Work Text:
Being an upcoming artist without enough patrons just yet had brought Chan to places he wouldn’t go with a gun. His natural predisposition to help had made him dig his own grave deeper than any oil company had dug before.
The combination of both natures came together on a Thursday afternoon.
It was winter, and so, even when it was merely 5 p.m., it was already dark as hell. Chan had only wanted to go get himself some instant noodles, if he was lucky, some protein or at least a banana, too.
Instead, he found a red envelope on the floor, right next to the convenience store, that would change his life.
He knew. Okay? He wasn’t stupid. He knew he should never take a red envelope from the floor. That it was bad luck, if not something worse. He had heard the stories about them. But maybe someone close by had just lost it, right? He would just pick it up and give it to the shopkeeper in case anyone came asking for it.
So he picked it up. No one jumped him, demanding anything in exchange for the red envelope. He looked around, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did, or at least not while he was on that street.
A strong thunder broke the fake silence of the city and Chan jumped in place, holding the envelope to his heart, just to laugh right after. What an idiot, he had seen or heard somewhere that there would be a thunderstorm that afternoon. It was nothing more than that. Yeah.
Not like a curse.
Or a ghost wedding.
Like the ones he had read about on one of his internet detours that ended in a spiral of web surfing for hours and hours until he became sort of an expert in the matter.
Ha, ha.
Just a thunderstorm.
So he pushed himself against the convenience store storefront, and he didn’t even jump when the man there, eating his own cheap noodles, knocked against the window so he didn’t have Chan’s ass plastered right in front of him as he ate. Chan moved slightly to the side, and, after looking to both sides again, he opened the envelope.
Just in case!
Just in case someone had found it before him, he didn’t want to give an empty envelope to the cashier just for them to look at Chan with a raised eyebrow and then a fake smile, ‘yes, yes, of course you didn’t take the money inside, haha’, he could already hear it.
So he opened the envelope.
“Shit!”
That was a lot of money. That was enough money to… get more than some instant noodles. That was enough money to get himself proper equipment for his music. That was more than he made in a month working, scratch that, more than two months, more than-
A small folded paper flew down to the floor. Chan was quick to bend to get it and, as he crouched, his pants ripped and it started to pour.
Oh. The curse.
He picked up the paper and ran back home, not daring to unfold the paper or look back. What if the ghost was behind him? What if he stopped and a car ran him over? What if…
He ran the fourteen flights of stairs up to his apartment, number forty-four.
Once inside, resting his butt against the door and holding himself on his knees, he took a few deep breaths. He looked around; everything seemed normal, but he still thought about calling Changbin and asking him to come over for the night, just in case.
He put the red envelope on the counter and lightning illuminated his house completely.
“Fuck!”
He could swear there was a face on the mirror next to the entry. A man. Young. Scary. He didn’t dare look again. Scrunching his eyes and clenching his teeth as he scampered to the living room, clutching his fist.
He wasn’t scared. He just wasn’t-
“Fuck!”
Another stroke of lightning.
He sat on the couch and considered closing the curtains, but not seeing the lightning before the thunder would be even scarier, so he didn’t move. Instead, he got up, took off his clothes and put them away; then, he went to the bathroom to take a shower, blasting music so he wouldn’t hear anything.
He didn’t look at the foggy mirror once he was out of the shower. He didn’t take more than five minutes to dry himself and leave the bathroom. He hated himself a little for needing to go through all his routine before he could leave the bathroom. That included cleaning the mirror.
He almost yelled out in surprise, seeing a face there, until he realised it was his own. Not being used to his new silvery hair didn’t mean there was a fucking ghost. He had to calm down, that other thing next to him was his fucking bathrobe, he reminded himself, ungripping the sink.
Wait. No, he was wearing the bathrobe. He turned to see that, indeed, nothing was hanging behind him. When he looked back at the mirror, there was nothing there either. He took a deep breath, but when he left the bathroom, he didn’t turn off the lights, just in case.
