⤷ Client Scenario: A fake date at the bar your ex bartends at turns into a perfectly messy moment and a new connection.
⤷ Case Warnings: public sex, fingering, dirty talk, overstimulation
⤷ WC: 2.6k
♡ Stray Hearts File: 004 of 010
♡ Event Masterlist | ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆
Your match has already arrived.
You'd run but you're wearing heels. Crickets are singing and you're freaking out while cutting the line at the nightclub your now ex boyfriend bartends at to meet your fake hot date… a normal Tuesday.
The club is packed in a semi-calm way. Not overly rowdy with rainbow lights like other clubs. Your ex used to call it “fancy chaos” but you figured that was a lie since he was so good at those. You're looking around as soon as you get in but try not to make it obvious. The app says he's here. He said he'd wear Gucci and you figured he was a showy asshole—that's why you picked him.
You don't see him by the bar, or the tables, the dance floor is a mess and—
“Looking for me?” You jump, turn fast with a hand over your chest.
“Jeez—” there he is. Tall enough, Gucci jacket and matching pants. Perfect for the club, perfect for you.
“Scared you?” You nod, taking a slower breath. “I meant to.” Oh, he's weird? The secret kind that sneaks up on you… you’ve encountered worse. He holds out his hand and you take it slowly. Very slowly.
“Lee Minho, but you knew that.” He doesn't smile, isn't condescending, just straight to the point. You can work with that. You tell him your name and he hums like he already had your star chart memorized.
You get right to it after that. “My ex is over there, I was thinking—” he cuts you off, smooth, laces his fingers with yours
“Follow my lead.”
“Oh… okay.”
He starts leading you across the dance floor, hand warm and it's now that you get to take him in… this man is thick. Chest and thighs and just wow.
When you get to the bar your ex is flirting with some girl while her boyfriend right beside her, fitting. Minho leans on the bar facing him and turns your back to him, he guides you closer, close enough to look comfortable. Close enough to look taken.
“If this is going to work you have to look madly in love with me.” He doesn't smile, he smirks, big difference. There's something dark to it. Something that's five steps ahead.
He's right though. You snap yourself out of staring and smile at him, a real smile. You lean a touch closer, lay your hand closer to his and laugh at nothing at all.
Lights, camera, action.
Minho smiles now, perfect and wide and says the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard.
"You ever think about how fucked we’d be if horses were carnivores?” you lose it, cause he's right and also wow. That laugh is just what he needed, though it is beautifully distracting. Minho looks down the bar and your ex is looking over like he’s trying to figure something out. Good. Minho goes again.
"Imagine being the first person to see a cow and deciding to drink whatever came out of it.”
You cover your mouth this time, leaning into him. “Ew.”
“Exactly.” He hums, eyes lighting up a bit. Gosh, you do have a pretty laugh, he's sure he'd recognize it too. “Imagine that. Warm white stuff from under a cow… let me drink it.”
“I mean, it's not too different from other things.” You say it before you can access the sense to stop. Minho's eyebrows raise, his head tilts a bit, and that damned smirk is back.
“Oh, we're gonna have some fun.” Then he raises his hand for the bartender. “Buckle up, buttercup.”
Your ex sees him raise his hand and his reluctance tells Minho that he figured out it's you. He sends a co-worker over but Minho keeps looking at your ex. “Mm mm.” He motions towards him, smiling. “We want him, right princess?” Minho's hand finds your waist, sweet and warm and a little dizzying. You play along, nodding sweetly.
“Yeah, he makes my drink perfectly every time. I think it's called—”
“Denial is a river?” Minho suggests smoothly and you have to bite your lip not to laugh.
“That one, yeah.” The man behind the bar couldn't care less. He calls over your ex and tells him that he'll switch with him. Minho sees the moment your old flame tried to make himself burn bright enough to miss.
“What can I get you?” His voice makes something happen in your chest. Not good, not anymore. It's more like anxiety. You don't know how but Minho notices, he squeezes your waist just slightly and you look up at him to find him already looking at you.
“What do you want, baby?” He looks over at your ex. “Give her a second, yeah? She's the cute thoughtful type.” Minho walks you through some drinks options niceeee and slow and affectionate. At one point you find yourself moving in closer. There's something about him that's magnetic, like he's making space for you to slip right into him.
“Give me something strong.” You look your ex in the eyes when you say it, borrowing some of Minho's courage to throw in a smile too. “Shaken and make it pretty.”
You can see that he has something he'd like to say, maybe ask why you're here or when you moved on. It's been months and he's been with half this damn club, now it's your turn even if it's fake. Minho coos something sweet when you finally order, hand wandering a bit lower on your hip for show… you think.
“I'll make mine simple.” the smile that he gives your ex belongs to an anime villain. “I'll have a gin martini. Hendrick's if you have it. Stirred for exactly thirty seconds, not shaken. Extra cold. Lemon twist, no olives. In a chilled Nick and Nora glass if possible. If not, a coupe is fine. And could I get a sidecar of sparkling water with a lemon wedge? No seeds with the lemon, please.”
Your throat burns from trying not to laugh. Your ex looks at him and just stares for a second before asking “are you serious?” Minho's smile drops clean off his face, he stares, then asks, “do I look like I'm kidding?”
You're left alone in an instant. He starts making your drinks while you laugh into Minho's chest.
“What the hell is that order?”
“My usual.” He teases. His hand smooths up your back now and you stand straighter at the feeling “Hm?”
He looks at you like he's actually trying to memorize something. His fingers tickle down your spine and you squirm a bit. “Sensitive?”
You hum a pathetic sound then try to hide it. Minho presses his fingertips a bit firmer, “Cute.” then his hand is gone. You almost protest the absence, almost grab his wrist, but then your drinks arrive.
Your's first, then his. Neither of you look at your ex anymore. You still feel the ghost of his fingers tickling your spine and Minho's suddenly very interested to see where else makes a pretty girl squirm.
“Ya’ll got a bathroom?” Minho asks, still looking at you for a lingering second before tilting his head expectantly at your ex.
“Yeah.” He doesn't say anything else and Minho scoffs.
“Finish the job, you look like you're quick. C'mon.” You laugh this time. Hard. So hard that you snort. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth and the corner of Minho's mouth turns up just a touch. He likes that more than he expected.
Your ex hates this, his face says it all. “They're to the right down the hall.”
“Single stalls? One room?”
“Stalls.” he answers, fed up.
“Am I bothering you?” Minho asks, voice a little meaner now. “Cause I can take my pretty girl to the bathroom and leave you to your lonesome.”
He glares between you and Minho, then again. “No sex allowed in the bathrooms.”
Minho hums, standing straighter with his hand nearly on your ass. “Who said anything about sex?” You're just impressed by how well he's showing off. This is money well spent. Minho fixes his jacket, flashing the Gucci stripes a bit and enjoying your exes glare. “But don't worry, she'll be quick.” You look up at Minho at that one. You'll be quick? Not him? You don't miss that distinction.
Minho slaps some bills onto the counter and waves your boyfriend off. Once he’s gone he turns back to you, he doesn’t get to say a thing before you bring it up. “I'll be quick?” You turn into him, standing impossibly close now. Minho looks at you, eyes on yours.
“If you're as sensitive there as you are on your spine, yeah, you will be.” You're sure your neck is starting to flush, ears too. It's hot, maybe it's your drink that you haven't even tried yet. You just need an excuse.
“What's your plan here?” You bite your lip and Minho's eyes drop to it. He takes a second, just a quick quiet second before cupping your chin and tilting it up a bit. Just a bit.
“The plan's to make you come.” Yeah. You're definitely flushed. “If that's what you want. I think I can make it worth your money.”
You finally lay a hand on his chest, messing with the buttons on his jacket. “You think you can?”
Minho raises an eyebrow, hums an amused laugh then looks out to the dance floor for a second, just a second. “Don't challenge me, I'll get carried away.
Your hand slips inside his jacket, so close to the warm skin beneath his shirt. Teasingly close. “Maybe I want you to.”
That does it. “We're going. Now.” He doesn't have to tell you twice. You let him take your hand again and lead you towards the hall opposite the bathrooms. You look back, confused.
“Where are we going?” He doesn't slow, just calls back an answer.
“I'm not fucking you in a bathroom.” Aw, he's considerate.
Minho leads you towards an empty VIP booth with a half cleared table. There's barely a curtain and it's busy enough that none of the drunk partygoers around you would be able to tell that you're ruining your panties. Minho slides in first, guiding you behind him and shifts you onto his lap. There's more than enough room and you're more than comfortable taking up space like this.
“Be honest.” Minho looks up at you with eyes that shine unfairly bright. “Does this cost extra?” He scoffs, hands smoothing up your waist. He watches his fingers brush over the curves of your dress.
“I'm not guacamole.” You laugh again, hard just like before. Minho smiles, actually smiles. “That damn laugh.” Then he's kissing you. His mouth seals over yours in a hot wet kiss that makes you moan into him. His hands slot on your waist and yours on his chest. Your hips move in small rocking motions with every kiss. You can't help it.
Minho breaks the kiss first, laying his forehead against yours while guiding your rocking into full on riding. “Pretty girl.” He situated you so that you're straddling one thigh, hips rocking over the rough denim. Your panties are growing stickier by the second. The pressure feels like sex itself. “Pretty laugh makes me wanna hear her moan.”
“Wanna hear you too.” Minho smiles, kisses you harder just cause that was so damn cute of you.
“We're gonna take care of you tonight, kitten.” Then his hands start guiding firmer. Your sopping core is dragged forward, back, forward. Your panties roll to the side themselves and Minho presses up for perfect pressure.
You swallow a sound and he squeezes your hip. “Nuh uh.” he starts bouncing his leg a bit, making himself vibrate against you. “Let me hear it, right in my ear, c'mere.”
You lean close enough for your lips to brush the shell of his ear, close enough to smell his shampoo and cologne—and you moan. Sweet and a little deep and Minho swears it's perfect.
“Oh, baby.” He guides you faster, your grinding turns into dry humping and moans turn into whines. There's a wet spot on Minho's jeans from his cock leaking through layers of fabric, then another from your flooding cunt.
“Minho—” that gets a groan from him. His hands cupping your ass now, kneading and squeezing while you whisper and babble against his neck. “I'm gonna cum.”
He keeps pace, doesn't change it, something your ex could never seem to do. That alone makes you wet his jeans. It's a gush, not squirting but just as messy. Minho fucking loves it.
“She's so messy.” You pull back and look at him with dazed eyes and wet lips. “Let's see”
His hand finds wet flesh under your dress, swiping his fingers over your clit, then small circles. Your spine bows, hips bare down, still sensitive from your high. You whimper, he hums.
