Pretty Pretty; for EVERYONE; (1/2)
Title: Pretty pretty
For: EVERYONE
By: ANONYMOUS
Word count: 12.359
Warnings: sex is had
Summary: Jongin really really wanted to go to Baekhyun's concert. He doesn't have a ticket. That doesn't stop him.
Author's note: I feel like I twisted this prompt so much I basically gave it a french braid.
According to science, the ratio of plot to genital mingling of this story qualifies it as a pwp.
And with this, my writing-pwp cherry just got popped.
Title inspired by "oh my fucking god have you SEEN Byun fucking BAEKHYUN recently?????"
I hope you like it!!! :D *peace sign*
Jongin crumbles the can in the bin. He has no recollection of doing the same thing to the previous one. All he has is the acidic roll in his stomach and the biter view of the throng of people rounding the whole arena, drawing a tight ring around it. Jongin counts a billion fangirls, all holding light sticks and banners and the tickets clutched with care in their pretty hands. The enthusiasm is visible, hearts in their eyes, Baekhyun’s name across their chests, over the push of their bras, the letters deformed.
What Jongin has is the dwindling, fermenting taste of alcohol on this tongue and the frizzy reeling of bravery throwing him off balance. It is emboldening. Or it may be just the push of mild, overwrought ire.
It suffices. Hence Jongin smooths down his shirt a bit, re-tucking it in his pants-still the ones from the shoot- and barrels on inside.
He collides with one of the staff members, shoulder to shoulder, and the woman nearly hits the wall, but is already gone before he gets to apologise, too frantic to take in his face. Jongin is wobbly on his legs and his head heavy, abuzz as he keeps marching through the corridors. They seem to convolve, tighter and tighter, and Jongin is just about convinced that he’s passed by this exact door at least thrice. He doesn’t allow his shoulders to sag though. He’s downed enough alcohol to appear as if he has any business here.
Perhaps he is lost too, seeking something other than trouble.
He is still an intruder, could be a accused a few things, but he is sad, despondency pushing him, yanking him further.
He manages to avoid another woman this time, twisting so she just breezes by him, and when he rearranges himself, oh, there is the door, and the name plastered on it. He doesn’t have a moment to look left to right, nor to lean in to eavesdrop at what is happening behind the wood, so he just bursts in, his hesitance and fright only appearing in the way he holds the door handle, twisting it carefully to not disrupt the probable quietness.
It’s empty at first sight, and absurdly bright. Reams of clothes and makeup litter the room, white, sterile nearly. A few racks of clothes, motley and glittery, startle the monochromy of the furnishing.
As the door clicks shut behind him, it takes away the din of the anarchy. Silence settles, the mild, lulling ring of Jongin’s ears reappearing.
Jongin stares in awe at the empire at the pack of water bottles on one of the counter, suddenly overcome by thirst- he wasn’t allowed to drink any water today because of the shoot. He reaches for one of them, ripping the plastic. He seems to sober up a bit, sip by sip, little fears coming to him. He’s still staring at the door, waiting for a burly security guard to come and hurl his ass out of here. Any time now. He may end up at the police station. There is a first for everything.
He has his back to the mirror lights, for they are blinding. He looks down at his fingers around the water bottle, requesting some sort of support from it, to ground him, sober him, send him home. His hold is meek, limp.
“Oh, look at that pout,” a voice comes from his left, and Jongin jumps, the effervescence of nervousness and surprise ramming into his chest. The bottle slides. He barely catches it by the mouth.
He keeps gazing down, afraid to actually look up and check who it is- he knows who it is, goddamn, it’s not like there is another voice in this world that he is more familiar with. Then there is the slow shuffle of worn shoes, soles so pliable that the hum is inaudible on the faintly textured tiles, but it is deafening, scarifying and Jongin is dizzy again.
The shoes come into view, chucks, beaten; the white ribbon smudged a bit. Higher appears the fluffy, plush grey of some sweats, cuffed at the ankle. The material is a bit scruffy, threadbare. It’s a plain sight, soft, and Jongin just feels the shy little smile tugging at his lip out of endearment.
And just because of this, he looks higher up and there is the band of his underwear, black, Supreme of course, then Byun Baekhyun’s upper body is bare and Jongin recoils out of surprise, cheeks scorching. He can’t look away though, so he actually makes eye contact with him.
Baekhyun’s glimming at him with an incommensurable amount of mirth. He is glowing and so so pretty and his hair is a poofy rusty mop at the top of his head, flattened by the glasses resting over it.
“I know this pout. And these eyes too,” he says, meditative.
The cordiality he is exuding is so unnerving that Jongin feels like he’s under his foot. He takes a step forward, entering the light. The lines of his torso get contoured, and Jongin has to pick between drowning in the depth of his gaze or in the heat crawling up his face. He just manages to look back at his hands.
Baekhyun is not panicking, not throwing Jongin out. It’s a way better reaction than the thought he would get for basically being one of these disgusting fans that don’t know what privacy is.
“Kim Jong…something, aren’t you?” Baekhyun stresses, a little huff in the high husk of his voice.
Baekhyun remembers him.
Jongin’s eyebrows shoot up. His tongue stumbles. “Uhm, yeah,” he finally mutters.
Baekhyun must be close enough to pick up the little tang in his breath, for something on his face changes. Jongin has hoarded thousands of pictures of him- the expression he’s wearing now is a new one, novel and too cute. Not fitting for immortalization, only to be seen live, drunk in.
