Chapter Text
There are few things Jisung finds more satisfying than being a bother.
A timer ticking down to zero, men much too old for him, being allowed something he shouldn’t have. The few— though being a bother is perfectly nice as well.
He’d had himself nearly convinced that a perfect four was unattainable.
Last summer— bothering Jiwoong from accounting, twenty eight years his senior, until he bent him over and fucked him. Three out of four isn’t bad. But he was perfectly allowed Jiwoong. No pesky handbook rules about relations between colleagues, no power trips or inconveniences. Just the slow unwinding leading to a snap.
Fine. That’s the timer portion of it all, anyways. A self-imposed deadline, because he was never going to step foot in that building again after his internship ended. He had no interest in Jiwoong outside of his handful of days, ticking to zero.
Nearly convinced.
But he’s just been handed a new toy, in the form of a missed credit, last minute interview, offer— acceptance. A perfect four.
When Lee Minho lectures he talks with his hands. He waves them in the air, neglects his glasses as they slide down the bridge of his nose. His forehead creases, and he frowns as he listens to cold calls, no matter how well his victim is doing.
He’s forty five, a big deal in the world of international law, and Jisung loves a challenge.
The entire reason he’s here at all is because someone told him he couldn’t do it.
“I’m thinking about law school.”
“Don’t.”
Jisung has never taken well to being told no. He’s always taken well to school. This is no different.
A disease of high expectations. He’d have felt completely worthless if he didn’t get in. Didn’t get a scholarship. Didn’t stay near the top of the class. Consequence of his mother’s love, no doubt.
Regardless. He signed up for International Law because he heard the visiting professor was hot. He stayed because the visiting professor was hot. He did well because he’s just good at things like this, and now he’s been handed a new toy.
Professor Lee needs a summer research assistant. Someone to boss around as he finishes his paper— a requirement for his visiting tenure. He offered interviews to the top three grades in his class. Jisung excels in interviews.
“He’s gay. I know because Yu Jimin asked him once. She sat two rows in front of me, would online shop all class. Can’t blame her, but, if she was really interested in him maybe she should have been paying attention, I don’t know,” Jisung leans back, arms across his chest, feet kicked up on Jeongin’s metal cart, glass beakers rattling around.
If Jisung had a choice in the matter, he wouldn’t work at all. But his scholarship can only take him so far, and his parents are busy supporting their own habits. Shame. As if he’s not shirking his responsibilities right now in favor of hiding in the basement freezer. As if he didn’t take a job with the Department of Biology for the one of a kind opportunity to bother his best friend.
“You’re obsessed,” Jeongin frowns. His face might stick like that, given how often he does. He steadies his cart, continues corking his samples. “Isn’t he, like, old?”
“Forty five. He practiced for fifteen years. Been teaching for five.”
“Obsessed,” Jeongin repeats.
“Interested.”
Jeongin snorts. “Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” Jisung knows what he means, but he asks anyway.
“Reckless. He could get fired. Blacklisted. Career ruined.”
“Sorry,” Jisung laughs, a bit sour. He and Jeongin get snippy with each other where Jisung’s habits are concerned. Jeongin doesn’t get it. How could he? His parents love each other. “Aren’t you the one fucking your lab coordinator?”
“That’s not—” Jeongin’s frown deepens. He picks up his tray of beakers, slides it onto a rack. Lowers his voice, as if someone is going to walk in and find out his abysmally kept secret, “It’s not against the rules, Jisung.”
“That’s not the point, Jeongin.”
“What is?”
They’ve been over this a thousand times. Front to back. Up and down. A fundamental disagreement, neither of them willing to budge.
Jisung gives, just as he always does. Because he has an irrational fear that if he doesn’t say it now, then it’ll never come to fruition. Verbally knocking on wood.
“To be wanted.”
‧
Professor Lee’s lecture had over one hundred students in it.
Jisung showed up late on day one, got funneled to a spot in the back, assigned his fate. Office hours conflicted with another class. Jisung spoke to him once, to ask about a reading assignment. Anyone with practice in the area of acting on desire would know that opportunities to play the game are slim.
A formula, though Jisung has never been good at math. Office hours won’t do. Much too public. During the semester is hard, unless the class is small. Jisung only fucked one professor before; the day after finals grades came out, on the pretense of asking questions about what he missed (nothing).
Besides, Yu Jimin didn’t ask her burning question until much too late in the semester to act on anything. Jisung doesn’t work off of maybes. He’s smarter than that.
Knuckles on oak, light filtering out from the sliver the door is cracked.
“Come in.”
Jisung’s timer begins. Ticking to zero— ten weeks until Professor Lee goes away. Back to his own university, leaving Jisung behind, well-fucked and completely satiated, he can only hope.
“Hi,” Jisung smiles, hand on the knob. The law school is old. All carved wood and red brick. Light provided by lamps instead of fluorescents, the air smelling like browned pages and dust.
Professor Lee’s office is at the very end of the hall, on the top floor. Five stories up, stuck between a broom closet and dark rooms abandoned for the summer. Or should Jisung call him Minho?
“Jisung, please, sit down.”
He’s sitting at his desk, papers, books, piled high on each side. Much messier than it was two weeks ago when Jisung came for his interview.
Something Jisung noticed then— the structure of Minho’s nose. A straight line, a perfect curve. No pair of glasses was ever meant to stay firm on a nose like that. Sculptors that craft beauty like Minho’s never add glasses to the mix. They know better.
Jisung has the urge to pluck them off of his face.
He sits down instead.
Minho’s hair is peppered with silver, though the deep brown maintains a fair fight. His eyes are framed by soft lines, shadowed with dark circles. He pushes his glasses up his perfect nose.
“Thanks for coming,” he smiles, takes a deep breath.
“Thanks for having me,” Jisung smiles right back, squaring his shoulders. “I was so excited when I heard I’d got the position. I really enjoyed your class.”
“Ah,” Minho waves his hand. How humble. “Please. You impressed me in your interview, I think we’ll work well together.”
Jisung has the decency to blush a little. Look down at the desk, back up at Minho. “Me too.” He bites his bottom lip. Casual.
There’s a split second where Minho looks down. Jisung would bet his life on it. Whether it be a human instinct, following movement, or something else. It doesn’t matter. He looked.
“So,” Minho doesn’t flinch. He moves on, perfectly unaffected. “Let’s talk about where we’re at. Obviously we have a deadline, or— I have a deadline. You’re just along for the ride.”
Minho is gorgeous when he smiles. Pushes his glasses up his nose.
‧
Law professors are a special breed.
They’re either completely dull, completely off kilter, or overflowing with charisma.
Law necessarily attracts these things. People who think they’re right, or know they are. People’s people, but also unsettling cretin. A lot of people whose parents did it first, or people with too much money and too little awareness. Overall, people who care too much about one thing or another.
Jisung has Lee Minho figured out after one week of working with him. Three nights a week, six to ten.
Minho cares deeply for his work. His eyes lit up when he explained his project to Jisung, shuffling through papers and flipping through pages of casebooks.
International law, Minho says, is like a philosophical puzzle. Built off of nothing but accountability— the craving for order, security. Unattainable? Probably. But that’s what makes it so fascinating, Jisung. Can I call you Jisung?
Yes.
Minho is somewhere between type two and type three on Jisung’s scale of professors. He’s personable, dropped formalities in favor of ease almost immediately. He’s also unorganized, and eccentric, just enough that Jisung notices.
Not off kilter, but not completely charismatic either. Minho gets quiet when he’s focused, and it takes a while for his jaw to loosen afterwards. If Jisung didn’t push it, Minho would probably still be a bit awkward.
