Archive of Our Own

Chan likes to run.

That “healthy body, healthy mind” stuff really gets his dick hard.

It’s easy to have a healthier sleep schedule when you force yourself to jog until your legs give out before bed. Easier to quiet down the insomnia when he collapses on his mattress, especially when the runner’s high is strong enough to make him grind against his sheets until he creams his pants.

Well. The orgasms definitely help with his sleep, too. Runner’s high isn’t the only thing that gets blood pumping in the nether regions of his body. Going for a jog late at night needs motivation.

And what better way to do it than to have a mid-jog reward?

Chan quit smoking. Is quitting. Is trying to quit. 

He leaves his house with one cigarette and no lighter. The only place anyone can light his cigarette at this hour of the night is the club about three miles away from his place.

It’s a foolproof plan: run there, ask for a light, maybe flirt with some cute guys, run back, cum while thinking of them, sleep.

He has never looked better. Some of the guys at the club started noticing and complimenting him on how strong his legs were looking. 

One guy, in particular, joked about how from now on he’d start following Chan home then running back to the club. ‘So he could look that good’. Chan laughed a little uncomfortably. He’s heard better pick up lines.

The guy is cute, though.

He never smokes, so it’s weird how often he happens to be outside at the exact time Chan gets to the club. It’s also weird how often he hangs out at the club, period, but Chan isn’t one to judge. He’s had his days.

Everything about him feels a little odd. How he looks at Chan. How he holds himself. How he never stops fiddling with his own throat. How he doesn’t smoke but always has a very expensive-looking lighter.

How Chan almost never sees him step back into the club even after he turns around to jog home.

But he’s cute. Hot, even. Chan would love to get his hands on him, sometime.

***

The night is chilly.

There’s goosebumps rising all over Chan’s legs. The shorts were a bad idea—he’s fucking freezing, but Chan is stubborn, and he needs a cigarette, but he threw out his lighters to commit to that single rewarding smoke, so he doesn’t have a choice.

…But maybe he could cheat. If he meets someone on his way there, he could ask them for a light and go home early.

He’s already been running for a while. The club isn’t that far away. It’s unlikely he’ll meet someone at this hour and even more unlikely that they’ll have a lighter, but there’s always the possibility someone might be walking home, or something—

“Oh, thank fucking god,” Chan breathes out as he slows down until he comes to a stop when he spots a girl crossing the road. She looks a little alarmed, so he quickly throws his hands in the air and speaks to reassure her. “I’m sorry, do you have a lighter, please?”

She squints at him, considering whether or not to stop, but thankfully ends up stopping. “Yeah.”

Chan lights his cigarette. He thanks the woman again and immediately steps away.

Leaning against the wall, he curiously glances towards the club. He only would’ve had to run for about three more minutes to get to it—he can vaguely hear the chatter of the smokers out front from here. He briefly considers it, a little eager to see the handsome men out front, but at this point his brain is wired to turn around after his reward.

So he finishes his cigarette, turns around, cranks up the volume on his phone. He hops a little to the beat and starts to run again.

It’s strange. After a bit, his steps seem to echo. Like there’s a second pair of soles beating against the pavement—but they’re out of tune.

Faster.

Chan brakes, stops the music on his phone and looks behind him.

The sound is gone. There’s no one. He can’t even hear the chatter anymore—he’s far enough from the club. There’s no one in the area at this hour.

Weird. Must’ve been a beat he hadn’t noticed before in this track.

He starts jogging again. His heart is pounding and he’s out of breath, more than usual despite running less.

He truly needs to quit smoking.

A gust of cold wind bites at his exposed skin and makes him shiver. He changes the music to something a bit more motivational.

In the few seconds it takes for the new song to start, Chan hears pattering behind him again.

It can’t be the beat. He knows this song by heart; he made it.

Chan slows without stopping this time & whips his head around. Only for a second though, because nothing terrifies him more than running without knowing where he’s going.

It’s enough to notice something.

A shadow. Something he thought he saw flash for a second up the street & that seems a lot closer this time. Something he’s sure to have seen disappear into an alley.

What the…?

Chan shakes his head. It’s probably nothing.

Maybe a stray cat. Or a dog. Probably a dog. Dogs like to chase runners. He’s seen it happen before.

Maybe it’s a super anxious stray dog who follows runners but hides in alleys if they try to look at him.

Yeah. Probably a dog.

Chan picks up the pace.

He tells himself it’s because he’s tired and wants to get home faster, even if he’s never felt more awake.

He tells himself it’s because he’s cold, even if the blood in his veins is boiling and the sweat is sizzling off his skin.

Chan runs faster again. His heart feels like it’s going to tear his chest apart.

When he makes a turn, the streetlights stay behind, and the light shifts.

He can now see his own shadow.

And there’s a second one right behind it.

Chan yelps and tears his earphones out. 

Rhythmic footsteps and panting. Unmistakable this time. 

Chan can’t even look behind him. He’s running at full speed, and whoever’s chasing him is faster, so if he looks behind him it’ll slow him down and Chan’s instincts are telling him he can’t let that happen, no matter what.

Fuck.

There’s a hearty giggle behind him. It sounds familiar, but Chan can’t think. There’s only blaring alarms in his brain and adrenaline in his veins and he’s doesn’t even know why he’s running like this.

Chan is decently strong. He could stop. He could turn around. He could confront whoever the fuck this is.

Chan is also paranoid and running on pure survival. What if they’re armed? Bigger? Stronger? They wouldn’t chase Chan and giggle about it if they didn’t think they could handle him, would they?

What do they even want from him?

Chan could scream. There aren’t many apartment buildings around here—it’s mostly an industrial area, but if he’s loud enough, surely someone could hear him.

