Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chanyeol gawks at the paper as if it will blurt out an explanation if he keeps it up long enough. There is no rational explanation for what lies before him. He has never seen anything like it in all his years of teaching, nothing as atrocious or audacious. He can barely wrap his head around it. Instead of the ten-page essay on The Canterbury Tales that was being examined, a three-page fantasy piece lies in its place.

Dear Professor Park,

I know I’m not supposed to be doing this but quite frankly I don’t see how else I can get you to listen anymore. With all due respect sir, I think about you fucking me every day. I’ve craved you since the moment I saw you. It wasn’t in class, mind you. It was mid-summer, long before everyone settled back in and you were giving summer classes. I so desperately wanted you to be one of my professors. Can you imagine my delight when you walked in and introduced yourself as my Literature professor? I touched myself to the thought of you every night and sometimes it was hard recalling your face when I didn't see you for some time but alas! All my prayers were answered and there’s not a day I don’t don’t about you.

I want you so bad, Mr. Park. Why do you keep rejecting me? I promise I want nothing but your cock in return. I want you to fuck me in every way you’ve ever fantasized of fucking someone. Sometimes I think about what would happen if I bent over your desk while you’re teaching. Could you resist that? I’d hold myself open for you, my legs very far apart. You’d be overtaken by lust and forget about everything else. That’s just my fantasy though. I think you’d make an example of me. I wouldn’t mind, as long as you fucked me in the end. Do you see a pattern? I want to be fucked by you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate in my life for anything.

How many boys have you fucked? Are you seeing someone now? It doesn’t matter. I can tell you right now that none of them will ever be as good as me. I want to be so good for you. Or bad, if you want. I could ride you so good, until you came twice. You wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d take care of you so good, sir. I’d pledge eternal matrimony to your cock, sir. My mouth is a shrine for you.

I’ve fucked myself over and over since the summer with toys, wondering what kind of lover you are. I can imagine you gentle and perhaps even vanilla. Looks can be deceiving, no? But in my imagination you break me a million times over and I stay on my knees for you. You fuck me like an insatiable animal and I remain your eternally willing prey. You make me cry and colour my skin hideously to mark your ownership because I am nothing more than yours and I kiss your cock for it. You tie me up and leave me bereft of everything for days, including necessities, but I weep only for your cock, for it is my lifeblood. Could you keep me alive on your come, Mr. Park?

I imagine us crazed, fucking from morning to night like a pair of uninhibited beasts. You never tire and your libido never wanes. You fuck me to sleep and fuck me while I’m asleep. It becomes part of our essence. Maybe you’ll give in once and my overwhelming desire for you will be satisfied. Until then all I can think about is you choking me as I suck you. You holding me upside down, my tears dripping to the floor as you ruin me with your tongue. Have you ever fucked someone to oblivion? I’ve never experienced it but there’s so much you make me imagine, I’m learning so much about my own nature.

I also mean to confess there was this time I jerked off in your class. My friend thought it was funny, that I was just being juvenile and rebellious but you went on a passionate tangent, throwing rhetoricals at us about Empson and in that moment all I was thinking about was you screaming at me to suck your dick. I couldn’t contain myself. Getting off in the same room as you seems the closest I’ll get to being intimate with you so I guess I’ll take it and no remorse sir, I’d do it again.

Chanyeol can not even finish the letter. There is a very tangible problem in his slacks. He feels horrified for feeling anything other than alarm and aversion but the boy’s words get under skin and the beast he’s invoking begins to stir.

It’s ineluctable that his memory tries to trace the day he’s referring to. Albeit the lecture hall being quite big and the class almost full, is it possible for Chanyeol to be so unaware in his own class? It can’t have been a workshop day or a seminar because those are smaller groups and more intimate. Which makes it all the worse sometimes. Jongin is equal parts shameless and relentless no matter the crowd size.

Nevertheless, the thought of him stroking himself in Chanyeol’s very own class while Chanyeol was standing in it and with dozens of others present makes a sick desire curdle in his stomach and his cock twitch. He reasons that’s it’s only natural to be aroused by such carnal words. It means nothing more than that when the image of a swollen-lipped, lusty boy stays on his mind for the following days.

*

Since Chanyeol had been away from the university the previous taking care of research matters, he never met or glimpsed the new batch of students that flowed in. Jongin was one of the first of his new class to make an impression. It wasn’t his great carob-caramel mink coat late August or chains overlapping his svelte waist or biker boots that soldered him to Chanyeol’s memory, though witnessing his avant garde fashion is an intriguing part of Chanyeol’s day to date.

Chanyeol believes in the Horn Effect just as much as he believes in the Halo Effect. He puts it into practise just as much as some students do the latter. It’s necessary to set the tone for the year and make both his life easier and the quality of his classes better. If he is perceived from the get-go as austere and unrelenting, the likelihood of his course being taken as jape is slim. By the end of the introductory class, the mood was grim, his expectations and intentions explicitly understood. Chanyeol felt little remorse as he had shown them his worst and what was left to see was his leniency which always surprised them.

He was packing away his things, taking note of the great turn out as students trickled out. He had a hunch the number would fall by half by the end of the Michaelmas semester.

“Professor Park, I look forward to your classes the most.”

He looked up to see a grinning face. The boy’s mink was falling off one shoulder, revealing the thin white vest and sinews of a shapely arm. His face held gentle mirth and a soft exuberance that made it feel like they were long familiar with each other.

“I’m glad to hear that…”

“Jongin. Kim Jongin.”

His grip was firm, his hand swallowed in Chanyeol’s. Before letting go he ran his thumb over the swelling of veins on Chanyeol’s hand. His gaze didn’t leave Chanyeol’s.

Chanyeol heard the name before. Lucy had him in her class the year before and she had always sung his praises to anyone who would lend a half hearted ear. She was teaching a ‘ genius’, ‘a most brilliant mind’ and she ‘hadn’t come across the likes in decades’. Chanyeol would attest to the fuss himself this year.

Chanyeol’s brows rose when Jongin fell into step with him as he headed towards the lecturer’s passage. He kept pace with Chanyeol but there was a swing in his step that made it seem like he was skipping.

“Are you going for lunch? What are you having?”

“There’s a meeting.” Chanyeol said shortly, peering at Jongin sideways. He wondered if he would ask to carry his satchel next.

“That’s too bad. You didn’t answer my question though. Won’t you eat afterwards? Or do you have a particular diet for maintaining these muscles?” he transferred the books he was carrying to his other arm to free up his closer hand. Chanyeol was numb in incredulity as the boy squeezed around his upper arm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t you have a class or somewhere to be, Mr. Kim?” Chanyeol detached Jongin from himself as politely as he can, the sternness of his voice making it clear it was a dismissal.

