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A quilt of heat spreads across the dusty terrain. Minho hears nothing but the warm breeze making the shop-front sign flutter and creak against his doorframe. A crow squawks its terrible cries, always a bad omen in his eyes.
It’s six fifty-eight. He hasn’t seen another living soul in two hours.
He enthusiastically wipes his brow as he finishes ‘closing up’ for the night, pulling dust covers across the inventory - vials and glittering gemstones alike.
He tucks away any of the medicine books that might still be poking out along the shelf. He prefers it when entire rows of books look neat, organized and controlled. The books are hundreds of years old, and require delicate attention, with their spindly spines and sunken skins.
The small fireplace has settled, a smoky tinge to the air. It’s always warm, he doesn’t need a roaring fire, but it allows him to boil water for his concoctions.
It’s still, strangely so.
Though, he supposes his night is only going to descend into chaos, as he watches the mysterious man wiping sand dust away from the window, just creating a small hole, enough to peer in through. He huffs his breath against it and clears it further. Minho can see his eyes now.
He hasn’t ‘closed’ the doors of the apothecary yet; he hadn’t intended to, anticipating that the man would want to come inside.
He’s seen him circling around, the same man, for hours now, beckoning the courage to come in and ask for his help. He’s been hovering for two days, on and off, trying to conceal himself.
He probably assumed that he was being subtle as he lingered around, but Minho was as sharp as a Damascus steel blade. Cutting, cunning, cognizant. He knows a vagabond when he sees one.
“Hello? Hello there?” the man says, muffled by the density of the thick, aged stained glass. He knocks against it, a few taps that Minho looks up at, glancing out and squinting to bring the vision of the man into focus.
Instead of immediately reaching for the lock, as most typical shopkeeps would when someone appears at the door at one minute to close, he gets up from his stool and meanders across towards him. He’s holding breath in his lungs, puffing his chest out, trying to look indifferent. He tugs at the burgundy curtain that isn’t pulled the entire way across to get a better look at the woeful eyes behind them.
Minho’s arms fold and his brow creases, as the creak of the door sounds and the subsequent bell chimes. The man has decided for him that Minho opening the curtain to simply check who was there, meant he was still open for business and he had an open invitation inside.
“Can I help you with something?” Minho asks. It’s flippant, he barely masks any kind of annoyance at the man slinking in as he wipes his hands against the sandy brown apron he wears.
The man is dressed in brown too, a thick mahogany-colored robe, despite the heat. He’s trying to hide. He’s slight in height, but not in build. His shoulders look even wider with his cloak on.
“Well I sure hope you can,” the stranger says. “I’ve been looking for you for a while.”
Minho relaxes himself and lets his shoulders fall. He’s only in his billowing white dress shirt under his apron, sleeves unprofessionally rolled to the elbow and dress brogues poorly tied. He’s off the clock and disheveled; nothing like how he would usually dress.
The strange man eyes Minho up and down like a prime cut of meat on a spit, searching for the words to say. Minho has come to expect strange men from travelling towns by now, but each time feels as new as the last. He has to keep alert, knowing that he’s on his own and the rickety old shop is out of sight of most of the rest of the town, but Minho is powerful, and can hold himself well.
He didn’t get his name for being weak. If anything, it’s the other man that’s in danger if reputations meant anything.
Some call him an obscure medicine man. Others call him a witch. This man knows nothing of who he is, or what he’s capable of.
He rolls his eyes at the poorly-masked display of lust, pretending that he’s barely even noticed the way the man’s gaze rolls across his chest and arms.
Minho knows that even whilst unkempt, he still looks a stone’s throw more attractive than most of the other workmen in the town. He often uses his sharp nose and wide eyes to his advantage; call him an opportunist.
“The store is nearly closed, if you need to purchase something—” he starts, before he’s rudely cut off.
Minho doesn’t particularly like being cut off.
“Listen, I’m looking for some help… Are you, Shinwa?” he asks, his tone verging on frantic, laced with nerves and hesitation.
Minho can see his face slightly better now, flushed cheeks peeking out from under his sand-tarnished cloak. His eyes are darkened with coal and he’s poorly concealing a small facial mole on his cheek and a scar just at his jawline. Whoever the man is, he doesn’t want to be known to anyone.
More importantly, there’s a small, golden pocket watch attached to his shirt’s breast pocket. Minho eyes it. It’s enchanted – he can tell by the way the cyan hands are ticking at an accelerated speed and an irony warmth radiates off of it. He makes a mental note of it for later.
“The one and only,” Minho answers confidently.
“Great. I’ve heard you are able to help me with magic?”
Magic, Minho scoffs. It’s typical of small-minded folks around his awful, out-of-the-way town to presume his kind utilize magic for their treatments. Minho’s father was one of the greatest holistic practitioners of his time; his title is totally lost on regular people.
The man scurries towards the counter, past him, and starts searching underneath his cloak, checking his pockets.
“Magic? For what? An ailment?” Minho asks as he watches.
“No. I’m fine, it’s just that… Well, I came into some inheritance, and I was given this rune. I just need someone to validate it so I can open it,” he says.
He places a small satchel against the counter, ignoring all of the other expensive and historic trinkets that are displaced in his haste. Minho had just pretended to clean that counter.
“And what, may I ask, do you believe it to be?” Minho answers.
“A love rune,” the man says, unambiguously. “It was supposedly in my family for centuries, passed down over two hundred years of marriage. My father left it to me.”
“Oh. So the men in your family need a love rune to make people desire you, do they?” Minho half scoffs. He can see the man’s eyebrow dip slightly in the middle.
“Hey, I do just fine, thanks...”
Minho bets he does. The man in front of him, though shrouded in a cloak and heavy dose of makeup, is obviously handsome.
He has a soft face, contrasting his darkened eyes. He suspects that underneath his cover up, the man would almost look a little pitiful. It’s cute, and it makes Minho’s heart skip a few beats. It's dangerous just how much he’s Minho’s regular type. He rather enjoys a pitiful sucker, especially when they’re doe-eyed and bumbling, asking for his help.
“Well, there are many types of rune…” Minho drones on, as he nonchalantly rolls his eyes and starts pacing, “besides, I don’t get involved with matters of darkness, death or love, so take it elsewhere.”
He points to a sign. It’s a hastily, crudely written up paper sign stuck to the front of the store underneath the door that reads: ‘No matters of darkness, death or love. Strictly no exceptions!’
The man looks downtrodden for a moment, his eyes so sullen that they almost look cartoonish. His lip disappears into his mouth as he nibbles at it. So cute. Minho might just make an exception just for him.
Although, Minho determines he requires a certain degree of begging, he’s not a total sucker. Luckily, the man bestows it upon him like a lamb to slaughter.
“Please, there’s nothing around these parts and I need help! This is the only magical workshop I can find,” he says, his voice teeters on a whine, and Minho would find it almost endearing if he wasn’t so irritated at the constant notion of being referred to as magical.
“And that’s my burden to bear, is it?”
“No, it’s not, but I really do just need a moment of your time!”
“My time is precious—”
“—I’ll make it worth your while,” the man suddenly says, his intonation changes.
“What a contemptible thought,” Minho spits. He feigns indignance, though he’d actually quite like to know what the princely man looks like out of clothes, if that had been what he had been implying.
Most of them are that way inclined these days, no chivalry at all, just straight to the jugular... Minho takes great pleasure in it.
“I mean, I have a lot of artefacts that crazy witches like you go goo-goo over. See this pocket watch? It’s enchanted! It emits enough nitrous magic to knock out five fully grown men.”
