Chapter Text
It’s a burnt kind of afternoon.
The trees sway in a low susurrus, the roads, dry and hot, lay flattened to a pulp by tires. The swarm of bikers has already settled. Many bars are overflowing with guests —sweat mixes with food, bartenders get sore biceps from the onslaught of beer, scooping more and more of it into their arms. It’s a sudden Octoberfest in the Appalachia. The owner of the bar stands to the side to fix the music. He settles on old rock. It’s fitting, most people who visit the place align the closest with music from the eighties and nineties. Minho himself prefers softer metal over rock, bands like Pantera or Metallica match his vibe. However, Twisted Sister is also good. He finds himself enjoying the atmosphere, it’s very familiar to him, he doubts anything here could catch him off-guard.
Minho’s face swims in the reflection of his beer, it quivers a little from the intensity of radio-chewed electric guitar. He looks like he always does: five o’clock shadow above his lip, stern eyebrows, slightly tired. His eyebrow piecing glints under the light. He hides his phone beneath the table, elbow balanced on one knee — all to obscure the screen from his drinking buddies. Sue him, he doesn’t feel too-social at the moment. He’s got a dating app open and doesn’t want anyone looking in on his gay business. An offensive white crack of the screen runs right over the head of the guy he’s trying to assess; he doesn’t really care for his physique as on the picture he seems a tad too skinny, and despite sunken stomachs not rating high on his attraction scale, Minho swipes right either way, hoping that he at least sports a cute face.
It has been a little over two weeks since he had last slept with someone, way too long of a celibacy streak for a guy like himself — one who really does enjoy sex. He grows bored of life very, very fast. He has a stable job, stable friend group, he doesn’t need much to keep himself busy. Although, when things get a little too repetitive he’ll hop on his bike and leave to meet someone off Grindr to satisfy the urge. Cheap, lazy rushes. At times he rushes a bit too much, ignoring a red light and the speed limit, getting in little, petty trouble with the police.
He’s not a rule breaker by choice — he’s a rule breaker by circumstance. Avoidable things get in front of him way too often: road pits, house bills, grocery prices, freshly washed floors which still shine with the greenish residue of soap, twisted ankles from slipping on said wet floors, threats in spanish after he falls and crashes isles of produce with his heavy weight, cursed, green, soap sizzling on his shoe soles.
Things never quite go his way.
His phone buzzes with a match from the same guy he had just hovered over and Minho sighs deeply, closing the in an instant. He doesn’t want to talk to him. He quickly imagines the exchange, the setting up of meeting times, the eventual burden of pushing his new hookup onto the bed and prepping him for his length. He imagines again the fast, rough orgasm and how it would hit him, and how he would wish it would’ve hit him harder.
He doesn’t want to top again.
Another whack of the entrance door opening steals Minho’s attention, and he turns to briefly greet whoever has come in with his eyes. He knows most people who frequent the place, or at least is acquainted. This guy however seems like someone new, the appearance of the man pulling off his coat at the racks is what keeps him looking.
He’s a little underwhelming with his clothes. Eighties business casual. Browns and beiges. Minho doubts he arrived on a bike even, judging by the clean state of his pants and the neat hair, brown and wavy, undisturbed by neither wind nor helmet. The zig-zag pattern knitted into the fabric of his sweater, which parts in a V-neck at his chest, keeps Minho entertained as he observes how the man awkwardly pads through the smelly hoard of bikers and nests on a bar-stool, waving to catch the attention of one of the waiters.
Minho thinks he’s grabbing attention by attempting to avoid it. Everything surrounding him is angry colored, the man in the brown sweater shrinks amongst the multitude of leather and grease. He seems unaffected. There’s a single golden earring dangling from his left ear and Minho finds it intriguing, perhaps a hint at his inner rebellion, or a nod at his sexuality. He’s orders a burger. A large, overflowing burger, one with buns bigger than your average jaw’s stretch. When he cuts it with a knife and fork Minho’s lips stretch to a smirk.
Yeah, treating bar-food like fine dining is kind of weird.
There’s something incredibly charming about watching him apply upper-class table manners to a double stacked hamburger, padding sauce off his lips with a carefully folded napkin. He safely zones out from the conversation his drinking buddies pass around. Maybe he should approach? What are the chances the guy is gay after all… but the earring is there and Minho is hopeful. He’s pretty too. Cute, even.
Ah, fuck it.
Minho doesn’t stumble when he stands up from his seat, nor when he plants himself onto the barstool next to the stranger’s — eyes sharp, flirtatious, passing a tongue over his dry lips to make them look a little pinker. He ignores the way his heart is beating inside his chest, treacherous, giving him away so silently. Yet, if the music in this ratty bar were to be just a bit lower, he’s convinced that anyone around him would hear it beating. It’s unnerving just the slightest bit, enough to put him on edge. He’s not usually this antsy around men.
Now, from this distance, Minho takes the selfish liberty of noticing the details — the straight slope of the man’s nose, rounded to a button at the tip, his long, manicured fingers wrapped around the beer glass, the way his large, dark eyes seemed almost animated under the bar’s low-quality lights. His neck is slim and Adam’s apple pronounced, a vein protruding slightly from beneath his skin that disappears, teasingly, under his shirt. His hair is a windswept auburn, parting to reveal the oval of his face, acorn both in shape and shade. His strong, elegantly masculine cologne enters Minho’s nose and doesn’t leave.
The man spares him a single glance, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough. Minho is nothing if not observant; he doesn’t miss the way the guy’s eyes discretely shift from Minho’s face to sweep over his body. The handsome stranger isn’t as subtle as he thinks.
“One more,” Minho calls to the bartender, putting his glass down with a thud. “And one more for my friend, here.”
He sees the stranger’s lips curl upwards. It’s similar to the way his hair curls at his nape, overgrown, untidy, and Minho’s fingers itch to touch it and sort through the tangles.
“Some time ago, people used to say ‘hello’,” the man teases after a throaty swallow of his bite.
Minho smiles. “Hello.”
The stranger takes a napkin and pats the corners of his mouth, again. Polite, mannered. There’s nothing there, his face is clean, but Minho still wants to reach out and pretend it’s not — wants his thumb to trace over the shape of the other’s lips. Damn, he’s really desperate, isn’t he?
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
The other chuckles. The sound of it is deep, it reverberates inside Minho’s chest, makes him feel strangely fuzzy. “How could you tell?”
“You’re too prim and proper. I like that. Clean boys, I mean.”
“Those bikes out front... is one of them yours?” he asks, lips pursed. Minho finds that intriguing, a bit enticing. The guy is clearly going along with Minho’s raunchy attempt at flirting, even if he’s expertly dodging questions.
“How could you tell?” he raises his pierced brow.
When the stranger looks at him again, it’s provocative and lewd; he keeps his lips trapped under the overbite of his teeth, eyes intense in the way they trickle over his muscle. His gaze stays on Minho’s buff chest, then his stomach, then the way his thighs are spread on the barstool: obscenely so. It takes willpower for Minho not to slam his legs shut. And, well, he’s never felt like that before.
“Look at you,” the other murmurs. “You’re a walking stereotype.”
Minho props his elbow on the bar stand. Unconsciously, his hips shift him to the edge of his stool. The guy’s body radiates magnetic energy, there’s a not so subtle need to get closer.
“I sense a bit of judgement.”
A shake of the head. A smile. Minho watches, hawk-eyed, as the man sips some foam off his beer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows — tongue tracing up the soft mustache it has set above his upper lip.
“I like it,” he muses, “but I’m not as easy as you think.”
With a tilt of his head, Minho lets his friends behind know that he’s anchored his grip. Hook line and sinker — this boy will be the cause of his next orgasm. It sits at the tip of his tongue: the reassurance that Minho approached him just because he didn’t seem so easy. Air around them thickens, warms, condenses into sweat right beneath the collar of his leather jacket. He picks at the skin of his thumb with a nail — this is a game of chess.
“I’m not saying you are,” Minho responds. “You just stick out. People don’t really sit in a biker bar and eat a burger with a knife and a fork.”
It’s a tense few seconds before the stranger speaks again.
“No offense,” he begins, with a sudden seriousness. Minho’s blood curdles for a painful second. “But I just don’t think I can give you what you need.”
Minho fights down the urge to scoff. “And what do I need?”
“A pretty boy to lie under you. Someone you can quickly fuck and leave. Want me to call you Daddy too, right?”
And, Minho knows how familiar it is to betray himself. He knows the art of self-sabotaging, the need swimming in his gut, overpowering everything else — his reason, the fact he shouldn’t say things without thinking, not now.
Yet, he shakes his head.
“No?” the stranger asks, blinking in confusion.
“No,” Minho says. “That’s not what I need.”
His eyes flash under their red-neon, amber glitter in that split second of mutual recognition. As if he understands. Minho prays he does. There’s a warm hand suddenly enveloping his, the man finds his eyes. Minho laps at his eagerness like cream in a saucer. His touch proves itself electric.
“I misread you,” he says. “And I think you misread me.”
Minho’s spit curdles under his tongue. His throat constricts. “Yes. Yes, I think so too.”
He thinks he feels a fingertip massage into his rough knuckle — soft, perhaps smelling of antiseptic.
“I’m Jisung.”
“Minho.”
“Oh,” Jisung laughs, “You’re Korean too?”
Minho hadn’t even realized — too preoccupied with building flirtatious remarks in his mind. “I’m… half-Korean, yeah.”
“I’m staying at that nearby motel,” Jisung nods to the left, a brown curl bounces off his nose as he grins, talking into the intimate space between their faces. But as Minho shuffles forwards, he backs away again. He plays a dirty game. He’s such a tease, it hurts.
“You can join… If you want to spend some time with me.”
At first, Minho’s ego refuses him to act so eager. He’s not. He’s definitely not. Not even when he begins to imagine how smooth the glide of his jeans would feel over Jisung’s khakis. How he’d moan with Jisung’s slim thigh pushed under Minho’s crotch. He pulls an easy smile — an act, ‘keep in mind I remain older’— and it crashes, doesn’t work. Jisung sees right through his tough exterior. Can persevere through the spikes on his coat.
“I’d love to,” he says and Jisung clicks his tongue. He pulls out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, and leaves enough money to pay for both Jisung and himself.
When they’re out of the bar, the air of a setting autumn sun meets the two men with a gentle breeze. Jisung points at a large orange sign spelling out the Rouge Bull Motel — a name raunchy and fitting for their anticipated night. Minho traces its swervy, coil-y lettering with his eyes, noticing how the ‘o’ in ‘Motel’ buzzes with a wink, LED lights inside it evidently nearing their expiration date.
The ascent up to the third floor of the motel is slow, a rhythmic thump of footsteps raising echo in the empty spiral of the staircase. Despite the promise of sex, neither are in a flurry of chase and savageness. Jisung has his rusty golden keys swinging on his finger, he stops at the cheap brown door with woody scabs on it and sighs. His face is fat and sideways in the swirl of the janky room-number ‘36’.
He seems slightly nervous and Minho wonders why; but before he can begin to second guess the lock clicks and a gust of roomy-gutty air puffs out before him. Jisung grabs his wrist and they dive in.
“Someone seems eager-“
Minho’s back hits a wall.
They’re face to face in the semi dark — window across the room is blaring siren-orange. The sun has fallen somewhere behind the zigzag of pines. If Minho closes his eyes he can hear the chant of silence and refrigerator humming. He wants to say something but Jisung’s thumb is pressing into the dimple on his chin and he swallows down the beginning tease.
