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🔞 side blog of @mal-lunar-28

[leeminho-hall]

About this blog

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.

.•:｡✧ ♡ ✧｡:• kinktober materialist (the works are not mine)

About the navigation tag

#to read #🥀🐺 chan #🌸🐰minho #🌼🐷 changbin #🌺🦙 hyunjin #🍁🐿️ jisung #🌻🐥 felix #☘️🐕 seungmin #🏵️🦊 jeongin #🌌 ot8

[jl-micasea-fics]

Power (Over Me) | bc

❝𝐌𝐫. 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐰.❞

↳ 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?

↳ Bang Chan x female reader

↳ 8.2k

↳ 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 !

「© JUNE 2026 by jl-micasea-fics」

“On a scale of minor inconvenience to apocalyptic disaster, how crucial is it that I go today?”

Gina regards you with pure contempt from over the café table, which; valid. This might be your dozenth complaint.

“If you were so set against going through with this, why did you agree?” she gripes.

“I didn’t. You elected me in my absence and informed me by text message.”

Gina shrugs amidst an ornery grin. “Should have made it to class then.”

“My car broke down—”

“And my mental state will be soon to follow if you don’t stop complaining. You know how important this interview is for us. Professor Sims is already chomping at the bit for the finished project.”

One of the busy baristas calls a customer’s name from the counter, the rumble of coffee machines drowning out the inoffensive background indie music.

“That’s because you hyped it up,” you remind her, sitting upright to mimic her pose and voice with more nasal inflection than is probably accurate: “‘We’re going to interview the Chan Christopher Bang for our economics project, it’ll be the best!’”

Gina grimaces into her latte. “Yeah, alright. Point taken.”

You sag back into your seat. “I still don’t even know how you managed it.”

“The appointment? I have my ways.”

The look you afford her is dubious at best; she leans over the table, determination in her green eyes.

“I know what you’re worried about,” she intuits. “He’s really not all that bad.”

Your stomach churns uncomfortably. That she even feels compelled to offer such reassurances speaks to the dire magnitude of things.

“You can’t possibly know that for a fact.”

She rolls her eyes.

“The rumours around this guy are shady, Gina,” you add.

“Oh, please.”

“There’s no smoke without fire, is all I’m saying.” Your hands come up in defence.

“I don’t understand why you let it bother you,” Gina sighs. “Even if all the petty rumours are true, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a literal Tony Stark in the flesh and that interviewing him will give us so much extra credit we’ll be drowning in it until graduation. Not to mention the clout we’ll get just for having his name attached to us.”

You huff indignantly, as irritated by her insight as with your own sour mood. “I don’t want the name of a psycho attached to me, thank you very much.”

“Oh my god, spare me from the morally upright of this world,” Gina groans into the air. “Dude’s allegedly into a bit of bondage and that makes him a psycho?”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment; you cast a mortified glance around the café, glad that nobody appears to have caught that.

“Keep your damn voice down,” you hiss.

Gina finishes her latte, swiping the foam from her top lip. “Appointment is for twelve tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Don't forget the Dictaphone and make sure whatever notes you take are readable.”

She rises from her chair, stepping out from around the table. “If you unclench enough to make it there, that is.”

With a cackle and a flourish, she about-faces and leaves the café, leaving you to stew in nerves. In one thing, she’s not so wrong. Chan Christopher Bang is the billionaire playboy philanthropist of the nonfiction world, and there’s not a self-respecting economics student that doesn’t know his name, much less one that wouldn’t tear your arm off for a chance to interview him in your place.

A mug smashes behind the counter, the crack of porcelain ringing shrill through the café. A young, overworked barista apologises profusely, going about collecting the scraps from the floor.

There’s 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 don’t feel it, and that’ll 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.

“Hello,” you smile. She glances up from her computer. “I’m here to see Mr. Bang.”

“Mr. Bang sees people by appointment only.” She turns back to her computer.

“R— Right, of course. Sorry; I do have an appointment? Twelve o’clock?” Quite why the irrefutable fact comes out like a question, you’re not sure, but the woman quirks a groomed brow and asks for your name. A few tip-taps on her keyboard, and she says, “Elevator to the top floor, take a seat in the waiting room.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

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 pleasant—you’re not so practiced in the art of wearing heels—but 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, “Mr. Bang will see you now.”

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: “Enter.”

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.

“Do come in. Don’t be shy.”

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 strike—and he does; make no mistake—the 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.

“You must be my twelve o’clock,” 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. “I suppose we are late getting started, yes,” he smiles. “My conference call ran over. Turns out doing business abroad takes some fine communication.”

Ground, swallow.

He crosses the rest of the office, hand outstretched when he’s close enough, which you take amicably.

“I— It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.” God, your voice is chalky.

“Chan, please.” 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.

“Would you like to take a seat?” he then asks, gesturing with his other hand to the armchairs at his desk.

“Sure.”

Moving to the designated area is done so under his (watchful?) gaze burning something of a hole into your back until you’re seated, and it’s 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 wouldn’t 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.

“Is it okay to record this?” you ask as an afterthought.

Chan nods flatly, eyes trained to you. Something warm curls around your chest.

“A— And I'll be taking notes too, if that’s—”

“That’s fine.”

Do you imagine the way his gaze drops briefly—almost accidentally—to your legs? You clear your throat, pulse spiking. God.

“This interview is for...?” he then asks.

Glad of an excuse to talk (if a little miffed at his apparent ignorance) you do just that: “A school project; our final project, I mean.”

“I see. What are you studying?”

“Business and economics.”

“Undergrad?”

You nod. “Graduating this year. This project makes up thirty percent of our final grade.”

“Thirty percent, huh?” he muses softly, running his fingers absentmindedly under his jaw. You tear your eyes from him, down to your notepad.

“S— So, if you don’t mind, may I ask you some questions?”

He smiles. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Alright,” you shift, balancing the pad on your knee, clicking the Dictaphone to record. “Mr. Bang,” you begin. Chan purses his lips in something akin to disapproval; you continue regardless. “Could you tell me what inspired you to start a company?”

“I wanted to be rich.”

You glance at the Dictaphone, as though it’s an active audience. “Of course,” you indulge him. “Let me rephrase that: aside from financial gain, what was your motivation?”

“I wanted to be powerful,” he deadpans.

Irritation simmers under your skin. “Could you elaborate?”

Chan sinks into his chair, beringed fingers linked at his chest. “Doesn't everyone crave power?” he asks rhetorically. “Power brings control, and control is everything.”

You scribble that down in the notepad. “I see.”

“Not profound enough for you?”

Looking up at him, eyes lock over the desk; your pulse throbs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

He drops into a smirk, though what precisely is so amusing to him escapes you. It strikes you that he’s 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: he’s a powerful entrepreneur, you’re a pestering student, the worlds of which don’t—and shouldn’t—collide. And that’s the only reason you’re 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. “Next question,” you preface, glancing up at the man whose chin now rests on a formed fist. He lifts a groomed brow expectantly.

“Do you have a mantra, Mr. Bang? Or a motto? Something you live or do business by?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly. “No.”

“No?”

“I make my own way.”

“As in...?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Business is a brutal world. If you end up in it, you’ll understand what I mean by that, but until then rest assured that the one thing that’ll serve you well is loyalty. Whether that’s 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; it’ll earn you anything you want. Those that work under me—that are loyal—are rewarded handsomely for their services. Those that aren’t? Well...” he shrugs gently. Ominously. Your pulse spikes again.

“I adopt the same philosophy in my personal life,” he then adds, and the voice at the back of your mind that pleads with you not to ask goes pitifully ignored.

“How so?”

His teeth indent his plush lower lip, and then he says, “Within sex, mostly.”

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. Carefully—as though aware the kitten he stares down may yet scarper—he 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 it’s more a cause for concern than a sensation you dare to embrace.

And to that end:

“I, uh... I think that’s everything, Mr. Bang. Thank you for giving me your time.”

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.

“You hardly wrote a thing down,” he says thoughtfully, examining the page.

You laugh nervously. “It’s all up here,” you tap your temple, then reach for the notepad. Chan holds it still, his scrutiny moved from the item to you.

“M— May I have it back, please?”

“Are you sure you have enough content?”

“Yes. Plenty. Of course. So much. Thank you, Mr. Bang.”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t I ask you to call me Chan?”

“Did you?”

“My; what a short attention span. That sort of thing can be trained, you know.”

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 it’s only that which stops you from—

“My next engagement is in an hour,” 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. It’s 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 ‘the spark’; the tight coil of hunger that compels you to open to this stranger in ways you’d 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; they’re 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 it—feet off the floor and spine against the seat—you watch breathlessly as he shrugs off the jacket, folding it over his arm and to the desk.

“You’ll answer some of my questions, now,” 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. “How do you like to do business?”

Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose thick forearms, he unclasps his Rolex, dumps it to the desk. Hands outstretched—first left, then right—he peels the rings from each slim finger, similarly reckless in his depositing of them.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t really... do business.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Shame.” And sinks to his knees, hands curled around the chair armrests for veins to protrude. “You could strike a wicked deal or two.”

“I could...?” you ask uselessly.

He nods, and then rasps, “With me.”

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.

“You intrigue me. Not much does anymore.”

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:

“With your agreement, I’d like to make you come on my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock. I’d like to make you come at my leisure, at my beck and call, at my convenience. I’d like you to submit to me, darling, and I’ll reward you so lusciously you won’t even recall your life before me.”

The spreading of your legs is your non-verbal agreement; Chan seeks it anyway, your chin held by thumb and forefinger.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

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, you’re 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.

“So wet already,” he muses, and then, “How does that feel?”

“G— Good...”

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.

“You’re tight, darling. So tight.” His index finger joins the effort. “Can feel you opening for me.”

Your moan is obscene; there’s something to be said for the efficacy of Chan’s mouth, his voice, his words that accompany the building of pressure his fingers coax.

“Good girl.”

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, “W— What...?”

Chan grins, white and wolfish. “Right here?” 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. “Yeah. Right there.”

“Chan—”

“Your g-spot,” he informs softly, as though the information be some grand revelation that should change the course of things. In a way, it is. You’ve 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.

“Taste good, darling.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

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 he’s comfortable to call it home, it’s 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.

“Chan... Chan, I—”

He hushes you. “I know. Let it go. That was our agreement, wasn’t it?”

And amidst convulsions that wrack you with more violence than grace, a rush of pressure is relieved by fluid that drips and gushes from you—somehow—over his fingers, his chin. Chan pulls back, eyes ablaze with satisfaction and awe, the broken staccato of his name echoing around the office.

“Fuck me,” he mumbles absently when the aftershocks are passed, when you’re 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.

“Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”

***

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 man’s 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 wasn’t 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?

“Business requires an adaptive approach,” he’d said warmly and on your questioning as to how he’d 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, Chan’s 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 life—newly unpackaged and box fresh—goes on.

***

The raw obscenity of the moan you fill Chan’s office with might be apt to draw outside attention were it not for the (recently installed) soundproofing.

“Goodness,” he grins. “Extra vocal for me today, hm?”

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 that’s no product of inattention; Chan knows very well what he does, and why he does it.

“Chan—”

He glances at you, all perfect nonchalance.

“Please...”

“Please?” he mimics. “What are we pleading for now?” The toy glides deeper; you liquefy inside.

“Want to— Need to—”

“Oh, you want to come?” He hums, then purses his lips. “For such a vocal little thing you have an awfully hard time articulating, darling.”

He twists the toy, your sensitivity clenching around it.

“Fuck... I won’t have a hard time soaking that laptop and your dumb suit in a minute—”

Chan scoffs, eyes alight. “So she does speak. Shame that it’s backchat.” He withdraws the toy carefully, slowly, the emptiness of sensation leaving you a deflated ruin. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you, darling. Been too generous in my affections. I have an empire to run, yet here I am, making sure you’re looked after.”

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:

“Take my belt off.”

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, “Hands behind your back.”

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.

“I should be more selfish,” he breathes, the blushed head of his cock a prod against your centre. “Take what I want.”

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.

“Fuck—”

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. 

“That better, baby?” he grunts. “This what you wanted? To be stuffed so full you can’t think?”

“Ngh— Yes—”

“Such a pretty little toy for me to play with, huh?” He snaps upwards, thrusts deep. “Fit around me so well—”

Weak in his arms and plummeting towards orgasm—the tenderness of his earlier ministrations exacerbating the fall—your chin is held up, hot lips speak against your mouth: “Look at me.”

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 he’s done. Touched by hands that shaped the city, kissed by lips that commandeer thousands, it’s 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. “Finish with me, darling. Want to feel you.”

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, “Thank you.”

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 Professor’s monologue, it’s 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 I’ve a few shirts I’d 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

>> ♥

***

With class finished and all present making their respective rushes to the exit, you’re 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.

“Hey! Wait just a damn minute!”

“Gina, I really have to go—”

She grabs your wrist before you can scarper too far, the sudden and harsh contact on the—until now, pleasantly—sore skin a shock to your system. You yank it from her; Gina stares dumbfounded until disapproval glooms her expression.

“What’s going on?”

“Wh— Nothing!”

“Girl, you better not think I’m fool enough to believe your dirty lies—”

You reach out to her. “Alright. Okay. Something is, but I can’t really give you details.”

She eyes you dubiously. You half expect the tantrum, but it doesn’t come. She simply sighs, “But you’re okay, right?”

“I am.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you reassure her.

She rolls her eyes, pulls you into a warm hug and on release, spins you about-face by the shoulders. “Go get yours, then!” she hollers, shoving you towards the door.

“I’ll call you!” you grin.

“Better had!”

***

Laden with shopping bags full of clothes on return to your modest one-bedroom house, you wonder if it’s 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 isn’t 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 weren’t 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: ‘In celebration of the best business deal I ever made. Wear this tonight. - Mr. B.’

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 you’d 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 o’clock 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 can’t bear to count them all. His hair swept back and styled neatly, silver glints in his lobes and at his neck betray the man’s inclinations to extravagance; he doesn’t 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.

“It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he huffs as he stands from the wall.

“How so?”

He quirks a groomed brow, gestures vaguely in your direction.

“You don’t like it?” you ask, knowing so much better.

“I’m rather inclined to tear it to shreds, actually.”

Deep arousal rolls through you; you hum thoughtfully, stepping out to join him. “Maybe later, love.”

There’s a black Bentley parked on the street, its headlights slicing through the dark. “Yours?” you point to it and ask him.

He nods stiffly.

“Shall we, then?”

A deep breath and puff of resignation, and Chan starts towards the vehicle, guiding hand at the small of your bare back.

“Are you going to tell me how you got this into my house?” you ask.

“No.”

“Are you going to show me? When I least expect it? When I’m fresh from the shower, perhaps?”

He grins down at you, mirth in his eyes. “Would you like that?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

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, “Your wish for ravishment is my command, darling.”

***

Drawn close to Chan’s 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.

“Can I ask where we’re going now?”

Chan exhales softly. “It’s a charity dinner.”

“Charity?” you repeat, surprised. “I thought you didn’t do charity.”

“Not publicly, no. I neither need nor can stand the clout of it all.” He sighs then. “Still, 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 couldn’t well refuse.”

“Dear to your heart...?”

Chan smiles; squeezes your hand. “Another time, perhaps. We’re almost there.”

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 ‘rumours’, 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.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And with that, he guides you up the carpeted stairs to be greeted by smartly suited staff at the door: “Good evening, Mr. Bang.”

Chaperoned inside, the hall is as opulent as the exterior suggests it should be. Dazzling chandeliers illuminate the intricately painted domed ceiling, scenes and murals depict angels and creatures locked in fierce battles of romantic pursuit. Gilded and ornate, the round tables and cushioned chairs match the décor, their white covering cloths pristine. People as beautiful as you’ve ever seen linger and mingle, their attention diverted by the man at your arm. You swallow over the nerves, guided by another suited individual to a table where the dainty name plates dictate the seating arrangement.

“Thank you,” Chan says amicably, pulling a seat out by the back. “Sit, darling.” And then he gathers the other nameplates, handing them to the—now appropriately flustered—member of staff. “That’ll be all.”

He drags a second chair beside yours and sits close, longs legs crossed elegantly.

“Are we gatekeeping an entire table?” you ask quietly, still somewhat perturbed by the eyes on you.

“If you’d rather be seated with the leeches of this city, I can call him back.”

“No,” you laugh softly. “No, that’s quite alright.”

He reaches to your hand, pulls it into his lap where he holds it warmly. “Good.”

While glad of his confidence and apparent unshaking faith in you to handle this, the scrutiny with which you’re being examined is doing far more to keep you on edge. You’re 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?

Chan’s hand finds your knee. “Relax.” He squeezes it gently; you hadn’t even realised your nerves were bouncing it. “We’ll be out of here the moment the speeches are done.”

And you’re about to voice your gratitude when an uncomfortably shrill calling of Chan’s name pierces the moment: “Christopher! Oh my god, is that you?!”

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 Chan’s immediately.

When close enough she leans over the table, cleavage swelling to near disastrous results. Chan remains seated, blinks and says flatly, “Gemma.”

‘Gemma’ squeals; your teeth ache. “I thought Hell’d freeze over before I ever saw you at one of these things. How crazy!”

“Just keeping up appearances.”

“Oh, I know all about that, babe,” she grins bleached white, and then twirls a strand of brown around her manicured finger. “We should catch up some time. I’ve missed you!”

Chan’s jaw locks.

“How about I swing by your office this weekend?” she proposes, her blatant ignorance of you an abject insult. “I’ll bring a bottle of Cristal. That’s still your favourite, right? Do you still have that old tiger skin—”

“Excuse me.”

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 don’t stop to entertain it.

You rush to the nearest most obvious member of staff. “Bathroom?”

“Up the stairs, madam. Third floor.”

“Thank you.”

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 Chan’s 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.

It’s 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, it’s 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 he’s 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?

It’s with these thoughts rolling around that the door opens slowly, that you’re 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, you’re taken into his arms, pulled close against his frame for him to curl around you.

“You ran from me,” he whispers.

“Chan...”

He pulls back enough that he can search your face, and what he finds brings him to say, “Please, don’t. Not now.”

“I just... I needed some space, was all. I couldn’t—”

“I know.” He trails a touch up your arm. “I know I asked a lot of you tonight. I’d hoped to spare you from running into any of my... previous associates, but I—”

“Is that what she is?” you ask.

Chan blinks, falters. “It was a long time ago.”

And the way your heart sinks is testament to the depth of your feelings; why does it take this for you to see them?

“I’m not that person anymore,” he adds.

You wait, expectant. Chan inhales slowly, lips parting and closing around the words before courage enough is summoned.

“I hear the things people say about me,” he says. “They think that because I’m rich and beautiful, everything else about me must be rotten. In some ways, they’re not entirely wrong. I sacrificed a lot to get to where I am; things that better people wouldn’t have. In starting out I made some poor deals with bad people, and despite how far I’ve come since then, the stain won’t ever wash out.”

You reach up to cup his cheeks, thumbs running the angular bones. “Everyone has a past, Chan. It doesn’t define you.”

He leans into your touch. “Maybe it should.”

“It wouldn’t change anything.”

His brow furrows.

“Knowing all the details of your past, no matter how grisly. It wouldn’t change how I... how I feel about you.”

Chan’s eyes glisten in the moonlight, reflective pools of tender hope. “How you feel about me?”

Your gaze drops; he lifts your chin to return it. “Say it.”

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, “I’ll never run from you again.”

Chan simpers; your heart near bursts. Swept up into a carry of strong arms, you’re 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, “No underwear, darling?”

“The dress doesn’t really allow for— Oh—” 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, that’s 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.

“You’re beautiful,” 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.

“God, baby—”

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 man’s 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, Chan’s 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.

“Finish with me,” you instruct breathlessly, as you were once so instructed yourself. “Want to feel you.”

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. “Fuck, fuck—” 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:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Tonight’s event is about to begin.”

Chan laughs; weighted and thick, his chest rumbling atop yours. And this time, you’re 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.

“Would I be crazy for suggesting we bail on this thing?” he sighs.

“You’d be crazier for suggesting we stay.”

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:

“Come with me?”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ♡ 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙠𝙤-𝙛𝙞 ♡

[seo--changbin]

𝐄𝐯𝐞'𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞

"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 janitor’s 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.

“There’s nowhere to go now.”

He’s looking at you with eyes hard with determination and something else that you’re too afraid to admit you understand. He’s only a breadth away, nothing but air filled with tension and every last bit of your morality that’s separating the two of you and stopping you from doing something you’d regret once you’ve sobered up from the lust that’s flooding your system. 

His eyes dart to your lips, the ones you’ve applied cherry lip gloss to moments ago—watching how you dart your tongue over them absent-mindedly because of how dry they suddenly felt—before 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. 

“You can say no.”

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.

“You can push me away, curse me out, run.”

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. 

It's the kind of scent that drives him absolutely crazy. 

He hums before stating the obvious truth. 

“But you don't want to,” he huffs out an airy chuckle. “You wouldn't.”

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 you— “Chan…” 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. 

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 wouldn’t even be here in the first place if you would've just ignored it all—ignored 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. 

But you didn't. 

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 innocent—or at least, that was what you tried to convince yourself. 

Coy smiles, stolen glances, innocent touches that linger way too long, and jokes that start to blur the lines between humor and flirting—temptation 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. 

Venom drips from Chan’s 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. 

“I know you want this,” he breathes out. “I know you want me.” Goosebumps break out on your skin when his thumb grazes your lower lip, the gloss sticky under the pad of his finger. “So stop resisting it. Give in.” 

"I… I can’t,” you whisper out. “I’m getting married soon and—” You shake your head as you pull away from his grip, shutting your eyes tightly as the shame and guilt creep up on you. “If Minwon finds out, who knows what will—" 

“If he finds out,” Chan’s words were laced with venom, dripping and intoxicating, the light above the two of you casting a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But you wouldn’t let that happen, won’t you?” He coils a piece of your hair around his finger, the strands gliding against his skin. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin this little piece of paradise between us.” 

Paradise. 

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 didn’t 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 coworkers’ 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 lips—god, how much of an amazing kisser he is. 

You tried not to think about it while on the train home, especially when you’re in the same space as Chan, offering to ride home with you after work just because he gets off a stop before you. You tried not to think about his hands and how their veins popped out as he gripped the pole beside you, shielding you from the other passengers as the cab got cramped, swallowing the desire brought by curiosity as you remembered your coworker’s conversation. When you got home that night, with your fiancé fast asleep beside you, you tried to forget about Chan’s warmth and how broad he felt behind you, and tried to sleep away the thoughts about what it might be like being under him and how skilled his hands might be and how his lips would feel against yours.  

“You know, I really don’t mind waiting,” he says, tucking the hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheeks. His touch scorching your skin. “You can go home with your lover and play house while the fun lasts.” Chan finally cups your cheek, turning your head to face him. “But when you’re with me, we both know that you’re mine.” His lips nearly graze yours, almost touching. “You’ve been mine since the day I laid eyes on you.”

As Chan’s 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. “Say it,” he says, voice controlled but demanding. “Say you’re mine and I'll give you heaven.” 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, “I might even take you there.” 

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. Chan’s 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 Adam’s apple, your phone rings at your desk. 

Minwon sits alone at a fancy dinner table, wondering if you can still make it to your 8pm dinner reservation. 

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!

[desi2go]

Piece by piece (1)

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 🫶🏻

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.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

@vernorica123

[seospicybin]

CONFLICT OF INTEREST.

