Archive of Our Own

They’ve Come for Me (So Cum for Me)

Running away from the police is not necessarily how Minho had envisioned his day to go. 

There were three things on his list today. One: Make profit. 

Failed. The police found his goldmine, the money laundering operation hidden away behind a maze of washing machines and laundry detergents.

Two: Have a meeting with Seoul’s biggest gang lord, Bang Chan. 

Also failed. If he manages to escape a prison cell tonight, he’ll probably end up six feet under instead.

Three: Have good fucking sex.

Not yet failed, but extremely unlikely. 

All in all: Minho’s day is a failure, and if there is one thing Minho doesn’t tolerate, it’s failure. Missteps are not permitted. Control, control, control. Anywhere, anytime. One mistake, and you’re out.

Except this time, it seems like he’s the one who’s out for good.

Someone ratted him out, apparently. Must have. But even when he racks his brain, he can’t figure out who the hell it was. Jeongin, his assistant? No way. He knows all Minho needs to do is twitch, and his entire family would be wiped out. San, his personal bodyguard? Also no way. They’ve known each other since elementary school. He trusts him with his life. Seungmin, his advisor? Possible, but he’d be losing more than gaining.

All in all, Minho is at a loss. There’s only one person that comes to mind, but they haven’t spoken in over two years, and said person has kept his mouth shut since. Why would he decide to talk now?

Minho looks over his shoulder as he rounds a corner, the thump of heavy footsteps and police cars pulsating in his veins, each beat of his heart supplying him with a new surge of adrenaline. He can escape this, somehow. He knows he can; he just needs to find a way out, slip from law one more time, as he’s done countless times in the past.

Thankfully, he knows this street, its array of black and white brick beautifully contrasting each other, something he’s always admired about them; how such polar opposites could co-exist. It almost reminds him of himself and—

Oh. 

Oh.

He knows where he is, alright. In his hazy state of mind, he wonders how he didn’t realise sooner. He’d been here so many times; at one point, it was a place he frequented as often as his own.

Just there. The fifth house down from the corner of the street he’d turned into, once considered his second home.

Frantically, he makes his way towards it and clambers over the fence he once never had to bridge. He allows himself to fall to the grass, taking a quick breather before he takes hold of the sturdy iron drainpipe and climbs into the window on the second floor, always slightly open. That still hasn’t changed.

This is good. This is safe , at least for a bit, and, as he’d learned upon peeking his head into the window, he can get two things done:

One, confront Jisung about his involvement in the treachery.

Two, have good fucking sex.

Jisung only had one thing on his list today: Fuck Terence. And, as he’s quickly finding out, the problem with fucking yourself with a 14-inch squid tentacle dildo that your ex-boyfriend bought you is that in the event of an intruder, it’s a bit of a difficult situation in which to run and hide. Partly because of the squelching noise it makes when pulled out, partly because you’re butt-naked with your legs up in the air.

But how likely is this to ever happen to anybody? There must be like a 0.000005% chance.

And apparently that 0.00000.5% includes Jisung.

One second he’s ramming a dark purple tentacle dildo with red suckers into his arse, and the next an intruder is coming intruder-window.

Living alone and not expecting some psycho to climb into his second storey window , Jisung’s not even doing this under the covers, so the squelch is extra loud when he panics and rips the tentacle from his rim.

Of course, it attracts the attention of whoever the hell the silhouette belongs to, unrecognisable due to the moonlight also coming through the window, and it’s not as if Jisung can just yeet the tentacle across the room and pretend he’s asleep.

So he lies there, legs in the air, hand around the base of the slicked-up tentacle, staring in shock at whoever the fuck just climbed in the window because, honestly, what else is he meant to fucking do?! It’s not as if there’s an etiquette for this situation.

Giggles rip through the night, giggles Jisung only knows too well. They haunt him in his dreams, good and bad alike. “Still using that dildo, Sungie?”

Jisung cannot describe the way relief and nerves flood him in a big fucked up contrast of feelings—relief that this isn’t some random serial killer, but nerves because it’s his ex-boyfriend Minho, the same ex-boyfriend who bought him the dildo, the same ex-boyfriend whose name he had been moaning just before he climbed through the fucking window.

“It’s—It’s, urm, I mean… Why—Why waste a good dildo… you know?” Jisung stammers, cock twitching against his stomach at the way Minho’s laughing at him. Fuck his embarrassment kink.

Minho leans against the windowsill with a grin. When he catches sight of Jisung’s cock, he raises an eyebrow. Huh. Still as pathetic as it used to be.

Okay, good. Walking in on Jisung masturbating may not have been on his list of plans for today, but he isn’t complaining; it’s not like he hasn’t seen his ex like this, stark naked and vulnerable, a million times already.  He knows the map of Jisung’s body better than the road network in Seoul. 

Minho tilts his head, black strands falling into his eyes. “Hmm, if I remember correctly, you said you’d burn everything to ever remind you of me so you wouldn’t end up setting me on fire. Where’d that go? Can’t keep your own word, Sungie?”

“L-Listen, you know my neighbour. She’s a good old lady of God, how could I let Terence the Tentacle out of the house knowing she might see it? She’d die on the spot, and that sin would be on me. I said I’d burn everything to do with you, not myself in the pits of hell,” Jisung says, for some reason still with his legs in the air, rim exposed. It’s like he’s prey frozen in a predator’s glare, waiting to see what happens next.

The predator drags his eyes down his prey’s body, a hunger starting to rage in his stomach as his eyes trail over Jisung’s exposed hole, wet and empty. It’s a shame—It looked so delicious when it was stretched out around Terence the Tentacle, giving him the urge to push his fingers in alongside Terence to see how wide it could go, how much the slut could gape. What a sight to see. Minho really chose the best timing, huh?

Well, if you ignore the fact that he is being chased by an angry horde of cop cars right now.

“Oh,” he says in the most mocking of his tones, flicking out his tongue to wet his lips. “But I doubt God would fancy seeing such a dirty little slut in His paradise.”

Jisung huffs, finally dropping his legs, thighs clamping together as his knees fall to the side.

“It’s your fault. You dated me, made me into this, fucked me over and now I can’t get anybody to fuck me like you used to and I have to resort to Terence!” he whines, throwing the dildo at Minho.

It slaps into his abdomen before flopping onto the floor.

“And you’re still a whiny little bitch,” Minho remarks dryly, the grin wiped from his face.

Worst of all, Jisung’s still obsessed with Terence. It was more of a joke at first, a dildo Minho brought Jisung to shock him but honestly, Jisung was so easy to arouse, he’d even shove a branch up his arse if Minho demanded it. Of course he’d grow obsessed with it.

Minho leans down to pick up the tentacle between his thumb and index finger, letting it dangle in the air, some lube dripping off of it.

Jisung pushes himself up onto his elbow. “What—What are you doing?” he asks, but Minho doesn’t answer—simply stares at him in that way that’s sure to send Jisung spiralling.

And, sure enough, it does. “What-Whatever, give that back,” he instructs, sitting up to reach forward for the dildo yet still, Minho only leers.

Jisung, embarrassed and slightly offended at his ex-boyfriend’s audacity to steal his dildo, stands and makes a lunge for it. “I said give Terence back!” However, his fingers clench only around oxygen when Minho takes a step back.

The words cut through the air like a blade Minho himself crafted—sharp, precise and, above all, lethal: “Why beg for Terence when you could beg for me?”

Scoffing, Jisung straightens and crosses his arms. “And why should I beg for you? Last time all you did was ignore me and walk away, leaving me screaming after you like some sort of maniac. Why the hell should I beg for you? You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve shit.”

