Actions

Work Header

cœur de cannelle

Work Text:

Doyoung, from where he’s standing, doesn’t know that he likes Johnny’s new husband.

For one, he’d shown up with his dress shirt crookedly buttoned, and Doyoung could see the hickies through the paper-thin white fabric. Who does that? He’s some kind of exhibitionist, and he’s after Johnny’s trust fund, for sure. For another he’d made a point of going around and introducing himself to every. Single. One. Of Doyoung’s coworkers, stating that he was simply there for “support for the support,” which, while pretty in Donghyuck’s mouth, and while some of the older gentlemen in the room with whom Doyoung was better acquainted seemed to drink that shit down like they did their whiskey after five in the evening -- well, it reeked of inadequacy on Doyoung’s part.

For yet another, from where Doyoung is standing at the head of the room, waiting to give his presentation once the chatter dies down he can see that the husband is actively feeling Johnny up beneath the conference table. Who does that?? He’s wearing Johnny’s watch, and he’s got the shape of Johnny’s mouth on his belly, and he’s got his head on Johnny’s shoulder.

Maybe Doyoung is a little too overprotective. Maybe he’d been expecting too much that his best friend and pretty much the only moral support who knows enough about Doyoung’s job to care wouldn’t get into some shenanigans while they were in Vegas.

Maybe Doyoung is a little envious that he had gone to bed early to be ready for this presentation instead of tagging along to what was very probably the trashy, drunken wedding of the century. Maybe he’d like to have a little fun, too.

He ends up putting a couple members of the team to sleep, because that would happen to Doyoung Kim while he’s standing in front of a group and talking about hedge fund compliance, regulations, and quality management. For a split second he considers just letting the PowerPoint his manager had written for him run wild while he runs the hell out of the room, out of the building, out of the city. It isn’t his fault, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he watches the slow crawl of Johnny’s husband’s hand under the table.

At least that’s more interesting than watching an ancient walrus snore.

When he finishes to polite, if not quite validating, applause, he dips his head and offers his typical nervous smile. Johnny and Donghyuck are all the way at the back of the room and he beelines to them, muttering to Johnny under his breath: “We have to get out of here.”

“Did you get the promotion?” asks Johnny. “Is celebration in order?” There’s something lazy and sated to his voice.

“No, but if we don’t get out of here, we are all going to see my soul exit my body,” says Doyoung firmly. “That isn’t something any human being should see. And besides,” he lifts his eagle eyes to meet Donghyuck’s and, seeing that same expression that Johnny’s wearing, resigns himself to knowing that this is not just some twenty-four-hour thing. “I owe you two a congratulatory lunch.”

“It’s three-thirty in the afternoon,” complains Donghyuck in a stage whisper. “That’s more like senior citizen dinner.”

Johnny, at the very least, hasn’t forgotten his loyalty in the haze of post-marital bliss that he wears like a halo. “Lunch with Doyoung is an all-evening affair,” he explains patiently. “Do your friends want to come? We could all get to know each other.”

Up at the head of the room, where Doyoung had just accepted his own death, another presenter is queueing up. Doyoung cannot stand to be in this conference room another moment. “Text them in the car?” he suggests, trying to be accommodating. For what it’s worth it’s never been easy for him to accommodate people he doesn’t like. He’s trying here, damnit.

Donghyuck thinks about this a moment, and then nods. “Call your driver or whatever rich bank fucks do when they’re on vacation,” he says with a grin sharper than a knife.

Doyoung absolutely does not like Johnny’s husband. But he thinks he could like Donghyuck, given enough time.

///

They’re at Top of the World, watching the city far beneath them spin by as they wait an impossibly long time for Donghyuck’s friends to arrive. Doyoung, for what it’s worth, is motion sick, and goes to loosen his tie for what feels like the dozenth time since sitting down not ten minutes ago. Time is fake. Has he mentioned time is fake? Donghyuck has fixed the buttons on his shirt somewhere between here and the stuffy banquet hall they’d been in for Doyoung’s presentation. He is forced to wonder as he sips at water in a crystalline goblet whether or not Johnny had helped with that decision.

He can feel them playing footsie under the table. Ugh. Young love. He voms to see it.

