Work Text:
Today is fucked.
Jisung called out for a second day in a row—I can’t stop shitting myself, hyung. I didn’t even know I had this much inside me to keep—
Chan cut Jisung off before he could hear any more of it, urging him to hang up the phone and stay at home and rest (and to drink water…if he could keep it down).
Changbin also called out, so he definitely has whatever Jisung has—
Hyunjin is in the broom closet having a mental breakdown because, quote, they’re already playing Christmas music in the shop (and he’s homesick [Chan suspects something else is going on but he doesn’t question it]), and Jeongin keeps putting the orders in at the register incorrectly. Chan’s had to remake five drinks so far this morning—but beggars can’t be choosers when half your staff has their ass on a toilet.
As if things could get any worse, half-way into the rush, the steamer for one espresso machine breaks, and the grinder for the other stops working, forcing Chan to oscillate between the two machines for all latte orders, further testing his patience during the morning rush.
And of course it would all happen in the morning everyone wants a latte—why wasn’t everyone ordering their usual Americanos? Which psychopath on Instagram made lattes trendy this week? Chan isn’t sure if he’ll have enough milk to last through the week at this rate.
Chan pulls a new ticket to study the next order, wipes the sweat forming on his hairline with his forearm. He’s running on 4 hours of sleep, a Red Bull, and pure adrenaline—and it’s not even 8:30 in the morning yet.
“Another latte,” Chan mutters under his breath. He turns his back to the line, bending down to the fridge to pull out a fresh carton of milk. “Fucking hell.”
His head’s buzzing, tamping down freshly ground beans before pulling fresh shots. He turns to the other machine to steam the milk, careful not to pull it away too soon and burn himself like he did earlier—
Chan thinks it’s ironic he opened a coffee shop. Of all things—he doesn’t even drink coffee, but he sure knows how to serve it. He’s done well for himself in the big city, taking the leap to open up a cozy spot for every overworked assistant on their way into or escaping the business district just up the road. Chan put his heart and soul into the place, stacking the walls with shelves full of plants, offering a selection of cozy, oversized chairs for patrons to sink into, and vintage bistro tables for the ones looking to talk business.
Felix’s pastries and bagels are another reason the place always has a line out the door on the weekends—they usually sell out by noon. And even with the cases empty, they’ll churn out coffees and teas for the rest of the day.
“Jimin,” Chan calls out, pouring the last of the crema into the steamed milk, making a beautiful leaf pattern. He sets it onto the counter, wiping his clammy hands onto his apron and nods to the woman collecting her drink before turning his focus back to the drink tickets.
Chan suppresses a groan, seeing yet another latte has been ordered—
“Chan hyung,” Jeongin interrupts from the register. He looks calmer than he did thirty minutes ago—maybe it was the uh-oh cappuccino he got to drink up before Hyunjin ran off, even if the line is twice as long now. “Do we have any more muffins in the back?”
“Ah, let me check.” Chan excuses himself from behind the counter, a perfect opportunity to usher Hyunjin back to the front lines.
He waves a hand to the side of his face, unsure how to deal with the warm flush he’s registering as he shuffles down the hallway. It’s much colder near the back of the shop, and Chan wonders if his adrenaline levels are really that high enough to be giving him a damn fever.
He better not be coming down with whatever the hell Jisung has.
He slips into the backroom, opening the door to the closet to only find floor disinfectant next to a bucket, broom, and a slightly soggy mop. He cranes his neck around and smells Hyunjin before he spots him—blatantly miserable, scent a bit like soured milk from his usual sweet cream.
Hyunjin steps out from the door leading to the toilet, eyes rubbed red, breathing slightly irregular. His black hair is tied back in a ponytail, several strands falling into his face, and his hands tucked into the front pockets of his apron. His oversized grey sweater sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.He clearly just finished crying.
“You okay?” Chan asks, hoping he doesn’t have an edge in his voice that sounds too stern or desperate. Chan really needs all the help he can get on the floor, and he really can’t have Hyunjin step out for good this morning.
Hyunjin nods, even if he looks like hell.
Chan takes a hesitant step forward and puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s like dealing with a skittish cat. “Are you sure?”
Hyunjin assures him with a wobbly smile. “I’m gonna be fine, hyung.”
Chan doesn’t want to dwell on it any longer either and claps his hands, the sound echoing against the wall.
“Right, could you help me take out another box of pastries? I’m gonna put you and Jeongin on drinks for a bit. I can’t make another fucking latte.”
“Sure,” Hyunjin says, picking up a bottle of scent suppressant off the break room table, dousing his neck and exposed wrists with the aerosol. Works on all presentations! it reads in blocky red letters up the side.
Hyunjin still looks a little worse for wear, but the unpleasant sourness Chan smelled moments ago instantly disappears in the room. Hyunjin holds his hand out to pass the bottle to Chan. “Need some?”
Chan reluctantly accepts it, oblivious to how much his own anxiety must reek. As a beta, it’s easy for him to forget his scent can be intensified by stress on his system. It doesn’t happen often—or at least it’s easy for Chan to never notice—but given this particular morning’s track record, he’s hardly surprised Hyunjin had to politely remind him…
He spritzes his neck, too, and under his sweaty armpits for good measure. What he really needs is a shower, but it’s another few hours until his lunch break.
