Work Text:
20XX
It's been a year since borders were put up, caving around the remains. In tattered clothes and dry tongues, mothers hold tightly to their children as they step into a new era. The world was no longer in underground confinement. The air, however, is still rough and suffocating like a reminder not everything was fully settled yet.
The real change was rooted four years ago when the virus began to evolve; even if one was not infected or bitten, presenting and biological cycles were no longer relevant, and bonds naturally withered.
A group of scientists located at the South Laboratory studied reptile mates, and concluded if the reptile had survived the infection, their cycle symptoms may still persist. It was strongly believed that humans adapted the exact same way, but of course, this was only a theory – human subjects were prohibited due to highly unethical procedures.
So, in a sliver of hope, where worry subsides and laughter bubbles, people began to believe they are going to be just fine. Groups now, slowly move out of camps and bunkers into high and guarded buildings. With half of mankind infected, lives were left in the hands of the military.
In the past, as they are now, things remain stringent. This was warfare. Any objections couldn't be afforded – male and female, regardless of their secondary gender, were immediately drafted at the age of 21.
Over the years of bloodbaths and fearful adrenaline, knives were placed into the hands of young adults at the sight of the newly infectants.
Soon after, when a radio announcement declared that a certain area was clear, movements roamed and a resolution was made. With safety hazards in check, the world relaxed like an ounce of humanity had been restored. Despite everything, fatigue began to catch up with active bodies, and the immune system began to take a toll. It is then when it becomes acceptable when people begin to take the gun off their backs. On the other hand, some are still stuck in the battlefield with the inability to come back.
Humin was one of those people.
“Are you sure you wanna go back to base?” Hyuntak asks. When he places a box of belongings on the cheap bed anchored to the wall, an awkward creak causes him to lift the box once again. He scans the space and decides to keep it in his hands instead.
Nowadays, no one really expects anything fancy; this one-person bedroom was smaller than a single bathroom, and to top it off, it didn’t even come with one. How great.
“Why? Gonna miss me?” Humin jokes as he leans on the metal door frame.
“Piss off,” Hyuntak groans. “If the team still needs an extra hand, I’ll come.”
“We’re all good, Gogo. Don’t have to worry about me.”
“Me? Ha! I’m not worried about you,” Hyuntak scoffs defensively and rolls his eyes. “I mean, look at you now.” He flicks the new tag patch on Humin’s uniform. “I thought you’d end up in a fucking shithole or something.”
“If I did, I would've dragged you down with me,” Humin chuckles.
Hyuntak parts his mouth, but the words crept right back down his throat. As always, he could see right through his facade.
Humin sighs before he continues, “I’ll come back. You know it. I can’t leave Sieun and Suho waiting right? Juntae too… When are they moving to Station 9 anyway? I’ll probably be back before then, so go on and wipe that look off your face.”
“Baku, if you’re going back–if–if you’re doing this because of–”
“I’m not.” The words slide out a little too quickly. Stern lines carving his face. “It’s not like that.”
Hyuntak studies him bit by bit and decides not to push. “Okay.”
A gale hits the back of Humin’s shirt and flaps at his skin before the gush runs behind and blows into Hyuntak. Humin springs his shoulder off the side when he hears the slicing in the air and takes a quick look behind him. He squints and takes a glance back at Hyuntak, who had his face all scrunched up.
“Helicopter’s here, gotta go,” Humin says. He gives a heavy pat on his shoulder and a shaky smile. "Take care, alright?”
Hyuntak takes a few minutes before he glances back at Humin and nods. “Bring back some good shit too, you dumb fucker.”
Humin nods before he turns around and walks off. The helicopter door slides open, and some old teammates popped their heads to give a great wave at Hyuntak, in return, he throws a hand up.
When Humin climbs on the helicopter, Hyuntak yells a ‘hey’ at him, loud enough to get his attention.
“Don’t overdo it.”
When the door closes, Hyuntak could see Humin saluting him from the window. He snorts.
“Dumb fucker,” he mumbles again.
Hyuntak walks back to his room, or this so-called ‘house’. He drops the box on the bed again, and as soon as he does, like he should've known, the bed collapses.
He isn’t sure if he's even surprised; he stares at the mess scattered on the floor as objects roll out of the box: a whistle, some crumbled tissue paper, the fork from the cafeteria… and a note.
Hyuntak slips the note in his hands, and the corner of his mouth tilts upwards ever so slightly and he hates himself for it. It’s been years, and he still hates himself for it.
He huffs and turns around. Out the door to the parallel side where the exterior stairs are, he sprints, holding loosely on the rickety handle bar, and every step up echoes like a drum until he reaches the 5th floor. He hums the numbers ‘524’ in his mind and examines every sign.
When he gets there, he takes an unsettling breath. Hyuntak was so fucking nervous, and that concept itself is hilarious to him. He thought about this scenario enough times to know what he is bound to ask: Why did you leave me back there? or Why didn’t you find me sooner? or
Why now?
His hands clench and flex a few times. And before he can bring himself to knock, the door swings open.