He sat on the couch; right in front of him, right where he had left it, was the piece of folded paper he had found inside the envelope. It had been made to look very small, like the person putting together the red envelope wanted to make sure the money was found before the paper. So Chan was sure that the square of paper, folded at least six times, wasn’t great news.
God, what if it had been a mafia that had put the envelope on the floor? Since when was he so stupid? All the sodium on those instant noodles and cheap protein on his pre-workouts had really gone to his brain, and he should sleep more, too.
Yeah, he should go to sleep and not open the paper and, maybe, move to a different city (or country) soon.
A thunder made him jump out of the couch as he cursed. He sat back down and took the paper by the corner, like it could catch on fire at any point.
He slowly unfolded it. Wasn’t it getting a little cold in the apartment? He went up to turn the heat on, but the control was at the other side of the entrance mirror. It wasn’t really that cold. He sat back down again.
“Stop being stupid, Chan,” he muttered to himself and opened the paper. It read:
“If you’re reading this-”
Fuck. Chan took in a deep breath, really thinking about not reading the note at all. But maybe it said something like ‘If you’re reading this, please return the envelope to X’, and that would be great. Great and marvellous, and not cursed at all.
“-It means you’re the one my son chooses-”
Oh fuck.
“-I hope the money is enough for you to consider his last wish before-”
Fuck, no!
“-passing away-”
Chan clenched his eyes closed, scrunching his nose and pinching its bridge. He tried to take a deep breath, but at the same time, a thunder made him yelp, throwing his hands up in protest, as if the sky would care for his desperation.
“-He had always wanted to marry, but he didn’t have enough time. And we are sure we are at fault somehow. So that’s why we are helping him-” Chan kept reading, hoping there would be a ‘PD: this is all a joke’, hidding somewhere in the letter. “-We don’t have a lot, but we would take you as part of the family, and we can offer our son’s house for you to live in, on top of the money. We would like to have a proper ceremony with you and him. I hope you will contact us.”
A phone number, an email, an address, even what Chan guessed were a couple of social media nicks.
That woman had put down every possible way to contact her.
“PD: His name is Minho.”
Chan folded the paper neatly again. He would send the envelope to the address the next morning. He couldn’t keep the money of a poor woman who was obviously mourning his son. He wasn’t going to do something like that, even if he really needed the money.
Another flash of lighting was enough to make Chan bolt to the bedroom, this time closing the curtains before getting into bed, naked as always, but completely buried under the covers. It was cold as hell, but he still couldn’t bring himself to cross the entry mirror. He had a good duvet; it wouldn’t be that bad.
He just had to stop looking at the mirror right in front of the bed and go to sleep. Had his house really always had so many mirrors? He should definitely get rid of some of them.
He sighed and turned to the side. The next day would be a better one. He would call in sick and give the envelope back first thing in the morning. He would even go there in person if it wasn’t too far away, as a means to make sure it would be delivered back; and after that, it all would be a weird, yet funny, story to tell Changbin and Jisung.
After taking what could have been hours to fall asleep (way too cold, way too worried about the faces in the mirror, the thunderstorm way too loud), a flash woke him up.
He tried to scream, but his voice didn’t come out.
Why were the curtains open? He thought, moving his head to look at them, he must have forgotten to close them.
He thought about standing and closing them, but he felt something. Something wet on his neck, like water.
No, like slime.
He realised then, as he tried to move, that his body wasn’t reacting to his orders. He was still looking up and not at the curtains, and not even his little fingers would move when he tried to make them.
And that wasn’t all, at some point during the night, he must have thrown the duvet off himself to the floor, because he was bare on the bed, and the cold that hadn’t let him fall asleep was gone; in fact, he felt way too warm.
As he tried to move once again, he was distracted.
The wetness.
It felt like it had moved, sliding through his neck, a sort of cold gelatine.
Maybe a bug. He grunted, trying to move his hand to slap it away to no avail. The jelly kept moving, up and down the same spot, like a small dog licking his neck. He could feel a soft pressure, bigger than that of a normal bug; it didn’t tickle, it felt like…
What if it was a giant slug?