Chan inspects a box on a storage shelf, humming with relief it’s full of muffins, and hands it off to Hyunjin. Chan picks up a second full of croissants before following Hyunjin back onto the floor.
Chan rounds the corner and spots Jeongin whipping up matcha, thanking the customers for their patience. Hyunjin is already punching in the next order, the box of muffins on the counter behind him. Chan makes a beeline to the pastry case, replenishing the supply of muffins and croissants, before sidling up behind Hyunjin as he punches out another order.
Even amongst the chaos, behind the thin layer of sweat clinging under Chan’s armpits and behind his ears, he’s relieved Hyunjin’s back on deck. It was getting really dicey for a moment; he wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep up without losing customers. Chan spots the time on the clock on the wall—it’s getting closer to the start of the work day for the office dwellers.
“Thanks, Hyunjin,” Chan pats his hip, nodding for him to slide over to the bar with Jeongin.
Chan steps forward, keying in the register to take the next customer, and looks up to greet them. His voice dies in his throat, eyes taking in the man before him. Chan has to look up—ever so slightly, not much—he’s handsome, even if he looks like he hasn’t slept in 5 days. The dark blue circles and puffiness under his eyes look surprisingly good on him, black hair mostly slicked back with a few strands falling across his forehead. His bright pink lips are slightly parted, large two front teeth giving him a boyish charm.
Chan feels his heart plummet into his stomach, sloshing around in whatever battery acid the morning Red Bull left behind. Oh.
Even if the man isn’t much taller than Chan, he stands tall: shoulders back, covered in an impeccably tailored pinstripe grey suit with a forest green tie knotted around his neck. It looks hastily done, and Chan imagines he put it on while riding the train into the city, half awake and looking forward to this cup of coffee.
“H—hi,” Chan stutters while giving a slight bow. He clears his throat, nervously looking down to tap at the screen while the man gives a silent bow in return, hoping the heat Chan can feel growing from the tips of his ears isn’t so obvious. “What can we get you this morning?”
“Iced Americano, please,” the man says quickly. His voice sounds a bit reedy, higher pitched than Chan would have expected—but it suits him.
Finally, Chan thinks. The first Americano order he’s seen in thirty minutes. Finally, a customer with sensibility during these trying times.
“Sure,” Chan says with delight, tapping the order onto the screen, finger hovering over the button to print the receipt for Jeongin. “Is a double okay?”
The man leans forward, wiggling his nose and turning his ear toward Chan. He squints his eyes, a single eyebrow raising to make his face look mildly confused. “Sorry, repeat that?” he asks.
“Uhm,” this close Chan spots a mole at the tip of his nose, a sweet beauty mark at the end of its perfectly straight slope. The man wrinkles his nose again, sniffling. “W—would you like two shots of espresso?”
Chan has to hide it, but he’s mortified—the man is obviously smelling him, and Chan can’t believe the scent suppressant has betrayed him. A spray claiming to mask even the “stinkiest of alphas,” a product sworn by all service industry professionals should do the trick. Dear God, how bad is it this morning? He wishes he knew what he smelled like. Chan wonders if maybe he missed a spot back in the break room—
The man brings up a hand to scratch at the back of his neck. Chan spots the Apple watch on his wrist, and wonders if this man has tracked even fewer hours of sleep than he has in the last two days.
The quick movement hits Chan like a bag of bricks—an overwhelming cloud of cardamom and ginger hits him first, followed by a carroty smell—like carrots pulled freshly from the earth, soil clinging to every groove of the root. It’s pleasant in the most subtle ways, and Chan has to shake his head to make sure he doesn’t lock into a daydream about how lovely it all is, holding all the warmth and pleasantries of a late autumn harvest.
“Could I make it four?” the man asks sheepishly, voice going quiet like he doesn’t want the customers behind him to hear.
Chan does his best to not shoot his head up too quickly—he doesn’t want to come off judgey—and instead nods with a wide smile, punching in the ticket.
“Anything to nibble on?” Chan offers, tilting his head toward the case of pastries.
The man’s tired eyes study the overwhelming selection, and Chan almost feels bad for giving him decision fatigue this early in the morning.
“I recommend the pain au chocolat, if you like something sweet. If you want something savory, the chive and cheddar scone is nice.”
The man tucks his lower lip between his teeth, his upper lip curved a little upward. Chan is smitten, endeared by how big his two front teeth are—notes one is slightly angled in front of the other that is slanted behind it. He nods his head, making a silent decision and points to a pain au chocolat.
“The sweet one.”
He sounds impossibly quieter, almost shy, and Chan has to ignore the kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming around in his belly.
“And your name?” Chan looks up, and the man is fumbling around with his phone, unlocking the wallet and placing it on the payment terminal. Chan holds his breath, waiting.
The man looks up, slowly blinks once, twice. He gives a polite smile. “Minho.”
Chan hums, pecking out M-I-N-H-O, scraping this information and smearing it all around the inside of his skull. Minho.
