Christmas Eve
rating: NC17
genre: angst, smut
length: oneshot (8,528)
pairing: none, jongin-centric
warnings: prostitute!kai
a/n: don't know how this one came about. i usually don't write sad christmas fics.
summary: heaven, i'm in heaven.
Jongin slings his jacket over his shoulders, clouds fogging in front of his lips. The air is chilly, but unmoving, almost as if it is frozen with trepidation.
But with trepidation for what? Jongin is alerted by a ping in his pocket and he withdraws his phone. Min, 11pm. Nothing new will happen today. Jongin takes appointments, gets paid, goes home. That is the pattern of his life, and Jongin looks up at the faint glow of the streetlamp. It could be worse.
He makes his way across the sidewalk. This area is pretty desolate. He’s used to working in Seoul, but recently he’s become a more sought-after man and people are calling him from many of the richer neighborhoods. Christmas garlands dot the doors of the street filled with traditional-style mansions, twinkling fairy lights flickering over well maintained shrubs and hedges. Jongin, looking down at himself, notices he is rather out of place.
At least he has music. The earbuds in his ears provide him with some solace, a bit of mental peace as he treks down to the end of the block. The soft piano and mellow swing of slurred notes caress him, careful rocking of soft words and low bass bringing him into a momentary sense of security. The singer’s voice is smooth, twirling slow steps across each beat and Jongin is the last person people would consider to enjoy this kind of jazz, considering his appearance and age and lifestyle.
Heaven, I’m in heaven.
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
He’s only gotten past the intro bars before he has to pause the music, pull out his earphones and tuck them into his pocket because he’s at his destination and it’s two minutes till eleven. He heaves a breath and passes through the front gate, scuffed Converse scraping against pristine marble and the door opens before he even gets there. “And you must be Kai.”
Jongin closes his eyes for a moment, and then smiles. “Yes.”
“Ah, you look like fun.” The man pulls him in and shuts the door, and Jongin’s eyes widen a little as he sees five others seated at a table. They look him over greedily, lips swinging over taut lips and low murmurs ceasing as Jongin steps in.
He didn’t know this was going to be a group thing. But groups always pay better, and Jongin keeps this thought fresh in his mind as his garments are stripped off him. He grimaces as he sees one of the men carelessly step on his thin coat and he hears a crunch, sounding like an earbud smashing. They laugh, the smell of wine on their breath and they pin him down on the table just like that, stripped of clothing and dignity. Though, Jongin reminds himself, he lost his dignity long ago. Right now is one job of many.
They fuck him hard, dry, and Jongin moans loudly in a chorus of pants and breaths. He shuts his eyes, concentrating on keeping that golden pitch that turns every client on. He isn’t hard, he never is. Jongin can take a lot, but six cocks, two at once, with a mediocre lubricant of saliva is a lot for anyone. By the time they’re done with him, he’s been fucked in probably twenty positions thirty times, each client going for fourths and fifths. He ends on his back, hissing and mewling, cum leaking out of him and coating his lower half, half dried loads shot on the table and more pouring from his thoroughly fucked lips. Half of the men are passed out, dicks hanging out and slumped on the ground, and the ones that are still awake whisper to each other and eyeing Jongin still.
He’s allowed in the bathroom to wash himself up before he leaves (provided everything gets done in the bathtub and is washed down the drain immediately afterwards; his client has a wife that would surely be outraged at finding any evidence of Jongin’s presence.) He limps in, but by the end it’s more like a crawl. He locks the door, moving into the tub. He’d love to take a nice long shower in this luxurious tub, but he only has a limited amount of time here. He has another job at four in the morning, and he has to go make himself a pick me up meal for some energy beforehand.
He sits himself in the tub, looking himself over. Bruises and hickeys dot his bronze skin, he feels welts on his back where long nails had broken skin and on his ass where hands had hit so hard that it was nearly completely numb. With the cum that is leaking out of him, there’s blood as well-lack of sufficient lubrication leads to tearing, Jongin knows this well. He turns on the bath faucet, cupping the instantly hot water and letting it run through the cracks in his fingers and he scoots closer, letting the sensation run over his thoroughly used lower half, hissing and groaning as it soaks into him. His hands clean methodically-he’s done this so many times that he no longer needs to think. After three or so minutes, he slowly pulls himself to his feet. The client, Min, had provided him with a roll of paper towels which he uses to dry himself off with. He slowly inches into his underwear, biting back a scream as the tight fabric scrapes across tender flesh and pulls on his pants. His shirt drapes over his lean figure but the hickeys on his chest and neck are still easy to see. He pulls on his jacket, popping up the collar to hide the blossoms of purple and red.
