Work Text:
I found you
I found the door
But when I stepped through
There was no floor.
— Mitski, I Want You.
#1.
Moonjo is a gentle lover. Despite all the blood on his hands, despite all the lives he’s taken, he is tender — the soft trickle of water in a cool spring, the lush green of leaves in a private garden. When he comes home from a long day at the clinic, the wolf retires to his knees before Jongwoo, pressing his cheek onto the rabbit’s thigh and closing his eyes.
A predator is not supposed to nourish his prey. But, Jongwoo is not prey, and the teeth that Moonjo have sunk into him (Metaphorically, sometimes literally ) do not tear and chew savagely. They mark him, then nurse his wound.
Peering down the bridge of his nose and through his reading glasses Jongwoo rolls his eyes at the man against his thigh yet makes no move to shake him off. He’d told Moonjo many times that he didn’t have to sit on the floor, he could simply sit on the armchair with Jongwoo as it was large enough for the both of them but alas, beasts were stubborn. One hand leaves his book to press against Moonjo’s cheek for a moment, skin soft and just with a hint of moisture from the shower. In times like this Moonjo is not a wolf, not a beast, but something miniscule and docile — a pup preening under the attention of its owner. If he had a tail it would be thumping wildly just from Jongwoo’s touch even if his features stay impassive, eyes closed.
“Moonjo.”
Those eyes flick open, lilac lids peeling back and revealing the dark voids of his irises. They glitter like rubies and once upon a time their intensity may have unnerved Jongwoo; now he stares into their depths and strokes the sharpness of his lover’s jaw with a thumb, running the tip of his tongue across his teeth.
“Come up here.”
Truly a mutt influenced by its master, a short moment passes and Moonjo rises. He always towers over Jongwoo and especially like this, his frame shadowed by the light to give him an ethereal appearance. An angel.
(Someone like him could be no angel, but yet again — even Lucifier was God’s favorite, once upon a time.)
Familiar warmth spreads through Jongwoo’s chest as the older seats himself, not hesitating to keel over and press his head into Jongwoo’s lap yet again. That can’t be a comfortable position, Jongwoo thinks, however, he knows Moonjo would quite literally bend over backwards to please him. Jongwoo wasn’t forcing him to sit uncomfortably. If he wanted to, so be it.
Moonjo is face down in Jongwoo’s thighs, practically smothering himself. Huh. The work day must’ve been pretty tough, then. If it were anyone else Jongwoo would be concerned about their ability to breathe and he laughs as soon as he gets that thought, because why would he allow anyone else to be this close to him? He doesn’t desire any other being, not when Moonjo has ruined him so beautifully, and the wolf (His pup, so devoted to its owner) was terribly possessive over the deranged, gorgeous mess he’d made of Jongwoo. He is a bunny of cotton white fur and big glassy eyes, so tempting for one to reach their hand and stroke its soft coat.
The wolf will close its jaws around their fingers and tear them clean off before they get the chance.
“Moonjo,” Jongwoo says again after a few minutes, the name followed by a click of his tongue. “You’re like a child, you know. So clingy. ”
Moonjo doesn’t reply. Jongwoo frowns — is Moonjo ignoring him? No, Moonjo never ignores him. Then…
Two fingers press against the skin of a pale neck, and Jongwoo huffs lightly in both amusement and disbelief at the slowed pulse. Leave it to Moonjo to fall asleep in such a position, vulnerable and at Jongwoo’s mercy.
Jongwoo could end him so easily. He could press his face even further into where Moonjo has stuffed it into his thighs, let him suffocate and wither away; two fingers slip back to the side of that neck, his own heart beating a bit wildly in excitement at the pulse. Part of him yearns to hear it speed up, frantic and helpless, before it fades into a dull, weak rhythm, fluttering like the tattered wings of a wounded butterfly before it succumbs to its tragic fate.
He could. He could. It’s a heavy thought that weighs like a neon green tennis ball, tossed from hand to hand in the wake of making a decision.
He could. But, he does not. The rabbit extinguishes the idea like harsh air to a candle flame, settling back into his seat and readjusting his book.
Today is not the day the wolf will die, he decides. Today, the rabbit has mercy.
Tomorrow?
Only time will tell.
#2.
Jongwoo once read an article of a dog who was trapped in the same room as its deceased owner. Upon being released several days later, the animal refused any sort of food or nutrition — unwilling to live on without its master, it starved to its bittersweet end.
He thinks of big round puppy eyes, glittery and glassy. Moonjo’s eyes are glittery, like jewels, and they’re big, round too. They gaze at Jongwoo with the same devotion a beloved pup would direct at its master, though they lack the cloying innocence, the love. Or maybe they don’t. Moonjo’s dark eyes are impossibly deep and always filled with something akin to adoration, endearance.
Is it…love? Is that what shines in his gaze? He has never uttered the three sacred words yet Jongwoo feels them, sometimes. In his actions.
