(no subject)
wake bake skate | nc-17 | ~7k | jongdae/zitao
for brittany, whose birthday is today. she asked for skatepunk!jongdae and i just kind of... did this, yeah. oops. sorry not sorry.
Jongdae rolls out of bed at approximately 11:40 in the morning, sheets sticking to his back and t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in somehow thrown halfway across his room. When he sits up, dazed and maybe a little dehydrated from all the drinking done the night before, he catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror sitting against the opposite wall; he’s drenched in sweat, his hair’s poking out at odd angles, and somehow he’s still wearing his sunglasses, albeit hanging off one ear and dangling dangerously.
Whatever, he’ll deal with it in a minute. About time for a cold shower, anyhow. Waking up alone after a one-night stand when he’d expected morning sex is about the worst experience ever, and morning wood has never been kind to him.
Ah, but first things first. He reaches over to the table at his bedside, grabs his piece -- a handheld in the shape of a squid, homage to his seaside lifestyle, or so he claims -- and pokes around in the bowl with the tip of his finger. Empty. Sighing resolutely he then pulls open the drawer on the nightstand, tugging out a baggie full of dank that smells delicious and is more purple than green. The good shit, compliments of his friend Chanyeol, who has a licence to grow medicinally and shares samples with his friends whenever he’s breeding something new. God bless the state of California, Jongdae thinks as he packs his bowl, uncaring of the occasional seed or stem, and takes a big hit.
He’s coughing his fuckin’ lungs out when his roommate ducks into his bedroom, lifting back the sheer curtains only to reveal a new layer of beads, which Jongdae must’ve added last night, somewhere between the shots and the sex. “Are you smoking without me, you fuckhead?” Jongin asks with a quiet frown, and Jongdae, without even opening his eyes or moving the back of his hand from his mouth, extends his hand and offers his piece, which he’s named Cthulu. “That’s more like it.” Jongin nudges Jongdae’s knee with his own, trying to get him to scoot over; Jongdae does so just in time to exhale almost-cleanly, only the barest hints of choking at the end, and Jongin sinks into the mattress. The bedframe groans loudly, a reflex of old age, and Jongin just fucking laughs like it’s some kinda private joke.
“What’s so funny?” Jongdae asks as Jongin hands Cthulu back to him.
“It was louder last night,” Jongin replies mysteriously, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “I have to go to work. Hey, if you’re going to the shop, do me a favour?”
“And that’d be?” Jongin knows Jongdae’s not in the habit of doing favours for a lot of people, so this better be good. Or at least mutually beneficial.
“Tell Sehun if he’s there that we’re going out tonight and his twink ass better be ready by eight.” Jongin’s face cracks into a brilliant grin as he climbs right up out of bed, waving off the offer for one more hit, and leaves Jongdae’s bedroom. It only takes about three solid minutes for him to depart; Jongdae can tell by the several botched attempts to both close and lock the front door to their shoebox apartment.
He figures it’s about time he got out of the house, too, now that his head’s buzzing and he can at least kinda function like a normal human being. He gets up and showers, realising at the last possible moment that Jongin had been so good a friend as to completely ignore his enormous wake-up boner.
Why the hell had his hookup left, anyhow? He couldn’t remember the name, much less the face, but he could definitely remember a tight ass and some nice arms and a cute mouth, looking like it was made to be kissed over and over again. Maybe he’d been rude. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it’d been like that movie Knocked Up, and he’d pretended to wear a condom when in reality he hadn’t.
Or maybe Jongin had just kind of...scared them off early. That would be nice of him. ‘Specially if they were ugly. Ugly people with cute mouths were the absolute worst. God’s neglected children.
Whatever. He sighs as he climbs out of the shower, thankful that his boner’s dealt with, and starts to get dressed for the day, tugging on a pair of pale shorts and a damn-near transparent white tank, cut up to reveal more skin than it covered up.
(He could go shirtless, he supposes, try to beat the heat. In fact, he would, but the last time he had the manager of the skate shop he frequents had threatened to kick him out. Then he’d hit on the employee on duty, a straight-edge little fucker by the name of Joonmyun, and made everything worse, and Yifan had kind of folded his arms and told Jongdae he was banned for a week. Which was awful, because the next day his board decided to completely snap in half and he’d had to bike places. Ugh, the inhumanity of it all.)
Once he’s ready and his hair is at least alright looking, not that it’s gonna matter in about ten minutes here, he drinks a beer, breakfast of champions, and chomps down half a Poptart. The morning is on, and it’s exactly noon. His board sits by the front door; he snatches it up along with the hat he’s got perched on a hook at the back of the door, just under the peephole, and makes his way outside.
Southern California in the summer is absolutely deplorable, he thinks as he brushes the sweat from the back of his neck. He spits and he swears to God he can see the steam rising up from the puddle of saliva as it pools on the cracked concrete. His big toe nudges the back axle of his board; he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, mounts his board, and gets on his way. Pedestrians give him the occasional accolade or ‘watch it’ with hints of venom; he flashes every single one of them a grin and a peace sign, the picture of obnoxiousness and more than likely the reason that most people in the area hate the punks like himself.
He pulls up to the shop, making damn sure to kickflip his way to the front door and almost knocking over a decidedly cute girl in a ripped tank and riding a longboard. His eyes say apology, he knows that, but the rest of his face says ‘totally intentional’, and she gives him a look of disgust before skating right away, backpack slung over her shoulder and snapback threatening to fall off her head, a result of his near-collision. Chalking it up to his own indifference, he flips his board up into his grip, pushes into the building, the bell on the door clanging loudly to announce his arrival.
“Hey, ‘Dae,” greets Zitao, the current dude on duty for the shop’s goods; he’s leaning over the counter, sweat beading on his forehead -- this store is old as balls and the AC hasn’t worked as long as Jongdae’s been coming here -- and making the dumbest kissy face Jongdae has ever seen in his life. He flashes a grin, anyway, and reaches out to tweak Zitao’s pierced nose.
“Hey, Peach Boy,” he says right back, and Zitao looks completely affronted by the sudden show of physical affection. He’s always telling Jongdae how annoying he is, and today is, apparently, no different. “What’s up? You got the deck I ordered, right?”
“What? You didn’t get my message?” Zitao blinks; the ring in his eyebrow glints even in the dim lighting of the store. “They called and said it’d be pushed back a week, something about some professional, Kyung-something, ordering a huge stock of stuff for some charity show he’s doing. Not that they’re not almost done with your deck, mind you,” and here Zitao’s mouth is curling up, the pointed stud in his bottom lip practically stabbing him in the upper, “they just aren’t getting the kind of money from you that they are from the other guy. You know how it is.”
“What the fuck,” Jongdae sighs, making a fist and punching at the air just below the line of his skinny waist. “Do you at least have that tape I called for before I came over here?”
“That, I can help you with,” Tao confirms with a nod, turning his back to Jongdae and stooping so that he can check the ‘safe’, a rusty old toolbox where they keep the essentials handy for their most dependable customers. Jongdae takes this opportunity to check out what appears to be new ink at the back of Zitao’s neck, the edges of it just barely poking out from under the collar of his neon-yellow tank top.
“What’d you get this time?” Jongdae inquires curiously, setting his board down face-up against the glass case Zitao’s working behind and leaning against its surface, balancing on his elbows.
“None of your goddamn business,” Zitao snaps, and Jongdae smirks because he loves it when Zitao grows some balls and tells him where to shove it. It’s kinda hot, and he’s totally into it, but they can’t exactly make out at Zitao’s place of business, especially not when there’s security cameras and he’s fresh out of the state of banishment.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have that quick flash behind his eyes, the image of himself pressed against Zitao’s lean-and-lanky frame, backing him into this display case of decks and wheels, a knee drawn up between his ultra-long legs--
Fuck, there goes the boner again. Eyebrows bunched together frustratedly he wills it back down because there’s no way he’s gonna be able to live it down if Zitao turns around and sees that his dick is standing at half-mast. No way in hell. Thankfully it settles down a little, enough so that it doesn’t hurt when he covers his crotch with his board, and to distract from the visions of sexy, tatted-and-pierced sugarplums in his head, he focuses down at the carpet, occasionally glancing at his own ink, little pieces that will eventually come together in a sleeve up the length of his left arm.
At long last Zitao stands up, holding out two rolls of tape with a bright grin that causes his eyes to curve up into precious little half-moons. “Here,” he says, and Jongdae stiffly reaches out to take the proffered tapes, stuffing them into the oversized pocket of his shorts. “And, uh, Yifan says it’s on the house. Because of the whole...banishment thing, I think he said.”
“Aw, for real?” Jongdae makes a fist-pumping motion, watching the light that dances across Zitao’s face as he does. “Thanks, dude. Hey, uh, is Sehun gonna be here in a few, at shift change?”