His complex isn’t that far.

Chan’s voice cracks when he tries. He’s out of breath. His lungs are screaming for relief. Out comes a pathetic whimper.

His shadow giggles louder.

Chan sees his building in the distance. Just a couple more blocks. He’s fine. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s—

“Gotcha.”

A death grip on his forearm pulls him to the side until he violently crashes into the wall. He almost collapses, but a pair of strong hands grab his hips, forcing him to stand upright.

Chan bursts into tears.

“I don’t have any money,” he cries out, eyes unfocused. There’s spots in his vision from the exhaustion and the brutal impact against the wall, so it takes him a few seconds to see the face of his assaulter. “I swear, just take… my… phone…?”

Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Hollow cheeks. A natural cheeky curve to his lips. Something glinting in his eyes. Something uncanny. Something evil. But most of all, something Chan has been seeing in front of the club  nearly every single one of his late night runs.

His gentleness as he pushes some damp curls out of Chan’s face is deeply unsettling. Even more so when he strokes Chan’s cheek to wipe away his tears.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” he whispers, and it makes Chan realize he’s crying so hard it’s making him hiccup. He’s always been a scaredy cat. “It’s okay. I don’t want your phone. Or your money.”

Chan doesn’t want to think about what he might want. Chan thinks about it anyway. And he hates that despite the absolute terror this man is putting him through, Chan’s body still reacts the same way it does when he collapses on the mattress at home and creams his pants while thinking about this pretty stranger.

Fingertips brush down Chan’s thigh, then back up to wrap around his waist. He stiffens and represses a sob.

“I didn’t see you at the club. You didn’t take your reward. You should always get your reward,” the stranger rambles, pressing his forehead to Chan’s own, and drinking in the ragged breath that falls out of his lips. “Don’t you think it’s unfair to make so much effort just to not get your reward?”

They’re both sweating, and panting, and the humidity of it all makes their bodies stick together even more, like they can’t be close enough. Chan can feel how muscular the stranger’s chest is against his own, can feel how strong the warm body caging him is, can feel all sorts of things he’s been fantasizing about for months. 

He prays that the other man can’t feel the embarrassing boner with their crotches pressed together like this.

Chan forces himself to speak, “I got my reward earlier. I smoked a little before the c-club…”

Black eyes glint in the night as thick eyebrows knit together. The pout on his lips would be prettier if he weren’t fucking batshit crazy.

“What about my reward?”

Chan blinks. “Huh?”

The hand on Chan’s waist disappears. He tries to follow it with his eyes but their bodies are too close—he can’t see anything. He only hears the rustle, and then there’s something pressed against his lips.

Chan gets ready to spit it out on instinct, but the stranger doesn’t push it past his teeth. He lets it hang between his lips.

A cigarette.

The flicker of a light.

Smoke.

It tastes like the brand Chan always gets. It’s weird. This guy never smoked in front of the club. He never offered Chan a cig and always waited for Chan to pull out his own.

Did he… hang out with a pack of Chan’s smokes just in case?

How much has he observed about Chan? How obsessed is he with him?

If he wants Chan’s body, why the fuck is he making him smoke?

“You are so pretty.”

Chan doesn’t know what to say. The stranger simply stares, silent, almost in awe. The cherry of the cigarette glows red as Chan takes a drag. His stalker pulls the cigarette out and leans in close, eyes fluttering shut.

Chan exhales. He breathes it all in.

“So, so pretty,” he sighs and presses closer. Chan’s cock twitches when his cold breath hits Chan’s burning skin. “I love watching you smoke. Love the satisfaction on your face. Love how you moan after the first drag—like it’s pure sex for you. It was better than sex for me. Came just for that. Touched myself thinking of the blush on your face and the sweat all over you as soon as I went home. I went to the club again tonight just for you. I made myself pretty just for you. Isn’t it unfair if I don’t get my reward?”

Chan tenses up. Embers fall off the trembling end of the cigarette and the stranger hisses and grunts when they burn his forearm. 

He doesn’t dust them off, though. 

He presses closer. Rests his lips against the tender skin between Chan’s neck and shoulder. Lets it burn his skin raw as he lets out the smallest little whimpers.

Like he’d take anything Chan gave him even if it tore holes in his flesh.

Chan swallows back his tears. He sniffles and finally comes out of whatever paralysis his survival instincts forced him into since this absolute nutcase trapped him.

He grabs his cigarette with a shaky hand and pulls it out of his mouth. Maybe if he plays into whatever the fuck this is, he can make it out unscathed.

This isn’t about the twisted parts of his mind aching to see how far this could go. Or about how hard his cock is in his shorts.

Yeah. This is survival. Pure, simple survival.

“What’s your name?”

The stranger’s lips finally leave his shoulder. The cold air hits the humid spot and rises goosebumps all over Chan’s skin. Glistening eyes stare at him now, eerily big, lined in black and red eyeshadow with a hint of glitter. He really did make himself pretty for Chan. The first few days Chan saw him there, he wasn’t nearly as well put together. He was still hot. Chan still went home and make himself come thinking about him, among others.

“You’re not gonna tell the police, are you?” he whispers, voice sweet as candy. “I want you to have my name. I wanna hear you say it. But I don’t want the cops knocking at my door taking me somewhere I can’t see you anymore. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

Chan should.

Chan really should.

Chan really fucking should, but there’s adrenaline coursing in his veins and he’s incredibly dizzy from the high and he’s scared and he’s panicking and doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.

“I won’t tell.” It’s a lie. It’s definitely a lie. He’ll call the cops as soon as he gets away, for sure.