“This is my only class for the day actually. And oh, call me Jongin! Though my friends call me Nini and my mother calls me ‘Dear Heart’. My sisters call me Jonginnie or Pabo. Sometimes I like to be called—” he paused mid sentence, as if Chanyeol’s incredulence had dawned on him. “But you, Mr. Park,” the sun hit his face directly at that angle as he looked up at Chanyeol. It offset his already golden complexion and made him look molten aurum sculpted. “You can call me anything you like.”

His custard grin was disorienting and the ambiguous statement warmed Chanyeol around the collar for reasons incognizant to him. Chanyeol nodded and looked ahead. Did he mean Chanyeol can call him by any of the nicknames he mentioned? Or call him by something else entirely?

Long after Jongin wished him good luck and walked away in the opposite direction, Chanyeol realized what felt so strange about the bizarre student’s statement. It felt like he was being given permission for far more than a name.

That was not the last encounter with Jongin that left him perplexed. Every meeting with him ranged from slightly confusing to downright disconcerting. For all of Chanyeol’s stringent reputation— that he half fueled himself—and actual harshness, Jongin treats him like a long standing friend who he knows to be as soft as pap and can get away with running his mouth around or rile up with no repercussions.

The only common denominator between all that is Jongin—one that Chanyeol will take a hot nail to the liver before he admits—is that it’s pleasant, always so pleasant. A semester and a half in and Chanyeol has managed to be as least responsive as possible to boy. Yet there is a fresh prosaicness to the days he doesn’t teach his class, or come across him ‘accidentally’ as Jongin would have him believe.

The most astonishing part that Chanyeol does not to date accept is Jongin’s touchiness. Chanyeol wonders if his genius—which he found out was not exaggerated a single bit—was swapped for a substantial amount of brain cells, especially those denoting common sense.

He hooks his arm around Chanyeol’s if he sees him getting around campus, however brisk he is walking and Chanyeol has to shrug him off. His arm is a sling for Chanyeol’s middle or shoulders if he sees him in the corridors or at his desk when he comes by his office and Chanyeol has to detach him, not quite discreetly. There is nothing that could have prepared him for the loop that short circuited his brain when Jongin pouted at him. He’s still not quite sure he can look at him when he’s making any variation of that face and not bend to his will like plasticine under a flamethrower. How fucking cute. The epiphany of why so many felt compelled to nicknames him things like Nini was a brick to the face sort and Chanyeol wishes he could unknow it.

Playing favourites is something Chanyeol has always been able to avoid, simply by shirking any communication beyond that necessitated by his job. But trying to evade Jongin or limit interactions with him based on in the lecture hall or absolutely required beyond that, was as easy and feasible as peeling super glue off skin with blunt nails. By the end of the first semester, Chanyeol had swallowed the fact that Jongin was as relentless as Chanyeol was unwilling to entertain him and something had to give.  

Taking all of this into account, perhaps Chanyeol should not be so jarred by Jongin’s salacious confessions but he is.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Considering he has written erotica to his English professor, Jongin looks particularly unconcerned, sparkly eyed even. He sits opposite Chanyeol, legs crossed, occupying the seat like it was made to embrace his frame. Denim jacket, white tee, denim jeans, imprinted with rambling roses and chrysanthemum. His auburn hair is now dyed indigo. The same shade of kohl lines his eyes and when he blinks at Chanyeol beneath a veil of lashes that caress his upper cheeks, Chanyeol glimpses a shimmer of sangria on his eyelids.

“I said, do you know why you’re here?”

The hint of a smile hovers on his lips and his gaze alternates between Chanyeol and the floor. Despite being the one behind the desk, despite Jongin being the one who has erred, it feels like the opposite. The traces of Jongin’s amusement makes him feel like he’s missing out on a joke or perhaps, that he’s the butt of it. His silence only makes Chanyeol’s irritation grow and for the first time since giving up trying to amputate any informal relation with him, Chanyeol wonders if having been so clement with Jongin was a tremendous lapse of judgement, that Jongin takes him for a laughing stock now.

“Is your education a joke to you, Mr. Kim?”

Jongin freezes at this, the amusement shattering off his face like hammered ice. Chanyeol doesn’t blame him, even his colleagues cower when he uses this tone. In this moment he realizes that for the first time in his career, he has had a favourite. Has a favourite. It’s implausible that Jongin has been acting the way he has, testing Chanyeol’s boundary like he has and has not been on the receiving end of this tone. This marrow deep ice that’s as much a threat as it is a warning.

“Is there something amusing Mr. Kim?”

The laissez faire about Jongin becomes untraceable. His shoulders are hunched and drawn in, his head bowed. At full height he fits right beneath Chanyeol’s chin but right now he seems half his size.  It’s the first time Chanyeol has seen him like this. And he knows his intimidation attempt has worked. It has never failed on anyone. But the thrum that lines his core at seeing Jongin like this is something curious and magnetic. Now that he has unleashed a miniscule portion of it, the rest years to be unleashed.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Chanyeol rises. Jongin flinches at the volume. The part Chanyeol has been working to suppress and annihilate since he read the damn confessional pulses alive and eager, so bloody eager. In front of him are two Jongins, the one he has professionally scared into submission and the one from Jongin’s own fantasy, undressing for him slowly and wantonly begging sir.

“You have no problem running your mouth nonstop every single day. What do you have to say for yourself now, Mr. Kim? Do you proposition yourself to everyone? Are you a student or a whore? Do you offer yourself to your other professors too?”

Jongin’s eyes flicker up to him before quickly looking back down. Chanyeol sees the wobble in his heavy lower lip. He notices then that the he is actually trembling, so slightly that if he didn’t have his feet crossed, Chanyeol wouldn’t have caught on.

Goodness, he’s about to cry.

“Jongin?” no matter how unacceptably Jongin behaved, Chanyeol had never intended to make him cry.

“Professor.”

Chanyeol has never seen or heard him so demure. He should continue rebuking him. But a dormant, horribly indecent part of him has been aroused and it seems unwilling to rest before gratifying itself.

“What is it?”

Jongin has his eyes closed. His ragged breathing is loud in the quiet office. Then he looks up, expression hazed, almost pained.

He takes his clasped hands away from his crotch and what ails him becomes so evident. Chanyeol feels like he’s wearing his head on his feet and his feet dangle on his neck. He has to lean back on his desk as all the blood in his body centres downwards.

Jongin tosses his head back, still staring at Chanyeol beneath a bonnet of lashes but the arousal clear in his cloudy eyes now that Chanyeol sees the evidence for himself.

“Professor,” Jongin repeats, shaky and pleaful.  Helpless.

Desire. Chanyeol almost buckles under the tsunami of it.

“Three thousand words,” Chanyeol feels sandpaper in his throat, “submitted by nine tomorrow morning.” Chanyeol has never been someone who struggles to hold eye contact but looking into Jongin’s blown pupils, whose thoughts he has a faint idea of, almost makes him shifty and unable to maintain it. All because he so badly wants to fulfil Jongin’s needs. He wants to undo the buttons of those tights jeans and tell him what a bad boy he is. He wants Jongin to touch himself and let Chanyeol watch.

