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The shot rings out in the night, cutting through the silence like a stone breaking glass. The man on the ground collapses with a whimper, and it’s only after a moment, two, that Junmo realises he wasn’t shot at all. That the man just fell out of fear. That there’s no wound, because the first one was a blank.
A test then. Another one.
Junmo can’t say he blames them. Still when he turns towards Gicheul’s again -which doesn’t take a lot, the man is up in his face, barely a foot away-, a scowl is etched onto his face and he can’t erase it.
“You trust me now ?” He says, provokes really, the gun hot and ill-at-ease in his unsteady hand.
Gicheul’s gaze is steady. More than steady, it bores into Junmo like he can see the lies, like he can dissect him with his eyes only and pull out his insides effortlessly. The intensity of it renders Junmo light-headed. Or maybe it’s the stress.
“Wrap it up,” he says, and for a second Junmo is about a explode, point the gun at his fucking head and shoot. But then the agreement comes from the other men, and… “Come with me,” Gicheul adds to him this time, and if it wasn’t clear enough, the light weight of his hand on Junmo’s arm tugs him along.
He lets himself be lead, because emotions are still high, because adrenaline numbs his mind and renders him hyperaware of everything and focusing on Gicheul in this situation is dangerous.
They arrive at the car to the sound of the other members “wrapping things up”.
Gicheul slides into the driver’s seat without even asking Junmo to drive, which is a first. He’s the one who always drives.
This doesn’t bode well for him, does it ? Passing that test doesn’t mean he quashed all suspicions, and Gicheul might think it’s just better to cut his losses, make sure his house is clean.
After a second of hesitation, Junmo enters the car as well.
His door is not even closed yet when Gicheul starts the engine. He quickly pulls it shut, just in time for the car to pull back and drive off to the fuck knows where.
It’s silent in the car, tension filling the space and thickening with every inch they travel, the roads dark and deserted. Junmo’s hands are shaking -not out of fear, but apprehension. He doesn’t have the capacity to run through the possibilities, he just has enough presence of mind to check that Gicheul doesn’t have his gun in hand, or a knife close by.
But no. One hand is squeezing the steering wheel with what seems to be nervous energy -and isn’t that another mystery-, the bruises ever marring his knuckles standing out sharply each time they flex, a sight that is both hypnotic and disturbing. The other hand lays between them, strangling the gear shift even as he doesn’t use it.
Soon after they left, they’re pulling over on a small patch of dirt beside the road, the front of the car shielded under the trees so that they’re as hidden from view as much as possible.
Junmo turns towards the driver’s seat, the question already falling.
“Wh-”
The interruption is not what he thought it would be. Instead of a bullet or a gun, or even a fist as punishment for his earlier hesitation, what hits him is a heated, warm mouth slotting over his.
Junmo’s exclamation of surprise is muffled, and his shoulders hit the door as he startles back. Gicheul follows the movement seamlessly, crowding closer as his lips move slowly, urging a response that Junmo starts to give without thought. Hot, eager, a tongue sneaks past the thin defence he had left and gives up entirely. The weight of Gicheul’s palm on his neck, holding him as much pulling him in, makes it difficult to swallow and impossible to think beyond the sudden need.
It’s the feeling of hair beneath his fingers -his hand apparently having moved up to Gicheul’s head- that snaps him out of it.
With all his might -and he doesn’t want to linger on the implications of that, either- Junmo pushes the man back, violent in a way one can only be when fighting with himself as well.
There’s no resistance, but it’s impossible to say if it’s because of surprise or for another reason entirely.
Gicheul is at a safe distance; Gicheul is looking a bit crazed as he tries to regain breath and composure, fingers clenching around nothing.
“I apologize,” he says, the words heavy with luscious urgency. “I should have asked if… I should have asked.”
“I… You…”
Each sentence he starts gets choked in his throat, and Junmo is at an utter loss to answer. His mouth feels hot, so much so it seems to ache. In fact, he feels hot all over, in the cramped up car, Gicheul’s body now pressed opposite his to the driver’s door. His gaze isn’t on him anymore. Junmo doesn’t have the capacity to wonder why that feels like a loss. Gicheul’s hands are white with tension, his jaw works and his throat moves with a swallow.
And then, quiet enough to be ignored easily :
“We can go.”
The thing is.
The mission, right ?
The real thing is.
