Chapter Text
Jongwoo hates Jaeho.
Now the only time he’d actually said that to Jaeho in an attempt to cut ties with him, Jaeho had laughed and clapped him on the arm with a light, ‘Love that inferiority complex of yours, Jongwoo-yah. Brings out the honesty.’
In retrospect, Jongwoo’s sort of glad that Jaeho hadn’t taken it to heart. Call him an opportunist, but there’s no way Jongwoo could’ve found a job in Seoul without that piece of shit.
It doesn’t make him hate Jaeho any less. Obviously.
Especially not now with his phone to his ear as he waits for his senior to stop laughing with his friends and actually talk into the receiver. He needs some manners beaten into him; it’s getting ridiculous.
“Hyung,” Jongwoo says, as calm as he can be.
“Ah, yeah. Jongwoo! What is it?” Jaeho laughs heartily into his ear. “Are you in Seoul yet?”
“Yeah,” Jongwoo replies, stepping back to look up at the café’s sign. “I’m at the café where we’re supposed to meet.”
Jaeho’s quiet for only a second. Then he hisses and says, “Aiiiiiish, I forgot all about that.”
And really. How the fuck is he expecting Jongwoo to believe that when they’d spoken on the phone not forty-five minutes ago? Does he think Jongwoo’s dumb or just a lackey?
“How can you—” Jongwoo takes a deep breath to keep himself calm. “It’s fine. We’ll find time later.”
“No, no,” Jaeho tuts. “It’s your first day in Seoul, Jongwoo-yah. Do you think so low of me?”
Um. Yeah.
Jongwoo shifts his weight, placing a hand on his hip.
“I’ll send you an address,” Jaeho concludes. “You can meet my friends,” and quieter, “Make connections and all. Start climbing.”
Jongwoo’s about to protest, but he stops himself and chews on the inside of his cheek. ‘Connections’ sounds good. The writing industry is a competitive one. If he gets to know the right people through the right people, he might be able to get a proper job instead of being an intern at Jaeho’s stupid company that has nothing to offer his career.
…
Jongwoo wants to fucking die.
When Jaeho had implied it was a get-together with his friends, Jongwoo had expected a simple café. Not some fucking 5-star restaurant.
He should’ve considered that this is Shin Jaeho he’s talking about. He gets off on showing off his riches. He’s a conceited prick.
Jongwoo fiddles with the strap of his backpack as he looks around, heart pounding in his chest. He knows he’s beet red, he can feel the heat burning his face and neck.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Jongwoo clears his throat and looks at the host. “Ah,” he swallows. “Um. My friend…” he trails off, eyes darting over the tables. “Shin J—”
“Jongwoo-yah!”
Jongwoo whips around to face the voice.
Jaeho leans back in his seat, hand lifted in an unsounded snap of fingers. Like Jongwoo’s a waiter and not a friend.
“Come here!”
Jongwoo’s hand turns into a fist around the strap, knuckles paling at the condescending manner he’s being spoken with.
He offers the host a small bow of his head that seems to be very new to him, given the beaming smile he gives back, then walks over to Jaeho’s table, every step feeling heavier than the one before.
He stops next to him. Clears his throat again.
Jaeho taps his cigarette against the side of his ashtray and says, “This is Yoon Jongwoo. He’s my new intern.”
Jongwoo refuses to look at anyone, but he mumbles his greeting and wishes he never came.
“Jongwoo, this is Jo Yucheol. He’s a reporter…”
Jaeho continues introducing his circle one by one, but Jongwoo’s too ashamed of his inadequate outfit to even listen.
“Get a chair!” Jaeho exclaims.
Jongwoo wants to get a chair. He wants to get a chair and break it on Jaeho’s big fucking head.
He douses the thought and slides a seat over, sitting down as close as possible to the wall. He doesn’t even have money on him. At least not enough money for a place like this.
“What do you want?” Jaeho nods his chin at him once the waiter comes over to attend to the newcomer.
“I’m not—” Jongwoo shakes his head. “I’m not hungry. I’ll just have a coffee.”
“Nonsense,” Jaeho scoffs. “You just came all the way from Busan. Get him a bulgogi with that,” he looks up at the waiter. “You’ll get a tip if you make it fast, yeah?” he adds, pretending he can’t hear Jongwoo’s, ‘Hyung, I’m really not hungry’.
He is hungry. And he’s also embarrassed by Jaeho's behaviour with the waiter. It somehow feels like sitting with Jaeho’s coterie makes him one of them, makes them all a single prejudiced being.