“You breathe so fucking loud,” Seongje says. He looks the same as the last time Hyuntak saw him – smiling wide on that bloody fucking field. “I’m surprised you aren’t dead yet.”
The longer Hyuntak stares at him, all he planned to say slowly tucked back into a place where things would never leave.
Hyuntak furrows his eyebrows and pushes through Seongje instead.
He makes his way over to Seongje’s still-intact bed and scoots over to the side nearest to the wall. He brings the paper-thin duvet over him like it could keep him warm.
A few minutes pass, and Hyuntak doesn’t close his eyes. The note remains crumbled in his fist and he fiddles with it.
He peers over behind him to see Seongje still standing in the same place, staring back right at him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hyuntak asks. “Get in.”
Seongje’s lips twist into a smirk, and Hyuntak wants to punch it off him. He turns to the wall again, and as soon as Seongje comes closer, Hyuntak feels his body dip lower into the mattress.
It was strange. No scent lingers within the space between them. War had really gotten to their bodies, huh?
Hyuntak takes the courage to close his eyes as he traces back to three years ago:
“Go,” Humin huffs painfully.
A drop of sweat rolls down Sieun’s face as he puts pressure on his stomach. Blood keeps gushing out and there is not much he can do. Sieun removes a hand from his stomach to search the floor for a bag.
“Hold tight,” Sieun instructs Humin calmly and places his hands over the spot.
Sieun immediately lunges for the bag and pulls a device with his wet hands. He clicks a few buttons, and when the device flashes red, he hurries back to Humin.
“They’re on their way! Just hold on for a bit!”
Humin shakes his head and mouths ‘no’, but Sieun doesn’t see.
Hyuntak pushes on his heels, screeching of the infected drilling his fear, as he attempts to barricade the rattling door with his side before it jumps any further.
Humin roughly pats on the pair of hands that is on him. Tears pool in Sieun’s eyes when he realizes Humin was attempting to shove him away.
Humin breathes heavily and tries again,“Please. Just go. Just–”
“Stop talking,” Sieun urges.
“Sieun-ah,” he grunts and tries again between each firing pulse, “I can’t… I can’t do this. Please. You know it. He’s gone. I-I can’t. Just… leave me here.”
Hyuntak kicks up and hooks his shoe around a nearby cart. He drives it to the door repeatedly until it jams it shut. Then, he yells, "I don’t care what it is, you son of a bitch! I’m dragging you out whether you like it or not. We’re not leaving this place without you. So shut up and save your breath.”
Seongje looms over him, grabs Hyuntak’s face and blows hard. “You crying?” Seongje laughs low and hideously.
Hyuntak blinks rapidly a couple of times, only now realizing how close they were. He looks into those full-blown pupils and says,
“No.”
Seongje leans in and glides his nose down from the side of Hyuntak’s face to his neck, nosing at the lifeless scent gland. Seongje creaks up his head to glance at his face when Hyuntak unexpectedly shudders.
He soon freezes when he spots a small cut on his lip that Hyuntak had grinded his teeth on earlier. He looks intently and presses a finger deep into the cut, expanding it.
Hyuntak wonders when Seongje was going to kiss him.
“Baku’s on another suicide mission, huh?”
Hyuntak’s eyes widens. He throws a fist at Seongje’s jaw and kicks him off the bed; the collapse makes a loud thud.
“Say that again. I fucking dare you.”
That knock did nothing to erase that grin on Seongje’s face, instead, it has made it even wider than before. He caresses the sting around his chin and says, “You know I’m not wrong.”
Hyuntak clenches his fist until his knuckles turn bone and white. This time, Hyuntak has nothing else to say.
“Sergeant Park, take a look at this.”
Humin makes his way over the board as Lieutenant Shim stabs a pin on the blueprint.
A location.
“What’s this?” Humin asks as he scans over the familiar picture and his eyes land on the neon, green dot. “Didn’t we cover this 6 months ago?”
“We were looking in the wrong direction all along,” Lieutenant Shim says. He clicks his pen and circles a spot below in the designated area. “We don’t need a rescue team like last time. No children were reportedly seen. South Laboratory communicated their coordinates a few days ago, and they want to work with us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Lieutenant Shim? I thought we both agreed to cut communications with the South. They refused to provide us with vaccines, and now they want help?” Humin huffs and retrieves the tablet to pull up the records. He scrolls to the dates from three years ago and opens a file under a confidential lock. Before he can confirm, Lieutenant Shim yanks the tablet from him.
“Whether they were cooperative or not,” Lieutenant Shim replies, “we don’t have a choice this time. There’s a new wave coming in. The South is not the only one at stake here.”
“A new wave? With all due respect, sir, you believe that’s new intel?” Humin leans back and loosens his collar. He has heard that term quite a few times already; he doesn’t have time to deal with this bullshit. “My squad is sent out every few months. I’m sure I’d be more aware of this ‘new wave’ than anyone else.”
“Every few months,” Lieutenant Shim repeats slowly and chuckles. “Then I’m sure you know about Unit 4? They were sent just a few weeks ago for a simple search-and-rescue.”
