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Jeonghan has a thing for hotels, especially the nicer ones that veer onto the extreme side of opulence, every single sparkling surface covered in glistening marble and deep rich wood panels that signal that this is a space meant to be a means to an end.

Every so often, his job will offer up credit for an Airbnb or something that feels more “normal” or closer to home, but he declines each time.

Home, for Yoon Jeonghan, is a luxury apartment that’s rarely slept in—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one roommate who’s as home as often as he is, which is not very.

Home is silent, except for the occasional entertaining or Seokmin’s singing when they do share the space. He spends so little time there that the hotel credits start to rack up and he can afford to put himself in places like this—the ever-extravagant five-star offering at the top tier of one of his reward programs.

When he taps into his executive suite, the lines between reality and the liminal space start to shift and blur.

In reality, Jeonghan is a media professional who enjoys the road. Work takes him interesting places, especially when you work for an international production company. Outside this room, his destiny feels predetermined.

Inside this room, he calls the shots. 

“Oh, Jungchan-ah,” he exhales. The man sitting on his knees at the edge of the hotel bed is nearly nude, save for a deep crimson velvet smoking jacket. Tailored, designer, sent over by Chan’s personal shopper, but paid for by Jeonghan as a gift.

It’s an irony that isn't lost on him. Chan's celebrity earns him a higher salary, but it's Jeonghan who adorns him in gifts, foots the bills for luxury.

Lee Chan is a—racer? driver? Whatever the word is, he drives cars and drives them fast for a living in a segment of sports that Jeonghan has little interest in. It just means that what they do behind closed doors requires discretion. Discrete, Jeonghan can do. 

Sharp eyes stay trained on Jeonghan’s form until he steps into the room proper, mischief and fire behind them, pretty head tilted.

“Christ,” Jeonghan groans, really drinking him in. The jacket nips into his slim waist perfectly. Someone who drives for a living shouldn’t be this fit. “I’m not a fucking dom, you don’t have to do shit like this, you freak.”

Jeonghan has no interest in being a dom either, but Chan shoots him a thoughtful expression like it’s something that he wants to try—everything with him is always so trying—and Jeonghan’s ridiculous and generous brain files it away for later. Later, like for his birthday, or when he wins a race or something, a silly give that he’s willing to indulge in.

Chan is hardly the first relationship Jeonghan’s been in where the only strings are clean bill of health and “come fuck me when you can fuck me,” but it’s his first time playing sponsor to someone.

A sugar daddy, as Mingyu had supplied not-so-helpfully after Jeonghan had asked for advice on buying Chan driving gloves. “He’s not my sugar baby,” Jeonghan had insisted firmly, hitting checkout on a pair of tan Forzieris. The leather will look nice on his hands. “I just like buying people gifts.”

It’s true. The knife set he purchased Mingyu was with no strings attached, despite their mutual attraction at the time. Jeonghan gifts clothing and vacations like they’re going out of style, purely out of boredom and the desire to see his friends happy. He grew up more-than-advantaged on the money front with a trust as a sweet little security blanket should his job ever tell him to fuck off, on top of making more than a single person with a roommate needs.

Gift giving is a love language, after all.

Jeonghan lets himself get pulled onto the firm king-sized mattress as Chan kisses him, slow, deep, even, a wave lapping at the shore. He’s thorough like that, in pinpointing the things that Jeonghan needs. 

“Want you to fuck me in this,” Chan demands against his mouth. Really, this is the bigger reward—how Chan shows his gratitude for each present. The velvet is softer than he’d expected, plush under Jeonghan’s fingers.

Jeonghan wonders if it would feel just as soft against his skin.

“Anything for you, baby.”


Jeonghan was introduced to Lee Chan at a party. Some stuffy, white-tie affair, the two of them the youngest people in the room not attached to their phones.

“I'm a publicist,” Jeonghan over-explained. Mentioning that he did press had nearly sent Chan running, but the words had soothed him, “I’m usually, you know, glued.”

Chan had nodded up at him with grounding and interested eyes. "As long as you're not a reporter or something."

He'd heard of Lee Chan before, despite his disinterest in motorsports. No one needed to tell Jeonghan that Lee Chan is important enough to be at the party, therefore important enough to flirt with.

Chan, bless him, had come dressed a little frumpily. His shirt ill-fitted and pants dragging behind him on the floor. Men of his status typically have a personal shopper, but something about his demeanor gave the impression that he'd dressed himself that night.  

