Work Text:
Heroism has bored him lately.
A new rule gets implemented daily, his phone now solely exists to notify him every time he’s breaking a regulation — by the minute. The Superhero Association has taken to powertripping in the only way they can: forcing him to decipher inane bureaucratic rules, while begging to take him out to be paraded like a clown under their foot. In his peripheral vision, Song Taewon follows him like a bloodhound, desperate for any opportunity to find a neighbor under the Superhero Association’s heel.
Yes, Sung Hyunje is bored out of his mind. Lately, he’s been entertaining supervillains’ spiels more and more, even offering some advice of his own for their future endeavors — which hasn’t gone unnoticed. Sometimes he’ll take it a step too far, out of sheer pettiness, even impeding other heroes’ missions; but this does nothing but bolster his own image as the reigning superhero, while others look like incompetent side-acts in turn.
Which he has no problem with.
Anything to keep the boredom at bay.
A couple of years ago, his identity had been kept secret. But even with a secret identity, one can only have so much fun; and of course, there were even more rules he was reminded of daily to follow when ‘masquerading as a normal citizen’, as Song Taewon so sagely put it before the Superhero Association deigned to announce his real identity to the whole of South Korea. (The man’s superhero must be his dogged persistence in ruining his life, only second to his nose for trouble.)
Age could be a factor. While he feels as fit as he did in his earlier years — and his doctor praised him for his immaculate health — something in his mind has eroded as of late. Something integral, a joy for everyday life, which he’s been struggling to compensate for by behavior that, to other people, would be the heights of pleasure seeking.
He’s walked miles and miles throughout the city, mindlessly in search of something he can’t quite pin. An absence that is no longer filled by sending Song Taewon’s CV to petty supervillain gangs. Even watching younger superheroes, fresh off their debut, embarrass themselves spectacularly on the big stage is no fun.
He’ll blame Han Yoohyun here, whose debut a couple of months ago was so impressive, that everybody else fell flat. Modern day technology is beautiful: he still watches the video he took of the young man threatening to kill everybody in the Superhero Association in typical, angsty youth fashion. For a second, he and Song Taewon exchanged glances there, a brief moment of understanding between them: the youth nowadays are really too much trouble.
(Afterwards, the Superhero Association called him in for a meeting — that he didn’t attend, so he’s recalling everything based on the debrief they sent an hour later — concerning his ‘inappropriate social media usage’ and that he should ‘reign in the desire to post short-form videos online that paint the association as a whole in a bad light.’)
Even the bakery today isn’t up to par. Their croissants are drier than usual, with so much chocolate stuffed into them that it feels like he’s chewing mud. He asked for a strawberry milkshake first, just for the employee to give him a skeptical look before getting him a vanilla one instead. As if he doesn’t come here almost daily.
A mistake, which he attempts to rectify, only for the employee’s lips to curl. The nametag is nowhere to be found, as usual, which disappoints him slightly; he’d like to put a name to the face that only regards him with disgust, irritation, and — if the owner is in the vicinity — stilted politeness. But watching the expressions bloom on his face is just as sweet as the pastries here, how otherwise sweet features contort themselves into barely hidden disgust; his mouth, one that Sung Hyunje has seen broaden into a wide smile on many occasions, is permanently twisted into a thin-lipped one.
“It says here that you asked for vanilla.”
“An error that’s easily fixed, I hope.”
“Hm. Coming right up… sir,” the employee says, practically forcing out the ‘sir.’ He looks young enough for Sung Hyunje to balk, with a pair of red stud earrings that capture the light. Something about him is familiar as always, but he’s still unable to put his finger on what exactly — the man looks like every other person on the street, albeit slightly cuter, features softened by the warm atmosphere of the bakery.
After years of being the recipient of much-deserved scorn, he can detect irritation directed his way as easily as breathing. Even the more well-hidden signs, such as the employee tapping his pen against the notepad with more ferocity than before, are as evident as day.
Yes, this man is annoyed by him. Just as annoyed as the Superhero Association, even if all he did was commit the crime of being a regular and order sweet drinks at eight in the morning — with all of the gall of somebody who thinks he’s dealing with a regular, annoying customer and not a superhero too.
And when he returns to behind the counter to fix him a strawberry milkshake this time, Sung Hyunje can hear him mumbling under his breath all the while.