He tosses the paper towels covered in various fluids into the fireplace, as he had been instructed, and leaves without a word after a check is slapped into his palm.
Five hundred and fifty dollars for three hours. Jongin thinks the deal had been six hundred, since there were so many, but it’s never good to argue with customers, especially not the wealthy and powerful ones. The real prices are higher-he’s around eight hundred dollars for a few hours, but the ring he works with takes most of the profits. He wishes he’d get more, but it’s safest this way, keeping things the way they are.
The door slams, and he’s in the front yard again. His breath again spirals up in thin swirls of fog, and the air has gotten colder. Jongin looks around. The fairy lights are as merry as they were, shining soft and comforting. Jongin limps slowly, hoping to get to the bus station before three thirty, but he sincerely doubts it, so he’ll probably end up sacrificing his instant ramen energy boost.
With a jolt he realizes it’s Christmas Eve.
Which also means it’s his mother’s birthday, and he hasn’t even given her a call. She lives where he grew up, Guryong, one of the poorest slums in Korea. He takes out his cell phone and dials her number, holding the device up to his ear and pulling the thin fabric tighter in a vain attempt to trap in the warmth.
“Jongin-ah?”
“Hi, mom. Happy birthday.”
“Ah, I’m so glad you remembered!” her voice is so cheery, and it brings a light to Jongin’s face. “You know, it’s so terrible you have to work on holidays. You should’ve asked for a day off and come back home!”
“Oh no, I’d love to but I’m just so busy.” Jongin chuckles. “But it all pays off. Guess how much money I made this month?”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars, can you believe it? A whole thousand. I’m going to send it to you as soon as I can.”
“You’re doing so well…” he hears the pride in his mother’s voice. “You’re only a short order cook but look how well you’re doing! This money you send back home to me and your sister, you know, it really helps.”
“I’m glad.” Jongin’s voice is barely more than a whisper.
Snow begins to fall, light flakes fluttering down from the sky and settling themselves in Jongin’s hair and dusting lightly on Jongin’s shoulders. The bus is coming soon, and it’s nearing the three thirty am mark.
“How did you know I’d be awake now?”
“You’re always awake this late, cleaning up and organizing and cooking.” Jongin looks at his toes. “How is noona?”
“She’s…ah.” Jongin’s mother’s tone gets darker. “She’s doing okay, but I don’t know how long we can support her. Her medical bills are getting high. Just when I went to get her checked up they said they would require more money from me because she was mentally challenged. Even though they were just running the normal procedures.” She sighs. “I wish I’d been able to go to college, Jongin…I wish I could have done more, so she would’ve-“
“It’s not your fault.” Jongin straightens his bag. The snow is thickening now, a haze of white falling down and slightly obscuring Jongin’s vision. “It’s hard but we’ll do okay. Your restaurant makes some money and I will always be sending some back each month, okay? No matter how high her medical bills get. We’ll scrape by. Alright? Tonight is not the night to worry. It is your birthday. You should go-ah-you should go to bed soon.” Jongin hisses in pain as the repercussions of the night begin to really show up, pain slashing across his lower half like knives. “I just wanted to say happy birthday.”
Jongin’s mother must notice that his voice sounds strained, because her own voice becomes immediately worried. “Jongin, are you okay? You don’t sound like you’re doing well…are you eating enough? Are you healthy? Are-“
“Umma.” Jongin takes extra effort to steel his voice into a warm, comforting sound. “I’m perfectly fine. I tripped just now. Happy birthday, okay? Please sleep well.”
“I love you, Jongin.”
“I love you too. But I have to go back to work now-the kitchen gets dirty fast, even at this hour. Maybe I can bring a cake home when I go back next, and we can have a belated birthday party.”
“That sounds wonderful, I’m sure your sister would like it.” There is a smile in her voice. “Good night, Jongin-ah. Go home and sleep soon.”
“You too.”
He taps the hang up button with a click and sighs into the night. The sleet is raining hard and thick now, thickening around lampposts and hammering on the awning of the bus stop benches. Jongin sits down, plugging in his earbuds into the phone and pressing play. One of the earbuds is crushed, so Jongin can only use one, the sound not surround but tinny with just half of it really there in Jongin’s left ear. His feet step around in the snow, placing dance steps into the thin layer of white coating the sidewalk. The bus will come soon, with the black bus driver that they only allow to work the night shift when nobody comes, at 3:45. It always does.