“Huh?” Zitao appears to snap out of some kinda daze, then nods, and Jongdae hears the soft click of the other’s teeth latching onto the inside of his lip piercing. “Yeah, he’ll be here at about two.”
“Can you do me a favour and tell him that Jongin said they’re going out tonight? I think he said eight o’clock. I’d call and ask but you know his dumb ass broke his phone again yesterday bailing on some crap stunt he should’ve learned to do ages ago.”
“Oh… yeah, definitely,” and Jongdae’s pretty dense emotionally, a product of all the smoking and drinking he’s done over the past seven or eight years, but he definitely doesn’t miss the disappointment in the younger’s voice. “Hey, uh, there’s this big party at Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s place tonight, if you wanted to come?”
“For real? Hell yeah I’ll be there, what time?” Jongdae runs a hand through his hair and pretends not to see the crestfallen look on Zitao’s face.
“I think they said eight, but you know them, it’ll probably be closer to ten by the time they get their shit together unless someone goes to help them out.”
Jongdae snorts, nodding, looking away. “We always could. If you think they really need it.” And Zitao’s all excited, lit-up again, the brightest thing in this godforsaken building. “Meet you at theirs around eight-thirty?” He doesn’t even bother waiting for a response, though, just kind of turns back, knowing that he needs to get home and tape up his board before he busts ass just like his idiot roommate had.
That night there’s a small crowd gathered outside Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s front door, intermingling, making conversation despite the intense awkwardness of it. Yifan, who clearly is too cool to be here judging by the fact that he’s wearing his tight clothes tonight and scowling at everyone in the general vicinity, is trying to make conversation with Yixing, who’s dazed out and finding it exceptionally hard to focus on what comes out of his own mouth, much less anyone else’s. How he’s not a stoner, Jongdae will never understand. Jongin and Sehun have shown their faces, too, though from the state of them you’d think they’d rather have just gone back to one of their apartments and had sex for the rest of the night -- hair all mussed up and mouths still swollen red. Joonmyun, who’s clearly only there because Yifan invited him, stands around awkwardly, occasionally trying to figure out how he can jump into a conversation, except he doesn’t really know how which leads to him clutching at his elbow and leaning to the left with a cock of his hip.
Really, though, Jongdae’s only there for one person, he realises as he kicks up his board and catches it without effort, shaking much like a dog does just after a bath and trying to get rid of as much perspiration as he possibly can considering he rode the six-and-a-half miles between his job at the record store and Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s house. Zitao’s there, looking even better than he had earlier in the day, aviators on to block out the harsh rays of the impending sunset, the bright light catching every one of the piece of metal in his face and brightening him considerably. He looks good like this, and he’s catching a tan, and his ink is still fresh and kind of tender, and Jongdae’s thinking about what it’d be like to taste the sweat that’s pooling in his collarbones--
Shit, he’s in trouble, isn’t he. Especially considering the fact that he’s definitely about to get fucked at this function.
Jongin peers over Sehun’s shoulder at his roommate with a knowing expression, and Jongdae very casually flips him the bird despite the fact that he has absolutely no idea what he’s done to earn that look from his friend. “Hey, hey! Hostile, much?” And Jongin looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead Sehun buries his face in Jongin’s neck, and God, they’re about to start dry-humping in front of everyone. Rudely enough, Jongdae takes Zitao by the elbow and tugs him away, facing them both in the exact opposite direction of whatever it is that Jongin and Sehun are doing.
“You don’t need to see that,” he mumbles, and Zitao leans against him, fucking leans against him like Jongdae’s done something particularly noteworthy in protecting his poor eyes. Jongdae is ninety-nine percent certain he’s gonna die tonight. “You okay, by the way? You had a good rest of the day at work after I left? Anyone harassing you?”
“Of course not,” Zitao snorts, shaking his head, “you weren’t there. Have I told you lately that Joonmyun is still traumatised from you going all goo-goo-gaga on him? I think he’s--” and here Zitao looks around, conspiratorial, voice dropping to a wispy whisper, “straight.”
After a long second of being completely stunned, Jongdae glances over his shoulder at Joonmyun, who apparently can’t keep from watching Jongin-and-Sehun’s extreme display of PDA, and nods gravely. “You’re probably right. He looks so fucking uncomfortable.” Then he gets this brilliant idea, kind of like those inventors who always shout ‘EUREKA’ in films, and angles his body kind of in Zitao’s direction, reaching up and slinging an arm over his shoulder. “We should try and make him more uncomfortable, don’t you think?”
“Nah, I’m not into sexual harassment suits like you,” Zitao responds with a smirk, “and I have to see him at work tomorrow. It’s gonna be Saturday, you know we get more idiot kids on the weekend than any other time.”
“So you don’t want us to pretend to proposition him a three-way?” Jongdae’s disappointment is obvious, but he shakes it away when he sees that Zitao gets the message. “Cool. Me and Baekhyun will get him later. You know we love messing with old guys.”
“That’s because you two are complete idiots--” There’s probably more to that insult, but Jongdae doesn’t get to hear it because the door flings open and Chanyeol’s standing there, leaning against the frame with his entire body, smelling loud as fuck, his eyes redder than the devil’s dick, so to speak.
“You guys are early,” he rumbles out slowly, clearly too baked to form actual words because his slurring would lead one to believe that he’d been doing straight shots of vodka again, not just smoking some herb. “I thought we said eight.”
“It’s eight-forty-seven,” Yifan says, clearly running out of patience with the situation. It’d be annoying except for the fact that literally everyone there knows the only reason he’s bothered showing up tonight is because every party is, according to him, the one where he’ll finally get into Baekhyun’s pants.
“Like you jerks don’t know what we mean when we say that,” Chanyeol scoffs and rolls his eyes, then he puts on his happy face even though it looks more terrifying than welcoming. They all slowly file into the house, save for Jongin-and-Sehun who are still sucking face even though the shock value wore off a full five minutes ago. Well, for everyone except Joonmyun, that is; he’s second-to-last in the house, right behind Zitao and Jongdae, and only because he can’t seem to move, too mesmerised by the horny teenagers glued to one another.
Finally everyone makes it inside, and Chanyeol’s giant ass has already disappeared around a corner, apparently following his nose towards the scent of even more burning weed which is coming from what appears to be the kitchen. Incredible. When the rest of the group makes it there it’s only to lay eyes on the sight that is Byun Baekhyun, Douchebag Extraordinaire and the only one of their group who can get away with not being a skate rat, is sitting up on the kitchen counter, the barrel of a three-foot tall bong between his legs. “Sup, fuckers!” he welcomes them with all the enthusiasm in the world. Then Chanyeol is ducking down, crouched and precariously balanced, and lighting the bowl for Baekhyun, who has the fucking audacity to clear it.
Jongdae is both angry and amused. He chances a look over at Zitao, who looks downright frightened. Apparently Jongin-and-Sehun have decided that fusion just isn’t for them right now and are watching in amazement. They’re quiet for a minute before Sehun pipes up, declaring, “I’ll give my left nut to be able to do that.”
“You’re so lucky I’m not in the business of collecting balls!” Baekhyun chirps, carefully moving aside the glassware and setting it down just far enough away so that he can hop down from the countertop incident-free. “You can hit it later. I’ve got Minseok coming over in a little bit and we need some muscle to help set up the DJ booth and the speaker system. Who’s volunteering? Free beer for the rest of the night if you do.” Sehun and Jongin jump at the chance, despite the fact that they combined have about the same amount of muscle mass as a seven-year-old girl. Zitao volunteers too, and Jongdae’s a little surprised, not because he thinks Zitao couldn’t handle it or anything -- it’s pretty fucking difficult not to notice the definition in those arms, the shapes of those calves, the pert of that ass, even when he’s dressed out and bagged out and looking like an elephant -- but because he’d thought that they’d spend the night hanging out and basically telling everyone around them that they didn’t find relevant to go fuck themselves.
