Do You?
Title: Do You?
Pairing: Kris/Kai
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings: Incest. This goes from 0-60 really fucking fast
Summary: An old flame decides to ring up celebrity model Yifan and let him know that, well, he’s a father. Said kid is about to stay with him for three months. Yifan doesn’t know the first thing about parenting. All things considered, he doesn’t do much parenting, anyway.
Notes: i don’t have any excuse for this. if (father/son) incest isn’t your thing pls don’t read. i’m serious. turn back now
do you?;
At thirty-six years old, Yifan is pretty sure he’s never felt this nervous before in his life. Well, actually, it’s definite -- there is no time in his existence that he can recall feeling like he was going to puke, shit his pants, and pass out all at once. Not when he asked the pretty girl to prom, not when he stood up to his shitty retail boss and quit… No moment in the entirety of his history as a living person has been this nerve-wracking.
Two months ago, he’d gotten a call that changed his life.
An ex summer-fling of his had found his number and gave him a call, and it went a little something like…
--
“Is this Wu Yifan?”
It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday, and Yifan is sure there’s a law in the bible that doesn’t allow people to be disturbed on their day of peace. But, he’s atheist, so it’s no wonder he’s being rung up at this time, on this day. Karma, he supposes. He stares at the clock, smacks his lips tiredly, and then runs a hand through his hair as he lays on his back, phone pressed to his ear. The person on the other line is speaking Korean, and it’s taking a lot for Yifan to get his startled-awake-brain to cooperate in the correct language.
“Yes. Who is calling?”
“Kim Youngmi.”
He sits bolt upright, legs tangled in the blankets. He’ll never forget that name -- the girl he had met during a family vacation on Jeju Island. The prettiest girl he’d ever met. The girl he lost his virginity to. The girl… that made him realize that he was gay.
“Uh-- hey-- good morning. Hello.” he says, dumbly. He winces at his own stupidity.
“Good morning,” she says, and her laugh sounds tinged with something undetectable. “I know it’s been forever since we talked--” eighteen years “--but I have something I want to ask you.”
“Yeah…” he rubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to wake up. Even after all these years, even after watching her walk away so bravely after his confession, Yifan would still do anything for Youngmi. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“You remember when we met?” she asks, hedging around the exact circumstances. Her birthday, his clumsiness, and the not-so-amazing morning after when he had the revelation that sex with a girl just… wasn’t his thing.
“Yeah, I do. Are you ok, Youngmi?” he asks.
“... Yes and no,” she says, letting out an airy, awkward laugh. “So um… There’s really no other way to put this. But that night… And you left, and I didn’t get your number because you discovered your sexuality and that kind of bummed me out and I was pretty sure I never wanted to see you again--” Makes sense.
“Youngmi.” They hadn’t seen or talked to each other since the morning after. What is she getting at?
“Right. Ok.” She takes a deep breath. “You got me pregnant.”
Yifan stares at the sunlight reflecting in from his window for so long, his retinas start burning.
“What.”
“I um-- I got pregnant. From you. And had… a baby,” she says, losing her gusto. “And I had no way of figuring out where you went or how to contact you but I was still pretty busted up about not only being the reason you found out you were gay, but then I got pregnant from that, and how on earth am I supposed to tell a gay man he impregnated someone? So I just-- y’know, I just… had the baby.”
“What…” his mind is having a hard time catching up.
“And I raised him for the past eighteen years, but now that he’s eighteen, I wanted to find his dad and-- you know… He wants to meet you.”
“I’m gay,” he blurts out, unnecessarily.
“I know--” she huffs. “Yifan. We have a child and he’s getting ready to travel abroad… He wants to go to China.”
Oh no. Oooooh no, no no no--
“Let him stay with you.”
“But--” he glances around his bedroom. He lives alone, in a total annihilation of a bachelor pad, and has no parenting skills what. So. Ever. He’d gone through eighteen blissful years of ignorance, dating so-and-so and dumping what’s-his-name and now a summer fling from his adolescence is asking him to harbor a child?
Her child?
His child?
“Yifan? Yifan! Yifan, you’re a celebrity model I know where you live now!”
He’s passed out, draped halfway off the bed, the phone limp in his hand.
--
So. That’s what got him here, at the airport, waiting for his… son. He still can’t believe it. Youngmi called him two months ago, and since then they’d gone through the steps-- paternity tests, picture exchange. With her in South Korea and him in Beijing there wasn’t much they could do… but tests don’t lie. Yifan has a son. A living, breathing human being and Youngmi had raised him with her current husband… without Yifan knowing.
Wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks, there are some fangirls that have gathered on the outskirts of where the terminal lets out. He’s got sunglasses on indoors, blond hair slicked back and blazer hanging off of one shoulder artfully; he doesn’t need to look so nice to pick his kid up from the airport but-- what else can he do? The public is going to see him picking up some strange kid, it’s going to be in the tabloids. Hopefully he can pass this off as a relative or friend of some sort coming to visit.
For three months.
He glances up at the departure/arrival reader board, and sees that the plane is unloading. At any second, his son will be coming through the terminal gates… Yifan’s heart is palpitating. It feels so unreal, so bizarre, but here he is.
He checks the photo Youngmi sent him one more time. It’s an old photo, she says, but their partakes in group pictures more than solo pictures. But he’s got a recognizable face, Yifan thinks… One that doesn’t really look much like Yifan, but Youngmi’s genetics must be stronger than his own. Which is ok. Yifan doesn’t know how a baby with his chin could comfortably enter the world.
Scanning the crowd, his eyes zero in on fluffy, tousled dark brown locks. They frame a masculine face, sleepy eyes and pouty lips… That’s him. Yifan still feels like he’s going to piss himself. He takes a few steps forward, and the boy sees him at the same time--
“Jongin?” Yifan asks, testingly.
Jongin’s sleepy face splits into a grin, and he hurries forward, luggage scrolling noisily behind him. He’s wearing jeans and a tee and looks like quite a slob… but he pulls it off well, Yifan thinks. And that’s from a model perspective. The kid doesn’t look much like Yifan, but that’s not a bad thing; he’s got Yifan’s style, his gait, his confidence.
“Hi,” Jongin says, a bit breathlessly.
Arousal zings through Yifan so fast it leaves him dizzy (and very, very confused).
“Um-- hi. I uh…” Yifan’s hands flail a bit for a second, unsure of what to do, before he holds one out for the other to take. “It’s… It’s nice to meet you.”
Jongin laughs and takes Yifan’s hand, his lazy grace something to be admired. He squeezes, grip strong, shaking firmly. “Mom wouldn’t stop talking about you once she told me.”
“Right--” Yifan glances around, and girls are snapping photos left and right of their meeting. “Let’s get out of here before things get crazy.” He takes Jongin’s carry-on bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder and offering a small smile before he leads the other out of the crowd towards where the car is waiting.
It still feels unreal. It hasn’t sunk in-- this kid walking next to him, freshly eighteen, fresh out of school looking to explore the world… is his son. His own flesh and blood. Sun-kissed skin and almond eyes… Yifan tries not to stare too much. Talk about creepy. Narcissistic, even. He made that. Well, half of that.
They pack Jongin’s luggage into the trunk, and the chauffeur lets them into the backseat before getting in and starting to drive away from the bustling airport.
“How long have you known about me?” is the first question Yifan asks, hands on his knees, fingers picking idly at his slacks.
“When I turned eighteen, mom sat me down and had a talk.” Jongin says, relaxing in the seat. His eyes survey the drink holders, the fancy ashtrays, and he fidgets with the button that controls the partition, rolling it up halfway before letting it down again. “I mean-- my dad, er, mom’s husband is white, so… I figured something was up. But I didn’t ask.”
Yifan smiles small; what a laid back kid. He gets that from Youngmi.
“But she told me your name, and she said she didn’t know where you were or what you were doing. So I Googled you.”
“...” Yifan rubs the back of his neck idly. He’s posed naked before. Oh lord. “Right-- well… I think I would have done the same thing.”
“I think it’s cool,” Jongin says, shrugging, still fiddling with the partition. The driver looks annoyed, but doesn’t say anything. “She never said why you disappeared but… I think I figured it out.”
Yifan feels himself blushing, for the first time in years. He coughs into his fist, “Yes, well-- Unfortunately, your mother wasn’t… my type.”
“Yeah,” Jongin’s got a wry smile on his features, fingers pulling away from the button so he can ruffle his hair instead.
Coughing again, Yifan lets out a breath. “Look, I have no idea what I’m doing. I babysat for my cousin once and it turned into a disaster. I don’t even have any pets. My apartment is the epitome of a bachelor pad and this-- this is so crazy, I can’t really believe it’s real.”
Jongin laughs, “Nervous?”
“Beyond it,” Yifan takes off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Well… I’m eighteen, not five, so you don’t need to babysit me. I use a toilet and have opposable thumbs, so I’m not a pet. And I’m a bachelor too-- do you think I’d care what kind of place you live in?” he chuckles. His laugh is sorta nerdy. Like Yifan’s. “It’s ok.”
Licking his lips, Yifan nods. They both glance at each other, and hold each other’s gazes -- this is real. This… is Yifan’s son. This attractive, laid back kid just flew over borders to meet him. He’s ok that Yifan wasn’t a part of his life, and doesn’t hold it against him.
“Do you want me to call you… Yifan… or…?” Jongin ventures, breaking the silence.
Yifan glances away, shrugging and looking out the window. “You have a dad. You can call me Yifan.”
The rest of the car ride is silent, but not uncomfortable.
Yifan is a father… but feels far from it.
--
The first week is Jongin settling in. Getting acclimated to sharing a space with someone else, situating himself within Yifan’s home. Thankfully, Yifan’s apartment has a spare bedroom-- although, last month it had been a study, and this month it is now housing a teenager, complete with a bed, dresser, and closet. He applauds himself on getting things done on a time crunch.
He hadn’t had enough notice to cancel any schedules, so unfortunately, he has to work during the first week. Jongin assures him that he’s ok-- there’s TV and internet and food, and he’s perfectly fine hanging out while Yifan works. Jongin seems to be… so okay with everything, that it kind of worries Yifan. Is Jongin really alright with everything? Being in a strange country with a guy who was basically a sperm donor? Or is Jongin the passive aggressive type, bottling it all in to explode later?
Yifan knows he’s probably worrying over nothing. Jongin really, genuinely seems like a nice kid. Besides, Yifan needs the space.
Jongin is too attractive.
And how vainly narcissistic is that? Yifan, thinking his own child looks like a god of sorts. But… he can’t ignore it. Jongin says that to stay fit he skateboards and dances, and Yifan has seen him shirtless enough to know that he is fit-- better than fit. Yifan almost feels ashamed of his own body. Jongin is adorable when he’s sleepy, a bit whiny and easily coerced (whether Yifan is ushering him off the couch and into bed, or from the bed into the bathroom for a shower), and while Yifan knows that Jongin is his son, there’s a part of him… curious.
And he does his best to squash those thoughts.
