The flickering glow of the TV screen cast eerie shadows across your cozy apartment in Seoul, the kind of night where the city's hum outside felt a world away. You and Jisung had curled up on the worn leather couch, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn wedged between you, legs tangled under a soft blanket.
It was supposed to be just another date night—Scream II playing, the suspense building as the characters on screen tiptoed through a dimly lit house, hearts pounding in sync with yours. Jisung's arm draped lazily over your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, a quiet laugh escaping him at the film's over-the-top tension.
The news had been buzzing all week about that killer, the one they called the Shadow Stalker on the broadcasts. A bisexual predator who didn't just murder—he toyed with his victims first, raping them into broken shells, leaving them alive but shattered for the thrill of it. Guys, girls, didn't matter; he craved the fear, the vulnerability.
You'd both dismissed it as distant horror, something that happened in the underbelly of the city, not here in your safe little bubble. But as the movie's killer lurked in the shadows on screen, a real crash shattered the illusion.
Glass exploded inward from the living room window, shards scattering like deadly confetti across the floor. You jolted upright, popcorn spilling everywhere, your heart slamming against your ribs. Jisung's arm tightened around you, his body going rigid.
A figure tumbled through the jagged frame, landing in a crouch amid the debris, silhouetted against the sodium streetlights outside. Tall, lean, moving with a fluid grace that screamed danger. You blinked hard, once, twice, convinced it was a trick of the light or some nightmare bleeding into reality. Jisung did the same, his breath hitching beside you.
But he was real. The man rose slowly, stepping into the warm lamplight of your apartment, his features sharpening into something nightmarish. Sharp jawline, dark eyes gleaming with feral hunger, lips curling into a smirk as he licked them deliberately.
In his right hand, a long penknife twirled effortlessly, the blade catching the light like a serpent's tongue. Minho. You knew that face from the grainy police sketches plastered everywhere—the psycho no one could catch, the one who left trails of traumatized survivors in his wake.
"What the—" Jisung started, scrambling to his feet, but Minho was already moving, strutting forward with predatory swagger, each step deliberate, closing the distance like a wolf circling wounded prey. The knife spun faster in his grip, a hypnotic threat.
You froze, your body betraying you, legs heavy as lead. Minho's gaze locked on you first, raking over your small frame huddled on the couch, then flicking to Jisung with a low, amused chuckle.
He lunged without warning, pouncing onto you like a shadow come alive. His weight pinned you down, knees digging into your thighs, one hand clamping over your mouth while the knife pressed cold against Jisung's throat as he tried to pull him off.
"One move, pretty boy," Minho snarled, his voice a gravelly rasp laced with sadistic glee, breath hot and sour against your skin. "And I'll carve her up before I fuck her raw. Or maybe I'll start with you—heard you boys scream so sweet. Stay put, or watch your little girlfriend bleed."
Jisung's eyes widened in terror, hands hovering uselessly, his face draining of color. He sank back onto the couch's edge, trembling, whispering frantic pleas. "Please... don't... we won't fight, just—"
Minho laughed, a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. He shifted his weight, grinding his hips down against yours, the hard bulge in his pants already evident, pressing insistently into your core through your thin sleep shorts. "Oh, you two are adorable. Look at you, all cute and vulnerable, cuddled up like kittens in a basket. Bet you've never had a real man show you how it's done." His free hand yanked at your tank top, ripping the fabric with a sharp tear, exposing your breasts to the cool air. You whimpered, squirming beneath him, but his grip tightened, the knife now hovering inches from your eye as a warning.
"Shh, babydoll," he cooed mockingly, his fingers digging into your jaw to force your gaze up to his. "You're mine now. Both of you. Gonna break you in nice and slow, make you beg for it like the whores you are." He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing at Jisung. "Watch close, lover boy. Learn how to treat your toy right."
With a savage twist, he flipped you onto your stomach, your face pressed into the couch cushions that still smelled of Jisung's cologne. His knee forced your legs apart, rough denim scraping your inner thighs as he yanked your shorts down, exposing your ass and pussy to the room. You heard Jisung's choked sob, felt the couch dip as he shifted, but Minho's growl stopped him cold. "Eyes on us, or I slit her throat mid-thrust."
The first slap landed hard on your ass cheek, the sting blooming like fire, skin rippling under the impact. You yelped, tears springing to your eyes, but he didn't stop—another, harder, then another, his palm cracking against your flesh until it burned red. "Such a pretty little ass," he murmured, voice dripping with degradation. "Bet it's never been marked up like this. Jisung too soft on you, huh? Treating you like glass when you need to be fucked like the slut you were born to be."
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine painfully. The knife traced lazy circles along your side, nicking just enough to draw a thin line of blood. Then his fingers were between your legs, probing roughly, two digits shoving into your dry pussy without preamble. You cried out, the intrusion burning, but he pumped them in and out mercilessly, curling to hit that spot that made your body betray you with unwanted sparks. "Feel that, kitten? Already getting wet for me. Your cunt knows what it wants, even if your pretty head doesn't."
Jisung whimpered from the side, his hands clenched into fists, tears streaming down his face. "Stop... please, she's not—"
Minho's head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shove my cock down it next." He withdrew his fingers, slick with your reluctant arousal, and smeared them across your lips before forcing them into your mouth, making you taste yourself. "Suck, whore. Taste how much you love this."