CHAPTER THREE

Felix x reader. (s,f)

MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After getting dumped for loving too hard, soft-hearted lawyer Felix Lee decides to master the art of being “casual” — 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 😊❣️

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 didn’t realize how much he missed him until he caught himself drafting emails and thinking, Seungmin would roast this immediately.

He’s genuinely excited. Almost too excited. Which is why he’s currently standing on a stool in Seungmin’s office, aggressively taping a banner to the wall.

“Higher,” he instructs the intern holding the other side.

“It’s touching the ceiling,” the intern sheepishly mutters.

“Higher in spirit,” 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 Seungmin’s desk.

Felix checks his phone again. Twenty-five minutes ago, Seungmin texted him that he got on a taxi to work. He knows that he’ll 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.

“Is there a five-year-old having a birthday party in here?” 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.

“Okay,” he whispers urgently. “When he opens the door, we shout together. On three. Not two. Not four.”

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. He’s walking carefully with crutches, slower than usual but still somehow carrying himself like he owns the building.

Felix’s heart jumps in excitement and buzzing nerves. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here,” he repeatedly hisses.

He rushes back inside Seungmin’s office and quietly shuts the door. “Positions!” he whisper-shouts.

The interns scramble, body stiffens, confetti canons raised in the air like they’re 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 don’t 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.

“WELCOME BACK!” 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.

“Wow,” he says, clearly delighted despite trying to look composed. “This is… excessive.”

The interns beam proudly as they still stand in their positions, afraid to move without Felix’s permission.

“Thank you, you guys,” Seungmin says as he looks at everyone. His eyes stop at the three interns and points at them, “I’m sure Felix made you do all this but thanks and I’ll treat all of you to drinks later.”

Felix turns to at them and thanks them again. “Now all of you can go back to work,” he says.

The interns file out in a noisy cluster until it’s just the three of you now in Seungmin’s office. Felix steps forward immediately and pulls Seungmin into a careful hug. “Welcome back,” he says properly this time.

“Thank you, man,” Seungmin genuinely says as he pats his back. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

 “It was nothing! Everyone’s just excited you’re back,” Felix gushes. A grin is plastered to his face.

“Except me,” you cut in flatly.

Seungmin looks at you, amused rather than offended. He inhales softly, savoring this moment. “How I missed your positive attitude!” he says at you.

“Yeah,” you reply dryly. “It’s been fun without you. You should break your leg more often.”

Felix winces at and hurriedly stepping in between you and Seungmin. “You must be tired,” he says as he gets to Seungmin’s side. “Let’s have you seated.”

He helps Seungmin to his chair, carefully setting the crutches aside for him after.

Seungmin settles in with a satisfied sigh and smiles. “It feels good to be back,” he says.

Felix lights up again as he looks at Seungmin back on his desk again. “You’ll be back in court in no time. Your cases are all in order. I handled everything. Mostly.”

“Actually,” Seungmin says casually as he leans back on his chair, “I talked to the head of the firm.”

Felix nods eagerly, patiently waiting for the rest of the it.

“It seems like I’ll be working alongside you,” Seungmin says as he gestures at Felix with both hands. “Just until I’m fully back on my feet. Literally and figuratively.”

Felix responds too fast, too eager. “Don’t worry, Seungmin. I’m more than happy to help.”

Seungmin looks pleased at that. “Oh thanks, man.”

When Felix turns his head slightly to the side and sees you glaring at him. His smile tightens a little. It’s 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 it’s only Monday morning.

-

Two shots. Extra ice. Felix remembers exactly how Seungmin likes his coffee — 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 counter—

All of a sudden, he feels a hand yanking at the back of his blazer and jerks him backward.

“What—”

Before he can finish, he’s 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.

Felix’s eyes fluttering in fear as you lean close, a little too close and staring into him with ice cold glare. “H-hey, I Uhm… I’m making coffee,” he stutters, forcing a weak laugh. “Do you—”

You push him harder against the wall and he shuts up instantly. “Let me remind you that you’ll be working alongside Seungmin,” you say, voice low and cutting.

Felix nods faintly.

“So there is a very, very big possibility that you’ll spill everything,” you continue.

“I won’t,” he blurts immediately. “I promise. I won’t tell him. I— I swear.”

You narrow your eyes and your gaze turns sharp. Dangerously sharp.

“Do you not trust me?” he asks, voice smaller now.

“You think I’d trust a mollusk like you?” you say flatly.

Felix presses his lips together to stop them from trembling.

“Just so you know,” you pause to lean in even closer, eyes locking onto his. “I have the mailing list for your wine club.”

Felix can almost feel the blood drained from his face the second he hears that.

“If one word. One word,” you emphasize by shoving your index finger close to his face, “slips out of your slimy mouth about this arrangement, I will email every single member and tell them you serve your wine at room temperature.”

Felix gasps. Actual horror flashes across his face. The reputation he’s been carefully, finely built in his wine club…

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” 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 then— You glance back at him, eyes scanning him in quiet judgement. You seem not pleased with what you’re saying but doesn’t say anything and walk away, stomping your heeled feet against the floor.

Felix looks down automatically, aware of what he’s 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 can’t. 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 he’s transporting fragile cargo.

“You should’ve stayed in the office,” Felix says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “You could’ve rested. Reviewed files. Bossed interns around from your chair.”

Seungmin snorts. “And die of boredom? No, thank you.”

Felix keeps his eyes on the road and drives just above the speed limit.

“I’d go insane doing desk work all day,” Seungmin continues. “Besides, this way we can spend time together, have lunch after court.”

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. “I’m thinking something good. Something celebratory. What do you feel like? Noodles? Barbecue? That pizza place you like? Or maybe—”

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.

“—or maybe we try that new place near the courthouse? I heard they have really good—”

He’s barely listening because he’s 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 mouth…

Seungmin is still talking about lunch with surprising intensity.

“…weeks without work and my brain is lagging. Anyway, I think we should have something good for lunch,” Seungmin finishes, turning to look at him.

Felix keeps nodding. Too much nodding. It’s too quiet for a beat.

“Why are you so quiet?”

Felix’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “What? I’m not quiet.”

“You are,” Seungmin says slowly. “You used to be so excited whenever we’re talking about food.”

Felix’s brain scrambles to make up an excuse, a lie. “I’m just—” he clears his throat, forcing composure, “—getting ready for court. It’s part of my ritual now.”

Seungmin eyes him. “A ritual?”

“Yeah. Mental preparation. Silence. Focus. Law things.”

Seungmin squints, clearly unconvinced. “…Since when?”

Felix shrugs too casually. “Since I… took over some of your cases.”

There’s a pause where Seungmin studies him like he’s cross-examining a witness. Then, eventually, he leans back. “Yep. Make sense,” he says with a nod of approval.

He goes right back to lunch discussion. “So. Any suggestions?”

Felix blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Shirako!”

Seungmin slowly turns his head. “What is that?”

“Blowfish sperm,” Felix simply answers.

Seungmin’s face contorts in disgust.

“It’s a Japanese delicacy. It contains zinc and DHA. A brain booster.”

This time, Seungmin shakes his head in disapproval.

“Served raw with ponzu sauce. It’s creamy, delicate and slightly sweet.”

Seungmin’s brows are still knitted together, but he doesn’t even dignify it with a full rejection. “Nope,” he says flatly. “We’re getting normal food. You know, something that has nothing to do with fish’s testicle.”

Felix nods immediately. Normal is good. Normal is safe. Normal doesn’t 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. “You did great in there,” he genuinely praises.

A praise from Seungmin means a lot to him but it’s nothing compared to the smile of relief on his client’s face. It’s another job well done and Felix feels proud of himself.

For lunch, Felix and Seungmin end up at a small restaurant near the courthouse — nothing experimental, nothing related to a certain animal’s sperm sac. Just good, normal food. Seungmin looks pleased with himself for overriding Felix’s earlier suggestion.

Felix, meanwhile, has discovered something important during the car ride: If he talks about food, he doesn’t talk about secrets.

So he talks. Passionately. To distract his brain from sharing the one thing his best friend shouldn’t know about.

“This place uses a darker soy base,” he explains, gesturing at Seungmin’s bowl like he’s presenting evidence. “It’s richer, slightly caramelized. And the scallions are cut thicker on purpose — texture contrast.”

Seungmin hums, already halfway through his meal.

“I actually found this place through a food vlogger,” Felix continues. “He rated it an 8.7 but I think that’s criminally low because if you consider the balance of salt and fat—”

Seungmin takes a little bit of everything into his spoon and shoves it into his mouth.

Felix keeps going. “And the chili oil? It’s infused, not just mixed in. That’s why it lingers differently.”

Seungmin nods absentmindedly, clearly far more invested in eating than in the lecture.

Felix doesn’t 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 it’s work-related. His heart skips a beat when he sees your name. He’s so afraid to open it now but at the same time, he wants to know what you sent.

It’s just a text message, he tells himself, how bad could it be?

With a slightly trembling finger, Felix clicks on the text. It’s a photo. He pinches the screen to zoom in and his breath stops. It’s 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 — His entire curated image destroyed in one email blast.

“What is it?” Seungmin asks casually.

The phone he’s holding almost slipped out of his hand. “Nothing,” he says too quickly, shoving it into his briefcase like it’s evidence in a crime.

Seungmin stares at him. Not buying it. “It’s definitely something,” he says, his tone full of suspicion.

“It’s nothing,” Felix repeats and forces a smile to look convincing.

Seungmin tilts his head slightly and smirks. “…Is it the wine club girl you banged last weekend?”

Felix almost chokes on nothing.

Seungmin bursts into laughter immediately. “Man! You’re so easy to read,” he says, shaking his head in amusement.

Felix coughs, grabbing his water. “Yeah. She just keeps texting. Wants to meet again,” he lies, recovering quickly.

He sips his water before shrugging, feigning indifference. “I told her I’m keeping it casual.”

Seungmin’s brows lift. “Ooo… look at you!” He coos, impressed.

Felix forces a small scoff. “What?”

“You finally learned to do casual right,” Seungmin nods approvingly. “Good for you.”

Felix smiles and nods. And keeps the expression steady. Inside, something twists. He hates lying to his best friend, Seungmin. But it’s this—

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 Seungmin’s return which means it’s loud, it’s 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. He’s sharing yet another of his false, embellished heroic version of how he got injured to Sal, the owner and bartender of the bar.

“…and then I told him, if you’re going to swing that metal pipe, at least aim properly—”

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. “So glad you survived,” he comments at Seungmin’s heroic story.

“Barely,” Seungmin replies with mock gravity. “It was a battlefield.”

Felix doesn’t 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 “shielded” 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. You’re already looking at him like you’ve 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 don’t smile or greet him. You just ask, flatly, “So have you told your best friend about us?”

Felix immediately shakes his head. “No.”

You squint. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding firmly. “Every time I get the urge to talk, I just talk about food.”

There’s 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 he’s 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, “Well, see you at my place later.”

The invitation comes so sudden. No buildup. No negotiation. Like you’ve just decided at that very moment that you want him to come over to your place. “Later? Like… later at what time exactly?” he asks, worrying more about the time than everything else.

You don’t answer but finish your drink in one smooth motion. You stand, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Don’t be late,” 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 he—

He only follows.

-

By the time Felix gets Seungmin out of the bar, he regrets letting him switch to whatever Sal called a “welcome back special.”

Seungmin is not wasted. But he is… spiritually unbalanced.

“Careful,” Felix mutters, arm hooked firmly around Seungmin’s 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.

“Why do you have so many limbs,” Felix groans under his breath, juggling crutches, best friend, and dignity.

Seungmin squints at him. “I’m very aerodynamic right now.”

“You are the opposite of aerodynamic,” 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 “late” even means. He raises his free hand and waves frantically at the street. “Taxi! Taxi!”

Finally, headlights slow and a taxi pulls to the curb.

“Okay, the taxi’s here,” 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 it’s a fragile sculpture.

“Crutches,” Seungmin mumbles.

Felix grabs them off the pavement and hands them through the door. He leans toward the driver next. “Seoul Heights Apartments. Building C.”

The driver nods and Felix is about to step back when a hand grabs his wrist.

Seungmin peers up at him, eyes glassy. “…Why am I in a taxi?”

Felix wipes the sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. “Because it’s time to go home.”

Seungmin frowns slightly. “Why aren’t you driving me?”

“Because I’ve been drinking too.”

After a while, Seungmin nods slowly. “Right. Yes. Alcohol.”

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. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

Felix hesitates for half a second. “Our homes are in different directions.”

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. “Please drive safe.”

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 doesn’t know what “late” 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 he’s 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 could’ve 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.

There’s no answer. He checks the address again, matching the number of the unit. 13B. He’s right. He knocks again and again. Still now answer.

Just when he’s about to knock again, the door opens and you’re 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.

“Well, well, well, look who finally showed up,” you finally say.

Felix immediately fumbles as he explains why. “I—I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. I had to help Seungmin. He’s drunk and then the taxi and—”

You don’t look impressed. “You made me wait,” you simply say.

The words are simple yet accusatory. Felix can’t even find a word to say. He knows that’s true.

“You made me watch these 12 parts videos of a TED Talk on TikTok.”

Felix’s mouth parts open but he’s not sure what to say to that. “TED talk?”

You cross your arms together and lean the side of your body against the frame. “It’s about power poses and apparently, they affect hormonal changes. You know, like confidence. Dominance.”

You straighten slightly as you speak. “So now I’m more in the mood to go back to my room and practice my own power poses.”

Felix’s brain short-circuits as he tries to catch up to all this information and what it means to him. “Does that mean, you uh… you don’t want to have sex anymore?” he carefully asks.

You look at him like the answer should be obvious. “Well, you shouldn’t have made me opened TikTok.”

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, “…Okay.”

He takes a step back and turns toward the elevator. Maybe this is what he gets. Maybe “later” had a very specific expiration time. Two steps later—

“Hey, you,” you call, voice echoes in the empty hallway. “Shelled gastropod!”

He stops walking and turns around immediately. He raises a finger at himself, hesitantly asks, “Me?”

You’re still leaning against the door but something in your expression has shifted. Just slightly. “I changed my mind.”

His face brightens before he can control it. He stammers as he asks once again for confirmation. “Does that mean—you want to—now?”

You open the door wider and make a head gesture. “You’d better get in before I change my mind again,” you say.

That’s 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 you’ve been practicing—

He has a feeling he’s about to experience it firsthand.

-

Your apartment is a studio. It’s 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 don’t say anything but stand there and let him look.

He clears his throat softly. “That’s a big uh… mirror.”

“It’s there to create the illusion of space,” you reply.

Felix nods slowly, but his curiosity is louder than his manners. “But why is it facing the bed?”

You tilt your head slightly, like you already knew that was coming. “Because I like waking up and seeing my face as it reminds me that I’m blessed with beauty that could change the world.”

That tracks. Felix nods immediately and opens his mouth to ask about the crystals—

But you step forward, gently steering him by the sleeve toward the bed. “I’d love to teach you more about home décor. But I have some power poses I want to show you.”

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. “Whoa, silk bedsheets…” 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 — shoulders back, chin lifted, stance grounded.

“…she said that adopting power poses can boost confidence and influence success…”

As you speak, Felix realizes something. This is one of the things he admires about you. You’re not just confident. You’re certain. You live by your own rules. You don’t dilute yourself for anyone. You exist exactly as you are and expect the world to adjust accordingly.

“You don’t need all that,” he starts softly. “You’re—”

He stops himself. Afraid finishing that sentence might annoy you instead of impress you.

You nod once and say, “Yeah, I know I’m powerful already.”

Of course you do. Then your eyes shift back to him. “There’s one more power pose I want to try.”

Felix nods obediently. “Yes, please show it to me,” 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 don’t stop until you’re 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 don’t move and just look at him as you straddle him.

Under your gaze, he feels both intimidated and undeniably drawn in. “I-is this the power pose?” he stammers.

You let out a low, amused laugh. You put a hand around his neck, lean in and then you kiss him. It’s sudden. Rougher than he expects. He’s 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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 you’ve been kissing him. It could be minutes, hours, something in between — but he’s 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 doesn’t 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 it’s yours to take.

He’s 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. You’re always aware.

You look down at him like you’re assessing your work. Your fingers drift to his freckled cheek, then slide beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward you.

“Such a pretty face,” 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 you’re kneeling over him. His head caged between your thighs.

From this angle, he can see the matching underwear you’re 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, “This is the power pose.”

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.

There’s fabric between his mouth and your cunt, but he doesn’t 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, there’s nothing between you now. You lower yourself back down with a slow exhale, and this time he doesn’t 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 — all tuned to the smallest reaction you give.

Soon you’re moving more obviously, rolling your hips back and forth, chasing the sensation he’s 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 — 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 doesn’t 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 doesn’t stop. His hands don’t stop. At this point, there’s 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 he’s more than willing to surrender to it.

-

Felix doesn’t know when the shift happens.

You’re 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 he’s following your lead and the next, he’s 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 — something he can manage, something he can survive.

Then, you start to softly, breathlessly murmurs between your moans. “Faster.”

He shouldn’t. You feel too good, wrapped so warmly, tightly around him. The pace he’s keeping is measured because he knows if he lets go completely, he won’t last the way he wants to.

“Faster,” you breathe again, needier this time.

For a second, he hesitates — not because he can’t obey, but because obeying means losing control. And yet…

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 don’t hide it. You don’t pretend composure. You let him hear what he’s doing to you and that’s new.

He turns his head slightly and finds the mirror. He sees the reflection of the moment unfolding real time — 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 you’re 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 he’s doing well. That he’s 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 “Stop dressing like a nervous intern.”. 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 doesn’t recognize himself. He looks… Good. There’s 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 doesn’t look nervous. It looks knowing. And because he looks good, he feels good. The confidence isn’t forced. It settles into his shoulders. Into the way he moves. Into the calm steadiness of his breathing.

Yeah, he’s no longer look like a nervous intern at all. He looks like someone who knows what he’s 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. “Morning, Mr. Lee. You look very handsome today,” she says with a grin.

Felix beams, but it’s not flustered like usual. “Thank you,” he replies smoothly.

He keeps walking, steadily gripping his briefcase in one hand and it’s 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 isn’t.

There’s a certainty under his movements now. He doesn’t second-guess when he speaks. He doesn’t hover before knocking on doors. He doesn’t shrink when someone challenges him.

He realizes that confidence isn’t just something he performs. Maybe it’s something he decides to wear. Maybe it’s 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 there’s 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.

“Thanks, man,” 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 driver’s seat, he hands Seungmin the coffee without a word.

“Two shots. Extra ice,” Felix says with a smile.

Seungmin takes a sip through the straw and hums in approval. “You’d survive as my assistant.”

“I’d unionize.”

Seungmin snorts and settles into the seat, adjusting the boot slightly. “God, I feel lighter. No more crutches. I can walk without feeling like a Victorian orphan,” he says, one hand resting on his knee.

Felix laughs, pulling the car out of the lot. “So the check-up went well?”

“Yeah. Doctor says I’m healing perfectly. I graduate from crutches to this.” He taps the boot proudly. “It’s kind of cool, right? Like a limited-edition sneaker.”

“I’s very cool. I’d like to get one of those,” Felix says automatically. The people pleaser in him just couldn’t take a day off.

Seungmin looks at him and says, “No, you don’t actually.”

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. “Wait.”

Felix briefly glances over. “What?”

Seungmin narrows his eyes slightly as he stares at Felix. “There’s something different about you.”

Felix suddenly becomes hyperaware of himself. The suit. The posture. The way he’s holding the steering wheel. “What? No, I don’t think so,” he says too quickly.

“There is.”

Felix clears his throat and tries to sound casual as he says, “It’s probably just the new suits.”

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. “Oh.”

Felix tries not to sit up straighter and grips the steering wheel tighter.

“It’s definitely the suits,” Seungmin says, sounding genuinely impressed. “It looks really good on you.”

Felix feels warmth creep up his neck, but he keeps his smile controlled. “Thanks.”

Seungmin nods approvingly. “You look like you bill by the minute now.”

“I do bill by the minute.”

“Yeah, but now you look like you enjoy it.”

Felix laughs softly and he realizes something. He’s not shrinking under the attention. He’s not brushing it off. He just accepts it. “Thanks,” 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 it’s steadier than the awkward tap of crutches.

They turn the corner and Seungmin bumps directly into you. You’re 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.

“Cool get-up,” you casually say.

Felix can’t really tell if you’re being genuine or sarcastic. But Seungmin immediately lights up at that. “Right? It elevates the whole look.”

Seungmin puts his injured leg on a box pushed to someone’s desk. “No more crutches. I can actually function like a human being,” he says.

“That’s a low bar,” you reply evenly.

Seungmin grins anyway. Then, like he’s just remembered something, he turns around dramatically toward Felix. “Felix, man, thank you for picking me up from the hospital.”

Felix waves him off. “It’s fine. I finished court early anyway.”

“No, no,” Seungmin insists. “You didn’t have to. I appreciate it.”

Felix shrugs, trying to keep it casual. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“I’m treating you to drinks tonight,” Seungmin declares.

Tonight. He absolutely cannot do tonight. He clears his throat quickly. “I can’t tonight.”

Seungmin pauses. “Why not?”

Felix hesitates just a fraction too long and just for a second, his eyes flick toward you. “Wine club,” he says smoothly.

Seungmin narrows his gaze immediately. “Wine club, huh?” he repeats slowly.

Then he lowers his voice, but not enough to actually be private.

“Is wine club now code for you meeting that girl you’re casually hooking up with?”

Behind him, Felix sees you tilt your head slightly. One eyebrow arches in intrigue.

Felix’s brain works at record speed. “Nah, I’m just excited for tonight because we’re tasting the Rojo Caliente Red Chile Wine.” he says quickly.

“The what?” Seungin asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“It’s a bold, spicy red. Crafted with fiery red chile peppers. Very complex profile,” Felix continues confidently while nodding.

Seungmin looks genuinely horrified. “That sounds like a crime.”

“It’s innovative.”

“It’s an abomination.”

“Why don’t you join me tonight?” Felix offers just to sound convincing.

Seungmin recoils immediately. “Absolutely not. I’ll stick to draft beer like a normal person.”

Felix nods solemnly. “Your loss.”

Seungmin sighs and puts his foot back down. “I’ll treat you to drinks next time.”

“Sure.”

Seungmin resumes his slow walk toward his office and Felix watches him go. Then he looks back at you.

There’s something almost impressed in the way you’re looking at him now. Like you just witnessed something unexpected.

Felix straightens unconsciously. Confidence settling back into place. Secret intact. And maybe, he’s getting better at this.

-

Later that night, Felix is back at your apartment.

You’re 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 it’s 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, “Remember what I told you?”

Felix glances at you. “About what?”

“About moving your pelvis like that.” You gesture toward the screen with a piece of popcorn. “You should move like that.”

Felix watches intently as Channing Tatum’s 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.

“Does that mean you uh… want me to give you a lap dance?” he carefully asks.

You don’t even look at him as you say, “I wouldn’t dare to expect that much from you.”

The delivery is flat yet devastating.

Felix feels something in his chest spark. The humming confidence he’s been carrying all day — flares up instead of shrinking. “I think I can do that,” he manages to say it without wavering.

You finally turn your head slowly toward him. “You think or you do?”

“I mean, yeah, I can,” he answers, adding a coy shrug to convince you.