But Jisung is also the type of person law attracts. Persistent, and bothersome, with claws long enough to pick away at the outer layers of anyone he chooses.
“Can I call you Jisung?”
“Yes.”
One.
“Sorry, I ramble a lot. You can always tell me to be quiet— just say fuck off, Lee.”
“No, it’s nice. My mom always told me that I should find a profession where I get paid to talk.” He leaves off the part where she told him he’s not good for much else.
Two.
“God damn. I swear to god, sometimes Chris Bang drives me up the fucking wall. Shit. Sorry, I keep forgetting to maintain my professor persona around you. Summer fucks with my head. The heat.”
“I don’t mind. I’d rather things be casual. I’ve always felt comfortable here.”
Three.
Corona, chromosphere, photosphere. The first three layers of the sun. Jisung took a science class in undergrad, just for the hell of it.
One finger, shoved into a trifle, coming out painted with what he’s learned. With a wave, and a, “Have a good weekend.”
A returned smile, “You too, Jisung. Be safe, I’m just getting used to you being around.”
Four— convection zone.
He’s burning up.
Jisung cares too much about a lot of things. Law necessarily attracts that sort of person. He’d like to care too much about Lee Minho, too.
Ah. Maybe he already does.
‧
The end of Jisung’s pen is all chewed up.
Plastic cap, blue, one of the cheap ones he got out of a pack of twenty.
Feet propped up on the desk Minho set up for him in the corner of his office, laptop burning his thighs through his jeans. From here, Jisung gets a nice, three quarters angle of Minho’s face. The exact curve of his bottom lip, and the reflection of his screen on his glasses, and every strand of hair that falls more out of place with each frustrated run of his hand.
The night Jisung came here for the first time, Minho asked, “I can set you up in here, get maintenance to bring in another desk, in case you have questions as you work— or you can work alone in your carrell. Whichever you prefer.”
Jisung hates the library. He hates where his carrell is at, all the way in the corner, and the lights hum in a maddening way. “In here would be great,” a smile. “I’m a social creature.”
Pens are useless for what he’s doing. Reading through case law, adding notes to sections that may be important. But Jisung read something once— in one of those magazines that profits off of desperation— that drawing attention to your mouth is paramount.
His pen cap is all chewed up, and Minho lets out a long, harried sigh— his fourth of the hour, Jisung is counting.
He could get up, push Minho’s chair back, drop into his lap. Stress relief, he’d say. Minho would look at him with big, bright eyes, and Jisung would take off his glasses, lest they get in the way, tug on his tie just enough to leave him choked up. There would be a moment of thought. Minho deciding whether or not he should give in. But they always do.
Chai. That’s what Minho drinks every night. His cup steaming when Jisung walks in around six. The office smells of it too, usually. Heady, warm, comfortable. Jisung’s playground three nights a week. How lucky he is.
Minho would taste like chai, and his tongue would be hot, insistent.
Men like Minho don’t have insecurities in bed. Men like Jisung don’t either, though.
Jisung knows that whatever he gives is enough. Choking through a blowjob, drool running down his chin and tears in his eyes. His gag reflex is horrid, but he’s good with his tongue, and good at keeping his teeth out of the way. Not an insecurity, but a strength.
He quit masturbating, because it was ruining his sex drive. It made him less needy, less slutty. He likes being needy and slutty. He likes being able to cum twice. It makes his partners feel smart— makes Jisung feel smarter than them.
“I’m going to run downstairs to the vending machine, stretch my legs,” Minho announces, standing up.
“Can I come?” Jisung’s pen hits the desk, cap all shiny with spit.
Minho stretches his arms above his head. No slivers of skin to be found— his shirt is tucked in. “Sure.”
They walk down the hall side by side. Quiet, but not uncomfortable. Jisung refuses to allow it to be uncomfortable.
“You know, I feel a little cheated,” Jisung says, leaning against the wall next to the elevator bay. Minho pressed the button. The thing is so old it takes forever to get up to this floor.
“Oh yeah?” Minho raises his eyebrows a bit, following Jisung’s lead. The soft curve of his lips, a teasing smile. “Why’s that?”
The doors slide open, bell dinging. Jisung lets his smirk grow, rolls over the wall into the elevator. Minho presses the button to the basement.
“Because, everyone loves you. They’d rave about how cool you are, and how handsome. How you’d buy them lunch during office hours,” Jisung drops his head back, metal cold against his skull. “But I had a class at that time. So I could never come.”
“No reason to feel cheated,” Minho’s tongue pokes into his cheek. Perfectly amused. “You’ll get to see the worst of me all summer, I’m sure.”
“Hm,” Jisung pouts. “So much to make up for, Professor Lee.”
Minho laughs, the doors open. He holds his arm out for Jisung to exit first. “Well, you do know what being here means, right?”
Jisung throws a glance over his shoulder. “What?”
Footsteps slow, Jisung props himself up against the wall again. Vending machines rumbling lightly, neon glow cast over Minho’s face.
“That you’re my favorite student,” Minho teases, sarcastic lilt heavy in his tone. He throws a hand on top of the vending machine, uses his other to pull out his wallet. One handed, he flicks out his card, sticks it into the slot. Sexy.
Jisung so badly wants to prove him wrong. To change his statement from a rib to the truth.
“That’s what they all say,” he sighs instead. Playing the game. No sudden movements.
“And who’s your favorite professor?”
“Bang,” Jisung says, without hesitation. “He’s a good lecturer, and he’s hot.”
Minho’s jaw twitches. A minuscule, nearly imperceptible movement. The bottle of soda he called smacks against the bottom of the machine, breaking their attention.
“Touché,” Minho says eventually, grabbing his drink from the swinging door at the bottom.
‧
Jisung is always patient until he’s not.
A rubber band stretching further than it should, waiting for the recoil.
Week three. Fleeting touches of fingers passing back and forth papers. Smiles. Glances. None of it is enough. A clock ticking down to zero— Jisung hasn’t been nearly as bothersome as he should. Not by far.
His finger runs over the edge of the casebook sitting on his desk. The neon pink post-it sticking out of the top, waiting for the right opportunity. A question Jisung’s been sitting on for two days.
Patient.
“Professor Lee?”
“Mmm?” Minho’s glasses are sliding down his nose. He gets all serious when he’s focusing. Forgets to take care of himself. Just the little things.
“Can I ask a question about something?”
Minho straightens up. He takes a long breath, shakes the fog from his brain. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“I’ll come to you,” Jisung chirps.
He’s wearing short sleeves today. Minho has on one of his usual long-sleeved dress shirts. A shame. Jisung gets closer than he probably needs to, opens the book on Minho’s desk. His arm brushes against Minho’s sleeve, a bit scratchy. Minho doesn’t move. Jisung won’t either.
“It’s just this line,” he drops the volume of his voice, pointing out the part he’s highlighted. “I don’t really understand this from a logical perspective.”
“Hm,” Minho reads the passage, lips moving as he does. Soft breaths, an incomprehensible whisper. His body radiates warmth. Jisung wants to glue himself to Minho’s side, take all of it. He smells nice, too. Lavender and cedar woven into his cologne.
Jisung allows himself to bend. For his body to melt a bit. Just enough that it can be blamed on mindlessness. Just enough that his arm is flush to Minho’s.
“Right, well,” Minho clears his throat. He doesn’t look up, but his thumb flexes in the most maddening way. Jisung wants it on his tongue, pressing down until he gags. Minho’s hand holding his chin steady, telling him how well he’s done. Jisung knows, of course, but he loves being told. A consequence of no one’s love, no doubt. “— so, really, it’s more about trying to make logical sense of the nonsensical. I hate this Justice. His opinions are all like this.”
