OMG This Was So Fucking Good. Like Please, I Want More.

OMG this was so fucking good. Like please, I want more.

"Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life." ~ I dunno why but this really had me laughing

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns. 

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.” 

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo. 

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

Love Is Intuitive ~ Bang Chan

"You come from a wealthy linage and business obsessed parents. Chan has grown up working hard his whole life, living paycheck to paycheck. You're arranged to marry someone else, but love is intuitive."

KINKTOBER: DAY THIRTEEN - Breeding + Praise

Pairing: Bang Chan x afab reader

Genre: explicit smut, non idol au, forbidden love, arranged marriage (not to Chan), angst, fluff

Word Count: 5.8k (I KNOW I KNOW DON'T LOOK AT ME)

A/N: How are we in December...I feel like I time travelled or I've been knocked out for a month...I am truly sorry with how long it has taken me to get this out. Had massive writers block and then completely lost motivation, but alas it's here! This will be the last long Kinktober part, from now on I am trying to keep them around the 3k max as otherwise it will take me forever to get through them all. Thank you for your patience and support, you are all so lovely! Hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think! 💕

CONTENT WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT

kinktober | kofi | next >>

Content Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, Explicit Sexual Content, breeding kink, consensual vaginal penetration (reader on birth control), so much praise (Channie's speciality), begging, a single pussy slap, nibbles, swearing/cursing, dirty talk, soft dom/pleasure top Chan, creampie, breast play, very light and minimal restraint, slight possessiveness (pretty brief they just love each other), very very fluffy smut, toxic parents (treat reader as an object for business gain), reader feels trapped in a life they don't want, hints of homophobic parents (Minsung situation), pet names: (baby, pretty, beautiful, pretty girl, my girl, good girl).

You look down at the man who is kneeling on one knee in front of you, his shaky hand in yours. You had dreamt of this moment your entire life, every little girl had. The moment where the man you had given your heart to, gave you a promise to always protect it, an oath to stand by your side for the rest of his life through the symbolism of a ring in box.

Except the man knelt in front of you, caressing your hand tightly like he was as petrified as you were, looked up at you with pleading cat-like eyes, so different to the wolf shaped ones you had fallen for.

"Y/N?" Minho called your name urging you to answer him with a softness that was kind. His eyes flickering nervously around at the numerous people filling up the space for a closer look at the proposal. All waiting for your answer, but his eyes lingered on one member of the crowd longer than any, his eyes softening and glistening with regret.

Jisung.

Jisung was a close family friend of yours. He was the son of your father's university dorm mate, both growing up to become the wealthiest amongst their graduating class. Millionaires in their own right, despite you father's famous family linage and working their way up the food chain, creating one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies to come out of the pandemic.

Jisung for as long as you could remember had been a running candidate to take up the role of your husband and maybe if Minho never came into the picture, maybe his boba like eyes would be staring up at you right now.

Minho wasn't a stranger to you, he was a friend, a co-worker, someone you admired, but someone who would never hold your heart in the way that fantasy novels wrote of.

Minho was in love with Jisung.

Minho's secret relationship with Jisung had gone under the radar, no one suspecting a thing. Everyone ignoring the loving glances exchanged as they past each other in the board room when Jisung would frequently visit you, the smiles and laughter that Minho would provoke out of Jisung, the bright grins that no one could achieve but him.

You sometimes wondered whether everyone ignored the signs, the same way they had ignored yours, knowing that it would never be an option, so why worry about it?

Your engagement with Minho had been planned for months, calculated down to the day, detailed financial reports, publications organised and the wedding venue already booked. The board, your parents, his parents, your family and everyone that didn't matter to the situation, all in agreeance that your partnership would be the most beneficial. Everyone but the only two people that mattered.

You knew the consequences of rejecting this proposal. Especially in front of the many family members, business partners and future business partners that stood in the room. Objectively your future would be impacted, in ways you didn't care for and the disapproval you'd never overcome from your family. Looking into their panicked eyes as your own landed on them, said it all.

'Say yes or else.'

But love is intuitive.

Minho was in love with Jisung.

And you were in love with another.

Compassionate, courageous, hardworking, adventurous, ambitious, breathtakingly brilliant Chan.

You loved him with all your being.

A love you knew that only Minho and Jisung in this room could understand.

So you did the only thing that would give you more time, gracefully and perfectly executing a dramatic loss of consciousness.

You laid there eyes closed, keeping up the act un-moving as you heard a string of gasps echo around the ball room and you felt Minho kneel down next to you, his hands caressing your cheeks gently.

"Y/N?! Are you alright?" Minho questioned, concern filled in his normally smooth melodic voice, turning your face to inspect it.

You played your part, fluttering your eyes like you had just regained consciousness giving Minho a dazed expression.

"I-I think I should lay down." You whispered to him, squeezing his bicep with urgency, begging him to take you away from the situation.

The look in his eyes changed and as if you were speaking telepathically, you knew he understood this was just an act to get out of the engagement, and he gave you a small nod.

Your mother and Jisung came into view next to Minho, your mother looking down at you with judgment.

"Here let me help you daughter." You mother's tone was nurturing, bending down to be at level with you.

To anyone in the room, she appeared the vision of motherhood. Regal in her movements, kind in her words, but the look in her eyes as she stared at you coldly painted you a very different picture.

She leaned down enough so that the only people to hear her next words were you.

"This changes nothing."

Just like a switch had flicked, her cold words drifted and she helped Minho get you back on your feet and she turned to the crowd with an apologetic smile.

"Y/N will be retiring for the night, it seems she has been overwhelmed with joy from the proposal. Let us all move to the banquet hall and raise a toast to the newly engaged."

And just like that, the ball room emptied, following your parents out of the wide space. Leaving Minho and Jisung by your side.

"Are you okay?" Jisung asked eyeing you carefully, he knew better than to believe your mother's façade.

"No Ji, I can't do this." You didn't know what to feel. Rage, sadness, frustration, hurt, helplessness. It was all bubbling up within you, swirling around and creating the perfect storm, ready to erupt out of you at any minute.

"Let's go to your room, we chat more privately there." Minho offered, taking your hand in his and tilting his head at Jisung to encourage him to follow.

Minho had known you long enough to tell there was more to tonight than just a forced marriage proposal by your parents. Minho could understand the reasoning behind your hesitation, he knew of your secret rendezvous with Chan, even if the hesitancy was just a sign of rebellion against your parents, he'd understand.

But what Minho couldn't understand, was why you couldn't see that this was the best outcome for all of you.

With the two of you wed, you would be out of public interest, free to be with whomever you liked behind the scenes. You knew he loved Jisung, he knew you loved Chan. You both could be with the ones you'd like freely without anyone ever knowing, maybe not publicly or officially, but you'd be free of judgement, free of disappointing your parents. Was marrying him that terrible when it could solve a lot of your problems?

The three of you made hast up the stairs, wasting no time in getting to your bedroom.

You were now distant from the party, but even the privacy of your room didn't ease your feelings. You needed to get out of here.

You were sick of the secrets, sick of the gossip, the judgmental stares and the pressure, god you were sick of the pressure that weighed down on you.

Before you could even process your movements, you were darting around your room, shoving essentials in overnight bag, while Jisung stared at you with wide eyes.

Minho was too distracted, pacing by the closed doors lost in his own thoughts.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" Jisung asked you, dragging Minho's attention to you.

"I'm leaving, I can't breathe here Ji. I'm going to see Chan." You informed them, not stopping as you shoved more clothes into your bag.

"What are we going to do Y/N? You can't just run away from your problems, from our problems." Minho was frustrated, within reason, but he didn't give you a chance to answer him as he continued, "Is us getting married really that bad? It could solve so many issues." Minho suggested, moving to sit down on the end of your bed where he watched you shove more clothes into your bag.

"Minho it's not an option, I'm not doing that to us, to Ji, to Chan. They don't get to dictate who we love. I just- I just can't think right now." You answered, frustrated as you shoved your phone charger and other belongings into your bag.

Jisung let out a sigh and took the space next to Minho on your bed, placing his hand comfortingly over Minho's.

Minho suddenly rose from the bed, matching your frustration as he resumed his pacing, running his hands agitatedly through his hair.

"I hate that they've done this to us, but we can still be happy together Y/N. I won't stop you from being with Chan, I can still be with Ji." Minho said desperately trying to find the solution to make everyone happy, leaning against the wall for support as he slid down it to the floor by your door.

Jisung looked at him with sad eyes before turning to look at you.

You that held the key. Jisung knew that Minho was only going along with everything to protect you from your parent's wrath. Minho knew the hold they had on you, the threats, the cage they had you trapped in with their money.

But what Minho and Jisung didn't know, was that you had thought about this. For the last few months in bed beside Chan when you woke before him and you glanced at Chan sleeping, right before he arose greeting you with a soft smile. When you sat at dinner feeling miserable with the life you continued to suffer in, at the life where Minho and Jisung had to hide away their feelings to protect your image.

It wasn't fair for any of you. And it was time you ended it.

"We all deserve to live a happy life, out in the open with the people we love. You both deserve to be happy." You announced, packing the final things in your bags that you needed, placing it on the bed next to Jisung to zip it up.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and turned to Minho with a gentle smile.