You gagged, choking on the salty tang, but he held you there, thrusting shallowly until saliva dripped down your chin. All the while, his other hand kneaded your breast, pinching the nipple viciously, twisting until you arched in pain. He leaned down, teeth grazing the sensitive bud before latching on, sucking hard enough to bruise, his tongue flicking cruelly.
"These tits are fucking perfect," he growled against your skin, releasing with a pop, only to slap the mound sharply, watching it jiggle. "Gonna mark them up, make 'em swell for days. Jisung'll see my bites every time he looks at you."
Satisfied with your whimpers, he shoved you flat again, unzipping his pants with a metallic rasp. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, the head already leaking pre-cum as he stroked himself lazily, teasing the tip against your entrance.
"Beg for it, babydoll," he demanded, grinding the shaft along your slit, coating himself in your wetness without entering. "Tell me you want this stranger's dick stretching your tight little pussy."
Tears soaked the cushion beneath you, but the knife's edge at your throat forced the words out in a broken whisper. "P-please..."
"Louder. For your boyfriend to hear." He edged you further, pressing just the tip in, then pulling back, the stretch agonizingly incomplete.
"Please... fuck me," you sobbed, hating yourself, the humiliation burning hotter than the slaps.
Minho thrust in with a brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt in one go. Your walls clenched around the invasion, the burn intense as he filled you completely, his girth splitting you open. He groaned, low and animalistic, starting a punishing rhythm—skin slapping against skin, his balls smacking your clit with each drive. "Fuck, so tight. Like a virgin whore. Take it, kitten—take every inch."
He fucked you relentlessly, one hand choking your throat from behind, squeezing until black spots danced in your vision, your gasps turning to wheezes. The other hand roamed, slapping your tits from the side, pinching until you screamed around the pressure on your windpipe. Jisung's cries mixed with yours, his body shaking as he watched, forced to witness every degrading thrust.
"Your turn to play, pretty boy," Minho panted after what felt like hours, though it was mere minutes of your torment. He pulled out abruptly, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching and empty. Cum—his first load—dripped from your hole, a sticky reminder as he grabbed Jisung by the collar, yanking him forward. "On your knees. Suck me clean, or I kick her cunt until she bleeds."
Jisung hesitated, horror etched on his face, but a swift kick to your exposed pussy—his boot connecting with your swollen folds—made him drop, gagging as Minho forced his cock past his lips. The salty mix of your juices and Minho's pre-cum filled Jisung's mouth, the killer's hips bucking shallowly, fucking his throat with grunts of pleasure. "That's it, choke on it. Such a good little cocksucker. Bet you've dreamed of this, huh? Watching me ruin your girl."
You curled in on yourself, sobbing, but Minho wasn't done. He shoved Jisung away after a few thrusts, the boy's face flushed and tear-streaked, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the throbbing cock. "Now, whore," Minho turned back to you, flipping you onto your back, spreading your legs wide. "Ride me. Show me how desperate you are."
The knife ensured compliance; you straddled him shakily, sinking down onto his length with a pained whine. He filled you again, deeper this time, his hands gripping your hips to slam you down harder. Grinding up into you, he teased your clit with his thumb, circling until you teetered on the edge, only to pinch it sharply, denying release. "Not yet, babydoll. You cum when I say. Beg like the slut you are."
"Please... let me..." you gasped, body trembling, tits bouncing with each forced bounce.
He slapped your face lightly, then harder, the sting making you clench around him. "Louder. Tell Jisung how good my cock feels."
"It—it's so good," you lied through tears, the words twisting like knives.
Minho's pace quickened, growling as he chased his peak, one hand returning to your throat, choking until your vision blurred. He came with a roar, flooding your pussy with hot spurts, cum overflowing and trickling down your thighs. But he didn't stop—flipping you again, he forced Jisung's face between your legs. "Clean her up, boy. Lick my seed from your girlfriend's used cunt."
Jisung obeyed, tongue delving in hesitantly, lapping at the mess while Minho watched, stroking himself back to hardness. The humiliation peaked as Minho grabbed Jisung's hair, forcing him deeper, then pulled him off to shove his cock into the boy's mouth once more—a forced blowjob that had Jisung retching, tears flowing freely.
"Look at you two," Minho sneered, pulling out to slap Jisung's cheek with his wet dick. "My little playthings. So fucking vulnerable, so easy to claim." He turned to you, fingers plunging back into your oversensitive pussy, fingering roughly while his thumb ground against your clit, edging you mercilessly. Slaps rained down on your tits, nipples twisted and sucked until they throbbed, purpled from abuse.
He kicked your pussy again, lighter this time, the jolt sending pain-laced pleasure shooting through you. "Whimper for me, kitten. Let me hear how broken you are."
Your whimpers filled the room, mingling with Jisung's muffled sobs as Minho forced him to watch the final assault. Mounting you once more, he fucked you face-to-face, choking you with one hand, slapping your ass and thighs with the other, degrading whispers in your ear. "You're mine now. Both of you. I'll come back, ruin you again. Cute little whores like you deserve it."
