Pretty Pretty; for EVERYONE; (2/2)
They meet into another kiss, and this time comfort weaves into it. This time, Jongin knows how much to bite before Baekhyun pulls his lip away from him, and sucks onto his cupid’s bow instead. They accommodate for filth, for hinging his mouth too open, and licking with too much fervour. They’re still strangers- tenderness doesn’t fit in, but this, this abandon, crassness does. It is exactly fitting.
The feel, the push of Baekhyun’s erection into him is arresting, heavy. Seldom, he will be grazing against Jongin, enlarging with each swipe. The cloth of his pants is soft and thinned. Jongin feels everything.
He accommodates Baekhyun, lets him close, makes space so he has the leverage to grind, lets him rule his mouth. Jongin doesn’t cease digging into the pretty aperture of his butt, the rest of his hands on ampleness of the mounds as he brings him forward, compels him to chase what feels good.
Jongin’s jeans are open, zipper down and flaps pushed away. Inside his underwear, his cock is hard and leaking, the protrusion of it through the denim stark. He still doesn’t know when this happened, for it does not offer alleviation.
He feels the details of Baekhyun’s erection though- he same strain tenting the cloth. His undergarments have more give. Jongin is thicker, perhaps harder.
He does the same to Baekhyun, the strings of his sweats untied anyway, and he manages to push the hem off a little, just over his backside before it halts, stretched tight around his parted thighs.
He didn’t mean to, but he did take along the band of his underwear as well. His cock bounces out, visible for a split moment before Baekhyun jerks in his lap, arms around Jongin’s shoulders as he nips a kiss into his neck, trapping his erection between them, out of sight. Wetness from his tip smears on Jongin’s stomach.
His hands descend to Baekhyun’s ass, pinkies slotted in the little, nearly imperceptible crease that limits his cheeks from his thighs. The entire mass of softness is in his hold, spilling between the gaps of his fingers. It’s soft, so soft and pliable and it has a spark of playfulness of, jest coursing through Jongin as he eagerly kneads the flesh. Baekhyun hips roll, precise sways looking to culminate with the head of his cock on the hard pane of Jongin’s lower abs, where he is hardest, so he gets as much friction as possible. He likes how Jongin fondles him too, a wiggle to his butt in the lulls between kisses.
Baekhyun parts from him suddenly, right in the middle of his fervour, right as he grinds away on Jongin, the hardest thrust yet, the highest moan yet. It’s abrupt, weird to be left just when he thought Baekhyun will lose it, will remain nothing but a puddle of delight in his arms.
He steps on shaky legs, his tush jiggling along with the wobble of his gait as he traipses to the makeup table. He takes a jar after squinting at the label for half a blink.
Baekhyun stumbles back, seemingly with renewed vigour and comes to stand before Jongin. They are a bit more lucid, somehow, and Jongin can dwell in how beautiful Baekhyun looks. Wrecked, snippets of mindlessness scarring his features, pinks. Jongin’s is struck. Too struck. And he knows this image mars him right now, sets roots into his mind to later floret in buds of regret, or of pining.
The soft pants drop down Baekhyun’s legs, suddenly, along with his boxers- tight little things, black- and he stepping out of the puddle of material, shoes left buried there.
A twitch runs through the span of his legs, from the cold, or from Jongin’s scrutiny. Fine red lines go around the top of his thighs, from where the edges of his underwear bunched, compressed the flesh. The pallid softness of him appears translucent, before it is poked by the defined mass of muscle underneath. It is still delicate, even harmonious as his musculature ripples. Jongin doesn’t know how it is possible for him to see the pleasure thrumming just under the glow of his skin.
His cock is framed by the soft definition of his V line, the adumbration of it only sharp over the peaks of his hipbones. It is pretty too, a sheen of wetness going from the head, angrier in colour on the underside from where he’s subbed against Jongin.
The proportion of length to thickness, the straightness, the puffiness of the head compared to the rest of the shaft- Jongin fixates on all of this. He’s so wet. It is a glaring, nearly impertinent display of his arousal, of how much he wants Jongin, wants Jongin to do something to him, to sate him. And despite the obscenity, he is still so fucking pretty.
Unthinkingly, he licks his lips.
At once, Baekhyun’s abs flex, a controlled wave that goes up to his chest then down, ending at his cock. A jolt carries through it, harsh. All because Jongin is staring at him like a starved man.
Jongin’s placed his hand away from himself in order to assure that he won’t be touching himself. He feels as though he needs permission to uncage his erection. And Baekhyun is reaching for it. His palms is dewy as it encompasses Jongin’s fingers. He tightens the clasp for a second, becoming firm, something like assurance, encouragement.