You look at him. Then you shove a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “I didn’t say you can’t try.”

The smirk appears. Amused. Curious. Slightly challenging.

Felix chews slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He feels challenged. “You know,” he says casually, setting the popcorn bowl aside, “it’s all in the hips.”

You lean back against the sofa, folding your arms. “Is that so?”

The TV continues playing in the background, bass thumping faintly from the speakers. You’re still watching. Not the movie. Him. you’re 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 you’re looking.

He pushes past it and shifts his weight. He lets his hips roll — 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. “…Well?”

You look at him for a long, assessing second. “Yikes.”

Felix actually hisses under his breath. “Ah—”

“I’ve seen inflatable tube men with more charisma,” 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. “Maybe… take your shirt off?”

He looks up. “What?”

“You’re relying too much on enthusiasm.”

There’s no teasing in your tone. Just a clinical suggestion. Somehow, that makes it worse. But also —

Fine. If he’s going down, he’s going down dramatically. He straightens. This time, he doesn’t 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.

“Yeah,” you sigh while slowly nodding, enjoying the sight. “Now come on and seduce me. Make me cheat on my husband. Make me spend the money I don’t have on you.”

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 he’s noticed the way your eyes linger when he does. He repeats the earlier motions, but this time with intention. More confidence.

You’re watching him without blinking, popcorn completely forgotten and that alone keeps him going. Until—

He runs out of ideas and the rhythm slows. His breathing is heavier now. He looks up at you and weakly asks, “How about that?”

You press your lips together like you’re holding something in. After a moment, you finally talk. “You only need about ten more years of practice.”

Felix deflates again, feeling disappointed of himself. “But I did my best…” he mumbles to himself.

“Oh, you little booboo,” you coo softly, patting the sofa beside you. “Let’s just go back to the movie.”

No. No, absolutely not. He can’t end on that.

“Wait, I still have one move,” he quickly says.

You grab the bowl of popcorn and put it on your lap. “I’m hard to impress. So better save yourself from future embarrassment.”

“Just one chance. Please…” he insists, almost pleading now.

You roll your eyes, sighing as you put the bowl of popcorn away. “…Fine.”

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 doesn’t 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 he’s 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 he’s 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 he’s 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.

“Oh, yeah,” you murmur, voice lower now. “That’s the only move you need to do right.”

Felix smiles against your clothed sex. Big and satisfied. Confidence restored and then some.

-

It starts small.

“Drinks tonight?” Seungmin asks one afternoon, leaning against Felix’s desk like he always does, casual, expectant.

Felix doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Can’t. I have… hot yoga.”

Seungmin squints. “You hate heat.”

“It’s… cold hot yoga,” Felix replies immediately. “They blast the AC. It’s a whole new thing.”

There’s a pause and then—

“…Right,” Seungmin says slowly. “Have fun.”

Then it becomes a pattern.

“Want to grab a bite before we go home?” “Cheese club.”

“There’s a cheese club?” “It’s very underground. Invitation-only.”

Seungmin nods like that makes perfect sense. “Of course it is.”

Another time:

“We’re all having beers tonight. You’re coming.”

“I can’t,” Felix says, already rehearsed. “I have a fermentation class.”

“Huh?” Seungmin tilts his head in confusion.

“It’s 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,” Felix eloquently explains.

Seungmin’s face scrunches in disgust. “Ugh.”

Felix shrugs and continues, “You know that yeast is a crucial ingredient in brewing the beer you’ll be having tonight. It’s—"

“Yeah, okay, don’t come,” Seungmin cuts in defeated and then turns away.

And that’s 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. That’s his brand.

On the other hand, Felix starts thinking that he’s good at this. Lying. Better than Seungmin. Felix lies with a straight face now. Barely even feels the flutter in his stomach anymore. He’s learned the trick—say it casually, don’t oversell it, add just enough detail to make it boring.

The more absurd the excuse, the more believable it becomes.

He tells himself it’s harmless. It’s not like he’s 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 doesn’t 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 lying…

The easier it becomes.

-

Felix doesn’t 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. They’re blending together now—fabricated schedules layered on top of each other that it’s hard to keep track anymore. He’s gotten good at it. Too good that Seungmin barely questions him anymore. He should feel guilty. Instead, he feels electric. Because he knows where he’s going.

You open the door before he can knock twice. You don’t smile. You never do. But your eyes soften for a fraction of a second when you see him. “So what did you learn in your Mediterranean cooking class?” you ask dryly.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “The key to fluffy hummus mixture is by adding cold water while blending.”

“What a revelation!” 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. You’re already walking toward the living room, confident in the way you move around your own space.

He watches you like he’s memorizing something forbidden.

“Did he believe you?” you ask, not turning around.

“Of course,” Felix replies, loosening his tie. “I’m getting better.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “At lying?”

“At protecting our secret.”

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 you’re testing him.

He responds immediately, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepens. Slows. Then ignites.

There’s 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 can’t 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. You’re ready, more than ready to take him and he’s 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.

“Oh…” 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. That’s 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. You’re 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.

There’s 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 he’s about to pull back and don’t hold back from showing how much you enjoy it.

It’s so hot, so arousing. Raw and passionate. Felix doesn’t 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, it’s not gentle. It’s consuming. And as you pull him in for a rough kiss, Felix realizes something quietly dangerous:

He’s not just lying to protect this.

He’s lying because he doesn’t know how to live without it anymore.

-

At this point, Felix moves around your apartment like it’s his own. He’s in your kitchen, hair still messy from sleep but eyes focused as he flips an egg with more precision than necessary. There’s something grounding about cooking in someone else’s 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 can’t 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 don’t care that you’re standing completely naked in the middle of your apartment, or how there’s someone else in the apartment with you.

Felix’s 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 he’s 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. “Why does this look so drab?”

Felix stops mid-way as he’s about to sit. “Drab?”

You gesture vaguely at what’s served in front of you. “It looks like a hospital meal.”

He stares at the plate, mildly offended. “You don’t exactly have things in your fridge.”

You lift your coffee mug and lift it close to your mouth. “Sorry I’m not bill by the minute like you.”

That lands weirdly. In a matter-of-fact way. He doesn’t 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.

“Do you cook?” he asks lightly.

You chew your toast, considering him. “I know I’m generally nailing everything in life.”

He nods instinctively.

You continue, “But you can’t expect me to be good at everything.”

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.

“I could teach you,” he says.

You glance at him over your mug. “Teach me what.”

“How to cook.”

You actually chuckle at that. Amused.

“I mean, not like… Michelin star stuff. Just simple recipes. Things you can actually make.”

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. “Yeah, maybe I can be good at everything.”

Felix beams with a bright, wide grin. He’s already planning it in his head.

He’ll 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 he’s good at. Not just impress you, but to share it.

He takes another sip of coffee, trying to play it cool, but inside he’s buzzing. Because suddenly this feels bigger than just coming to each other’s place and bang.

And Felix doesn’t notice how quickly that thought settles in.

Just that he’s 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… he’s going through everything and makes sure he doesn’t 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. You’re 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. “Hey, can you come with me to the hospital later? It’s time for my check-up.”

Felix answers before his brain catches up. “I have to go grocery shopping after work.”

The words leave his mouth too easily. He gulps air and quickly adds, “I mean—because I have an online cooking class later.”

He forces a casual shrug and adds, “But I can drop you off first.”

Seungmin have a sip of water and then nods. “That works,” he says, then goes back to eating.

Felix exhales quietly. His phone buzzes and looks down to check.

You: I want a silver Lexus.

Felix’s eyebrow shoots up, baffled. His phone buzzes again a second later.

You: Chocolate-covered strawberries.

This time, one corner of Felix’s 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. “Man, it feels like forever we haven’t properly hanging out together,” he says lightly, but there’s something under it.

Guilt pokes at him. Felix locks his phone and sets it down. He leans forward as he softly says, “It’s not like that.”

Felix doesn’t mean to lie but since he’s already been lying and he doesn’t have any option but to keep lying. He scrambles for something convincing. Something that fits the version of himself he’s been selling. “I just… after the breakup, I didn’t want to sit around feeling miserable. So I signed up for stuff. You know, just to keep me distracted,” he says.

Seungmin’s expression softens at that. “That makes sense.”

Felix nods, doubling down. “We can hang out next week. Properly. I promise.”

Seungmin brightens immediately. “Yeah? Hopefully I’ll get this cast off soon.”

“You will,” Felix says firmly. “You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”

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.

“I happen to know this great wine bar,” he excitedly shares, picking up his phone to show Seungmin.

“Don’t tell me they serve jalapeno flavored wine or something,” Seungmin says with suspicion in his eyes.

“Sadly no. But they have great selection of reds,” 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, “Bathroom.”

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?

Wait…

Felix freezes as he realizes something. He sent the link to the wine bar to you and that means…

His eyes move slowly to Seungmin’s phone. He taps on the screen and it lights up. Enough for him to see the notification.

Felix: Y/n, I’m afraid the silver Lexus is also out of my budget but I’ll 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 thinking—without even processing the insanity of it—Felix lunges forward, grabs Seungmin’s 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. “How was the pee? I mean, did you pee? How was the restroom trip?”

Seungmin chuckles as he picks up his chopsticks. “Uneventful. Five stars. Would recommend.”

Felix laughs. Too loud. His pulse is roaring in his ears. And inside, everything is unraveling.

-

Back in the office, Felix feels like he’s walking around with a live grenade in his coat pocket.

Seungmin is beside him, passionately talking about the video game he’s been into lately. “—and then the boss fight switches phases, and I swear I almost threw my controller—are you even listening?”

Felix nods automatically. “Mm. Yeah. That’s crazy.”

He has no idea what phase means because all he can feel is the rectangular weight of Seungmin’s 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. “Anyway, I think you’d like it. You’re into strategy stuff.”

“Right,” 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, you’re 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 don’t look up and just flick your fingers in his direction. “Go away.”

He knocks again. Harder. Frantic.

You heavily sigh, finally looking at him with a glare sharp enough to cut paper. “You know what happens to people who bother me while I’m—”

“It’s urgent,” he blurts.

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to God, if you—"

He doesn’t 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. “You don’t get to—”

But he’s 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. “I did something bad,” he swallows air before adding, “Really bad.”

You cross your arms and look at him with those bored eyes of yours. “Do I look like I care?”

He swallows air again. “You should be.”

“What on earth did you do?” You ask, eyes turning intense.

He opens his mouth Nothing comes out. After a while, he tries again. “I sent the text to the wrong person.”

“What text?”

“The one about me buying you the chocolate-covered strawberries and condom.”

Silence passes for a brief moment and then your face drains. “You what?”

“I sent it to Seungmin,” he rushes, he learns that it’s best to just go with it, alive or not. “I meant to send it to you and I didn’t check and I pressed send and then his phone chimed and I looked and it said my name and—”

You actually gasp. A real, horrified gasp.

Felix feels faint as he adds miserably, “I explicitly mentioned your name and the condoms.”

You stare at him like he’s just confessed to treason. “Felix.”

“I know!”

“Felix.”

“I know!!!”

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 he’s going to pull out of his coat pocket.

Your eyes widen in fresh disbelief. “Did you steal his phone?”

He winces. “Borrowed.”

“You stole his phone.”

Before he can react, you snatch it from his hand. “We should fling it out the window.”

“What? No!” He grabs your wrist before you can even consider moving. “He’ll get suspicious.”

“It’s called eliminating evidence.”

“It’s called getting arrested!”

You glare at each other for a beat. Then you exhale sharply. “Fine. What are we going to do?”

Felix winces again because his plan involves on you knowing how to unlock Seungmin’s phone. “I stole his phone because I was hoping you knew the password.”

You stare at him with fiery eyes. “Why would I know his password?”

“You’re his paralegal. You… I don’t know. Maybe Seungmin once shared his password with you,” he vaguely reason.

“That doesn’t mean I have biometric access to his life!”

Felix’s panic spikes. As if summoned by his anxiety, the phone suddenly lights up in your hand, ringing. The contact’s 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 then—

“Felix?” Seungmin’s voice echoes faintly from outside as he calls for Felix.

Felix’s heart actually skips.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

“This is your fault,” you hiss under your breath.

“Please just—figure out the password,” he whispers urgently.

“How?”

“Guess! He’s predictable!”

The phone keeps ringing and Seungming keeps calling for Felix.

Felix backs toward the door. “You find a way to delete the text and I’ll distract him.”

“You’re leaving the evidence with me?” you whisper-shout.

But he’s 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. “Hey, Seungmin, my best friend. Looking for… me?”

-

Felix is sweating through his shirt. Not visibly. Hopefully not visibly. But inside? Absolute monsoon.

He’s crouched beside Seungmin’s 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 Seungmin’s screen in bold betrayal.

“Maybe it’s under here?” Seungmin mutters, limping slightly as he checks behind his chair.

Felix pops up too fast. “Yeah. Could be.”

It is definitely not under there. Because it’s currently in your possession. Hopefully unlocked. Hopefully erased. Please.

They search for an eternity that is probably six minutes. Then Seungmin straightens, frowning. “Maybe I left it at the restaurant.”

Felix’s 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.

“No,” Felix blurts.

Seungmin looks at him. “No?”

Felix forces a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think you brought it. To lunch.”

Seungmin tilts his head, doubting him. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

Felix shakes his head immediately. Too immediately. “I didn’t see it. You were talking about the video game and your hospital check-up later—yeah. I don’t remember seeing it.”

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. “Maybe I left it somewhere around the firm.”

“Yes,” Felix agrees eagerly. “Probably here.”

Seungmin nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ve been distracted.”

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?

Felix’s heart beating faster, louder as they’re running out of places to search in. He can feel the truth looming and the fact that he’ll 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 Seungmin’s phone.

Felix’s entire body locks. Horror floods him.

You stop a few feet away and calmly ask, “Hey, bozos. Are you looking for this?” you ask, holding Seungmin’s phone in the air.

Felix forgets how to swallow.

Seungmin exhales in relief. “Yes. Oh my god. Where was it?”

Felix’s lungs burn.

You glance at Felix once and then back at Seungmin. “You left it on my desk before lunch.”

Felix almost chokes on nothing.

Seungmin doesn’t doubt it for a second. He walks up, taking it from your hand with total trust. “Ah. That makes sense.”

Felix watches in slow motion as Seungmin unlocks his phone. The screen lights up, his thumb scrolling through the notifications. Emails. Missed calls. Texts.

Felix’s vision tunnels. He feels his knees weaken.

Then Seungmin turns around, smiling faintly. “Thanks, both of you. I swear my brain isn’t working lately.”

Felix laughs, too loud. “It happens.”

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. “You just saved the day.”

You only smile a knowing, triumphant smile and say, “It’s what I do. Every damn day.”

With that, you walk back to your desk like this was a minor inconvenience. Like you didn’t 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.

“Okay,” Felix says, tying the apron around your waist. “We’re starting simple. Knife skills.”

You glance at him. “I know how to hold a knife.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

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. “No, no, you’re going to lose a fingertip. Like this.” He gently adjusts your hand, tucking your fingers inward. “Claw grip.”

You stare at your hand like it’s doing advanced calculus and try again. The slices come out uneven. Slightly aggressive. A little chaotic.

Felix instinctively reaches over you. “Let me—”

You stop and straighten, irritation flashing across your face. “You know what? Just do it yourself.”

Ah. There it is. Felix pulls his hands back immediately. Abort mission. “No, you’re doing fine. Yeah,” he corrects himself quickly.

You raise an eyebrow, shoulders still hunched like you’re about to jump at him and tear him limb to limb.

He softens his tone. “Just do what feels right. I’ll just… guide.”

You narrow your eyes like you’re deciding whether to stab him or the carrot.

That’s 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 you’re wrong. He leans against the counter instead of hovering and patiently guides you from the side. “Try slowing down. Smaller movements.”

You cut again. Still uneven. But less violent.

“There you go,” he says immediately.

You glance at him suspiciously.

“That one was better,” he genuinely says with a smile.

You huff, but you adjust your grip. It’s not perfect. It’s not symmetrical. But it’s progress.

Felix watches carefully, resisting every instinct to micromanage. He offers small corrections in a tone that doesn’t poke at your pride.

And somehow…

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, “Is that enough salt?”

He tastes and nods. “Yeah. That’s good.”

And in that moment, something warm settles in his chest.

You’re stubborn. You’re easily irritated. You threaten to quit every five minutes. But when you decide to do something, you do it properly. You don’t half-try. You don’t give up. You listen. You adapt. You execute.

And apparently, you’re capable of following his lead.

-

Felix lights the small candle in the center of the table like he’s 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. “So, this one’s from a cooler region, which means the acidity is brighter. You’ll taste dark cherry, maybe a little spice. It pairs well with what we made because—” he drones on and on, slipping into lecture mode,

You’re 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 didn’t 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. “To—”

However, you’re 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 don’t wait to dig into the food you cooked. You take a little bit of everything onto your plate.

Felix should begin as well but he’s been dying to ask you about something. And since you’re relaxed right now because eating softens you, makes you less guarded. He leans forward slightly and asks, “May I ask how did you do it?”

You take your time chewing and then ask back. “Do what?”

“Unlock Seungmin’s phone.”

You swallow and take a smaller bite. Then casually say, “There’s a tutorial on YouTube.”

Felix grips the stem of his wine glass. “Sorry, what?”

“There’s a tutorial on how to unlock a phone. It’s not that hard,” 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. “You watched a tutorial video? On how to unlock a phone? On Youtube.”

You nod, sipping wine. “Yeah.”

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, he’s impressed.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t panic. You didn’t scold him to death. You handled it well. Too well. And if he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have survived today without you.

With that, he finally lifts his spoon and takes a proper bite of dinner and it hits him—

Oh?

Oh!

He looks at you slowly.

“This is… delicious,” he sincerely says in awe.

Still in disbelief, Felix scoops more with his spoon and eat it. it’s good. Everything is perfectly balanced.

“Like, seriously. So good,” he says again, utterly impressed.

You don’t 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.

“Congratulations,” you say.

He frowns. “For what?”

“For being my villain origin story.”

Felix chokes slightly. “Your what?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and amused. “No one can stop me now.”

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. “Okay. Proper toast this time.”

You mirror him, lifting yours.

He smiles, softer now. “To you. For saving the world.”

You smirk. “And to user mortimer21 on YouTube.”

Felix laughs. “Yes. To user mortimer21.”

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 you’re finishing the last of your wine, the next your mouth is on his, and he’s walking you backward until your knees hit the couch. You fall onto it with a soft exhale and he follows.

There’s 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 can’t stand the layers between your bodies.

You’re 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. It’s 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 didn’t say at dinner.

His hand moves along your waist, then lower, fingers slipping under the hem of your blouse and then—

He hears the faint sound of footsteps. But he ignores it thinking that maybe he imagined it.

You don’t seem to notice as well, too focused on dragging your nails lightly down his back.

Then, there’s 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 you—beneath Felix.

At your legs wrapped around him.

At Felix shirtless, hovering over you.

The room goes dead silent.

Felix’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

Seungmin doesn’t 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. “WHAT THE F—"

-

✨ CONFLICT OF INTEREST: FINAL CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨

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@abiaswreck @yubinism @iknow-uknow-leeknow @biribarabiribbaem @leewayout @fancypeacepersona @just-here4funsies @piwonchi @godyongbok @leaonthehouse @strywme @ihateetoadmit @enchantedlov3r2 @superboywife @foxinnie8 @ilovebooksandstories @gwinamlvr @lenfilms @niku0704

[straykeedz]

𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞; 𝐛.𝐜.

wc: 10k+

tw: bffs2lovers, virginity loss (f), more to be added…

status: coming VERY soon

-

Chris’ mouth and lips move before he can even comprehend what he’s doing. The sentence leaves him so naturally it takes the both of you off guard. 

“Do you still want me to be your first?” 

Your eyes widen, legs almost nearly give in. Did you hear him right?

“What?” 

The damage’s already done. There’s no point in denying what he’s said. Chris does his best to calm down his nerves and swallow the thick lump in his throat. It’s make it or break it. 

“Do you still want me to be your first?” He repeats slowly, looking you in the eye. The straightforwardness takes you off guard. “‘Cause I’ll do it. If you still want me to be your first I’ll do it.” 

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?

“You— I already asked you. You said no. How is that any different now?” 

Chris sighs. Technically, you’re right. But still, you don’t know why he turned your offer down in the first place. It’s not because he didn’t want you— quite the opposite, actually. 

“I said no ‘cause I didn’t want it to be an impulsive decision of you,” Chris explains. “I still think you should wait for the right guy. But you’re so stubborn and I don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret with a random asshole that won’t treat you right.” 

“Chris…”

“But if you’re sure about this… if you want me to be your first, I’m okay with it.” 

You shake your head. Chris feels as if his heart has stopped beating inside his ribcage. 

“No.”

Chris blinks. His stomach drops.

“No?”

“You shouldn’t do it if it’s not something you want as well. I won’t force you. I couldn't bear to look at myself ever again knowing I made you do something you didn’t want.” 

Chris sighs. 

“It’s not because of that that I said no. I want you to be sure.” 

“I am sure. Why would I ask you if I wasn’t sure?” 

“I don’t know!” 

You stare into each other’s eyes for a while. Then, you both burst into a laugh. Everything is always so easy with Chris. That’s how you know you aren’t going to regret choosing him to be your first. The fact that you’d like for him to also be your last is another matter. 

“Alright. Then I guess this means we’re having sex.”

-

im back!!!

[yoongihan]

Tantalize - HHJ - Chapter Five

photo from here

pairing: half-fae hyunjin x human reader

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 you’re 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. 

You open the door to the living room and see him.

He’s sprawled out on the couch, his legs too long to fit, so his feet are hanging over the arm. There’s a blanket twisted over him. You tiptoe closer to see he’s 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 can’t 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 mind’s 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 you’re 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.

“It’s just me,” you whisper, feeling stupid for getting caught staring at him (how moony-eyed can you be?). “Just 문외한.”

His hands loosen and his head drops as he lets out a dry chuckle. “Just 문외한.” There is a pause and you feel his legs shift restlessly under you before he raises his eyes back to yours. “Why are you up?”

“Thirsty.”

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.

“When did you get in?”

“An hour or so ago.”

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You want to wake with a man sleeping next to you?”

Yes.

You bristle. “It’s your bed. And it’s plenty big enough.”

“You wouldn’t have swung out and hit me?” 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. “I can smell you. I’d have to be dead not to be aware of you. Even sleeping.” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours. “You need more tonic.”

“Or not.” 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 doesn’t move away. “You’re still susceptible, 문외한.” 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. “As much as I want you, we need to prepare. I don’t know what this evening will bring.” His words don’t 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.

“Nakkeo,” you hear in your ear. It’s both pained and wanting. His cheek rubs against yours as he moves, lips pursuing, until you’re 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 it’s demanding, it’s 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 have—"

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.

"Hyunjin…" 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 I—" 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 what—" 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?"

“We can’t.”

“Pretty sure we can.” You look down. "Felt pretty much the same as a human to me."

He chuckles. “Allow me to rephrase. We can, but we shouldn’t.”

You bump his nose with yours, your mouth taking his hotly. “I disagree.”

He smooths your hair with one hand, gripping the back of it to pull you away firmly. “Seungmin.”

Your arms drop. “I hate you.”