He taps his pocket watch. Minho has already noticed it before it’s even mentioned in passing. It’s messily clipped to him, ripe for the taking.
“I’m not a witch,” Minho hisses, pacing behind his counter to put some distance between them. He slams his hands down against the table with a thwack, to lean. “Nor a warlock, a monster, or the antichrist… I’m an Apothecarian, you would do well to respect the title.” He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.
The man holds his hands up defensively, as if he doesn’t mean to offend. Before he has a chance to respond, Minho coughs to clear his throat. He doesn’t want to look too eager, but he doesn’t want to miss his chance entirely.
“Though, I can’t say your little pocket watch doesn’t pique my interest. Who the hell are you, anyway? What is your name, traveler?” Minho continues. He acts a little afraid of the answer.
“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” the man says, replies with a wink, almost convincing. He falters, though. There’s a small twinkle in his eye; it’s a slight annoyance not to know the answer yet but Minho respects his game, or his fear.
“Urgh,” Minho huffs.
“Well?” The man insists, diving into his pocket to reveal a thick, dark red stone embossed with gold, settled into a dark silver back plate. It’s as large as the palm of his hand and glistens like the brightest supernova in comparison to the desaturated, dusty store. He thrusts it into Minho’s direction without hesitation.
Minho has seen many ‘runes’ in his life, none as large as this. The poor fool must’ve felt like he’d struck gold when he’d taken it on. He reaches for his monocle out of his apron pocket, and lifts it to attempt to read the inscription. He can read it perfectly well just by gazing upon it, but he pretends that he can’t.
‘Amor clare lucet.'
It’s almost absurdly tawdry.
“Absolutely not. Do you even understand just how powerful runes can be? A love rune can make sworn enemies lovers in a matter of seconds!” he cries out, pressing the stone back into his hand and slipping his monocle back into his pocket.
“I’m not asking you to open it, I’m just asking you to identify it,” he says. “I cannot be sure it is a love rune. My father and I had a… Difficult… Let’s say, tumultuous relationship before he passed, and I need to ensure that the one he left me is legitimate… I fear he may have swindled me and left me something sinister.”
The idea intrigues him. What exactly has this man done or been involved in for his own father to want him to meet misfortune in the hands of a rune? Or, was it his father that was so heinous in nature? Minho’s ears perk up at the exciting concepts that rattle through him. He enjoys stories and fairytales that span back through darkened times.
Minho groans. “It’s really too late in the day to be taking on extra work,” he says. “Perhaps you are just too easily swindled. You should consider this a learning opportunity.”
“Please, I really would appreciate your time, just to identify it,” the man replies. He points to Minho’s Spectrometer sitting in the corner of the room, surrounded by cobwebs and debris. He seldom used it. Most people didn’t even know what it was.
“The only way to identify a rune fully, is to open it. You can’t see the inscription without. Do you know nothing?” Minho scoffs. The man truly doesn’t know what, or who, he’s dealing with.
“So, open it quickly and close it again?” he suggests, and Minho bites back a laugh.
“Fine. Three Tipperary, the stone in your ear jewelry and the watch on your chest, and I’ll do it,” Minho says triumphantly, holding his hand out.
“Deal!” the man says, and he eagerly shakes on it.
His handshake is sloppy, he barely utilizes any pressure at all. Messy, inexperienced, naive. Minho isn’t sure if he’s acting coy with it, or if he seldom makes deals. Minho lets their hands linger for longer than he should.
Minho saunters across to the front door, presses the key into the lock and turns it. The mechanism rattles; it’s a lock he fitted himself, heavier than most, designed to keep out the most powerful beasts imaginable. It’s a new fixture to the shop, and it clatters, echoing through the walls.
He doesn’t want anyone hearing of their interactions. The way the night goes depends on a few factors and he’d rather not be interfered with, during. The townspeople are wary enough of his visit.
“I need candlelight. It’s too late in the day,” Minho says, pulling the burgundy curtains back across the window, suddenly plunging them into relative darkness.
He lights a small oil burning lamp he has in the corner. He’d made up some story once about how it once contained a magic spirit - playing into public perception was always a fun way to pass the time. He escorts him to the corner, towards the Spectometer, handing him the lamp so he has some light to pull the cart that contains it out into the middle of the room.
The wheels of the cart it sits upon are stodgy and rusted, and the machine itself is weathered, it barely even functions by now, but Minho swallows his own doubts and pulls up a stool to perch underneath it.
The man stays, wary, standing off behind him with the lamp.
Minho retrieves four smaller candles, and perfectly aligns them at each corner of the table, the surface covered in previous remnants of wax that time forgot. They’re arranged towards the rune that he’s placed in the center, attaching it to the buckles allowing it to sway gently in the middle like a swing.
It moves, left to right, right to left, then becomes still. Minho notes how the man’s eyes follow it the entire time - predisposition to hypnosis.
“What now?” the man asks. He squints, trying to see whatever it is Minho is pretending to see.
“You need to be at the other side of the table,” Minho says.
He sees the man physically swallow as he places the lamp down carefully and makes his way to the other side. He pulls out the other stool and winces at the coating of cobwebs that drape across the back of it as he wipes them away with his cloaked forearm.
“Okay,” he says. He exhales shakily as he looks back at Minho across the surface. “What now?”
“Next, I put these on, then you take my hands,” he says, pulling out a pair of goggles, snapping them down to cover his eyes as he laughs. He reaches his hands outstretched at either side of the table, the rune between them. There’s another falter as soon as the man looks at him.
“Like, a séance?” he asks warily, mechanically turning his shoulder away.
“Don’t be silly,” Minho says. “Take my hands. The spectrometer will respond to you, as the rightful owner of the rune.”
He suddenly looks frightened beneath his cloak. Minho almost feels bad for tricking him, creating funny little elements of his story in his head. He’s quite the storyteller, and suckers like the man in front of him will believe whatever he tells them with little regard to validity.
His hand trembles with worry beneath his, as he daintily places his fingers into Minho’s palms. Minho curls his digits around them, tight, locking him into place so that he can’t wriggle out of it. Their hands fit; his fingertips are cold but his palm is warm, and Minho feels giddy with excitement.
“Now, with my witch's magic, I will read the rune,” he says dramatically.
He hears the man huff at his audacity, as he presses down at the pedal below the contraption with his left foot, barely even a big toe’s worth of pressure. As he focuses on finding the bite, the intensity of the machine increases. It starts vibrating and whirring, the gem in the center starting to move.
“Woah,” the man says in awe, mouth wide open as if he were catching flies.
It glitters brighter than the man’s eyes watching it. The garnet starts to shimmer and illuminate and casts the room in a sultry, reddish hue that Minho enjoys. At least, Minho is half sure it’s garnet. His speciality is in potions and herbal remedies, not artefacts or gemology.
“It’s… Either a love rune, a vivacity rune or a deception rune. I’m seeing markings but they’re faint. It’s really only the deep crimson color that’s giving it away at all. I need to get closer but there’s a lot of light coming off of it,” Minho says, squinting at the red-hot heat source, trying to decipher it.
“Well, I read that the deception rune is a deep purple color, and the vivacity rune is more of a periwinkle, so it must be a love rune!” the man says in triumph, pulling his tiny hands away from Minho’s and clapping them together in perceived celebration.
He’s delusional, Minho enjoys watching his responses, despite how misguided they are.