“If you don’t,” Chanyeol’s anger at himself is disguised in the disdain and coldness he addresses Jongin with, “this...incident will be taken to the dean.”

Chanyeol expects a nod. He expects compliance and cowering. Jongin had his run, he tested the boundaries and Chanyeol has shown him the rigidity of it. Or, embarrassingly, the shell of it that he can manage with Jongin.

The nod comes, after a period of reflective silence. He picks up his bag and stands. To Chanyeol’s irritation, the remorse is still lacking. There’s an explicable yearning to see that hunch in the boy’s shoulder, to see him pliable.

“Are you sure,” Jongin walks towards him. He doesn’t stop until he is pressing Chanyeol back into the desk. And Chanyeol learns how much of Jongin’s arousal remains. How much of his own. “You don’t want to punish me the old fashioned way?” his blackcurrant locks have fallen from their stiff upwards stretch and turn his face malleable looking. Chanyeol wants to dishevel him further.

“Old fashioned way?”

“I’m sure there’s a cane around here somewhere,” the sentence drips like caramel between them, falls in pools to Chanyeol’s groin and he can’t understand why until Jongin continues, “unless you’d prefer to use your hand. That...that would be so much better.” Chanyeol can feel Jongin’s heartbeat on his chest. He feels his body heat, feels his hands sliding over his on the edge of the desk and locking their fingers together, feel’s their hard, hard bodies pulse together, feel Jongin’s breath blowing up to his lips. Feels far too much and wants too much.

His restraint, an embarrassing husk of what it normally is, lapses and lapses detrimentally as he lets his mind wonder for a fraction of a second. He allows himself to think about Jongin’s unambiguous suggestion. Allows himself to imagine himself turning Jongin around, pulling his pants down and bending him over the desk. He imagines the feel of Jongin’s bare skin, the curve of his cheeks on Chanyeol’s palm, the hit and the gasp. The redness and the moan, perhaps his fractured name. Chanyeol’s hips buck of their own accord, his eyes shutting at the pleasure breaking over his head like a bucket of ice.

Then they open swiftly, the window in his imagination slamming. His body has its own life, blood rushing in his ears and south of his core but he fixes Jongin’s warm sensuous gaze with white, hot coldness.

“Five thousand words. Seven a.m.”

*

Chanyeol burns the unresolved energy in weights and exercise. Overarching the desire he’s trying to drown is anger. Mild anger that boils to absolute furry if he lets that stream of thought go unchecked.

The question burns in his mind. Is it only Chanyeol or is he like this with everyone?

He should have taken it to Mr. Jung. Jongin’s future at the college should be in discussion right now, as well as a suitable penalty. He can’t even begin to count the lines he crossed, not to mention violating the law.

But here Chanyeol is. Uselessly thinking about whether Jongin is risque with all of his other teachers or if it’s just Chanyeol. And how much one of those possibilities makes him see blood.

Perhaps he should go and see a therapist. These can’t be his own thoughts. He can’t seriously be thinking of ‘old fashioned discipline’ and punish fucks and dominance . Complete, unabridged, unchallenged dominance and ownership.

It’s not the thoughts that are gnawing on Chanyeol’s sanity. His preferences and way of loving are no secret to him. He’s not a unfledged twenty something year old discovering themselves. It’s the fact that he’s having these thoughts about an unfledged twenty something year old who happens to be his student.

With the way Jongin approaches him and carries himself, Chanyeol somehow doubts the unfledged part and there it is, gnawing jealousy, his thoughts circling meaninglessly like this.

Two days later when he has Jongin for class again, he feels slightly unhinged. Jongin, as instructed, had promptly submitted his punishment piece. Chanyeol’s brain refused to let him forget the occurence in his office every time he stepped into it since and when his email pinged with a new alert and Jongin’s name attached to it, Chanyeol’s very vivid problem in his slacks tells him to how much he wishes he took Jongin’s offer of alternative punishment.

The castigation extends to ignoring Jongin in class. Chanyeol can’t say that he doesn’t see Jongin practically vibrating with enthusiasm to answer his questions and be an active participant as he has been since the start. He can’t say that he doesn’t see Jongin grow increasingly sullen as the lecture goes on.

Underneath the satisfaction at having beaten Jongin in some way, even if he hasn’t defeated the wildness running amok in his brain, lies a glimmer of contrition. An small insistent impulse; to let Jongin speak, beam with brilliance and gratifaction the way engagement with Chanyeol clearly gives him. And even smaller; an urge to kiss his kiss-wanton lips back to a smile or lopsided smirk that always hangs a millisecond away.

Exhausted in an unfamiliar way, Chanyeol packs up his belongings and wonders if he can squeeze in a quick workout before his next class.

“So you’re this kind of teacher?”

Jongin looks unkempt and as exhausted as Chanyeol feels.

“What kind.” He slings his satchel over his shoulders and attempts to manoeuvre around Jongin.

“Ignores his students.” Jongin blocks him. Chanyeol can easily brush him aside but the rawness in his voice halts him. His chin is creased and his lips wobble in a familiar way and Christ, Chanyeol thinks. He’s on the verge of tears again.

“What? You like hearing yourself talk? That’s all you do, you know. Talk and talk and talk and throw rhetoricals at us. Why? Because they’re not supposed to be answered and great. Fucking great for you because you just get to hear yourself talk, you sucky ass professor who can’t even—cant even—”

Jongin stops. Chanyeol’s breathing hard.

“Can’t even what?” He steps towards Jongin. “Can’ even what.” He repeats when Jongin keeps backing away and shaking his head.

“Tell me, Jongin.”

“No,”

“Tell me,”

“No,”

“I said tell me!”

“No!”

Chanyeol can’t say what took him. Only that the last thread snapped and he needed Jongin against him.

Jongin’s lips are soft. Chanyeol kisses him hard. His hips are glass in Chanyeol’s hold. Chanyeol wants to do unspeakable things to him. He kisses Jongin like the first gulp of air after minutes of holding your breath under water. His lungs fill up with Jongin, ragged, brimming and resusicatiting. Jongin kisses him back like Chanyeol is his saviour. With all the passion he promised in his confessional. With all the zeal he’s been parading for Chanyeol.

“M-Mr. Park,” Jongin gulps once they break for air. His demeanour, dead earlier, is alive and his fervour rekindled. His lips look plumper, his cheeks lively and his grin permanent. Chanyeol pulls him in again and this time his satchel and Jongin’s bag are lost somewhere to the board where Chanyeol shoves Jongin against.

Chanyeol cups Jongin’s face and Jongin undoes his blazer and slips his hand beneath Chanyeol’s shirt. The brute inside him that Jongin had been working to unleash is fully unchained and Chanyeol yearns to do so much that it’s driving him crazy and yet all he can do is kiss and kiss and kiss Jongin, engrave himself in every part of him he can reach.