“And here I thought that pretty blush was because of me,” he chirps, and takes yet another step in Jongin’s direction, caging him to the makeup counter. He reaches behind Jongin and snatches something, never once breaking their gazes. He gets a waft of Baekhyun’s skin, floral behind the hint of aftershave, and then the chemical scent of his hair, masked by coconut. There is no way Jongin can get any more intoxicated.
The thing in hand is a black hoodie. He turns around, walking to one of the lithe couches lining the opposite wall. Jongin watches the flex of his back muscles for the flash that it takes to tug the fabric down. He is drowned by it.
Collapsing into the couch, he regards Jongin with the same mirthful smirk.
“Jong,” he sucks on his lip, eyes narrowing. “Jongdae?” His head tilts. “No, that’s your brother, right?”
He brings the glasses down, slim frames, round. They fall on his cheeks, lifting with the fill of them. He fixates on Jongin now, calculative. “A!” he exclaims, sharp from behind the lenses, as he looks him up and down. “Jongin!”
Then he pats the seat next to him, only the tips of his finger peeking from the low cuff of the hoodie. Jongin remains where he is though, hand clamped white around the water bottle. He can’t believe he is still here. He can’t believe-
Baekhyun bends forward, legs spreading as his elbow rests on his thigh, chin leaning into his palm. His pinky taps at his lip, once, dragging it ever so slightly so it rebounds, infinitesimally pinker after the wetness of it glimmers in the light. His spectacles slide down his nose as he stares over the frames. “I’m calling the security if you don’t obey me, Kim Jongin,” he says, ridges in his voice over the threat.
Jongin shivers. He feels the chill passing by his chest and only now realizes that one more button came undone. Probably from his haste earlier. The alcohol seems to be wearing off, or just fermenting within him. He is light, again, from the courage.
An eyebrow lifts, disappearing behind a cloud of cerise. Baekhyun pats the seat again, a drum of his nails, brief. Expectancy is stark on his features. Or hauteur underlines it, the debonair, alluring brand.
So Jongin steps forward, away from the support of the counter bruising his hips and putting a foot in front of another. If he has to gauge by how his feet cross instead of falling perfectly one in front of the other, he’d say he is definitely inebriated.
As he lowers himself, Baekhyun doesn’t waste a second to take the water from him, mouth fitting on the rim. There’s a sliver of lingering, a light pucker, before he takes a gulp. Jongin watches it roll down his throat, smooth and sinuous, in the absence of the cut made by a bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Beer, isn’t it,” he voices with a hum. Conviction teems through the note. “Alone?” he presses, flinging him with a sidelong glance.
“Alone,” Jongin says, and he feels the scrape of the word in his mouth. Baekhyun’s eyes flutter, his head then falling into a nod. Then another. And another- a little sway that Jongin can read only the prologue of.
“Were you looking for me really? Aren’t you in the wrong room?” A frown is just a line between his eyebrows, superficial and nondescript.
Yeah,” Jongin repeats. Then his next sentence doesn’t string together, so he just blurts, “You.”
“Why?” Swift. So swift.
“I’m a fan.”
A smile, cloaked, sodden with unsaid insinuation, and for once he looks again the same he looked when Jongin had a vernal heart, heavy and restless, and a crush bigger than his little shoulders could carry. “Of what? Of me, or of my music?”
The silence is brief, a snippet of a blink and a quarter of a heartbeat. “You,” Jongin says.
Baekhyun’s head lowers, taking his gaze along. It pivots, then a pointy tooth strives to lance his little lower lip. “You were a cute kid.”
“I’ve been a fan for quite a while now,” Jongin says. Baekhyun is leaning into him, allured, eyes dimmed. Yet the distance between them hasn’t changed. At this very moment, it is peculiar, unsettling to have so much space to breathe.
“I’m your puppy love, aren’t i?” he whispers, confidence cutting the drawls of his consonants as they winnow, warm and misty over Jongin’s cheek.
Jongin freezes. He never knew that he’s been noticed. Jongin has no memories of ever exhibiting any of the symptoms of his infatuation.
Or Baekhyun is just joking. But Jongin’s reaction is giving him away- no scoff, no smirk- nothing but the snap of his eyelids, the minute gape of his mouth, his thumb hiding into the stern curl of his fingers.
“Maybe,” Jongin responds. It persists, drifting in the air, suspended. The weight of it is light.
Baekhyun retreats, relaxing back as he fiddles with the bottle of water.
They had been neighbours, three houses and a tiny alley between them. They had taken the same path every morning, to the same school. Baekhyun had been two years his senior. He had always been the one walking behind Baekhyun, keeping his pace steady- ten steps between them.
Sometimes they would go in the same little mart and Jongin will find himself buying the same brand of ice-cream Baekhyun got. Vanilla with a thick layer of nuts.
Baekhyun had never given him any real attention. On the rare occasions, he had ruffled Jongin’s hair, just because. Sometimes, he had helped Jongin carry the bag of groceries when his mother sent him shopping and the load got too heavy. Nothing more than that.
Jongin had stared at him. A few hundred days in a row, Jongin had stared at him with every chance he got. There was a stirring, prickles in his tummy whenever he caught sight of that rectangular beam. No girl, no matter how pretty, triggered that sentiment within him.
Then, just as Jongin had begun his first year of high school, Baekhyun disappeared, and Jongin missed him for a few hundred days. He got over it, eventually, had mingled with girls, just like he should.
Up until he’s got hit in the face with the very first teaser of Baekhyun’s debut. Then his fame, the phenomenon, and Baekhyun was everywhere. The unresolved, elusive feeling from back then came alit.
So puppy love isn’t exactly wrong.