He takes a breath and reaches for the glass of water in front of him.
“So,” Jaeho claps his hands. “How’s the single life, Jongwoo? I heard Jieun left you.”
Jongwoo almost sputters water out his nose but holds back, putting the glass down silently.
It hurt. Still hurts, more than he’s willing to admit to himself, let alone the man posing the question so cruellyand publicly. As if he’s trying to shame him for having been broken up with.
“It’s uh… normal,” he answers; it’s a mumble, and he wedges his hands underneath his thighs to keep himself from clenching them too hard and drawing blood out of their palms.
“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” a man says irrelevantly, pointing a finger at Jongwoo. “Have we met before?”
“No,” Jongwoo shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Were you ever on TV?”
“He does have an idol’s face, doesn’t he?” Jaeho chuckles. For some reason, the rest of the people around the table laugh as well; it makes Jongwoo feel like the brunt of some joke he’s excluded from.
“Yoon Jongwoo-ssi.”
“Ah, yeah?” Jongwoo looks at the woman sitting across from him.
She’s pretty, with short brown hair and a smile that would make anyone else respond in kind. Under his attention, she props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on intertwined fingers, admiring him.
Alas, when she opens her mouth to say something, Jaeho interrupts her with a loud, rebuking, You’re late!
For once, Jongwoo’s thankful for the intrusion. One thing he hates more than anything is being the center of attention. He doesn’t look over, but he feels the way the new arrival squeezes himself between the back of his chair and the chair behind him to get to the empty spot at the head of the table, opposite Jaeho. “I had work to do,” he says calmly.
A high-pitched sound leaves Jaeho, contemptuous but playful all the same. “Always overworking yourself,” he opines, shaking his head as the man drags a chair over and settles down in it.
He reaches for the menu in front of Jongwoo and pulls it to him with a single finger, and Jongwoo catches a scar dragged through his skin, up his forearm and underneath the white cuff of his shirt.
The man’s quick to pull the sleeve of his blazer down over the shirt and the scar, like he’d caught the prying gaze. It averts Jongwoo’s eyes hurriedly.
“Well,” the man murmurs, voice showing no indication of bother. “Not all of us can leech off our parents.”
Jongwoo lifts a hand to his mouth, wanting to physically suppress the laugh bubbling up in his throat.
But everyone’s laughing. It’s like they’re used to it.
“Always so cold, Moonjo-yah!”
Moonjo-yah doesn’t reply as he casts his eyes over the menu between his fingers.
He puts it down a moment later and sits back in his chair.
Everyone falls into chatter in pairs, and Jongwoo occupies himself with the mouth-watering dish in front of him until Jaeho suggests they go to the restaurant’s bar for a drink.
The woman, Yoojung, excuses herself, giving a sweeping farewell to everyone around the table, then a special one to Jongwoo specifically. Jongwoo offers a smile and raise-of-brows in return.
He declines Jaeho’s suggestion as politely as he can. “I’ll stay here.”
“You’re no fun,” Jaeho sighs.
Jongwoo hears the, ‘Not like you’ll be driving.’ that follows the undermining opinion, but pays it no mind.
Moonjo, the man who hasn’t said a single word after utterly roasting Jaeho, also turns them down with a dismissive flourish of his hand.
Which… Yeah, no thanks. Jongwoo hates the very idea of having to spend god knows how long in the company of a friend of a friend. If he can even call him that; if he can even call Jaeho that. ‘Friend’.
Jongwoo’s silent, checking the time on his phone every other minute. He’s waiting for the right amount of time to pass for him to finally bow out and retire for the night without seeming rude.
“I must ask,”
Jongwoo almost winces at the words being directed his way.
“What’s someone like you doing in the company of Shin Jaeho?”
Jongwoo furrows his brow and looks up at the guy.
He very pointedly ignores his ridiculously distracting features because what the fuck? and says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He knew this guy was blunt, but really? What the hell?
“Are you serious—” he glances away with a dry laugh. “Someone like me? What? I don’t match the standards of your stupid little group of rich assholes who have nothing better to do than show off their assets?”
Moonjo’s brows rise. “That’s hardly what I’m insinuating.”
Jongwoo scoffs. “Yeah, well. I don’t do insinuations. You either ask me directly or keep it to yourself.”
He reaches for his glass of water, halting when he finds it empty, and instead goes for Moonjo’s. It brings a huffed laugh out of the other man.
“You seem angry.”
