Omg I Am HERE For The Wonho As Ken Agenda!!!

omg i am HERE for the wonho as ken agenda!!!

WONHO AS KEN FROM BARBIE (2023)

y’all😭😭

Help what do I put in the search for like- alien!skz fics, I’ve put in a few and like 3 have come up. Is there not much on here or am i just stupid😭

---

oh….

🫠🫠🫠🫠

#oh my fucking god

#i actually can’t w this man.

HYUNJIN | 221231 • TASTE @ MBC GAYO DAEJEJEON

ugh this series was OUTSTANDING.

i’m gonna miss it :(

Something In The Rain | lmh

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.❞

↳ Chapter 4/4 of Something In The Rain. Inside the polished walls of Help, Heart and Justice Limited, you work under the guidance of enigmatic senior attorney Lee Minho to support him and his legal team. And perhaps under all the professionalism, feelings stray, yet you're committed to keeping said feelings buried whilst you pine from afar. Until an act of kindness on a dark, rainy evening turns everything upside down; for even the most put together of men must indulge their demonic appetites.

↳ Lee Know x female reader

↳ 10k

↳ Supernatural au, strangers/colleagues to lovers, office romance, lust demon Lee Know, eventual smut

! Explicit content, adult themes, suitable for 18+ readers only !

「Chapter 1」 「Contents List」 「© June 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

“Sounds to me like you’ve made a right royal fucking mess of things.”

Minho would contest that if he thought it was worth it. As it stands, it’s not.

The sex faerie perches quaintly on the exposed balcony ledge that comprises the upper floor of Minho’s penthouse; a vast 2,500 sq. ft of modern minimalist luxury that the demon rarely inhabits. Furnished with every mod-con one could want, toned pristine white and cool onyx throughout, floor to ceiling windows offer natural light and an airy feel, but Minho knows it lacks the personal touch. At present it’s barely distinguishable from a staged open house, but at the very least, he keeps it clean and neat. He sleeps here, reads here, broods here when he gets chance enough to slip away from the office.

Minho—outstretched on the white leather sofa on the ground floor—glares up at his friend, a pang of guilt slicing his chest when their eyes meet. He’s not particularly proud of having effectively ghosted him the last two weeks, but neither could his pride take the ribbing he would have been subjected to had Felix discovered the truth of his affair. So far, at least, Felix has spared him the ‘I told you so’s’. Even the reconciliation was without the anticipated attitude; the faerie seemed nothing other than pleased to hear from him.

“How long has it been?” the blonde asks, pink chiffon wings fanned out to halo him.

“Since what?”

“Since you ate.”

Now there’s a question Minho doesn’t need to ponder. He shrugs, staring up at the distant ceiling. “Three weeks.”

Felix grimaces, legs swinging freely. “So you’ve got...”

“About a week before I succumb to the hunger and either consume every nearby human soul in a bloodbath of carnage or wither away to nothingness. Yeah.”

“Shit.”

Silence follows; Minho closes his eyes to it. The hunger grows still, an omnipresent influence that taints his every thought to distressing effect. She appears less so a person the longer this goes on, more so a tempting meal that would bring around an altogether different type of despair when consumed.

“I don’t know what to do, Lix.”

He opens his eyes, turns his gaze to his friend. Felix’s lavender irises scan the afternoon panorama of the city, flitting down to Minho on his admittance.

“I said I wouldn’t look in on her dreams, and I did. I said I'd stay away from her, and I couldn't. I said I'd put distance between us and make it so the end of this won’t be so painful when it comes time, and I failed,” Minho says, voice strained.

Felix blinks, his dainty pink wings iridescent in the fresh sunlight.

“I’m going to hurt her. I’m going to lose her. And I just... I don’t know what to do.”

The sex faerie stands elegantly, padding along the lip of the balcony, stepping off the edge and descending a graceful glide to the ground floor. He rounds the sofa, lifting Minho’s outstretched legs and assuming their spot, wings retracting as he settles comfortably now with legs on his lap.

“You really care for her, don’t you?” he eventually sighs.

Minho’s silence speaks to the truth of it.

“All of this started with an accident. It wasn’t your fault that she got cursed, Minho.”

“It’s explicitly my fault—”

“Humans value intention; you know that. You didn’t mean to curse her, you weren’t trying to eat her soul, therefore you’re not as much at fault as you try to make out. Have you ever considered just telling her the truth?”

Minho shakes his head immediately. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Felix scoffs. “She already suspects something, she’s already dreamt about you being something other than human—which I would argue means she’s probably down for it—and she’s already given you an ultimatum. At this point, what do you have to lose? Like, really?”

“Her, Felix. I have her to lose.”

“But that was never not a possibility, man. You knew this was going to end with you losing her.”

Felix pats his calf, as though the contact may be a small comfort. Minho draws a heavy breath, tension in his limbs that he can’t shake off or relax through.

“We’re not looking to change the ending here,” the blonde continues softly, “but maybe we can make the present a little better. You have a week left, right?”

“Felix—”

“I know you hate it. I really do. But refusing to talk about it is only going to make things worse. You might think you’re protecting her, sparing her from a world she wants no part of, but a lie of omission is still a lie. Humans are strange creatures, man. They value truth and honesty just as they do intention; above all else and no matter how brutal it is. She wants to feel like you respect her enough to give her that. And she deserves it, frankly.”

Minho sits upright. “How the fuck am I supposed to tell her that she’s got a week left on earth because of me?! Because I'm going to consume her soul?! Riddle me that, Lix—”

“I didn’t say it was going to be easy, but you can either spend this final week having her resent you until the time comes or spend it trying to make things right. Make it worthwhile. Tell her the truth, tell her you’re sorry, tell her you love her—”

Minho sags in place, head in his hands.

“— and that you’ll make it as painless as possible.”

Perhaps the worst of it all is that he knows Felix is right, on every count with every word. None of this is revolutionary by any stretch, the suggestions having crossed his own mind frequently and with increasing strength each time.

But that is just what he lacks: strength.

“I know you don’t want my advice—”

“I do,” Minho interrupts on a shaky breath. “I do want it, Felix. I always did.”

The faerie’s expression softens, his lips purse in sympathy. He offers a gentle squeeze of Minho’s calf once more; quietly soothing.

“Would you...” Minho hesitates. He’s not used to showing this kind of vulnerability—any kind of vulnerability—and so doesn’t really know how to approach it. Felix cocks his head, lavender eyes curious.

“Would you, maybe... be my plus one to the party tonight?”

His face lights up, a grin of sunbeam and pure delight accompanying his dramatic gasp. “Me? Really?”

“I’d feel better with you there.”

“Minho...”

“You’d have to tame all this down,” the elder gestures to him, ostentatious frills and glitter galore.

Felix rolls his eyes. “Please, I love cosplaying an emotionally repressed, middle-class, beta male. I’ll fit right in, don’t even worry about it.”

“And no bewitching anyone I work with.”

“Naturally.”

“If things go wrong... if she won’t talk to me, or loses it, or—”

“I’ll keep a close eye on things. Promise.”