Being a dad isn’t so bad, either-- because Jongin was right. He’s eighteen, and it’s not like Yifan is raising a child on his own for three months, because Jongin has already been raised. Rather well, in fact. He’ll have to commend Youngmi on her wonderful parenting, and whoever her husband is, too. Yifan feels pride when Jongin tells him he got accepted into a university of the arts, he feels sad when he learns that Jongin’s best friend moved overseas.
He knows part of this adoration is paternal, but the other part…
“Jongin,” Yifan knocks on the bathroom door. Why did he pick a place that only has one bathroom? Why didn’t he foresee himself discovering that he had a child eighteen years later? “Are you almost done? I still have glitter on me from yesterday’s shoot.”
The lock on the door clicks and it opens, steam billowing out into Yifan’s face.
“Yeah,” Jongin says. His skin is flushed from the hot shower, wet hair hanging in his face as he flashes a smile. “Sorry. Your shower is just so awesome.”
Yifan offers a frozen smile, forcing his eyes to stay above the dip of Jongin’s collarbone. “Yeah-- yeah. Showers are my favorite luxury so I made sure I got a nice shower head.”
“Custom?” Jongin asks, stepping out of the bathroom, passing by Yifan.
“Yeah,” Yifan says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Hey--” he catches Jongin’s elbow before he gets too far, fingers slipping over wet skin. “Do you want to come to work with me today?”
Jongin’s eyes light up, “Really?”
Yifan smiles. “Really.”
“Yes--” Jongin laughs a little, pulling away. “Ok-- great. I, uh, I’ll get dressed.”
Watching Jongin walk away makes Yifan’s heart melt a little-- what’s the harm in bringing him to work? Like… ‘bring your kid to work day’. Except no one knows Jongin is his kid.
What could go wrong?
--
The studio is buzzing before Yifan and Jongin arrive, and by the time they enter the doors on the main floor, there’s already girls there waiting. Hordes of them. They scream and whip out their phones, taking videos and pictures; Jongin looks frozen for a second, but Yifan had advised him to wear sunglasses for this very moment. With his hand on the small of Jongin’s back, Yifan leads him through the crowd, smiling and waving politely at the girls, as the security guards rush in and try to clear the path. They make it into the elevator and Jongin laughs breathlessly, leaning against the railing and taking off his sunglasses. As soon as the door closes, they’re encased in an almost deafening silence, compared to the roar outside.
“Wow,” he says.
Yifan lets out a noise of acknowledgement, hitting the button for the top level.
“You deal with that every day? I saw the girls at the airport, too,” Jongin says.
“Yes,” Yifan says, glancing over at Jongin. “Where do you think those pictures you Googled came from?”
“Playgirl: China,” Jongin answers with a sleazy smile.
Yifan blushes and repeatedly hits the ‘8’ button with his finger until the elevator finally moves, and curses that this kid can slay him with one line.
--
All the women fawn over Jongin. They all ask where he came from (“Korea”), what their relation is (“friends”), how long he’ll be staying (“a while”)... and he’s so cool and calm, Yifan is impressed. It reminds him of himself, when he’s under pressure-- Jongin stays cool and collected, although he is considerably less awkward than Yifan himself. Which is probably a good thing. It can be painful.
“It’s so nice of you to take in a friend’s kid so he can travel,” says his makeup artist as she dusts some powder onto Yifan’s brows.
He can see Jongin’s reflection in the mirror, as girls coo over him and start holding up various outfits to his admirable frame. Yifan smiles a bit, “I couldn’t say no.”
“Doesn’t he remind you of Yifan?” the makeup artist asks the girl doing Yifan’s hair, who agrees. “So cool and handsome.”
Oh. If only they knew.
“They should do a shoot together!” the hair stylist suddenly says, and all the girls in the room explode with excitement.
“What--” Yifan glances up in alarm, but the makeup artist grabs his chin firmly to keep his face in place as she drags an eyeshadow brush along his lower lash line, his eyes automatically rolling up to the ceiling and therefore somehow, magically, muting him. The power of these women.
“I think it’s a great idea,” she says. “Go ask the creative director what he thinks.”
Yifan sits forward and makes to get up out of the chair, “I don’t think--”
The makeup artist puts a firm hand on his shoulder and sits his ass back down. “It’ll be great~” she says, a smile on her lips but a fire in her eyes.
Yifan considers suddenly becoming an alcoholic.
--
There’s no alcohol, but there’s a coffee bar, and Yifan drinks enough to become a jittery mess. But at least he’s focusing on not jittering, instead of the fact that the creative director is now murmuring things to the photographer. The set is hushed, eyes on Jongin as he sits in a guest chair next to Yifan’s, draped over it like a slob but managing to look like a prince.
Yifan made that.
A bit of coffee dribbles down his chin and he tosses the cup quickly, grabbing a blotting paper instead of a napkin to gently pat the liquid away. His makeup artist will kill him if he asks her for another touch up. But his eyes are on Jongin, too, watching how he scrolls something on his phone, sleepy eyes focused on whatever he’s scouring through. Chewing his lip, Yifan knows he should try to make more -- better -- conversation with Jongin. More than checking in to make sure the kid is ok, more than greetings and goodnights, more than asking what kind of food he wants to have for dinner. A full-fledged, deep conversation. About anything -- everything. He wants to know so much about Jongin; he wants to know his favorite color is, what his worst subject was in school, if he has a girlfriend--
His pocket starts vibrating and Yifan jolts a bit, reaching to pull his phone out and glance at the caller I.D. before answering. “Youngmi.”
“Hello~~” She chirps. She’s been checking in once a week. Yifan always likes talking to her. She’s a great person, warm and kind, and he wishes that they could have at least stayed friends. Better late than never, right? “Do you want to tell me why my son is in the tabloids today as Wu Yifan’s ‘mysterious escort’?”
Yifan almost drops his phone, spluttering indignantly. So cold, so quick. “I didn’t-- I brought him to work with me today. I thought they might think he was some sort of model, not an escort.”
Youngmi sounds mildly irritated. “Why don’t you just tell people he’s your cousin or something?”
“Only the people I work with know anything, and they think he’s my friend’s son,” he hisses into the phone, turning his back to the set to try and get some privacy without causing a scene by walking out. He’s panicking.
“Yifan,” Youngmi’s tongue clucks. “You need to make a statement and clear up this mess. Jongin’s friends will see those photos and blow him up, asking him what the deal is.”
Pinching his nose, Yifan tries not to remind Youngmi that she knew she was sending her son off to stay with a celebrity model, and that him being in the tabloids is unavoidable. Instead, he says, “I will take care of it, Youngmi. Don’t worry.”
Her voice is sunny again, “I know you will~ Have a good day, Yifan.”
When she hangs up, Yifan feels like the life has been sapped out of him. What were all those nice things he was thinking about Youngmi? He can’t seem to recall.
“Yifan!” The director calls for him, and Yifan turns around with a smooth smile, heading towards the set. Jongin is still draped over his chair, and sends Yifan a lazy smile. “Are you ready?”
“Mhm,” Jongin replies, locking his phone and setting it aside as he unfolds gracefully from the chair to stand. “Just catching up on the tabloids.”
Yifan knows that glint in Jongin’s eyes, and he pretends not to see it. “Anything interesting?”
“I didn’t know you were into escorts,” Jongin says, and he’s standing uncomfortably close to Yifan, his voice low and lips close to Yifan’s ear so he can hear his words. “You always struck me as the… conservative type.”
Not a lick of evidence in any media about Yifan being in a steady relationship, or even having a fling, for good reason. Of course, Jongin has to come in and flip everything upside down.
Pulling away from Jongin, Yifan sends him a smirk of his own. “A lot happens behind closed doors.”
He takes pride in the flash that darts across Jongin’s eyes, but pays it no more mind as he walks onto the set. The theme is aristocrat, early 1900’s, perhaps more on the victorian side. Yifan and Jongin get draped in tailored, colorful suits -- this was originally supposed to be a solo shoot, but the creative director loved the thought of another equally devilish man wearing these clothes and posing in front of him. Even though Jongin has never modeled in his life, he flows with such ease and grace that almost makes Yifan jealous. But-- he had to get it from somewhere, the man reminds himself. Jongin has a venerable air about him, one that directly coincides with Yifan, and as the shoot starts, Yifan can sense the awe in which people look on.
The soft boxes flashing don’t bother Jongin, as he and Yifan are directed to turn this way and that. At one point, in a grand wing chair they have Yifan seated on it, and Jongin on the floor with his cheek on Yifan’s knee. They both look bored, unsmiling, as per the tradition of photos that come from the victorian age, but both of their eyes are alight, on fire, windows into the soul. The easy elegance and grace they both emit through pose after pose, wardrobe changes and direction has the whole set murmuring amongst themselves. There’s a man filming, because Yifan had agreed to a ‘behind the scenes’ interview a while ago that he can’t go back on, and Yifan can only imagine how all of his fans will react… not only to the photoshoot spread in the magazine, but also the fluidity with which he and Jongin slither around each other.
And oh, it’s brewing a storm within Yifan. They’re touching more often than not in the shots; Yifan’s arm over Jongin’s shoulders, Jongin’s cheek on Yifan’s bicep, knee, chest, Yifan’s large hand over Jongin’s sumptuous curves. Jongin like a lazy panther, Yifan like a regal lion. Shadow and light. Jongin smells spicy and sweet at the same time, his hair is soft and up close Yifan can see the makeup sinking into his teenager pores of his cheeks and nose, but Jongin still looks amazing despite the fact.
The shoot lasts for an hour, and Yifan feels like a spring coiled taut, ready to explode with the slightest relief of tension. When the director calls it, loudly proclaiming that this is singlehandedly the best shoot he has ever done, Yifan stands up from the chair and starts shrugging out of the aged cape draped over his shoulders. A coordinator comes and helps him, and all the women in the room are abuzz with excitement.
Jongin looks pleased -- his smile is bright, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed from all of the compliments being thrown his way. People are telling him left and right that he needs to sign a contract, he should be in more shoots than just this, consider a career in modeling. But Jongin brushes them all shyly aside, shaking his head and saying that it was fun, but maybe he won’t do it again.
Thank God, Yifan thinks to himself.
They get ushered to the dressing room and change into regular clothes, and Yifan grabs a makeup wipe to start cleaning his face up. Jongin is having a hard time unbuttoning the fancy coat he’s trapped in, and Yifan takes pity once he’s patted in his moisturizer, walking over to Jongin and reaching out with deft fingers to help.
“You did do really good today,” Yifan compliments, meeting Jongin’s shy gaze, before the other drops his eyes.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say,” Jongin replies.
It cuts through Yifan. For the past hour and a half he’d managed to forget that Jongin is his own flesh and blood, his own son; he’d been able to focus on their chemistry, how easy it was for them to touch and adjust to each other’s space. But now, like a bucket of ice crashing over him, he’s reminded of their blood ties.
Smiling a bit tersely, Yifan gets the coat undone, and then moves to step away, give Jongin his space. He doesn’t expect Jongin to reach up and catch his wrist, though; and when he turns, Jongin’s eyes are still on the floor.
“Yifan…”
And it sounds like his next words are going to be monumental -- but they never come, because a knock raps on the door, the man outside explaining that he’s with the behind the scenes crew, wondering if they can get an interview with the infamous Wu Yifan.
