if Jisung, one of his inner circle, was the one that ratted him out or if you found out on your own. Maybe heâs curious about your dynamic with Minho, if you are lying about that. Thereâs even a chance heâs picturing himself being intimate with you.Â
Maybe his moral compass is forcing him to acknowledge what a red flag this whole situation is.Â
In the end, he is just a man caught up in the spell of lust.
Just as you expected, his desire for you outweighs his moral high ground. Chan isnât subtle the way he sits up straighter or the way a hand sneaks down to adjust his jeans. The box of condoms lands on his desk with a small thud, his voice low and almost defeated. âI can assign horses tonight. Six months with supply. Iâm not budging.â
âDeal.â You nod, satisfied. It's enough to work with. âI want your word in writing.â
Chanâs eyes narrow, and the game you two are playing is changing. âGet on your knees and take off your shirt.â
You stay rooted in place. Not because youâre shocked by his command, but because you know the arrangement isnât finalized yet. The tone in your voice shifts, turning more authoritative, an obvious challenge to his command. âI want it in writing, Chan.â
âAnd I want to see how obedient you say you are.â He leans back in his chair, matching your energy, and fires back with the same attitude. âIâll write it while you put on a show for me.â
A spark of arousal simmers low in your core hearing him use such a tone with you. Never has Chan matched your energy, always offering a calm and cordial voice even when you are playful with your banter. Sure, you have witnessed Chanâs command, even his scary interrogation of others, but this? With you? This is unfamiliar territory.Â
Frankly, you like it.
With that, you walk the short distance to sink to your knees beside his chair. The plush carpet offers some cushioning. Shaky fingers fueled by the small rush of adrenaline come to the buttons, easily slipping them through the worn holes in the shirt. You gave up wearing a bra most of the time, a useless piece of clothing when at home. Not to mention a rare item at that.Â
A quick roll of your shoulders lets the shirt slip down to your elbows and eventually to the floor. You tuck your hands in your lap, giving a slight push of your bare breasts closer. A shiver runs up your back, either from the cold air in the room or in anticipation of what will happen next. You told Minho there might be a possibility Chan cashes in on the offer tonight.Â
Good to know you were right.
Thatâs one more on the tally count of losses for bets Minho has with you.
Chan curses under his breath, his gaze glued to you. His eyes drink you in, appreciating the view. âI quite like this view of you.â
âYou donât look so bad yourself,â you tease, your voice playful. âI could get used to it.â
The flirtatious tone came out of its own volition. Chan doesnât seem to be convinced that this is all real. You, here in front of him and on your knees, like some sort of gift. There is still a hint of disbelief in his voice. âAre you really gonna go through with this?â
âThink how many more runs we can go on if we donât have to walk. If anything, Iâm helping the community more than myself.â
âHow selfless of you.â Chan chuckles before digging into his desk once more. He retrieves a small bottle, gently tossing it your way. Itâs easy to catch. The bottle ends up being baby oil. Itâs nearly empty when you give it a once-over in your hands. How often is your leader getting off? How many times have thoughts of you been involved?
Your leader cuts off your mental visual with a command. âPlay with those pretty tits while I get your proof.â
The dollop of oil is cold in one of your palms. You set the bottle down and rub your hands, trying to warm the liquid. Chanâs eyes havenât really left you. Only briefly to tear a page out of his notebook. You canât read his expression, completely stoic and again hypnotized by your hands cupping both of your breasts. A shiny sheen soon coats your skin the more you knead your soft skin. Both nipples slowly harden from the attention you give.Â
Chan blindly reaches for the pen he discarded earlier. He gets a couple of words down before speaking again. âWe have to set boundaries if you want this to happen.â
âI donât have a lot Iâll say no to.â You respond nonchalantly, as if talking about an everyday conversation. âDonât come inside me unless it's in my mouth or ass, check in with me from time to time, do the bare minimum of aftercare, and at least say Iâm pretty if youâre gonna choke me.â
âFuck.â Chan curses, his pen faltering as he tries to write. âA little blunt, donât you think?â
âYou know I donât like to waste my time.â
âAnd what about kissing, or is that too soft for you?â
Oh, bless his heart, you think. Heâs the romantic type.Â
In the past when you exchanged sex for favors, only one of them was interested in kissing you. Most wanted the deed over with and went separate ways. Interesting that Chan would differ from the rest. Despite the worldâs efforts, it hasnât crushed that side of him into the ground.Â
You stare up through your lashes just to add a little seduction to your tactics. âIf you think Iâm gonna squander my chance to kiss those pretty lips, youâre insane.â
Chan appears to hit a breaking point. Either too desperate or fed up with your teasing. He slams the poor innocent pen down before he pushes away from the desk, the wheels on his chair allowing him to turn to face you. His legs spread, creating a space for you to slot between. The command was silent, only a hand motion while his other hand worked to undo the button on his jeans.Â
You shuffle closer, not caring about the burn of the rug against your knees, too focused on Chan pulling his clothes down just enough to free his cock. Heâs half hard and, by the looks of it, is around Minhoâs size. He will be a treat to play with.Â
Chan wraps a hand around his cock to stroke himself to full hardness. The view is almost too distracting; you barely hear the words he speaks. âYou teased me with those tits, so Iâm gonna use them.â
âThen allow me.â You say, rising slightly to bring your entire body closer. Both of your hands move to the outsides of your breasts to not obstruct his view but provide enough support to guide them. He groans at first contact with the warm skin of your breasts around his cock. The oil makes the glide of your movements easier as you tease him. It doesnât take long for the tip of Chanâs cock to leak sticky pre-cum.Â
âFuck.â His teeth sink into his bottom lip, perhaps in some pathetic attempt to ground himself from the sensations. Maybe even to inflict just enough pain to keep him in control so he can enjoy the moment longer. âThat feels nice.â
The more Chanâs composure falls apart, the more powerful you feel.