Eventually, though, they are joined by three guys, only one of whom looks like a delinquent who’d get kicked out of a punk rock band for being too much. Two of them -- punk guy and a decidedly clean-cut sort of guy in a hoodie and dress slacks -- already joined at the hip, the hand, clearly waiting for their opportunity to be joined at the mouth. The third…

Look, Doyoung doesn’t believe in love at first sight. If he did he’d end up like his dumbass best friend, making heart eyes at a stranger long enough to convince them it’s a good idea to get hitched after just a couple hours. But he might be able to be converted when he lays eyes on quite possibly the smallest and shiniest man he’s ever seen, dressed in a light sweater and jean shorts, hair bleached but showing signs of root.

Shiny.

Not in the literal sense. He just catches the light streaming in through the tilted windows just so and it takes Doyoung’s breath away, just for a second. That coupled with the sharp, knowing look in his eyes tell Doyoung that he’s a goner. Just like that.

Vegas is a dangerous place, he decides, scooting down the table a whole seat to accommodate their company, who he’d initially predicted would want to sit next to their friend rather than intermingle. He is not an accommodating man by nature, but he’s happy to do it if only so the sunshine boy will sit beside him.

“Hi,” chirps the one who’s clearly taken already, the punk-rock one. He’s rocking an undercut? Doyoung admires his confidence, if not the fact that he’s wearing a denim vest and nothing else on his top half. “Nice to meet you. I’m Yuta. This—” He gestures, insofar as someone can gesture by making moony eyes at someone, “is my boyfriend. Mark.”

Mark’s ears reach his shoulders and he offers a halfhearted wave. “Thank you for inviting us.” Polite. A hint of accent. Precious, in a white-bread way.

“It took you long enough,” teases Donghyuck as he finally quits groping Johnny to hug his friends in greeting. “There are only so many apologies a polite man can make for his friends’ lateness.”

“Oh, stop,” says the sunshine boy, taking his seat beside Doyoung. “You wouldn’t apologise for us if we paid you to do it. And we’ve tried.” He offers a smile, tentative, in Doyoung’s direction.

Doyoung can’t decide if Donghyuck’s friends are underdressed or if he is simply old and tired of bullshit. In the process of making this decision, he brushes elbows with sunshine boy. “Who are you?” he asks the as-yet-unintroduced stranger, drawing back like he’s been static-shocked. If only his stunted heart would respond in kind and beat like it’s fucking supposed to! He smiles. It’s awkward, a little lopsided. Is he having a stroke? Leave it to Johnny to be the reason he’s going to have a stroke in a high-rise restaurant in a city he’s never been to before.

“Renjun,” says sunshine boy as he draws in his elbows and makes a weird face. Doyoung turns the name over in his mouth twice before repeating it back.

“Nice to meet you. Thank all of you for coming.” He clears his throat. It’s a presentation all over again. “So, uh, I don’t know what—” He stumbles, pretending to forget, “I don’t know what Donghyuck has told you, but it seems that your friend and my friend got married last night.”

There is a gasp that rises up amongst Donghyuck’s friends, but it sounds strained, like they’re faking it. “If anyone was going to get married in Vegas,” says Renjun solemnly, “we thought it was going to be these two chuckleheads.” He jerks a thumb casually in Yuta and Mark’s direction. Doyoung is forced to wonder if maybe Renjun has been third-wheeling the way he himself has for Johnny and Donghyuck, and if it’s any more comfortable for either of them. He’s not much a gambler—hilariously enough—but he’d bet to the contrary.

Yuta and—Mark, was it?—exchange glances for a long while, then shake their heads. “We came here to play cards and celebrate your graduation,” says Mark, reaching across the table and resting his hand on Renjun’s elbow, just a minute. Doyoung has never been envious of the shape of fingers. He isn’t an accommodating man by any means, but he’s definitely envious that he isn’t taking care of Renjun.

Just for a minute. Just until his heart figures out how it’s going to act.

“I ordered a bottle of wine,” Johnny says, by way of bringing the attention back to his recent nuptials. “Should I order more?”

“If you want,” Doyoung agrees with a shrug. He won’t be drinking more than a glass. It wouldn’t do to get sloppy in front of strangers or, worse yet, the potential love of his life.

They place their orders. Doyoung is already figuring out how to cover this dinner, worrying after his bank account like his savings isn’t big enough to cover whatever damage he’s about to do in the name of love. Stupid, stupid romantic heart. He’s tuned out of the conversation, if only because he doesn’t have the headspace to pay much attention, skull bouncing with television static and the thought that he must be As Impressive As Humanly Possible in order to convince this Renjun to leave the restaurant with him.