“One moment,” Yifan calls back, and he gives Jongin a curious glance.
The boy smiles and shakes his head, waving it off. “Never mind.”
Yifan isn’t convinced, but he drops it nonetheless. The crew comes in, and Yifan sits down at the makeup vanity with all the lights, putting on a smile for the camera. This is the first ‘behind the scenes’ look into his world, and he’s a bit awkward because he’s not really sure how he should answer questions, or even how he should really talk about anything at all. He ends up revealing that he was discovered when he was twenty; he was in fashion design school, and his work had been noticed by a well-known Chinese designer, and she brought him on -- not for his designs, but for his face. He explained that at first he’d been crushed that it wasn’t his designs that got him noticed; but as time went on, more designers started asking him for input. When asked if he’ll be launching his own line soon, he smiles mysteriously and shrugs, but he tosses a smile up for Jongin to see, who returns his own grin.
The interview lasts ten minutes, and the man thanks Yifan before he excuses himself from the dressing room. Yifan is thankful that he didn’t ask any questions about Jongin; after all, Yifan is the international model here. Yifan doesn’t put it past anyone, though, to come up with their own crazy stories and ideas after their photos are to be published. And that’s ok. Another month and a half and Jongin will go back to his quiet life, with no chauffeur or fancy shower head or paparazzi.
A month and a half.
Yifan glances at Jongin as they both start putting on their coats, ready to head out for lunch before coming back to review some of the shots.
Jongin is unaware of his father’s gaze, adjusting his coat over his shoulders and zipping it up, diligently wrapping a scarf around his neck.
A month and a half seems too soon to let Jongin go.
--
Sure enough, when the magazine is printed two weeks later, Yifan gets hounded with questions about the sleepy-eyed, mysterious boy in the photos with him. He gets a call from Youngmi, too, who is quite frazzled about the whole thing (“you let him be published??” and he had to gently remind her that Jongin is eighteen, and can do as he pleases. she wasn’t thrilled, but she refrained from pouting too much when Jongin told her it was fun, but a one time thing), and all in all, the fashion world is in a buzz.
Yifan gets hounded with offers extended to him, offers that he would take if it weren’t for the ‘Jongin needs to come’ cliffnote. But Jongin doesn’t want to model again; and Yifan isn’t bitter about it, not at all. In fact, he’s proud. There’s that narcissism in him again, reminding him that his son is so much like him, and destined for great success. The offers get declined for four days straight, and then finally the companies stop bothering them. The tabloids don’t give up, though, publishing every picture of Yifan and Jongin out in public that they can manage.
“It doesn’t bother you?” Jongin asks one day, draped across Yifan’s sofa. He’s got the television on one of those garbage entertainment channels, watching as a photo of him and Yifan in the grocery store gets heavily dissected. “They think we’re dating.”
“Let them think what they want,” Yifan says from his chair, turning the page of the newspaper. “Are you bothered by it?”
“No,” Jongin replies.
Yifan glances up to see Jongin’s eyes on the tv, his expression soft and thoughtful. His hair is still damp from his shower, his sun-kissed skin slightly flushed from the scalding hot water he loves to use. For a moment, Yifan would like to think that Jongin has more to say about the subject than his bland dismissal. But then, what would Yifan like Jongin to say? Anything that comes to Yifan’s mind crosses the most sinful of boundaries.
“You didn’t answer,” Jongin says, catching Yifan’s attention again. Yifan quirks a brow, and Jongin’s gaze finally slides over to him, melted chocolate. “Does it bother you that they think we’re dating?”
“No,” Yifan says, dragging his eyes back to the paper. “Your mom is probably having a heart attack, though. She’s having a hard time keeping her calls to only once a week, I imagine.”
The newspaper Yifan is holding crinkles all of a sudden, and then it’s being pulled out of his grip by Jongin. Jongin, who’s wearing pajama pants and a tank top, standing between Yifan’s legs as he lets the newspaper dismantle and flutter to the floor in pieces.
“Yifan,” Jongin says, and it’s the same tone from the dressing room three weeks ago, when the boy had words on the tip of his tongue. Yifan gives him his undivided attention. Jongin’s bangs curtain his eyes, which makes Yifan’s own gaze drop towards what he can see -- Jongin’s lips. And that was probably a mistake, because Jongin licks them nervously. “I have something I want to tell you.”
“Ok,” Yifan says, shifting a bit in his chair. He wants to cross an ankle over his knee, but Jongin is standing between his thighs, wringing the hem of his shirt nervously. Yifan offers a smile, “You can tell me anything.” Fatherly advice.
Jongin nods, breathes, and then speaks. “I’m gay.”
Yifan blinks. That’s the last thing he expected to come out of Jongin’s mouth, and he feels his own heart freeze up and stutter at the admission.
“Does your mother know?” Yifan ventures quietly, softly. Jongin shakes his head, and Yifan sighs softly. He reaches up, taking Jongin’s wringing hands within his own, smiling when Jongin finally meets his gaze. “It’s alright, Jongin. I won’t tell anyone.”
This is messy. And it could get worse, quickly, if Jongin keeps licking and biting at his own lips.
“That’s not all,” Jongin says. His voice isn’t nervous or trembling, because Jongin always manages to keep his composure, but his tone is soft, worried.
“Ok…?” Yifan prompts, still holding Jongin’s hands.
“I found out because I was doing a search one day, online,” Jongin starts. Ah, yes. Porn. Of course. “I was looking at all sorts of things, because I just… didn’t know. I’d never felt sexually attracted to anyone before, and I wanted to know if there was something -- someone out there -- that would do it for me.”
Nodding, Yifan watches as Jongin’s eyes drop to their hands, pulling his away gently. Makes sense. Yifan can understand the self exploration.
“I came across your spread in Playgirl.”
Yifan’s blood runs ice cold, his gut dropping through to the floor. He thought Jongin had been joking, the first time he said that. Jongin is still a bit rigid, nervous, and now Yifan knows why. Jongin had lied about how he came across Yifan’s photos.
“I jacked off to it,” Jongin continues, and Yifan feels his ears burning, feels a myriad of emotions zip through him at the speed of light. “When I was done, mom barged into my room, and I didn’t have a chance to exit out of your photos. I mean-- you were dressed in the one I had up, thank God.” It’s only a small relief. “But then mom recognized you, and decided to sit me down and… tell me. It was last year. And it was my idea to come and see you and stay with you, not hers. You never have any bad tabloids, I never saw any indication that you were in a relationship and I just-- had to know.”
If Yifan weren’t already sitting, he’d be on the floor. He sort of wants to be on the floor, anyway, to try and sink into it, fall into the depths of Hell because that is exactly where he’s going when Youngmi finds out about all of this. If she does. He won’t dare tell her.
“I’m sorry,” Jongin finally says, and it’s the most emotion Yifan has seen on his face, yet. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation, and… fear. He looks terrified.
Clearing his throat, Yifan shifts in his seat, and then takes Jongin’s hands again. “You didn’t know, Jongin. It’s ok.”
“But then I did know, and I still--” the flush of Jongin’s skin isn’t from the shower anymore. “I still wanted to come and meet you.”
“That’s…” Yifan has no idea what to say. Even after finding out that the man he’d jerked off to was his father, Jongin still wanted to come and meet him. Surely out of moral obligation, the whole ‘every child should know who their parents are’ or something like that, but… after such an incident, Yifan is sure he himself would be too mortified to ever want to meet his father.
“If you wanna send me back early, that’s fine,” Jongin laments softly, sounding guilt-ridden. Yifan’s heart squeezes. “And we don’t have to talk anymore. I’m really glad that I got to come here, meet you and spend time with you. You’re… You’re a really amazing person, Yifan.”
Memories flood Yifan immediately. In the grocery store with Jongin, shopping like a bickering couple rather than father and son, about what cereal to get. At restaurants with Jongin, casually flirting over wine and exchanging equally stupid stories about the kind of crap they’ve gotten into. At home, sitting next to each other but not quite touching, on the couch with a movie playing, Jongin always falling asleep first with his head lolling onto Yifan’s shoulder. Yifan’s constant care and guidance, flippant advice that he felt like he was giving to a comrade more than his own child…
Shaking his head, Yifan stands up, gripping Jongin’s shoulders. “You’re not going home early, Jongin.”
Jongin’s eyes look up at Yifan -- they’re not red and puffy, there’s not a hint of moisture in them. Just a flicker of a fire being reignited, temporarily dampened. “What--?”
Yifan offers a small smile, “I want you to stay, Jongin.”
“Even though I--” Jongin can’t say the words again. The cool, suave, confident kid that Yifan picked up from the airport is gone, replaced with an unsure teenager. They’re more alike than Yifan could ever imagine.
“We went eighteen years without knowing one another,” Yifan says, squeezing Jongin’s shoulder and sending him a lopsided, hopefully encouraging, smile. “If I had seen your photo online, I probably would have done the same thing.”
Jongin’s light flush turns scarlet. “You would--?”
Yifan withdraws his hands, and rubs the back of his neck idly, averting his gaze. “But that’s pretty narcissistic of me, huh?” He finally asks, out loud, because he’s been saying it in his head this whole time: how narcissistic it is of him to think his own child stunningly attractive. But Jongin is also a part of Youngmi, and even Yifan could recognize how beautiful of a girl she is. So… it would only make sense that he should feel the same way about a male version of her? Even if he was birthed by her -- and subsequently, Yifan, too.
Sick. Twisted. Narcissistic.
“Yifan,” Jongin’s hands cup either side of Yifan’s face and make him look into his mocha eyes, and Yifan feels his last bits of control crumbling. “Tell me it’s wrong.” Jongin’s voice isn’t weak and his eyes aren’t soft -- it’s a challenge. If Yifan stops this, it will stop, and Jongin will have no choice but to obey. But if Yifan indulges… if they both cave, then there’s no turning back.
The catalyst is that Yifan can’t say it’s wrong. He can’t tell Jongin to throw away this idea, he can’t tell Jongin that he’s standing too close, can’t say anything against anything.
Jongin pushes Yifan to sit in the chair and sinks to his knees in the blink of an eye, arousal zipping through Yifan’s body so quickly he can’t catch it, reel it in and regain his sanity. Jongin’s eyes are dark, purposeful and sinful, tanned hands moving to undo the drawstrings of Yifan’s pants.
Too fast, too fast, too much too soon and yet Yifan still can’t say no. His cock is half hard already, a testament to the fact that he’s maybe thought of this in the middle of the night, alone in his bedroom, kept from sleep with images of mocha skin and plush lips haunting the darkest corners of his mind. That maybe turns into a definite yes, glaringly obvious as Jongin reaches forward and pulls Yifan’s sweatpants down without preamble, the older even shifting his hips to allow Jongin to pull the fabric down enough to let Yifan’s cock spring free.
The look on Jongin’s face is wondrous and hungry, and Yifan almost wants to ask him if he’s a virgin -- but he decides against it, because the way that Jongin licks a fat stripe up the underside of his cock throws that thought far, far away. Clenching his teeth, Yifan’s fingers sink into chocolate locks and everything about Jongin is so fucking attractive; the way his plush lips thin out around the girth of Yifan’s cock, the way his shoulders shift and flex under his flimsy tank top, how his spine dips and his hips sway unconsciously while he sucks Yifan down into his throat.