“Maybe you’re going senile — how’s that my fault,” he’s mumbling in a voice low enough that should be hidden by the thunderous sound of the blender.
If only Sung Hyunje really was just a regular, annoying customer. He smiles pleasantly at him when their eyes meet, only for the other to mirror it, a soft smile that lasts for a second, before quickly turning his gaze back to the blender.
If he comes close enough, Sung Hyunje can smell a hint of nicotine on him, masked by the otherwise sweet scent of pastries and coffee. It’s strangely alluring, a sharp contrast from his sweet face; but he can easily imagine him smoking for some reason, exhaling out smoke in low breaths.
It’s early enough in the bakery for no other customers to sit and enjoy their snacks; instead there’s the older women who come in, collect their pastries, and leave at the very same minute. Some of them engage in conversation with the employee, who smiles and laughs easily with them, asking questions about their kids or family affairs — sometimes he’ll drop in gossip, only for them to slap his wrist fondly before leaving. A few even recognize Sung Hyunje, their gaze darting between him and the employee like pinballs, before they’re rushing off to finish their errands.
Capable of pleasantries, right up to the point where his gaze falls on Sung Hyunje’s, and he tilts his head with confusion. “Is there anything you’d like, sir?”
A strangely cute gesture, only to be followed up with a sharp tone. He pronounces ‘sir’ so sardonically, if anybody were to go by solely the tone of his voice, they’d think Sung Hyunje a child.
Yet he’s still endeared by the harshness of his tone, how he regards him so openly with distaste, barely reigned in by the pleasantries needed for a customer service worker. Hard-pressed to find a root for it — sometimes people hate him solely out of inferiority, and he’s since made peace with that — he’ll take it in stride.
“I was wondering if you’ve changed the recipe.”
“Yes, all croissants will be made this way from now on. Is there a problem?” Finally he smiles again, but the smile is a stretch, really — it’s more of a smirk, and Sung Hyunje recognizes a glint in his eyes that makes his heart beat just a little faster.
“None at all. These were clearly made with love.”
“Please don’t misunderstand. No love went into making them,” he insists, before roughly setting down the strawberry milkshake in front of him. “Here you go. Sir.”
“… and who do I have the pleasure of thanking for my meal?”
“Han Yoojin.” He says it like he’s forcing every syllable out of his mouth unwillingly, practically barking it out.
“Well, Yoojin-gun, I must thank you for the immaculate service as always. I am—”
“I know who you are,” he rushedly answers, grasping onto the vanilla milkshake tightly enough Sung Hyunje is worried it’ll shatter. “Sung Hyunje. Little Moon. Am I missing anything?”
“Wow. I’m always flattered to meet a fan.”
Han Yoojin bristles, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a fan.” And he stops in his tracks, his mouth still halfway open, before the door opens, revealing the owner of the bakery, Yoo Myeongwoo. “I’m always grateful for your endless heroism and devotion to our country,” he continues as if reading off of a script, a new perk in his step surely motivated by the sudden appearance of his boss. “It’s an honor just being able to serve you.”
Judging by his expression, hidden from Yoo Myeongwoo’s face, he looks as if somebody is holding a gun to his head. The flattery is offset by the palpable disgust on his face, his eyebrows now furrowed, as if Sung Hyunje orchestrated for his boss to come this very second.
The owner isn’t surprised either, judging by how he barely gives Sung Hyunje a cursory nod before heading to the counter.
“Thank you so much for coming in this morning. It’s been a great help.”
“Of course, Myeongwoo-yah,” he says sweetly, already untying the apron before handing it over. “Please make sure he pays before he goes.”
He doesn’t even give Sung Hyunje a second glance before leaving, much to his dismay; but he sees him already taking a cigarette out of his pocket, and watches him through the bakery window, mesmerized by his practiced movements.
Yoo Myeongwoo looks up from the order Han Yoojin had written, and the second he’s out of their vicinity, he asks, “Did you order vanilla or strawberry?”
“I’m not sure. I drink according to your dear friend’s tastes.”
“Huh… I’ll just bill you for the strawberry then,” he says, no less befuddled.