“Congratulations,” Renjun says, soft, fond. Like he means it. His eyes twinkle with pride whenever he looks at Donghyuck, and maybe this is a “too little too late” situation, but that won’t stop Doyoung from trying. Nor, apparently, will it keep him from positively vibrating whenever Renjun’s knee brushes his own under the table.

Funny. It seems that the touch lingers a little longer than a touch might normally. But then, he’s always been like to imagine things when he wants to. Fantasy world Doyoung.

It certainly isn’t an accident when Renjun turns to him and says, “How do you know the groom?” He bats his eyelashes in a very, very pretty way. Like he wants something. He’s already seen Donghyuck do this a couple times, mostly when Johnny tries to discourage the hand-holding of which he seems so fond. They must be best friends, with a tendency to mirror one another. While it isn’t cute on Donghyuck, Doyoung must admit he’d deal with anything if Renjun did it.

“We’re best friends,” says Doyoung, after sipping his water and clearing his throat of the dust of disuse. “Since middle school. I was getting harassed during gym class because I had chicken legs and a weak constitution and he stuck up for me. He’s been saddled with me ever since.” While he speaks Renjun tucks a tiny hand beneath his chin. Everything about him is so delicate! It’s unfair! It’s only okay when Doyoung does it! “How do you know the groom?” Distract. There’s only so much self-reflection he can do without getting lost in his own head, after all. Johnny’s constantly giving him shit for it.

“About the same. Fourth grade, he didn’t want his peanut butter sandwich and gave it to me for my chips. Then we took over the jungle gym together.” Renjun’s delicate eyebrow raises. “Seems we’ve got something in common.”

“Wonder what else there is,” Doyoung says, airily, like it’s not the sole focus he has.

Renjun tucks his hands primly in his lap, one over the other. “You’re exuding an energy, sir. Do you mind if I call you sir?”

“Yes, I do,” Doyoung sniffs, affronted. “I’m barely old enough to be an older brother. Be kind, would you.”

Except then, he feels a gentle tiptoe of fingers along the curve of his knee, and his spirit really does leave his body. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call you sir?”

Every thought Doyoung has ever had about Renjun flies out the window, and all that’s left in his mindscape is danger. Any best friend of Donghyuck’s must have been dangerous. How could he not have seen this coming. “I’m sure,” he says with a sigh. It occurs to him, briefly, to ask the question on his mind: “Are you tired of being a third wheel?”

“You have no idea,” says Renjun, smiling so broadly it’s a wonder his face doesn’t simply crack in two. “I spent the night last night hanging out with the other marrieds, since Donghyuck decided to ditch us to find the love of his life or whatever, and they are…so irritating.” He lifts his shoulders to his ears, and it’s nice to see the tension visibly drain from him. “Not in a bad way. I love Mark. I’m glad he’s happy.”

“Who said my name?” asks Mark, from across the table. Renjun shoots him a too-polite look, one that Doyoung is used to seeing, normally on the faces of businessmen with social graces too strong to let them express what they’re feeling—a hearty shut the fuck up. “Sorry, I’ll, uh,” and he shrinks back, resting his elbow on the table without shame when he makes those same love eyeballs at Yuta as he did before.

“I just think that I should be allowed to have fun by myself, you know?” Renjun says when they’re back to themselves. “And I don’t get to if I’m trying to keep these guys from going to jail or whatever they’re trying to do while they’re here if not get married.”

“You should be allowed to do that,” Doyoung agrees, finishing his water and trying, unsuccessfully, to flag their server down for more. “If you want, I can…well, I can’t show you around, because I’m not from here and—”

“Oh, where are you from?” Renjun reminds Doyoung, vaguely, of an interviewer of some kind.

“I live in Chicago,” Doyoung answers, a little stilted. “Anyway, I’m not from here but I’m okay with going out adventuring with you? If you’re into that.”

A date, his mind taunts him. A date, a date, a date.

Renjun smiles again, something a little more closed-mouthed and contented. “Yeah, I’d like that. Maybe we can hit up the casinos or something. I came to play, after all.”

Their food and Doyoung’s water comes eventually, in a flash too quick for Doyoung to really register, seeing as he’s been too busy wrapped up in conversation with Renjun, whose hand hasn’t left his knee. He drinks the entire glass in one go. He hadn’t realised he was so thirsty.

///

The city is brilliant at night. They wander the streets for a long time, ignoring the flashy tourist traps, more than once linking up at the elbow so they don’t lose one another in the throngs. Doyoung’s legs are aching and he has to pause to catch his breath more than once—Renjun moves quickly. In more ways than one.