Tensing, Yifan’s knees spread to accommodate space for Jongin to fit between them, and Jongin looks up at him through a curtain of dark bangs, eyes wet, endless pools of desire and Jesus, Yifan has been given blowjobs before, plenty of times by plenty of men, but the sheer taboo of the situation and how glaringly fucking attractive the kid is totally overwhelms Yifan and makes it impossible for him to do anything except for accept what’s happening to him. He wouldn’t change it, either. He’d ask for it again, if he’s allowed to. There’s no way he’d want to never feel the hot, wet suction of Jongin’s mouth and throat ever again.
Jongin sucks his cock like he’s been waiting ages to do so, and it sort of licks at Yifan’s spine that perhaps he has. Perhaps the first time Jongin jacked off to Yifan’s pictures, he imagined sucking his cock, going down on him and unwinding him from the day. And maybe, after Jongin found out their relation, he shamefully jacked off again and again to the thought of things developing further between them -- moving on from blowjobs, to rimming, to fucking. Those thoughts swim in Yifan’s head and shit, he’s taking the fantasy too far; but Jongin moans around his cock, throat muscles constricting as he swallows, and Yifan’s fingers dig into his scalp, feeling his balls tighten.
“Shit, Jongin,” he breathes out, basically all the warning he can give.
Orgasm doesn’t come, though, because Jongin is pulling off his cock with a slick noise, lips swollen and cheeks flushed as he rises from his knees to stand. Yifan blinks up at him, flushed and hard and slightly out of breath, wondering if Jongin has finally come to his senses and is about to tell him this is a huge mistake.
What happens has all the air expelling from Yifan’s lungs before he can control it.
Jongin pulls off his shirt, exposing taut lines and hard planes. He then pushes his sweats and his boxers down, kicking them off his feet, before he climbs onto Yifan’s lap, grabbing Yifan’s hands and placing them on the fleshy swell of his perfect, oh God, ass. Panting softly, Jongin leans in and licks up the shell of Yifan’s ear, tongue catching on the piercings before he speaks lowly, breathily.
“Fuck me, Daddy.”
Yifan moans so loud and so hard his toes vibrate. He’d never thought that he had a Daddy kink, and at this point, is it even a kink? This is real life. His son is perched on his lap, coiled tight, sex kitten mewling for his father to fuck him. And he means it. They’re both one hundred percent sober and well aware of what is happening, and yet neither of them are making moves to stop it. He can’t. He’s trapped. He’s wrapped up in the web that Jongin has woven -- whether intentional or not -- the past two and a half months flying by in a whirl of sleepy smiles, exposed hip bones and lingering touches.
Grabbing Jongin’s ass fully in his broad palms, Yifan pulls the cheeks apart, his index finger sliding dry over Jongin’s hole. He’s shocked to find little resistance when he pushes against it, and Jongin is chuckling breathily into the crook of his neck, his hips gyrating to try and get Yifan’s finger to sink in.
“I knew I was going to tell you today,” Jongin murmurs. “I’ve thought about it for weeks. About how you’d react. So I prepared myself for the best case scenario…”
Jesus. Jongin had played with himself prior to confessing, and oh God, this is premeditated. There’s no mistake that Jongin wants this to happen, was banking on it happening, and like a fly Yifan has been caught by the black widow.
He loves it.
Mercilessly, he shoves two fingers inside of Jongin’s stretched hole, feeling the remnants of lube inside. Jongin’s back arches and he gasps out, hands gripping at Yifan’s shoulders as he tosses his head back, moaning at the stretch. Anyone else and Yifan would have taken a bit more care, but he has an inkling that Jongin doesn’t want to be treated so delicately. Which, Yifan is totally ok with.
Thrusting his fingers, there’s a lot more friction than glide, and Yifan knows it’ll burn his cock to be inside. Jongin is rocking back onto his fingers hungrily, wantonly, submissive and beautiful, and Yifan leans forward to mouth hotly along the column of the other’s beautiful neck, tonguing over the throbbing pulse point as he starts to work Jongin open.
The sound of something ripping brings Yifan’s attention back to Jongin; Jongin, who has magically procured a condom, that filthy, adulterous smile on his lips as he rolls the rubber onto Yifan’s cock. It’s lubed, but not generously, and Yifan hisses softly at the glide of Jongin’s fingers sliding over his cock. At least they’re playing it safe, right? Even though it would be hot beyond Yifan’s wildest dreams for Jongin to bareback him.
“Fuck me,” Jongin repeats, but his voice is less sultry, more aggressive. Power bottom, Yifan idly thinks, as Jongin’s hips swivel and his body shifts so that he can align his ass over Yifan’s cock.
Yifan’s fingers are still inside of Jongin’s ass, as the younger grabs the base of Yifan’s cock and guides it up. He starts sitting, and Yifan’s cock is nudging in alongside his long fingers and holy shit. Jongin is taking it like a pro, with breathy gasps and pants, blunt nails digging into Yifan’s shoulders. Yifan’s own head tips back against the chair, eyes closing, unable to handle the visual along with the actual sensation. He doesn’t want to come so soon -- especially because he knows Jongin would never let him live it down.
Once Jongin is seated on Yifan’s cock, two of Yifan’s fingers still fitted snugly beside it, he starts rocking, setting his own pace. Yifan is perfectly fine with that -- he can tell that Jongin is tight, tighter than anyone he’s ever fucked, but with his fingers in the mix it’s almost unbearable. He stays pliant under the younger, allowing him to set the pace, rock his body and use Yifan’s cock and fingers for his own pleasure. The slightest crook of his fingers has Jongin crying out, his hands moving to the back of the chair on either side of Yifan’s head, and Jongin throws his head back, bouncing on Yifan’s dick.
Wrapping the fingers of his free hand around Jongin’s cock, Yifan strokes him off in time with the movements, and Jongin’s chin tilts down so his eyes can level with Yifan’s. They can’t go back. They’ve gone passed the point of no return, and that’s exchanged silently in their glance, but the acceptance that follows is just as quick, just as heavy. They’re doing this. Yifan is fucking his eighteen year old son in his living room, and he’s planning on fucking him again -- in the bedroom, in the shower, in the car, wherever they can manage.
Their lips crash in a kiss, and Yifan doesn’t know who started it, but they’re both deep into it. Teeth clashing, tongues fucking, Yifan’s hips start moving up to fuck into Jongin with abandon, feet planted on the floor and Jongin hiccuping moans into his mouth. It’s passionate, wild and dirty, Yifan’s fingers still crooked to hit Jongin’s spot with every thrust, and it’s Jongin that comes first, spilling onto Yifan’s hand and over his shirt, messy, hot and thick. Yifan presses his face into the crook of Jongin’s neck, biting down hard, his hips stuttering to a halt a split second after Jongin’s body tenses with release, and then he’s spilling into the condom, a low moan leaving his lips as he rides it out.
Jongin collapses onto Yifan shortly after, breathing heavily, body glistening with sweat from the exertion of riding Yifan. Yifan pulls his fingers free, but leaves his cock inside, wrapping his arms around Jongin and holding him close; for Jongin’s comfort or his own, he’s not sure. The situation is heavy, the cloud slowly lowering onto them, but Yifan refuses to let it settle, pressing a soft kiss to Jongin’s hair.
“Do you need help getting up?” Yifan asks, voice low.
Jongin makes a negative noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not moving. Not when I’m finally here.”
The little smile that quirks over Yifan’s lips can’t be helped, and he holds Jongin a bit tighter.
This is a fucking mess.
But as he lets his hand travel over Jongin’s back, he reminds himself…
It’s a beautiful disaster.
--
“Yeah, mom, we’re getting ready to go to the airport now,” Jongin says, toeing into his sneakers and switching the phone from one ear to the other.
Yifan has an extra duffel bag slung over his shoulder; Jongin has acquired a few extra things since being in China, and Yifan said he’d be happy to pay the extra baggage fee, because Jongin deserves everything he got. Souvenirs, gifts for friends and family -- as well as some clothing from the photoshoot that he was a part of, mostly for keepsake.
Yifan can’t hear what Youngmi is saying, but by the way Jongin is rolling his eyes, he has an inkling of what it is before Jongin even replies.
“I’ll be wearing sunglasses, a mask and a hat. But they already know who I am, mom, that’s not gonna stop them from taking my photo.”
Youngmi’s voice raises, and Yifan can hear, “My baby is not coming back to Korea a celebrity!”, to which Jongin replies, “Sorry, too late~”.
A very cheeky reply, and Yifan walks up behind Jongin as the other fumbles to get the mask over his ears while he talks to Youngmi. Yifan’s arms wrap around Jongin’s waist from behind, and he starts kissing down the slope of Jongin’s neck, totally shameless and brave. Jongin leans into him, though, and the little tension that was in his body bleeds out of him, and he says a peaceful goodbye to his mother before hanging up, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“Are you sure I can’t stay?” Jongin asks, turning around in Yifan’s embrace, looking up at the blond with his best puppy pout.
Yifan rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Jongin’s face, pushing it away a bit. “I am one-hundred percent positive your mother would filet me.”
“But,” Yifan can see the smirk hidden by Jongin’s mask in his eyes, “Daddy~~”
“That was ONE time.” Yifan groans, pushing Jongin towards the door. “You’re coming back in six months. I’m not good at goodbyes. Don’t make this harder than it is.”
“Oh, but I want to make it really hard,” Jongin purrs, reaching to grope at Yifan’s crotch.
“Hey--” Yifan slaps his hand away, laughing lightly. He pulls Jongin in for a hug, a real one, which Jongin returns, quieting all his sarcasm.
“We can Skype though, right?” Jongin asks against Yifan’s shoulder.
“Yeah, but no funny stuff,” Yifan says with a small chuckle, removing Jongin’s backwards snapback so he can run a hand over Jongin’s hair.
“Right, right,” Jongin lets out a suffering sigh, before pulling away and smiling up at Yifan. “I’m really glad I came here.”
Smiling fondly, Yifan cups Jongin’s face, leaning in for a slow, but chaste kiss, “I am too.”
As they make their way through the crowded airport, Yifan wishes he could hold Jongin’s hand, kiss him as he sends him off, promise him that they’ll see each other sooner than later. He can’t do any of that, though; the public might think they’re dating, but Youngmi follows the tabloids, and they’re sure to not let any inkling of their hidden relationship be revealed.
Three months ago when Yifan had been here to pick up his son, his life had changed drastically.
And now, as Yifan sends off the same young man that he picked up three months ago, he knows his life has changed drastically, yet again.
It’s scary -- but watching Jongin wave at him before he disappears towards his terminal, Yifan decides that it’s worth it. It’s not like he’s never kept a secret before.
Turning around and making to leave, he chuckles to himself, running a hand through his hair.
Whatever mess he’s gotten himself into… As long as he’s got Jongin, it’ll be fine.
A beautiful disaster.