His second orgasm hit like a storm, cum shooting across your belly in thick ropes, marking you. He ground against you through the aftershocks, teasing until you shattered unwillingly around his fingers, a forced climax that left you hollow.
Finally, sated, Minho rose, knife twirling once more. "Sweet dreams," he mocked, striding back to the broken window, vanishing into the night as sirens wailed distantly. You and Jisung collapsed together, bodies bruised, souls fractured, the movie's credits rolling forgotten in the background—a nightmare far worse than any fiction.
i know the audience for this is slim to none probably and i’m doing this indulgently but i’m writing a minsung au based off of The Lost City (which i just saw in theatre) so if anyone is interested, i’m almost done with the outline already
a thousand paper cranes ⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗ | lee know x han jisung
chapter 1: can’t i laugh when i’m dead?
wc: 2.6k
warnings + chapter directory are here! ˖᯽ ݁˖· — reblogs, likes + comments are much appreciated ^^
crossposted on ao3!
Finding heaven on earth is easy.
There are places, people, moments that feel like heaven. The beach, your best friend and running away from thrashing waves against champagne sand on the shore. Recognising heaven is the hard part.
Too often do humans take for granted what is given to them when they live out their lives — the little things are far too insignificant to pay attention to and the big ones are far too overwhelming to experience whole.
So, often, we run. We run to a place in our minds that screams familiarity, security, nostalgia in lieu of seizing what is mysterious, uncomfortable: oblivion.
What can feel like clockwork can change in mere seconds. You may get up the same time everyday, then take too long knotting your laces or brushing your hair, and miss your bus. You may order your latte at the same place, cut your way through the line during rush hour and burn your tongue on scalding hot coffee. You may wake up, fall asleep, dream in impossibly precise routines and still end up where you least expect.
In life, beauty is found in what we learn, not what we seek. We search for comfort and warmth but we often overlook what we learn on our path towards those goals.
Do not take life for granted. Do not fear death. Stare it down with your eyes and charge through it with a smile. Because finding heaven during life is easy when you’re playing it safe, but finding heaven after life is harder when you’ve only spent your time living far from the edge of the unknown.
Minho knew nothing at 26. He knew that all 4 years of culinary school taught him was how to shape intricate sculptures out of chocolate, make the perfect martini with the cheapest alcohol and bake artisan pastries with his eyes closed. He also knew that Chan cared for him despite his reluctance to show it sometimes. He knew he couldn’t hide his feelings for much longer.
So, heading home from dance practice at the same time he did every day, he feels up his pocket to text Chan that he was on the way home.
“Fuck,” he pants.
Minho meticulously checks his belongings every time he goes out of the house: the break room of his restaurant, the changing rooms of the dance studio, even the public restroom. Wallet, keys, phone.
His mind was elsewhere nowadays. Chan had been his flatmate since he left college with heaps of debt and an empty room after his old one moved out. Between the bustling shifts on the weekends and upcoming competitions with the dance crew, routine slipped.
Standing there in the middle of the crossing, he forgets to keep walking when he remembers he needs to text Chan.
Phone!
Alas, it is right there in his trouser pocket.
So, phone, wallet, keys— yep, all here, he thinks to himself. Wait, no, where’s my wallet?
His mind was elsewhere nowadays.
—
All Minho remembers when he wakes up is the sting of the surgical white light blinding him and a voice.
“You’re awake?”
It’s squeaky, curious, but somehow has a deeper pitch than his own — than what he remembers his own sounding like, anyways.
His eyes finally adjust. It’s his own apartment.
“Huh?”
“Oh, good.”
His eyelids fight to stay closed while he feels an ache on the back of his neck. If his joints after dance practice hurt like getting hit by a car, he did not know pain until he was here, in his apartment, laying down on his back.
When his eyes finally finish fluttering open, Minho is met with the sight of a stranger mere inches from his face. He had neatly combed hair, a smile the shape of a heart; the image was charming, to say the least. This still didn’t negate the fact that he was a complete stranger in his living room.
“What on earth are you do—?”
“My name is Jisung.”
Even just telling a stranger your name was not enough to build trust nowadays.
“And, don’t worry Minho, you’re safe.”
And said stranger already knowing your name was all the more terrifying.
“I know your name because I have been assigned to look after you.”
He sits up against the armrest of the couch, rubbing his eye and pressing his palm into the seat to pull himself up into an upright posture. This ‘Jisung’ guy shakes his head, guilty-looking almost.
“Chan didn’t put you up to this, did he? You’re just a friend of his and I was just having a nap, I’ll be fine.”
A moment of silence passes before the stranger speaks up. “Chan didn’t tell me to look after you.”
“So, who did?”
Jisung purses his lips together and opens his mouth as though he is going to say something, but ultimately closes it again and inhales slowly. “Say, why don’t we take a little walk?”
Minho’s never been gullible. His incredulity and natural tendency to question things has proven to be useful in the world of culinary arts, but, in the real world, it’s lost him a few people and a handful of opportunities. Even then, he still wordlessly arises from the couch and follows Jisung outside.
The hallways are cooler than normal, in tone and in temperature. Jisung is wearing a white hoodie with white sweatpants and running shoes in the same crisp white colour, slightly muddied at the laces with splotches of brown: despite this, his hands are slightly shaking as he walks down towards the stairwell.