“Hush.”
A beat passes and they’re kissing. Teeth clack awkwardly, stubble burns stubble. Minho breathes in his scent and it’s beer on beer, cologne on sweat. Minho’s hands are grabby and prying. He’s pulling at Jisung’s hair — fingers curdling the maroon softness of his curls and clawing through them like he’s searching for lice. Jisung is much tamer. He has one forearm on the wall to cage Minho in and another grasping the firmness of his asscheek. Modestly, somehow. It’s a grounding squeeze compared to Minho’s messy working of his scalp and baby hairs at the base of his nape.
Jisung suddenly parts them, a string of saliva webbing in between before it snaps. It’s hot, he’s hot, breathing burns.
Jisung wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, there’s spit glistening on his pink knuckles. “I’ll be back in the blink of an eye, ‘kay?” he murmurs against Minho’s cheek and gives him a peck and quick squeeze of his butt.
When Jisung disappears into the bathroom, Minho takes it as a moment to calm the shy beating of his heart. A vulgar jealousy towards Jisung’s confidence corrodes somewhere beneath his fingernails and he uses the buzzed anxiety to tear off the dead skin on his thumb. He has navigated unfamiliar beds with both ease and displeasure when he was aware of his position, or rather, anticipated position as the one who takes charge. Now, finally, when he’s offered the ability to bend beneath someone else, he stalls, he hesitates. He misses the moment Jisung is out of the bathroom by sitting on the edge of the bed and inspecting his hands lacking manicure.
Jisung’s out with wet hands and slightly wet swept back hair, a grin tugging Minho’s way when he approaches. He meets Minho’s eyes and Minho blinks away the moment of hesitation. He guesses the purse of his lips has been picked up on when Jisung sighs and gently turns Minho’s chin upwards. “Nervous much?”
“No, of course not.”
“Hmmm,” Jisung hums distantly, he motions for Minho to stand up and drags the bed covers off, letting the green fabric fall on the floor. One of his hands crawls back on Minho’s waist and turns them face to face: they’re standing close enough for Minho to need to look up slightly to meet Jisng’s eyes. “You’re okay with kinky sex?”
“That’s what I want from you,” Minho challenges, biting his lower lip and chewing on it lightly.
“Even if I tie you up or hit you?”
The skin on Minho’s scalp tightens from the crass words. “I dare you to.”
The dare triggers a shot.
Jisung pulls him in by the waist and traces one of the prominent veins on his neck with the tip of his nose, a dog following its trail until he snarls — Bull’s eye. He bites into the soft skin under his ear, and licks. From the damp pressure, Minho’s groin tightens with immeasurable heat.
It was a sledgehammer taken to the crack of the nut: He unshells in an instant. Thrown, the leather jacket scrapes the floor with its metallic jewels, his white tank is shamefully stained. Minho heaves. He reaches down to the hem of the fabric and is about to peel it off when he notices how Jisung’s eye has found a cleft on his right arm. His mouth is slack in an effeminate pout, bottom lip jutted out with a sweet crevice between it — he wolf-whistles.
“I didn’t know you had tattoos,” Jisung notes, one hand caressing the soft slope of his hip. “They’re colorful.”
Minho’s chin leads the way, he’s staring down at his sleeve. It’s american-traditional, awfully popular amongst bikers here, especially Millennials. When Jisung theatrically raises a brow and licks the row of his front teeth, he feels a slight heat bake the tips of his ears. “I figured they’d be a given… given the– you know. Me.”
“Every biker has tattoos?”
Minho shrugs. “Most of us do.”
Their crotches are teasingly close, shoes touching. Minho’s heavy, nasty combats are timidly kissing the tip of Jisung’s brown loafers. The sweet contrast of their skin tones melts at their junctures: Jisung’s tawny ochre on Minho’s multitude of pinks. At the cusp of summer, an uneven sun-burnt pattern clung to his skin like burrs. The pad of Jisung’s finger rises to misshape the work on his shoulder — pulling at the snout of the lynx. She’s pestrant like a peacock. Minho got her in his early twenties; a branding, a thick smudge of character, reinstating what’s his — his agency. There’s a story behind her, like there often are under the pebble of a tattoo, wriggling larva. Something philosophical. Jisung’s nail slides downwards and finds his target in a nude femme embraced by a tiger. This one pulls a deep chuckle out of him. The pad of his finger lays over her naked breast and something about the pressure strikes Minho as incomprehensibly erotic.
He no longer has the patience to let Jisung trace over his tattoos. He cups his cheek, turning Jisung’s face towards his mouth. They’re about to kiss and Minho catches himself longing. The desire for sex licks up between his cheeks and he tightens involuntarily.
“Jisungie,” he begins, but Jisung’s thumb pressing over his tongue cuts off his speech.
“I know, angel,” he says. “Let me rock your world.”
Jisung works fast on his clothes — his wife beater drops to the floor. Minho’s legs hit the bed and he sits, sinking into the mattress, coils toughening beneath his weight with a quiet squeak. Jisung’s hands burn on his chest, he slowly lifts his fingers off the heated skin and lets his eyes trace the naked torso before him. With their heartbeats accelerating, the room begins to gain a pinkish tint of sex-anticipation. Jisung’s dark eyes run down his navel and back up — Minho has his breath caught in his throat.
“Heart?” he quietly asks, nails grazing over the black shape above his right pec — a tattoo large and anatomically correct. He presses his warm palm onto it. Minho hums and the ink thrums with the true organ beneath it.
“I like it...”
Minho feels dizzy. His soft chest, his small nipples — one pierced, one with a nubby scar from a past piercing — have stiffened just slightly. His tummy is rounded where it sits in the pouch of his unbuttoned jeans. Jisung can spot the dark tuft of hair beginning at his belly button and trickling downwards, where it hides beneath the stretchy waistband of his red underwear. He’s soft all over, muscles well hidden beneath his relaxed build, armpits unshaven, privates unwaxed.
There’s some unspoken insecurity raising the thin hairs on his arms, awareness over his physique tightens the skin on his scalp with quick worry. He’s long past the daily work-outs, just as he is long past people shaming him for his body, yet this is Jisung and his opinion somehow matters.
“So?” he asks, unable to keep his tongue glued to his teeth.
Jisung smiles lewdly, teasingly.“You’re hot. Or are you asking me to give you a grade?” His hands find Minho’s knees and he pushes them apart, coming to stand between his thighs, crotch-to-crotch.
“I’m no male underwear model.”
“Shame… they’re missing out.” And then Jisung reaches to the last, few, teasing, buttons of his shirt and quickly pushes them through, flexing his shoulders as he sheds the fabric off his tan body. He’s lean, slimmer, with a soft, lazy definition to his abs, a whisper of earned strength resting beneath the skin of his stomach. His chest is full, his ribs look healthily-ill-defined.
He carefully leans forth, pushing Minho’s chest with his knuckles and letting him fall backwards onto the bed, now fully beneath him, black hair splattered on off-white foam.
Minho feels his heartbeat accelerate.
They’re going slow, it’s like Jisung wants to drag out the strip-tease, undress him bit by bit, savor the reveal of his pallid skin. He raises his hands to Jisung’s hips, but the moment his thumbs come in collision with the pant material at his hip bones, he feels a sharp slap on his wrist.
Minho pulls them back, a meek gasp leaving his lips.
Jisung’s eyes remain playful, though now gleam curiously with sternness. “Who told you that you could touch me?” he speaks, and his voice is novel; there’s a commanding, peppery raspiness to it. “I thought you knew that I was the one to set the rules.” He tsks his tongue at Minho in disapproval, such a trivial action, but the small sound sparks a virgin flame in Minho’s chest. His dick chubs in his underwear — he feels a dull ache to submit.
“We’re gonna do this my way…” Jisung begins, he flips open his belt and it ramps out of his khakis like a thick, leathery snake. The silver buckle flashes before his eyes, then falls clattering onto the floor.
His pants begin to slide down his hips. “But. I’m giving you an out. Always. We’ve talked a little of what’s possible when you’re beneath me,” he pauses briefly, “A lot. I won’t spin your compass too much this time around, but enough to have you really remember me. Are we on the same page, Angel?”
Minho nods. He thinks they are, he even wishes they’re slightly not, that Jisung is one page ahead.
“Good.” In Jisung’s left hand, his tie appears. He steps out of his pants, knees around Minho’s thighs on the bed and shuffles forth, almost straddling him. “Put those hands up to the headboard for me, okay?” he says, but it’s different. His eyes are pushy, his voice authoritative.
Minho slowly raises his arms up: they’re intercepted with the hawkish grip of Jisung’s hand. Both wrists immobilized, pinned to the bed with just the knuckles touching the wooden bars above. Jisung works quickly, pulling a skilled knot around him. Despite the tightness of the fabric pressing against his supple skin, Minho feels no pain. There’s little discomfort, only arousal dawns on his body, throwing one lush wave of heat down his torso.
Nipples harden. Tongue dries. Heart skips a beat.
They have briefly discussed this… the tying up. But Jisung is attentively watchful over his reaction, of the slow roll back of his eyes. Minho’s sure he makes it painfully obvious that he wants this, but Jisung still double checks. When there’s grounding pressure in the tie; lips ghost over Minho’s ear, kissing and nipping at the red skin, whispering praise. Jisung asks him if he’s okay, if he’s fine to continue and Minho aches.
“Yes please… Sung,” he gasps and teeth bite his lobe.
A murmur. ”Sir.”
“Yes please, Sir.”
It’s as if a switch is flipped inside Jisung when Minho utters the word, and he is immediately being kissed, with tongue and feverish want, with teeth and stubble. Jisung tastes like body and aftershave, like slight beer and ketchup. He’s both salty and sweet, and slightly unknown, slightly foreign, as if Minho is being invaded with something new and something controlling, pinning him to the bed and swallowing each breath and gasp he makes.
Jisung kisses nothing like he looks — kisses like a troublemaker — and he kisses good.
It takes a little bit of selflessness from Minho not to whine in complaint when Jisung pulls away, missing the tandem of their lips gliding against one another. He’s ready for submission physically but something in his head still holds him back from fully caving in, and exposing parts of himself that are embarrassing and untidy.
Jisung pays him no mind.
He moves from teeth at his collarbones to teeth at his hips, hands trickling down and raising goosebumps in their wake. He lifts his head when he’s face to face with Minho’s clothed bulge and sits up slightly, steep orange eagerness illuminating his face in the semi-dark of the room.
His palms find Minho’s bent knees.
Minho’s legs are strong and smooth and fatty, two marble columns — they’re nice to look at, even nicer to touch. Jisung’s fingers find their home on his thighs, by-passing the two experimental but deep scars closer to his groin. Keloids. A funny plum-purple shade. He hopes Jisung doesn’t mind, it’s not like his skin is littered in them. They were a one off, a loose hand he regrets.
Jisung’s thumb presses into them quick and leaves them quicker. He doesn’t even ask, doesn’t even look, yet something in the way he touches him tells Minho that he’s understood — that he’s comforted him already. His eyes, however, remain lust-filled. Two pools infinite with tea leaves. A brewery of black, english and chai. It’s as if Minho was boiling alongside them, all of the blood in his body quickly concentrating in his chest and cheeks.