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Pairing: Kris/Kai
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings: Incest. This goes from 0-60 really fucking fast
Summary: An old flame decides to ring up celebrity model Yifan and let him know that, well, he’s a father. Said kid is about to stay with him for three months. Yifan doesn’t know the first thing about parenting. All things considered, he doesn’t do much parenting, anyway.
Notes: i don’t have any excuse for this. if (father/son) incest isn’t your thing pls don’t read. i’m serious. turn back now
do you?;
At thirty-six years old, Yifan is pretty sure he’s never felt this nervous before in his life. Well, actually, it’s definite -- there is no time in his existence that he can recall feeling like he was going to puke, shit his pants, and pass out all at once. Not when he asked the pretty girl to prom, not when he stood up to his shitty retail boss and quit… No moment in the entirety of his history as a living person has been this nerve-wracking.
Two months ago, he’d gotten a call that changed his life.
An ex summer-fling of his had found his number and gave him a call, and it went a little something like…
--
“Is this Wu Yifan?”
It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday, and Yifan is sure there’s a law in the bible that doesn’t allow people to be disturbed on their day of peace. But, he’s atheist, so it’s no wonder he’s being rung up at this time, on this day. Karma, he supposes. He stares at the clock, smacks his lips tiredly, and then runs a hand through his hair as he lays on his back, phone pressed to his ear. The person on the other line is speaking Korean, and it’s taking a lot for Yifan to get his startled-awake-brain to cooperate in the correct language.
“Yes. Who is calling?”
“Kim Youngmi.”
He sits bolt upright, legs tangled in the blankets. He’ll never forget that name -- the girl he had met during a family vacation on Jeju Island. The prettiest girl he’d ever met. The girl he lost his virginity to. The girl… that made him realize that he was gay.
“Uh-- hey-- good morning. Hello.” he says, dumbly. He winces at his own stupidity.
“Good morning,” she says, and her laugh sounds tinged with something undetectable. “I know it’s been forever since we talked--” eighteen years “--but I have something I want to ask you.”
“Yeah…” he rubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to wake up. Even after all these years, even after watching her walk away so bravely after his confession, Yifan would still do anything for Youngmi. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“You remember when we met?” she asks, hedging around the exact circumstances. Her birthday, his clumsiness, and the not-so-amazing morning after when he had the revelation that sex with a girl just… wasn’t his thing.
“Yeah, I do. Are you ok, Youngmi?” he asks.
“... Yes and no,” she says, letting out an airy, awkward laugh. “So um… There’s really no other way to put this. But that night… And you left, and I didn’t get your number because you discovered your sexuality and that kind of bummed me out and I was pretty sure I never wanted to see you again--” Makes sense.
“Youngmi.” They hadn’t seen or talked to each other since the morning after. What is she getting at?
“Right. Ok.” She takes a deep breath. “You got me pregnant.”
Yifan stares at the sunlight reflecting in from his window for so long, his retinas start burning.
“What.”
“I um-- I got pregnant. From you. And had… a baby,” she says, losing her gusto. “And I had no way of figuring out where you went or how to contact you but I was still pretty busted up about not only being the reason you found out you were gay, but then I got pregnant from that, and how on earth am I supposed to tell a gay man he impregnated someone? So I just-- y’know, I just… had the baby.”
“What…” his mind is having a hard time catching up.
“And I raised him for the past eighteen years, but now that he’s eighteen, I wanted to find his dad and-- you know… He wants to meet you.”
“I’m gay,” he blurts out, unnecessarily.
“I know--” she huffs. “Yifan. We have a child and he’s getting ready to travel abroad… He wants to go to China.”
Oh no. Oooooh no, no no no--
“Let him stay with you.”
“But--” he glances around his bedroom. He lives alone, in a total annihilation of a bachelor pad, and has no parenting skills what. So. Ever. He’d gone through eighteen blissful years of ignorance, dating so-and-so and dumping what’s-his-name and now a summer fling from his adolescence is asking him to harbor a child?
Her child?
His child?
“Yifan? Yifan! Yifan, you’re a celebrity model I know where you live now!”
He’s passed out, draped halfway off the bed, the phone limp in his hand.
--
So. That’s what got him here, at the airport, waiting for his… son. He still can’t believe it. Youngmi called him two months ago, and since then they’d gone through the steps-- paternity tests, picture exchange. With her in South Korea and him in Beijing there wasn’t much they could do… but tests don’t lie. Yifan has a son. A living, breathing human being and Youngmi had raised him with her current husband… without Yifan knowing.
Wiping his sweaty palms on his slacks, there are some fangirls that have gathered on the outskirts of where the terminal lets out. He’s got sunglasses on indoors, blond hair slicked back and blazer hanging off of one shoulder artfully; he doesn’t need to look so nice to pick his kid up from the airport but-- what else can he do? The public is going to see him picking up some strange kid, it’s going to be in the tabloids. Hopefully he can pass this off as a relative or friend of some sort coming to visit.
For three months.
He glances up at the departure/arrival reader board, and sees that the plane is unloading. At any second, his son will be coming through the terminal gates… Yifan’s heart is palpitating. It feels so unreal, so bizarre, but here he is.
He checks the photo Youngmi sent him one more time. It’s an old photo, she says, but their partakes in group pictures more than solo pictures. But he’s got a recognizable face, Yifan thinks… One that doesn’t really look much like Yifan, but Youngmi’s genetics must be stronger than his own. Which is ok. Yifan doesn’t know how a baby with his chin could comfortably enter the world.
Scanning the crowd, his eyes zero in on fluffy, tousled dark brown locks. They frame a masculine face, sleepy eyes and pouty lips… That’s him. Yifan still feels like he’s going to piss himself. He takes a few steps forward, and the boy sees him at the same time--
“Jongin?” Yifan asks, testingly.
Jongin’s sleepy face splits into a grin, and he hurries forward, luggage scrolling noisily behind him. He’s wearing jeans and a tee and looks like quite a slob… but he pulls it off well, Yifan thinks. And that’s from a model perspective. The kid doesn’t look much like Yifan, but that’s not a bad thing; he’s got Yifan’s style, his gait, his confidence.
“Hi,” Jongin says, a bit breathlessly.
Arousal zings through Yifan so fast it leaves him dizzy (and very, very confused).
“Um-- hi. I uh…” Yifan’s hands flail a bit for a second, unsure of what to do, before he holds one out for the other to take. “It’s… It’s nice to meet you.”
Jongin laughs and takes Yifan’s hand, his lazy grace something to be admired. He squeezes, grip strong, shaking firmly. “Mom wouldn’t stop talking about you once she told me.”
“Right--” Yifan glances around, and girls are snapping photos left and right of their meeting. “Let’s get out of here before things get crazy.” He takes Jongin’s carry-on bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder and offering a small smile before he leads the other out of the crowd towards where the car is waiting.
It still feels unreal. It hasn’t sunk in-- this kid walking next to him, freshly eighteen, fresh out of school looking to explore the world… is his son. His own flesh and blood. Sun-kissed skin and almond eyes… Yifan tries not to stare too much. Talk about creepy. Narcissistic, even. He made that. Well, half of that.
They pack Jongin’s luggage into the trunk, and the chauffeur lets them into the backseat before getting in and starting to drive away from the bustling airport.
“How long have you known about me?” is the first question Yifan asks, hands on his knees, fingers picking idly at his slacks.
“When I turned eighteen, mom sat me down and had a talk.” Jongin says, relaxing in the seat. His eyes survey the drink holders, the fancy ashtrays, and he fidgets with the button that controls the partition, rolling it up halfway before letting it down again. “I mean-- my dad, er, mom’s husband is white, so… I figured something was up. But I didn’t ask.”
Yifan smiles small; what a laid back kid. He gets that from Youngmi.
“But she told me your name, and she said she didn’t know where you were or what you were doing. So I Googled you.”
“...” Yifan rubs the back of his neck idly. He’s posed naked before. Oh lord. “Right-- well… I think I would have done the same thing.”
“I think it’s cool,” Jongin says, shrugging, still fiddling with the partition. The driver looks annoyed, but doesn’t say anything. “She never said why you disappeared but… I think I figured it out.”
Yifan feels himself blushing, for the first time in years. He coughs into his fist, “Yes, well-- Unfortunately, your mother wasn’t… my type.”
“Yeah,” Jongin’s got a wry smile on his features, fingers pulling away from the button so he can ruffle his hair instead.
Coughing again, Yifan lets out a breath. “Look, I have no idea what I’m doing. I babysat for my cousin once and it turned into a disaster. I don’t even have any pets. My apartment is the epitome of a bachelor pad and this-- this is so crazy, I can’t really believe it’s real.”
Jongin laughs, “Nervous?”
“Beyond it,” Yifan takes off his sunglasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Well… I’m eighteen, not five, so you don’t need to babysit me. I use a toilet and have opposable thumbs, so I’m not a pet. And I’m a bachelor too-- do you think I’d care what kind of place you live in?” he chuckles. His laugh is sorta nerdy. Like Yifan’s. “It’s ok.”
Licking his lips, Yifan nods. They both glance at each other, and hold each other’s gazes -- this is real. This… is Yifan’s son. This attractive, laid back kid just flew over borders to meet him. He’s ok that Yifan wasn’t a part of his life, and doesn’t hold it against him.
“Do you want me to call you… Yifan… or…?” Jongin ventures, breaking the silence.
Yifan glances away, shrugging and looking out the window. “You have a dad. You can call me Yifan.”
The rest of the car ride is silent, but not uncomfortable.
Yifan is a father… but feels far from it.
--
The first week is Jongin settling in. Getting acclimated to sharing a space with someone else, situating himself within Yifan’s home. Thankfully, Yifan’s apartment has a spare bedroom-- although, last month it had been a study, and this month it is now housing a teenager, complete with a bed, dresser, and closet. He applauds himself on getting things done on a time crunch.
He hadn’t had enough notice to cancel any schedules, so unfortunately, he has to work during the first week. Jongin assures him that he’s ok-- there’s TV and internet and food, and he’s perfectly fine hanging out while Yifan works. Jongin seems to be… so okay with everything, that it kind of worries Yifan. Is Jongin really alright with everything? Being in a strange country with a guy who was basically a sperm donor? Or is Jongin the passive aggressive type, bottling it all in to explode later?
Yifan knows he’s probably worrying over nothing. Jongin really, genuinely seems like a nice kid. Besides, Yifan needs the space.
Jongin is too attractive.
And how vainly narcissistic is that? Yifan, thinking his own child looks like a god of sorts. But… he can’t ignore it. Jongin says that to stay fit he skateboards and dances, and Yifan has seen him shirtless enough to know that he is fit-- better than fit. Yifan almost feels ashamed of his own body. Jongin is adorable when he’s sleepy, a bit whiny and easily coerced (whether Yifan is ushering him off the couch and into bed, or from the bed into the bathroom for a shower), and while Yifan knows that Jongin is his son, there’s a part of him… curious.
And he does his best to squash those thoughts.