Selective caring. Jisung is good at that.
He missed most of Minho’s answer. It doesn’t matter. He never really cared to know, anyway. He cared to be near, and to feel, and to feed into his patience, just a bit.
“Thank you,” he says. “That’s what I was thinking, but it never hurts to ask.”
“Exactly,” Minho nods. His hair looks soft. “Any job you get walking out of here they’ll tell you the same. Asking is a good habit to get into.”
Jisung hums. When he drops his arms down to grab his book, he lets them fall too low, fingernails running over the back of Minho’s hand. “You smell insanely good, by the way.”
“I—” Minho stares after Jisung as he retreats to his desk. Dropping the book, abandoning it, because he never intended to continue on that line of thought anyway. Minho tries again, once Jisung is seated, cocking his head in question; “Thank you.”
“I wonder if they make a women’s version. I prefer sweeter scents on myself. A nice compliment,” Jisung twirls his finger into a lock of hair. It’s getting long, messy around his head. He pretends like he’s not paying attention. “But that one is perfect for you.”
Minho begins rolling up his sleeves.
Jisung smirks, the bottom half of his face hidden behind a stack of books. Just for himself. An ode to patience.
‧
Jisung lost his virginity the week he turned nineteen.
He’d just gotten to university. His friends— if they could even be called that— wanted to go to a party. Jisung went, but he didn’t stay.
On their way over he saw a pool hall, neon lights, smoking section out front packed with men his father’s age. He wanted something more than the frat member that was grabbing his ass, messily mouthing at his neck.
He got it. Laid out in the back of a stranger’s BMW.
Sanghoon. Married. Straight— as far as his wife knew— fifty years old. Jisung remembers, because he told himself he wouldn’t forget.
It was hard, and fast, and it hurt— but Jisung came with a rough hand around his cock, minutes after Sanghoon pulled out.
He walked back to his dorm afterwards, and showered.
The condom laid in the parking lot for a solid week afterwards. Jisung knows because he passed it every time he walked to class. He felt something close to pride each time. Every time he felt the soreness of the bruises left on his thighs.
Jisung looked Sanghoon up a couple years ago. Just to see. He ran the court records from the district, searched based on age.
Divorced, a year after he and Jisung fucked in the parking lot of the pool hall. Irreconcilable differences. A funny way to spell Jisung’s name, really.
“Don’t you have anyone to get home to?” Jisung asks, screen falling asleep. Idle too long as he cares too much.
Jisung knows Minho doesn’t have anyone to get home to. He’s been up and down Minho’s socials, searching for signs of monogamy.
“What, to my shitty rental above the laundromat?” Minho breathes out of his nose.
“Like, a partner,” Jisung corrects. “Kids, maybe.”
Minho laughs, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “God, no.”
Pen cap, a new one, not chewed, dragging along the line of Jisung’s bottom lip. Minho looks up through his brow. Looks down again when his eyes drift, naturally, towards Jisung’s mouth.
“Not one for that sort of thing?” Jisung presses, fiddling with his mouse to pretend to be distracted.
“Too busy.”
“Shame,” Jisung shakes his head the slightest bit. Clucks his tongue. “You should put yourself out there. I heard Professor Bang is single.”
“Did you?” Minho’s forehead creases.
“Well,” Jisung allows a smile to settle onto his face. “I asked him.”
Minho looks up then, face completely bored. Jisung knows better than to believe it. “Professor Bang isn’t my type.”
“What is?” Jisung leans forward, setting his elbow on the desk, his chin in his hand.
“Nosy,” Minho chides. “You shouldn’t be asking your professor that.”
“Curious,” Jisung corrects. “And that’s what’s great about law school— we’re all adults. I heard that Kim Minjeong and Professor Ha get lunch every week. They’re friends.”
Minho wars with himself. Jisung can see it. A spark behind his eyes, the twitch of his lips.
“Professor Bang is my type,” Jisung says. “Someone to throw me around a little, you know?”
A fire behind Minho’s eyes, the twitch of his jaw.
“But, then again. There’s heaps of men that don’t look outwardly muscular that are plenty strong, you know? The guy I lost my virginity to kind of looked like you. He was plenty strong.”
“That’s enough, Jisung.”
Scolded. Lightly. Jisung gets a little rush of adrenaline. The thrill of excitement, curling in his gut.
“Sorry,” he has the wherewithal to act a little ashamed.
It’s a test, really. Because this is the point where Minho should throw him out. Fire him. Tell him they can’t keep working together if he acts like that.
But Minho just looks up through his lashes, and asks, “Are you?”
“I think you know the answer, Professor Lee.”
‧
It’s raining. So impossibly hard that Jisung can feel the chill to the marrow in his bones.
“I’m so sorry,” he shucks off his jacket in the hallway, hair slightly damp under his hood. Minho stares at him, wide-eyed. “I got caught in the rain— I didn’t know how to let you know I’d be late. The bridge was flooded.”
Minho goes to speak, but the crack of thunder cuts him off, making both of them jump.
“Jesus, no worries,” he tries again in the aftermath. He stands, pulls open the cupboard next to his desk.
Jisung’s nerves are frayed. His shoes soaked. He stands, dripping on the floor.
“I don’t have any blankets, or, towels, I guess I never thought this an option.”
“It’s alright, I can go check the student lounge—”
“Will this do?” Minho shuts the door, a sweater in his hand. Shades of brown, woven, probably older than Jisung is.
He takes it, blooming from the inside out with greed. The feeling manifests in a smile, cheeks aching. “Yes, this is perfect, thank you.”
Jisung steps to his desk. He can feel Minho’s eyes heavy on him. He sets down the sweater, peels off his shirt without hesitating. Minho’s eyes shift— away— back— away— back. His throat bobs.
The sweater is too big for his frame. Soft. It smells like Minho’s cologne. Jisung curls his arms around himself, chews on his lip, meets Minho’s eyes. They’re already there, watching. Minho swallows again. Jisung’s greed manifests in a smile— again.
“Sorry, my shoulders were all wet. I hate the feeling of wet cotton on my skin.”
Minho pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “No, of course. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
“I’ll wash it before I return it.”
“Of course.” Minho sits, runs a hand through his hair. Laughs, subtly.
“What?”
Tongue, lips, swallowing again. “You look tiny wearing that.”
“Do not,” Jisung argues, holding his arms out to his sides. The sweater goes with him, hanging off of him, swaying. He probably looks tiny.
“You do,” Minho laughs more solidly, leaning back a bit.
Jisung rolls his eyes a bit, toes his shoes off. “Whatever,” he’s still smiling as he sits down. Opens his laptop.
He can still feel Minho’s eyes on him. Every once in a while. He can hear Minho’s harried sighs, and see the movement of Minho running his hand through his hair.
The clock ticks up. Seven to eight, and Minho is still restless.
“What are you thinking so loudly about,” Jisung gives.
Minho frowns, runs his hand through his hair once more. “Next time it rains, or if you need something,” he gets up, steps around the desk, drops something onto Jisung’s. “Text me. I can pick you up. You’ll catch a cold if you keep this up.”
“Okay,” Jisung’s skin is budding in every pore. He’s sprouting into something uncontrollable, untamed. Minho’s phone background is a cat. It opens to the contact page.
Han Jisung
He calls himself, because he’s impossibly greedy without recourse.
“I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” Minho takes his phone back, slips it into his pocket.
Jisung waits until he’s seated again before he speaks up. Until Minho takes a breath, and settles in.
“You never have to think that hard about this kind of thing with me, Professor Lee.”