“Purple? You think the creator of a deception rune would knowingly tell people it’s correct color?” Minho sighs. “It's mask is purple, but it’s actually red just like a love rune. It still could be one.”
He reaches for Jisung’s hands again. He gives them to him without a second thought.
“Wow. This is fully fledged, it’s strong,” Minho says, and he watches it for several seconds as the time ticks by. He has time to kill, so he makes a spectacle of the little light show.
Then he flinches.
Minho pulls back, he stops the mechanism in its tracks by removing his foot from the pedal and shunts the man’s hands back to him.
“What are you doing?” the man asks. He scatters up from his seat like a flock of threatened birds across a shoreline, terrified that Minho isn’t going to give him what he requires.
“I’ve seen enough. This rune is incredibly strong, we should not risk opening it,” Minho says. He coughs to clear his throat and blinks rapidly, seeing the afterimage of the light lingering in his vision.
He wheels himself away from beneath the table, the strangers eyes follow him across the room, scrunched up in confusion and irritation. Minho dramatically lollops against the counter, panting, head downwards against his chest as his hands white-knuckle the wood. He enjoys the drama of it all.
“You said you’d help me?!” he cries out from behind, and Minho turns over his shoulder to face him.
The man’s face is flushed and doughy, the heat of the rune spinning its reddish aura casting him in shadow across the left side of his nose. Minho glimpses back at it and squints through the light. He’s removed his foot from the pedal, but it continues to whirr. He never turned the contraption off.
Suddenly, the room is filled with sparks. Sparks that scatter across his workshop accompanied with the smell of burning wood that wafts through the thickness of the stuffy air.
“Oh my… The rune!” Minho screams, desperately trying to make his way back to it.
The man jumps, Minho screams. It’s over in a matter of seconds. He jumps up and shoves the man in its direction in the hustle and bustle of his fear, forcing him to throw his hands down against the table to catch himself before he falls.
His hands land against the table as he tumbles. Against the rune, for good measure.
The man cries out, too late to remove himself from the impending explosion, so he tucks his head in and braces for impact.
He’s expecting an explosion that doesn’t come.
White sparks fly, little orbs dancing in the air, and the shimmer of a new glittering pink light causes Minho to throw his forearm across his face.
After a few moments, the whirring has stopped, and the gemstone sparkles a lightish pink, somewhat lavender. He can hear a strange ringing in his ears from a high-pitched whine as the gemstone settles. Everything feels still, still as the calmest ocean.
“Is it okay?” Minho asks tentatively. He takes tiny steps towards it with his hands outstretched, as if it’s something to be wary of.
The man glances at the new color of the gemstone and blinks, once, twice. He looks dumbstruck. His hands are shaking. He’s confused, and rightly so. He’d expected some kind of cataclysmic event.
Minho stoops across and touches the stone. It’s still a little warm, so he pulls his hands away and hisses as if it’s scalding, but there’s no damage.
“You could have burnt your hand,” Minho says matter-of-factly, jumping up to attention. He points his finger at the man as if it wasn’t his own clumsy carelessness that pushed him against it. “You put your palm over the rune! Don’t you know how dangerous that is?!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I just stumbled! Plus, I thought it was going to explode! I need that thing, it’s my only inheri–”
“—So…You put your hands over it?!” Minho squawks.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t want it to blow up, or something!”
“I can assure your life is worth far more than a rune! You have to be absolutely stupid to stand up so brazenly in the face of an enchantment!”
Minho stops for a moment as he stares at the man’s frenzied expression.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “But, it’s really okay. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
Minho feels his shoulders release their tension. He can’t quite place his emotions, how he should react. He feels different somehow, like his anger has bubbled up and dissipated into thin air at the drop of a pin. The man looks downtrodden, beaten down, yet he still wants to ensure that Minho is unharmed.
“I’m fine,” he insists. “You would have been the one to meet your doom, not me. Wait… So, you protected me?” Minho asks him. He tilts his head to the side like an inquisitive cat catching a mouse in it’s periphery.
“Huh?”
“That’s so… Noble of you,” Minho says. He blinks to clear his hazy vision and stares him in the eye, seeing the way he swallows down the dusty air. “You put yourself in front of the rune. One might consider that heroic.”
Tentatively, he wanders across to his side of the room, and the man looks as if he’s going to get struck, so he jumps backwards away from Minho in an instant, and backs against the wall, lined with trinkets and knickknacks that wobble and fall.
Minho doesn’t say anything, doesn’t speak. He carefully places his palm against the man’s chest just to feel the subtle strum of his heartbeat.
Subtle, yet steady. It picks up as soon as Minho gets near him. He recoils, just a little, but not enough to let Minho know he’d be hesitant to get closer.
Minho suddenly wants to devour the nerves he’s harboring, sucking up every last drop of his terror like it were his last meal on Earth.
Minho’s lashes flutter at their closeness, struck by just how striking the man is. He’d known before, but from their meagre distance he can see soft poreless skin and expressive brows that arch in the center, making him seem a little lost.
Minho reaches upwards and places his hands against the side of his head, feeling the thick, scratchy material of the cloak from where it rests upon him. He tugs at it so slowly, the man is powerless to stop him as he stands there. He pulls the cloak down, revealing the man’s true features beneath the shadow.
The eyes once coated in thick coal liner look wider now, now that he’s terrified. Just gazing upon him leaves Minho feeling dumb; he’s practically seduced by a wild, doe-eyed expression, a mouth that's slightly parted like he’s always searching for words.
“What are you doing?” the man asks, trembling.
“Looking at you.”
Minho reveals his shiny, jet-black hair with a blue tinge, all the way down to the bottom of his neck where his collarbones show. He’s got expressive skin, marks and bruises that tell stories Minho wishes to read. The muscles down from his neck are thick, and ripple, and Minho runs his hand down either side just to where his undershirt neckline is.
“I thought you a tyrant. But… You protected me and the shop,” he says, moving his left hand upwards and placing a palm delicately against his cheek. His skin is soft, softer than it looks under day-old stubble and ashen gray eyebags.
“Uh… Well, wouldn’t want to tarnish a pretty face?” he says, but it sounds like a question, sounds like he’s thinking on the spot, playing into Minho’s advances.
“My hero,” Minho says. His eyes twinkle a pinkish hue, somewhat lavender, reflecting from the rune still whirring in the corner.
“It was nothing,” the man replies, stuttering.
So cute. Minho can’t stare at him much longer.
He places two hands against the man’s lapel and suddenly tugs him across to the counter, slamming his body down against the edge with a hearty thwack. The man squeaks, startled, and his face is red as the rune’s original color, radiating his own kind of embarrassed heat.
His legs scramble for purchase, but Minho settles between them in an instant.
The man tries to move away, he scurries over the top of the desk on his ass, backwards, trying to free himself from the thickness of Minho’s thighs. He’s like a deer on ice, limbs flailing around trying to steady himself. He tries to speak again, still nothing but babbles as Minho climbs up after him, hoisting himself up onto the counter over his body.
Minho pushes him backwards until his back is flat and climbs over the wooden veneer like his life depends on it. He’s making a mess, bottles are launched against the floor, shattering in his wake. His knees are splintered against the worn wood, but his desire is for a different kind of it.
He’s suddenly desperate to sink his teeth into the man as he leers over his body.
“What’s going on…?!” the man says, feeling the sudden proximity of Minho’s breath against his lips as he straddles him in place over the counter.
He plays coy, but Minho can feel his erection straining through his pants. He desperately acts mortified by the events unfurling, pretending to push him away, but his touches mean nothing, featherlight and foolish.