He started to breathe more quickly, and for a moment the motion stopped. He trembled at the mere sensation it left behind; he could still feel the stickiness on his neck, like the bug had left a residue behind, even when the pressure wasn’t there anymore.
He felt his own arm tensing, shaking because of the strength he was using trying to move it, but it felt like all his nerves had lost their connections, leaving only the ones in charge of the sensations. Like the warmth. Why was the room so hot? He felt like he was sweating.
Then, he felt a soft caress on his cheek as if another bug was using his face as an avenue to stride along or something was trying to console him.
He took in a deep breath and the movement on both his cheek and neck came again. He also started to feel a weight on top of himself, pressing his chest, as if it was making sure he wouldn’t run, even when Chan couldn’t even move.
He started to cry. His own tears were a stark contrast against the cold touches and comforting in some way because he knew they were coming from his own human eyes and not the bugs crawling over his body.
Or worse.
He tried to raise his head and look at the mirror, but there was no way for him to do so and the room was way too dark for him to see anything, even if he could look at the mirror.
The feeling on his neck and the soft patting on his cheek continued and Chan drowned in the feeling, in the wetness, the viscous wetness, like someone was trying to caress him with a way too unctuous lotion.
It moved to the centre of his neck, and Chan yelped as his head was pushed back so he was looking at the ceiling. He screamed without moving his mouth. For help, for it to stop. For it to become something visible, something physical he could touch and, at least, know.
He felt suction on his neck.
The end.
Whatever it was was going to kill him. Maybe he was having an anaphylactic reaction. He had never had one before. Maybe that was how it felt, hot and cold, viscous, somehow a little arousing, dangerous, as it tried to suck the air directly out from his throat.
The suction stopped, and Chan felt like he could talk again, at least like he could scream, but instead of screaming, he whined, and the soft pressure on his cheek moved up to his head, carding through his hair as he felt the viscousness slip down his neck to his chest. He whined again.
His veins were throbbing down his neck and arms, and he could feel it, feel his extremities perfectly. He should, by all means, be capable of moving, of jumping out of the bed and running to the bathroom to hide or clean himself or whatever, but he couldn’t.
And each time he thought about making the scape, the pressure on his chest grew bigger, pinning him to the bed as the viscous liquid kept dripping down his body, like a barely controlled stream trying to get to a point on his body and falling all over it instead.
He felt the coldness over one of his nipples, and the soothing motion in his hair pulled his head back, making him open his mouth in a perfect circle as he moaned. The coldness over his nipple felt so good, so much better than the heat that was running through his veins. He must have forgotten that he had indeed turned the air conditioning on, maybe it was broken, because it felt like a sauna, his sweat was mixing with the strange substance.
And then, like he had on his neck, he felt the suctioning over his nipple, just for a second before it felt like a tongue was lapping at him. A tongue. He tried to look down, and all he could see were his perky buds. The one that felt like it was being licked was glistening, coated in some substance, the same that was tracing a path from one nipple to the other right in front of Chan’s eyes.
He realised he had been able to raise his head at the same time he felt the coldness over his other nipple.
He moaned. It felt way too good, even when he was scared senseless, maybe because of it. Because he was so scared that he couldn’t let his mind wander to that unfinished job, the unpaid rent, or if he had offended someone important with his unruly passion.
Maybe it felt so good not only because of the contrast of temperature, but because it was all-consuming. The fear was forcefully anchoring him to the moment, making him moan and gasp, and feel like those were his last instants as all his blood rushed to his cock and the substance kept pressing and playing with his nipples.
The pressure in his hair roots disappeared, and he felt a pinch on his wet nipple, then over both of them as a licked strip slowly appeared down his sternum, heading for his hard and leaking cock. Chan took in a deep breath and, as the substance stopped to suck around his navel, Chan felt his cock twitching at the idea of the substance around it.
The tacky, translucent, cold substance that left behind a sticky residue and was surely something out of a nightmare.
