High Card
Title: High Card
Authors: rawthorne and butterflyweb
Pairing: GDTOP
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slight dub-con, violent imagery, general twistyness
Summary:The feeling he's had in the pit of his stomach all night, that the man is a killer, a fucking murderer and now it's there, scrawled in proof over his skin. (Iris-verse)
Jiyong spreads his legs once he's on the bed, lashes low and alluring over powdered cheekbones. "Take it off, baby," he cajoles, trying to sound carefree and interested. "Show me what you got."
With most men, he wouldn't bother. He'd keep quiet and let them do their thing. Get it over with. This john wears clothes with a label and white shoes. He's loaded alright. It's only fair he pays accordingly.
He's got a nice smile, too, except that shit stopped mattering sometime when he was sixteen. It pulls the corner of his mouth to the side, betraying his youth. "Shut up and sit there looking pretty. I wanna look at you, sexy." For all that his voice is rough and his words clipped, Jiyong can't pretend to take offense.
Sharp words are a dime a dozen on an average night. Tonight, with what he knows and what he's seen vivid in his mind, they ricochet like bullets.
He shuts up dutifully, letting the other man's eyes roam over his body. Watching him in return as he loosens a black shirt.
Fingers go to the cuffs first, pushing the tiny buttons through their holes, then next to his collar. It's efficient yet unhurried. Taking his time. Whatever, Jiyong thinks, heels sliding softly against tattered sheets. It's his dime.
The john is thin, his features sharp and dark hair in bad need of a cut. It serves to make him both imposing and at the same time, a little too refined to be fucking a boy in a back alley.
Must be why he picked the damn motel. Can't get his shirt all rumpled.
In his mind, Jiyong has an idea about every man he's ever fucked. Who's married, who'd like to be, who's gay but can't admit it. Some of them are just looking for a willing body, others want more. This one... he's hard to pin down. He looks like someone's rebellious son, pampered since birth and filthy rich. Used to paying for his fun.
It's a faithful image, at least until scars and bullet wounds come into view.
The john arches an eyebrow. Jiyong makes to drop his gaze.
"Keep looking." The order is sharp, the smile fixed. "I want you to look."
Something in the tone makes his stomach tighten. Most wouldn't catch it, he knows, but he's been in this fucked-up little game long enough to grow an instinct. He likes to think it's what's keep him alive so far.
He brings his gaze back up to the john, watching the way his shirt slides off his shoulders, tossed over a chair and the knee he puts on the bed. Silent and obedient and eager to please.
The other man has been through something terrible to scar like that. It's amazing he's survived. The jagged cuts look purposeful, but there are scratches and bruises too and maybe... maybe it's just a kink. Maybe he's into that stuff.
"I'm pretty vanilla. Just so you know." Jiyong looks up, meets his eyes. "Just so we're clear." He doesn't want to end up like a carved turkey, not for any john and any sum of money.
It gets him a smirk in return, the john loosening his belt, dragging it out to drop heavy on the bed. Jiyong tries his damnedest not to flinch.
"Thought I told you to shut up."
It would almost be a tease if it weren't for the feeling in Jiyong's gut and he bites on the edge of his tongue, willing himself to relax. Play fuckdoll for the man and let him get on his way. Go home and get back to his grief.
He lets breath leave his lungs slowly as he watches the other man push his pants and underwear to the ground, the muscles in his thighs clenching and relaxing beautifully. He'd make a good model for some expensive fashion house full of people with too much time on their hands and no real problems. He could have any woman--any man he wants.
It's just that as well Jiyong's the only one in the room to think so, he figures, making to sit up and take him in hand. Johns like a bit of initiative, sometimes. A hand slides into his hair, gripping blonde locks tightly, but the john doesn't stop him and Jiyong just bites into his tongue a little harder.
He strokes him firmly, slowly, fingers curled around his cock in a loose fist. Watching the muscles of the man's stomach shudder, listening to the soft shift in his breathing. It helps sometimes, when they're attractive, he can't lie and say otherwise. At least it's only an assault on his pride, rather than his senses.