Minho already feels somewhat relieved with this; even the knowledge of having his friend nearby will make this easier.

“Thanks, Lix,” the elder mumbles.

“My pleasure.”

Tonight will be the worst of evenings; Minho only wishes for it to be over.

***

There’s nothing so grating as the cheer of others when one is drowning in a whirlpool of their own misery.

Minho is convinced now more than ever that his mask is a sine que non; if his true emotions were to show in any way, not a single one of his colleagues would have dared approached him with polite greetings thus far. He smiles amicably, he shakes hands, he bids welcome and does his part to tow the company line. Located in the wealthy part of the business district, the Constellation Hotel is an establishment known for its upmarket clientele and equally as upmarket rates. Host to weddings, special occasions and all manner of exclusive events, the place is usually booked out months in advance and is nigh on impossible for the average person to afford. Minho happens to know that Constellation Group were recently signed on as clients of Help, Heart and Justice; he wonders if this was part of the deal.

Glitz and glamour is the name of the game, black and gold the concept. The event hall is decked out with gilded decorations; low hanging bunting and busy flower arrangements, streamers and chiffon curtains. Round tables and dainty chairs are arranged symmetrically over one half of the vast hall lit warmly by crystal chandeliers, the other half (where the stage sits) is left bare, no doubt to be used as a dancefloor later, Minho supposes. He hopes to be gone by then. Chic pop-up bars have been erected at either end of the room, each manned by a voguish bartender that dramatizes their service with bottle tricks and witty quips. Oval windows stretch impressively from floor to ornate ceiling, French double doors open to a high veranda beyond, offering a better view of the hotel grounds and glittered city. There’s room enough for all the colleagues of Help, Heart and Justice and a handful of other firms, Minho thinks, but he supposes he can forgive such gratuitous extravagance on this occasion; the majority of people here won’t ever have experienced something like this. It’s a change from the mundane usual, and it’s on the company bank.

Situated near the French doors, Minho has a good view of the hall. It’s still fairly early—he imagines the true partygoers won’t put in an appearance until later—and so people are dispersed across the space, in chatting groups and quiet couples. Most he knows by face, if not by name, having crossed paths with them at some point or another. All have made an effort though; hired suits and floor-length dresses fit the tone.

A tap on his shoulder calls his attention.

“Good evening, darling.”

“F— Felix?”

The elder hardly recognises him. Fitted to shipshape inch in a two-piece Gucci suit, coloured soft white and chequered with grey, the faerie is the very image of a modern gentleman. Blonde hair is slicked back, the piercings in his ears are toned down to subtle studs. Even his eyes—usually a swirl of mischievous violet—are now an unassuming brown; though not even coloured contacts can entirely negate the mischief.

“Wow,” Minho gasps, taking his friend in a hug.

“Is that approval?” the younger laughs.

“Yeah. Yes, it’s approval. You should play human more often.”

“It’ll do for the night. Listen, I have someone to introduce you to.”

“You do?”

The faerie nods. “Though I suppose it’s more of a reintroduction? Technically?”

A heavy weight sinks Minho’s gut as Felix ducks out to the veranda, gesturing for someone to enter. When a person he swore he’d never see again rounds the corner, Minho immediately starts for him.

“Woah, hey, just wait a second—” Felix stops him by a hand to his chest.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

Minho stabs an accusatory finger at Hyunjin, the young ex-attorney standing perfectly unphased by the happenings around him. He doesn’t smile; he doesn’t react much at all, the absence in his eyes attesting to a certain state of mind induced by the bewitchment of a sex faerie.

“He’s my guest.”

“Your guest? Felix, this isn’t a fucking game, I told you—”

“Let me explain,” the blonde appeals, “outside, before you cause any more of a scene than you already have. Please?”

Minho shrugs him off, storming through the doors to the veranda proper. The chill of the night does something to relieve him of the shock, as does his impatient pacing back and forth. Felix joins him, towing Hyunjin along by suit sleeve.

“You said he wasn't my problem anymore,” the elder seethes.

“And he’s not,” Felix reassures, “I didn’t bring him here to throw anything in your face.”

“Then why did you bring him here, Felix?”

“To show you that you don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

Minho ceases his pacing, the words settling uncomfortably on him. The faerie approaches him.

“Do you hear me?” he asks. “You don’t have to feel guilty for the way this turned out. Hyunjin is just fine, with me.” He turns to the other man. “Right, baby?”

Hyunjin nods, smiling dreamily as he sighs, “Yes, love. I’m fine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You can stop pretending, Minho. That you don’t feel the weight of cursing people, that you don’t tear a little more with every soul you consume. It might be nourishing you physically, but mentally, you suffer. I know that. I feel it.”

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose; he didn’t account for this particular brand of emotional turmoil tonight.

“Felix...”

“I’m trying to ease your burden, man. Even if it’s just by one soul that I can put in front of you. I want you to stop persecuting yourself. For him, for her, for all of them.”

Persecuting himself? Is that what Minho does? He knows he has a penchant for brooding when left alone and in the aftermath of a meal but has never thought it to be more than the—one would argue, natural—downer that comes from snuffing out a life. He lives with the omnipresent remorse as comfortably as he does his two legs and two arms; it is a part of him, has always been, for as long as he’s existed. Is that what Felix sees? Is that what he’s trying to expunge him of?

Amidst trying to form a response out of the confusion, their conversation is interrupted by a figure entering the veranda.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was—”

When he meets her eyes, his throat constricts.

“Minho...?”

***

You’ve never known the kind of company Minho keeps, for the inner details of his private life—family, friends, ex-lovers, acquaintances—are kept famously private. He’s never of a divulging mood, and you’re not so brazen as to push him.

Yet tonight is a night made for details, you suppose, and his presence at the party provides an answer to the ultimatum you cringed to speak but were left little choice in issuing.

He’s here, and he’s beautiful; dressed up in a warm tan, two-piece Armani suit. The colour deepens and compliments his skin tone, the honey tones of his neatly styled hair, the chiselled structure of his flawless features. He’s here, and that’s a good thing. It has to be.

“Is this her?”

Delayed is the realisation that the blonde man beside Minho is talking about you, to him. He is striking—almost as much as Minho himself—his pale features delicate but betraying a strength of character. To your left is another figure; this one you recognise.

“Hyunjin?” you start towards him. “What are you doing here? Where the hell have you been? You just dropped off the face of the earth!”

Hyunjin blinks, cocks his head at your entreating, the glaze of unfamiliarity crossing his dark eyes. But before you can press much further, the blonde man bounces into your path, hand curling into the one you had outstretched for your ex-colleague.

“I’m Felix,” he beams bright white, the intense warmth of his touch an unexpected shock. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

“It is?”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard so much about you.”

He has? A sceptical look over your shoulder to a stiffly presented Minho tells of an element of truth to Felix’s claim.

“He never shuts up about you. Like, really. I feel like I know you already—”

“Okay!”