He kisses you again, lingering before pulling back reluctantly. “We need to find Seungmin…when we do…” Another kiss, desperate. “Well, we’ll see.” 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, I—"

"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 with…this 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'll…grab 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 are…" he stares down at you, as though you're something to figure out. He then shakes his head, before pulling you into his arms. "I…sometimes 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.

Seungmin. You need to find Seungmin.

Then perhaps things will return to normal.

ch. 6

© yoongihan 2026. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[handonheartxx]

Even If It's Just Pretend (Lee Know x Reader)

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 can’t 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 :)))) —-----------------

The Ton’s Observer

A Regular Publication Concerning Matters of Society, Conduct, and Consequence

Among the many eligible gentlemen navigating this season’s 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 society’s truest nature is revealed, not in those who command attention, but in those it chooses to overlook.

One wonders whether the Earl’s continued absence is a coincidence… or a preference.

Yours Truly,

A Keen Observer

—-----------------

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.

“I have a very good feeling about Mr Jones,” Ester announces, smoothing her skirts as though she can already feel the weight of a proposal ring. “I truly believe he could be the one.”

You turn a page of your book, though you haven’t absorbed a single word in several minutes.

Chloe leans forward eagerly. “I hear Viscount Seo Changbin intends to find a wife this season.”

Ester gasps. “We 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.”

You cannot help it; a quiet, involuntary huff escapes you.

Ester’s head snaps in your direction. “Oh,” she says sweetly, “we had quite forgotten you were here.”

You lower your book.

“It must be exhausting for you, Y/N,” Chloe sighs.

You know better than to ask. You ask anyway. “What do you mean?”

“To attend every ball,” Ester continues, “and yet never be remembered.”

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.

“Perhaps,” Ester adds thoughtfully, “some people simply are not meant to marry.”

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:

“I am already spoken for.”

Silence crashes into the room.

Your mother’s embroidery stills.

Chloe blinks. “With who?”

You do not think. You do not weigh the consequences. Your gaze lands on the pamphlet resting on the side table, The Ton’s Observer, its headline bold, accusatory, ever-watchful.

And his name surfaces.

“Earl Lee Minho.”

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. “He has never called.”

“He is a private man,” you reply evenly. You are surprised at how steady you sound. “We correspond.”

Your mother finally looks up. “Where did you meet him?”

“At the gallery opening last season.”

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.

“You have been courting that long,” Chloe presses, “and there has been no proposal?”

“It did not begin as a courtship,” you say smoothly now, the story building itself. “It was a friendship. Only recently did he admit to deeper feelings.”

The words feel dangerous. Exciting.

“Can we see the letters?” Chloe demands.

“No.” It comes out sharper than intended. “They are private.”

A pause. Ester studies you carefully. “You do realise,” she says slowly, “we shall not believe it until we see it.”

“That is fine,” you answer, your pulse loud in your ears, “I know the truth.”

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.

—-----------------

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 lady’s 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. “Miss L/N.” Their tone has changed. It is not warmer. It is calculating.

You hear it again, just behind you.

“Is that her?”

“They say he has been corresponding privately—”

“Earl Lee Minho—”

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 Ton’s 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:

“Among the season’s most intriguing developments, it appears the elusive Earl Lee Minho has finally formed an attachment…”

Your ears begin to ring. It is no longer a drawing-room whisper. It is ink. The lie has outgrown you. 

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. Perhaps—

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.

—-----------------

“Earl Lee Minho!”

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.

“How could you keep this from us?” Jisung demands.

Minho arches a brow. “Keep what?”

“That you have been courting someone.”

The room seems to be still for half a second.

Minho almost laughs. “Impossible,” he says calmly. “I would remember.”

“Do not pretend ignorance,” Jisung replies, thrusting a folded pamphlet into his hand. “It has been published.”

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.

“…a private courtship conducted by correspondence…”

Minho’s 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.

“So?” Jisung presses.

Minho folds the pamphlet carefully before handing it back. “What about it?”

Felix leans forward, amused. “We would very much like to hear about the lady who has succeeded where the rest of society has failed.”

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.

“I will speak with Miss L/N,” he says evenly. “It would be ungentlemanly to discuss a lady without first addressing her directly.”

A chorus of groans fills the air.

“Does that mean,” Jeongin asks slowly, “you will attend tomorrow’s ball?”

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?

“I suppose,” he says at last, rising from his chair, “that it does.”

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.

—-----------------

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.

“Did you see who’s here?” 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. “Aren’t you going to greet him?”

“I—” Your throat tightens. “He will come to me.”

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. “You look confused.”

“I am accustomed to being ambushed,” Minho replies evenly. “Have women developed restraint in my absence?”

His friends all shrugged, but Hyunjin spoke up, “It’s because you’re taken in their eyes, Minho. There is a limited window in the social season to secure a husband; women aren’t going to waste their time pursuing a man who has clearly made his choice. Why do you think I go unbothered at these events?”

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. “Means we finally get you at balls.”

Minho nods absently. He scans the room. “Have any of you seen Miss L/N?” He hoped he played it off enough to seem like he just hadn’t seen you and not that he had absolutely no idea what you looked like.

Hyunjin gestures toward the far side. “Blue dress.”

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. 

Then he moves.

The ballroom notices. Of course it does. He feels it, the collective inhale as he crosses the floor. 

You feel it too. Your throat tightens as he approaches. Ester and Chloe step back, eyes gleaming.

He stops before you. “Miss L/N.” His expression reveals nothing.

You curtsy. “Earl Lee.”

The formality feels like a shield. He leans closer, not touching, but close enough that his words cannot travel.

“Meet me in the garden,” he murmurs. “Ten minutes.”

Your pulse jumps. “That would be improper,” you whisper.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “More improper than attaching my name to yours without consent?”

The words are quiet but not gentle.

You look down, guilt flaring hot in your chest. “Fine,” 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. “What did he say?”

You swallow. “Nothing. He wished to greet me.”

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.

—-----------------

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. “Please,” you rush out, words tumbling over one another. “I did not intend for this to spread. My sisters were being cruel, and I— 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 and—” Your breath stutters. “I never meant to involve you. I swear it.”

He says nothing. You keep going. “I 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.”

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.

“You chose well,” he says at last.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“This is the first ball I have attended in years where I was not intercepted within moments.”

You stare at him, uncertain whether this is mockery.

“It was… peaceful.” The word surprises even him.

You frown. “I do not understand.”

He straightens from the wall. He does not move closer yet. “Suppose,” he says carefully, “I wished to attend more balls.”

You stare. “You cannot mean—”

“Without interruption.”

Realisation dawns slowly. “You want to continue the lie?” 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.

“You appear determined to create scandal in increasingly creative ways,” he murmurs.

Your breath warms his palm. The contact is brief. He removes his hand as though it burns.

“If I confirm the rumour,” he continues evenly, “society will leave me alone.”

“And I,” you say quietly now, “will no longer be pitied.”

He holds your gaze. “Yes.”

There it is. Mutual benefit. No romance. Just strategy. He tells himself that is all it is.

“So we continue?” you ask carefully.

“For a time.”

“How long?”

“Until it no longer serves us.”

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.

“Do we have an agreement?” 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.

“Then we are agreed.”

And neither of you says what you are both thinking: this will not remain simple.

—-----------------

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 aunt’s 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.

“Miss L/N,” he greets evenly.

“Earl Lee.”

He inclines his head. “A promenade?” 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.

“What?” you ask.

He looks forward again. “Nothing.”

You wait. He exhales softly. “You do not seem to fear silence.”

You consider that. “Should I?”

“Most people do,” he replies. “They speak to avoid it.”

“And you?”

“I prefer it.”

You glance at him. “Then why does it surprise you?”

He hesitates, just briefly. “Because you do not use it as armour.”

The observation is quiet. Too perceptive. You are not sure whether to be flattered or unsettled.

“Is that a flaw?” you ask.

“No.” He looks at you again, slower this time, “It is rare.”

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.

—-----------------

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. “My Lord, I did not expect—”

“Do not rise,” he says quietly. The request is soft. Almost gentle.

You hesitate, then remain seated. “What brings you here?” you ask.

“I went to your house,” he replies. The words land differently than they should.

You blink. “You did?”

“Yes.” A small pause. “Your sister suggested the library.”

There is something unspoken in that, something deliberate. He could have left, but he did not

“Oh,” you say, recovering. “Did you wish to promenade?”

“I did,” he admits. “But it appears I have interrupted something far more important.”

You glance at your book. “It is only a book, one I have read before at that.”

He studies the cover briefly before speaking. “May I?”

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.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

“Guinevere and Lancelot.”

“Good choice.”

You turn to him fully now. “You have read it?”

“Yes.” There is no irony in his tone.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Truly?”

He notices. “What?”

“I would not have guessed it was your preference.”

“And what precisely is my preference?”

You tilt your head. “Strategy. History. Treatises on discipline.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “It contains swords,” he says evenly.

“And love,” you add.

His gaze flickers. “Yes.”

The word is quieter than the others. You study him more closely.

“You like romances,” you say softly.

“I appreciate structure.”

“In Guinevere and Lancelot?”

“Tragic inevitability is a form of structure.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic way to describe longing I have ever heard.”

The tips of his ears betray him. He clears his throat, “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk in a library?”

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. “What?”

“Nothing,” you murmur.

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet you came looking for me.” The words slip out before you can measure them.

Silence. He does not deny it.

Instead, he says quietly: “I find I prefer quiet in your company.”

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. 

It is shared.

—-----------------

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.

“Are you injured?” he asks quietly.

“No.” 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. “I told my family we were corresponding,” you say, once you are far enough from the staircase. “It would appear suspicious if there were no letters.”

You focus on the logic. The safety of it.

“They need not be sentimental. Only formal. Arrangements. Appearances.”

You risk a glance at him. His expression is composed again.

“That is sensible,” he says. He pauses. “I will send one tomorrow.”

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.

—-----------------

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.

“Miss L/N,

It has come to my attention that our supposed understanding has already become gossip of the past…”

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.

“Miss L/N,

Lady Everleigh has informed me that your sisters were emphatic in describing our “deep mutual understanding.” I commend your commitment to consistency…”

There is something dry in the wording now. Almost amused. He confirms the fiction publicly. He remarks upon society’s willingness to believe. He says he is enjoying his time with his friends.

He signs

“—L.”

You stare at it.

The absence of “Respectfully.” It should mean nothing, but you can’t help but feel it does not.

The third letter arrives on a rain-soaked afternoon. You open it by the window.

“Miss L/N,

You mentioned you prefer novels to poetry. I find myself compelled to ask why.”

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.

“Y,

I do not believe poetry is evasive. I believe it is precise…”

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

“—M.”

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.

“Y/N,

Lady Danvers informed me you were uncharacteristically quiet at the promenade.”

You stiffen.

“I trust this was by choice and not by consequence. If the latter, I would prefer to be made aware of it.”

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.

“M,

It was by choice. Though I admit I have grown accustomed to fewer interruptions.”

You hesitate. Your hand trembles slightly.

“It is… quieter beside you.”

You consider crossing it out. You do not.

His reply arrives the next morning. Too quickly, as though he did not sleep.

“Y,

Quiet is not always absence. Some things are clearer when not drowned by noise.”

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.

“Y/N,

I had intended to inform you that we ought to be seen walking together on Wednesday.”

There is a pause in the handwriting. A shift in pressure.

“Instead, I find myself wondering whether you are sleeping.”

You freeze.

“I suspect you do not.”

And then:

“—Minho.”

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 “My Lord.”

You write:

“Minho,”

You do not correct it, and somewhere across the city, a man who prefers distance realises he has closed it.

—-----------------

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.

“Go,” you had insisted, nudging him gently.

He hesitated. “If anyone bothers you,” he said quietly, “come find me.”

“I can manage,” you laughed.

“I am aware,” he replied. “That does not negate the offer.”

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.

“Excuse me.”

You face a gentleman you vaguely recognise.

He bows properly. Polite. Earnest. “I was hoping to claim the next dance.”

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 mouth—

“She is otherwise engaged.”

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. “I— I beg your pardon—”

Minho does not look at him.

The boy retreats without further encouragement.

You turn back to Minho slowly. “That was unnecessary.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Was it?”

“Yes.” Your voice is sharper than intended. “He seemed kind.”

Minho’s jaw tightens. “He was presumptuous.”

“I was about to accept.”

That does it. Something flickers across his face before he can mask it. You see it, and it unsettles you.

He recovers quickly. “You are free to do as you please,” he says evenly. “But not with him.” 

The contradiction hangs in the air. You fold your hands in front of you. “This arrangement,” you say carefully, “will end eventually.” He does not respond. “I would not mind having prospects prepared when it does.”

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.

“Of course,” he says finally. The distance in his voice is immediate.

You study him more closely now. “Are you upset?”

“No.” Too fast. He looks away.

You soften slightly. “I did not mean to wound you.”

“You did not.” Another lie.

Silence stretches. The music resumes around you, oblivious.

You take a breath. “Would you like a refreshment?”

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.

—-----------------

“What exactly are you meant to be?” Minho’s 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.

“A songbird,” you reply.

His eyes linger. “Why the cage?”

You lift your hand to the mask,  fine gold wire framing your face like bars.

You shrug lightly. “It felt appropriate.”

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.

“Subtle,” you remark. “Very… feline.”

“I do not see the resemblance.”

“You avoid noise. You dislike being handled. You watch before you move.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. “And you?” he asks softly. “Do you sing for approval?”

Your breath catches. “I suppose that depends who is listening.”

Silence. The music swells around you.

“Are you going to purr for me later?” 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.

“If you ask nicely,” he murmurs near your ear. The words are playful. The tone is not.

A shiver traces down your spine before you can stop it.

“Shall we?” 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.

“You make this easier,” he says quietly as you turn.

You glance up at him. “The dancing?”

His hand tightens almost imperceptibly before guiding you through the next step. “No.” The music softens. “The season.”

You search his face behind the mask. That is not practical. That is not strategic. That is not about uninterrupted evenings with his friends.

“Oh,” 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.

“You nearly missed that turn,” 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.

—-----------------

Now that you’ve 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.

“I had hoped,” he begins carefully, “that perhaps Miss L/N might—”

“She is spoken for,” Minho says evenly as if stating the weather, but there is no hesitation. The gentleman retreats immediately.

Lady Fairbourne raises a brow, amused. “How fortunate.”

You wait until she departs before turning to him. “I asked you not to do that.”

“I had to.”

“For appearance?”

His gaze flickers toward you, then away. “For consistency.”

You hold his gaze. “Of course.”

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.

“You must visit my house in the country,” he says lightly. “The library would suit you.”

“Will it?”

He considers. “It is quiet.”

“That was not my question.”

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

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.

“You need not walk me this far,” you say.

“I know.” He does not step away.

“You understand,” you say carefully, “that this cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Of course.” The answer is immediate.

“We will have to end it.”

You wait. You wait for him to say “we do not have to” or “I do not want” to or even “not yet.”

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. “As agreed,” he says quietly, “this remains practical.”

The word feels like a blade. “Yes,” 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:

“Y/N,”

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.

—-----------------

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.

“What?” 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 Ton’s Observer.

Your pulse begins to pound before you even read.

“On 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 Observer”

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 “chosen” to “deceived.”

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.

—-----------------

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 gentleman’s club.

When the carriage stops in front of your house, his stomach drops.

“Why are we here?” he demands.

“Because you are going to stop hiding,” 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 didn’t 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 family’s 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.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds hollow the moment it leaves his mouth.

You look at him as though measuring whether that is all he brought. “Is that it?”

He swallows. “I did not know how to prevent this.”

“That is not what I asked.”

He runs a hand through his hair. He is good with structure. He is not good with this.

“It will pass,” he says finally. “The Ton moves quickly. They will find something else. Chan is likely to propose soon. That will redirect—”

“I do not want it to pass.”

The words are quiet. He blinks. “What?”

You step closer. “I do not want it to pass.” Your composure fractures. “Not because of the embarrassment. Not because of the ridicule.” Your voice trembles. “I want it to go back because I do not want this to end.”

He goes very still.

“I want to dance with you,” you say, the words spilling now. “I want to write to you. I want to sit beside you in silence and not feel alone.”

Your breath catches.

“I want you.”

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. 

He panics. “It was just pretend,” he says. The moment the words leave him, he knows they are wrong. A shield thrown up too late.

You flinch as though struck. “I know,” you say quietly.

That is worse. 

“But it did not feel like that to me.” Your voice breaks. “I suppose that was my mistake.”

He steps forward instinctively.

You step back. The distance between you is no longer inches. It is final.

He wants to say “it was not only you”, “I did not mean it to change”, “I do not know how to keep you without losing myself”, but he does not say any of it because he does not know how.

“Just go,” 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. “How did it go?”

Minho cannot answer. Because the truth is, he chose safety and in doing so, he lost you.

“Please,” he says instead, voice barely audible, “take me home.”

Jisung does not ask another question.

—-----------------

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.

“I truly cannot endure any more humiliation,” you mutter. “If you have come to remind me of it, please do so quickly.”

Chloe crosses the room in three strides and tears the curtains open.

Light floods the room like accusation. You hiss at the brightness.

“Get up,” Ester says. It is not unkind. It is firm.

You close your eyes. “No.”

“We are not allowing you to dissolve into your mattress,” she replies.

You let out a hollow laugh. “What difference does it make?”

Ester sits on the edge of your bed. You notice she does not look triumphant. She looks… remorseful.

“We were cruel,” she says quietly. You blink. “During your debut season,” she continues, “you were radiant.”

You almost scoff.

“You were,” Chloe insists. “And we hated it.”

Ester exhales slowly. “We thought if we dimmed you, we would shine brighter.”

You stare at them. This is not what you expected.

“We were wrong,” Ester says simply.

Silence settles. You do not have the energy to process forgiveness. You barely have the energy to breathe.

“It does not change anything,” you say finally. “He still said it was pretend.”

Chloe exchanges a look with Ester. “The Earl is a fool,” Ester replies.

You stiffen.

“He is terrified,” Chloe corrects gently. “That is different.”

You close your eyes again. “It does not matter.”

“It does,” Ester insists. “Because whatever this began as, it did not end that way.”

You swallow.

“You cannot fake what you had,” Chloe says quietly. “Not unless you are both the most convincing performers in the Ton.”

The words hurt because part of you hopes they are wrong.

“Even if that is true,” you whisper, “it changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” Ester says. “Because right now, the Ton expects you to hide.”

You look at her.

“The longer you stay unseen,” she continues, “the more they will narrate your grief for you.”

You sit slowly. “What do you suggest?”

“Come to the ball tonight,” Chloe says. “Not to win him back but to show them you are not broken.”

Ester nods. “You 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.”

That lands. You had not considered that.

“What if he does not come?” you ask quietly.

Ester shrugs. “Then he proves us right.”

“And if he does?”

Chloe’s mouth curves slightly. “Then you will not be the only one with something to lose.”

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. “Fine,” 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.

—-----------------

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 weren’t 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, he’d be in hiding too. He has only come tonight to try to do damage control and clear your name. He doesn’t 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 Minho’s 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. “So Y/N”, one of them says, “how do you feel about becoming a spinster?”

You roll your eyes. You couldn’t care less about being a spinster. You had accepted your fate a while ago, and now you doubt you’d ever find someone you loved as much as Minho, so what was the point?

“Be nice”, another chided, “But tell us, Y/N, what does Earl Lee like, as I imagine he’ll soon be back on the market looking for a courtship. A real one this time, of course.” They all giggled, and you knew you couldn’t do this.

What were you thinking coming back into society? It was too soon. You weren’t 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.

—-----------------

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.

“There is someone here for you, miss.”

You glance at the clock. Eleven.

“At this hour?”

She nods. “He said it was urgent. He also paid me an alarming sum not to alert your father.” 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.

“You should not be here,” you say evenly.

“I know.”

He does not move, and neither do you. The silence stretches, thick and aware.

“I owe you an apology,” he says.

“For what?”

“For lying.”

A humourless breath escapes you. “We both lied.”

“No.” The word is quiet but unyielding. “We lied to society. I lied to you.”

The distinction lands.

“You said it was never real.”

He swallows. “I said that because I was afraid.”

Your breath falters not because of the words, but because of the way he says them.

“Afraid of what?”

He hesitates.

“Of needing it,” he says finally. His eyes lift to yours. “Of needing you.”

The room feels smaller. He steps forward slowly as though approaching something fragile.

“I have built my life around distance,” he continues, “Predictable outcomes. Controlled variables.” His voice lowers. “You disrupted that.”

You should step back. You do not.

“It was meant to be efficient,” he says. “A mutual arrangement. I convinced myself that was all it would ever be.”

“You were protecting yourself.”

“Yes.” 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.

“I do not know when it changed,” he says softly. “I do not know which letter did it. Or which evening. Only that at some point I stopped attending events to avoid society…” His gaze drops briefly, then returns. “And began attending them to see you.”

Your heart stumbles.

“And when the column exposed us,” he continues, “I thought I was furious about losing control.” A faint breath escapes him. “I was terrified I had lost you.”

“You did,” you say.

It costs you to say it. His expression shifts, not defensive.

Understanding. “I know.”

It would have been easier if he had argued. If he had insisted. Instead, he accepts it and stays.

“I cannot offer you the safety we constructed,” he says. “I cannot offer convenience. Or structure.” His voice drops lower. “I can only offer you myself.”

The simplicity of it makes your throat tighten. “And what does that mean?”

“It means I would rather risk humiliation, uncertainty, and the very real possibility that you will reject me…” His hand flexes at his side. “…than return to a life in which I never risked you at all.”

You do not realise you have stepped closer until there is almost no space left between you.

“You made it look easy,” you whisper. “Walking away.”

“It was not.”

“You did not come after me.”

His jaw tightens. “Because for the first time, I understood that choosing you meant surrendering control.”

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.

“I did not want to trap you,” he says. “The way I felt trapped by my own fear.”

Your breath trembles. “Are you asking to court me properly?”

“I am.”

“And if I refuse?”

The words cost him something. “If you choose another, I will not stand in your way.”

You search his face. There is no arrogance left. Only vulnerability.

“You are insufferable,” you murmur.

“I am aware.”

“But you are no longer safe.”

“No.”

“You are no longer practical.”

“No.”

You step into him. Not timidly. Deliberately.

“What if this fails?”

He does not hesitate. “Then it fails honestly.”

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.

“I do not want the lie either,” you say.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. The contact is gentle.

“Then we will not pretend,” he whispers.

“No.”

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.

“For the record,” he murmurs softly against your temple, “I would have come after you eventually.”

You smile faintly. “I know.”

And for the first time since this began, there is no lie between you.

—-----------------

Minho’s hands cover your eyes as he guides you down the corridors of his home.

“Minho,” you warn, fingers curling around his wrist, “if I collide with something, I shall return to London and leave you to your chaos.”

He gasps dramatically. “It deeply wounds me that my own darling wife, whom I love with reckless devotion, possesses so little faith.”

“I can feel you smiling.”

“Because I am.”

A door creaks open. The scent reaches you first. Paper. Polish. Dust warmed by sunlight.

Your breath stills.

“Ready?” he murmurs near your ear. “Open.”

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. “Minho.”

He stands a little apart, watching you the way he used to at balls, observant, quiet, unreadable to anyone but you. “I may have reorganised a few sections,” he says lightly. “The previous arrangement was… distressing.”

You laugh softly, still stunned. “You did this?”

“I supervised,” he replies modestly. “I am told I was insufferable about categorisation.”