His red hair is still a mess with the residual static electricity from the thrown hoodie, his bangs frizzy over his forehead. It weighs on his gaze.
Jongin squeezes back his hand, and Baekhyun moves again, toppling himself on Jongin’s lap where he was before. The fill of Jongin’s cock between them is pronounced, straining enough that it forces band to pull away from the skin, revealing a little chasm. It hurts, but the simmer of anticipation won’t let him give in just yet. Relief is promised to him, just temporarily withheld.
“In me,” Baekhyun says, the last word cut by a rough whine as he bends down to seize Jongin’s lips. It’s prompt, like Jongin did something, a catalyst. Maybe he meant to say more but couldn’t bear the urge to nip on Jongin’s lips. He pulls away only after he sucks properly on the tip of Jongin’s tongue, tasting wilted strawberry and a lot of keenness. He smacks them, suckles briefly on them, as if he would be kissing his own lips if Jongin’s weren’t available. “In me,” he says again, harder, frantic, with all the breath he stole from Jongin. He squeezes at the hand- he hasn’t let go of it- and it is suddenly gentle, the warm dampness of it sliding kindly over Jongin’s, interlacing tersely, slowly, as though it would refuse the touch.
On the other side is the small jar Baekhyun brought. He picks it up and uses just his thumb and the stress of the rest of his palm to twist the lid open until it’s falling to the floor with a crisp bounce.
Baekhyun guides Jongin’s hand to it, dips his fingers into the substance. It is white, almost scentless and watery, seeming to melt right around Jongin’s digits. He recognizes the weak, hidden smell though- this is a high-end brand of face cream.
Baekhyun’s thighs close in on him as he bucks, making his cock drag against Jongin’s exposed abdomen. It is dry at first, the foreskin pulling over the head with each shuffle, before the path dampens. A drop of precome collects quietly, grandiosely into Jongin’s belly button.
“Right now,” Baekhyun presses. This time he bends over Jongin, lifting a bit, burying himself into Jongin’s neck, mouthing kisses into the skin. Jongin doesn’t hesitate to comply now, not while having the thud of Baekhyun’s chest against his own, wild and wanting.
He cups Baekhyun’s ass, just one palm, slapping it lightly only to feel the wobble of it as it calms into his hold. When he pulls, spreading him, Baekhyun mewls behind his ear, clear and explicit, and Jongin’s cock offers another throb, ache flashing through the length as it fights against his underwear. The tips of his fingers barely brush by dissimilarly textured skin, ridges, tight, shallow, followed by the beginning of a dip innermost. His other hand, wet with the lotion, trails the line of the crack, still narrow and tight despite how open Jongin is holding him. Baekhyun shivers, aiding to the rub of his cock. Another sound rumbles, right into Jongin’s ear this time, the whine escaped through the bite he has pressed to Jongin’s lobe. It is an inherent one, just reeking of saccharine submissiveness.
·
Jongin responds, mirrors the motion, nails into Baekhyun’s skin as he sweeps repeatedly by the faint coarseness given by the short, fine hairs around his entrance. He never does more than circling it with no pressure, merely striving to tickle it, make it react.
By accident, he looks to the side, eyes barely cracked open, and catches the reflection of them, only Baekhyun’s profile visible from how he’s twisted in Jongin’s lap. Deep darks flow down his throat from the openness of his jaw, where he is hidden, sprinkling small pecks, and nips over the breadth of Jongin’s shoulder.
He sees the whittled coral between the cream of Baekhyun’s cheeks, and higher, the panes of his back bathed in incandescence, the sparse fuzz of his skin aglow, ethereal. “Fuck,” Jongin finds himself muttering, Baekhyun’s beauty leaving him as breathless as his kisses.
Baekhyun’s impatience is growing, making his twitch, a fury rattling through his extremities as he pushes his ass into Jongin’s grasp, the muscles of his butt flexing, so Jongin’s hands are taken along and brought closer to where he wants them.
He rounds the wet fingers over the pucker, and in the mirror, he sees the dusk, a small diameter, from how his hole is gaped ever so slightly, dipped cherry by the inner edge. It is now that Jongin feels the first overwhelming twinges of pain radiating upwards, his balls drawing close too, the distension of his cock heightening, pulsing, yearning to break out of the skin.
Jongin takes a deep breath to calm himself- all of it smelling of Baekhyun and the sweet, slightly musky fragrance of him- and finally dipping in a finger. It clamps around the tip immediately, out of greed or out of reflex, maybe both, for Baekhyun grunts again, moving a splinter away and then back onto the intrusion. It’s hot and tight and Jongin only feels the relaxation once his middle finger is nearly all the way in. He has a few digits still rubbing away at the fine dusting of hair. It’s so thin that it is nearly colourless- the mirror doesn’t even see it.