Doyoung is privately grateful that Johnny and Donghyuck had begged off to one of their hotel rooms, and had even thanked Johnny and encouraged him to ‘get his fucking back blown out’ a little later, in the car. There are condoms in my carry-on. Take them if you need them. Even more grateful that Yuta and Mark have gone to…well, they didn’t exactly say where they were going, though there was, upon their parting, a sparkle in Yuta’s eye that spoke to mischief. He’s not sure what the fuck that was all about, having missed his chance to make friends with the new bassist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers or whoever Yuta is trying to emulate.

He’s actually just…having a good time.

“So I graduated with a degree in finance, actually,” Renjun is saying when Doyoung tunes back in. “I hated every minute of it, but it was the only way to get my college paid for, you know?”

“Not the only way,” Doyoung says with a short bark of a laugh. “Go on. Sorry.”

“My family are loaded, old money or something, and they refused unless I kept the family name alive and well in the banks of all these rich old white men.” Renjun’s smile is pretty in the neon facade against which he’s set. They lock arms again as the crowd grows thick and oppressive around them, and Doyoung tells himself that he is imagining the drag of Renjun’s fingers along the veins inside his wrist. It is a figment. There is no reality, not even when he catches a hint of Renjun’s smile catching on a flashing light outside a club.

“It’s admirable,” Doyoung agrees at last. He taps his index finger to the center of Renjun’s palm just to feel it curl around the digit, give it a fond tug. “Hey, um, not that I’m not having the best time I’ve had in a really long time, but do you want to go in somewhere? I just really need to sit down.”

“And miss all these lights?” Down the way there is someone popping a bottle of champagne to let it spill over their fingers. The cork makes the loudest sound, echoing over the cacophony of voices that fill the air. “C’mere, we can just—” And Renjun’s hand fits so neatly, so cutely around Doyoung’s wrist that when he drags Doyoung along it’d be dumb not to just follow, mute, steps automatic rather than any intent to go along.

They sit at the edge of an oversized planter, its edges running over with verdant life. Or, well, Doyoung does, while Renjun stays upright, looking Doyoung up and down, a touch of concern around his eyes that doesn’t fit the brightness to which Doyoung has so quickly become accustomed. Doyoung admires the sign of life, is careful of the leaves when he finally, blessedly gets to take a seat.

“Better?” asks Renjun. Doyoung nods, wishing he could have a drink. That thirst, the one that had so afflicted him when he had been at lunch earlier today, is in the act of parching him once again. “Good. I would hate to tire you out when it’s not even—” He checks his phone. “Wow, it’s already ten? Huh. I didn’t think we’d be out this long without—”

“An interruption,” Doyoung agrees dryly. “Kind of proud of our friends for not getting into trouble.”

“Kind of proud of us.” There had been three paces between them. Renjun steps closer, eliminating one. Doyoung would love to reciprocate, because Renjun has a look in his eyes that says he wants something, and Doyoung can’t lie well enough to say that he doesn’t want to give it to him. “Not arrested, not fighting with someone even when you caught an elbow earlier—”

“That was my fault,” protests Doyoung, softly.

“Not drinking in front of churches,” Renjun continues. “Although I thought about it. You know Yuta was looking up illegal date ideas?”

“Our peace can’t last,” sighs Doyoung. “It’s destined to be ruined.”

“You believe in destiny?” Renjun quirks a brow and takes a little more of the space between them. “That’s almost cute, you know. In a romantic way. If you’re into that.”

“I would be into anything for you.”

The honesty of it sends a shiver rippling up the nape of Doyoung’s neck, til it cradles his entire head in its hand.

Renjun lets out a low whistle. “Is that so?”

“I’ve been trying to let you know all day.”

And, like it’s an answer, Renjun takes the rest of that blessed safety blanket of space between them. His smile has turned into something crooked, something desirous and pretty in a way that Doyoung hadn’t anticipated when they’d met just a few long hours ago. He perches himself on Doyoung’s knee, fits an arm round the back of his neck, fingertips encircling the curve of his shoulder.

“You’re even bigger than you look,” Renjun says, a little too close for comfort with the way his lips brush against Doyoung’s ear. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

Leave it to Renjun to be the reason Doyoung has a stroke right here in the middle of the Las Vegas strip. He swears he can feel the tell-tale tingling all the way up his arm, and his smile is lopsided, and he has lost all control. Not to mention that vaguely embarrassing thing his dick is doing.