“For you, jagi,” Moonjo would murmur, pushing a plate of food to Jongwoo. I love you, the steaming meal says, the aroma of perfectly cooked meat and vegetables clouding his senses.
“You would like this,” As he presents a hardcover book to Jongwoo. I adore you, the annotations in every other page whisper to him, the words echoing in his ears.
I worship you .
Is what his eyes read as he gazes up at Jongwoo, lids just barely open to show a slither of his iris. He’s so beautiful like this, he’s always beautiful, but the part of his red lips releasing soft breaths and - dare Jongwoo say - desperate little sounds make his beauty otherworldly.
“Is it too much, jagi? ” He says, tone more mocking than it is endearing, and Moonjo can’t even reply because Jongwoo bucks his hips to thrust deeper, looking down to catch a glimpse of his cock fucking into the pink cunt. The sight only makes him let out a quiet groan and push one of Moonjo’s knees up into his ribs.
He can always tell when Moonjo is about to orgasm. His stomach concaves and his soft walls clamp down, practically swimming around him, and Jongwoo watches with an emotion he can't quite explain as Moonjo reaches for his hand — just something to hold onto, something to keep him grounded as his insides convulse and then he’s falling apart so damn prettily under Jongwoo.
A million little pieces of Moonjo shatter and scatter across the sheets as he trembles through his orgasm. Jongwoo can’t take his eyes off his face, the sweat beading down his temple, the part of his gorgeous lips and the whine that slips from between them. Only Jongwoo will see Moonjo like this, only Jongwoo will touch him like this. Only Jongwoo.
There is an urge to be cruel, to take advantage of that trust, to pull out and let him handle his cloudy headspace alone. Hurt him as he has hurt you. Put him through the Hell he put you through
Moonjo did not leave him to sink into his deranged mind on his own. Moonjo guided him like a child taking their first steps; Moonjo took him down to Hell and made sure he wouldn’t be consumed by the flames. He taught him how to breathe through the smoke, how to bear the heat, how to capture the flames in the palm of his hand and let them become one with his being. The heat runs like liquid in his veins, setting his nerves alight.
Jongwoo lets out something akin to a shivering sigh, and the fire crackles. He pulls out, wrapping a hand around his length and stroking hard and fast, biting his lip when he comes to his peak. It spurts all over the wet, glistening mound of Moonjo’s pussy, clashing with the delectable pink a little too perfectly.
It’s a split second decision to drag his fingers along the soft slit and collect some of his spend, bringing the dripping digits up to Moonjo’s lips. His gut curls in on itself when the older doesn’t hesitate to suck them, holding Jongwoo’s eyes with his own cloudy delirious ones.
Whore is what he thinks, though no venom courses through the thought. An endearing sort of cruelness, one reserved specifically for the man - Wolf - below him.
Pieces of Moonjo are still scattered across the soiled sheets. Jongwoo can feel his softening cock twitch with interest at the thought of picking them up, piecing them back together with the sweet syrup of his throbbing heart just to break him all over again.
Moonjo, Moonjo, Moonjo. He is a Wolf, he is a Doll, black fur and gleaming yellow eyes, porcelain skin and rosy red lips. Moonjo, Moonjo, Moonjo.
He doesn’t retract his fingers yet. He lets them sit and prune on Moonjo’s tongue for a long moment filled with bated panting breaths, eyes flitting down between his thighs and lips twisting in a small grin.
His fingers pull from the damp cavern, strings of saliva following them down to where he presses at Moonjo’s clit. The elder man’s breath hitches and Jongwoo pauses, waits for him to shut his thighs or shake his head, waits for him to show any sign he’s worn out for the day but Moonjo only spreads his legs wider, inviting anything and everything Jongwoo wishes to give him. Truly devoted to the bunny, his cottontail rabbit; the wolf will tear out its own fur with its teeth just to ensure the little rabbit is satisfied.
“ Jagi… ” Moonjo's voice is so soft in a way it only ever is when he’s beneath Jongwoo. Pleading, begging, desperate.
Jongwoo glances up at his face as he works a finger inside him, then two, then three because Moonjo is still so loose and fucked out, walls still moulded around the shape of his cock.
“What?” Jongwoo cocks his head. “Use your words. Or are you too much of a brainless whore to do even that?”
Fluid seeps out around Jongwoo’s fingers and marks the sheets, the wolf’s skin seeming to quiver and ripple.
His other hand squeezes the muscle of Moonjo’s thigh, rubbing his hip, his tiny waist. God, his body proportions are ridiculous.
“Such a pretty whore,” He murmurs, hand moving from his hip to his pec. He tweaks the rosy nipple and Moonjo groans like he’s been punched in the gut.
“My pretty whore. Aren’t you?” Jongwoo doesn’t give him a chance to answer before bending over to capture those red lips in a wet, heavy kiss, one that Moonjo immediately reciprocates as he jerks the digits in and out. It’s a sloppy kiss, Jongwoo sucking the elder man’s tongue into his mouth and his cock - hard yet again - throbs with need, the feeling of his lover around his fingers too tempting to resist.