“Maybe,” replicates Baekhyun. His voice undulates differently around the sound-not a smidgen of dejection. “What do you do now?” He inquires suddenly, peering with appreciation at Jongin. Too much. It froths over with meaning, more than the standard, kind flirtation given to a fan, and this is something Jongin never even imagined to be feasible.
Jongin thinks back to a few little jobs he has on the side, then to how stressful, how small he feels to only now step in the industry. “I model,” he says. He’s not on any billboards, not yet. He’ll get there.
“Maybe we’ll stand next to each other soon. On a building,” Baekhyun says with a wink, and with so much certitude that it nearly sounds like a vow. Jongin smiles, being this is indeed something he is hoping for.
From the pocket of the hoodie, he procures a box of Pepero. Strawberry. He tears the packaging at once, and thrusts it towards Jongin to take some. It’s perfunctory how Jongin’s eyes try to hunt for the nutritional label. He has to watch his calories.
Baekhyun tsks, wagging a pretty finger in front of his face as he grabs a stick and stuffs it in Jongin’s mouth. He feeds one to himself afterwards, a broken one, two pieces. Baekhyun doesn’t allow his munching to halt at all.
“Why you not kicking me out?” Jongin blurts when his mouth is too sweet- he’s missed this- and Baekhyun’s smile turns mischievous and slightly impish.
“You’re my partner in crime,” he says, rummaging in the box for the last one. He snips the half of the stick, then poises the rest for Jongin, who automatically opens up to take it. Nails by his lip, another split second of lingering.
“Are you nervous?” Jongin inquires. He’s not drunk any more. Perhaps he never was. Just a high taking the place of another. He’s not a lightweight anyway. Instead this is another kind of inebriation, harmfully expectant, enjoyable.
Baekhyun tenses for a moment, keeping quiet. Jongin discerns the rapid flit of his eyes as they aimlessly, blindly roam the space ahead.
“Twenty five thousand people. The tickets sold out in three seconds,” he says, and the playful huskiness of his voice is gone, now insipid and flat, caustic even coming from him. A smile of the same kind half-heartedly yanks at the corner of his lips. He regards Jongin. “How could I not be nervous?”
He crumbles the box and throws it in the bin, hopeful eyes following the route. It misses by a short margin. A thin hiss emits from his chest.
Amusement is back on his features once he returns to Jongin. A tint of slyness is weaving on his mien. “What about you? Are you nervous?”
“Why would I be?” Jongin inquires, uncomprehending. He keeps avoiding catching his reflection in any of the mirrors, afraid for what he’ll see- a gone, whipped look on his face, hideously evident. If only he caught a ticket to the concert, he wouldn’t be here. If only that wasn’t the last straw to a very bad day, he wouldn’t be here.
Baekhyun’s laughter jolts him. It puffs strawberry between them, windingly melodic. “Because I’m here, and I’m your idol.” He winks again, long and obnoxious and aware of its complete daringness.
“I never said you’re my idol. I just said I am a fan,” Jongin counters, only to watch Baekhyun squirm. Except he doesn’t. Nothing changes on his face for a few counts, and this is a weird moment, the air around them getting denser. None of the mayhem behind that door fractures the calm between them. It can bubble freely. It’s not Jongin the one who gives in though, who makes this ridiculous encounter take a different turn, a warm, libertine one, but it is Baekhyun, gaze dipping in two blinks to Jongin’s mouth, as if it cannot endure the weight of something- lewd, longful-anymore.
Jongin stills, completely inert, fearing that any nudge would snap Baekhyun out of this daze.
His throat is working, rippling up and down. However, the elegance appears lessened.
For the first time, Jongin sees something else wringing his stance. It is hard to detect- the change is subtle, and Jongin may have a million photos of Baekhyun in his phone, but not enough to be able to dissect him to the bone.
It is all gone soon, a blink and a mouthful of water later-the last one- then he’s running his hand through his fluffy hair, shaking his head. He swallows. On the left corner of his mouth, a bit of liquid pools, the nook glistering.
He looks Jongin dead in the eye.
“Do you like my ass, Jongin?”
The expression before. It was apprehension.
He’s seen that ass a countless times, in countless gifs and dance practices. He has an appreciation for it, no doubt about that. “Yes,” Jongin says, and he doesn’t why he says it formally, rigid and low.
Baekhyun notices, latches onto the tone, for even more lechery surfeits his lashes as they flutter, and he gets closer, and Jongin just sees the widening of his pupils, opening up to take in more of Jongin. “Then how about you fuck it.” A little hum follows, to give the illusion that this is a question.
Jongin doesn’t even need that. He is already prickled by the zap of kindling stringing through his spine, welling with a vengeance between his hips. His innards turn buoyant.
This is when it all becomes surreal, too good to be true. Baekhyun is glancing at him in earnest, just that soupcon of demurral batting in the warm browns.
“Are you…kidding?” Jongin says. He really can’t make himself believe what he’s being offered. Something must have been in that drink.
But it is enough for Baekhyun it seems, this suspicion, this disbelief, because it cannot mean a no. So it’s a surprise, a too pleasant one, when that pretty hand goes along Jongin’s leg and clambers slowly, carefully, up until it gently bends along the full, soft curve of his inner thigh, to the side just shy of the outline of his cock. It burns there. The bristle of it is nearly painful, noxious, and Jongin is already yearning to press himself into it.
He’s had this sort of thoughts before, when they’d been ambiguous, timid and all too desperate- when he was young and hormonal and crushing on the wrong gender. All those thoughts are coming back to him now, toppling over any sort of resolution he might have had.