Humin wasn't familiar with any soldiers from Unit 4, but he does remember the way his heart sank as the news was delivered loud and clear when the communication line was cut and lost. Unit 4 didn't make it back to base, and their bodies were not retrieved.
“Our equipment is efficient enough to exterminate an infectant within 2 seconds. Whatever is out there is something we’ve never encountered before. All I’m asking is for you to trust me. Your team has never failed us once, Sergeant Park. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”
Humin peers back at the blueprint, eyes aimlessly trace around the marked lines while he contemplates.
Although the answer is already fixed, he continues to challenge, “Is this an order, Lieutenant?"
“Order or not,” Lieutenant Shim glances at him carefully and says, “you’d do it anyway, am I wrong?” The older man says like he already knew it all. “Count me in as well, I want to see the infectant for myself.”
Amidst deafening beats in the sky, eight soldiers prepare to take off. Humin slots on his gas mask and props up his rifle in one hand, then adjusts his plate carrier twice with the other.
He scrutinizes the other soldiers’ preparation, mentally ticking boxes before they head out.
Good to go.
He nods at his teammates and slides open the helicopter door, throwing down a rope. It takes exactly 10 seconds before it hits the ground.
“Let’s get moving.”
Soldiers slide down the rope and hit the pavement with muffled thuds. The town appears strangely normal compared to the other locations he had investigated before.
The road ahead bottlenecked with rows and columns of crashed cars. The houses nearby have windows pulled up, curtains drawn out, and doors creaking wide open.
It was obvious to the eye that humans and the infected were here not so long ago. How did Humin not locate this place earlier?
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Did something move?
An instinct brought Humin a step forward, all taut as he wrapped a hand tightly around the forestock.
The whirling racket meanders closer. Humin sets his gaze up at the chopper hovering high ahead and thought it real fucking distracting.
He presses at his earpiece, intuition fuelling a decision. “F-12 Motor. Return to base,” Humin orders.
A few soldiers manage to keep a straight face while some lower their guns below their chins, and give a double-take from uncertainty. When Humin shoots a glare at them, the soldiers avert their eyes ashamedly and shift back to their focus point.
Lieutenant Shim frowns and clicks his shoes loudly as he makes his way beside him. “Sergeant, I don’t believe we’ve discussed this. What you’re doing is out of conduct.”
Humin remains in position with two fingers near the receiver as if Lieutenant Shim hadn’t uttered a single word.
The silence stretches for a moment before Humin tries again, “F-12 Motor. Return to base. Do you copy?”
A minute or two later, a static arrives.
“…Rog—”
A sharpening sound thrashes into Humin’s ear, and he groans like someone just shot him.
In between attempts to take off his earpiece, he tries to unbuckle the straps of his helmet and clutch onto it at the same time. And somehow another erratic pitch explodes above him, and everything rings into a thin, clouded line.
It dawns on him when he looks above - the helicopter suddenly rocked sideways, plummeting downwards.
“Get off the X!”
Humin is much less concerned about himself. As the sergeant of these men, looking out for them is most important, and he, too, got used to throwing himself into lethal danger. He grabs a soldier by the armour and hauls him to a clearer path.
As the head of the chopper comes crashing down, he manages to slide beneath a car just in time to the other side of the road.
Enough time was spent at the gun range for Humin to know exactly what kind of heavy hitter made that sound right when the signal went out of control. It was only a few years ago when Humin used one of those.
An SRM 1216
But how?
Humin regathers his thoughts: the pilot got shot, a gunshot. The infectant has a gun.
It’s impossible. Infectants don’t mimic. Minds become paralyzed before the ability to even pick up a goddamn gun.
Upon recalling what Lieutenant Shim had said earlier, about the new wave, he wonders if this is what it is. The thought doesn’t last very long when the grating collision drags along the pavement, followed by a cry.
He yanks himself up from the ground and snatches the rifle, and runs toward the steam of smoke that was beginning to light.
One of the soldiers has both legs stuck underneath a heavy heap. The man opens and closes his mouth like a dying horse, his nails clawing desperately at the asphalt.
Humin swings his rifle around his back and curls his hands under a broken piece of the aircraft. He throws his head back, and his veins begin to pop as he lifts it up. The soldier writhes around and still struggles to crawl out. With the leftovers of his strength, sharp edges dig into Humin’s sturdy fingers.
A blur darts by, and the next thing he knows, the gun goes off.
The soldier lays eyes wide with blood gushing out of the hole blown in his head. Next to Humin is Lieutenant Shim, the one directing a pistol at the dead body.
Like his eyes didn't catch on fast enough, he only drops the fragment a few minutes later. He blinks at the blood pooling next to his feet – it was then when a sequence of past events flashes before him. He grits his teeth and flexes a hand over Lieutenant Shim’s throat, slamming him down to the ground.
“What you think you’re doing,” he seethes.
“You’re wasting time, Park. Have you forgotten the goal? Or do I need to take it from here?” Lieutenant Shim tries to ease out of his grip.
“Wasting time?! A soldier was trapped. You fucking shot him.” Humin presses harder until Lieutenant Shim’s airway has fully strung tight.