“What do you do for work, Jisung?” Minho manages, just to be courteous about the very awkward nature of the situation.
“I’m good at music.”
“Oh yeah?”
Great. More of that silence festers itself into Minho’s conscious mind until they’re halfway out of the lobby and Jisung adds more. It’s unforgivingly cold out. While the chilly air nips at Minho’s nose, Jisung clears his throat.
“I produced music for a little while, wrote a couple songs, nothing really made it mainstream though.”
Minho’s instinct tells him not to press further, but his mouth is faster than his mind sometimes.
“Does that matter to you?”
“Does what matter to me?”
And, finally, instinct kicks in. “Are you hungry? Let’s go eat something.”
Jisung nods once. “Sure thing. Is it okay if you pay?”
“I mean,” Minho smiles gently, “I did ask, so it is my obligation to pay.”
A few blocks along and they’re closer to Minho’s restaurant in record time, mostly because people were not bumping into them nearly as much as usual. Jisung didn’t even protest the direction in which they were walking so the other boy decreed that he must be starving that he’d be willing to follow somebody he doesn’t even know.
Determined to feed this stranger, for whatever reason, Minho reaches for the door handle, but his hand passes right through.
Some kind of weird fever dream, he reckons; maybe one of those incredibly rare moment where the atoms all line up and let his hand go through.
Jisung uses his sleeve, clasping the fabric of it to his wrist and pushes down on the door with ease. Just like that, the door swings open and the bell chimes from overhead echo loudly in Minho’s ears. The sensation is painful, borderline excruciating, but they get to the server’s desk.
“A table for one, sir?”
Minho recognises Dae-jung — he usually hangs back in the break room when the rest of the staff go out for a smoke before the restaurant opens for dinner. He’s sweating, perspiration pooling at the base of his neck, the rag resting upon his shoulder serving no purpose. Usually, he’s beaming at all of the customers and staff alike, especially upon seeing Minho. Though he could come across as overly-enthusiastic sometimes, Minho knew that he just wanted to do his job and get a good amount of tips while doing it.
But, before Minho could smile at him, Jisung monotonously replies ‘yes’ with a firm nod and is whisked away to the table in the far corner of the place.
Minho scuttles behind the two closely, nagging. “Hey, hey, Jisung, why’d you only say one person? He knows me, you know.”
He digs his heels into the floor and stands right in front of Dae-jung. “Just get the usual for us. Put it on my card.”
Dae-jung places a singular menu down on the table and completely ignores his boss. Any other day, he would be rushing to accommodate Minho’s guests — unless he felt like getting scolded and the day hadn’t arrived before this one — and even when Dae-jung has a bad day, he still has a complacent smile on his face when he spots Minho watching him. It’s almost like he isn’t there.
Jisung retrieves a familiar-looking wallet from his left pocket and a separate card from the other one at a time, flashing it briefly towards the server, impressively only having to use one hand.
“Ah, Minho’s moved on to people?”
Jisung’s charm manifests in the form of a smile. “Sure looks like it.”
“Very well, Mr Han. My boss is a very kind man. What would you like to order?”
Jisung uses his free hand to swat the ‘kind man’ on the shoulder, soothing it immediately.
“I can order for myself, thank you very much—“
“Just tell me.” His eyes widened as the command was barked from his mouth.
Not only was Jisung bashful, but he was being rude. Shyness could be forgiven, but impoliteness? In all fairness, Minho had always been difficult.
Dae-jung looks up expectantly from his notepad while Minho rolls his eyes and shakes Jisung’s hand off his shirt, replacing the warmth of his fingertips with the cold leather of the seat. “Order me a lychee black tea. Do yourself a favour and order yourself the same too.”
“A glass of lychee black tea and two orders of the beef stew. I’m starving.” Jisung smiles once more, rubbing the fabric of his sleeve between his fingers and nodding his head in gratitude as the server walks away.
Just as quickly as it came, the grin wears off and the hands of the man across from Minho cross while he rests into the back of his chair.
“What the hell was that? Did you see that? It’s like I was, invisible, or something.”
Jisung slides the two small pieces of plastic across the table.
The one on the left is a laminated student ID that reads:
JISUNG, HAN (한지성)
D.O.B 2000.09.14
MUSIC PRODUCER
JYP ENT. CORP.
As for the one on the right:
MR. LEE MINHO (이민호)
6340 3259 98-
“Hey, that’s my credit card! How did you get that?”
“Now, in my mind, I would have liked to wait until we were in Seonyodu Park to tell you this but…”
“Not to irk you, but you’re very weird, Jisung. It’s one thing to show up in someone’s home—“
“Listen, Minho, let me explain this to you,”
“—and it’s another to take me to a park, my favourite park, to tell me some secret message—“
“Minho, come on, just eat something and we can get out of here,”
Minho is curious, so much so that it often comes across as stubborn and unwilling to accept new circumstances without understanding its purpose to the core.
“No, no, tell me now!”
“I wasn’t briefed on this, so, please—“
“Briefed?”
Frustrated, Jisung’s arms drop to his sides. “You’re dying!”