The stranger nods. “Jeongin.”

Chan considers telling him his name, too. But he has a feeling Jeongin already knows.

“Why did you follow me, Jeongin?”

Jeongin tilts his head. Chan’s first thought is that he looks like a confused puppy. Then their eyes meet again and Chan quickly settles on a fox instead.

“I wanted to watch you smoke.” 

He says it like it’s obvious. Crystal clear. Like everyone chases strangers home and pins them against a wall and shoves a cigarette between their lips if they didn’t get to watch them smoke that night.

Reason be damned. Chan takes a drag. Might as well make the fucker happy if this is all he wanted?

…is it all he wanted?

“Is that all you wanted?” Chan instantly curses himself for asking. 

But Jeongin doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It’s enough.”

“Oh.”

Chan wonders where the smidge of disappointment in his tone came from. He tells himself it’s probably because he would’ve fucked this guy in a heartbeat if he weren’t insane. He might’ve invited him home the next time if he hadn’t ruined his chances by being a fucking creep.

But all he wanted was to watch him smoke? What a fucking joke.

Something in Chan’s brain shifts with the next drag of his cigarette. His heart still thunders against his ribcage and his throat is still tight, but something strange seems to have bled over the fear. Chan’s body relaxes a little. No longer standing on his tippy toes to make one with the wall, his heels finally find the ground, and his shorts ride up as Jeongin’s leg presses between his thighs.

Jeongin licks his lips. Chan exhales smoke in his face.

“What do you want?” Jeongin asks.

“To go home.”

Jeongin frowns. Only for a second, though. “Okay.” 

Before Chan can react, he snatches the cigarette away, and Chan immediately shields his face, half-expecting to get it stubbed out in his eye. It never comes, though. The weight on his body disappears. The cold prickles his skin as the stranger’s warmth leaves him. Chan lowers his arms and only sees Jeongin throw the half-smoked cigarette on the floor and crush it under his boot.

“Go home, then.”

Chan stays still for a second. Taken aback, he sizes Jeongin up from head to toe. His disheveled black hair. The darkness of his eyes. How lean and fit he is. His outfit and jewelry—surprisingly stylish, for someone who’s clearly got some screws loose. Chan almost reconsiders. Almost.

Until he notices a hospital bracelet peeking out of his jacket, and all of a sudden Chan fully recovers his rationality.

What the fuck is he still doing here?

Slowly, like prey inching away from a dangerous predator, eyes glued to the threat, Chan slides off the wall and takes a few steps towards the street. Jeongin doesn’t budge, but Chan still doesn’t turn his back on him. Not for a while. Not until he’s far enough to be sure he could outrun him home if he decides to chase after him again.

He doesn’t.

Chan gets home safe. 

Grinding against the mattress isn’t enough that night. Chan comes in his shorts and then shoves his hand into his underwear to tug at his cock again. And while he’s usually too exhausted to care about cleaning up before bed, this time, it takes him about five minutes of forcing himself to go to sleep before he somehow starts to feel the filth prickling at his skin, and all of a sudden he needs a shower. Needs it so bad he feels like he’ll have to peel the skin off his bones if he doesn’t get clean.

He scrubs himself raw. Then jerks off again in the shower, and it makes him feel dirty again, so he has to wash up one more time. Or two. Or three.

He never feels clean enough.

***

Chan stops running at night, for a while.

He buys a lighter again. Starts smoking a pack a day, again.

Something’s changed. He can’t put his finger on it because nothing’s changed. He’s still the same guy. He hasn’t told anyone about that night. Sure, he’s gone back to a concerningly messy sleep schedule, but that’s not unusual.

What’s unusual is the porn. 

The fucking porn. The tacky, disgusting “alley rape” scenarios he never thought he’d like, never thought he’d even watch. The gross mischaracterization of what it feels like to be there, against that wall, with a fucking psycho pressed up against you, with absolutely nowhere to run.

It pisses Chan off so much, how the actors grind against their assaulters. It drives him crazy, how they beg for their cocks and give in so easily. How painfully fake it all is.

It makes Chan want to rip the hair off his scalp that he hates that it’s fake even if he would never even click on anything real. Makes him want to bash his head against the wall that he hates it with every fiber of his being but still comes embarrassingly fast to it.

There’s a parasite inside him and Chan doesn’t know if it was there all along or if Jeongin’s lips whispered it into his mind. Or if Jeongin’s hands burned it into his body. Or if it was in the smoke from Jeongin’s cigarette and is now lathered all over his lungs like sticky tar he can never scrape off.

Chan slams his laptop closed.

He checks the time on his phone. It’s three in the morning.

It’s a Friday night. Usually, he’d be at the club by now, or on his way back. Instead, he’s sitting at his desk, hands sticky with cum and lotion after draining his balls for the eighth time of the night to yet another porn video he would never admit watching.

He wants to die.

He wants to run.

He wants a smoke.

He wants a gun.

He wants to head over to the club and shoot holes into Jeongin’s body until he loses enough blood to feel as empty as Chan has felt these past four days.

He wants to grab Jeongin by the collar and beg him to say what the fuck it was that he saw in him.

He wants Jeongin to chase him down the street and fuck him in the alley so he can feel better about being this messed up. So that he has a reason, something bigger than a jumpscare and a cigarette, something that feels valid.

No. No, he doesn’t. That’s fucked. He doesn’t want this.

Chan doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.

So he lights up a cigarette.

***

The ground doesn’t feel stable under Chan’s feet.

It’s just a sidewalk. It’s concrete. It’s solid. It’s not going to swallow him in, and it probably only feels like quicksand because his legs are numb.

It’s Saturday night. Chan lasted five days.