"Minho I can't accept your proposal, but I know Ji will." You placed a hand on Jisung's shoulder giving him a soft squeeze as he glanced up at your with wide eyes of surprise.

Minho's head raised out of his hands to stare at you with as much shock as Jisung and you gave him a brighter smile.

"We will figure it all out, but I am going to be with Chan. I choose love. I don't care if I lose it all, but I can't lose him." With those as your final words, you made your way over to your bedroom window, tracking the same path down the side of your balcony to the roof of the lower level and to the ground, that you always took during the many nights you snuck out to be with Chan.

As you made your way to the footpath, you turned to glance back at your balcony to see the faint silhouette of Minho and Jisung embracing.

You knew it wouldn't be easy but it would be worth it in the end.

Your arrangement with the guards of cash for silence and no questions, was still held in place as you slipped them some notes and climbed into the backseat of your chauffer.

Your driver looked at you through the revision mirror intently, his eyes full of curiosity as he took in the bag on the seat beside you.

"Chan's house? Miss Y/L/N." He questioned, seemingly already knowing the answer from the numerous times he had taken you there.

You nodded turning to gaze out the window as you watched your old life pass you by and then fade out of view.

.

The ride to Chan's wasn't an overly long one, but it gave you enough time to think clearly, enough time to hesitate and tell the driver to turn around. But you didn't. Your mind was made up and there was no turning back now.

Chan had sent you a message during the party to wish you luck with the night, reminding you that whatever your decision was he would respect, that he understood and that he loved you, and you loved him even more for it.

As soon as the car pulled up on the sidewalk of Chan's unit, you thanked the driver and gave him a tip for the ride, before dashing up to Chan's door.

You knocked impatiently, not being able to hide your excitement. You'd really done it. You'd finally decided to leave and never look back.

It was terrifying, you felt a sense of guilt, but overwhelmingly you were happy, happy to finally live a life that you were in control of and you couldn't wait to tell Chan the news.

Chan's door swung open to reveal a head of messy curls, a white tank top with car oil stains on it tucked into baggy denim jeans and sewn together with a torn black belt.

Chan had clearly only been home a short while from his job at the garage down the road, but he still greeted you with enthusiasm, a wide smile curving up his lips as he registered your presence.

"Y/N? I didn't expect to see you tonight, how was the-" He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence as you flung yourself into his arms, throwing your bag to the side and hiding your face into his neck as you finally let your emotions overcome you.

Chan although shocked, instantly pulled you into his arms, caressing you gently against his chest, but he stayed silent, allowing you a moment to calm down.

You couldn't help the few tears that spilled, landing on his exposed shoulder as you felt relief wash over you. You finally felt safe and more importantly, you finally felt home.

"What happened tonight?" Chan finally spoke, one hand delicately smoothing over your hair and his other shutting the door behind you, before finding its place in the small of your back to comfort you further.

You knew he wasn't just asking what happened to get you in this state, you knew he would be curious as to what your answer was to the proposal from Minho, but Chan continued to prove he'd always put your well being over his own feelings.

You pulled away enough to come face to face with Chan, taking in his features as you traced his jawline with your finger, a small smile lighting up your cheeks in contrast with the tears still in your eyes.

You took in a breath and looked into his wolf like eyes, the caramel in them intently scanning yours to find the meaning behind your actions.

"I'm done Chan. I'm done being their puppet." You answered finally. You wanted your voice to match the courage in your decision, but instead it came out weakened, tired from the years of being used as a business proposition, your life always mapped out to align with your family's desires.

Chan couldn't hide the shock evident in the way his eyes widened and his mouth parted, but it was quickly overturned with a smile so bright you felt the moonlight radiate off him.

"Wait, are you serious? What does that mean? You said no?" Chan asked quickly, not being able to contain his excitement despite his confusion.

You giggled at him fondly, taking his face into your hands and caressing his cheeks gently.

"It means, I am yours and only yours. I will never go back there. I want a life of my own, a life where I choose who I spend the rest of my life with. I choose you Chan." You whispered leaning your forehead against his, needing every part of you as close to him as you could, as if it would make up for the distance your parents had tried to create between you.

Chan pondered your words for a moment, soaking in the seriousness of them, but then his face faltered, his eyebrows drew together and he took a step back from your hold.

"Y/N, I have nothing to offer you. I have minimal income, this unit is the only thing in my possession. The life I can offer you will be hard. Your parents threatened to cut you off, they threatened to close down the garage I work for...Is this wise?" Chan looked defeated, that the prospect of you two having the life you always desired together was impossible.

But the life you wanted so desperately was just out of reach.

You reached out to cup his cheeks again, firmly looking into his eyes so he could see the sincerity behind them as you spoke.

"Chan we will figure everything out, I assure you. I don't care what they throw at us, I know we can work through this together. I only want you, it has always been you and it will always be you."

His face softened, taken a back by your declaration, but he leaned into your touch. He had missed your touch.

Three years you had known him, three years you had loved him. Three years of hiding in the shadows and three years of you knowing that it would all lead to tonight, the night you finally put everything else aside to step forward with him by your side. It was all he'd ever wanted, all you ever wanted and it was finally true.

He leaned in taking you by surprise with a gentle kiss. His lips moved slowly, passionately and you felt your head spin as he deepened the kiss, taking you into his arms once again and holding you against him with a gentle firmness that made your heart melt.

"I love you." He whispered, swallowing the sweet sigh that left your lips and floated into his.

You hadn't seen Chan much lately, with everything ramping up with the planned proposal and your parents keeping you on a tight leash. You'd miss the feeling of his skin under yours, the feeling of dried sweat that clung to his messy brown curls as you laced your fingers through them, tugging on them slightly.

Chan moaned deeply into your mouth at the action, only urging you to continue as you pressed your body flush against his.

"I love you so much, I've missed you so much." You moaned back into him, separating your lips to give you a chance to gaze into his lust filled eyes.

He stared down at you, running his thumb against your bottom lip and eyeing you carefully.

"You'll never have to miss me again." He promised, sliding his hands down to grip onto your thighs, pulling you up into his arms as he moved you over to his bed. You giggled as you clung to him.

Chan had such an incredible skill of removing all your worries once you were in his arms, like the two of you were the only ones left in the entire world. He laid you down carefully on his bed, trapping you in his arms and he paused for a moment to take the time to scan over you below him.

You looked up at him matching the love in his eyes and you felt it right then and there, that there was no where you'd rather be, you felt connected to him more than you'd ever been before.

He looked down at you like you were his universe and when he looked into your eyes like he was now, you truly believed the love you had for him flowed through him and right back into you.

"You're so perfect." Chan praised through swollen pink lips and you felt your cheeks heat to match the colour of them, squirming shyly under him.

"Don't turn shy on me now, pretty." He smiled, leaning in to press kisses along your jawline that had your skin tingling with need.

You sighed contently as his kisses progressed down to your neck, his nose trailing each kiss.

"Want to be like this forever." You admitted honestly, feeling your heart speaking before your mind could process the words.

You felt his lips form another smile against your skin before he pulled away from you to kneel between your legs that had opened for him instinctively.

He leaned back on his heels, his hands trailing down your curves to land on your thighs and he gave them a squeeze, appreciating the softness of them.

"Forever?" He questioned you with a playful glint his eyes.

"If you'll have me." You answered instantly.

You knew he was trying to lighten the mood, not wanting to put any pressure on you after the events of tonight, and you appreciated it, but you knew what you wanted.

You saw his emotions shift as he took in your honest response and he gave you another of his beautiful smiles as his fingers trailed under your evening dress, pushing it up.

"Forever it is then."

His fingers reached for your panties and he didn't hesitate to remove them, pressing kisses into your knee as he helped glide them down and over your heels.

Every movement he made as he removed not only your clothes but his, was delicate, slow and he lingered his fingertips on your skin for as long as he could. His eyes never left yours, sinking pools of hope, desire and love, and you were drowning in them, soaking up every piece of himself he gave you with every touch.

There you both were, completely exposed to each other and yet you both didn't speak or move, just staring deeply into each others eyes. Your eyes whispering all the unspoken feelings you'd never be able to explain.

"I want you to be sure." Chan finally broke the silence, his hands smoothing over your thighs, "I want you to be sure you want this future. Nothing will ever be the same again."

You sat up, wrapping your arms around his neck and gave him a smile.

"I don't want it to be the same Channie. I want a future with you in it. Completely in it. For the rest of tonight, don't think about them or what ifs. Think about us, think about the life we could have." You whispered softly, ghosting your lips against his as you continued to hold his gentle gaze.

He closed his eyes, imaging the life ahead of you both and he smiled.

"Our life." He voiced his thoughts, "A life where you're my wife, a life with our beautiful children and a life filled with happiness."

You smiled back at him and bit your bottom lip shyly.

"Then why do you stop yourself from having that life Channie, I'm right here. Give me that life." You pleaded, falling back to the mattress, laying yourself bare for him.

His eyes scanned over every inch of your body before coming back up to yours, they were searing with desire.

"Don't say things like that to me baby." His smile turned into a sly smirk as he descended on you, his hands gliding up to cup your breasts.