“I would really, really like to kiss you right now,” says Renjun, with all the confidence of someone talking about a long-held memory. “If that’s okay by you.” His hand is wrapped around the pristine silk of Doyoung’s tie, and he’s using it as a lead to bring them closer together, slow enough that Doyoung could say no.

He could say no. He doesn’t.

Instead he traps Renjun’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs at it. The bewildered noise he gets in return is worth all the bravery in his body, he thinks as he holds Renjun close, an arm wrapped tight around his waist to make sure he doesn’t go tumbling off his rest on Doyoung’s thigh. They kiss for the first time proper and it’s electric, and burning, and something that sets every alarm bell in Doyoung’s head to ringing. He ignores the sound in favour of digging his blunt nails into the curve of Renjun’s hip, and is rewarded by Renjun’s fingers twining into the neatly trimmed hair at his nape. Everything is hot, and kind of wet, and by the time they break for air it’s with their foreheads pressed together, brows touching, chests heaving mildly upon one another.

“We should, uh,” and here Renjun falters, seemingly for the first time. “We should go somewhere. Preferably somewhere with condoms? Because I would really, really like for you to fuck me tonight.”

If Doyoung wasn’t hard at the notion, he’d certainly be that way over the way the word ‘fuck’ sounds in Renjun’s mouth. He kisses Renjun again, softer this time, a promise that doesn’t have words in any language Doyoung speaks. Then he fits their hands together, practically prying Renjun from around his neck.

“Let’s get a cab. I think my place is closer and yours is, uh—”

“Occupied.” Renjun grins, and hops off Doyoung’s lap, but not before a tease, a preview to the show he’s sure to give as soon as they’re in closed doors.

///

They barely make it in the door before Doyoung, caught unawares, finds himself pressed up against the wall. He doesn’t have time to take in his surroundings, too busy being caged between a wall and Renjun’s tiny frame. For a little guy he sure is strong. Doyoung finds that he admires this just as much as the forward approach to man-handling. His back is already in the process of imprinting with the popcorn wall, he can feel it. It only makes him rise to the occasion more quickly.

Renjun’s hands fist in Doyoung’s collar, fierce in the way he guides the kiss, as well as their direction as they stumble into the hotel room. His knuckles tenderly brush against the fragile column of Doyoung’s throat as he moves them. Doyoung swears he hears a button popping, or a seam ripping, or some other sound of clothing-related distress, but it’s kind of hot? So he’s going to give it a pass. In any case, he ends up with his dress shirt—a soft cornflower that had complimented his skin nicely when they’d still been in daylight—pooled around the crooks of his elbows. The sleeves droop past his hands, which sucks because he would really, really like to get those hands on Renjun as soon as he possibly can.

He’s afforded the opportunity when Renjun backs him into an overstuffed armchair. His knees thunk against the chair’s base and Doyoung makes a distressed keen before tumbling back into it. Then Renjun is atop him, pushing his shirt the rest of the way off.

Doyoung unwraps Renjun in much a similar fashion, drinking in the way Renjun’s knees press into his hips as he shucks the sweater Renjun’s been wearing all day up over his ribs and his head. Then he scratches down the length of Renjun’s sides, making no apologies for the way he grips at waist and, when Renjun rises up to meet him for a kiss, ass.

“Wanted to kiss you all day,” Renjun mumbles against Doyoung’s mouth, reverent in the way he cups his hands around the apples of Doyoung’s cheeks. “Thought about this since I saw you in that stupid restaurant.”

“Was it stupid if it got me here?” asks Doyoung with a breathless laugh. His eyes slip closed and he kisses Renjun like he’s stupid for it. Maybe he is, but the way his tongue flirts against Renjun’s when at last they meet is something worth savouring, intelligent or no.

The way Renjun’s thighs bracket Doyoung’s hips is just as tantalising as the feeling of his tiny waist between Doyoung’s hands. He shifts, just a bit, that their hips might slot together. Some cheesy line about a jackpot plays itself on a loop in Doyoung’s head. He drowns it out by kissing Renjun again, again, again, locating the soft spot just beneath his ear, or the pulse that hammers hard in the side of his neck, or the outer curve of his clavicle where it meets his shoulder. He bites in hard, right there, sure he’ll draw blood if he isn’t a little more careful.

Judging by the twitch in Renjun’s shorts, he probably doesn’t have to be.

“Wanna take care of you,” mumbles Doyoung between kisses. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“You top?” asks Renjun, slurring a little bit, distracted by the way Doyoung’s mouth fits against the join of his neck and shoulder. When Doyoung hums his agreement Renjun rewards him with a kiss dusted, almost tenderly, against his crown. “Good, because I would really, really like for you to snap me in half.”