He’s smoked enough that his lung capacity has most definitely been compromised. He also ran much faster than usual and hasn’t been sleeping properly in days, so he’s out of breath and exhausted.

He wouldn’t stand a chance.

Jeongin’s awfully bold, for someone who doesn’t want to get caught. The fishnet top doesn’t do a great job hiding the hospital bracelet still strapped around his wrist, although Chan can see how an inattentive eye could miss that detail. Jeongin’s leaning against the wall, chatting with some smokers in front of the club. He doesn’t usually talk to anyone, but after stalking Chan there for so long, he must’ve made friends with the regulars. 

Their eyes met a minute ago. Chan knows that he saw him, because he keeps glancing in his direction.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here, a block away from this club, a block away from this man. A block away from someone who clearly fled whatever mental facility they’re meant to be locked up in, certainly for a very good reason.

Chan briefly tells himself that maybe he should be locked up, too. Especially when he reaches for his pocket to pull his pack out and stick a cigarette in his mouth.

With the flick of the lighter and the soft crackle of fire, Jeongin stops talking. His eyes are suddenly on Chan, and he can’t tell from a distance if it’s just the light or if his pupils tripled in size.

Chan takes a step back. Jeongin mumbles something to whoever he was talking to and slips away.

Inhale. Exhale. Flick the cigarette away. Run.

Run.

Footsteps. A giggle, delirious.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, run.

Chan sprints as fast as he possibly can. His heart is in his throat, shaking his entire body like an earthquake, and the same legs that felt like they’d give underneath him are now propelling him down the street faster than he ever thought he could run. It feels like his feet are barely touching the ground. Like he could fly off if he jumped high enough.

His mind isn’t in the sky, though. His mind is so painfully chained to this street. Trapped in that alley. Hyperaware of the sick freak following close behind.

The sound of his boots hitting the sidewalk is almost freeing for as long as it lasts. It tells Chan that he hasn’t been caught.

Until there’s a vice grip on Chan’s arm and his back hits the wall with the finality of a judge’s gavel. Chan wonders what his sentencing will be.

There’s something even crazier in Jeongin’s eyes this time.

Clemency doesn’t seem to be on the table.

Jeongin kisses him. Chan doesn’t resist. There’s no air in his lungs and his chest is going to explode, but he kisses back like there’s plenty enough oxygen on Jeongin’s tongue. They pant and gasp for air as they devour each other’s mouths, damp clothes sticking to their bodies as they press close enough for every curve to mold itself with another.

“Fuck me,” Chan breathes out.

“Is that what you want?”

“Since when do you care what I want?”

Jeongin chuckles. It almost sounds a little bitter. “Always.”

Lips dip down Chan’s neck, teeth scraping along his vein and tongue teasing the skin with featherlike strokes. It almost feels good. Almost. Then Jeongin shoves two fingers in his mouth, far enough to make the average person gag, but Chan doesn’t.

“God,” Jeongin moans into his neck, “that good with your mouth?”

Fingers slide down Chan’s tongue and he gets wet everywhere. His eyes tear up, he drools all over himself and Jeongin’s hand, his crotch starts to feel as hot and sticky as the rest of his sweaty body.

Filth.

So much filth. Chan isn’t sure he’ll be able to scrub himself clean of it this time either.

Practically drowning in spit, Jeongin’s fingers slide out, and Chan barely gets to take a sharp inhale before he’s holding his breath again when a hand makes its way down his back. Distantly, Chan thinks he should’ve bitten his fucking fingers off, and it surprises him. He thought he’d been deaf to that part of his mind since he stepped foot out of the safety of his home tonight.

Tentative circles drawn around his rim. A soft slide, then a rougher one. A brief flash of lucidity.

What the fuck is he doing? Again?

Chan’s voice bleeds panic. “Didn’t you say you just wanted to watch me smoke?”

Propping his head up, Jeongin looks at him. “I want whatever you’ll give me.”

He looks all but gone, eyes glazed over with lust, lips parted around breaths that come out in misty clouds every time he moves his finger inside Chan. 

Chan doesn’t know why he wore those shorts again. The fabric is too soft. Too thin. Too nice against his skin. It’s probably why he’s reacting to this—why Jeongin’s finger feels like this. It must be.

“Why are you—” Chan chokes on his words when Jeongin dips down to thrust a second finger into him, and the burn has him gripping Jeongin’s jacket as hard as he can. “Fuck— ah, fuck…”

Jeongin pauses and stares at him like he’s trying to burn his expression deep into his memory.

“Did that hurt?”

Chan clenches his jaw a little harder. “Yeah.”

“Did you like it?”

The question seems to slit another thread off of whatever safety net awaits Chan at the bottom of this mind palace he set ablaze all on his own—if he doesn’t escape it now, if he doesn’t take this leap out the window, he’ll have to either crash or burn.

Chan whispers like he doesn’t want to hear his own voice. Like if his ears somehow don’t process what he says, maybe he won’t feel guilty for playing with fire.

“…Yeah.”

Jeongin’s fingers move a little deeper and Chan feels the flames lick at his guts and melt his insides. Maybe his body mistook them for a warm fireplace in this cold.

Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up here if he’d just fucking let the winter pass. If he’d let the rainwater fill the cracks in his mind and the icy air freeze them together.

Maybe what Jeongin killed in him could’ve bloomed again in the spring.

When Chan gets spun around and slammed face first into the wall, he hopes it’ll bruise. And when Jeongin’s nails scratch his hips pushing his shorts down, he hopes it’ll leave a mark.

Chan isn’t trapped anymore, really. Not physically. Jeongin isn’t pinning him down. He’s got plenty of room to slip away.