Being a dad isn’t so bad, either-- because Jongin was right. He’s eighteen, and it’s not like Yifan is raising a child on his own for three months, because Jongin has already been raised. Rather well, in fact. He’ll have to commend Youngmi on her wonderful parenting, and whoever her husband is, too. Yifan feels pride when Jongin tells him he got accepted into a university of the arts, he feels sad when he learns that Jongin’s best friend moved overseas.
He knows part of this adoration is paternal, but the other part…
“Jongin,” Yifan knocks on the bathroom door. Why did he pick a place that only has one bathroom? Why didn’t he foresee himself discovering that he had a child eighteen years later? “Are you almost done? I still have glitter on me from yesterday’s shoot.”
The lock on the door clicks and it opens, steam billowing out into Yifan’s face.
“Yeah,” Jongin says. His skin is flushed from the hot shower, wet hair hanging in his face as he flashes a smile. “Sorry. Your shower is just so awesome.”
Yifan offers a frozen smile, forcing his eyes to stay above the dip of Jongin’s collarbone. “Yeah-- yeah. Showers are my favorite luxury so I made sure I got a nice shower head.”
“Custom?” Jongin asks, stepping out of the bathroom, passing by Yifan.
“Yeah,” Yifan says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Hey--” he catches Jongin’s elbow before he gets too far, fingers slipping over wet skin. “Do you want to come to work with me today?”
Jongin’s eyes light up, “Really?”
Yifan smiles. “Really.”
“Yes--” Jongin laughs a little, pulling away. “Ok-- great. I, uh, I’ll get dressed.”
Watching Jongin walk away makes Yifan’s heart melt a little-- what’s the harm in bringing him to work? Like… ‘bring your kid to work day’. Except no one knows Jongin is his kid.
What could go wrong?
--
The studio is buzzing before Yifan and Jongin arrive, and by the time they enter the doors on the main floor, there’s already girls there waiting. Hordes of them. They scream and whip out their phones, taking videos and pictures; Jongin looks frozen for a second, but Yifan had advised him to wear sunglasses for this very moment. With his hand on the small of Jongin’s back, Yifan leads him through the crowd, smiling and waving politely at the girls, as the security guards rush in and try to clear the path. They make it into the elevator and Jongin laughs breathlessly, leaning against the railing and taking off his sunglasses. As soon as the door closes, they’re encased in an almost deafening silence, compared to the roar outside.
“Wow,” he says.
Yifan lets out a noise of acknowledgement, hitting the button for the top level.
“You deal with that every day? I saw the girls at the airport, too,” Jongin says.
“Yes,” Yifan says, glancing over at Jongin. “Where do you think those pictures you Googled came from?”
“Playgirl: China,” Jongin answers with a sleazy smile.
Yifan blushes and repeatedly hits the ‘8’ button with his finger until the elevator finally moves, and curses that this kid can slay him with one line.
--
All the women fawn over Jongin. They all ask where he came from (“Korea”), what their relation is (“friends”), how long he’ll be staying (“a while”)... and he’s so cool and calm, Yifan is impressed. It reminds him of himself, when he’s under pressure-- Jongin stays cool and collected, although he is considerably less awkward than Yifan himself. Which is probably a good thing. It can be painful.
“It’s so nice of you to take in a friend’s kid so he can travel,” says his makeup artist as she dusts some powder onto Yifan’s brows.
He can see Jongin’s reflection in the mirror, as girls coo over him and start holding up various outfits to his admirable frame. Yifan smiles a bit, “I couldn’t say no.”
“Doesn’t he remind you of Yifan?” the makeup artist asks the girl doing Yifan’s hair, who agrees. “So cool and handsome.”
Oh. If only they knew.
“They should do a shoot together!” the hair stylist suddenly says, and all the girls in the room explode with excitement.
“What--” Yifan glances up in alarm, but the makeup artist grabs his chin firmly to keep his face in place as she drags an eyeshadow brush along his lower lash line, his eyes automatically rolling up to the ceiling and therefore somehow, magically, muting him. The power of these women.
“I think it’s a great idea,” she says. “Go ask the creative director what he thinks.”
Yifan sits forward and makes to get up out of the chair, “I don’t think--”
The makeup artist puts a firm hand on his shoulder and sits his ass back down. “It’ll be great~” she says, a smile on her lips but a fire in her eyes.
Yifan considers suddenly becoming an alcoholic.
--
There’s no alcohol, but there’s a coffee bar, and Yifan drinks enough to become a jittery mess. But at least he’s focusing on not jittering, instead of the fact that the creative director is now murmuring things to the photographer. The set is hushed, eyes on Jongin as he sits in a guest chair next to Yifan’s, draped over it like a slob but managing to look like a prince.
Yifan made that.
A bit of coffee dribbles down his chin and he tosses the cup quickly, grabbing a blotting paper instead of a napkin to gently pat the liquid away. His makeup artist will kill him if he asks her for another touch up. But his eyes are on Jongin, too, watching how he scrolls something on his phone, sleepy eyes focused on whatever he’s scouring through. Chewing his lip, Yifan knows he should try to make more -- better -- conversation with Jongin. More than checking in to make sure the kid is ok, more than greetings and goodnights, more than asking what kind of food he wants to have for dinner. A full-fledged, deep conversation. About anything -- everything. He wants to know so much about Jongin; he wants to know his favorite color is, what his worst subject was in school, if he has a girlfriend--
His pocket starts vibrating and Yifan jolts a bit, reaching to pull his phone out and glance at the caller I.D. before answering. “Youngmi.”
“Hello~~” She chirps. She’s been checking in once a week. Yifan always likes talking to her. She’s a great person, warm and kind, and he wishes that they could have at least stayed friends. Better late than never, right? “Do you want to tell me why my son is in the tabloids today as Wu Yifan’s ‘mysterious escort’?”
Yifan almost drops his phone, spluttering indignantly. So cold, so quick. “I didn’t-- I brought him to work with me today. I thought they might think he was some sort of model, not an escort.”
Youngmi sounds mildly irritated. “Why don’t you just tell people he’s your cousin or something?”
“Only the people I work with know anything, and they think he’s my friend’s son,” he hisses into the phone, turning his back to the set to try and get some privacy without causing a scene by walking out. He’s panicking.
“Yifan,” Youngmi’s tongue clucks. “You need to make a statement and clear up this mess. Jongin’s friends will see those photos and blow him up, asking him what the deal is.”
Pinching his nose, Yifan tries not to remind Youngmi that she knew she was sending her son off to stay with a celebrity model, and that him being in the tabloids is unavoidable. Instead, he says, “I will take care of it, Youngmi. Don’t worry.”
Her voice is sunny again, “I know you will~ Have a good day, Yifan.”
When she hangs up, Yifan feels like the life has been sapped out of him. What were all those nice things he was thinking about Youngmi? He can’t seem to recall.
“Yifan!” The director calls for him, and Yifan turns around with a smooth smile, heading towards the set. Jongin is still draped over his chair, and sends Yifan a lazy smile. “Are you ready?”
“Mhm,” Jongin replies, locking his phone and setting it aside as he unfolds gracefully from the chair to stand. “Just catching up on the tabloids.”
Yifan knows that glint in Jongin’s eyes, and he pretends not to see it. “Anything interesting?”
“I didn’t know you were into escorts,” Jongin says, and he’s standing uncomfortably close to Yifan, his voice low and lips close to Yifan’s ear so he can hear his words. “You always struck me as the… conservative type.”
Not a lick of evidence in any media about Yifan being in a steady relationship, or even having a fling, for good reason. Of course, Jongin has to come in and flip everything upside down.
Pulling away from Jongin, Yifan sends him a smirk of his own. “A lot happens behind closed doors.”
He takes pride in the flash that darts across Jongin’s eyes, but pays it no more mind as he walks onto the set. The theme is aristocrat, early 1900’s, perhaps more on the victorian side. Yifan and Jongin get draped in tailored, colorful suits -- this was originally supposed to be a solo shoot, but the creative director loved the thought of another equally devilish man wearing these clothes and posing in front of him. Even though Jongin has never modeled in his life, he flows with such ease and grace that almost makes Yifan jealous. But-- he had to get it from somewhere, the man reminds himself. Jongin has a venerable air about him, one that directly coincides with Yifan, and as the shoot starts, Yifan can sense the awe in which people look on.
The soft boxes flashing don’t bother Jongin, as he and Yifan are directed to turn this way and that. At one point, in a grand wing chair they have Yifan seated on it, and Jongin on the floor with his cheek on Yifan’s knee. They both look bored, unsmiling, as per the tradition of photos that come from the victorian age, but both of their eyes are alight, on fire, windows into the soul. The easy elegance and grace they both emit through pose after pose, wardrobe changes and direction has the whole set murmuring amongst themselves. There’s a man filming, because Yifan had agreed to a ‘behind the scenes’ interview a while ago that he can’t go back on, and Yifan can only imagine how all of his fans will react… not only to the photoshoot spread in the magazine, but also the fluidity with which he and Jongin slither around each other.
And oh, it’s brewing a storm within Yifan. They’re touching more often than not in the shots; Yifan’s arm over Jongin’s shoulders, Jongin’s cheek on Yifan’s bicep, knee, chest, Yifan’s large hand over Jongin’s sumptuous curves. Jongin like a lazy panther, Yifan like a regal lion. Shadow and light. Jongin smells spicy and sweet at the same time, his hair is soft and up close Yifan can see the makeup sinking into his teenager pores of his cheeks and nose, but Jongin still looks amazing despite the fact.
The shoot lasts for an hour, and Yifan feels like a spring coiled taut, ready to explode with the slightest relief of tension. When the director calls it, loudly proclaiming that this is singlehandedly the best shoot he has ever done, Yifan stands up from the chair and starts shrugging out of the aged cape draped over his shoulders. A coordinator comes and helps him, and all the women in the room are abuzz with excitement.
Jongin looks pleased -- his smile is bright, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed from all of the compliments being thrown his way. People are telling him left and right that he needs to sign a contract, he should be in more shoots than just this, consider a career in modeling. But Jongin brushes them all shyly aside, shaking his head and saying that it was fun, but maybe he won’t do it again.
Thank God, Yifan thinks to himself.
They get ushered to the dressing room and change into regular clothes, and Yifan grabs a makeup wipe to start cleaning his face up. Jongin is having a hard time unbuttoning the fancy coat he’s trapped in, and Yifan takes pity once he’s patted in his moisturizer, walking over to Jongin and reaching out with deft fingers to help.
“You did do really good today,” Yifan compliments, meeting Jongin’s shy gaze, before the other drops his eyes.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as they say,” Jongin replies.
It cuts through Yifan. For the past hour and a half he’d managed to forget that Jongin is his own flesh and blood, his own son; he’d been able to focus on their chemistry, how easy it was for them to touch and adjust to each other’s space. But now, like a bucket of ice crashing over him, he’s reminded of their blood ties.
Smiling a bit tersely, Yifan gets the coat undone, and then moves to step away, give Jongin his space. He doesn’t expect Jongin to reach up and catch his wrist, though; and when he turns, Jongin’s eyes are still on the floor.
“Yifan…”
And it sounds like his next words are going to be monumental -- but they never come, because a knock raps on the door, the man outside explaining that he’s with the behind the scenes crew, wondering if they can get an interview with the infamous Wu Yifan.