Baekhyun is tilting towards him, annulling all the separation between them. Jongin gets whiffs of his skin immediately, a faded artificial fragrance under the smell of warmth, and then short, intermittent puffs are ghosting up and over his jaw, until he feels the slice of something sharp on his ear lobe. It lasts for a second, the dashes dry until the pressure vanishes, then soothed over by the moisture between two lips. It cannot be defined as a suck, but it is a caress, mellow, meant to disarm. “You think I’d be joking about this, Nini?” he says there, and it hits Jongin with the proximity, having him speaking right into his ear, clearer than any headphones can ever rely.
Downward, the idle hand beings squeezing, a daring thumb coming to line with the mild swell of his cock through the fabric. His nail drags along it, muted by the thickness of the denim. Jongin allows himself to jerk, to seek, to revel, voluntarily.
“Nini,” Jongin repeats though, perhaps instead of a moan, instead of a beg. “You remember that.” A moment of blankness, of wistful stupor as it dawns on Jongin that he’s never said this name before. It sounds so good coming from Baekhyun. The context might be at fault- just a sprinkling, minuscule, of power play.
“You were a cute kid. You still are cute. Had my eyes on you, too.”
His nose touches Jongin, tip on tip, a warm, sweet puff of air pouring thickly over Jongin’s cheek. “But now you’re also hot as fuck.”
That emphasis pierces and riots within Jongin. “You want me,” he just says, the shock ripping the statement out of him.
“Yeah,” Baekhyun answers. He doesn’t say it as if it is obvious. He says it as if he can’t wait to want more. “Yeah.” This time his little mouth slots against Jongin’s, fugitive. The ghost of it crawls delightfully over Jongin’s lips after he pulls away.
And Jongin wants too.
The kiss they meet in isn’t exactly one like that of long lost lovers, but that of two people who have something to gain, something to quench. Jongin chances caresses at Baekhyun, cupping his jaw, his nape, and bringing him in right where he wants, into the curious gap of his mouth. The slide is lenient but wet. They haven’t decided yet on who is to dominate, so they take turns nipping at each other until Baekhyun offers him a sound- a wheeze lowlighted with a note- and all dubiety that this is a joke vanishes and Jongin actually kisses him.
He takes a handful of Baekhyun’s ass, the ass he’s been offered, and digs his fingers into it with meaning, up until Baekhyun gets it and straddles Jongin. His thighs, slim, show through the thin fabric of his sweats as one of Jongin’s hands descends to them. Baekhyun’s mouth is atop his, lips thin and shearing sparks onto Jongin’s. He ventures a touch higher up, at the inside of Baekhyun’s thigh, and skinks his fingers into it, bringing him closer by this movement alone. It rips a moan out of Baekhyun, half-bitten in the corner of Jongin’s kiss, and it irks, kindles with how high and irregular it is, as if all his vocal training he has cannot be summoned now, so it remains just the primal, unpolished sound. So Jongin does it again, taking him even closer, their chests colliding, teeth clacking. Baekhyun is seemingly in for a repeat of the sensation too, for he hears the creak of his knees moving farther away, parting his legs down until Jongin’s hand is trapped between them.
When Baekhyun takes control, force filters in each of his movements. He makes sure that Jongin’s mouth knows nothing but him, his lips wanting to make Jongin’s fuller ones surrender. It would appear that he seeks to harm Jongin, if it wasn’t for the careful, decadent strokes of his tongue over Jongin’s gums, or the brief cheek pecks cloaking an intake of breath.
“The door,” Jongin finds it in himself to say. Picking to use his mouth for speaking instead of something else had been hard.
“Unlocked,” Baekhyun gasps the obvious with semblant reluctance. He comes back down to finish the bite he started on the underside of Jongin’s jaw.
“Shouldn’t we…” Jongin rasps, but then his hands are under the soft fabric of the hoodie, and the flesh there is even softer, taut underneath, tempting him to stain it with pleasure. He tugs it off, Baekhyun’s elbows catching in the sleeves, and then he is bare. It is in a different light than before, when Jongin first saw his torso. Now Jongin is allowed to touch.
His nipples are petite, delicate, areolae narrow, coloured in a pretty, greyed fuchsia. Hereupon, Jongin bends down to take one between his teeth, perfunctory, as if peckish for it, then in the cradle of his tongue. The taste is rich, sapid. Even though it is just clean skin, the mirage is sustained by Baekhyun’s palpable enjoyment-muscles tautened under Jongin’s palms, the grooves in between deepened.
He didn’t notice when Baekhyun’s fingers made their way into his locks, so he startles when they tighten, yank, and there is force, command, then hot pleasure curling violently from below his navel. The suction he was applying on the little nub in his mouth leaves it wet, crimson. Its swell is minimal, even as abused as it is, teeth marks around it, and it is enthralling, a bit like defiance. Only when Baekhyun yanks yet again his face lifts.
Baekhyun’s eyes demand his. They gained tints of impatience, of unrestraint, and they claw at Jongin.
A breath sips from between his lips- same state as the nipple- and his fist uncurls from Jongin’s hair. It smooths down the neck to his chest. With just two fingers, he undoes the first button of Jongin’s dress shirt. The second button. At the third, unconsciously, Jongin licks his lips, feeling panes of dried saliva and the satin of slight rawness on their surface, cracks dissolved. The upper one encompasses the lower lip, bringing it inside. It is full, exploited, stung.
This is when Baekhyun’s ribcage rattles with a guttural, sensual hum as he just gives in and rips off the rest of Jongin’s shirt, buttons flying everywhere.
On skin, Baekhyun cups over his left pectoral, right where his heart is furious, ardent.