He finds he can bear to watch him, even as the intensity of his gaze--fixed and piercing--unsettles him on some primal, instinctual level. He can almost enjoy the way his hips cant forward, shifting into his touch. Almost. Under the thin layer of make-up, he's still a hooker and he's still an orphan with a dead sister and nothing to make sense of it but the broken recollections of a hotel receptionist.
The john tugs him a little closer but doesn't force. He's got the strength, that much is obvious in the way his arms tighten with tension, so Jiyong doesn't delay. He's quick to act when it means saving himself a little pain.
He lowers his head over his cock, lips parted and a little too dry, taking the head of his length into his mouth. Knowing he should've said something about condoms but that danger is the least of them at the moment.
The john urges him to take him in deeper and Jiyong does, relaxing his throat as best he can and feeling the weight of him settle on his tongue. He can't remember this being pleasant or caring about what he's doing so long as he presses all the buttons and so long as the john will let him breathe.
It's rote, by now. All of it, down to the way he reaches for the other man's hips to balance, eyes slipping shut in concentration. His mind slips away. Chaerin always said he should've worked with her, but call him old fashioned, he didn't want to admit his sister was in the family trade. He didn't want to see her manhandled and used, even if he saw the bruises and he spent the cash right by her side when they went shopping at the weekend. It was easier to just pretend--lie on your back and live your real life in your head, the way you want it to be.
It's harder now, without her understanding. Without her.
The john tugs on his hair, and Jiyong's not stupid enough to miss the sign. He pulls back, letting the other man's cock slip from his mouth, waiting. The grip on his hair is going hand in hand with grief and paranoia, giving him a headache.
"Lie down," the man tells him, voice rougher than before, tense with need. He kneels to get something out of his scattered clothes--condoms and lube, Jiyong half-assumes and half-hopes--rounding to toss them aside.
He almost misses it, the sharp blue-green outline and the black shading. For a moment, he thinks he imagined it, projected it like a fantasy born out of heartache and disbelief. But the john kicks his clothes further back and he sees it again.
A dragon on a man's back.
His breath dies in his chest, fists curling around the sheets. Frozen. A dragon. The feeling he's had in the pit of his stomach all night, that the man is a killer, a fucking murderer and now it's there, scrawled in proof over his skin. As damning as Chaerin's blood on his hands.
The john crawls onto the bed, naked and oblivious, leaning over him with that same smirk he's worn all night. Like he knows. Like he's doing it on purpose.
Jiyong puts up both hands, not sure if he's trying to stop him or reach in and pry his heart from his chest. His own is thundering against his ribs, hard enough to snap them and he chokes softly, a frown flashing over the fucker's face. He killed her. He killed her, God, he murdered Chaerin and Jiyong wants to make him pay---
"Are we doing this or what?" snorts the john, propped above him on a strong arm and he looks like--he has the face of a killer. Jiyong knows it in his gut.
He takes in a shuddering breath, gripping for an answer where there is none. Nods shakily, feeling his eyes begin to sting. He just. He needs a weapon. A gun or something.
The john rolls his eyes, sinking a hand into his hair as he shifts to mouth at his collarbones.
Trying to hold down a shiver of revulsion, he turns his head away, breath catching a little as he sees the glass and pitcher on the table, heavy and clear. He bites down hard on his cheek, trying to shift under him, to get a hand free without giving himself away. No doubt he'll kill him in cold blood at the slightest resistance, Jiyong isn't fucking stupid--
He forces a moan and hopes the john buys it, fingers sliding over the edge of the table, reaching--
Hips press into his own, the other man's body heavy and suffocating as he moves into him. It's no different than everything he's done and had done to him, but it's with him and Jiyong can't stand the thought of it.
His fingers find the dirty edge of the glass, nearly tipping it over as they curl around the rim. He says a silent prayer to a god he's never believed in, stomach clenching tightly. Tries again, finding purchase as he closes his fingers around it, lifting it from the table.