“Yeah?” Jongwoo slams the glass down. “Exceptional observation skills. Really. I’m dressed like a fucking homeless guy in a 5-star fucking restaurant full of pretentious jerks. I don’t have any money on me to pay for this meal. I’m forced to work under the hand of a person I despise because he was my only ticket out of Busan.
“And right now I’m having a conversation with someone who’s pissing me the fuck off. So yeah. I’m angry.”
Moonjo hums, letting the little vent sink in.
“You must’ve had that bottled up for a while now,” he finally remarks. “You need to let off some steam.”
Jaeho was right. So fucking cold.
Jongwoo’s jaw clenches. “I’m going to–” he stands up abruptly. “Go to the bathroom.”
He washes his face at the sink and clasps his hands on its edge, eyes on his reflection, on the angry flush on his cheeks and the veins popping in his neck.
He forgot his bag outside. There's a momentary panic that quickly dissolves when he remembers that maybe even the waiters are much better-off than he is. No one’s going to steal a shoddy backpack with his half-empty wallet, The Metamorphosis, and a phone with a chipped screen inside.
The door opens and Jongwoo looks at Moonjo through the mirror, raising his brow at the way the other man twists the lock on the door.
There’s uncharacteristic humility in the way he approaches Jongwoo, but it doesn’t ram down Jongwoo’s urge to back up.
It’s only until Moonjo’s grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him that Jongwoo realizes his mistake.
He pushes him away. It’s his initial reaction. His next is to slap Moonjo across the face, hard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Moonjo’s mouth opens. He blinks, stepping back.
“I wasn’t inviting you along,” Jongwoo asserts.
He can taste stale cigarettes on his tongue. He hasn’t smoked since his military discharge, but the taste evokes a longing in him that makes his eyes flicker to Moonjo’s lips.
“Forgive me,” Moonjo doesn’t sound too embarrassed about it. He sounds genuinely apologetic. “I mistook your implication.”
“I told you I don’t do insinuations,” Jongwoo answers.
Moonjo’s lips twitch up into the ghost of a smile, like he’s pleased with the consistency,
So Jongwoo kisses him. Drags him in by the lapel of his deep blue blazer and covers his mouth with his own, chasing the taste of smoke and some stupidly pricey wine.
A reasonable voice in the back of his head tells him to stop; that fraternizing with people who not only are male, but also acquaintances of Shin Jaeho of all people will only cause chaos.
But Moonjo’s mouth is leaving his to move down to his jaw, and Jongwoo silences the voice completely, hand entwining in soft black hair. He pushes. Then pulls, forcing him off his skin before pushing some more; until Moonjo’s knees give out and hit the squeaky-clean marble underneath.
The sight alone knocks a breath out of Jongwoo’s lungs, the line of his jaw drawn taut.
“Are you okay?”
Genuine concern tinges Moonjo’s eyes as he gazes up at him from the floor, head slowly tilting to one side.
It makes Jongwoo scoff, hands clasped on the edge of the basin behind him. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” his eyes flicker down to Moonjo’s knees, brows lifting pointedly. “Do you want a pillow, so you don’t hurt your knees?”
Moonjo’s mouth crooks into smirk, any hint of concern gone like it was never there. “Gutsy,” he remarks. “I like the way you talk to me.”
“And I’d like to find out what your mouth can do other than yap,” Jongwoo says back, uncharacteristically brazen. “Since charming isn’t its strong point.”
Moonjo groans, like he’s enjoying what he’s hearing. It almost makes Jongwoo roll his eyes.
He cranes his hips when Moonjo tugs on his jeans, and Moonjo slides them down to his knees.
Jongwoo swallows as the actuality of what’s happening finally kicks in.
He’s about to get sucked off by one of Jaeho’s acquaintances. In the bathroom of some swank restaurant.
His cock twitches. Moonjo hums, leaning forward as his fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs. His eyes lift to catch Jongwoo’s as he drags his underwear down.
And he’s holding eye contact, full lips wrapping around the head.
Instinctively, a knee-jerk reaction, Jongwoo slaps the sink with one hand and lifts the other to his mouth to stifle the moan climbing up his throat.
The hands on his hips are large, holding him steady the moment Jongwoo tries bucking forward. “Fuck—” Jongwoo breathes, mouth dropping open against the back of his hand as Moonjo takes more of him in. “Ah.”
It’s nice not hearing Moonjo talk. All Jongwoo can hear is his own breathing, the beat of his own heart in his ears, and the wet sound of Moonjo giving him the best head of his life.