“I assure you,” Baekhyun says, and it takes a long while for Jongin to even register the meaning of the words beyond the absolute beauty of how shattered and creamy they sound. “No one will mind finding us like this.”
this story is continued
part ii
For: EVERYONE
By: ANONYMOUS
Word count: 12.359
Warnings: sex is had
Summary: Jongin really really wanted to go to Baekhyun's concert. He doesn't have a ticket. That doesn't stop him.
Author's note: I feel like I twisted this prompt so much I basically gave it a french braid.
According to science, the ratio of plot to genital mingling of this story qualifies it as a pwp.
And with this, my writing-pwp cherry just got popped.
Title inspired by "oh my fucking god have you SEEN Byun fucking BAEKHYUN recently?????"
I hope you like it!!! :D *peace sign*
Jongin crumbles the can in the bin. He has no recollection of doing the same thing to the previous one. All he has is the acidic roll in his stomach and the biter view of the throng of people rounding the whole arena, drawing a tight ring around it. Jongin counts a billion fangirls, all holding light sticks and banners and the tickets clutched with care in their pretty hands. The enthusiasm is visible, hearts in their eyes, Baekhyun’s name across their chests, over the push of their bras, the letters deformed.
What Jongin has is the dwindling, fermenting taste of alcohol on this tongue and the frizzy reeling of bravery throwing him off balance. It is emboldening. Or it may be just the push of mild, overwrought ire.
It suffices. Hence Jongin smooths down his shirt a bit, re-tucking it in his pants-still the ones from the shoot- and barrels on inside.
He collides with one of the staff members, shoulder to shoulder, and the woman nearly hits the wall, but is already gone before he gets to apologise, too frantic to take in his face. Jongin is wobbly on his legs and his head heavy, abuzz as he keeps marching through the corridors. They seem to convolve, tighter and tighter, and Jongin is just about convinced that he’s passed by this exact door at least thrice. He doesn’t allow his shoulders to sag though. He’s downed enough alcohol to appear as if he has any business here.
Perhaps he is lost too, seeking something other than trouble.
He is still an intruder, could be a accused a few things, but he is sad, despondency pushing him, yanking him further.
He manages to avoid another woman this time, twisting so she just breezes by him, and when he rearranges himself, oh, there is the door, and the name plastered on it. He doesn’t have a moment to look left to right, nor to lean in to eavesdrop at what is happening behind the wood, so he just bursts in, his hesitance and fright only appearing in the way he holds the door handle, twisting it carefully to not disrupt the probable quietness.
It’s empty at first sight, and absurdly bright. Reams of clothes and makeup litter the room, white, sterile nearly. A few racks of clothes, motley and glittery, startle the monochromy of the furnishing.
As the door clicks shut behind him, it takes away the din of the anarchy. Silence settles, the mild, lulling ring of Jongin’s ears reappearing.
Jongin stares in awe at the empire at the pack of water bottles on one of the counter, suddenly overcome by thirst- he wasn’t allowed to drink any water today because of the shoot. He reaches for one of them, ripping the plastic. He seems to sober up a bit, sip by sip, little fears coming to him. He’s still staring at the door, waiting for a burly security guard to come and hurl his ass out of here. Any time now. He may end up at the police station. There is a first for everything.
He has his back to the mirror lights, for they are blinding. He looks down at his fingers around the water bottle, requesting some sort of support from it, to ground him, sober him, send him home. His hold is meek, limp.
“Oh, look at that pout,” a voice comes from his left, and Jongin jumps, the effervescence of nervousness and surprise ramming into his chest. The bottle slides. He barely catches it by the mouth.
He keeps gazing down, afraid to actually look up and check who it is- he knows who it is, goddamn, it’s not like there is another voice in this world that he is more familiar with. Then there is the slow shuffle of worn shoes, soles so pliable that the hum is inaudible on the faintly textured tiles, but it is deafening, scarifying and Jongin is dizzy again.
The shoes come into view, chucks, beaten; the white ribbon smudged a bit. Higher appears the fluffy, plush grey of some sweats, cuffed at the ankle. The material is a bit scruffy, threadbare. It’s a plain sight, soft, and Jongin just feels the shy little smile tugging at his lip out of endearment.
And just because of this, he looks higher up and there is the band of his underwear, black, Supreme of course, then Byun Baekhyun’s upper body is bare and Jongin recoils out of surprise, cheeks scorching. He can’t look away though, so he actually makes eye contact with him.
Baekhyun’s glimming at him with an incommensurable amount of mirth. He is glowing and so so pretty and his hair is a poofy rusty mop at the top of his head, flattened by the glasses resting over it.
“I know this pout. And these eyes too,” he says, meditative.
The cordiality he is exuding is so unnerving that Jongin feels like he’s under his foot. He takes a step forward, entering the light. The lines of his torso get contoured, and Jongin has to pick between drowning in the depth of his gaze or in the heat crawling up his face. He just manages to look back at his hands.
Baekhyun is not panicking, not throwing Jongin out. It’s a way better reaction than the thought he would get for basically being one of these disgusting fans that don’t know what privacy is.
“Kim Jong…something, aren’t you?” Baekhyun stresses, a little huff in the high husk of his voice.
Baekhyun remembers him.
Jongin’s eyebrows shoot up. His tongue stumbles. “Uhm, yeah,” he finally mutters.
Baekhyun must be close enough to pick up the little tang in his breath, for something on his face changes. Jongin has hoarded thousands of pictures of him- the expression he’s wearing now is a new one, novel and too cute. Not fitting for immortalization, only to be seen live, drunk in.
“And here I thought that pretty blush was because of me,” he chirps, and takes yet another step in Jongin’s direction, caging him to the makeup counter. He reaches behind Jongin and snatches something, never once breaking their gazes. He gets a waft of Baekhyun’s skin, floral behind the hint of aftershave, and then the chemical scent of his hair, masked by coconut. There is no way Jongin can get any more intoxicated.