Jeonghan had learned quickly to not expect much fashion-wise from men like him, athletes still early into their moneyed bachelor days, still learning how to distinguish their shampoo from body wash.

But Chan is handsome in an off-putting way, one that literally catches people off-guard with just one disarming smile. Even the waitstaff had lingered for a moment too long to be friendly, in hopes of getting a smile from him.

With clothing a little more tailored to his body, he'd decided, Lee Chan would be a dream come true.

Jeonghan likes a challenge.

“I didn't even bring my phone with me because I'd just be checking my email.”

It's a little white lie that Jeonghan almost had gotten called out on, but the lie was enough to get a room key to one of the hotel suites slipped into his pocket as Chan made the rounds before leaving the event.

“Don't be late, Jeonghan-ssi," Chan had winked. "And keep your phone on silent.”


Instead of a headboard, this hotel has wood paneling from floor to ceiling, shined enough that the silhouette of two bodies slapping together catches in the light and reflects back into the room. Chan’s fingers are laced through Jeonghan’s hands flat against the wall, whispering filth into his ear as he fucks into him.

Every nerve ending feels aflame.

Jeonghan's mouth hangs open uselessly, breaths coming out in these ugly, heaving pants that would make him blush were it not for the pleasant stretch of Chan’s thick cock splitting him open. His own cock sticks to the inside of his thigh, twitching weakly at each sensation as it leaks onto the sheets and onto his leg.

The leather squeak of the driving gloves goes to Jeonghan’s head just a little, even more so when the buttery texture glides down the length of his curved spine before coming down on his flank.

“‘m I good for you, oppa?” Chan breathes out around a laugh. It’s not meant to be taken seriously, but the word shoots through Jeonghan’s body and rips through his skin, his release painting the silk pillowcases and the red paneling a milky white.

Fuck, he thinks, sagging his weight into Chan’s arms, letting himself get kissed through the tremors. Fuck.


Though both of them are Korean, Chan has never met Jeonghan in Seoul. It’s an unspoken understanding that being at home shatters the illusion.

The nature of two people living busy lives means that each meetup is abroad, in some American or European hotel. (And one time in a love hotel in Japan, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Jeonghan doesn’t speak the language as well as he’d like but he doesn’t mind it, especially not when there’s good sex on the other end of a ten, twelve hour flight.

When he arrives in London, a car is waiting for him to take him to some posh five-star on the east side. The paps lingering outside of the building must be bored because they shout at him in crude English, and he only catches the words, “make some money,” which. Sure. He’s lithe and pretty, chin-skimming glossy blond bob and oversized sunglasses, hand clutching the handle of a worn designer roller suitcase.

He supposes he does have the look of someone who mixes business and pleasure professionally.

Whatever. Be more original.

He doesn’t often stay with Chan in hotels so much as Chan stays with him; the hotels Jeonghan can afford to put them up in tend to be nicer than the business suites that Chan’s reps book.

Chan doesn’t do opulence the way that Jeonghan does, but he enjoys someone taking care of him.

They’re playing nice tonight, or supposed to be. Chan is dressed up in a pressed white dress shirt and slacks—properly fitted this time—and Jeonghan in a velvet suit jacket that Chan keeps touching.

The upscale restaurant inside the hotel is just... okay. The food is as flavorless and bland as expected in places like this. Their meal has mostly gone untouched.

The second bottle of cabernet, however, is almost gone.

Jeonghan’s cheeks feel hot and rosy. The gaze bearing down on him from across the table is a loaded gun.

“Stop it,” he mumbles into the lip of the glass. A glossy black loafer glides up the inseam of his pants. Jeonghan swallows hard when the tip of his shoe presses just slightly into the crotch.

Dainty fingers don’t stop grazing the fabric of the sleeve. Chan isn’t even touching him properly on his arm, but he can feel each stroke zipping down into the pit of his groin.

“Stop what?” Chan counters sweetly, finger on the trigger.

Later, Chan will push Jeonghan down to his knees, gather up the length of his silky blond hair in a tight fist, force his cock into the heat of Jeonghan's throat until his brain statics out into nothing. Just another part of the game.

(The thing about power in a relationship like theirs is that it’s fun to let it shift. Bounce back and forth like banter, forcing the weight until it snaps.)