Another flying din penetrates the hood of cars and circles around the crash. Bullets chase a soldier by the sidewalk and tag him by the neck and knee; one other bullet punches through the blazing smoke and through the edge of Humin’s sleeve, nicking his arm.
Immediately Lieutenant Shim is released. The man strokes at his neck while he coughs and wheezes. Humin instantly clutches at his own arm and winces at the pulsing sting. Although the bullet had barely touched him, blood began to soak through his uniform.
With the remaining soldiers who attempt to locate the target, they haven’t realized a blind spot they’ve been looking over, and to no surprise, they each stood at a particular sweet spot and were shot right in the head.
One last soldier hides behind a black Chevrolet while Lieutenant Shim wastes loads of bullets by shooting at every corner out of spite.
Humin picks up one segment of the wreck and hooks it onto his arm as a shield when the bullets spun out again.
After a few glimpses, Humin catches the direction of the shots. He is quite certain it's from the attic window of the navy house across the road.
A soldier near the house catches on too. Humin nods in confirmation and directs a gesture to set the perimeter.
Approaching the house, Humin scans his surroundings and decides to enter through the open patio doors. His index steadies on the trigger as he portals through the crack.
And somehow, everything felt warmer, much so, each step sizzled below him, like walking on a stove, scalding his feet.
Grease on his hand slip around the hand guard, palms melting, fingers turning to pan butter. His nose itches, cheeks ache. Skin peeling and sucking into his own pores. He keeps a trained eye on the door ahead, simultaneously wiping the beads on his temples for a good couple of times.
He moves pass the first set of corridors, towards the pallor and notices the odd tidiness of this place. A folded blanket, thick, stacked books, pillows strictly aligned to each sofa cushion. He takes another step, and something under him crackles loudly. He lifts his boots and sees a receipt.
How did he not see that?
Humin was taught long ago, the simplest things under his nose, even a single squeak could reveal much more than a mere location. He hasn’t made a mistake like that in years.
Under the archway, he roams to the other side of the hall, where a dark set of stairs is. He can’t see anything above from here. But there, he thinks, is where the attic is.
He can’t put a finger on it, but something about this place was definitely off.
The hall warps in slow motion, and interestingly enough, the closet door to his side tilts a little. The curls of hair clings wetly to his forehead, sticky and uncomfortably so, that he undoes the fastener and takes his helmet off out of frustration. But that alone wasn’t enough. As if the tiles have rose, globing round until it swallowed the sun - Humin still feels hot.
For a moment, this feverish dream feels all too familiar. A sequence in retrospect to the times his skin went thick and clammy: the dormitory in college with cotton blankets and warm, peppermint tea; the spring festival, fishball stalls and all yet he went home before the sky had truly blued; in high-school, the short brush of skin, and weather shone though the dingy locker-room, though, no windows lived to be seen.
He thinks and thinks and thinks until it clicks.
No way.
There is no way.
No fucking way that Humin is in heat.
Humin clasps a hand on his gas mask and gags a few times, insides scrambling and ready to fall out.
Surely, he is mistaken. He must be. Heat cycles didn’t exist anymore, not since the virus began, and it didn't make much sense, Humin’s mate is… dead.
Enough of breathing a thick cloud of his own moisture – wet all around the mouth – he tears off his mask and pants hard like a dog. Another sharp breath, and he instantly latches a hand on the wall. His chest aches while his legs throb painfully when he notices a significant change in the air.
It’s been so long, but even in a thousand years, he thinks, he can recognize that scent anywhere.
If this heat is playing mind games, if this was a new symptom for omegas who lost their mate, like some kind of hallucination to keep them whole, then reality now is cruel. Sick and twisted, it is.
But fuck, that smell, or he thinks he smells it – he can bathe in it forever – white musk fusing easily with fresh air. And sometimes it’s so faint, especially to others, that only to him is he able to sense it all and feel it all at full throttle.
Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, thinking about it. His bottom lip wobbles and he bites hard. If this fever, the severity of it, meant he could merge with this scent, his scent, then willingly so, he doesn't care, he wants to live endlessly in heat.
In this hall, he makes slow steps forward, body weight full on his left, relying on the wall to stand. Humin is still aware he’s on a mission. He just needs to take a few more steps, get up the stairs, and head to the attic. And there, he’ll catch the target and find a way to alert his subordinates back at base.
Sure, he is confident. Humin never fails a mission. Even with pain, he has to push through.
But while he’s too focused on trying to sharpen the blurry vision ahead, something flies over his head while he’s too caught up in a daze to even realize a gun has gone off again.
A body, belonging to a soldier comes tumbling down the stairs. Even then, it doesn’t hit him when the man rolls to his own two feet and blood scatters. Humin is too overwhelmed to grasp what was happening.
Down at the red splatter on his uniform, and one tiny patch on his stomach starts to shift.
A laser point.
Humin’s pulse quickens when he sees the aim run up his chest. He splays his fingers out on an instinct to sweep up his rifle into defence position.
He flexes his hands again.
Huh… It’s empty.
It only takes him a second to think. Shit, the gun—he doesn’t have it. He doesn’t even recall dropping it.
The red dot slowly crawls up… lands at his neck… then, the space between his eyes.