Die, you son of a bitch, he thinks, hatred and grief a black mess in his chest, bringing the glass down against the man's head with all his strength.
It shatters alright, shards in the john's hair and digging into his palm, knocking the man off of him. But the shout that ensues isn't one of agony like he hoped. It's too short, too quiet. It comes with a heavy blow across the face, hands grabbing his wrists.
"The fuck do you think you're doing?" is hissed at him, dark eyes alive with rage, but alive nonetheless.
He fucking blew it. He fucked up and he's going to die, he's going to fucking die right here--
The grips on his wrists are like vices, but he fights anyway, has to fight because if he doesn't leave this room, he wants to fucking take a piece of the bastard with him. He kicks hard, trying to rip his hands from the other man's hold.
"Murderer," he spits, a sob caught in his throat. "You fucking murdering bastard--"
He's shoved again, the john twisting his hands until he screams in pain, sure he's going to lose them now. Sure he's going to end up dead.
"You k-killed her," he accuses, trying to get a kick in, trying to spit in his eye. "You son of a bitch--"
An ugly smile, different from the one before, lights up the other man's face. "Did I? I've killed a lot of people."
Jiyong lets out a sob of fury, hot tears on his face as he tries to knee him int the ribs. Get his hands free and then he'll snuff the goddamn life out of his eyes, listen to him struggle and blot him out forever--
"She was my sister! She was fucking innocent, you shit!"
It's like the other man doesn't hear him, his face impassive the whole time, his features inscrutable. He cocks his head to the side, eyes intent but empty. Like a fucking robot and just as heartless.
Jiyong has seen the bodies. He knows what he can do. It doesn't stop him shouting abuse and sobs and confusion. Pain rips from his throat until he's sure he's not making sense anymore, exhausted and angry, head throbbing.
"I hate you. I'm gonna kill you--"
Whether it pushes him over the edge or bores him, Jiyong doesn't know, but it doesn't matter. The john takes both of his skinny wrists in one grip, his other hand covering his mouth and nose and Jiyong chokes in the back of his throat, screaming into his hand, half-crazed with fury and fear.
"Shh," he whispers, almost cajoling if it weren't for the brutal grasp he holds on Jiyong's hands. "Hush now, baby." His English is hard and coarse, but fluent, like it's his native tongue. Not a local rich boy after all.
Jiyong struggles against him, panicked and feeling his lungs burn without air.
The john's eyes search his, as if looking for the fear in them, but he doesn't smile. Just meets his gaze, unflinching.
"You're too pretty to be so angry."
Tears leak into his hair, wetting the pillow under his head and the sheets below--and the bed springs and the floor and staining the ceiling of the room beneath them until a part of him is part of the building forever. That's how Chaerin used to think. Tears were a souvenir--it was one way for them to feel rich.
Jiyong bucks, his limbs locking. He didn't want to die like this.
The john leans in, biting once at his ear, and pulls back with a half-smirk on his lips. Lets Jiyong go to gasp and cough, curling in on himself, shame clawing over his skin. Coward. Fucking useless, weak, helpless--He coughs on the air that crowds his lugs, eyes shutting tightly as the john's weight shifts off him, sounds of him moving around the room reaching Jiyong's ears.
He knows he should fight him, but he can't. His body won't let him. He's hopeless and a disgrace to his sister's memory, letting her murderer slip out the door while he lies there, weeping like an old woman.
The john lays a couple of bills on the pillow beside him.
"You should stop crying. It's messing up your face."
It makes the next sob feel like it's ripped from his chest, throat raw and heart broken. Jiyong turns his face into the pillow so he can't look at him, can't acknowledge that he's walking away unscathed and unpunished, the door closing behind him.
That he let him go.
***
The room is nice and empty, just how he likes them. There is no complementary fruit and no turndown service three times a day, going through his stuff. Instead, there's a smoke detector he's disabled and a landline that can't be traced back to him, providing him the cover he needs. Best of all, there's a window facing directly over the square right next door and he's got a key for that one too, under a different name, for tomorrow.