He reaches down and rakes his fingers through Moonjo’s well-groomed hair, moving him along.
The other man seems to enjoy handing over control as much as he enjoys taking it. The conflict between his hands caging Jongwoo’s hips and the one in Moonjo’s hair tells as much.
“So good,” Jongwoo slurs with every bob of the other man’s head. “Just…” he bunches his hand into thick strands. “Slow down.”
His cock is almost nestled in the back of Moonjo’s throat, his skilled tongue working against the head lazily. His hands slide down from Jongwoo’s hips to wrap around his upper thighs, fingers pressing into delicate skin then inching up.
He gently presses against the stretch of skin behind his balls, and a choked sound bursts out of Jongwoo, hips pushing forward.
His hand joins the other, tangling in Moonjo’s hair to keep him still while he fucks his mouth.
Everything is so hot and so wet. Moonjo hollows his cheeks and Jongwoo clamps his teeth on his bottom lip, eyes screwing shut as he grinds into the tightness of his throat.
He tilts his head back, throat straining under the stretch.
Moonjo presses a hint of nail to his perineum, and Jongwoo comes with a punched-out moan, back arching languorously under the pleasure.
And,
Moonjo doesn’t relent, drawing it out for as long as possible with languid suctions.
Jongwoo slumps back against the sink, panting heavily as Moonjo slowly releases him.
He looks up, mouth red and parted and glistening, a flush of pink high on his cheeks. “How was I?”
It’s smug. And Jongwoo’s post-orgasmic bliss starts to ebb into something close to resentment. “Mediocre,” he replies shakily.
Moonjo laughs, and even with the loathing Jongwoo feels towards him, he can’t deny that it’s pretty. It’s so pretty. Moonjo’s fucking pretty.
Jongwoo presses the toe of his shoe against his crotch. Like he’s smothering a cigarette. Like he’s smothering his own thoughts. “Want help?”
The complacency on Moonjo’s face is gone in a flash, his hips listing into the mean press as his hand reaches down to wrap loosely around Jongwoo’s ankle. “Yeah.”
Jongwoo arches an eyebrow at him when he makes to stand up. “Stay,” he orders. Just to test his theory. Presses down a little harder.
Moonjo stays, exhaling a shaky breath.
Oh.
Oh.
Fucking christ, this man’s a joke; he carries himself with confidence and respect while his dick gets wet at the idea of submission.
It’s ironic.
“Christ,” Jongwoo laughs, shaking his head lightly.
He’s about to get nasty about it. Moonjo seems to enjoy that. But a knock on the door cuts him short. “Yoon Jongwoo!”
Jaeho.
“Seo Moonjo!”
And,
“Open the door! Are you two facing off in there? Aish.”
Jongwoo looks back at Moonjo. “That’ll be hard to explain,” he points out uselessly, sliding his foot away.
Moonjo blinks at him. He seems careless. He looks like he thinks there’s only him and Jongwoo in the world.
Jongwoo waves a hand. “Get caught, I don’t care.”
Moonjo stands up.
Jongwoo was starting to forget who’s taller than who. He almost leans away, more so when he realizes what he’s doing. He’s expecting Moonjo to say, I’ll just tell them what happened or something along those threatening lines.
But Moonjo’s eyes hang half-open, and he says, “Please,” and, “Will you touch me?”
Jongwoo swallows, jaw setting as he looks up at the older man. Then he’s looking down, hands working Moonjo’s pants open, button then zipper, stopping to brush away the shoeprint he left on his crotch before he pulls him out and wraps a sure hand around his girth.
Moonjo rests his hands on the basin at either side of Jongwoo’s body, dropping his forehead on his shoulder as Jongwoo jerks him off. “Good?” he asks. “How do you like it?”
Moonjo turns his head, buries it in Jongwoo’s neck. He drops his hand between them and wraps it around Jongwoo’s.
It isn’t fair. It’s actually bordering on laughable how Jongwoo feels intimacy jerking some stranger off.
This is–
Jongwoo releases a breath and lets Moonjo guide his hold. And when he smears a ‘close’ into Jongwoo’s skin, Jongwoo drops to his knees and lets him fill his mouth.
Less evidence to cover.
Moonjo hides in one of the cubicles, and Jongwoo washes his hands and rinses his mouth at the sink.
The door unlocks and slams open. “Yah!” Jaeho yells. “Why are you locking a public bathroom? This isn’t your house—” he pauses. “You can’t even do this at your house! You have a roommate, don’t you?”