Well. Minho didn’t come here to talk about the miserable failure that was their relationship. He’s just here to hide from the police, and maybe get a good fuck in in the meantime.

He ignores the treacherous leap of his heart. It’s easier. 

“Because...” Minho looks down at Jisung’s crotch, cock hard and leaking. 

He steps closer, the signature smirk building on his lips again, as if he’s putting lego pieces back together, everything falling into place. “You have a little...”

Cruel. That’s one word to describe Minho, the one his subordinates and Jisung himself two years ago would’ve certainly chosen. Minho agrees. Nothing, in his eyes, is more delightful than cruelty.

He lets Terence the Tentacle graze Jisung’s abs.

“Problem down there,” he ends with.

With great difficulty, Jisung snatches Terence back. If Minho had to show up, why couldn’t it have been a little earlier, when Terence wasn’t so goddamn slippery and covered in lube? 

“Then leave so I can fix it. From what I remember, you’re good at walking away.”

He walks back to his bed and flops onto it, boxing one of his arms around his head as the other slips Terence back into his hole. “Or do something about it yourself. But I’m not going to beg.”

Jisung pushes the dildo fully in and his eyelids flutter, a soft moan falling from his lips. He picks up a rhythm, letting more small noises follow.

“Decide, Minh—ah.”

Minho only watches him for a while, arms crossed in front of his chest as his eyes shoot laser beams at his arse.

Nobody can blame him for growing hard when his beautiful ex-boyfriend is lying there, basking in his golden skin and the well of sweat Minho craves to drink from, fucking himself on Minho’s dildo, moaning his name. It’s so unbearably hot that Minho has to shrug off his suit jacket, loosen his tie and undo two of the buttons on his dress shirt.

Maybe he’d be patient. Maybe he’d watch Jisung cum all over himself without begging him once, maybe he’d sit here for hours until Jisung would grow desperate enough for him and give in. He always does, eventually; but then the sirens flare up again outside, and Minho realises he’s on limited time.

Good. He supposes today he’ll just take what he wants. Jisung invited him to help—he’s going to help.

With large steps, Minho crosses the room and rips the dildo out of Jisung’s arse. Instead of listening to the sorry whine that’s sure to follow, Minho decides to drink it up instead, leaning over Jisung to crash their lips against each other.

Jisung doesn’t need to beg. The way his arms and legs clamp around Minho’s body, pulling him down on top of him, is enough to give his desperation away. He moans and mewls into the kiss, rutting his cock up into the bulge in Minho’s slacks, hand grasping the hair at the back of Minho’s neck.

When he pulls away, he pushes Minho’s face to his own neck, pleased when the other bites into his flesh. “I assume the sirens are for you?” he asks before gasping and pushing his body up into Minho’s as he finds a particularly sensitive bit of skin.

Minho’s lips hum around their space on Jisung’s neck, hand enveloping his gorgeously tiny waist, but he makes no move to pull away and supply Jisung with an answer. Not until a bright red hickey is sucked into place.

Jisung used to say that hickeys were his way of leaving tiny pieces of his heart behind. Minho isn’t too sure if he’s doing the same thing, honestly, if he can still confidently say that he loves him. 

Probably not. But then again, Minho hasn’t given it much thought, instead directing his thoughts into a different direction every time the younger’s name came to his mind immediately. It hurt too greatly.

Only when he’s given him another piece—two, three—does Minho pull back, stopping right in front of Jisung’s face as a grin spreads on his lips; the particular kind of insane he knows drives Jisung mad. “Who else would they be for, baby, hm?”

Jisung shivers, muttering, “Fuck, it’s annoying how hot you are,” before pulling Minho back down in a clash of lips and tongue.

Restless, his hands start to trail down Minho’s body, reaching the half-tucked hemline of his shirt and sneaking into the opening. One hand works on untucking the rest of the shirt while the other glissades up Minho’s torso, stroking over each individual ab muscle and up to the defined muscles in his chest.

When his fingers meet Minho’s nipple, he squeezes.

It’s been two years since they last had sex—hell, since they’ve last seen each other—but Jisung’s fingertips feel so familiar on his skin, almost like the addictive sting of a tattoo needle. Somewhere, deep inside, there’s a part of Minho that’s aching, yearning, whispering, You missed him. He shuts it down.

There’s no use in thinking about any of this. If he isn’t going to prison tonight, then one of Bang Chan’s subordinates will find him. Minho’s confident in his negotiation skills, but even he isn’t too sure he’ll make it out alive. There is no space for Jisung in a life that’s sure to end one way or another. 

But this one night, this one fated night—he’ll allow himself to indulge in the addictive beverage named Nostalgia. 

His fingers reach to the right to grab the bottle of lube messily discarded next to Jisung, cap still open, and he coats them generously to circle Jisung’s rim.

Jisung moans, his hips bucking upwards. “You’re such a fucking tease,” he grumbles.

But what did he expect? Minho always was. Since that day two years ago, Jisung has never been able to find someone that worked him like Minho, who managed to find every sweet spot or sensitive stretch of skin. He’d craved and craved for his ex boyfriend and never quite managed to fill the space he left, no matter how hard he tried.

Having Minho here, on top of him, touching him… it’s almost all too easy to forget that the two years ever happened. He can almost be convinced that they’re still together.

But nothing can dismiss the pain that’s been growing harsher and harsher since Minho left.

Fuelling himself with the burn of his heartbreak, he says, “If you don’t want the police to take you away with a fat boner and bright blue balls, I suggest you hurry the fuck up.”

“Language, baby.” Minho’s fingers dance away from Jisung’s rim again, performing a beautiful performance of push and pull. “You know being bratty won’t get you very far, hm?” 

“And what do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg? I already tried that, and it didn’t fucking work,” Jisung seethes, his hand finding Minho’s cock and squeezing it tightly, uncomfortably.

“You don’t want me to be bratty, and I don’t want to beg. Where do you wanna go from here, my love?”

My love.  

Minho falters. 

He never outright admitted it, never quite had the guts to, but it was his favourite pet name. Jisung called him many things—baby, sir, Min, sexy—yet never ever came close to the flutter of Minho’s heart when he heard those two words leave Jisung’s lips.

My love, a reminder of eternal dedication and passion. Something that, in their situation, doesn’t even come close. 

How dare Jisung even still call him that, after all this time? After everything Jisung did… Every time Minho had to watch him talk to someone new… After… After— 

My love, my love— 

Ever-present anger, simmering and searing, crawls upwards right toward the surface—and then it erupts. It erupts and explodes, wrath and rage burning, burning, burning, scorching hot. Their only objective: extinction.

My love, my love, my love—

Minho’s hand surges forward to wrap around Jisung’s neck.

“First of all,” he spews, “it seems like it’s about time to remind the slut of my name again.”

Jisung laughs. Despite the restricted air flow, he still has the guts to laugh, just like he did all those years ago. “The s-slut didn’t forget. You lost the r-right to the title.”

If Minho wants this, he’s going to have to pull out all the stops. Jisung isn’t the one who walked away because of nothing. Jisung’s the one who had to face abandonment, who got dropped so cruelly out of the sky by the wax-melted wings Minho had gifted him.

Minho ruined them for nothing.

“If you want it b-back, you’ll h-have to earn it.”

Minho’s hand lets go of Jisung’s throat to wrap around his cock instead, squeezing it tight the way Jisung did moments ago. “Like this?” he asks, voice dripping with honey—a false sense of security. “You’re gonna have to tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“I want you to stop fucking around and get on with it before the cops work out where you are,” Jisung huffs, pushing his hips up into Minho’s hand.