You look back at the shelves. There are small, deliberate touches. A reading chair near the window. A writing desk.

“You said once,” he continues more quietly, “that novels demand endurance.” Your heart softens. “I thought if this is to be your home, it should hold the things that shaped you.” He steps closer now. “And the things you have yet to discover.”

You turn fully toward him. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything you have ever written to me.” 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. “I suppose,” he adds lightly, “this makes us even.”

“For what?”

“You made the season bearable.”

You smile. “You made quiet less lonely.” You close the distance between you. “Have I told you how much I love you?” you ask softly.

He studies you, not teasing now. Serious. “Not as often as I deserve.”

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.

“I loved you long before I admitted it,” he says quietly.

“Minho.”

“I did not know how to live with it.” His forehead rests against yours. “But I could not live without it.”

You breathe him in. Paper. Ink. Home.

“I love you,” 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.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I built you a library.” You laugh against him. “And I would rather not have to fill it alone.”

You lace your fingers with his. “Then we shall endure together.”

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.

Only the life you chose.

—-----------------

Taglist: @i-bitch-you-bitch@skzcodered@karlee10261990 @frompiscium

[handonheartxx]

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 can’t 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.

----------

[handonheartxx]

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 can’t 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.

----------

[handonheartxx]

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 can’t 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.

----------

[abiaswreck]

Full Moon Rut

Pairing: Werewolf!Chan x Human!Fem Reader

Summary: No more. You couldn’t sit and watch this abuse any longer. Fuck the internship. Fuck the potential job. Chan’s life should be more than the institution’s 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. He’s nonverbal but of sound mind.

Word Count: 14,800 and some change

Author’s 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. 

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 didn’t 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. 

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, you’ll 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. 

However, Doctor Richardson is a new addition to your routine today. 

He stands at your desk, in conversation with another associate. You don’t 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 director’s 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. 

You clear your throat as you close the remaining distance to your desk. “Good morning, doctor. Are you here for me?”

“Ah! Exactly the person I was waiting for.” He answers with a smile. “I was going to join you on your climb upstairs.” He supplies, tucking his hands into his long white lab coat. “If that’s not too much trouble?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head lightly. “Let me put down my jacket, and we can go. I don’t want to keep you.”

“It’s appreciated.”

Even if Doctor Richardson is your supervisor, you don’t 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. 

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 children’s 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. “After 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. It’s 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 people’s clearance simple. 

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. 

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. 

Doctor Richardson finally expands on why he visited you in person today. “I just wanted to say the board thinks you’re doing wonderful with subject 325. As a result, we’ve permitted your request.”

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. 

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 don’t poke and prod him for bloodwork. Unlike the scientists, you don’t push him to his limit with strength and endurance tests. You don’t call him by his computer-generated subject number. 

No, you call him by his name, the one you worked with him to learn. 

“Now,” 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. “With 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?”

“Yes, sir.” You say, nodding while taking the card. “Thank you and the board for the consideration. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m 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.”

Your gaze isn’t even on your supervisor anymore. It’s locked onto the windows of Chan’s so-called room. There is no way he can see you two, nor hear you, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be able to smell you with the level eight bulletproof glass separating you. He’s a specimen, kept from the elements and most contaminants. 

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. It’s too early for you to be here. You come around his scheduled lunchtime at noon. Currently, it’s only a little after nine. 

The werewolf hesitantly takes steps toward the window. It’s not the same movement as if he were sneaking up on prey; it’s 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 Chan’s suspicions. However, you remain rooted to your spot, observing the new behavior. 

Chan begins to pace. Bare feet padding to the door and back to the window. It’s frantic, reminiscent of how your dog circles back and forth from the front window to the door, excited that you’re finally home after a long day. 

It’s confirmed. 

He knows it’s you. 

Somehow he knows and is growing impatient. 

“Sir,” you say with a polite smile on your face. “I apologize for cutting this conversation short, but I’d like to get there and get started.”

“Oh, 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 don’t call him out; instead, let him say his parting words. “Keep in mind what we’ve discussed. If you have any concerns, please reach out to us.”

And then what? 

Your so-called ‘concerns’ go ignored again? You fought multiple times with the head of security over the forced sedation. Chan only reacts violently to the medication because he’s terrified. Then he wakes up with lost time and less trust. None of this helps his temperament. 

The real question is, how can you look at Chan and be proud of the work you do? Just because you don’t hurt him doesn’t mean you help him. You are an accomplice to everything that happens. Arguably, the worst person out of everyone because of your kindness. 

This is not a life here for Chan or any of the creatures stuck here. He’s a bug under a microscope of people who couldn’t care about his happiness. 

If anything, you can at least try to make Chan’s day better. 

With a swipe of the new card, the chamber door opens. Chan backs away out of precaution, in case it’s not you. It wouldn’t be the first time security has come in to collect him with tasers out, looking for any excuse for conflict. 

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 it’s safe. Still, he doesn’t move until you step inside and the heavy metal door shuts and locks back into place. 

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. 

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. 

You force yourself to think of anything else, not wanting to cry about his captivity once more. Those moments are for when you can’t sleep at night as your moral compass haunts you. Not here when the werewolf in front of you needs a distraction. 

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. “Do you smell Henry? I swear I can’t get all the dog hair off.”

Chan pulls away without a response, moving to the table in the middle of the room. Two chairs sit on either side. It’s 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. 

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 he’s practiced for hours with you on the top of a blank sheet: Why are you here so early? 

“I got some good news for us.” You reply while placing your tote bag at your feet. “I talked to some of the higher-ups, and they’re allowing me more time with you. You’ll be seeing me more.”

Chan smirks before jotting down another sentence: I’ll have to check my schedule.

“Don’t be a brat!” You say with playful anger. It’s nice seeing more of Chan’s personality shine through after all this time. Hopefully, this means he’ll be more receptive to your learning plan. “But this means I need you to try harder, okay?”

His smile falters. A loud sigh fills the room as he dramatically throws his head back. It’s understandable; he’s tired of the routine. Language lessons, speech therapy, and sign language practice. Day in and day out. He’s come so far, but not to Umbra’s standards yet. 

“Chan, I mean it.” You say, leaning forward to place your hand over his. “That's why they’re allowing it.” Your voice gets softer, pulling his attention back to you. “Plus, don’t you want to talk to me?”

He finds his crayon to scribble across the paper once more: I talk to you. 

“With your mouth, Chan. I know you have a beautiful voice. I want to hear it.”

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 shouldn’t be able to speak. At first, you assumed he didn’t 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 doesn’t feel safe. The anxiety or fear could be triggering him, resulting in him being unable to speak even if he’s comfortable with you. If that’s the case, then he may never find his voice. 

Part of you holds out hope it'll happen. 

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. 

He's not a fool, though. 

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 he’s 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. 

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. 

You pull the page closer to you. “I’ve never seen so many wolves together.” 

The page you hold has a thin, nimble, yellow wolf. He’s followed by an orange one that’s a tad larger. Then two brown wolves appear to be playing together. The only difference is that one has red spots along its fur. 

You move to the other page. Another yellow wolf that Chan clarifies is actually white. It’s 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. 

“Oh?” You smile at him, understanding what he’s trying to communicate. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Chan’s 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. 

Part of you wants to change the subject. Get his mind off ‌his 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 don’t, Chan is going to lose the one thing he can take for granted will be for him in this hellscape. 

You lean over the drawing, fingers brushing along one of the smaller brown wolves. “Who is this? Are they part of your family?”

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 ‘x’ on each of the lines. The very first symbol he learned is for no. The wolves are connected, just not as a family. 

You attempt to supply an answer. “Are they your pack? Is that it?”

Chan’s eyes light up at the word. He makes a fist with his hand, moving it up and down a couple of times: yes. 

The lump in your throat is hard to swallow. Your body is fighting to keep the words from leaving your lips. “Did you let yourself get caught so your pack would be safe?”

Chan’s expression shifts, lips turning down into a grimace, and nods. He’s 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 he’s a lab rat being tested on.

“I’m sorry, Chan.” You reply, fighting to keep your voice stable. “I know it’s hard being here.”

Chan reaches for the crayons once more. His frame hunches over ‌his drawing. You sink back in your chair, observing the character he adds to his image. This time it’s 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. 

“You want me to take you somewhere?” You ask curiously. Chan’s arm raises, and he points towards the door. In response, you attempt again to say what he wants so that you understand. “You want me to take you out of the room?”

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. “You want me to take you away from here?”

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. 

“Chan, I can’t. They’ll hurt you and then hurt me if I try.” 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. It’s not enough. You give a headshake. “Honey, you're weaker in this form. The security has padding and weapons.” 

The sound of a shutter door opening and closing provides a perfect segue for the conversation to shift. “Here, let’s change the subject and have lunch. You’re hungry, right? I’ll grab your food.”

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. 

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 doesn’t hunt anymore, the collection of the tray is still his responsibility. 

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. He’s less interested in the steamed carrots and boxed juice. Still, you encourage him. “There’s a new juice to try. It's a mixed berry.”

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. “Hey now, it doesn’t necessarily mean there are blueberries in there.”

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 don’t 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 hasn’t heard of. His personal favorites so far are fresh strawberries and the chocolate pudding cups you occasionally bring. 

“Today is a special day for us. It's been a year since I’ve met you, so I brought you something.” You say with a soft smile. Chan’s head lifts when you open the plastic container. There’s an unfamiliar smell for him. His nose crinkles ‌curiously as he sniffs the air. “We call it pineapple. I don’t know if you’ll like it. The fruit grows with a tough skin, and this yellow part is acidic. It’s how the fruit protects itself.”

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. “I knew you’d like it. Have all of it.”

Chan accepts the fruit with a content hum to himself. The smile stays glued onto your face to where your cheeks hurt. He’s 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 wouldn’t 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 weren’t going anywhere. 

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 wouldn’t 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. 

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. 

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. “We’re having lunch!”

“It’ll have to wait," one man answers. “325 is needed upstairs.”

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 isn’t going to end well. Your voice becomes desperate when you speak. “He fights because you use aggression! He’ll behave if you ask him!”

“We’ll take it up with Richardson.”

It’s 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 Chan’s neck to cut off his air supply, forcing him to let go so he can claw at the padded forearm. 

“Chan, don’t fight!” You cry out, tears running down your cheeks, hearing his choking gasps. “Don’t hurt him! Please!”

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. 

The group exits with the werewolf in tow, leaving the cell quiet minus your panicked breathing. Today is a breaking point. Umbra isn’t doing anything for the sake of science here. Chan doesn’t deserve this. You need to get him out of here. Even if it’s the last thing you do. 

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. 

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. 

No one would watch a new intern who already proved their compliance. 

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. 

Not even two minutes after consuming the tainted coffee, both men dropped like sacks of potatoes, feet crumbling underneath them. You didn’t 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.   

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 Chan’s 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 don’t 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. 

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 don’t wait long, forcing yourself to prop against the doorjamb where the sensor will recognize a human is blocking it and refuse to close.   

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. He’s 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.  

He’s a carved god. 

He’s beautiful. 

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, it’s some attraction you still battle with to keep your relationship professional. You mentally fight to shut down any distracting feelings. That’s not why you are here. You need to pull it together and get him out of here. 

You force yourself to speak. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The werewolf’s 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. It’s late, he’s already had dinner, and no tests run into the evening. 

“Chan,” you say firmly. “We don’t have time. Come with me.”

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. 

“Please, Chan. You wanted out, right?”

He clenches both hands into fists, extending his index fingers. One digit strikes the other, signing a word: Can’t. 

“Yes, you can," you plead, trying to keep your frustration in check. He’s scared. Of course, he’s scared. You told him what would happen if he tried to leave. Still, you insist. “We 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. It’s a wretched noise you wish never to hear again. 

He wants to trust his favorite human. 

God, he wants to. 

Yet, he doesn’t move. 

An automated voice comes from above you. “Please keep all cell doors clear.”

You can’t 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. 

“Chan, come on.” You say while maintaining eye contact with him. There’s no telling what the company will do, and you don’t want to find out. The words you speak are more honest than they’ve ever been. “If we don’t go now, they’ll kill both of us.” 

The threat to your safety gets him moving. He quickly shuffles his bare feet on the tile. You extend your hand with a smile. “Yes! Good boy. A few more steps.”

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.  

On the ground floor, you are not greeted by either security guard. It’s 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 isn’t some sick joke. The rise and fall of his chest quickens as you tap the last sensor. 

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. 

Now you have to create distance. 

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 it’s nothing more than a tucked-away memory. 

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. 

The second part to secure Chan’s 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. 

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. 

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 doesn’t matter; you don’t need it for long. Just until the cramp in your side goes away.

Chan hasn’t 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 didn’t know where to start. There’s neither, just blind following as if he were a lost puppy. 

“We won’t be here long, okay?” You say more to yourself. 

Chan still doesn’t 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. It’ll have to run its course through his body. Once on the road, he can get some sleep, and that’ll help him relax. 

You kick off your shoes with a huff. Unlike Chan, the soles of your feet ache. All that time planning Chan’s 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. 

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. 

“Channie,” you ask, rushing over to him. “Are you okay?” 

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. He’s begun to pant as fresh perspiration covers his forehead. 

“What is it? How can I help?”

Chan shakes his head, violently conveying a no. He doesn’t want help? You can’t help? Is it an effect of a test today out of anyone’s control? Maybe he needs to rest, sit, and let whatever is happening pass. 

His skin burns under your palm when you try to offer reassurance. Words don’t 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 don’t need your ‌years of studying to recognize his behavior. He’s 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. 

He’s shifting. 

A full-body shift? 

That only means one thing. 

Your eyes land on your smartwatch as you bring your arm closer. Fingers tremble opening the calendar. Right there on tonight’s date confirms your worst fear. It has one added icon: a full moon.

No. No. No. 

You broke Chan out on a full moon. 

His hesitation back at the lab makes sense now. 

Chan wasn’t afraid of leaving. 

He was afraid of shifting while near you.

Chan’s 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. 

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. 

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. 

“Chan?” You ask, voice timid. 

His head tilts to the side. Recognition, you hope. The stack of files never mentioned coherency during shifts. Chan wasn’t part of that study. He could be in this beast form and aware of you in front of him. Or, maybe he’s tucked far away, as the animal has its own independence. Regardless, this is a dangerous situation. One that you must tread carefully. 

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.  

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. 

Play this safe, you tell yourself. 

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. 

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. He’s spent the most time ‌with you out of everyone on the project. 

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 he’s trying to play with you. 

Chan’s 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 don’t, 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. 

“Chan, what…?” 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. It’s a hungry gaze. Confirmed by the way drool drips from his teeth. You may as well be a steak in front of him. There’s nothing but fear in your soft voice. “What are you doing?”

The ears on his head twitch; he’s heard you but doesn’t care as his snout slowly dips to prod at your pubic bone, not bothered by the small patch of hair there. Instead, he’s fascinated. Female werewolves have scent glands around their genitals. It’s where Chan knows pheromones should be when with a mate. 

Your breath catches at the sound of his curious sniffing traveling south. His cold, wet nose is jarring against your warm, flushed skin. This isn’t 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. 

The press of his rough tongue against your folds pulls you out of your thoughts. He’s tentative at first, lightly prodding, as if he’s 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.

“Oh—Wait,” you whine, eyes wrenched shut, mind racing, thinking of anything to stop the growing arousal. “Ch—Chan, you can’t.”

The werewolf’s 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. 

All you have to do is get him away for half a second. That’s 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. 

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 that’s forming along your walls. Never in your life have you felt a sensation like this. It’s mind-melting, addictively intoxicating enough to neutralize any self-preservation as your orgasm overwhelms you. 

“Fuck,” you whine out, ‌trying to arch off the floor while you continue to battle your body over how euphoric this creature’s tongue feels. 

Much to your relief, Chan pulls away completely, head bowing to look between his thighs. While he’s 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 he’s staring at. 

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 he’s yet to mate because of his captivity. 

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears at the thought. He’s 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 didn’t give Chan his medication this month.

Now here he is, a dilemma on his hands, and a body demanding he react. 

Chan’s gaze comes back to you, and with his heightened senses, his nostrils flare, taking in the smell of your arousal that’s still permeating the air in the space between you. 

It’s 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 it’s futile. 

At a snail’s pace, you rise to get on your feet. Chan mirrors, standing up straight on his rear legs. He is a bipedal werewolf. One that’s 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. 

One of Chan’s growls comes out. It’s 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. 

He’s an apex predator. 

You have turned your back on him and not submitted yourself to him. 

It’s a challenge against him. 

You don’t 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. 

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. 

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 that’s 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. 

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. 

You whimper in response to the sound of Chan snapping his jaw by your ear. It’s a polar opposite of the sweet man you know. He’s 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. He’s a complete stranger, a different being. 

This is a monster. 

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.

Chan’s 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 wouldn’t kill you nor infect you; it’s the pain that terrifies you. 

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, he’s 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. 

“Chan, please.” 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. “Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to go further.”

If the werewolf understands your words, he doesn’t 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. 

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. 

Chan’s 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 aren’t even prepared for a regular cock. 

“Chan, wait. You can’t…” 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 he’s desperate to bury himself into. 

His noises of complaint fill the room with his growing frustration. It’s not right. He knows he needs to be inside. Though with his size he will rip you open. He could do irreparable damage. 

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 he’s looking for.

“Ah, fuck.” You cry out as the girth of his cock forces your walls to accommodate around him. Your voice grows more wretched. “Channie, please!”

Thank goodness for the patience Chan suddenly found. Perhaps the beast understands the noises of discomfort slipping past your lips. Even though he doesn’t stop the whole ordeal, he waits to press another inch deeper inside only after your helpless noises quiet down. 

The following thrusts are timid initially. He drives his cock gently from the tip to the length he’s 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. 

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. It’s 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. 

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. 

Chan is scruffing you. 

Most of the time, a mother animal will scruff their young to carry or move them. It’s different with werewolves. This is a sign of dominance. A command for you to freeze and not move till he’s 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 doesn’t understand it hurts, doesn’t understand how big he is for your human form. All he sees is more disobedience, and he won’t tolerate it. Not when he’s in control and not during the confusion of his rut. He knows he must breed, and you will accept it. 

Perhaps the werewolf is right.

The less you fight, the quicker he finishes, and the faster this whole affair will end. 

Chan’s 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. That’s all you need to do right now. 

Just when you think you can handle the events of tonight, an additional issue arises. 

Chan’s cock appears to be growing at the base. 

No, bulging the more you focus. 

The last part of the mating process. 

Your human biology was never intended to accommodate a physical knot that werewolves have. Still, it doesn’t 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, there’s 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. 

It’s 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. It’s dizzying and never-ending as his cock continues to pulsate inside of you. 

You sink to the floor, defeated and accepting your fate. You won’t 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 aren’t used to mating. Chan is working on pure instinct with his muddy, hormone-fueled brain. He won’t understand he can’t get you pregnant. 

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: He’s grooming you, showing you affection for the successful coital tie. 

The worst is over. 

By some miracle, you endured. 

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. It’s a welcome relief.  

Chan doesn’t 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. 

However, Chan’s rut continues to rage on. 

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. It’s the only way he can get pups. 

“Channie,” you plead, desperate as tears burn your lash line. “It won’t take. I’m human.”

A corner of his lip curls as he snarls. It’s 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 doesn’t make another noise. He doesn’t have to; you know what that piercing look means. 

No more games. 

You will take his cock a second time. 

You will stop fighting his mating attempt. 

“Okay,” you say softly, hands raised to halt him. “I understand.”

His golden eyes watch as your throbbing limbs shift. This time he’s 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. 

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 it’s endured. 

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. 

This time around he doesn’t struggle to find your hole. His cock slides right in with a loud squelch. Your walls don’t 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 wasn’t enough to satisfy his rut-filled brain. 

This night appears to be far from over unless you can help him along. 

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 he’s the most sensitive. Your plan is working. The knot is already swelling back up to its previous size. 

Call it guilt for the life he’s had in the facility, call it selfishness for wanting this to be over, or maybe it’s 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. 

You can give Chan what he wants. 

The pleasure he deserves. 

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. He’s getting as worn out as you. He must be right on the edge. 

Get him there, you say to yourself. Make it happen, and it’ll be over. 

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. It’s a rewarding rush of power as you ride out the entire length of your orgasm. 

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. He’s content, rut settling. 

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. It’ll just be delayed. There’s no telling how long until he's human again. Records stated his last full shift was five years ago. It’ll 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. 

It’s 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. There’s heat cocooning your body. A moth-eaten blanket was tossed over you. You don’t care how old or dusty the cushioning might be. It’s a blessing after all the time spent on the wood flooring. 

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 don’t have a choice though; the security guards are awake by now, and Chan isn’t safe yet. He needs to get out of these woods. 

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 doesn’t know that the company owns drones that can scan the entire area. Not to mention plenty of thermal cameras. 

Where is he? 

You fight the fatigue to sit up, voice struggling to come out of your parched throat, “Channie?”

A human whine slips out across the room. 

Chan is in a corner. He’s 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. 

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. 

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 can’t fight his own nature. 

“Chan?” You whisper, keeping your voice low. “It’s okay, honey.”

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 can’t even comprehend the emotional turmoil he’s going through. Werewolves mate for life unless in dire circumstances. Poor thing probably is wrestling a heavy conscience when he doesn’t need to. 

“Channie, 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.”

Chan doesn’t 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.  

It never comes, and it never will. 

“None of last night was your fault. I’m 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 Chan’s tension to melt away. You only speak again once his breathing regulates. “We need to move soon.”

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. 

“I will," you answer. “But you shouldn’t have gone out.”

Chan huffs; it’s an offended sound. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration that he can’t 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, “Don’t worry about it. I know what you're doing.”

He forgets the stacks of research you consumed over the year. The only reason he left the cabin was to find you food. It’s 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. 

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. There’s water inside. He traveled to the nearby river you passed on the way here. 

“How long were you out there?” 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 doesn’t get the chance, not with your continuous prodding. “Did anyone see you? Did you hear anyone?”

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 doesn’t particularly care, instead bringing his palm to cover your mouth, shushing the words of interrogation. 

The mood around you shifts. Chan’s cheeks are still puffy and tear-stained, though his eyes have narrowed. They’re 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.  

Heat spreads across your skin with how flustered you become. Sparks of arousal curl deep in your core. It’s 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 doesn’t. All because he respects you. 

He releases his hold, and for one last time signs for you to eat. His eyes don’t leave yours; he doesn’t 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. 

Minus Chan’s nudity and dirty feet, he’s 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 Chan’s bulky body, and you are in no shape to do so. 

“We have a long day ahead of us. How are you feeling?” 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. You’ll finish this damn apple so his provider mentality is satisfied and then get moving. 

When tossing the blanket to the side, cold air sinks straight to the bone. It’s no different from dunking yourself straight into a lake in the middle of winter. Yes, it’s 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. 

“Help me up.” You say while slowly maneuvering your limbs to sit on the edge of the couch. “We have to get moving.”

Chan motions over to you and back to himself. You don’t 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. 

“I planned ahead. Don’t worry. We just need to get me to the shed in the back.”

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. 

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 didn’t matter. Just as long as Chan was free. 

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. It’s charming how much care he has for you. Again, it’s 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 doesn’t even know where they are, but the values instilled in him remain regardless. 

Could you handle a lifetime with Chan? 

Don’t you have the answer already? 