“Pretty kitty is sensitive, huh?” The tips of his fingers press inside then back. “Can you take two?” You nod before sense can catch up.
Minho likes that. “Good girl.” Then he's pressing in. His fingers sink deep into gooey flesh and your mouth parts with no sound. It's sensitive. It's tight and burns so good.
“Minho, m’ gonna make a mess.” He looks at you like he's waiting to be told when he asked. His fingers move once, pull back and sink.
“Give me something to clean up.” It's over after that. He moves like he wants to see you split in two.
You're straddling both his thighs now, spread open by him. The squelch your cunt cries out is obscene, so much so, that someone at a neighboring booth looks up to the ceiling like they heard it. You can't help but chuckle, and Minho stops completely.
“Do that again.” You tilt your head, mutter a small “huh?” But he's already tickling your spine. You yelp and chuckle, nails digging into his shoulder.
Minho's teeth sink into his bottom lip and his fingers curl inside of you, deeper, perfect. “So tight when she laughs.” You're holding on by a thread. Your foreheads on his again, he's talking you through it with sweet names and praise.
“That’s it, keep it up, baby.”
“Gonna make me cum, looking so pretty...”
“Gimme another one, kitty, c'mon.”
Your orgasm is creeping up on you, each and every methodical curl of his fingers is bringing you closer and closer, you're close, so close.
“Min—” you hide your face in his neck and let out a wet and long moan. Drooling a bit into the collar of his jacket. Minho's fingers keep going, helping you ride it out, but his rhythm falters. His breath catches and he groans something broken deep in his chest. “Did you just…”
His breathing picks up just a touch uneven. You pull back, look down, and both wet spots are spreading. He came in his jeans. Finished untouched. Unreal. Impressive.
Minho looks up at you, eyelids fluttering like he's still a bit dazed when he says— “kiss me.”
You do. You meet him in the middle and kiss him softly. Soft enough to hear his slight hum when your warmth settles. “Perfect.” He murmurs then kisses you again.
“He's” kiss “an” kiss “idiot”
That makes you chuckle against him, soft and sweet. Minho pulls back then, looking at you for a moment. You’ve cracked him a bit. He blames that laugh. He loves it a little too much for this to be fake.
“So.” You murmur, rubbing the tip of your nose over his. “Venmo or Zelle?”
Minho hums, face serious, humorless. “Your number.” You lift your brows at him, smile a bit and he gives you that damn smirk. “I'll take that instead."
a/n: I have been soooooo in my head about this series. I hope that you enjoyed!
⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, psychological manipulation, and obsessive behavior. Depicts coercive control, stalking, emotional dependency, and trauma bonding within a toxic, yandere-style relationship dynamic. All sexual acts are consensual within a context of manipulation and obsession.
he'll let you go if that's what you really want. is it?
You find him in your kitchen with the lights too bright and the counters too clean. He’s drying a glass with the kind of attention people give to explosives. The dish towel is folded in exact thirds. The sink is empty. Your phone is hot in your hand.
“This is not normal,” you say, jacket still on, keys biting your palm. “You can’t just—show up at my job and—you went through my emails.”
Minho doesn’t look up. “Hello,” he says. As if you’ve disrupted something. As if you forgot the rules of civility.
"Minho." You say through gritted teeth.
He still doesn't look up. “I did read them,” he says. Calm. “You wrote at 9:07, 11:23, and 3:58. The last one had three typos.”
“I... What? That’s not— You weren’t supposed to come at all.”
“You sounded overwhelmed.” He smooths the rug, stands, and finally looks at you. His pupils don’t dilate like other people’s when the light changes. They stay steady. “I brought you lunch.”
A neat brown bag sits on the counter with your name written in small, clean letters. You hate that it’s the right bread.
“Minho, stop.” Your keys go down too hard; the sound jumps. “You embarrassed me. My manager thinks we’re— That you’re—”
“Caring?” he offers mildly.
“Controlling.”
Something in the air tightens like a violin string turning to pitch. Minho tilts his head a fraction, as if listening for a sound only he can hear. “She thinks many things. Most of them are inaccurate.”
“She asked me if I was okay.”
“Were you?” He says it like reading a recipe: tell me quantities; I will adjust the heat.
“That’s not the point!” You hear your voice hit the wall and come back thinner. “This isn’t— healthy. You tracked my commute last week. You corrected my calendar invites. You ‘fixed’ my phone so now it mirrors to your iPad and when I asked why, you said—”
“—so I can help when you forget,” he finishes, as if you should be grateful he remembers your lines. “You hate forgetting. It overwhelms you. It makes you cry.”
Heat climbs your neck. “I cry because you make me feel like a child.”
Minho blinks. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a pedophile.”
“Minho.”
He studies you the way he studies new knives—checking weight, balance, what it will cut cleanest. “You’re shaking,” he observes. “That’s the adrenaline. Sit for a moment and let your body catch you up.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
He nods once. “Then stand. But stop clenching your jaw. It gives you headaches.”
The room has that oppressive quiet that makes appliances sound too loud. The fridge hums. The clock ticks and misses once every minute like a heartbeat with a stutter. Minho steps around the coffee table and lines the TV remote parallel to the edge—two millimeters of adjustment that feels like a verdict.
“You called my mom,” you say, because the other things are too many to hold. “You told her I was tired.”
“You were.”
“You made me sound incompetent.”
“I made you sound like someone who should be protected from requests she doesn’t owe anyone,” he says, and the gentleness in it makes you want to throw something. “She agreed.”
“She always agrees with you, she loves you. Everyone loves you.”
He smiles a tiny, closed-mouth smile. “Yes.”
You swallow. “I’m not an experiment.”
“Of course not,” he says. “Experiments can fail. You do not.”
“Stop—” You press your palms to your eyes hard enough to spark shapes. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making it sound like love when it’s control.” The words come out hot and shaky. “You rearranged my cupboards while I was in the shower.”
“The spices were alphabetical by brand,” he says, faintly appalled. “You don’t cook by brand.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It is to me.” He says it without malice, without anything at all—like you’ve both stated your preferences and now he’s writing them on a list.
You breathe. You count. Ironically, it's the method he taught you to calm you down when you get upset. “This is wrong, Minho. It’s sublte, which makes it worse. I walk in and I can feel the outline of where you want me to stand.”
“You’re standing in it,” he notes. “By the door, three feet in. You always do that when you’re about to say something you can’t unsay.”
The clock misses its beat again. Your stomach drops with it. “Then listen,” you say, and your voice steadies in the way voices do right before they break. “I want to break up.”
Nothing moves. Even the hum under your soles feels like it tips and waits.
Minho’s expression doesn’t change. He sets the remote down exactly where it was and puts both hands in his pockets like that will keep them polite. “All right,” he says.
You blink. “All—”
“Right,” he repeats, level, like a surface that doesn’t ripple when you throw a stone.
You feel stupid for bracing for the wrong kind of fight. “You’re not— You’re not going to argue.”
“You’re telling me your preference,” he says. “I’m listening.”
“It’s not a restaurant order,” you snap, because anger is easier than whatever this is. “It’s a boundary.”
“I heard it.” A pause. “You think I haven’t heard it before?”
Your chest tightens. “Have you?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks at your keys instead. “You should put those in the dish,” he says after a moment. “You forget easily when you’re upset and that'll just make you cry again.”
“Minho.” Your hands open. “Stop managing me.”
His smile is very small. “You’re asking me to stop loving you the only way I know how.”
“That’s not love. That’s... That’s colonization.”
He laughs once. “You're being dramatic.”
“No, I'm being honest.” You inhale until it hurts. “I don’t feel like a person with you. I feel like a project.”
He nods once, as if the word slots neatly into a file he already labeled. “Then we’ll stop.”
You were ready for a cage you could rattle, not an open door you can’t see the threshold of. “That’s it?”
He tilts his head. “What would you like it to be?”
“I want you to say you understand.”
“I do.”
“I want you to... I don’t know. React.”
“I am reacting,” he says, and you know that he is. This is Minho’s version of panic—the way his attention narrows, the way he looks at your mouth every time you say “I” like he’s counting how many more times you’ll use it in this room.
“I’m serious,” you say, hating your own doubt. “This is the end.”
“Of this version,” he agrees.
Something cold slips under your ribs. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, patient as a professor, “that you’re declaring a boundary and I’m honoring it. We won’t speak for a while. You’ll sleep better the first night. Worse the second. By the fourth, you’ll discover your hands shake when you pour coffee. By the seventh, the quiet will feel like a large room in a museum—beautiful, echoing, and not for touching.”
You stare. “Are you—predicting me?”
“Observing.” He shrugs lightly. “You’re more pattern than you think.”
You want to scream. You don’t. “Don’t text me,” you say. “Don’t come to my work. Don’t talk to my mother. Don’t leave things at my door.”
“All right.”
The simplicity is so clean it burns. You wait. He doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it grow tall as a wall.
“Don’t text me,” you say again, each word put on the table like a knife that doesn’t shine. “Don’t show up at my job. Don’t talk to my friends. Don’t talk to my mother. Don’t touch my accounts. Don’t leave food. Don’t ‘fix’ anything. Just—” your mouth trembles and you hate it— “leave me alone. I’m serious.”
Minho looks at you for a long, even breath. Then a small, unhelpful smile folds one corner of his mouth. “You are,” he says, and the softness of it makes you want to throw the lunch bag at the wall. “You are very cute when you use your big girl voice.”
“Don’t condescend me.”
“I’m not.” He tips his head. “I like it.” He glances at your keys still not in the dish, at the jacket still on your shoulders. “It makes me want to package your life in bubble wrap, which is exactly the impulse you are naming, so—” he opens his hands.
“Minho.” Your throat hurts. “Stop playing the professor.”
“Mm.” He reaches for his phone. “All right. Field work.”
You flinch, expecting him to text someone, fix something. He turns the screen so you can see: his contact card for you. He taps three settings—Emergency Bypass: Off. Favorite: Removed. Focus Exceptions: None. Then he scrolls to a device list and unpairs Your iPhone from Minho’s iPad. A polite notification bleeps from your pocket a second later. Device no longer sharing. He lays the phone on the table like a priest setting down a Bible.
“There,” he says. “No mirroring. No priority. I’ll archive our threads. I’ll mute your name. I’ll set a rule on my inbox so your email routes to a folder I won’t check.” His eyes stay on yours. “I will leave you alone.”
You wait for the but. He doesn’t give it. The room hums. The clock skips its beat again.
“Say you heard me,” he prompts, mild.
“I heard you.”