Minho’s lips form into a pout, about to protest, asking, Where would be the fun in that? but decides against it. Jisung is right. The police might show up any second, and if he’s already desperate enough to enter his ex’s house and fuck him, he might as well see it through.

“Fine, fine,” he grouches, pressing his nail into the slit of Jisung’s head and twisting it. It elicits a pained moan from Jisung, his own personal little jeremiad. Sweet. “On your knees. Arse up.”

Jisung could, he really could. Or he could make this more fun, make Minho forcefully take what he wants… to feel like Minho never stopped wanting him, even when he left.

Jisung leans in close, hovering his face close to Minho’s, and smirks. “Make me.”

Minho doesn’t need to get told twice.

Fine. Jisung wants to make this difficult? He’ll give him fucking difficult.

Enforcing eye contact, Minho slowly unbuttons his pants and pulls them down, greatly gratified by the way Jisung’s eyes devour him. It’s as if he’s putting on a play, giving his best performance because he loves the audience reaction, the gasps and the trembles, anticipating the events of the next act.

And then Minho snaps into action.

Overpowering his ex has never been a difficult feat. Jisung may have muscles and a toned body, but Minho’s faster, stronger; he knows exactly when to defend himself, which weak spots to hit, and how to win a losing battle.

Jisung is flipped around, stomach flat against the mattress, with Minho’s knee digging into his arse. The gun, previously strapped to his thigh, is now pressed against his skull.

“I said,” Minho growls, “On your fucking knees.”

There’s a gun pressed against his head. There’s a gun pressed against his head.

Jisung’s body is like solid stone, set in place, but his heart runs like a rabbit from a fox, pounding in his chest. Sweat starts to bead at his forehead and he gulps, his only focus the feel of the cold metal against his skin as his survival instincts kick in.

They’d played with knives before. Knives, but never guns. Jisung had talked about it, had told Minho how hot it would be countless times—fuck , he’s moaning pathetically just at the realisation that this is real, that this is actually happening.

Minho’s always known how to use him. It seems that even after all this time, he’s never forgotten.

He proves Jisung’s point when he presses the gun harder against his skull, right hand coming down to smack Jisung’s back. “Dumb slut can’t even listen to orders anymore?”

Jisung whimpers and pushes his hips up, getting onto his knees with his arse presented like an offering for the gods.

Sweet. And so horribly compliant. As always, Jisung was easy to silence. Nothing much has changed.

Minho laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs as he presses the gun into Jisung’s skull, releasing the trigger with a soft click.

“No one’s put you in your place recently, hm?” he whispers, fingers grazing over scars left on Jisung’s arse by Minho’s favourite knife long ago. “Or else you wouldn’t whimper and whine like a desperate little bitch.”

Jisung scoffs. “Yeah, well, nobody will come near me because they’re scared of what will happen if they touch me. Nobody actually believes that I don’t belong to anybody anymore. They’re just waiting for my owner to show back up and claim me. If you want to abandon a dog, don’t leave it chained up to your fucking fence.”

It’s said with bitterness, Jisung’s words ripping into the air around them.

“Now get on with it. Put me out of my goddamn misery.”

He knows that Minho will react strongly to this. He knows he’s saying all the worst things that will get him riled up. They were so close, once, closer than Jisung thought possible. Predicting how Minho will react is easy, predicting what he does about it… it’s a pleasant surprise.

Either way, Jisung hopes it leaves a mark.

Irritation and relief flood Minho at those words, breaking the dam and releasing a typhoon of emotions he never bothered to sort through.

He hasn’t kept up with Jisung after their breakup. Couldn’t. If he even so much as allowed himself to think of him, he knew he’d come back running. If he’d found out about Jisung fucking—or worse, dating—anyone else... Nobody would’ve made it out alive. Not the guy he would’ve whored himself out to. Not Jisung. Maybe… maybe not even Minho himself.

Anger, too. It causes his blood to boil. As if Jisung cared about Minho’s leaving. As if he wasn’t the one who abandoned him first. 

He gets ahold of Terence and pushes it all the way into Jisung’s rim, not even giving him a moment to adjust. His arse is loose and sloppy anyway.

Jisung spits out a moan, the sudden intrusion shocking to both him and his body.

“Did that make you angry, sir ?” The title is said mockingly and backed with spite. “Hearing your dog barking after you walked away from it? Should have clipped my goddamn vocal chords.”

“You’re right, maybe I should’ve,” Minho sneers and rams Terence back in, so hard to the point that it completely disappears. His cock twitches at Jisung’s words, annoyingly so. “But I don’t need to. I can make your potty mouth shut up in many, many other ways.”

Jisung pushes his arse back further, wiggling it tauntingly. “Try harder then. As far as I can tell, I can still fucking speak.”

With his pretty arse presented to him like that and his words so delightfully bratty, Minho can’t help but land a slap against his arse. And another one, for his own pleasure..

“Watch what you say, slut.”

He doesn’t spare Jisung’s arse any break, going back to pushing the dildo in and out at a merciless pace. Thanks to his solo prep, Jisung takes the pounding easily, even though he sputters out moan after moan. Not that he knew it was prep at the time, but he thanks his past self for the effort.

But he gets bored quickly. Terence is the only bloody relief he’s had for ages, and he wants more. He wants somebody to wreck him, and seeing as Minho is the reason nobody’s touched him in years, Jisung figures he can put the work in.

“More!” he demands. “Give me more!”

Unsurprisingly, the movement in his arse stops completely, and Minho pulls Terence out. Jisung’s still as bratty as ever, if not even more, and because of their past... he doesn’t quite respect Minho the way he’s supposed to.

“You want more?”

Minho slips out of bed to reach for the ground and into his pants’ pockets, pulling out his favourite object, the only thing he still carries around after the two years that dares remind him of Jisung: The knife his ex gifted him. Coloured a bloody crimson, small yet handy… razorsharp. Easily the best piece in his collection.

Minho climbs back into bed, this time facing Jisung, whom he makes sit back down on his knees and take Terence into his hands.

He purrs, “I’ll give you less,” and cuts right across. 

Jisung stares down at Terence in shock, the two pieces it was separated into flopping in his hands. 

“What the fuck?! God, you really can’t let me have shit, can you? No guy can fuck me and neither can bloody Terence anymore!”

Minho grins, a little sheepishly given the situation, and spins the knife in his hands. “I gave you Terence,” he says. “I decide what happens to him. And you .”

For the second time tonight, Jisung finds himself throwing Terence (or, half of Terence) at his ex. “You used to. You lost that privilege along with your title rights.”

He wants Minho to hurt. He wants it to hurt more than he did.

Minho’s starting to feel like he didn’t lose anything; like Jisung might have been waiting for a night like this all along.

Even if Minho was wrong about Jisung’s feelings for him… he knows him. He knows what Jisung enjoys in bed and what he doesn’t, how he wants Minho to behave and throw him around like he’s nothing more than a worthless toy. That’s the one thing Minho was always sure of. The one thing he could deliver, always.

So Minho puts one half of Terence into Jisung’s mouth to stuff it with him, then the other part back into his hand. The grin doesn’t leave his face as he does. 

Slashing again, Terence is reduced to a miserable ghost of his former self. The puddle of Jisung’s palm’s blood surrounds him, and Minho almost giggles at how it looks like an actual crime scene. Homicide. Terence the Tentacle was ruthlessly murdered tonight.