Minho doesn’t look up. He swallows. “Jisung,” he sighs. Blinks. Still, doesn’t look. “With you, I think I do,” the words so quiet Jisung isn’t sure if he imagined them. Minho’s lips barely move, he doesn’t stray from staring at whatever he’s reading.
A manifestation of his greed— Jisung sinks further into his seat, hiding his smile behind his computer screen.
They linger later than they should. Ten turns to eleven. Every once in a while, Jisung feels Minho’s eyes.
It’s still raining. They’re both playing a game. They know that Minho should drive Jisung home. Neither of them want to leap.
Jisung’s phone rings. He and Minho jump— lightning, thunder— all of it at once.
“What?” Jisung doesn’t need to check the caller ID. No one calls him this late besides Jeongin.
“I’m here to pick you up.”
“You are?”
“Yes. Hyunjin’s here too. He won’t let me get my dick wet until I make sure you’re safe.”
“I don’t really feel like having sex tonight,” Jisung studies his nail beds. “I’ll watch, though.”
Minho’s chair creaks as he shifts.
“Can you just come down here?”
“Fine,” Jisung sighs. Hangs up.
He snaps his laptop shut, shoves his still damp shirt into his bag, toes on his shoes.
“My ride's here,” he says, and doesn’t miss the way Minho’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Don’t stay up too late, Professor Lee. You’ll get sick.”
Minho smiles softly. His hair is disheveled, circles beneath his eyes dark. “Thank you, Jisung.”
“Thank you—” Jisung returns, hands tucked into the sleeves of Minho’s sweater. “For everything. I’ll text you next time.”
“If there’s anything I can help with.”
“Ah, Professor Lee. We both know you don’t mean that.”
Minho’s hand catches his jaw, running along the line of it. Like he can’t decide if there’s anything else to say. The answer must be no.
“Goodnight, Jisung.”
‧
Jeongin’s headlights cut through the night. An eerie spotlight through the woods surrounding the law school.
Heavy drops smack against Jisung’s coat, feet splashing on the pavement. He yanks open the door, inside lights clicking on, revealing Jeongin in the drivers side with a lapful of Hyunjin. Both of them flushed, Jeongin’s neck painted with hickeys.
“What happened to waiting until I was safe?” Jisung rolls his eyes, slamming the front door and opening the back instead.
Hyunjin is already clambering back to his side when Jisung buckles, his cheeks red.
“Thought you’d take a while,” Jeongin mumbles, throwing the car in drive.
Jisung sighs, lets his head drop to the window. Forehead cold.
Jeongin’s hand lays securely on Hyunjin’s thigh. Thumb running back and forth over the curve of his knee. They talk, low, and the radio is loud enough that Jisung can’t hear what they’re saying.
They’re playing a game too. Wholly different from the one Jisung is. Skirting around admitting that they’re in love. That they’re exclusive. Of which they’re both.
“Do you see anyone else?” Jisung asked Jeongin a while ago.
Jeongin snorted. “No.”
“Does he?”
“I hope not.”
They’re both like that. Stable, and sane, and delaying the inevitable. Jisung hates them— or— the ugliest part of him does.
Car stopped in Hyunjin’s driveway. Jeongin looks into the back seat. “I’ll be right back.” Slams the door behind him.
Jisung ignores him, lifts himself into the warm passenger seat that Hyunjin’s left vacant.
A voyeur, Jisung can’t quit watching.
They jog through the rain holding hands, and once under the cover of the porch, Jeongin tugs Hyunjin in. One hand laid possessively on his hip, the other at his jaw, he kisses Hyunjin like they’re in a romance movie. Slow, and steady, and full of fire.
Hyunjin bows into him, arms thrown up to link around Jeongin’s neck. They’re a pretty sight. Jisung aches.
Foreheads tipped together, Jeongin says something, Hyunjin says something back. Both of them smile. Jisung can’t stop watching.
A stolen kiss, Hyunjin’s doing, pulling Jeongin back before he can escape.
Jeongin dips his head towards the ground on his way back to the car, hair falling messily in front of his face. It doesn’t matter. Jisung knows exactly the stupidly lovestruck smile he’s wearing.
He only looks away once Jeongin is back in the car.
“Sorry,” he says, doing a terrible job at hiding his grin.
“No you’re not,” Jisung pulls his legs to his chest.
Jeongin puts one hand on the gear shift, takes a deep breath. “No. I’m not.”
The car is quiet until they hit the main strip. Something about the power of the street lights makes Jisung eager to hurt.
“Why don’t you tell him?”
Jeongin flips on his turn signal, rolls his neck. “He knows.”
“He knows, and you know, so why don’t you do something about it?”
As Jisung sees it, Jeongin has no good excuse. Well adjusted. Handsome. Freakishly smart. He doesn’t need to see a therapist, and he doesn’t dread the holidays.
“Because,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m scared.”
“You’re scared,” Jisung repeats. Acid climbs up his throat.
“I’m scared,” Jeongin confirms. His voice goes a bit tight, “Because I know that this is it. That once I tell him, and he tells me, that we’re it for each other. And it’s fucking terrifying.”
There it is. The pain. A thoughtful description of a feeling Jisung is sure he’ll never be able to fully grasp. He swallows down the bile in his throat. He loves Jeongin. He’s just jealous.
“But, what about you? Your professor? You were with him, right?”
“Yeah.” Windshield wipers, tires through water, the harsh light of the streetlamps. “This is his sweater.”
“Fuck,” Jeongin’s smile pulls up at one side of his mouth.
Both of them are full of shit. They’ll pretend to be disappointed in each other all day, only to come back to this. Even if they lack a fundamental understanding of why the other does what they do.
Jisung hums. “I thought you were getting laid tonight?”
“No. Got laid earlier.”
“Obviously,” Jisung reaches over to prod at one of the bruises on Jeongin’s neck. He gets smacked. “Then why’d you tell me Hyunjin wanted me to be safe?”
“Don’t know,” Jeongin lies.
“You care for me.”
“I don’t,” Jeongin shakes his head. “Not at all.”
Jisung pulls out more of his seatbelt, just enough to lean across the console and lay a sloppy kiss on Jeongin’s cheek. “I care for you,” he sings.
“Eugh, get away from me,” Jeongin scowls through a laugh. “You smell like an old man.”
“Mmm, doesn’t it turn you on?”
“Absolutely not.”
Sometimes, Jisung wishes he were more like Jeongin.
‧
Comity; A principle or practice among political entities such as countries, states, or courts of different jurisdictions, whereby legislative, executive, and judicial acts are mutually recognized.
Jisung’s cursor blinks. His eyes fuzz. Brain goes static.
Comity; A principle or practice among political entities such as countries, states, or courts of different jurisdictions, whereby legislative, executive, and judicial acts are mutually recognized.
Minho is thinking too loud again. This time with no provocation. He told Jisung when he arrived that he has to focus today, get through a bit of writing. Asked Jisung to summarize a case involving economics. Fucking comity.
Comity; A principle or practice among political entities such as countries, states, or courts of different jurisdictions, whereby legislative, executive, and judicial acts are mutually recognized.
The wikipedia logo taunts Jisung. A missing puzzle piece.
“I’m not getting anything done,” Minho speaks, pulling Jisung from his comity spiral. “Are you?”
“I’ve been reading the wikipedia definition of comity for the past fifteen minutes,” Jisung admits.
Minho nods. “Let’s blame the stars— the moon— what have you.” Minho licks his lips, stares into space for a moment. “You can go home. I think I will too.”
“I don’t— no one can pick me up for an hour.”
Game on. Jisung is lying through his teeth, testing the waters. He always walks. Always. Jeongin only picked him up once, because of the storm. But Minho doesn’t need to know that.