You moaned breathlessly unprepared for the sensation as he took your nipple between his fingers, leaning down to press more kisses into your shoulders before moving to whisper in your ear,

"Or I'll give you those children before we're both ready for them."

You gasped at the sudden change in his demeanor, hands moving quickly to grip his biceps trying to ground yourself and bring sense back to the room that seemed to have started spinning by his words. Your hips rutting up and grazing over his hardened cock uncontrollably.

"Oh, you want that, pretty girl?" Chan smirked down at you in surprise, still squeezing and rolling your nipple, as he bent down to kitten lick it, causing you to moan loudly. "You want me to breed you?"

You both knew that the birth control implanted in your arm would hinder any chances of you actually becoming pregnant tonight, but the thought alone of Chan filling you with the intention to conceive was causing your body to reach abnormal temperatures.

"Y-yes, please I want you so bad Channie." You whimpered, hips wriggling impatiently searching for friction.

"You don't need to beg, beautiful." His husky voice ringed in your ears as his hands abandoned your breasts, sweeping down to open your legs and put your cunt on display for him. You let him expose you as you looked down at him with pleading big eyes, the anticipation eating away at you, wanting him to touch you properly.

Chan hummed a grunt as he took your dripping cunt in, a finger swiping through your folds and collecting your juices for him to taste. You watched as his finger disappeared in his mouth.

"You taste so fucking good." He moaned at the taste of you on his tongue and you whined back as he softly slapped your cunt, your body jolting from the impact of pleasure mixed with pain that was so different to your usual soft love making.

"Such a good girl for me always, I'll give you anything you want." He praised, patiently waiting for you to give him an order to fulfill.

"W-want you to make me yours." You whimpered shyly.

"Yeah? Want me to claim you? Breed you till you can't take anymore of my cum?" Chan taunted, licking over your hardened buds knowing full well the affect it was having on you as you arched your back into him wanting more.

"F-fuck...yes, please, please." You were already babbling, eyelashes fluttering with pleasure, drunk on him already, desperate to have him fill you the only way he could.

He grabbed your chin, forcing you to focus in on his eyes again and he bent down to kiss you, but before your lips connected he spoke in the deepest voice you'd ever heard from him. His tone was a mixture of huskiness and gravel that had your cunt fluttering for him.

"You're mine. Forever."

His lips attached to yours hungrily, lips moving in perfect sync as you felt him reach down to grasp his cock, nudging the tip of it at your entrance. He coated it in your essence, sending shock wave after shock wave of pleasure through you as he grazed your clit.

"Think you can take all of me?" Chan grunted, pulling away from your lips to lick over his hungrily, not wanting to waste anymore time and wanting to feel you wrap yourself around him, giving yourself to him fully.

You nodded, "Need you."

"I'll take it slow, if it's too much tell me baby."

You didn't have even a second to appreciate his gentlemen like behaviour as he impatiently breached your entrance, pushing just his tip inside your slippery and waiting walls.

You whined at the stretch, feeling it burn as you tried to take as much of his length as you could and Chan moaned, hissing at the tightness of your warm cunt.

"Fucking hell, always so tight for me." He hissed out letting his hand fall from his cock to rub gentle circles over your clit, trying to ease the sting of his cock stretching you out.

The pain of you being filled so quickly with every inch that pressed up against your walls was quickly being overtaken by the pleasure Chan was creating on your clit and your moans were increasing as your walls relaxed, sucking his cock in greedily.

"That's it baby." Chan moaned, thrusting in slowly to bottom out in the deepest part within you and pausing a moment to allow you to adjust to his size.

You moaned back at him, your hands raising to drag your fingernails across his chiseled abdominal muscles, needing to return some of the pleasure he was adorning on you.

He closed his eyes at your touch like he was trying to hold himself back from absolutely ruining you as you continued your assault to his sides, watching his body shudder under your touch.

"You're so good to me baby, but tonight is about you." Chan uttered as he took your wrists in his large hands, pinning them down beside your head.

Your hips rutted up into him, feeling yourself relax completely in his hold, more of your wetness coating Chan's cock that was buried deeply inside you, and that was enough for Chan to begin thrusting into you with a moan.

His hips rolled into yours slowly at first, taking his time with every stroke so you could feel his entire length drag against your walls. With every thrust he ensured his cock was rammed all the way back in, hitting the deepest parts of you.

He was still holding your wrists, grunting in your ear as his lips found there way back to your neck, taking the skin there between his teeth and lips. He was nibbling your neck softly, moaning against the skin and surely leaving marks for you to relive tonight over and over again at the sight of them tomorrow.

Everything Chan did had you reeling, your body was hot, your walls fluttering around his cock and you could already feel the knot in your stomach begin to tighten at the thought of Chan keeping his promise.

Your hands were clenching, desperate to feel Chan's skin under them once again. The restraint Chan had on your wrists was sending waves of pleasure through you as his thrusts picked up, his hips rolling into you at a faster past, but he still ensured every thrust was deep enough to hit your cervix and send stars shooting across your vision.

Chan could feel you wriggling in his hold and he detached himself from your neck to gaze down at you below him.

"You feel fucking incredible." He moaned eyeing your hands trying to grasp something to ground yourself and a smirk played across his lips as an idea came to mind.

One hand left your wrist, smoothing down your hips until he reached the back of your thigh, pushing your leg up toward your stomach, giving Chan a better angle. At the same time, his other hand moved from your wrist to hold your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours.

Your jaw dropped as heavy breaths slipped through your lips, eyes locked with Chan's. It was such a innocent act, but it filled your heart with so much love and desire for the man above you. You had sex plenty of times with Chan before tonight, and you didn't know if it was the night's earlier events or the love blooming between the two of you, but you had never felt more connected to Chan. It was sending you to new heights.

"Channie." You moaned, your hand tightening in his, clutching on for dear life as your other hand went to tangle themselves in his hair.

He let out what you could only describe as a growl at the feeling of your fingers on his scalp, and he pushed your thigh harder towards your stomach, giving himself more leverage as his thrusts increased.

"Tell me how much you want it." Chan grunted, taking your hardened bud back into his mouth.

It took you a moment to process the meaning behind his words through the haze that was enrapturing your entire body with the extra stimulant, but you managed to respond.

"So so much Channie, please." You begged.

Chan playfully nipped at your breast and your body responded arching into him as your hips moved to meet his thrusts, chasing your and his highs.

"You can do better than that pretty girl." Chan cooed adding more nips to your breast upon your reaction.

His cock was now pounding into you. Delicious sounds of skin colliding, moans echoing off the walls and the squelching of his cock entering you over and over again, had you closer than ever to ascending.

"Please fill me Channie, w-wanna cum with you." You whimpered, the sensations blending as one, your orgasm creeping closer as your walls tightened around his cock.

"Shit baby." Chan cursed. The way your walls were clenching down on him, trapping him inside you like your body was screaming in need of being bred was urging him on to fulfill your desires.

Suddenly you felt pleasure erupt from your clit as Chan's hand left your thigh to circle it, the rhythm of his fingers a pace your heartbeat couldn't keep up with.

"G-Gon-na" You couldn't even comprehend the words, let alone warn Chan of your approaching orgasm, but Chan didn't need you to warn him. The way your thighs were twitching, hand shaking in his was enough to tell him.

"Cum baby, cum around my cock and I'll give you what you deserve. Gonna breed you so full, stuff you so full of me, you'll take it, right?" Chan was just incoherent as you, babbling anything his cock wanted you to hear.

It was all too much. Overwhelmed, your orgasm ripped through you. His name a scream as your body convulsed in his embrace. He was cursing, watching you with eyes of astonishment as he witnessed the way your eyebrows drew together, eyes squeezed shut letting your orgasm wash over you and around him.

"That's my girl. Take it." Chan growled, his fingers leaving your clit so his hand could anchor on your hips, allowing you to ride the rest of your high on his cock as he pounded repeatedly into you, chasing his own release.

His cock twitched inside of you, shoving it as deep as he could go, his warm seed spilling inside of you. His eyes closed and his head tilted back, cursed out moans falling from his puffy lips as your walls milked him.

You were sure this was what heaven felt like, you were floating, yet you were encased in strong angel like arms that reminded you that this was your life, this was your home.

You felt full, satisfied and completely utterly loved.

Chan was breathing heavily into your hair as he snuggled closer to you, not wanting to withdraw from you in any aspect. Your chest rose and fell harshly as you both basked in the peaceful afterglow of such intense physical and mental emotions.

"Baby..." Chan called to you as he slid slowly to lay next to you.

You turned your face to look into his eyes, silently telling him you were listening and one of his hands landed gently over your stomach, smoothing over the skin and caressing it delicately.

"I want that future with you. Whatever it takes." He whispered, fondly crossing the distance between the two of you to place a soft kiss on your forehead.

Tears pricked behind your eyes as you allowed yourself to soak up the overflowing love Chan was bestowing upon you, still overwhelmed from your climax as you stared deeply into his wolf like eyes. The eyes you had fallen for three years ago and forever more.

"I won't let them take it from us." You promised him, placing your hand over his on your stomach.

Chan smiled brightly at your promise.

There would be obstacles, hardships and pain, but nothing could extinguish the fire that burned between you two and the hope that one day the future you both craved would be the present.