Dae-jung’s startled expression says everything, hands shaking as he places the glass down.
“Sorry, I meant that you’re dying…practically slaving yourself away in this place, just to give me such a refreshing drink! I am so thankful for that.”
Blood rushes to Jisung’s face as the waiter nervously backs away and disappears down the hallway. His palms press against his flushed cheeks and Minho can’t help but feel bad for the way he pressed for an answer from the boy without giving him time to give one.
Chan hates that part of him: whenever they quarrel or bicker, Minho feels the need to say his words as soon as the thoughts form in his brain, but, in spite of that, the former always keeps calm and talks to him in a way that helps Minho feel grounded and peaceful. Other people would just shout at him or shut down, people including Jisung, apparently. As much as he hates it when people shout, Minho’s chest sucks in a shallow breath of air and it comes out as a breathless chuckle.
Worn out, Jisung scornfully proclaims.“What are you laughing at? You’re dying, Lee Minho.”
“Can’t I laugh when I’m dead?”
He’s always been morbidly funny, but not after a day where his hand has passed through a door handle, his own workers have ignored him and a total stranger claims he is dead. No amount of sarcasm or scepticism or disbelief would wake him up.
“Just wait ‘til the stew gets here.”
The pair wait in silence until Dae-jung appears with two bowls of piping hot stew on his tray and shuffles away.
“So, Han Jisung, what else do you know about me? Or was that all that was briefed?”
Looking up through his eyebrows, the boy kisses his teeth and looks back down at the food.
Without hesitation, he blurts out, “You’re from Gimpo, born October 25th 1998. You’re gay, but you haven’t come out to your father, spoiler alert, he already knows. You live with a Bahng Christopher Chahn, you’re a chef here at Jung Eatery and you dance every Thursday, Saturday and Sunday with your team. You’re ambidextrous, but prefer to use your left hand-”
“Okay, enough. What do you not know about me?”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I got into your apartment or how I even know this stuff?”
The older guy stares down at the brown broth.
“Don’t worry, you can pick up the spoon.”
“Right, how do you know that?”
“If I give you an answer, will you trust it?”
“Sure thing.”
“I’m your guardian angel. Han Jisung.”
Whatever feeling Minho possessed before has been replaced with relief as he goes to pick up the spoon and shovel the meaty soup into his mouth. He’s surprised that it even worked, even more surprised than after finding out that he is supposedly dead, but that thought has been compartmentalised into his secondary list of worries.
“Guardian angel? So, you, like, protect me?”
“Something like that.”
“I mean, if you’re my guardian angel, why didn’t you save me from dying?”
“Something like that. I must not interfere with things that were meant to happen.”
“And who says that? God?”
“Something like that.”
Minho is halfway done when he sinks his spoon into the bowl. “You sure do like that phrase, don’t you, Jisung?”
“You like to ask questions, don’t you Minho?”
“I’m happy to know that I’m rubbing off on you a little in that respect. Was that part not in the file about me?”
“It would have taken a bit more deduction to get that knowledge so the straightforward answer is no.”
Jisung’s sharpness causes Minho to be taken aback; even though he had expected his own to be topped in one way or another, he didn’t expect it to be matched by his supposed guardian angel. The closest anyone had gotten was Hyunjin, albeit with a more subtle manner.
“Right. Okay.”
Jisung purses his lips together and takes a sip from the cup. “Any more questions?”
a thousand paper cranes ⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗ | lee know x han jisung
chapter 4: i missed it, yes
wc: 2.1k
warnings + chapter directory are here! ˖᯽ ݁˖· — reblogs, likes + comments are much appreciated ^^
crossposted on ao3!
“Is he awake?”
“Looks like it.”
“Tell him to get up faster,” Jisung’s voice has returned back to normal, but the ringing in Minho’s ears have made a return. “I need to make my bed.”
The other voice in the room is determined to Seungmin because of the groggy texture of his voice. “Like you ever make your bed.”
All Minho can really do is toss and turn while waiting for his eyes to adjust to the soft rays of sunlight streaming through the curtains.
The owner of the bed snaps his fingers twice right in front of his face. “Hello? Are you awake?”
“Here I was thinking I would be the one asking all the questions.” Minho fires back effortlessly, sitting up.
Once his eyelids have peeled themselves open, he takes three deep breaths, freezing time momentarily only to let it promptly resume with a yawn, breaking the silence.
“It’s a nice day out.” Seungmin straightens his back after bending it to study Minho’s face and leans against the windowsill.
Jisung nods. “I’ll say.”
The situation is so bizarre that Minho forgets that he’s no longer living the same mundane life that he has led every day until he woke up yesterday, if that’s what you can call it. However, before he can ask about the clothing situation, or where to get a softer mattress for the aching small of his back, Jisung answers one of his questions with a toss of some clothes in his direction. After barely catching it, only doing so thanks to his fast reflexes, he unfolds a dusky pink shirt reading ‘GHOSTIN’ and some khaki shorts, a pair of briefs falling out from inside.
When he looks up, Jisung is already out of the room and Seungmin is halfway out the door, stopping only to say, “You’re lucky he even gave you underwear. When I was in your position, I had to scavenge for the stuff.”
