la petite mort (1014 w) | suchen | nc-17 | mafia au | for carolyn

To keep the peace between the two dominant factions of Seoul's underground crime network, an offering is sent to Kim Joonmyun's office. The offering is gagged, blindfolded, and stripped down to a pair of tight black boxer shorts, like a censorship bar below the hips.

"Is this it?" Joonmyun asks when the offering is made to kneel in front of his desk. He leans down to run his fingers through copper curls that are shiny from far away, but coarse and lifeless up close.

"This is Chen Jongdae," the messenger explains. "He's the next in line to the Chen dynasty–"

"Kim Jongdae," Joonmyun corrects. "He's a Kim now. He's mine. He belongs to me."

Jongdae's ears are not covered, and he hears every word of the conversation above him. A scowl creases his forehead, which Joonmyun doesn't fail to miss.

"And what's this?" Joonmyun asks, kneeling to Jongdae's eye level. "There's nothing to frown about here. I can make your life good. But if you don't play along, it'll be hell. You better get used to it, boy."

The soft, silky texture of the mafia boss’s voice mesmerizes Jongdae, and he relaxes. His words are threatening, but Joonmyun's tone is gentle, more like that of a ballad singer than a cold-blooded criminal.

"That's better," Joonmyun murmurs, brushing a knuckle across Jongdae's cheek. "You'll look good on my bedsheets."

Jongdae's left wrist is cuffed to the bedpost, but his right hand is freed, and he immediately reaches for his blindfold.

"Don't," Joonmyun commands. "Or I'll kill you."

It's not a threat so much as a promise, and Jongdae's trembling fingers still. Without his sight, his ears are sharper, and he hears the quiet rustle of clothes falling to the floor.

"You'll be good for me, right?" Joonmyun asks.

The mattress shifts, and his voice comes closer. The blindfold is lifted from Jongdae's eyes, and a soft smirk comes into his vision. Joonmyun hovers over him on all fours, his face inches away from Jongdae's. He unfastens the gag and and says, "Well? Answer me."

"Hot," Jongdae blurts out immediately, and then he looks away, ashamed by his tongue's betrayal.

Joonmyun's eyebrows arch in amusement, and he bites on his lip to suppress a laugh. "You think so?" he whispers against Jongdae's neck. His breath leaves a tingle that crawls across Jongdae's skin, all the way down to his toes.

"Well, I won't do anything unless you ask for it," Joonmyun announces. "So you better get used to begging."

He sits back on his heels, straddling Jongdae's hips, but all Jongdae can think about is how much he just wants more contact, how much he needs to have Joonmyun on top of him immediately.

"P-please," Jongdae rasps.

"What was that? Tell me what you want, baby."

"I...want you. On top of me...now...please."

"Bossy, aren't you?" Joonmyun teases.

The corners of his lips tilt up in the most infuriating way, and Jongdae would punch—or maybe kiss—the smirk right off his face if he could. Joonmyun braces his elbows on either side of Jongdae's head and rolls his hips, grinding their clothed s up against each other. Jongdae in a sharp breath at the sudden friction, and his back arches up for more.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Joonmyun instructs. "And don't until I say you can."

Jongdae scowls in frustration, but he tries to stay still as Joonmyun divests him of his last article of clothing, exposing him to Joonmyun's hungry gaze. With his free hand, Jongdae clutches onto Joonmyun's red satin bedsheets as he is engulfed by Joonmyun's hot, wet mouth. Nails dig into Jongdae's inner thighs, keeping his trembling thighs apart.

"I need to , please," Jongdae moans, when Joonmyun passes the point of insufferable and reaches the reign of unbearable.

"No, you can't," Joonmyun responds simply, wiping his spit slick lips with the back of his hand.

A pitiful whine high in Jongdae's throat escapes his lips when Joonmyun leaps off the bed and pulls his clothing back on. Jongdae’s hand inches towards his , resting heavy and livid against his lower abdomen.

"Don't you dare," Joonmyun says as he straightens out his tie, and Jongdae's fingers curl into a fist by his side.

"P-please," Jongdae tries one more time, his voice rough and needy.

"So when were you gonna do it?" Joonmyun asks conversationally, straightening out his silver cuff links.

"Do...what?" Jongdae's eyes widen in confusion.

"When were you gonna kill me? That's what you were sent here for, correct?"

A sudden change passes over Jongdae's expression, and his eyes darken.

"You've got it all wrong," Jongdae chuckles. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm just here to distract you. We don't want you dead—in fact, we need you alive. Someone needs to be held accountable for all the crimes you've committed."

Joonmyun's eyes narrow as realization drips down his spine. He doesn't have a chance to reflect, because he soon hears the approach of police sirens.

"You're rather cruel," Joonmyun remarks coolly.

"Not as cruel as you," Jongdae retorts, biting out a bitter laugh.

Calculating in his head how many minutes, how many seconds his men downstairs can hold off the police on their own, Joonmyun jumps back onto the bed and straddles Jongdae once more.

"I'm not a cruel lover," Joonmyun says, grasping Jongdae's leaking in his fist. "Remember that, Kim Jongdae."

A few seconds later, a dull ache floods through Jongdae's lower body, overwhelming all his senses, and he is swallowed in blackness.

When Jongdae comes to, both his wrists are free, and the handcuffs that had bound him are discarded on the floor. A squadron of his officers bursts through the bedroom door, freezing to ogle at his utterly , wrecked state.

Red satin curtains flutter in the breeze as a draft blows in through the open window. Jongdae rushes to the ledge and looks out the window, but the mafia boss is nowhere to be seen.

"You're Seoul's most wanted, Kim Joonmyun!" he hollers through the window. "You can't hide forever!"