“Good.” He reaches for the brown bag without looking at you. “And since you don’t want it, I’ll take the lunch home.” He extracts it neatly. “You can be furious that I remembered your bread some other day.”
“Minho.” Your palm presses down on the table, steadying your voice. “I’m not bluffing.”
“I know.” He sets the bag beside his keys. “You’re very serious. It’s adorable.”
“And if you show up anywhere—home, work, gym—I’ll call security.”
“Of course.”
“You think I won’t.”
His brows lift a millimeter. “You will,” he says, perfectly agreeable. “If you see me.”
If you see me. The words send an uncomfortable prickling sensation up your spine.
He nods at the door. “This is the part where you ask me to hand over my key.”
“Give me your key.”
He walks to the entry, lifts the small ceramic dish, and tips it. A silver key falls into his palm. He puts it on the console and steps back like he’s finished a magic trick. “Done.”
He watches your face for the visible wobble and does nothing to exploit it.
“Minho.” You keep your feet in the outline he named by the door. “Please leave me alone.”
“All right.” He slides his hands back into his pockets. “Here is what ‘alone’ will be, so you don’t confuse it with cruelty.” He counts on his fingers, not performative, just inventory. “I won’t initiate contact. If you message me, I won’t reply. If you call, I won’t pick up. If you are unsafe, you will call emergency services, not me.” His eyes flicker, a hairline crack of irritation at that but he smooths it. “I won’t speak to your mother. I won’t speak to your friends. I won’t nudge your calendar, correct your grammar, or pay your parking tickets. I will not show up anywhere you haven’t explicitly asked me to be.” He tilts his head. “And because you’re serious, you’ll block me, and you’ll mean it for… let’s call it two weeks.”
You swallow. “Longer.”
“Maybe.” He’s not arguing; he’s humoring your projection. “Because you’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I know.” He takes a small step closer—not enough to crowd, enough to make you feel measured. “And because I love you, I will leave you alone even though you’re very bad at being alone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Mm.” He glances at your jaw. “Unclench.”
You do, and hate that you do.
He checks his watch—not to rush you, just to mark the shape of the moment. “I’ll go now,” he says. He reaches to straighten the collar of your jacket and stops himself an inch away, fingers hovering. “Ah. Right.” He steps back. “Leaving you alone includes leaving your collar misaligned.”
You swallow, because there’s something about the almost-touch that feels worse than anything he’s done to a password.
He studies you for one second longer than manners allow, then nods as if you’ve passed a test you didn’t know he was giving. He picks up his bag, his phone, leaves your key. At the door he pauses, not turning, not lingering. “Don’t open for anyone who knocks after ten,” he says, conversational, as if he’s telling you the weather. “You get soft about salesmen when you’re tired.”
“I’m not your project.”
“I know.” His hand closes on the handle. “I’m leaving you alone.”
You stand there, the room hissing quietly with appliance breath, while he steps into the hall. The door clicks. The sound is polite. It feels obscene.
Your phone buzzes. A cascade of notices: Minho removed [Device] from Family; Minho stopped sharing location with you; You are no longer a priority contact in Focus: All.
You put your keys in the dish because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Halfway there you stop and put them on the counter instead, out of spite, and immediately see the future where you’re late tomorrow and you curse yourself and think of him.
The apartment creaks. The clock misses its beat. Your phone is very quiet.
Minutes pass. It’s almost impressive, how large silence can get when it stretches its arms.
On the other side of the door, in the hall you cannot see, there is the audioless sensation of a man standing still for exactly three seconds—the time it takes to confirm a latch has seated, a hinge hasn’t stuck, a lock will turn cleanly from both sides. Then footsteps. Then the elevator. Then nothing.
The first morning is easy by accident: your body wakes at the time Minho used to make you wake, and the coffee machine still has water because he always left it filled. You don’t notice that you don’t notice.
By the second morning, the machine blinks ADD WATER and you stand in front of it stupidly for a full minute, feeling judged by an appliance. You pour until it slops and mop the counter with a paper towel because the towels are in the wrong drawer; he moved them months ago and you still reach for the wrong drawer.
By the fourth, the quiet thickens. The calendar on your phone looks smaller without the tidy colored blocks he used to drop in on Sundays—pay this, call that, take your vitamins, answer mom. A dentist reminder pings and you swipe it away because you don’t remember which office he picked or where the address lives.
Your mom texts four times in two days, each message soft and barbed. You okay? Do you need anything? Do you want me to come over? Call me. You type and erase three drafts, two apologies, and one paragraph complaining about the coffee machine, then put the phone face down and tell yourself these are the growing pains he promised you’d have.
Nights are loud with nothing. You try a podcast; the host laughs too sharply and you rip your earbuds out. You microwave something you don’t want and forget to eat it until the edges are cold and the middle is lava. The apartment’s clock misses its beat and you flinch like a dog hearing thunder on a clear day.
Sometimes, leaving work, you feel watched—the specific pressure of eyes between your shoulder blades. It’s ridiculous, so you name it ridiculousness: you forgot your headphones; you’re overtired; your boss used the phrase touch base too many times. Still, when you pass the glass front of the florist’s, you catch a reflection that makes your skin go pebble-fine: a man across the street, face blurred by distance and motion, standing too still. You blink and it’s traffic.
You start to build little arguments with the empty room. No one is following you. You list reasons. He said he’d leave you alone. You repeat it. Your hands are steady as long as you’re thinking about keeping them steady.
At work, you discover you don’t know your own passwords because he reset them to phrases you liked the sound of and then never told you what the phrases were. Now that he’s logged out of everything, you’re no longer automatically signed in. IT sends you a temporary login that expires while you’re on hold. Your manager leans in your doorway and says, too brightly, “If you need to take time, we can redistribute your plates,” which is how she says you’re wobbling without saying you’re wobbling.
Mark—the coworker Minho never liked—stops by your desk with the casual swagger of someone who has never learned the word no has teeth. “So,” he says, braced on his knuckles like a gym teacher, “you and the robot broke up.”
You blink. “Don’t call him that,” you say.
“Harsh,” he grins, then softens it with a shrug he thinks is charming. “Sorry. You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool.” He looks at your empty mug. “You want a walk? Coffee? Fresh air?”
You should say no. You say, “Sure,” because you have never been good at rehearsing boundaries and the word sticks to your molars.
Outside, the winter sun is the wrong kind of bright. Mark’s voice fills the space where your thoughts would be; he is good at that. He tells a story about trivia night that features five women’s names and one bar tab, and you nod in the right places because your hands are in your coat and if you take them out you will wring them.
On the walk back, he bumps your shoulder, light and proprietary. You step left and he steps left with you, as if the sidewalk is a lane and you are merging into him. When you stop at the corner, he leans in just enough that you smell his gum—peppermint, too sharp—and you look, bodily, across the street because it feels like the safe direction.
A masked man stands by the bus shelter. He isn’t looking at you. He isn’t not looking. His fingers are clenched so tightly around the book he’s holding it takes you a minute to realize that he hasn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The bus pulls up and when it leaves, so has he. You tell your heart to return to the inside of your body.
You become meticulous about locking your door. Twice, three times, rational to ritual. You put your keys in the dish because refusing Minho that tiny victory isn’t worth missing a meeting. You sleep with your phone on your chest so it’s easier to grab if you need it.
On Thursday, your mother calls and you don’t pick up because you don’t want to hear where Minho has been inside the story already. You let it go to voicemail and later, on the couch, you listen to her tell you in her soft, worried cadence that she still has the spare to your place “from that time you were sick” and she might swing by with soup, “only if you’re up to it,” and you realize you do not, in fact, remember making that key.
At work, Mark starts stopping by every afternoon. He jingles a bag like a door-to-door Santa and announces, “Snack time,” because you forgot lunch twice and looked ghost-white at three. He buys the wrong bread and brings you food you are deathly allergic to. You thank him anyway because gratitude is a default.
When it snows, Mark drops by your office again, says Don’t walk alone. I’ll be outside after you’re done. Your tongue shapes the words no thanks. You picture the block and the dead lamp and the way the wind gums up your eyes with tears you don’t want anyone to name. You say: Okay. Just to the corner.
He is waiting, bouncing on his heels like a boy at a bus stop. “I brought you gloves,” he says, and holds up mittens so bright and fuzzy you feel five and forty at once. “I know you forget.”
Your spine goes hot. You take them. “Thanks.” You don’t wear them.
He fills the walk with noise. He tells you what you should do about your overreacting mother when she calls you three times in a row; he tells you he always thought Minho was “kind of a creep”; he tells you he likes women who are “low maintenance” and you wonder briefly if he has ever said that to a human woman who enjoyed hearing it. A car passes slow and too close and you half-turn toward the street like you’re going to check the license plate; the driver’s face is a blur under a hood, anonymous as a mannequin. It keeps going. You tell your pulse to stop writing novels.
By your building, Mark reaches for your bag strap and you step backward because your body finally remembers a rule. He laughs and calls you skittish in a voice that leaves no room for shame. The vestibule light flickers once, lazy, then steadies.
“Thanks for walking me,” you say, brisk. You’re almost free. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move. He glances at your mouth in a way that makes you feel like you’re going to throw up. “We could—” he starts, and you hear it: the wet hinge of a scene you don’t want to be in. “I mean, you know. Come up? Or I could—”
“No,” you say, but softly, because you are still learning how to say it with your chest.
He smiles like you flirted. “I’ll just walk you upstairs, then. Make sure you get in okay.”
“I’m okay,” you say, louder.
He leans in. It’s meant to be quick and charming, the kind of kiss you are supposed to find flattering because it exists. His hand lands at your hip like Minho’s never would have—flat, thoughtless, assumptive—and the shock detonates something you didn’t know you had stored.
You shove him.
It isn’t elegant; you don’t aim. It’s both hands and a noise you have never heard yourself make, an animal sound shaped like stop. Mark stumbles back hard enough to hit the railing with a grunt, eyes wide, hands up like you’ve pulled a weapon. “Whoa,” he says, as if the ground has broken a rule. “Okay. Okay. Jesus.”
Your heart is slamming so hard you can feel it in your gums. Your key bites your palm. “Don’t touch me,” you say, and the words scrape raw on the way out, bright and ugly and exactly right. “Do not ever touch me.”
He laughs in a small, wounded way men do when their math fails. “It just was a kiss.”
“It wasn’t yours,” you spit. The cold finds your lungs. “Leave.”
He hesitates, like you might apologize if he waits long enough. You don’t. He shakes his head once, brittle, then steps back into the snow, palms up again, a retreating mime. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, wow.”