A tall order, but Doyoung’s used to filling those.

It’s hard to get his hands anywhere solid when Renjun seems insistent on wriggling all over his lap, trying to be everywhere at once. If Doyoung hadn’t been hard for this (emotionally, anyway) all day then he’d probably find it a strange combination of ‘absolutely adorable’ and ‘fucking irritating’. He slings his arms around Renjun’s tiny waist, tugging him closer, that they might kiss in a way that isn’t frantic and lit by casino flashbulbs. “Can you stay still,” he says in a breathless approximation of a chuckle, dipping his head so as to hide the flush of his throat. “I’m old, you’ve got to be gentle with me.”

Renjun scoffs. “You’re like, what, twenty-five? That’s barely older than me. I have classmates who graduated at the same time as me who are older than you.” But he must take pity somehow, must remember the rest Doyoung had been forced to take when all they’d done is walk a couple miles. He settles.

This, Doyoung decides in a flash, is worse than the constant movement, because their cocks brush together between layers of fabric and he is one-thousand-percent a goner. He barely manages to bite his lip in time to keep in the pleasure/pain groan that tries to spill out of him. “Condoms,” he gasps at last. “Please.” At least his manners are still intact, even if his dick and dignity aren’t.

“And make me get up?” Renjun is joking, judging by the hazy slide of his smile across his face. God, but he’s pretty. Doyoung will have to take pictures to remember him by, if he gets the opportunity. For now he memorises the slinky way in which Renjun slides from his lap, the grace with which he all but slithers across the room to rustle through an overnight pack that’s seen better days.

When he takes a seat again it’s with that same self-assurance he’s been wearing all day. He stares up at Doyoung from between his parted knees and tucks the condom and the conjoined travel-sized sachets of lube under Doyoung’s thigh. It’s just assurance, because his hands are going for the buckle of Doyoung’s belt without any semblance of hesitation. “It’s okay, right?” he asks, blinking his pretty eyes up at Doyoung, and for a half-second Doyoung is hit with the notion that he is corrupting something pure.

It dissipates when Renjun works the belt buckle and Doyoung’s fly open with a swiftness that has Doyoung lost for a way to track the movement. He nuzzles his cheek against the highly conspicuous bulge in Doyoung’s boxer-briefs, drawing a gasp from Doyoung’s mouth.

“If you don’t stop fucking around,” Doyoung hisses when he’s got his mouth under control, no longer slack-jawed at the boldness of it all.

“What are you going to do, sir?”

He’s being played and he knows he’s being played, but he can’t even bring himself to be mad about it? What happened to the Doyoung who knew his way around a boardroom, who kept everything bottled up for the sake of appearances? Right now, that same Doyoung has his fingers threaded through Renjun’s bottle-blond hair, a thumb dragging along the exposed roots. “You were the one who said you wanted…what was it?” His hand drops, knuckles brushing the line of Renjun’s jaw. “You wanted me to snap you in half?”

It’s funny because ever since they met Renjun has been the one in control of their interactions. Sure, he’s younger, probably a little less experienced, but prideful and strong nonetheless. The hilarious part is that all that is gone the moment a shiver visibly runs through him, and he digs his fingers into the meat of Doyoung’s thighs through his slacks. “Take these off,” he pleads, voice a half-octave higher than it had been previously. “You’re going to do it, right? You’re not just leading me on?”

The same hand grazing Renjun’s skin finds its way into his hair again, gives a harsh tug, and Renjun sings like a bird for it. “I promise.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and charged. Doyoung smiles, too polite.

He’s cooperative, at least, when Renjun claws haplessly at the waistband of his slacks, when Renjun strips him of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but a white undershirt and a glowing sense of power. “You wanna get on top?” asks Doyoung, not really focused on the image of red paths scraped all the way down his outer thighs so much as the way Renjun eyes his dick as it bobs heavily against his own stomach. “You’d look so cute riding my dick, you know.”

“You assume a lot of things,” Renjun retorts, though the dryness in his tone must be the same thirst that’s going around rather than any particular sense of humour. “But yeah. Yeah, I want to be close to you.”

That surprises Doyoung. Almost to the point that he doesn’t register when he’s being climbed like a tree, and that Renjun is using him as a platform for balance when he at last takes his seat again. That he is surprised to feel a hand, small and inefficient as it may be, wrap around both their lengths as they align. That the groan that pulls from his parted lips is swallowed down by a smothering kiss, hot enough to melt metal and whatever Doyoung’s resolve might be to keep playing this game he’s gotten himself into.