Han Yoojin’s hate must’ve taken root after the first meeting, if the shift in attitude between their first second is any indication. During their first meeting, he was a perfectly cordial employee — more than cordial, smiling at him and even offering a free sweet to accompany Sung Hyunje’s drink.
There was a period of time between then, where he couldn’t get away from responsibilities — the banquet, rising tensions between opposing supervillains, escaping Song Taewon’s watchful gaze — and when he returned, Han Yoojin looked at him like the dirt under his shoe.
Not like he’s complaining. Although he would prefer it if he wasn’t served barely edible croissants from now on; even the strawberry milkshake is too sweet, as if somebody dunked a cup of vanilla syrup into it.
Yoo Myeongwoo, who looks none the wiser to his friend’s shenanigans, is now focused entirely on preparing more pastries.
The following week is somehow more boring than usual, now defined by Han Yoojin’s absence. He doesn’t even have it in himself to fan the fires between opposing supervillain gangs, instead disarming them the very second they cross his path.
Unimaginably tedious. Time passes on slowly, the seconds practically dragging on, one after the other. He went to the bakery again a couple of more times after that, just to leave with a bag of decadent croissants and no Han Yoojin in sight. Yoo Myeongwoo, detecting his desperation, told him that he wasn’t really an employee, just a friend that came in from time to time to help; although when Sung Hyunje asked him what he actually did, he balked, coming up with a pathetic excuse about not knowing the details exactly.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks with a deep sigh.
The weather agrees with his mood, a waning moon casting a faded sheen of light over otherwise pitchblack darkness. If he were to squint, he’d see the fluorescent lights of the building further ahead up the street; but here, where the only sign of rain is the constant pitter-patter against the ground, it’s almost total darkness.
And since there’s no reason for him to wear a mask anymore, he’s stuck with his hair plastered to his face, the latex suit clinging tighter to his skin than ever. Just the material is uncomfortable enough, and he’s constantly flexing in an attempt to preserve his range of movement. Wearing the suit itself is a humiliation ritual, one that the Superhero Association loves to impose on him on the regular, a flimsy material that leaves little to the imagination; even thinking of how it must look right now makes his scowl deepen, forced to prance around in a suit unbefitting of his age.
Not to mention, he’s basically indisposed. Using his powers right now would mean a death sentence, but he can still feel the crackles of electricity bursting under his skin — always accompanying irritation, arousal, or both.
Karmic retribution must’ve finally made its way to Sung Hyunje.
Well, if you were to write a list of everybody he’s scorned, intentionally or not, you’d come up with a list only slightly less comprehensive than South Korea’s citizen records. It’s not as if there’s any malicious intent there, as if he has a dartboard in his room targeting every individual that comes his way. He supposes that’s the price of both self-indulgence, to seek his own self-serving pursuits rather than consider the wider community, and doing his job — so both his colleagues and supervillains are looking to put a target on his back.
And he was never bothered by it before. The most it’s ever affected his day-to-day life was Song Taewon’s constant judgement — and the man judges everybody who doesn’t live like a monk, so he wouldn’t say his judge of character is particularly astute.
But lucky that the man slipped of his own accord, allowing Sung Hyunje to do nothing but ensure that he stayed on the ground until… he’s not sure what, exactly, he doesn’t feel like going through all the paperwork of bringing somebody in tonight.
“What does that have to do with me? Your foot is on my chest,” the man complains. He’s rather short, wearing a black mask that stops at the apex of his nose, so Sung Hyunje has a full view of his lips, sulking.
Keeping the man under his foot is easy enough — he doesn’t even think he’s any more powerful than a regular citizen, just with a particularly good eye for jewelry. Even his gun was no use, although Sung Hyunje must admit he’s being crueller than usual today; he doesn’t usually deal with people so physically, especially those wandering around blindly in the alleyways. The jewelry skidded all over the ground like raindrops, long lost to the sewers — much to the other man’s chagrin he’s sure.
“My apologies, I was just thinking out loud,” he says, making no effort to move the aforementioned foot. The man’s uneven breathing makes his foot move in rhythm with his chest, so he makes more of an effort to push him down even more, slightly grinding his heel on his lower abdomen; with how much the man’s shirt has hitched up, it makes contact with skin. “It’s like he’s avoiding me — I don’t have any memory of upsetting him though… isn’t that odd?”