Jongin does this to himself quite frequently when the nights get lonelier and longer, and it doesn’t feel like this, as if it is unwelcome, as if the body rejects the ministration.
“You don’t do this often, do you?” he says. He twists his gaze away from the sight of his finger breaching that fluttering pinkness to focus on Baekhyun.
“I don’t,” Baekhyun responds, twisting at the same time as Jongin. Their noses brush, then Baekhyun has to descend to mould his lips onto Jongin’s, tongue against tongue, just once, long enough for it to add to Jongin’s hardness. They part with reluctance. “I really don’t.”
Jongin’s digit wiggles, loosening the walls whilst the tip probes around. It’s distracting to feel pure velvet clamping down on him. When he does this, he never thinks of how it would be to be inside such environment. He only thinks of how much he would like to be filled up, owned. So he does his best to make Baekhyun only think of this, only crave something bigger to penetrate and pound him until he can’t walk anymore.
“I feel so special now,” Jongin remembers to murmur after he wiggles the first half of his index inside. Baekhyun’s reaction follows the previous pattern, first jerking away from the touch and then sinking into it, welcoming the insertion, up until both fingers are forced together and engulfed to the knuckle, a high, gracile moan rippling down Baekhyun’s throat.
He locates the patch of roughened tissue, the pads of his fingers stroking exploratory circles on it. The clutch of the muscle slackens steadily, permits, and now Jongin has enough space and enough resolve to press with purpose, coax it into swelling. This is when Baekhyun begins quivering, begins shattering for real, becoming primal in his sounds and touches, and Jongin finds this uncoordinated wantonness extremely beautiful as well.
He thinks, there is bound to be more to this than pure stimulation. Something like context, a bunch of fears, some threads of the past that makes them not-so-strangers, in addendum to the weird fan/idol dynamic. In this moment, Jongin feels desired, feels accomplished, as though this has the potential to fructify into something deeper, darker, sturdier over time, if only Baekhyun would allow it.
He doesn’t hear it really, nor see it, but he senses the different path of Baekhyun’s movement as he reaches for the jar of cream, and he dips some fingers into it. His hand reaches back, over Jongin’s, just as he stills himself, petering out his bouncing. In the newly settled silence, their pants are loud, mismatched. Baekhyun’s gazing down into Jongin’s eyes, a redness to them, and fathomlessness, encompassing, commandeering in its depth. His knuckles go over Jongin’s fingers, gently, where they are hooked ever so slightly from the gape of Baekhyun’s hole. The fluttering doesn’t stop for a second, kissing around the breadth of the digits again and again.
It only turns unbearably sensual when their gazes simultaneously slide to one of the mirrors, linking, brown on coal, while Baekhyun’s sticky fingers slide inside along his, tangling. It has the intimacy and the sparks of a first, virginal handhold, hesitant but oh so desired. Jongin works alongside him, helping him rock on both of their digits, focus never once leaving the filthy, nearly picturesque image of Baekhyun splayed over him, strung tight by pleasure, enthusiasm. His moans are velvety, wavy little ahs, sometimes an m, and n. The simplest sound, not even a syllable, drawn out of him brusquely, primordially by each and every move of Jongin’s hand woven with his.
They collapse into a kiss here and there, when they tire, or get too consumed by the view of their own spectacle. Baekhyun’s thighs get wet with sweat, spring dew on the slightly rougher areas of skin at the lower peak of his butt, where Jongin can grab best, only to pull to another place and see the finger shaped maze bloom red in the wake of the abuse.
Jongin finds that he cannot get enough of Baekhyun’s mouth, cannot stop needing it, his entrails squeezing with this craving that is accompanied by a kind of suffocation, and Baekhyun is the only means of regaining his breath, of liberation. The curl of his tongue around his is a lisle that tugs him deeper inside, where there is no light anymore and that is left is the filth of unsatisfiable need, saturated and ruddy.
Another finger is inside Baekhyun now, so two of Jongin’s and two of Baekhyun’s. But this second one only goes in halfway, and Baekhyun shudders violently, a quake that makes his eyes roll and his teeth to clatter. It happens on Jongin’s neck, and the points of Baekhyun’s canines yearn to draw blood from him as Jongin revels both in pain and the added friction to his cock.
