Archive of Our Own ^beta

He’s on his fourth glass of Ophora before Lin Ling gets the hint. He doesn’t purse his lips—but it’s a near thing—when he stares down at his drink. Before he tries it. Once more. Inevitably it becomes a two. And then those two times become a three. Those three times become a four. And then he knocks it back.

It’s not in a shot glass but it’s the only thing he really knows, his pin drop of all that’s liquor comes from hard-boiled detective comics and before then it was the countryside when he had his first drink at the age of three. Because that’s what happens when all the uncles just sit around a giant jug, a giant clay one full of straws that have come out like antennas, and the men of the men take their turns just to drink this while they gossip. And curiosity gets the best of him so he tries it at the age of three. And by his spotty recollection he must’ve blacked out from the sip. He has no memory if he even likes it but he’ll try it again if he could. Because he’s a man now. He can show the records. His paychecks say adult. His monthly rent half a year ago is a biopic of the struggle. And he could take it: the alcohol.

His omegan uncles love it a lot; it’s always the first thing they want to talk about when he video chats his mother’s parents. And the coveted jug is in the background with all the uncles taking hits, his alphan ones calling it quits when they hear the universe from their noses. And that’s worth a blackout.

At least to Lin Ling.

He’s an alpha—too—so he’s curious.

When he’s curious there’s little else to dissuade him from his choices. And when he’s curious the only thing he’s wont to do is get in trouble.

Hence knocking back another drink. It’s either that or a plastic straw. It’s either that or using tongue. Or anything else. He’s inexperienced. If he has no idea what he’s tasting—but it’s supposedly very good—the only sure way to get it down is to knock it back while he’s standing. Because it’s good for him. It’s obvious. It’s what the greats do—in his comics. It’s what family does around a jug when it’s too hot to do much else. And when the mysteriousness is in his stomach that is the perfect time to ask questions. Lin Ling passed that some drinks ago so all he really does is order more. And he does his thing.

He pops his fingers. He pops his middle one and his pointer. It’s all in the wrist when he does it. It’s like he cocks a gun to the air. Like Detective Hulter in Purple Eyes. Like Amazing Mask in The Scream. Like Cheng Mingyu in Red Dynasty and the spinoff in outer space. Or as Catherine DeBois in Lady Killer from the Haunting of West York. His favorite characters—all those comics—jump off the page when he pops. Lin Ling is not a detective. But when he does it again he might as well. Because he looks the part.

He feels the part.

He commits to it.

He’s having fun.

Beneath the haze and lights at the counter it’s like he stepped off from a panel. He pops his wrist again. He adds a flourish. It’s like he knows this will be a page, that surrounding him on either side are special effects to make him cool. And then he does his thing.

Now here’s his order: it’s a cosmopolitan without the juice. Without an umbrella. Without the wedges. He thinks wedges is the right word; he hasn’t drunk enough in social settings to know the actual is garnishments. He hasn’t had enough to know for certain what he actually wants to drink. But he knows the words. Or at least the names. Or at least the character of what he’s thinking. Or at the very least he knows for certain what he does want and what he doesn’t. Because his next thing says it all: he wants a cosmopolitan without the ice.

He wants the alcohol as it is. No touch ups. No frills. And it should be neat enough—room temperature. The condensation should be his palms. Any wetness along the glass should be him roasting in his clothes. Because the lights are hot. The lights are orange. It’s a lot to get through to be cool. And he’s hot enough to fry an egg sunny-side up on his face; his face red enough to be a sunburn during the darkest month of the year.

He thinks a typical cosmopolitan is ninety percent a block of ice; the remaining eight percent something fruity while the final two is straight vodka. So he doesn’t want that. He just wants his order. He wants the vodka to make a spill. He wants enough of it to put some hair so his shaving cream can be useful; the three year old Christmas present from Little Johnny still upopened. But not repurposed.

At least not yet.

Not when straight vodka is his drink.

He’s pretty happy it’s in front of him before he finishes slurring his words. He knocks the full thing just as quickly. And he’s confused again. It’s more obvious. But he’s pretty clever—or he thinks he is—when he orders another one. Only this time he wants a performance. He wants to see this and how it’s made. He needs to look at this because it’s important. He isn’t paying tonight and wants a look. Out of all the heroes at the party he can’t just leave here without a thank you; and those two words—and clean money he’s smoothing out between his hands—are the sort of reason he’s where he is in the totem pole up to X.

Because he offers the money with both hands. It’s an unctuous tip—it’s all he has. He’s given plenty to all the wait staff on the dance floor with serving trays. This is the least he can do for someone else who’s been nice enough to make him drinks. And he says he’s ready. He sits up. He claps the tiredness out of his cheeks. He doesn’t slouch up but his elbows are on the counter to draw him in. And his lips are odd again. Like he’s thinking.

Like he’s aware enough not to speak.

Like he’s suddenly very aware of what his face does when he doesn’t.

Like there’s a strange taste inside his mouth.

Like he remembers what he’s doing.