That sounds kinda familiar, but Jongdae can’t quite figure out why, so he just shrugs off the creeps crawling from his crown to the nape of his neck, and hops up on the kitchen counter himself, moving only enough to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, attached to the belt loop of his jeans by a thick link chain, tug out the requisite dollar bills to keep himself at the party once the music and the kegs show up.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Zitao points out when he happens to pass by; he’s got his eyes trained on the cash in Jongdae’s hand, even as he’s carrying a giant woofer in his own. “I mean, I was gonna give you mine, since I don’t really drink all that much--”
Jongdae finds himself blushing to the tips of his ears because, okay, that definitely sounds familiar, and it’s even more troubling now than it had been before that he can’t remember where it’s from. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to be comforting as he reaches out and pats Zitao on the shoulder, then carefully nudges his well-toned ass with the big toe a filthy skate shoe, making sure he doesn’t drop his precious cargo. “Give yours to Minseok if you can’t tip, or something. He’ll appreciate it more than you know, he’s always talking about how he’s too old to be hanging out with us punk motherfuckers anyway--”
“When have I ever said that?” comes a voice from Jongdae-and-Zitao’s left, and Jongdae’s skin prickles at the sound of it. “I mean, yeah, I am older than you guys, and I might have mentioned that you’re all kind of dumb, but--”
“Minseok!” Jongdae’s all smiles all of a sudden, jumping down from the counter with a decidedly loud ‘thud’; his board, which had been situated against the lower cabinets on the opposite side of him from the bong, clatters to the tiled floor, and the sound reverberates through the otherwise quiet room. Sehun and Jongin are watching on curiously, tiny smirks at their mouths, as if they don’t think Jongdae’s gonna survive this encounter; even Yifan, who’d been relentlessly attempting yet another pursuit of Baekhyun’s dick, has paused to look over and see just what’s happening. “Hey, uh, hey, I didn’t know you were here.”
Minseok’s about the nicest guy in their little group of friends, he really is, but he’s also not someone to fuck with. Not only does he skate and not only has he been doing it for longer than most of them put together, but he also plays football and occasionally, rugby, so he’s worked out as hell, and is more than capable of kicking Jongdae to the curb in the appropriate manner. Not to mention, he’s Jongdae’s boss, the owner of the record store he works at, and after the skate shop incident he’s already on thin ice--
Jongdae gulps loudly, and the noise of it is about the loudest thing in the entire world, until Minseok breaks into a giant grin. “Nah, I’m just screwing with you,” he confesses, clapping Jongdae on the shoulder. “I’ve said it about a million times, you just always have those giant headphones on so I never know what you can hear and what you can’t. You know I’d rather be playing football with Lu Han anyway.” He pulls Jongdae into a quick hug, whispers something in his ear about ‘we’ll talk about this tomorrow at the store’, then goes back to the side of his boyfriend, who’s currently setting up the beer pong tables.
Jongdae’s lungs about collapse with the deep sign of relief he breathes; he clasps his hands to his chest and pretends to stagger over, safely of course, and collapse to the ground. Joonmyun, who’s apparently about the easiest dude to fool in the entire world, practically sprints over to him and kneels down beside him. “Are you alright?” he asks and he’s got this dumb little wrinkle in his brow. “I really didn’t think it was possible to frighten someone to death, but--”
“Joonmyun,” and Yifan’s standing over the both of them, hand atop Joonmyun’s head, “he’s faking for attention, like always. Leave him be.” Joonmyun’s face is bright red, and Jongdae considers this a victory.
The setup goes pretty smoothly from that point on; Chanyeol, who’s finally high enough to get some real work done, is helping set up the ramp in he and Baekhyun’s incredible backyard, occasionally stealing glances at Jongin while he does some heavy lifting. No party of theirs is complete without a drunken accident or two, Jongdae thinks amusedly as he smokes a joint and plots what he’s gonna try and pull off tonight. The thing about him smoking before he skates is that he thinks he can do more than he actually can, according to the laws of physics. In the end he decides on a few things, then figures he can probably wing the rest of it as he goes, as he feels it.
When everything’s said and done and the required girls and douchebags are filtering onto the property, Zitao parks himself right up next to Jongdae on the edge of the deck, near the empty pool that’s filling up with people. They stare down into the waterless bottom of the basin, which is kept that way specifically for skating, and Zitao snuggles into Jongdae’s side, fitting an arm around him and taking his hand to prod gently at his knuckle tattoos. “You would be the kind of guy who has ‘fuck’ tattooed on his hand,” he teases lightly, a smile tugging at his lips.
“And you would be the guy to notice how good it looks on me,” Jongdae suggests with a raised eyebrow, even though his mouth is curling up into his signature kitten grin. “You...did notice, right?”
“Like I’ve ever not noticed,” Zitao sighs, rolling his eyes and curling even further into Jongdae’s tiny frame. “You’re kind of the hottest guy at this whole party.”
“No one? Not even Jongin? Because everyone knows Jongin’s super-hot, and so’s Chanyeol even though he doesn’t act like it and--”
Zitao frowns, and there’s this split-second hesitation between the two of them before Zitao leans in and catches Jongdae’s curly mouth in a kiss that either lasts half a second or a thousand years. When they break away Zitao’s got his hand at the side of Jongdae’s neck, keeping him steady, and Jongdae’s snaked a hand around Zitao’s waist, holding him as close as possible without climbing into his lap the way he wants.
“If I didn’t mean it exactly the way I said it,” Zitao says slowly, enunciating as best as he possibly can, and Jongdae’s so focused on the way that damn lip ring moves that he almost misses the actual words, “I probably wouldn’t’ve fucked you last night.”
“...What?” Jongdae blinks, then his eyes get super-wide, and he’s kind of moving in closer. His eyes flicker back and forth around them, making sure that no one’s listening, then whispers, “If you’re the one I fucked last night then why’d you leave?”
“Because I had work, you big idiot,” Zitao whines. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I heard Jongin and Sehun fucking when I was getting ready to go. I kinda didn’t want to hear that, you know, Sehun’s my best friend and everything but there are certain pet names I didn’t need to know he was into--”
“So then why didn’t you say something earlier?” Jongdae demands, tempting Zitao to answer with a quick peck to the lips. “I thought that if anything had happened I would know about it, you can’t keep a secret to save your life. Don’t think I don’t know about the time that you ratted me out to Yifan for screwing with his board that one time--”
“That was Sehun,” Zitao counters, adding another kiss to the growing pile of affections between them. “He was standing outside and kind of looked in the front window and saw it going down. When Yifan finally realised what had happened, he demanded an answer… you know Sehun crumbles under the gaze of intense authority.”
Jongdae laughs, hard, doubling over in the middle and headbutting Zitao gently in the chest. “Some fucking anarchist he is.”
“Goes along with the nicknames thing,” Zitao says solemnly, and Jongdae quiets, slowly sits up. “Anyway, I guess I didn’t say anything because you didn’t say anything and I didn’t want to make a big deal of something I didn’t know whether or not you wanted--”
“Speaking of which,” and now Jongdae does crawl into Zitao’s lap, happily ringing his arms around the younger’s neck and tugging at that damn lip piercing between his teeth, careful not to cause tear damage, “I do have one more issue with the whole last night thing.”
“And that would be…?” Zitao’s eyebrows perk; he leans in to nip at the lobe of Jongdae’s ear. Somewhere behind them someone, sounding suspiciously like Chanyeol, yells at them to get a room, and in almost perfect synchronisation they flip the bird in the direction of the voice. After a brief fit of laughter, Zitao presses on, “No, really, tell me. What’d I do wrong.”
“You left me alone and I had the most intense case of morning wood anyone’s ever seen in their life,” Jongdae sighs, overdramatic as always, pressing his palm to Zitao’s chest to feel the thrum of his heartbeat on the inside of his ribcage. “Could’ve used a little assistance from someone cute like yourself, but instead the only cute thing that touched me was my showerhead that’s kinda got a face on it.”
“...You’re about the weirdest dude I’ve ever fucked,” Zitao points out with a sly grin.
“You’re about the hottest dude I’ve ever fucked.” He feels the blood begin to rush between his legs, a combination of Zitao’s stupid voice in his ear and the proximity of their bodies and the fact that he really, really wishes they were wearing less clothing right now, and forces himself to pull away. “Hey, are you gonna be in the contest tonight?” he asks as he stands up, wiping his sweaty palms on the seat of his shorts.
“Nah,” Zitao says, “kinda tired myself out. But if you compete I’ll bet you’d get paid in a blowjob.”
“Just a blowjob?” Jongdae leans forward, bats his too-long eyelashes.
Zitao laughs. “We’ll see. Go get yourself ready, check out the competition, and I might consider riding you like a stallion. Again.”
Never before in his life has Jongdae ever wished more that he could remember something. The image of Zitao perched on his lap, looking down at him with those heavy eyes lined in black, hands just over his navel as he rocks back and forth on his cock--
Shit, how’s he supposed to compete now?
All in all, Jongdae comes in second out of six. Not bad, he decides as he’s leaning up against the wall at the back of the house, far out of the way of prying eyes. His knee kinda stings, though -- he’d fallen on it when he was climbing out of the halfpipe, and while there hadn’t been any blood, there had been an intense amount of pain involved. He’s sure he’s going to bruise. Of course he’d bust ass the only time tonight he hasn’t been on a board. On the plus side, apparently Zitao is into war injuries and the like. In fat, Zitao, true to his word, has snuck away to figure out exactly where Baekhyun and Chanyeol keep their emergency supplies, condoms and lube and maybe a blindfold if it can be swung. Jongdae’s sipping a beer and waiting impatiently, every few seconds peeking around the corner only to catch a glimpse of Do “Douchebag” Kyungsoo dancing with his super-hot fellow skater girlfriend, Bang Minah.