Minho’s interruption is swift: by an arm around your waist he removes you from the man, escorting you back through the French doors, whereby he says, “Will you excuse me for just one second? Felix and I have something to discuss.”

You grab his sleeve before he can leave. “Wait. Felix is... a friend?”

Minho nods.

“A good friend?”

“I’ve known him a long time, yes.”

He steps back towards the veranda; you release your hold on him.

“We have things to talk about, too, Minho.”

“I know. I’ll find you.”

With that, he ducks out of the doors, closing them after him in finality. Left alone, you suppose there’s not much more to do than enjoy what the evening offers; you’ve been looking forward to this since its announcement, after all. Besides, you’ve made the effort to polish up in an evening dress befitting the occasion, the price tag of which demands exposure to every damn person in attendance; maybe even a few who aren’t, depending on how the night goes.

Ordering yourself a glass of house white from the pop-up bar, you linger on the corner of it, enjoying the crisp liquid on your tongue. Wine has a way of going straight to your head, and if this were any other evening you’d probably abstain in favour of pacing yourself. Tonight, Dutch courage is part of the dress code.

Turning back to the main space of the hall, where more colleagues have trickled in and gathered, you pace a few slow steps around it. Several people you recognise make small talk, polite conversation, nothing so deep as to distract from your constant lookout for Minho. Indeed, the only thing that does stick a pin in your concentration is the hollering of your name from across the floor.

“Damn girl, you scrubbed up well!”

The nasal drawl of Kim Seungmin is nails down a chalkboard. Unfortunate that he spotted you before you saw him; you’d have made yourself scarce had you the chance. Making an erratic beeline in your direction, he apparently detects your chagrin from a distance.

“What, you’re not even remotely happy to see me?” he exclaims, wounded.

“I’m ecstatic, actually.”

“You could try showing it. Anyone would think you hated my guts or something.”

“Mhm. Anyone would.”

Your sarcastic grin is managed by another gulp of Sauvignon Blanc; you turn away, already done with entertaining him.

“Where are you going?” he whines, trotting after you.

“Somewhere else.”

“Hey, wait,” he rounds you quickly, putting himself in your path. “Just, stop for a second.”

“Seungmin—”

He holds a hand up to you. “I have something to say. Something important. I’d like it if you would hear me out.”

“I’m really not interested in anything you have to say.”

“Please?”

There’s a note of sincerity in his voice; you surmise it must be that because it’s entirely unfamiliar, a manner of soft speaking you’ve never heard from him. He scratches his nape, shifts his weight from right to left foot. Whatever this is, it clearly means something beyond the usual clownery you’ve come to expect from him.

“Fine. Quickly, then.”

His face lights up, he immediately reaches for your wrist. “Not here. Come with me.”

“Seungmin—”

Unable to voice your protests, you’re led through the main hall and out a side door, into a lavishly wide connecting hallway of the hotel. You barely manage to keep your footing as you’re dragged several yards down it. Seungmin ushers you quickly into a dark room that, as soon as you enter, accosts you with the strong sting of bleach and disinfectant.

Light flickers around you after a second in the darkness, harsh fluorescence stilling to illuminate metal shelves crammed full of cleaning equipment, a wall mounted row of mops and brushes, stacks of cardboard boxes sporting various ominous labels that warn of corrosives and toxins. The room is barely larger than a cupboard; the stench of concentrated chemicals makes your head spin.

“What the f—”

“Sorry,” Seungmin offers immediately. “Not the most elegant of places to do this, but I want to make sure we’re not disturbed.”

He’s hardly two feet from you, the space is too cramped.

“We shouldn’t be in here. I can’t be in here, Seungmin, let me out.”

“J— Just wait, please. Let me say what I need to say—”

He doesn’t come any closer, but neither does he budge. Positioned in front of the door, it’s nigh on impossible for you to make any path around him, to shove him out of your way by force. You’ve no choice but to listen, which you suppose is exactly what he intended.

“I’d like to apologise, firstly,” he begins, “for the way I am with you. The way I have been. I know I can be a bit difficult. Especially when it comes to those rumours...”

You recall the conversation you were unwitting witness to in Minho’s office; when Seungmin interrupted your long-awaited returning of the sexual favour. It doesn't sting any less that your affections for the senior attorney appear still to be a topic of conversation amongst your colleagues (or at least for Seungmin). You’d rather thought they might be over it by now, for as far as they’re concerned, your crush remains pathetically unrequited.

“... But that’s only because I...” He hesitates; a chill fear stirs inside you. “... I don’t like hearing people talk about the two of you. I hate it, actually.”

“But you’re the one that—”

“I know. I know I keep bringing them up,” he sighs, “I can’t help it. I guess I wanted to see if there was any truth to them.”

You cross your arms, patience running thinner the longer you’re forced to stay in this horrid room and listen to this nonsense.

“I know now that there’s not, though. I know you’re not into Minho, not that way, and that’s good because I wanted to tell you that I—”

“They are true.”

Seungmin falters, his dark eyes narrowing. “What?”

“The rumours: me being in love with him, wanting to fuck him, being obsessed with him. Whatever they’re saying, it's all true.”

Amusement mingles amongst the disbelief on his face; he backs up a step, jaw locking on a tense laugh. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I mean every word of it. I find Minho to be the single most attractive person I've ever met. I respect him as a man, I admire him as a colleague. He’s everything I could ever want,” you state, calm and collected.

A vein throbs in Seungmin’s forehead, his teeth grind to rigidity. You sensed well enough where his soliloquy was going, telling from his entirely uncharacteristic nerves. You’d rather be forced into a confession with potential to ruin your career than have to accept a confession of feelings from a man whose idea of adult courtship apparently equates to that of playground bullying.

“Why?” Seungmin eventually seethes.

“Why?”

“Why him, and not me?”

You scoff incredulously; the arrogance of this man.

“He’ll never want you that way, you know that, right?” he presses, desperation rolling from him. “He lords over us, thinks he’s so much better than us—”

“That’s because he is.”

“I can be a good partner to you, I can take care of you!”

“I don’t need taking care of, Seungmin. I just need to be let out of this goddamn room.”

You move to shove past him; his arm blocks the path, a barricade between you and the door.

“Seungmin—”

“You won’t even give me a chance?” he leans in closely, the stale heat of his breath tinctured with alcohol. You recoil from it, turning your cheek to him as you reach once more for the door.

“You always were an uptight little b—”

In a merciful intervention, the door swings open abruptly, the intruding gush of fresh air sweeping away the thick, rotten atmosphere. Seungmin startles, drops his arm from the wall, which is opportunity enough for you to squeeze through and make your escape. You hope the smile of gratitude you afford the thoroughly perplexed, smartly dressed cleaner is understood, but don’t wish to stick around to find out.

Back in the main hall, the space is now distinctly fuller than before. You’re less able to see through gaps in the mass of bodies, can’t quite hear over the mood music that’s ramped up in volume. Supposing that Minho must assuredly be looking for you by now, you head for the place you last saw him. Navigating around a few groups of people and returning polite nods that are sent your way, you step through the open French doors, out to the veranda. There’s a little relief comes from discovering it empty, the quiet solitude doing something to ease your jittered nerves. Hands on the cool ornate railing, you take in a deep lungful of the wintry night, centring yourself, packing away all that just happened to be compartmentalised at a far more distant date.