It only takes a few precious, treasured pumps before Doyoung is batting hands away. “Don’t you dare make me cum somewhere that isn’t inside you.” He grits out the words, narrows his eyes. His hands find the curves of Renjun’s shoulders, nails pressing crescent indents into soft, tender skin, and he drags Renjun into a bruising kiss.

With blind faith and foolish hope Doyoung fishes around beneath his own pinned thigh to find the lube. It takes a couple tries for him to find the appropriate foil wrapper but when he does he’s tempted to bust it open with his teeth. The only thing that stops him is the medicinal flavour of lube and the phantom memory of trying to scrub it off his tongue. Instead he uses his ironclad grip on Renjun’s shoulder to keep him in place. Weird, how they both keep doing that to one another. “Stay still, hm?” he asks. Then he works open the sachet and pours its contents over both his hands.

Renjun bites down on his bottom lip when Doyoung reaches around him, teases a lube-slick finger against his entrance. He flushes when Doyoung easily works said finger inside him. Doyoung regards him with a mixture of awe and amusement. “We were apart for an hour,” he teases, nipping at Renjun’s upper lip, pressing the tips of their noses together. “Is that what you did?”

He’s met with a nod.

Still, he takes pleasure in working his fingers into Renjun’s ass, despite it being a moot point by now. This squirming is that of a different kind, accompanied by little sounds of pleasure, frustration, tension all rolled into one neat little package. Doyoung is so, so sure he could get used to this.

Eventually, though, the insistent throbbing of his own dick isn’t enough. Even though it’s cute how Renjun is doing the same. Even though he’s leaking by the time Doyoung accidentally-on-purpose presses a finger into his prostate in a way that is definitely not experimental and definitely not for Doyoung’s visual learning needs. Not at all! He certainly doesn’t relish in the way Renjun goes tense, then slack all at once, the way his head lolls against his shoulder, the way a tiny drop of drool has collected at the corner of his mouth.

Doyoung leans in and licks it away. That gets him another moan. He prizes that, too.

“Ready, baby?” he asks, knife-sharp still even though the insistent ache between his thighs tries to push him to the contrary. He doesn’t know that he’ll last very long. Especially not when Renjun snaps to, unwraps the condom, rolls it down the length of Doyoung’s dick with a ginger touch.

They work together, Renjun swivelling carefully as Doyoung grips his own cock at its base. When at last Renjun sinks down onto him, it’s like relief and damage all at once. He’s still so tight—understandable, some distant part of Doyoung reminds him, considering how small he is—and so hot, and he clamps his knees on the arches of Doyoung’s hips. It’s a slow and torturous process, opening him up like this, filling him to the brim. It’s worth it, though, when this buttoned-up little bastard bites into Doyoung’s earlobe and whispers, “I would love not to be able to walk after this.”

When he starts rocking, Doyoung grabs Renjun by his skinny hips, presses his thumb in hard enough to make Renjun yelp. “Stop. I want you to turn around.” As painstaking as it had been to get to this part in the first place, Doyoung has a mind that it’ll be worth it. He guides Renjun to turn around, so that the knobs of his spine align perfectly with the line of Doyoung’s sternum.

Palm splayed on his chest, Doyoung holds Renjun to him. He jerks his hips upward, sloppy, unaccustomed to the way the chair gives beneath him, the soft cushion not giving him much to work with in terms of upward momentum. Renjun, though, just laughs and turns his head to press his mouth to Doyoung’s, to tease the tips of their tongue together.

“Feel good?” asks Doyoung, lazy, all his focus trained on the effort it takes him to fuck up into Renjun. That hand upon his breast moves upward, fingers dancing along the prominent line of Renjun’s collarbone. He quirks one hip, just slightly, and thrusts again. “Tell me again how badly you want it.”

“Want you so bad,” babbles Renjun, his voice piteously strained with all the restraint it must take for him to stay put. He’s been nothing if not a wobbling pudding since he got anywhere near Doyoung’s dick, but all the energy has drained out of him. Almost like he’s gotten what he wants. His words are punctuated with gasps, and when he speaks it’s still got tension, but he sings. “Want you to fill me up, want you—ugh, want you to hurt me.”

Doyoung, not one to giving in to the demands of petulant brats who think (rightly so) that they’ve got him wrapped around their finger, slows his pace, ignoring entirely the work he’d done to establish it. He lazily tweaks one of Renjun’s nipples, then the other, drinking in the curse that Renjun bites off in response.