“Goodnight, Mark,” you say, and you are shaking so hard the key takes three tries. On the third, the door yields and you nearly trip over the threshold. You slam it with more force than you meant and the echo sounds like someone else’s house.
You slide the chain, throw the deadbolt, and then just… stop. Your back to the door, your breath sawing ragged like you sprinted here from a life you could have stayed in.
It hits late—like weather arriving after the forecast. Your hands go numb first, then your lips, then the ugly little tremor in your wrists that makes the key ring chatter against the wood. The room is the wrong size, your jacket is too loud on your shoulders, and every sound has edges.
You try to do the sensible things. Water. A light. Sit down. Your body misunderstands of them. It screams, DANGER DANGER DANGER. You stand in the middle of the living room with the faucet running and the lamp off, crying with your whole throat open, breath catching and breaking, a fish on a dock that won’t make up its mind whether it wants the ocean or the knife.
It gets worse because panic always gets worse before it changes its mind. Your breath starts to skip—inhale stutter-inhale—like learning to drive a stick. You bend at the waist and clutch your knees and that just makes the world tilt harder. You try to count. One is a cliff. Two is a long hallway. Three is a word you forget.
Somewhere outside, a voice shouts—male, close enough to make the floorboards listen. Your head snaps up; the world swims; it sounds like Mark. You stumble to the window, fumble the curtain, press your forehead to the cold glass, and see nothing but your own ghosted face and a car idling at the corner. Another voice answers; or the wind does. Your eyes won’t focus. The street blurs into lights and the slap of tires in slush.
You back away and the room backs away with you. Your chest squeezes itself smaller, smaller, meaner. You hate that you’re still wearing your jacket, hate that you can’t figure out how zippers work. Your phone is a weight in your pocket; you find it by instinct, not by plan.
You scroll to his name without letting your mind see it. Your thumb hovers. You remember: If you call, I won’t pick up. You remember the way he said it—reasonable, final, like a law you voted for.
You call anyway.
One ring. Two. Three. The sound is a metronome inside a burning room. At four, the tone clicks into voicemail and your throat makes a noise that would be a word if words could carry water. You hang up because you don’t have muscles for a message.
You pace in a bad line from door to sink to couch and back, breath catching, catching, catching. You sit and stand and sit again like a broken instruction. Thirty minutes pass. Forty. You try to open a window and can’t lift the latch. You consider 911 and picture explaining the shape of this to a stranger with a clipboard.
At fifty-four minutes, the shout comes again—farther this time, more ragged, a syllable that could be your name or a swear. You clap your hands over your ears like a child. You cry harder because you hate the child living inside your chest.
You call again.
And again.
The call screen becomes a stuttered prayer: Minho → Ended. Minho → Voicemail. Minho → Failed. You don’t keep count until your phone starts dimming between attempts, scolding you for forgetting to charge it. You plug it in by muscle memory and keep going.
Seventeen calls. Eighteen. Nineteen.
On the twentieth, you hear your own pulse in your ear. On the twenty-first, it connects.
He answers on the inhale.
“—hello.” His voice is not the controlled blade you’re used to; it’s roughened, chopped at the edges like he’s been running. Air moves across the mouthpiece; you hear the echo of a stairwell or an alley, someplace that make sounds taller. “I’m here.”
You make a sound that embarrasses you as it leaves. “You said— you said you wouldn’t—”
“I know.” A breath. A scrape, as if he’s shouldering a door with his phone between ear and shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. I was busy.”
“Busy—” The word fissures in your mouth. “I’m— I can’t— I’m coming over.”
The smallest pause, a hinge clicking shut. “I’m not home.”
Your heart drops and hits every stair on the way down. “Then where—”
“I’m coming to you,” he says, choosing it for you. “Stay where you are.”
He hangs up before you can cling to the word please and make it ugly.
The apartment condenses itself around your breath. You put the phone down; you pick it up; you walk a line into the rug. You try the window again; the latch lifts this time and the cold air cracks your lungs like an egg. You close it. You sit with your back to the door because he told you to once and your body trusts old orders more than new freedoms.
The hallway outside gathers a new sound—footfalls with intent, the soft cough of fabric against a wall, a key brushing metal. The first soft test of your lock, then the exact turn that means this one. The handle goes down. You don’t move. You don’t wonder how he still has a copy of your keys when he already gave you his. You don’t wonder how he got here so quickly when he lives a good while away.
The door opens a measured inch against the chain. “Unhook it,” he says through the gap, voice low, not loud enough to carry.
Your hands remember how to be hands. The chain slides; the door yields. He steps in.
He never looks like this.
Not Minho.
Hair raked back in a way that isn’t style. Shirt untucked at one corner, coat slung on his shoulders without the ceremony he gives to sleeves, breathing too fast for someone who pretends cardio is vulgar. There’s a single diagonal scratch along his right cheekbone, beading slow, precise drops that collect, then let go. One has made the reckless decision to travel: a thin red dash down the line of his jaw toward his throat.
You feel sick with the wrong kind of relief.
“Hi,” he says, almost amused by the word now that it has to make room for how he looks. He kicks the door shut gently with his heel, checks the lock without looking like he’s checking the lock, then puts his phone on the console. His hands are bare; the knuckles are flushed as if they’ve been told a secret.
“You said you wouldn’t answer,” you say, and it comes out like accusation and confession at once.
“I did.” He meets your eyes, taking inventory. “I also said you should call emergency services if you were unsafe.” His attention flicks once toward the window and back. “You weren’t going to.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate the tiny sound you make that agrees.
He steps closer, slow enough that you could mistake it for asking. You don’t step back. Up close, the scratch is clean, a narrow serif on skin. He smells like cold air and something metallic threaded under soap, not enough to name, just enough to bother the part of your brain that likes labels.
“What were you busy with?” you ask, because the words line up on their own and jump.
His eyes do that soft thing—affection folded around condescension until they’re indistinguishable. “Not you,” he says gently, which is a kindness and a cruelty in the same breath. “Now? You.”
He reaches for your face and stops a centimeter shy, polite, a man who knows the choreography and respects the pause that makes the step look graceful. “Touch or no,” he asks, like a doctor.
Your head tilts into the empty space before you can decide. His thumb taps at your jaw like muscle memory and you unclench your teeth. His other hand lifts, hovers at your cheek, then changes its mind and drifts to your wrist instead, finding your pulse where you can’t lie. “Too fast,” he murmurs. “But not dangerous.”
"What happened to your face." You ask and his lip quirks slightly.
"That's not a very polite thing to ask."
Your mouth moves before your sense finds the brakes. “I’m— I’m sorry,” you blurt, words tripping over each other to get out first. “For— for breaking up with you, for acting like I could just—like I could be fine without— I can’t do anything, I can’t even breathe right and the coffee and the passwords and the— I know you said you’d leave me alone and I asked you to and I meant it, I did, but then I didn’t, and I—”
He leans in and closes your sentence with his mouth.
It’s hungry—clean, decisive hunger that steals the shape of your apology and turns it into a sound in his throat. His hand slides to your jaw, then lower, angling your face exactly how he wants it; the other finds your hip and fits there like it’s been setting this key in this lock for months.
You gasp; he takes the breath and gives you a better one. The kiss deepens—slow for a heartbeat, then rougher when you chase it, your fingers bunching in his coat to pull him flush. He tastes like winter air and the metallic ghost of a cut and something that feels like relief. He makes a low, pleased noise against your tongue when your body finally stops hesitating and chooses him.
“I was wrong,” you manage between kisses, the words catching on heat. “You were right—about all of it, about me, I can’t—”
He swallows your confession and answers with pressure instead: mouth to yours, then the hinge of your jaw, then the fragile place below your ear that makes your knees soften in a way that has nothing to do with panic. “Shh,” he murmurs into your skin, not a hush so much as a promise. “I know.”
He walks you backward without breaking contact, guiding, arranging—your calves touch the couch and you go down with him following, weight careful even when the kiss is not. His coat slides off your shoulders; his fingers find the hem of your jacket and tug until it’s a memory on the floor. He catches your wrist when you try to fumble with your own buttons and does it for you, impatient, practiced—the soft rasp of fabric a counterpoint to the wet sound of your mouths.
“Say it again,” he breathes, forehead to yours, pupils blown wide. “You need me.”
“I—need you,” you whisper, and the way he exhales at that makes heat pool low and certain.
He kisses you harder for it—teeth catching your lower lip, tongue soothing the bite—then drags his mouth down your throat in a slow, claiming line that makes your head tip back on reflex. His palm spreads over your ribs, steadying the quick of your breath; his thumb strokes once, reassuring and possessive at once, like he’s re-learning the map he never really forgot.
His mouth works you open while his hands get practical. Buttons give; fabric slides. Each inch of him he reveals is annotated: a constellation of fine brown spatters on his undershirt near the collar, a smear along the hem like a thumb dragged through something and wiped on cotton, a bruise blooming under his left rib in the thumbprint shape of insistence. When he pushes the shirt up and off, there are faint fingerprints ghosting his bicep like someone tested the grip. His knuckles are abraded, swollen at the ridge; a single bead of red stains the curl of his thumb.
You reach for the bruise at his ribs; he catches your wrist midair without looking, kisses your palm instead, then guides your hand to his belt.
“Are you sorry,” he asks, almost gentle.
“Yes,” you say, too fast, throat tight. “Yes, Minho, I’m— I’m sorry.”
“Show me,” he says.
You’re on your knees before the last word lands, knees biting into the rug, hands behind your back like your body already knows the rubric. He frees himself with the neat economy he gives everything—buckle, zip, the rasp of fabric—and his cock falls heavy against his palm, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. He doesn’t stroke. He taps the head against your lower lip, patient as a metronome. “Open.”
You open. He slides the head past your lips and just rests there, the hot weight of him on your tongue like a promise you haven’t earned. “Eyes,” he reminds you, and when you look up through your lashes, he makes a pleased, broken sound that goes straight between your legs.
“Slow,” he says. “You know I like it slow.”
You hollow your cheeks and he groans—an unguarded, low sound he never makes for anything else. The bead on his cheek breaks and tracks down to the corner of his mouth; he swipes it away with the back of a bruised knuckle impatiently, breath snagging when your tongue flattens along the underside of him.
“Slow,” he says again, but it’s already a plea. His composure lives in his hands—one braced on the back of the couch, tendons tight; the other on your crown, not forcing, just trembling there like he’s remembering why he shouldn’t. His hips betray him anyway, a tiny, helpless forward twitch that bumps the head against the soft back of your throat. His jaw locks. “Fuck.”