© skzonthebrain

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I can't even fathom that kind of shock and pain. I have been fortunate enough in life to have been spared a lot of grief and loss

"Are you still coming home?"

₊✩‧₊ ot8 - romance tropes ₊✩‧₊

synopsis: Stray Kids members as romance tropes; Based off of this ask I answered - put into longer stories/a proper series.

pairing: han jisung x fem!reader

notes: drip coffee being served. (aka angst.)

warnings: mentions of character death (reader)

Childhood Loves | Enemies -> Lovers | Forbidden Love | Soulmates | Not Meant To Be | Royalty | Unrequited Love | Blind Date

It started with a phone call.

"I got in! I did it! Did you see the email? I sent it to you- I sent you a photo!" Your voice rings through his phone so loudly that he has to pull it away from the soft skin of his cheek when he smiles; He almost accidentally hits the red circle to end the call. "Dear Ms. ___, we are pleased to announce that you've been accepted into the Summer-" His breath catches in his throat and he chokes on the words, round eyes so wide that they appear they might fall out of his head. Jisung's grip on his phone tightens and he breathes heavy, sighing out in disbelief. "Full ride. You got the full ride-! You're going to Paris! You're going to study in Paris!" He cooes. Your voice is softer on the other side, heart warming and gushing as you listen to your boyfriend faun over your achievement; What you're going to accomplish; A promise of success in the form of a short, curt email from the school of your dreams. "Four months in Paris, studying in smokey cafes," You sigh, "I'm going to Paris, Sungie. Paris..." "You're going to Paris." His hands cup your cheeks, warm and soft and covered in a light sheen of sweat from his nerves. He's not even boarding the flight and he's anxious, thumbs brushing over your reddened skin that was damp with searing tears that just threatened to leave red, stinging marks on his hands if they continued to fall. "I'm going to Paris," You whisper in confirmation. Your bags sit at your sides and your hands had come up to meet his own, rubbing over the back of them to keep him grounded more than yourself. You swallow, spit traveling down your throat in a way you can only describe as suffocating. Leaving him was going to be hard, but; This was happening. You would be gone for four months; Four long, pressing months that would no doubt pose a challenge to not only your intelligence but your well-being; Four months that would leave you missing your boyfriend every night and morning where you would lie alone. But those four months were a guarantee to drive your inspiration - They were a guarantee to push you forward in your career; And this was not an opportunity someone intelligent would just pass up. A full ride scholarship for four months in one of the most romantic countries on Earth; Without your boyfriend.

It continued with daily updates.

"Paris Fashion Week, Sungie. It was incredible! I've never seen so many gorgeous people in my life." Your words are rushed and in awe as you push through the crowd of people flooding through the streets, on your way home from the event. "I'm going to get to work as soon as I get back to the studio. The designs, the people, the way they presented - I've never felt so.. I don't know! My inspiration is flourishing!" It makes him chuckle on the other end of the phone call. He's sitting in the practice room on the floor, his back cold as it presses to the wall mirror behind him. One hand holds his phone to his ear while the other slowly twists a scrap of paper between his thumb and index, wrist perched on his knee. His eyes bore into the yellowed material and as they grow lidded, he has to blink the tears away from his lashes when they catch. "I'm happy for you." His voice shows no sign of anything short of joy. You are everything he is proud of and that's never going to falter from his mind; You come first, your happiness comes first; You above all. His lashes flutter again when the tears don't cease. They burn down his cheeks, his skin reddened and raw from where he had been rubbing his the scuffed cuff of his hoodie sleeve; But he smiles, thumb nail pressing into the ridge of his phone case as he murmurs, "Are you having fun?" "I'm having fun, but I miss you." Your voice won't stop breaking; Every word betrays you, every syllable feels like an enemy slicing at your lips and screaming for you to quit talking. Your chest juts with every breath you take where you're tangled in mangled pink sheets that constrict your limbs and when you move to switch the hand thats holding onto the phone, you rip your arm from the blankets in a bout of frustration. "I want to come home. I want to see you again." "Two weeks." Is all he can find himself mustering up the courage to answer with. Jisung could give it away, could tell you about the velvet box he's rotating in his palm as he talks to you. He doesn't break down and cry this time, finding that he's too giddy to show you the gift when you get back to find any tears. So he listens to your cries dull into sniffles until you're both back to talking about what you're going to do for the next two weeks - how you're going to work harder than you have the entire time you've been away. You're going to make him proud like you always do.

And it ended with a text message.

He'd woken up to the texts from you after pulling another all-nighter in the studio. The wishes of seeing him again, being in his arms and being complete for the first time in four long, grueling months away from each other. When he's fully conscious and aware it's the day you're coming home, he brings himself to his feet so fast that the world spins for him. Jisung's never moved so fast, made himself look presentable but still comfortable as he rushed to the airport. 5 Hours. 5 hours he sat there, checking his phone for any updates from you. He wasn't entirely sure what time you were supposed to land, but he did know the number of your flight - and as soon as he saw it on the screen perched above him, he grew giddy. Jisung's leg bounces in anticipation where he's sat, until he stands. Then he's making his way to the large window nearby to peer out and watch planes land and take off. He's in awe, hoping that on any of them you'll step off and make your way to him - come running out of the gate and throw your bags down so that he can envelop you in his arms and never let go again. His fingers twist the velvet box in his jeans pocket and he closes his eyes for a brief moment to take a breath; To calm his heartbeat that slams over and over in his chest like it's threatening to break his ribs and leap free. He glances back at the screen on the wall to see your flight number was gone. Gone....? But it was just there a moment ago. Did that mean you'd landed? Where did your flight go? Jisung turns to stare over at the people walking in and out with their luggage. He watches a woman drop her duffle bag to bring a girl about four into her arms, picking her up and sobbing into her hair that she'd missed her. He watches a man stare down at his phone as he walks by, greeted shortly after by another man who presses a kiss to his lips and comfortably guides him away from the seats to take their leave. His eyes come back to the screen to search again. It's not there. The number just disappeared, like it had never even been there in the first place. Jisung's eyes travel to the television perched nearby. A small group of people had gathered and as he stood there off to the side by a few feet, he pulls the velvet box from his pocket to turn it in his hands. The group chatters quietly about the tragedy - The flight that had crashed on it's way back from Paris, France due to a faulty engine. The only flight from Paris for the next ten hours. His lips part, breathing in slowly. His ribs feel like they rattle with how bad he begins to shake, taking a step back from the group to keep distance from the truth; The revelation that you weren't walking through that gate; That you weren't going to drop your luggage and run to him, tripping over your shoelaces that you never tied - that he had to kneel down and tie for you; That you weren't going to wear this ring. Taking a seat back where he was for five hours before, his lips finally close. They press together, roll into each other as if smearing the familiar taste of your vanilla chapstick. His free hand fishes his phone from his opposite pocket and he stares down at the lockscreen of your smiling face, a bouquet of roses in your hands from the precious Valentine's Day. Were you ever going to smile at him like that again? Slowly, he pulls up the text messages you'd sent him earlier that day. Messages of wanting to be together again, and with stiff fingers, knuckles red and angry from how tight he had been gripping the velvet box, he types out a soft reply.

Girl is so down bad for Minho and she doesn't even know it yet

THE EXPERIENCE PROJECT | EP. 3 THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

— contains adult content, minors do not interact 🔞 —

“So, what does this mean for our contract?”

“It keeps going,” you answer.

He clicks his tongue, “You’re a fast learner, princess.”

[ abstract ]: Hyunjin—your long time crush—finally wants to ask you out. One small issue: you’re absolutely inexperienced regarding that matter. Going on dates and, yes, also everything physical. Gladly, Minho—your long time enemy who is part of your friend group—is there to help, teaching you all you need to know. Going on dates and, yes, also everything physical. All while he dearly hopes you won’t find out about the crush he has had on you for years.

[ general ]: minho + fem reader, [ hyunjin + fem reader ], enemies → lovers, college au, smut + angst + fluff, experienced minho, virgin reader, sunshine x grumpy, he falls first but she falls harder, please refer to series m.list for more info

[ warning ]: explicit sexual scene [ softdom minho, corruption kink, handjob ], jealousy and slight hints of cheating [ depends on how you view it ]

[ words ]: 6.8K

[ note ]: thank you so much again for the endless support. I still can’t believe it but you guys are seriously the best. It means the world that you like my silly little series so far! Please share your thoughts with me at the end of the chapter by reblogging, commenting or sending an ask/DM! 🩷

The sunbeams hit your skin, waking you up from a night full of beautiful dreams once again. Right. Hyunjin is back. Finally. And you can’t grasp that the first thing he did when he saw you yesterday was to immediately ask you out on a date. It seems as if he’s been waiting for this moment for six months too. You can’t believe it. After all, it feels as if he’s absolutely serious about you, right?

All your wishes will finally come true. You’re gonna be the one on Hyunjin’s side, hopefully his official girlfriend pretty soon. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

So, why do you feel hesitant about it?