Minho is thinking too loud, and warring with himself, as he tends to do when Jisung asks him for more, and he’s running a hand through his hair, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“I can drive you home. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Jisung smiles, as sweet as he’s capable.
Minho drives a Subaru.
Jisung shouldn’t find that hot. He does anyway.
Air conditioning on, Minho’s phone connects automatically, playing the sort of music Jisung only hears at back alley dive bars.
He made fun of Minho for his music taste once, when he walked in on Minho nodding his head with the beat, stereo cranked up. He almost fell over when Jisung walked in— didn’t hear him coming.
“What the fuck kind of playlist is this?”
Minho grinned, and turned his music down. “The kind your dad probably listens to.”
“Professor Lee,” Jisung scoffed. “My dad is much older than you.”
A lie. Jisung’s dad is ten years older than Minho. Jisung knows, he keeps up.
“Professor Lee?” He sighs now, Minho turning his key in the ignition. He rolls his skull back against the headrest.
“You can call me Minho when we’re not at work, Jisung.”
“Minho,” Jisung tries again. He watches as Minho’s fingers tighten on the wheel, the smallest movement. “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to take me to a convenience store? I didn’t eat dinner.”
Minho looks over at him, his face a bit too knowing for whatever part he’s about to play, Jisung is sure.
“Only because I need gas.”
Jisung grins. Draws out his words a bit, cute, “Thank you.”
There’s a gas station around the corner from the law school, but Minho goes to the one a bit out of town.
Precautionary, maybe. Just in case. As if anyone seeing Jisung climb into his car at the law school isn’t more damning.
“Be right back,” he promises, leaving Minho at the pump.
The bell above the door dings, the girl behind the counter looks bored. Jisung nods, polite as he can with anticipation running through his skin.
He’s useless. Anticipating nothing. A touch, maybe, if he’s lucky. That’s how the game goes, though. It makes him unbearably excited for things that are commonplace to most of the population.
The freezer in the back corner of the store buzzes with electricity. Jisung is hit in the face with a wash of icy air when he opens the case, peeks inside. Anything will do, so long as it’s the right shape.
He ate dinner before he left for work. He and Jeongin went to the dumpling place across the way from the bio building.
Jisung picks up the longest popsicle in the case. He has no idea what flavor it’ll be, he doesn’t check. He can feel the stick through the plastic, frost already melting onto his palms.
“Just this?” the girl at the counter asks, still bored.
“Yep. Trying to send a signal, you know?”
She blinks, jabs her finger into the button that shows his total on the display. “No, I really don’t.”
“Well,” Jisung slides bills across the counter. She doesn’t quit staring as she counts his change. “Thanks anyway. I hope you have some fun soon too.”
There’s a skip in his step when he throws himself through the doors. The bell rings. Plastic wrap done away with at the first can. Minho is just hanging the pump back into the holder. He leans forward, opens Jisung’s door for him on his approach. His eyes find the popsicle, already teasing against Jisung’s bottom lip, nice and cold. Wet.
He turns around, makes for his side of the car, leaving Jisung to buckle himself in, smile unfettered.
Jisung runs his tongue around the top of his popsicle. A slow twirl. Minho looks at him once more when he gets in, starts the car. He makes a tiny noise that Jisung can’t decipher.
He doesn’t ask for Jisung’s address, and he doesn’t leave the parking lot. He pulls into a spot at the back corner, out of the harsh shine of the lights. Throws it in park.
“What are you doing?” Jisung goes through every scenario in his head— no matter how unlikely.
It all starts and ends with parking lots in his head. Sanghoon fucked him up.
Minho picks a speck of dust off his pants, lays an elbow on his windowsill, head resting in his hand. “I can’t drive while you eat that, you’ll choke.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Of course you don’t, Jisung.” Minho is only a man.
Jisung forgets sometimes. All the chase and none of the fuel. He forgets sometimes— and it only makes moments like these sweeter.
Popsicle slipping back, back, to the place where his tongue meets his throat. He pushes himself, just enough to make his eyes water. Pulls off with a slick pop. And Minho watches it all. Every movement. Even as Jisung licks up his mess afterwards.
Pineapple. That’s the flavor. The ice is light yellow, but in the dark it’s all the same.
Minho swallows. He brings one hand to his throat, rubbing the skin. From this close, Jisung can see the faint shadow of stubble. He wants Minho to burn his thighs. Make it hard for him to walk.
He gags the next time.
One tear slips from his eye.
“Oops,” he says, voice rough.
Minho’s hand retreats from his neck, leaving his skin bright red in its wake. Watching. Jisung wonders if he feels like a voyeur.
“What happened to dinner?” Minho’s voice is perfectly level. “That won’t fill you up.”
“No,” Jisung agrees, dropping his popsicle on his bottom lip, twirling it in a circle, back again. “But I’m hoping it’ll hold me over.”
“Is that right?”
“Mhm.” Jisung doesn’t gag the next time. He hollows his cheeks just so, sucks the flavor off the top layer of ice. Minho watches. Of course he does. Jisung’s skin is cracking through with tendrils of flame. A crawl, gooseflesh in the wake of a nasty fire.
It’s not just because of the air conditioning, or the popsicle. No. It’s so much more than that.
It’s the way Minho’s tongue is moving in his mouth, evidenced by the shift of his jaw. And the subtle growth of his pupils. The heat Jisung knows is building in Minho’s lap. Jisung can see it all happening, and it’s setting him aflame, air conditioning be damned..
“Who drove you home last time? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?” Minho finally looks away. Too much. He’ll probably refuse to meet Jisung’s eye again until the end of this tangent. As important it may be.
“Best friend,” Jisung’s lips twitch. Minho is so goddamn obvious it’s driving him insane.
“Oh. I just thought—”
“Because of the comment about sex,” Jisung sighs. “Yeah. That’s just how we tease. He’s fucking his lab coordinator. In love with him too.”
Minho nods. “Ah.”
“I haven’t had a boyfriend in ages. Any advice from the wiser?”
A small scoff. A wary glance. “Just be yourself, Jisung. Men like that.”
“Do they?” Jisung cocks his head. His popsicle is dwindling. Shame. He should have bought two. The second would be half melted, all wet and messy, dripping all over his fingers. “Or, do you?”
Minho’s eyes drift back, Jisung dragging his teeth along the stick, all finished. “Sure,” Minho says.
“Well, I’m good at that,” Jisung rolls down the window just enough to flick the stick out. He sticks his two longest fingers into his mouth, sucks them clean, eyes steady on Minho the entire time.
“You sure are,” Minho coughs. Clears his throat. “Put in your address. I’m taking you home.”
“Thank you, Minho,” Jisung hums, completely satisfied. He leans forward, starts typing into Minho’s mounted phone with his still vaguely sticky finger.
Something to remember him by when Minho goes home and gets off.
‧
The law library is housed in the oldest part of the law school.
A reading room on the ground level, with arching ceilings and long, lamp-lined tables. The portion they show on tours. Marketable. But everything else is in the basement.
Carrells on sub-level one, stacks on two to four.
The international law section is shoved to the very bottom, in the corner, where half of the overhead lights are burnt out.
It smells dank, and damp, and Jisung has always thought that it would be the perfect crime to kill someone down here. The security cameras only cover the elevators.
Wooden shelves, deep red carpet, low lighting. Jisung can find almost anything sexy if Minho is near.
He’s been wearing his cologne more often lately. Since Jisung complimented him. Jisung has noticed.
A list of titles clutched in one hand, Minho squints at a row about eye level. His crows feet deepen, and his forehead shows worry lines, and Jisung finds that sexy too.