The writer pants as they part, slipping his fingers out of Moonjo and rubbing his trembling thigh with the sticky residue, reigning in the urge to kiss him yet again at the sight of those swollen lips and blissful eyes.
“Turn over,” He commands breathlessly and though he’s shaking (Slightly) Moonjo obeys like the mutt he is, Jongwoo running a hand down the sweat slick skin of his back.
He grips the base of his cock, running the tip along that pretty little slit and the elder man groans out.
“Jagi —” His back arches like a cat and his chest presses into the sheets, hair splaying about his head. “Please.”
Jongwoo grins loosely, like he isn’t just as desperate to sheathe himself inside his lover’s hot warmth. He wants to see Moonjo beg, make him pathetic and desperate as can be before he indulges him.
Moonjo is moving his ass back just slightly and Jongwoo tuts, grabbing at his hip hard enough to bruise.
“Beg,” He snaps, slapping his length against the wet mound, so tempted to plunge inside. “If you want me to fuck you, beg, you fucking whore.”
Moonjo had brought out all the deepest darkest sides of Jongwoo, the murderous the angry and the kinky. Jieun didn’t even like performing oral, let alone being degraded; Jongwoo himself had been fairly vanilla before Moonjo. If Jieun was a saint, his lover was nothing short of a demon , maybe even the Devil himself.
Coherence seems to have abandoned the elder man, seemingly turned into putty yet he gasps out so deliciously when Jongwoo slips the tip inside for a moment, egging him on —
“Fuck me. Please fuck me, jagi. Until…until the neighbors have complained, until the entire world knows I’m yours.”
Jongwoo slams inside and Moonjo screams.
The writer doesn’t even spare time to be shocked over the loudness because his pace is rabid and rough, hips bashing against Moonjo’s ass with every rough bruising thrust.
“Fucking right, you’re mine.”
A fire is raging inside of him, scorching him up, rushing through his veins and every part of him is set alight.
“You don’t ever get to leave me, bitch.” He’s growling like an animal, like a beast, like the wolf below him should, the wolf who’s body is trying to resist out of instinct, to fight the painful pleasure of being split open so ruthlessly and Jongwoo presses a hand into the middle of his back to push him back down.
“And if you try —” A groan leaves him as he slaps the globe of Moonjo’s ass, grabs it and squeezes it hard, digs his nails into the flesh.
“I’ll fucking kill you.”
Moonjo is a trembling, moaning mess as Jongwoo fucks him within an inch of his life, the smack of skin on skin loud as could be.
“I’d — honey, I’d never. ” He’s struggling to get his words out because Jongwoo is a ruthless beast, so unlike the little cottontail rabbit; Moonjo is pushing his hips out to meet Jongwoo’s every thrust.
“And I’d… love for you to kill me. I don’t — I don’t deserve the luxury of Death if it isn’t by your hands.”
Perhaps Jongwoo truly is unhinged for letting those words be what pushed him over the edge, but he’s long since known he wasn’t stable. He grips the elder man’s hip, groaning as he drives his length as deep as it can go and reaches under to rub at Moonjo’s clit, cock throbbing when his cunt clamps down and then he’d whimpering as warmth swims around Jongwoo’s girth, his scarred form quivering helplessly.
His tip crams up against his cervix and that has Moonjo squirming, crying out lowly in pain yet Jongwoo holds him in place, forces him to stay still and take all of the seed that’s fed into him. He’s so hot and soft inside that Jongwoo never wants to pull out; he stills after a few more lazy thrusts, panting like he’s run a marathon.
Now, coming down from not only his orgasm but whatever deranged headspace he’d knocked himself into, he feels…not guilty, no, but proud looking at the pathetic mess he’s made of Moonjo. He grasped him and tore him apart, ruined him so beautifully, red lips parted and exhaling shivering breaths, cheek and chest smushed against the sheets, body trembling.
God.
Jongwoo unsheathes himself slowly, feeling his gut stir at the white that begins to leak out in his wake, and Moonjo rolls over onto his back in a way that lacks all his usual grace - his eyes are lidded and just stare at Jongwoo, with adoration and hazy submission and something else he can’t pinpoint.
He can’t resist crawling up to kiss him. Gently, not rough and bruising like it was before. Tender, raw lips slick with spit, and his hand carefully comes to cup the sharpness of Moonjo’s jaw as he pulls back a fraction, their noses bumping and his lover’s eyes shining in the moonlight.
“You’re so —” He leans back down to steal another kiss, letting a soft little groan. “ Pretty. How are you so fucking gorgeous?”