You take him deeper by degrees, learning the rhythm of his breath, riding the arcs of it. Spit spills hot over your lower lip and strings to your chin when you ease back to breathe; he watches it catch the light and exhales a wrecked laugh that makes you wetter.
“Give me your eyes,” he reminds, softer, and when you look up he comes apart another inch. Pupils blown, lips parted, that thin scarlet line brightening when his pulse kicks in his neck. “God, you—” He cuts himself off with a bitten groan when you curl your tongue at the slit, taste salt, then slide down until your nose brushes the damp heat of his lower belly.
His head tips back. “Fuck—” It’s almost a hiss, dragged out of him like confession. He holds there, shaking minutely, letting your throat cradle him while you breathe through your nose like he taught you. When you swallow, on purpose, his composure rips a stitch. “Do that again.”
You do; his knees flex, thighs taut under your hands where they’re laced behind your back. He shouldn’t thrust—he told you slow—but his body betrays him, a shallow, rhythmic press he can’t quite stop, the heavy heat of him gliding over your tongue in a slick, obscene cadence. He looks down, and the sight—your lips stretched, your chin shiny, his cock vanishing into the warm pink of you—makes his voice drop into something rough. “Look at this mouth. My perfect apology.”
You hum around him, pleased and filthy, and the vibration makes his breath stutter. His thumb strokes your cheek, then your lower lip where it’s stretched, tender, and the sight softens his face into something almost painful. “So pretty,” he says, and then it breaks again into ruin: “So—mm—pretty.”
A fresh bead wells at the scratch and wobbles; he flinches when it reaches the corner of his jaw and smears it away on his forearm, impatience roughening the motion. “Ignore it,” he mutters, more to himself than you, and goes right back to falling apart for you—hips ticking, abs twitching, the cords in his throat standing out when you take him to the hilt and hold.
He pulls you off with a gasp just before you gag, hand cupping your jaw, thumb rubbing your spit-slicked lip like he’s trying to memorize shine. He pants against your forehead, eyes unfocused, a breathy, astonished laugh bleeding into a curse. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Please,” you whisper, raw, mouth swollen. “I wanna.”
“Show me,” he answers, voice gone wrecked and fond, and feeds you again.
You set a wicked, patient pace, dragging the crown along your tongue, dipping, rising, letting your saliva make a mess of your chin and his fist. Every time you angle just right—grazing the sweet spot under the head with the soft of your tongue, sealing your lips tighter at the ridge—his control slips: a groan bitten into the heel of his hand, a curse strangled low in his chest, his fingers clenching in your hair and immediately easing like he’s apologizing to you for needing you so much.
“Listen,” he pants, and you do—wet suck, breath through your nose, the quiet animal sounds he can’t stop making now. “God, that’s—” His hips stutter; you take it, greedy, and he breaks completely for a second, eyes closing, forehead creasing. “Fuck, angel, you’re—”
He yanks you off again when he feels the edge—he always knows exactly where it is—palming your cheek, dizzy with breath. A string of spit clings between the flushed head and your mouth, shining when it snaps onto your tongue. He stares like he wants to frame you. His self-control wobbles; he kisses you, hard and wet, tasting himself, groaning when you chase him for more.
He breaks the kiss and drops to his knees like a verdict, hands sliding up your thighs, breath hot where you’re already slick. His mouth hovers over you—one long inhale like he’s about to ruin dinner with dessert—and you feel his smile against your inner thigh.
“Minho—” you whine, hips tipping up, desperate. “I want you to fuck me.”
His head lifts. The look he gives you is molten and amused. “Do you?” he says softly, thumb pressing to your clit in a lazy circle that steals your next breath. “I was going to be generous.”
“I don’t want your mouth,” you gasp, shameless. “I want you.”
He laughs, wrecked and fond, and the sound vibrates against your knee. “Filthy girl.” He licks a single stripe up you anyway—slow, deliberate, just to hear the noise you make—then wipes his mouth with the back of his bruised hand. The scratch on his cheek beads again; he doesn’t notice. “Turn around. Hands on the back of the couch.”
You move fast, presenting, needy. He palms your ass, spreads you open with thumbs that tremble just a little, groans helplessly at the sight of you swollen and slick. “Look at that,” he mutters, reverence fraying into hunger. His fingers tighten slightly around the flesh of your ass.
He settles behind you, hands neat on your hips, thumbs stroking small, steady arcs as if smoothing out the tremor in your skin. “Easy,” he says in that cool, patient voice that always sounds like instructions. “Shoulders down.” He nudges your knees a touch wider with his own, then straightens your spine with a light press between your shoulder blades. “There. Better.”
You feel the heat of him against you and then the first slow drag is maddeningly careful, a measured glide along the seam of your thighs that promises and withholds at the same time. He doesn’t push forward; he rocks, deliberate, keeping just enough distance to deny you what you’re reaching for.
“Minho,” you gasp, trying to tip your hips back. His grip tightens, not unkind. Containing.
“Ah.” A soft click of his tongue, almost fond. “Impatient already?” His mouth finds the hinge of your jaw, cool and controlled, and you feel the faint wetness of that thin line on his cheek as it grazes your shoulder. He wipes it away with a knuckle without looking, then returns to arranging you like a favorite habit—hair swept aside, chin turned so he can hear every noise you make. “Ask properly.”
“Please,” you manage. “I want—”
“I know what you want,” he murmurs, and the glide comes again—longer, closer, the length of him pressing snug where you’re aching, but never, ever giving you the final answer. “I am being generous.” His hands travel your waist like he’s counting vertebrae. “But not careless.”
He keeps you there on purpose—slow, teasing passes that make your breath go ragged. Each time you try to chase, he reins you in with that quiet, doting authority that feels like a hand at the small of your back in a crowd. “Good girl,” he says when you hold still for him. “Let me have the pace.” Another careful grind, deeper this time, enough to make your knees quiver. “That’s it. I’ll give you everything when you’ve learned to be patient.”
“Minho,” you whine, shame and want tangling. “Please.”
His laugh is low and satisfied against your ear. “That’s closer.” He rocks again, cruelly precise, letting the friction crest and fade, crest and fade, until your fingers claw at the cushion. “Tell me how sorry you are.”
“So sorry,” you breathe, dizzy. “I shouldn’t have— I need you.”
“Mm.” Approval, cool and clean. He rewards you with a slower, heavier roll that drags a helpless sound out of you. His palm slides to your belly, anchoring you; the other tucks around your throat, not squeezing—just fitting there, a reminder. “You do.”
Another pause—his favorite kind, the one that stretches the moment until it sings. He kisses the side of your neck, almost tender. “One more,” he promises, voice steady even as his breath frays. “And then I’ll decide whether you’ve earned it.”
The next grind is unhurried and devastating; you tremble, pleading on a breath you can’t catch. He smiles against your skin—cool, doting, inexorable—and keeps you exactly where he wants you, drawing the want out until it gleams.
He settles behind you hands neat on your hips, thumbs drawing small, proprietary arcs that make your skin prickle. “Good,” he says, cool and fond at once, aligning you exactly where he wants you against the couch back.
The heat of him slots along you, thick and unambiguous. He doesn’t push in. He rocks—slow, measured passes that press the head of his cock through your slick and up against your clit before dragging down again to glide through your folds. The friction is obscene. Denial is sharper.
“Say it,” he murmurs at your ear, mouth ghosting your skin. “What do you want.”
“You,” you gasp, shame baked in. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Mhm.” The soft approval is almost a purr. He rewards you with a deeper grind that makes your knees dip. Then he withholds again, smug in the control, rubbing the flushed crown over you in tight, merciless passes that wring a little cry from your throat. His knuckles tighten on your hips; you feel the faint sting of bruised skin meeting new grip. “Greedy.”
You push back; he pins you with a tidy press of fingers that will leave fingerprints later. “Uh-uh.” His voice warms with pleasure at how much you want. “You begged for cock. Earn cock.”
Another drag. He fits himself between your cheeks and grinds, slow enough to be cruel, until your breath breaks into pieces. You’re wet enough that every pass paints him; he huffs a ruined little laugh and smears the slick over your clit with the head, lazy, cruel, doting in that cold way that makes you ache.
“Please,” you say, raw, and the word gets him—his composure slips a degree, hips pushing too close to the place he’s denying both of you. “Please, inside.”
“Pretty,” he says, and kisses the corner of your jaw. “Open.”
He presses—patient, claiming pressure—and the thick heat of him parts you. The stretch knocks a helpless sound out of you; he swears quietly into your shoulder, not elegant now, breath hitching as your body seats him inch by inch. When his hips meet you, he stays there, full, shaking just enough to make you feel it.
“God.” A bare confession against your skin. He pulls out an inch and sinks back with punishing slowness, a long, dragging stroke that grinds his pelvis against your swollen clit at the end. The noise you make thrills him; he does it again, same angle, same deliberate cruelty, building you steady without letting you sprint.
When your body starts to climb, he feels it and changes tactics—slides out and denies you with a deliberate rub of the head against your clit, slick and hot, until your thighs tremble and you want to sob. “That’s it,” he murmurs, pleased and awful. “Hold it.”
“Please,” you groan, trying to chase. He doesn’t let you. He slides two fingers in alongside the head and fucks them shallow, the blunt press of his knuckles tapping your lips while the crown teases your clit in small, maddening circles. Your legs shake; your nails bite the cushion. You’re right there.
He stops again. A kiss at your shoulder like a benediction. “Such a mess for me,” he says, pride threading through the calm.
“Please,” you say again, smaller now, honest. “I’m sorry. I won’t—I won’t bolt again. Just—”
“That’s my girl.” He lines up and gives you what you begged for, all of it, pushing deep and starting a rhythm that’s not fast but devastating—long, ruthless strokes that drag over every place he’s mapped, grinding at the bottom just enough to set fire to your clit each time. His hand slides under, palm heavy over your lower belly; the other slips from your hip to your throat, not squeezing, just fitting there like a ring he’s checking for size. “Take me.”
You do. You take him and it rewrites you. The couch thuds a steady beat against the wall; your voice goes high and ugly and perfect. He listens and adjusts—one knee wider, your spine arched a hair more—and the new depth makes the breath punch out of you. He groans against your ear, losing polish, the thin bead of blood at his cheek smearing on your skin as he works.
You start to tip over; he feels it in the way you clutch and tries to be cruel again—pulls nearly out, rubs the head across your clit in a tight, taunting figure—then caves at the noise you make. “Okay,” he says, voice wrecked, and drives back in hard enough to knock a curse out of both of you. “Come on then. Give it to me.”