A weird feeling is running through your stomach, almost as if you have second guesses about this whole thing. But when you take a shower to get ready for the day, you decide to just blame it on nervousness. It’s been six months since you’ve been waiting for this moment—or if you’re a bit more honest way longer than that—so it’s normal to feel like this, right? At the back of your head there’s another thought tickling you, begging to be let free but you don’t allow it. You are more than sure your confusion is absolutely caused by the seriousness of the situation and not the fact that you came around your enemy’s fingers last evening. For sure.

After you put yourself into fresh clothes and do your hair, you swing your bag over your shoulder and a last glance at the time tells you you are definitely running pretty late again. Fuck. Of course, yesterday you arrived at campus a little earlier but you have already guessed that this enthusiastic energy would only last for one whole day until it vanishes into ashes. You rush to campus, squeezing yourself into the next overcrowded subway vehicle until you reach your station and run to the building where your first lecture is.

You throw your bag on the floor, before you grab your iPad and a half empty water bottle. The professor has already started with his lecture and you’re still here, trying to rearrange your thoughts and calm down your breathing from sprinting to the hall. When you unlock the device in front of you, your heart almost stops beating. Why is that stupid file with the contract of Minho and you still opened? You immediately close it and switch to the one in which you take notes for your classes, not really having a system here so far but you will figure it out.

“Can I sit here?”

Your head snaps towards the source of the voice, finding a woman dressed in an elegant spring dress combined with stilettos and a butterfly claw holding her shiny smooth hair together.

“Yeah! Sure, Areum. Sit down,” you tell her and scoot a little although the space next to you is still completely empty.

“I feel so bad about being late today,” she confesses while placing her study material on the small table in front of her. Everything matches, every item she owns has the same beige shade with golden accents. She starts writing down what the professor is currently talking about, paying full attention to his words.

“Don’t worry about that,” you reassure her, “I wasn’t here on time either. To be honest, I am mostly late to all my appointments.”

She gives you a small smile, “Yeah. I get you. I wanna be here on time like a good student to all my classes, but then again there was so much going on at the animal shelter I helped out this morning that I wasn’t able to leave to arrive here on time.”

Animal shelter? You’re getting more and more convinced that Areum is secretly a Disney princess. You also wonder if this is where Minho and her met each other. After all, you know that he sometimes helps out at one of the shelters in the city too.

Time passes by and soon the lecture ends. You throw all your stuff back into your bag, before Areum and you stand up and leave your aisle. You can’t get over the fact how kind she is. During the whole lecture, she explained things to you which you didn’t understand and even offered to send you her notes. This can’t have something to do with Minho, right? She hasn’t known you up until yesterday and you highly doubt that Minho has ever mentioned more than just your name and perhaps some mean details.

You’re on your way to your next class, remembering you still have to look for a book in the library which makes you enter a state of hurry now.

“Y/N, what I wanted to ask–“

“I’m so sorry but I’m in a rush Areum. Can it perhaps wait?”

She sends you another one of those soft smiles that reaches her big round eyes, “Yes! Of course, I’ll see you in class tomorrow, right? Maybe we can exchange phone numbers? So, I can send you my notes from today’s lecture.”

You hastily nod, reaching for your phone and opening your contact before you tap on the little ‘+’ symbol and it creates a new contact. Areum reaches for the device, her soft hands grazing over your own for less than half a second and she quickly types in her information.

“I sent you a text, so you have my number too,” you let her know and a bit later you say goodbye and cross paths.

You rush to the library, searching for the book you need for the next lesson. Once you arrive at the aisle where it’s supposed to be, you realise the spot is empty. Your hands start hovering over the other books you find there, reading the titles and signatures but finding nothing that might come close.

“Searching for something?”

You turn around, seeing Minho with that exact book inside his hand and you don’t even question why the hell he’s holding it in the first place.

“Hey. Yes, I need this one for my class,” you explain. You take a step forward and reach for the admired object, your fingers getting close to the paper until he pulls away and a mischievous smile finds his face.

“You didn’t text me,” he says with a strict voice, his face immediately turning expressionless again as ever. If he’s angry at you he’s doing a great job at hiding and covering it with his obligatory neutrality.

Your breath hitches when you realise what he’s talking about. You were supposed to tell him that you made it back home safely. Fuck. You’ve always been rather forgetful but this is something you should keep in mind. You wonder now if Minho got worried at the lack of response from your side and for some reason it lets butterflies erupt in your stomach. Get it together. Every half-decent man would be worried if they had to send a woman home at night. This shouldn’t be considered something special.

“You probably forgot because Hyunjin came back last night, hm?” Minho asks, tilting his head.

What? How is he even aware of your crush’s early arrival?

“How do you know?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Felix. He told me.”

Okay, yeah. That makes sense. Still, you suddenly feel so awful about all this. You hate breaking promises. Even if it’s an accident like forgetting to text him. “I’m sorry. He… he spontaneously visited us. Just for a couple of minutes though. I went right to bed. Was tired and all.”

You don’t even know why you’re rambling and justifying yourself. It’s not like you’re a couple. You’re not even friends, after all. There’s nothing to feel bad about, especially not toward Minho. But why do you feel this way then?

“Whatever. It’s fine,” Minho adds, before he hands you the book and leaves.

“You look beautiful,” Hyunjin greets you with a warm hug, pulling you closer and you hope he can’t feel how your heart is beating out of your chest. You let go of him again, giving your crush a soft smile and he leads the way inside the café.

“I’ve wanted to go here for ages,” you confess, while you two step inside. Hyunjin has his hand gently placed on the small of your back as he guides you into the ancient looking building. It’s astonishing here, flowery details filling the huge room up to the ceiling, as the scents of coffee and strawberries enter your nostrils. 

“I heard it opened not that long ago, didn’t it?” You nod, “Yeah. A couple of weeks, I think. But I’ve always been passing by and have seen people post about it on Instagram you know?”

Hyunjin smiles and searches for an employee. The waitress tells him to choose whatever free table you would like and the both of you opt for seats right at the huge rose tinted window. The gentleman he is, your friend pulls your chair back and helps you sit down before he takes his own seat. You start looking through the menu, soon finding something appealing and Hyunjin walks to the front to order.

“Oh—you already paid, wait let me give you–“

“It’s fine, angel,” he says, shushing your hands away from your bag, “I invited you, remember? Let me treat you a little, okay?”

If your week goes on like this you won’t have to spend money on food anymore when men keep paying for you. Not that you mind.

“Thank you.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Now, tell me. What have I missed not being here for six months?”

The waitress brings your order next but this doesn’t hold you back from entering a cycle of rambling. “Oh! Jisung is texting this girl he met online while playing video games. He’s head over heels for her but doesn’t even know her real name or what she looks like.” Hyunjin laughs. It’s not gossiping, after all, that’s all your friend has been talking about these past weeks. And in comparison to Jisung’s dislike for your crush, the hatred isn’t reciprocated. “It’s hilarious and cute in some way although it feels kinda weird to imagine Jisung in a light like that.”

“I get it,” Hyunjin says, “still somehow adorable. Hopefully it works out. And anything new in your life?”

You're unsure if he’s hinting at your love life or just what has happened in general. So, you take the safe route. “Ah, you know. Not much is going on. I had my internship at the end of last year. Was kinda exhausting and taught me what I don’t want to do.”

“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry, Y/N,” he reassures you and suddenly his hand gets closer. He places the palm on top of yours, softly stroking your skin. God, why is his hand so much bigger than your own?

“Nah, it’s alright. Don’t worry about it. So—you’ve gotta tell me everything about Paris now. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“It was beautiful. Really. Very busy and all but the architecture of the whole city… Amazing. Also pretentious to some extent but it didn’t surprise me. And dirty and smelly but it’s a big city after all, right? Definitely not like in all those romance movies but still absolutely gorgeous. I enjoyed my time there,” he says. You’ve always thought that Hyunjin fits right there, as if he belongs to Paris and you can’t quite explain why. This is also the reason why you felt like you were in no position to hold him back despite your aching heart. This was a one chance of a lifetime, after all.

“I’m super glad to hear that, Hyune. Seriously. Every picture you posted online or sent to the group chat or me let a smile appear on my face. I’m truly happy you had this opportunity and had such a great time over there!”

His eyes turn into crescents when he smiles, as he gives your hands a soft squeeze with his big one.

“You like the food, Y/N?”

You nod, taking another bite of your cheesecake, “Oh, yes. Absolutely. Such a good idea to go here!”

You watch him put some of his pie on his fork, before he guides the cutlery towards you. “Wanna try?”

A little startled about the fact that he—as it seems—wants to feed you some of his food, you nod and have a taste of the blueberry pie he offers. And it tastes just as amazing as the dish you chose. You put a bit of your strawberry cheesecake on top of your fork and guide it toward Hyunjin, before his plump lips wrap around it and take a bite. He hums a little melody, enjoying the taste of the cake, all while you try to not lose your mind about the fact that you are feeding Hyunjin in public.

“It was a good idea to go here,” he says, his voice dropping lower and a bit more quiet. He’s reaching out for your hand once more, not letting you go as if he is afraid to lose you again despite the fact that he was the one who went to another continent half a year ago. A weird sensation starts spreading through your belly and you are hit with the one question that has been harassing your mind for six weeks.