Fuck.
A shadow on the stairs begins to expand with creaks of soft thuds and a relaxed composure. From under the dark, a pair of legs appears. Whoever it is, is clothed similarly to Humin’s own uniform. The man doesn’t have a vest like Humin; only on his hips is packed with a bullet holster.
When the man’s face comes into view, Humin gazes up to the black bandana that hooks around his neck, up and under his… eyes.
He freezes.
In a beat or two, words barely make it out, he whispers,
“Jin?”
Baekjin, who has his shotgun in position and a laser pointed between Humin’s eyes, curiously tilts his head. He holds his gaze for a long moment, tracing the crook of his nose, the curves of his cheeks, and the roundness of his eyes. Baekjin solves the figure before him, but recognition doesn’t come.
A million thoughts runs through Humin’s mind.
How is he alive? How did I not know? It’s been four years, how could I not have known? But I saw it happen. If I just went back–I should’ve gone back–
Those thoughts subside the second he notices the blank of his face; he knows him well enough to be able to tell it’s the same one he always does when an infectant is put before him in training class. Baekjin kills with no problem.
Humin’s mouth dips instantly.
“Baekjin-ah?” he tries again, soft and calmer than his own raticky state, but his mate continues to stare at him like a stranger, like Humin is his own prey.
The gun head drifts near the left of Humin’s ear, and he shoots.
A cry from behind dies instantly.
Humin cups at the ringing in his head and glances behind to see Lieutenant Shim sliding down, with blood souring the wall.
Ah, him. He forgot about him.
It is there and then, when it comes to him, that all his teammates are dead.
Humin’s head is promptly guided to face front when the head of the gun presses forcefully into his cheek.
“Don’t. Move.” Baekjin instructs.
A whine escapes his mouth the moment Baekjin speaks, and he tries not to buckle his knees. However, he can already tell through the mask that Baekjin is definitely breathing just as heavily as he is.
Itchy sparks tingle inside the stomach and spread up to his throat. Humin is going to die of thirst. He tongues the sides of his cheek, plays with his saliva, and tries to contain it inside his mouth as he shyly peers up at Baekjin, hoping he can come a bit closer.
The more Baekjin drags his gaze down his stature, the more he trembles like something about it is dangerous. In a magnetic pull, his thighs slowly draw together until the fabrics rub and something wet is stringing between.
Baekjin muffles a hand over the bandana, shielding his nose like he is hit with a potent spell. Just once, he grunts quietly, and that itself does for Humin.
He melts sickly at the noise and begins to move toward him without a thought. Humin spreads his arms ahead, ready to cling and wrap around him.
Baekjin’s pace is much faster than his. With the gun muzzle, he aggressively drives Humin backwards, long fingers twitch and curl tighter around the fore-end, his index teasing the trigger.
His sweat transfers onto the gun; Humin watches it waver. When it drips down, Humin’s lips tug into a deranged smile, as he reaches out his palm in hopes that it might graze him; and when it does, it cools like an old remedy – he parts his lips and moans.
As energy radiates within the short distance between, Humin unfolds his fingers like an animal with no self-control as he probes a hand at Baekjin’s torso. Hard and all muscle, it makes him want to sink to his knees.
He then senses a change in the air – a fusion of emotions he can’t describe.
Before Humin can look at his mate’s expression, the muzzle leaves his forehead, and the gun swings directly in his vision.
Everything begins to blur, and in a split minute, it comes again and everything blacks.
Humin is back at the underground bunker with kids running around, splashing sewer water, and a mother waving a hand for them to come. He should go too, he thinks, so he begins to walk, but his shoe sticks like gum to the ground. Another go, and the ground suddenly warps into quicksand that swallows him down.
He closes his eyes for a moment, then flickers them open. Strangely, he’s still there from where he started. He's still underground.
When Humin climbs into bed, with his face still pressed to softness, he thinks about visiting Hyuntak, climbing the helicopter, the mission, his comrades, blood, and…
Baekjin.
He hasn’t dreamt about him in a while. It was ridiculous anyway, he thinks…
The scent hits his nose right away, eyes cracking, he truly wakes this time. He can smell his mate before he even knows where he is.
Fuck.
It was all real.
He finds himself on a wide, cushy mat on the floor. Is he in the attic? He can’t tell.
The view continues to fog and swirl as he boils up burning haze. It is way worse than before. His sensitive skin jolts at the slightest touch of his own. He sucks on his bottom lip as his entire lower half clenches at the growing stimulation. His cock is already aching hard, pulsing at the same time as slick oozes out of his cunt and spatters all over his thighs.
Guts have now wrung themselves like a wet towel, and his liquids swish and swirl until it compresses to pain. It fucking aches.
He attempts to soothe his stomach with his hands, so he moves a limb, but somehow, he ends up rolling over on his back. After a few more wriggles of struggling to bring his hands forward, he then feels the tightness dig on his wrist and figures a rope is restricting his arm from behind.
It also comes to him in an instant that his vest and gears are off, leaving only this uniform set on. Did Baekjin thoroughly search of his body for weapons? Humin huffs a hot breath and sinks his teeth into a lip at the thought of Baekjin’s hands all over him.