Jongdae hates that guy.
He’s almost tipsy enough to be convinced that saying as much is a good idea, but instead he leans back against the wall, and eventually Zitao comes to him, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Found it,” he singsongs, and Jongdae is so overwhelmed with relief that he grabs Zitao by the elbow, shoves him up against the wall of the house, hands bracketing his hips as he leans upwards and kisses Zitao, searing and passionate, nipping at his bottom lip as he goes.
“Are you okay?” Zitao asks between kisses, meetings of lips and tongue and eventually teeth, “Your knee gonna be alright while we do this?” And Jongdae wants to say yeah, he’ll be fine, he’s had worse before, but shit, he’s getting older, and even his own classic move of drawing up his knee between Zitao’s thighs, the curve of it brushing against his crotch slowly, causes him to wince. Zitao sighs quietly, pulls away, and shakes his head. “Nope, no good. Sit down, let me take care of you.”
And, okay, Jongdae’s nervous, usually those words lead to the kind of sex where the person bottoming cries like a bitch and that’s awkward for everyone, but Zitao just looks determined, if loving, making the hottest version of a cuddly face Jongdae’s ever seen in his life. The sounds of nightlife are just beyond their shoulders, but all Jongdae’s taking in is white noise, his own ragged breathing, and Zitao murmuring in his ear that everything will be alright. He crawls between Jongdae’s legs, tugs his shirt over his head and balls it up carefully, stuffing the roll of fabric under Jongdae’s injured knee, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the already-purpling bruise, which both tickles and stings.
“Zitao,” Jongdae breathes, a slight hitch in the way the name comes spilling from his lips. “Zitao, please don’t--” Play with me is the rest of the sentence, but he can’t get it to come out, and that apparently makes the younger man nervous because he finishes his tiny task of laying belly-down in the grass beneath them and looks up at Jongdae from between his legs. There’s a tense silence between them, lasting almost a full minute, but finally Jongdae manages to say, “I can’t deal with teasing.”
“You’ll be okay,” Zitao says, almost too cheerfully, and right about now Jongdae’s thinking that it would really be in his best interest to be able to remember the events of the night previous. “I promise, I won’t let you hurt, okay? And if I do, I need you to tell me immediately.” He’s got this secretive little smile on his face, and his fingers hook into the waistband of Jongdae’s shorts, tugging them down slow enough that by the time the pants finally come off, not even the underwear, he’s dying to be touched. Zitao, though, just takes his time, sucking slow-burning marks into the lines of Jongdae’s hips and running the pads of his fingers over the outsides of Jongdae’s thighs, slowly, deliberately, making chills snake their way up Jongdae’s spine.
“Huang Zitao,” Jongdae admonishes weakly, nearly curling in on himself when he feels hot breath on the inside of his thigh, met by an open-mouthed kiss, even worse than the ones to his hips. “I swear to God, if you don’t do something--”
“Oh, I’m gonna do something,” Zitao murmurs, roughly tugging down Jongdae’s boxer briefs around his thighs and letting them rest at his knees. “I wouldn’t leave you hanging, how fucked up would that be?” Then he inches forward with the use of his elbows, chin resting on the stretched strip of fabric between Jongdae’s thighs and hand slowly forming a circle around the length of Jongdae’s kinda-leaking cock.
“Come on,” and now Jongdae’s whining, hands planted firmly at either side of his ass and fingers twisting into the grass, damn near tugging it out at the root. “Come on, please, I swear to God...” It trails off into nothing but a low, guttural moan as Zitao slowly runs the tip of his lip piercing along the underside of Jongdae’s cock. Then the pleas turn into incessant curses, and Zitao’s smirking, Jongdae can just fucking feel it. He leans over himself, reaching out a hand to cup Zitao’s cheek and guide him where he needs to go, but the only thing he can manage to do for a minute is smudge the younger’s layers of black eyeliner, swipe it down the curve of his cheek.
After what feels like an eternity of torture, cold metal turned warm under the heat of his erection, Zitao finally takes the head of Jongdae’s cock between his lips, giving it a gentle suck and swirling his tongue around it. It’s at about this time that it finally clicks with Jongdae that shit, of course, Zitao’s got a tongue piercing too, and the knob of it presses against the slit of Jongdae’s cock, and he practically screams with delight, hips damn near bucking upwards into Zitao’s mouth -- it’s only with the greatest amount of self-control that he keeps from choking this gorgeous man to death, thank Christ.
In order to prevent this from happening again, Zitao’s hands, strong and warm and kind of rough, press into the marks at Jongdae’s hips. They sting just enough to make his cock twitch in pleasure, and Jesus, he’s already got that little wave starting to build in him. He looks up at the older with an expression that very clearly reads ‘calm down’, all skepticism and encouragement at the same time, and Jongdae, peering down with just one eye open, nods, knowing that he’ll more than likely get left high and dry if he doesn’t comply.
When Zitao’s got as much as he can take in his mouth without gagging, he starts to bob his head up and down, fingers wrapping around and pumping what he can’t take care of otherwise. Jongdae’d probably be kicking and moaning and trying to throatfuck except Zitao, he’s all in-control, something that astounds Jongdae more and more the longer it goes on. The pressure in his belly is building fast, and he reaches out and threads his fingers through Zitao’s bleach-blond hair, tugging at it gently. From his mouth spills a stream of curses and repeated chants of Zitao’s name, reassuring him of his skill even if he doesn’t really need it (he probably doesn’t).
He manages to groan out that he’s gonna cum soon, and Zitao gives him that same look as before, then lets go of his hips, leaving Jongdae free to jerk his hips up into Zitao’s mouth, albeit gently; they wouldn’t want an incident happening here of all places. When his fingers tighten in Zitao’s hair, the younger pulls away, hand still wrapped around Jongdae’s cock and pumping hard; he winches his eyes closed and Jongdae about loses it when he feels the ball of Zitao’s tongue piercing right against the slit of his cock one more time. White flashes behind his eyes and he comes with a string of swears interrupted only by his need for oxygen.
When Jongdae can open his eyes again, he finds that he’s staring down at Zitao’s face, covered in his come, and Jesus shit, it’s about the most gorgeous thing he’s seen in recent memory. In fact, Zitao looks so hot that Jongdae lifts up on one side, pulls his phone from the pocket of his shorts carefully, somehow managing not to get tangled in his own clothes, and takes a photo.
“What the--” Zitao’s about to protest but then Jongdae’s grabbing him by the collar and pulling him upwards, melding their mouths together, and the taste of his own come on the other’s mouth is almost enough to get him sporting a partial again. They break, Jongdae still starving for air, Zitao’s hands pressed to Jongdae’s skinny chest, and exchange weak grins.
“I didn’t even get to fuck you,” Jongdae points out, and Zitao whines in agreement.
“Whatever,” he says after a quick beat, reaching up under Jongdae’s bruised knee for his shirt and using it to mop the rest of his face clean, an action which is met with a loud squawk of protest on Jongdae’s end. “We’ll save it for when you haven’t just hurt yourself like a complete fucking idiot. Sound good?”
And it does, Jongdae realises as he tugs Zitao into his lap to kiss him again.
He hasn’t even managed to pull his pants back on when fucking Jongin-and-Sehun round the corner, obviously looking for a place to do the same shit Jongdae-and-Zitao have just done, except their ability to wait is decidedly lesser, at least as far as the hand Sehun’s got stuck to Jongin’s ass is concerned.
“You fuckers,” Jongin swears when his eyes fall on the pair of them, all cozied up and leaning against the wall of the house. Sehun and Zitao exchange secret best-friend glances, and then Jongin-and-Sehun keep walking past them, leaving Jongdae in puzzlement as to the look in Zitao’s face. “What was that?” he asks as soon as the younger pair is out of earshot.
“Oh, he’s telling everyone he caught us having sex,” Zitao says with the nonchalance of someone commenting on the colour of the sky. “Soon as he’s done getting some, that is. We have about half an hour to book it if you don’t want to endure a whole night of everyone asking about our sex lives.”
“I only brought my board,” Jongdae laments, leaning into Zitao. The younger man only helps Jongdae to his feet, and he stands, wobbly from the sex as well as the injury.
“It’s cool,” Zitao tells him with a comforting sort of pat to his back. “I have a car like a normal human being. My place or yours?”
for brittany, whose birthday is today. she asked for skatepunk!jongdae and i just kind of... did this, yeah. oops. sorry not sorry.