Jongwoo says nothing. But it occurs to him that Moonjo is friends with this man, and that’s enough to make his distaste grow.
Birds of a feather and all.
…
He meets his roommate the second he steps through the door of the apartment.
“Are you Jongwoo?!”
Too loud. Too cheerful. Jongwoo just wants to shower and go the fuck to bed.
“Yeah,” he answers as he takes his shoes off.
“I’m Kang Seokyun,”
Jongwoo nods faintly as he trails past him, dropping his backpack to the floor. “Good to meet you,” he says, halfhearted and small. He doesn’t bother to sound sincere.
Seokyun follows him all the way to the kitchen. Jongwoo isn’t listening to anything he’s saying.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “Seokyun-ssi,” he eventually cuts into his roommate’s rambling. “No offense, but I’m really tired. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Of course, hyung!” Seokyun exclaims, grinning all too wide. “Can I call you hyung? Is that okay?”
Jongwoo nods and walks away, clicking his door shut behind him.
…
The second time is a coincidence.
When he’d first met Moonjo, he’d been so caught up in his own embarrassment for mis-dressing that he may have missed the introduction.
He didn’t know Moonjo was a dentist. And after what happened in the restrooms, he left before he could so much as glimpse the other man again.
He now has half the mind to turn around and leave; even with Moonjo standing in front of him, quietly calculative.
His eyes flicker between Jongwoo’s, and then he smiles. “What can I do for you?”
Fucker.
Jongwoo presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, trying to stifle a sneer. “Be professional, first of all.”
Moonjo’s brows rise, rightfully so. He’s not being unprofessional. “Of course,” he says, gracious despite the false accusation. “And second?”
“Just a check-up I guess. My teeth tingle whenever I eat something too cold,” Jongwoo waves a hand in circles at his mouth. “I read online it could be caused by cavities, so…”
The professionalism gives the whole thing more of a I-want-the-floor-to-open-wide-and-swallow-me-whole vibe. Jongwoo waits for Moonjo to wash his hands and pull his gloves on, only opening his mouth when Moonjo pulls the operational light overhead.
“Let’s see,” Moonjo murmurs, placing a molt gag comfortably between Jongwoo’s jaws, and Jongwoo curls his tongue inwards to avoid any unnecessary contact with Moonjo’s gloved fingers.
As if he didn’t have his tongue in his mouth three days ago.
“Doctor?” the door opens. “We’re closing soon…”
“I’ll close up,” Moonjo replies in an absent murmur. “Don’t worry, you can go home.”
“Are you sure?”
Moonjo leans back and looks over his shoulder. “Have a nice weekend.”
The secretary closes the door, and Moonjo goes back to prodding about in Jongwoo’s mouth. “No cavities,” he decides. “Healthy tongue,” he pauses and lifts Jongwoo’s upper lip. He hums, leaning away like he’s finally detected the problem.
“What is it?” Jongwoo says around the tool in his mouth.
“Do you clench your teeth a lot?” Moonjo questions. “Brush your teeth too hard?”
“So what?”
“It wears down the enamel,” Moonjo replies. “I’m going to prescribe you a softer toothbrush, and a bite guard if you’re comfortable with that.”
“A what?” Jongwoo’s eyes turn round, and Moonjo suppresses a smile.
“It’s tamer than it sounds. You’ll wear it to protect your teeth against bruxism,” Moonjo pauses. “The clenching of your teeth while you’re sleeping. You don’t have to wear it all the time.”
Jongwoo nods to himself and lifts his hand to try pulling the molt gag out of his mouth. Moonjo reaches up and swiftly removes it, setting it aside.
“Where do I get that?”
“I’ll have to take an impression of your teeth,” Moonjo replies. “If you’d prefer another dentist, there’s another competent one in this clinic.”
Jongwoo opens his mouth, then closes it and sits up. “I don’t mind,” he mutters. “Where should I pay?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Moonjo replies, looking overly proud of his goodness.
“No,” Jongwoo rebuts. “I said be professional.”
Moonjo’s jaw clenches, a small crack in his otherwise cool airs and graces. “Alright,” he gestures for his desk and stands up with his hands on his thighs. “This way.”
Jongwoo follows him quietly as he pulls his wallet out.
“Thank you.”
Moonjo nods, lips pressed into a tight smile as he takes the bills from him. “It’s my job.”
Jongwoo inclines his head, the most respect he’s given Moonjo since meeting him. “Then.”
See, Jongwoo’s generally not a mannered person. He knows that about himself. But that doesn’t stop the foggy hint of guilt from nagging him.