“There you are.”

Minho's voice through the silence is its own elixir. Were your relationship not in such a state of limbo, you’d be running into his arms and seeking solace there. Indeed, you start towards him with that in mind, stopping yourself short.

He closes the French doors carefully, the gentle clack of his suit shoes approaching you. An updraft of breeze catches him, strands of hair falling loose across his dark eyes. He gestures by motion of his head to the white metal bench, a baroque structure nearest the ivy-covered wall. You join him there, the space allowing hardly much room; your knees touch when he settles beside you. The mood music from the hall can be heard faintly, the chatter of colleagues a muted comfort to what would otherwise be stoic silence. The hotel grounds stretch on in blotted darkness; flower beds and leafy hedges are arranged in geometric patterns, a natural distraction for your eye to trace. Beyond the walls of the hotel, the city glows iridescent in the evening bustle, skyscrapers stretching to cloudy heights, basking in the caress of the low hanging moon.

Minho inhales softly, lets out a gentle breath.

“You really want the truth?” he asks.

“Either that, or we stop this,” you shrug, the defeatist in you speaking.

“Right.”

The lull in conversation precedes the summoning of his courage; your heart flutters, curiosity manifesting as trepidation.

“You probably won’t believe half of what I'm about to tell you,” he says slowly, “and I'm only doing so because I care for you a great deal. You... mean a lot to me.”

A tightening of emotion restricts your chest, but you're loath to speak just yet. Any interruption might veer him from his course, and he’s only just embarked. Better to let him bear it all.

“I suppose it’s best to start with the facts.” He flicks a glance to you, assessing what’s to come of his next words.

“I... I’m not human.”

And when the assessment yields nothing much more than your silent acceptance, he continues.

“I was born a demon. I am a demon. For more than two hundred years, I have lived in the mortal realm. I consider it—this place—my home, but I was born in the immortal one; the Underworld, if you like, though I suppose it has many names.”

What he’s asking you to believe is an impossibility, and it is precisely that impossibility that inclines you to believe it. Would a man in need of a lie forge one so asinine?

“Go on,” you whisper in encouragement. You need it all; every scrap of information to even begin putting the pieces of this together.

“You were right. I am pretending to be something I'm not. This form I'm in—what you see when you look at me—it isn’t real. It’s a disguise keeping my demon nature hidden; one that I've worn for so long I suppose I forgot it was even an illusion.” He wrings his hands, fingers intertwining as he speaks. “But I can only conceal so much of myself, is the thing. No matter how thickly I cover it up, there’s a part of me that is demonic in function, that always will be. I can’t change that. I require... souls. To sustain myself. Human souls that are ripe with lust, specifically, for it is that state of existence—that emotion—that nourishes me.”

You swallow heavily, holding all the questions at the door of your sensibilities.

“I know how this all sounds...”

“The souls,” you clear your throat, keen not to diverge from the topic, “how...?”

Minho sighs. “I choose them. People that won’t be missed, people that can’t be saved.”

“So, the people... what happens to them? After you...?”

“They wither away. Dust and ashes; for dust you are and to dust you will return,” he mumbles. “I don’t like playing judge, jury and executioner, but I have to. I manage it as best I can. I’ve whittled my meals down to the bare minimum required to survive. I don’t enjoy this.”

Something turns in your gut on his use of the word ‘meals’; a primal fear that, up until now, you’ve been shunning from the forefront of your emotion with willpower alone. You don’t want to be afraid of him.

 “There’s more,” Minho says quietly.

“Oh, good.”

“If you don’t want to hear it...”

You shake your head. “I do. Sorry. It’s just—”

“A lot. I know.”

He takes your hand, holds your palm in his on his knee, the caution in the act so clear it makes your chest ache. You offer him a reassuring squeeze; a sign to continue.

“I told you that I manage it as best I can,” he says, “to ensure minimal damage. Part of that involves making sure the souls are... as ripe as possible. I could consume any human soul, and it would do a little towards sating my hunger, but then I'd be looking at a body count in the double digits every other week. So I let the soul I select... marinate? For want of a better word? I slip them a drop of my blood, and that’s enough to curse them.”

“Curse them?”

Minho nods slowly. “Their dreams.”

Something in your mind snaps sharply, and slips; a fragment of your responsible subconscious, held together so far by the flimsy duct tape that was your persistence: the dreams couldn't possibly be attributed to anything cognizant; they were dreams. Icy foreboding sinks into your bones, painful and immobilising. Minho won’t meet your worried gaze. He can’t.

“Their dreams turn on them, bombard them with the most realistic of scenarios concerning their deepest fantasies. They’re made to feel real; so real they can’t be distinguished from their waking states. The soul is steeped in lust, drip-fed intravenously on eroticism of their own making that eventually brings them to such a state of frenzy, they balance on the precipice of losing their humanity. Just before that happens, I do my part. I... consume them.”

Deepest fantasies. Made to feel real. Lose their humanity.

Your hands tremble, the weight of fear blanketing you. “Minho...”

He hangs his head, hunched over himself he clutches your hand tightly. You want him to tell you that you’re wrong. That he didn’t do this to you. That you’ll be okay.

“I’m so sorry.”

A wrenched sob of disbelief slips through your lips, the cutting sting of tears welling in your eyes. Like an insect stuck in amber, you can neither breathe nor move.

“It was an accident,” he despairs, holding your hand yet tighter, closer to his chest. “I swear, it was. I never meant to curse you. It was never supposed to be you.”

That eases a little of the terror, you suppose, as does his clear remorse. To know he doesn’t hold any malcontent for you, to know this whole thing was no deliberate wicked gulling; it’s a minor relief.

“How...?”

He lifts his head, lashes damp as he whispers. “The coffee.”

Yet another jigsaw piece locks into place.

“That’s why you got so mad,” you blink through tears.

Minho nods.

“Why you distanced yourself from me.”

“I didn't want to,” he says quietly, “I just... I hoped to protect you from the end I knew was coming. From me. I guess, in my head, it made a sort of sense.”

The end. Such an anticlimactic, insignificant term for what represents such doom. You rather think it should be more poetic than that: ‘the grave dissolution of a mortal story’, perhaps.

“I didn't feel I deserved to be with you. I’d done such an awful thing to you. I'd condemned you, and you didn’t even know it. You just... kept dreaming about me. You kept dreaming about me, and I kept trying to resist it, and every day it got fucking harder, because I always wanted you,” he turns to you, carmine irises unapologetically bright against the pale radiance of the moon. “Every time I touched you, I was ridden with guilt. I still am. But I couldn't stop.”