“Thank you, Minho-ssi,” Chan hands him a neatly folded bag full of pastry, and bends into another polite bow. “They’ll call your name as soon as your drink is ready.”
Minho takes the bag, thanks him, and steps off to the corner to wait.
For the next three customers, Chan cannot not feel Minho’s presence out of the corner of his eye—he tries his best to keep his attention devoted to his customers, but ends up taking their orders on autopilot while stealing glances at the handsome man taking tiny bites of his pastry straight from the bag.
It feels like an eternity until Hyunjin calls his name—Minho!—that Chan feels a little lightheaded.
“Hyunjin,” he calls him over, “Can you take the register?”
Hyunjin tilts his head, clearly suppressing a frown. “You okay, hyung?”
“I just need a break—give me five.”
Chan scurries off down the hall again, confident they’ve pushed through enough orders with two people working on drinks at the bar he can take a moment to clear his head. He pushes the break room door behind him, head slamming against it.
He realizes he’s breathing hard, like he’s run a half-marathon—lungs stinging, relentless sweat cooling on his brow. He’s still feeling the ramble of butterflies in his belly, like his toes gripping over the edge of a rooftop and he’s looking down twenty stories below. He wonders if he’s on the verge of having a panic attack—or maybe he really is coming down with whatever Jisung brought into the shop—
He throws off his apron and doesn’t waste a second to step into the toilet, a tiny closet shared with a sink and a temperamental overhead light. He flicks the switch, flickering on with a deep hum of the glowing halogen, and unbuttons his jeans to push them off his hips with his briefs. The briefs feel like a vise around his hips, sticking to his balls—the sweating really got to him. He wishes he wore boxers.
As he sits down, he feels a cooling sensation around his taint, going up the cleft of his cheeks—weird.
Chan looks down between his knees and throws a hand to his mouth—
“Fuck me,” he whispers, seeing a dark, damp stain drenching the gusset, up the backside, and soaking into the inseam. It’s slick—a ridiculous amount of it. Chan’s never produced this much in his life—he’s a beta—this is borderline omega levels (or at least what he’d imagine them to be. It’s not like he’d know, he’s never taken one to bed before)—
Chan’s face runs impossibly hotter in horrific realization, wadding up toilet roll to clean up what he can between his legs.
“He’s an alpha,” Chan laughs, kicking his legs out of his pants, wondering how the fuck he’s going to store his soiled briefs for the rest of his shift.
Minho. He hears his soft voice ringing around his skull, and the butterflies swarm all over again.
He inspects his jeans—thankful for sporting a dark wash today—and sees the beginnings of his slick soaking through, but not enough that it’s terribly noticeable. There’s no way he can make it home on time for break, and they’re too busy for him to take that kind of time to step away. He’s going to have to go commando through the rest of the day.
Chan steps back into his pants, washes his hands and the briefs in the sink, wringing them out the best he can with his hands and hanging them on the coat hook by the toilet room door.
Chan shoots off a text to Hyunjin and Jeongin before putting his apron back on.
Please do not ask questions if you have to use the bathroom today
Chan remembers when Friday nights were something to look forward to. Now, being a small business owner, every Friday night feels like he is gearing up for the Superbowl.
After reconciling his accounts for the week at his sorry excuse for a desk in the break room, Chan truly closes up shop and heads down the street in the cold November air toward home. It’s starting to feel like winter in Seoul, even if they’re still weeks away. While on the train, he enjoys the warmth and texts Felix to make sure everything is still on track to receive his order for the weekend exclusives.
Thankfully, Jisung and Changbin came back in by Thursday, Lilly is back from her trip, Haewon’s submitted her thesis for review, and Hyunjin patched things up with Seungmin. Chan didn’t ask for the finer details—it’s none of his business—but he got it anyway over fried chicken for dinner on Wednesday, and it’s behind Hyunjin (for now).
Chan exits the train, slipping his phone into the front pouch of his oversized hoodie. He adjusts the strap of his crossbody over his chest and begins his hike up the stairs. It’s after 8 at night, and while there isn’t snow on the ground (thankfully), there is a chill. Chan considers stopping at his favorite ramen place for a quick bite, but opts for shuffling into a convenience store the moment his stomach begins to eat itself.
He piles snacks into his arms: a couple bags of crisps, a packet of jellies, two rolls of bulgogi kimbap, a can of pear juice and a bowl of ramyeon to take home. He successfully walks past the case of chilled energy drinks, reminds himself he has an early morning. He knows himself—even if he did grab it for the morning, he’d cave as soon as he walked through the door of his apartment and would end up all night locked into Genshin.
He briefly considers making the ramyeon in store, piling it with cheese and kimchi, but the counter is shoulder to shoulder with patrons, and after a day around people, Chan could use some time to himself. After a day on his feet, the last thing he wants to do is have to stand a minute longer to eat. At least at home he can sit on his futon.
“Good night,” Chan says, thanking the part-timer cashier and grabbing his bag off the counter. He loops his hand through the straps and walks through the parted automatic doors, back into the icy autumn air.