“Do you have a safe word?” Jisung asks. It takes a moment for the question to register in his head.
“Egg-yolk.” He’s never gotten to use it before. It’s exciting.
“Mine’s Squash.”
“Like the vegetable?”
“Yeah, yours is also food… See how we match?”
Ha. Minho giggles, he’s suddenly fuzzy around the edges.
Jisung begins by settling himself between Minho’s spread legs: hands moving up his side with gentle sensuality, pressing into the fading outline of his ribs and back down, to the soft curvature of his hips where Minho’s underwear still snuggly conceals his erection. Minho arches when he feels nails dent the underside of his back, paired with a warm tongue traveling down the path of his navel and yelps suddenly when it's sinking into his belly button. The reprimand is instantaneous — one of Jisung’s hands rounds the firmness of his ass and squeezes painfully enough for him to squeal, tongue switching out for teeth as he lands a mean bite into the fluff of his lower belly.
“You stay silent, alright, Angel?” Jisung muses as he traces his nose back up to Minho’s chest, finding interest in the stiffness of his pinkish nipples. “I’m the one doing all the touching right now.” He takes the pierced bud in his mouth, sucks, releases with a pop “or did you forget?”
Minho hasn’t forgotten. His hand tugs at the leash of the tie, his hips rouse insubordinately.
All of the attention to his sensitive body is overwhelming, magnified by the raw dominance poisoning Jisung’s every word. He tosses his head back and attempts to collect his own thoughts, slightly taken aback by his own eagerness.
“Lift your hips up for me,” Jisung instructs, and as Minho complies, slender fingers hook over his underwear and pull them off, letting Minho’s flushed cock bounce lightly as it reaches to lay by his tummy.
He’s a pleasant, sizable length. Five strict inches with a lean and curve to his right, a tuft of black pubic hair he leaves untrimmed on his groin disappearing further up his butt-cheeks. He’s flushed and needy with pearls of precum beading at the tip. Jisung pulls on a smug smirk as he takes Minho’s length in his hand, lightly squeezes it, and traces his thumb up the faint vein.
“You’re being good for me angel, so well behaved,” he muses as he presses a pad of his finger over the tip and smears the wetness there accumulated.
“A-Aah!” Minho’s hips immediately jerk upwards, yet the moment they lift, they are immediately brought back down by Jisung’s left hand as the younger keeps him pressed to the bed, demanding full compliance and immobility.
And Minho tries, really tries to keep himself docile. However, when Jisung uncaps a bottle of lube with his teeth and squeezes it grossly right over his leaking length, Minho jerks again, this time with a gasp. The clear gel is cold and viscous, it spurts all over his dick and runs down his balls. Jisung frowns at him, pressing the nails of his left hand into Minho’s hip, reprimanding him for the sudden movement.
“Shhh, gosh, that won’t do, will it? You just can’t stop wanting to swerve your pretty little cock away from me, hmm?”
Minho shakes his head no. He’s sorry. Was he bad? Did he misbehave?
Sternly, Jisung’s large palm wraps around his base and with a squelch begins to fluidly massage over his dick, jerking him with a vindictive firmness. As he does so, he carefully helps himself up and cages Minho spread legs with his own thighs, pushes them together, and quickly sits upon them, fixing Minho into a matching immobility with his wrists.
“What a shame that I have to do everything myself…” Jisung muses, interrupting Minho with a pinch to the balls when he opens his lips to argue back.
It’s so mean and so strikingly degrading that Minho’s innate reaction is to startle upwards, but he is so quickly pushed back down by Jisung that the next thing he knows, he has his cheeks squished together by a strong hand and the patronizing playfulness in Jisung’s eyes switched out for mild, yet scary irritation.
“Angel.” He leans in close, really close to Minho’s forceful pout, “You seem to be forgetting some key things, you are beneath me. I do what I want with you. You have surrendered yourself to me, and you will do as I say and think as I say. Is that clear?”
Minho nods and receives a startling twist to his nipple.
“Nodding is what dogs do, Minho. Are you a dog? Do you not know how to speak?” The venomous, chastising pronunciation of words hits Minho full force, and as he attempts, through squeezed cheeks to spell out his apology, the true arousal of submission suddenly dawns on him.
There is hot, red, boiling shame sizzling over the plains of his face.
His skin, from the tips of his ears to the softness of his chest is ignited in a rash of primal humiliation. And worst of all, the next place where it had spread to is the betraying chubbiness of his cock which twitches with each tuft of saliva he spits out.
“I’mph- I’muh, phowry— I’mph phowry Phir!”
Despite the shameful execution, Jisung seems to be pleased with his efforts and leans down to lick a stripe up Minho’s puckered mouth, sucking in his red upper lip between his teeth and giving it a tug and a wet release. It’s messy and it’s far from a kiss, but it feels like approval, and brings him a novel rush he has never felt before. He feels good for completing his task — he feels good for apologizing just the way Jisung had asked him to.
Saliva begins to run down Minho’s chin and Jisung uses it to his advantage, letting go of his aching cheeks and smearing his spit all over Minho’s lips. It’s so dirty — and when Minho attempts to turn his face away Jisung brings it back with a slap to his cheek, then pushes his thumb into his mouth.
”Suck” Jisung commands, and presses his thumb into the softness of Minho’s tongue.
Fuck.
Everything is so much more intense than Minho has anticipated. His cheek burns distantly, but he only lets out a quiet moan as he slurps around Jisung’s knuckle, beginning to suckle dutifully on the finger. While he’s preoccupied with swallowing around it, he feels how Jisung slowly advances further up his thighs, positioning his own clothed cock next to Minho’s naked one, and begins to gently rut against him, providing Minho with minimal pleasure. The friction is just enough to get him to start moving his own hips in little circles, but not nearly enough to stimulate anything past a surface level frottage.
The calm exchange of moans and sighs lasts about five minutes, perhaps letting Minho rest from the brief intensity he has experienced. However, Jisung picks up his pace fast enough as he pops his finger out of Minho’s mouth, and demonstratively wipes it off on Minho’s belly, leaving a trace of spit to flatten the hairs of his happy trail.
“You’re being so awfully obedient,” Jisung praises, squeezing the skin spilling at the sides of Minho’s love handles. “I can’t wait to devour you. What do you say, want Sir to fuck you, finally?”
“Mmhm,” Minho hums, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from a plea of greater embarrassment, but by Jisung’s stalling he is fast to understand that a nod isn’t enough from him, and that he will need to vocally confirm his desires.
“Want Sir to fuck me,” he mumbles out, tugging playfully at the tie at his wrists. “Want you inside of me.”
Jisung kisses him deeply upon hearing his request and crawls back until he’s in reach with the lube, uncapping it, and squeezing it over Minho’s ass and cock. His legs are positioned over Jisung’s shoulders, and his hole is exposed to Jisung’s view, glistening with the lube that has been poured over it. Jisung’s hand comes to massage Minho's cheeks as he spreads the clear gel all over him, the tactical pressure of his finger pads forcing Minho to shake a little, as if he’s being pampered, the brewery before the storm.
“Relax for me a little,” Jisung whispers when he kisses up Minho's thigh, leaving hot snail trails with his tongue. “Shhh angel, I’m here.”
He listens at first, body laxing, but as Jisung gently inserts one finger into his hole, Minho immediately tightens up. The long awaited intrusion has him slightly nervous, slightly unsure, but Jisung is there to check up on him as his attentive eyes catch Minho’s and he leans down to press a lingering kiss to his navel, mumbling reassurances into his heated skin.
“Relax Angel, I’ll take my time with you. I know what I’m doing .”
“Ah! Ah, ah Sir,” Minho sighs out as the finger is pushed in and out deeply, searching, but not yet hunting for his sweet spot. Jisung unceremoniously fits another once he deems Minho ready, and the stretch still doesn’t sting, though the resistance finally makes itself known when a third is pushed through into Minho’s tight heat.
Keeping Minho’s legs spread and his cock pathetically hard and untouched, Jisung begins to push in and out of his hole with a wet squelching, building the pressure and searching inside him for the sweet spot.
“There you go, sweetie.” he mumbles, kissing Minho’s knee when he releases a wail and his legs twitch in the air. “Haven’t been touched there in a while have you, angel? Must feel so overwhelming,” he taunts, smiling to himself while Minho is shivering from the gusts of spiked heat and pleasure in his groin.
And Jisung is right, he hasn’t been touched like this — his own, sad, pink dildo and fingers rarely deliver him the pleasure he needs, and jerking off alone through fingering is usually too much effort and he’s used to simply massaging his hole while rutting into his bed covers. This however, is completely different, and the lack of stimulation on his glistening cock is beginning to irritate him. Whimpering pitifully, he tries to lift his hips to bring awareness towards the flush of his erection.
“Ah- Jisung– Sir, I, I need some– please touch me, Sir, please,” he manages, speaking with an embarrassing whine within his vowels. But he’s too softened, too bare and needy to care over the continuous slipping of his pride, and of the childish poutiness to his features. His state only seems to egg Jisung on.
“You want your lil’ cock touched, hmm?” he teases, flicking the head with his free hand while curling the fingers that are inside Minho, causing him to whimper high in his throat. “Want your little dick played with?”
Despite the embarrassment flooding into Minho’s head wave after wave, he manages to nod through the haze. But as always, that isn’t enough.
“Say it, Angel, what do you want Sir to do to you little cock?”
“M’not little,” Minho replies, but is quickly reminded of his position as Jisung squeezes his already tightening balls with his hand, “Ah- no, I– I want–”
“Want what?”
“Want– Want S-sir to touch my l-little cock!” he cries out, tears running down his face from frustration. “Please Sir– Please touch Angel’s little cock!”
Satisfied, Jisung leans down and kisses his belly, before praising him “There you go, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
In the heat of the thrusts, Jisung finally wraps his left hand around his leaking cock and begins to tighten his hold on it, pushing it down, delivering slightly sadistic jolts of pleasure to Minho through his skillful hands. The double stimulation startles him, and he twists like a wet cloth, sweat glistening like scales on his heated skin. He attempts to close his thighs only once when the peak is too close, too fast approaching, but Jisung catches him in the act by pressing down one of his knees to the bed with a leg of his own, and slowing down his jerking of Minho’s member.
“S-sir, I’m so– I’m about to c-cum–” Minho manages, moaning breathily from the movement of fingers inside him, Jisung’s hand scooping him up and lathering down gentleness and meanness over the puffy swell of his prostate. “T’s too much, Sir!”
“Aww…” Jisung coos. “But Angel, I know you can handle more.” He quickens his pace and everything heats up more and more: faster, hotter, better.
Minho jolts on the bed, closing his eyes but— the orgasm escapes him.
Both of Jisung’s hands are suddenly off of him: not on his cock nor inside him. He’s left to pathetically wiggle on the sheets, hands tied and knees spread open by Jisung towering over him, unable to deliver any stimulation to his own self. He can see the younger’s grin gleam in the semi dark; his auburn curls shine with slight sweat obscuring his dark eyes — round and murky — watching Minho in fascination.
It’s excruciating and it’s electrifying and it's painful.
“No!” Minho moans, raising his voice for the first time after a prolonged expanse of measured moans. He’s never been loud in bed, and is usually afraid to be too vocal, but the denial of a climax hits him and hits him hard, as before he can recognize what’s happening, he begins to blink quickly and whimper, crying into his arm. “No, no, no…”
“Shhh…” Jisung shushes him, bringing his hand to Minho’s cheek and turning his face to lock eyes while wiping off tears from Minho’s ignited cheekbones. “No, Angel, it’s okay,” he reassures him, kissing his nose and his forehead. “You did so well, yeah? I won’t do it again, not today, I promise.”