Moonjo isn’t too bad. He’s not good either. In fact, Jongwoo thinks he’d be insufferable if he didn’t look that attractive with his stupid long hair and annoyingly appealing cupid’s bow and those ridiculous cheekbones.
So. It doesn’t sound bad to him. To indulge himself. Moonjo doesn’t have a ring on his finger. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe even early forties. That means he’s either undesired, which is unlikely considering his looks and job. Or he’s shitty at relationships, which is plausible considering everything else. Or he’s just not the relationship type of guy.
Jongwoo likes the last option best. Call him biased.
He stops at the door and lifts his hand, eyes flickering between the handle and the lock.
He can make out a distant taste of latex when he sucks on his lip and prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Can I,” he starts, fingers hovering over the lock. “Can I lock the door?”
He half turns as he asks. Sees the change in Moonjo’s expression once he registers the request. The parted lips and single blink, and then the, “I thought you don’t do insinuations.”
Jongwoo considers just leaving.
He twists the lock. Turns around and stops. He’s not sure how to close the distance. He doesn’t want to seem desperate. He’s not desperate.
Moonjo circles his desk and leans back against it, only half sitting. His glasses sit low on his nose and his mask is hooked behind his ears, pulled down under his chin. “Come here,” he says.
Jongwoo cocks a brow. “Why don’t you come here? You’re the one who’s been acting like a horndog all along.”
Moonjo laughs, looking to the side. “Why do you make everything a battle of wits?” he looks back at Jongwoo. “Over there, I can’t bend you over,” he explains. “Over here…” he runs his hands over his desk, and Jongwoo’s body, that treacherous bitch, forces a step. Like it wants to do as asked. To come here.
He stays still.
It doesn’t annoy Moonjo as much as it would’ve annoyed Jongwoo had the roles been reversed. He pushes off the desk with a sigh. “If you think this is about dignity, honey,”
That pet name shouldn’t turn Jongwoo on, but he can feel his cock fill out as Moonjo reaches up to take his mask off.
“You should know I have no problem taking the initiative.”
He pinches the temple of his glasses between his fingers, “But if it’s about shame or something more…”
“Keep them on,” Jongwoo breathes. “The glasses.”
Moonjo goes still, for barely a second before he lowers his hand, one brow momentarily flicking upwards.
“Are you going to keep standing there?” he questions. It sounds like another order.
“I’m told I’m stubborn,” Jongwoo answers, maybe a little too flirty.
“I’m told I’m compliant.”
“I figured that out the first time I had you on your knees.” Jongwoo isn’t sure what it is in Moonjo that rouses his wit.
Moonjo looks like he wants to roll his eyes, maybe laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs out of his lab coat before he reaches down to play with the button of his pants. “Come here,” he repeats.
It doesn’t sound like an order anymore. So Jongwoo does as asked.
Moonjo falls in stride almost too smoothly; his hands rest on Jongwoo’s waist and he accepts the kiss naturally, slanting his head to one side, nose brushing Jongwoo’s as he parts his mouth for him.
Jongwoo likes kissing. He loves being kissed. He enjoys the heat of it. The intimacy. None of the women he dated ever liked it as much as he did.
Moonjo’s tongue meets his, hands sliding around Jongwoo’s waist to rest on the small of his back and pull him closer.
It loosens Jongwoo’s hold on his shirt, his own hands drifting down to the button of Moonjo’s pants.
Slowly, like he doesn’t want to stop, Moonjo pulls his tongue out of Jongwoo’s mouth to let out a breathless, “Very professional.”
“Shall I stop?” Jongwoo asks. It’s more like a defensive threat. He sees it in Moonjo’s sudden hesitation.
“I didn’t say that.”
Jongwoo nods. “Then stop talking,” he says. “And kiss me.”
Moonjo kisses him again, hand wrapped around his throat loosely as he plays with his tongue.
The glasses, pretty as they are, get in the way eventually, but Jongwoo doesn’t want to part, and the way Moonjo’s switching their places and pressing him to the desk, mouth working wetly against his, tells Jongwoo he has no plans to retreat either.
Instead, Jongwoo reaches up to pull the eyewear off, dragging the frame up through Moonjo’s hair.
He stops. Tugs. Moonjo hisses into his mouth, hair caught on the hinge of the glasses.
This isn’t going to work.
Jongwoo breaks away from him with a disgruntled sound and reaches up to untangle the stupid glasses from Moonjo’s hair. They’re actually not even that pretty. “They made it look easy in the shows.”