He brings your hand to his lips, speaks in reverence against your chill skin. “I’ve never craved anything the way I crave you, my sweet thing—”

But you withdraw yourself from his grasp, standing from the bench and seeking the clarity of space. Moving to the bedizened metal balustrade of the veranda, you let your hands rest on the cool steel; grounding, refreshing. You can’t bring yourself to find surprise in any of it; rather there is catharsis. His (surely accidental) professed knowledge of your dreams now makes sense, as does his emotional absence, coloured over by his self-reproach.

“You mentioned ‘the end’,” your voice rings clear once you’re composed enough to speak. “You mean my death, yes?”

Elbows on his knees, Minho says nothing. Confirmation enough, you suppose.

“There’ll come a point where my soul will be...” you recall the words he used, “... steeped in lust?”

You turn back to him; the gentlemanly image of every courtship fantasy you’ve ever indulged in. His beauty strikes you at the very core of your being, his tenebrous features wracked with regret, with tangible sorrow. How cruel it is that such a beautiful creature should believe himself a monstrous, wicked thing.

“And you’ll consume me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll return to dust and ash.”

“Please...” he laments, able to hear no more of it.

“How long do I have?”

On this, his head snaps up, he rises from the bench. You sidestep his attempts to reach for you; indeed, the fact that his immediate response is to embrace you in comfort speaks to a grim estimation.

“How long, Minho?” you press.

He falters, raking hands through his hair before he sighs the admittance. “About a week, maybe.”

As you thought, you think to yourself, and for the same reason you forwent speculating as to the truth of his story: the dreams—your very first ones—started three weeks ago, as was the inciting coffee incident. It all adds up, his words quantifiable by the events that occurred and his resulting behaviour.

No, there is no question of truth. Rather, the question is one of action.

“So, you’re telling me I have a week to live.”

Minho sags in place, defeated. The still night is heavy with quiet; even the bumbling of the party inside seems mute now.

“I don’t accept that.”

Tears and tantrums will do no good here. To slather him with blame and take to resentment would only be to injure both of you—to wound him deeper, to fracture you further—and it seems to you there has been enough hurt for a lifetime. Again: the question is one of action, and where there is will, there are ways. You turn to him, taking his hand in appeal.

“I intend to see this week through, Minho, and the week after that, and the week after that.”

Minho blinks, brows crimping as he says, “I wish you would, but there’s no—”

“You could just not.”

“What?”

You hold his hand tighter. “You could just... not. You don’t have to consume me. You don’t need to take my soul.”

“That’s...”

“That’s entirely possible. Isn’t it? I mean, you said so yourself: you could consume any human soul. It doesn’t have to be mine.”

Minho stares, bloody pools of crimson assessing your face for the answer you clearly have a grasp on that seems to escape him.

“Before me, you only took souls from people that wouldn’t be missed. Souls from people that had nobody, that weren’t loved. But I am. I have you.”

“I... I don’t understand—”

“Look at me, Minho.”

You stand back from him, holding your arms open as though exposing yourself, encouraging him to see beyond the shell of your appearance. Your youthful glow, your warmth, your life. Your coherence—emotional distress notwithstanding—and your sound state of mind. Yet Minho just stares, flabbergasted.

“Do I look like I'm ‘balancing on the precipice of losing my humanity’?” you jeer.

He flounders; you return to him, steal both his hands in yours.

“I don’t, do I?”

“N— No...”

“And that’s because I'm not. All the lusty dreams and fantasies and things that come to me during the night are of pale insignificance to my waking life...” You search his handsome face; hold his otherworldly gaze. “... Because when I wake up, I know I have you. The real you. Human, demon, whatever you are, whoever you try to be. You make the dreams reality, Minho, quite literally. They might make me a little insane, of course—I'm not arrogant enough to pretend they don’t—but when you touch me my soul feels lighter, my heart feels fuller... I’m not stewing in unreciprocated desire.”

“But...”

You tell him again: “I have you. How could I ever succumb to those figments of my imagination when you tether me so firmly to reality?”

He squeezes his eyes shut; a tear streaks his cheek, his full lip trembles as he gasps in a deep breath. Had he really been so fettered with his guilt and stress that he couldn’t see the simple solution staring him in the face?

“It’s your hunger that demands a soul, right? That’s what’s making things hard?” you continue.

He nods.

“So we’ll find you a soul. Someone that won’t be missed, just like you used to.”

“No. It’s been too long; I’d need half a dozen at least,” he chokes. “I can’t.”

“It’s either them or me.”

A harsh truth to be presenting him, perhaps, but a truth nonetheless. If your reading of his feelings is true—and you like to think by now that it is—you know he’ll do the right thing. The only thing.

“But it might not even work. There’s no guarantee you won’t deteriorate, no way to remove the curse entirely.”

“We have to try,” you reassure him. “Don't you think?”

He relaxes a margin; his shoulders slack, his posture appears to soften as he drags you closer by the arm, into his embrace. His chin rests on your crown, the thundering of his heart drums against your ear.

His voice is gently muffled when he presses a kiss to your head. “I’ll try anything if it means keeping you safe.”

Secure in his arms, warm and close, you look out at the distant city, reposing in tranquillity. Soft grey clouds roll over lustred black, tucking the silver disc of the moon away, revealing it again. Clarity is granted to the night, as to your own circumstance, and there is peace.

You hope always, for there to be peace.

***

Felix often wonders if he would have preferred being born a human.

Mortal lives are a mere fleeting blink in the grand scheme of time and the Cosmos, so tragically ephemeral it makes Felix’s heart ache. He used to pity them for it: how miserable a thing to know they’ll never see a century through, some of them even less than that!

But the more time he spent in the realm, the more his mind changed. He came to understand that the transitory nature of mortals was exactly what made them so determined; in some ways, resilient. They move with an urgency, pack their days and nights with things, people, places, never allowing a moment to be dull or unfilled. They seek meaning in everything; the what, the why, the how, for it is those questions that bring about purpose, and a human with purpose is far more daunting a force than any malevolent creature of the Underworld.

Thus, the pity Felix once felt morphed into a sort of admiration, and so he asks himself: would he have preferred being born a human? His time would be profoundly shorter, yes, but mortality seems to him to be a motivator like no other, so then perhaps he would be less passive in his existence. More prone to stress, certainly. As a human, Felix supposes he would be entirely different.

But Felix likes being Felix, and so he concludes: no. He doesn’t think he should like to have been born a human. Felix is a sex faerie, and he embraces himself with as much love as he affords others. He respects humans, venerates them in his own way; the way a sex faerie does best and as is expected of them. There might be nothing especially unique about being a sex faerie, nothing woefully poetic or beautifully futile, but Felix is fine with that. His kind are high in number, saturating the Underworld so that individuality from the legion is near impossible, and aside from that being part of the reason Felix absconded to the mortal realm at all, he also finds comfort in it. No doubt he’d be mocked for that if his kin ever found out, but still; he thinks it’s not so daft to imagine one of his own is never too far away, and in turn, a connection to home.