It hits like a wave breaking right over your head—hot, rolling, messy—your body gripping him in helpless pulses that drag another groan from his chest. He fucks through it, pace going ragged, hand flattening your belly like he can feel himself flood you from the outside. “Mine,” he says, harsh and grateful, hips snapping. “Mine.”
You feel him go—the brutal, gorgeous stutter, the deep lock of his hips, the heat spilling in long, helpless pulses while he murmurs praise right into your shoulder. He stays buried, small, involuntary pushes wringing aftershocks out of both of you until you whimper at the sensitivity and he gentles, palm smoothing slow circles over your stomach like he’s soothing a shiver he put there.
When he finally eases out, the loss makes you gasp; warmth slips down and his thumb is there instantly, lazy, possessive, pushing what he can back inside with a smug little noise that shouldn’t make you clench and does. He kisses the smear on your shoulder where his cheek left red, then the hollow below your ear.
“Apology accepted,” he says, composed again but shining with it, the cold doting back in place like a collar. His fingers slide lower, testing, teasing, already thinking about how easily you’re going to fall apart the second time. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He crowds your hips back into the cushion with one palm and sinks to the floor again, shouldering your thighs apart like he’s taking back a seat. The other hand is lazy and obscene—thumb pushing the slick warmth that’s slipping out of you back where he wants it, smearing it over your swollen clit until you shiver.
“I like when your messy,” he says, cool and satisfied. “That’s mine.”
His mouth replaces his thumb. Not gentle—thorough. He seals his lips around your clit and draws, slow and hungry, tongue flattening and then circling in small, practiced passes that make your calves go tight. You gasp and twist; he pins you with fingers sunk into the meat of your thigh, the faint sting of bruised knuckles a contrast to the wet heat of his mouth.
“T’much,” you whine, already fluttering.
“I know,” he says into you, voice low and pleased, and eats through it anyway. Every time you try to wriggle from the sensitivity, he follows, mouth greedy, dragging you back to the edge until you’re shaking and wet and furious with how good it feels.
You break with a sharp noise, clenching around his tongue; he hums, savoring it, and rides you through the spill with slow, rolling laps that make the aftershocks twitch down your thighs. When you go limp, he kisses the pout of your clit lightly—mocking, doting—and then licks lower, tasting the slick that leaks out around his fingers when he pushes two inside and hooks them, shallow and cruel.
“Look at that,” he says, lifting his head to watch his fingers disappear into you, lips shiny, the thin pink line on his cheek freshly wiped away with the heel of his palm. “Still accommodating.”
“Come here,” you plead, wrecked. “I want you.”
He stands in one smooth breath. Pants half-hung on his hips, cock flushed and heavy, he climbs back over you, guiding your ankle up to his shoulder with a neat, impersonal care that makes your stomach flip. The stretch opens you for him perfectly; he fits himself and rubs the head over your clit once—mean—before sliding down and pressing in again. You make a sound like gratitude and blasphemy at once.
“Eyes on me,” he says softly, and sinks to the hilt in a single, devastating glide.
The first thrust is a measured stroke that drags heat over every place he’s learned matters. The second is deeper. By the third, the cool is fraying. He braces your leg higher, palm flat under your knee, and starts to use you—long, grinding passes that set a slick rhythm, pelvis nudging your clit each time he bottoms out. Your breath catches in little, broken pieces; his jaw flexes.
“Perfect,” he says, voice gone rough. “Take me.”
You do; you take him and the room narrows to the sound of skin and the filthy wet between you. He kisses you like he means to steady your mouth—slow and claiming, a quiet counterpoint to the way he’s driving you open. When you chase him for speed, he gives you one punishing set of hard, deep snaps that make your nails scrabble at his back, then goes right back to the steady, ruinous tempo that keeps your nerves singing.
“That’s it,” he approves when your thighs start to tremble again. He slips his hand between your bodies, tips two fingers to your clit, and barely moves them—just enough to light you up, not enough to let you fall. You try to arch; he flattens the curve of your back with his other hand, pinning you in place to feel every inch he gives you. “Stay with me.”
“Please,” you gasp, humiliated by how quickly you break for him now. “Please—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he promises, and you believe him because he never does once he decides you’re going to fall apart for him. He rubs tighter, thrusts deeper, breath tearing out of him in honest, ugly sounds that make your belly clench. The fine control that defines him burns off in the edges—hips hitting harder, a curse bitten into your throat, the tiniest shudder when you grip him just right.
You tip over hard. It drags a cry out of your chest you don’t recognize; your body locks around him, milking, fluttering, and he loses the last of his polish with a low, savage groan, chasing you down into it with deep, ruthless strokes that turn the crest to a flood.
“Good,” he says, broken with it, and folds you tighter—ankle pressed to his shoulder, hand under your knee, the other palming your jaw so he can look at the wreck he made. “Again.”
He doesn’t ask. He takes. His fingers never leave your clit; his cock keeps you full; the aftershocks pile into a second wave that hits too soon, too sharp, and you sob into his mouth. He swallows the sound, praises you against your tongue, and finally lets himself go—pace collapsing into hungry, messy thrusts that punch little sounds out of his throat he’d die before making anywhere else.
“Mine,” he says against your cheek as it drags him under, hips locking; the heat spills deep in thick pulses you can feel against his palm where it spreads over your lower belly. He stays inside, breathing hard, giving two small, possessive pushes that wring one last tremor out of you.
Silence arrives in pieces: your pulse in your ears, his breath in your mouth, the quiet tap of a drop of water somewhere in the pipes. He smooths your hair back with careful fingers, then wipes the faint red smear his cheek left on your shoulder with a thumb, clinical as ever.
“Stay exactly like this,” he says at last, calm sliding back over his voice like a tailored coat. His thumb traces where you’re still slick and a little open around him; he watches it with the cool, pleased look of a man admiring a job done to spec.
He goes quiet in that efficient, purposeful way of his, leaving you open on the couch while he disappears to the bathroom. The tap clicks; water runs. He returns with a warm, wrung cloth and that cool, clinical focus that always feels like care sharpened to a point.
“Up,” he murmurs, and you let him. One palm under your knee, the other at your hip, he tilts you just enough to slide the heat of the cloth between your thighs. He’s thorough. Slow passes that gather the mess he put there, his mouth brushing your knee like an absent-minded kiss each time you twitch. When warmth slicks down the curve of you, his thumb is there, steady, catching it so it doesn’t reach the couch. Doting, proprietary.
“Too much?” he asks, but it isn’t really a question; he’s already gentling the pressure, already smoothing the cloth along your swollen clit in a careful, non-negotiable circle that makes your breath hitch and then soften. He wipes the inside of your thighs, the mound, the place just below your belly where he marked you with his mouth. He swaps to a fresh corner, folds the cloth with neat thumbs as if this is a ritual he enjoys.
“There,” he says, pleased with his own tidiness. He tosses the cloth into the empty bowl and drags the backs of his fingers over your thigh—knuckles nicked, a faint sting that says he didn’t get through the evening unmarked. “Pretty again.”
He’s halfway to standing when it comes, like an afterthought he’s been waiting to place perfectly. “Have you been taking your pill since I left?”
The words land with surgical precision; you feel yourself go small around them. “Yes,” you breathe, then, timidly, wrecked and honest: “I mean, I—yes. But… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. If—” Your voice frays. “If we had a baby.”
That earns you a long, patient stare. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even blink. His thumb drags a lazy line up your inner thigh, a soft brand. “No.”
Your heart kicks. “No?”
He shifts closer, knee on the cushion between your legs, the couch dipping so you tip toward him like gravity picked a side. His hand finds your jaw—cool palm, steady fingers—and tilts your face until you can’t escape the temperature of his eyes.
“Sweet girl,” he says, and the endearment is a velvet sleeve over steel, “you can barely remember to eat when I’m not there to put a fork in your hand.”
“That’s not—” You flush, already losing the argument you started.
“You can’t keep a password in your head for twenty-four hours. You left the kettle on twice last week.” He says it without heat, inventorying you like a pantry. You’re too overwhelmed to wonder how he knows that. “You apologize to men who bump your shoulder in doorways. You take vitamins if I count them into your palm, and not otherwise.” His thumb rubs your lower lip, wipes away a dried shine like he’s tidying the punctuation of your mouth. “You are not a mother. You are just mine.”
It’s cruel because it’s accurate. It’s tender because it’s him.
He leans in and kisses you, soft enough to make your eyes sting. “I won’t let you fail at something that big because you were in a feeling after I fucked you stupid.” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’d love too hard and forget yourself.” Another, to the hollow under your cheekbone. “You forget yourself easily.”
Your voice comes out small. “You think I couldn’t?”
“I think,” he says, precise, “that you would hand your entire body to a screaming seven-pound stranger and then apologize to it while you shattered.” His smile is thin and unbearably fond. “I think you’re a very soft, very pretty creature who needs a caretaker, not a dependent.”
The words should slice. Somehow they hold.
He taps your temple, then your breastbone, then the low place of your belly where he kept his hand while he came. “This is where I live. This is what I manage.” His hand slides back down between your thighs, not sexual now, just claiming the geography. “You want a baby because it sounds like staying. I am staying. Do you understand?”
Tears sting your lashes. You nod, dizzy with afterglow and the quiet, devastating rightness of his voice. “Yes.”
“Good.” He kisses your damp eyelashes like he’s blessing them. “Take your pill tonight. Set an alarm.” He’s already reaching for your phone on the table, swiping to the clock with domestic tyranny. “I’ll put it under a name you won’t swipe away.”
He swipes his thumb under your eyes.
“This is love.” He reminds you, pockets the phone. “Mine comes with rails. You ride better with rails.”
He gathers you with that orderly strength—one arm under your knees, the other at your back—and carries you to bed because your legs are no longer competent at stairs. He lays you down like you’re glass he intends to keep, tucks a pillow beneath your hips to keep you comfortable. When you shiver, he tucks the comforter around your shoulders, fussing the corner like a man who irons napkins.
“Water,” he says, and brings it with a hand at your nape so you don’t spill. “Electrolyte pack?” You nod; he tears, pours, holds the glass while you sip. “Good.”
Your eyes are going. The world narrows to the weight of his palm on your thigh, the phone dimming on the nightstand with the new alarm set, the coolness of his voice like a compress against your hot, spent skin.
He smooths hair back from your face, studying you, satisfied. “No babies,” he says again, softer now, as if it’s a lullaby. “Not while you still need reminding to put your keys in the dish.” His fingers skim your throat, your collarbone, the place his mouth purpled earlier. “I’ll fill you. I’ll keep you. I’ll make sure you don’t wander into fires.”
You close your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He kisses your forehead. “Apology accepted.”