Why did he decide to confess to you twelve hours before his flight’s departure when he knew you weren’t going to see each other for so long? Of course, Jisung called him toxic without batting an eye. Your crush might like your friend whereas the younger one has always classified Hyunjin as a ‘walking red flag’. In some way he’s right but you don’t want to believe that. You decide to blame it on Hyunjin being a hopeless romantic and just wanting to get this confession off his chest before going on a flight. You never know what could happen in six months while being so far away. Better this way than being plagued by regrets, right?

“Thank you for the invitation again, Hyune,” you add, as your fingers start getting intertwined with his large ones.

“Don’t thank me for that. Actually… I wanted to talk about something,” he says and you watch his lower lip get caught between his teeth. He suddenly looks nervous and for some reason that feeling reaches you too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, angel,” he lets out. His gaze is fixated on where your hands meet, as he squeezes yours another time, softly caressing your skin in order to gain some confidence. God. It’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna understand.

“What is it?”

But the truth is—your heart is bursting out of your chest once again. It leaves you anxious, the way he’s opened this conversation, you can’t deny that. 

“I am sure you remember our last talk in person. Right before my flight and all.” Oh, no. Don’t open that box again. “Im sorry about the timing, truly sorry. I know this was kinda shitty of me to just drop that information and disappear for six months.”

You give him a smile, “You didn’t disappear, Hyune. We talked on the phone and all during your time in Paris.”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t be close to you. Geographically speaking and all. It’s just not the same,” he explains, shaking his head. You take a deep breath in the meantime, just wanting him to spit it out—whatever is on his mind. “What do you wanna say?”

“Well, first of all. I want you to know that I did this because I thought I was running out of time. I’m also quite superstitious. So if something had happened on that flight or in Paris–“

“Nothing happened, Hyune,” you cut him off.

“I know,” he says. “I’m glad about that. But if it had been the case I would have never forgiven myself for not being honest with you, you know?”

“I get it. Seriously,” you reassure him. Because you somehow do get it. Despite the fact that it hurt, that it was stinging your heart with no end during that time. But sometimes love turns us selfish. You’re sure this is what happened to Hyunjin in that moment too.

“Thank you. This is also, second, why I want to be honest with you again this time.”

You gulp. “Okay.” Is he already ending things with you before they started? You’re entering a spiral of angst once more.

“It’s a lot going on right now for me. I’ve become quite a new person over there and have to adjust to life in Seoul again. It’ll take some time for me to get used to everything. All I want to say is that you are still important to me. Nothing has changed about my feelings in the slightest, I promise. But I don’t want to rush things. It’s our last semester of college and I don’t wanna mess things up between us because I went too fast and got hooked up in the stress of everyday life and exams, you know?”

Oh, alright. That’s definitely something you can work with, right? After all, you need your time, too.

“Oh. I get that. Totally. I mean, I’m in my last semester too,” you explain.

“Okay, good. So, you’re okay with us taking things slowly?”

This doesn’t just count for school related stuff but you’re also not one to immediately jump into the dating and relationship life because you have zero experience on that level either.

“Absolutely!”

“You won’t think I’m… boring? Or something like that?”

“You, Hwang Hyunjin, boring? Never,” you chuckle. “We can take all the time you need, Hyune. It’s more than fine.”

“I’m glad about that. A huge weight is dropping off my shoulders, not gonna lie,” he says, placing his free hand right where his heart is.

“You seriously worried about that?”

“Well, I’ve been gone for six months. I’m sure all those guys have been waiting in line for you to date them. But I’m so happy to know I’m still your favourite, Y/N.”

Your chest tightens. First, you haven’t been dating anyone, sure, but you also came twice within the past two nights with the help of your crush’s good friend Minho. Second, does Hyunjin expect you to sit here and wait for him like an obedient housewife? Or is he genuinely happy that you still want to be with him?

Deciding to push those thoughts aside, you just add, “You’ll always be, don’t worry.”

Although you are not so sure about that one.

On your way back home, still very happy about the conversations you had with Hyunjin, there’s a certain topic still on your mind.

You messed up regarding Minho. Yes, it wasn’t visible in his eyes when you saw him in the library this morning but you know that he was mad about the fact you forgot to text. You probably would be too. It’s definitely not because he likes you but anyone would worry in a situation like this. You never know what could happen at night especially when you’re a female presenting person.

You wanna make up for it. That you are sure of. This is why you’ve decided to change into some comfy clothes, get takeout on your way out and visit Minho with food as a surprise. But when you arrive at your shared apartment, it isn’t Felix who is standing in the living room.

“I didn’t know I have a new roommate,” you greet him, before he pulls you into a hug.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry, Y/N. There is an issue at my student’s dorm and Felix said it’s fine that I can stay here,” Jisung explains.

You nod, “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

He looks at you confused. “You know?”

Fuck. You forgot that Jisung is very much not aware of the fact that you were at Minho’s last night and therefore heard everything they talked about. Including Jisung getting annoyed about the possibility of his best friend meeting Areum again and a certain cut off sentence of why this isn’t a good idea which you try not to think about. Why is Jisung so against it? What does he know?

“Y-Yeah, Lix told me,” you lie.

“Ah, great. I stayed at Minho’s apartment last night,” yeah, I know, “but his little sister will be visiting him tomorrow and you know that I can’t stand her and that’s also too many people in one studio apartment. I hope it’s okay I’m here.”

“Absolutely,” you say, “I’m just… I’m meeting up with a friend in a bit but you know where to find everything here, right? Do you need anything else?”

Jisung is basically the unofficial third roommate of this household given that he spends time here pretty often. “No worries, I’ve got everything and I’m also meeting up at the studio with my friends later.” He’s been working on some new songs with his little producer group—a trio of three, one of them being Felix’s gym crush Changbin.

“Great, then I’ll see you later,” you add before disappearing inside your room. You change into some more fitting clothes for a chill dinner inside, before you pack some stuff and leave the apartment again. Jisung is currently sitting on the couch, playing some games—perhaps with the girl he’s been texting—and you just wave him goodbye, receiving a bright smile from him.

On your way to Minho’s place, you buy some takeout food and a certain lemonade you’ve seen him drink from time to time, hoping it will hype up his mood. Although you know that this is basically impossible. Minho is never in a good mood except for when he’s teasing you. You arrive at the station near his house a little later, the food in one hand and the beverages in the other. The door downstairs is open, so you head inside and climb up to where his apartment is located.

You don’t know what it is despite your general anxiety but for a quick second you wonder if it was a good idea to go here spontaneously. What if he isn’t at home? What if Minho has someone over? The second thought lets a weird feeling erupt in your heart that you try to ignore.

It’s gonna be okay. Calm down.

You ring the doorbell and half a minute later, someone is opening the door.

Fuck.

Minho is standing there, wearing just a towel around his waist, his firm chest and arms on full display while he’s also showing off his thick thighs. You cling onto the stuff you brought with you. An accident of lemonade glass bottles hitting the floor and making a sticky mess is the last thing you need.

“Look who’s decided to show up,” is all he says as he invites you inside and grabs the stuff in your hands. You silently take off your shoes and jacket, before you toss your bag in some corner of his studio apartment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you.”

From where you’re standing and Minho being in the kitchen right now, you can barely see how he’s rolling his eyes but judging by the sound of his voice you are convinced that’s exactly what he’s doing. “I told you it’s fine. Just don’t forget it again next time, yeah?”

You nod, before you take a seat at his dining table and a minute later—after he changed into some actual clothes in his bathroom—Minho has the food and the beverages placed on the wooden table.

“That’s my favourite flavour,” he says when he catches a glimpse of the lemonade.

“You mentioned it once,” you reply and you can swear you notice his mouth turning into a small smile.

Munching the food, the conversation changes a little. You tell Minho about one of your classes from today for which you needed the book for since he was wondering why you ended up reading the same one. It turns out that you visit the same lecture every Tuesday before lunch and you don’t know how to feel about that. Then, the talking shifts to something else. You start speaking about your friend group since he tells you that Jisung left because Minho’s younger sister will be here tomorrow morning. And then he picks up the topic you were hoping for him to avoid.

“So… Hyunjin is already back?”

Food almost gets stuck in your throat but you manage to gulp down the bite you take. “Y-Yeah, he arrived yesterday.”

Something in Minho’s expression changes but you can’t quite tell what it means. You want to be honest with him, though. Despite not wanting to end this arrangement the two of you have—both because there’s still so much to learn and Hyunjin and you agreed to take things slowly anyway—you need to be transparent.

“We went on a date this afternoon,” you admit, before you take another sip from the lemonade.

His jaw clenches and for a whole minute the room falls silent. “Just a date?”

“Yeah. Just a date. Nothing serious or physical happened though,” you immediately justify yourself, going into full defense mode.

He nods, drinking more of his beverage too, swallowing the rest of the liquid until the bottle is all empty. You can catch a glimpse of his Adam's apple this way and it makes you stir in your seat. Calm the fuck down.

“No confessing feelings? No kissing and touching?” he asks, tilting his head. His expression is stern, his piercing gaze is pinning you to the wall behind you.

“Nothing of that,” you instantly reply.

“Good.” He smirks. “So, what does this mean for our contract?”

“It keeps going,” you answer.

He clicks his tongue, “You’re a fast learner, princess.”

