kirigakure stan account

It’s not lost on Hongjoong, the way Seonghwa gets under his skin and does it so clearly on purpose.  It’s that fucking tanktop, the one that hangs just a little bit loose over his slender frame and exposes a bit too much of his chest, bunches and rides up enough to expose slips of skin that should be saved for Hongjoong alone.

Rage blossoms under his ribcage, creeping up the column of his throat the same way it always does.  It’s smothering, what Hongjoong feels; his chest feels tight and hot and his hands leave damp spots on the leather steering wheel cover when he shoves an anxious hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.

The cashier is lucky he’s getting out of this alive.

It’s a familiar song and dance, this; Seonghwa does it on purpose, and it’s not ignored.  They finish their business, knock out the security cameras, and drive away in their unplated car to the shitty, rundown motel on the other side of town where Hongjoong makes Seonghwa understand where he’s done wrong.

Practiced, efficient.  The same routine they’ve had since they started running, which is how Seonghwa finds himself on his knees with the barrel of a gun pressed to his cheek with tears threatening to spill.

And he’s so beautiful like this, Hongjoong thinks; he snaps a picture with the polaroid camera from two birthdays ago, a memento to go with the rest.  The undeveloped film is tossed aside on a table, the camera on the bed.  

Seonghwa doesn’t look when normally his eyes would follow the path of the camera to be sure it doesn’t fall.  Instead he stares up through thick lashes, eyes wide, watching, waiting.  Hands balled into fists on bent knees, his patience endures through Hongjoong’s rants, his threats, all but screamed from the rooftops.  If the hotel were any nicer, they’d probably care.

The cool metal of Hongjoong’s gun brushes against a high cheekbone while he brushes dark hair from Seonghwa’s face, pretty as a picture.  He’s fallen to silence, panting lightly with flames behind his darkdark eyes; it’s like playing with Seonghwa’s hair calms him, stamps down the blaze inside him.  But it’s not enough, never enough; there is nothing that can extinguish the light inside of Kim Hongjoong and Seonghwa has long since stopped trying.

There is no sense when dealing with a madman.

Maybe that’s why Seonghwa stays; the danger is a turn-on, the mood swings keep it interesting.  Maybe his mother was right when she’d kicked him out and reminded him he was fucked up beyond repair.

But Hongjoong, Hongjoong makes him feel wanted, desired, cared for.  Gives him a place to stay and makes him feel hothothot inside.  He’d lifted Seonghwa when no one else would, when the world was against him and he was two shots away from jailtime or worse.  It’s only natural that Seonghwa continues to revere Hongjoong in kind, give him the same energy that he’d sworn his life away with.

Their lifestyle isn’t lavish by any means but the run keeps them from trouble, keeps the cops from staying on their ass for too long, keeps things interesting; and that’s all he can really ask for.

It’s the most fun he’s had his whole life.

His mouth parts as the muzzle eases its way between his lips.  Hongjoong grins that grin, the one that sends a flutter to his core - and the hand playing gently with Seonghwa’s hair turns gentle no longer, fingers twisting to grip tight the hair at the back of his head.  Seonghwa’s face turns heavenward as he tastes metal on his tongue.  It’s sharp, makes him think of blood – the thought vanishes quickly as Hongjoong chases it away with words of praise, of flattery and undying devotion.

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice hoarse.  Seonghwa sticks his tongue out and takes the pistol deeper, a hand on Hongjoong’s thigh to steady himself.  Hongjoong swallows thickly.  “Taking it so well.  Gorgeous like this, y’know?”

It’s enough to get a reaction, which is all he can really ask for.  A moan, a smattering of red across high cheekbones; Hongjoong shifts, foot kicking out just enough for his toes to rest against the straining bulge in Seonghwa’s joggers, heel on the floor to keep steady.  He hums, gives a tug to his hair in the same beat his foot presses harder, and he thinks he sees Seonghwa’s eyes roll back.

“Ohh, my angel; you want it to be me so bad, don’t you?  Want my dick down your throat?”