Life is good. As good as it needs to be.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we’re out together, dancing cheek to cheek.
genre: angst, smut
length: oneshot (8,528)
pairing: none, jongin-centric
warnings: prostitute!kai
a/n: don't know how this one came about. i usually don't write sad christmas fics.
summary: heaven, i'm in heaven.
Jongin slings his jacket over his shoulders, clouds fogging in front of his lips. The air is chilly, but unmoving, almost as if it is frozen with trepidation.
But with trepidation for what? Jongin is alerted by a ping in his pocket and he withdraws his phone. Min, 11pm. Nothing new will happen today. Jongin takes appointments, gets paid, goes home. That is the pattern of his life, and Jongin looks up at the faint glow of the streetlamp. It could be worse.
He makes his way across the sidewalk. This area is pretty desolate. He’s used to working in Seoul, but recently he’s become a more sought-after man and people are calling him from many of the richer neighborhoods. Christmas garlands dot the doors of the street filled with traditional-style mansions, twinkling fairy lights flickering over well maintained shrubs and hedges. Jongin, looking down at himself, notices he is rather out of place.
At least he has music. The earbuds in his ears provide him with some solace, a bit of mental peace as he treks down to the end of the block. The soft piano and mellow swing of slurred notes caress him, careful rocking of soft words and low bass bringing him into a momentary sense of security. The singer’s voice is smooth, twirling slow steps across each beat and Jongin is the last person people would consider to enjoy this kind of jazz, considering his appearance and age and lifestyle.
Heaven, I’m in heaven.
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.
He’s only gotten past the intro bars before he has to pause the music, pull out his earphones and tuck them into his pocket because he’s at his destination and it’s two minutes till eleven. He heaves a breath and passes through the front gate, scuffed Converse scraping against pristine marble and the door opens before he even gets there. “And you must be Kai.”
Jongin closes his eyes for a moment, and then smiles. “Yes.”
“Ah, you look like fun.” The man pulls him in and shuts the door, and Jongin’s eyes widen a little as he sees five others seated at a table. They look him over greedily, lips swinging over taut lips and low murmurs ceasing as Jongin steps in.
He didn’t know this was going to be a group thing. But groups always pay better, and Jongin keeps this thought fresh in his mind as his garments are stripped off him. He grimaces as he sees one of the men carelessly step on his thin coat and he hears a crunch, sounding like an earbud smashing. They laugh, the smell of wine on their breath and they pin him down on the table just like that, stripped of clothing and dignity. Though, Jongin reminds himself, he lost his dignity long ago. Right now is one job of many.
They fuck him hard, dry, and Jongin moans loudly in a chorus of pants and breaths. He shuts his eyes, concentrating on keeping that golden pitch that turns every client on. He isn’t hard, he never is. Jongin can take a lot, but six cocks, two at once, with a mediocre lubricant of saliva is a lot for anyone. By the time they’re done with him, he’s been fucked in probably twenty positions thirty times, each client going for fourths and fifths. He ends on his back, hissing and mewling, cum leaking out of him and coating his lower half, half dried loads shot on the table and more pouring from his thoroughly fucked lips. Half of the men are passed out, dicks hanging out and slumped on the ground, and the ones that are still awake whisper to each other and eyeing Jongin still.
He’s allowed in the bathroom to wash himself up before he leaves (provided everything gets done in the bathtub and is washed down the drain immediately afterwards; his client has a wife that would surely be outraged at finding any evidence of Jongin’s presence.) He limps in, but by the end it’s more like a crawl. He locks the door, moving into the tub. He’d love to take a nice long shower in this luxurious tub, but he only has a limited amount of time here. He has another job at four in the morning, and he has to go make himself a pick me up meal for some energy beforehand.
He sits himself in the tub, looking himself over. Bruises and hickeys dot his bronze skin, he feels welts on his back where long nails had broken skin and on his ass where hands had hit so hard that it was nearly completely numb. With the cum that is leaking out of him, there’s blood as well-lack of sufficient lubrication leads to tearing, Jongin knows this well. He turns on the bath faucet, cupping the instantly hot water and letting it run through the cracks in his fingers and he scoots closer, letting the sensation run over his thoroughly used lower half, hissing and groaning as it soaks into him. His hands clean methodically-he’s done this so many times that he no longer needs to think. After three or so minutes, he slowly pulls himself to his feet. The client, Min, had provided him with a roll of paper towels which he uses to dry himself off with. He slowly inches into his underwear, biting back a scream as the tight fabric scrapes across tender flesh and pulls on his pants. His shirt drapes over his lean figure but the hickeys on his chest and neck are still easy to see. He pulls on his jacket, popping up the collar to hide the blossoms of purple and red.