He brings his chin down and lifts his head up. The first thing he sees by the door is Baekjin, who is firmly sitting on a wooden chair, already staring at him intently.
This time, his hair is a mess, pieces fall over like it’s run through from agitation, and most noticeably, the mask is gone. Humin doesn’t want to blink because if he does, he thinks he might disappear.
Before they can stare at each other any longer, Baekjin stands up, and there, on his pants, is an outline of his cock visibly straining against his pants.
“Jin-ah,” Humin whines and his cunt twitches when he sees it. As his mouth waters, a droplet of drool rolls down the corner of his lips. He drags his foot along the mat and back, making weak mewls while he squirms around, trying to get up.
When the attic intensifies with the scent of warm cocoa, nothing peeks into Baekjin’s mind, no recollection, but his body says otherwise. His skin prickles, and a sensation rattles within. The man on the mat is very intoxicating. He grips hard at his leg to steady himself, unwilling to be lured. Without another look, he grabs his shotgun from the table beside and slides it across the floor; it lands right in front of the mat.
Although Humin’s legs aren’t tied up, it takes him much longer than he usually would if he was put in a situation like this during training.
Despite the soreness of this heat, he manages to crawl onto his knees. Humin doesn’t even look at the gun. Like Baekjin has tunnelled his vision, his focus is solely on himself. His kneecaps sting as he scrapes across the mat and aims to close the distance between them.
“Come a step closer, and I’ll leave,” Baekjin orders.
Humin automatically halts. His legs are physically nailed in place, reminding him who he truly belongs to. Still, tears begin to swell in his eyes at the harsh rejection. Even if his mind urges himself to draw nearer, he didn’t want him to leave, and that feeling was much stronger.
Baekjin flicks a glance down at the gun. A directive. A wordless command.
Never in the past did he need to part his mouth to put his mate in place (though Humin loves it when he talks in his ear).
He drops a look at the gun. He finds himself with a parted mouth, in an all-shocking hit, like time has stopped the second he sees familiarity.
This was from the same shotgun set – one that had always matched with Baekjin on earlier missions, and one he had lost during their last one together.
He bends down and rubs a cheek up and down the barrel, and whimpers as it faintly settles him. Baekjin scented this… He scented it for him.
Right now, anyone would think Baekjin has a perfect poise, but Humin knows all too well that his chest was battering round and round, heaving in erratic jumps that are too painfully arousing, because like Humin, he feels it just the same as he suffers on the mat.
When Humin tries to shift for a better go at the gun, he pathetically stumbles on his knees instead, causing him to fall on his side. The pain of his cramps comes crashing hard again. He twists around, and he can see the gun. He hooks a leg around it and hauls it closer until it’s pressing tight against his body.
Humin rubs and ruts his clothed cock in swift, rough motions. Humin slumps his head on the mat and moans at the short relief. While he glances up at the blurry sight of Baekjin, he drags his mouth to the gun's tip, nibbling around the metallic edge.
Unstable legs shake and spread when his muscles swarm, letting the gun between his legs slide away. He whimpers at the loss of contact and desperately tries again.
Crowding over the object, he licks a long, wet stripe on the fore-arm, desperate for an aftertaste of Baekjin’s hands, but instead, gun powder lingers in his mouth. He unsticks his hot tongue, and long, thick strings of saliva slung along.
He then gets back on his knees and uses them to prop up the shotgun straight and ready. He brackets his leg around it and sinks down – ass spreads deep into the comb, and it slots perfectly between his tingling folds. He parts his mouth when he rocks forward; a peek of his tongue slots out, and it glues to the bottom of his lips as he pants. He grinds harder, moaning his mate’s name between each breath, imagining the object below him was his warm cock.
Humin’s pants are so soaked, sticking tightly like a second skin, and slick won’t stop leaking through. It puddles warm and sloppy all over the gun, making it easier to thrust against, but the pleasure doesn’t come like he wanted.
He needs Baekjin so much, so badly.
He peels his thighs away, perking up his ass as he lowers down on his front, now nosing along the firearm in hopes of finding a curve similar to the crook of Baekjin’s neck. He holds when he feels a small dip, and blatantly, it is not the same, but he eagerly squishes his nose against it and he nuzzles fiercely.
His pulsing, wet walls begin to cramp tight, and the gun no longer delivers any help.
“Hurts,” Humin whimpers as he blinks up at Baekjin. “H-Hurts bad.”
Baekjin stands there all rigid, heat roiling his temples with a hand that clasps on the table. Really, he might end up breaking it within his hold if he gripped any tighter.
Humin fidgets his knees together, rubbing his wrists to break free, but he only ends up blistering himself. He whines when he realizes Baekjin won’t move. Won’t come closer. He tantalized him by just standing there.
The temperature strikes higher due to tremendous hot waves. He wants to clutch and tug at his uniform. He wants it all off. And it’s cruel because he knows it won’t happen.
“Jin, p-please,” he huffs along with every beating ache. With eyes all glassy, Humin pleads again, “Can’t no more. Hurt. Please. Need y-you now.”