Chan wanted to fuck into it. Wanted to know how it would feel to pierce it, to break the surface like he liked to do with his finger on a gelatin that had been uncovered on the fridge for a little too long, just the right consistency to make him squirm in disgust and still want to eat it.
Maybe he was going mad.
When the substance finally did lick around the base of Chan’s cock, he closed his eyes and let out a throaty moan, feeling his back arch off the bed as the cold sensation crawled up his dick and down again in long stripes.
A pressure around his base, a little too strong, was the only thing stopping him from cumming as the substance moved faster, kitty licking at the tip and alongside his slit each time it reached the head before going back down one side.
The cold felt a little too much there, making Chan groan and shake, but he could only arch his back up in desperation as the coldness made his cock head redder, making him cry. And each time the substance moved down again, licking at his undervein, his own hot precum would mix with the residue the substance left behind.
Chan yelped as his legs were pushed apart, and his cock was left alone for only a moment as the cold fluid dripped down his balls and to his perineum. His hips were pushed up, something gripping his ass cheeks and marking them as the coldness over his rim made him grind his teeth and take handfuls of the sheet under him.
He had never felt that desperate before. He needed to come. He needed to feel his own cum dripping down his cold cock. But the substance seemed to have calmed down, jerking him off lazily, with not nearly enough pressure to bring him to a climax.
Chan tried to move his hand then, trying to reach for his own cock, but he felt his wrist anchored to the bed the moment he tried to move, and the presence- not a presence, the substance, it breached his rim, pushing inside just a tip, biscous, wet enough and tiny enough just to make him feel the pressure inside, the coldness, but not to hurt.
He moaned again, completely gone. His voice became condensed in the air as he felt the substance retract and lick around his muscle just to push inside once again.
It did it again and again, pushing Chan’s legs apart each time he tried to close them when it felt like too much and stroking him to keep him on the verge of coming but never letting him.
From time to time, as he clung to the sheets, he would feel a slap to the ass, a pinch around his cockhead, something bigger prodding at his rim, a tweak on his nipple, a suffocating pressure on his neck, the coldness hovering over his lips.
And then, finally, the presence, or his mind, or whatever was playing with him, let him cum. Pressing against his prostate and engulfing his dick in its syrupy being. Making Chan moan and cum.
He came and came, all over himself, shooting over his stomach, down his thighs, arching off the bed, rolling his eyes back and moaning louder than ever.
But the presence didn’t go away, and the substance didn’t retreat from his body. Sucking softly on his thighs as Chan shuddered, trying to stop the unpleasant overstimulation. When he opened his eyes, panting and biting his lips, he saw his cock hadn’t completely gone soft, and the pressure around its base tightened.
There was still something over him, something between his legs, playing with him, toying with his body and his sanity, and after the orgasm Chan should have recovered the latter at least.
But the presence was there, the gelid, glue-like liquid was still dripping from between his thighs, sliding all over his body.
He tried to push his head up again, finally being able to do so and seeing the mirror before he could even look down over his own body.
A lighting illuminated the room, and Chan was capable of seeing something in the mirror he should have never bought in the first place, the reflection of a man, his naked back and dark hair, one hand on Chan’s thigh, keeping his legs open, his head pushed against the other as he sucked a mark.
‘PD: His name is Minho.’
Chan screamed and the ghost was startled, raising his head. It would have been funny if his life were a comedy and not a horror film. The light was gone as fast as it had come. Chan couldn’t close his mouth; he couldn’t stop screaming until he was physically silenced, something cold stuffing his mouth. He felt hollow and full at the same time, choking on air that felt like he had taken a mouthful of seawater.
And then, close to his ear, a whisper that made him shiver and his ears ring.
“It’s okay, love.”
And whatever was holding his mouth open and full slid down his chin, leaving the same goo behind, the same he could taste on his mouth if only he could concentrate on the taste, just to be replaced by something smaller, playing with his tongue like a cat with a dumb, paralysed by fear, mouse. He felt his own tongue moving around, swirling around the unnatural coldness in his mouth like it would with an icecube.