—
Even after less than a full day in limbo, Minho knows Jisung’s grumpiness is a facade that he refuses to let show to appear poised and in control: Chan does the same thing — did the same thing? Surely he still does it, even without Minho around to see that part of him.
He got the inkling upon first meeting him and it has all but been reinforced now that he and Seungmin were losing terribly to him and Felix in darts. The former two had been bragging heavily about their mental math skills prior to the game, but now that they were getting their asses kicked, they didn’t have to subtract any numbers that summed to one hundred at all during the game.
“You’re two legs down and a set behind, losers!” Felix gloats, shaking Minho’s shoulders so vigorously that he feels the tension of his joints clicking loose.
“Well,” Jisung begins. “Weren’t you left two legs down after crashing into that tree?”
Trash talking seemed to be stronger than his throwing.
“Yeah, Team Car Crash, truck it up.” His teammate added, finally taking his shot, only to end on a total of thirty on his go after missing twice and hitting a lucky double-15.
“Oh, you passed in a crash too?” Sun-kissed Felix takes his stance, sounding almost too enthusiastic while discussing his cause of death. “Twinsies!”
It’s horribly offensive to laugh at someone’s demise, but he’s going to heav—that place anyways, so it quite literally would not kill him to giggle at the absurdity of it all.
Felix doesn’t even break a sweat, hitting a 160 with ease, bringing the score down from 501 to 341.
It was now Jisung’s turn to throw and he rolls up his right sleeve, skin pale and veins shimmering an iridescent blue under the sun, simulating a few throws to build momentum.
Double-12.
Seungmin cheers, clapping his hands three times. “Nice!”
Five.
Minho’s teammate doubles over in laughter with his hands pressed and curled around his kneecaps.
Twenty-five.
“Fifty-four! I don’t believe it.” Seungmin’s calculations have finally amounted to something worthy of celebration, but Jisung smiles faintly and walks away from the throwing position, marked on the ground by a patch of yellowing grass.
Until today, Minho had never played a game of darts and it showed. Luckily, during the coin toss, he had been chosen by Felix and he wasn’t being criticised for missing a few shots, unlike when either Seungmin or Jisung would miss theirs and begin to bicker with one another, prolonging the game. At least Minho had somewhat gotten the hang of it.
“I heard you dance, Minho, do you dance?”
His opponents roll their eyes while Felix tries to encourage him further.
“Well, think of hitting that twenty, or triple twenty, and connect the movement with the goal. Like envisioning a dance move to hit a certain beat.”
Minho throws his elbow out a couple times to readjust his aim.
“Lix likes to talk out of his ass a lot.” Seungmin bends down to tie his shoelaces in anticipation for the blond to take his eye out with one of his dart pins.
“And Minnie likes to take the piss when he’s losing,” He fires back, taking a sip of his beer bottle to his lips, the refreshingly crisp lager hitting his tongue. “Count this up, come on.”
He lands a three upon weakly letting go of his pin, warranting a giggle from Seungmin. Again, Minho leans forward and takes his next shot.
“Okay, okay!” Lix is now on his feet and clapping his hands together.
Following a series of shallow breaths in and out, it is time for the last throw: "Cherry!"
"Holy shit!" Seungmin is cupping his mouth while jumping about excitedly. "You got a bullseye before Jisung?"
The poor guy starts whispering under his breath, only for the volume to raise in crescendo in an attempt to defend his dignity. "I missed it, yes, I know!"
Minho, growing shyer by the second, rubs the back of his own neck and sheepishly half-smiles. "It's my first time playing."
This ignites something in the blond-haired boy who has now taken to invading Seungmin's personal space, trying to chase him around the garden while looking back at Jisung whose arms were crossed and eyes were nearly completely closed because of the oversaturation of sunlight in an area a mere few meters from the parasol where everybody had put their belongings. "You hear that, Hannie? It's his first time playing!"
Thanks to the sun, now hanging proudly in the cerulean midday sky, Minho was getting hot and bothered trying to recuperate from the shooting pains of his left arm. His hands reach for the pitcher of lemonade, courtesy of Felix, but Jisung beat him to it. The yard looked just as picturesque as the house with its mostly perfect lime lawn and a fig tree at the very back, surrounded by weathered smooth stones and soil.
"Here. This yours?" He motions to an empty cup close to the edge of the table.
"Yeah, thanks." Minho manages, trying to focus on a blade of grass to avoid Jisung's eyeline.
Noticing his discomfort, the younger one changes the subject. "You get really talkative when you're drunk."
Although it was not his intention, Jisung watches as the tips of the Minho's ears grow red. "Uh...really? I guess."
"Can't handle your alcohol?"
"I really can't."
"Listen, I know I can seem unapproachable but, as weird as I find myself for saying this, I'm here to help you process this all. You must have been all chatty yesterday because this was all so new, and, if that's who you are when you're comfortable with somebody, be chatty. It's no issue."
While he spoke, Minho could hear him clearly; understanding it was the issue. He knew what Jisung meant and how he wanted to come across, but the only thing he could focus on was the beads of sweat dripping from his temples and the way his chest was outlined in the sleeveless shirt he was wearing.