Chan tucks his wares into his messenger bag and secures the flap over it. He never liked carrying plastic bags for long if he could help it, especially if he grabbed more than he intended in the store.
It’s so chilly he can see his own breath, plumes as thick as smoke as the temperature drops. A breeze picks up as he trudges down the street, mouth already watering over the imaginary taste of the kimbap in his mouth. He’s glad he grabbed two—it’s been a while since he last had these—
Carrots.
Chan stops in his tracks, rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist, the cold already biting at the tip of his nose. He sniffles, nose already starting to fill with mucus, just like it always does when it’s cold outside, and he smells it again—that warm, autumnal smell he’s grown accustomed to all week—around it long enough to start peel back the peppery notes, a cloying, powdery violet and resin blending with a touch of sweet cinnamon.
Chan turns in a circle, eyes searching for the source—wonders if his mind is playing tricks on him, feels his heart pick up and his head spin lighter. It’s embarrassing—he needs to get home before he loses his mind.
He walks faster, rounding the corner toward his apartment, shoulder checking a poor woman walking out of a sushi bar on stilts who nearly topples face-first onto the pavement. Chan apologizes, helping her back upright with a deep bow, wishing her a good night. Even with the soju on her breath, assuring him everything is okay, Chan still smells that dizzying smell of cardamom and ginger. It’s getting stronger, and suddenly the air doesn’t feel so cold anymore.
The sidewalk is busy, a narrow row full of restaurants and Chan’s go-to shortcut to pass through to get to his apartment building. It’s busy every night of the week, but especially on Fridays, it’s teeming with loads of people—friends, couples, business partners—gathering to close out another day in droves.
Chan’s suspicions—no, instincts—were right when follows the smell to a narrow alley barely lit by a single lamp post, and spots him, Minho.
Minho is still dressed in the same navy wool suit he had on earlier at half past 8 in the morning when he walked into Chan’s cafe. The knot of his poorly-tied baby blue tie is loosened around his neck, enough to have the first two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. His hair looks even more unkempt and disheveled, like the entire week slapped him around too much.
He has a cigarette pinched between the V of his fore and middle fingers, pink lips wrapped around the filter, taking a deep inhale as the embers burn red on the end. The circles under his eyes look even worse than they did in the morning—of course they did— and he leans his shoulders back against the wall, propping the sole of his miraculously polished oxford against it. He flicks the ash into the small puddle of water next to the dumpster, tilts his head up toward the lamppost and lets out a long exhale, smoke floating up, up, up.
And even with all of the disgusting smoke, Chan’s heart skips, nose dripping in the cold as the sweat starts to form on his hairline. It’s almost unfair how some people are just effortlessly beautiful, like Minho. Even with his imperfect front teeth, the careless way he knots his ties, how the weight of whatever work-life imbalance might be destroying his soul from the inside out, but he’s still so handsome.
“Chan-ssi,” Minho says, eyes still closed, not moving from his spot in the alley. His voice sounds tired, even if there is a smile behind it. It makes Chan tuck his knees closer together, knows without a doubt his ears have flames smoking from the tips of them.
Chan freezes like he’s seen a ghost, never felt more exposed in his life—his eyebrows fly up, and he pivots to his left, to his right, unsure which direction he wants to head in—where was he going again?
“I can smell you from here,” Minho says again, this time opening his eyes and turning to look Chan dead in the eyes. He brings his cigarette back to his lips, taking a fresh drag and lifts his chin up, other hand coming out of his pocket to motion him forward. He tilts his head aways again, exhaling the smoke while speaking: “I promise I won’t bite.”
Chan would like that, very much, actually. Have him tear into his neck, clamp down on him and claim him.
The thought makes the back of Chan’s neck itch—all of his harmless fantasies about Minho outside of work in the safety of his apartment for the past four nights of the week couldn’t have prepared for the real-world consequences of running into this man outside of his coffee shop.
See: he pictured them innocently flirting, exchanging KakaoTalk, with Minho eventually asking him out on a date, and the date always ended in Minho ripping Chan’s clothes off and fucking him on the floor of his studio apartment.
Now is really not the time to be recounting these thoughts—
Instead, Chan inwardly curses his brain and stays speechless, reluctantly stepping into the alleyway and following Minho’s commands.
“Minho-ssi,” he bows politely, face heating up with embarrassment now that Minho has truly noticed him. He wonders what he smells like to Minho—wishes he could really understand what he smells like to others. He’s been told he smells like an alpha, more specifically briney juniper berries, cedar wood, and juicy, ripe figs.
“Are you just going to stare at me all night?”
“I—I’m—”
Minho flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette again and smirks. “So, you’re always like this.”
Chan rubs the tip of his drippy noise with the cuff of his hoodie, trying to maintain what semblance of composure he has left.
Minho sizes Chan up, eyes hovering up and down his figure—Chan feels so small in his oversized clothes, wishes the string in the hood of his sweatshirt could just tie around his neck and squeeze some sense back into him. He’s paralyzed by the exact reactions he’s been experiencing every day this week since Minho started making a habit of stopping into the cafe, and he hates it.