Moonjo doesn’t reply, not verbally - he’s always like that after a particularly rough session, all soft and worn down, still in the mould of his head space - but he does reach up and lace his fingers through the hair at the back of Jongwoo’s head and he just… stares again. Once upon a time that did unnerve Jongwoo but now, he’s used to all his odd little quirks; this close, looking deep into those moondrop eyes, he’s captivated.
They have to shower. Moonjo will have to pee soon or he has a chance of getting a UTI, yet Jongwoo can’t find himself moving. They can lay together for a little while longer.
#3.
Time is a fickle thing, a tricky , slippery thing that slips through your fingers before you even notice it; time passes with every inch of hair that grows out of Moonjo’s scalp, and when Jongwoo finally realizes just how much of it has flown by, Moonjo’s hair is at his shoulders and Jongwoo is awakening with a silent yawn at - What time is it? A quick glance at the bedside clock says it’s five, which Jongwoo uses common sense to assume it’s am considering the darkness of the room.
The darkness doesn’t overtake everything, though. The sun is beginning to rise and it’s just light for him to look down and meet Moonjo’s big pretty eyes, gazing up at him where his head is laying on his chest.
The date is November 6th; Moonjo’s birthday. Moonjo had told him he never treated his birthday as a special occasion, just any other day, but he wouldn’t mind if Jongwoo wanted to do something.
(That’s…that’s supposed to be your decision. Do you want it to be special?
Every waking moment I spend with you is special, my love.
…Ooookay, weirdo, I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.)
‘Special’ has many meanings. Some would think it means breakfast in bed and presents right off the bat; Moonjo is not ‘some’. He doesn’t like eating in the bedroom, and he doesn’t eat very much in the first place - something Jongwoo was trying to fix, slowly - and Jongwoo knows very well he doesn’t favor store bought presents, though he’d cherish a leaf from the ground if it was from Jongwoo.
“Good morning, baby,” He murmurs, scratching at the elder’s scalp and thinking distantly of how unreal it is for this monster of a man to be so much like a puppy - he’s killed people yet he’s preening into Jongwoo’s touch like a sweet little pup in the presence of its owner.
“And happy birthday.” He pecks his temple. “What do you want to do? Hm?”
Today appears to be one of those days where Moonjo is quiet and doesn’t favor using words. They happen often, Jongwoo has gotten used to them, and his love appears to be thinking for a few moments before grabbing at Jongwoo’s hand - Moonjo is cold, he always is; he has low iron - and dragging it down beneath the covers.
Jongwoo only wakes up with morning wood half the time, while Moonjo seemingly always wakes up sopping wet. His fingers touch on dampened fabric and he grins loosely.
“Aw. You waited for me?” He says, coos almost and he can feel his cock twitch at the way his lover grinds himself on his fingers, relishing in the friction that his shorts bring him.
He already knows how he wants to please the elder man - his mouth is watering at the mere thought of eating him out and he flips the covers off of them, adjusting their position until he can shift and move down between Moonjo’s thighs. The space between is practically made to fit Jongwoo and Moonjo widens them a little more, showing just how much he’s soaked through the fabric, just how much Jongwoo affects him. It strokes his ego obnoxiously.
Drawing his arms up under Moonjo’s thighs, he tugs at the waist band until they give way and slip down, Moonjo aiding in the undressing by raising his hips just enough for the garment to slide off and the heat that fans Jongwoo’s face makes him salivate.
His lips press into the soft skin of his lover’s inner thigh, leaving a wet kiss there and drawing his tongue along the pale canvas, like a painter would a brush. The effect is immediate as Moonjo sighs out, cunt pulsing and glistening just a hair away from Jongwoo’s face. He’s not shaven bald, just a bit of trimmed stubble that tickles against Jongwoo’s skin as he licks from his shiny hole to his clit.
No matter how many times he’s gone down on Moonjo (Or sat him on his face, or bent him over) he would never get enough of his taste. Moonjo has a balanced diet, and he’d recently started working out a little more in their home gym, the one that was installed for Jongwoo. The thighs around his head have thickened with lean muscle and the slick that spills into his mouth is divine, tangy and salty with the slightest hint of bittersweet, that metallic copper underneath lacing it all together. He eats like he’s a starving man and Moonjo is a full course meal.
His senses are all mushed together, nose tingling with the clean fresh scent of Moonjo’s skin and the damp musk of his cunt. When he slithers his tongue between the plump outer lips, focuses on the spread of his labia and the gushing wetness of his vulva, Moonjo writhes and damn near crushes Jongwoo’s skull with how tightly he cinches his thighs. Not that Jongwoo minds, the pain is bearable if it means he gets to keep engorging himself in Moonjo’s perfect pussy.
Dawn breaks with Moonjo’s cum glazed on the bottom half of his face like a donut. In the shower, Moonjo gets down on his knees on the hard tile and sucks him off, always so eager to have something in his mouth. It’s a beautiful sight, Moonjo taking him whole down his throat, long hair wet and plastered on his pale skin like twisted vines.