The thing in hand is a black hoodie. He turns around, walking to one of the lithe couches lining the opposite wall. Jongin watches the flex of his back muscles for the flash that it takes to tug the fabric down. He is drowned by it.
Collapsing into the couch, he regards Jongin with the same mirthful smirk.
“Jong,” he sucks on his lip, eyes narrowing. “Jongdae?” His head tilts. “No, that’s your brother, right?”
He brings the glasses down, slim frames, round. They fall on his cheeks, lifting with the fill of them. He fixates on Jongin now, calculative. “A!” he exclaims, sharp from behind the lenses, as he looks him up and down. “Jongin!”
Then he pats the seat next to him, only the tips of his finger peeking from the low cuff of the hoodie. Jongin remains where he is though, hand clamped white around the water bottle. He can’t believe he is still here. He can’t believe-
Baekhyun bends forward, legs spreading as his elbow rests on his thigh, chin leaning into his palm. His pinky taps at his lip, once, dragging it ever so slightly so it rebounds, infinitesimally pinker after the wetness of it glimmers in the light. His spectacles slide down his nose as he stares over the frames. “I’m calling the security if you don’t obey me, Kim Jongin,” he says, ridges in his voice over the threat.
Jongin shivers. He feels the chill passing by his chest and only now realizes that one more button came undone. Probably from his haste earlier. The alcohol seems to be wearing off, or just fermenting within him. He is light, again, from the courage.
An eyebrow lifts, disappearing behind a cloud of cerise. Baekhyun pats the seat again, a drum of his nails, brief. Expectancy is stark on his features. Or hauteur underlines it, the debonair, alluring brand.
So Jongin steps forward, away from the support of the counter bruising his hips and putting a foot in front of another. If he has to gauge by how his feet cross instead of falling perfectly one in front of the other, he’d say he is definitely inebriated.
As he lowers himself, Baekhyun doesn’t waste a second to take the water from him, mouth fitting on the rim. There’s a sliver of lingering, a light pucker, before he takes a gulp. Jongin watches it roll down his throat, smooth and sinuous, in the absence of the cut made by a bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Beer, isn’t it,” he voices with a hum. Conviction teems through the note. “Alone?” he presses, flinging him with a sidelong glance.
“Alone,” Jongin says, and he feels the scrape of the word in his mouth. Baekhyun’s eyes flutter, his head then falling into a nod. Then another. And another- a little sway that Jongin can read only the prologue of.
“Were you looking for me really? Aren’t you in the wrong room?” A frown is just a line between his eyebrows, superficial and nondescript.
Yeah,” Jongin repeats. Then his next sentence doesn’t string together, so he just blurts, “You.”
“Why?” Swift. So swift.
“I’m a fan.”
A smile, cloaked, sodden with unsaid insinuation, and for once he looks again the same he looked when Jongin had a vernal heart, heavy and restless, and a crush bigger than his little shoulders could carry. “Of what? Of me, or of my music?”
The silence is brief, a snippet of a blink and a quarter of a heartbeat. “You,” Jongin says.
Baekhyun’s head lowers, taking his gaze along. It pivots, then a pointy tooth strives to lance his little lower lip. “You were a cute kid.”
“I’ve been a fan for quite a while now,” Jongin says. Baekhyun is leaning into him, allured, eyes dimmed. Yet the distance between them hasn’t changed. At this very moment, it is peculiar, unsettling to have so much space to breathe.
“I’m your puppy love, aren’t i?” he whispers, confidence cutting the drawls of his consonants as they winnow, warm and misty over Jongin’s cheek.
Jongin freezes. He never knew that he’s been noticed. Jongin has no memories of ever exhibiting any of the symptoms of his infatuation.
Or Baekhyun is just joking. But Jongin’s reaction is giving him away- no scoff, no smirk- nothing but the snap of his eyelids, the minute gape of his mouth, his thumb hiding into the stern curl of his fingers.
“Maybe,” Jongin responds. It persists, drifting in the air, suspended. The weight of it is light.
Baekhyun retreats, relaxing back as he fiddles with the bottle of water.
They had been neighbours, three houses and a tiny alley between them. They had taken the same path every morning, to the same school. Baekhyun had been two years his senior. He had always been the one walking behind Baekhyun, keeping his pace steady- ten steps between them.
Sometimes they would go in the same little mart and Jongin will find himself buying the same brand of ice-cream Baekhyun got. Vanilla with a thick layer of nuts.
Baekhyun had never given him any real attention. On the rare occasions, he had ruffled Jongin’s hair, just because. Sometimes, he had helped Jongin carry the bag of groceries when his mother sent him shopping and the load got too heavy. Nothing more than that.
Jongin had stared at him. A few hundred days in a row, Jongin had stared at him with every chance he got. There was a stirring, prickles in his tummy whenever he caught sight of that rectangular beam. No girl, no matter how pretty, triggered that sentiment within him.
Then, just as Jongin had begun his first year of high school, Baekhyun disappeared, and Jongin missed him for a few hundred days. He got over it, eventually, had mingled with girls, just like he should.
Up until he’s got hit in the face with the very first teaser of Baekhyun’s debut. Then his fame, the phenomenon, and Baekhyun was everywhere. The unresolved, elusive feeling from back then came alit.
So puppy love isn’t exactly wrong.
“Maybe,” replicates Baekhyun. His voice undulates differently around the sound-not a smidgen of dejection. “What do you do now?” He inquires suddenly, peering with appreciation at Jongin. Too much. It froths over with meaning, more than the standard, kind flirtation given to a fan, and this is something Jongin never even imagined to be feasible.