He doesn’t.

There’s unnerving gentleness in the way Jeongin tucks a rogue strand of hair behind Chan’s ear and plants a kiss on his shoulder, right before splitting him open on his cock.

Chan bites into his own hand to muffle his whimpers. Jeongin is quick to coax it away to offer his instead. He bottoms out right as Chan’s teeth sink in, much harder than he really needs to.

And with the shaky breath that hits Chan’s ear, with the way Jeongin tries to push in further like he wants Chan to feel him in his guts, comes the realization that even with the flesh being torn off his bones Jeongin would definitely still take it.

“Thank you,” Jeongin weakly manages through gritted teeth and Chan’s legs shake when he rolls his hips, still buried to the hilt. “Thank… you…. f-for letting me have this.”

Chan bites down harder. The stretch doesn’t even really hurt anymore. He just wants to tear him apart. He needs to know if Jeongin’s blood tastes as bittersweet as this feels.

Jeongin fucks him well. Like a desperate man. Like someone who knows exactly what Chan likes. Maybe he does—Chan wouldn’t even be surprised. He pushes into him hard and comes out slow, hurts him in all the right ways, breaks him like he needs to be broken.

He doesn’t stop, even as his hand bleeds into Chan’s mouth, even as their noises get loud enough to be heard by anyone who might have the misfortune of finding themselves in this deserted area at the wrong time.

An arm circles Chan’s waist, then a hand dives into his shorts to wrap tightly around his cock and it wrenches a pathetic sound out of both of them.

“You’re so big,” Jeongin whimpers, feeling him from head to base. “I bet you’d feel amazing inside me, too. Would you want that? Would you want to fuck me?”

No matter how badly Chan tries to shake the mental image Jeongin forces into his mind, it takes him a grand total of ten seconds of Jeongin jerking him off while fucking him before every muscle in his body tenses up. The filth Jeongin whispers into his skin gets lost in the ringing of his ears, but it’s not like he’s capable of registering a single word anyway.

The slide of Jeongin’s hand is suddenly easier. Chan only registers his own orgasm when Jeongin suddenly pulls out and sticks warm, wet fingers inside, fucking Chan’s own come into his hole before slowly sinking back in.

Chan doesn’t know what makes him want to die more: how fast he came, or how Jeongin hasn’t.

Maybe he should’ve done it like the porn. Maybe he should’ve turned Jeongin on to no end and expertly rolled his hips on his cock and moaned like a whore. Maybe it would’ve been over faster.

Chan should want it to be over. Chan wants it to be over. Chan wants… he wants…

“It’s okay,” Jeongin whispers, voice delicate as a rose, “it’s okay. You know it is.”

There’s no resistance from Chan when he slips his bloody hand out of his bite, though he jolts when said hand seems to smear something wet across his cheek. Chan reaches to touch and realizes it wasn’t a smear, but a wipe. Because there’s tears rolling down his cheeks and he doesn’t remember when they started.

Jeongin is still inside Chan when he cups his cheek and turns his face enough to kiss the corner of his lips.

“You know it’s okay, because you came back to me.”

Why?

“I ran away from you,” Chan hiccups, “I ran away.”

“Did you not want me to chase after you? Did you not ask me to fuck you?”

Why did he do that?

“You scare me.”

Pressing his nose to Chan’s dimple, Jeongin grins. “As long as I don’t bore you. Boredom kills you, Channie. It eats you alive. That’s why you came back. You’d rather be scared than bored, wouldn’t you?”

Chan presses his forehead to the wall. He wonders how hard he’d need to bash his head to lose consciousness. Wonders if Jeongin would fuck his limp body anyway or take him home and gently put him to bed.

“Do you have a smoke for me?”

Jeongin’s hair tickles Chan’s shoulder when he nods. He pulls out and Chan turns around to watch him search frantically for the pack in his pocket. A few seconds later there’s a cigarette between his lips and a flame burning the tip. Chan breathes. Wraps a hand around Jeongin’s cock. Revels in the way Jeongin’s eyes widen—like he doesn’t think he deserves it.

Because he doesn’t.

The lights of the alley flicker every now and then. The brief moments of pitch black darkness make the dim, weak glow seem so bright whenever they’re back on.

Jeongin’s arms snake around Chan’s waist to hold him close as he lets Chan jerk him off. His body’s so warm. It’s so cold out here.

“M’so close,” Jeongin stutters, as if the dissonant rattle of his chains as his entire body trembled wasn’t a good enough tell.

Overheating, Jeongin slides his jacket down his shoulders before burying his face in Chan’s neck again. Chan’s eyes pull towards the expanse of skin under the fishnet top. 

There’s a dark constellation all over Jeongin’s back that Chan briefly mistakes as freckles until the street lights flicker back on. Scars. Cigarette burn scars. Everywhere.

Distantly, still moving on autopilot with thick fog for a brain, Chan wonders what would happen if he added to it. Maybe Jeongin would snap. Maybe it would trigger something terrible and Jeongin would kill him.

Chan takes one last drag of his cigarette, then stubs it out on Jeongin’s back without warning. He watches flesh and ash melt into one and listens to Jeongin whimper with shivers running down his spine like he just heard the call of the angels.

Jeongin comes.

He doesn’t murder Chan. He holds his hips hard enough to bruise and lets out a stream of sobs that vaguely sound like a dozen variations of “thank you” said through tears and gritted teeth.

It’s a little funny, really, how Jeongin’s tenderness seems to shatter Chan as much as Chan’s cruelty seems to please Jeongin.

Abuse so soft it makes the response seem brutal. A monster so kind it loves to be hurt back.