There’s a noise that Seonghwa makes from deep in his belly, strained past the metal.  His eyes shine and tears threaten to spill as his head bobs but he never takes his attention away, doesn’t even seem to notice the steady stream of spit running down his chin and along his neck.  He doesn’t realize his hips are jutting forward until his cock aches, too hard and not hard enough and Hongjoong’s weight coming down on him despite it all.  A sob spasms his body and he gags around the barrel and Hongjoong thinks it’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“Dumb little cockslut, only good for one thing.”

Hongjoong wishes he still had his camera on hand.  

Instead he jerks Seonghwa’s head back, causing his mouth to drop open and the gun to fall from his lips.  A scoff from Hongjoong, a flash of fear from his pretty toy; it’s fucking obscene how ravishing he is, from swollen lips to the dusty blush across his cheeks and the way his jaw drops and his tongue lolls out of his too, too empty mouth.

(Seonghwa feels – dirty.  He can feel the muzzle pressed up against his soft palate as Hongjoong fills his mouth once more, the metallic taste on his tongue and the heat surging through his core enough to bring any greater man to the brink.  The brink of orgasm, of obsession, of death; it’s a disorganized mess, he knows, but in the low light and through the fog of his brain, Hongjoong has never looked more beautiful, and maybe that’s all that matters.

Maybe Seonghwa is broken after all.)

The noise that comes out of his mouth when Hongjoong rubs the growing wet spot with the ball of his foot is something he wishes he could replay over and over.  Something needy and wanting, grotesque the way he craves more, more, more.  Another tug of his hair has Seonghwa seeing stars, and Hongjoong can feel his cock jumping under his sole as he comes.

Seonghwa’s knees ache when he’s allowed up again, desperate to be stretched straight.  Hongjoong urges him up with a yank to the fistful of hair in his grasp, the muzzle of his pistol digging into the hollow below his jaw when he stands.  The wince doesn’t go unnoticed, smothered instead with a kiss full of teeth and heated ecstasy and pure unfettered hunger.  The gun cocks with a practiced flick of Hongjoong’s thumb.

“Tell me you love me.”  Hongjoong’s voice is hoarse, barely audible between soft breaths.  He’s panting; Seonghwa can feel his erection through his pants and the heavy thrum of his pulse as he cups the side of Hongjoong’s neck.  He’s panting too, he realizes; head tilted up with the press of the gun but eyes trained on Hongjoong nevertheless.  

“I love you,” he answers easily as breathing.  His voice is gone too, and he thinks this may be the first time he’s confessed to Hongjoong’s conscious form.  “Anything for you.  You know that.”

“Till death.”

Seonghwa nods.  “Till death,” he agrees; free hand finding Hongjoong’s where his clammy finger rests gently on the trigger, ready and eager.  Something shines in Hongjoong’s eyes, ready to spill, and Seonghwa picks it up, greedy and craving.  He shifts slightly and feels Hongjoong’s hand slack on the gun underneath his own. 

“Prove it,” Hongjoong whispers.  He sounds almost - somber, wistful, wanting.  Seonghwa feels a laugh deep in his own chest and a heady bubble of exhilaration in his throat.

“I’d kill for you, y’know that?”  There’s a fire on Seonghwa’s eyes, flickering along the sparks in Hongjoong’s.  “Die for you.  Say the word.”

Hongjoong feels pressure against the column of his throat and nearly moans, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.  The tempest is calmed, even if briefly; music to his ears 

“Yeah?” Hongjoong is breathless.  “Just for me?”

“You go, I go.”

Hongjoong’s grin is audible, the static from his eyes palpable, sparking on Seonghwa’s skin where his gaze burns into Hongjoong’s skin. His pupils dilate and they’re both drunk on the thrill, the anticipation.  

Hongjoong’s grip on Seonghwa’s hair tightens, pulling his face down enough that their foreheads and noses press together and their breaths mix and neither is sure where one begins and the other ends and decide that maybe, maybe they’re okay with that.

“Do it.”