Jongin thinks back to a few little jobs he has on the side, then to how stressful, how small he feels to only now step in the industry. “I model,” he says. He’s not on any billboards, not yet. He’ll get there.
“Maybe we’ll stand next to each other soon. On a building,” Baekhyun says with a wink, and with so much certitude that it nearly sounds like a vow. Jongin smiles, being this is indeed something he is hoping for.
From the pocket of the hoodie, he procures a box of Pepero. Strawberry. He tears the packaging at once, and thrusts it towards Jongin to take some. It’s perfunctory how Jongin’s eyes try to hunt for the nutritional label. He has to watch his calories.
Baekhyun tsks, wagging a pretty finger in front of his face as he grabs a stick and stuffs it in Jongin’s mouth. He feeds one to himself afterwards, a broken one, two pieces. Baekhyun doesn’t allow his munching to halt at all.
“Why you not kicking me out?” Jongin blurts when his mouth is too sweet- he’s missed this- and Baekhyun’s smile turns mischievous and slightly impish.
“You’re my partner in crime,” he says, rummaging in the box for the last one. He snips the half of the stick, then poises the rest for Jongin, who automatically opens up to take it. Nails by his lip, another split second of lingering.
“Are you nervous?” Jongin inquires. He’s not drunk any more. Perhaps he never was. Just a high taking the place of another. He’s not a lightweight anyway. Instead this is another kind of inebriation, harmfully expectant, enjoyable.
Baekhyun tenses for a moment, keeping quiet. Jongin discerns the rapid flit of his eyes as they aimlessly, blindly roam the space ahead.
“Twenty five thousand people. The tickets sold out in three seconds,” he says, and the playful huskiness of his voice is gone, now insipid and flat, caustic even coming from him. A smile of the same kind half-heartedly yanks at the corner of his lips. He regards Jongin. “How could I not be nervous?”
He crumbles the box and throws it in the bin, hopeful eyes following the route. It misses by a short margin. A thin hiss emits from his chest.
Amusement is back on his features once he returns to Jongin. A tint of slyness is weaving on his mien. “What about you? Are you nervous?”
“Why would I be?” Jongin inquires, uncomprehending. He keeps avoiding catching his reflection in any of the mirrors, afraid for what he’ll see- a gone, whipped look on his face, hideously evident. If only he caught a ticket to the concert, he wouldn’t be here. If only that wasn’t the last straw to a very bad day, he wouldn’t be here.
Baekhyun’s laughter jolts him. It puffs strawberry between them, windingly melodic. “Because I’m here, and I’m your idol.” He winks again, long and obnoxious and aware of its complete daringness.
“I never said you’re my idol. I just said I am a fan,” Jongin counters, only to watch Baekhyun squirm. Except he doesn’t. Nothing changes on his face for a few counts, and this is a weird moment, the air around them getting denser. None of the mayhem behind that door fractures the calm between them. It can bubble freely. It’s not Jongin the one who gives in though, who makes this ridiculous encounter take a different turn, a warm, libertine one, but it is Baekhyun, gaze dipping in two blinks to Jongin’s mouth, as if it cannot endure the weight of something- lewd, longful-anymore.
Jongin stills, completely inert, fearing that any nudge would snap Baekhyun out of this daze.
His throat is working, rippling up and down. However, the elegance appears lessened.
For the first time, Jongin sees something else wringing his stance. It is hard to detect- the change is subtle, and Jongin may have a million photos of Baekhyun in his phone, but not enough to be able to dissect him to the bone.
It is all gone soon, a blink and a mouthful of water later-the last one- then he’s running his hand through his fluffy hair, shaking his head. He swallows. On the left corner of his mouth, a bit of liquid pools, the nook glistering.
He looks Jongin dead in the eye.
“Do you like my ass, Jongin?”
The expression before. It was apprehension.
He’s seen that ass a countless times, in countless gifs and dance practices. He has an appreciation for it, no doubt about that. “Yes,” Jongin says, and he doesn’t why he says it formally, rigid and low.
Baekhyun notices, latches onto the tone, for even more lechery surfeits his lashes as they flutter, and he gets closer, and Jongin just sees the widening of his pupils, opening up to take in more of Jongin. “Then how about you fuck it.” A little hum follows, to give the illusion that this is a question.
Jongin doesn’t even need that. He is already prickled by the zap of kindling stringing through his spine, welling with a vengeance between his hips. His innards turn buoyant.
This is when it all becomes surreal, too good to be true. Baekhyun is glancing at him in earnest, just that soupcon of demurral batting in the warm browns.
“Are you…kidding?” Jongin says. He really can’t make himself believe what he’s being offered. Something must have been in that drink.
But it is enough for Baekhyun it seems, this suspicion, this disbelief, because it cannot mean a no. So it’s a surprise, a too pleasant one, when that pretty hand goes along Jongin’s leg and clambers slowly, carefully, up until it gently bends along the full, soft curve of his inner thigh, to the side just shy of the outline of his cock. It burns there. The bristle of it is nearly painful, noxious, and Jongin is already yearning to press himself into it.
He’s had this sort of thoughts before, when they’d been ambiguous, timid and all too desperate- when he was young and hormonal and crushing on the wrong gender. All those thoughts are coming back to him now, toppling over any sort of resolution he might have had.