All he hears are groans of pain in response, which does nothing to quell his irritation. God forbid anybody goes outside nowadays with even a little bit of a pain tolerance.
He sighs exasperatedly. “At least try to think of something.”
“Get off me and I’ll even be your relationship counselor,” he suggests, his voice a pitch higher than before. Despite how shaky it is, there’s a tone of irritation mirroring Sung Hyunje’s, as if getting apprehended was a brief roadbump in his night.
“Hm. But I do need some insurance so that you won’t get away….”
For once, the handcuffs come in handy. He crouches down, placing his feet on both sides of the man’s abdomen so he’s almost straddling him, grabbing onto his arms as the man watches him, his mouth curling into a scowl deeper than Sung Hyunje’s now, the pain ripe on his face.
It’s more of a struggle than the apprehension itself, with the man squirming more and more under his touch; so he straddles him completely, in an effort to keep the man beneath him. When Sung Hyunje finally gets the handcuffs on him with a satisfying click, he lets out a sharp hiss of pain.
“Has anybody told you that you have a low pain tolerance?”
“You’re just unnecessarily harsh. I didn’t know the Superhero Association allowed you to exert so much brute force onto citizens.”
“They don’t,” he sighs. “But that’s a therapy session for another day.”
“I thought such cruel punishment was illegal. What happened to ‘prisoners are citizens’ too?”
“You…” he pauses, giving him a second look. While it’s difficult to tell anything with the rain clouding his senses, recognition creeps up on him; it’d be difficult to misplace that attitude anywhere, least of all on somebody with a mouth as expressive on him. “Maybe I should take your mask off to pay proper respects to my relationship counselor.”
“No— no need, I—”
He begins to flail helplessly, turning his head to the side just as Sung Hyunje takes the mask off; a thin, poorly woven mask that practically falls apart in his touch. It reveals a face he’s uncomfortably familiar with, from the dark eyes that permanently furrowed in frustration and a pair of red stud earrings.
An eye for jewelry indeed.
“Yoojin-gun,” he breathes.
“You crazy bastard,” he starts, wincing as he speaks. “Are you this violent with everybody?”
Too distracted by how his lips look under the moonlight, slick with water from the rain, he doesn’t answer quickly enough. They’re separated just so, a spittle of spit between them that he has half a mind to wipe off.
He’s suddenly conscious of their compromised position, how every time he adjusts his position slightly, the friction between his suit and Han Yoojin’s jeans gets worse.
“Isn’t this a welcome surprise?”
“If I had known you were this crazy, I would’ve put cyanide in your drink,” he promises. His hands, while handcuffed, now act as a barrier between them two, pushing against Sung Hyunje’s chest in an attempt to keep distance between them; it’s a futile attempt, but one he appreciates, even as Han Yoojin digs his nails into his skin through the flimsy material out of spite.
There goes those fangs, now baring at him in entirety. A rush of excitement goes through him. He’d stay here all night if he could, watching all the different ways Han Yoojin’s anger manifests, how that beautiful mouth of his drips so much poison.
“And I would’ve still drank it,” he reassures him.
Han Yoojin rolls his eyes. “You’re just as weird as my brother said.”
“Your brother?”
“Han Yoohyun. Maybe that rings a bell,” he snaps.
“Oh— I see. That explains quite a bit, doesn’t it?”
The man is full of surprises. A morbid curiosity creeps up on him, followed by a desire to keep the man tied up as long as he can — to wring as much surprises as he can out of him.
And it explains the ire directed his way. He vaguely remembers pissing Han Yoohyun off — but everybody did so that night — and the young man glaring at him in a way that’s reminiscent of his older brother’s, but he doesn’t remember exactly what he said.
“So the young master is a superhero… and his older brother is what?”
Han Yoojin looks away as if he got slapped, and Sung Hyunje can see his cheeks burn with shame. A story there, then; one he can fill the gaps in easily enough, although he’s not as interested in that as he is in the man himself.
“Don’t be embarrassed, dear,” he says sweetly, reaching out to caress his chin. The man shivers at the contact, watching him carefully as he touches his face. His skin is as soft as it looks, and he wipes the rain off his face before adding, “Being a thief is a perfectly respectable profession.”
“Dear?” he repeats incredulously.
“Honey?” he tries.