The phantom tightness lingers around Jongin, even as he flexes the slight numbness of his fingers, circulation flowing back in them. He stops then, looking back in the mirror, Baekhyun too, and it is obvious how they both fixate on his opening, instantly fluttering under their attention, the shiny red gathering, wrinkling shut with each of Baekhyun’s gasps. His stare sinks, sideways at Jongin’s hand, the white cream gathered in the nooks of his knuckles, and his own equally soiled hand comes for Jongin’s, and begins rubbing, cajoling feeling into them.
It’s a sweet little gesture, and Jongin finds himself smiling, and then Baekhyun’s face garners one too. It seems to be brimming with laughter, so close to spilling over, and the brightness suits him, the murk of desire momentarily broken.
But then his dry hand pulls at the cheek it is holding and Baekhyun is back to thrashing.
“You gotta fuck me right now,” he says, syllables muddled by irregular breaths, and then he is yet again parting away from Jongin. But this time it is quick, his little, slim feet padding away to the vanity, hand going robotically to one of the drawers, bending over just a fraction, just enough for Jongin to see the shock of his stretched hole between the blemished mounds for real, no reflection, and plucks something before he walks back.
He is naked, and Jongin isn’t offered more than a second to admire the view, the clumsiness and the pretty, rhythmical bob of his heavy cock with each hasty step.
The three foils hit the back of the couch, landing right next to Jongin. Condoms, same brand, but something different about them.
·
“Why do you have these here…” Jongin finds himself saying, acridity audible in his whisper. He’s too turned on to modulate himself.
No ears appear to have heard him, for Baekhyun is bowing, closing in to grab the waistband of Jongin’s pants. They are stupidly tight and fused to his skin from the abundance of perspiration. Goddamn skinny jeans. He lifts his hips, to help Baekhyun, whose knuckles whiten, biceps bulging as he tugs. The grain of the fabric indented the skin, wounded it superficially.
Jongin’s cock is dripping, forcing the material so rich mauve stains the blue of his underwear. It’s a candid sight. Baekhyun can’t snap out of his staring.
“Post-coital high is what makes my concerts spectacular, you know,” he says, tardy, tongue tangling over his articulation. He may be seeing something in Jongin’s gaze, for he is immediately going for the band of Jongin’s boxers, pulling until they get stuck on the pants, just above his knees. An accomplished little grin adorns his face, as if he’s just granted Jongin an unsaid wish. “Also, I usually just get pussy.”
That word tumbles out with a specific dirtiness, a specific vulgarity and Jongin finds it hot, so hot and somehow so gratifying. Perhaps he is indeed someone special.
“Fuck,” Baekhyun hisses. Jongin’s reaction was obvious in his cock, the throb of it cruel. It is risen and pigmented and the strain of the veins on it is bold, thickened enough for the pulsation to be perceivable. An uninterrupted, thin stream of precome dribbles down the shaft, pooling in a little well at the base until it overflows, spilling a line over the seam of his balls, which then vanishes into the dark of his crack.
Baekhyun climbs back in Jongin’s lap, home, where he belongs, already wringing himself around Jongin with ease. “Can’t suck you,” he says, tinted with frustration as he dives in to thief a kiss. Jongin can’t return with equal fervour for it is easy now, unavoidable for him to think about Baekhyun’s little mouth and little tongue working on his erection, so eager to please, so eager to choke. “I don’t sing well with a cock-wrecked voice. Can’t suck you.”
Baekhyun kisses him again, with ardent dedication, as if to compensate, as if he can sing with a kiss-wrecked voice. Maybe it will make it more dulcet, huskier.
His bare cock coils against his in short bursts, for both of them are now wet enough to facilitate the drag, the indulgent movement of their foreskins.
When Baekhyun pulls away, it’s again with breathlessness and with prettiness, blindly taking one of the foils. His teeth fit around it- teeth Jongin’s just licked, just felt the scrape of them on his tongue- as they rip the packaging. He leans back, thighs parting more. “Ultra-thin,” he whispers, ducking down. He is barely stabilized on his knees, the ridges of his tensed abs stark on his stomach, the tug of his skin in the hollows of his collarbones so dim that Jongin finds himself hit by a bout of dizziness, as if drunk on Baekhyun’s beauty. It’s a vaguely nostalgic feeling- he’s been drunk on Baekhyun before. It had been as easy back then as it is now.
Baekhyun’s hand wraps around his cock, hard, his slim fingers webbing around. Jongin jerks into it, finally a direct touch, a squeeze to quench the edginess through him, and he knows his open mouth is overflowing a rivulet of incoherent vowels, scratchy and perhaps too pleading. He could come just from this, from this brief, mediocre dandle after being confined, denied for so long. But Baekhyun, who seems to be rubbing on his cock out of sheer appreciation rather than meaning to please, finally snaps out of it and rolls the condom on him in with a swift motion. The latex is just another confinement, but this time he likes it, this time there is the pulse of expectation, assured one, keeping him on the wonderful side of the cusp.