He takes his Swiss watch off, mildly annoyed at the pull of broken skin right above his thumb. It's funny that glass shards should cut so deep and so sharp, after all.
Padding barefoot into the bathroom, he runs hot water in the sink, washing his hands and ignoring the sting of the soap in the cuts. Catches his own eye in the mirror, hair hanging across the right one, a small cut on his eyebrow from the glass. He snorts, half in annoyance, the rest in tempered amusement. Little shit.
A knock on the door sounds through the room, sharp and insistent. And he was just thinking there would be no maids on his case tonight.
He wipes his hands methodically on a fresh white towel, taking his sweet time because he has that luxury. He doesn't operate by anyone else's itinerary, not when he's on the job and not when he's enjoying some downtime.
The polished metal handle twists easily under his fist.
Only to give way to a gun in his face, unsteady, cheap-make, American. Probably stolen or a hackjob sold under the table. .35 caliber.
The details flash through his mind in a second, the rest only a heartbeat later, putting together blonde hair and swollen eyes and raising an eyebrow. He'll give him that--he wasn't expecting this.
"Remember me?" hisses the hooker, his lip split and his knuckles bruised where they clutch the handgun. And how could he not. It's not every day he gets a fanboy, even one who wants to kill him. It's a rare sense of pride.
He opens the door a little wider. If the bullet hasn't flown yet, it probably won't. He takes that gamble.
"You don't want anyone seeing you."
"You think I fucking care?" the man snaps, his voice cracking halfway through the retort. "Fucking back up. Or I'll shoot you right here."
It's a stall and a poor one at that.
He smirks, taking a step back and then another, because this is familiar territory to him, but not to the blonde. Not that he needs it. It's just nice to have, as backup.
The hand that clutches the gun wavers in his face, the other man following inside. He kicks the door shut behind him.
"I've come to finish what I started."
He arches an eyebrow. "Good. I overpaid for what I got."
"You think this is a fucking game, you bastard?" the hooker nearly shouts, grief turning his voice raw. He half wonders if he's going to start crying again. "You k-killed my sister. You shot her in the face. I had to identify her by birthmarks and clothes and--" He presses a hand over his mouth, drowning out a sob. "I'm gonna kill you just like you killed her. I'm gonna make sure no one knows who you are by the time I'm done."
If only his hand didn't waver so much. If only he didn't tremble like he does.
"So do it." It's an easy invitation, like asking someone out for a drink when you're only mildly interested in getting laid. He seals it with a couple of long, leisurely strides, until the barrel of the gun is pressed against his chest. "Aim it a little higher and pull the trigger."
He can see the fright in his face. The cowardice. The self-hatred.
The man is pinned in place, arm wavering, and he could take the gun from him now. Doesn't, curious to know how it'll play out. He doesn't usually underestimate people and the hooker's already surprised him once.
"Why," The man chokes, pushing the gun into his chest. "Why...why did you..."
He's pathetic, alright, but it's not disgusting. On some level, somehow, it stirs his interest and it's a lot more than most bedfellows do with their legs around his waist, moaning and thrashing in the throes of made-up pleasure.
Fingers curl around the back of his neck, easily within reach with the blonde pressed up against the door and barely any strength keeping him from seeping through the wood. He tugs him forward, just a little, just enough to keep him in place. Breathes "shh" and kisses him, hard, for the first time since the other man had the guts to pick him up in the street the other night.
There's a sob against his lips, the man's body slumping against the door in a kind of muted defeat, the gun pressing into his stomach with no strength behind it. It's a swan song, the way he folds, a submission. He can't do it. It makes his insides burn.
Poor, human boy. This is what a conscience will do to you.
He pulls back slowly, savoring the taste of his tears, and only so far that he can see his eyes. Shifts against the gun digging into his stomach.
"I didn't kill your sister, you know..." Traces his bottom lip with a calloused thumb. "Nothing in it for me."