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. It’s 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. 

It’s perfect.

Well, almost. The shoes are a lost cause because his feet don’t fit, but you don’t plan on bringing him anywhere near people. Not until you know it’s safe. Chan merely tosses them away. He’s always preferred being barefoot, anyway. He never used the lab-issued slip-ons the entire time he was there. 

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. 

"No pups," you murmur. 

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. He’s mouthing words, though no voice comes out: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

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. It’s time to get the hell out. Your palms adjust their hold on the steering wheel as you pull onto the old dirt road. It’s bumpy and slowly being reclaimed by nature. Chan giggles in the back with every large dip, amused by how the car rocks. It’s a wonderful noise to hear. Once this is said and done, you’ll do everything in your power to hear all the time. 

Eventually, the lack of gasoline forces you to pull off the interstate. Chan’s stomach had been rumbling for the last hour, so a pit stop was needed. You could fuel up and find him some food for‌ both of you. Something more substantial than fruit. Then keep driving until you hit the hotel tucked right over the state line. 

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. 

“Channie, I have to go inside for a minute.” 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. “Will you be okay staying here?” 

Chan nods softly, face barely peeking from the hood. He doesn’t move from his lying position. 

Smart boy, he knows to hide. 

The store attendant doesn’t even acknowledge you entering, too invested in the newspaper he’s 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. It’ll hold you guys over until the next town. You don’t want to waste much time inside; you need to get back to Chan. 

Even at the register, the worker still doesn’t 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. It’s a blessing; you wanted to avoid painful small talk. 

Back outside, the sun is high in the sky. It’s a nice day. The weather is warming up despite how cold the temps dipped the previous night. Birds chirp in the distance. There’s not a cloud in the sky, you realize, as you silently pump the gas. Perhaps a sign of ‌better 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 don’t have to be seen. 

Will it last forever? No, but it’s enough until Chan decides what he wants to do with his life. 

Speaking of said werewolf, isn't he a little curious about the food you bought? 

Once securing the gas cap, you peek into the back seat. 

The familiar feeling of dread hits fast and hard. 

He’s not inside. 

“Chan!” 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. 

He’s gone. 

Just like that?

You scream louder this time. “Chan!”

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. 

“I said stay in the car!” You exclaim, the anger in your voice thin and shaking. Loss, anger, and relief crash into you so hard your knees nearly give out. It’s a whirlwind. Nausea hits next, causing stomach acid to burn the back of your throat. “You should have waited. I was worried.”

Chan signs two words: Toilet. Sorry. 

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. 

Chan came back to you. 

He didn’t have to. 

It was the perfect opportunity to leave you behind. 

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 don’t even know where Chan is originally from. Umbra ships creatures from around the world. The other werewolves could be oceans away. 

Now the insecurities inside you are trying to guilt you. You are all he knows now. He is still in survival mode. He’s accepted his fate. Being with you means he’s not a lab rat. Of course he would pick being out here. That thought stings more than the scratches healing on your hip. 

You want him to stay because he wants to. 

Maybe that’s selfish of you. 

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. 

For the first time, the voice you desperately wanted to hear speaks beside you. It's trembling, strained, and soft. “L—L—Love…You.”

The world stills. These are Chan’s first vocalized words to you. After a year of working every day. It’s 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. 

He is expressing his true feelings.

You knew Chan was fond of you. Yes, you also knew of his deep emotional attachment. You aren’t 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 you’re unsure if you could let him out there if he didn’t want to stay with you. 

“Chan,” you whisper.

His eyes stay on the ground like he expects the words to be wrong somehow. As if he’s bracing for correction. It isn’t perfect. It doesn’t have to be. Not when it’s music to your ears.

He swallows and tries again, stronger this time. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Channie.” 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. He’s shy about such sudden affection, but the wide smile on his face tells you he enjoyed it. 

“Come on.” You say with enthusiasm, turning to open the door for him. “We still have a long way to go.”

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. 

And with that, you two are back on the road. 

If Chan minds the soft music playing, he doesn’t 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 what’s inside. He eats one piece at a time with his fingers, savoring the fruit. 

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 doesn’t seem too appealing and is rather cruel, maybe he’ll understand. However, the real question is if you can werewolf-proof your home just in case it’s not enough to hold him. Sure, you live outside the city in the woods, but there are still neighbors miles down the road. 

Those thoughts don’t matter right now. 

After all, you have time until the next full moon. 

︎Abiaswreck | Do not copy, repost, or translate | As always, reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to comment, reblog with feedback, or send me an ask. I’d 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.

[sailorsoons]

Rodeo (l.mh)

PAIRING: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader SUMMARY: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 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 don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part.  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. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s so goddamn sore.

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

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

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

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

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

Whichever comes first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any work is good work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightcrawler.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

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

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

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But you’re so pretty.”

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

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

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

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

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

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

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When was the last time you slept?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, and that she chose to leave him.

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

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

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

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

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

He’s not in danger here. 

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes 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. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My watch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the point, though?” 

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

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

“And purple?”

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

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

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

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and 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 doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

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

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

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping 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 wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

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

“Collection accepted.” 

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

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares 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. 

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

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

If the knife had been one of yours…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles 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 he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

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

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

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

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

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

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

He remembers almost every one of them. 

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

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

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

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

-

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

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Irreversible. 

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

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

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

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

Will he or won’t he? 

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

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

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

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

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

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

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

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

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

It’s clinical. 

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

Any work is good work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe it’s even a combination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

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

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

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

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

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

“Didn’t say you were.” 

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

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

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

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

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

“I’d never hurt her.”

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

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

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

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

He’s that confident in beating me. 

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

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

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

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

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

Act of faith. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there a way through that door?”

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

“Does she have a way out the back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s hardly less settling.”

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

“One is legal, for starters.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet 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, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

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

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

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

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

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

“They’re on the house?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

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

-

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

An act of faith. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

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

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

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

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

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

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

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

“Where are we going?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it now?”

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

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

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

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

Minho bites back a grin. 

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

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

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s 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. 

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 Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

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

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

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

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not a child!”

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

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

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

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

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him 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. 

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

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

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

“Minho, there’s a-”

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

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

“Mostly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The house is 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. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by thick palms and palmetto. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

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

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

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

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

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

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

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

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

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

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

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

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

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

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

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking 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. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Need it.” 

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

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

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

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

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

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

The endearment slips from him more naturally than anything he’s 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. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a stupid man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The 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. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

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

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

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

“That joke was terrible.” 

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

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

[hardskz]

[ 2:16 pm ] “look at our pretty little kitty, finally all obedient and shit. chan, what do you think?”

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 that’s all student council vice president!minho’s doing. the corners of his lips quirk upwards once his eyes go lower and stop at your dripping heat.

you’re 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 you’re 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.

“cute,” is everything chan says before he steps closer to tap the bell, making it jingle softly. “she looks so embarrassed but she’s still enjoying it.” you’re trembling when he shamelessly lets his eyes roam your body once more, resting at the one bra strap that fell off your shoulder.

“n-no…” 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.

“oh yes.” he grins. “it’s what you deserve after being such a brat and disobeying our rules.”

you howl when he presses the toy against your clit. the vibrations cause your body to jerk, making the bell’s ring echo inside the room.

“what a loud kitty. so shameless,” minho chastises but amusement fills his tone and he forces the vibrator harder against the bundle of nerves. “but finally obeying. keep your legs spread apart like that.”

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. you’re already causing so much noise, so you bite your lip to muffle your moans.

“don’t hide your voice,” chan warns sternly a few meters away from you. “don’t hold back at all.”

“i can’t possibly do that! someone’s going to find out!” you manage through grit teeth, jolting up with a wail once minho adds a second finger and curls them, landing on your sweet spot.

“then let somebody find out.”

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 can’t be fucking serious right now. it’s only a matter of time until lunch break’s 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 they’ll be welcomed with.

“if that’s 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 who’d go this far to have a dick fill her up.”

chan takes a few strides until he’s 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.

chan’s hand wanders even further south until he’s 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.

“this 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. we’re 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.” chan growls. you nod wordlessly, but the silence doesn’t 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.

“i’m sorry! please let me cum now! i don’t want anyone to watch!”

“eh? but imagine how shocked hyunjinnie would look yet he’d still manage to grow hard. you know, he gets turned on easily and isn’t necessarily the gentlest. or is changbin your type? seungmin? felix?” minho taunts and doesn’t miss the way you clench around them. “maybe we should let the entire school council watch this little show.”

“n-no! not that, please, i’m begging!”

“filthy liar,” chan snarls. “we can feel you tightening around our fingers, kitten. plus, you shouldn’t have been a brat in the first place and caused a ruckus on school grounds again.”

the pressure of their fingers and the toy is too much. your mind is hazy and overworked from all the sensations, and you don’t realize you’re borderline screaming when you cum on their fingers. the two keep going even after you’re all milked out. it’s 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.

“g-guys, i already came. i’ve been a good kitty, i don’t want to be punished anymore,” you sob in your post-orgasm daze, body trembling.

“you’ve been a good kitty,” minho starts with a sweet smile, “but we have to make sure that you’re really sincere.”

“h-huh?”

“in other words,” chan mumbles as he nips on your neck, “your lesson isn’t done yet.”

as if on cue, the school bell rings.

not even a second later, the door busts open.

[hardskz]

forever after: masterlist

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 it’s sometimes near impossible to decipher which tale the story was derived from. 

genre: 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 i’m straying away from the initial outline. the series does not have to be read in order as they’re all independent from one another! 

Keep reading

[hardskz]

cherry pop.

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 romcom—yes, he even got the sleeve tattoo down and goes to bars in the shadiest neighborhoods—he’s 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. 

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, itzy’s chaeryeong and ateez’s 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

There’s 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 tattooist’s work. The tattoos vary in all different sizes and colors, but the artist’s 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. 

It doesn’t 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 boyfriend’s words for granted. 

“Are you alright?” Changbin asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

You blink. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re crushing my hand.”

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, “We can leave if you want–”

“No!” 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, “This is just new to me. Besides, I asked if I could come along. See it as a new experience for me.” Truth be told, you didn’t ask; you annoyed him until he reluctantly agreed to let you join him to his appointment.

Then again, you weren’t supposed to catch wind of it in the first place. Blame Jisung for being a loudmouth who can’t keep his mouth shut. What goes around comes around, and he sure is repenting by completing his mandatory community service. 

Changbin’s about to reply when a sharp voice cuts in. “Yah! Seo Changbin!” 

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. She’s 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.

“I’m older than you.” Changbin scowls, but the playfulness in his eyes still shines through.

“Since when do you care about formalities?” She snorts and they complete a complicated handshake before her gaze flits to you. “You brought company this time? That’s new.” Although there’s no judgment in her tone, you still feel like you’re being interrogated. The woman eyes you curiously, and after a while, she outstretches her hand. “I’m Chaeryeong. Interested in getting inked too?”

You notice her firm grip when you accept the handshake. You’re about to reply when Changbin beats you to it first. “She’s only company,” 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.

“Glad to know that you listened to my advice and came here with emotional support in tow. You really need it,” she hums before turning to you. “You know, his pain tolerance is nonexistent. I almost fucked up all of his tats because he wouldn’t sit still and went on a crying rampage. For God knows how many hours straight, he was like ‘Wah, Chaeryeong, I’m gonna die!’” Her rendition of Changbin’s tantrum is comically exaggerated, yet it earns her a giggle from you and a punch in the shoulder from Changbin.

“C’mon, let’s get this over with,” he grumbles, ignoring Chaeryeong’s whines that he shouldn’t have hit her dominant arm. (“You do know that I’m going to be drawing on your arm with this hand, no?!”)

Fortunately for him, Chaeryeong doesn’t 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. 

“So, Mr. No pain tolerance, how are you feeling?” you tease once Chaeryeong is out of earshot. Changbin’s ears sport red. 

“Just so you know, Chaeryeong was blowing things out of proportion,” he insists, “I’m a big boy.”

With the jacket gone, his bare arms are on display and you’d be lying if you said they weren’t a sight to see. Changbin’s gym endeavors have fruited impressive results, and the half sleeve tattoo on his right arm complements the muscle he’s 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. 

It wasn’t 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. 

Hence, the start of your Changbin’s arms hyperfixation.

Chaeryeong returns, this time with vinyl gloves covering her hands. “You better not be screaming like a bitch like last time.” 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 he’s 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.

“Brace yourself, the next step is where he usually cries,” 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. 

“Does it really hurt that much?” you quip. 

“Fuck, yes.”

“Depending on your pain tolerance.”

They share an unreadable look for a moment, Chaeryeong being the one to break eye contact first. “Anyway, I need complete silence while I do the linework. And yes, that includes as little squirming as possible, Seo Changbin.”

“Always dropping the honorifics,” Changbin swears under his breath, earning a slight elbow jab from the other. “Ow! Is this how you treat a customer?!”

“This is the preferential treatment only you deserve. Mwah.” Chaeryeong sends him a crooked, half-assed smile. Stamping the conversation as done, she turns around to prepare the tattoo machine. 

When Chaeryeong said Changbin had no pain tolerance at all, she wasn’t lying. 

You don’t 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 shouldn’t hurt so much.

Changbin’s still wheezing in pain ten minutes later. 

Luckily he isn’t squirming erratically, but the pained cries that leave him aren’t any more pleasant. He winces as Chaeryeong works silently, lips pressed together in a firm line. Meanwhile, you feel like he’s about to break your bones with the iron grip his hand has engulfed yours in. But you manage to suppress a whimper. 

The only reason Chaeryeong keeps up with him is because they’re 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. It’s easier to work with, or so she claims. 

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 he’s gone through an out-of-body experience.

“Is it over yet?” he asks dazedly. 

“Only shading left.” Changbin groans at Chaeryeong’s reply, squeezing his eyes shut and probably questioning if this was truly worth the pain. 

“You’re still alive. Don’t act as if I’m taking you to hell right now.” Chaeryeong rolls her eyes in unbothered annoyance. Changbin doesn’t lash back, only grabs the cup and downs it in one go. 

“Heads up, the worst part is over already,” you say softly in an attempt to perform damage control. While your boyfriend doesn’t reply and gives you a weak smile that reaches his eyes, Chaeryeong hums approvingly.

“You’re right. The worst is over. Usually he’s all numb from the outlining, so shading should be a breeze. Also, he’s more bearable and can actually hold a proper conversation now.”

She’s right. Changbin is certainly more receptive to talking and much saner than before. It’s almost as if his lapse never happened. Though occasionally he inhales sharply as Chaeryeong works the ink into his skin. 

“How’s uni going?” she asks to distract him further from the pain.

“The usual. Though lately I’m cooped up in the lab for this project and it’s killing me,” Changbin sighs, enjoying the way you run a thumb over his knuckles. 

“Oh, really? Tell me more about it.”

“We’re recreating drugs.” Chaeryeong does a double-take. Her eyes meet yours and you know that you’re looking just as mortified. Now, this is the first time you’re hearing that. However, Changbin doesn’t seem to notice the gravity of his words and continues casually, “We’re trying to find a way to make use of the euphoric effects drugs provide but take out the risk of addiction.”

“You’re recreating drugs,” Chaeryeong repeats blankly. She blinks a few times before she resumes her work. “Does that mean you can make ecstasy?”

“Are you hearing yourself?” Changbin scoffs, as if that was a stupid question to begin with. “Of course I can.”

“Sweet. Can you hook me up with it?”

“No.”

“Jeez, I was just joking,” she deadpans but quickly drops the subject. She catches a glimpse of you before speaking again. “How long have you two been dating?”

“Uh.” The question came unexpectedly and you’re not even sure if Chaeryeong is asking you, but given that nobody has interjected yet, you clear your throat. "It’s about to be six months.”

“And we live together,” Changbin adds a tad too proudly for your taste.

Chaeryeong does another double-take. Not only is she at a loss for words, but she’s definitely thinking how sketchy that is, going by her furrowed brows. “You haven’t even been dating for half a year and already live together?” As quickly as the outburst came, it disappeared in a matter of seconds and she continues her work, voice much calmer this time. “Looks like Changbin’s really whipped, then.”

“Yeah, I am.” Your heart skips a beat when you hear the fondness in his voice. But then you see that he’s 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. 

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 didn’t have any worries. 

Besides, at least you can now make out without the fear that someone could walk in.

“God, you’re so tacky. You should introduce your girlfriend to the rest of us soon—no, you should’ve introduced her to us much earlier!” Chaeryeong sulks until all of a sudden, she looks up to you with sparkles in her eyes. “Hey, we’re meeting at the Topline next week and you should definitely join us!”

Before you get to ask what on earth the Topline is, Changbin dismisses the prospect sternly. “That’s out of question.”

“Why not? I’m hurt,” Chaeryeong fires back with her eyes glued to his skin, tattoo gun buzzing in her grip.

“And let half of you impose your corruption kink on her? I think the fuck not.”

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 that’s all that matters!) but it’s not like you didn’t read the nastiest guilty pleasure fanfics on the internet when you were a teenager. 

“Most of us have the decency not to try something with someone taken.” Chaeryeong’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. 

“There you go. Most of you.”

Upon that comeback, Chaeryeong doesn’t have anything to deflect with. In the end, she settles with “As if you’re not one of them too, monogamist.” 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. 

Hours pass and eventually, Chaeryeong does the finishing touches to the new sleeve extension. Positioned right underneath the head of the wolf, it’s a pine forest that takes up the entire space of his lower arm. 

“I don’t expect any other customers today, so take your time,” Chaeryeong says after bandaging him up and leaves the room first to clean her equipment. 

Changbin rolls his shoulder back to get rid of the numbness in his right arm before he carefully slips into his jacket. You’re contemplating bringing up the topic of meeting his friends again because that thought hasn’t left your mind and Changbin’s reaction didn’t sit right with you. You’re thinking of dropping it altogether since he must have his reasons and you don’t want to foul his mood, but then—

Oh, fuck it. You don’t have anything to lose.

“So, about the Topline—” 

“No.” His answer is firm and before you can counter, he sighs deeply and meets your bummed expression. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet the rest of my friends I grew up with, but it’s better if you don’t.”

Your brows scrunch in irritation. “Why? As long as you’re there it shouldn’t be a problem, no? Unless there’s some dubious backdoor business they’re partaking in?”

“Dubious backdoor business—God, no, it’s nothing like that,” Changbin grabs you by the shoulders and stops in his sentence after a moment of hesitation. “It's just… let’s say there are a lot of physical confrontations at that particular bar.”

“Chaeryeong made it sound like you still frequent that place quite often,” you mumble. You don’t process what you said until seconds later, and when you see the perplexity on Changbin’s features, you realize you stepped on a landmine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“It’s alright. I get it. Sometimes I ask myself why I still go there too.” He says it like someone who’s accepted the fact that their cigarette addiction is going to last for the rest of their life. “Remember when I told you I used to be a troublemaker who did some questionable things? We didn’t do illegal stuff or anything that’s super messed up, just questionable. I might’ve grown from that phase, but some of them didn’t. You’re better off not knowing some of them, really.” He means the last part, almost as if he wished he never met them himself. 

Before the mood can get any more depressing, he leans forward to press a chaste kiss on your lips. “The only person worth meeting is Chaeryeong, to be honest. She’s the one who stuck along since day one.”

“Well, she did tell interesting stories about your past. The cherry pie incident was amusing to hear,” you muse, earning a warning glare from him.

“We don’t talk about the cherry pie incident. You promised you'd take that story to the grave,” 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. 

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” 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 he’s brought. No sane person would carry that amount in cash, but perhaps it’s an unspoken tattoo culture thing. The two banter a bit and Changbin eventually decides to go to the toilet, leaving you with Chaeryeong.

“It was nice meeting you,” she says, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. 

“Huh?” You have to stop being so caught off guard by the casual sentences. “I mean, likewise.”

If Chaeryeong finds your initial reactions off-putting, she doesn’t 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 she’s done, she walks around the counter until she’s standing right in front of you. You flinch when she grabs your hand without warning and drops the business card in your palm. 

“In case you ever feel like stopping by at the Topline. The directions on the internet are a little confusing.” 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 isn’t too far away from it and not hidden in a maze like the tattoo parlor. “Our little secret, yeah?”

You return the smile. “Our little secret.”

“Quit hogging my girlfriend.”

You quickly hide the card by pulling down your sleeve. Luckily, Changbin doesn’t seem like he heard a word of your conversation. After saying your goodbyes, he additionally flicks Chaeryeong’s forehead because ‘it’s what she gets for dropping honorifics’. Chaeryeong jabs him playfully in the chest as payback. 

“You got yourself a good one, Seo Changbin,” she says after engulfing you in a hug. Changbin only rolls his eyes but the slight blush that dusts his ears doesn’t go unnoticed. “Stop by again soon!”

The weeks pass by uneventfully.

Once Changbin’s 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. 

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 didn’t know your mind could conjure, you knew you needed an orgasm for a brain reset. 

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. 

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 wouldn’t pound you into the mattress. You briefly debated whether you should just get yourself off while he wasn’t at home, but you’re 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. 

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 he’s quick to match the energy and slips his tongue into your mouth, enticing a whine out of you. It’s downright pathetic how fast he’s reduced you into a whimpering mess, begging for more, and you hope he doesn’t realize you’re more sensitive than usual. 

“Someone’s impatient,” 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. 

“A-aaa-ah, fuck– and who’s to blame for that?” you choke out, digging crescents into his buff upper arms. Changbin isn’t even applying a lot of pressure and you’re already at the brink of seeing stars. You’re too far gone to be surprised, too drunk on his touch to notice the growing bulge under his pants. 

“Talking back? That’s new.” Changbin raises a brow at you, followed by an appreciative hum. “I like that.”

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. 

“Changbin, m-more— hnhg,” you plead, aching to thrust your hips into his touch. But he’s holding you steady by the waist, rendering every movement useless. 

It hasn’t 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 ‘more’, he doesn’t mind. 

It’s okay, he said. Baby steps, he said. 

He doesn’t 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. “That’s it. Attagirl.” 

The remark is all it takes to send you six feet under. Coincidentally, it hasn’t 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, he’s been abusing your weakness like a cheat code.

But he isn’t unfair. He’s a giver through and through—a generous one, so. 

“Want more, huh? Fuck– I’ll 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 isn’t 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. It’s everything you want and yet, it’s too much at once that you’re writhing under his control, incapable of forming any coherent thought. 

Meanwhile, Changbin settles on assaulting your neck in kisses and nibbles, adding a second finger while keeping the pace of his hand constant. “Fuck, baby, you’re so, so good to me.” 

The arm around your waist has loosened and by the time you realize it, you’re 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 weren’t soundproof. 

You’re so close to chasing your high, close to tasting it, when all of a sudden the default iPhone ringtone blares from Changbin’s phone. The ear-deafening sound rips you a new one, and Changbin is just as delirious, hand coming to a freeze. 

The ringtone stops. A beat passes. And then his phone rings again. 

Irritation makes its way onto Changbin’s face, and before he can throw the phone across the room, the ringtone stops again. 

“I cannot be bothered with this shit,” he mutters before leaning in for a kiss, ignoring the obnoxious ring to the best of his ability. 

The phone rings a third time. This time, the standard ringtone is replaced by a Tiger JK song. Changbin tenses. 

“Fuck, supervisor’s calling,” he curses under bated breath and tears away for good this time, “I’m sorry, I really have to take this.”

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, he’s 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 haven’t 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.