As Baekhyun raises himself, Jongin’s hands fall back on his hips, fingers lower, poised by the chasm of his cheeks, there he is softest. There is tension when the takes a hold of his cock, just two digits, the pads gentle, as if to not stimulate too much, as if to coax Jongin’s cock into slipping inside. It fits, automatically, into the dent of Baekhyun’s loosened hole. He doesn’t push into it, just lets it rest, thighs trembling a bit even as he bends to overtake Jongin’s lips. He licks into his mouth. Probably, all Baekhyun tastes is himself, soaked raw all over Jongin’s palate.
Baekhyun’s fingers are in his locks again, their pale, elegant slimness mercilessly tugging. They seek to irk Jongin into kissing him harder, lordlier.
“I’d like to be the last one,” Jongin rips to say, no filter, just truth, warm and moist and Baekhyun-flavoured. The words only now fought their way out, and they cause Baekhyun’s knees to slide apart on the leather. The head of Jongin’s cock slips in. The first ring of muscle, as welcoming as it is, clamps around his corona, right where he is most sensitive. Even as Baekhyun’s surprise wears off, it barely relaxes.
Jongin is mindless, and he instinctively has his teeth biting down, except Baekhyun’s mouth is still slotted with his, so he scratches Baekhyun’s lip and punctures his own. It draws blood, the tang insipid, diluted by the mess of spit pooled on his tongue.
Baekhyun might have a retort, something that is not a groan, so Jongin just goes for his mouth again, sucking passionately at the pillow of his lower lip to soothe it, to placate it, remorseful. His patience snaps all of a sudden, and with his bruising grip on Baekhyun’s hips pushes him down, at the same time canting his own pelvis forward so Baekhyun swallows the whole of him at once.
It’s overbearing immediately, Jongin shaking along with Baekhyun, or together, this time their moans mingling, battling. It falls thick around them as they settle, Baekhyun with the intrusion, and Jongin gagging with the crushing bliss as he tries his damnedest to regain his bearings just enough to be mindful of Baekhyun, to not hurt him any more than he probably already has.
It feels too good for there to be any want to go fast, frantic. Even the most diminutive of motions, of sounds, of rubbing, dots his breath with shorn whimpers.
So it is Baekhyun who whines again, lengthened and nearly childish as he circles his hips, letting Jongin rub inside him, pull his walls in different directions before he lifts just a bit, and drops back down, hard, yearning for Jongin to reach even deeper. Jongin is strangled by pleasure, too much and yet not enough for this is amazing, but still so far from being a peak.
It alternates between eye contact for real, molten and glazed, and eye contact in the mirror, inevitably skipping down to the wide breaching of Jongin’s cock as it goes in and out of him, his entrance appearing nearly rimless from the girth.
Jongin keeps lapping at Baekhyun’s neck, feeding his oral fixation, his craving. He definitely has thing for Baekhyun’s neck, the fruity astringent sting of his shower gel finally breaking down, whittled by his sweat, and the real taste of him, so vaguely salty coming through. He manages to illicit enough strain from Baekhyun for the veins to bulge a little, swelling further into the suction of Jongin’s lips.
“So,” Baekhyun stutters out as Jongin grips him by the waist and lifts so he has more room to thrust, so Baekhyun can rest. Exertion rams hot and rewarding through his thighs. There is still the sightless smudge of resistance, from Jongin’s head being so engorged that it contrasts abruptly with the shaft and from Baekhyun’s instinctual, intermittent clenching. He misses occasionally, for less than a jiffy, before he is guided again by the little valley. It offers a bit of respite, negligible in between each plunge.
“So?” Jongin asks, breaths too late, finally realizing that might have been a word instead of a jagged groan.
“So good,” he settles on, plain. Jongin is going for small thrusts, but harried, a near vibration to the motion, right into Baekhyun’s prostate, the sponginess of it against the glans. “So fucking good.” The grip of his hole, still tight at the beginning and then the slight ridges, symmetrical from where he goes deep enough have Jongin trembling, losing rhythm, either to accommodate the burn in his legs or the random demand of Baekhyun’s mouth, too open and too wanting. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Yet it doesn’t feel fast, rushed. It’s the senseless, barrelling seeking of a climax, but without the urgency, nudging in it bit by bit in the direction they want. Baekhyun is pressed to him, his cock rubbing on Jongin’s belly, and Jongin can feel the pull of his foreskin with each movement. His hands are in Jongin’s hair, still quite stiff with pomade, and he tugs. He tugs whenever Jongin does something good, be it fondling his ass or biting his collarbones, his nipples, Baekhyun’s nails will be digging into Jongin’s scalp.