With the lift of a step, Baekjin then pauses and hesitates. His head is pierced with pins and needles. He envisions grabbing the gun and shooting the man to make this haze end, but the other part of him wants to thrash into him and turn him into a useless wreck. Either way, for sure – after analyzing the different outcomes – he is going to ruin him.
He releases the irritation in his hands, and without realizing, blood trickles down his fingers and crescents brand deep in his palms.
Humin, curling from the mat, gives a needy look and sucks on his bottom lip for comfort. He tilts his head over. All exposing, he bares his neck and yowls.
“Alpha.”
A trigger fucking sets. Surging shockwaves electrify his troubling nerves. Vibration zaps in Baekjin’s ears, and pupils dilate, full-blown and jarring.
It all happens fast. A brutal collision sends Humin backwards onto his back, and he grunts as the rope around his wrist carves deeper than ever.
Baekjin lays a hand on him; Humin then turns all pliant… and breaks.
Skin touches skin, affecting, as two hearts beat as one.
Humin chokes on a sob, as years that have gone missing have come rushing back. He is going to come already and Baekjin barely even touched him.
A yank and Humin is handled into his front. His mate mounts over him, caging him until he can’t move.
Baekjin snakes his hand across his waist and hoists his ass up, kneading his thighs into the plumpness of it.
A pull from the back of his collar wraps tight around Humin’s neck, and he wheezes. A sharp, pointy tooth roams around his radiating mating mark on Humin’s neck, and he feels him shudder. Baekjin then laps his tongue at it, closes in and around as he sucks on it.
His bulge smears in slicking juice between the soaked fabric as he probes himself at Humin’s wet cunt, and it flutters at him.
He unbelts Humin in one go, yanking down his pants to his knees, exposing his muscled ass.
Humin doesn’t even realize that Baekjin’s cock is out until he shivers at the precum that glides down his crack.
No warnings, not even a single tease of his tip, Baekjin rams in fully, stretching his cunt until Humin feels full and thick of him.
A burn of pleasure and pain prickles up to the edge, and a tear slips down his face.
Baekjin tugs on his collar, stringing his air. He snaps up his hips, fucking Humin into dizziness, mind blank like every thrust is deliberately erasing horrors of his past.
He unhooks at his garment to thread his fingers through Humin’s hair, grabbing a fistful before he slams him down into place. A series of whines and moans that sound in the room instantly muffles on the mat.
Humin turns his cheek to breathe while Baekjin dives ahead, pressing tightly against the man’s back. Baekjin slides his hand down the collar and yanks it aside. Again, his teeth wander and hunt down the curve of his neck, then at his shoulder. Anticipation thrums, and he sinks down until it draws blood.
A shrill cry grows louder than before.
Baekjin pressures the bite on his shoulder – ache-full and heavy – holding it in place while blood smears directly under his fingers.
When he releases with hands soaking red, Humin winces and his shoulder slumps right back on the mat. Baekjin brings his own wrist up to his mouth and licks at the trail of blood.
In one motion, he rides up his sticky shirt, and digs one hand into the boy’s waist as he continues to pound him from behind.
Humin's knees begin to weaken and exhaust as Baekjin shows no mercy in slowing the pace.
So when he pulls out fast, Humin gasps at the sudden emptiness, causing his walls to gape out slick and sting all around his folds.
Before he can even look back in confusion, his eyes roll back, taking every inch of Baekjin’s cock when he buries it slowly, plummeting him even deeper than before.
Like a game of torment, Baekjin drags out his cock again, and it makes a loud pop before he fills him.
His nails tears a hole through the fabric of Humin’s uniform, and stretches it out until the seams rip open. Baekjin dips and mouths at his bare skin, nicking all over his back and the twist of his tied arms with his teeth.
The pleasure heightens so well that even pain-like acid on his skin feels like a sweet spot. Humin wants more when he feels the rush come closer, so with an attempt, he tries to peer over his shoulder, but his body strains as his position restricts him.
“Wanna see. Wan-ah–Wanna see your face,” Humin babbles messily.
He tries to look over again, but Baekjin pushes his whole body weight on him and keeps him down, then fucks him harder.
No sign can tell if Baekjin is going to listen – or fuck – if he can even listen.
Humin whimpers and tingles when Baekjin circles a thumb at the scent gland on his belly, soft and slow, like he used to. And Baekjin huffs and heaves loudly when home-like chocolate spreads all around.
Close to the edge, Humin’s mouth hangs open, with short puffs and soundless moans, unable anymore to make out an audible sound, as only the slap of skin echo in the air.
“Fuck,” Baekjin growls as he spills inside.
Humin wails as he dips his sore, shaky knees and feels his walls clench and ooze.
Baekjin pulls out and flips him down on his back. Before Humin can recover, Baekjin drives his cock in and clamps a hand at his neck, and doesn’t plan to loosen.
However, something does sparks in him when tears streak down the red of Humin’s puffy cheeks as he gasps for air.
Humin mouths the word 'kiss' a few times, all breathlessly. He puckers and pouts, soft coughs in between as Baekjin stares at him strangely, but again, he begs it a little louder, desperate like he is going to die if he doesn't taste him.