Jisung whimpers but his body stays in place, muscle memory of the training his ex had put him through when they were together. Jisung knows pulling his hand back into himself, as his reflexes want, is only going to be bad news for him. Instead, he leaves it in place to drip onto his duvet.

But… the more he thinks about it… why should he? They aren’t together anymore. Jisung isn’t Minho’s good boy. Jisung is Minho’s rubbish. The mess left in his wake.

So he’ll be messy.

Taking the Terence pieces into his other hand, he throws his cut hand forward and paints Minho’s face with his blood. Tan skin turns to red. Delight turns to dismay, then—

Minho grabs Jisung wrist to guide his hand to his lips.

—dripping lust.

Nothing has ever turned Minho on more than the sight of Jisung’s blood, its metallic taste in his mouth. He licks and bites and sucks, drinking it up as if he were a vampire deprived of supper and Jisung was his last. His teeth flash a bloody grin.

And then he pushes. He pushes Jisung down from the bed, climbs on top of him, delighted at the red of his teeth that paints Jisung’s body crimson red.

Minho is a puma and Jisung is his prey, unable to escape. Even when he leans in to capture the younger’s lips, it’s not an act of love or desire, merely mercy and bloodlust instead.

Jisung doesn’t protest the kiss. He’s tasted his own blood before, many times, it’s nothing new to him when Minho is involved. He wraps his legs around Minho’s waist, pulling his body up to grind into him, bloody hand scrunching into the back of Minho’s hair as the younger drops the pieces of Terence to…

Well. He was going to run it up Minho’s back, maybe get in a cheeky squeeze of his arse, but instead he remembers the gun, discarded somewhere next to them.

In a rush of courage with a death wish,  Jisung’s fingers explore the area around them until they curl around harsh metal. With Minho thoroughly distracted by his blood, he flips them around so he’s on top, straddling Minho’s stomach. He directs the nozzle directly to the skin over Minho’s heart, lips stretching into a victorious smirk.

“What do you say, Min? Should I break your heart how you broke mine, or are you going to let me ride you?”

His other hand, the bloody one, sneaks straight to Minho’s cock, coating it in sickly, sticky red.

Minho snorts, ignoring the way his heart picks up speed—because of the gun or Jisung on top of him, he doesn’t know. “You brought this upon yourself.”

“And how exactly did I do that?” Jisung questions, fingers squeezing at Minho’s cock like it’s a stress ball.

Minho refuses to let the moan slip past his lips, even if he can’t hide the way his cock twitches. He instead chooses to let out a bitter laugh. “You lied to me. Thought I wouldn’t notice, hm? That you went behind my fucking back?”

Jisung snorts. “Yeah, after you railed me every fucking night, I just slipped off for round two with someone else. What the fuck are you even talking about?!”

“Whatever.” Minho’s eyes grow dark, and they fixate on the gun pressed to his chest. “Get on with it before I change my fucking mind and let you shoot me instead.”

Jisung, pushing his luck out to sea to sail away to some unknown land, has another brilliant idea that has his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

He moves backwards and directs the head of Minho’s cock to his hole, but he doesn’t let it enter. That is as far as he goes.

Physically. He’s about to go further than he’s ever gone before in another way, though.

Looking down at Minho with the smuggest expression he’s ever worn, he straightens his arm to move the gun to Minho’s forehead and says, “Be a good boy and beg for sir to give you what you want, Minho.”

Minho is no stranger to his life being endangered. He’s made close contact with Death countless times, shook her freezing hands, embraced by her more often than by his own fucking mother.

It’s never been Jisung. He was never the one to threaten his life like this.

When they first met, Jisung was your signature goodie two-shoes. Charming barista at the café, menace at the club. He’d done some harm, but he’d changed. He was normal. He blended in.

A lot has changed since then.

Minho huffs out a laugh, sweatbeads pearling at his forehead. “Fuck no.”

Jisung sucks in a breath through his teeth and lowers himself back down to Minho’s stomach before suddenly moving the gun. His arm ducks under his shoulder and the nozzle of the gun pins Minho’s cock against his thigh.

“Beg.”

Minho wants to refuse at first. He wants to huff and scoff and dare Jisung to go ahead, to just shoot his cock if he wants, but then he thinks of something.

If he goes through with it... if he really, really does beg, then... isn’t that hilarious? Can’t he mock Jisung that way, his pathetic little whines and pleas? They may have last fucked two years ago, but Minho remembers them as if it were yesterday.

He lets out a moan, testing the waters first, seeing how high up he can actually go as his eyes flutter shut, feigning terror.

Jisung scoffs and crosses his arms, gun tucked underneath the crook of his left elbow.

Fuck Minho. God, fuck Minho. He’s so fucking annoying, and prideful, and rude.

Well. If Jisung can’t threaten him, then he’ll threaten something Minho possesses. Something he thinks he possesses. Something he could still possess, if he wasn’t so fucking stupid.

“I don’t see why you’re mocking me. You’re always the one who wants me to beg. Because that turns you on the most, doesn’t it? When I…”

Jisung uncrosses his arms and tilts his head back, eyes half lidded, eyebrows upturned.

“P-Please, sir, m’sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll be good , want you to touch me, want you, want you!” he moans, before breaking into a scornful laugh.

“The truth is, I did go behind your back. I know what your issue is, now, because I’ve thought about it, and I never fucking did anything else. You’re mad that I kept talking to Hyunjin after he asked me out.”

Something flickers in Minho’s eyes, barely there and almost missable, but Jisung notices every little detail of Lee Minho because he knows where to look.

“I wanted a friend. One goddamn friend. Everybody was too scared of me—of what you’d do if they came close to me—and I needed someone to talk to because I was getting miserable . I loved you, but I needed—I just needed a fucking friend!” He’s shouting, now, rage licking up his body and shoving its tongue in his mouth.

“You had Seonghwa and San and Wooyoung and Felix and that stupid Jeongin boy that you doted on as if he was the light of the fucking universe—Hyunjin and I used to meet up for coffee once a week. Once a week! In a public setting where nothing could have happened!”

Jisung waves the gun around precariously as he talks, his other hand squeezing his ex’s cock.

“If you’d have just listened to me you would have known that he only asked me out because he needed to forget about someone else, and that we spent most of our time trying to plan how he could get with that someone—Changbin, the man he was in love with. But you see us talking one time, one fucking time, and I begged you, I begged you to listen to me, to trust the person you were meant to love, and you just—“

Jisung cuts himself off, closing his eyes and releasing a big breath. Thinking about that time… it hurts. It’s so incredibly, excruciatingly painful, the memory of him screaming at Minho to listen to him, to please let him explain, that he loves him so much—

And Minho just pushed him off and walked away. As if Jisung was nothing. As if their love was nothing.

“People aren’t just too scared to fuck me. They’re too scared to be my friend. You scared everyone away and then you abandoned me, and I’ve been alone ever since. I don’t have anyone, I’ve been so isolated and desolate and it’s your fucking fault,” he whispers, feeling his throat get tighter.

He takes another deep breath. “I know begging is too hard for big bad Minho, so I’ll make it easier for you.”

Jisung opens his eyes, finding Minho’s. “Say please. No, not please.“

He brings the gun to his temple, finger flickering on the trigger.

“Say sorry. Say sorry for leaving me or I’ll blow my goddamn brains out.”

Minho doesn’t remember many instances in his life where he felt genuine terror invade his veins, rendering him helpless.

When his mother was killed, all those years ago, and he was left to roam the streets alone.