He tosses the paper towels covered in various fluids into the fireplace, as he had been instructed, and leaves without a word after a check is slapped into his palm.
Five hundred and fifty dollars for three hours. Jongin thinks the deal had been six hundred, since there were so many, but it’s never good to argue with customers, especially not the wealthy and powerful ones. The real prices are higher-he’s around eight hundred dollars for a few hours, but the ring he works with takes most of the profits. He wishes he’d get more, but it’s safest this way, keeping things the way they are.
The door slams, and he’s in the front yard again. His breath again spirals up in thin swirls of fog, and the air has gotten colder. Jongin looks around. The fairy lights are as merry as they were, shining soft and comforting. Jongin limps slowly, hoping to get to the bus station before three thirty, but he sincerely doubts it, so he’ll probably end up sacrificing his instant ramen energy boost.
With a jolt he realizes it’s Christmas Eve.
Which also means it’s his mother’s birthday, and he hasn’t even given her a call. She lives where he grew up, Guryong, one of the poorest slums in Korea. He takes out his cell phone and dials her number, holding the device up to his ear and pulling the thin fabric tighter in a vain attempt to trap in the warmth.
“Jongin-ah?”
“Hi, mom. Happy birthday.”
“Ah, I’m so glad you remembered!” her voice is so cheery, and it brings a light to Jongin’s face. “You know, it’s so terrible you have to work on holidays. You should’ve asked for a day off and come back home!”
“Oh no, I’d love to but I’m just so busy.” Jongin chuckles. “But it all pays off. Guess how much money I made this month?”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars, can you believe it? A whole thousand. I’m going to send it to you as soon as I can.”
“You’re doing so well…” he hears the pride in his mother’s voice. “You’re only a short order cook but look how well you’re doing! This money you send back home to me and your sister, you know, it really helps.”
“I’m glad.” Jongin’s voice is barely more than a whisper.
Snow begins to fall, light flakes fluttering down from the sky and settling themselves in Jongin’s hair and dusting lightly on Jongin’s shoulders. The bus is coming soon, and it’s nearing the three thirty am mark.
“How did you know I’d be awake now?”
“You’re always awake this late, cleaning up and organizing and cooking.” Jongin looks at his toes. “How is noona?”
“She’s…ah.” Jongin’s mother’s tone gets darker. “She’s doing okay, but I don’t know how long we can support her. Her medical bills are getting high. Just when I went to get her checked up they said they would require more money from me because she was mentally challenged. Even though they were just running the normal procedures.” She sighs. “I wish I’d been able to go to college, Jongin…I wish I could have done more, so she would’ve-“
“It’s not your fault.” Jongin straightens his bag. The snow is thickening now, a haze of white falling down and slightly obscuring Jongin’s vision. “It’s hard but we’ll do okay. Your restaurant makes some money and I will always be sending some back each month, okay? No matter how high her medical bills get. We’ll scrape by. Alright? Tonight is not the night to worry. It is your birthday. You should go-ah-you should go to bed soon.” Jongin hisses in pain as the repercussions of the night begin to really show up, pain slashing across his lower half like knives. “I just wanted to say happy birthday.”
Jongin’s mother must notice that his voice sounds strained, because her own voice becomes immediately worried. “Jongin, are you okay? You don’t sound like you’re doing well…are you eating enough? Are you healthy? Are-“
“Umma.” Jongin takes extra effort to steel his voice into a warm, comforting sound. “I’m perfectly fine. I tripped just now. Happy birthday, okay? Please sleep well.”
“I love you, Jongin.”
“I love you too. But I have to go back to work now-the kitchen gets dirty fast, even at this hour. Maybe I can bring a cake home when I go back next, and we can have a belated birthday party.”
“That sounds wonderful, I’m sure your sister would like it.” There is a smile in her voice. “Good night, Jongin-ah. Go home and sleep soon.”
“You too.”
He taps the hang up button with a click and sighs into the night. The sleet is raining hard and thick now, thickening around lampposts and hammering on the awning of the bus stop benches. Jongin sits down, plugging in his earbuds into the phone and pressing play. One of the earbuds is crushed, so Jongin can only use one, the sound not surround but tinny with just half of it really there in Jongin’s left ear. His feet step around in the snow, placing dance steps into the thin layer of white coating the sidewalk. The bus will come soon, with the black bus driver that they only allow to work the night shift when nobody comes, at 3:45. It always does.
Life is good. As good as it needs to be.
And I seem to find the happiness I seek,
When we’re out together, dancing cheek to cheek.