Minho’s lips wobble as he pouts up at Jisung, sniffling and blinking rapidly. “P-promise?”
“Yeah, baby, I promise.” A peck on the lips, “Sir just wanted to play with you a little. I won’t edge you much tonight, yea?”
“Yea,” he nods.
“My sweet boy, my perfect angel.”
The compliments and reassurance are somehow demeaning, yet Minho can’t exactly place his finger on how. Soon, Jisung’s hand returns to his cock and his fingers prod at his hole, sliding in home. He has Minho responding like a puppet to each curl of his fingers, heat fluttering in his tummy and skin electrified all the way down his arched spine.
It doesn’t take Jisung too long to push Minho over the edge.
The first orgasm of the night burns like a bite. He’s ignited from his toes to fingertips, twists on the bed like a big, coily serpent, un-elegant, as if he’s disturbed mid-digesting a meal — arching and bending with the smoothness or blocky tenderness of an albino python. He groans and revolts against the wrist’s snatch, throws his head back and attempts to press his cheek to the cool side of the pillow as his damp hair sticks in dewy and black flower petals to the skinned pink of his throat.
His pathetic cock jerks in Jisung’s grasp one last time before relaxing into weakness; cum has reached his nipples and even a few stray spots have landed on his collarbones.
He leaves residual sea-lace on the white-beach of his stomach. He sizzles and he smokes.
“So sensitive, my angel.” Jising’s low voice reaches him as the younger bends down and presses a kiss surprisingly gentle to the tip of his sensitive cock, making Minho mewl and instinctively pull away. “Came so good for me, hmm? Couldn’t hold it anymore, baby, had to spill, hmm?”
Minho nods. “S’good, so so s’good,” he pronounced lazily, throwing his head back and wiping off tears on the soft cushioning of his bicep.
Jisung lets him catch his breath. He licks up the cum on his stomach and he gently lies between his spread thighs, still hard himself, and plays around with the small triggers of Minho’s body. The sensitivity of the skin webbing his ribs, the surprising ticklish spot in his elbow-joints. It gives Minho enough time to catch his breath and for interest to sink back into his balls, tightening them as Jisung mouths over Minho’s tattooed tit and noses beneath his armpit before passing his teeth over his under-arm.
It almost pulls a giggle out of Minho, he has never had the forgotten parts of his body receive so much attention before, too familiar with sex revolving around bland orgasms. He lazily turns his head to the side and asks for a kiss by puckering his lips Jisung’s way which the dom understands and holds him by the chin before messily sliding his lips over Minho’s.
Within the brief moment of quietness, Minho can taste the undertones of Jisung's mouth through the fading mint and even fainter beer. His ticklish chin and soft lips taste distantly of amber and sweet black pepper: strange and mellow, trickling down his chin and staining the corners of his mouth in shiny spit. Despite him being much older than Jisung, the skin around his mouth is distinctively softer, as the only place on his body where hair had trouble sprouting was his upper lip and chin, preferring the warmer crevices such as between his legs and beneath his arms. Jisung on the other hand, has a scratchy, lovely, sand-paper thrill to his face. That brisk flair of masculinity has Minho’s mind spinning, imagining how the young man would look were he to forlorn shaving for a week.
Still youngish, Jisung fell into a violent passion when handling Minho. He descended down his neck as if searching for a spot soft enough to bite into a stain, and Minho finds himself complacent in his nudity: legs open, cock nudging up his thigh as it comes more and more alert.
Jisung takes his time until he doesn't — his left hand finds the lube again (now half empty) and grinning Minho with a mixture of boyishness and mature, enthralling, powerful hunger he rises to his knees and sets his hands on Minho’s firm waist.
The tie at his wrists twists when Minho is flipped over, then dragged slightly back by his hips as Jisung quickly hoists his butt upwards, pressing down between the juncture of his shoulder blades to force Minho into a deep arch. He groans, but then bites his tongue when Jisung’s commanding hands grasp at his thighs and spread them further, pulling at the taught muscle. It stings — he isn’t flexible one bit, and yet with Jisung over him the stretch is pleasant and burns in just the right way. Thighs spread, cock bouncing from excitement, he stifles a whine beneath the pressure of Jisung’s weight bending his spine, and whimpers when a rough hand comes around to pull at his ass-cheek, exposing his puffy hole.
He feels so undeniably naked, so grossly overpowered that he lets out the most pitiful moan, the most whiny plea as he receives a sharp, merciless spank. ”Sir- Sir please, I’m so ready for you, please…”
Minho can sense Jisung’s smirk without having to see it. The hand on his back claws down his skin as he pulls it swiftly towards his roused ass and then slides back up. “You’ve never presented before, have you, angel?”
”N-no?” Minho whimpers out. He’s unsure what presenting even means, but if he’s doing it right now — he sure loves it, he’s never felt so good before. So well taken care of.
Jisung snickers, his hot heavy cock slapping over Minho’s entrance as he grinds slowly between his cheeks, the head of his member catching teasingly on his rim. He takes both of Minho’s cheeks in his hands and pushes them apart like squeezing the nectar out of a peach, soft and malleable in human hands, before returning the skin back to create a concave sleeve for Jisung to rut into. The erotic low register of his quiet moans gets Minho drunkenly lightheaded. He imagines being used for pleasure this way: where Jisung has access to each inch of his skin, and a determination to use him up for good, to his full ability, to satisfy, to please his dominant, his own pleasure discarded like the clothes beneath the motel bed.
He arches and some of the lube escapes his ass and runs up his spine, lathering him up. Glaze on a pastry; crème-freshe on a tenderloin.
Before too long, Jisung’s wet cockhead finally presses at Minho’s slick entrance and he rouses a deep, sweet moan of satisfaction out of himself once Jisung begins to push in, strong fingers keeping his cheeks spread and open for him to take.
“Ah!”
It’s a swift and menacing thrust that takes Minho off guard — with how meticulously Jisung has been prepping and edging him — he had anticipated for the penetration to be just as thoughtful and slow paced, but Jisung takes him in one go, balls smacking against the shiny crevice of Minho’s perineum.
“There you go, Angel. My baby’s taking it so good,” Jisung praises as he smoothes a palm over his hip, and stays still for a moment letting Minho adjust. He’s… not small.
While all of the attention has been directed to Minho’s long denied orgasm, he had completely forgotten to take in the girth and length of Jisung’s own cock. And fuck, Jisung might as well have been very right in taking his time to stretch him out as now, with Jisung fully submerged inside him, Minho feels breathtakingly good and breathtakingly stretched full.
What is he — eight inches? Nine? Might he be? No, absolutely not. He didn’t look Nine, but Minho feels undeniably split open.
But Minho’s brief break of contemplation is quickly cut short as Jisung begins to thrust, one hand coming up to tangle into Minho’s sweaty strands and he is once again pulled away by the strong current of pleasure which drags him back to the depths of obscure submission.
“Ahhhnn…. aah, Sir, I’m so f-full…” he mumbles, eyes shutting while his fingers scrunch the bedsheets.
“Just how you like it, huh, Angel?” he hears a distant, taunting, voice, “Let Sir ruin you…”
As if he wasn’t already.
The rocking of their hips meet each other halfway. It’s one tide breaching another. Jisung’s hip bones begin to softly smack against Minho’s bottom and the erotic skin-on-skin beat of sex fills the room with gasps and groans and whimpers.
Jisung’s hands press into Minho’s ass and spread him with a tough massaging motion, taunting the stiff muscle with an applied pressure. He squeezes him like a tender-mango, and Minho both bleeds and preens, his soft cock regaining both hardness and wetness like a spur of the summer fruit having its juices squeezed out of its rind.
He’s both ready for, and dreading, a second orgasm. But Jisung has already made that decision for him.
Minho’s face is pressing meanly into the cheap cushion as he grapples with the strength of Jisung’s thrusts bouncing his body higher up the mattress with every smack of hip-bones against his raised ass. He’s tugging a bit too generously on the knot of Jisung’s tie, not having half the mind to consider of its tearing or of the tenderness of his wrists — gladly Jisung’s experiences has provided him with the knowledge of a safe wrist bondage, avoiding an accidental tightening from a forceful pull.
The pleasure from each merciless hit at his prostate is heaven on earth. He’s heated and soft, the pronounced thickness of Jisung’s cock makes itself known in the very minor, very squishy but still present, bump in his lower belly where from the deepness of his arch, the dom manages to push through far enough to cause a belly-bulge. He can see it if he cranes his neck a bit, but feeling it is enough, if not too much.
The jug of lust rocks side to side, threatening to spill.
“Gnnhmm, ah, pleaagnhh—“ Huh? Oh, he’s unable to speak coherent sentences.
He’s unsure what he was about to ask but it was probably another plea. As if understanding his gibberish, one of Jisung’s palms descends a hard smack onto his ass-cheek and Minho whimpers from the spank, the pink flesh giggling from impact.
It’s too much. It’s too much and he’s good, and he’s pliant and he…— The pillow beneath his cheek is damp with his own spit and his tongue drags across the wet fabric as he gasps, freezes, and cums.
From the tips of his fingers to the curl of his toes, Minho feels like cotton on a fresh cut. Everything thrums. He can sense his hard, dripping cock shake side to side as he’s being pounded, balls tightening and relaxing as he mediates the whirlpool of spice. There’s a pleasant, milky fog inside his head. Eventually he will be diminished, reduced, ultimately dumbed down to a single cell organism which only knows compliance, only understands commands, orders, and aches to obey religiously and unquestioningly the hand and voice of the man above him, controlling him like the moon controls the sea.
He’s in the limbo of orgasmic bliss for a few, solid, pounding and pulsing seconds. He feels sensitive. Floaty. When the weight of his own body returns to him, he realizes that Jisung hadn’t stopped moving. His dick is still hard inside Minho, nailing his prostate, pushing him over the edge. His own cum has reached his chest. It’s being rubbed into the covers creating a sticky mess.
“I— Ah! Sir…”
In pity for Minho’s deep headspace and overstimulation, Jisung takes just another few minutes of continuing thrusting and groaning to spill inside him, pressing his palm greedily into Minho’s soft, shaking belly as he fills him up with the warmth of his release. Fuck, it’s deep and it’s warm. It’s cleansing, almost.
There’s a condom separating them, though Minho hiccups, wishing there wasn’t.
He’s so deeply in tune with Jisung’s pleasure that a barrier robbing him of being claimed inside out is insulting to his poor state of mind, reminding him of their title as one-night-stand partners.
But he’s still deeply under the surface of lucidity. The longing doesn’t register, not yet.
After slumping onto Minho’s frame in aftershocks and catching his breath, Jisung pulls out and gently flips Minho around to kiss him deeply on the lips. There is tongue — the tongue is pitiful. He licks Minho’s gums and pecks the corner of his mouth which is sticky with saliva. Gently kisses his nose, his eyelids, giving Minho a moment to pant and whimper before they finally flutter open. The room — Jisung’s face — everything is slightly misty from the glassy film of his tears beading between his lashes.
His mouth is both dry and wet; he has so much to say to Jisung that he’s afraid he shall tell him nothing.