The first time he held a speech to thank everyone for assembling for their shared cause, explaining how to move forward and how to trick the system to amass a fortune.

The first time he held a conversation with Bang Chan, too scared to meet the lion’s eyes.

When he caught Jisung and Hyunjin at that stupid café he proceeded to burn down.

And now.

Of all the sights he’s ever had to endure in his life, this must be the most terrifying of them all.

Jisung was always, always safe while dating Minho. He made sure of it. There was nowhere he went without at least one bodyguard spying at him from a distance to ensure nothing would happen. The only one who was allowed to get close to Jisung, to hurt him, was his boyfriend, his owner, his—

His fiancé.

And Minho would’ve stopped. He would’ve always stopped if Jisung required him to.

Minho never cared much about anyone’s feelings besides his own, but Jisung’s became his. They were two blazing fires, their only purpose to rage and roar as they attempted to find their way. Then, when they met, they turned into one enormous flame that served to spread each other's heat.

Minho thought he’d finally found something worth living for, something other than profit and violence. But then Jisung had to tear it all down.

Hyunjin was pretty. He was so awe-strikingly gorgeous that he looked like he’d escaped one of Michelangelo’s paintings as one of paradise’s angels. If Jisung was within his vicinity... it’d only be a matter of time until he fell for him, until he’d bite into that golden apple of temptation.

Minho wouldn’t sit and wait around for it to get that far.

Instead, he turned to ice. Leaving first was easier than being abandoned; it was a lesson he had to learn early in life.

So Minho shouldn’t care anymore. He shouldn’t. It’s purely a coincidence he was chased down here tonight, purely a coincidence he decided to climb into his ex’s window as a hideout, and purely a coincidence that he walked in on Jisung masturbating.

He shouldn’t care about his ex holding a gun to his head. It’s just a gun. It’s a quick death, at least if performed correctly.

But he does.

He cares because it’s Jisung. He cares because it’s the man he’s loved more than anything in the world, the one he’d fight for until the very end of his days. He cares because, after so many hours and days and years of pushing his emotions and every thought of his love back down, it’s rather difficult not to explode.

“S-Stop,” Minho whispers, breath stuttering. Terror crashes over him like a raging tempest. “Stop! Put that fucking gun down!”

Jisung makes no move. He only grips onto it harder, harsh determination on his features.

He’ll do it. Minho knows he’ll do it because he’s the one who pushed his ex to such a point, teaching him to never back down from a challenge and to always seem convinced by his own words so his opponent would falter. Except this time, his opponent isn’t an enemy or someone out for blood, it’s Minho.

“Put it down! Put it down, please.”

Minho’s voice never shakes, never trembles. He isn’t known for insecurity, only indifference. But this time—this one fucking time, with the image of splattered brain and a hole in Jisung’s skull flashing before his mind—he can’t push it back down.

Minho is shaking as he takes a deep breath to speak the following words.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes falling shut. A lonely tear cascades down his cheek.

That’s it. That’s all Jisung has needed. To know that Minho still cares. To know that the man he loves isn’t so unaffected by what they had that he could just walk out of their life and completely forget about him. To know that Minho would be miserable without him, the same way Jisung has been miserable these past two years.

He lowers the gun, and lays his torso down on Minho’s to peck his lips, then trails kisses down his cheek to his ear.

Minho said sorry. Minho begged.

“Please,” Jisung whispers. “Take me. Take me, sir. I’m yours.”

The gun slides into Minho’s hand.

He’s earned it.

Staring up at Jisung, at the face Minho never ceased loving, mapped out so clearly in front of him; at the hickeys, three only this time, splattered over his neck; at his bleeding hand and the gun in Minho’s own...

Minho can’t do it. Not yet.

Perhaps all he needs is confirmation that this is real, that Jisung is here with him. That this is not just a dream, the only place he allowed Jisung to reside in over the past two years.

Minho wraps his arms around Jisung’s neck, and then pulls him down for a kiss.

Despite the mood, the kiss is sweet and slow, both pouring unsaid feelings and devotion into one another in the best way they know how. Jisung savours it, the feeling of Minho’s tongue against his, the heat of his body underneath him, the beat of Minho’s heart that slowly aligns with his.

They’ve always been in sync. Ever since they met, and especially after Minho pulled out the insanity that Jisung had put six feet under.

There was always this sort of sickness in his mind. That’s what his mother called it—a sickness. When he was six, he saw his cat get hit by a car and instead of running to his mother, he calmly knelt beside it and snapped its neck. When she found out, Jisung had said it was less hassle, that way, for them and the cat.

When he was ten, he got so angry at a girl in his school that he trapped her plait in a locker door and laughed as she ripped the hair from her scalp in an attempt to escape.

Then, at fourteen, pissed at his father, he catfished him, masquerading as a pretty young woman and showing up to their arranged date with nothing but a threat and a camera. He left 200,000 Won richer.

His mother cried. She cried and cried and said that if Jisung didn’t stop, she would have to send him somewhere where they’d keep him contained.

But Jisung didn’t want to be sent away. He enjoyed his freedom, so he pushed it down and pulled the straps of his dwindling innocence over his shoulders, burying that primal part of himself deeply under the rule book of society. He acted how everyone else did, shushing those intrusive thoughts that whispered and dared until they eventually faded to the back of his mind. Still present, just too quiet to be heard over the shouting of the righteous ones.

Jisung transformed into a good person with bright eyes and an even brighter future, who was kind and helpful. The idea of hurting someone or making life harder wouldn’t even cross his mind.

They didn’t. They sat at the back. Waiting. So still and silent that it got to the point that Jisung forgot what he’d done. He forgot he killed the cat. He forgot he trapped that girl’s hair in a locker. He forgot he fooled his dad into a fake affair. Thought it all a dream.

Turns out that the devil wasn’t too happy that one of his demons was dissuaded from the path of havoc. 

That’s why he sent Minho.

Minho watered the part of him that he’d buried, the sickness his mother so despised, and nurtured it until it grew up into a mess of brambles and stinging nettles and poisoned ivy.

The thoughts came back, and his mother’s last straw was when the dog was barking too loud and Jisung’s solution was to stab a knife through its neck.

He moved into his own house after that. His father paid for it. Anything to get his evil away from his wife (and to keep the affairs from her, too).

Jisung found that he no longer needed the whispering at the back of his mind to tell him what to do. The words came straight out of Minho’s mouth, instead.

And then he’d left, and Jisung had nobody but the taunts and the teasing in the back of his brain with no way to be stopped.

Jisung deepens the kiss, picking their pace up. He loves Minho, he does, but he doesn’t need love right now. He needs to suffer. If he suffers, then it all becomes okay. Minho will make him repent for his crimes. Minho will set him free.

Jisung doesn’t need to wait very long for Minho to give him what he wants. The kiss was nice, sweet and calming, but neither of them need sweet and calming right now. They need release .

Minho needs to gain back control.

His hand fumbles for the pistol’s trigger, and he points it back to Jisung’s temple. It feels good, the rush of adrenaline that seizes him, the weight of the metal heavy in his hands. Nobody but him can hurt Jisung. Not even Jisung himself.

Minho gestures down to his own cock, bloody and hard.

“Lick it clean.”

Jisung keeps his eyes on Minho’s as he backs down his body, stopping to bite and suck at his nipples before continuing down to his cock.

Jisung pushes his tongue out and flattens it against the underside of Minho’s cock, cleaning a stripe up it, the beautiful taste of blood and lube and precum creating a glorious cocktail in his mouth. He hums as if he’s just eaten the tastiest food in the world, and goes back in for more. This time he does shorter, quicker licks, lapping at Minho’s cock like a dog drinking water.