Jeongin has a way of feeling like the rush of endorphins after a horrible wound.

It’s probably why Chan sleeps so well that night; why his brain is so quiet until he wakes up the next morning and spends an hour staring at his ceiling.

Chan doesn’t realize how bad he’s bleeding until he comes down from the high. Except he doesn’t know how to patch himself up or how to make it stop hurting.

He just goes searching for the high again.

***

Chan stops counting the bruises after the fourth time.

It’s always the same. Get to the club, find Jeongin, play a sick game of tag until Jeongin inevitably catches him and fucks him against whatever surface is closest.

Chan hasn’t been able to fuck anyone else. His own hand doesn’t even work anymore. Even with the hottest porn, even four fingers deep inside himself, even with his favorite vibrator—nothing. He can’t even get hard unless he thinks about Jeongin, but thinking about Jeongin drives him insane.

Staring at his reflection feels strange. Leaning on his bathroom sink, fresh water trickling down his face and neck, Chan realizes he’s lost weight. His cheeks are more hollow than he’s used to. Unsurprising, since he hasn’t been able to keep down many of his meals in the past two weeks.

He doesn’t really mind, though. He’s lighter on his feet. Faster. And Jeongin always says he likes his thighs. Maybe he’ll like them less. Maybe he’ll want him less, this time around.

Would it be painful if Jeongin wanted him less?

A buzzing sound comes from the bedroom. Chan takes careful steps in whatever holes he finds between the piles of dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor.

It’s fine. It’s no big deal. The laundry basket was full, so he just started leaving the clothes next to it. Then more of them next to those. Then a lot of them all over. He’ll get to it eventually.

Chan sighs when he sees Seungmin’s name on his phone screen. All of Chan’s other coworkers sort of gave up after trying him a couple times. He should’ve known Seungmin would be stubborn, even if Chan was already fired after the third day of missing work without notice.

Chan watches the call go to voicemail. Then, like clockwork, yet another text from Seungmin pops up on his screen. Chan ignores all of it and slides into bed.

Tonight, he’ll see him again.

They started planning their encounters after one time Chan showed up near the club and Jeongin wasn’t there. He had some plans with a friend, apparently. Chan acted like his blood didn’t boil at the idea that Jeongin didn’t live for him like Chan did. That this whole thing wasn’t as life-altering and all-consuming for him. The mere idea of Jeongin’s life revolving around anything else but Chan made it hard to breathe.

It’s how Chan got the bruises around his neck. A few days ago, Jeongin fucked him on the hood of a neighbor’s car and Chan asked to be choked so he’d have an excuse to suffocate.

Chan looks at the time displayed on his microwave. Four hours to kill. Four hours, and it’ll be time to go. Four hours, and he’s already in his gym clothes, sneakers neatly placed in front of the door.

He might be losing his mind.

***

Chan starts making it to his apartment building.

He still gets caught. The first time, he struggles with fishing his keys out of his running pack in time and Jeongin catches him before he manages to open the door. 

The next time, the carabiner attached to his hip makes Jeongin giggle. It allows him to open the door, but only for Jeongin to force his way into the building before he can close it. Chan gets fucked in a dark corner of the hall with Jeongin’s hand clamped over his mouth so the neighbors don’t get too alarmed. The whole ordeal really seems to turn Jeongin on to no end, since Chan feels his hips stutter quite a few times and he has to slow down so he doesn’t come first.

He always makes sure Chan gets off first. Always makes sure he earns the burn of the cigarette on his back at the end of their game.

There are moments where Chan wonders what got him here. Moments he finds himself staring at the burns, old and new, at the hospital bracelet he doesn’t seem to want to take off, at the way he always looks dead on the sidewalk near the club until Chan makes his presence known.

Somewhere along the way, Chan starts to feel bad for him. He doesn’t realize that the emotion is only this strong because it’s the only one he allows himself to wallow in. Empathy is so easy to feel compared to everything else.

“How old are you?”

Jeongin blinks at him. His eyes get comically wide and it’s understandable, considering the position they’re currently in: Chan on the floor right in front of his apartment door with his shirt pulled up and Jeongin straddling him, leaving marks on his tits while pushing his shorts down his hips. It’s not exactly the talking stage at this point.

“Twenty-four,” Jeongin still replies.

“Where do you live?”

Jeongin frowns. “I don’t really have my own place right now.”

“So, where do you sleep?”

“Here and there,” Jeongin dismisses. Then, when Chan’s stare hardens and he doesn’t budge to help Jeongin pull his shorts past his thighs, he clears his throat and speaks again, “I usually find someone who wants to fuck me at the club. Or I sneak into my brother’s place since I have a key, and leave before he wakes up. Or the good old park bench, if I have no choice.”

“A park? Why not homeless shelters?”

“Cause that’s the first place they’re gonna look.”

“Who?”

“The people who wanna put me back in a cold, white room.”

In the split second Chan takes to process the information, Jeongin slithers through the crack in his defenses. He nuzzles his jaw and nudges his head out of the way, clearing access to his neck so he can kiss it just the way Chan likes. Hot breath rolling down the side, a soft bite to his trap, then a sprinkle of wet kisses all the way up to his ear, and he grabs Chan’s cock through his shorts just in time to feel it twitch.

They’ve done this enough times that Chan’s pretty sure Jeongin’s got his body mapped out in his brain by now.

“Why do you need to be locked up?” Chan still finds it in him to ask.

Jeongin shrugs. “I dunno. They don’t like the way I love, I think. Or the way I’ve been loved.”

A gulp. A glance at Jeongin’s back. He’s still got his shirt on, but there’s a few red blotches seeping through the white fabric everywhere Chan remembers melting ash into skin.