Chan’s tired, hungry, and only three blocks away from home, but instead he’s followed a lone alpha who’s basically a stranger into an alley while it’s pitch black outside.
“Nice to see you,” Chan tries, his hand squeezing into a fist. His fingers fidget with his thumb, the tips vaguely numb from the crisp night air. “Do you live in the area?”
Minho shakes his head. “Dragged out here by my colleagues. They insisted we go to this one barbecue place.” He points vaguely out of the alley before bringing the filter back to his lips for another drag.
“Mhmm,” Chan responds. “I’ve heard good things about it.”
There’s an awkward pause, an unspoken tension mounting between them. Or maybe it’s just Chan—his thighs are tensing, knees locked in place, praying to any god that will hear him that his asshole doesn’t start leaking like a faucet for five minutes.
“Your coffee’s delicious, by the way,” Minho says next. The kaleidoscope of butterflies roar around Chan’s belly at the compliment—it sounds earnest.
“Thank you,” Chan relaxes, ever so slightly, leaning his weight on one hip. “I—I’m glad you like it.”
And even in the shadows, Chan can see the slightest flush biting at the back of Minho’s neck. It’s at this moment Chan realizes Minho really is just trying to make friendly conversation. This is the most they’ve ever spoken to each other, no niceties required now that Minho isn’t a paying customer—they’re two acquaintances, if you could call it that.
“Listen,” Chan nervously rubs his hands together, trying to keep them warm. He really should shove them in his pockets, but the nervous energy has to go somewhere while he speaks. “It’s been nice seeing you this week—coming into the shop. It’s nice to have a familiar face, a repeat customer.”
“I’m sure you have many of those.”
Chan nods, maybe too eagerly, and swallows a lump down in his throat as he takes another sheepish step closer to Minho. The wind funnels through the alley, and his scent is stronger, punching Chan straight in his guts when he catches a gust of cinnamon, cigarette smoke be damned.
“We love making new ones.”
“Then I’ll make sure to keep coming in.” Minho throws his butt directly into the puddle and Chan watches the heat fizzle out instantly. He pushes off the wall, gives a polite bow, and goes to walk past him, but Chan steps in front of him to block his path.
“Minho-ssi,” Chan says, looking up at him, hands painting the words for him, drawing circles in the air as his brain detaches from his spinal cord. “I’m really happy you stopped by the cafe this week, but my god, you came during the worst week, and you’ve been driving me absolutely insane.”
He’s hovering five feet in the air watching all of this happen, unable to stop what keeps tumbling out of his mouth. He doesn’t know why he’s saying any of this—
“Your—your smell is crazy," Chan says, voice pitching a little bit higher as he begins his rant. "Like, I was leaving the convenience store half a block away and could clock you all the way over there. It’s like you’re permanently stuck in my nose, and I both love it and dread it.” He takes a shaking breath, almost dreading the words that come out next, but Minho needs to know just what he’s doing to Chan. “Do you know how many pairs of underwear I’ve ruined this week seeing you? I’ve had to start packing spares to get through the morning, and honestly, I can’t think too hard about whatever’s happening to me right now.”
Chan lets out a nervous laugh, knows his face must be entirely beet red. He’s watching his hands instead of Minho, knows if he focuses on anything other than the subject of this confessional, maybe it’ll feel less humiliating. He’s thankful the alley is half casted in shadow, so maybe Chan won’t see every detail of Minho’s face scrutinizing him. Watching his every move.
Somehow, his mouth keeps talking, like a car he can’t find the emergency break to pull.
“But all I know is I hope to God you didn’t understand a single thing I just said, and I hope I didn’t just lose a really nice customer all because I just told him he makes me so anxious my asshole can’t help but leak like a faucet at my fucking day job.”
It doesn’t end up feeling any less humiliating, and he shoves his loud hands into the pouch of his hoodie while looking up to Minho.
Minho’s tired eyes are wide open, expression blank as he blinks slowly, likely absorbing everything Chan just said. There are fine, minute movements on Minho’s face that Chan doesn’t want to worry himself analyzing, he just hopes that Minho speaks soon. Says anything to cut through the heavy silence sitting between them.
Chan recoils, adjusting the crossbody strap, the weight of his convenience store goods pressing into his back. His hunger has long since faded, instead a mixture of nervousness and energy strung like a tight wire sits in his gut.
“Oh, god,” Chan covers his face with a hand, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—whenever I get anxious, I just—” his hand is painting circles again, flying out of the pockets of his hoodie and taking on a mind of their own again, “I can’t shut up, and you’re just really—stupid hot—and I thought—just a silly thought—maybe there was something—” his finger draws straight lines between their bodies, tries not to notice the way his hand shakes, “You and I?”
Minho nods his head slowly, watching Chan like a wolf to a sheep separated from the herd. Chan is mortified, shame seeping hot down his spine.
Minho tucks his bottom lip between his teeth again, looks directly into Chan’s eyes, watches him squirm a little longer while Chan holds his breath.
“I make you wet?” he says to Chan, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth. He crowds Chan, the scent of cinnamon almost overwhelming in Chan’s nostrils. Even in the low light of the alley, he can see the interest growing in Minho’s eyes.