The moan that leaves Minho’s lips this time is a much deeper, genuine one, breathy and stuttery.

He doesn’t know why he kept trying to fool himself. No one could satisfy him the way Jisung did; no one even ever came close. Minho and Jisung never needed to talk much about what they both were into. It was just a given that they matched like shells and pearls.

But that doesn’t change the fact that Jisung kept secrets from him. It doesn’t undo any of the hurt.

Minho goes to grab Jisung’s hair with his hand, pushing him further down.

Jisung widens his jaw, enjoying the feeling of Minho’s cock venturing further into his mouth, to the back of his throat. He swallows around it and moans, his tongue slipping up and down the best it can despite the tight space.

One of his hands dances up to play with Minho’s nipples, pinching and pulling them, while the other trails down to his balls, squeezing them slightly.

He wants Minho to feel good. He wants to remind Minho how much better everything can be with Jisung by his side. He needs Minho to get hooked back onto him like his own designer drug.

If Minho wasn’t so caught up by the pleasure, he’d be embarrassed by how fast he cums. It rolls over him dark and heavy, a night-time thunderstorm that has yet to cease, raindrops steadily falling.

He doesn’t pull out. Instead, he forces Jisung to drink it all up, knowing how eager the younger used to be for his cum, desperate to take anything Minho would give him. Jisung doesn’t stop moving his tongue as Minho cums, collecting everything he’s given and keeping it in his mouth because it’s been so long since he had the privilege of tasting it.

He moans, pushing his ex further and further into stimulation, enjoying the sounds Minho’s making and the way his thighs start to twitch, slightly.

The second Jisung releases Minho’s cock,, his mouth is already filled with something new: the gun. It stuffs him so perfectly, causing the cum and saliva to spill at the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

What a beautiful, beautiful gag. Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jisung more beautiful than this.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he says. “You’re going to drape yourself over my knees with your pretty arse up. Understand?”

Jisung nods as best he can with the gun in his mouth, a thrill rippling down his spine. His life thread is sitting directly between the shears. One wrong movement, and it’ll snap.

If Minho chooses, it’ll snap.

He moves slowly, decorating Minho’s knees with his body, his arse sticking into the air, and waits to see what happens next with excited anticipation, dashed with nerves and terror.

Minho starts kneading Jisung’s arse between his fingertips, keeping the gun steady in his left hand.

“You’re not swallowing until I tell you to,” he continues. “I will hit you ten times for misbehaving and threatening sir. If you need to stop at any time, you will raise your left hand. Got it?”

Jisung whimpers in response, letting his arse wiggle slightly to show that he’s ready.

His skin seems to tingle before Minho’s even hit it, a preemptive sting casted from the past times they’d spent together with Jisung in this very same position.

Well, the gun’s new, but it only adds to the excitement, if his cock weeping over Minho’s leg is any indication.

Falling back into the rhythm of what they used to have is easy. Minho is in control, Jisung has succumbed to submission, and it’s as if no time ever passed.

Each hit to Jisung’s arse feels better than the last, an addictive swirl in Minho’s loins, a ravenous beast with an eternal hunger for more. When Minho strikes ten, he almost finds himself incapable of stopping. He’s fallen victim to Jisung’s siren song of whines and whimpers.

But his arse is already too red, and Minho is too hard again.

“Ten,” he says, taking a deep breath. He pulls at Jisung’s hair and releases the gun from his mouth. “Swallow and get up like a good boy.”

The burn on Jisung’s arsecheeks is delicious, the concoction of cum and blood flowing wonderfully down his throat. He climbs off of Minho, falling onto his back to savour the feeling of the hits as his sore skin comes into contact with the floor.

Jisung makes a whining noise and reaches out, his fingers hooking into Minho’s, tugging slightly for him to come closer. He wants kisses to soothe his aching mouth; he wants them now.

Minho’s eyes soften ever so slightly, and he climbs on top of Jisung to push the hair out of his face with the gun and lean down to kiss him. Jisung’s lips move against his without hesitation. Minho basks in the feeling as if he was being baptised all over again.

He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to remember their past, and he doesn’t want to get caught up in his feelings and wonder where to go from here. Minho misses Jisung; that he does unmistakably—and for the first time in two years, he’s not afraid to admit it to himself—but... he doesn’t know if he can do it anymore. Even if he was ready to commit again, there’d be too much at stake.

The thoughts are getting too loud again. Minho needs to shut them up.

This one time, he’ll allow himself to pretend they are Minho and Jisung from two years ago, inseparable and addicted to the spell they put themselves under.

“Come on,” Minho whispers against his lips, trailing kisses down Jisung’s neck and shoulders. “It’s time for your reward.”

“Please, sir, want it, deserve my reward. I’m a good boy, sir. Your good boy,” Jisung says, once again wriggling his body to bring Minho’s attention to it.

He’s been waiting for this, he’s been craving this for so fucking long, and now it’s finally time. Jisung wants to forget the two years that have separated them, the solitary abandonment that he’s been through, but it’s all he can think about as Minho positions him how he wants him.

How is he meant to pretend that this is normal, that this is what they’ve been doing for the last two years? Jisung’s had dreams about this finally happening so many times, only to wake up and sob and scream, so upset that his love hadn’t come back to him that he worked himself up to the point of throwing up.

Every day that he’s had to live through without Minho is a day that’s felt as if his every organ is being clamped in a vice, but contradicting that he’s felt so empty that he can’t even feel his body anymore. A ghost, floating through his house and talking to himself because nobody else can see him. Nobody else wants to see him.

Minho was the only one who ever saw him, the real him, even when Jisung couldn’t see himself.

And it’s cruel. It’s fucking cruel that he brought out the true version that Jisung had buried many years before to have even the slightest hope of fitting in with society, and then left him once he’d made sure everyone else had gone.

So he can’t forget it. He won’t let himself forget it. Jisung needs to remember the pain and the suffering that Minho put him through, even when his love is finally giving him the pleasure he’s so desperately devoted himself to.

Because he knows Minho well, and with that comes the awareness of his crumbled heart and how easily Minho can reduce it to dust.

Jisung can’t trust him to stay after this. He wouldn’t survive allowing himself to believe any different.

“Fuck me, sir. I need you! I need you so badly!”

Minho isn’t sure what overcomes him when he puts Jisung on his back and positions himself in between his legs: missionary. Jisung stares up at him with those big doe eyes of his, want and desire swirling around in those pools of his. Here, between the gates to Jisung himself, Minho can see every change of expression, every twitch of his muscles, all the scars Minho’s left behind during their scenes. His heart swells with something; what it is, he doesn’t know.

It’s not love. It’s something else entirely.

Just as he’s about to enter, he remembers one crucial detail: They’re not together anymore.

“Condom,” he mumbles. Right, right. They need a condom, now. Jisung may not have slept with other people, if he’s being truthful, but Minho has. It’d be stupid to risk anything just for the sake of Nostalgia.

He reaches for the drawer of Jisung’s nightstand and sure enough, that’s still where he stores his condoms. Minho fishes out a random one, just to find that it’s long expired. The next one, too. And the next one.

He gulps.

The fourth one is a success.

Minho tries not to think about it as he rolls the condom onto his cock and positions himself back between Jisung’s legs. He tries . He tries to just go through with it and grant both of them an explosion of pleasure, but... Jisung’s staring at him expectantly, panting, and all of his condoms are expired, and it’s too familiar . 