After, when Moonjo is dressed in comfortable clothing (A loose sweater and equally loose pants) he sits on the floor between Jongwoo’s thighs, knees drawn to his chest and cheek resting atop them. Jongwoo, armed with a comb gel and rubber bands, had taken it upon himself to braid Moonjo’s thick, unruly hair - fresh from the shower it’s wilder than ever so Jongwoo is extra careful, picking apart loose snags with his fingers before combing them out, tips to root. In primary and middle school, Jongwoo was often asked by his female peers to help them with their hair. You have small hands, good for braiding, they’d say, and so Jongwoo acquired the skill.
There’s a mirror in front of them, one that shows the view of a shirtless Jongwoo and a seemingly asleep Moonjo. His eyes are closed and his breathing soft but Jongwoo knows better, his lover does not fall into slumber so easily. He’s simply relaxed, comfortable as Jongwoo picks through his scalp.
The domesticity of the situation fills him with an emotion he can’t quite identify. It’s warm and sticky like tree sap, sweet as a candied cherry. Jongwoo from a few years before would’ve given a side eye if he was told he’d be braiding the hair of a wolf in a big grand house, the wolf who is his lover. The wolf’s eyes are open now and he’s staring blankly at their reflection, grabbing the end of one of the braids and tugging it slightly.
“You look pretty,” Jongwoo says, bending down to bring his hands around and cup Moonjo’s jaw, unable to bite back a smile at how the older man leans into the touch.
The day passes calmly. They have a meal (Not breakfast, neither of them favor breakfast) and when Jongwoo lays on the couch Moonjo splays out atop him and promptly goes under for a nap. (Jongwoo has the tracker app on his phone that says Moonjo will be menstruating in three days, and he’s always a little under the weather during that pre-week, tired and quiet and a little solemn.)
Jongwoo feeds him vanilla cake off of a fork. He rubs his hand up and down Moonjo’s back beneath his sweater, he’s so lanky that if Jongwoo presses a little he can feel the ridge of his spine. They exchange kisses, Moonjo’s pretty pouty lips are too tempting to resist, and evening finds them sharing a bath in the dimly lit bathroom. The room smells of pumpkin from the seasonal candle and petals have been thrown into the water. It ripples as Jongwoo tenderly pulls at the Dutch braids, unravelling his hair into long silky strands that curl elegantly. He’s so pretty, the dim light flickering in the hollow of his cheeks, putting a shine to his eyes and his lashes.
Nude and damp from their bath, Moonjo tugs Jongwoo by the hips onto the silicone of his strap, kisses him gently and drinks down the content moan he lets out as he’s penetrated.
There are minimal words. Sounds, soft breaths and moans as Jongwoo rides him, Moonjo’s shivering breath as Jongwoo ghosts a hand along his jaw. When the write moves down to his pec, scrapes his teeth over the pebbled nipple, that gets him a soft, gasped, Honey, Moonjo’s first word since the start of the day. Jongwoo only rocks down on the straps, fists a hand around his cock to get himself off as he nurses the rosy bud.
That’s how he cums, all over his fist and Moonjo’s belly. This close, he can hear every breath Moonjo takes, see his composure slipping especially when Jongwoo forces a hand down under the harness, grins at him as he touches on the slick wetness of his pussy.
“Did fucking me turn you on that much?” He teases, stroking the engorged bud of his clit, already stimulated from rubbing against the inside of the harness and Moonjo’s hands are trembling when they grip Jongwoo’s hips. Every breath that leaves his chest is hot, unstable; Jongwoo smears the remains of his own sticky cum along his outer lips, stuffing two fingers inside with no preamble.
Moonjo hunches over, stuffing his face into Jongwoo’s shoulder. The writer is still stuffed full with silicone and he moves his hips a little as he tenderly fucks his fingers into his lover, rubbing his clit with the pad of his thumb, hissing when those sharp teeth dig into the meat of his shoulder.
“My pretty baby,” He murmurs into Moonjo’s hair. “Doing such a good job, fucking me so well.”
He feels the shiver that wracks through his lover at the praise and he grins wider. “You like that? Getting told how good you are, how good you make me feel? Hm?”
Moonjo’s cunt is clenching around his fingers and Moonjo’s nails dig into his skin when he slips in a third. He can feel that he’s close, feeling that he’s about to come undone - he puts his lips against the shell of Moonjo’s ear and scrapes his teeth against his lobe. “Go on, pup ,” He whispers, honey-throated. “Cum. Cum for me.”
The pain that comes when Moonjo bites his shoulder hard is graciously welcomed. Jongwoo’s eyes slip shut, a little Shit leaving his lips as skin breaks and sharp stinging attacks his flesh. There’s the sensation of Moonjo’s quivering lips sealing over his wound, his tongue lapping up the blood that spills. Jongwoo stills his fingers, the digits pruned and covered in sticky gooey fluid.