“You’re leaving me. Just like this? That’s it?” The crack in your voice is all it takes for Changbin’s 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 heal—all that for a build-up of a much-needed and very overdue orgasm that vanishes through a single phone call from his supervisor.

“Emergency at the lab.” Words cannot describe how thick his guilty conscience is weighing on him. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Tonight?”

“I’ll be coming home late.” Upon hearing those words, your expression sours. The justification that follows isn’t any better: “I bailed on my friends too many times and Chaeryeong will have my head if I don’t show up today.”

“At the Topline?” you ask.

Changbin nods. “I’ll be back before you realize it, promise.”

And just like that, he leaves you alone in your apartment.

Now, you know where Changbin’s loyalties lie. Hell, you’re 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. 

However, he’s never left you with figurative blue balls before. And to expect you to suck it up after the past weeks?

The audacity. 

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. 

Changbin played himself out of that courtesy with his stunt. 

The text you send to Chaeryeong is a mere one-liner. ‘Hey, it’s me! I heard you’re meeting at the Topline today, would love to join!’. Ten minutes later, your phone rings with her contact lighting up the screen.

“I was wondering if you would ever reach out,” Chaeryeong muses once you pick up. “So, what did he do this time?”

The direct question startles you. How often does Changbin get into trouble for her to break the ice with this?

You don’t bother questioning the rationale and reply, “I want to get back at him.”

“Damn, he must’ve fucked up. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned.” A laugh escapes from the other line. “Alright then. Meet me at the subway station at 9. Come as your best. See you then!”

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. 

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 didn’t throw it away during your last closet cleanout. Otherwise you would’ve been stuck with the choices: 1) flowy skirts and basic tees, 2) gray joggers you’ve owned for five years counting along with the ugly pink furry sweater—it’s so ugly it’s cute—or 3) paying too much money for a cheaply produced polyester dress that you will only wear once. 

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. 

“You aren’t here to play,” Chaeryeong whistles as she eyes you from head to toe, visibly pleased with what she’s seeing. “Tonight will be fun, especially since there will finally be another woman at the table!”

Wasting no time, you head over to the Topline. Reminiscent of Chaeryeong’s 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 weren’t for Chaeryeong by your side, you would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb. 

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. 

“I’m Wooyoung,” he grins at you after hugging Chaeryeong. “Binnie’s been hiding your identity for so long. Now I can place a face and a name to the lucky lady.” 

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. It’s not like he’s keeping you a secret—you crashed plenty of his and Felix’s Genshin sessions, and proofread Yeonjun’s assignments too many times for Changbin’s comfort. But their personalities and first impressions weren't as brash as Wooyoung’s and certainly didn’t make you feel like prey served on a silver platter. 

Blame it on the tattoos and lip ring. Although by that logic, Changbin should also count as someone you should be wary of. 

“You came in time.” Wooyoung tears you out of your inner monologue. “Jinnie’s ordering the first round for us and– ah, speak of the devil.”

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.

“Hyunjin?” you gawk.

Hyunjin mirrors your expression, blindly setting the tray of Baby Guinnesses on the table. “Wait, you’re Changbin’s girlfriend?"

“You two know each other?” Chaeryeong’s eyes flit between the two of you, grabbing one shot glass as she slides into the booth. “Same major or something?”

“We work at the museum together,” you answer. 

“Similar majors,” Hyunjin adds, “She does anthropology, I do fine arts.”

“It isn’t similar–”

“It’s similar enough for these dumbasses.”

“What a small world we live in,” Wooyoung interrupts your banter and slips a shot glass into each of your palms. “We can reminisce later. But first, bottoms up!”

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, you’re holding the second shot to your lips and finishing it in one go. 

From then on, everything’s a blur. 

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 Changbin’s 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 Jisung’s 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 he’s aiming for and a cut later, you’re balancing your half weight on him to steal the bottle back. 

“The fuck is going on here?”

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. 

“The man of the hour is here!” Wooyoung ignores the comment happily and then adds in a sharp tone. “You’re late!”

Changbin’s eyes are set ablaze as he stares you down in silence, processing the entire predicament. You’re too far gone to notice the harshness in his gaze or the way he swallows once he realizes that you’re wearing his jacket, only giggling as an aftereffect of the alcohol flowing through your veins. 

Changbin opens his mouth and shuts it quickly, deliberating where he should start. In the end, he settles with, “Some fucking sleazeball—,” if looks could kill, Wooyoung would’ve been dead yesterday, “—ignored the lab calls so I had to step in and take care of it.”

“As you always do! I can always count on you!”

“Fuck off, Wooyoung,” Changbin sighs and then turns to you, “More importantly, what are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” you snicker, more than tipsy. 

Changbin narrows his eyes. “How much did you drink?”

“Not a lot.”

“And now the truth,” he deadpans, unimpressed by the exasperated theatrics you give him.

“I wasn’t lying!”

By then, Hyunjin made some space for Changbin to slide next to you. He tilts your chin up, closing the gap between your lips. You’re leaning in closer, giddily awaiting the kiss when he pulls back and mutters, “Yeah, your breath says something else.”

“Seo Changbin, you don’t tell a woman her breath stinks!”

“Shut up Chaeryeong.” 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. “We’re leaving.” 

“But you just arrived!” you complain.

“We’re leaving.” The finality in his tone leaves no room for bargaining. He doesn’t 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 he’s 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. 

“Changbin, too fast,” 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 Changbin’s attention with a measly pat on his arm, and when that doesn’t work, you force the words past your lips. “I think I need to–”

Before you can register anything else, you’re hurling over a trash can and your legs give up.

The next time you’re conscious, it’s in the safe haven of your bed, accompanied by a raging hangover.

“Easy there.” Changbin is sitting on a chair next to you, eyes lifted from his phone. 

“My head hurts,” 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. 

Oh, how becoming one with the bed would make last night’s events disappear in an instant.

“I’d be surprised if your head didn’t hurt after you blacked out.” Changbin grabs the cup of water by the nightstand and holds it up to your lips. “Drink.”

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.

“Now eat.”

Glad that he’s not spoon-feeding your breakfast to you, you ask groggily. “What time is it?” 

“Midday.”

Lunch it is, then.

It’s a rare occasion that Changbin only watches you without any comment. Usually he’s 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 it’s very serious.

“About last night.” You shut your eyes in defeat once those words leave his mouth, knowing what’s coming next. “I’m 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?”

“Does it matter?”

He sends you a look of disbelief, as if you were dropped multiple times as a baby. “Yes, it does! It’s your safety we’re talking about!”

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. “Are you saying I cannot take care of myself?”

The bitter undertone in your voice doesn’t 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. “My friends are a lot—”

“Chaeryeong is nice.” 

“She’s the exception. Hyunjin for example—”

“He’s my colleague. We work together. Which, by the way, you probably knew of yet you didn’t bother telling us.” You arch a brow. 

Changbin’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Okay, it’s just Wooyoung. He’s the textbook definition of trouble.”

“I thought that was Jisung?”

“The point is,” he stresses and takes a deep breath before resuming with, “You got blackout drunk. God knows what would’ve happened if I weren’t there.”

“But you were there.”

The rational part of you knows better than to egg him on. This is already a sensitive issue for him, this overprotective side of him—or 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. 

The damage has already been done though, judging by the way Changbin clenches his jaw. 

“I think I should go to the lab now.” He presses a chaste kiss on your forehead that comes off more as a gesture of obligation before standing up from your side. “Get enough rest. If you need more meds, I put them on the kitchen counter.”

Before you can regret your attitude, he is already out the door.

Contrary to popular belief, Changbin’s love languages are acts of service and gift giving. You know better than what most people would assume. Therefore, it doesn’t 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. There’s 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 wasn’t 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.)   

You cut to the chase as he puts the paper bag on the kitchen counter. “Sorry about last night. In retrospect, that was really stupid of me to do so.”

“Sorry about this morning,” Changbin responds, a soft smile etched on his lips. “I didn’t mean to lecture you like that.”

He’s 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. 

“Already forgiven But…” you trail off, choosing your next words carefully, “did something happen that made you so… overprotective?” 

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 it’s a little too early to stir up that hornet’s nest.

“I guess,” Changbin starts and you release the tension in your shoulders that you’ve unconsciously built up, “since we sometimes have vastly different circles, I didn’t want to scare you off. I know you sometimes find my preferences quite intimidating.”

You squint. “You think you scare me off? Even though I was the one who suggested moving in together?”

At the mention of that, Changbin chortles. “You have a point. I know it’s stupid, I’m probably projecting— hmpf—” 

Sometimes, for his own good, he talks too much. Cut off by your kiss, it takes him a second before he reciprocates earnestly. Changbin’s 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. 

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 willpower—you know, because he is a weak man when it comes to you—he breaks off the kiss and places his forehead on yours, breath shaky and hands trembling.

“Food’s getting cold,” he says weakly. It’s a final warning; if you don’t take the bait, he’s going to devour you.

“Food can wait. You still owe me from blue balling me yesterday.” 

Changbin doesn’t 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 doesn’t let go of you until the back of your knees hit the bedframe, then wastes no time stripping you out of your clothes. You’re about to complain why he’s taking his sweet time, but then he pushes you on the bed and hovers above you. 

“Yesterday really did a number on you,” he says, discarding his own clothes with a subtle smirk on his face, and your eyes can’t 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. 

“A-ah– all your fault—” 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.

“It’s all my fault you’re like this. I’m sorry.” Even though his ministrations tell a different story, he really means it, given the tone in his voice. “I’ll take care of you.” 

True to his word, he knows how to take care of you.

“Shame on me for not giving my pretty girl what she deserves,” he sighs and you jolt when he snakes a hand down to your bare cunt. “Look how wet you already are, and all I did was kiss you.” 

Changbin has his way with words, and your reactions to them don’t escape his attention. Deep down, you’re 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 he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes, there’s an underlying edge to his gaze that you haven’t quite grasped yet. 

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 doesn’t pick up the pace. It’s so slow, too slow, and you start to believe that this is an even worse treatment than being denied your orgasm when you’re seconds close to reaching it. 

“Changbin, I’m going crazy if you don’t– hhh–” the desperation is dripping from your voice, and yet, he stares down at you in awe, “—if you don’t put it in right now—”

“Patience, baby,” Changbin mutters, though he doesn’t make any attempt to change his actions, “I promise it’s worth the wait. I’ll treat you good.” 

He speeds up a little and that’s 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 it’s the last curl in the right angle that has you sobbing uncontrollably. It’s 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.

You’re 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. 

“Tastes sweet,” he grins.

Hell, this man is out to ruin you. 

You don’t have a comeback prepared for this. Too dazed to do anything except tremble beneath him, your mind is still short-circuiting from everything, but Changbin’s hard cock lies flush against your thigh, grounding you back to reality. Precum is oozing out of his tip and you’re about to reach down to give him any semblance of pleasure, but he’s quick to pin your wrist to the side.

“Let me take care of everything,” 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. 

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. 

Luckily for you, Changbin doesn’t linger and slowly pushes into you. Every time he puts it in, he makes sure to be careful. It’s 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 you’re always so tight every time, and he keeps checking your face for any sign of discomfort. 

“Tell me when to go on,” he grits once he’s halfway in, but you can tell it’s costing him a lot to stay level-headed. It’s 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 can’t even begin to fathom. 

He fills you up so well that you’re 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 you’s he’s whispering in staggered breaths. 

Soon enough, he’s 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. 

When you fall apart underneath him, it’s 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 dentist’s. 

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 — most likely his supervisor — 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. 

It’s 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. 

You’re about to knock when the door of the break room swings open, revealing a familiar face.

“Wooyoung?”

“Hey!” He beams back. “Surprised to see me?”

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. “I didn’t know you also studied medicinal chemistry.”

“Almost. My major is in biochemistry.” Wooyoung flashes you a cheeky grin. “Binnie and I are working on the same research project.” 

“The one where you’re recreating drugs?”

“Ah, that’s the one!”

“How’s that going?”

“Eh,” Wooyoung shrugs, “Not bad but not good either. Anyways, what brings you here?”

“I was looking for Changbin,” you reply.  

“Oh, he was just out for an errand. He should be back in 10.” He gestures for you to step inside. “Coffee?”

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 doesn’t even provide ergonomic chairs. You would ask for some sugar if it weren’t for the fact that Wooyoung already added two packs and a boatload of creamer into your cup. 

“You know, it doesn’t surprise me that Binnie fell in love with you,” he begins mindlessly in between sips, “You’re totally his type.” 

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 doesn’t stop you from playing along though. 

“And that entails?”

“Your personality. You need a backbone to tolerate Binnie’s antics,” he remarks. That’s the most generic response one could even think of. “Also, your sense of fashion. That’s the biggest giveaway. Binnie’s really into the cute aesthetic and skirts and shit.” 

You give him a look. “Aha.” 

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.

“By the way,” He grabs your attention once more as he fidgets in the pockets of his lab coat. “My roommate’s birthday is coming up soon and he’s the biggest sweet tooth there is, so I decided to make him some self-made candy. I need opinions.”

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 haven’t met Wooyoung yet. Oblivious to your puzzled expression, he adds proudly, “Cherry flavor, and I promise this shit will rock your world.” 

“Don’t mind if I take one,” you mutter and pop one in your mouth. In your opinion, it’s not the best there is, but it isn’t inedible either. But with the way Wooyoung is waiting expectantly with large puppy eyes, you don’t have the heart to talk about its mediocrity and say, “They’re really good.” 

Wooyoung leans back in his seat with a satisfied nod. The two of you fall into casual conversation—a mild debate about almond vs. soy milk—until Changbin announces himself loudly as he enters the break room. 

“And this is my cue to leave. See you around,” Wooyoung winks at you and delivers a hard slap on Changbin’s shoulder as he brushes past him. In response, Changbin trips him, causing the other to stumble and throw a string of profanities at him. 

Once Wooyoung disappears from your eyesight, Changbin embraces you in a bone-crushing hug and kisses the top of your head. “Have you been waiting long?” 

“No. Besides, Wooyoung kept me company.” Your voice comes out muffled as your face is squished into his chest. 

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-headed—strangely intoxicated, even. You’re usually not sensitive to scents, but the smell creeps into all of your senses, materializing in a foggy vision and clammy skin. It’s 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. 

Something isn’t right. Luckily, Changbin catches it too.

“You don’t look well.” 

“I don’t feel well either,” you croak. 

“Shit. Let me clock out, then we’ll head straight home.”

It’s a chain reaction. All alarms go off in Changbin’s 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. 

Perhaps it is one. It sure feels like one.

It definitely is one. 

The drive home usually takes 20 minutes tops. This time, it feels like 20 years.

Everything is a blur and a mix of colors by the time Changbin carries you up the stairs to your apartment. It’s sort of a déjà vu, with the way your legs turned into soggy noodles and you regressed to dead weight as he hauls you onto the bed. To ease the flush on your face and beads of sweat forming on your hairline, he makes a beeline for the kitchen and returns a moment later with a damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Everything is a blur and mix of colors, yet you see Changbin as clear as day.

While concern is bleeding into his expression, you couldn’t care less. Instead, you focus on the way he bites on his bottom lip, his jaw clenches, and how you’d do anything to run your fingers through his soft hair. Screw that leather jacket he’s wearing, concealing his beefy arms and tats—at this point, you’d prefer his compression shirts that are a pain to get off.

Then there’s 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. 

Unaware of the hunger building in your eyes, Changbin gently wipes the sweat away with the washcloth. “You’re burning up.” 

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. 

“What are you doing?” 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.

“Need you, now.” It’s not a request, and he knows it. 

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. He’s trying to figure out the logic in your behavior; you see the cogs working overtime in his brain, but he falls flat.

“Seriously. Did you eat something bad?”

“Just had coffee in the office with Wooyoung and some of the cherry candy—”

“Cherry?” 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. 

When he turns back to your clueless face, he sighs. Whether it’s in anger or in defeat, you can’t tell. “Those 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 people—and you had—fuck, I’m so going to fucking kill him.” 

He proceeds to walk back and forth, grumbling and blaming himself for letting it happen, but he’s so far up his head that he ignores the elephant in the room. He doesn’t look when you clear your throat, doesn’t register that you sit up. You can only take so much of the blatant disrespect that when you raise your voice, it’s fueled by anger.

“Before you get to fucking kill him, get to fucking me first.” 

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. He’s never witnessed you this agitated, this needy before. But even if it breaks him, he will not cross that line. “No. Absolutely not. You’re not in your right mind—”

“And I don’t care!” 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. “I’m horny, I’m burning up and you’re the only one who can help me. You’re the only one who can help me but you don’t want to help me because of your strange self-imposed righteousness to not act on your corruption kink!” 

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. “What?! That’s not what’s happening.” Changbin says, but it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Stop 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 isn’t enough proof, I can also ask Hyunjin about it. I bet 20 bucks that he will say something along those lines—” 

“Okay, sure, say I admit to that. That also proves that you want me to be that way!” He visibly cringes at the weak rebuttal. It isn’t even a rebuttal at all. 

“I don’t want you to hold back,” you cry, scrambling for any words that might trigger a switch in him. “I want it rough, I want it mean, I want whatever it is that you want to do to me.”

Changbin’s demeanor changes. As if the winds have changed, his expression turns cold, and all of a sudden, he’s the calmest he’s been in this whole ordeal. You can’t tell if you’ve pushed it too far, or if this is another one of his meditation exercises, albeit unconventional in a situation like this. It doesn’t stop you from growing wet with excitement though. 

“You want it rough?” 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. 

You nod shakily. All at once, you realize that you may have triggered more than you bargained for.

“You want it mean? Fine, I’ll give you mean.”

Expecting a hand bunching up your hair or rough hands roaming your body, you brace yourself for what is to come. However, nothing happens. 

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, he’s watching your every move like a hawk.

“You say only I can help you? Show me how much you need me.” 

Your mouth runs dry. Where should you even begin? Changbin doesn’t give you the luxury of any pointers; simply waits for your next moves. Despite the simple pretense, it’s a lot he’s requiring from you. He’s 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. “How do I do that?”

Changbin raises a brow. After a moment of deliberation, he says, “Strip. Use your creativity. You can start with that.” You gawk when he points at the pillow next to you. “You want to try out new things? Now’s the chance to do all that.”

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 he’s given you directions, you figure, so you ignore the humiliation running in your veins straight to your core, and slip off the clothes until you’re left in nothing but your underwear. 

“Take off everything.”

It takes you a bit of hesitation to slip out the remaining pieces of clothes. Even though it isn’t the first time he’s seen you naked, you’ve 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. “C’mon baby, give me a show.”

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 doesn’t 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. It’s 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 you’re displaying doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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 Changbin’s 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. 

He wants a show? Fine, a show he’ll get. 

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 he’s 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. 

“The pillow was n-not enough, hngh—” you gasp as you use his thigh to get off. The fabric of his jeans is rough against your cunt, and you’re pretty sure he can throw this pair away with the amount of your slick you’re spreading on it, but you’re too busy chasing your high to care. 

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. 

“Fucking hell,” he grits as his hands latch onto your hips and dictate a rough pace while you’re riding his thigh, “you’ll be the death of me.” 

The grunts don’t 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.

“Let me see how much you need me,” he coos, followed by a string of words of encouragement.

The sensations rush to your head and you can’t tell left from right apart, the heat of it all coiling in your stomach. At a certain point, you no longer comprehend what he’s saying, just that he’s saying something. Your hips stutter relentlessly, crashing against the pattern that Changbin is giving. It’s reaching flow state in its most degenerate form, and you’re 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. 

It’s still not enough. 

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.

“You’re doing so good. So good for me,” he groans in between kisses, his length lying heavy on your abdomen. The praises don’t 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. 

“No condom.”

Changbin’s eyes widen and the corners of his mouth twitch. “You sure—”

“I swear to God, if you don’t put it in me right now, then I—” 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.

“Changbin— f-fuck—” you weakly hit his shoulders in a lazy attempt to get him to back off, “I can’t—”

“Wrong, you can do it,” 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 you’re sucking his cock in. “My baby’s so good for me, taking it all.”

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. 

“I’m close,” you sob, sensing your demise climbing up to you at record speed. 

“Cum for me,” Changbin orders in between groans, then adds, “Be a good girl and cum on my cock.” 

Your orgasm crashes onto you like a tidal wave. Changbin’s name leaves your mouth like a broken record and you’re pretty sure you’re drooling from how good he’s fucking you through your orgasm still, but you cannot be bothered to care. He’s close moments later and just when he’s about to pull out, you wrap your legs around him, locking him into place. 

Panic flashes in his eyes, because he’s running out of time and cannot hold it in anymore but you beat him to it. “Want you to cum inside of me,” you beg deliriously, “If you’re going to ruin me, do it— h-haah— do it properly.” 

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. He’s 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 it’s the prettiest you have ever looked and it’d be a shame to keep this image only in his memory.

You wonder how Changbin still has the energy to get up when you’re as spent as a ragdoll. The fog in your vision gradually clears as you stare up at the ceiling, unable to do anything else. 

“How are you feeling?” Changbin grabs the washcloth from before and begins to clean you up to the best of his abilities, keeping his touch light and gentle. It’s 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. 

“That was incredible,” you breathe, still basking in the afterglow. 

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.

“This will not be the last time, right?” you ask. 

Changbin smiles and plays with a few strands of your hair.

“I’ll ruin you as much as you want.”  

Wooyoung is grinning like a Cheshire cat, oblivious to the impending storm when Changbin enters the office. 

“Binnie! How are you—”

“Jung Wooyoung, I’m going to kill you.”

The next thing Wooyoung knows, he’s 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.

“Before I die, pray tell, did I do any good to the cause?” Wooyoung wheezes, tapping incessantly at Changbin’s 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?!

“Give me some from your aphrodisiacs stash and you might live another day.”

[abiaswreck]

Day 1467

Pairing: Minho x Fem Reader, Chan x Fem Reader

Summary: Even when the world ends, there isn’t much you wouldn’t do for Minho. Including nefarious activities with your community’s 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).

Author’s 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, I’ve wanted to do a zombie AU for so long. So, I’m testing the waters. I have more written about the conflict between Minchan, but I don’t know if anyone would be interested. So please let me know. And before you say it, yeah, I know I’m slow, but I’ll still write it. 😭 Also Also, be gentle, okay? It’s been a long time since I’ve posted. I'm just a girl battling her fibro brain fog.

‼️ Tag List:‼️GOING FORWARD I AM NO LONGER USING MY TAG LIST. I’ve decided I’m 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. 

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. 

Minho’s voice came first, then the tight embrace. “Shh, I have you.”

“Sorry.” 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. “I’m so sorry.”

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. 

So does Minho. 

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. 

The material under your fingertips tells you he’s physically holding you. It’s not comforting. It’s not reassuring enough. All of your senses recognize him. From Felix’s 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. 

“Breathe, baby. How I taught you.” 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 wouldn’t be enough to soothe you. “Come on. Breathe with me.” 

Minho knows you well. He doesn’t 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.

“I never used to be like this.” You say as embarrassment creeps under your skin. “Not even as a kid.”

“That’s because there wasn’t real danger out there until now.”

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. 

“Why did we do this?”

“Because we have to.” He says, not missing a beat. “We need supplies.”

“But why us?”

“We’re good at what we do. Plus, you hate working the wall.”

“Ugh,” you groan at the thought. “I fucking hate working the wall.”

“And that’s why Chan sends us.”