Junmo doesn’t want to go. Junmo doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want Gicheul to avoid him, doesn’t want to see the rejection painted clear across his face despite the attempt at indifference.
He wants…
Seemingly out of its own volition, his hands rushes to fist into Gicheul’s collar, and the man flinches at the mouvement without trying to avoid it. Instead of punching though, Junmo drags him forward, forward, until he’s the one doing the kissing. Until shock gives way to reciprocation, and that alone is so fucking good. The way he manhandles the leader into the backseat is another thing entirely, much too good as well.
Fingers dig in his throat to urge him closer still, though there’s no space left between them. The line of Gicheul’s body against his is actually insane, makes him feel crowded and wrapped and safe, as paradoxal as it is. It’s so different from anything he’s ever done and felt during a moment of such intimacy that it’s like his first time all over again. The eagerness, the need to please and the desire to find pleasure as well, the heated breaths and open mouths and urgency to touch everything.
What Gicheul is feeling must not be so different, given how his hands are forcefully opening Junmo’s shirt, slipping inside without a care for the hiss it earns him as coldness hardens his nipples. It makes Gicheul move his mouth, though, aside and down, kissing Junmo’s jaw and guiding it backward so he can access his neck.
“You did so well tonight,” he says, and the praise feels so fucking good Junmo’s entire back arches into it.
The motion brings their hips together almost violently, and both make strangled sounds at the contact of their hardnesses. It seems to decide Gicheul to speed things up. Soon, teeth rake against Junmo’s exposed nipples, but not enough to be entirely pleasurable - a tease, nothing more.
He can’t think, he can’t breathe, everything is rushing and mellow at once, the heat of a tongue at his abdominal muscles, a hint of cold where saliva dries. The button of his trousers is undone in a second with a deftness that Junmo will wonder on, later, when this moment will keep playing on repeat in the dark of the night.
It’s only when Gicheul reaches his navel, that his mouth gets caught on the hem of his underwear and his fingers quickly come up to lower it, that Junmo snaps out of it.
“Boss,” he starts in protestation, high-strung and breathless and so unlike him.
The heat leaves his skin, but it’s only so the gang leader can look up at him, stern and enticing as ever. Strands of hair fall into his eyes, plump lips brought down in disapproval. The sight is enough to cause madness.
“Don’t call me that.”
The husky tone sends a sharp blast of heat down Junmo’s body. His toes curl in his shoes. The trousers remaining on him are coarse and stuffy.
“Why not ?”
“I can’t focus when you call me that.”
“Boss.”
“Incorrigible,” he mutters in response, a growl deep in his throat.
“Get this off,” he says, demands really.
At the leader’s confused glance, Junmo fists a hand in the collar of this stupid jacket, the thickness of it completely unwelcome. Understanding dawns on Gicheul, and maybe it is his imagination, but Junmo thinks he looks a little breathless at the initiative -and the command. So he goes a step further, retreating only enough to shrug off the jacket and throw it on the front seats, the black shirt soon disappearing in the same manner.
And then Junmo is confronted with the gang leader shirtless. No gun, no knife, no defenses, and yet all Junmo can think about is how fucking gorgeous he looks in the dark, the shadows of branches dancing across his naked skin as he lowers himself once more, clearly on a war path.
His nails are short, which is to be expected in this line of work, but they still scrape everywhere they go, and the sensation against the most sensitive part of his stomach, so low, makes him shiver.
It turns out Gicheul is skilled with his mouth at more than words.
He takes to licking Junmo’s cock like he has done this his whole life, and wouldn’t mind doing it for the rest of it. His perfect hair becomes a mess with how Junmo grabs onto it, pulls and pushes without any sense of direction, without exactly knowing what he wants beside that wet and competent mouth around his cock. His tongue is velvet, and paired with the purposeful suction, it makes his hips arch up. And Junmo hates, hates, how insanely good it feels, so much it lacks logic. He has had sex before, has had people go down on him, and yet Gicheul’s ministrations make him absolutely crazed with needs as he chases release into the wet throat -it probably has to do with having such a man, a thug and a leader and a criminal, worship his body like it’s worthy.
A moan vibrates right through his cock and his balls tighten; Junmo’s grip on Gicheul’s hair becomes unforgiving as he tears him away, the sound of panting filling the car lewdly.