Gently, his free hand takes hold of Moonjo’s unruly hair and pulls until he can see his pretty face. Oh, he’s gorgeous, eyes big and pupils blown out wide, glassy like marbles. His lips are parted and redder than ever, emitting soft, quick breaths, still in the tingly daze of his orgasm and probably sinking into a feeling of clarity right about now.
Jongwoo curls a hand around his jaw, bringing him forward until their foreheads touch and their noses bump. He doesn't have to close the gap, to initiate the kiss because Moonjo tilts his chin up and captures Jongwoo’s lips into a wet, messy kiss, clumsy with a bit of teeth, a bit of tongue, and so, so much love.
Now, it’s Moonjo’s hands that tangle in Jongwoo’s hair, his big calm coming to the back of his head.
“Darling…”
His voice is low, soft, wispy with emotion and Jongwoo smiles sweetly. “Yes, Moonjo?”
The elder looks like he wants to say something. He looks hesitant, apprehensive in a way he never is. His eyes search Jongwoo’s face and then —
“I love you.”
Jongwoo will admit that he stopped breathing for a moment. His grin widened and his breath caught in his chest, whirling around his heart like a tornado. “I know,” He says softly, steals another kiss, pecks his nose for good measure.
“I know, baby. Happy birthday.”
+1.
Fingers weaving through his too-long hair, laughs bubbling out of crooked white teeth; breath that smells of mint and nicotine gum, small hands that know Moonjo’s skin like a familiar path in the woods. Tarps stained with blood, a grin sharp as the edge of the knife that slices through slabs of flesh, a low hummed melody vibrating in the base of a tan throat — that is what the past decade has been, bliss and peace and happiness. Yoon Moonjo is forty-two years old, setting a crimson rose and a red carnation into a glass vase on the dining table.
A wet, nasty sort of thwack sound is coming from the den, repeated and enough to make the average person head over to investigate. Moonjo is not the average person. He shucks off his coat, gazes down at the metal of his wedding band for a few long moments before he makes his way to the den.
There’s a blue tarp laid over the entirety of the wooden flooring. On it, are two things - variety of metal tools, from saws to knives to hammers, and a corpse. A bloodied corpse, sliced open from chest to belly, organs exposed and glistening beneath the light.
In the midst of it all is his darling. His love, his jagi, not the sun, but the moon, for he is easy on the eyes, every quality of him is something to admire. This is the man he wedded at the heart of Strasbourg in France, the man who he lets stick him with a needle to give him his daily dose of hormones, who’s made himself a home in the vessel that pulses between his ribs, and in the warmth between his thighs.
Yoon Jongwoo. Thirty-seven years old and splattered with crimson blood as he saws away at the body’s lower leg, grunting slightly while he works through the bone.
Moonjo’s eyes watch him with what he won’t deny is adoration. His face that’s beautifully aged, his biceps that flex and bulge, his jaw that cinches with the effort he’s putting in. They’ve settled down over the years, resorting to only causing carnage on Holidays - with a few strays in between - and Moonjo gently scrapes his nail against the cellophane plastic covering the heart shaped box of Valentines chocolates he holds, crumpling the plastic in his hands once it’s fallen off.
In no time he’s made his way over and crouches to press one of the chocolates to Jongwoo’s plush lips. His husband doesn’t stop sawing, only hums as he accepts the treat - “Hi, baby,” He greets, voice slightly muffled as he chews. “How was work?”
“Fine,” Moonjo replies softly, eyes following the sweat that beads at his temple and drips down the side of his face, over the working muscle of his jaw. He suddenly yearns to run his tongue over it.
“I received gifts from a few clients,” He continues, taking a chocolate for himself but he doesn’t chew. Merely tucks it into his cheek, kets his mouth water as it precipitates the taste, the chocolate beginning to melt from the warmth of his body.
Jongwoo stops sawing as the limb finally gives way, setting the saw down and rolling his shoulders and neck as well as cracking his fingers, groaning aloud.
“That so?” He stands and usually Moonjo is the taller of them but Moonjo is still crouching, looking up at Jongwoo as he flexes his shoulders, raises his brows down at him. Jongwoo has let his hair grow out, nowhere near as long as Moonjo’s - it tumbles over his shoulders and nearly past his upper back by now - but enough that it fans over his face and has become bothersome enough to need to be held back by a hairband.
Moonjo stands, too. Their height difference has been replenished yet Moonjo still feels like he’s below his lover, not inferior, but merely smitten. Pathetic, even.
His teeth push into the soft, melted chocolate, tasting the sweet sticky filling. “Youth, mostly; young adults. Many of the mothers become dejected once they see my wedding band.”
Jongwoo hums and then - then his hands are on Moonjo’s neck, the cold metal of his own ring icy against his skin and he’s smiling. A grin that’s all teeth and pink lips, blood speckled and drying on his tanned tone skin. Moonjo hunches over a little, just so it’s easier for Jongwoo to tangle his hands in Moonjo’s hair and tug.