"And I'm being serious. You should have seen Minnie before he settled in, he was more quiet than you are right now, spoke no more than five words at a time. The quicker you say fuck it, the better this shitty situation becomes."
Minho was sure that he was alluding to the fact that he was dead, but he was more concerned about the fact that, if it were the day after the accident, he would be missing dance practice right now, conveniently before the gig that they had at a birthday party for Hyunjin's nephew.
"I can't read minds here, but, I think you're thinking about it!" His tone is cheerier than Minho's heard it so far, so saccharine that he automatically replies with a "Sure am."
"Minnie, you and Jisung should just forfeit already!"
Somehow, Felix is yet to run out of energy, dancing circles around a panting Seungmin. Jisung's smile falters a little only to come back more stable.
"What idiots, huh."
Fuck it. "You guys look so dumb!" Minho joins in finally, making Jisung beam for a split second. He takes the handle of the glass jug and tips the lemonade into Minho's cup while he is turned away.
Without looking, the newly-confident man takes it from the table and drinks two hearty swigs, the cold hitting all of the dry spots in his throat. "They all live here?"
"Well, this is going to sound fake but, we were all dead and we just kind of found each other. Minnie and I were already friends since we died before Felix did, and this one day, we found this beautiful house,"
Jisung's hands are telling more of a story than his words are at this point and, while he swallows, his adam's apple bobs up and down, and Minho can't help but stare. All he could hope was that he was not being obvious.
"But Felix had already set up camp in here so Minnie and I had to beg him to let us bunk with him."
The two are now lazily lounging on the grass beneath the sky, Seungmin waiting a few seconds before running back inside the house and retrieving a gingham blanket and placing it flat on the ground.
"Heaven's nice, but we like staying close to home. Every once in a while, God'll task some of us younger people to help people of similar age settle in, help them get some closure."
Minho furrows his eyebrows. "Doesn't that get a bit emotionally taxing at times?"
Jisung just smiles. "Oh,"
"All of the time."
Now, the sun above has begun to seek refuge behind the fig tree, light filtering in at various angles, only hitting the ground directly in front of it. The bummed-out duo who had only just started to acclimatise to the sunny surroundings groan exhaustedly, not even bothering to move the blanket when shifting their bodies at such an angle so that their arms are in direct contact with the heat. Minho sighs, but Jisung cuts through the quiet.
"At least I imagine so, it's my first time on the job."
"Oh."
Minho takes a deep breath, shelving one question and fetching another. "Do you all get along?"
"Luckily."
He can't help but watch Jisung's fingers trace the rim of the glass, once, twice, three times before resting on his own lap.
"I mean, we are all friends here."
"I hope I can get along with you guys."
"You'll be just fine-,"
Just then, Felix's head lifts up, hand pressing firmly down on Seungmin's chest, making him cough in protest. "Aren't you guys gonna come and lay here with us?"
"That's gay!" Jisung taunts jokingly from his seat.
"And when has that ever been a problem for you, J One?" Seungmin joins in, still winded.
Wordlessly, J One looks back at Minho for permission. In response, he rises and jogs leisurely towards them with a wide grin, taking up some space next to Lix.
"Look who's finally come out of his shell!" He celebrates, propping himself up on his elbows a little, moving over when Jisung finally gets to the place where they are all laying. "Come on, Hannie, game's finished."
Jisung, burgundy hair almost blending in with the red and white design of the blanket beneath them, lays close to Minho. "And here I thought we'd have to get him high or something."
"I mean," Minho's courage builds up as he finishes his sentence, "I wouldn't be complaining about it."
"Stoner!" Felix's eyebrows raise in surprise.
Minho fans away the uncomfortable warmth of the returning sun in an attempt to avoid looking back at Jisung. "Nah, nah, but, is weed even allowed in heaven?"
"Seungmin knows a guy." Lix snickers, pressing his finger down into his friend's forehead.
"You liar! No, I do not." He fights his own laughter with a caustic quality in his voice.
a thousand paper cranes ⋆𖦹⋆ˎˊ˗ | lee know x han jisung
chapter 2: well then, laugh all you want
wc: 1.3k
warnings + chapter directory are here! ˖᯽ ݁˖· — reblogs, likes + comments are much appreciated ^^
crossposted on ao3!
It’s a funny thing to be in a place you only really see at a certain time of day.
For Minho, Seonyodu Park is pretty in the mornings: it’s all lemon-coloured sunlight and birch trees and benches with engravings for lost loved ones. It’s lily pads in sleek fountains and the bridge over the meandering Han River and the shrine where he seeks refuge in whenever it rains at sunrise.
But being here now, it’s all midnight sky and frigid air, the only thing that stayed the same being the soft tides crashing against the earth on either side of the banks. It all looks so different. That’s what happens when you’re dead, Minho.
Minho’s hands are in his pockets, leading Jisung’s footsteps towards the shrine. Since it’s so close to the restaurant, it doesn’t take long before they reach it, Jisung’s lungs about to give way as he catches his breath post-hike up the steep incline.
“You’re not athletic?” His tone sounds inquisitive, but Minho can already guess the answer.
“And what tells you that? This asthma attack?” He sits inside the structure, leaning against the railings that separate it from the view of the river itself.
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Why don’t you come sit?”