Then he felt the suction, like the one at his neck, like the one around his cock, and finally, a short of cat-like lick over his lower lip, leaving the taste behind as his legs were pushed open again and there was pressure against his cock again, licking a strip up.
Because that was what was going on, right? A ghost was… a ghost was blowing him. A ghost was…
He felt a tingle around his balls, then a push on his hips, making him move forward, and a sharp pain against one of his cheeks, like he had been bitten. A giggle.
Another lighting and Chan could see the man on his knees, lighting Chan’s hips up as he buried his face between Chan’s cheeks. He was gone again with the light. Chan yelped again when he felt the wetness around his rim, prodding at him as a cold hand started to jerk him off.
Another bite, softer; a slap; the pressure of something blunt but bigger than a finger against his wet and stretched rim. He whined, grunted, and tried to move again.
The pressure disappeared, never really breaching him; instead, he felt his hips getting pinned to the mattress again, and then it sank on him. The coldness, the wetness, the substance, the presence, Minho.
He sank on him.
The sudden pleasure of being buried inside something, someone, took his breath again, making him groan as Minho’s walls throbbed around him, making Chan grunt.
“Be good for me, my husband,” the voice whispered; it sounded like it was right next to his ear and all over the room at the same time.
Chan whined again. He tried to move his hands, grip at the thighs around him, but he could do neither but touch air, and so he gripped the sheets again and moaned and licked his lips as the ghost fucked himself on his cock.
And Minho was taking him so well, better than anyone before had been able to, taking his whole length and girth from the start, sinking all the way down, making his thighs glisten with the slick substance he left behind, moving up until Chan could feel the heat around his cock again, just to sink again.
And then he felt Minho’s hands on his chest, tiny icy things that twisted his nipples as he played with his neck, sucking and biting, stronger than before, as tiny moans filled the room in a way that made them sound like a TV was on in another room.
The lights flickered and Chan could see him again, and his hands flew to his thighs, grabbing them in what felt like a tiny miracle as Minho groaned against his neck, rolling his eyes back and coming all over Chan’s stomach before the lights and his image were off again.
Chan was left panting, his hands gripping nothing again. But soon, he felt Minho’s hands on his wrist, pulling his arms up and securing them over his head as he licked at his chest and then up one arm, making him shiver and tingle when he pressed against his armpit, something no one had done to him before; but it was difficult to even think about it when Minho was moving his hips in perfect circles, his whines desperate, probably overstimulated, if a ghost could be.
Chan tried to get his hands free, moaning each time Minho lifted all the way up to drop again, but it was impossible to overpower the ghost, however, when he thrusted up, desperately trying to chase his own orgasm, he could do so, hearing a distant moan right next to his ear as Minho’s cold breath dripped over the hot skin under.
The pressure over his chest and wrist disappeared and, as he grabbed the sheets again, he did it again and again, thrusting up into air that felt like a body and biting his lips as groans kept filling the room next to the hollow moans from Minho.
And for a moment, as he felt his eyes rolling back, his breath hitching and his heart stopping, he could swear that, even in darkness, he could see the ghost. A pretty boy with his hands behind his arched back as he rolled his hips in perfect, calculated movement,s even when it was making his semi-hard cock twitch, his bunny teeth showing as he gasped again and again, almost panting, sweat dripping down his forehead from his short, messy black hair.
For a second, just one, Minho and he made eye contact.
And as he looked into his eyes, which looked livelier than his own had ever looked, and heard his own name like a voice from atop a mountain, he came all over himself and deep inside Minho too.
As he started to breathe again, he felt like he could move, but before he was able to do so, his eyes felt closed like a metal shutter in an out-of-business shop.
He woke up the next morning way after the sun rose, in full panic and sweating, but as he looked around, nothing seemed out of order; the window was closed and the curtains pulled, the duvet over him, the room cold as it would be any morning in winter when he forgot to turn on the air conditioning.
He took a deep breath. A weird nightmare or weirder wet dream, something he would try not to think about. But then, as he let out that breath, he felt it.
The presence next to him.