“Chanyeol,” Jongin purrs and takes the chance to tweak Chanyeol’s nipple. Chanyeol bucks against him, feeling his Cheshire grin against his lips.

“Damn you,” Chanyeol says gruffly as it dawns on him, “damn you and your mouth Kim Jongin.” This had been Jongin’s plan all along. Riling him into snapping.

“No, not yet. Not until I’ve tasted your cock.”  He grins, the sinful words sounding like sweet hymnal from him.

“Fuck,” Chanyeol groans, burying his head in Jongin’s neck, “fuck.”

“Yes, that’s right. Fuck me,” he arches as Chanyeol clenches harder around the delicate skin of his neck, “ fuck me,”

Chanyeol has a half mind to skip everything and get right to that. But the taste of Jongin, the warmth and silk of him. Every part of him screams devour, slowly. Savour.

Jongin’s sensitivity is titillating. Chanyeol’s lips brush over his collarbone in the lightest and Jongin’s head is bent one-ninety. Chanyeol breathes over his throat, on the way to his mouth and Jongin is so hungry for him when their lips meet. The deep hums of satisfaction as Chanyeol explores his mouth bury themselves in his bloodstream and travel south. He is ravenous for more, ravenous for Jongin’s sounds, for his touch, for his homage.

And then he wrenches himself away.

Fuck.

Wide, stunned eyes stare back. Chanyeol doesn’t remember touching Jongin’s hair but it stands apart in static-run disheveled strands and he wants to grip them and lock their lips again.

“Can I take a picture of you like this?” his whisper is mellow huskiness.

“Why?”

“I want to look at...when I…”

It must be the overwhelming amount of Jongin that dulls his comprehension like a sedative because he doesn’t understand what he means until Jongin rubs against him briefly and has the gall to blush.

“No, you can’t.”

“Can’t touch myself?”

Chanyeol thinks Jongin would look pretty with a gag ball in his mouth. A permanent one. So he doesn’t speak things that make Chanyeol want to tear his clothes off and mount him on the floor.

“No, you can’t take a picture.”

“Can you at least give me a recording of your voice? How about your number? I promise—”

“No.” Chanyeol pulls away. He immediately misses the warmth. He tucks in his shirt, tightens his tie and buttons himself up. It’s almost laughable how desperately Jongin has ruffled him up if he didn’t look at him and see his own desperation all over him. One might even argue Jongin looks more worse for wear with the bruises already blossoming on his neck and jaw.

Shouldn’t have been so careless.

The longer he stands in Jongin’s presence the stronger the urge to give Jongin a busted lip and even darker throat grows. So Chanyeol nods at Jongin without looking at him and picks up his bag.

“Goodbye, Mr. Kim.”

*

The following day, some common traits between Kim Jongin and a ghost become apparent to Chanyeol. One is that they accelerate his heartbeat. Two they sneak up on you. Three ties in with two, you don’t hear them come up on you.

Chanyeol has a committee meeting in ten minutes . He was late to the last meeting and several before that so he can’t afford tardiness again. There are only so many scornful ‘welcome Mr. Park so glad to see you could join us’ a man can bear. In his defence, having a meeting at lunchtime is quite the asshole move.

All in all, it’s safe to say he’s not expecting Kim Jongin’s arms to slink around him as he finishes up at the urinals. He’s not expecting to know who it is without turning around nor does he expect to later replay in his mind the fact that he’d wandered so close to his crotch.

“Need some help there Mr. Park?” Jongin twists around to look at him without letting go of his middle and a navy mane appears in vision. He smiles warmly, like he is gladest to see Chanyeol. He rests his head on Chanyeol’s arm, rubbing where his hands lie and continues to give him that casual glad mien.

Chanyeol whirls around.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want you to see something. Thought you might be interested.”

He walks into a stall and waits. Nothing good will come out of following him in, Chanyeol knows for a fact. He raises a brow at Jongin, unspoken quiry of ‘do you really think I’m going to entertain your madness?’

“Come on Mr. Park, I promise it’s harmless.”

And then when Chanyeol keeps quiet, shaking his head and makes towards the sink, “If you don’t like it, you can leave. No harm done. Just, come take a look.”

As though Jongin can sense the highly unbalanced debate going on inside Chanyeol, he comes over and leads Chanyeol to the stall by the hand. Curiosity, Chanyeol thinks, is the most human of conditions. It’s certainly not the honey drip smile that lets him be pulled in. He tells himself. Just plain ol’ curiosity.

The door is locked behind them. The stall is spacious for a single person. It was not made for two. It’s quite a fit with both of them inside. Chanyeol gives an impatient huff when Jongin only smiles with his back to the wall, hands trapped behind him and looking very much like a pretty maiden awaiting their swain’s proposal.

When Chanyeol raises an eyebrow, ready to make an exit if Jongin doesn’t get to the point within the next second, he straightens from his slouch. Hands go to his faded jeans. He’s dressed simply today, plain white tshirt tucked in. Dressed in only that, despite the fact that it’s freezing out. He looks far from simple though. His thighs are on perfect display, shapely and firm. Just like his plentiful rear Chanyeol got a glimpse when his back was to him, firm derriere squeezed into shape by the tight fit and furthermore by each step he took. The white offsets his hair, eyes and skin in contrasting ways and in short, he looks painfully gorgeous and in a rush it brings to the forefront all the unholy thoughts Chanyeol has been having of him.

He undoes the button on his jeans, no belt but it hugs his form intimately. Glancing up at Chanyeol, he lifts the shirt. Chanyeol should stop him now. He should stop this now.

“What do you think, sir?” he says honey tone. Everything about him is sickly sweet edged in danger’s fatal teeth. And yet. It burns libidinous. He’s cinching his shirt to the back, letting Chanyeol see what lies beneath.

“Is this for me?” Chanyeol’s resolve is a metal block sinking in pure acid. Each second he takes in the purple lace briefs is speeding up the process.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you want this,” he holds the ends of his zipper sides wider apart.

Chanyeol slams the wall next to Jongin’s head, making the stall wall and his student jump. He brings his other hand to opposite side of Jongin too, caging him, forcing him to tip his head far back to see eye to eye.

“Is this.” he speaks slowly, inner turmoil making control slippery, “For. Me?”

Why Jongin is doing this is obscure. How many others he offers himself to is obscure. Why it matters to Chanyeol is obscure. The last one can’t be helped, it’s becoming more and more apparent. It’s infuriating.

“Yes,” Jongin gulps. He’s not quite the wanton but frightened entity Chanyeol had transformed him into in his office but whatever he sees now on Chanyeol makes the playfulness leak out, more cautious and obedient. “Yes sir it’s for you.”

Chanyeol lets loose a long breath. His fingers are unable to stay still. As soon as he lifts them, Jongin seems to be ready, pushing his jeans down past his thighs. Some of his confidence is restored, his lips rising and staying that way.