Moonjo huffs a breathless laugh, crooking his knees to make himself shorter.
It’s an obvious attempt to help, but that doesn’t make Jongwoo the least bit grateful. He grits his teeth at the disrespect of it. “Stand properly before I give you a real reason to kneel.”
“Promising.”
“I’m talking breaking your kneecaps.”
Moonjo goes silent, realizing Jongwoo isn’t playing around as Jongwoo quietly frees Moonjo’s hair from the specs.
Once he manages to, he puts them down on the desk and looks up at Moonjo. “There.”
Moonjo brings his hand up to his hair, patting it down. There’s no use, Jongwoo wants to say, but that would be too trite. Almost as trite as I’ll give you a real reason to kneel.
“No rush?” Jongwoo asks, swallowing mid-question when Moonjo reaches for the buttons of his loose shirt. “No one to go home to?”
Moonjo’s brows inch up. It sinks in that Jongwoo’s feeling him out to find out if he’s a paramour. If Moonjo’s stuck in an unhappy marriage that makes him remove his wedding ring and hide it in his pocket whenever he leaves his wife to the kids. He wants to know if engaging in something as taboo as fucking a man is giving him the thrill his marital life lacks.
Moonjo tuts as he pulls a button out of its designated slit. “That’s not my style.”
And.
That’s hot. Jongwoo’s hands grasp the desk behind him as he watches Moonjo’s deft fingers work the shirt off. “What is your style?”
“Consent,” Moonjo answers. “Maturity. Honesty,” he stops at the last button separating him from the skin underneath. “Be straightforward with me, honey. Tell me what this is.”
“Sex,” Jongwoo blurts. “Fun. I just got out of a relationship so I’m not looking for anything serious.” Especially not with a man.
He’s expecting Moonjo to cower at the idea of being a rebound. But he’s also not expecting him to, because they don’t like each other. Jongwoo can barely even stand Moonjo outside the idea of wanting to fuck him senseless.
Moonjo’s silent with contemplation, fingers lingering over the last button as if his decision to undo it or keep it fastened is some point of no return.
Jongwoo waits, eyes fixed on the way the tip of Moonjo’s index finger circles the button, tracing its shape. His fingers are long and bony, and Jongwoo wants them in his mouth again.
It’s a thought that he quickly quells. Can he make up his fucking mind already?
“I think I can live with that.”
Jongwoo’s shirt drops open. Moonjo’s mouth puckers into a pout, hand roaming darker skin. He slides his tongue over his lips.
“Are you just going to feel me up like some pervert?” Jongwoo was angling for jeering, but his voice comes out all wrong. Too winded. Too needy.
Moonjo doesn’t comment on it though. He pushes the shirt off Jongwoo’s frame and absently says, “How do you want me?”
“Be creative.”
Moonjo had promised he’d bend him over. And he’s true to his word. Between one blink and the next, Jongwoo finds himself pressed chest first to mahogany. The aggression of it travels down between his legs in hot waves. “Fuck,” he breathes, glancing over his shoulder. “Thought you were all bark.”
Moonjo’s hands are rougher than those of a doctor when they tug Jongwoo’s jeans and underwear down.
The contrast between his nudity and Moonjo’s completely dressed state is weird. It rattles in his belly uncomfortably. “What? You got something to hide?” he asks casually. “A third nipple or something?”
Moonjo drapes over him, mouth brushing the outer shell of his ear. His hand is down between them, a burning hot pressure against the inside of Jongwoo’s thigh.
Fuck. Jongwoo swallows at how big it feels on him. Thinks he can make out every whorl on the pads of his fingers if Moonjo would just press them into his skin.
“Can I fuck you here?”
Vulgarity from such a genteel mouth makes Jongwoo’s cock throb. “On the desk?” he rasps heavily.
“Between your legs,” Moonjo corrects. “Maybe next time we’ll go a little further up.”
“There won’t be a next time,” Jongwoo snaps back.
“No?” Moonjo murmurs. “Alright.”
He’s humoring him. Like he knows something Jongwoo doesn’t. It infuriates Jongwoo to the point where he can’t tell the heat of arousal from that of anger.
Moonjo moves away, detaching himself from Jongwoo’s body. “Better make this count, then.”
The rustle of cloth behind him burns Jongwoo head to toe, his throat bobbing at the slow, tempting sound of Moonjo’s zipper being undone tooth by tooth.