Pads of his fingers running along spines of books. Jisung idles nearby. He had no reason to come, but Minho didn’t stop him. Minho never does. So he idles, feeling the ridges on a casebook from the eighties. Rough, inlaid letters, corners worn dull.
“What were you like when you were in law school?” Jisung wants to touch Minho instead. The rough line of his knuckles, the bone of his wrist.
Minho laughs softly. “Annoying, probably. A bit full of myself.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do you not?” Minho’s smile gives him away. A subtle thing, but completely legible to Jisung.
Jisung shakes his head. “I bet you were popular. Likable.”
“Well, those things aren’t mutually exclusive, are they?”
“No. But is it really full of yourself if it’s true?”
Minho shakes his head a tiny bit, amused. Jisung wants to taste him.
“Did you get around? Break any hearts?”
“A few,” Minho continues scanning the row, turning around to check the other side. “But I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
Jisung follows suit, flipping so his back is to the shelf. “I’m not sure I do. I’m not as likable as you.”
“You’re right,” Minho takes a long breath, lets it out through his nose. Jisung presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, waiting to be given something. “You’re fucking dangerous is what you are.”
A bright, unbridled smile breaks across Jisung’s face. He’s sure his eyes are sparkling like he’s just won the prize. And he has— in some fashion.
Minho looks over at him for just a moment. “Tsk,” he fails to hide a smirk. “This is what I’m talking about.”
He starts walking further down the row, Jisung on his heels like a puppy. That’s all he is where Minho is concerned.
“Would we have been friends?” Jisung asks, settling so their arms are flush, shoes lined up like they’re on a mat instead of feet.
“No,” Minho shakes his head, reaches out and pulls down a casebook. “Absolutely not.”
“Would you have broken my heart?”
Minho flips a page. Another. “You might have broken mine.”
“You’re right,” Jisung moves, shoves his hand into Minho’s front pocket, grabbing the list he’s tucked there. Minho lets out a sharp breath, mouth in a flat line. He snaps the book shut, puts it back. Jisung isn’t convinced there was anything worthwhile in it in the first place. “I’m much into older men, anyway.”
“Not good for you,” Minho takes the list right back.
“I don’t care,” Jisung taps him on the shoulder to emphasize each word. “Ah, I think this is the one we’re looking for.”
He takes a step forward, aligning himself right in front of Minho, and bends at the waist. Too fast. He gets a bit of a head rush— wobbles backwards a bit, ass grinding into Minho’s hips. Warm hands meet his sides, holding him steady. Jisung has to bite back a moan. He allows his weight to fall back further into Minho’s heat. An overwhelming sort of thing— being held like this.
“There it is,” he murmurs, grabbing the book he’d been eyeing from the shelf.
He makes sure to stay close when he stands. Turns within the circle of Minho’s hands, their stomachs brushing when he comes to a rest.
Minho’s jaw is clenched, pupils darker than they have any right to be. Jisung holds up the book between them, smiles sweetly. “Here’s the one at the top of the list, Professor Lee.”
Thumbs, digging into Jisung’s hip bones. They make one, quick circle, a tiny squeeze, before Minho uses his grip to push Jisung backwards. Back hitting the shelf across the aisle with a little huff.
“Thank you, Mr. Han,” Minho says, taking the book from his hands.
“Anything,” Jisung steps forward once again. He weaves his hands in front of himself so that he’s not tempted to lay one on Minho’s chest. “You know I’d do anything, right?”
Minho’s next breath is shaky. Steadying. “I’m— aware.”
“Good,” Jisung nods. He lets Minho sidestep his gaze. Move on to the next item on the list. “As long as you know.”
‧
The reading room is thought to be haunted. Old— at one point it was a cathedral, or something like that. Chandeliers, stained glass, horrible noises every time the wind hits an external wall.
No one is here at midnight in the middle of summer.
Jisung keeps staying later. Their time is half up. Running down the clock, they have a due date. Jisung couldn’t care less about that— he stays later so Minho will drive him home.
And he does. Every night, now.
Sometimes they’ll talk for longer than they’re meant to. Parked in the lot of Jisung’s shitty apartment building, lost in a discussion about some case they went over, or a principle Jisung disagrees with.
It’s fascinating, really, how Jisung doesn’t get bored with it. He’s never wanted anyone that he could talk to. A low level need on his hierarchy. Intellectual stimulation? Jisung gets that himself. But Minho— it’s different.
The thing is, Jisung doesn’t care much for law. He’s got no feelings about it one way or the other, but he’s doing it, so that’s how it is. He thought about dropping out, but then Minho offered him this position, so he figured he’d stick around for the last of it.
But, they talk. And Minho looks so hot when he’s focused— when his eyes light up, and his teeth show, smiling unabashedly at a heated discussion on the right to war.
Jisung has the unsuitable urge to pull out every bit Minho has to offer. To unlace him and learn each part of his whole, and sew himself into the space between.
He’s not there yet. But he and Minho talk more than they need to, and it’s fucking with his head a bit.
The reading room is thought to be haunted.
Red carpet, stained glass, one lamp switched on, in the middle of the room.
Jisung on one side of the long, mahogany table, Minho on the other. The stack of books they procured yesterday thrown around them. One side for the ones they’ve looked through, one side for those they haven’t.
“They say this place is haunted,” Jisung wiggles out of his shoes.
Minho doesn’t look up, engrossed in whatever case he’s reading. “Do they?” A page.
“Mhm,” Jisung stretches out his leg. He’s got a book open too, but he’s not reading it. He’s taking a break. Minho doesn’t seem surprised when one socked foot meets his shin. A page.
“Read your case book, Jisung,” Minho murmurs, running a hand through his hair.
Jisung smiles. He picks up his pen and sticks the end in his mouth to chew on. “I am.”
“Good.” A page.
Slowly, Jisung wraps his foot around Minho’s ankle. Hooked behind his calf, carefully moving upwards. He chews his pen— A page— brings his leg back down again. A gentle movement. Up and down, up and down.
A page.
Jisung moves onto the next case. He’ll have to go back to the last. He doesn’t mind.
He runs his foot up Minho’s shin next. All the way up to his knee. Minho looks at him. A quick, meaningless thing. A challenge— Jisung will take it as.
Pointed toes, Jisung never danced, he slides his foot up Minho’s thigh. Chin in his hand, he smiles behind his fingers when Minho releases a deep exhale, lets his knees fall further apart.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
A page.
Minho’s legs are relaxed, but Jisung knows they’re muscular. He can feel it. He can see it whenever Minho wears tighter pants.
He’s guessing Minho has a big cock. An educated assumption based on the way Minho carries himself. How his slacks fit. Jisung is good at these things. He’s almost never wrong.
Still, it doesn’t hurt to check.
A page.
Jisung presses up further, the ball of his foot settles right where he wants it. Hot, dead center. Just before he can apply pressure, Minho’s fingers wrap around his ankle, pulling him away.
Bottom lip pushing out, brows knitting together, Jisung pouts.
He doesn’t even get a chance to whine before Minho’s thumb is rolling over the ball of his ankle, head shaking back and forth, back and forth. “Be good,” he says, dropping Jisung’s foot back on the floor.
“I am good,” Jisung returns, voice half a tone away from petulant.
“No,” Minho looks at him, very sternly. Jisung’s stomach explodes into butterflies. Arousal swirling below his navel. “You’re not. You’re teasing to get what you want.”
“I don’t know how else to get it.”
“We can’t always get what we want, Jisung.”
Jisung crosses his arms. He sits back. His voice is certainly petulant now. “I can.”
“Is this really what you call being good?” One brow lifted. Another challenge.
“I don’t like being told no.”
“You’re not being told no. You’re being told to be good.”