When Baekhyun passes the threshold, skipping into the rapidity of an impending orgasm, he goes nearly quiet, voiceless moans soaking in and out of him. He grinds hard into Jongin, his earlobe between Baekhyun teeth-like this ordeal started; it will end all the same. And when it happens, when it hits, Baekhyun’s body cloys tight, neck elongated, bared, offered, and his jaw unhinged, dropped. His fingers lose all strength, falling just to Jongin’s shoulders, softening, nestling into him. Jongin is happy to hold him like this, as his cock jerks and wets them both all over. He doesn’t even register the hotness of the come, for it is already so heated between them and Baekhyun is squeezing squeezing fucking squeezing around him, the little rolls of the muscles binding to the skin of Jongin’s cock inside him, insulating. The soupcons of satisfaction are shards that cut at him; break into the flesh, alight it.
Baekhyun only makes another noise as the shaking recedes, the last few spurts of come trickling down Jongin’s belly, and it is just a thin sound, weak and sweet with delight, contentment. It is this feeling of accomplishment, this terribly purry Baekhyun in his arms, along with the leftover temblor of his ass around him, and the twitches of his thighs, the kittenish lapping of his tongue at the juncture of Jongin’s neck that pushes him over the brink and he comes too, filling the condom. He thrusts shallowly into Baekhyun, who jerks, still in pleasure rather than oversensitivity, for he quakes and another one of these tiny whines come from him, accomplished too. Jongin throws his head back, hitting the wall behind a little. He never came this hard, nor this much, and it is a pleasure of such intensity that it will leave a scar, will make him compare all his future sexual interactions to this.
Baekhyun’s arms do drape over his shoulders in a slightly askew hug, settling back on Jongin’s legs after his cock slips out. It’s dirty between them, from Baekhyun’s cum- a lot of it, Jongin sees, and the debris of the lotion on the condom, along with some spillage from it. But Baekhyun is still snuggling into him, letting out these little petering pants, yippy noises, not minding the mess at all. The egress of his pleasure felt in the slick of cooling sweat, and the odd quiescence coming from a calming, steadying breath, the throat dry from being chafed by so many moans.
He pulls back after a while, a dopey smile on his mouth. It’s thoroughly bruised, red beyond the rim. Because of Jongin. It’s a good look. His hair is fluffy too, on top, and streaky and slick along his temples. Jongin doubts he looks any better himself.
“I looked well fucked, don’t I,” Baekhyun says, catching on the glance Jongin is giving him. Mirth colours the statement. His gaze falls then, a reluctant dip, as if he likes the wreck of Jongin’s visage too, and goes along his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Jongin, too, has welts all over. And Baekhyun likes using teeth, the marks blatant. One of them is a perfect imprint of his dentition. “Left so many autographs on you,” he muses then, bringing his pointer finger to trace the angle of his jaw. A gust, short and faint of that cream passes by Jongin’s nose, mixed with the fragrance of the product in his own hair. It makes him shift, bring his thighs close together. “You may just be my favourite fan now,” he continues. His sass, his coquetry is coming back to him-the sense Jongin fucked out of him is returning. Jongin grins, the corners of his lips seeming tight and his palate raw, because he likes this too, this Baekhyun is nice too.
He is still naked, and still pretty, and they both look in the mirror, only to see Jongin’s pants around his ankles, pooled awkwardly, and higher up the red of Baekhyun’s ass cheeks squished on his knees. They return and gaze down this time, at Jongin, now flaccid, the condom leaking while dry cum clings to the ridges of Jongin’s stomach, smears of it, and fainter, less visible on Baekhyun’s fairness. It’s already dry and flaky.
It is now that he notices that Baekhyun’s stomach is completely smooth, not even a hint of a happy trail going down. Then there is the cut of his abs, the faint Adonis belt, swept a little grey to contrast it all. Something is so charming about him, about this mixture of traits, utterly masculine but not really.
“Do I get any privileges?” Jongin inquires, playing oblivious to the mess of fluids they are sitting in. “For being your favourite fan?”
It sounds so obviously lewd, this question, so laden. Yet, it drops natural between them, in the clinical silence dampened by the storm of people beyond the door. Baekhyun reacts accordingly, a little laughter, huskier indeed, worn, but also creamier, as if all the rough edges have been filed off. “Well, first, I’m a bit beholden to you.” His eyes glimmer, twitching from one point of the room to the other. His palms come up Jongin’s chest, slightly humid, pausing ever so shortly over his nipples before they curl in loose fists on the open hems of Jongin’s shirt. His eyebrows lift, slant, conveying some sort of remorse. But it is all faux, neutralized by the incriminating curl of his lips, of his eyes, lashes fluttering.