“One moment,” Yifan calls back, and he gives Jongin a curious glance.
The boy smiles and shakes his head, waving it off. “Never mind.”
Yifan isn’t convinced, but he drops it nonetheless. The crew comes in, and Yifan sits down at the makeup vanity with all the lights, putting on a smile for the camera. This is the first ‘behind the scenes’ look into his world, and he’s a bit awkward because he’s not really sure how he should answer questions, or even how he should really talk about anything at all. He ends up revealing that he was discovered when he was twenty; he was in fashion design school, and his work had been noticed by a well-known Chinese designer, and she brought him on -- not for his designs, but for his face. He explained that at first he’d been crushed that it wasn’t his designs that got him noticed; but as time went on, more designers started asking him for input. When asked if he’ll be launching his own line soon, he smiles mysteriously and shrugs, but he tosses a smile up for Jongin to see, who returns his own grin.
The interview lasts ten minutes, and the man thanks Yifan before he excuses himself from the dressing room. Yifan is thankful that he didn’t ask any questions about Jongin; after all, Yifan is the international model here. Yifan doesn’t put it past anyone, though, to come up with their own crazy stories and ideas after their photos are to be published. And that’s ok. Another month and a half and Jongin will go back to his quiet life, with no chauffeur or fancy shower head or paparazzi.
A month and a half.
Yifan glances at Jongin as they both start putting on their coats, ready to head out for lunch before coming back to review some of the shots.
Jongin is unaware of his father’s gaze, adjusting his coat over his shoulders and zipping it up, diligently wrapping a scarf around his neck.
A month and a half seems too soon to let Jongin go.
--
Sure enough, when the magazine is printed two weeks later, Yifan gets hounded with questions about the sleepy-eyed, mysterious boy in the photos with him. He gets a call from Youngmi, too, who is quite frazzled about the whole thing (“you let him be published??” and he had to gently remind her that Jongin is eighteen, and can do as he pleases. she wasn’t thrilled, but she refrained from pouting too much when Jongin told her it was fun, but a one time thing), and all in all, the fashion world is in a buzz.
Yifan gets hounded with offers extended to him, offers that he would take if it weren’t for the ‘Jongin needs to come’ cliffnote. But Jongin doesn’t want to model again; and Yifan isn’t bitter about it, not at all. In fact, he’s proud. There’s that narcissism in him again, reminding him that his son is so much like him, and destined for great success. The offers get declined for four days straight, and then finally the companies stop bothering them. The tabloids don’t give up, though, publishing every picture of Yifan and Jongin out in public that they can manage.
“It doesn’t bother you?” Jongin asks one day, draped across Yifan’s sofa. He’s got the television on one of those garbage entertainment channels, watching as a photo of him and Yifan in the grocery store gets heavily dissected. “They think we’re dating.”
“Let them think what they want,” Yifan says from his chair, turning the page of the newspaper. “Are you bothered by it?”
“No,” Jongin replies.
Yifan glances up to see Jongin’s eyes on the tv, his expression soft and thoughtful. His hair is still damp from his shower, his sun-kissed skin slightly flushed from the scalding hot water he loves to use. For a moment, Yifan would like to think that Jongin has more to say about the subject than his bland dismissal. But then, what would Yifan like Jongin to say? Anything that comes to Yifan’s mind crosses the most sinful of boundaries.
“You didn’t answer,” Jongin says, catching Yifan’s attention again. Yifan quirks a brow, and Jongin’s gaze finally slides over to him, melted chocolate. “Does it bother you that they think we’re dating?”
“No,” Yifan says, dragging his eyes back to the paper. “Your mom is probably having a heart attack, though. She’s having a hard time keeping her calls to only once a week, I imagine.”
The newspaper Yifan is holding crinkles all of a sudden, and then it’s being pulled out of his grip by Jongin. Jongin, who’s wearing pajama pants and a tank top, standing between Yifan’s legs as he lets the newspaper dismantle and flutter to the floor in pieces.
“Yifan,” Jongin says, and it’s the same tone from the dressing room three weeks ago, when the boy had words on the tip of his tongue. Yifan gives him his undivided attention. Jongin’s bangs curtain his eyes, which makes Yifan’s own gaze drop towards what he can see -- Jongin’s lips. And that was probably a mistake, because Jongin licks them nervously. “I have something I want to tell you.”
“Ok,” Yifan says, shifting a bit in his chair. He wants to cross an ankle over his knee, but Jongin is standing between his thighs, wringing the hem of his shirt nervously. Yifan offers a smile, “You can tell me anything.” Fatherly advice.
Jongin nods, breathes, and then speaks. “I’m gay.”
Yifan blinks. That’s the last thing he expected to come out of Jongin’s mouth, and he feels his own heart freeze up and stutter at the admission.
“Does your mother know?” Yifan ventures quietly, softly. Jongin shakes his head, and Yifan sighs softly. He reaches up, taking Jongin’s wringing hands within his own, smiling when Jongin finally meets his gaze. “It’s alright, Jongin. I won’t tell anyone.”
This is messy. And it could get worse, quickly, if Jongin keeps licking and biting at his own lips.
“That’s not all,” Jongin says. His voice isn’t nervous or trembling, because Jongin always manages to keep his composure, but his tone is soft, worried.
“Ok…?” Yifan prompts, still holding Jongin’s hands.
“I found out because I was doing a search one day, online,” Jongin starts. Ah, yes. Porn. Of course. “I was looking at all sorts of things, because I just… didn’t know. I’d never felt sexually attracted to anyone before, and I wanted to know if there was something -- someone out there -- that would do it for me.”
Nodding, Yifan watches as Jongin’s eyes drop to their hands, pulling his away gently. Makes sense. Yifan can understand the self exploration.
“I came across your spread in Playgirl.”
Yifan’s blood runs ice cold, his gut dropping through to the floor. He thought Jongin had been joking, the first time he said that. Jongin is still a bit rigid, nervous, and now Yifan knows why. Jongin had lied about how he came across Yifan’s photos.
“I jacked off to it,” Jongin continues, and Yifan feels his ears burning, feels a myriad of emotions zip through him at the speed of light. “When I was done, mom barged into my room, and I didn’t have a chance to exit out of your photos. I mean-- you were dressed in the one I had up, thank God.” It’s only a small relief. “But then mom recognized you, and decided to sit me down and… tell me. It was last year. And it was my idea to come and see you and stay with you, not hers. You never have any bad tabloids, I never saw any indication that you were in a relationship and I just-- had to know.”
If Yifan weren’t already sitting, he’d be on the floor. He sort of wants to be on the floor, anyway, to try and sink into it, fall into the depths of Hell because that is exactly where he’s going when Youngmi finds out about all of this. If she does. He won’t dare tell her.
“I’m sorry,” Jongin finally says, and it’s the most emotion Yifan has seen on his face, yet. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation, and… fear. He looks terrified.
Clearing his throat, Yifan shifts in his seat, and then takes Jongin’s hands again. “You didn’t know, Jongin. It’s ok.”
“But then I did know, and I still--” the flush of Jongin’s skin isn’t from the shower anymore. “I still wanted to come and meet you.”
“That’s…” Yifan has no idea what to say. Even after finding out that the man he’d jerked off to was his father, Jongin still wanted to come and meet him. Surely out of moral obligation, the whole ‘every child should know who their parents are’ or something like that, but… after such an incident, Yifan is sure he himself would be too mortified to ever want to meet his father.
“If you wanna send me back early, that’s fine,” Jongin laments softly, sounding guilt-ridden. Yifan’s heart squeezes. “And we don’t have to talk anymore. I’m really glad that I got to come here, meet you and spend time with you. You’re… You’re a really amazing person, Yifan.”
Memories flood Yifan immediately. In the grocery store with Jongin, shopping like a bickering couple rather than father and son, about what cereal to get. At restaurants with Jongin, casually flirting over wine and exchanging equally stupid stories about the kind of crap they’ve gotten into. At home, sitting next to each other but not quite touching, on the couch with a movie playing, Jongin always falling asleep first with his head lolling onto Yifan’s shoulder. Yifan’s constant care and guidance, flippant advice that he felt like he was giving to a comrade more than his own child…
Shaking his head, Yifan stands up, gripping Jongin’s shoulders. “You’re not going home early, Jongin.”
Jongin’s eyes look up at Yifan -- they’re not red and puffy, there’s not a hint of moisture in them. Just a flicker of a fire being reignited, temporarily dampened. “What--?”
Yifan offers a small smile, “I want you to stay, Jongin.”
“Even though I--” Jongin can’t say the words again. The cool, suave, confident kid that Yifan picked up from the airport is gone, replaced with an unsure teenager. They’re more alike than Yifan could ever imagine.
“We went eighteen years without knowing one another,” Yifan says, squeezing Jongin’s shoulder and sending him a lopsided, hopefully encouraging, smile. “If I had seen your photo online, I probably would have done the same thing.”
Jongin’s light flush turns scarlet. “You would--?”
Yifan withdraws his hands, and rubs the back of his neck idly, averting his gaze. “But that’s pretty narcissistic of me, huh?” He finally asks, out loud, because he’s been saying it in his head this whole time: how narcissistic it is of him to think his own child stunningly attractive. But Jongin is also a part of Youngmi, and even Yifan could recognize how beautiful of a girl she is. So… it would only make sense that he should feel the same way about a male version of her? Even if he was birthed by her -- and subsequently, Yifan, too.
Sick. Twisted. Narcissistic.
“Yifan,” Jongin’s hands cup either side of Yifan’s face and make him look into his mocha eyes, and Yifan feels his last bits of control crumbling. “Tell me it’s wrong.” Jongin’s voice isn’t weak and his eyes aren’t soft -- it’s a challenge. If Yifan stops this, it will stop, and Jongin will have no choice but to obey. But if Yifan indulges… if they both cave, then there’s no turning back.
The catalyst is that Yifan can’t say it’s wrong. He can’t tell Jongin to throw away this idea, he can’t tell Jongin that he’s standing too close, can’t say anything against anything.
Jongin pushes Yifan to sit in the chair and sinks to his knees in the blink of an eye, arousal zipping through Yifan’s body so quickly he can’t catch it, reel it in and regain his sanity. Jongin’s eyes are dark, purposeful and sinful, tanned hands moving to undo the drawstrings of Yifan’s pants.
Too fast, too fast, too much too soon and yet Yifan still can’t say no. His cock is half hard already, a testament to the fact that he’s maybe thought of this in the middle of the night, alone in his bedroom, kept from sleep with images of mocha skin and plush lips haunting the darkest corners of his mind. That maybe turns into a definite yes, glaringly obvious as Jongin reaches forward and pulls Yifan’s sweatpants down without preamble, the older even shifting his hips to allow Jongin to pull the fabric down enough to let Yifan’s cock spring free.
The look on Jongin’s face is wondrous and hungry, and Yifan almost wants to ask him if he’s a virgin -- but he decides against it, because the way that Jongin licks a fat stripe up the underside of his cock throws that thought far, far away. Clenching his teeth, Yifan’s fingers sink into chocolate locks and everything about Jongin is so fucking attractive; the way his plush lips thin out around the girth of Yifan’s cock, the way his shoulders shift and flex under his flimsy tank top, how his spine dips and his hips sway unconsciously while he sucks Yifan down into his throat.