Minho takes care of the dishes—not taking long thanks to the fact you brought takeout tonight—while he tells you to get comfortable on his couch. You’ve been wondering why he always opts for this piece of furniture when he has a perfectly fine working bed. But you don’t question it. Maybe he’s sensitive about it. He drops down next to you on the sofa, scooting a little closer this time, the respectful space between you shrinking every time the two of you meet here.

You can see it in his eyes, there’s excitement swirling inside them, and you’re kinda glad about the fact that he isn’t mad at you for yesterday and everything. On top of that, you’re grateful about Hyunjin wanting to take things slower because it leaves you more time with Minho and–

Wait, what?

No, we are not going down that road, Y/N. It’s just your hormones messing with you and your pussy clenching a little whenever you think about how you were lying on your back last night on this exact sofa, your legs parted for the man who’s in this room with you right now, while he was roughly thrusting his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open until you were gushing all over him.

“Any wishes for this evening?”

He drags you out of your daydreams and you dearly hope he hasn’t noticed. But heat rushes to your face, your expression probably has turned fully into showing how flustered you get around him. Fuck. He shouldn’t have this effect on you at all.

But you do have an idea for tonight’s lesson or whatever you wanna call it. You’ve realised—especially when reminiscing about the date you went on with Hyunjin—that Minho has almost turned into an expert of making you come, whereas you haven’t even touched him yet. And therefore aren’t prepared at all for any possible encounters with your actual crush.

“I wanna make you come tonight,” you blurt out.

One of Minho’s eyebrows immediately snaps open and so does one side of his mouth, when he lets out, “Oh?”

You’ve expected him to tease you a bit more but what you don’t know yet is that he’s been dreaming about exactly this for some time, no, years now. Not just the fact that you will be taking care of his most primal needs but also the thought of you asking him to do exactly this.

“Y-Yeah, you promised to show me how to pleasure a… a man b-but the other nights so far it was you who… you know,” you explain, turning a bit shy now and this just arouses him even more.

If there wasn’t a blanket laid across his lap, you’d already see the outlines of his covered but hardening cock. God, who is the virgin again? No one has ever managed to make him get this turned on so quickly just with some words. But the simple image of your pretty hand or mouth wrapped around his cock, stroking him until he reaches his high plays evil games with his mind. It’s not just that his corruption kink gains a lot from this, it’s also the sole fact it’s you who’s offering it to make him come. No, who wants to learn how to make him come and Minho is glad to be teaching you.

“Hm, you’re right. Third time’s a charm,” he replies, before he scoots a bit closer. “You wanna take the lead this time, baby?”

Baby. The name shoots a sensation right to your lower stomach, as you feel arousal drip into your panties.

“Yes,” you say with a confident voice all while you’re growing nervous on the inside.

Minho’s fingers seize around your wrist, before he pulls you closer and into his lap in one go. It feels just like two days ago, when he had you straddling him and riding his thigh until you came undone for him. You can see it in his eyes, he’s waiting for you to make the first move, slowly leaning back.

“Come on, princess. Show me what you’ve got,” he whispers. The palms of his hands are attached to your waist, dragging you toward him until his mouth is only an inch separated from your own. You can feel his breath lingering on your skin and you swear you can see his eyes turn ten shades darker.

“Kiss me,” he says and that’s all you need to crash your lips into his.

A tiny whine slips out of you but it gets muffled by Minho. Your mouth against his feels as if this is anatomically meant to be, as if your bodies were put on this planet to find each other but deep down you know it’s because you’ve been kissing him for the third day in a row. Of course it’s just a matter of time until you get used to it and become an expert.

You find yourself grinding on top of him just like last Sunday but this time he pushes his own legs apart and reaches for your hand.

“Do you want this?” Minho asks in between kisses and you hastily nod. “Yes. I do. Please, show me.”

He chuckles against your mouth, before he takes the lead this time when he seals your lips with his own. His tongue slips in, dancing around with yours. One of your favourite things to do with him. It just feels hypnotising. Every touch. Every kiss. Every move he makes puts you in full trance, it’s insane. Insanely mesmerising.

One of your hands lands on his chest, feeling how firm he is despite the shirt that’s covering his upper body. You let it travel further down and you swear you can feel Minho smirk because of how eager you are. Your palm passes his navel, his stomach and wanders even further south until it comes to a halt. He knows it’s just that you’re nervous about doing anything wrong—which is ridiculous, really, Minho knows he’ll like anything you do and he’s here to teach you after all. So, he gives you a little nudge by saying, “Touch me.”

You nod, a giggle spilling from your lips, before your hand lands on his crotch. Feeling him through his gray—yes, you heard it correctly—sweatpants, you try to wrap your hand around him as much as you can, hindered by the fabric that’s covering his growing erection. He already feels big despite being fully clothed and you wonder how he—perhaps at some point—is supposed to fit inside your pussy.

“You wanna go further?” he asks you, before he reaches for a strand of hair that’s dangling in front of your face and tugs it behind your ear. Your heart skips a beat and you curse yourself for becoming so weak this easily.

“Yeah, I do,” you say.

“Then, pull them off,” he replies and his eyes look down at his pants. You get the hint, bringing both your hands to the hem of the clothing and in an instant, you slide them down his thighs. His boxers are still hiding his dick but there’s not a lot left to your imagination when you see his tent. You gulp and he has to hide another one of those smirks. Fuck, you look so adorable. It’s so cute how shy you get and he can’t wait to ruin you at some point, have you bouncing on his cock while his hands are gripping your hips and he’s whispering sinful words right into your ear, all while you struggle not to come again and again.

But this has to wait for now. You’re doing this step by step. No matter how far you want to go tonight, he won’t allow more than a handjob. Both because he doesn’t want to overwhelm you and take your excitement for granted but also because he wants to stretch the time he’s got with you and crave you more by feeding you small bites instead of the full five course meal at once.

“You ready?” he asks and you reply by getting rid of his remaining material, too. When Minho slips out of his boxers, you notice he’s still wearing his shirt. It’s a good thing he’s leaving it on—so that you don’t lose your mind completely—but also a pity you don’t get to see his muscular chest again tonight. However, you’re far too distracted anyway when his big cock springs free, standing upright, the tip leaking precum.

Minho reaches for your hand, guiding it towards his length and you wrap your fingers around it. He places his own on top of them, helping you with the first few motions. Your hand is moving up and down, squeezing him a little but not too much until he applies more pressure with his own hand that’s attached to yours.

“Yeah, baby, like that,” he breathes, slightly throwing his head back. Just in case that there’s gonna be a mess—well there definitely is gonna be one and probably a lot sooner than what he has anticipated—Minho pulls his shirt over his head, freeing himself. There’s something about this scene, how you’re still fully clothed and he’s entirely naked that just keeps him going. Usually, he prefers it the other way around but it seems as if Minho is exploring new sides of himself when he’s with you.

“You can go a bit faster,” he encourages you and you do as you’re told, keeping your eyes on him at any time.

“Fuck, that feels good, princess. Keep going.”

You’ve never realised that you’d love it when a man would be this vocal but Minho’s whimpers and the way he’s begging for more sounds like the sweetest melody to your ears. You soon become an expert at stoking him, squeezing his cock just the right way when your hand goes up and down and up and down again.

Judging by the way his facial expression shifts and his eyebrows are scrunched together, you know it won’t take him long to reach his climax. He’s panting, breathing out your name and praising you with no end. You hope this moment won’t ever stop. If Hyunjin reacts the same way when you’re gonna be intimate with him for the first time, you’re gonna be so proud of yourself.

“Fuck,” Minho groans, “a little more. Shit. You’re such a good girl. Keep going, keep going. Yeah, just like that, just–“

Hot white ropes shoot out of him, coating his stomach and spilling over your hand, while you continue with your movements but automatically slow down a bit. Minho keeps moaning, his mouth parted and his eyes closed, until he comes down again and reaches for your hand, stopping your motions.

“I knew you were a quick learner,” he chuckles, before he tells you to get up and rushes to the bathroom to get a towel.

You have to hold back a mixture of the brightest smile and absolute confusion when Minho leads you to the door of his apartment. However, you feel insanely proud of yourself that you actually made him come. Minho, of all people. That one man who never shows any emotion came undone and moaned right into your ears as if it’s his fucking mantra because you pleasured him this good. Your ego is gonna be at the size of his own soon if this agreement keeps going like that.

“Is this the only jacket you brought with you?” the man in question asks when he sees you put on the piece of clothing.

“Yeah, why?”

He reaches for a sweater on his chair that he gives you. “The temperature has dropped down a lot. It’s only spring, Y/N. It’s still cold once the sun is down, you know?”

You nod and take the piece of cosy fabric before you put it on. He has given you a sweater that he must have worn before considering it smells like him—driving you crazy but you try to ignore it—because Minho is so organised, he probably has fresh clothes inside his closet but you don’t say anything. For some reason, you like it this way. It’s wrong, yes. So fucking wrong. Because you’re in love with Hyunjin and Minho is just here to help you with your little lack of sexual experience. Nothing more. But the atmosphere between the two of you becomes more and more domestic and comfortable.

“Shall we?” he asks, opening the door for you.