Baekhyun is tilting towards him, annulling all the separation between them. Jongin gets whiffs of his skin immediately, a faded artificial fragrance under the smell of warmth, and then short, intermittent puffs are ghosting up and over his jaw, until he feels the slice of something sharp on his ear lobe. It lasts for a second, the dashes dry until the pressure vanishes, then soothed over by the moisture between two lips. It cannot be defined as a suck, but it is a caress, mellow, meant to disarm. “You think I’d be joking about this, Nini?” he says there, and it hits Jongin with the proximity, having him speaking right into his ear, clearer than any headphones can ever rely.
Downward, the idle hand beings squeezing, a daring thumb coming to line with the mild swell of his cock through the fabric. His nail drags along it, muted by the thickness of the denim. Jongin allows himself to jerk, to seek, to revel, voluntarily.
“Nini,” Jongin repeats though, perhaps instead of a moan, instead of a beg. “You remember that.” A moment of blankness, of wistful stupor as it dawns on Jongin that he’s never said this name before. It sounds so good coming from Baekhyun. The context might be at fault- just a sprinkling, minuscule, of power play.
“You were a cute kid. You still are cute. Had my eyes on you, too.”
His nose touches Jongin, tip on tip, a warm, sweet puff of air pouring thickly over Jongin’s cheek. “But now you’re also hot as fuck.”
That emphasis pierces and riots within Jongin. “You want me,” he just says, the shock ripping the statement out of him.
“Yeah,” Baekhyun answers. He doesn’t say it as if it is obvious. He says it as if he can’t wait to want more. “Yeah.” This time his little mouth slots against Jongin’s, fugitive. The ghost of it crawls delightfully over Jongin’s lips after he pulls away.
And Jongin wants too.
The kiss they meet in isn’t exactly one like that of long lost lovers, but that of two people who have something to gain, something to quench. Jongin chances caresses at Baekhyun, cupping his jaw, his nape, and bringing him in right where he wants, into the curious gap of his mouth. The slide is lenient but wet. They haven’t decided yet on who is to dominate, so they take turns nipping at each other until Baekhyun offers him a sound- a wheeze lowlighted with a note- and all dubiety that this is a joke vanishes and Jongin actually kisses him.
He takes a handful of Baekhyun’s ass, the ass he’s been offered, and digs his fingers into it with meaning, up until Baekhyun gets it and straddles Jongin. His thighs, slim, show through the thin fabric of his sweats as one of Jongin’s hands descends to them. Baekhyun’s mouth is atop his, lips thin and shearing sparks onto Jongin’s. He ventures a touch higher up, at the inside of Baekhyun’s thigh, and skinks his fingers into it, bringing him closer by this movement alone. It rips a moan out of Baekhyun, half-bitten in the corner of Jongin’s kiss, and it irks, kindles with how high and irregular it is, as if all his vocal training he has cannot be summoned now, so it remains just the primal, unpolished sound. So Jongin does it again, taking him even closer, their chests colliding, teeth clacking. Baekhyun is seemingly in for a repeat of the sensation too, for he hears the creak of his knees moving farther away, parting his legs down until Jongin’s hand is trapped between them.
When Baekhyun takes control, force filters in each of his movements. He makes sure that Jongin’s mouth knows nothing but him, his lips wanting to make Jongin’s fuller ones surrender. It would appear that he seeks to harm Jongin, if it wasn’t for the careful, decadent strokes of his tongue over Jongin’s gums, or the brief cheek pecks cloaking an intake of breath.
“The door,” Jongin finds it in himself to say. Picking to use his mouth for speaking instead of something else had been hard.
“Unlocked,” Baekhyun gasps the obvious with semblant reluctance. He comes back down to finish the bite he started on the underside of Jongin’s jaw.
“Shouldn’t we…” Jongin rasps, but then his hands are under the soft fabric of the hoodie, and the flesh there is even softer, taut underneath, tempting him to stain it with pleasure. He tugs it off, Baekhyun’s elbows catching in the sleeves, and then he is bare. It is in a different light than before, when Jongin first saw his torso. Now Jongin is allowed to touch.
His nipples are petite, delicate, areolae narrow, coloured in a pretty, greyed fuchsia. Hereupon, Jongin bends down to take one between his teeth, perfunctory, as if peckish for it, then in the cradle of his tongue. The taste is rich, sapid. Even though it is just clean skin, the mirage is sustained by Baekhyun’s palpable enjoyment-muscles tautened under Jongin’s palms, the grooves in between deepened.
He didn’t notice when Baekhyun’s fingers made their way into his locks, so he startles when they tighten, yank, and there is force, command, then hot pleasure curling violently from below his navel. The suction he was applying on the little nub in his mouth leaves it wet, crimson. Its swell is minimal, even as abused as it is, teeth marks around it, and it is enthralling, a bit like defiance. Only when Baekhyun yanks yet again his face lifts.
Baekhyun’s eyes demand his. They gained tints of impatience, of unrestraint, and they claw at Jongin.
A breath sips from between his lips- same state as the nipple- and his fist uncurls from Jongin’s hair. It smooths down the neck to his chest. With just two fingers, he undoes the first button of Jongin’s dress shirt. The second button. At the third, unconsciously, Jongin licks his lips, feeling panes of dried saliva and the satin of slight rawness on their surface, cracks dissolved. The upper one encompasses the lower lip, bringing it inside. It is full, exploited, stung.
This is when Baekhyun’s ribcage rattles with a guttural, sensual hum as he just gives in and rips off the rest of Jongin’s shirt, buttons flying everywhere.
On skin, Baekhyun cups over his left pectoral, right where his heart is furious, ardent.
“I assure you,” Baekhyun says, and it takes a long while for Jongin to even register the meaning of the words beyond the absolute beauty of how shattered and creamy they sound. “No one will mind finding us like this.”
this story is continued
part ii