Jisung runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Narrows his eyes. “I should call Jeongin. He can pick me up.”
“Jisung,” Minho warns. “This isn’t as simple as you think it is.”
“I don’t think it’s simple, I think it’s easy.”
Minho studies him. Every square of his face. Eyes, nose, cheeks, lingering on his lips. He pushes his glasses up his nose. Exhales.
“I’ll drive you home, Jisung.”
Jisung maintains his attitude, nose in the air, for the entire duration of packing up, gathering their things.
He doesn’t put his shoes back on. He lets them dangle from his fingertips, a visual representation of what Minho missed.
On their way through the door, Minho lays his hand flat on the small of Jisung’s back.
When they get in the car, his thigh.
Minho doesn’t look over. He just keeps his left hand on the wheel, and his right burning into Jisung’s flesh. His thumb runs over the line of muscle on the outside, fingertips squeezing the soft inside.
“There’s cameras in the library,” Minho says, when they’re halfway home. Neither of them has spoken since Minho told Jisung he’d drive him home.
A fine enough observation, though Jisung doesn’t think that’s really what’s happening. “Okay.”
Minho licks over his bottom lip. Takes a long, drawn breath. “You’re a smart man, Jisung. Too smart for your own good.”
“And yours.”
“And mine,” Minho agrees, easily. Warring with himself. Jisung can see it.
“Jus ad bellum,” Jisung parts his knees a bit further. Smiles when Minho’s hand creeps a bit further up. “Just cause. Last resort. Proper authority. Right intention. Reasonable chance of success. Ends proportional to the means.”
Minho sucks his teeth. Squeezes Jisung’s leg. Maddeningly close to his cock. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“You’re such a good teacher, Professor Lee. I just want to continue to learn.”
The car comes to a slow stop. Back in Jisung’s apartment lot. Minho doesn’t quit touching him, he just keeps his foot on the brake.
“Goodnight, Jisung. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Doors unlocked. One fleeting squeeze, and Minho’s hand is gone. Jisung frowns. He picks up his shoes, his bag. Closes the door behind him.
Minho always waits for him to get inside. Today he bends over, knocks on the window. Ducks in when Minho provides him access.
“Just think about it, Minho.”
“Oh, I do,” Minho doesn’t miss a beat. “I think you know I do.”
‧
Jisung is restless.
All day.
He went to work in the morning, bothered Jeongin until Jeongin stopped responding, blocking him out with headphones. Bothered Hyunjin right afterwards, because he could.
It’s always like this right before the fall.
Five weeks in. Clock ticking down. Fifteen days left. Fifteen run up.
He’s been thinking about the law of war. Because he seems to dream in shades of international statute lately. Long words that make no sense, so many that do. All of it made up, until it’s not. He likes international law. Or, he just likes Minho.
He doesn’t dwell.
The right of war; jus ad bellum.
Just cause; Jisung wants. Last resort; Five weeks, ticking down. Proper authority; Jisung wants. Right intention; Jisung wants. Reasonable chance of success; Minho wants just as much as Jisung does. Ends proportional to the means; self explanatory.
Minho is wearing slacks today. A long sleeved button up that’s rolled up his arms. His glasses are falling down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is pushed out of his face.
Jisung is wearing Minho’s sweater today, because he’s an inconsolable whore.
He never washed it. Never planned to. He doesn’t have anything underneath it, and he wore shorts. Shorts that barely peek out below the hem of the sweater.
When Jisung walked into Minho’s office tonight, he said, “Hi. You look nice.”
And Minho returned a slightly flustered, “You— you too, Jisung. Cute.”
He shuffled his papers around his desk afterwards— took a minute to gather himself. He probably prepared himself to face Jisung, but not like this.
The tension in the elevator to the basement is palpable.
A long beep, signaling each floor.
Beep.
Jisung stares.
Beep.
Minho doesn’t. He looks away.
Beep.
Jisung sighs. Lets his head drop to his shoulder.
Beep.
Doors open. Minho’s hand finds the small of his back as they exit, but it drops away as soon as Jisung’s feet hit red carpet.
“After you,” Jisung motions for Minho to lead.
In the very back corner. Minho taps his finger on the wooden shelf, searching for something.
“Why are we down here?” Jisung asks. Fingertips dragging along a row of spines. Rough, a bit ticklish.
“You’re the one who followed me,” Minho says, under his breath.
“I think you wanted me to come,” Jisung stops, leaning back against the shelf behind Minho. Studying the soft curve of his shoulders. The hair at the nape of his neck.
“I’m always happy to spend time with you, Jisung. You’re my favorite student.”
“Mmm,” Jisung hums.
It doesn’t take much. One well placed shove. A book tumbling off of its resting place in the aisle behind them.
Minho jumps, swears, and when he turns around he and Jisung are chest to chest, both breathing heavier than they should be.
“Jisung,” Minho whispers, like a prayer.
Jisung answers in kind, “Professor Lee.”
Minho’s eyes close, feather light. When they open again his eyes are dark, hungry. There’s a spark, and a flame, and Jisung knows he’s won. Minho leans closer. Until Jisung’s back is flush with the shelf. Cold metal digging into his shoulder blades.
“Minho.”
Rough knuckles. Only a slight pause when their fingers tangle together. A loose hold, though it’s just as meaningful.
“We can’t,” Minho murmurs, close enough that Jisung can feel his breath. He looks down at Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung licks his lips, tips his chin up, just slightly. An offering. “We can.”
“We shouldn’t,” Minho corrects.
“Minho,” Jisung repeats, softer. Just the ghost of an idea. A temptation.
Another, “We shouldn’t.” Less water. Jisung knows he’s won.
Minho kisses him.
Everything but soft. Everything but gentle. Minho kisses him like he’s starved. Nails digging into the backs of Jisung’s hands, mouth bruising, persistent. Minho brings a hand up only to pull off his glasses on a breath, tossing them uncaringly to the floor.
Jisung groans. He never wanted Minho to be soft with him. Nor gentle. He just wanted Minho to take what’s his to have.
Each move of Jisung’s jaw is accounted for, encroached upon. Every degree he offers is consumed, asked for more.
He sucks on Minho’s bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of it. He’s rewarded with a moan of Minho’s own, a hand at his hip, pressing him harshly into the shelf, another twisting into his hair.
Chai. Minho tastes like chai. Jisung opens up, back arched into Minho’s core, hands needily clawing up his chest.
Their tongues slide together. Minho takes his time just then. Switches his pace from desperate to painstaking. Like he’s unwilling to remove himself from inside of Jisung’s being. Sloppy. Wet. Jisung’s head spins. Satisfaction off the heels of a win.
He flattens his palms against Minho’s chest, shoves. Until Minho’s back is against rough spines and wooden shelves.
Their lips split, a string of spit connecting them. Jisung dives in to lick it away, tongue catching the corner of Minho’s mouth.
“Christ,” Minho grits. His hair is all fucked up, lips bitten red.
Jisung wastes no time dropping to his knees. He looks up through his lashes as he fumbles with Minho’s belt. His zipper.
Minho’s chest, rising and falling rapidly.
“I need to,” Jisung says, when he’s finally got Minho’s pants undone enough to see the growing bulge in his briefs. “I need to, Minho. Can I?”
One hand catches Jisung’s chin. Fingers curling around it, forcing his head further upward. Minho’s thumb teases at Jisung’s bottom lip.
Jisung’s jaw opens. Pavlovian. He whines when Minho presses the pad of his thumb on the center of his tongue, lips latching on instinctively.
“You’re unbelievable,” Minho says. “So desperate.”