"You're a liar," the man whispers, his throat raw.
A snort, gaze flicking down to that mouth.
"What gain do I have from lying about it? You're not going to shoot me either way." His gaze meets the kid's. "I do my job. She wasn't it."
"It was you. They saw your tattoo. At the hotel." He takes a thick gulp of air, slumping against the door. "She must've fought you so you shot her, but not before she ripped your shirt. I know it was you--"
He doesn't know anything. It's pitiful and sad, twisting his stomach with an uncomfortable sort of fascination. Fingers push blonde hair out of his eyes, delicately minding the bruises. He doesn't let skinny whores get the best of him, let alone get close enough to shred his clothes.
"There are at least twenty people with that same tattoo in Korea right now... Fifty-six around the world."
A startled gaze meets his. "W-what?"
"In my line of work, it pays to blend in with the crowd. I'm not your man." He traces his jaw with his thumb. "Nothing in it for me, babe."
The other man's face crumbles like rice paper when held up to a flame. "I don't," he chokes on his words. "I don't know what to do. I want her back. I want her back." He bends into him, spine curving against the wooden door and it's a strange experiment, having someone so close without breaking their neck.
He's used to people crying. It doesn't phase him. It's almost enjoyable. The other man's breath is warm against his neck. He finds he likes that too.
"Shh..."
The whore shivers under his touch, but doesn't pull away. Doesn't make to scream and fight and kick like an animal trapped in a hole. It's not a quiet dignity, which he's seen, nor a whimpering, pathetic defeat, which he knows by heart.
It's indifference, and that's...a change.
He pets his hair, enjoying the texture and the color like someone would a painting. That's it. The whore is living, moving art and just as difficult to grasp. He feels a strange kind of pride for the definition.
"What's your name, pretty?" he coos softly. "What should I call you?"
Dark eyes turn to him, red and swollen, the vestiges of eyeliner poorly washed off at the edge of his lashes. They should be dead, empty, but there's so much fire buried underneath that his gaze fucking well burns.
"Jiyong." Flat and matter of fact, no tease, no 'whatever you want to, baby'.
"Jiyong," he repeats, tasting the way it curls around his tongue, sweet and harmless, like artificial sweeteners. "I'm..." He hesitates. Could give him any of the fifty aliases he uses, his codename, his nickname, the name his parents gave him or the one he chose for himself when he was five. "I'm Seunghyun."
The kid looks at him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, as if he knows with equal certainty that he'll leave here alive. Or maybe he's just stopped giving a damn.
"I'm sure you are."
He cracks a smile, genuine and amused as he slips a hand under the back of his shirt. "Going to use that gun or drop it?" It's calmly asked, like he's fine with either answer.
Jiyong looks down at the weapon in his hand, not flinching from the touch of bare skin. It's why he likes hookers, if he can say he likes anyone at all anymore. There's a common ground there--they both see humanity at its most repulsive and take it in stride. Cater to it, even.
He reaches out and sets the gun on the table inside the door, the sound of it heavy against the wood.
"Good answer," Seunghyun breathes, tilting his head back with a sure grip. Kisses him soft and wet, tracing the edge of his teeth. The man owes him that much.
He feels him shiver, a moment's hesitation dissolving as he surrenders to him. Hands fold into his shirt, clutching lightly. Seunghyun can taste the salt on his lips, chases it into his mouth, feeding off his grief.
He pushes him into the door, keeps him there, trapped between him and the sturdy wood. It doesn't take much effort to hold him in place, thighs parting willingly under him. Like the whore he is.
"We've got some unfinished business," he offers, speaking against swollen lips. "Don't we?"
There's a stretch of silence, almost too long, then words against his mouth. "I guess this is the part where I tell you to take what you're owed. Though no one made you overpay."
"I didn't." Seunghyun pulls back, letting him go. "I consider it an investment." In what, he doesn't say. Figures there's no need. Whores are only good for one thing. "Take your clothes off."