“I cannot possibly stand here and do nothing for you after you nearly saved my life, Sire?” Minho says, quipping his eyebrow.
The sound of the rune hums in the air. He sees the man glance at it to the side, noticing its presence, stronger now. It’s like a clock strikes, or a sudden realization hits.
“S-sire?” he says, “did you just call me Sire?”
“Yes, but I hope I am not being too formal. Tell me stranger, what is your name? For I feel we were destined to meet on this fateful night?” Minho says, pinning his hands down against the countertop, hands wrapped around his wrists.
“W-why’d you want to know?”
“Because, I must repay you for saving me. I’d like to know the name that will grace my tongue tonight.”
He dips his body down to grind their pelvises together, letting out a little growl as he flicks his tongue across his teeth. He watches the way that his eyes follow the trail of his mouth, mesmerized. Minho knows he wants to feel the plushness of his lips just as badly.
He thinks their lips will make a pretty puzzle. His top lip disappears into his lower, and Minho’s the opposite. He imagines the man tastes like barley and smoke, his days of travelling lingering in his pores.
“Um, I think the love rune might’ve—"
“—Might’ve opened my eyes to see just how positively rugged and attractive you are? Perhaps. I feel like I have had some kind of sudden epiphany?” Minho proclaims. “Please, please, tell me your name, handsome stranger. I must have you.”
“I… It’s Jisung. H-Han Jisung.”
Han Jisung. Minho knows. For Han Jisung is the one he’s been looking for, maybe for his entire life. For better or for worse.
He’s stricken down with such a feeling of longing that it makes him feel sick, heavy with lust churning around inside of him. His body starts to betray him, bucking forward without meaning to, as he bites at his lip. Minho realises quickly that he’s become as hard as the man underneath him.
“Your name is pretty. Just like you, Jisung.”
He releases his vice-like grip against Jisung’s little wrists. He doesn’t even move them, caught up in the feeling of being subdued by Minho’s strength. Instead, he places his hand to the side of Jisung’s face, fingers stroking across the curvature of his cheek.
Jisung follows it by accidentally leaning into his touch, and a whimper escapes his mouth. It’s so quiet and breathy that it’s barely there, a phantom sound. Minho often has that effect.
Minho is correct in his assumptions - Jisung smells like a wood burner and a heavy night in the rain. It’s a hearty combination that sends him wild as it mingles with his honey low notes. He leans in and brushes their noses together, feels Jisung’s jaw tense against his palm. He’s aching for the taste of a man he doesn’t know.
Minho barely holds back how pleased it makes him to see just how easily Jisung will submit to him. On his back, eyes wide and legs parted, all for him.
“Oh, Han Jisung. You look so flushed. Perhaps we can head upstairs to my quarters above the store and I can draw you a cold bath?”
Minho is insistent with his body. He tugs at him, feeling the width of his chest, the circumference of his arms. He never stops to take a breath, choosing instead to suck the air out of Jisung’s lungs before he can answer, pressing their lips together.
He doesn’t react. There’s no falter, no sounds, no movements. He lets Minho kiss him, hands faux pinned down against his chest like he has no choice but to remain there. Jisung could stop him. He could reach up or shove him aside as Minho’s lips sail against his, but he doesn’t.
When Minho leans back up, he takes Jisung’s lower lip with him, biting down just gently and releasing it with a little snap. Minho has to stop himself from latching his lips against Jisung’s throat.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to helping you get undressed, Jisung,” he says.
“No—I, uh. That’s okay, I need to just take this rune and get out of here!”
“Or, we could skip bathing, and move straight on to you being inside of me?” Minho quips. He rubs a stripe up Jisung’s chest with both hands, down the center of his sternum.
Minho has never seen another human being ricochet off of his counter before, as he’s launched off of Jisung’s body and back down to the ground. Jisung scrambles around the shop like a scarab beetle as he kicks up dust, a little bug struggling around on its thorax.
“Holy… Good God!” Jisung tries to say, putting some distance between them with his hands outstretched.
Calling upon a deity only makes Minho want him more. It’s feral and raw. He’s a non-believer, of course, a descendent of famous Apothecarians. He believes no one is more powerful than him, with or without magic. He’d rather enjoy it if the only name Jisung prayed upon was his own.
He wanted to be Jisung’s God. For Jisung to gaze upon him like he’s something holy.
“I can see the way you’re looking at me, my love,” Minho replies, it’s sultry, intonation like a snake dripping with venom, slithering around in the darkness of the store. He closes the distance immediately and wanders into his space, touching his cheek again. “Let me be yours, Jisung.”
“I—Listen. You’re very attractive, it’s true. Honestly if it were any other situation then… But—” Jisung stutters. “I think you might be out of your mind.”
Minho jolts forward, abruptly taking Jisung by the nape of the neck again as he pulls him closer.
“Out of my mind in love. What do you say, Han Jisung? Will you make me yours tonight. Will you take me? Let me show you how grateful I am, hmm?” Minho whispers.
“Take you where?” Jisung asks, as Minho’s finger trails down the line of his chest to his stomach, down to the scrunched waist of his pants. The faux innocence sets Minho’s stomach ablaze with desire as he palms over the top of his bulge.
Jisung’s confidence hitches. The tiger who had been winking at him earlier, now a timid, frightened, little house cat.
“Take me, as in ravage my body,” Minho explains, breathlessly laughing like it’s the easiest explanation in the world. “Jisung, my love, fill me up with this and make love to me like no other man has ever been able to.”
Jisung swallows, thick and heavy and gasping. He tries to look anywhere but into Minho’s eyes, flitting around. Minho’s hand delves a little lower to cup him entirely, and suddenly he’s anything but animated, stilted in place in appreciation at his thickness.
“I… I…” he doesn’t manage another word before Minho kisses him again. This time, he tastes like guilt, terror and arousal.
Minho’s momentum increases; their lips start sliding together more comfortably, as Jisung slowly accepts their fate, their mutual attraction, sliding a hand around his lower back.
Minho presses his tongue inside to taste his lovers’ in response, groaning into it with every thrust. They crash together like parting waves, in and out in an unrelenting, hypnotic rhythm. It’s carnal and heavy and not enough. Minho wants to kiss the air out of his windpipe and replace it with his own breath, consuming him.
Minho pulls back with a gasp, feeling the way that both of Jisung’s hands have appeared at his waist, now. He grips down against the material of his shirt for purchase.
“If your lips are any indicator of your prowess, I know you will have me moaning out in pleasure tonight, Jisung,” Minho purrs, leaning in towards him to press his lips against Jisung’s neck.
His throat is dry; Minho can tell from the jagged breaths and scattered titters that escape. His body becomes slacker as Minho worships his neck, as Jisung instinctively leans his head back to grant Minho the space he desires. He can’t fight it, he’s only a mortal man, of course.
He sucks a mark into Jisung’s skin as a reminder of their time together. A sign that Minho owned him in that moment. His eyes roll back until Minho can see the whites, but he still plays coy.
“I— Look, I really want to, like… You’re so attractive but we’ve just met?!” Jisung says, but even he doesn’t believe it.
Minho almost laughs, knowing that they’d continue, that he’d get what he wants, what both of them want.
Minho grips his neck, securing him as he kisses at his collarbones. Jisung’s hands wander from Minho’s waist to his ass despite his protests. He has no intention of stopping what’s happening despite the predicament they’d found themselves in.