Tensing, Yifan’s knees spread to accommodate space for Jongin to fit between them, and Jongin looks up at him through a curtain of dark bangs, eyes wet, endless pools of desire and Jesus, Yifan has been given blowjobs before, plenty of times by plenty of men, but the sheer taboo of the situation and how glaringly fucking attractive the kid is totally overwhelms Yifan and makes it impossible for him to do anything except for accept what’s happening to him. He wouldn’t change it, either. He’d ask for it again, if he’s allowed to. There’s no way he’d want to never feel the hot, wet suction of Jongin’s mouth and throat ever again.
Jongin sucks his cock like he’s been waiting ages to do so, and it sort of licks at Yifan’s spine that perhaps he has. Perhaps the first time Jongin jacked off to Yifan’s pictures, he imagined sucking his cock, going down on him and unwinding him from the day. And maybe, after Jongin found out their relation, he shamefully jacked off again and again to the thought of things developing further between them -- moving on from blowjobs, to rimming, to fucking. Those thoughts swim in Yifan’s head and shit, he’s taking the fantasy too far; but Jongin moans around his cock, throat muscles constricting as he swallows, and Yifan’s fingers dig into his scalp, feeling his balls tighten.
“Shit, Jongin,” he breathes out, basically all the warning he can give.
Orgasm doesn’t come, though, because Jongin is pulling off his cock with a slick noise, lips swollen and cheeks flushed as he rises from his knees to stand. Yifan blinks up at him, flushed and hard and slightly out of breath, wondering if Jongin has finally come to his senses and is about to tell him this is a huge mistake.
What happens has all the air expelling from Yifan’s lungs before he can control it.
Jongin pulls off his shirt, exposing taut lines and hard planes. He then pushes his sweats and his boxers down, kicking them off his feet, before he climbs onto Yifan’s lap, grabbing Yifan’s hands and placing them on the fleshy swell of his perfect, oh God, ass. Panting softly, Jongin leans in and licks up the shell of Yifan’s ear, tongue catching on the piercings before he speaks lowly, breathily.
“Fuck me, Daddy.”
Yifan moans so loud and so hard his toes vibrate. He’d never thought that he had a Daddy kink, and at this point, is it even a kink? This is real life. His son is perched on his lap, coiled tight, sex kitten mewling for his father to fuck him. And he means it. They’re both one hundred percent sober and well aware of what is happening, and yet neither of them are making moves to stop it. He can’t. He’s trapped. He’s wrapped up in the web that Jongin has woven -- whether intentional or not -- the past two and a half months flying by in a whirl of sleepy smiles, exposed hip bones and lingering touches.
Grabbing Jongin’s ass fully in his broad palms, Yifan pulls the cheeks apart, his index finger sliding dry over Jongin’s hole. He’s shocked to find little resistance when he pushes against it, and Jongin is chuckling breathily into the crook of his neck, his hips gyrating to try and get Yifan’s finger to sink in.
“I knew I was going to tell you today,” Jongin murmurs. “I’ve thought about it for weeks. About how you’d react. So I prepared myself for the best case scenario…”
Jesus. Jongin had played with himself prior to confessing, and oh God, this is premeditated. There’s no mistake that Jongin wants this to happen, was banking on it happening, and like a fly Yifan has been caught by the black widow.
He loves it.
Mercilessly, he shoves two fingers inside of Jongin’s stretched hole, feeling the remnants of lube inside. Jongin’s back arches and he gasps out, hands gripping at Yifan’s shoulders as he tosses his head back, moaning at the stretch. Anyone else and Yifan would have taken a bit more care, but he has an inkling that Jongin doesn’t want to be treated so delicately. Which, Yifan is totally ok with.
Thrusting his fingers, there’s a lot more friction than glide, and Yifan knows it’ll burn his cock to be inside. Jongin is rocking back onto his fingers hungrily, wantonly, submissive and beautiful, and Yifan leans forward to mouth hotly along the column of the other’s beautiful neck, tonguing over the throbbing pulse point as he starts to work Jongin open.
The sound of something ripping brings Yifan’s attention back to Jongin; Jongin, who has magically procured a condom, that filthy, adulterous smile on his lips as he rolls the rubber onto Yifan’s cock. It’s lubed, but not generously, and Yifan hisses softly at the glide of Jongin’s fingers sliding over his cock. At least they’re playing it safe, right? Even though it would be hot beyond Yifan’s wildest dreams for Jongin to bareback him.
“Fuck me,” Jongin repeats, but his voice is less sultry, more aggressive. Power bottom, Yifan idly thinks, as Jongin’s hips swivel and his body shifts so that he can align his ass over Yifan’s cock.
Yifan’s fingers are still inside of Jongin’s ass, as the younger grabs the base of Yifan’s cock and guides it up. He starts sitting, and Yifan’s cock is nudging in alongside his long fingers and holy shit. Jongin is taking it like a pro, with breathy gasps and pants, blunt nails digging into Yifan’s shoulders. Yifan’s own head tips back against the chair, eyes closing, unable to handle the visual along with the actual sensation. He doesn’t want to come so soon -- especially because he knows Jongin would never let him live it down.
Once Jongin is seated on Yifan’s cock, two of Yifan’s fingers still fitted snugly beside it, he starts rocking, setting his own pace. Yifan is perfectly fine with that -- he can tell that Jongin is tight, tighter than anyone he’s ever fucked, but with his fingers in the mix it’s almost unbearable. He stays pliant under the younger, allowing him to set the pace, rock his body and use Yifan’s cock and fingers for his own pleasure. The slightest crook of his fingers has Jongin crying out, his hands moving to the back of the chair on either side of Yifan’s head, and Jongin throws his head back, bouncing on Yifan’s dick.
Wrapping the fingers of his free hand around Jongin’s cock, Yifan strokes him off in time with the movements, and Jongin’s chin tilts down so his eyes can level with Yifan’s. They can’t go back. They’ve gone passed the point of no return, and that’s exchanged silently in their glance, but the acceptance that follows is just as quick, just as heavy. They’re doing this. Yifan is fucking his eighteen year old son in his living room, and he’s planning on fucking him again -- in the bedroom, in the shower, in the car, wherever they can manage.
Their lips crash in a kiss, and Yifan doesn’t know who started it, but they’re both deep into it. Teeth clashing, tongues fucking, Yifan’s hips start moving up to fuck into Jongin with abandon, feet planted on the floor and Jongin hiccuping moans into his mouth. It’s passionate, wild and dirty, Yifan’s fingers still crooked to hit Jongin’s spot with every thrust, and it’s Jongin that comes first, spilling onto Yifan’s hand and over his shirt, messy, hot and thick. Yifan presses his face into the crook of Jongin’s neck, biting down hard, his hips stuttering to a halt a split second after Jongin’s body tenses with release, and then he’s spilling into the condom, a low moan leaving his lips as he rides it out.
Jongin collapses onto Yifan shortly after, breathing heavily, body glistening with sweat from the exertion of riding Yifan. Yifan pulls his fingers free, but leaves his cock inside, wrapping his arms around Jongin and holding him close; for Jongin’s comfort or his own, he’s not sure. The situation is heavy, the cloud slowly lowering onto them, but Yifan refuses to let it settle, pressing a soft kiss to Jongin’s hair.
“Do you need help getting up?” Yifan asks, voice low.
Jongin makes a negative noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not moving. Not when I’m finally here.”
The little smile that quirks over Yifan’s lips can’t be helped, and he holds Jongin a bit tighter.
This is a fucking mess.
But as he lets his hand travel over Jongin’s back, he reminds himself…
It’s a beautiful disaster.
--
“Yeah, mom, we’re getting ready to go to the airport now,” Jongin says, toeing into his sneakers and switching the phone from one ear to the other.
Yifan has an extra duffel bag slung over his shoulder; Jongin has acquired a few extra things since being in China, and Yifan said he’d be happy to pay the extra baggage fee, because Jongin deserves everything he got. Souvenirs, gifts for friends and family -- as well as some clothing from the photoshoot that he was a part of, mostly for keepsake.
Yifan can’t hear what Youngmi is saying, but by the way Jongin is rolling his eyes, he has an inkling of what it is before Jongin even replies.
“I’ll be wearing sunglasses, a mask and a hat. But they already know who I am, mom, that’s not gonna stop them from taking my photo.”
Youngmi’s voice raises, and Yifan can hear, “My baby is not coming back to Korea a celebrity!”, to which Jongin replies, “Sorry, too late~”.
A very cheeky reply, and Yifan walks up behind Jongin as the other fumbles to get the mask over his ears while he talks to Youngmi. Yifan’s arms wrap around Jongin’s waist from behind, and he starts kissing down the slope of Jongin’s neck, totally shameless and brave. Jongin leans into him, though, and the little tension that was in his body bleeds out of him, and he says a peaceful goodbye to his mother before hanging up, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“Are you sure I can’t stay?” Jongin asks, turning around in Yifan’s embrace, looking up at the blond with his best puppy pout.
Yifan rolls his eyes and puts a hand on Jongin’s face, pushing it away a bit. “I am one-hundred percent positive your mother would filet me.”
“But,” Yifan can see the smirk hidden by Jongin’s mask in his eyes, “Daddy~~”
“That was ONE time.” Yifan groans, pushing Jongin towards the door. “You’re coming back in six months. I’m not good at goodbyes. Don’t make this harder than it is.”
“Oh, but I want to make it really hard,” Jongin purrs, reaching to grope at Yifan’s crotch.
“Hey--” Yifan slaps his hand away, laughing lightly. He pulls Jongin in for a hug, a real one, which Jongin returns, quieting all his sarcasm.
“We can Skype though, right?” Jongin asks against Yifan’s shoulder.
“Yeah, but no funny stuff,” Yifan says with a small chuckle, removing Jongin’s backwards snapback so he can run a hand over Jongin’s hair.
“Right, right,” Jongin lets out a suffering sigh, before pulling away and smiling up at Yifan. “I’m really glad I came here.”
Smiling fondly, Yifan cups Jongin’s face, leaning in for a slow, but chaste kiss, “I am too.”
As they make their way through the crowded airport, Yifan wishes he could hold Jongin’s hand, kiss him as he sends him off, promise him that they’ll see each other sooner than later. He can’t do any of that, though; the public might think they’re dating, but Youngmi follows the tabloids, and they’re sure to not let any inkling of their hidden relationship be revealed.
Three months ago when Yifan had been here to pick up his son, his life had changed drastically.
And now, as Yifan sends off the same young man that he picked up three months ago, he knows his life has changed drastically, yet again.
It’s scary -- but watching Jongin wave at him before he disappears towards his terminal, Yifan decides that it’s worth it. It’s not like he’s never kept a secret before.
Turning around and making to leave, he chuckles to himself, running a hand through his hair.
Whatever mess he’s gotten himself into… As long as he’s got Jongin, it’ll be fine.
A beautiful disaster.
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