Unlike demons, faeries do no active harm. In truth, they’re a closer relation to imps than Felix would ever admit; irritating things, as he finds them. Regardless, sex faeries are—as their namesake suggests—more inclined to erotic pursuits than those of overt mischief (though Felix has his fair share of that). He is inherently appealing to humans, as are all of his kind. In his presence even the coldest of them will become wonderfully ingratiating, the most miserable will belly laugh and find a sincere smile. He doesn’t truly understand it—the logistics or the science, if indeed there is any—but he has heard others call it a form of ‘bewitchment’. Nonetheless, sex faeries are compelled to give the very best of themselves, to forage from humans the keys to their individual utopias, for no two are ever the same.

In short: he lives to fuck. Waxing poetic about it is just part of the fun.

Even so and with compulsions set aside, Felix does a stalwart job of keeping himself in check. He gives himself away, willingly and with no expectation of return, because that is who he is. It is his purpose to make love, yet within that lies the most crucial of caveats: it is his purpose to make love, it is not his purpose to love.

His attachment to any human lasts only for as long as it takes to see them to their Elysium, after which he keeps the experience with him—avid collector that he is—until the next such rendezvous. He respects humans, loves them in the way an owner would love their bedraggled and weary old pet; life wouldn’t be the same without them. But again: Felix does a stalwart job of keeping himself in check.

Until he met Hwang Hyunjin.

He only wanted to mitigate the guilt Minho would inevitably come into if he were to see through his plans for the young attorney, for as much as the lust demon pretends otherwise, Felix knows he feels it all. More fool him for getting involved. Though in fairness to his reasoning at the time, it’s not like this has ever happened before. That is, falling in love.

The plan was simple: Felix was to track him down, (a simple case of following him home from work), introduce himself by usual way of flattery, and bewitch him. He knew it wouldn’t be a typical ‘in-and out’, so to speak; his influence needed to be stronger this time, enough so to convince the man never to return to work, perhaps move out of the city if he knew what was good for him. Felix considered that it wasn’t so ethical, to manipulate someone that way, but when also considering the alternative—that being the removal of his mortal soul at the hands of an aggrieved lust demon—he supposed he would ultimately be forgiven. Either way, all of this just meant that he would have stick around longer; expose the man to his appeals for an extended period to ensure his instructions stuck.

Hyunjin had taken the bus home that night. Felix rode in the very back row of seats, toned down in both appearance and attitude in order to blend in seamlessly with the commuters; though that still didn’t spare him from the occasional double take. He examined Hyunjin as though he were a specimen; in a way, he was. The back of his dark, silky head, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the way he nodded gently along to whatever was bleeding through his earphones.

“His background check pulled up some shady stuff,” Minho had said. Felix struggled to imagine it, and he spent the whole bus ride trying. Drugs? Not likely; his skin was too clear for a user and if he were dealing he’d have no need of a low-level job like the one he was in. Robbery? Perhaps, Felix thought. He was tall, looked strong; there was potential to intimidate if a balaclava was pulled over his kind eyes and plush pout. Murder? Felix laughed inwardly at that one.

After twenty minutes of introspection, the bus stopped. Felix recognised the area as being mostly residential, home to old and new build apartment blocks packed closely together and the occasional well placed corner shop. It was far enough away from the city centre that it felt quiet, but close enough to be a desirable location. Hyunjin rose to get off; Felix did the same. Careful to maintain a respectable distance between them, Felix followed him through the shadowy streets, bundled in his big hoodie both to protect from the frigid night chill—Felix never did enjoy cold climes—and to disguise his presence. The more unassuming, the better. Lit by pools of fluorescence from the tall streetlamps, the occasional crunch of dried leaf underfoot, Felix swallowed down his trepidation. He wasn’t usually so furtive as this, preferring to be more direct in his approach to and dealings with humans, but he reminded himself that this was necessary: Hyunjin might be dangerous, after all.

Some minutes of walking passed, Felix easily kept visual track of the man as they ventured further from the main road, to a side street and then to a path that cut through the park. Hyunjin must live in the complex on the other side, Felix supposed, and so quickened his pace as the tall man disappeared through the park gates, into the blackness beyond.

It was unnaturally sudden, the way Hyunjin managed to lose him. In the next moment Felix could see nothing but the gravel path stretching out ominously, the gently swaying bushes and foliage hedging either side. Lavender eyes wide and absorbing, Felix felt he couldn’t have gone far, and so jogged down the path. Distant footsteps crunched ahead of him; lanterns impaled to the grass lawns did little to illuminate anything, woefully dull in their gleaming, but still, the faerie persevered.

He followed the footsteps, held his own breath. A gelid breeze swept through the nature, carrying the scent of human like the wafting aroma of a tempting treat. Felix shivered, both from the chill and the reminder that he was soon to indulge should all go as planned. He wondered what Hyunjin would sound like; would his voice be as pleasing as his aesthetic?

Yet Felix was allowed little time to speculate.

It happened too quickly for him to react: a rustle of movement from behind him, his throat clasped tightly by a forearm that yanked him back into a strong embrace. Less fearful was the attack than the something cool that pressed to his temple; metallic on his skin. Felix swallowed the scream erupting in his throat with the large hand that slapped across his mouth. A voice, menacingly calm, spoke in his ear:

“You’re following me.”

Huh, Felix thought. That’s what he sounds like.

“I— I wasn’t—”

“In case it was unclear,” Hyunjin interrupted, “I’m holding a gun to your head.”

He removed the pressure from Felix’s temple and waved a sleek, black 9mm Glock in front of his eyes, putting it back in position. Point made; Felix supposed.

“So how about we try that again?” Hyunjin asked softly.

“Alright,” the faerie croaked, “maybe I was following you, but it’s not what you think.”

Hyunjin’s grip around his throat tightened, forearm near crushing his vocal cords. “Who sent you?”

“W— What?”

“Who fucking sent you?” Hyunjin seethed, applying more force to the barrel of the Glock.

“N— Nobody! Nobody sent me, let me go and I'll just explain—”

“Was it Ahearn? How did he find me?” the man pressed frantically.

Felix thought it was pointless to keep pleading his case; every word he said only seemed to rile him further, and he didn’t know him nearly well enough to be sure of what might bring him down to a level where they could engage in actual conversation.

And so, Felix supposed he was left only one option. An unpleasant one, but his only one.

With a concentration of will and focus, Felix embraced his true self. The world expanded exponentially as he abruptly shrunk down to the size of a thimble, the change so swift it made Felix’s head hurt and ears pop, his coherence spinning on an axis of dangerous change. He preferred slower transformations where he could afford them; it always took some time to acclimatise to the new proportions, both mentally and physically. Hyunjin stumbled backwards amongst the puff of glittery mist that often accompanies the sprouting of Felix’s wings, cursing indiscriminately.

Felix took to upwards flight, perching on the lowest branch of the nearest tree, hugging the divots of the bark as closely as he could. When the mystic dust settled and Hyunjin was well enough within sight, the faerie stole his chance. Springing from the branch and with all the finesse befitting his tiny size, he swarmed the man in erratic paths, drawing his eye to where it couldn’t quite focus.