“Just met? What do you mean? We’re destined to be together? You cannot deny me, my love…?” Minho whispers. He pulls back and starts pouting at him. “Once you’re inside of me, you’ll never think of another soul. You are mine, and only mine, Jisung.”
Jisung stares at him, weighing up his options. Minho can see his tiny, frazzled brain working overtime. Each cog whirrs and churns looking for excuses, but he comes up with nothing. He goes to speak, it's timid, tiny, coated in a thick layer of arousal.
“Right… Only y-yours,” he replies. It’s all Minho needs to hear to know that he’s given in to his instincts.
They kiss up the winding steps of the store, the wood so old it creaks and bows beneath their feet. Every step kicks dry dust up into the air, but neither of them care, wrapped up in the heat of the moment. Just a tiny hallway separates them from their sweaty fates.
The upper chambers are just a small cubby. A double bed draped in olive-green canopy, a withered antique settee in the corner, a standing mirror, a small sink, pale, and toilet in the corner. The amenities. The floor is so sunken that the bed is propped up with two books at one side, beneath the legs. The candles against the side table are burned down to their wicks.
Only a slither of light filters through the skylight. It’s enough for Minho to see the outlines of Jisung’s muscles and the wisps of soft hair illuminated through silhouette.
The logistics do not matter to him. He could have been ravishing Jisung in the forest, the swamp, down in the mud or deep in the darkest, winding cavern, providing he got to taste what he craved.
All Minho wants to feel is Jisung’s being pressed up against his, their bodies grinding and lips melting together. He’s been craving it since the very moment he felt their eyes meet through the windowpane.
He tears the rest of cloak away from Jisung’s form, hands scrapping for more skin as he tosses it aside. Their lips never leave one another, and his frayed brown undershirt is revealed. He has markings under his shirt that he can see through the rips in the material; tattoos that span across his chest and down to his hip.
More stories to tell. His body is a novel Minho wishes to read.
“How do you wanna…?” Jisung asks. He’s nervous, still. He probably knows he shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing considering the circumstances. It only makes Minho want him more as his fingers tremble.
“Let me tie your hands, Jisung— My love,” he corrects. “I wish to do all the work for you tonight. To show you how thankful I am.”
He reaches for the pair of cuffs he has beneath the bed with a wicked grin across his face. A crude locking mechanism. It’s a strong lithium, so he knows it will hold even the scrappiest of fighters and the strongest of orgasms, if previous experience serves him well.
He pulls Jisung’s brown shirt from where it’s tucked into his slacks to loosen it, ensuring the safety of his golden pocket watch, of which he slips down against the side table for later. Jisung doesn’t even notice.
He presses Jisung back, hands trailing across his chest as he moves him towards the bed. He pushes him down with a bounce, and within a matter of moments Jisung is tugging at his own bootstraps, struggling to pull them off in his fluster.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Jisung tries to say, but he lets Minho maneuver him, regardless.
He tilts Jisung’s chin, bringing their faces together as he whispers. “I’ll work for it, you needn’t do anything. I will ride you all night until you are satisfied. My body is all yours, my love. I exist to bring my lover pleasure,” Minho says.
He pulls Jisung’s shirt entirely off so quickly that he doesn’t notice where it lands. He tugs at exposed arms, thick, heavy biceps wrapped in the soft plushness of tainted skin. Minho can’t get enough, his eyes darkened in lust at the sheer sight of the man in front of him.
“Well… when you put it like that—" Jisung croaks, as he’s pressed up the bed to sit amongst the pillows.
Minho kicks off his own shoes, across to the window without a care. He catches sight of the clock and makes a mental note of the time. He needs to be slow with it. He wants to show his lover how good he can be, and he has plenty of time to do so.
Jisung’s hands are held high against the bed, pinned up against the headrest with the intensity of Minho’s demanding grip. He’s clasped into the cuffs immediately as he swirls his wrists to feel how tight they are, checking just how they might feel if he pulls at them.
The handcuffs click into place, and just like that, Minho and his lover are trapped inside the room with only their bodies and minds to pass the time. He sees a sparkle within Jisung’s eyes, the way his lip pouts out like an invitation for more kisses to be placed against them.
He’s empty-headed, legs shaking and restless. His cute little nipples are hard, and his skin is washed over in little bumps as Minho touches him. He wonders when the last time Jisung had been physical with someone could have been, until he wipes his mind of the notion in pangs of jealousy.
He lurches down to lean over his legs and unbuttons Jisung’s slacks as he crawls over, dropping down to his pelvis, hot airy breaths simmering over his cock as he pulls them down over Jisung’s scrambling legs to reveal his undergarments.
“Oh, my love,” Minho coos. He looks up at him, head resting against his thigh. “You want me just as badly as I want you, it seems...”
Jisung doesn’t reply to the obvious, just nods, eyes stalking down to watch Minho’s movements as he wraps a hand around him beneath his underwear. He’s decently thick and heavy; Minho’s salivary glands start to sting just looking at it.
He leans forward, running his open mouth up and down the side of Jisung’s shaft, ensuring he stares the entire way, letting his saliva coat him with each glide.
“You… Can you—?” Jisung stutters. He stops himself immediately before Minho picks up on it.
“What is it, my love?” he says, moving up and teasingly licking around his cockhead. He curls his tongue around it, enjoying the way that Jisung’s lids flutter at the sensations.
“Can I see you?” Jisung asks, “your clothes… Can you… Take them off?” Another hesitation. “…My love?”
Minho keens. A heavy smile curls up the corner of his lips unlike he’s ever felt before. There’s an overwhelming feeling in his chest, like a warm summer air fluttering around inside of him, filling his lungs, fit to burst.
“But, this is about you,” Minho responds, “my gift to you for protecting me.”
“Yeah—It is for me. I want to see you, my love,” Jisung states. He’s relaxed into the pet name, by now. “I think that’d be a p-pretty nice gift.”
Minho sits up, still straddling his thighs. He reaches his saliva-sticky hands underneath his own shirt, lifting it away from his body and throwing it aside. The cold air feels freeing, a juxtaposition from the heat between their bodies and the external world. Jisung’s eyes scan all over him, and he licks his lips, tongue poking out of the side to catch the drool that nearly falls.
Minho’s flattered beyond words. He sees the way that Jisung’s expression changes, like he’s looking at something otherworldly. Minho revels in it, the way that they’re so attracted to each other in an instant. He slowly undoes his pants, pulling them open and shifting over to his side to remove them and push them down the bed with his feet.
He isn’t wearing anything underneath, his body is a blank canvas for Jisung to enjoy. He looks so plain, compared to Jisung’s inked physique.
“I’m all yours, Jisung. My body is yours,” Minho states, almost bashful this time. He climbs back over the top of his thighs, their bare, naked bodies pressed together.
Jisung stifles a “wow”, but Minho hears it and keens. He feels beautiful and powerful on top, the thickness of his thighs and his soft skin is all Jisung can see through the dusky light.
Minho rocks into his movements, ticklish to the touch. Minho imagines that if his hands were freed, Jisung’s grip would be firm but caring; he’d try not to squeeze too tight but he’d apply just enough pressure to make Minho groan.
“It is taking every part of my resolve not to press myself the whole way down on you and feel you deep inside of me,” Minho says, winding his hips, feeling his arousal starting to take over. “Just sink down, so deep you’d feel all of me from the inside as you please.”
“S-shit,” Jisung breaths out, overwhelmed.
Minho lets out an airy chuckle. He’s being more forward than most men can handle. “Will you allow me, my love?”
“Of course! Y’know? If you want…? I—"
“Oh. I want,” Minho says back. “I want it so badly.”