“Angel…” Jisung whispers, his hand cupping Minho’s cheek. “Are you with me, angel?”
Minho nods, awareness returning to him bit by bit. “I think— I think I’m about to fall asleep,” he mutters, leaning into the palm beneath his cheek and craning his neck like a cat yearning for affection.
Jisung coos, “Need rest?”
Minho nods. The bed dips again as Jisung gets up, and before Minho has a half-of-mind to start needily worrying over his leave, he can hear the bathroom sink turn on, and the squelch of a towel being submerged.
He’s always been dimly aware of the importance of aftercare, however such intimacy was always disregarded by both himself and his hookups, deeming the gentility of it’s occasion too personal for what was established to be mindless fucking. With Jisung, he feels like a pearl in a shell, naked and safe. Slowly, the sounds leave him and a dreamless and quick slumber whisks him away, rolling on the sea-foam of elusive sex-sleep unconsciousness.
When Jisung leans over Minho to free him from his binds, his eyes flutter open from his quick, shut-down nap. The sweat on his body has cooled, and with the yellow glow of bedside-lamps tugging him back into lucidity, he begins to feel his own weight again, sinking pleasantly into the scratchy bed-surface beneath. There’s a soft rash of fabric-burn around his wrists where Jisung has apologetically undone the knot from the headboard. He inspects his hands, flexes them, chest rising and falling almost rhythmically, still under the sleepy-haze of an afterglow. Each crack of the finger relaxes his joints. Snap, snip. He resigns into the gentle beats of his heart.
There is no post-nut clarity with Jisung.
Instead, a sense of accomplishment wafts through the air — Gosh, he could really use a cigarette right now. Above him, the young man beams. His softened cock is safely returned to the confines of his boxer-briefs, un-sexy and polka-dotted. His lips are pressed into a sheepish thin line of apologetic softness. Minho pictures Jisung’s dog tail to be curled under his thigh when he wraps the tie around his finger and pointedly looks at the redness on Minho’s wrists.
“I’m sorry about that,” Jisung whispers. He is sweet, really, honestly sweet. Minho brushes him off easily, finally finding it in him to sit up. There’s pain somewhere up his ass; it’s almost hilarious how pleased he is to discover traces of his bottoming resigning in the soreness of his upper back. The last time he’d been treated roughly — if he’s being honest, too roughly — was four months ago when he arched his back beneath a construction worker eight years his senior. He remembers being awfully glad to resign his power and equally uncomfortable with the careless handling of his sensitive person. Spanking with a brass knuckle, or, that’s what it felt like.
No, Jisung’s fingers worked him like a pianist works his keys: precise, rapid, sensually intentional with each chord their strum.
A glass of water is thrusted into Minho’s loose wrist the moment he sits upright. Jisung’s warm palm around his, he guides it up to his lips and tilts.
“Drink,” Jisung mumbles, gently combing through his hair. “You did so good, really good. I’m so incredibly proud of you.”
Minho wants to giggle. He hums instead. “This water is really nice and cold.”
“It’s mine. I brought it with me and put it in the mini fridge before we… Well. I knew you’d need something to drink when I was done with you.” It’s both considerate and cocky, the foresight of babying Minho proving itself to be excitingly charming. His cheeks bunch up at the sentiment.
“I usually smoke after I fuck.” Minho says absentmindedly.
“We can smoke too, I wouldn’t mind. This room provides a narrow little balcony and the weather rests hopeful.”
Setting the water aside, Minho glances past the curtains to the slim floor length windows that open to a little lift outside. He nods as Jisung helps him stand, grabbing his underwear from the floor and pulling it on clumsily while balancing on one leg. They’re both a little too naked and fresh to be out in the night air like that, but Minho could count on one hand the amount of times he’s gotten sick from a cool breeze. The atmosphere is too adventurous to include caution and they step out onto the cold, firm tile of the balcony with their bare feet.
Minho immediately leans onto the balcony, savoring how the metallic rails brand his forearms. Rough, slippery, cool, they dig into the softness and warmth of his heated skin. He never thought he’d describe himself as delicate, yet this was how he suddenly felt: touched, peeled out of his rind. The rabid thrum of sex still ran hot beneath his skin, slowly seeping out onto his shoulders and chest in a transparent sheen of sweat, immediately cooled off by the swift breeze. He could really use a cigarette right now — Jisung is taking an awful lot of time digging through his bag to find his Marlboros, and he could easily dip back inside and grab his own from his pant pocket— yet… he doesn’t want to. Still so raw and flaccid, he thinks only to breathe what Jisung blows into his lungs. The distinguished curl of better smoke, something so Jisung that the sentiment would rock him back into submission.
When Jisung returns, Minho asks him just that; the younger kisses him with that lewd, toothy split of the lips. The nicotine is passed between languid tongue movements.
When Jisung pushes his naked back up against the dirty brick wall, Minho places his rough palm over his heartbeat and feels it smelt through the ribcage, fingers finding the pounding, slimy, organ beneath his pierced nipple and small, black, chest hairs. It beats in tandem with his thoughts: devour, devour, devour, before it shifts into hurl, hurl, hurl.
He coughs, and it blends into the bright echo of Jisung’s laughter. He laughs too. They laugh in unison, laugh at their own stupidity, laugh at the inability to regain sobriety post-orgasmic-bliss.
Minho asks Jisung for a kiss on his nose, he receives just that.
“You’ve got me all wrapped around your finger, Minho,” Jisung sighs, pressing warm lips to Minho’s shoulder as he gently lets his finger pads trace around his middle, finding bruises he’s made and reclaiming them with his thumbs.
Minho hums, holding the wilting cigarette in his right hand. He can feel how his skin cools down, how the sweat on his temples has dried and greased his hair. It’s not enough to cover the palette of emotion Jisung has painted him with, so he gently pushes him back to grab a second cig and lighter, briefly burning his thumb with his eager carelessness.
They smoke this one without much interruption to kiss.
Jisung sits with one leg outstretched, Minho with both folded to the side. He thinks in this short brief moment, with Jisung by his side, he has been alleviated of all trouble. His job is abandoned somewhere downstairs, so are his friends and all of his responsibilities. Everything has ruptured, his perception of himself has reaped — Jisung made him let go, fatally so, made him crave something he knows will be a challenge to match the taste of.
It’s an easily quick route into loss if he thinks about it for too long. Sex was always less about the dismantling of emotion and much more about the climax. Dynamics and roles open too much liberty for exploration he doubts he can venture into alone.
And Jisung… for all he knows, Jisung will stay here, in this little motel when Minho leaves him behind at dawn.
But presently, he sweeps the thoughts off the stage of his current relationship. The night has him coddled and kissed. He can accept happiness for all it’s worth while here. While it’s still warm.
Still fresh, and firm.
By the time Minho finishes his second cigarette, the sky is dutifully dark. A bright night. A young one. His palms begin to feel cold and needy, so he leans slightly into Jisung’s side, cushioning his head onto his strong, naked shoulder. He can feel Jisung smile, his soft hum working as a break in a piano key.
“Is that your bike out there?”
Minho startles awake — he hadn’t even noticed he’d dozed off. The wind blows gently through his hair, and he follows with his misty gaze the outstretched, copper bridge of Jisung’s arm, wrist slack in the direction of the parking lot. It’s an anthill of motorcycles beneath their feet, all crowded and parked however they please. Minho squints down and finds his own.
“Yes, it’s parked down there…” he muses, too lazy to point it out. He feels both sleepy and wide awake; he wants whatever Jisung wants — conversation or physical touch. “You like it?” he asks, frowning when the shoulder beneath his ear trembles with low, reverberated laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“You never showed me your bike,” Jisung whispers, “I’ve got no idea which one of these it is.”
Minho hums, “Take a guess.” He doesn't expect Jisung to humor him, but he does.
“The red one? With the yellow flames all over its sides?”
Minho slaps his hip as if offended. “Who do you take me for, a tasteless show-off? I’m much classier than that.”
“You, classy? That’s something I’d never count on, to be honest. Is it the sleek blue one there then, with the thin tires?” And this time Minho actually snorts; it’s his turn to laugh at Jisung’s lack of knowledge.
“Never in a million years.”
“Oh well, I give up then.” Jisung pouts. “How am I supposed to pick your bike out of this sea, infinite with options?”
“Well, it’s sexy. Pick the sexiest bike you can see.”
Jisung opens his mouth and is about to say something but quickly changes his mind and shakes his head. “No, you won’t trick me into this. If I pick a ‘sexiest’ bike as per my judgment and it isn't yours, I don’t think I’ll ever get a second handful of that ass.”
Minho chuckles and leans into him with his shoulder. Jisung reciprocates, and they fall into a pendulum of pushes on the balcony, shoulders grazing and heads occasionally falling onto shoulders.
“What do you say I take you for a ride?” Minho mutters.
“A ride? Like, right now?”
“Mhm…”
“Man,” Jisung passes a hand through his hair, “I don’t know. I want to — If you have the strength after sex to drive me around that’s pretty hot. You’re not too tired?”
“I’m good, I think. You?”
He watches how Jisung smiles widely, looking away — Minho’s offer must’ve really smitten him. He presses a hand to his mouth, only the fingers, attempting to school his smile, and gives his answer.
“Lead the way.”
Once fully clothed, the staircase makes up a bigger challenge than Minho had anticipated as his lower back does make itself known, but not enough to worry him. He does pinch his brows though. Well, he should bottom more often. That’s all on him. It’s a little humbling, though not too much. When they make it outside, the parking lot for the bikes isn’t as empty as they had hoped, popping their bubble of intimacy and solitude with multiple people standing here and there. A woman with bleached hair is lounging, smoking on her bike, while some drunk college kid tries to gain her attention through an animated story. The Bar and Grill lights are on, people still chugging beer inside. A group of older men stands near the hotel entry; they’ve all got long and flaky gray hair, curly at the bits like yellowed greens, and patchy bandanas on pink foreheads.
Minho can sense how Jisung stalls a bit. It’s cute how shy he is, looking around. Minho is more on the boastful side — it’s obvious to everyone that they have just rolled out of a sex-bed.
He places a reassuring hand on the younger’s shoulder and walks him into the passive field of sleeping motorcycles. They’ve each got some flair to them, intimidating in their own right.
There are even a few modules that Minho may count himself envious of, with customized handles and pipes. But still, his bike is proud, just as proud as Minho himself is to show it off.
The motorcycle stands nestled between a lime-green Kawasaki and a small, red sports bike, dominating both in size: chunky, black, and slightly weathered. The long torso isn’t without an arch, the maroon saddle a tattered pinkish-off-white where his butt had rubbed the leather clean off. It’s an Indian Scout Bobber, 2018. An expensive beast; he recalls how anxiously he was saving up for the purchase, how every penny of loosely thrown change was mourned by his piggy bank. Now he’s incessantly boastful of the thickness of his grill-marked tires, of the matte black polish on its shell. The exhaust pipes are polished, fat cylindrical mufflers looking as threatening as the double-barrel of a shotgun.
There are a few stickers on its gas tank and fender: but they’re hip and groovy, opposed to the tacky weed-leaves with sunglasses and flaming USA flags every other rider slaps on their bike’s ass. His are the ghost rider in black and white, a kitty smoking a joint, and a bumper sticker in grungy font spelling out his life’s motto: ‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away.’