Chan swallows the large lump that formed in his throat. “Is—is that seriously all you heard me say—?”
Minho takes a fist full of Chan’s hoodie and drags him to the other side of the dumpster, pushing him against the wall with a pitiful oof falling from Chan’s lips. He’s finally gone non-verbal, Minho’s palm placed just above his shoulder. He takes a moment to study Chan again, his expression looking more amused by the second.
Chan’s breathing picks up when Minho leans in, rubbing the tip of his nose against the soft, sensitive scent gland behind Chan’s ear. This close, Chan can taste Minho—every gritty, gourmand note hitting the back of his throat, burning with the intensity of the ginger and cardamom, as if Minho took a fistful of Chan’s hair and pushed his face into freshly tilled earth full of morning dew. Chan’s swallowing it down with such greed it makes his knees wobble.
Minho takes in a deep inhale, the cold air tickling the side of Chan’s neck, his messenger bag curving his spine uncomfortably.
“You smell so good when you’re nervous,” Minho says, his words vibrating against Chan’s skin. He feels Minho’s calloused hands slide up his hips, pushing Chan’s hoodie up just enough to touch the burning, bare skin of his waist. “This is the best you’ve smelled all week.”
Chan whimpers, feels the slick start to soil his boxers—this time he opted for boxers to change into today. He wonders if Minho can smell the soiled pair in his bag, too, if this is what’s driving him to be even bolder with Chan now that he knows about Chan’s repeat incidents through each of their encounters this week. He wonders too, faintly, if he’ll start leaking down his own leg if Minho keeps him upright much longer.
“I can take care of you,” Minho says sweetly, clearly taunting and tempting Chan past the point of no return. His lips graze Chan’s jaw, his crooked front teeth teasing Chan.
Chan’s chest is burning, each breath labored, like he has to earn the next one—he’s never felt more turned on and frightened in his life. He’s fighting the urge to press his hips forward, into Minho’s crotch, to find some sort of relief for one of them. To coax Minho further into insanity, tip him just over the edge so he’ll do something to relieve the tension building hot in Chan’s core like a heartbeat. Steady, unending.
Minho pulls back, just far enough to look down into Chan’s eyes. They’re almost entirely black, hungry. He hears Minho unclick the buckle of his messenger bag, the weight falling to the ground with a soft thud of the alleyway pavement. His hand lingers over Chan’s chest, pressing his palm against Chan’s rabbiting heart. Chan feels it stutter for a second, spike accelerating under the warmth of it, out of lust, out of fear, out of anticipation and uncertainty.
“What kind of guy are you?” Minho asks. “Do you need a kiss first?”
A kiss would be nice. Yes, Chan would very much like to taste Minho on his lips—
Minho snickers, likely feeling another spike in Chan’s heartbeat.
“Do you need more foreplay? I bet you love foreplay,” Minho snarls, baring his teeth, likely losing himself in whatever fantasy is unfolding in his own mind. Chan wishes he could see what he’s thinking. “Teasing you is so fun, Chan-ssi.”
Chan can finally feel the excessive slick tickling down the back of his thighs. His skin is itching, like he wants to tear off the clothes to relieve him from the prickling heat simmering beneath it all.
Minho unbuttons the top of Chan’s jeans, tugs at the pull of his zipper, the sound of the parting teeth scratching at Chan’s ears. He goes cross eyed, watching Minho lick at the seam of his lips, jealous of Minho’s tongue—but not distracted enough to feel Minho’s cold fingertip slip under his hoodie again, this time tracing beneath the band of Chan’s boxers, down the curve of Chan’s ass, pulling them close.
They’re chest to chest, Chan’s labored breaths only getting more intense when he senses Minho’s quietly swelling cock press into his thigh beneath the layers of his perfectly tailored wool suit. Chan throws his hands back against the wall above his head, a moan spilling from his lips when he feels two of Minho’s fingers slip between the cleft of his cheeks, gathering his slick from his hole. He pulls Chan closer, bowing his back even more to slide them further down, teasing his taint, Chan pushing his knees out and rocking forward onto the balls of his feet.
Chan holds still, closes his eyes and loses himself to the feeling of Minho playing with his hole. Minho mumbles his fascination by the mess slipping down Chan’s thighs.
“Are you always this impolite?” Minho teases. “You’re quiet for a desperate omega.”
It doesn’t take much to snap Chan out of his reverie—eyes blinking back into focus.
“‘M not an omega,” Chan whines, petulant, insistent.
Minho lifts one of Chan’s legs to wrap around his hip, holds him steady and cocks his head to the side, a puzzled look etched into his forehead. The amount of slick Chan’s producing is betraying them both right this moment.
“Just a beta,” Chan clarifies, words coming out as a whisper as Minho sinks two fingers into his hole, no resistance.
“You sure about that?”
Chan nods, hums with assurance, presses his hips closer to Minho, using Minho’s sturdy frame and steady hold to grind against him. Chan’s pent up tension bursts, and he rushes forward to press his lips against Minho’s, his hands flying to cradle Minho’s face in both of his hands.