Minho can’t do it.

The feeling in his heart, breaking through from deep within… Minho can name it now. Wistfulness has nestled deep inside his being, and it must’ve been there for longer than he realises, waiting, brooding.

He needs something else, right the fuck now.

His hand comes down on Jisung’s pelvic bone. “Up with you. Against the wall. Now.”

Jisung forces the sting down as he gets up to cross the room to the wall. The sting that screams at him that all this time, Minho’s been seeing other people, fucking them with the cock that once so rightfully belonged to him , whilst he, sad, lonely little Jisung, can’t even remember the last time he was touched. Not even just in a sexual way. Nobody has come near him for months.

He puts his hands against the wall and pushes his hips back, scrunching his eyes shut to hold in the pain, to force it back down so he can last long enough to not break in the middle of Minho fucking him.

As the police sirens get closer, Jisung wonders how this night will end.

One breath is all Minho allows himself to falter until he gets up and strides toward the wall, pulling Jisung in by the waist and teasing his rim with his cock.

He takes the gun with him. He doesn’t think he can do it without it. Usually, he needs its security and reassuring weight to protect his own life. Tonight, he needs it to protect his heart.

Only when Minho grows impatient, too, does he put his left arm worshipping the gun against the wall and slide in.

Jisung moans, quietly, as the once so familiar shape falls into the place it used to belong, bringing with it a shiver that tingles from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.

His heart is once again racing, not just from Minho’s cock but the way he pulls him in by the waist. It reminds him of all those times Minho would show his possessive side, all those times he would tug him in and glare at everyone as a warning—private property, do not touch.

Jisung doesn’t want that. He wants Minho to wreck him as if he was the latest bitch in a long line, not as if he could still be something that Minho wants to hold close.

That’s why he demands, “Get on with it,” in his most annoyed tone.

It’s only because Minho’s been horny the entire day that he doesn’t hold back, he tells himself. It’s not because he’s fucking his ex. It’s not because it’s Jisung’s moans driving him to the furthest brink of insanity.

No matter how many holes he’s filled to forget about his own, Jisung-shaped and barren... it was never enough. The growth of his bank account did not matter, nor did stuffing his brain with business deals and death threats make a difference.

At the end of the day, Minho was alone. Admitting to it was a knife he’d ram into his own stomach; sucking it up and moving on merely a pinch. If Minho had to become his own vulture to swallow the pain, then that’s what it was.

But coming here... seeing Jisung’s face one more time... being struck by his harpoon of venom and acrimony... it wasn’t calculated. This wasn’t on the plan. It wasn’t supposed to ever happen.

Minho isn’t in control.

The sound of the sirens echoes in the distance. On the horizon, imminent; it’s a killer whale stalking its prey, playing with him, teasing.

Minho knows it’s only a matter of time and yet—

“Shut the fuck up.”

He needs to prolong it, needs to savour this moment, cherish it for as long as he can.

“Whore’s mouth isn’t stuffed for one fucking second and he already can’t control it,” Minho mutters against his ear to pull it in between his teeth as he pushes back in. Jisung moans against him.

He knows Jisung. He knows him too well, knows every stage of their sex life; Jisung’s reached the stage where nothing else matters besides the chase for his pleasure. He doesn’t oppose anymore, doesn’t even speak, whimpers and whines his only tongue.

Minho holds the gun to Jisung’s jaw, its barrel elongating it.

“Keep it in or I’ll blow your head off.”

A small squeak leaves Jisung’s lips as he tilts his head back, the kiss from the barrel making his body pick back up into urgency, the fight or flight responses trying to take over.

But the pleasure is far greater. It intercepts the adrenaline and turns it into a terrifying thrill, akin to that brought by the drop of a roller coaster or climbing up a mountainside.

Jisung could die doing this. He could die by Minho’s hand. And it feels so, so fucking good.

Minho fucks Jisung through the sound of the alarms blaring and the roaring of police officers outside; he fucks him through the thunder that’s brewing; he fucks him through his own tempest of lament and grief.

It’s good, it is, there’s no denying that, but cumming a second time doesn’t nearly feel as satisfying as the first, not when it’s buried deep inside a condom.

They’re here. Jisung can hear them knocking on the door downstairs, calling out that it’s the police and to open up.

“P-Please sir, m-make me cum, please,” Jisung whines, pushing his arse even further back. He knows Minho came, but he doesn’t care. The least Minho owes him is a fucking orgasm after all of this.

Minho weighs his options.

He took too long, he knows that. He should’ve left Jisung’s house long ago and made a run for it in order to escape.

But he’s tired of running. He’s tired of hiding and calculating his chance of survival every single fucking day. Prison will suck, but at the very least it’ll keep him alive; he doesn’t need Bang Chan’s hounds coming after him. It’s a fate much worse than prison or death.

If he stays here like this, though... won’t it put Jisung at risk of incrimination, too? Won’t he be charged with aid and abet?

Minho can’t do it. They didn’t end things on good terms, but he can’t do this to him.

Skilled, his hand wraps around Jisung’s length and moves up and down at lightning speed. He’s sore and overstimulated from cumming twice, but it doesn’t stop him from pounding further and further into him. He needs to put up a convincing act.

“Play along,” he whispers into Jisung’s ear. “You don’t want any of this.”

Minho puts the gun back at Jisung’s temple, right where it’s in the police’s line of vision.

Jisung can hear the police shouting, but he doesn’t care. He feels fucking amazing. His head falls back on Minho’s shoulder, putting the gun even more in view.

A man shouts at Minho to drop the weapon and the instruction for Jisung to play along lazily floats to the forefront of his mind.

“Please, please—help me, s-sir, he’s got a g-gun, h-help me, please, sir.”

The last bit was purely for Minho’s benefit, but the police don’t have to know that.

He’s fast approaching his orgasm, trying not to make it obvious that his hips are jittering in pleasure, his weight falling more and more onto Minho’s chest as he goes.

“Lee Minho! Drop your weapon now!”

“Sir, please, sir, sir, sir, I’m—I’m—“ Jisung gasps as his cum splatters on the wall, his orgasm snapping and letting all his emotions free with it as he shakes against his ex, muscles strumming like guitar strings.

A sob breaks from his lips as everything catches up to him—Minho’s return, the argument, the fact he’s fucked other people—

Oh well, Jisung thinks. Tears will just make this more accurate. His hands scrambling to grab onto Minho, needing to feel the solidity of his love in his grip? Probably less so.

Good. Good . Jisung has cum and there’s no other way out of this, Minho knows that. At least his ex was smart enough to play along.

Oh, well. It’s not the worst way to go out of this whole criminal thing. At least he got two proper orgasms in, and... Is it fucked up to say that this whole scenario is turning Minho on? It’s certainly a first for him.

For a brief moment, he considers keeping this going; jerking Jisung off into overstimulation, making him fall apart again right in front of the two police officers. The look of realisation on their faces that the whole time the addressed sir wasn’t them, but Minho? Fuck . He’s growing hard again just thinking about it.

But he needs to stay rational. Two years ago, he broke up with Jisung. Pulling him into all of this is already bad enough. Jisung doesn’t deserve conviction.

Slowly, Minho lowers the gun and lets it slide to the ground. He turns around and raises his hands.

Jisung slides down the wall, still sobbing, landing in a crumpled, cummy heap at the bottom.