Jiyong meets his eyes in silence, the tension still written in the lines of his body, the last vestiges of murderous intent fading away. Shedding the skin of something he's not for what he is. He slips out of his coat, leaving it to lay on the bare floor.
His shoes next, and then his jeans, each movement methodical and distant, as if he were undressing for a shower.
He has skinny legs and a nice upper body, goosebumps rising as he tosses cotton and denim to the floor. Fragile-looking. Seunghyun holds out a hand to trace his bare arm. It's more than he got to do the last time. He keeps track.
The other man ducks his head, inhaling sharply. Unwilling to offer a protest. He steps forward instead, until he's inches away, shivering in the open air of the room, all bare skin and pale hair falling into his eyes. Seunghyun likes the rush of power it gives him, clothed next to his nakedness. He likens it to the weight of a gun in his hand, a mark at his feet.
Seunghyun inhales the scent of him--fear and grief and some cheap, nondescript brand of shampoo--stepping out of his way. Pressing a hand to the small of his back to nudge him towards the bed. This wasn't planned, but it's a better way to spend his evening than watching porn or picking up women in the bar downstairs. He likes having a doll all to himself. He never had much of a childhood.
The kid lies back on the bed, all spindly limbs and dark eyes, waiting, the muscles of his stomach quivering as his cock lies soft against his thigh. It's not how he wants him and Seunghyun has never been one to wait for others to get it right.
He tugs his own shirt off, suddenly too hot, too frustrated, pulling his leg closer to the edge. Spreading him open. The whore gives a start, but doesn't fight back, hands fisting the sheet.
"Are you scared?" Seunghyun asks quietly, curious.
"Does it get you off... knowing I am?" Jiyong replies, the words prideful, even as his voice wavers and his fists clench.
Seunghyun doesn't answer him, kneeling on the bed. His questions aren't important, aren't why he's continuing this little game. He pries his fist from the sheets, unlocking each finger until the claw-like grip is lax and pliant. Wraps it around the other man's cock and watches a flush rise to pale cheeks. Shame. Anger.
"Show me."
Jiyong swallows hard, Adam's apple working in his slender throat. His gaze falls away, on something distant from Seunghyun, something different all together as he starts to touch himself and Seunghyun isn't amused. He leans forward, taking the man's chin in hand, turning his face to him.
"Look at me."
And the hooker does, grudgingly, staring into his eyes like he doesn't see him. Like he's wishing himself far, far from this room, this bed. It makes Seunghyun frown, annoyance sparking through him.
"Look at me," he hisses, pulling him into a bruising kiss. It earns him a whimper, a breathless gasp, and slowly, Jiyong's attention.
It makes satisfaction stir deep in his belly, pressing his weight over the other man, fingers tightening in his hair. It's over-processed with dye and cheap gel, but still soft. That strange blend of fragile and commonplace that seems to characterize the other.
Seunghyun pulls back, eyes dark, gaze pinning the whore to the sheets, where he belongs.
"Fuck your hand."
He watches him obey, half disbelieving, half pleased to find the blonde finally play into his hands. This could be so good for him if he stopped fighting. This could work.
Thin hips snap forward into a lax fist, dark eyes focused on him. Feeding from his interest. Fucking beautiful.
Seunghyun kisses him by way of a reward, biting at trembling lips. He can feel the movement of his body underneath him, feel some of the tension bleed away as Jiyong sighs into his mouth and it's insane that such a small sensation can stoke the heat inside of him.
"Like that," he murmurs, orders, encourages, tugging at his hair. "Keep going."
It charges the air between them with electricity, the other man grasping at his shoulder to pull him closer rather than push him away. The new-found courage is of a different brand than whatever drive pushed him to come here tonight but it's just as heady, just as perverse.
Jiyong hisses out his name. Begs: "kiss me again."
It feels like a victory, a fucking power trip if he's ever had one, and that alone is enough to make him obey, kissing the other man roughly. So hard it'll leave their mouths bruised. He feels his cock stir at the way the kid responds, desperate, without restraint.