He’s painfully hard and the promised release is but a suction away, one Gicheul is clearly too happy to give. But if this is to be the first and only time they do this, Junmo wants to be selfish, more so than he’s ever been.
“Are you…”
“Shhh,” he instantly interrupts the man, using the hold on his hair to pull him up and then forcing him around, quickly changing their positions.
Objectively, it’s awkward, two grown ass men manoeuvring in the backseat of a car like hormonal teenagers, one pant-less and the other shirtless, but neither fully naked. Junmo shrugs off his open shirt, then, under the attentive eye of Gicheul, starts working on his pants. Except the guy grabs his wrist to stop him, making him look up in frustration. Despite looking thoroughly ravaged -even though he’s the one who blew the cop, not the other way around-, Gicheul hasn’t lost any of his hard-learned poise.
Too seriously, a frown drawing his eyebrows down, he asks :
“Is this your first time with a man ?”
“Does it matter ?” Junmo pants, and for good measure, grabs Gicheul’s thick boner through his pants.
He takes advantage of the way his head tilts back under the ministration to rush forward and press him against the door, sucking a bruise into his neck with no care in the world for the inconvenience it will be in the aftermath. Why does it matter, when he can feel the way his pulse is beating under his tongue, when his Adam’s apple jump with the hurried breaths he takes; why does it matter, when all Junmo wants in this moment is to keep being this close to this man, open and earnest and desperate for affection.
(the only thing Junmo will not allow himself to think back on is the sheer need to give that to him)
Gicheul is entirely at his mercy, sprawled out and laid open so Junmo can do whatever he wishes to his body -and if there’s a metaphor there, about the vulnerability he allow in proximity with him, about how Junmo will completely destroy this man’s trust and faith, there’s no way to think about it without shattering, so he doesn’t.
Instead, he finally works open button and zipper, and gets enough room to grope the promising hardness above the underwear.
Now, this is a novelty he never thought he’d experience, but the feel of it is… more than pleasing. The bulge restrained by the fabric, a clear proof of how affected Gicheul is. Beyond that, though, is how it clearly impacts the man, whose entire body seems to shake beneath him. He palms at it without real purpose, just getting used to the feel of it and the reactions those simple movements draw from Gicheul, the pulse under Junmo’s lips jumping furiously. He takes his time with it, too, enjoys how the arousal presses against his palm without anywhere to hide, how it seems like the gang leader is bursting with it, twisting beneath him and making all kinds of sounds that go straight to Junmo’s head. Junmo issues a warning with a hint of teeth at his throat, holding up his palm in front of Gicheul’s face without bothering to pull away. The man’s body tenses, and at the lack of a reaction, Junmo shamelessly slaps his hand over Gicheul’s mouth.
A soft noise echoes under his teeth.
“Tongue,” he finally says, because he’s scared of getting lost before accomplishing what he wants.
Eager, his tongue first lays flat on his palm, and then he begins to draw undistinguishable patterns all over it, getting it sloppy and going as far as wrapping his lips around the side of Junmo’s hand. Once he starts feeling the drool slipping down his wrist and Gicheul drawing his fingers into his mouth, Junmo decides that it’s enough. When he pull back, though, Gicheul’s breath breaks.
“Seungho,” he moans, and the fake name is like a vengeful slap across the face.
He wants his name to be moaned, growled, owned by this man. He wants him to know it, hold it, cherish it or choke on it, but it would be all his. When Gicheul’s mouth parts once more in the promise of repetition, Junmo silences the name with a forceful kiss. Just in case he has a mind to persist, though, he sneaks his hand past the underwear and finally takes Gicheul in hand. His saliva still coats his palm, and so it’s not too rough when he starts jerking off the gang leader, his movements almost punishing with how quick he goes.
No that the man complains; matter of fact, he doesn’t stop moaning. The sight, the sounds, the feeling; all of it is unholy and shameful and makes Junmo incredibly harder. In search for a distraction -lest he let himself admire the red of his cheeks, the open mouth teasing a hint of tongue, the thick veins of his neck taut with tension, and the sudden urge to lick every inch of skin offered to him, to taste all of it while he can- Junmo speaks.
“If I knew it was this easy…”
“Fucking watch it,” Gicheul groans in warning, but his hips arch under Junmo’s touch.
“Gicheul,” he dares to whisper, only because he told him not to use his title, only because he seems lost to pleasure and crazed on it.
The man’s breath hitches audibly, his eyes blinking too quickly for it to be natural as he tries to compose himself.
