cherry club 🍒 minsung

nine (TW: rape)

[ star-crossed lovers ]

Minho missed his cat. He missed the orange fur on his skirts and the whiffs of fresh citrus from the kitty litter, but that was it. He hated his bare walls and the empty fridge. He hated the cheap apartment buildings and loud neighbors.

Minho missed more being home than he did with Jisung. He missed the rapper's stupid "manly" cologne that stunk out the entire house. His platform converse that gave him the confidence of a six-foot man, his producing equipment lying on every surface in sight. He just really, really missed his Hannie. Maybe that was why he had a glass of neat tequila in his hands, and three more in his stomach. Maybe that was why his eyes were drooping, and giggles were uncontrollably spilling from his lips.

The man sitting in front of him was not Jisung. He was quite the opposite, in fact. While Jisung was smooth edges, soft hair, bashful smiles, and short-tempered, the man was rough, from the gelled wave in his hair to the shining soles of his Jordans. Truthfully, the young man was attractive, but he was not Jisung. Channing Tatum could plop into the chair next to Minho, and he would be uninterested, all because his heart longed for Jisung.

Minho sipped at his tequila, unwavering even when the liquid burned his throat. The man, Bomin, or something, poured him another glass with a smile that swooned everyone in proximity.

“What do you say you take me to the back rooms, sweetheart?" Bomin purred, stuffing a fifty dollar bill down the front of Minho’s unbuttoned shorts. “There’s so much more where that came from.” Bomin’s bulging pockets proved his words to be correct, and Minho hastily agreed. He was too far gone to see the look Felix gave him from the stage or the way Bomin adjusted the object in his pockets. Minho was too far gone to see anything other than Jisung's back as he walked from the club, the tears in his eyes when Minho begged him to stay one last time.

Minho giggled as he stumbled through the door leading to the back hallway, and Bomin grabbed his waist to keep him from toppling to the floor.

“What's so funny, kitty?” Bomin asked, and Minho laughed harder.

“I'm just so fucking sad,” he giggled. Bomin’s hands were warm on his waist, and if Minho closed his eyes he could pretend the palms and calloused fingers belonged to Jisung. Of course, Jisung never slipped his hands past Minho’s waistband to discard a twenty-dollar bill. And he never yelled when Minho stepped on his shoes. Damn, who was he kidding? Jisung was done with him. The only men who had any interest in him paid him for an hour of attention and left him alone the second they got their money's worth.

Bomin knocked on the door coated in cheap velvet and pulled Minho inside. He locked it behind him, and the tequila in Minho’s system made way for a short rush of adrenaline. Locked doors didn't always lead to disaster, Minho learned. But when a door was locked by a tenant, things tended to get messy.

“Can you unlock the door, please? I'm not comfortable with it locked," Minho asked, fighting against the bile rising in his throat. He didn't mean to get so drunk, but heartache often led to recklessness. Bomin laughed, loud and condescending, and tossed Minho’s limp body onto the bedsheets. The air was swept from his lungs upon impact, and paired with the alcohol numbing his senses, he was practically defenseless. Bomin descended upon him like an eagle, wings spread, and intentions deadly.

Minho kicked blindly with what little strength he had, but Bomin pinned his legs down easily. It wasn't until Bomin produced a pair of clunky metal handcuffs that Minho began to hyperventilate. He kicked, bit, scratched at Bomin’s arms, creating small red lines that disappeared in seconds.