The older man obliges, kicking a few rocks while he closes the gap between them, squatting down beside the other.
“Aren’t you supposed to be my guardian angel though? Can’t you fly with your wings or something?”
“I don’t have any wings yet.” He chuckles sourly.
Jisung’s cheeks look just as red as his hair, deep cherry strands parted messily in the middle and curling upwards.
“So how am I supposed to believe that you are an angel, Jisung?”
“Don’t I look like it?” He frames the bottom half of his face with his hands.
“I mean, I didn’t know God allowed shitty box dye into heaven.”
“I’ll have you know I died with this hair.”
Minho stares out at the river behind them, listening to the beeps and muffled music of car radios that were more prevalent on the bridge. You’re dead, Minho.
“Well, it’s a surprise you didn’t go to hell for it.”
Jisung’s mouth is agape while the other heartily laughs out into the blurry, neon horizon. Indigo and electric blue flicker amidst the backdrop of navy and soft white tones, still somehow penetrating the dark.
“How did you die?”
Minho watches as the younger boy’s gaze flits away from him and towards the bridge. Minho’s straightforwardness meant that he often put himself and others in tight spots. He knew that. He just didn’t know how to stop.
“In a hospital bed.”
A moment passes and, as the curious man thinks about interrogating further, he pinches himself tightly to prevent it, growing ever more conscious of his insensitivity.
“Well, you said earlier that I’m dying?”
He nods, finally shifting his eyes back. “Indeed, that’s right.”
“What happened to me?”
There’s a whole range of possible things that could have happened: he could have been murdered, he could have had a heart attack, brain aneurysm; the list is endless.
“Car collision. You were hit head-on by a college student.”
“That’s a bit less cool than I thought.”
“You’d rather be murdered or something?” Jisung wears disbelief on his face like breathing.
“Nobody can see me. Why is that?”
“Your soul is separate from your tangible body. Right now, you’re in hospital, but, your soul is roaming with me.”
Minho cocks his eyebrow, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to mask his fidgeting with appearing to be cold, when a thought pops into his head. “So how’d Dae-jung see you if you’re already dead?”
“When an angel is assigned to a task, he is allowed to possess an article of clothing that makes himself appear visible to living humans. Whenever they hold their sleeve, they may be able to talk to them, too.”
“Your hoodie is magic?”
“Precisely.”
Just to clarify, Minho’s finger points at Jisung’s chest. “If I wear it, I can interact with others?”
“Well, from wherever your body currently is. In this case, it’s the ICU. You’re in comatose state, so it wouldn’t really be worth it.”
“You’re dead though. How come it works for you?” You’re dead too, Minho.
“You haven’t fully died yet. And, keep it between me and you, but these rules I had to learn were hard to understand — how do I even explain it all to you?”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I’m sure you’re curious.”
“You’d be right.”
Truth be told, he was unsure of questioning further because, as much as he was starting to like this Jisung guy, he knew that the truth would hurt more. If everything was explained, it would solidify the fact that he was dead and there would be nothing he could do about it. How was Chan finding it? How was the restaurant handling it? How about the people from his dance club? He was dead after all.
Jisung’s smile is downturned when he averts his gaze from his worried, half-dead companion. In spite of his drained life, the fully-dead man had this certain warmth that drew Minho closer without him even realising.
“Guardian angels are assigned to humans living in limbo with a high chance of crossing into the after life to help them settle in.”
Minho draws in a breath of icy air in and huffs it out of his cheeks all at once, voice breaking when he decides to continue talking. “What are my chances of moving on to that place, then?”
“Somewhere in the 80 percent margin.”
And it hits him for the last time, hard and forceful, like a brick to a glass window. Life is something we are not grateful for until it is gone. Because all the missed buses, spilled coffees, unfinished business give people purpose to keep trying in life, to push forward. All of a sudden, Minho realises that there is no lost time to make up or any spills to clean and it is all simply over.
“Hello? Minho?”
But he can’t hear Jisung over his own cackles, shifting his weight between his left and right arms, both of which resting on the railing of the shrine.
“Man, this isn’t funny!”
Still, Minho’s uncontrollable laughter drowns out the noise of honking horns and Jisung’s cracking voice until the former hits the railing in frustration and slinks back down onto the earth beneath him, if you can even call it that.
“So, this is limbo? Is this, like, the real world?”
The angel nods. “Yes and yes. You just can’t interact with the living.”
“So, I’m not a ghost?”
“You are, but you can’t affect the real world. It will just be corrected.”
“Like, show a different version of reality?” His tone sounds equal parts interest and distrust.
“To put it simply, yes. Would you like to know more?”
“About that place? Well, I’ll be seeing it real soon.” Minho always tries to conceal his worry through a joke or two, even Jisung has picked up on it in the couple hours he has spent with the guy.
“Well, thinking about going to that place can be really troubling. I know it is.”
“I’m sorry for laughing, I just don’t want to really think about it too hard — for now, at least.”
“Well then, laugh all you want.”
Knowing smile appearing on his face, Jisung massages Minho’s shoulder once more, but this time he doesn’t slap it away or try to fight it. He can only hear the sweeping gushes of water and the distant sounds of cars and his own quiet laughter.