“What the fuck—” Hyunjin swore furiously, arms flailing.

With him adequately disoriented, Felix dove from a height, straight towards the arm that held the gun. The intent was only to disarm; to make it safe enough so that a conversation could be had (in addition to some serious explaining). Yet with Hyunjin’s panic his grip on the gun only tightened, Felix’s weaving and calling for his attention having much the opposite effect.

A gunshot rang through the night, alarmingly clear. Though the bullet missed him by a mile, Felix felt the force of reverberation in his small bones, the ripple through the disturbed air and the pungent stench of frazzled gunpowder knocking him off balance. His head throbbed, as did his entire body when his wings retracted in fright and he plummeted towards the ground, bouncing from the gravel path. Dazed and in every imaginable kind of agony, Felix could only submit as he was scooped up in large hands.

Hyunjin seemed so much bigger like this, and indeed, he was. The man could have swallowed him whole and not so much as felt a tickle, and Felix would have been powerless to stop it. This is what you get for interfering, the faerie thought as two large, brown eyes inspected him with unabashed curiosity.

“What... are you?”

Felix sighed. This was not how he’d wanted tonight to go. “Does it matter? Just get it over with.”

Hyunjin blinked at him thoughtfully. “Get what over with?”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“And why would I do that?”

Felix stopped short, stuck for a response. There was no reason the man should like to kill him, he thought, with all notion of threat now removed.

“Put me down,” the faerie demanded, scrambling to his feet, balancing on the ridges of Hyunjin’s palm.

“Are you going to swarm me again?”

“Depends. Are you going to try and shoot me again?”

Hyunjin’s face contorted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t trying to— That was an accident.”

Slowly, Hyunjin bent down to the gravel path, holding his hands flat for the faerie to hop off and gather himself. Unstable underfoot and still a little groggy, Felix composed himself as best he could, once more gathering concentration; focusing.

When the world was right again, and his proportions readjusted to a size more fitting the circumstance, Felix supposed this couldn’t have gone much worse had he actively tried to make it so. Whether out of necessity or not, he’d shown his hand in the first round, and now the man he was supposed to simply bewitch into doing his bidding was staring at him openly, inquisitively, expectantly. With dainty wings retracted and hair smoothed back into place, Felix rubbed his scuffed hands on his jeans.

He approached the waiting man with the right one outstretched and said quite plainly, “I’m Felix. I’m a faerie. I was following you because I need you to leave Help, Heart and Justice and possibly the city altogether. I was going to make you do that. With my powers. I guess.”

Hyunjin balked, eyes rounding into saucers and jaw slacking. Felix anticipated one of several reactions: disbelief, certainly. Anger, maybe. Hysteria, if Hyunjin was the kind of person whose mind rather melted when faced with the impossibilities of the supernatural.

Yet there was none of that. Hyunjin took a moment or two of comprehension, and as they passed, Felix was quite mystified by the ornery grin that crossed the man’s lips, the light of excitement that flickered in his previously heavy eyes. The man opened his thick coat and sharply tucked the Glock inside the leather holster strapped to his chest, concealed by a bigger suit jacket. He stepped forward; Felix faltered. Something about the sudden confidence seemed to overshadow his own, making him feel inexplicably smaller. Felix had never felt small before—never in the psychological, inferior sense. Hyunjin loomed; he slipped his hand into the faerie’s.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said coolly. “I’m ex-mafia. I carry a gun because I'm eternally paranoid about my old life catching up with me. I've no intentions of leaving the city; I only just got here. The job I could maybe stand to lose.”

Hyunjin stepped forward once more, in the same motion bringing Felix a measure closer by a gentle tug on his hand. Felix’s chest lurched and swelled with giddy jitters; he was very aware Hyunjin was not a typical human; this was not a typical encounter.

The man leaned down to Felix’s sensitive, slightly pointed ear, eliciting the tenderest of whispers, “But I'll hear you out, little faerie Felix.”

Hyunjin said Felix’s name like his tongue invented the very sound. Creatures of the Underworld are often sensitive to their names—they hold power, after all, in all things—but this felt like something new. Something the faerie couldn’t contain in a single thought. Warmth rolled about in Felix’s stomach, and as the two of them shook gentle hands on the gravel path in the chilly, badly lit park, he quietly considered that he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

And he was right.

Just over two weeks later, and here he dances with him. In the elegant main hall of the Constellation Hotel, held close to Hyunjin’s warmth as he leads them in a slow, lazy sway to the smooth jazz.

Felix knows how he got here; he can sequence the events, the words, the reasons that led him to this very moment in this very room with this very man. Yet still, it feels so removed from reality. Coasting in a sea of formal dancers, they bob along as though they are one of them; as though they’re normal. Felix supposes they’re anything but.

He looks up at the man that turned his life inside out; he’s dashing in a two-piece Gucci suit, his dark hair slicked back smartly, the ends sitting barely above his broad shoulders. He's thoroughly relaxed, rocking back and forth with his hand secure on Felix’s waist, eyes distant and focusing only when he catches his partner’s gaze.

He smiles softly. “What is it, love?”

Felix shrugs. He hasn’t the words to adequately explain how he’s feeling, though he knows Hyunjin would love him to try.

“Still feeling guilty?”

Felix scoffs gently. He’d be startled if it were anyone else, but Hyunjin seems to read him with an uncanny adeptness; one that would have Felix assuming the man is of otherworldly origins himself if he didn’t know better.

“I’m trying not to,” the faerie sighs. “I wanted tonight to be fun.”

“It is fun.”

“You’re having fun?”

“I’m with you, love. That’s plenty fun for me.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but can’t deny the way his heart clenches. Hyunjin chuckles quietly, drawing the faerie closer into his arms.

“You’ve nothing to feel guilty about,” he murmurs. “So long as Minho believes I’m out of his team and out of his way, that’s all that matters.”

“It’s not all that matters, Jin. I lied to him.”

“You told a white lie to protect me, and to make him feel better. I really don’t think that counts as such a gratuitous sin.”

“But he—”

Hyunjin pulls back a measure, taking Felix's chin by thumb and forefinger. “He believes you bewitched me, yes? That I'm no threat now?”

“You never were—”

“No, I never was, but I can see how a few cautions and an old arrest warrant might raise some red flags with someone who cares as much about their job as he does. I can’t run from my past, love. No matter how I try. His opinion of me won’t be changed, you said so yourself. Better to have him believe that I'm subdued, that you have me, that I'm a problem solved.”

Felix sags under the weight of it all. He knows Hyunjin to be right, of course, but even that knowledge doesn't seem to alleviate him of the frustration. Minho is his good, dear friend, but so deep do his prejudices run where criminality is concerned that not even Felix can see a way they could ever reasonably coexist; Minho will never accept Hyunjin as Felix’s lover. Only as his victim.

“Must we pretend forever?” Felix mumbles dejectedly.

“No,” Hyunjin shakes his head. “Only when we’re around him, and only for as long as you want me.”

“For as long as I want you?” the faerie repeats incredulously. “Are you suggesting there’ll be a time when I won’t?”