Minho gasps in surprise, frigging his fingers faster as Chan deepens the kiss. Tasting Minho is better than Chan could have ever imagined, every note hitting his senses and sending his mind into another dimension.
“Shut up,” Chan growls between kisses, scraping his fingernails against Minho’s scalp. His hair feels thick, heavy between Chan’s fingers. “Shut up and fuck me.”
Minho’s hand leaves him empty, miserable for a split second, until Minho bullies his sticky fingers between Chan’s lips. Chan bites down on them, the shock of his own slick coating his tongue—he can taste himself: sweet and tart like currants, overripe plums, peach blossoms. Minho presses down hard, the tips slipping further into Chan’s mouth, making him water, eyes welling up with tears as his mouth swells with spit around the intrusion.
“Impolite,” Minho says smiling. Minho tears his fingers out, shocking Chan into a cough as he tries to swallow down everything, strings of drool spilling out the corners of his mouth. He grabs Chan by the chin, pinching his lips between his thumb and forefinger. It makes Chan’s jaw ache. “The mouth on you.”
Minho leans down to lick the side of Chan’s neck, once again taking in everything Chan’s emitting from his scent gland, a wandering hand letting go of Chan’s thigh to tug his jeans and boxers over the swell of his ass. For a second, Minho’s teeth brush against the thumping pulse point just below Chan’s ear, and Chan shivers at the thrill of Minho breaking skin. The thought slips away just as quickly as Minho pulls back, the phantom of his breath tingling warm against his neck.
He turns Chan to face the wall, which causes Chan to immediately put his palms up, bracing himself with his forearms. He already misses Minho’s lips, would spend hours kissing him, tracing the tip of his tongue around every inch inside his mouth, mapping out every groove of his molars if given the chance.
Chan hears Minho unbuckle his belt, and he rests his forehead against the wall, looks down at his discarded messenger bag on the floor. He hopes nothing inside the bag spilled, briefly, until he feels Minho’s fingers tease at his hole again, and in an instant, all thoughts are wiped from his mind to a blank slate.
“Can’t believe you’re only a beta,” Minho marvels, the head of his cock pressing up and down between Chan’s slick cheeks. Chan watches some of it drip onto the pavement below, feels his own head spin. “Did you dream about this, Chan-ssi?”
Chan feels the head of his cock try to breach his hole, feels the back of his thighs start to shake as he tries to hold still.
Anyone could find them right now, out here in the open, report them to the police and just like that, Chan’s life is over—
As soon as Minho pushes through, Chan thinks the risk is worth it. He slaps a palm against the wall, pushing against the resistance to help Minho fit more of his girth inside. The ache of his palms scratching against unfinished brick mimics the ache he feels as he forms around Minho’s length.
The stretch is unlike anything he’s felt before—Chan’s only ever been with other betas. Most alphas or omegas never cared to pursue a beta, and God, his head is spinning. This is what omegas have been keeping from him this whole time? He feels delirious, riding a high like none other.
Minho pushes a hand to Chan’s lower back, maneuvering his body to submit and present exactly how he wants. The angle makes Chan yelp and rock on the balls and heels of his feet, the feeling more of an increased pressure than pain. It’s almost strange if it also didn’t feel so good.
Even for as fit as Chan is, he’s stretching muscles he didn’t even know his body had, and Minho’s only pulling him back faster and deeper on his cock. The sound of Minho pulling out and pushing his slick back in is obscene, the wet smacks of Minho’s hips against Chan’s ass echoes against the walls of the hollow alleyway.
Minho curls one hand around Chan’s hip, the other scruffing the back of Chan’s neck. It makes Chan yelp, unable to contain the chorus of moans spilling from his mouth with push and pull off Minho’s cock. Chan’s own cock swings heavy between his legs, dripping with arousal at a rate that should concern him—
“You’d love for me to make you an omega, wouldn’t you?” Minho teases, scruffing him harder. The scent of cardamom and ginger is overwhelming, so much and so close it makes Chan’s head spin. The grip Minho has on his neck makes the back of Chan’s eyes sting with tears—he’s never felt this mindless taking cock before. “You only know my name, and your body’s begging for my knot. Has been getting you ready for it all week.”
Chan’s vocabulary escapes him, reducing him to swear words of affirmations, fuck, fuck, fuck, and it only makes Minho bolder.
He pulls out of Chan and pushes him flat against the wall, hand hooking under the back of Chan’s thigh. Chan’s foot is freed from the confines of the pant leg, the other planted on the ground swallowed by the small pile of denim and cotton bunched around it. He shivers at the cool breeze that brushes against his leg, how it contrasts with Minho’s hands like fire all over him.
He feels hot all over, sweat dripping down his spine under his shirt. He wishes Minho could claw this off of him, strip him bare and sink his teeth into the side of his neck. Make him Minho’s bitch.
“You wanna be my bitch?” Minho’s voice is hot, shaky against Chan’s ear.
Chan wonders if he’s so far gone he’s back to saying anything again. He doesn’t know if anything other than desperate moans of agreement are coming out, so he nods, yes, tears falling down his face, cheek scraping against the unfinished bric, nails trying to claw their way through it.