The magenta lace fabric with frills and hugs his hips snugly. Compliments his glowing golden skin. The act of laying hands on Jongin again, holding Jongin’s hips, feels like half the journey to an orgasm. The lock of his palms on the gracious wave of his torso is satisfying. The manhood neatly tucked into the pouch is arousing, the need to take it out and watch desperation on Jongin’s face near overpowering.

The briefs are short, cutting off almost where they begin and leave little to the imagination. They leave the silken thighs on show and Chanyeol can confirm that that is the exact texture when he slides down to feel. Warm and smooth and begging to be kneaded. Begging to be bitten, kissed. Fucked.

Looking back at Jongin, the same could be said for every part of him. Certainly his mouth that falls open when Chanyeol trails his fingers over the pouch and manhood, feather soft and eliciting an immediate tremble. How Chanyeol would love to play with him, take him apart piece by piece. For hours. Days like he wished. This sensitive. This warm and willing. How Chanyeol would enjoy nothing better.

The feather light touch travels to the seams, along the waistband, along the bodyline of Jongin’s waist. The soft gasps are almost lost to the loud air conditioner and noise beyond but Chanyeol picks up on them, each one as titillating as a touch. But never has there been a more wanton sound than when Chanyeol grips the pouch firmly and Jongin immediately braces him, gasping as if he has been lashed. The shirt falls over his front, head in Chanyeol’s chest.

Chanyeol holds him back against the wall. This sight...this sight that knots his blood, he must not miss it for a second. Jongin resumes raising the shirt and Chanyeol almost praises him for it.

He turns Jongin around because he must see. He must see.

He almost groans. Pressing Jongin to wall, he moves back a slight bit to view better. The lacey briefs hold his ass even snugger. Two cheeks wanting to burst out of their containment. Full aurum globes peeking beneath the purple, calling for a touch, for a cane, for a loving palm.

Chanyeol can’t help when he grabs Jongin’s hips and flattens himself to Jongin’s back. He can’t help rubbing himself against him, between him, watching the flimsy underwear be shifted under the force.

“Yes,” Jongin says, breathy, “please don’t stop Mr. Park.” the hand that’s not bunching his shirt up is scratching the wall for purchase, his eyes closed from what Chanyeol can see of the half that is not smushed.

And then Chanyeol remembers his meeting.

“We can’t do this.” he startles away, except there isn’t anywhere to go with the limited space.

“Why not?” Jongin spins around, reversing their roles as he invades Chanyeol’s space and traps him. “I’m not asking you to marry me, sir. I’m just asking you to fuck me. That’s all.” he slides his front against Chanyeol and makes them aware how turned on they both are right now.

“That’s all?”

“Is there more you’re willing to give?” Jongin completely misses the note of derision, or chooses to ignore it, as he bites his lip and flutters his lashes. It almost makes Chanyeol laugh, surprisingly—which shouldn’t be at this point really—because he finds him cute of all things.

“We can’t do this.” he repeats stoically, moving Jongin away.

“Why not?” he sounds whiny now, “In fact you can think of it as charity work. Let’s say I’m doing it for grades. I let you fuck me silly and you give me the best grade. Sound good?”  

“What sounds good, Mr. Kim,” Chanyeol snaps, pinning Jongin to the wall again. God, fuck, shit, everything in him screams to press himself to Jongin’s ass again minus their clothes this time, “is you never approaching me like this again. Understood?” he glares, channeling all of his lust into a facade of anger and disdain. “Un. der. stood?”

Jongin deflates. “Yes sir.”

Chanyeol doesn’t know how late he is for the meeting and at this rate he doesn’t want to find out.

*

The party is tedious. From the moment of arrival to dinner to the expected mingling, it has all been so wearisome. Lucy’s flirting would be bearable if he had any patience left to spare or if it weren’t her fault that he has to be here in the first place. She volunteered him for the dinner party when Brian had inquired if anyone knew why Chanyeol wasn’t there and Lucy smartly said he couldn’t make it but he wouldn’t miss Brian’s party. Marvellous, fantastic.

But she did save his ass so perhaps the blame should be shifted to its rightful owner. Whom he’d rather not think about, as annoyed and bored out of his mind as he is.

“It’s lovely to have you here, Chanyeol. You should come more often. We hold these things frequently you know,” Brian says, coming up to them. He is a burly man, as wide as he is tall and he shakes Chanyeol’s hand as if he means to crush the bones of his fingers.

“Oh Chanyeol would be here, he just works so hard you know. Hard to get a hold of him.” Lucy titters, slapping Chanyeol’s arm that she’s hugging.

“Thank you for the dinner.” Chanyeol smiles tightly.

“Don’t be silly, it’s a pleasure! Diana and I went fishing over the weekend and we made some mad catches! Redfish season is coming to an end but we actually—”

Chanyeol’s phone that he thought to be switched off starts ringing. There’s an awkward moment where Brian continues to speak with puzzlement at the source of the ringtone. Chanyeol fishes his phone out of his pocket, the number on the screen reads unknown.

“I’m sorry,” he says, accompanied by all the contrition he can muster, “I need to take this, it’s urgent.”

“Oh no! No problem, go ahead!”

He slips out of Lucy’s hold, ignoring her inquisitive peer and makes his way to the hall where there’s significantly less people.

“Hello?”

“Professor,” greets the voice, breathy and familiar, “professor I’m so horny,”

“What?”

“I need you, Mr. Park. I need your help,”

Chanyeol scans the hall, his heart beating faster as he realizes who it is. There are two ladies in discussion near the front door and a few people in the kitchen. None of them pay him mind and of course they wouldn’t, they can’t hear what’s being said on the other line. They have no reason to feel scandalized.

He should hand up. Right this moment. Not a second longer. He has the power to. There’s no reason to entertain Jongin. Not this time. All it takes is a press. That’s it. Just—

Chanyeol rushes up the staircase. He is bored. Brian’s drone about his fishing trip is intolerable. Kian’s tired jokes about his ex wife are bleak. Lucy’s unreciprocated clinginess is nauseating. This whole night is intolerable and he is allowed to see where this goes, out of sheer boredom, isn’t it? It’s only a call. There’s nothing physical involved. He can hang up any time. He will. He’ll hang up soon.

He doesn’t meet anyone upstairs and the bathroom is simple enough to find.

“Professor?”

Chanyeol has so many questions. What is Jongin doing? Why does he sound so breathless? Why is he calling him? How did he get his number? The last question is safe. He goes with the last question, voice harsh.

“Professor O’Malley,” Jongin says.

While it’s not wrong for students to have his number or contact him, he still curses Lucy. This isn’t any ordinary student. No, this one just wants him to fuck his brains out. And he just might want the same.

“What do you want, Jongin?” Chanyeol sighs. He sits on the tub’s edge, relaxed for the first time tonight despite the menace on the line.

“Tell me you’d fuck me if you were here,”

Chanyeol groans internally. He sounds so unapologetically lecherous, needy. Sliding down to the tiles and glancing up at the ceiling, Chanyeol takes a deep breath.