He wraps a hand around himself and Jisung in unison, stroking their cocks together, moving just slightly, up and down in a rocking rhythm, his saliva still lingering between his digits. He leans over and spits down against them, making the glide even easier as he throws his head back.
Jisung’s legs tremble beneath Minho’s body, cuffed hands rattling against the headrest with each stroke. Jisung’s dick is warm against his, sliding next to his skin. Minho makes a show of it, rolling his hand up and twisting off as he moans, biting his lip for Jisung to see.
“Let me get myself ready for you, my love,” Minho suggests, deciding that he wants to move things forward. He flicks his head across to his bedside to a devilish array of items that most simple Apothecarians wouldn’t have out in the light of day...
As he clambers off, Jisung’s eyes pathetically follow him across the floor. He’s half lidded, shivering in the cold, his mouth open like he’s panting.
Minho retrieves his lube and settles back over his thighs like he never left, like he belongs there.
He warms it in his fingers, using some to stroke over Jisung, and then some to reach around for himself. He presses his index inside, the filthy squelch filling the room. Another finger joins; it’s not difficult. He’s prepared for this exact actuality.
Minho curls his hand up Jisung’s shaft, slowly, using the speed he’s created to match with his own fingers, which were deliciously opening him up from the other side. He starts twisting his fingers as another is added even through the awkward angle, pressing upwards chaotically with no rhyme or rhythm, fingerfucking his hole. He simply has to feel himself being split open, Jisung’s girth inside of him.
“You’re amazing,” Jisung stutters, “but, I don’t think I’ll last long if you don’t stop touching me.”
“Awwh. My love. You’re so sensitive,” Minho coos, suddenly grasping him tightly in a vice-like grip.
He pulls his fingers out, and uses the same hand to align himself, eyes locked together.
He sinks down on it, groaning the entire way down without stopping. Jisung looks at him like he must have some kind of superpower to be able to take so much without trying. He’s halfway down before Jisung has even let go of the desperate breath he’s holding in.
He’s slow with it despite how badly he wants it, grinding his hips downwards in little circles like a wind-up toy ready to release, teetering on the edge of euphoria as he adjusts to Jisung’s size.
He finds himself fighting the urges to press himself too deep and finish Jisung immediately. He could only imagine how adorable he’d look if Minho kept riding him into oversensitivity, climbing off and pressing down on his flaccid, leaky cock with his thumb as his toes tensed and he spasmed.
Minho knows what he likes. Which angles that melt his body. Jisung has just enough cock to reach those same places, and Minho drops himself down on it, wanting to feel every little sensation as he sinks deeper.
As he descends, he hisses through his teeth. He loves the slight ache of being full, he loves the way Jisung fills him to the brim as he takes the entirety.
“P-please, my love!” Jisung cries out, “please go slow, or I’ll—”
“You won’t do anything, my love. You’re at my disposal,” Minho teases. He sits, engulfed for a moment, to find his bearings. He’s so turned on his mind is washed out with sentiments and longing thoughts of just how many ways he could make Jisung cry. Or moan. Or both.
He takes more lube, squeezing it out against his fingers and applying it around his hole so he can glide even faster.
The cold stings and Minho moans at it; his ass is red hot and tight, clamped down around Jisung’s cock. He lifts himself with the power of his thighs, just off halfway until he drops back down again with a bounce. Jisung’s already breathless and gritted, eyes screwed together.
Jisung’s mouth opens and Minho reaches down to shove his thumb inside, hooking the side of his cheek like he’s been captured. The wetness of his mouth spills out of the corner, drool sliding down his cheek and Minho’s hand. He’s so cute, pitiful and at his disposal.
He’s too aroused to fight it, letting Minho command him, taking charge from his position. His eyes water with the insertion of two more fingers as Minho asks him to suck. He does it without any hesitation, sucking down against his fingers like it were a cock. His mouth is small, but it adjusts well, cheeks relaxing and throat wet. Minho needs to feel his cock inside of it next time they make love.
“So pretty,” Minho sings. “And all for me.”
Jisung nods pleadingly through wet eyes, desperate to please him.
Eventually, Minho releases his grasp on Jisung’s mouth as he focuses on his pace, pressing his hands down against his abdomen instead using it for leverage as he bounces.
Each little bounce is punctuated with the sound of Minho’s own cock rising and falling, a gentle slap against his soft stomach each round, leaving sticky residue behind. Each slam feels like a spark through his spine, a stutter from his stomach. His eyes roll so far back in pleasure that he feels like he’s reaching an alternative realm as his prostate is teased.
He grasps himself as he sits backwards to ride, ensuring that Jisung sees him, all of him. He enjoys watching the way Jisung looks on in awe at the sight of his new lover grinding down on top of him.
He hopes Jisung sees his cock sliding in and out, the impact it has on his hole, the way he’s stretched and pink and his; their bodies are sewn together by the fickle fabric of fate.
“Oh… My love, my love!” he cries out in pleasure, leaning backwards to settle his hands against Jisung’s thighs, head falling back, “so full, my love!”
It’s ridiculous, but he can’t get enough.
“You’re— So…!” Jisung cries out, unable to control himself.
“Oh Jisung, we really belong to each other!” Minho says.
Jisung’s eyes start to flutter and Minho needs to push it, needs to hear the words rolling off of his lips.
“Tell me you love me, Jisung,” Minho says, reaching for him. He lurches forward and cups his face with all of his might, his chubby cheeks bunched up so he can barely speak through pursed lips. “Tell me you love me and that you’ll never look at anyone else!”
“I won’t—I uh— I love you?” Jisung replies through his broken moans, and Minho cries out in excitement.
“Oh, my love! I love you, too! Promise me you’ll be with me like this, forever, and ever!”
Minho bounces up and down, swirling his hips around, grinding down so hard he sees stars as he continues to grip against Jisung’s face. He’s spurred on by the deep feelings of love that entangle his mind.
“I—Yeah, I… Forever, and ever, fuck.”
“Fuck, yes! Oh god, Jisung, your cock feels so thick and wonderful! Your cock was made for me and only me, my love!”
“Only you, my—my love,” Jisung echoes the sentiment back, as his legs start to wrap around Minho’s form.
“Taking you all the way,” Minho groans.
“The whole way, a-angel,” Jisung replies.
Minho practically giggles at the pet name. A welcome little quip that he hadn’t expected. He starts joining in, accepting their intertwined fates, giving him back what Minho is dishing out to him. He rather appreciates the sentiment of being Jisung’s angel.
His deity, just like he deserves.
“I cannot take it anymore my love,” Minho cries out, as he flops himself down against Jisung’s chest in exhaustion. “Please, fuck me, show me how well you can.”
Jisung takes the cue, nodding, and fucks up into him from below. Minho’s arms wrap around his ribcage as he takes it, face against his chest, clinging on for dear life.
He’s quick and fast, rampant. Little short bursts of fucking that make Minho sound like he’s vibrating. Jisung is so desperate to come, so desperate to be good for his newfound lover. His wrists look sore, the chains rattle and clank against the bed frame. He looks so fucked out that it’s almost diabolical.
“Oh! Oh fuck, fuck yes, Jagi!” Minho moans, reaching back down to wrap a hand around himself again between their bodies. “So close. Gonna come for you!”
Jisung’s eyes blow wide open at the name. “I’m… Nearly, too…” he barely utters.
“Give it to me, my love,” Minho says, pressing himself the entire way down. “I want to feel it all, deep inside of me.”