He’s trying to fight off the drop, he needs to pull himself together because the police are here and Minho’s being taken away and— and— and—

But it’s so hard. It’s so hard. His body feels weak and his heart is growing hands just to rip itself apart at the knowledge that Minho didn’t love him the way he loved Minho. He walked away and fucked other people and now he isn’t even doing anything to fight against the police, to stop them from taking him away, to stop Jisung from falling back into the dark isolation that he’d been suffering in all this time.

And it fills him with rage. It all fills him with unparalleled, uncontrollable rage.

With a loud cry, Jisung throws his leg out and kicks it into Minho’s, taking it out from underneath him. Minho falls to the floor, landing on his right side and Jisung springs forward, snatching the gun that the second officer had just started to reach for.

“No!” Jisung screams. “You don’t get to fucking do this! None of you! You can’t—You can’t fucking do this to me!”

He stabs the barrel of the gun into his chest, his flooded eyes glaring up at the police, now both with their guns trained on him. “I’ll do it! I’ll fucking do it! You need to stop! You need to fucking stop! You can’t take him away from me! He hurt me and he’s mine to deal with! He’s mine! So back off! Back the fuck off!”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Minho hisses, his heart picking up speed at the sight of Jisung with the gun in his hands, and panic comes flooding back through him, images of Jisung pressing the pistol against his own head, panic at the two pointed at him.

“Sir,” one of the police officers says. “Calm down. Drop your weapon and raise your hands in the air—I promise we’re here to help . Nothing will happen to you if you cooperate. Worry not, Lee Minho shall receive rightful punishment.”

Jisung pants, looking back and forth between the two police officers with doe eyes, nervosity flaring inside of them.

“He’ll… He’ll be p-punished?” Jisung whimpers, sounding like an injured dog.

“Yes. We have body cameras, we have footage of what he did. With evidence like that, he’ll be away for a long time,” the first police officer says, looking over to Minho with a smirk.

“Y-You promise?” Jisung asks, unsurely, pushing more tears out to stream down his cheeks.

“We promise,” the second police officer says, lowering his gun. “I know this is confusing and I know you feel vulnerable, but nobody here needs to get hurt. We will take Lee Minho away, somewhere he can’t ever touch you again. You’re safe with us. You’re safe.”

Jisung does an impressive job of acting the victim. The second police officer has his gun fully down at this point, the first wavering their own.

“I— I—“ Jisung stutters, the gun in his hand starting to slide down his chest.

“That’s it, that’s it. You’re doing so well. This will all be over soon. It’ll all be over.” The second police officer puts his gun away and steps towards Jisung. He flinches backwards, not sure if it’s part of his performance or if he genuinely just doesn’t like touch anymore.

If it’s not Minho touching him, anyway.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. Just take my hand.”

With upturned eyebrows and a sheen of salt drop tears sitting on his lower lids, Jisung slowly extends his shaky hand.

“Well done. You’re doing so well. You’re so good.”

Jisung clamps his hand on theirs, yanking them forwards into him before raising his other hand and shooting the first police officer in the head. He moves the gun to the second’s neck, pitching it under their jaw.

“Sadly, I’m only a good boy for sir,” he says and pulls the trigger.

Jisung shot the police officers. Jisung shot the police officers. Two of them.

Holy shit.

Minho is torn between a state of pleasure and horror, tipping from one side to the next. It’s sexy, of course it fucking is, but—but—

This is not—It’s not according to plan—

Fuck, they’re bleeding out in front of them. How will Minho clean this up? How will he make sure Jisung gets out of this safely?

That wasn’t the plan—

It should’ve been Minho. He was supposed to handle this. It should’ve been painless, uncomplicated. It shouldn’t have ended with two casualties. 

Not—Not according to plan—

“What did you do?!” Minho screams, staring up at his ex in shock. “What the fuck did you do, Jisung?!”

Jisung laughs and stands, walking across the room to pick up his joggers and shimmy into them.

“You see, my love, you unleashed the sickness that I buried inside of me,” Jisung starts to explain, turning around to face Minho, gun still in his hand. “Don’t you remember? I told you all about the cat, and the girl with the plaits, and dad’s affair.”

He starts walking towards Minho with slow, calculated steps, the blood splatters from the cop he’d shot in the neck shining on his skin in the moonlight.

“I never had to listen to that voice in the back of my head because you were there. You took responsibility. You controlled the way I let it out.” Reaching Minho, he steps over his thighs and lowers himself so he’s straddling him, arms over his shoulders.

“And then you left me. Really, Min, what did you think was going to happen? Without you to listen to, the thoughts got louder and louder and I had nobody around to hold me back. Not my parents, no friends—certainly not you. Just me and my sick, disgraceful thoughts.” He whispers the last bit, leaning in to peck Minho’s lips.

Pulling away so their lips are barely two centimetres apart, he says, “This is what you created, sir. Aren’t you proud?”

He isn’t. He shouldn’t be; and it’s strange, really, because in the past, he wouldn’t have cared. He was the one whispering dares and deeds into Jisung’s ear, controlling him with his fingertips like a marionette. Minho from two years ago—he would’ve loved this, would’ve praised Jisung for being his good little boy, for protecting his sir with his life because he could’ve taken care of it afterwards.

But they’re not together anymore. Minho can’t protect him anymore. He has no right to. He has no right to.

And yet, as his eyes bore into Jisung’s, with the moon’s soft gaze, he finds that there’s nothing he longs for more.

After all this… it couldn’t have been Jisung who sold him out, who betrayed him. It couldn’t have.

Minho’s hand flutters forward to caress Jisung’s cheek, spreading the splatters of blood into something much bigger, something much more beautiful.

Their lips connect.

Jisung waits until the kiss gets heated before he slams the butt of the gun into Minho’s head.

Minho’s upper body falls back, skull hitting the ground rather harshly.

“Hmm. That’ll hurt in the morning, sir. But don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”

With Minho unconscious, tying him up and gagging him is easy. Forcing him into the car proves to be a taaaaad harder, but he manages it. Minho might have a few more bruises when he wakes, but he’ll be fine.

Returning to his room, Jisung makes quick work of packing a bag that he throws onto his shoulder, turning to face the police officer he’d shot in the head, whose body is propped up against the wall.

“Hello to whoever manages to retrieve this body cam. My name is Han Jisung.” He waves with a beaming smile. “You don’t need to worry about Lee Minho for a while, I’m kidnapping him. Don’t worry, it’ll probably turn him on—he’s a bit of a freak in the sheets. Anyway, it’s me you should worry about, for now. See you later, big hugs and kisses!” Jisung blows a kiss at the camera and then kicks it, satisfied when he hears it break.

Taking one final look around his room, Jisung heaves a big sigh. “Goodbye, house. It was fun, going insane and all, and I will cherish all the—“

A phone starts ringing, which is rather rude. He was in the middle of his grand speech.

Confused, he starts looking around the floor to find a burner phone, one that definitely doesn’t belong to him. He threw his phone in the toilet not even four minutes ago. 

Reaching down, Jisung snatches it up to read the contact.

One Mr. Bang Chan. Huh.

Jisung accepts the call. “Hello, Minho’s phone! How may I help you?” he asks, cheerfully.

“Who the fuck are you?” comes Bang Chan’s voice through the screen, along with a huff and something that sounds like a drag from a cigarette or, more likely, cigar.

“Wow, no need to be so aggressive, Mr. Big Bad Bang Chan. This is a good, happy day! So I won’t be mad at you for shouting at me. Anyway, did you need something?”

Bang Chan huffs. “Where the fuck is Lee Minho?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that!” Jisung gasps. “He’s being kidnapped and can’t come to the phone right now. Do you want to leave a message?”

FIN