“I’ll give it to you, uh ?” He says, promises.
He knows what the leader is feeling. Can recognise that need, and the conviction that letting himself be cared for, handled, is dangerous and impossible to think of. If only for tonight, Junmo wishes to offer him solace.
His fist tightens around Gicheul, the perfect distraction from his other hand creeping up his broad thigh. The muscles ripple across his torso, his arms as he grips the headrest for dear life, the bulge of his bicep strikingly attractive from such little distance. Junmo’s fingers take a hold of Gicheul’s ass shamelessly, prompting him to bow closer and leave some room to manoeuvre. His fist doesn’t relent, Gicheul’s cock pulsing against his palm, clearly fighting not to come, but Jumo is greedy tonight.
Although it would be easy, to take all the leader is clearly offering now, unbidden, Junmo still leans down, trapping their hands and movements between their bodies and feeling the way Gicheul’s chest expands with a deep, grounding inhale.
“Can I ?” He whispers right against his lips.
Gicheul’s eyes gleam in the dark, fixed on his as if he’s locked and can’t look away. For his meaning to be absolutely clear, Junmo lets his fingers tease the inward curve of his ass cheek, reveling in the way the leader’s mouth parts even further, shaky, and he blinks heavily.
Before he answers, Gicheul grabs at Junmo’s neck and pulls him forward, pressing their lips together until the urgency settles down, until the fervency lessens just some. All becomes mellow and heated, the slow tangle of their tongues, the way sweat is covering their skins and the silence of the car.
Eventually, Gicheul lets Junmo breathe again and whispers into the kiss :
“Yeah.”
From then on, it’s too easy. The world outside has faded a while ago, but now Junmo doesn’t even feel like a cop or a thug anymore, doesn’t know anything outside of the need to watch and feel Jung Gicheul at his mercy. The only thing that manages to cross Junmo’s mind at this point is how the absence of discomfort on Gicheul’s part as he slides a finger inside him, then two, betrays his experience. This is not his first time, and the bolt of jealousy is too sharp to ignore.
“You do this often ?” He bites out, protective and angry for reasons he will never examine.
“Not since I met you,” comes the gasping response, ending up in a hiss at a crook of Junmo’s index. “Used to look for people, right after our first meeting, you were so frustrating… But after I…”
The rest gets choked up, interrupted by Junmo passing his thumb on the head of Gicheul’s cock, fingers moving a bit too quickly in his ass. Still, the leader persists.
“I couldn’t want anyone but you.”
The admission seems to drive a sword right through Junmo’s chest, and he tries to hide the emotion by kissing Gicheul fiercely, drawing as many moans from him as he can.
Because the truth is, in the darkest hours of the night, when his stomach is in knots and heat starts tingling at the base of his spine, it’s not his wife he thinks about. It’s cigarettes and the click of a lighter, smoke leaving parted lips, the taste of tobacco and blood. It’s eyes darker than Seoul’s sky at night and broad hands grasping his arms and neck. It’s short nails scraping his skin and short hair between his fingers.
And now that he gets to have it all, it’s so overwhelming he can’t breathe. So he doesn’t want Gicheul able to breathe, either, wants him to become as addicted as he is, incapable of going to anyone else. His movements speed up even as his fist tightens around his boss’ cock, his fingers reaching for that place that makes the man’s back arch up.
Junmo wants to mark him. Wants to render the gang leader his, in the sole way he ever can.
His fist leaves Gicheul to settle over his own dick as he watches the man shudder and moan under him, as if he wasn’t a devout christian for most his life. He’s still twisting to fuck himself onto Junmo’s merciless fingers when the pleasure becomes unbearable and Junmo bows forward to bite at the tempting collarbone. Right when teeth pierce skin, Gicheul’s moans turn to strangles trapped in his throat, and they both come at the same time.
The nails digging into Junmo’s nape are short and biting, keeping him close; the heart under his torso beats in tandem with his, hurried and overwhelmed. He can feel the heavy breaths swelling in Gicheul’s lungs, the panting filling the car rushing back in his ears. He can feel the stickiness between their bodies, unpractical, but also irremediable proof of what Junmo did to Gicheul -and vice versa.
He hears a thump, telltale of Gicheul having knocked his head back against the window.
Junmo closes his eyes, and listens to their breathing settle. It sounds like being born anew.