Smiling, Jongin—an ocean and so many awful hours away—plops down on their bed. Sleep-rumpled, stunningly sleep-disheveled, he’s cross-legged, dressed in a faded t-shirt, boxers, the laptop balanced near his feet, tilted so that Minseok can see the softness of his smile in the morning sun.
It’s a lazy Saturday, and he’s just woken up, had wanted to do this first thing in the morning, make the best start of this day.
It’s taken several tries, Minseok’s calm typed instructions on Skype for them to get to this point.
But they have audio and visual now—at the same time—and Jongin is smiling, looking achingly handsome. Minseok’s heart clenches painfully with affection.
Jongin’s smile is gorgeous and genuine, all warm eyes and scrunched nose and blindingly white teeth. It’s almost too beautiful, would be—Minseok thinks—if he didn’t know just how stunning it is in the flesh. But that’s the entire point of this, after all. Substituting this because he can’t see it in the flesh.
Good as this is, it isn't enough. Reminds him too much of gourmet food from unfamiliar restaurants, foreign leather chairs in a desks that aren’t his own, the harsh clipped monotone of English, empty and unsatisfactory as the chill of his too-cold, too-empty hotel bed. Too much of the ocean, the hours, the commitments keeping them apart.
“I’ve missed you, beautiful,” Minseok says by way of greeting, and Jongin eyes crinkle in an even softer smile.
It’s hard to sleep without you, he means. I miss the way your skin smells, the way your voice sounds, the way your kiss tastes. I love you, and this hurts, he aches to add. Is scared to add.
“You're not allowed to look sad,” Jongin decides, ruffling his hair with a faint pout that Minseok yearns to taste. “Not when I can’t kiss it better.” A pause, a self-deprecating swipe at his nose for his own cheesiness. His broad shoulders roll and hunch beneath his shirt in something so shy and so beautiful and so deferential and so vulnerable, and Minseok feels aching with the need to hold him. “I miss you, too,” Jongin says after a beat. “So much.”
Last night, he’d sent Minseok a picture, then a video file. Jongin in the throes of passion, his head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted, throat cast in sharp shadows, the gorgeous, golden skin glistening with sweat, heaving with want.
Thinking of you, he’d sent. Missing you.
And he’d called him just two days prior, Jongin shy and bumbling at first but warming up to it in time, breathily describing just how exactly he wanted to be taken, how badly he wanted Minseok to fuck him trembling, fuck him sobbing, Minseok promising in the drunkenness of lust to never ever leave, never ever make Jongin have to take care of himself again.
I’m yours, he’d told him on the phone. Take me, I’m yours. Want you to take me.
And now, in the present time, Minseok’s night, Jongin’s early morning, Minseok struggles to reconcile that Jongin with the soft, quiet man before him now—his voice warm, increasingly animated, lilting as he talks about the new students he’s been training, the new tricks Mandu has learned, how the kimchi ahjumma keeps asking about him, saying she misses his handsome face even though it’s only been a week and she isn’t married to Minseok like Jongin is, so isn’t entitled to his face like Jongin is.
Jongin pauses, wrinkles his nose again, and Minseok just wants to kiss it. Says as much to watch Jongin smile shyly, then bite his lower lip. On his lap, Jongin’s fingers clench and unclench into the fabric of his boxers, and he exhales a breath, shoulders squaring, stretching the white palm trees on his Hollywood shirt. His fingers still clench and unclench.
“I’ve missed you,” he repeats. Then “I’ve been thinking of you.” And he tilts his head slightly back, throat bobbing as he swallows. “Want you—want you to tell me how you want me, want it.”
wolfodder, you're up