Your tongue slips out on basic instinct, chasing to lick up that bead of pre-cum that is teasing you. A warm, firm hand finds your neck, tilting your head back to deny you. Your eyes stare up at your leader. He coos at the pout on your lips. âYour eager mouth can wait a night.â
You huff, the full brat side of you on display. âBut I want it.â
Chanâs gaze darkens, and for a split second, you donât feel as in control. âI really thought Minho would fuck the brat out of you, but I guess Iâll have to.â
âYou can try.â
Chan gives another light squeeze on your throat, another warning, before letting it fall away to allow you to continue. âI have a rather successful track record.â
âI believe it when I see it.â
His voice gets lower, huskier with this threat. âIâll remember this conversation and make sure you eat your words when I have the time.â
Chanâs words are a lightning bolt through your nerves. The anticipation is an all-consuming greed inside of you. You pray he will make good on his word. Until that time comes, itâll be you that ruins him. You have already won in your book. Itâs you who is the one here between his thighs, earning all his pretty moans. You are the one who got Chan to cave, and you are the one who will witness his peak.Â
âThere we go.â You mutter, gaze locked on the way his cock is now steadily leaking. âDoes it feel good?â
âLike a fucking dream.â Chan pants out. His nails dig into the arms of his chair, audible enough you wonder if he's managed to etch into the hard plastic. âEyes on me.â Chan commands, his voice sounding desperate. âAnd donât you dare move away.âÂ
You press harder on the sides of your breasts to keep his cock surrounded. His thigh muscles tighten while his hips shift below you, driving his cock up and down the valley. Chanâs breathing becomes more ragged as his chest rises and falls quickly from exertion. It wonât take much more to tip him over the edge.Â
âCome on, Chan, give it to me.â You donât break eye contact with your leader. âCum on my pretty tits. Mark them as yours.â
Unlike Minho, Chan keeps his noise to a minimum. Perhaps too hyperaware of his surroundings. His moan is reserved while he continues to rut his hips a couple more times before freezing completely. The red, sticky tip of his throbbing cock only peeks between your breasts, with warm seed erupting a second later, landing on your chest and chin. You maintain the hold, letting him ride out his high.
The room falls to a silence as Chan sinks back into his chair. You pull away, letting yourself sit back on your knees, hands in your lap. Once again presenting yourself to him, waiting to see what the next move is. There is no attempt to clean the evidence of the event that took place. No, you once again maintain eye contact with Chan to the point you wonder if it's you under his spell.
A beep coming from Chanâs watch appears to distract him. He glances at the time before sighing. It was getting late when you arrived; evening curfew is catching up with you two. He curses under his breath as he tucks his softening cock back into his clothes. He pushes his chair further back to give him the space to stand. His hands are buttoning his jeans when he makes his way past you. Chan says only three words. âStay like that.â
You donât move. The cold air of the room dances over your skin, making the oil on your skin feel tacky. His cum is no better as it dries. Both of your thighs ache with how tightly you have them pressed together. It doesnât ease the way your pussy aches with need, dripping juices while neglected and waiting for some form of attention from either yourself or him.Â
As quickly as Chan disappears into the bathroom, he returns with a slightly dampened hand towel. He squats down in front of you, scoffing at your attempt to take the towel from him. So you sit up straighter, allowing him to touch you. The towel starts at your chin and neck, moving down and around your breasts, wiping away all the evidence. He's thorough and maintains the same care he showed weeks ago in the med bay.Â
At least heâs a gentleman.Â
Chan speaks as if he can hear your thoughts. âI take care of my people.â
âIs that what you callâŠâ
Chan swallows the rest of your words up by crashing his lips against yours. Itâs a hungry, fiery kiss. One thatâs charged with yearning. Heâs wanted this moment; heâs waited for the opportunity.Â
Both of Chanâs hands cup your face, hand towel long forgotten on the floor. Itâs subtle when he pulls you closer, a wordless message to rise to your feet. You follow the silent command on unstable legs, as the time on your knees paired with the soreness from walking has you struggling for a moment. Â
All of âChan floods your personal space once you are stable on your feet. His broad frame is a brick wall keeping you trapped between himself and the desk. Itâs so different from Minho. He smells different, from the fading laundry soap used in his clothes to the sweat on his skin. It doesn't feel wrong to you, just foreign from what you are used to.Â
He presses closer now. The edge of the table digs into the flesh of your ass, yet itâs not a concern. Not with one of his hands slipping down between your parted thighs. His soft touch is back as his large palm cups your clothed pussy over your shorts. Your body works on instinct, trying to grind against the meaty part of his palm.Â