In a delirious haze, just as Jeongin starts to lick at his lips, Chan asks, “Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

Not a split second wasted on doubt. Not a moment’s hesitation. Not a single minute to question how he can hurt what he loves—but Chan doesn’t really know how to question it either.

He thinks about all the girl crushes whose hair he pulled in kindergarten and all the pretty boys he bullied in middle school and wonders if Jeongin’s simply never let his heart grow up. If he’s never unlearned the violent ways of affection and stayed as innocently rough as a little boy flushing his goldfish down the toilet so it can ‘get back to the ocean.’

Not one second does Chan stop to remember that he’s not a goldfish. Or that Jeongin didn’t just pull his hair or call him names. Or that Jeongin isn’t a fucking child.

But it’s easier to feel good when he pretends the hands on his body look human.

“Take me to bed,” Chan whispers into Jeongin’s dark hair, pressing his bulge harder against his palm.

Thirty seconds later, Chan’s getting thrown on his bed like he weighs nothing while Jeongin climbs on top of him.

Jeongin knows where he lives now.

He knows his neighborhood. His street. His building. His floor. His apartment number. His address. He knows Chan’s room is a fucking filthy mess and that everything has taken a toll on him. He could come back. Stalk him at the window. Find him when he walks out.

What was Chan thinking, guiding him here?

What the fuck was Chan thinking going back to him at all?

“Can I ride you?” Jeongin asks, swiftly pulling his shirt off. It’s the first time Chan has a full view of his naked torso.

No burns. No scars. Nothing. It’s eerily clean compared to his butchered back. It doesn’t feel right. And that thought feels even less right.

“Yeah.”

Why?

Standing up to get rid of his pants, Jeongin marks a pause before tossing them aside and fishes the cigarette pack out of it first. He carefully places it near Chan’s arm, but it doesn’t last. Chan is quick to take a cigarette out and light up before Jeongin even has time to get started.

Chan finishes the first one by the time Jeongin’s done prepping himself, and he crushes it on an already shaky thigh. His mouth waters at the way Jeongin weeps while his cock leaks precum all over, Chan’s abs growing wetter with every passing second.

The tears that inevitably rise in Jeongin’s eyes make Chan’s dick chub up into a throbbing erection in record time. He’s so hard that it almost hurts and it makes him wonder if cruelty spreads like a disease or if he always had it in him.

He wonders if this is just a sex thing, if he’s just your average sadist or if he’d tear Jeongin’s flesh apart and string him up by the guts if given the opportunity.

And yet the craziest thought that flashes across Chan’s mind just as Jeongin sinks down on his cock is when he starts wondering if he loves Jeongin back.

It’s also somehow what makes him the most violent.

Jeongin doesn’t get a moment’s rest. Chan holds his waist tight and fucks him at a beastly pace until Jeongin’s limbs give out and he’s essentially a ragdoll on top. Whimpers upon whimpers, Jeongin just takes it and it almost feels surreal to have so much control over him while he just lets it happen.

Chan has never felt like he had any control over any of this. Even when Jeongin let him go the first time.

“I’m gonna c-come,” Jeongin cries out and it’s Chan’s cue to slam him down on the bed… and slow down. Jeongin hisses at the pain of his abused back hitting the mattress, then whines at the sudden change of pace. “Hah… ah—don’t…”

“Don’t what?” Chan spits, and when Jeongin’s fingertips brush against his ribs, Chan grabs both wrists to pin them above his head. “Don’t what?”

Out of breath, visibly disturbed, Jeongin blinks away his tears and stares as Chan’s movements come to a halt. He’s flushed and pretty, his skin glistens everywhere the curves of his muscles meet the faint moonlight. Rage bubbles and boils inside Chan’s gut like a whistling pot, like foam is about to burst out of him if the fire doesn’t mellow out.

“Don’t what?” Chan squeezes Jeongin’s wrists until it hurts. “Since when do we fucking tell each other what to do, huh? Since when do you fucking care? Why should I give a fuck what you want?”

The silence is thick, save for the sound of sweat dripping on Jeongin’s chest. His dark, glimmering eyes travel back and forth between Chan’s own like he sees something in them.

“Why did you come back to me, Channie?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Chan yells, and the crack in his voice at the last word seems to shatter everything else. Long, comforting fingers find the soft curls at his nape as he buries his face in Jeongin’s neck and sobs. “I don’t fucking know, I don’t know, I don’t know…”

Chan loses himself in the warmth of Jeongin’s hold. His hips start moving again but the tears don’t stop. Jeongin holds him tight through it all, gently shushing him when he hiccups, kissing his temple over and over like he expects his lips to heal the wounds his hands have caused.

What little control Chan had left gets washed away with the sounds Jeongin starts to make, eyes squeezed shut and nose pressed into Chan’s cheek. Staccato moans permeate the air, higher with every thrust, and it all soon becomes a game of how loud he can make him scream.

Chan remembers the burn on Jeongin’s thigh and presses his thumb on it. The sudden clench of Jeongin’s hole almost makes it hard to keep fucking him, but Chan forces his way back in, eager to take, eager to hurt, eager to ruin, ruin, ruin.

“T-Thank you,” Jeongin whines, “thank you, thank you— ah, thank… you…”

It feels like trying to destroy something that’s already broken. A bulldozer on ruins, a car crash in a junkyard, a gunshot to a corpse.

It’s strange, because Chan didn’t stop breaking after the first time. He was nicked, then cracked, then shattered, and maybe once Jeongin has crushed him into fine powder he’ll sprinkle him all over the neighborhood so there’s a billion pieces of him scattered around here forever. Make sure he never leaves this neighborhood. Never leaves that fucking alley.