Jongdae rolls out of bed at approximately 11:40 in the morning, sheets sticking to his back and t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in somehow thrown halfway across his room. When he sits up, dazed and maybe a little dehydrated from all the drinking done the night before, he catches a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror sitting against the opposite wall; he’s drenched in sweat, his hair’s poking out at odd angles, and somehow he’s still wearing his sunglasses, albeit hanging off one ear and dangling dangerously.
Whatever, he’ll deal with it in a minute. About time for a cold shower, anyhow. Waking up alone after a one-night stand when he’d expected morning sex is about the worst experience ever, and morning wood has never been kind to him.
Ah, but first things first. He reaches over to the table at his bedside, grabs his piece -- a handheld in the shape of a squid, homage to his seaside lifestyle, or so he claims -- and pokes around in the bowl with the tip of his finger. Empty. Sighing resolutely he then pulls open the drawer on the nightstand, tugging out a baggie full of dank that smells delicious and is more purple than green. The good shit, compliments of his friend Chanyeol, who has a licence to grow medicinally and shares samples with his friends whenever he’s breeding something new. God bless the state of California, Jongdae thinks as he packs his bowl, uncaring of the occasional seed or stem, and takes a big hit.
He’s coughing his fuckin’ lungs out when his roommate ducks into his bedroom, lifting back the sheer curtains only to reveal a new layer of beads, which Jongdae must’ve added last night, somewhere between the shots and the sex. “Are you smoking without me, you fuckhead?” Jongin asks with a quiet frown, and Jongdae, without even opening his eyes or moving the back of his hand from his mouth, extends his hand and offers his piece, which he’s named Cthulu. “That’s more like it.” Jongin nudges Jongdae’s knee with his own, trying to get him to scoot over; Jongdae does so just in time to exhale almost-cleanly, only the barest hints of choking at the end, and Jongin sinks into the mattress. The bedframe groans loudly, a reflex of old age, and Jongin just fucking laughs like it’s some kinda private joke.
“What’s so funny?” Jongdae asks as Jongin hands Cthulu back to him.
“It was louder last night,” Jongin replies mysteriously, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “I have to go to work. Hey, if you’re going to the shop, do me a favour?”
“And that’d be?” Jongin knows Jongdae’s not in the habit of doing favours for a lot of people, so this better be good. Or at least mutually beneficial.
“Tell Sehun if he’s there that we’re going out tonight and his twink ass better be ready by eight.” Jongin’s face cracks into a brilliant grin as he climbs right up out of bed, waving off the offer for one more hit, and leaves Jongdae’s bedroom. It only takes about three solid minutes for him to depart; Jongdae can tell by the several botched attempts to both close and lock the front door to their shoebox apartment.
He figures it’s about time he got out of the house, too, now that his head’s buzzing and he can at least kinda function like a normal human being. He gets up and showers, realising at the last possible moment that Jongin had been so good a friend as to completely ignore his enormous wake-up boner.
Why the hell had his hookup left, anyhow? He couldn’t remember the name, much less the face, but he could definitely remember a tight ass and some nice arms and a cute mouth, looking like it was made to be kissed over and over again. Maybe he’d been rude. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it’d been like that movie Knocked Up, and he’d pretended to wear a condom when in reality he hadn’t.
Or maybe Jongin had just kind of...scared them off early. That would be nice of him. ‘Specially if they were ugly. Ugly people with cute mouths were the absolute worst. God’s neglected children.
Whatever. He sighs as he climbs out of the shower, thankful that his boner’s dealt with, and starts to get dressed for the day, tugging on a pair of pale shorts and a damn-near transparent white tank, cut up to reveal more skin than it covered up.
(He could go shirtless, he supposes, try to beat the heat. In fact, he would, but the last time he had the manager of the skate shop he frequents had threatened to kick him out. Then he’d hit on the employee on duty, a straight-edge little fucker by the name of Joonmyun, and made everything worse, and Yifan had kind of folded his arms and told Jongdae he was banned for a week. Which was awful, because the next day his board decided to completely snap in half and he’d had to bike places. Ugh, the inhumanity of it all.)
Once he’s ready and his hair is at least alright looking, not that it’s gonna matter in about ten minutes here, he drinks a beer, breakfast of champions, and chomps down half a Poptart. The morning is on, and it’s exactly noon. His board sits by the front door; he snatches it up along with the hat he’s got perched on a hook at the back of the door, just under the peephole, and makes his way outside.
Southern California in the summer is absolutely deplorable, he thinks as he brushes the sweat from the back of his neck. He spits and he swears to God he can see the steam rising up from the puddle of saliva as it pools on the cracked concrete. His big toe nudges the back axle of his board; he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, mounts his board, and gets on his way. Pedestrians give him the occasional accolade or ‘watch it’ with hints of venom; he flashes every single one of them a grin and a peace sign, the picture of obnoxiousness and more than likely the reason that most people in the area hate the punks like himself.
He pulls up to the shop, making damn sure to kickflip his way to the front door and almost knocking over a decidedly cute girl in a ripped tank and riding a longboard. His eyes say apology, he knows that, but the rest of his face says ‘totally intentional’, and she gives him a look of disgust before skating right away, backpack slung over her shoulder and snapback threatening to fall off her head, a result of his near-collision. Chalking it up to his own indifference, he flips his board up into his grip, pushes into the building, the bell on the door clanging loudly to announce his arrival.
“Hey, ‘Dae,” greets Zitao, the current dude on duty for the shop’s goods; he’s leaning over the counter, sweat beading on his forehead -- this store is old as balls and the AC hasn’t worked as long as Jongdae’s been coming here -- and making the dumbest kissy face Jongdae has ever seen in his life. He flashes a grin, anyway, and reaches out to tweak Zitao’s pierced nose.
“Hey, Peach Boy,” he says right back, and Zitao looks completely affronted by the sudden show of physical affection. He’s always telling Jongdae how annoying he is, and today is, apparently, no different. “What’s up? You got the deck I ordered, right?”
“What? You didn’t get my message?” Zitao blinks; the ring in his eyebrow glints even in the dim lighting of the store. “They called and said it’d be pushed back a week, something about some professional, Kyung-something, ordering a huge stock of stuff for some charity show he’s doing. Not that they’re not almost done with your deck, mind you,” and here Zitao’s mouth is curling up, the pointed stud in his bottom lip practically stabbing him in the upper, “they just aren’t getting the kind of money from you that they are from the other guy. You know how it is.”
“What the fuck,” Jongdae sighs, making a fist and punching at the air just below the line of his skinny waist. “Do you at least have that tape I called for before I came over here?”
“That, I can help you with,” Tao confirms with a nod, turning his back to Jongdae and stooping so that he can check the ‘safe’, a rusty old toolbox where they keep the essentials handy for their most dependable customers. Jongdae takes this opportunity to check out what appears to be new ink at the back of Zitao’s neck, the edges of it just barely poking out from under the collar of his neon-yellow tank top.
“What’d you get this time?” Jongdae inquires curiously, setting his board down face-up against the glass case Zitao’s working behind and leaning against its surface, balancing on his elbows.
“None of your goddamn business,” Zitao snaps, and Jongdae smirks because he loves it when Zitao grows some balls and tells him where to shove it. It’s kinda hot, and he’s totally into it, but they can’t exactly make out at Zitao’s place of business, especially not when there’s security cameras and he’s fresh out of the state of banishment.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have that quick flash behind his eyes, the image of himself pressed against Zitao’s lean-and-lanky frame, backing him into this display case of decks and wheels, a knee drawn up between his ultra-long legs--
Fuck, there goes the boner again. Eyebrows bunched together frustratedly he wills it back down because there’s no way he’s gonna be able to live it down if Zitao turns around and sees that his dick is standing at half-mast. No way in hell. Thankfully it settles down a little, enough so that it doesn’t hurt when he covers his crotch with his board, and to distract from the visions of sexy, tatted-and-pierced sugarplums in his head, he focuses down at the carpet, occasionally glancing at his own ink, little pieces that will eventually come together in a sleeve up the length of his left arm.
At long last Zitao stands up, holding out two rolls of tape with a bright grin that causes his eyes to curve up into precious little half-moons. “Here,” he says, and Jongdae stiffly reaches out to take the proffered tapes, stuffing them into the oversized pocket of his shorts. “And, uh, Yifan says it’s on the house. Because of the whole...banishment thing, I think he said.”
“Aw, for real?” Jongdae makes a fist-pumping motion, watching the light that dances across Zitao’s face as he does. “Thanks, dude. Hey, uh, is Sehun gonna be here in a few, at shift change?”