“Mmnnngh,” Jisung hums an agreement. Complains in the same way when Minho removes his thumb. He shifts on his legs. Cock half hard in his shorts. He can cum like this. He knows. As soon as he chokes on Minho’s dick, he’ll cum.
“Go ahead,” Minho orders, hand moving to the back of Jisung’s head. A light grip in his hair.
Jisung eagerly dips forward. His fingers pull Minho’s fly out of the way, mouth finding the head of his dick. Wet. He wills more spit onto his tongue, soaking through the cotton of Minho’s underwear, tongue teasing at the fabric.
Minho hisses. His hand tightens. Jisung smiles, nose buried in Minho’s musky warmth. The taste of him already bleeding through to his tongue.
He slides his hands up Minho’s thighs, dips his fingers below the band of his briefs, pulls him free. Minho’s eyes threaten to roll back. He tugs at Jisung’s hair, forcing Jisung’s smile upwards, and a mewl from his throat.
“Look at me while I make you cum, okay?” Jisung asks. “I want you to see what you do to me.”
Jisung’s hand works Minho full, just the last bit. Minho’s free hand grips the edge of a shelf, knuckles white. Jisung giggles, he opens his mouth, unrolls his tongue, spit already sliding towards the tip.
Minho’s cock is big. As expected.
Big, and pretty, and flushed, leaking over at the head.
Jisung licks up the vein running along the bottom. Moans, unashamedly, when Minho holds him tighter. It’s getting painful. Jisung loves it.
He takes Minho onto his tongue, eyes already filling with tears in mere anticipation.
Hand working at his shaft, Jisung opens as far as he can. His other hand finds his own cock, palming himself through his shorts— Minho’s sweater.
Jaw aching, he takes Minho further, bobs his head to work up to the fill.
This has to be the biggest he’s ever taken. Lips strained from the stretch. He looks at Minho the whole time. Even when the head hits the back of his throat, and Jisung gags. He forces himself to look. To keep his eyes open, tears dripping at the corners.
Choking through a blowjob, drool running down his chin and tears in his eyes. His gag reflex is horrid, but he’s good with his tongue, and good at keeping his teeth out of the way. And Minho likes it.
Of course he does.
Minho pulls, and Jisung moans, vibration running over his tongue, his hips rutting pathetically forward into his own hand. He gags again, and again, working Minho further into his throat each time, until he can feel it constricting around his intrusion, Minho’s hand so tight that his scalp screams.
Once more, and Jisung pulls off, gasping for air. Minho brings a hand to his cheek, wipes away his tears. It’s so sweet. So unnecessary. Jisung is just going to get them wet again.
“Am I doing good, Professor?” his voice wobbles, sore.
Minho is barely holding it together. His cock twitches in Jisung’s hand. “You’re doing perfectly, Jisung. You’re incredible.”
“Your best student,” Jisung smiles, all teeth. He can feel the spit on his chin, and the tears on his cheeks, making his eyelashes stick together. He hopes Minho thinks he looks pretty.
“My best,” Minho chokes on the rest of his sentence, Jisung taking him as far as he can again.
His eyes go spotty when he chokes around Minho this time. It’s so much. All of it. The carpet under his knees, and the hand around his own erection, and Minho leaking down his throat. Minho’s hand, painfully tight.
Jisung cums with the next contraction of his throat, pulling off enough to cry out, suckling pathetically at the head of Minho’s cock as he rides through the aftershocks— a whole body wave.
“Oh my god,” Minho grunts, yanking Jisung’s head back just a bit. “Fuck. You—”
Blinking away the tears shrouding his vision, Jisung hums in affirmation. He tightens his fist, works Minho’s length with the mess of saliva and pre-cum he’s created. Impossible to tell if the taste of salt is from his tears, or his snot, or Minho’s cock.
He presses his tongue into Minho’s slit, bobs his head a few more times, and Minho cums. Spills down his throat, into his mouth, just enough that Jisung is able to manage. Minho is perfect like that.
He swallows, hand in his hair loosening, leaving a dull ache in its wake. Minho lays two fingers beneath Jisung’s chin, forces his head upwards.
Jisung licks the bit of overflow from his lips, swallows that too. He opens his mouth, lets his tongue fall out, as if to show Minho he’s done his job.
“Good,” Minho laughs— just a shaky breath. “You’ve done so well, Jisung.”
On shaky legs, Jisung pushes himself up. His pants are soiled. His knees are imprinted with the messy, squiggly pattern of the carpet. He’d like it tattooed. A memory he refuses to forget.
Minho tucks his cock away, zips his pants, catches Jisung before he tips over, unsteady on his feet.
“Careful,” he breathes, low and hot in Jisung’s ear, arm wound around his waist.
Jisung steadies himself with hands on Minho’s chest. “I ruined my pants,” he babbles, still a little out of it. He giggles. “You ruined my pants.”
“What am I going to do with you?” Minho asks, turning his head so their foreheads are pressed together. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
A rhetorical question, Jisung assumes. He answers anyway.
“Kiss me.”
‧
When Minho kisses Jisung goodbye, he does so gently.
A hand at the place where his neck meets his jaw, thumb coaxing his mouth open. Slow, careful, with the sort of sensuality Jisung has only seen in romance movies. Tongue meeting tongue, head tilted to reach for more.
Soft. Gentle. Unhurried. As if the clock isn’t ticking on Jisung’s wrist.
“Which one was it?” Jisung asks, Minho kissing a messy line down his jaw, chin held steady between his thumb and index finger. “That was giving you pause?”
“Ends,” a kiss. “Proportional,” another. “To the means,” Minho pulls away, holding Jisung back from taking any more.
“And did you get over it?”
“No,” Minho shakes his head, very slightly. “We haven’t seen the end yet.”
‧
All weekend, Jisung doesn’t text.
Minho doesn’t either, but that’s to be expected.
If Jisung followed his original plan, he’d ax it here. Take his sloppy blowjob and run. Another success.
But he can’t. No. The clock still has so much time left. He still has so much to learn. He’s been learning so much this summer— such a pity to throw it away now.
So, all weekend he doesn’t text.
He goes to work on Monday, bothers Jeongin in the freezer, and goes home.
On Tuesday, week six.
Knuckles on oak, light filtering out from the sliver the door is cracked.
“Come in, Jisung.”
Jisung smiles, hand on the knob. He drops his things in their usual spot, closes the door behind him, and makes for Minho’s desk.
The stack of things on the right side has been cleared out. Much of their research is finished, onto writing, now.
That’s fine. Works in Jisung’s favor. He hops up there, crosses his ankles, hand landing dangerously close to where Minho is fiddling with a pen.
“You didn’t call,” Jisung pouts, one finger drawing tiny circles on the surface of the desk, inching closer to Minho’s hand.
“Neither did you,” Minho says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Touché,” Jisung smiles. His finger dances around Minho’s thumb, tracing the edges.
Minho’s eyes flick towards the door. Jisung locked it. It’s only six at night. He saw Professor Bang downstairs.
A pause. Clock ticking down. Jisung’s finger runs along the line of Minho’s knuckles.
“Why are you like this?” Minho asks, plainly.
“Like what?”
Minho ignores him. Pointedly. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. He takes his glasses off, sets them on his desk. “Daddy issues? Mommy issues? A bit of both?”
Yes. That much is obvious. It seems redundant to bring it up when they both already know. “I want to be wanted.”
“And you think sex will do that for you?” Minho sighs. A long, drawn thing that blows up the hair at his brow. “Or are you chasing a false flag?”
“What do you mean?”
“Love.”
“That sounds much too serious,” Jisung swallows. His eyes feel wet at the edges, a wafer dipped in wine. “Permanent.”
“So, a bit of both, then.”
Yes, Jisung thinks. A bit of both.