Usually, people think that it's Jongin who started this—Jongin who cornered Zitao in the practice room sometime, and that's how they fell into this strange pattern of theirs. That's Jongin's persona, the go-getter bad boy, and that's what he wants people to believe most times, but in this, in fact, it wasn't Jongin's fault at all. Jongin had watched Zitao, surreptitiously, from the corner of his eye for months before Zitao got fed up with the surveillance, pinned Jongin up against the dance room mirror, and kissed him until he saw stars.
Fast forward.
Zitao presses up against Jongin's back, mouths a hot kiss against the nape of his neck. "Wider," he says, and for a second Jongin's not sure what he means, but then Zitao nudges one of Jongin's feet with his foot and he gets it. Legs wider. Sometimes sex with Zitao is an adventure, because they don't teach you how to say I'm going to fuck you until you beg in any Introductory Korean course. Jongin still hasn't worked out which it is of the many things Zitao says to him during sex, but he's sure he'll get it one day.
Cool air on his ass jerks Jongin back to the present as Zitao tugs his workout pants down, his briefs too, down to his thighs. Jongin, braced against the mirror, cranes his neck back to look at Zitao, but he can't get a glimpse of much more than just Zitao's shoulder and upper arm. "What are you doing?" he asks.
"Your..." It seems like Zitao doesn't know the word for ass in Korean, so he just gestures in its general vicinity. "It's nice."
Jongin flushes over the bridge of his nose and turns his face back toward the mirror. "Thanks," he says, watching their reflections as Zitao moves behind him. Zitao's fingers are warm as he traces the dimples at the base of Jongin's spine, then lower, his palm spreading out and fingers curving over the swell of his ass. Zitao has big hands.
He sees the slap coming a split second before it lands, but that doesn't make Jongin ready. His whole body jerks, and he bites down on his lip so hard he almost breaks skin. "What the fuck," Jongin demands, his skin tingling where Zitao's hand made contact—blood rushing to the abused skin, warming it.
"Mm?" Zitao says, his fingers caressing Jongin's ass again. He slaps it again, the other cheek, this time, and Jongin swears, his breath catching in his throat. "Should I stop?"
After a moment of war with himself, Jongin mutters, "No."
As long as Jongin doesn't think too hard about it—about the fact that he's letting Zitao spank him in the open air of their dance practice studio, pants around his thighs like he's easy—it's kind of hot. Zitao's hands are large and the sounds they make against Jongin's skin are obscene, echoing in the studio, as do the whimpers Jongin can't help but release every time Zitao's palm makes contact with the abused flesh of his ass. It hurts, a lot, it stings, but Jongin likes it, likes the tingling and the warmth and the anticipation just before Zitao slaps him again.
After a while—could be an hour, could be ten minutes, Jongin's not really sure—Zitao reaches around and wraps his hand around Jongin's cock, and it takes literally two strokes for Jongin to come in a shuddering mess over Zitao's fingers. He hadn't noticed how hard he was—had been too focused on the pain in his ass, but the orgasm totally sates him, strings Jongin right out until he's slumping against the mirror and trying to catch his breath.
Zitao laughs, maybe at how easy Jongin is for him, and presses Jongin's chest against the mirror with one strong hand against Jongin's back. He holds Jongin there for a minute, and Jongin is about to push away and ask Zitao what the fuck he's doing when he feels Zitao come on him, on his ass, over the skin that Zitao had just spent so long abusing. Zitao's come is hot on Jongin's sensitive flesh, and Jongin moans, before the rational part of his brain catches up. "My underwear are going to be ruined," he points out, looking back over his shoulder and giving Zitao a poisonous look. "Are you going to take responsibility?"
All he gets in return is a peace sign and something in Mandarin that Jongin doesn't understand, but somehow he knows that's the best that Zitao is going to do.
no subject
Fast forward.
Zitao presses up against Jongin's back, mouths a hot kiss against the nape of his neck. "Wider," he says, and for a second Jongin's not sure what he means, but then Zitao nudges one of Jongin's feet with his foot and he gets it. Legs wider. Sometimes sex with Zitao is an adventure, because they don't teach you how to say I'm going to fuck you until you beg in any Introductory Korean course. Jongin still hasn't worked out which it is of the many things Zitao says to him during sex, but he's sure he'll get it one day.
Cool air on his ass jerks Jongin back to the present as Zitao tugs his workout pants down, his briefs too, down to his thighs. Jongin, braced against the mirror, cranes his neck back to look at Zitao, but he can't get a glimpse of much more than just Zitao's shoulder and upper arm. "What are you doing?" he asks.
"Your..." It seems like Zitao doesn't know the word for ass in Korean, so he just gestures in its general vicinity. "It's nice."
Jongin flushes over the bridge of his nose and turns his face back toward the mirror. "Thanks," he says, watching their reflections as Zitao moves behind him. Zitao's fingers are warm as he traces the dimples at the base of Jongin's spine, then lower, his palm spreading out and fingers curving over the swell of his ass. Zitao has big hands.
He sees the slap coming a split second before it lands, but that doesn't make Jongin ready. His whole body jerks, and he bites down on his lip so hard he almost breaks skin. "What the fuck," Jongin demands, his skin tingling where Zitao's hand made contact—blood rushing to the abused skin, warming it.
"Mm?" Zitao says, his fingers caressing Jongin's ass again. He slaps it again, the other cheek, this time, and Jongin swears, his breath catching in his throat. "Should I stop?"
After a moment of war with himself, Jongin mutters, "No."
As long as Jongin doesn't think too hard about it—about the fact that he's letting Zitao spank him in the open air of their dance practice studio, pants around his thighs like he's easy—it's kind of hot. Zitao's hands are large and the sounds they make against Jongin's skin are obscene, echoing in the studio, as do the whimpers Jongin can't help but release every time Zitao's palm makes contact with the abused flesh of his ass. It hurts, a lot, it stings, but Jongin likes it, likes the tingling and the warmth and the anticipation just before Zitao slaps him again.
After a while—could be an hour, could be ten minutes, Jongin's not really sure—Zitao reaches around and wraps his hand around Jongin's cock, and it takes literally two strokes for Jongin to come in a shuddering mess over Zitao's fingers. He hadn't noticed how hard he was—had been too focused on the pain in his ass, but the orgasm totally sates him, strings Jongin right out until he's slumping against the mirror and trying to catch his breath.
Zitao laughs, maybe at how easy Jongin is for him, and presses Jongin's chest against the mirror with one strong hand against Jongin's back. He holds Jongin there for a minute, and Jongin is about to push away and ask Zitao what the fuck he's doing when he feels Zitao come on him, on his ass, over the skin that Zitao had just spent so long abusing. Zitao's come is hot on Jongin's sensitive flesh, and Jongin moans, before the rational part of his brain catches up. "My underwear are going to be ruined," he points out, looking back over his shoulder and giving Zitao a poisonous look. "Are you going to take responsibility?"
All he gets in return is a peace sign and something in Mandarin that Jongin doesn't understand, but somehow he knows that's the best that Zitao is going to do.