“Hot,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Renjun’s ear. “Do it again.”

Now Renjun’s head rolls back to rest on Doyoung’s shoulder, and he’s running off at the mouth, a string of swears—“fuck, fuck, you feel so fucking good, so big, fill me up so good with your huge cock”—streaming from him, almost as uncontrollable as the way his hips rock back to meet every thrust inside him.

Doyoung, too, is losing what little reservation he still had, pinching a nipple and struggling with every breath that seems to get caught in his throat. He can’t help himself, the way he practically vibrates with every thrust, how good, how hot it is to be sheathed inside this pretty little thing, who has done nothing but tease him all day. If this has been a trap…well, the tautness drawing up in his balls doesn’t seem to speak to him minding being trapped too badly.

He drops his free hand to the inside of Renjun’s thigh, prodding bruises into them, sure to leave his mark behind if nothing else. Those same fingertips drag along the underside of Renjun’s leaking cock. He gasps, high and loud, and warns in a voice that isn’t the one Doyoung has come to know tonight, “Make me cum.”

“Is that an order?” Doyoung’s voice is dangerously low, trying to hold in his own orgasm, that he doesn’t finish too soon. The heat in his belly and the gentle clamping of his own thighs speak to the fact that he doesn’t have much longer to go himself. He aches to chase his own release, but not before he gets at least one good orgasm out of Renjun.

Renjun just makes a distressed sound. “Couldn’t, ah, couldn’t give you the orders, sir.”

And fuck, that sir thing hasn’t worked all night, but right here, right now, with Renjun’s tight little hole clenching around him—that’s it. He’s done for. Doyoung muffles his cry with his mouth buried in the curve of Renjun’s shoulder, teeth sinking in and holding on for dear life as he shakes out his orgasm. Even as he falls apart, he has the mind to loosely fist his hand around Renjun’s cock.

Mutually assured destruction, probably. It’s always kind of been Doyoung’s thing.

Not two seconds later Renjun is coming too, canting helplessly into Doyoung’s hand before spilling all down his knuckles. By virtue of his position he doesn’t have the luxury of keeping it down and throws his head back to cry out Doyoung’s name, long and loud and drawn.

They stay like this even as Doyoung goes soft inside Renjun. The sheen of sweat between their bodies has stuck them together for better or for worse.

For what it’s worth, Renjun doesn’t seem to mind. He only spreads his legs wider so that he can hook his ankles around the backs of Doyoung’s knees, bring them closer together.

“Wanna do it again, sir?” asks Renjun, eyebrows inching gingerly up his forehead.

Doyoung would be an absolute fucking loser not to oblige him that much.

///

It’s another two rounds later—one that tried to make it to the bed only to end up with Renjun on all fours in the carpet; another in the shower because there’s only so much spunk a human epidermis can take—when Doyoung gets the phone call. He’s still bleary, skin stinging with the scrubbing he’d done to feel clean again, hair damp and clinging to his forehead; he and Renjun had parted with kisses of the filthiest kind, and a promise to go out for karaoke the next day.

Johnny doesn’t normally call anyone after midnight. Man sleeps like a fucking rock. Especially post-coitus. (Doyoung doesn’t like to think about how he knows that.) Especially when he’s bottoming, which he probably did, just judging by the general waywardness of Donghyuck.

When he answers it’s not Johnny’s voice he’s met with. “Hey, uh,” and there’s no one that sweet little rasp could belong to but Donghyuck. “I kind of need your help.”

“Say that again,” says Doyoung, pleased as he stretches out in his hotel bed. God, these sweats are comfy. He’s going to have to invest in more when he’s home. “I like hearing it.”

“Fine, I’ll just call someone else.”

Click.

Doyoung can already hear Johnny chastising him for not being nice. He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of his oversized, overstuffed bed as he calls back.

“What are you, dumb?”

“Deaf, more like. What do you need help with?”

There’s a thick swallow at the other end of the line. Then Donghyuck says, in a voice that doesn’t sound much at all like the one Doyoung’s come to loathe: “So Mark and Yuta got arrested?”

And here Doyoung had thought the ‘illegal date ideas’ thing had been a joke. He sighs, and bids his blessedly cosy sweatpants goodbye for now. “Give me the information you have,” he says, all the tension he’d worked out by fucking Renjun’s lights out returning to his shoulders with an almost cruel swiftness. Good thing they’ve still got a couple days left in town.