Minho drives into him slower, like he’s torturing every string of want out of Chan, playing with him like a cat with a mouse.
“Make you my omega, hmm? Gonna fuck you until I can breed you.”
Chan can feel the swell of Minho’s knot pressing against his cheeks with every thrust, the heat slowly building between them. He wants it so bad, wants to know what it’d feel like, if it’d be even better than whatever he’s already giving him. An overwhelming, primal feeling of being claimed.
“Yes, Alpha,” Chan sobs. “Yes, yes, please.”
Claim me Chan thinks, yearning for Minho to use him like a chew toy, claw his chest open, rattle his heart around behind his ribs.
Minho kisses him, licks at the drool spilling from the corner of Chan’s mouth, the flat of his tongue collecting the trail of tears up the side of Chan’s face, his lips closing around Chan’s scent gland, making Chan’s toes curl. His thrusts start to become erratic, evident that Minho is just as worked up as Chan feels.
“Take me,” Chan begs, hoping to spur him on. “Breed me, Alpha.”
Minho groans, pushing as far as he can into Chan, his release flooding Chan, an uncomfortable pressure building in his gut. It’s so much—too much—and Chan cries out in frustration. Minho’s hand curls around Chan’s wrist, bringing it down to his own cock, urging him to pleasure himself.
“That’s it,” Minho says, fingers loosely wrapped around Chan’s eager movements as they stroke him to completion together. His voice is like a balm, a welcome distraction to the seemingly endless flow of cum pouring into him. “Gonna keep me in you for days, Chan-ssi? A souvenir?”
It’s enough to send Chan over the edge, painting the wall in front of him with his own cum. He spasms hard enough to push Minho out of his hole, an obscene gush of cum splattering onto the pavement.
It startles Chan, feels a bit of it paint the back of his calf.
Minho gently frees his hand from the back of Chan’s knee, helping him place himself upright safely as Chan catches his breath, forehead pressing into the cold brick. Chan feels the cool surface ground him, as he listens to the quiet ruffling of Minho adjusting his clothes behind him. Minho’s warm hand brushes against the skin on Chan’s ankle and he realizes, through the haze of post-orgasm, that Minho is helping Chan step back into his underwear and jeans.
Chan is flattered, even if he feels the most disgusting he’s felt in years—worse than a post-workout level of tacky, sweaty grime. He’s suddenly remembering they’re concealed next to a dumpster as Minho pulls his boxers and jeans up his wobbly legs, fastens Chan’s fly for him before gently patting at his tender belly.
Chan turns to slump against the wall, avoiding their puddle of fun dripping down the wall and between their feet. He watches Minho tuck himself into his trousers, bulge still blatantly noticeable, a streak of Chan’s cum staining the cuff of his pant leg. He can’t look Chan in the eyes—at least not right away. He looks bashful, almost. As if he can’t believe all the things he said to Chan tonight. He wonders if all alphas act like this, or if Minho really is an anomaly.
“Shame,” Minho points to the stain, as if Chan could miss it. “The dry cleaner isn’t going to like this.”
He shrugs, like it’s just a spot of water and not quickly drying goo on his perfectly tailored wool suit. He wonders what kind of work Minho does to not even care about staining his very expensive clothes.
“So,” Minho bends down to collect Chan’s bag, buckling the strap back together for him. “I’m sorry I tried to turn you into an omega.”
He’s earnest, the red flush on his neck clearly not from the comedown of his exertion, but likely an endless look of every dirty word he said five minutes ago turning over in his mind on a hamster wheel.
“Don’t be,” Chan takes the bag strap from Minho and adjusts it across his chest. He loves to see Minho’s surprised look. “We should try it again sometime.”
Chan shocks himself—though he’s been earnest all night, like Minho’s intoxicating scent is a potent truth serum he can’t resist.
Meanwhile, Minho can’t hide an expression to save his life—his eyebrows flying up, absorbing the implications. Incredible how shy he’s suddenly become in his post-nut clarity. His scent isn’t more subdued to Chan’s senses, but it definitely is milder in a way—sweeter than it’s been all week.
Minho looks down at the pavement, hands nervously smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.” Chan’s confused. The clientele that comes into the shop on the weekends is vastly different from the weekday crowds—usually more tourists and university students, making the pilgrimage to the cafe for Felix’s beloved weekend specialties.
Minho smiles. “Well, I’ve heard you sell good bagels.”
The swarm of butterflies flutters around in Chan’s belly with a new ferocity. He’s flirting with Chan.
“That we do.”
Minho cups the side of Chan’s face, thumb tracing the outline of his upper lip. Chan wants to swallow it down, savor one last taste of Minho from this moment.
“Then I’ll see Chan-ssi in the morning.”
Minho takes a step backward, hand slipping from Chan’s face. He doesn’t turn from him right away, his face illuminated by the golden glow of the lamppost. He looks more invigorated and awake than Chan’s seen him all week, the permanent exhaustion drained from his face with something else—satisfaction? Relief?
Minho gives a final, small wave before turning his back and walking into the night. Even with the achiness settling into Chan’s bones, he has something to look forward to in the morning.
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