Intoxiqué

1

It's the face.

It's the eyes. The nose. The lips.

The cheekbones perfect to sprinkle kisses over. The skin that slides like velvet across the hand.

It's the face.

Jongin doesn't know where his thoughts have gone. Everything that has been on his mind the entire day—the project his boss wants tomorrow and the breakup his boyfriend has demanded—has disappeared.

He blames it on that face.

His eyes are glued to it, and he can feel himself getting pulled by a force of pure desperation. He wants that face.

He wants it to cringe, to contort, to convulse. He wants its mouth to drop open and moan, moan his name like his is the last one on earth. He wants that face.

It's this desire that leads him to get up from his table tucked in the very back corner of the gay bar he regularly attends, and walk out of the dim lighting illuminating him. He steps into darkness, steps closer to the bearer of that face.

Jongin's feet move on their own accord. He's mindless. His body is working like an instrument with no player. He's controlled by a remote constituted by this perpetuating desire.

It suddenly occurs to him that the face's eyes are watching him. They have been doing so this whole time. Every movement his form makes is being soaked in by two large, piercing eyes.

Jongin feels himself fall apart.

Through his lust for control and need for sudden dominance, Jongin barely notices that his chest is about to hit the other's squarely. He looks down. The nose brushes his own slightly. He can see a small tinge of blush form on the smooth cheeks that are just an arm raise and scoop away from his hand.

The world around them melts like hot oil on a canvas. It oozes away. At that moment, Jongin realizes truly how much he wants this.

"Hi," he says.

There's a small period of silence; the other doesn't reply for a little while. Jongin senses him shift, his skin-tight clothes brushing against his own. It's awkward. However, it doesn't last long.

A hand is suddenly on his shoulder. It squeezes. Jongin grants it a glance, and when his eyes revert back to the face, he sees a dastardly smirk. He's been lured in by a fake innocence, and fuck, it's hot.

"You've been watching me the whole night, pretty boy."

The voice is silk, and Jongin wants to hear it every day. At least he thinks he does.

"Yes. I have been," he responds, and another hand lands on his unoccupied shoulder.

"Mm."

Jongin hasn't even paid attention to how hard he is. He only sees it when another solid crotch presses to his. He looks down. Their bodies are molding into each other's; the hands on his shoulders are squeezing.

"Wanna come home with me?"

The face goes from a smirk to a relieved smile. "I thought you'd never ask. Yes."

Jongin forces himself to grab onto the slim waist. "How much do you charge?"

"Doesn't matter." Nails dig into Jongin's shirt a bit, and he knows the other wants it badly, too. "With those looks of yours, I'll do it for free."

"You sure?"

Jongin gets a nod. Free. Awesome.

"What's your name?"