“How about this,” he suggests, raising his hands to Sung Hyunje’s face in an act of mock surrender. “You win, I lose — get these handcuffs off, and your next croissant will be free.”
“What a dilemma. I’m rather comfortable right here, you know.” In the midst of the cold weather, Han Yoojin is a nice respite.
“And the cement is digging into my back — I’m not. The Superhero Association will hear about how roughly you handle everyday citizens.”
“Forgive me. It’s just that whenever I see something I want, I want to break it,” he confesses, casting his gaze over the man’s thin frame. “How about we figure out a settlement?”
“I’ll empty your entire bank account,” he decides, and Sung Hyunje sees how quickly his face has gotten pink — all the way down to his neck. He adjusts his position under him, which must be a struggle with how little space there is between Sung Hyunje’s thighs, shifting slightly with a groan.
“We are in agreement then. I’m sure you know what’ll happen when you try to leave.”
Han Yoojin nods, and Sung Hyunje reluctantly gets off him.
It happens when he’s about to stand up completely, that the other kicks him from the ground with a shocking amount of power, causing him to drop to the ground. And, with the gracefulness of a cat, he jumps on him, positioning his hands just so the handcuffs chain strains over Sung Hyunje’s neck, keeping his head firmly planted against the ground.
“How sneaky of you,” he marvels, the panging pain on the back of his head reduced to a background echo as he watches Han Yoojin leer down at him, stretching his hands wider so the chain presses more against Sung Hyunje’s neck, making his breath catch in his throat when he swallows.
“So I’ve been told.”
He makes no effort to move; although he’s sure the other knows that, with how comfortably he sits on him, smiling smugly down at him. From above, he’s even more entrancing, the jut of his chin more prominent — there’s a mole on the crevice of his neck that Sung Hyunje can see clearly, and when he swallows from the exertion, he watches as his adam’s apple bobs up and down with barely disguised desire.
“I don’t know what you were talking about. This is the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in.”
“That’s because you’re a pervert,” Han Yoojin argues. “See?” And just to prove a point, out of sheer pettiness, he presses himself more onto Sung Hyunje so their groins are pressed right against each other.
Both the malice and the friction — Sung Hyunje isn’t sure what he can’t get enough of, almost heady with want. Here, despite the freezing rain, his insides are flush with heat, all blood rushing downward.
If Han Yoojin were to direct even a crumb of sweetness his way, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Even now, being the recipient of all of his spite, he doesn’t know what to do; despite all that time begging for a way to stave off boredom, once he’s come face to face with this newfound appetite, he can barely think.
So he grabs at Han Yoojin’s hips and raises his own slightly, grinding more against him, desperate for as much relief as possible. His fingers dig deeply into the skin of his hips, allowing his shirt to hike up again, revealing a blooming bruise.
An itch — one not unlike the morbid curiosity that bared its ugly head earlier — and he scratches it, grazing the expanse of the bruise as lightly as possible, relishing the sounds of Han Yoojin’s moans in response. Similar to the ones of pain, but these are more shaky, as he still ruts against Sung Hyunje, the grip of his thighs tightening reflexively.
“Yoojin-gun,” he manages, already dizzy with overwhelming want, “you can do whatever you want — no need to make a point first.”
“I’ve already been doing that,” he corrects. “How the hell do you get that suit off?”
“That talkative brother of yours didn’t tell you about the badly-made suits we’re forced to wear?”
Han Yoojin scowls at the mention of his brother. “Just get the knife from my pocket and make yourself useful.”
He obliges happily, feeling his pockets for a pocket knife before using it to tear the suit down the midline; the blade makes some contact with his skin as well, but he doesn’t even blink at the superficial cuts, casting the knife off with finality. It’s a clumsy cut, but definitely does the job; Han Yoojin doesn’t even say anything, his eyes looking up and down at Sung Hyunje’s chest, before falling to where the rough tears end at his groin.
“Mine too,” he reminds him, gesturing to his handcuffed hands.
“Before the first date?” Sung Hyunje jokes, punctuating it with a tsk tsk. But he’s just as eager to do his bidding, clumsily unzipping his jeans and pushing the waistband of his underwear down, watching Han Yoojin carefully for his every reaction; his breathing stiffens as the cool wind hits his bare skin, gaze still trained to Sung Hyunje’s hands.