It’s shameful how quickly he goes lax, nearly dropping the box of chocolates as Jongwoo scratches at his scalp.
“All these years, and you’re still just my pup, aren’t you?” Jongwoo’s voice isn’t a coo but something close to it, fondness strewn throughout. His gorgeous face has faint crow’s feet and smile lines and his skin is textured, so detailed and so human. If it weren’t for these ‘ flaws ’, Moonjo would be convinced his darling was something otherworldly, from another universe entirely. Jongwoo is not made of bones, blood, flesh - no, he is a product of the galaxy, stars picked from the sky and placed upon his cheeks, Saturn’s rings glinting in his iris.
Wetness is already pooling between his thighs and he throbs, so needy and desperate just from his lover’s touch. He doesn’t acknowledge how the chocolates hit the floor when he brings his hands down, cups Jongwoo’s face and kisses him hard. The aggression of the action clearly startled him a bit but Jongwoo only laughs, a muffled sound that drifts off into a low, breathy little moan that Moonjo drinks down like water; Jongwoo’s arms go to his shoulders and Moonjo’s go to his waist, big hands gripping it, squeezing like he might disappear.
“‘M not going anywhere,” Jongwoo manages to tease when they part for air, swooping back into the kiss right after, turning his head a little and at this angle he shoves his tongue in Moonjo’s mouth, the warm vessel tasting of chocolate and fruit and metallic blood.
Jongwoo pushes him back, guides him until his back hits something - a counter - and that’s when they part yet again with a sticky string of saliva strung between them. His husband taps his hip, murmurs out a Get on and Moonjo is atop the counter, chest heaving.
When he goes to speak with a low Honey Jongwoo shushes him, stuffs two fingers in his mouth and smears the taste of iron blood onto his tongue. “You don’t need to talk,” He says, tugging at Moonjo’s belt, sticking the digits into his throat just enough to make him work to suck on them. Jongwoo’s abused his throat so many times now that his gag reflex is no longer a problem.
Obediently, Moonjo stays quiet and Jongwoo hums in approval. “Your pretty mouth looks so good when it’s full. I’d say go ahead and get them wet for me, but…” Moonjo lifts his hips eagerly for Jongwoo to slip off his slack and he doesn’t need to be told to spread his thighs for Jongwoo to move between them, cool air fanning his cunt.
“Seems like you’re already wet enough.” Blood stained fingers stroke his folds and his pussy is drooling, almost. He can feel himself leaking a puddle of watery slick already and it spreads beneath him, over the countertop. He thought his wetness and arousal would decrease as he aged but here he was, forming a lake on their kitchen counter. He can’t find it in him to be shamed as he moans around Jongwoo’s fingers, sucks them sloppily, spit dripping down.
He pushes forward into the touch, sighs out as Jongwoo spreads his outer lips and strokes up the pink skin of his labia, up to his clit, but he doesn’t rub, no, does go in circles - he smacks him there, hard enough to give just the right amount of pain and spiking pleasure. Embarrassingly, slick gushes out of him in a short burst from the sudden stimulation, making Jongwoo’s lips curve upwards.
“Hm? You like that?” He does it again, and again, keeping eye contact with Moonjo while his fingers prune on his tongue, his palm slapping against his clit and sending shockwaves through his body. Moonjo’s thighs try to clench on instinct, cinching on either side of Jongwoo's hips as his husband mercilessly abuses the sensitive vessel.
Jongwoo stops only to push two fingers inside the sopping wetness of his entrance, navigating his inner walls with an expert skill and easily finding what he’s looking for; Moonjo bites down on Jongwoo’s knuckles, shaking hand gripping the younger’s wrist. His clit is throbbing with the aftershocks of pain and his walls flex as that sweet spot inside him is not just prodded but massaged. He couldn’t escape the pleasure if he wanted to, can’t stop the desperate cant of his hips.
“Mhm, that’s it - Go ahead and fuck yourself, baby. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”
One would think Moonjo was a young virgin with the way he whimpers at that, like an animal. Jongwoo doesn’t look away from his eyes not once, peeling back every layer of Moonjo there is with his intense gaze alone. Boring into him, watching him as he pushes himself forward over and over, as he drools around his pruning fingers. Moonjo can’t look away, not as the pressure builds up and not as it begins to give way, a knot unwinding.
A spray of fluid shoots out of him, a messy sharp stream that only lasts a second; alas, it has the power of a water hose on jet mode, splashing on the counter and Jongwoo’s frontside, some drops rebounding to the floor. When he tries to stop, to bring some mercy on his cunt that’s near over-stimulated, Jongwoo tuts.
“Keep going,” He commands, shoving his fingers to the back of Mojo's throat, adding a third to his hole and making him let out something akin to a whine. He wants Jongwoo inside him so badly it hurts but he knows better than to beg unless Jongwoo asks him to - his darling will give him whatever he sees fit and Moonjo will only take it, accept it graciously.