So fucking sexy. Distantly, he wonders if his sister was the same. Almost asks, but that would involve pulling back so far that he can't taste his mouth, can't hear every stilted breath, pleasure aborted before the other man will share it with him. Selfish.
He reaches for his zipper with a steady hand--his hands are always steady--transfixed as he feels Jiyong shiver against him. He comes pretty and sudden, hanging on to him tightly.
His pants are soft little puffs of warm against against his jaw, the whore's eyes squeezed shut as he tries to regain what composure he has. Seunghyun isn't keen on letting him. He reaches down to tug at his spent cock, listening to the way Jiyong whimpers in muted pain, pushing at his shoulder. At the dragon tattoo.
"Don't..." His protest is sharp and angry, fury trickling through a voice rubbed raw, but he doesn't glare. Eyes are windows to the soul and he doesn't show that part of him. Not for a quick fuck in a nameless hotel.
Seungrhyun smirks, wringing a broken sound from his mouth, sadism contending with lust.
The kid's hand clutches at the front of his shirt, teeth sunk into his bottom lip and in the next moment, a hand is pressed at his cock through his jeans. As if a distraction will abort the brief torture.
Seunghyun has much, much more focus than that.
He curls his fist around his cock, palm brushing against the head and Jiyong all but keens with desperation, fumbling to slip his fingers over Seunghyun's arousal. Pushing a knee up halfheartedly to shove him off. Determination slipping so fast through his fingers it's a pleasure to watch--a kick to know Seunghyun's responsible for it.
"I want to tie you up and fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he hisses against his lips. "Want to take you on your hands and knees..."
He can feel him shudder. It echoes the excitement that stirs in his stomach at the way he pushes and fights and gives, makes him picture rope rubbing his wrists raw as he tugs at his bindings. Makes him wonder how many orgasms he can get out of him before he's coming dry and sobbing.
The thought alone is enough to make him thrust into Jiyong's hand, into the muscles trembling in his thigh, yearning for that orgasm. He's been wanting it since he found the blonde. Maybe not like this, maybe not this badly, but things change and Seunghyun is nothing if not adaptable.
Jiyong cries out in frustration and pain, the sound echoing off the walls and into Seunghyun's cranium. It's the best kind of phone-sex.
He undoes the front of Seunghyun's jeans one handed, fingers pushing into his underwear, curling around his cock in an attempt to get him off. A wet, choked noise in the back of his throat, even as his grip is firm and purposeful.
Only a hooker could be so skilled with his hands, he thinks, caught between amusement and need, shifting forward with a greedy smile. Twisting his wrist just a little because it makes Jiyong sound so perfectly his that he can't help himself.
It's a tight fit, with the blonde's hand on him and his hips pushing forward, practically tasting the high before he reaches it--like having a premonition and a deja-vu and communing with the fucking spirits--like coming apart, for real, as a bullet flies deep into his sternum and lodges somewhere in the pit of his stomach. A downward journey into hell. Sex that's got nothing to do with love and everything to do with a mindfuck.
There's blood in his mouth as Seunghyun's head hits the pillow.
He bit Jiyong's lip.
Distantly, he hears him sob, curled away from him, ink laid out in stark relief on his skin, uneven across his shoulder blades. He appreciates the irony of it. Shifting onto his side, he curls himself around the hooker, making little shushing sounds, kissing his hair. Petting it gently.
"Don't cry, pretty baby."
Even if it sounds nice, even if he cares enough to cry. He doesn't have to.
Seunghyun presses his mouth to his shoulder, tasting his sweat. "Shh... it's going to be just fine. I take good care of my toys." He doesn't do so well with regular people, but that's okay. Jiyong's far from being well adjusted. They've got that in common. They'll get along just fine.
"Now," he sighs, nudging him to his back against all offered resistance. "Tell me about that man. The one wearing my tattoo." His fingers brush over Jiyong's split lip, through bruises marring pale skin and tear-tracks made of mascara. "I'm listening."
- fin -