“It’s not like there’ll be another one,” he remarks petulantly.
He hums. Freed from the underwear, Han Yoojin’s dick is now a deep red color, already leaking with precum and twitching in his touch. He looks back up at him, eagerly drinking up the hungry look on his face; Han Yoojin’s eyes are heavily lidded now, his lashes more prominent than ever.
“What if we move this date somewhere else then?”
“Where?”
“My car should be nearby.”
“Can’t you fly?”
“If you wouldn’t walk in this weather, why would you fly in it?”
“Huh.” Han Yoojin finally stands up, slightly unbalanced, and puts his jeans back on. His legs wobble — and the restriction of movement from the handcuffs don’t help, Sung Hyunje knows, but he’d rather have them stay on. Every once in a while, they reveal red lines from where circulation is slightly cut from Han Yoojin’s wrists, and he takes a small pleasure from the sight.
“I’m always surprised whenever you say things that make sense,” he confesses.
“I’d be remiss to find out what twisted perception you have of me.”
“You would,” he laughs.
“I see where your brother gets his cruelty from.”
“Yoohyun-ah? No, no — he’s basically an angel,” Han Yoojin argues, leaning into Sung Hyunje’s arms as they trudge through the alley.
Now he laughs, wondering if Han Yoojin has followed the news anytime in the past couple of weeks — or maybe being a doting older brother means that he’s blind to any of Han Yoohyun’s wrongdoing, almost like a parent. “I’m reassured to know that you’re not a good judge of character now.”
“At all,” he agrees. “Why else would I follow you into your car?”
“Because I’ve bared my heart to you and we’ve made a commitment to each other.” He stops once he recognizes his car, opening the door to let Han Yoojin in. “Naturally.”
Han Yoojin rolls his eyes before hurrying inside, the hot air from the heating a breath of fresh air. Sung Hyunje follows him, closing the door behind him and turning on the backseat lights. Here, he can see everything much more clearly: there are a few scrapes of blood on Han Yoojin’s face, but it does nothing to reduce the appeal. He’s practically soaked with rain, his own shirt slick against his skin, raindrops dripping down his neck — Sung Hyunje wants to lick it, to devour that neck of his entirely.
“Naturally,” he echoes slowly.
The cramped position of the car's backseat isn’t comfortable, but he tries to make do as much as he can, grabbing onto that neck — just as soft as he imagined, and thin enough that his hand can cup it entirely — and bringing his face towards him for an open-mouthed kiss. He doesn’t know how long he’s been starving for it, kissing as hungrily as he can, wanting to explore every crevice and inhale as much of him as possible.
Han Yoojin kisses as violently as he speaks. His mouth must be curated solely for violence, baring his teeth any chance he gets — he even bites Sung Hyunje’s lower lip deeply enough mid-kiss for it to draw some blood.
He inches back slightly when Sung Hyunje lets out a small groan from the shock. The bite practically electrifies him, and clutches tighter onto him instinctively, the copper-flavored blood from the bite mingling with his saliva as he deepens the kiss even more. All he can hear is Han Yoojin’s heavy panting as he arches more into him, his hands splayed over the expanse of Sung Hyunje’s abdomen.
“Wait,” he finally forces out between kisses. He reaches out for the compartment, quickly taking some lube under Han Yoojin’s watchful eye; the malice hasn’t disappeared completely, but he’s warmed up to it, especially with how he expectantly waits for him. And — God bless modern day convenience — he pushes the front seat forward, so there’s more space to maneuver.
Now lying down, Han Yoojin pushes his waistbands down awkwardly, finally managing to make his underwear hang around his lower thigh. The cramped space is beginning to matter less and less; he’s actually beginning to prefer how tightly they’re enclosed, how Han Yoojin is forced into small, minimal movements, pressed against him all the while.
“Just put it in,” he hisses, the desperation naked on his face.
He does one better. He raises Han Yoojin’s legs, taking the jeans and underwear off. His dick is still pulsating helplessly, leaking over the carseat cushions, so he takes it into his mouth entirely.
The reaction is immediate. Han Yoojin lets out a helpless whimper, his legs shaking with every touch. Another pang of desire hits him, listening to how loudly Han Yoojin moans, even as he clamps his hands over his mouth, his legs now tightening around Sung Hyunje’s neck.