Chan tips his foot forward and Jeonghan hisses.


Jeonghan was right. The velvet jacket is heaven against his skin, each brush adding a level of sensory.

It’s probably chafing against Chan’s nipples judging by the way he whimpers each time he shifts, but it could also be from how tight his body grips Jeonghan’s cock, hand to clutch.

Chan’s fingers twist into the sheets, pulling the cotton between his fingers as he leans into each thrust. Jeonghan’s sharp hip bones smack loudly against Chan’s ass again and again, savoring the taste of his name.

“Hyung, please,” he says in that small voice, the one Chan puts on when he wants more, always craving so much more than Jeonghan gives.

Sometimes Chan lingers on the spectrum of being overly attached, constantly begging for his attention when they’re away. The nudes. The videos. The barrage of sexts. Jeonghan likes the chase, but sometimes... sometimes, he also misses the silence between hookups from other men.

But then who would he have to spoil?

Jeonghan hooks his hands behind the smooth skin of Chan’s thighs and rolls them over, running his hands up his torso to undo the jacket as he adjusts. The sudden sensation of thumbs against Chan’s nipples has him shaking, clenching tighter around him.

“Should buy you nice things more often,” Jeonghan muses. Chan’s eyes go darker than before, folding in half to mash his mouth against Jeonghan’s in a sloppy kiss. He fucks himself back as hard as he can each time, like he’s trying to press Jeonghan inside of him, keep him close and stay full.

“What, like your little doll to dress up?” Chan counters, breath hitching suddenly when Jeonghan shifts underneath him, changing the angle. There's no way he isn't burning up under the all of that polyester, but Chan hugs it closer like a lifeline. “Gonna put me in a, ah, dress, hyung?”

The thought sparks together this fantasy, of Chan bent over a desk in—fuck, was it Chicago? or was that Prague?—some fancy hotel they stayed at previously, eyes fixed on himself in the wall-length mirror as Jeonghan fucks him, the skirt of his garment flipped up and tucked into the waist.

“I could do that for you,” Jeonghan purrs, hand wrapping around Chan’s cock to grant him some relief. The sudden intensity of it has him squirming in Jeonghan’s lap, mashing his mouth against Jeonghan's again, this time biting at his lip to get some control back.

A twist of his wrist makes Chan bite down harder, groaning.

Jeonghan grins against the stinging bites knowingly. “You like it when I dress you up pretty.”

The first time Jeonghan gave him a present, he’d practically vibrated at the sight of the shopping bag. It was literally just a dry-wick shirt, but Chan had acted like he’d gifted him the keys to the city.

The thank you blowjob he’d received was reason enough to keep giving.

The smoking jacket had been something else entirely. Chan had sent a video of him getting himself off in nothing but, something that now lives in the depths of an encrypted cloud—Jeonghan is smart about his online security, thank you very much—the broken moans rattling off the walls of Jeonghan's blessedly empty apartment.

He can hear the sounds of Chan slurring as he jerked himself off slow and easily in the velvet jacket, the quiet hum of his car in the background.

“I filmed it in my apartment’s parking deck,” he’d announced hours later, coaxing Jeonghan through a second orgasm over the phone. Then a third. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

Those same sounds pitch higher now, mixed with Jeonghan’s own pleading moans.

“Like when oppa takes care of me. Reminds me I’m yours,” he says, less of a confession than a bratty way to egg him on.

There’s truth hidden in the crevices of what he says; Chan loves to be possessed in a way that doesn’t make him feel owned. A distinction.

Jeonghan grips under the curve of his jawline and kisses him bruising and hard, fist working harder over the leaking head of Chan’s cock. “Stop calling me oppa,” he aims for firm but it comes out unconvincing.

Ever since that one time, Chan has never let him live it down, and honestly, neither will Jeonghan’s brain, vibrant sparks of desire shooting off into space each time Chan calls him that.

Chan seems to acquiesce for the moment, offering a shuddering acceptance into a kiss, licking hotly into Jeonghan’s mouth before pushing back onto his knees.

Chan ends up coming all over the front of the jacket. Jeonghan takes a picture of him for later.


A luggage set arrives at Jeonghan's front door with no gift receipt, but he knows who it’s from.

It’s not the first gift that he’s been given in return, but it’s one that’s both meaningful and functional. It feels like it carries some weight, too.

Later, Jeonghan zips in the maxi dress at the top of his clothes.