“Maybe. You never know. You are a sex faerie.”

Felix clutches Hyunjin’s lapel tightly. “I do know. I want you beside me always, sex faerie or not. Don’t make me actually bewitch you.”

Hyunjin grins, bright and free. “You're adorable when you’re possessive.”

Felix melts inside; he draws closer to his lover, resting his cheek on his chest, quietly counting the strong thuds of his heartbeat. They sway slowly, once more adrift in the sea of dancers that surround them. Felix supposes it’s not all so bad; it can’t be, when he’s allowed moments of tranquillity like this.

“I’m glad you found me,” Hyunjin sighs softly, pressing a kiss to Felix’s crown.

“My precious little faerie.”

***

Rainy nights are truly among your favourite things.

The unforgiving downpour streaks the windows of the twenty-fifth floor, slicing the panorama of the city to odd distortion, reflecting the red and white of traffic, the amber of the street. Puddles ripple far below, gathering high in the gutters of the kerbs, spraying to the pavement when cars tread through them at high speed. It’s quiet inside, the distant tip-tap of a keyboard is a pleasant accompaniment to the sound of the exterior elements; though perhaps it is the tip-tapper of the keyboard that brings you such warmth as opposed to the tip-tap itself. 

Your name is called. “Can you come in here please?”

Several minutes shy of eight o'clock in the evening, and your esteemed team leader calls for your assistance.

His office door stays open now; from the minute the office empties out until the hour has grown too late to justify overtime; and there is plenty of that these days. Never has business been so lucrative, never has there been more to do, and with such a ramping up of cases across the board comes the inevitable extra hours.

But you’ve never particularly minded those; not then, not now. Especially not now. Not when he leaves his door wide open, just in case. Not when he always stays, just as long as you do. Not when he grows impatient and demands you finish up tomorrow, just because he’s dying to take you home.

Strolling to his office and popping your head through the open door, you expect to see the usual scene: Minho surfacing from a pile of papers and documents, discombobulated but with not a hair out of place.

“What’s all this?” you ask, stepping over the threshold.

The office has been rearranged: the shallow table has been dragged from its corner position to in front of the sofa, covered with a makeshift cloth made from... A4 paper and staples? You chuckle quietly, intrigued. Plates fashioned from cardboard document wallets have been rudimentarily cut into shape and placed on the table, yellow post-it notes stuck to the paper, intended for use as coasters for flimsy plastic cups from the water cooler. A collection of crisps and snacks is gathered in the centre of it all: Walkers, Wotsits, two Snickers bars and a packet of Maltesers. Minho stands proudly beside it, a smarmy grin on his face.

“It’s dinner.”

You quirk a brow at him. “Dinner, huh?”

Minho nods, looks down at his display. “You like it?”

“I mean, am I fifteen? Because that was the last time I think ate a vending machine dinner.”

“We’re reliving your youth,” he shrugs, approaching you.

You shudder exaggeratedly. “My youth is not a time I'm immediately keen to relive, actually.”

Minho hums softly, gathering you in his arms. You’re quick to acquiesce; as you always are. Being so close to him all day yet unable to touch, or kiss, or do much more than pine is a unique brand of frustration.

You look up at him; at his plush lips, his gently smouldering eyes. He doesn’t bother to hide the crimson in them now; arguably, he can’t. You’re glad of that. He presses a tender kiss to your lips; chaste, lingering. Wanting.

“I promised I’d take you,” he whispers when he reluctantly pulls away.

“You did?”

“Mhm. Don’t you remember?”

You cast your mind back twelve weeks; to a sandwich destroyed, to a doughnut refused, to a coffee mistakenly drunk. To a dinner invitation, lost among the chaos.

“Oh,” you sound in realisation. “That?”

Minho nods, arms clasped around your waist, taking to a gentle sway.

“I mean, technically you didn’t promise anything.”

“My word is as good as my promise,” he scowls softly. “Besides, I want to take you out properly. Show you off a little.”

You suppose you can’t argue with that too much.

“Just maybe... after?” he adds.

You sink into his arms, winding your own around his warm middle, ear to his broad chest. After is fine, you suppose. Things are so hectic—have been since the office party—neither of you had much of a chance to breathe, let alone make your continued affair official. The difference being, of course, that it feels official now. Minho isn’t distance, nor is he careful. He’s all in, just for you, and you’re happy to keep him like that.

He squeezes you gently. “I was hoping this would do in the meantime.”

“I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re adorable.”

“You think I'm adorable?” he scoffs, the dusting of blush on his cheeks betraying his true thoughts on the endearment.

“Of course. I wouldn’t be fucking you if I didn’t think I could coddle you,” you shrug.

Minho mumbles something incoherent, drawing you close.

“Speaking of dinner,” you poke him gently, “have you eaten?”

He nods, grimacing on your raising of the subject. He never likes talking about it; you make sure he does anyway, if only to remind him that you’ll never hold it—any of it—against him.

“The criminal?”

“Sweetheart—”

“I want to know,” you press firmly. “Please.”

He sighs a surrender, nodding again. “The criminal. Just like the last time, and the time before that.”

“So, you’re good for a little while?”

“Four weeks. Like always.”

“Did Felix...?”

“Yeah. He helped.”

“Good. That's good. You need to learn to ask for that.”

Minho softens; his eyes crease gently; his lips turn up in a smile. “I’m trying, baby.”

You crane up on your tiptoes, gift him a gentle kiss; one that deepens with heat and longing. “I know.”

Twenty minutes later, and the dinner remains untouched. Held close in strong arms and with the clammy stick of glass to your naked back, Minho drives a deeper form of love inside you, thick and fast. Unrelenting even when you cry a desperate, straining groan under his momentous size, his pulsing release, for Minho loves to hurt you in just the right way; the pleasurable way, the way that reminds you of his true nature and all the things you have in this world, the real world.

Indeed, the harder and truer he fucks you, the more distant a memory the dreams of the night seem to be.

The lashing rain pounds against the window of Minho’s office, reverberating soundlessly. Protected from the droplets that would otherwise seek to chill your exposed spine as Minho uses you to his own relief, it is the droplets from the front—his sweat, his exertion, the saltine tears of delirious pleasure he blinks through—that claim your state of mind.

Indeed: rainy nights are truly among your favourite things. Even more so when spent with one you love.

“You’ll always be cursed with the dreams, sweet thing,” Minho once told you.

“That’s fine,” you curled into him, you smiled.

You felt the radiance of love make you sure and certain.

“So long as you’re always here to make them come true.”

𝙙𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧-𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙣𝙤𝙢, 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙢 𝙞 𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙩 (𝙗𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙮𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙙-𝙠 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨) 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙝𝙤 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙭 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙩, 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩. 𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙮𝙚𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡, 𝙞 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙞 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙. 𝙞 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙨. 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙠 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙝é 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙤𝙣, 𝙞 𝙨𝙪𝙥𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙞𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙠. (𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙮; 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙧!) ♡

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡

< 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧

ohh…i’m going insane😀

220918 / credit

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