“Huh?” Zitao appears to snap out of some kinda daze, then nods, and Jongdae hears the soft click of the other’s teeth latching onto the inside of his lip piercing. “Yeah, he’ll be here at about two.”
“Can you do me a favour and tell him that Jongin said they’re going out tonight? I think he said eight o’clock. I’d call and ask but you know his dumb ass broke his phone again yesterday bailing on some crap stunt he should’ve learned to do ages ago.”
“Oh… yeah, definitely,” and Jongdae’s pretty dense emotionally, a product of all the smoking and drinking he’s done over the past seven or eight years, but he definitely doesn’t miss the disappointment in the younger’s voice. “Hey, uh, there’s this big party at Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s place tonight, if you wanted to come?”
“For real? Hell yeah I’ll be there, what time?” Jongdae runs a hand through his hair and pretends not to see the crestfallen look on Zitao’s face.
“I think they said eight, but you know them, it’ll probably be closer to ten by the time they get their shit together unless someone goes to help them out.”
Jongdae snorts, nodding, looking away. “We always could. If you think they really need it.” And Zitao’s all excited, lit-up again, the brightest thing in this godforsaken building. “Meet you at theirs around eight-thirty?” He doesn’t even bother waiting for a response, though, just kind of turns back, knowing that he needs to get home and tape up his board before he busts ass just like his idiot roommate had.
That night there’s a small crowd gathered outside Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s front door, intermingling, making conversation despite the intense awkwardness of it. Yifan, who clearly is too cool to be here judging by the fact that he’s wearing his tight clothes tonight and scowling at everyone in the general vicinity, is trying to make conversation with Yixing, who’s dazed out and finding it exceptionally hard to focus on what comes out of his own mouth, much less anyone else’s. How he’s not a stoner, Jongdae will never understand. Jongin and Sehun have shown their faces, too, though from the state of them you’d think they’d rather have just gone back to one of their apartments and had sex for the rest of the night -- hair all mussed up and mouths still swollen red. Joonmyun, who’s clearly only there because Yifan invited him, stands around awkwardly, occasionally trying to figure out how he can jump into a conversation, except he doesn’t really know how which leads to him clutching at his elbow and leaning to the left with a cock of his hip.
Really, though, Jongdae’s only there for one person, he realises as he kicks up his board and catches it without effort, shaking much like a dog does just after a bath and trying to get rid of as much perspiration as he possibly can considering he rode the six-and-a-half miles between his job at the record store and Chanyeol and Baekhyun’s house. Zitao’s there, looking even better than he had earlier in the day, aviators on to block out the harsh rays of the impending sunset, the bright light catching every one of the piece of metal in his face and brightening him considerably. He looks good like this, and he’s catching a tan, and his ink is still fresh and kind of tender, and Jongdae’s thinking about what it’d be like to taste the sweat that’s pooling in his collarbones--
Shit, he’s in trouble, isn’t he. Especially considering the fact that he’s definitely about to get fucked at this function.
Jongin peers over Sehun’s shoulder at his roommate with a knowing expression, and Jongdae very casually flips him the bird despite the fact that he has absolutely no idea what he’s done to earn that look from his friend. “Hey, hey! Hostile, much?” And Jongin looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead Sehun buries his face in Jongin’s neck, and God, they’re about to start dry-humping in front of everyone. Rudely enough, Jongdae takes Zitao by the elbow and tugs him away, facing them both in the exact opposite direction of whatever it is that Jongin and Sehun are doing.
“You don’t need to see that,” he mumbles, and Zitao leans against him, fucking leans against him like Jongdae’s done something particularly noteworthy in protecting his poor eyes. Jongdae is ninety-nine percent certain he’s gonna die tonight. “You okay, by the way? You had a good rest of the day at work after I left? Anyone harassing you?”
“Of course not,” Zitao snorts, shaking his head, “you weren’t there. Have I told you lately that Joonmyun is still traumatised from you going all goo-goo-gaga on him? I think he’s--” and here Zitao looks around, conspiratorial, voice dropping to a wispy whisper, “straight.”
After a long second of being completely stunned, Jongdae glances over his shoulder at Joonmyun, who apparently can’t keep from watching Jongin-and-Sehun’s extreme display of PDA, and nods gravely. “You’re probably right. He looks so fucking uncomfortable.” Then he gets this brilliant idea, kind of like those inventors who always shout ‘EUREKA’ in films, and angles his body kind of in Zitao’s direction, reaching up and slinging an arm over his shoulder. “We should try and make him more uncomfortable, don’t you think?”
“Nah, I’m not into sexual harassment suits like you,” Zitao responds with a smirk, “and I have to see him at work tomorrow. It’s gonna be Saturday, you know we get more idiot kids on the weekend than any other time.”
“So you don’t want us to pretend to proposition him a three-way?” Jongdae’s disappointment is obvious, but he shakes it away when he sees that Zitao gets the message. “Cool. Me and Baekhyun will get him later. You know we love messing with old guys.”
“That’s because you two are complete idiots--” There’s probably more to that insult, but Jongdae doesn’t get to hear it because the door flings open and Chanyeol’s standing there, leaning against the frame with his entire body, smelling loud as fuck, his eyes redder than the devil’s dick, so to speak.
“You guys are early,” he rumbles out slowly, clearly too baked to form actual words because his slurring would lead one to believe that he’d been doing straight shots of vodka again, not just smoking some herb. “I thought we said eight.”
“It’s eight-forty-seven,” Yifan says, clearly running out of patience with the situation. It’d be annoying except for the fact that literally everyone there knows the only reason he’s bothered showing up tonight is because every party is, according to him, the one where he’ll finally get into Baekhyun’s pants.
“Like you jerks don’t know what we mean when we say that,” Chanyeol scoffs and rolls his eyes, then he puts on his happy face even though it looks more terrifying than welcoming. They all slowly file into the house, save for Jongin-and-Sehun who are still sucking face even though the shock value wore off a full five minutes ago. Well, for everyone except Joonmyun, that is; he’s second-to-last in the house, right behind Zitao and Jongdae, and only because he can’t seem to move, too mesmerised by the horny teenagers glued to one another.
Finally everyone makes it inside, and Chanyeol’s giant ass has already disappeared around a corner, apparently following his nose towards the scent of even more burning weed which is coming from what appears to be the kitchen. Incredible. When the rest of the group makes it there it’s only to lay eyes on the sight that is Byun Baekhyun, Douchebag Extraordinaire and the only one of their group who can get away with not being a skate rat, is sitting up on the kitchen counter, the barrel of a three-foot tall bong between his legs. “Sup, fuckers!” he welcomes them with all the enthusiasm in the world. Then Chanyeol is ducking down, crouched and precariously balanced, and lighting the bowl for Baekhyun, who has the fucking audacity to clear it.
Jongdae is both angry and amused. He chances a look over at Zitao, who looks downright frightened. Apparently Jongin-and-Sehun have decided that fusion just isn’t for them right now and are watching in amazement. They’re quiet for a minute before Sehun pipes up, declaring, “I’ll give my left nut to be able to do that.”
“You’re so lucky I’m not in the business of collecting balls!” Baekhyun chirps, carefully moving aside the glassware and setting it down just far enough away so that he can hop down from the countertop incident-free. “You can hit it later. I’ve got Minseok coming over in a little bit and we need some muscle to help set up the DJ booth and the speaker system. Who’s volunteering? Free beer for the rest of the night if you do.” Sehun and Jongin jump at the chance, despite the fact that they combined have about the same amount of muscle mass as a seven-year-old girl. Zitao volunteers too, and Jongdae’s a little surprised, not because he thinks Zitao couldn’t handle it or anything -- it’s pretty fucking difficult not to notice the definition in those arms, the shapes of those calves, the pert of that ass, even when he’s dressed out and bagged out and looking like an elephant -- but because he’d thought that they’d spend the night hanging out and basically telling everyone around them that they didn’t find relevant to go fuck themselves.