He starts jerking himself at the same pace he’s being fucked up into. He wishes it were Jisung’s hands, but his wrists were otherwise preoccupied. Their lips meet again in a wet exchange, desperate tongues pressed together at just the right moment.
Jisung spasms underneath him, eyes pathetically curved. With a few final thrusts into his hand, Minho comes down the side of his curled fist, and leaks across Jisung’s toned stomach. He’s panting, eyes wide, skittering in place.
He feels Jisung’s hips spasming underneath him as he spurts, filling Minho up as deep as he can reach from the lower angle. The noise Jisung makes is indescribable, a mixture of a warble and a grunt. He’s so cute that Minho can barely even see clearly anymore.
He’s full, so hot inside, a feeling of desire rendering him dazed as he continues to lightly grind against the angle, chest heaving. Minho reaches down to take some of his cum against the pad of his finger, leaning up Jisung’s body and pressing it to his lover's lips.
Jisung sucks as instructed, just like before. He looks fucked out and unintelligible wrapping his tongue around Minho’s index finger. Minho’s transfixed on his eyes; they pull him in like a siren to a shipwreck. They’re so big and round and pretty, the most beautiful yearning from deep within them.
Minho’s so dangerously in love with him like this. Hook, line and sinker. The poor man.
Minho doesn’t attempt to climb off yet, noting the time. He wants a few more minutes of being impaled and he’s trying to flesh it out. His cock softens inside, but Minho doesn’t mind. It feels close, intimate. Jisung’s pretty eyes already start to close.
Minho taps the side of his face as Jisung just lays there and breathes, trying to regulate himself. It rouses him, and he opens his eyes at the gentle taps. Minho speaks softly, sing-songy and whispered, lost in their moment. The moment he’s going to ruin.
“I told you I don’t get mixed up in matters of darkness, death or love, Han Jisung,” He says. His intonation changes to something firmer, a slight bite to his words.
He finally climbs off, and presses a hearty, heavier few taps to Jisung’s cheek. His hands are sticky with sweat and cum and some of Jisung’s spit so it makes a little plap noise. His body is pumping with adrenaline, and he catches himself looking pumped up in the mirror. His body always looks nice after a workout, stomach glistening with the remnants of their session.
“Well, I suppose you made an exception, for your true love?” Jisung breathes out, he sounds proud of himself. By now he’s mentally resolved himself of all guilt, it seems.
“Quite,” Minho chuckles. “But, for the record, rune’s don’t work.” He paces over to the small, withered settee, retrieving his herb pipe as he stifles a smile.
He feels the atmosphere change in an instant.
“Huh? What?” Jisung asks from the bed, slightly bobbing upwards against the headrest, causing the chains to rattle.
“Runes, you silly man. They’re folklore. Made up. There is no ‘love rune’, there are no runes at all. It’s a load of make-believe created by faux warlocks to justify their total lack of magic,” Minho laughs. “They were never, ever real. They never have been, they never will be. Do you understand?”
Minho tilts his head to the side as he stares at him, deeply into his dark eyes. He lights his pipe, and tosses the spent match against the floor, inhaling a deep puff of saffron and exhaling it into the hot, salty air.
The windows drip with condensation. The evidence of their hot and heavy session pilling down the stained glass and gathering down his splintered windowsill.
Minho starts laughing, just a few buoyant chuckles under his breath that he doesn’t mean to let out. He just can’t help himself. Jisung had made it too easy.
“Wait… What…?” Jisung asks.
“I just wanted your name. Han Jisung. So I could be sure that you’re the man who’s on the run for stealing from the castle. You also, stole this ‘rune’… Your father isn’t dead and you didn’t inherit it. I’ve seen your face before, on the posters up at the citadel. I know all about you, actually. You’ve been on my radar quite for a while.”
“I…” Jisung tries to argue, half confused, half concerned. The panic rises to the forefront of his face like billowing smoke rising from spent embers. Minho’s fire continues to burn.
“So, I knew, as a man, the only way I could get you to tell me the truth was through your dick. You’ve been staring at me through the window for the past few days, I’ve seen it. Sure, you wanted my help, but you wanted me, too. You are so entranced by me that it almost made you look dumb...” Minho scoffs, taking another puff.
“Wait… You… Knew who I was? But… All this? You still took advantage of me?!” Jisung shouts, sudden panic in his voice. He pulls the cuffs tight against the bedpost, it makes Minho let out a gleeful little titter. He’s well and truly trapped, so there’s no use in him trying to escape.
“Excuse you?! You’re the one who thought I was under the trance of a rune…!? You were quite happy to stick your cock in someone you didn’t know, who was hypothetically under a spell without a second thought, weren’t you!?” Minho shouts, aghast at his impudence. “Lets not pretend that both of us didn’t know where this was going, regardless.”
“I…! Well, I mean!” There’s no rebuttal. “Let me out of these cuffs!” he tries to demand, in no position to be throwing demands around in any case.
“Oh, no. That reward money will come in handy. I’m turning you into the authorities. I’ve notified the castle of your whereabouts, it’s all pre-arranged,” Minho smiles in glee, clapping his hands in tiny waves. He looks at the clock again, it’s almost time; he’s successfully bided enough for the guards to arrive.
“I thought we had something, Shinwa! Oh, c’mon! Find it in your heart!” Jisung begs, trying to reason. “If I get caught again they’ll banish me!”
“Awh. You should probably stop getting caught then…?” Minho laughs. “I told you you’re too easily swindled.”
“I cannot believe you! After all of this!” Jisung cries out. “We made love!”
“Made love… Cute. We certainly did. It’d been so long for me, thanks for cleaning out the cobwebs, Jisung. What a rush,” Minho says, stretching his arms high over his head as he wanders back to Jisung’s bedside. “I don’t think I’ve felt like that in a long time. You really hit all the right spots, angel.”
He runs a finger up Jisung’s thigh, over his cock. He’s sticky, warm to the touch. Jisung whimpers at his touch despite trying to appear stoic. Minho can’t stop the smile that curls.
“You’re a fiend…!” Jisung cries out, exasperated, staring at him with a white-hot intensity. “I cannot believe you tricked me! You God… The worst part is… I am so stupidly attracted to you right now!”
Minho smiles, callous as a cat. “Pah. Likewise,” he prods at Jisung’s puffed out cheek next, Jisung pulling away from his touch. “I rather like a man who’s cock is bigger than their brain...”
“I’m—? Wait… Is that a compliment?!”
“You decide, my love,” Minho teases. He presses his fingers across Jisung’s forehead to move his bangs aside. He’s so gorgeous that it makes his heart flutter. It’s almost a waste.
Minho steps aside, then pulls his off-white silken robe away from the bedpost, sliding it over his arms and back as he starts to feel the cold. The material catches a little on his sticky skin, but he has people to meet and reward money to claim. He ties the waistbelt it around his mid, tugging it taut and spinning the tassels around in glee. He pulls it up to his thighs, still showing off, teasing Jisung for all he’s worth.
“It’s gonna be such a shame to have to rid myself of the traces of you, Jisung… But, I wouldn’t want to leave any evidence behind that can link me to you….?”
He takes some extra time to clean himself up at the sink, pouting at the concept. Jisung’s eyes are so fixated on watching him, half vengeful, half aroused. He can hear Jisung muttering under bis breath, petulant and irritated, but still flushed with his own embarrassment.
He hears heavy knocking at the door downstairs. The welcome party. A predetermined fate for one, Han Jisung. The sound of five or six men fills the air, ‘open up!’ echoing their sentiments.