A foot knocks against yours, a signal to spread your stance wider. You comply, still too busy fighting the tongue invading your mouth. He canât get enough of you. Even when he parts for air, heâs immediately back with another bruising kiss.Â
Both of your palms now rest on his chest, firm muscles under your fingers. You wish you could see, explore all the sun-kissed skin yourself, but you canât. You are not in control âtonight. Your job is to take what your leader offers you.Â
Chan doesnât make you wait. His hands fall away to find the front of your shorts. There is a light tug on the waistband while one hand slips under your clothes; it keeps traveling south, over your panties to where the wetness caused the fabric to stick to your pussy. He pushes the material to the side for the pads of his fingers to run over the slit.Â
âOh,â Chanâs breath is hot against your face even with how flushed your face is. âYouâre so fucking wet. Enjoy being used that much?â
âYes.â You manage a slight nod when speaking against his lips. The breathlessness surprises even you, but you are not done. You could trap him further in your web. âYes, sir.â
Chan groans low in his chest; the palms of your hands feel the rumble. âAlways knew youâd be a good girl.â
âWhen I want to be.â
Chanâs fingers are larger than Minhoâs. Two slip in with ease from how slick you are, still there is a stretch around them. Both digits curl deeper inside of you, experimenting with what gets him a response. He lets out his own amused noise of approval when you get vocal.Â
âLike that, please.â You whimper as your grip on his shirt tightens, almost in some pathetic attempt to pull him closer. He physically canât be any closer, but that doesnât deter you from trying. âThat feels divine.âÂ
âI bet you are so pretty when you come.â Chan says while watching your face for every little detail, ingraining it deep into his memory. âCan you come for me?â
âKeep doing that, and youâll find out.â
Itâs a challenge now for Chan, one heâs determined to succeed.Â
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, placing wet kisses till you sigh in contentment. His teeth sink into that sensitive spot he found, causing you to gasp at the pain. Chan doesnât let up, instead sealing his lips over the spot and sucking harshly. The skin will no doubt blossom into a pretty bruise.Â
Is he marking you for evidence for yourself to reminisce later? For him to see when you walk around the compound? For Minho to see? Chan doesnât appear to be the type to instigate Minho, but this feels like a jab towards him in particular.Â
It doesnât matter. Not when Chan fucks his fingers faster, causing you to clench around them. Your core tightens, knowing that high you are craving is right on the cusp. Heâs sending you headfirst into a climax in record time.Â
Chanâs free hand immediately hooks around your frame the second your knees buckle. All the sensations are too much at once. The pleasure is a tidal wave nearly knocking you off your feet. His fingers mercifully slow down as the high runs its course. The pinch of his teeth lets up, now resorting to gentle kisses across the tender area while you attempt to collect your breath.Â
When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings the digits to your mouth. You accept them greedily before he finishes his command. âBe good. Get them nice and clean.â
You moan at your own taste on his fingers, slipping your tongue around and in between to leave only saliva behind. Once Chan decides theyâre clean, the fingers leave your mouth to grab the pen again. Right at the bottom of the piece of paper, he signs his name, officially sealing your contract.Â
âI want you here an hour before curfew.â
âThat desperate for some pussy?â You ask while looking over the paper. The large signature sits at the bottom, ink still drying. He kept the message short and concise: Household 27 has explicit permission to shop at The Supply as first pick until February 18th.
âJust making the best of these six months as I can.â Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Chan pulls away to reach down for your discarded shirt before holding it out for you to take. âBesides, Supply opens at dawn, and since you canât be out after curfew, tell Minho to get in line early. Youâre dismissed.â
With those words, tuck the evidence of your contract into a pocket for safety. There is no rush as you pull on and button up the flimsy shirt. Chanâs gaze still burns into you the entire time. You are no fool; you know that look. Heâs not satisfied even with coming. He will count down the hours until you arrive tomorrow.
Will he bend you over the desk? Or will he fuck you like a bitch in heat till you soak his sheets and mattress? Maybe heâll take you pressed against the glass of the large window. Your body buzzes with the possibilities.Â
You hold a lot of power, more than Chan even realizes. Heâs a touch-starved man who is getting his basic needs fulfilled. A slippery slope for him to navigate. Perhaps this is a door opening. One youâll be able to continue bargaining with until you are at the top. Itâs manipulative and evil, but in a world where every day isnât guaranteed, you donât survive this long by playing fair.Â