By the time he snaps back to reality, Chan is sitting up, ass on his heels, completely out of breath.

Jeongin’s skin is bright pink and he’s drowning in his own sweat, bedsheets dark and wet all around him, an arm thrown over his face as he pants and shakes while cum oozes onto his stomach.

His chest is full of red circles. It takes Chan a second to realize the black dots all around them are ashes, then another second to acknowledge the cigarette butts haphazardly thrown around the mattress, some of them lost in the dirty clothes on the floor.

Chan’s cock is still buried inside him and they both hiss from sensitivity when he pulls it out, loads and loads of cum spilling out of Jeongin’s stretched out hole.

How long has he been in his head?

There’s irony, somewhere, in the panic that rises in Chan’s chest because he doesn’t remember what he did.

He can’t help but ask, “Are you okay?”

Jeongin weakly nods. His hand finds Chan’s, intertwines their fingers and offers him a reassuring squeeze. Chan squeezes back.

He cleans Jeongin up. Gives him a glass of water. Treats his wounds. Offers him a change of clothes, and feels a pang of guilt in his heart when the white fabric of his shirt sticks against the burns on Jeongin’s skin and darkens.

“I wanted it, Channie.”

Chan’s eyes travel up to Jeongin’s face. He’s got dimples, too, when he smiles. He’s got the type of beauty that feels unfair for him to have alongside all the ugly parts. The type of beauty that is so obviously a trap—like vivid colors on deadly animals.

“Why?” Chan asks and it earns him a pout and a shrug.

“I don’t know. A reward, maybe? For you and me? I like to watch you smoke. I like when you hurt me. And you ran well today. Almost made it. So I felt like you deserved to get your way.”

Get your way.

Chan barely remembers anything about getting his way. He chooses to withhold that information, though.

“The older scars on your back,” Chan begins and doesn’t miss the way Jeongin stiffens up. “Are they from someone else you… played this game with?”

Jeongin smirks. “Are you jealous?”

There’s a split second of doubt. An ugly, ugly thought blooms in Chan’s brain that he’d rather die than think about Jeongin’s poison flowing in anyone else’s veins.

“No,” is the reply Chan decides on.

He doesn’t get an answer to his question. Jeongin just gets up from the bed and stands in front of Chan, towering over him. He reaches for his face and gently takes it between his large hands.

A kiss to Chan’s lips. Another to his nose. Another to his forehead.

It makes Chan nauseous that it helps him relax. That he finds comfort in the same man that hurt him.

“I love you, Channie,” he whispers, and it tears Chan apart that he almost wants to say it back. “Good night. See you Friday.”

There’s demons nibbling on the crumbs of Chan’s sanity when he comes to terms with the fact he doesn’t want Jeongin to leave.

Not tonight.

“Hey, wait,” he calls, and Jeongin pauses just as his hand touches the door handle. He turns to look at Chan. “Can… you…?”

A smile. A shake of his head. The door creaking open. Footsteps. Silence.

Heavy, dreadful, unforgiving silence.

***

The slam of the door echoes through the entire hallway.

Chan heaves, heart thundering against his ribcage hard enough to hurt as he lets himself slide down until his ass hits the floor. Every blood cell in his veins feels like it’s racing to make it to his organs first.

He’s inside. He’s inside his apartment, the door is closed, and Jeongin hasn’t caught him.

He fucking won.

A knock on his door. Chan glues his ear to it and desperately tries to pace his breathing so he can hear.

“Good job, Channie.”

There’s a rustle against the wood that Chan guesses to be the friction of Jeongin’s clothes as he mirrors Chan and takes a seat on the opposite side. Chan expects him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t. He just waits.

It looks like Chan gets to pick his reward, this time around.

His first instinct is to reach for the door handle. He stops just short of it. Reaches for his phone instead.

The first number he dials makes a loud sound and he jumps out of his skin, rushing to put his phone on silent. He listens intently. No movement on the other side.

Two more numbers. Call.

Chan barely registers the voice that comes through at first. It’s only when they ask him the same question a second time that he manages to answer.

“I think… I think I have information about someone you might be looking for.”

There’s a soft sigh from the other side of the door. Chan expects to hear him leave. He focuses on it so much that he doesn’t realize the operator has asked him three more questions.

Why isn’t he running away?

“It’s okay,” his voice filters through the door, still soft, still warm. Chan could swear he can hear the smile on his lips. “I like when you hurt me, remember?”

The officer grows impatient. “Hello? Are you still there, sir?”

“Yeah,” Chan barely chokes out, swallowing back his tears. He doesn’t remember any of the questions. “Sorry, just… his name is Jeongin. Twenty-four, I think. I believe he escaped from a hospital. He’s in front of my apartment, third floor, and—”

I think he needs help, Chan almost says, but the officer cuts him off. 

“Please remain in your apartment. Lock yourself in a secure room, if you can. We have traced your location and will be there shortly. Do not open the door no matter what he says.”

Time passes in slow motion as Chan runs that last sentence through his head like a broken record. But Jeongin doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, and Chan hallucinates his warmth seeping through the door and engulfing him.

Why the hell won’t he run away? Why is he just letting it happen?

Why won’t he fight back?

Run. Don’t run. Run.

When he hears a sharp, distant melody down the street, Chan cradles his knees to his chest. He wants to die. He wants to fucking die.

He wants these police sirens to stop. 

He wants to live in denial and let Jeongin enchant him, own him, twist the narrative into something beautiful until Chan forgets that he’s hurting. He doesn’t want the truth. He wants to drown at his feet.
 

It seems sirens are deadlier out of water.