Minho cascades down the staircase without even a bounce, floating on air after his body had been so well satiated. Even more so, nothing turns Minho on more than winning.
He peels the door open, flashing some teasing eyes to the citadel guards who’ve arrived in their heavy cast-iron body armors, swords at their belts and helmets embellished with red feathers. Another smaller squire holds the wanted poster, Jisung’s pretty face plastered across it.
“Gentlemen,” Minho says, gesturing them inside as he saunters. He whistles a tune, too proud of himself, leading them up the tiny staircase in their muddied boots.
Minho had just pretended to clean that floor.
He leads them to where Jisung lays, naked and shivering. The men all look away, Jisung looks mortified. He pulls his legs closed, attempting to keep his dignity intact if he had any remnants remaining. Minho feels a smidgen bad about it, but he’s all too used to others making a fool of him, talking badly about him. Perhaps it was time someone else took the brunt of the cruelty.
“Your tyrant, I believe?” he says, sing-songing. “The one and only, Han Jisung.” He holds both hands out, presenting him like a prize, wiggling his fingers for extra pizzazz.
“His… Uh—someone get him dressed?!” one of the men says, and he coughs to clear his throat in his awkward stupor, all of them clambering around the tiny room. “The last thing the king needs is a scandal!”
They storm towards him, Jisung already flinching, pulling the cuffs taut as he tries to flinch. Minho suddenly stands in front of them, holding his hand out flat.
“Nuh-uh…” he says, as he waves the cuff key in front of their noses. “These cuffs are enchanted, you can’t take them off, not even with just this. Gents, I want to see the money first, then I unlock him and you can do with him as you wish.”
“Like you’d stand a chance against us,” one guard scoffs. “We could just take it from you, Crone.”
Minho winces at the name, deeply offended. Despite leading them to Jisung, presenting the banished thief to them directly, none of them respected him, nor gave him the gratification he deserved for harboring such a dangerous fugitive. They looked at him as if something to be discarded.
He balls his fists, fingernails creating little crescent moons in his palms. He isn’t going to be made a fool of.
They fumble when Minho doesn’t back down. He knows that the guardsmen could simply take whatever they wanted, kill him on the spot where he stands. Minho isn’t strong enough to take on so many men at once, or really any at all, but Minho also knows that the King wants Han Jisung alive, and half of the men have heard of his magic, tales of what he is capable of, so he’s able to feign confidence.
He doesn’t let it get to him. He remains sturdy, rooted to the ground like the heartiest oak tree. He looks for tells, the man suddenly throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation.
A satchel is handed over to him in an instant. Within it, is tightly coiled stacks of money, enough for him to live off of for the rest of his life, comfortably. He could relocate, change his name, rid himself of the titles that have preceded him. No longer would he be an obscure medicine man or a witch.
He looks at Jisung as the men grasp their swords, then back down to the key between his fingers.
Jisung has been chasing the very same feeling. He’s been on the run, skipping towns and existing outside of the realms of what humans consider normal, probably for as long as Minho has. Minho doesn’t know him that well, but there’s a burning desire for more behind his eyes. He’s a tyrant, sure, but he’s nothing less than what Minho has been made to feel his entire life.
He and Jisung are similar in that regard.
A bright, cyan-blue light blasts through the stillness, and suddenly, everyone drops to the ground in an explosive thud, except for Minho. Jisung passes out on the bed, lolloped against his chest and all of the men lay, asses up, against his dirty hardwood where they were standing.
He looks down at his other hand, grasping Jisung’s charmed pocket watch from within it. The longer hand suddenly stilted in place.
The watch emits enough nitrous energy to knock out five fully grown men.
He’d taken it back, intending to pawn it or utilize it for his own selfish needs. He supposes this is one of those times. He is selfish; he wants Jisung for himself.
He doesn’t know how long he has whilst the enchantment works. He guesses a few minutes based on previous knockout charms he’s witnessed and read about, as everyone sleeps, heavy and cumbersome.
He lunges over and abruptly strikes Jisung hard against the face with his straight hand in a desperate attempt to wake him up. He feels bad about it, but he needs to rouse him urgently.
“Ow?! What the?!” he snorts, and Minho throws his hands over Jisung’s mouth to muffle him as soon as he’s alert.
“Shh! They’re all knocked out, you’ll wake them,” he whispers, close to his face.
Jisung blinks above Minho’s flat palm, hot breath against his fingers spills through the cracks. He’d dazed and confused, taking in the scene around him until his eyes fall back to Minho’s.
“You really thought I was going to turn you in, my love? After the time we’ve spent together?” Minho laughs, tilting his head to the side. “Ye have so little faith.”
He straddles Jisung in place, their near naked forms meet once again, body lurched over him to reach up and unlock his cuffs from the bed.
“You… You tricked them?” Jisung replies, half stunned. His voice is quiet, hushed in fear as he grasps at his wrists, pinkened and swollen.
“I have a penchant for doing that, don’t I?”
“I thought I was… They would’ve sentenced me… You…”
“I’m sorry to have to trick you again Jisung, but like I said, you’ve been on my radar, and I cannot possibly watch you waste away in a cell whilst there's so much else to…” His fingers trail down Jisung’s stomach, down the soft hair that delves into his hipbones, “explore of each other…”
Jisung’s cheeks bloom a pink hue, bunched up against his rapidly blossoming smile. His eyes sparkle through the realization of Minho’s intentions, and despite the strange entanglement they find themselves in, Minho fails to mask how relieved he is with the unanticipated outcome.
“I could not be harder for you right now. I really couldn’t. I’m in physical pain. I am so hot for you I can’t even think straight,” Jisung half jokes. It’s only a half joke because Minho can feel him hardening against his thigh. It’s cute.
“Easy there, lover boy, let’s get ourselves out of here first and then we can talk about all the ways you can put that to use, hmm?” Minho smiles, winking at him. He tosses the cuffs, and as soon as Jisung is freed, his hands find Minho’s sides, a steady grip on either side.
He’s pulled down into a kiss, desperate and messy and leaving Minho breathless. They have no time for such frivolities, but he can indulge him for just a moment or two.
“Get out of here? Huh? What about your shop?” Jisung asks, lips lingering so close they’re practically still touching.
“Oh. Jagi. There is no ‘my shop’. This place isn’t mine, Jisung. The owner, Shinwa, is… Incapacitated currently. I just made you believe it was mine through the sheer power of persuasion,” Minho says. He sits back, shrugging his shoulders before he climbs off of Jisung’s body, begrudgingly stepping over snoring men.
“This was never your store?”
“No. I just needed to get you here. I immediately knew I had to have you, in more ways than one...”
“You…”
“Me,” Minho laughs. “Now, as much as I enjoy seeing you naked, we should probably get going, shouldn’t we, Tyrant?”
“I… I don’t even know your real name, do I?” Jisung said, as he’s pulled to his feet, and his undershirt is thrust back into his grasp.
“For me to know, and you to find out later,” Minho replies, winking. “Much like how I need to know about how you came to own this watch, and what the tattoos across your chest mean…? There’s plenty of time to get to know each other when we’re both fugitives on the run...”
“You know, it seems a strange series of events to tell you that I love you even before I know your name. It’s certainly out of the ordinary...” Jisung laughs, exasperated. He shimmies his own pants up and Minho reaches for the door before they’re even dressed, hand outstretched to hold it out to him to take.
“Well, Jisung. There’s nothing ordinary about me, I can assure you,” Minho replies.