“Gotta make up for this shirt.” He clarifies at last. He lifts off Jongin after he throws in one more sneer, confident, zealous, and it looks silly, out of place with the debauchery that is the rest of him. Jongin chuckles anyway, watching the inelegant, spread-legged stance Baekhyun is employing in getting to the vanity, so his butt cheeks don’t rub together.
He returns with a pack of wet wipes, still naked. Jongin can’t help the way his eyes get dragged to the patch of hair above his soft cock, trimmed so short that it looks like a shadow. Without the anger of his erection to distract from it, it is naught but a jolt of darkness to go against his skin.
As Baekhyun rubs his stomach with the tissue, Jongin’s attention fixes on his mouth, coiled cutely as ever, and he wants to kiss it, wants to wreck it already. But he doesn’t reach for him. The spell of arousal is broken between them. He may not have the right to kiss him again.
He is all clean after a while, Baekhyun’s ministrations over, the condom off, tied and binned. Lastly, Baekhyun is bending a little forward to reach behind himself and wipe off the remains of the cream. He twitches then, his hips canting, something climbing up his throat, a whimper maybe, that climaxes weakly into the sketch of a moan. It may be from sensitivity, or from rekindling. But he doesn’t do more, throwing the tissue in the heap as he lunges to take a hold of Jongin’s lips with his own. It’s close mouthed, chaste if it was not for the complete, whole encompassing of his mouth around Jongin’s. There is a suck too, and then he pulls away, letting Jongin’s lip plop back in place with a little squelch, tingling.
He pads towards the discarded hoodie, throwing it at Jongin over his shoulder. It hits him in the face, and he sputters, eliciting a short giggle from Baekhyun. Baekhyun walks behind the rack he was when Jongin entered and didn’t see him, picking a pair of pants. They’re blue and incredibly glittery. He tugs them on, no underwear.
“I’ll be out of this outfit after two songs,” he says, explains, and he does the adorable shimmy of his hips to get the fabric up and over his ass. He doesn’t button them though, just zips them, and the waistband is low enough for some of that trace of pubes to be visible.
He looks at the clock on the wall then, hasty, and turns to Jongin. He doesn’t hide it- shamelessly staring at Jongin’s bare crotch an thighs, and his open, soiled shirt. “I wouldn’t like the stylists getting an eyeful of you like this,” Baekhyun says, more than anything with evident reprimand, but there is a bit more, an underlying of possessiveness.
So Jongin gets up, finally ungluing himself away from the fake leather of the couch, and yanks his pants back up, then getting the hoodie over himself. Baekhyun approaches him, tiptoeing to take a hold of the hood, and bring it over Jongin’s head. The garment is small. It fits him snugly.
Baekhyun draws the laces of the hood, tying them with a little bow under the chin so Jongin’s neck is out of sight. “Also wouldn’t like them knowing you are my favourite fan.”
He offers a smile, genuine more than playful, more than teasing, and it stirs something in Jongin, so far away from his groin and so close to his heart.
But then he is already turning away, taking a seat on the main vanity, one leg crossed over the other, his marred upper body on display. Jongin didn’t bite hard, didn’t suck hard, but he did it everywhere. So he seems like he has a fever, his skin tone uneven, patchy.
It is only a few counts later that a bunch of people burst in the room, most of them female. They don’t blink at Jongin, they don’t blink at the unmistakable stench of sex fogging the room, or at the quarter of condom hanging out over the rim of the bin. Instead, the room abounds with noise and clutter.
Baekhyun’s conduct switches in an instant, an easy smile plumping his cheeks. He tosses remark after remark to all the staff members, compliments, snippets of inside jokes, earning a scoff and a rouge blush. He barely stays put in the chair as he is poked by brushes and fingers.
He cedes a glance at Jongin, iterant, through the mirror. He holds it until he has to close his eyes again, for smog to be applied to his lash line.
Baekhyun doesn’t flinch at the scorching lights cloaking him. He’s so used to them.
“Who is he?” asks the woman combing his hair, as if pressured by the looming presence of Jongin at the back of the room. Her gaze falls to his chest, in search for a badge, for some sort of identification.
“A childhood friend of sorts,” Baekhyun responds, the red gloss rounding around the lilting intonation of friend.
A slight haze descending upon him soon after, as his mouth opens to let out notes of different heights and lengths. Again, no seems fazed, but Jongin is enraptured. He sees the strain of the veins around the rivulets of his neck, and he’s had his mouth there, just earlier, he’s pleasured that area. Lastly, sponges dab foundation over it, veiling all the traces.