Even though his thighs are shaking, every breath trembling and hard to exhale, Moonjo does as he’s told because that’s all he knows. Seven years of marriage, three years of dating have caused his body and being as a whole to be conditioned to Jongwoo, Jongwoo, Jongwoo. He tilts his head up, back a little, accidentally breaks eye contact for a moment but corrects himself back into position quickly. His jaw is aching from being open for so long. He doesn't care, wouldn’t complain if he could.
It feels like forever that Moonjo keeps moving, thighs aching and frustration building as well as that pressure yet again. Jongwoo only supplies him with hums and muttered words. He isn’t sure what his darling’s objective is but his composure has since slipped and he’s dangerously close to acting out of character. He squirts again when Jongwoo abruptly crooks his fingers up more and now he’s not only dripping slick but also white cream. God, the counter will be a filthy mess after this, won’t it - ?
Confusion fuddles Moonjo’s being as both of his holes are suddenly left empty, jaw not sure what to do and hanging open rather dumbly, cunt loose and clenching around air, but before he can whine, before he can question, his eyes are watching Jongwoo’s hands. His delicate hands are now scarred after so many years of violent carnage, pushing his shirt up and over his head. His toned tanned body is revealed, glistening with a light sheen of sweat, and soon after his pants are shucked down down his thighs and kicked away, hard cock slapping up against his belly.
“You did so good, baby. So patient.” Jongwoo praises him as fiddles with Moonjo's button up and it’s off in no time, pooling off his shoulders and huddling behind him. Now, they’re both bare. Jongwoo fingers at Moonjo’s faded scars, the ones just below his pecs, and he squeezes that fat too, rubs the rosy nipples against his palm.
“Jagi -” Moonjo coughs. His voice is raspy, hoarse, and he knows Jongwoo told him to be quiet but he has to beg.
“Yes?” Jongwoo arches his brows and tugs Moonjo forward a little by his hips, splashing the puddles of fluid on the counter. Neither of them acknowledge it.
Moonjo swallows. His words have left him again and Jongwoo laughs, whole face crinkling so beautifully with the action. “You’re so cute when you’re cum dumb, you know that?” He says, slapping his cock against Moonjo’s clit and scattering any coherent thoughts he may have had, such as an offhand mental protest that he is forty-one years old and not cute.
The younger holds his hip with one hand, slipping his dick between his outer lips with the other. His pussy has puffed up a little from stimulation, hole clenching hungrily, and Jongwoo rubs all over his coarse unshaven hair, teases his head into his hole a few times, tempting him, and with one last teasing slap on his clit Jongwoo sheathes himself inside.
The moan that leaves Moonjo is loud , mingling a little too perfectly with Jongwoo’s. No matter how many times he’s been speared on his husband’s cock he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the feeling of the closeness and the intimacy, the way his body has moulded itself for Jongwoo. There was only ever one other person before Jongwoo who could never compare to his darling. Jongwoo knows just how he likes to be treated; slow, deep strokes, a hand on his hip and a hand at his jaw, making him look into his eyes and nowhere as he thrusts into him.
Jongwoo’s hand wraps around his throat. Not squeezing, just holding, and Moonjo’s shaky fingers come up to hold his wrist.
“Do you know how unreal you are?” Jongwoo says, voice a low murmur, and his next words are — “I love you.”
Moonjo has heard those words many times from Jongwoo. But, at this moment, they have more of an effect for whatever reason. All he knows is that his bottom lip is trembling and his view of Jongwoo blurs then his cheeks are wet with salt.
Jongwoo coos at him. “Why are you crying, baby?” He asks, tone soft, bucking his hips to hit that spot inside him. “You’re so pretty when you cry, I love that about you. I love you. Love you so — Fuck. ” He brushes his lips against Moonjo’s, hissing out. “So fucking much.”
More tears fall. Moonjo rarely cries, he’s never been an emotional person, yet he’s everything that his younger self never thought he would be with Jongwoo. He can’t even return the words, can’t say I love you too as his throat closes up and all he can do is cry as Jongwoo carves him out, pleasuring ricocheting from his skull to his toes. Jongwoo’s hand comes from his hip and there’s some tugging before he feels his hair let loose from the band that had been used to collect it in a low ponytail, waving over his shoulder blades and back.
The kiss they share is slow, wet and messy. Jongwoo’s mouth still tastes of blood. The body in the den should probably be taken care of before rigor mortis sets in. There’s so much wrong with their situation, to someone average, someone normal, but they are not either of those things. They are Yoon Jongwoo and Moonjo; the rabbit and the wolf, a pup and its monster, two beasts in their den.
The emotions of despair, of fear and worry and Please don't leave me used to feel like they lasted forever. But, as Jongwoo goes impossibly deep and bites into the junction between his neck and shoulder - licks over the scar he left there years before - Moonjo comes to a peaceful realization. Forever is not always eternal, never ending.
Sometimes, it is just one second.