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah...I mean my roommate’s downstairs but...yeah I’m alone. All yours sir.”

Stop, a profound inner voice pleads, it’s not too late to cut the call.

“No,” Chanyeol says as loud as he dares, “I wouldn’t fuck you.”

“Mr. Park,” Jongin whines, sounding close to tears. Chanyeol wonders what he’s been doing, how worked up he is to sound half wrecked whining his name like this.

“We could have a little more fun,”

“Ooh,” Jongin perks up, sounding excited now, “I like fun!”

The puerile tone makes Chanyeol want to laugh, call him cute again.

“Tell me,” he says with a little less excitement and more breathless desperation.

“I…” Chanyeol can feel Jongin’s anticipation through the phone, holding his breath. And honestly Chanyeol is too. No matter how small of a deal he tells himself it is, a deeper part of him knows he’s toppling off the point of no return. “I’d have you on my lap,”

“Oh,” Jongin moans, “what am I doing on your lap?”

Chanyeol shifts on the floor, spacing his legs a little further apart at the tightness brought on by intrusive thoughts of his indigo-haired lace-panty-wearing student on his lap.

“Come on sir, don’t stop now. Please don’t stop now,” Jongin pleads.

1 Oh sweet boy, Chanyeol thinks. Chanyeol lost the battle the minute he sought privacy.

“You’d rub yourself on me.”

“Fuck,”

“Would you like that?”

“Would I— of course, Professor. I’d love that. I want that,”

“Hmm,”

“You’d help me come, sir? You’d touch me?”

“No. Just watch you makes yourself come. Desperate. Needy. Like right now. Isn’t that right, Jongin?”

“Fuck, fuck. That’s right. I need you so bad,”

“Are you wearing anything?”

“Just boxers,”

“Pull them down, to your knees,” Chanyeol’s breath is coming quick too, “get lube and stay on your hands and knees.”

“Is this how you want to fuck me? On all fours? Use me from behind?” he says like the idea thrills him.

“Lube up, Jongin. Start touching yourself.”

“Yes sir,”

“Tell me what you’re doing. Tell me everything.” There’s no point denying to himself how much he wants to see Jongin do all of this in person. How much the mental image is already much to bear and he can’t restrain himself from touching his own cock, hardening quickly in interest.

“Putting a finger in but I want yours sir. I want you opening me up, aaahh—” he trails off with a gasp, the sound of it furthering Chanyeol’s curiosity and arousal.

“Talk to me, what are you doing?”

“Moving my fingers. It feels so good sir. I’m imagining they’re yours. Your big thick fingers inside my ass, getting me loose, fingering me fast. Mr. Park I—I fuck I want to find it I can’t find ughh—”

Chanyeol takes a shuddering breath. He unbuckles and frees his cock, the removed restriction satisfying. Jongin’s words are lusciously stimulating. Makes him throb endlessly and grope at his own cock.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he murmurs and hears Jongin’s breath grow more ragged,“I know you can find it. Push deeper for me.”

“For you?”

“Yes,”

“Yes, okay. Yes, for you Daddy.”

“Shit,” pleasure shoots through Chanyeol. It’s sinfully delightful to hear Jongin address him like that. His strokes grow furious on his cock, grip harsh and imagining Jongin in his lap, Jongin begging him to finger-fuck him deeper, looking wanton and pretty and calling him Daddy.

“Fuck I got it, I got it oh my god tell me what to do, what do you want me to, ahh, do?”

“Keep moving your fingers, baby. You’re almost there, aren’t you?”

“Yes Daddy, oh my god oh my god Daddy, Daddy!”

Chanyeol can hear faint squelches beneath Jongin’s rapid ragged breathing. He imagines those lace clad hips bucking, dainty fingers buried between defined asscheeks and plump lips forming urgent senseless sentences.

“Come on, Daddy wants to hear you come.”

Jongin comes on his name, not sir, not Mr. Park or Daddy, but a long broken string of his syllables uttered out of sheer pleasure and Chanyeol didn’t know it could make him pulse with desire, make him stroke himself frantically for that blinding peak of ecstasy.

He doesn’t utter anything when he shoots over his thighs and the tiles, just lets the suffocating pleasure wash over him. Suppresses his sounds so as not to be overheard because he wants to groan, loud and deep, wants to groan Jongin’s name like a curse because desire and pleasure of this magnitude can only be the work of a bewitching. Never has he gotten off on words and mental images alone, never has he felt like he’d run a marathon after phone sex, never has he even been possessed to engage in it before this.

“That was good,” Jongin says, his voice sluggish now after they’ve both come down, “that was good. Don’t even deny it.” he says like he means to make it sound threatening, indignant but it only makes Chanyeol want to smile.

“I’m not denying anything.” he chuckles, reaches for tissue on the holder.

“Good...you won’t avoid me on Monday will you?” he sounds tentative.

“In class? No.”

“No...I mean, you’ll fuck me?”

“Jesus fuck,” Chanyeol groans, “you’re a greedy thing.”

“I am. This was good like I said but I...I’ve been so patient. I’ve been good for you, Daddy.” he says, wounded.

Chanyeol closes his eyes, counts each of his breaths. He wonders if Jongin knows the utter and complete debauchery his words make Chanyeol want to inflict on him.

Probably. That is his goal. It only ascertains Chanyeol’s mental admission that he is doomed. Doomed. That’s all there is to it.

“You know we can’t, Jongin.” baby, he almost said. The ease with which he thought it, almost said it, appals him. He zips himself back up, wrestling the buckle after tossing the soiled tissue.

“Yeah yeah, we’ll see about that. What are you doing?”

Hang up, that rational voice urges. What’s done is done, don’t make it worse.

“Are you home?”

But Jongin’s voice, warm and sleepy, is almost as pleasant as his desperate raspy one and Chanyeol wants to hear a little more.

“Dinner party.”

“Oh. Charming all the men and woman there?”

“What?” Chanyeol laughs at petulance that crept into Jongin’s voice.

“Anyway when are you going home? Will you talk with me for a bit?”

“I should be heading home now.”

“I like your voice,”

Chanyeol can’t help but smile. “Yours isn’t so bad.”

“Mmh. How does it feel to know you made me come with your voice?”

“Jesus,” Chanyeol sighs again. Jongin has no filter and it really will ultimately be Chanyeol’s demise. “I’m going now.”

“Be safe on the road.”

“Goodnight Jongin.”

“Goodnight Daddy.”

*

The first photo arrives as he is walking to the lecture hall on Monday morning. There was static silence after their aurally induced orgasm Friday evening. It’s surprise that Jongin behaved, just surprise. Not disappointment. Certainly not, no.

He should have known Jongin’s good behaviour wouldn’t last.

The photo contains a lower body that he should not recognize. Long sexy thighs resting on pristine bedsheets, white lace panties banding those thighs and exposing a short pudgy cock gleaming with precum, erect against a clean shaved pubic area.