He draws the covers higher, then—like it’s truly an afterthought—adds, “If you want something to care for, I’ll bring a plant. Something forgiving. Something that won’t die if you forget it for a day.” His smile tilts, cruel and adoring. “We’ll practice. And you’ll keep your pill.”
You nod again because he has already made the decision feel like yours. He clicks the lamp off, the bedroom falling into that clean, expensive dark he favors. You feel his weight lower beside you, the mattress dipping, the exact line his body makes around yours—the rail you’ve been craving.
The dark settles in layers—first the hush of the heating unit, then the softer hush of your breath syncing itself to his. He lies on his side behind you like a bracket, one arm under your pillow, the other draped heavy and warm over your waist, palm spread exactly where he likes it. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and skin.
After a while, you turn and face him. The scratch drags a thin, drying seam across his cheekbone, a punctuation mark where his face should be a clean sentence. You lift your hand without thinking.
He lets you touch it, but he guides how: two fingers under your wrist, angling your thumb to skim beside the cut, not over it. “Careful,” he says, quiet, more command than caution. The skin is hot and tight around the edge; a flake of dried red comes away against your fingertip. Your throat tightens.
“Does it hurt?”
He considers, then tips his head a fraction into your hand like a cat that won’t admit it likes petting. “A little,” he says.
You start to sit up. “Let me get—”
He’s already off the mattress and back again before the sheet cools, opening a small kit he must have fetched earlier without you noticing. Alcohol pads, a butterfly strip, a tiny tube of ointment lined up in a straight row on the nightstand as if they’re auditioning for the privilege. He breaks the packet and hands you the wipe. “Since you’re determined to fuss,” he murmurs. “Do it properly.”
You clean him in small, nervous circles. He doesn’t flinch when it stings; you do. He watches your mouth pinch at the corners and looks pleased in that private way of his, as if the ache in your face is his proof of love. When you reach for the ointment, he covers your hand with his and squeezes once—approval and ownership braided together. “Thank you.”
“What happened?” It’s barely a whisper.
He watches you long enough that you start to think he won’t answer. Then: “A miscalculation,” he says, voice even. “Corrected.”
Your chest squeezes. “Because of me.”
“Because of pattern,” he corrects, like he’s straightening a picture on a wall. “People who take liberties tend to repeat them. I don’t like repeats.”
You press the wipe’s cool edge to the last angry shine. He doesn’t move. Up close, you can see other small facts you missed in the heat—the faint crescent of a nail at his forearm, a shadowed bloom just under his collarbone where a knuckle must have landed and then regretted it. He smells like you a little now, but there’s a thin thread of street still in it—cold air, wet concrete.
“I heard him shouting,” you say. “Outside.”
"Who?"
"Mark."
You feel the question rise—what happened to Mark—ready to tear your mouth on the way out. You hold it behind your teeth like a coin you won’t spend. If you spend it, he’ll stand up; if he stands up, the night will tilt, and you are so tired of falling.
His expression doesn’t change. “Mm.” A file dropped into an already-labeled drawer. “Was that his name?”
“Minho?”
“Yes?”
You swallow. "Was?"
He doesn’t blink. “Is,” he amends, soft as dust settling. “For now.”
Your stomach drops a shallow floor. “What did you—”
“Remind him he has a spine,” he says. “And that it bends both ways.”
You stare at the butterfly strip you just pressed to his cheek so you don’t have to stare at his eyes. “Min—”
“He won’t knock at your door again.” He says it like the weather. “He won’t confuse your silence for invitation. He won’t mistake your corridor for common ground.”
The room seems to tilt; you press your palm flat against his sternum until it levels. His pulse is steady under your hand, a metronome that refuses to match your panic. “What if he goes to—”
“He won’t,” Minho says, and there’s a precise, almost bored confidence in it that makes the back of your neck prickle. “He knows the difference between consequences and escalation.” A pause, then, as if to offer you a compromise: “And if he doesn’t, he’ll learn.”
You swallow the next question before it grows teeth. Curiosity is a door; you decide not to open it. Instead you tug at him—small, insistent—until his chest is flush to yours and the weight of him is something your body can understand.
“I love you,” you say, small and clean, like setting a glass on a shelf.
He hums, pleased in that quiet way that makes the dark feel full. “I know.” A beat, warm at your temple. “I love you too.”
“Don’t leave me again.” It comes out fragile and absolute.
“I won’t,” he says, like a weather report. No flourish, just the forecast. His palm settles heavier over your waist, the weight of a book keeping a page from turning. “I don’t abandon what I’m responsible for.”
The room has that museum hush, the kind where sound seems to stand still and think about itself. Somewhere below, a door shuts and then shuts again, as if relearning the action. The butterfly strip on his cheek is a pale hyphen that joins two ideas you can’t look at directly. His thumb draws a slow line along your rib like he’s indexing you for later.
“You don’t have to be afraid of the parts you can’t name,” he says, not unkind. “You just have to let me hold them.”
You nod into the hollow of his throat. The urge to ask frays and unspools; what’s left is the relief of a decision made for you. He tucks you closer, as if there’s still daylight sneaking in somewhere and he means to block it with his body.
“Sleep,” he adds, a soft instruction. “In the morning, the bulb will be replaced. The latch will catch on the first turn. Your inbox will be tidy. You’ll think today was an echo.”
“And you’ll be here,” you say, needing the shape of it.
His lips curve against your hair. “I’ll be here,” he confirms. “I don’t leave.”
Outside, a car rolls past like a distant thought and the radiator ticks once, a metronome set for a slower song. You press closer anyway, almost like apology; he accepts it as tribute, fingers splayed across your belly, possessive and calm.
You breathe him in, and the question you didn’t ask softens into the dark the way salt vanishes when it finds water. His pulse is steady under your mouth. The room holds its breath with you and then, finally, lets it go.
Mark doesn’t come in for work the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, you never see him again.
God bless the small writing accounts, god bless the fics that only get 50 notes, god bless the writers with a simple navigation pinned to their profile, god bless the writers who have 50 wips in their drafts and still not being able to finish a single one, god bless the writers who's first language isn't english, god bless the writers who always has typos in their fics, god bless the writers that stay up all night cramming to finish a fic god bless the writers that can only make 1k worded fics, god bless the writers who write in 1st pov, god bless the writers who still write even when they know their grammar is crap, god bless the writers who had just started writing, god bless the writers who get minimal interactions, god bless the writers who only has their phones to write their fics, god bless the writers who do their extensive research on a topic to use in their fics, god bless the writers who stopped writing, god bless the writers who are human
what’s still beyond me is how can it be joyful to write fics with ai and then post them as your own
like
who are you fooling if not your own self? isn’t it kinda miserable and sad? like how is it fun to lie to people in order to gain fake love and subs that aren’t even because of something you did?
and more importantly, what’s the point in that when the entire point and purpose of fanfiction and any other fan work or art - is to express your OWN feelings about something?
Hi!! I saw your requests are open and I was wondering if you could make a black/grey version of the stars and space dividers ^^
I love your dividers so much, and thank you!
hello! I can for sure! 💖 I don't have all the exact files as the original ones anymore, but I put together what I had + some new ones! hope you like these, and thanks so much for the request!
i think its absolutely soul crushing that han is just so entirely besotted with minho, absolutely endeared by the weird awkward hot cat butler of a man and tries so damn hard to balance his besotted behaviour with an air of nonchalance/"oh this is normal", only to have homotron 3000 aka the emperor of yearning lee minho throw him back off balance
whoever said "its not han fell first and leeknow fell harder, its leeknow was thrown down a flight of stairs to find han waiting at the bottom and smiling at him endearingly," I NEED TO HAVE A WORD
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 patrol 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.
warnings。» dark content warning. violence and gore, descriptions of injury and blood, horror elements, folk magic, illness wc。2 . 6 k / ╱ ⧼ 🍏 ⧽ 一 to library。
bambi's note。⸝⸝ here's the prologue!!!! i hope you guys are excited for chapter one hehe ^_^ im really about to crash out i adore this world sm and i'm so excited to get it all out of my head and out for you guys to read <3
Stay away from the woods. That was something you've been told time and time again since you were small. Scary stories told over the fire, of monsters that lurked in the shadows, waiting patiently for the time to strike. The little farming village you grew up in was flanked on all sides by that thick, dark forest, surrounding you like a cage and isolating your people from the rest of the kingdom. Nobody dared venture into the woods, not even the King's men. Your little village was all you knew for your entire life. The village and the monsters.
Surely it was all just tall tales meant to frighten children into staying indoors. A rumor made up by the lord of the manor to keep his people in line. But even the eldest of the village people look over their shoulders with real, tangible fear in their eyes. Young and old alike whisper to eachother about howls echoing in the dead of night, of rustling in the undergrowth, of the yellow glow of eyes peeking out from the darkness.
Sometimes, livestock are found gutted with their throats ripped out. The same would happen to you, your mother used to warn, if you strayed from her side and wandered too far.
And yet, the whistling of the pines have never been this enticing. The trees taunt you from your family's little cabin, their outstretched branches waving and creaking in the wind. As if beckoning you closer.
You can see them just as clearly from your parent's bakery as you can from your bedroom window. It's inescapable.
The shrill, tinny ringing of a bell snaps your attention away from the bakery window, your thoughts having consumed you entirely as you laid out fresh loaves of bread to cool off in the frosty air. You brush your flour covered hands off on your apron and turn to greet your customer, your polite little smile growing into a cheeky grin when you recognize the tall, lanky boy standing idly by your workbench.
"That's an awful lot to be doing all on your own." he comments with a sideways smile, running a hand through his auburn hair.
"I open the shop by myself every morning, Hee." you reply pointedly, rising to your tiptoes to give him a quick hug before brushing past him towards the towering stone oven. "You know Mother can't work this early anymore."
"Still, it's hard work for a woman. Couldn't you ask one of your siblings to help?"
You shake your head solemnly. You've had this argument with Heeseung countless times before. "They're too young to use the oven or mill the wheat, they'd be no help at all. It's not even that much work, really. Just baking and cleaning. I don't want to burden them with all of this on top of everything else.
Nothing has been the same since your father fell ill. The bakery was his and your mother's, a humble way to support your family and their quaint little village for decades. You were never particularly wealthy, but you had enough to get by. Consumption, the village doctor had called it. A truly fitting name. It consumed your poor, frail father whole, devoured him and left nothing behind, not even the bones. A mere shadow of a man that laid in bed all day, a ghost whose coughs have begun to sound like rattling chains. None of the tinctures and medicines the doctor prescribed ever worked, if anything they only seemed to be making him sicker. He said there was a hospital in the royal city, but your village was days away by carriage, and in order to get there you must go through the woods first. You and your mother had nowhere near the funds or the bravery to make the trip. Part of you was certain that your father wouldn't survive the journey either way.