“Tell me…”
Jongwoo breathes heavily out his nose. Stop fucking talking.
“Any quirk I should know about?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Jongwoo bites back between tightly clenched teeth.
He really needs that bite guard.
Moonjo’s mounting him from behind again, lips a whisper away from his shoulder blade. “Praise? Or would you prefer I put you in your place?”
“Just get to it,” Jongwoo whines. “You talk so fucking much, christ.”
An exhale. Defeat, maybe.
Except Moonjo’s arm snakes around Jongwoo to handle his erection carefully. “Let’s try again.”
“I fucking hate you.”
“Jongwoo,” there’s a demanding inflection to the way the name leaves the older man, and Jongwoo’s dick twitches.
It’s humiliating. It’s so fucking humiliating, but Moonjo makes it even worse when he mouths over the slope of Jongwoo’s red-warm cheek and says, ‘Be a good boy and tell me.’
“Fuck you,” Jongwoo whispers, voice quaking as he drips over Moonjo’s fingers. “At least I don’t like having my dick stepped on.”
Moonjo laughs. It’s small and fond, and he’s—pressing a kiss to Jongwoo’s blush as he retracts his hand.
“You mistake my curiosity for mockery, babe; I just want to know how you want to be treated,” he reassures. “I’m going to get to work now.”
Fucking finally.
Jongwoo drops down, elbows barely holding him up as Moonjo’s length slides hot and wet between his legs.
A desperate moan spills from his mouth, dampening the wood an inch beneath his lips. “Fuck,” he mutters. His hand grips the one on his hip, squeezing tight. “Feels weird,” he comments.
It does. Jongwoo didn’t even know this was a thing, but then a sudden, filthy noise leaves Moonjo, and Jongwoo doesn’t care how weird it feels.
He wants to hear more of it. So he lets him go on.
Moonjo starts thrusting steadily; a slow, lazy rhythm that makes the whole thing less animal and more sensual. His grunts ease into soft moans, nails biting into Jongwoo’s skin.
Jongwoo can feel him dripping wet down his thighs, making every slip between his slim legs smoother. The fabric of Moonjo’s shirt is smooth against the heat of his back. “How do I feel?” Moonjo drifts his mouth over his neck. “Come here,” and he’s gripping Jongwoo’s jaw, tilting his head back to force him into the type of reliance that forces him into submission; back arched and throat bare.
Jongwoo’s eyes are pressed shut, his mouth hung open, enough for two of Moonjo’s fingers to worm inside.
“Don’t…” Jongwoo gasps, but his mouth closes around the digits, eyes fluttering open and hooded to meet Moonjo’s.
Dark and heated. Flickering over Jongwoo’s features. Then soft.
Jongwoo hates it. All of it. From the way Moonjo’s looking at him, to the way he’s letting his fingers in his mouth, to the way he’s so fucking naked.
He hates Moonjo.
But Moonjo makes him feel good. And that’s what this is. Getting off. No strings attached.
He’ll let himself have this, then they’ll part ways and he’ll never see Moonjo again. Ever.
Drool dribbles down the corners of his mouth as Moonjo presses down on his tongue. It intoxicates him. Moonjo’s taking over all his senses at once and Jongwoo feels drunk.
“Please,” he slurs.
Moonjo’s fingers go deeper, imitating the rhythm of his thrusts. “You take me so well,” he murmurs, and everything slows down. His hips go tame, his fingers still in Jongwoo’s mouth.
Jongwoo pushes back but goes against his body and demands a contradictory “Stop.”
Moonjo doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t let up or ease off. He stops dead.
Breathes and says, “Did I do something wrong?”
The self-control he possesses that made him go from 100 to 0 drives Jongwoo dizzy with need. He elbows him lightly and stands upright to turn around and look at him.
Moonjo’s eyes are a wild almost-black, wide with desire and confusion. His pants are pulled down to his knees, crumpled white shirt hanging in a way that almost hides how close to coming he was.
Jongwoo looks at his face again, and at the lock of hair stuck between a pair of red, heated lips.
He waits. Just to test the older man’s patience. Just to fuck with his restraint.
So. Yeah. It’s a stroke to his ego when Moonjo lunges in not ten seconds later and kisses him. Jongwoo doesn’t mind the sloppiness of it, not when he feels so fucking desired.
Rebound.
Moonjo wants to desire, and Jongwoo wants to be desired.
He reaches down and takes a hold of the both of them.
Moonjo doesn’t stop kissing him. Maybe, Jongwoo thinks, Maybe that’s the clincher.