That sounds kinda familiar, but Jongdae can’t quite figure out why, so he just shrugs off the creeps crawling from his crown to the nape of his neck, and hops up on the kitchen counter himself, moving only enough to pull his wallet out of his back pocket, attached to the belt loop of his jeans by a thick link chain, tug out the requisite dollar bills to keep himself at the party once the music and the kegs show up.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Zitao points out when he happens to pass by; he’s got his eyes trained on the cash in Jongdae’s hand, even as he’s carrying a giant woofer in his own. “I mean, I was gonna give you mine, since I don’t really drink all that much--”
Jongdae finds himself blushing to the tips of his ears because, okay, that definitely sounds familiar, and it’s even more troubling now than it had been before that he can’t remember where it’s from. “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to be comforting as he reaches out and pats Zitao on the shoulder, then carefully nudges his well-toned ass with the big toe a filthy skate shoe, making sure he doesn’t drop his precious cargo. “Give yours to Minseok if you can’t tip, or something. He’ll appreciate it more than you know, he’s always talking about how he’s too old to be hanging out with us punk motherfuckers anyway--”
“When have I ever said that?” comes a voice from Jongdae-and-Zitao’s left, and Jongdae’s skin prickles at the sound of it. “I mean, yeah, I am older than you guys, and I might have mentioned that you’re all kind of dumb, but--”
“Minseok!” Jongdae’s all smiles all of a sudden, jumping down from the counter with a decidedly loud ‘thud’; his board, which had been situated against the lower cabinets on the opposite side of him from the bong, clatters to the tiled floor, and the sound reverberates through the otherwise quiet room. Sehun and Jongin are watching on curiously, tiny smirks at their mouths, as if they don’t think Jongdae’s gonna survive this encounter; even Yifan, who’d been relentlessly attempting yet another pursuit of Baekhyun’s dick, has paused to look over and see just what’s happening. “Hey, uh, hey, I didn’t know you were here.”
Minseok’s about the nicest guy in their little group of friends, he really is, but he’s also not someone to fuck with. Not only does he skate and not only has he been doing it for longer than most of them put together, but he also plays football and occasionally, rugby, so he’s worked out as hell, and is more than capable of kicking Jongdae to the curb in the appropriate manner. Not to mention, he’s Jongdae’s boss, the owner of the record store he works at, and after the skate shop incident he’s already on thin ice--
Jongdae gulps loudly, and the noise of it is about the loudest thing in the entire world, until Minseok breaks into a giant grin. “Nah, I’m just screwing with you,” he confesses, clapping Jongdae on the shoulder. “I’ve said it about a million times, you just always have those giant headphones on so I never know what you can hear and what you can’t. You know I’d rather be playing football with Lu Han anyway.” He pulls Jongdae into a quick hug, whispers something in his ear about ‘we’ll talk about this tomorrow at the store’, then goes back to the side of his boyfriend, who’s currently setting up the beer pong tables.
Jongdae’s lungs about collapse with the deep sign of relief he breathes; he clasps his hands to his chest and pretends to stagger over, safely of course, and collapse to the ground. Joonmyun, who’s apparently about the easiest dude to fool in the entire world, practically sprints over to him and kneels down beside him. “Are you alright?” he asks and he’s got this dumb little wrinkle in his brow. “I really didn’t think it was possible to frighten someone to death, but--”
“Joonmyun,” and Yifan’s standing over the both of them, hand atop Joonmyun’s head, “he’s faking for attention, like always. Leave him be.” Joonmyun’s face is bright red, and Jongdae considers this a victory.
The setup goes pretty smoothly from that point on; Chanyeol, who’s finally high enough to get some real work done, is helping set up the ramp in he and Baekhyun’s incredible backyard, occasionally stealing glances at Jongin while he does some heavy lifting. No party of theirs is complete without a drunken accident or two, Jongdae thinks amusedly as he smokes a joint and plots what he’s gonna try and pull off tonight. The thing about him smoking before he skates is that he thinks he can do more than he actually can, according to the laws of physics. In the end he decides on a few things, then figures he can probably wing the rest of it as he goes, as he feels it.
When everything’s said and done and the required girls and douchebags are filtering onto the property, Zitao parks himself right up next to Jongdae on the edge of the deck, near the empty pool that’s filling up with people. They stare down into the waterless bottom of the basin, which is kept that way specifically for skating, and Zitao snuggles into Jongdae’s side, fitting an arm around him and taking his hand to prod gently at his knuckle tattoos. “You would be the kind of guy who has ‘fuck’ tattooed on his hand,” he teases lightly, a smile tugging at his lips.
“And you would be the guy to notice how good it looks on me,” Jongdae suggests with a raised eyebrow, even though his mouth is curling up into his signature kitten grin. “You...did notice, right?”
“Like I’ve ever not noticed,” Zitao sighs, rolling his eyes and curling even further into Jongdae’s tiny frame. “You’re kind of the hottest guy at this whole party.”
“No one? Not even Jongin? Because everyone knows Jongin’s super-hot, and so’s Chanyeol even though he doesn’t act like it and--”
Zitao frowns, and there’s this split-second hesitation between the two of them before Zitao leans in and catches Jongdae’s curly mouth in a kiss that either lasts half a second or a thousand years. When they break away Zitao’s got his hand at the side of Jongdae’s neck, keeping him steady, and Jongdae’s snaked a hand around Zitao’s waist, holding him as close as possible without climbing into his lap the way he wants.
“If I didn’t mean it exactly the way I said it,” Zitao says slowly, enunciating as best as he possibly can, and Jongdae’s so focused on the way that damn lip ring moves that he almost misses the actual words, “I probably wouldn’t’ve fucked you last night.”
“...What?” Jongdae blinks, then his eyes get super-wide, and he’s kind of moving in closer. His eyes flicker back and forth around them, making sure that no one’s listening, then whispers, “If you’re the one I fucked last night then why’d you leave?”
“Because I had work, you big idiot,” Zitao whines. “Plus, I’m pretty sure I heard Jongin and Sehun fucking when I was getting ready to go. I kinda didn’t want to hear that, you know, Sehun’s my best friend and everything but there are certain pet names I didn’t need to know he was into--”
“So then why didn’t you say something earlier?” Jongdae demands, tempting Zitao to answer with a quick peck to the lips. “I thought that if anything had happened I would know about it, you can’t keep a secret to save your life. Don’t think I don’t know about the time that you ratted me out to Yifan for screwing with his board that one time--”
“That was Sehun,” Zitao counters, adding another kiss to the growing pile of affections between them. “He was standing outside and kind of looked in the front window and saw it going down. When Yifan finally realised what had happened, he demanded an answer… you know Sehun crumbles under the gaze of intense authority.”
Jongdae laughs, hard, doubling over in the middle and headbutting Zitao gently in the chest. “Some fucking anarchist he is.”
“Goes along with the nicknames thing,” Zitao says solemnly, and Jongdae quiets, slowly sits up. “Anyway, I guess I didn’t say anything because you didn’t say anything and I didn’t want to make a big deal of something I didn’t know whether or not you wanted--”
“Speaking of which,” and now Jongdae does crawl into Zitao’s lap, happily ringing his arms around the younger’s neck and tugging at that damn lip piercing between his teeth, careful not to cause tear damage, “I do have one more issue with the whole last night thing.”
“And that would be…?” Zitao’s eyebrows perk; he leans in to nip at the lobe of Jongdae’s ear. Somewhere behind them someone, sounding suspiciously like Chanyeol, yells at them to get a room, and in almost perfect synchronisation they flip the bird in the direction of the voice. After a brief fit of laughter, Zitao presses on, “No, really, tell me. What’d I do wrong.”
“You left me alone and I had the most intense case of morning wood anyone’s ever seen in their life,” Jongdae sighs, overdramatic as always, pressing his palm to Zitao’s chest to feel the thrum of his heartbeat on the inside of his ribcage. “Could’ve used a little assistance from someone cute like yourself, but instead the only cute thing that touched me was my showerhead that’s kinda got a face on it.”
“...You’re about the weirdest dude I’ve ever fucked,” Zitao points out with a sly grin.
“You’re about the hottest dude I’ve ever fucked.” He feels the blood begin to rush between his legs, a combination of Zitao’s stupid voice in his ear and the proximity of their bodies and the fact that he really, really wishes they were wearing less clothing right now, and forces himself to pull away. “Hey, are you gonna be in the contest tonight?” he asks as he stands up, wiping his sweaty palms on the seat of his shorts.
“Nah,” Zitao says, “kinda tired myself out. But if you compete I’ll bet you’d get paid in a blowjob.”
“Just a blowjob?” Jongdae leans forward, bats his too-long eyelashes.
Zitao laughs. “We’ll see. Go get yourself ready, check out the competition, and I might consider riding you like a stallion. Again.”
Never before in his life has Jongdae ever wished more that he could remember something. The image of Zitao perched on his lap, looking down at him with those heavy eyes lined in black, hands just over his navel as he rocks back and forth on his cock--
Shit, how’s he supposed to compete now?
All in all, Jongdae comes in second out of six. Not bad, he decides as he’s leaning up against the wall at the back of the house, far out of the way of prying eyes. His knee kinda stings, though -- he’d fallen on it when he was climbing out of the halfpipe, and while there hadn’t been any blood, there had been an intense amount of pain involved. He’s sure he’s going to bruise. Of course he’d bust ass the only time tonight he hasn’t been on a board. On the plus side, apparently Zitao is into war injuries and the like. In fat, Zitao, true to his word, has snuck away to figure out exactly where Baekhyun and Chanyeol keep their emergency supplies, condoms and lube and maybe a blindfold if it can be swung. Jongdae’s sipping a beer and waiting impatiently, every few seconds peeking around the corner only to catch a glimpse of Do “Douchebag” Kyungsoo dancing with his super-hot fellow skater girlfriend, Bang Minah.