When he rests his palm on its hand grip and gives the headlight a soft pat, he can hear a timid ‘woah’ leave Jisung’s lips.
A prideful flame sparks in his chest. Maybe Jisung thinks he’s radically more masculine than he’s seemed before. Or at least, cooler than the bikes he’d picked out from the balcony’s edge.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, turning back around to cheekily meet Jisung’s gaze.
Jisung is… still and stiff where he stands.
The half-unzipped coat lets moonlight fall into its cavern, basking the soft line of his chest in a fresh blue. His chestnut hair seems curlier now, pinned up by a hotel hairclip out of his face. He looks astonishingly young like this; wide, shimmering, black eyes fixed on the object behind him, hands timidly in the pockets of his pants, kissed lips parted in subdued awe. Minho instantly knows he’s never ridden a bike before. He will be taking his virginity in some way tonight, and it puts him at ease, and them two on an even ledge. First Jisung tilted his world on its axis — now it’s time for Minho to reciprocate.
“So, what do you think?” Minho repeats, now just a little louder.
“I’m… a bit speechless. It looks intimidating.”
“Matches her daddy.”
“Oh please,” Jisung laughs, “You’re like a kitten in a spiked collar. Also, don’t speak to it like it’s a woman; you sound like those slightly misogynistic boat guys.”
“What boat guys?”
“I don’t know, yacht guys?”
Minho rolls his eyes. “You just found it weird that I call my bike a ‘she’. That sounds more misogynistic to me than calling her that in the first place.”
Jisung raises both hands in the air, waving in defeat. “All right, all right, you got me. I won’t stick my nose into the biker business. But, wow, seriously. It’s—“ then he corrects himself, “She is gorgeous. So manly and… sexy. All the tubes and pipes are like muscle veins or something.”
Minho feels pride pour into his head. “Jisungie, do you want to fuck my bike?”
“Gosh, no! I’m gay. But if it was a he—“
Minho shuts him up with an awkwardly toothy kiss. It works; they smile against each other's lips, and Jisung chases Minho’s breath when they separate, making him chuckle softly. “Stop this, you’ve just gotten your dick wet not even ten minutes ago. Have some shame.”
“Alright, alright, I won’t try to fuck bikes. Only bike riders.”
“Enough of you,” Minho giggles, approaching the motorcycle, but Jisung catches his sleeve. “Uhm… Minho, are you sure you can ride your bike though?”
Minho frowns, curving a brow. “Well, yes?”
“No, I meant, after sex. You needed my hand to get down the stairs fast enough, and now you’re planning to drive us around, and I feel like your upper back would complain a little, no? This is all very romantic, but I don't want to cause you any, well, pain.”
Minho stills, a disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Jisung must really underestimate him and his toughness that he had so easily picked apart. A little pain in the lower back won’t stop him from riding his bike. It comes like second nature to him.
“Jisungie, don’t worry, I’ll be just fine.” He slings one leg over the bike as he says that, and his eyebrows hitch higher on his forehead.
Jisung be damned, it does hurt, so he bites his lip for a moment and lets the pain simmer. It disappears quickly enough, but leaves a lasting, little ache.
“Well?” Jisung teases.
“Don’t be an ass, I’ve ridden bikes when I was green and blue from food poisoning before; this is nothing for me.”
Jisung mumbles something about it not being too much of a flex underneath his breath but approaches nevertheless. Then, he sighs. “Oh. Helmet?”
Minho grabs his helmet and hands it over to Jisung without much thought. There hangs a small silence in the air when Jisung tugs at it and looks over it in his hands, face swimming funny shapes under the sleek black of its shell. He laughs, shortly, then glances back up at him.
“And you?”
“And me?”
“Your helmet. I only see one. You don’t drive passengers around too often, right?”
“No,” Minho chuckles, waving him off. “No, no. You’re special. I don’t carry around a second helmet, and I’ll be fine driving without one. It’s night, the streets are empty, and since I’ll have a pretty prince clinging to my back, I’ll be extra careful with the curves.”
“And the royal rider will be without protection?”
Minho smirks, rolls his eyes. The euphemism isn’t lost on him. However, he still grasps the moment to show off. His hand sneaks into his jacket’s pocket and he pulls out cloth-wrapped glasses. They’re dark, shaded, silver, Gucci. They’re scratched, but they’re shiny.
Jisung wolf-whistles. “Fancy pants. These are nice.”
“Mmm.”
“Not to be rude, but... I thought you were, erm— financially challenged. Slightly.”
Minho allows himself a cackle at the way Jisung so carefully worded that. He pushes the glasses onto his nose bridge and everything is slightly darker, but he feels slightly cooler so it’s worth it. They’ll protect him from the winds.
“I didn’t buy them. I had a friend once, he was sorta rich. Sorta liked me. These were a birthday gift.”
“Where’s that friend now?”
“Married in Miami. I still have his number, but it’s been four years, and if I call he’ll either assume I’m dying or planning to. Last time I rang him up was with help for medical bills, and it would figure…”
Jisung draws out a sigh, reaches up to zip his coat a little further; it’s chilly out here. “I hope he has a pretty husband.”
“Wife.”
“Really?”
Minho shakes his head, leaning further onto the bike. “Not that kind of friend, Jisung.”
They should get to riding now, or he’ll start to assume Jisung’s got cold feet.
Once seated on the leathery swell of the bike cushion, Minho waits for Jisung to take his own, slightly shaky seating behind him. Jisung tests the wobbles of the bike, awkwardly positions his hands first on the seat handles, but then swiftly decides Minho’s waist feels safer — more secure. They gently roll off the tarmac and onto the plain of the parking lot. Minho feels warm fingers on his tummy, and it’s a little intimate, a little much; he’s not too used to having his muffin top even acknowledged outside of sex and jokes, but Jisung seems to like it lots, tracing small circles above his belly button with his thumb. It makes Minho feel fluttery, a little bit on edge to impress.
He starts the motor, presses the gas, and the bike jerks forth with a groan, and a thrill immediately shoots up his spine as Jisung immediately presses himself against Minho’s form — finger-pads switching out on nails and a kitty-grip.
It’s an odd feeling, having someone’s arms grounding you into reality, trusting you with their life. Jisung is warm against his back, squeezing his thick waist as he startles from the insubordinate jerk of his bike. She’s a beauty. He can maneuver her however he wants.
It’s a short ride until the highway begins, but it is a little empty, woodsy. At times, the turn might be a bit too rough, but Minho feels electrified when he gets to show off his skill. When he swerves, all fatigue is summarily dismissed — adrenaline seems to pump from the oil tank of the motorbike straight into the threading of his veins. His gloved hands tighten; he’s alert and fastened into his seat. Jisung’s experience depends solely on the show they put on, and he needs to walk the tightrope between scaring him off bike rides for the foreseeable future and shocking him into gleeful elation. Here comes the nook of their road; it curves, it's a risk to tilt, Jisung might cower — but as they approach it he only slows down enough to allow them for a sweet incline to the left.
As expected, behind him catches on a yelp. “Aay!”
When the bike is slightly off kilter, Jisung molds his chest into Minho’s back. His helmet is smooth against his nape. Something smug sparks in his chest when he hears him chant a rising: “Woah, woah, woah!” but the scare is over just as fast as it began. The bike straightens, they’re almost out on the tongue of the highway.
“You’re nuts!” Jisung shrieks, his arms losing their ferociousness. “That was insane.”
Minho worries for a split second, until his passenger begins to laugh. A giddy, fun, whirling laughter, slightly dulled by the vacuum of his helmet. Minho’s lips are stretched wide, his gums dry from the forthcoming speed of wind.
Gotcha, he thinks. Bull’s eye.
Jisung’s enjoying it — it’s important that he does, really. If Jisung were to hate bikes, he might’ve even regretted the fuck.
On one sharp turn Minho remembers his youth. His midnight alliance with Jisung is a tryst unusually silly, and unusually adventurous for his ripe old age of thirty-five. In a way, Minho has put trust in himself to quit his insubordinate desires and begin venturing into the life of a gay man that has already lived.
He thinks he has.
More things have happened to him in the ages of fifteen to twenty-two than what has taken place in the past ten years. Granted — his life is never boring. He’s adventurous and flammable. He gets in and out of trouble like a baby being dunked repeatedly for baptism.
And yet… romantic, tummy-fluttering antics have somehow wiggled out of his fishing nets.
He had almost joined a gang once. He had scraped his own tattoo with a rusty razor blade and filled it with pen-ink from his school supplies, and had had it cleansed and peeled at the emergency room when it had inadvertently infected, and pussed, and bled. He still has its stain within his skin, a blur of a star beneath his elbow.
Things track on him.
In scars or tattoos or piercings or hickeys.
Everything leaves a mark. Jisung squeezes his midsection and Minho shivers. Everything leaves a mark.
To shake some nostalgic and slightly hurtful tension in his chest, Minho swerves off to the right, sneaking into an off branch between trees again, but one that parallels the high-road. They’re close to the Appalachian trails, where most greenery is doused in an ever-present sweat, and the pines lose their bite underneath the moon, appearing bluer than the natural blueing of evening woods. Minho quiets the motor and the bike reduces to a swift gliding, allowing Jisung to get a pleasant whiff of the smoky trunk grit and jammy rot of autumn-leaf detritus beneath tires. Agitation in the upper crowns reveals fleeing nocturnal birds who complain of the disturbing machinery with their meek and haunting quips, squirrels scurry up branches, scattering from their nutt-hiding spots closest to the trail. If they're lucky enough, they might even meet a deer.
Minho can feel Jisung lift one arm off his waist to gently scoot the protective glass of the front of his helmet, the little window for his face allowing all the bugs and smells to infiltrate. Usually he would advise against that, but today he feels whimsical and naughty, so why not let the man break a small, insignificant rule. If he catches a fly in his eye that’s his problem, after all.
“Do you live around here?” Jisung asks, quietly.
“Mmm, two hour drive.”
The motor blends into a background purring.
“Woah, you’re confident on this woodsy path?”
“I come here often. Seen the massive car wash, car-part, car graveyard before you pulled in towards the bar? My buddies own it. I sometimes arrive to help out.”
“And nature is nice. We’re midst bush n’ pine.”
“I love the Appalachia, and hiking. Really tears into you if you’re careless enough you know? I love getting up on the mountains with the viewpoints but I get anxious about leaving my girl chained up at some wood-log fence for days at a time so I rarely do so.”
“You’d need a car for good camping and hiking.”
“Which I’m never getting.”
“Have you ever rented?”
“Twice, horrible experience.”
Jisung scoffs. “It’s bugging me how much of a car hater you are as a car mechanic.”
Minho shakes his head, snickering. “Shut up.”
They keep their drive through the woods for around eight minutes, steering clear from narrower roads and trying to remain on the thickest part of the concrete in the dark. Minho’s front light catches shadows of mosquitoes and other little flies scattering from hovering above the tracks as they power through. He swerves back to the main road soon enough, pinching Jisung’s thigh as he orders for the helmet-protective-glass to be returned over his eyes when he pushes on the speed and they’re back to a grueling roar; back to street-lights, back to not being alone as a stray truck drives past them from time to time.
Minho drives fast, it’s a given, but he steadily slows down when Jisung leans forward into his space and yells through the helmet and into his ear, voice shaky over the wild yell of wind.
“There’s a gas station over there, can we stop by?”
Minho makes a swift turn for the gas station before Jisung can even finish his yelp.