Chanyeol quickly exits the photo, praying that no passerby caught a glimpse. He could curse Jongin but that won’t unsolder the image from his mind. Nor will it quench the sudden desire. He takes a moment to compose himself before entering the hall, taking care not to look obvious. The knowledge that the culprit will be sitting before him in a few short seconds is unbearably frustrating. What has he done for his life to turn into such an inescapable circus?

This is playing with fire, one that could incinerate his whole life. Angling his body to the wall, his finger hovers over the ‘delete’ button. He is about to touch down on the screen when he receives another message. From the same number. His instincts urge him to put his phone away, go and give his lecture on Beckett. The mid Hilary semester exams will be here soon. He needs to get this covered. He needs to focus.

Yet he finds himself opening the new media sent to him. Another photo. Of Jongin’s face. Hair disheveled, eyes languid and mouth open with a finger inside. There’s a dubious liquid around his mouth, his skin covered in a sheen. Accompanying the image is a message.

‘when you made me cum. x’

Chanyeol’s fist meets the wall. A few startled passerbys look at him before they continue on walking. Chanyeol is hard now. Rock solid. However will he teach like this? He’s going to kill the vixen.

As if Jongin’s state while he was talking dirty to him hadn’t crossed his mind over the weekend. As if he hasn’t envisioned and re-envisioned how he might have looked while doing the things Chanyeol instructed him, the pretty sounds they elicited from him. And now Jongin has fulfilled the yearning Chanyeol wishes he didn’t have to begin with.

Jongin is dead meat.

Redfish, Chanyeol thinks. Thinks of the fishing anecdote and redfish lecture he hadn’t managed to escape despite hiding away in the bathroom another ten minutes after he ended the call with Jongin. Lucy had given him a strange look when he excused himself that he’s been having strange bowel movement, you didn’t tell me that...shall we get you some medicine? Brian had gone on a tangent about the time he had some nasty carp affected by pollution and how it caused him endless digestive problems for some time before returning to the highly detailed and informative lesson on redfish.

The memory alone kills Chanyeol’s boner.

It doesn’t kill his desire to mangle Jongin with his bare hands though, in more ways than one. He needs to get him to relinquish this quest of getting fucked by Chanyeol, once and for all before mishap gets them discovered or Chanyeol’s control snaps. Or even more distressing: both.

He is five minutes late despite being right outside the hall but at least he has a semblance of his composure back.

He avoids interacting with Jongin throughout the lecture, even when no one else offers to give an answer or when Jongin calls out his name. If others find it strange, they don’t comment on it. He would almost, almost, feel bad for doing so, remembering Jongin’s very genuine hurt the last time he did this. But he did warn him amply. It’s laughable how generous he is being at this point.

What is happening to him?

Jongin storming up to him after the lesson is predictable. He waits until the hall has cleared out, the doors shutting. Instead of giving out to Chanyeol, he smiles and settles himself on the edge of the desk, waiting for Chanyeol to collect his notes from the podium.

“Did you like my gift?”

“We need to talk, Mr. Kim.”

“It’s Mr. Kim again. Boo. Don’t be like that.” he hops off the desk and starts towards Chanyeol. He’s wearing tight fitting leather today, coated in it from head to toe. What makes Chanyeol swallow hard is the leather collar around his throat, studded in glittering diamond. Chanyeol must not let his gaze linger too long. The reason he needs to push Jongin away might start to slip. Especially as he’s filled with yearning to remove each piece of leather from him, one by one and leave him in just the coll—

“I will report you, Mr. Kim. I will report your previous misconducts too.”

“Misconducts? My misconducts?” Jongin laughs, all raillery, “Am I the only one who won’t be getting anything from Santa, Professor?”

Chanyeol ignores him, going to the desk to put his belongings away and evade Jongin’s touchy hands that surely have no plans to spare him.

“Stop being so difficult,” Jongin worms his way between the desk and Chanyeol, forcing Chanyeol to look at him, “stop resisting. Let me suck you off,” he says huskily, tracing a path to Chanyeol’s crotch, placing a delicate hand on it.

“Kim Jongin.” Chanyeol starts coldly. His patience is worn through. “Are you a slut? How many times must I tell you no? Does your body mean nothing to you?”

Jongin freezes at that. The jest about him ices too. It pangs at Chanyeol’s chest. But it must be done. Right now. Before Chanyeol thrusts into Jongin’s hand and takes him up on the offer of using his mouth.

“Why do you keep—”

The back door starts to squeak open. Chanyeol’s reflex kicks in. He pushes them down, under the desk that provides coverage at the front.

“Professor Park?” they hear, just as he grabs Jongin so he doesn’t crash against the wood and cause an audible commotion. They stare at each other, wide eyed, breathing hard and body to body.

They wait for the person to leave, most probably a student, but the door doesn’t shut and it seems like the person is still inside.

“Lin?” the female voice call out.

Jongin grins. Chanyeol’s insides are tearing themselves apart.

“Hi Daddy.” Jongin whispers so faintly it’s almost just mouthing the words. He cups Chanyeol’s face, bringing his own closer.

“No no no” Chanyeol mouths back. The resistance hibernates when Jongin’s lips touch his. He angles his head to better control the kiss. His hands find the floor on either side of Jongin, steadying him, steadying the kiss.

“His things are here Lin but I don’t see him!” the voice yells.

Chanyeol tries to pull away but Jongin’s grip on his jaw becomes firmer, arrests him to the kiss. Chanyeol doesn’t try too hard anyway. It’s been a torturous while denying himself this since the first time they kissed. Jongin’s lips alone brings incredible strength and weakness to him at once. And it’s not even a slick callous kiss. They take care not to make any sounds, lips moving leisurely together. Chanyeol occasionally slips tongue in and Jongin submits so easily, so eagerly, sucking on it. Once or twice Jongin lets out a faint moan and Chanyeol prays it wasn’t audible from the end of the room. He’s resigned to kiss Jongin now, if only to keep him quiet.

“We’ll come back later. Let’s go!” A second voice yells from the hallway and soon they hear the door wham shut.

Chanyeol clambers away from Jongin. He shoves the remaining notes into his bag, closes it.

“Mr. Pa—”

Chanyeol doesn’t give him time to speak. He grabs him around the waist, encircling with one hand as he carries his bag with another and practically carries Jongin along. Once they’re inside the adjoining storage room for stationery supplies, he puts Jongin down, turns the lock in place. He flicks on the light, goes to the other door to adjoining lecture hall and turns the lock on that one too.

Then he turns to Jongin.

“Mr. Par—”

He stalks hungrily towards Jongin, flattens him to the wall. Jongin swallows whatever he was going to say. Chanyeol hoists him up, prompts him to wrap his legs around him.