Jongdae hates that guy.
He’s almost tipsy enough to be convinced that saying as much is a good idea, but instead he leans back against the wall, and eventually Zitao comes to him, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Found it,” he singsongs, and Jongdae is so overwhelmed with relief that he grabs Zitao by the elbow, shoves him up against the wall of the house, hands bracketing his hips as he leans upwards and kisses Zitao, searing and passionate, nipping at his bottom lip as he goes.
“Are you okay?” Zitao asks between kisses, meetings of lips and tongue and eventually teeth, “Your knee gonna be alright while we do this?” And Jongdae wants to say yeah, he’ll be fine, he’s had worse before, but shit, he’s getting older, and even his own classic move of drawing up his knee between Zitao’s thighs, the curve of it brushing against his crotch slowly, causes him to wince. Zitao sighs quietly, pulls away, and shakes his head. “Nope, no good. Sit down, let me take care of you.”
And, okay, Jongdae’s nervous, usually those words lead to the kind of sex where the person bottoming cries like a bitch and that’s awkward for everyone, but Zitao just looks determined, if loving, making the hottest version of a cuddly face Jongdae’s ever seen in his life. The sounds of nightlife are just beyond their shoulders, but all Jongdae’s taking in is white noise, his own ragged breathing, and Zitao murmuring in his ear that everything will be alright. He crawls between Jongdae’s legs, tugs his shirt over his head and balls it up carefully, stuffing the roll of fabric under Jongdae’s injured knee, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the already-purpling bruise, which both tickles and stings.
“Zitao,” Jongdae breathes, a slight hitch in the way the name comes spilling from his lips. “Zitao, please don’t--” Play with me is the rest of the sentence, but he can’t get it to come out, and that apparently makes the younger man nervous because he finishes his tiny task of laying belly-down in the grass beneath them and looks up at Jongdae from between his legs. There’s a tense silence between them, lasting almost a full minute, but finally Jongdae manages to say, “I can’t deal with teasing.”
“You’ll be okay,” Zitao says, almost too cheerfully, and right about now Jongdae’s thinking that it would really be in his best interest to be able to remember the events of the night previous. “I promise, I won’t let you hurt, okay? And if I do, I need you to tell me immediately.” He’s got this secretive little smile on his face, and his fingers hook into the waistband of Jongdae’s shorts, tugging them down slow enough that by the time the pants finally come off, not even the underwear, he’s dying to be touched. Zitao, though, just takes his time, sucking slow-burning marks into the lines of Jongdae’s hips and running the pads of his fingers over the outsides of Jongdae’s thighs, slowly, deliberately, making chills snake their way up Jongdae’s spine.
“Huang Zitao,” Jongdae admonishes weakly, nearly curling in on himself when he feels hot breath on the inside of his thigh, met by an open-mouthed kiss, even worse than the ones to his hips. “I swear to God, if you don’t do something--”
“Oh, I’m gonna do something,” Zitao murmurs, roughly tugging down Jongdae’s boxer briefs around his thighs and letting them rest at his knees. “I wouldn’t leave you hanging, how fucked up would that be?” Then he inches forward with the use of his elbows, chin resting on the stretched strip of fabric between Jongdae’s thighs and hand slowly forming a circle around the length of Jongdae’s kinda-leaking cock.
“Come on,” and now Jongdae’s whining, hands planted firmly at either side of his ass and fingers twisting into the grass, damn near tugging it out at the root. “Come on, please, I swear to God...” It trails off into nothing but a low, guttural moan as Zitao slowly runs the tip of his lip piercing along the underside of Jongdae’s cock. Then the pleas turn into incessant curses, and Zitao’s smirking, Jongdae can just fucking feel it. He leans over himself, reaching out a hand to cup Zitao’s cheek and guide him where he needs to go, but the only thing he can manage to do for a minute is smudge the younger’s layers of black eyeliner, swipe it down the curve of his cheek.
After what feels like an eternity of torture, cold metal turned warm under the heat of his erection, Zitao finally takes the head of Jongdae’s cock between his lips, giving it a gentle suck and swirling his tongue around it. It’s at about this time that it finally clicks with Jongdae that shit, of course, Zitao’s got a tongue piercing too, and the knob of it presses against the slit of Jongdae’s cock, and he practically screams with delight, hips damn near bucking upwards into Zitao’s mouth -- it’s only with the greatest amount of self-control that he keeps from choking this gorgeous man to death, thank Christ.
In order to prevent this from happening again, Zitao’s hands, strong and warm and kind of rough, press into the marks at Jongdae’s hips. They sting just enough to make his cock twitch in pleasure, and Jesus, he’s already got that little wave starting to build in him. He looks up at the older with an expression that very clearly reads ‘calm down’, all skepticism and encouragement at the same time, and Jongdae, peering down with just one eye open, nods, knowing that he’ll more than likely get left high and dry if he doesn’t comply.
When Zitao’s got as much as he can take in his mouth without gagging, he starts to bob his head up and down, fingers wrapping around and pumping what he can’t take care of otherwise. Jongdae’d probably be kicking and moaning and trying to throatfuck except Zitao, he’s all in-control, something that astounds Jongdae more and more the longer it goes on. The pressure in his belly is building fast, and he reaches out and threads his fingers through Zitao’s bleach-blond hair, tugging at it gently. From his mouth spills a stream of curses and repeated chants of Zitao’s name, reassuring him of his skill even if he doesn’t really need it (he probably doesn’t).
He manages to groan out that he’s gonna cum soon, and Zitao gives him that same look as before, then lets go of his hips, leaving Jongdae free to jerk his hips up into Zitao’s mouth, albeit gently; they wouldn’t want an incident happening here of all places. When his fingers tighten in Zitao’s hair, the younger pulls away, hand still wrapped around Jongdae’s cock and pumping hard; he winches his eyes closed and Jongdae about loses it when he feels the ball of Zitao’s tongue piercing right against the slit of his cock one more time. White flashes behind his eyes and he comes with a string of swears interrupted only by his need for oxygen.
When Jongdae can open his eyes again, he finds that he’s staring down at Zitao’s face, covered in his come, and Jesus shit, it’s about the most gorgeous thing he’s seen in recent memory. In fact, Zitao looks so hot that Jongdae lifts up on one side, pulls his phone from the pocket of his shorts carefully, somehow managing not to get tangled in his own clothes, and takes a photo.
“What the--” Zitao’s about to protest but then Jongdae’s grabbing him by the collar and pulling him upwards, melding their mouths together, and the taste of his own come on the other’s mouth is almost enough to get him sporting a partial again. They break, Jongdae still starving for air, Zitao’s hands pressed to Jongdae’s skinny chest, and exchange weak grins.
“I didn’t even get to fuck you,” Jongdae points out, and Zitao whines in agreement.
“Whatever,” he says after a quick beat, reaching up under Jongdae’s bruised knee for his shirt and using it to mop the rest of his face clean, an action which is met with a loud squawk of protest on Jongdae’s end. “We’ll save it for when you haven’t just hurt yourself like a complete fucking idiot. Sound good?”
And it does, Jongdae realises as he tugs Zitao into his lap to kiss him again.
He hasn’t even managed to pull his pants back on when fucking Jongin-and-Sehun round the corner, obviously looking for a place to do the same shit Jongdae-and-Zitao have just done, except their ability to wait is decidedly lesser, at least as far as the hand Sehun’s got stuck to Jongin’s ass is concerned.
“You fuckers,” Jongin swears when his eyes fall on the pair of them, all cozied up and leaning against the wall of the house. Sehun and Zitao exchange secret best-friend glances, and then Jongin-and-Sehun keep walking past them, leaving Jongdae in puzzlement as to the look in Zitao’s face. “What was that?” he asks as soon as the younger pair is out of earshot.
“Oh, he’s telling everyone he caught us having sex,” Zitao says with the nonchalance of someone commenting on the colour of the sky. “Soon as he’s done getting some, that is. We have about half an hour to book it if you don’t want to endure a whole night of everyone asking about our sex lives.”
“I only brought my board,” Jongdae laments, leaning into Zitao. The younger man only helps Jongdae to his feet, and he stands, wobbly from the sex as well as the injury.
“It’s cool,” Zitao tells him with a comforting sort of pat to his back. “I have a car like a normal human being. My place or yours?”