They park neatly by the vending machine. Jisung swings his leg over the bike and stumbles on his feet when he tries standing. Minho can’t help but smile — he can still feel the phantom grip of Jisung’s arms around his waist, a small crease in the fabric of his leather jacket where his chin laid tucked over Minho’s shoulder.
He reaches out a hand to help Jisung stabilize himself. Jisung waves him off — as expected, so independent and self-assured down to the bone — so Minho only watches, amused, as Jisung starts shaking out his limbs as if he’d just finished a workout. There’s a soft sparkle to his palms which Minho recognizes as sweat and it pushes him to chuckle beneath his breath. Jisung returns him a cheeky grin when he slips off Minho’s helmet with only a bit of trouble, hair gone mad, all adorably frizzy.
“That was fun,” Jisung sighs. His voice is slightly higher pitched than usual. “Does it always make you this jittery?”
Minho shakes his head. “Not after the first time, not really.”
“I wanted to stop for sour candy. Do you think they sell those strips, like, those super sour ones?”
Minho shrugs. “Maybe. I’m craving it now, too.”
Jisung brightens with a wide smile, curls of his hair bouncing when he turns on his heels to head inside the shop. The sight is strangely charming, even as they enter and greet the elderly man by the cash register. They’re only spared a casual glance, not even a nod disturbing his snoozy, midnight newspaper-reading — however Minho quickly translates the snobbish eye roll as judgement towards their cheery person.
The gas station is, well, substandard. The AC blasts like crazy, incessant whirring drowning out the sound of whatever cheesy love song is playing on the radio. Jisung skips straight to the candy aisle, carefully sorting out through a selection of various sour gummies and bubblegums.
Minho watches fondly with his arms crossed as the younger quirks a childish pout. “No strips here.”
“Just get everything else,” Minho says.
“You don’t get it. I want these to be crazy strong.”
Minho grabs a few packs of gummies. “Then just put five of them in your mouth at the same time.”
Jisung nods, thoughtful, like he hadn’t thought of that before.
When Minho rounds the corner and begins to quickly sort through the layers of sour candy in search of Jisung’s target, he raises a soft shuffling sound that catches the clerk’s attention. He raises his voice above the music, making Jisung’s hands twitch for a moment and grip his candy tighter.
“You two better not be stealing anything over there.”
“Who? Us? Never,” Minho calls out as he slips a chocolate bar into his pocket. “Also,” he goes on, even as Jisung is eyeing him warily, “This store sucks. You need to get sour strips. I’m sure that’d get your business booming.”
Despite eliciting a snort of approval from Jisung, he still receives a soft slap on his forearm. It spurs him on. When Jisung’s attention is safely diverted, another chocolate bar makes its way up his sleeve. Just in case Jisung doesn’t end up liking the sour candy — just in case.
At the cash register, Minho eyes two packs of cigarettes and a lighter, picking them up while they’re at it. He’s pretty sure Jisung had snatched his lighter back in the motel room without realizing, but he doesn’t want to call him out for it. Selfishly, he wants Jisung to have it. Now, Jisung politely offers to pay for everything.
“To pay you back for the drinks,” he sheepishly mutters, unzipping the faux-croc wallet.
“Those drinks were much more expensive than this,” Minho jokes. It’s an obvious lie; a couple of glasses of beer barely cost anything. He has a discount in that bar, too — from the owner knowing him and his friends. Jisung’s unimpressed, and just as Minho relishes in the satisfaction of a playful jab, Jisung grabs a pack of ridiculously overpriced condoms from near the register, throwing them upon the pile of sweets.
“This should even it out.”
He pays before Minho can take his words back. However, the constipated look on the clerk’s face as he scans the condoms proves to be hilarious, though, so he can’t really get mad over that.
Outside, Jisung is comfortably leant onto the shiny bike seat. He fixes his glasses, pushes them higher up his nose, loudly tears open the plastic wrapping of a candy bag. Minho stands in front of him: not too close, but not too far, either. Close enough for their height difference to be almost amusing, Minho having to slightly tilt his head back to look up into Jisung’s eyes. He’s charmingly youthful with his hair pinned back like this — all round cheeks and high forehead — Minho thinks absentmindedly.
The bare skin of Jisung’s chest is right there. Even if it tempts him, Minho doesn’t reach out — he keeps his hands in his pockets, fiddling with the foil of the chocolate bars.
Jisung pops a candy ball into his mouth. Minho can see the way his cheeks bulge, how his tongue swirls around it. He makes a face.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks.
Jisung smacks his lips. “It’s… not very good.”
“Not very sour? Or not very good?”
Jisung turns the bag over, looking at the ingredients. His eyebrows are furrowed — he doesn’t look satisfied. “Both.”
“Okay, let me try.”
Minho glances at the candy, expectant. He reaches out a hand, waiting for Jisung to pour some into it, but it never comes. Instead, there's a press of a thumb to the plush curve of his bottom lip.
“Open,” Jisung mutters.
Minho’s mouth follows the command — so easy, so quick, and Jisung places the pink ball onto his tongue.
It’s offensively more sour than he’d expected. His body seizes up against his will, the sharp sting spreads mercilessly from his tongue to the rest of his body. It makes him excessively salivate, scrunch up his nose for a good five seconds; but when the initial feeling disappears, the candy offers him an out by melting into a pleasant yet artificial peach.
“This isn’t sour enough for you?” Minho whimpers, cracking the lolly under his teeth.
Jisung shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips. “Not really. But it’s cute how reactive you are. Are you this reactive to everything?” he wiggled his brows teasingly.
Minho scoffs. “You and your sour candy can fuck off. Wanna trade?” He pulls out the now-melting chocolate bars. It slipped his mind how warm the nights get here, how his clammy hands gripping them in his pocket didn’t help.
“When’d you buy this?” Jisung asks.
“I didn’t.”
He’s already bracing himself for a scolding: but then he sees Jisung’s eyes crinkle and mouth form into a familiar heart-shaped smile.
“Romantic. Thank you.”
Transfixed by the gas-station’s neon limbo, Minho allows himself a slip of judgement, falling victim to Jisung’s force-feeding of sour-candy into his mouth. His palate gets used to the taste after about three pieces, so he’s not too mad, taking a liking to the kiwi flavor best. Besides, he gets to watch Jisung struggle with the chocolate, to see tiny smears of it around his mouth. His nibbling is awfully akin to a rodent, biting with his front teeth then swirling his tongue into a cheek pocket — cute.
Jisung makes direct eye contact as his tongue licks over his lips one last time. Minho finds it hard to blink. He feels something stir low in his gut.
“We should get going.”
“Yeah,” Jisung agrees, standing up from the bike. “We should.”
──── 🏍x 📚────
Once back at the Motel, Minho falls face front on the bed as soon as he has the chance to, exhaustion ringing through his bones from their brief escapade. His muscles feel like they’ll ooze out of his body — he hadn’t noticed how tired he’s been getting. A joint in his knee cracks as he adjusts himself, causing him to let out a stifled whimper. Jisung seems to be in a similar state; his hair has gone in all five different directions and glasses slightly askew on his nose bridge. He moves sluggishly, footsteps quietly brushing over the coarse carpet.
Sleep seems to be looming over both of their heads.
Minho hadn’t really asked if he could stay the night. Yet he remains reasonably hopeful that he had earned himself this sleep-spot, alleviating Jisung from the expected cruelty of kicking him out just a few hours before sunrise. Besides, there seems to be a mutual desire for company, if Jisung’s pressed brows and mellow gaze are anything to go by. While Minho rolls over and stretches on the covers, Jisung shrugs off his coat and the bed dips as he settles on top of it, then promptly on top of Minho’s thighs.
The touch is surprisingly sexual.
“Tired?” Jisung says, oddly affectionate.
Minho closes his eyes. Jisung’s weight on top of his body feels soothing. “Mhm.”
“Okay,” Jisung whispers. He sounds much closer now, and Minho feels his warm breath fanning over his lips. “Just relax then.”
The kiss is met with a pleased sigh. There’s no teeth, but there’s tongue — Jisung’s, mostly. Minho lets him take the lead because it’s easy, and it’s right. He listens and lets himself relax.
They pull apart after what feels like lazy hours. Minho isn’t sure he’s even awake at this point — but then Jisung’s teeth graze his jaw, catching on his stubble. He admires Jisung’s stamina for an indulgent second, even if he knows both of them are passing out as soon as this is over. However the listless haze building in the room still doesn’t deter him from enjoying the experience: the feeling of soft lips on his skin. He imagines for a brief moment that instead of a hookup Jisung is something more permanent. A tide that reoccurs, a movement which falls in tandem with the beats of his life. Their fingers lock into a clandestine alliance beneath the covers — Minho lets the rolling foam overtake the soughs down his navel. His body lights up when Jisung moves to his neck. There are still marks from before, purpling bruises that Jisung goes over with his tongue, then sucks the skin into his mouth again. It stings in the way good sex does, makes him shiver when Jisung goes on to kiss behind his ear. He grinds down on him, on purpose, and Minho has to bite his lip in order to not groan.
Jisung presses one last tender kiss to his neck before moving on to the rest of his body, and Minho’s heated skin begins to miss something that happened only a few seconds ago. He doesn’t want to seem too desperate all of a sudden, or too impatient, even though he can be and he is. Coveted by the dark of night and Jisung’s encouraging murmurs, he thinks he can give in one more time, in the name of pleasure and sickness of mind. Seemingly just a few minutes ago he was dozing off, but now he’s wide awake — every nerve ending of his buzzing with low electricity.
Despite his elusive rationality, Minho finds himself craving the secure immobility of his hands. He aches for the sting of Jisung’s nails digging into his waist and the plush of his thighs. His mind welcomes the rolling fog, it melts, it turns sickly sweet and cotton candy-like — Jisung is bringing him up to his high carefully, steadily. Although he’s unsure he can achieve that same feeling with merely a few gentle kisses.
He still shivers when Jisung pulls off his shirt. They’d forgotten to close the window, but even with the midnight breeze cooling his overheated skin, he already feels how a shiny film of sweat begins to bead in the nooks and crannies of his body. Jisung slides his hands up Minho’s sides and to the tattoos that sit on his shoulder. He’s squeezing along the way, but not as hard as Minho would like. He preens at the attention — he feels like Jisung’s stress toy.
Before he can drift too far away into his own mind, Jisung interrupts his train of thought, “I couldn’t savor you before. I want to do that now, if that’s okay.”
Minho can’t help his eyebrows shooting up. Savor him? That’s certainly a first. Wasn’t romantic sex restricted to couples only?
“So, no more Sir?”
Jisung pinches the junction where Minho’s neck meets his shoulder. He grunts — that one hurt. “I’m always Sir to you.”
“Right,” Minho mutters, ignoring the warmth that floods into his groin.
His hands are free, though in a pitiful attempt at mimicry he keeps them to the bed, gripping the cheap bedsheets just so he has something to do with them. A faked pretense of yearned confinement, a mouse sneaking through a tight squeeze to imitate a mouse-trap. He doesn’t quite know if he’s allowed to touch Jisung, or if he’d simply get his hand slapped away like before. He desires to read the braille of goosebumps cluttering Jisung’s back — even over his clothes, even for a few seconds.
“I know we’re both rather tired, but I still want to make you feel good. You know, for an easier sleep,” Jisung’s hot breath murmurs against the softness and warmth of Minho’s neck.