Mother now spends her days caring for him, an apothecary's daughter clinging onto those last shreds of hope that her remedies will stave off the cold hands of death. You desperately wished you had the strength to feel her optimism, but you've already begun grieving.
"Mother said she'd stop by to help close up shop in the afternoon." you assert, leaving Heeseung no room for further discussion. You can feel his eyes on your back, watching you and you stoke the firewood and slide trays of dough into the oven. "You worry about me too much! I'm not a little girl anymore."
"I worried about you then, and I'll worry about you now." Heeseung laughs endearingly, erupting a swarm of butterflies in your belly. "You've always been a little too reckless."
His words remind you of your mulling thoughts, pulling your gaze back to the window. "Heeseung... have you ever known someone who went into the woods?"
Heeseung is quiet for a worryingly long stretch of time. "The Blackwoods? Not anyone who made it back. Why?"
Your mind is screaming at you to keep your mouth shut, but you just can't keep it all bottled up inside of you anymore. You've never hidden a single thing from your best friend, except this. "I was reading my mothers books the other day." you begin softly, keeping your back turned to avoid looking him in the eye. "In one of them, it said that there was a plant that grows in the Blackwoods. A kind of flower. It can cure any illness, even save people from the brink of death..."
"Y/N." Heeseung's voice is frighteningly calm. "You're not seriously considering going in there, are you?"
You hesitate for a second too long; he cuts off your reply with a scoff, stepping forward to spin you around and grip you harshly by the shoulders. His rough, calloused carpenter's hands dig into your skin. "You're being childish. There's no way that flower is even real, Y/N, it sounds like the stuff of fairytales. You can't go around believing everything that's written in your mother's quack medicine books."
"It was my grandfather's." you defend softly, finally looking up into Heeseung's eyes. The coldness you find in them unsettles you.
"He was a quack too." Heeseung insists, releasing your shoulders to swiftly slam the bakery window shut. Your loaves shake from the force. "There's no magical flower that's going to bring your father back, especially not in the Blackwoods. I love you, Y/N, seriously, but you can't keep believing in fairytales-- and you wonder why I worry about you so much! Promise me you won't go into those woods. Please. One step inside and you'll never come out. I can't afford to lose you. Your family can't afford to lose you."
"But what kind of help am I when all I do is keep up appearances? I know the truth, Heeseung, I know you've paid Sunghoon to lie about our tithes to his father."
Heeseung blanches. "Who told you?! Was it Sunghoon himself?"
"He wants me to marry him." you admit, watching with fear as Heeseung's face grows pinched and cold. "He told me... he said that my family won't have to pay Lord Park ever again if I accept his proposal. But I can't... I can't marry him, Hee. Not like this. The bakery is all my parents have, without it we're penniless. Sure, Mother wouldn't have to worry about tithes, but what about Father? His treatments are nearly a month's worth of work. But if I went into the Blackwoods and brought back that flower, Father could work again, and I can marry Sunghoon like he wants."
"For my family. But I can't with Father this sick, it's not right. But if I find that flower... my siblings will be able to live a better life."
"Don't do it. Don't go in those woods."
"Heeseung--"
"Please." he pleads, his face more serious and stony than you've ever seen it. "You'll die, Y/N. I told you I'd always take care of you and your family, you don't have to do this. You don't have to marry Sunghoon, I'll... I'll figure something out. I can talk to him, he's been my friend since we could hardly walk. He'll listen to me, he'll help your father, just-- don't go into those Blackwoods."
"...Okay." you relent, just loud enough for Heeseung to hear. "I won't. You're right. I'm being ignorant."
“Say you promise.”
"I... I promise..."
You had made up your mind long before you had spoken to heeseung earlier that morning. He’s just a simple woodworker, he doesn’t understand a single thing about the healing magic that hides in nature. But your grandfather did. He wrote those books himself, a man who risked his life in the pursuit of knowledge, just to help others. You wanted nothing more than to continue his legacy, save your father and prove to your close-minded little village that he was anything but the insane, rambling idiot that they all viewed him as. Before and after his death. You’ve been preparing for weeks, reading as much as you can about the dangers of the Blackwoods, packing whatever you possibly could think of to help you on the journey. You might have overpacked, to be honest, your weathered leather satchel hanging heavy on your shoulder. If everything went as you planned, you would be back home before anyone would notice that you were gone.
Standing at the edge of the forest, your cold clammy fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of your satchel, you’re caught frozen in place. You just can’t seem to get your feet to step forward, your psyche screaming at you to turn back and run home. Heeseung’s words circle your thoughts, so all-consuming that you swear you can hear them in the howling wind— you haven’t told a lie since you were very young, and never once to Heeseung. The guilt nags at you to the point of nausea.
Your breath fogs in front of your face, reminding you of the hearth smoke billowing from your cabin’s chimney. You can still see it, just beyond the hill, its straw hatch roof just visible over the tall grass waving in the wind. You could turn back now, put all your things away and fall asleep in the safety of your bedroom. You could forget about all of this and wake up tomorrow morning as if you had never planned anything at all.
You will yourself to move your feet, frozen in your boots like the frost on the leaves, and you enter the ominous pitch-black dark of the Blackwoods.
The tree canopy is so thick that the moonlight barely breaches it, everything swathed in darkness as you walk farther and farther away from home. The flickering candle in your lantern does little to illuminate much except what was right in front of you. You focus on what you can see, the dead fallen leaves and frosty underbrush that crunch loudly underneath your feet as you venture deeper. It’s deafening in your ears, the forest eerily silent all around you, not even the distant call of an owl, the scattering of a chipmunk— you’re certain that any creatures hiding in the trees or in the brush knew of your presence.
Including the monsters.
None of the books you read would ever describe them more than just that; monsters that use the night as camouflage, that kill livestock in their pens and steal children from their beds. Any intruder in their own territory will certainly be made short work out of. But you're certain they're not real. They can't possibly be.
Distantly, cutting sharply through the silence, you hear the howling of a wolf. It sounded a safe distance away, yet it still sent you jumping. The sudden movement causes your lantern to extinguish, plummeting you into complete and total darkness. Your heart dropping, you curse, placing it on the forest floor against a mossy tree before opening the flap of your satchel and rummaging blindly through the contents for your matchbox. You try to steady your breathing, heart rattling against your ribcage, matchbox just beyond your grasp as you struggle in the dark.
You hear the rustling of leaves just to your right. Desperately, you tell yourself that you’re just hearing things.
Finally, you wrap your fingers around the familiar shape of your matchbox, pulling it out to fumble with its contents before you pick back up your lantern. With a strike of the match against the rough bark of the tree, you’re illuminated once again, carefully lighting the candle before putting out the match with a shake of your hand. Triumphantly, you turn to continue to venture farther into the woods, before stopping cold. Your breath knocks out of you all at once, leaving you gasping in the cold air.
Farther up on the oak tree, carved crudely into the bark, are three sharp claw marks you’re almost certain weren’t there before.
But they had to have been, because there was simply no way that something could have snuck up so close to you without you noticing. These woods were driving you mad, you feared, still trying to steady your breathing as you turn and step forward.
As you continue deeper into the forest, you swear you hear another pair of footsteps following your own. You stop abruptly to catch them, but you hear nothing— another thing you must be imagining… yet you set onward a little faster than before.
Maybe it was that wolf you had heard, you entertained as you examine the dark twisted trees. It sounded rather far away, but you couldn’t be one to discount the creature’s speed. Maybe it was just watching you to make sure you weren’t a threat, and it would leave you shortly.
That thought leaves you as soon as it comes.
A growl, deep and barely audible, rumbles from between the bushes. You break out into a wild sprint, gasping and panting, running deep into the unknown. The creature chases you with frightening speed, no longer trying to hide its footsteps as it weaves through the forest floor. You had no idea where you were or where you were going, but this beast… this was his home. The hunt was on.
Low hanging branches scratch and tear at your skin and clothing as you run, blood running down your face, legs and arms— you couldn’t feel the pain, the adrenaline numbing everything except for the terror in your heart. Now you were just easier to track, you agonized, but you couldn’t do anything but keep running, dropping your satchel and lantern to lighten your load as much as you could. Alas, you barely ran any faster. You were starting to slow down, exhaustion was starting to creep up on you, your chest aching and desperate for breath, your legs screaming in pain as you stumble and stagger through the labyrinth of trees. You couldn’t see a single thing in front of you, completely lost in the darkness, your arms outstretched to feel around as you ran.
The creature was advancing, its footsteps thunderous right behind you, its snarls and growls growing closer and closer. In a desperate attempt to escape, you sharply turn to the right to run in a different direction.
Just as you move to step forward, your boot wedges itself underneath an exposed tree root, and you are sent tumbling to the mossy ground. You try to break your fall with your hands, but you react far too late— you slam your head against a jagged rock, blinding white light flashing behind your eyelids before your world goes black.
The last thing you feel is pain, and the last thing you see are two bright, bloody red eyes staring at you through the darkness.
🗝 Struggling to make ends meet as a freshly graduated college student, you and your friends, Chan & Changbin, move into a cheap apartment on the hills together. Despite the dying garden and unbelievable creepy ambiance, you think this is a place you can call home. That is, until you realize it's already someone else's. 🗝
Ep. 1 | The Move-In
🗝 Cheap rent seems great until you're discovering bugs, dirty water, and learning about the strange disappearances that seem to take place at the apartments. Whatever, at least you have the bed to break into it.
Ep. 2 | Dreaming of the Painter on Floor Two
🗝 It's exactly like the Pink Palace, only a thousand times better. It helps that the beautiful man upstairs is infatuated by you. Maybe the buttons for eyes isn't too bad.
Ep. 3 | Cats Galore
🗝 The Other Neighbors downstairs hardly raise concern other than their weird fascinations with cats. You don't mind them playing with yours, but you're learning that things aren't as they seem.
Ep. 4 | Dolly from the Garden
🗝 Reality is often cruel, much like the thorns you pick from the abandoned garden. The man who lives on the other side of the hill decides to pay you another visit, but this time, he brings gifts.
Ep. 5 | Cat-fight
🗝 Now there's no doubt in your mind that this Other World is very much real. You're desperate to make your roommates see the truth, but the neighborhood black cat is set on keeping his mouth shut. Yours too.
Ep. 6 | So Sharp You Won't Feel a Thing
🗝 The Others are too much, too obsessed with keeping you on their side. They beg and do everything in their power, but you can't leave everything you know to stay in The Other World forever...can you?