You follow behind him and he closes it again. There’s not much talking when he brings you home, the subway staying rather silent except for a few glances between you two that you can’t quite interpret yet. When you arrive at your station, you tell Minho he should go home but he makes sure to bring you to the entrance door of your apartment building. Only when he’s watched you walk inside, he leaves, with his heart heavy as stone.

It’s similar for you—confusion is what describes your current state the best and a little bit of guilt that you shouldn’t have. Hyunjin didn’t tell you to not meet up with anyone else, after all. You’re sure he’s kissed and probably even fucked a bunch of other women when he was in Paris and perhaps even might do the same now that he’s back. You know how he is, after all. During the time when he started dating the last girlfriend he had—over a year ago—he was going to parties and having one night stands with other people too. Just when they started becoming something more serious, he stopped.

But you don’t know where you are on that line when it comes to serious things with Hyunjin. You wish he would have talked more to you about it without you having to tell him, Hey, you know what, I’m still absolutely in love with you but your friend Minho is teaching me how to make men come so I can be a better lover for you once we decide to get closer. Cool, right?

Yeah, still absolutely ridiculous.

You push those thoughts aside, knowing you can’t change anything right now anyway. Entering the apartment, you find Felix and Jisung sprawled out on the couch but they are so occupied in a round of video games that you sneak straight into your bedroom.

When you reach for your phone to charge it after this long day, you notice you must have received a message when you were on the subway with Minho.

[ Areum ]: Hey, Y/N. ☺️ When do you have classes tomorrow? How about we meet on campus for breakfast? I really enjoy talking to you and would love to get to know you better. But no pressure, we can always reschedule if it’s too spontaneous! I hope you had a great rest of your day and ate well. Take care and sweet dreams 🤍

© leeknowsallyoursecrets 2024 — copying, stealing or translating my work is prohibited

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You're doing so great ❤️

I sense incoming angst and hurt/comfort.

Denying y/n and Felix contact is gonna destroy them both...

That being said, I love the story and I'm always so happy to see a new chapter released.

We're definitely seeing a different side to the story with the new chapters

Theres a reason Chan is head of the house 👀👀

I am so thankful for your support with my lil series 🥹🥹I always look forward to your comments and thoughts💜💜

Oh me too, Ash.

"Are you still coming home?"

₊✩‧₊ ot8 - romance tropes ₊✩‧₊

synopsis: Stray Kids members as romance tropes; Based off of this ask I answered - put into longer stories/a proper series.

pairing: han jisung x fem!reader

notes: drip coffee being served. (aka angst.)

warnings: mentions of character death (reader)

Childhood Loves | Enemies -> Lovers | Forbidden Love | Soulmates | Not Meant To Be | Royalty | Unrequited Love | Blind Date

It started with a phone call.

"I got in! I did it! Did you see the email? I sent it to you- I sent you a photo!" Your voice rings through his phone so loudly that he has to pull it away from the soft skin of his cheek when he smiles; He almost accidentally hits the red circle to end the call. "Dear Ms. ___, we are pleased to announce that you've been accepted into the Summer-" His breath catches in his throat and he chokes on the words, round eyes so wide that they appear they might fall out of his head. Jisung's grip on his phone tightens and he breathes heavy, sighing out in disbelief. "Full ride. You got the full ride-! You're going to Paris! You're going to study in Paris!" He cooes. Your voice is softer on the other side, heart warming and gushing as you listen to your boyfriend faun over your achievement; What you're going to accomplish; A promise of success in the form of a short, curt email from the school of your dreams. "Four months in Paris, studying in smokey cafes," You sigh, "I'm going to Paris, Sungie. Paris..." "You're going to Paris." His hands cup your cheeks, warm and soft and covered in a light sheen of sweat from his nerves. He's not even boarding the flight and he's anxious, thumbs brushing over your reddened skin that was damp with searing tears that just threatened to leave red, stinging marks on his hands if they continued to fall. "I'm going to Paris," You whisper in confirmation. Your bags sit at your sides and your hands had come up to meet his own, rubbing over the back of them to keep him grounded more than yourself. You swallow, spit traveling down your throat in a way you can only describe as suffocating. Leaving him was going to be hard, but; This was happening. You would be gone for four months; Four long, pressing months that would no doubt pose a challenge to not only your intelligence but your well-being; Four months that would leave you missing your boyfriend every night and morning where you would lie alone. But those four months were a guarantee to drive your inspiration - They were a guarantee to push you forward in your career; And this was not an opportunity someone intelligent would just pass up. A full ride scholarship for four months in one of the most romantic countries on Earth; Without your boyfriend.

It continued with daily updates.

"Paris Fashion Week, Sungie. It was incredible! I've never seen so many gorgeous people in my life." Your words are rushed and in awe as you push through the crowd of people flooding through the streets, on your way home from the event. "I'm going to get to work as soon as I get back to the studio. The designs, the people, the way they presented - I've never felt so.. I don't know! My inspiration is flourishing!" It makes him chuckle on the other end of the phone call. He's sitting in the practice room on the floor, his back cold as it presses to the wall mirror behind him. One hand holds his phone to his ear while the other slowly twists a scrap of paper between his thumb and index, wrist perched on his knee. His eyes bore into the yellowed material and as they grow lidded, he has to blink the tears away from his lashes when they catch. "I'm happy for you." His voice shows no sign of anything short of joy. You are everything he is proud of and that's never going to falter from his mind; You come first, your happiness comes first; You above all. His lashes flutter again when the tears don't cease. They burn down his cheeks, his skin reddened and raw from where he had been rubbing his the scuffed cuff of his hoodie sleeve; But he smiles, thumb nail pressing into the ridge of his phone case as he murmurs, "Are you having fun?" "I'm having fun, but I miss you." Your voice won't stop breaking; Every word betrays you, every syllable feels like an enemy slicing at your lips and screaming for you to quit talking. Your chest juts with every breath you take where you're tangled in mangled pink sheets that constrict your limbs and when you move to switch the hand thats holding onto the phone, you rip your arm from the blankets in a bout of frustration. "I want to come home. I want to see you again." "Two weeks." Is all he can find himself mustering up the courage to answer with. Jisung could give it away, could tell you about the velvet box he's rotating in his palm as he talks to you. He doesn't break down and cry this time, finding that he's too giddy to show you the gift when you get back to find any tears. So he listens to your cries dull into sniffles until you're both back to talking about what you're going to do for the next two weeks - how you're going to work harder than you have the entire time you've been away. You're going to make him proud like you always do.

And it ended with a text message.

He'd woken up to the texts from you after pulling another all-nighter in the studio. The wishes of seeing him again, being in his arms and being complete for the first time in four long, grueling months away from each other. When he's fully conscious and aware it's the day you're coming home, he brings himself to his feet so fast that the world spins for him. Jisung's never moved so fast, made himself look presentable but still comfortable as he rushed to the airport. 5 Hours. 5 hours he sat there, checking his phone for any updates from you. He wasn't entirely sure what time you were supposed to land, but he did know the number of your flight - and as soon as he saw it on the screen perched above him, he grew giddy. Jisung's leg bounces in anticipation where he's sat, until he stands. Then he's making his way to the large window nearby to peer out and watch planes land and take off. He's in awe, hoping that on any of them you'll step off and make your way to him - come running out of the gate and throw your bags down so that he can envelop you in his arms and never let go again. His fingers twist the velvet box in his jeans pocket and he closes his eyes for a brief moment to take a breath; To calm his heartbeat that slams over and over in his chest like it's threatening to break his ribs and leap free. He glances back at the screen on the wall to see your flight number was gone. Gone....? But it was just there a moment ago. Did that mean you'd landed? Where did your flight go? Jisung turns to stare over at the people walking in and out with their luggage. He watches a woman drop her duffle bag to bring a girl about four into her arms, picking her up and sobbing into her hair that she'd missed her. He watches a man stare down at his phone as he walks by, greeted shortly after by another man who presses a kiss to his lips and comfortably guides him away from the seats to take their leave. His eyes come back to the screen to search again. It's not there. The number just disappeared, like it had never even been there in the first place. Jisung's eyes travel to the television perched nearby. A small group of people had gathered and as he stood there off to the side by a few feet, he pulls the velvet box from his pocket to turn it in his hands. The group chatters quietly about the tragedy - The flight that had crashed on it's way back from Paris, France due to a faulty engine. The only flight from Paris for the next ten hours. His lips part, breathing in slowly. His ribs feel like they rattle with how bad he begins to shake, taking a step back from the group to keep distance from the truth; The revelation that you weren't walking through that gate; That you weren't going to drop your luggage and run to him, tripping over your shoelaces that you never tied - that he had to kneel down and tie for you; That you weren't going to wear this ring. Taking a seat back where he was for five hours before, his lips finally close. They press together, roll into each other as if smearing the familiar taste of your vanilla chapstick. His free hand fishes his phone from his opposite pocket and he stares down at the lockscreen of your smiling face, a bouquet of roses in your hands from the precious Valentine's Day. Were you ever going to smile at him like that again? Slowly, he pulls up the text messages you'd sent him earlier that day. Messages of wanting to be together again, and with stiff fingers, knuckles red and angry from how tight he had been gripping the velvet box, he types out a soft reply.

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