“You’re being awfully kind to me, Sir.”
“You took me out on your sexy bike, I’m just returning the favor.”
Minho lets himself laugh at that. “You don’t have to be on top of me for this, you know. Lie down. I’d ride you, but my bones are aching.”
“Next time,” Jisung says, fully knowing there might not be a next time. Minho doesn’t call him out on it.
The sex that follows is slow and languid and strangely intimate.
Jisung has Minho on his side as he spoons him, one hand thrown over his mid-section and the other in his hair, having Minho’s head pulled back enough to have his neck exposed and grazed by Jisung’s teeth from the side. He fucks him slowly, gently, but not without the continuous presence of dominance, shushing Minho each time he begins to whimper or biting down his neck when he arches outwards, out of his shell of dignity, and allows himself to beg. Please Sir, Please Sir— I’m trying for you, Sir. Am I good? Ah— Right there Sir— Yours, yours, yours.
Jisung revels in Minho’s quiet, breathy tones and admittances. He mirrors each accordingly: with his hands groping and pinching and dragging, with his words breaking the stiff presumption of vulgarity. You’re so eager, It’s almost pathetic, Angel. Ah- ah- No cumming yet, no, baby, angel, sweetheart, no, don’t cry— Shhh. It’s good, you’re doing good, so good for what you are. There you go, sweet thing. Mine, mine, mine.
Jisung is possessive.
Or at least he is when there’s less kink involved, and more of an established domination sparks between them — Jisung’s manner of assurance, his placing his knee between Minho’s thighs to both allow him release and grant him slow punishment when he so deserved. Pressed up on his cock, prevented him from rubbing his thighs together. Despite Minho’s desire to speed them up, Jisung thwarted his attempts at quick fucking, making it slow, hard, and not without the leisure of time.
They cum almost in unison, almost, with Minho being jerked off after Jisung’s own release. They stay put and they breathe. Their chests rise and fall. Minho feels malleable like clay, and fragile like clay vases and plates. He’s never in his life been more grateful for being held.
After a little reflection before sleep overtakes him, Minho lays in Jisung’s arms and attempts to form a proposition of his phone number, Jisung’s flaccid penis slowly slipping out of him. But he falls into a deep slumber before he gets the courage to do so, warm, sheltered, unnervingly safe.
──── 🏍x 📚────
In the dead of night, there is no movement. Cars crash through tarmac. The soft rain hardens. The windows are open and anyone could climb in, could rob them. The only thing that slips inside however, is the rain; a rapid sheen licks up Jisung’s naked shoulder, forcing him to snuggle deeper into the scratchy hold of the comforter. Minho sleeps like he is dead and snores like he is dying. Passion, sex, feelings — all fizzle out from their heated muscles and disperse into the stoic hotel-room air, which still smells strongly of cigarette smoke, cheap air-freshener and muggy dust. They fall asleep touching chest to back and they don’t unglue. When the sun rolls out, acidic, tangerine, it grows in size steadily, as if it's speeding into earth.
The bedside clock strikes noon.
The bedside clock strikes two.
The bedside clock strikes three, and someone jolts awake.
Now, the room is filled with whispered curse words; a naked man runs around collecting clothes and underwear — like picking flowers. He’s gone quickly, clumsily, not too quietly, but quietly enough to allow Minho his heavy sleep.
About an hour later, Minho awakes. Despite the blaring, barred sun pouring through the barred window onto his face, his sleep was broken by a dull aching in his arm. He has slanted sleepy eyes and a puddle beneath his cheek from where he had drooled through the night. He briefly wonders if Jisung had seen it, had smelt his morning breath and decided not to kiss him awake. He lays like a beached whale on the springy hotel bed and wonders if he had leaned just a little harder onto the joint of his elbow, had he woken up first, in time to greet Jisung good morning? A bird caws outside, bringing along with it the tsunami of sounds that his brain had previously blocked out: somebody coughing, a honking of cars, roll of tires, conversation.
Today, Jisung feels like a rogue mirage. A pain in his backside reminds him of the sex they had when he sits up, shooting quickly up his spine and freezing him still when he attempts to stand up.
It’s not that bad. It will be fine in just a few hours.
Minho sits back down and passes a lazy hand through his hair. His eyes feel slightly heavy, as if he had overslept despite spending most of the night in active tussling. A full glass of water stands on his side of the bed, albeit not without a puddle spilt around it — the clumsiness makes Minho smirk. Beneath the glass of water, in wet ink is written down a neat, rounded phone number with little hearts drawn all over the paper. There’s no name, but there’s a drawing of a bike too, and Minho thinks he’s in love. He picks the glass up and downs it in one go. It’s decent: not as icy cold and crisp as he’d prefer after such a heavy sleep, but pleasant nevertheless in its lukewarmness.
The number is quickly punched into Minho’s phone, though sleepily, so he takes a picture of the paper just in case he messed it up. He stretches, yawns loudly and hitches when his jaw releases an unpleasant crack, quickly maneuvering his yawn into a pained squeal. He checks the clock and rubs his eyes lazily when a tiresome four pm stares back at him; half of his day has been fed to sleep. There's several missed calls on his phone from his biker buddies, as expected. They've all left without him, only asking him to notify the group chat that he’s okay and well, and that his hookup has not murdered him and left him in a ditch.
In the bathroom, after fluffing up the minty hotel toothpaste inside his mouth, Minho finds something glinting next to the soap. He picks up the slab, surprised to see a thin, gold chain coiled up beneath it like a cobra hiding under a rock. It has a cross at its head, with a delicately carved Jesus mid-crucifixion. Upon closer examination, he notices how at each of his bleeding wounds rests a glinting pink rock, about the size of a freckle each.
Though Minho isn’t much acquainted with religion, he can admit that the work is delicately rewarding, and that whoever had lost such a thing would be grieving over it greatly.
And… It is Jisung’s, most certainly.
He doubts that a place like this would have noticed a cross of this quality while cleaning the room and would’ve not immediately stolen it. Jisung hasn’t mentioned him being religious, though it’s not like either he or Minho had prompted one another to discuss much more personal sides of themselves either way.
After a quick shower to get rid of his sex-wrapped skin, Minho pockets the necklace and gets dressed, making a mental note to notify Jisung that he’s found the item. The drive home isn’t long, or rather, not long enough to worsen his quietly mellowed out back pain; an hour with a few shortcuts. He drives a little carelessly, swerves between a few cars. The inside of his helmet smells a teasing amount of blackberry hair spray, and he wonders just how much of it had rubbed off from Jisung’s curls. By the time he’s parking next to his house, the sky has been blended from faded-jean blue to a blueberry-raspberry smoothie mix. The foam off the blades drips down from its dome and accumulates in clouds above the buildings of the peeling, tangy horizon.
Bouncing over the fluff of his couch, Minho hooks his left food on the low coffee table and presses his phone between the juncture of his cheek and shoulder, lazily peeling off his sock from the right one as he’s greeted with the cheerful voice of Jisung on the other end of the line.
“Evening, beautiful. I see you didn’t miss the paper with my number on it. Hope your day has been great.”
Minho snorts at the cheesiness, “Has been fine. I’m covered in sweat, and I think I still reek of you and sex.”
“You haven’t showered yet? It’s like eight in the evening, you could’ve used the shower at the motel too. I extended the room’s rent by lunch so you weren’t booted out…”
“Ah that’s how it was. No, I did shower, but it was quick since I kind of felt all yicky staying there on my own, hopped onto the bike and now I’m back at my place. I’ve had lunch and now I think I’ll climb into a hot bath because my back is seriously out to murder me today.”
“Yeowch— too much sex? I should’ve gone softer on you, my bad.”
“Don’t say ‘my bad’ for railing me. Besides, I really did enjoy it.”
A chuckle. “That’s flattering.”
“You got out of state in time for your conference by the way?”
There’s a little ruffle of bedsheets at the other end of the line, as if Jisung is readjusting his position. “Oh yes, well— technically no. They were stressing the times so much but when I arrived late, the team assured me I was fine and due to the absence of the director they had to reschedule for tomorrow. His flight got delayed.”
“Ah… Well that’s good then. You’re already in bed?”
“Early morning tomorrow, but I’m not actually sleeping until ten or ten thirty.”
“That’s ridiculous. I barely tap out at two.”
“Could guess, I try to keep my schedule intact on most nights, except for when I travel or I've got some weeks off. Or when there’s a pretty boy in my bed.”
Minho snorts. “I’m pretty?”
“The prettiest.”
“That’s not usually the word people describe me with. I get ‘hot’ a lot, I get ‘manly’ and ‘handsome’ and sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get ‘cute’.”
“Mhmm,” Jisung hums thoughtfully, “Well you’re all of those things. But pretty too. Cute — yes. And adorable, sweet, I want to bite you.”
“I think you’ve bitten me enough. I’m like an apple going bad, there’s stains all over my skin.” The admission makes his cheek bunch up and Jisung to wolf whistle. He’s proud of his work and effect on Minho, no doubt.
The flirting through the phone lasts for the next ten minutes, Minho curling on on his couch as he hugs one pillow, feeling a tad too giddy than a man his age should be when talking with some guy he’s had sex with once. When Jisung hangs up, saying he has a company dinner, Minho stays on the same spot and presses the pads of his fingers to the pulse on his neck, then to the pulse on his wrist.
He’s not as smitten as he’d like to be, but he loves to heighten his own emotions, especially ones he rarely gets to experience.
That same approaching evening, as he’s going through the pockets of his jeans he’s about to throw into the washing machine, he finds again the cloth-wrapped crucifix Jisung had forgotten at the motel. Even though the younger man hasn't mentioned the loss, Minho cups the necklace into his palm and lazily walks out to the living room in search of his phone and grabs it off the coffee table alongside a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He brings the cross to the window where the little pink stones catch light and glimmer, zooms in on it, and snaps a picture before sending it to Jisung.
[photo attached]
me: you forgot this back at the hotel
me: so pretty. looks expensive,
want me to drive out to harrisburg next week?
I can pass this to you
me: haha good thing i like you,
if this was some random hookup I’d pawn the thing
It only takes a few moments before the messages are read.
[ Jisung(ONS) is typing . . . ]
Then radio silence. Whatever he’s typed he must’ve deleted because the three dots disappear, before reappearing again after a few minutes only to disappear again, a moment later.
Minho sighs and steps outside to the veranda to light himself a cigarette. Maybe Jisung’s busy. Maybe he should give him a call? The weather outside suggested it was tired of sun and clarity, bringing upon a plump fogginess. Minho stares off into the erected towers of mills and watches how their caterpillars of airy-curdled-cloud pour into the sky. He lights the tip, inhales, exhales, shakes off the ash.
Returns his eyes to the phone once it buzzes, but once he opens the chat it says that the message has been deleted. Frowns.
And suddenly, there’s a small chain of red writing on his screen.
You can no longer message user ‘Jisung(ONS)’
This user has blocked your number.
Huh?
Minho takes another drag of the cigarette, leans on the porch. Blocked? That can’t be right. He attempts to send a message but it says that it cannot be delivered.
He returns his eyes to the sky. The sky is cat-fur grey and cat-fur stuffy. His hands tremble under an irritated spasm.
What an asshole.
Minho hovers his finger pad over the red button.
No, what an asshole!
And just like that, Jisung too, is now Blocked.