Jongin stays until Baekhyun is all done. The room is empty again.
Baekhyun gets up from the chair. He appears taller, broader, imposing, like someone who Jongin could never have any chance of touching. He’s eerie, unattainable, seemingly wearing the lustre of a magazine cover and the strobes of a stage looming over a boundless mass of adulation.
He unbuttons one more button of his shirt, white, the hollow between his pectorals imbuing with gloom. From the dressing table, he takes fistful of trinkets. He traipses towards Jongin. His shoes have some sort of a heel, and Jongin counts the taps up until Baekhyun is within reach. Now, he smells of fame.
He bends, palm reaching to Jongin’s thigh, traversing in between them, following the seam. Jongin obeys, spreading his legs, and Baekhyun gives him a pet and a fleeting titter. Baekhyun sits between them, in the small space, thigh to thigh, as he leans back on Jongin’s chest. He feels tiny now, as terribly touchable as he is untouchable. Jongin’s chin tickles from the glide of Baekhyun’s overly hair-sprayed plumage.
Baekhyun turns to him, his sparkly eyes seeking Jongin’s. He opens his palm, showing Jongin what he’s holding: a ball of necklaces, and a wide lace choker draped over his middle finger. He makes a sort yipping noise, and Jongin giggles right away, the burst of merriment unstoppable as the feeling of something too warm, too akin to the forbidden sears through him. Baekhyun goes ahead and does it again, longer, whinier, pleading as he shakes his hand. The clink of the metal is melodious.
“Is this how you climbed your way to the top? Puppy-eyeing everyone into oblivion?”
“Mhm,” Baekhyun agrees, caramel dripping down the hum. “My mouth helped too though,” he adds, and it is combined now with slyness going on top of the cuteness and it’s mixture that first tugs a groan from Jongin, then another chuckle.
Baekhyun winks at him, a flash of burgundy over his eyelid, then he bends forward and lets Jongin put on all the necklaces.
“Ten!” someone bursts in screaming, and Jongin startles, but Baekhyun doesn’t, his index still on Jongin’s thigh, drawing uninterrupted circles.
The choker is last. It moulds tight around the soft skin, and there could be an overtone to the way the embroidered flowers sit over where he is most vulnerable.
The second Jongin releases the key; Baekhyun twirls and plants a kiss on the apple of Jongin’s cheek. The revenant of his tongue appears between the parting of his lips. Jongin’s stomach tightens. His legs do the same under Baekhyun’s lax hold.
Then Baekhyun is standing again, facing Jongin, and he’s cold with nothing to wrap around.
“Thank you,” he says. Falsetto, uneven, the tone to be used on praising a good boy.
The words come too slow to Jongin, so overripe that they are meaningless. “You just wiped your lipstick on me.”
Baekhyun blooms into a beam, just as Jongin hoped. “Perhaps. But that came with a free kiss, didn’t it.” Another wink, the other eye, the same burgundy.
He stretches left to right, hands over his head, his shirt pulling out of his pants a little. Nervousness seems to be coming back to him. It’s so easy to hear the roar of the fans in the arena.
Right when Jongin becomes pressured to alleviate Baekhyun somehow, to soothe his anxiety, or to just leave, given he is an intruder Baekhyun finished all business with, Baekhyun opens his mouth.
“Have a beer with me afterwards,” he says, an invitation undulating like a question. “Come on, be a good fanboy.” And his hand, pretty, so pretty, ghosts by Jongin’s jaw light as the tips settle in the groove under his ear, only to drip down and along his jaw. It’s the promise of pleasure in his touch, but in his eyes lies the promise of something else, tender, hopeful.
It was unexpected indeed, how much they clicked. It may go beyond sexual compatibility, given they had so much of it, and Jongin wants, of course. He has insecurities to cure, and a dread for nightfalls, for they always bring the reminder of loneliness. Here is a chance, coming from a ridiculous happenstance, but glorious, so glorious, just like Baekhyun’s smile.
“Do I get to see the concert?” he asks with cheekiness. It totally sounds like a yes, a very vehement yes judging by how much eagerness seeps into his timbre.
“Of course,” Baekhyun quips.
He sits backstage, in the dark. Before the show starts, just a few seconds before, he texts Sehun an incredulous “can you hallucinate from beer???”
He doesn’t see the other’s reply, because Baekhyun is stepping on stage, the screams hitting the skies as he cues on all the light sticks. Baekhyun turns a bit, vague to the audience, but Jongin knows he is looking at him, the silver ocean his background as he grins, a secret little thing just for Jongin.