“Just once. Just once Jongin, first and last time so help me god. Happy now?” he says before invading Jongin’s mouth, unmerciful and wet. Jongin writhes against him as he violates his mouth and roams his body, finding that the there’s nothing under the leather jacket, a fact he lends half a second of concern due to the cold weather, before lust takes over in a hurricane and Chanyeol’s only thought on the matter is how wonderfully easy it is to play with Jongin’s nipples and have him whimper into his mouth.

Jongin voices “Daddy,” in a whimper when Chanyeol takes his mouth lower, sucks soundly on Jongin’s bottom lip before tonguing his chin, tracing the curve to his throat, suckling his adam’s apple lightly and making him gasp before moving to the hollow, to his collarbones. His skin is so beautifully tan, unmarred and soft. Chanyeol wants to paint a wreckage upon it. He suckles to redness, suckles to more whimpers and Daddy pleas. Licks to jerking hips, kisses to a stream of curses. Unravels Jongin like has been begged of him, like he has been desiring. All the while unraveling himself. His need to fuck Jongin reaching a pinnacle.

He sets Jongin down to shove his smothering-tight leather pants down and what he sees makes him halt, entirely short circuit for a moment.

“Why...commando?”

“Hm?” Jongin braces Chanyeol’s shoulders. He looks dazed, concentrating hard to understand the question. Chanyeol hoists him right up on the wall again, taking his lips in a brief rough kiss that almost makes Chanyeol forget his quiry.

“Tell me. Where’s your underwear?” he asks, snaking to Jongin’s cock and beginning to stroke.

“I—I…” Jongin breathes hard, still looking dazed. Fucked out in fact. Just after a kiss, after a little groping. Chanyeol fears he might already be addicted.  

“You?”

“I was preparing for you, Daddy.” he shakes his head as if trying to clear it. He focuses on Chanyeol’s eyes, comprehension returning to him. His lips rise, playful yet tender. “I was thinking about you this morning. The second pic is from Friday. But the first...I was preparing for Daddy. Thinking about Daddy saying lube up Jongin and you’re a good boy aren’t you and Daddy wants to hear you come. Fingering myself to Daddy’s voice in my head and thinking I should leave my underwear off today so Daddy could touch me easier. Tell me I’m good Daddy,”

Chanyeol’s fingers root in Jongin’s hair. He tugs harshly, surprising Jongin. Then he kisses him viciously, teeth digging into already kiss swollen lips, desire urging him to mark Jongin up, bruise him up, fuck him roughly, devastatingly, ruin him right now, right here and have him forever.

They discover that Jongin had told nothing but the truth about prepping himself as their kiss turns into a refrain of groans when Chanyeol slides in unceremoniously, unkind and intentioning for it to hurt.

Because it’s driving him crazy. The way Jongin opens his mouth and makes Chanyeol’s knees turn elastic, the way his single word has pedigree in Chanyeol’s groin, at the core of his desire, the way he simply exists and lately all Chanyeol can think of is obliterating both of their existences in white blinding pleasure. It’s unfair, it’s so unfair and Chanyeol is going to punish Jongin for it.

Jongin doesn’t seem to take it as punishment. “Yes daddy, yes-” he moans long, eyes squeezed shut, face pointing heaven and meeting the forceful thrusts with yielding hips. He pulls on Chanyeol’s hair, each thrust making him flinch and if he weren’t moaning unrestrainedly lewd, Chanyeol would think he’s in pain.

Cupping a hand around his mouth, Chanyeol fucks him harder, sweat breaking on his skin. “The whole vicinity will hear you,”

Jongin mumbles something muffled against his palm, looking earnest. Curious, Chanyeol takes his hand away, his hips never ceasing, not even for a breath.

“I’m sorry Daddy. Jongin only belongs to you. They shouldn’t hear Daddy’s toy, I’m—”

Chanyeol puts his hand over Jongin’s mouth again. Slips his fingers inside. Jongin starts automatically. But it’s better than letting him continue to speak. He tucks his head into the crook of Jongin’s neck and takes to sucking his skin sore again. To keep his own mouth occupied.

Before he starts spewing crazy shit. Before he starts encouraging Jongin, yes you’re mine, be mine, mine alone.

It’s bad enough that he has conceded, lost the battle and is here now, fucking him.

The two of them might have bruises from where his thighs and Jongin’s impact. Even so, slowing down is not an option. Jongin’s letting out incoherent mutters around his fingers and Chanyeol has never been so hard, so tightly encased and snug in someone else. Jongin does his own part to make the experience devilishly good, clenching around Chanyeol, clenching tight to the point Chanyeol feels the breath he holds in his abdomen. Suctioning Chanyeol’s cock in with his walls even on the thrust down and out.  

Jongin’s moans get higher and higher in pitch. Chanyeol’s reaching an impossible height of pleasure too.

“Inside me, Chanyeol,” Jongin pleads, “come inside me Daddy,”

With such beautiful beseeching desperation, Chanyeol reckons not even a deity could deny Jongin.

They come simultaneously, their pleasure intense as if connected, doubled and mutually felt. Chanyeol groans into Jongin’s throat and Jongin writhes against the wall, legs squeezing around Chanyeol’s waist and arms spread out and moving about like he doesn’t know what to do with them, a strange carnal dance born of ecstasy.

“Shit.” Chanyeol sighs. The orgasm alone sapped a great deal of his energy. He lets Jongin slide to his feet, his cock making a slick sound on the parting.

“Shit.” Jongin agress, arguably for different reasons.

Alarm starts to set in, once the fire of desire has been extinguished, and it hurries him into fixing his state of dress, zipping himself back up, doing up the buttons and tucking in.

Jongin stands stationary. Before Chanyeol can step away, he wraps his arms around him. Looks up at Chanyeol imploringly. “Can I have a hug?”

Chanyeol...shouldn’t get more attached than he feels. But...something about post-fuck Jongin is so soft. Dishevelled hair, with thanks to him, messy and falling into his eyes. Lips tender and inviting. Eyes lazy, sleepy, yet adoring. Neck littered in colours that are fast darkening. Clothes rumpeled, askew. All thanks to Chanyeol. In different circumstances, he would keep Jongin. He knows that for fact. Had they met another way, he wouldn’t let Jongin go. Not for a long time, if ever. He knows this electricity, this pull is rare. It’s been so long since he felt like this. Lord knows if he will find it again.

But it can’t be with Jongin.

Still, it’s time last time. This won’t happen again. First and last like he promised. So he shouldn’t end it on a bad note, right? Admittedly, as one of the hottest and best fucks of Chanyeol’s life, Jongin deserves it right? A hug isn’t that big of a deal, right?

He embraces Jongin back and feels him melt against his chest. It pulls at his heart. What a shame, what a terrible shame this can’t go on.

Finally he retracts himself. “Bye Jongin.” he says ruefully, picking up his bag. He doesn’t stay to help Jongin fix his clothes. He might not have the strength to resist kissing him or turning him over and fucking him afresh. Or walking away. He might not be able to deliver on his promise.

He hears a soft sigh as he exits.