He lets go for a second, squeezing a dollop of lube onto his hand, encasing his fingers in it entirely before massaging the outer rim of his hole. Not even a couple of centimeters away, there’s a mole, and he bites on it, relishing the taste of his skin, salty sweat and all, as Han Yoojin lets out a sharp hiss from it, his dick twitching. He’s entranced by the sight before taking his dick back into his mouth, massaging the hole all the while.
It’s like that for a couple of minutes, slowly working him open as Han Yoojin’s legs writhe against him. He could be here all day, really — watching how Han Yoojin is moved to near incoherence, his dick helplessly throbbing inside Sung Hyunje’s mouth. The precum is practically threatening to spill out, a thick salty taste that dribbles over his mouth as he licks the underside of his frenulum.
“Put it in.”
“Now?” he asks, popping a second finger in as he massages his insides, feeling his muscles tense against him. It’s a struggle to even sound unaffected, his own dick throbbing with pain against the constraints of the suit.
“Don’t tell me you’ve become a saint all of a sudden,” he complains, a light whine in his voice that makes Sung Hyunje’s twitch even more. The desperation is palpable in his voice, and when he looks at him, he sees a slightly sullen look on his face, partially concealed by his hands.
“I didn’t,” he agrees, ripping the suit even more — it’s beyond salvageable now. “Come here, Yoojin-gun.”
For once, he obliges silently. It’s an awkward endeavor, and he clutches onto the heads of the carseats as he makes his way onto Sung Hyunje’s lap once again.. Not quite sitting, instead hovering right in front of his dick, as the head grazes his abdomen, leaving behind a trail of slick. Han Yoojin’s mouth opens slightly at the sight, tracing the shaft with his own hand as if to measure it before looking at Sung Hyunje, the hunger on his face now morphed into total insatiability.
“Put it in,” he insists now, adjusting slightly so the head now brushes against the opening of his hole, his back arching more for easier entry. His hands wrap around Sung Hyunje’s neck, the familiar sensation of the handcuff chain pressed against the curvature of his upper spine.
A few drips of lube leak out of his hole onto his dick, and he grips onto his outer thighs before teasing the opening, it already twitching against the head. Han Yoojin gasps from the contact, his hold tightening. His breath fans over Sung Hyunje’s ear, warm and enticing, and he doesn’t think before thrusting into him entirely.
If it was a gasp before — it’s a full-on cry now, Han Yoojin’s entire body convulsing against his from the shock, his insides squeezing so tightly against Sung Hyunje that he sees stars for a second there. A want so uncontrollably consuming, he can’t think of anything else, biting onto the sensitive skin of Han Yoojin’s neck, taking in as much as he can. His scent, previously faint in the bakery, is now overwhelmingly strong, a blend of nicotine and sweat that he drinks up hungrily, his hold on Han Yoojin’s thighs deepening all the while.
With every thrust, his moans grow louder until his voice grows hoarse, clutching tighter onto Sung Hyunje than before, his chest rising in tune with him. He doesn't think he’ll ever tire of hearing it, how helplessly he pants, worlds away from how sharply he usually speaks; both extreme ends of the spectrum, yet neither particularly help the desire that washes over him.
His bites turn into more gentle kisses, now taking to sucking onto his skin until he can see red bruises blooming. A low pain tolerance, indeed — matching perfectly with skin as sensitive as paper, with the slightest bit of impact leaving a lasting effect.
When he finally comes, a shuddering wave of release, Han Yoojin quivers before slumping helplessly against him, reminiscent of a limp, ragdoll. Already, Sung Hyunje’s chest is covered with Han Yoojin’s cum splattered all over it; and now his hole is leaking with his, as the other gently raises him before propping him back on his lap into a close hold.
Now instead of smelling like nicotine, he smells like cum and lube, a heavy scent that coats the car entirely. Sung Hyunje almost misses it — if it weren’t for how heady he feels from it, how it all mingles together.
Perhaps this will go somewhere. He entertains the thought for a second — and then another, when Han Yoojin smiles softly at him, the afterglow bliss making him look near angelic in the warlight of the car.
But the very next day, when he returns to the bakery, he’s served a cake baked with salt and a milkshake composed solely of milk.