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. 

Minho doesn’t seem bothered, plopping back down on the couch near his bag. He pulls out a small bag of deer jerky. Minho’s 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. It’s a bonus when Minho rehydrates the jerky. He uses it in a handful of recipes at home. 

Home. 

Home sounds good right now.  

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 doesn’t enjoy having his people away for too long. Just in case something goes wrong at home. 

‘Home’ 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. 

This means electricity. 

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. 

One nice thing about a small population is that the town doesn’t 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. 

Chan has done wonders for the town. He’s 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 leader’s hands are to keep bandits and undead out. 

No dirtier than the military in quarantine zones swearing to protect the population. 

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. 

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. “Have you slept?”

“A little.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t.”

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 can’t 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. 

You don’t 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, don’t go down this route. You need to stop thinking. 

Your eyes turn back to the window, straining to take in the view of the street. People don’t 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. It’s 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. 

This town is small, smaller than heavily populated areas or capitals. Hordes from those cities haven’t reached out here. Not yet, at least. Perhaps the military bombings cut those cities off. You wouldn’t count on it, though. It’s only been a few years. 

“How many bullets do you have?”

“Two clips.”

‘Same as last time you asked’ is what you expected Minho to say. He doesn’t. He never does. Maybe it’s a blessing to have a patient partner. He understands you can’t control ‌anxiety. So he replies as if it’s the first time you have asked. A million times if he has to. He’ll never call the excessive questioning out. No point. 

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 it’s rationed out by need. The pair of you could ask for more. Minho isn’t 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, it’s quieter. 

His axe isn’t 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. 

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. 

Minho’s voice comes from across the room. “Get out of your head. You’ll have another nightmare.”

“I’m trying.”

“Come here.”

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 won’t admit it. 

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. He’s 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. “It’s getting long.”

“It’s annoying.” He huffs in distaste. “Constantly in the way.”

“It looks good. I like it.” Minho’s nose scrunches in more dramatic fake disgust at your words, causing you to chuckle before you continue. “I’ll cut it for you when we get back.”

“Try not to cry when you do. I’d like it to be even on both sides.”

The playful punch against his chest only causes him to grin wider. His hand finds yours to hold it against him. It’s 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. 

As the room falls into silence, Minho’s 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. 

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. 

It’s when Minho moves to undo the button on your jeans that your hand covers his, halting his hand from progressing further. “We shouldn’t.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No. I want to. I just…”

“Hey,” Minho’s voice is softer, reassuring you. “We’re safe.” 

“Feels wrong. We are technically working.”

“Got nothing else to do to pass the time. A few more hours till sunrise. Though I may have something to sway your decision.” 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. “Not expired either.”

You can’t hold back your laughter. Condoms. The fucker has found some sealed condoms. A rare commodity these days. “Please tell me you found more than this.”

“Three boxes.” 

Three boxes are a lot. Minho could barter these away for some expensive things on your wishlist. That’s if Chan doesn’t confiscate them himself. The selfish part of you wants to keep them, but you have been eyeing the extra pistol that Jisung owns. 

“Should we keep them?”

“I found them. What is Chan gonna do? Take them? It’s none of his business if we bring what he asks.” Minho grumbles, mildly annoyed at his own words. “Anything else is ours.”

He’s always believed the supply runners should get first pick on any items found. It’s only fair when they are the ones risking their lives. That’s 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. “Besides, I have two years till they expire, and I plan to use all of them with you.” 

“Won’t last long. We fuck like rabbits.”

“Then stop being a goddamn goddess then.”

“Ugh,” you playfully cringe. A smile on your face. “Stop being so in love with me. It’s gross.”

“Can’t help it.” He says before leaning closer for another kiss. It’s tender, full of love, like the ones he often places on your forehead. This time his voice is softer when he speaks. “Baby, let me help you relax. You can let go for a few minutes.”

He’s 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 didn’t cave to the idea regardless of the sexual tension. The clearing was far too open; even if the pair of you hadn’t run into other humans, it doesn’t mean the risk of bandits went away. 

“You know, your tongue could sway me in another way.”  

Minho playfully swats at your knee. “Hands and knees, baby. I’ll show you how persuasive I can be.”

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. 

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. 

You haven’t forgotten the last time you were in this position; his grip is iron, unmoving until he decides you have endured enough. However, tonight isn’t about his selfishness; no, it's about proving his mouth isn’t only good for reassurance. 

“Oh Min, that feels so good.” 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. It’s the perfect pace and pressure. You won’t last long like this. You couldn’t hold your orgasm back even if you wanted to. He knows your body too well after years of relationship. More curses slip out. “Oh, fuck, just like that. Don’t stop.”

Minho doesn’t obey ‌many 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. 

“Ah, fuck,” you mewled under your breath, head bowed, breathing tight and labored. Even with oversensitivity creeping up, it’s not enough just to come. Deep down inside of you is an itch you can’t scratch. Yes, the orgasm was blissful, but not enough to satisfy the long wait you endured. The want, that growing desire, is insatiable tonight. “Baby, please.”

His words come out muffled, not wanting to stop. “Miss my cock that much?”

“I need it.” Your arms wobble as they struggle to hold you up. “Please fuck me.”

“How badly do you need it?” Minho asks, finally pulling away from your dripping hole. “Tell me.”

“You will lose any future opportunities if you don’t take your chance now.” You say with some bite in your words. 

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. He’s 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. 

“Bad timing, but you know he wants you, right?”

You ask for clarification, even knowing who he means. “Chan?”

“Mhm. He talked to Jisung about you. He asked about your favorite things. If I’m 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. 

You prod for more info about their discussion. “What did Jisung say?”

“That you love guns and don’t care for love.”

“He gets points for lying.”

“What part?” 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. He’s not one for validation; he just enjoys hearing it from your lips.

“You damn well know I’m yours.” You pause for a moment, turning back to hold his gaze. “I’d only fuck him to get what we need.”

“I know. I don’t question your loyalty.” Minho responds while his hands find your hips. The soft pads of his thumbs rub reassuring circles into your skin. It’s a sweet moment to be sincere but is just kindling to the growing fire inside of you. “When we get back, I want you to go for it. Fuck him and get some horses secured before he assigns more runs.”

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 wouldn’t be the first time you have used sexual favors for resources. Chan would be no different. At least he’s clean. Takes care of himself. He’s not bad-looking. 

“Fine, I’ll try. But if you don’t fuck me right now, you’re losing privileges. I wasn’t kidding.”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear you beg again? Ever think about that?”

Your response never gets voiced. All annoyance disappears when the tip of his cock briefly prods at your entrance. Minho isn’t 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. He’s 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. 

There was a chuckle behind you at the way you immediately push yourself back onto his cock the second he pulled away. “Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you stupid.”

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 isn’t some sweet lovemaking, nor did you want it to be. All you needed right now was for Minho to keep fucking you till you couldn’t move or think. He seems happy to oblige, judging by the needy noises leaving him. 

“You love my cock, don’t you?” He goads while panting lightly. “Filling you up and stretching you open.”

“Yes,” you say while trying your best to nod. “Can feel you so deep.”

“Shit,” Minho groans low; it's nearly a growl. “Baby, you’re perfect. So fucking perfect.” 

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. “You’re gonna come again so quickly? Give it to me.”

“Close. So fucking close.” 

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. 

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. 

Minho only speaks once your orgasm dies down. “He may get to fuck you, but you’ll never be his.”

“Yours.” You reply without hesitation. “Always yours.”

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. “I’m gonna come and you’re gonna take it.”

Part of you almost caves, telling him to pull the condom off. Keep true to his word and stuff you full. 

“Fuck, baby.” Minho whines in desperation. The need is all-consuming. It’s been months since being able to finish inside your tight hole. He’s accepted your mouth, hand, or ass. Anything with less risk of consequences. 

"Deep inside." You coax, pressing back to keep him buried to the hilt. “I wanna feel it.”

Minho stills as his seed fills the condom. His cock twitches inside you as he enjoys the momentary bliss.

“God, I need to worship you more.” Minho says while pulling away to remove the condom, discarding it in an old trash can. You roll your eyes in response. “My pussy can’t be that life-changing.” 

“Oh, baby, you have no idea. Absolutely no idea.”

The two of you return to the previous position, facing each other as you lie down on the couches. Minho’s lips waste no time finding your own, pressing a flood of soft kisses to your chapped lips. It’s full of love and appreciation. Minho would worship the ground you walk on if you would let him. You won’t though, not in this lifetime or the next. You are equal. 

Gradually the kiss deepens, and there is a hint of you still on his tongue as he explores. Minho’s eagerness tells you he still wants more of you. He’s not sated yet. You’ll let him take as much as he’s craving. 

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. 

Though it’s inevitable, he’s 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. 

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 doesn’t stir when you slip from your sleeping bag. Good. A couple of hours is better than none. He’ll 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 wasn’t playing tricks on you. There’s enough light to reveal an impending problem. 

Zombies. More than a handful.  

A sigh escapes before you can stop it.

“What?” Minho groans behind you, voice rough with sleep. “What is it?”

“A small horde. About twenty, maybe.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll have to wait a couple of hours.”

“Are you gonna radio in?” 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 weren’t so familiar, it might almost be funny.

“Mhm.” Rustling fabric signals Minho getting up, pulling on his clothes. “I’ll let them know we’re delayed.”

Of course, Minho wants to deal with the zombies. You understand why. It’s 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: “We’re taking them to the hole?”

“Yeah. I guess Hyunjin is shit out of luck with that paint thinner. I’m gonna have to use it.”

You frown; Hyunjin’s been asking for months. “We can check for gas. I’m sure we’ll find some.”

“No. A storm is coming through today. I want to be home before it hits.” 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. “Try to sleep some more. I’m gonna find a higher elevation for a clearer signal. I’ll let you know what Chan says.”

There is no meeting up with the hunting crew. 

Dealing with the horde and the incoming storm hindered the trip home. The rain came down in large, pelting drops, soaking ‌both of you to the bone in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, a crumbling farmhouse was nearby and suitable enough for the evening. 

However, you weren’t the only ones delayed in returning home.  

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. 

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 can’t provide electricity. 

If there is extra meat outside of Chan’s 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. 

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. 

Chan’s 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 doesn’t 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. 

A lot more private as well. 

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. 

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 wasn’t even an attempt to slip under the covers. It’s further proof that he truly could fall asleep anywhere. You quietly dress before draping a spare blanket over him. 

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. 

The mission isn’t 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.  

Your trek towards the center of town doesn’t 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. 

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 it’s almost normal living again. 

Hopefully, you can take it for granted. 

Your walk continues, getting closer to an old hotel in the middle of town. It’s tucked next to the city hall and the town’s small library. The towering building houses Chan and his oldest friends. Though all are welcome, ‌the large kitchen and dining hall are open to the public during scheduled meal hours. 

In the lobby sits one of Chan’s 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. 

“What do you want?” His tone is flat, impatient that someone is ruining his free time. 

“Is Chan in?”

“Chris?” Seungmin asks before nodding. “Yeah, he just came from the dining hall.”

Chris. Only the inner circle gets away with calling your leader by his real name. A reminder that Chan’s trust is earned, not given. Though it makes you wonder what someone did if they needed to change their name after the world ended. 

Seungmin immediately goes back to reading as you begin your ascent up towards Chan’s room on the second floor. Thankfully, it isn’t 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 that’s a risk you won’t take. 

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 isn’t 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 doesn’t have a crush on you. Perhaps he won’t even agree to your terms, and he’ll send you home, tail tucked between your legs. 

It’s now or never. 

You bring your hand to the door before lightly knocking. Chan’s voice comes from the other side a second later, encouraging you to enter. 

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. It’s 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. 

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. 

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. He’s 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. “I figured you’d want to see me.”

“I did.” Chan replies without missing a beat. “I wanted to talk about the details of your run.”

He’s dressed casually today. A dingy old tee with paint specks on the fabric paired with some faded denim. There’s a good chance he was probably in town helping with house repairs to further improve his standing among the townsfolk. 

The town’s golden boy, or some shit, the old ladies would love to say. 

“Where’s your other half?” He asks, glancing over.

“Resting. You know how he is when he gets home.”

“I’m starting to think he doesn’t like me.”

You scoff in disbelief, a playful tone creeping into your voice. “Minho? Oh, honey, if he didn’t like you, you’d know. Trust me. He didn’t sleep well last night.”

He gives a curt nod in response. Chan understands Minho will stretch himself thin to protect you. It’s 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. 

Chan notices your hands moving toward your bag and steps ‌closer. “Got something for me?”

A smile tugs at your lips. “You’ll have to forgive me for not surrendering it. But I knew you’d like this.”

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. “You spoil me.”

“Only the best for you,” you reply, voice soft.

“You want a drink?”

“If you feel up for sharing. I got it for you.” 

You knew from the first time you brought him the pineapple lemonade drink mix that Chan was wrapped tight around your finger. It wasn’t the pineapple juice he craved, but it was a damn good substitute. 

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 you’ve been toying with. You want to argue he’s just being kind and civil with you. Yet deep down you know that’s not true. There have been several meetings in his space where he’s only offered water with the drink mix in sight. 

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.

Minho’s conversation with Jisung is present in your mind again. Chan hasn’t taken an interest in anyone in the city in the entire time you have known him. He doesn’t mingle more than he needs to; he doesn’t flirt. His priorities come first, and yet he’s asking about you with questions that go beyond curiosity. 

Chan returns, snapping you out of your thoughts. “Would it be worth heading back?”

“Yes.” 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. “We took essentials like you asked. Stashed a bit more under the building. It’s discreet. No one will find it.”

“What about the horde? Which way did they come from?”

“Do you have a map?”

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. 

You raise an eyebrow. It’s not a book at all when you inspect it. Rather, it’s a goddamn road atlas being sprawled out in front of you. It’s 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.

“They came from the south.” You say, rising from your seat to lean over the desk. Your fingers trace down the page towards the old capital. “Probably from here if we’re honest.”

Chan’s jaw clenches; he doesn’t 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. “I guess I will send you out. Scope it out and see if there are more of them. I just don’t like you guys being so far away.”

You smile, a little teasing. “Aww. You do care, don’t you, Channie?”

“You’re valuable,” he says, his voice flat. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure.”

He’s 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. He’d 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. It’s just more proof for you. 

Chan’s voice grows serious. “How soon are you two willing to go back out?”

“Sooner rather than later. The weather is getting colder.”

Chan nods, retrieving another book from his desk. It’s 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. 

“Hyunjin’s 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?”

Four days? That’s more than enough time. The extra meat brought in today should be available at The Supply before then. That’s all Minho would care about. He gets antsy if he is stuck in town for too long. Aside from Jisung and Felix, he doesn’t care for anyone else here. You have tried to get him out of his shell, to make him connect with more people, but he won’t. He doesn’t want to form any bonds. The more attached he is to others, the harder their deaths are to deal with. He can’t afford that kind of grief anymore.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

“You sure? You look like you want to say something else.”

“Well… there is something.” Your voice is steady, yet you can feel every single one of your nerves crawling under the surface. Chan’s 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. “A different business matter.”

It’s one of Minho’s 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. Chan’s 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. “I want to make a deal.”

A smirk plays on his plush lips; he fights to try to hide it, pretending to be annoyed. “So, what? You walk in here with your tits on display and make demands?”

“I know you want me. You’re not exactly shy about it.”

His eyes fall back to his desk. He squirms in his seat trying to find a response. There isn’t an immediate denial. He’s still fighting, fighting himself and the battle of trying to hold on to his collected persona. It’s 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. “What do you want?” 

“I want two horses when you send us out and then first in line at the supply store for a year.”

“A year? That’s a little greedy, don’t you think?” Chan scoffs, clearly thrown off. “What the hell are you offering me?”

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 he’s okay with you sleeping with the leader, then it’s no skin off your back. 

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 Minho’s. A small, gluttonous part of your brain wonders what the two can do together if given the chance. It’s a thought you’ll never vocalize but store in your mental filing cabinet for nights alone.  

“Myself.” 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. “A warm, submissive hole on demand. What more could you want?”

Chan freezes for a second, eyebrows furrowing. Suspicion clouds his face as he glances back up at you. “And what does Minho have to say about this?”

“I’m not his property.” You shrug, indifferent. “His opinion doesn’t matter. Do we have a deal or not?”

Chan contemplates, sitting in his thoughts as the gears turn. Perhaps he’s waiting to see if this is some sort of sick joke. He’s wondering if Jisung, one of his inner circle, was the one that ratted him out or if you found out on your own. Maybe he’s curious about your dynamic with Minho, if you are lying about that. There’s even a chance he’s picturing himself being intimate with you. 

Maybe his moral compass is forcing him to acknowledge what a red flag this whole situation is. 

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 isn’t 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. “I can assign horses tonight. Six months with supply. I’m not budging.”

“Deal.” You nod, satisfied. It's enough to work with. “I want your word in writing.”

Chan’s eyes narrow, and the game you two are playing is changing. “Get on your knees and take off your shirt.”

You stay rooted in place. Not because you’re shocked by his command, but because you know the arrangement isn’t finalized yet. The tone in your voice shifts, turning more authoritative, an obvious challenge to his command. “I want it in writing, Chan.”

“And I want to see how obedient you say you are.” He leans back in his chair, matching your energy, and fires back with the same attitude. “I’ll write it while you put on a show for me.”

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 Chan’s command, even his scary interrogation of others, but this? With you? This is unfamiliar territory. 

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. 

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. 

Good to know you were right.

That’s 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. “I quite like this view of you.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you tease, your voice playful. “I could get used to it.”

The flirtatious tone came out of its own volition. Chan doesn’t 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. “Are you really gonna go through with this?”

“Think how many more runs we can go on if we don’t have to walk. If anything, I’m helping the community more than myself.”

“How selfless of you.” Chan chuckles before digging into his desk once more. He retrieves a small bottle, gently tossing it your way. It’s easy to catch. The bottle ends up being baby oil. It’s 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. “Play with those pretty tits while I get your proof.”

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. Chan’s eyes haven’t really left you. Only briefly to tear a page out of his notebook. You can’t 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. 

Chan blindly reaches for the pen he discarded earlier. He gets a couple of words down before speaking again. “We have to set boundaries if you want this to happen.”

“I don’t have a lot I’ll say no to.” You respond nonchalantly, as if talking about an everyday conversation. “Don’t 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 I’m pretty if you’re gonna choke me.”

“Fuck.” Chan curses, his pen faltering as he tries to write. “A little blunt, don’t you think?”

“You know I don’t like to waste my time.”

“And what about kissing, or is that too soft for you?”

Oh, bless his heart, you think. He’s the romantic type. 

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 world’s efforts, it hasn’t crushed that side of him into the ground. 

You stare up through your lashes just to add a little seduction to your tactics. “If you think I’m gonna squander my chance to kiss those pretty lips, you’re insane.”

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. 

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. He’s half hard and, by the looks of it, is around Minho’s size. He will be a treat to play with. 

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. “You teased me with those tits, so I’m gonna use them.”

“Then allow me.” 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 doesn’t take long for the tip of Chan’s cock to leak sticky pre-cum. 

“Fuck.” 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. “That feels nice.”

The more Chan’s 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. “Your eager mouth can wait a night.”

You huff, the full brat side of you on display. “But I want it.”

Chan’s gaze darkens, and for a split second, you don’t feel as in control. “I really thought Minho would fuck the brat out of you, but I guess I’ll have to.”

“You can try.”

Chan gives another light squeeze on your throat, another warning, before letting it fall away to allow you to continue. “I have a rather successful track record.”

“I believe it when I see it.”

His voice gets lower, huskier with this threat. “I’ll remember this conversation and make sure you eat your words when I have the time.”

Chan’s 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, it’ll be you that ruins him. You have already won in your book. It’s 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. 

“There we go.” You mutter, gaze locked on the way his cock is now steadily leaking. “Does it feel good?”

“Like a fucking dream.” 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. “Eyes on me.” Chan commands, his voice sounding desperate. “And don’t you dare move away.” 

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. Chan’s breathing becomes more ragged as his chest rises and falls quickly from exertion. It won’t take much more to tip him over the edge. 

“Come on, Chan, give it to me.” You don’t break eye contact with your leader. “Cum on my pretty tits. Mark them as yours.”

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 Chan’s 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. “Stay like that.”

You don’t 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 doesn’t ease the way your pussy aches with need, dripping juices while neglected and waiting for some form of attention from either yourself or him. 

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. 

At least he’s a gentleman. 

Chan speaks as if he can hear your thoughts. “I take care of my people.”

“Is that what you call…”

Chan swallows the rest of your words up by crashing his lips against yours. It’s a hungry, fiery kiss. One that’s charged with yearning. He’s wanted this moment; he’s waited for the opportunity. 

Both of Chan’s hands cup your face, hand towel long forgotten on the floor. It’s 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.  

All of ‌Chan 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. It’s 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. 

He presses closer now. The edge of the table digs into the flesh of your ass, yet it’s 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. 

A foot knocks against yours, a signal to spread your stance wider. You comply, still too busy fighting the tongue invading your mouth. He can’t get enough of you. Even when he parts for air, he’s immediately back with another bruising kiss. 

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 can’t. You are not in control ‌tonight. Your job is to take what your leader offers you. 

Chan doesn’t 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. 

“Oh,” Chan’s breath is hot against your face even with how flushed your face is. “You’re so fucking wet. Enjoy being used that much?”

“Yes.” 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. “Yes, sir.”

Chan groans low in his chest; the palms of your hands feel the rumble. “Always knew you’d be a good girl.”

“When I want to be.”

Chan’s fingers are larger than Minho’s. 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. 

“Like that, please.” You whimper as your grip on his shirt tightens, almost in some pathetic attempt to pull him closer. He physically can’t be any closer, but that doesn’t deter you from trying. “That feels divine.” 

“I bet you are so pretty when you come.” Chan says while watching your face for every little detail, ingraining it deep into his memory. “Can you come for me?”

“Keep doing that, and you’ll find out.”

It’s a challenge now for Chan, one he’s determined to succeed. 

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 doesn’t let up, instead sealing his lips over the spot and sucking harshly. The skin will no doubt blossom into a pretty bruise. 

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 doesn’t appear to be the type to instigate Minho, but this feels like a jab towards him in particular. 

It doesn’t 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. He’s sending you headfirst into a climax in record time. 

Chan’s 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. 

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings the digits to your mouth. You accept them greedily before he finishes his command. “Be good. Get them nice and clean.”

You moan at your own taste on his fingers, slipping your tongue around and in between to leave only saliva behind. Once Chan decides they’re 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. 

“I want you here an hour before curfew.”

“That desperate for some pussy?” 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.

“Just making the best of these six months as I can.” 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. “Besides, Supply opens at dawn, and since you can’t be out after curfew, tell Minho to get in line early. You’re dismissed.”

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. Chan’s gaze still burns into you the entire time. You are no fool; you know that look. He’s 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 he’ll take you pressed against the glass of the large window. Your body buzzes with the possibilities. 

You hold a lot of power, more than Chan even realizes. He’s 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 you’ll be able to continue bargaining with until you are at the top. It’s manipulative and evil, but in a world where every day isn’t guaranteed, you don’t survive this long by playing fair. 

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©︎Abiaswreck | Do not copy, repost, or translate | As always, reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to comment, reblog with feedback, or send me an ask. I’d love to hear from you; it helps with motivation. I hope today is kind to you. <3