Baekjin shifts his hand from Humin’s neck to up and around his chin. Humin inhales sharply before Baekjin crashes his mouth to his. He presses hard. Smashing and teeth clicking. The kiss was painful.
He tilts his head and slots perfectly on the boy’s mouth, and Humin makes a soft noise against his lips. He fucks his tongue inside the warmth and wetness. Their bodies pulse in fervour, clinging and clawing at each other’s skin, wanting to fuse into one.
Humin bites hard on Baekjin’s lips and blood beads out. He licks it clean before their tongues begin to glide again, moaning all in between.
Twitching all over and wiggling, Humin notices the light airiness of his wrist. Just like that, his hands are loose. He doesn’t even realize when Baekjin had untied them.
Simmering hits explode in his stomach and travel all over as Baekjin’s cock finds home with each thrust. When he hits the spot again, Humin shivers and brings a hand over his belly and kneads around the dip.
“Jin-ah, so deep,” he whimpers. “I can feel you up here.”
Upon hearing, Baekjin penetrates harder as Humin slobbers out saliva.
Humin clings around his neck, nuzzling his face deep into his gland. He clenches all around, and Baekjin groans.
He then retreats his cock, ignoring Humin’s cry. He hikes Humin’s legs further up and behind his ears, spreading everything into vision.
Baekjin smacks his shaft on his cunt and grinds on it until more slick trickles down and coats all over him. With his cock, he glides the wetness down to his ass and gives a firm poke at the rim.
Humin widens his eyes.
“W-Wait–”
He peers back at Baekjin, who looks totally gone and on it.
With slick from his cunt, Baekjin violates his hole, invading him fully. From the sudden burning stretch, Humin moans in pain.
Baekjin knows he can take it.
When he’s half-in, he slams up, and his rim swallows him whole. He fucks hard and deep, sucking and biting at Humin’s chest, then brings a hand to Humin’s wet cunt and pumps two fingers in.
Baekjin simultaneously fingers and fucks his drooling holes until cum spills from Humin’s own cock.
Humin thrashes his limbs around, scratching at Baekjin’s arm, squirming hard like all his sensitive spots are being teased at the same time.
It’s too much.
He flushes down from his head to toe, and Baekjin presses a hot mouth to his ear.
“You’re all red,” he says. Not teasing in any manner; merely it is a plain observation, but Humin whips his face to the side and tries to hide.
Movement becomes erratic as a thrum runs through their spinning bodies.
“Please—haa—knot–” Humin whines raggedly.
The slap of skin and wet squelching quickens so vigorously that Humin parts his mouth, sobbing so loud he could possibly wake up the dead.
Baekjin can feel blood rushing to the base of his cock. It stretches and swells altogether inside Humin, and in between relieving heaves, he moans and sighs.
Baekjin bends down and curls his arms around Humin’s waist, panting deep into his neck.
Like their bodies become soft sand, they melt into each other, heavy-lidded and brain-muddled.
They don’t let go.
Baekjin prevents Humin from leaving the mat for days – holed up in heat and sweat – and Humin too, didn’t want to.
Sometimes, Baekjin will perk up from annoyance to look out the window. When he leaves the attic, Humin will wail, and not always will he come right away, but when he does, he’ll enter the attic reeking of rotten meat and clothes tainted with blood.
Humin thinks about the bodies in the house. Then, he thinks about the possibility that his base is searching for him.
None of that matters anymore, anyway.
On other hopeful days, Humin wraps his legs around his mate’s waist as he carries him to the bathroom. Baekjin turns on the shower and fucks him there, and when they’re all cleaned, he pushes him on the sink counter and fucks him again.
One night, on the mat, when Baekjin rolls on his side, facing away from him, he sees the glint of a metal chip embedded in his nape, and a code that brands above:
SL-185
Baekjin repulses when he feels a finger brush there. When he turns, he sees Humin with tears streaming down his face.
And Baekjin will stare back at him, uncomprehending.
The morning after, Humin pulls the tracker out and crushes it with his bare hands.
Baekjin bites onto his tongue and winces when blood gushes out.
Humin envelopes around his him, burying his face into his hair, telling him he’s sorry over and over again.
When it’s all over, they’ll brush their noses together, all soft and gentle, as Humin brackets his thighs around Baekjin’s hips and moves on him.
Sometimes they touch each other all night. And when they don’t, Humin koalas him, tangling their legs together, whispering old stories of their love until they fall asleep.
A week later, on one particular day, Humin wakes with his heat all settled. He noses into the nest they made, and swats his arm around to discover the space next to him is completely cold.
Running out with only a pair of underwear on, he stumbles down the stairs, trips and falls from a book in the living room, and then he gets up and runs again.
The front door is already wide open when he pelts out.
Stupidly, on the other side of the road, he sees him. With wide eyes and a gaping mouth, he looks at Baekjin, who has two carrots in his hand and soil all over him.
Baekjin glances up when he hears the racket.
Humin then continues to look at him.
And Baekjin, too, looks right back at him like he always has.
Like nothing has ever changed.
In that moment, together, they feel infinite.