Like it’s hard enough not to wonder.

He’s not a detective. He’ll never be. But what—and who—he is at the counter for his fifth drink. Pretty please. And when he looks up he’s just himself. He’s not a hero. He’s just a man. And the white strands over his eyes—and his hair too—makes him cute. Like a mountain fox he camouflages when winter shows its bite, yet these white hairs only stick out when he comes and goes throughout the city. And there’ll be nothing brown by January. And it will come back in mid-March. Beneath the haze and lights they’re turning orange. The whites of his eyes turning too.

His eyes are clear except for the redness that has pinched him in the corners. Then he licks his mouth.

He’s starting to focus. He isn’t squinting but he will. He has nowhere else he wants to go. He looks down enough to see himself. And the bar counter does its damndest not to show him who he is. It shows a drunk man growing flushed. Not a Lin Ling who’s a catch. Or a Lin Ling who’s smart enough just to notice now this isn’t vodka; and the four before couldn’t be anything but a warm glass full of water; and the four before was what he needed and at the same time not what he wants.

He doesn’t look up when he talks again. There’re a bunch of words he couldn’t hide. It’s just easier to see himself. He’s drunk enough to think that’s it.

Because he then says, “Can you do it slowly? I’m—” He swallows. “I want to keep up. But if it ruins the mood you can go at it. Like you normally would. Like—you know. You can just pretend—I don’t exist. Who’s even talking now? It can’t be me. I’m just a barstool and the empty air in an after party.” Lin Ling laughs. “I can be anything you want me to be. But not the ‘thing’ part if it’s weird. But what is weird? Who defines it? It can’t be that weird. I wouldn’t know.”

For being a barstool and the empty air he is talkative when he’s drunk. Lin Ling goes on like he’ll die. Or at the very least become sober. Because he looks up.

He doesn’t waver.

He is locked on like a fox.

“You can just—imagine me. But not the ‘me’ me. You can just imagine me as someone else. Like—if you need someone to be an ass there are some people I can be. Like my old boss. Ooooooor—nope. Let’s pretend that guy doesn’t exist. I could play the bad guy in a noir film—” Lin Ling rambles. His eyes narrow. “But that might be kind of weird on a first night and I’m not drunk enough to be that yet. I’ll just—zip it. I’ll be good. I’ll be good enough for what you need. But if—” Lin Ling goes on again like a record that can’t be paused.

Nice is anything but a bartender. But he can play the part. He can play it well. Because he hears him. He doesn’t talk yet. He bides the moment with an errant breath. He laughs precisely when he ought to. And when he shouldn’t. And when he wants. He simply waits his turn while Lin Ling finds the perfect moment for him to stop. It’s somewhere after a little story about him kidnapped to be a hero; and just before Lin Ling stuttered that it’s all a joke—please laugh at him. But Nice is quiet.

He simply smiles. He curbs the instinct to show his teeth. He keeps his hands flat against the counter. He taps the wood grain. “As you wish.”

He lifts the half-empty Ophora bottle from the top shelf behind his back. He twists it open. Then he offers, the mouth of it pointing straight. He doesn’t let go at Lin Ling’s touch. Lin Ling breathes in. He doesn’t drink. But he’s close enough. He’s drunk enough. He’ll convince himself this isn’t water. And Nice won’t tell him that his natural scent is likely what he’s smelling. Or that his scent patches have run their course. Or that all of this was preplanned. Because he is Nice, the bartender. The impeccable one for a show. And there’s a bigger tip on the line that isn’t money or even thanks.

When he pulls the bottle away he gets to work. It’s really as simple as it looks. He grabs a clean glass beneath the counter and doesn’t fill it up with any ice. He presents it down as an offering for Lin Ling to poke around. He doesn’t let himself get distracted.

He doesn’t think about Lin Ling’s hands. He doesn’t think about the things they do when the man himself isn’t sober. Or when Lin Ling’s riding high—even bouncing—to grab and touch. So Nice obviously looks away when he’s jealous of the glass.

He doesn’t spare it a second glance.

It knows which one of them Lin Ling wants. So he continues.

He does a great show of almost reaching out for other bottles. He doesn’t pull back until it’s obvious, until Lin Ling holds his breath, until Lin Ling is all but gnawing his bottom lip while he watches. And then he shows the man his empty hands.

He even waves them.

There’s nothing funny.

But by the sharp breath out of Lin Ling it almost seems like it was black magic. And Nice—on the precipice of jumping over just to swallow the precious sound, just to chide him with his teeth that these sorts of things ought to be private—doesn’t linger but keeps on going. And he does this very well.

He steals a glance up towards Lin Ling. He’s curious of what he sees. He wants to know what he looks like. If it’s obvious it’s a lie. Because he’s close now.

He’s almost done.

He lifts the bottle up for the pour.

He aligns the label with Lin Ling’s sight. Deviations won’t occur. And then he talks first.

He’s coy.

He asks if Lin Ling wants a taste.

He pulls the bottle away once it’s empty. The glass of water at the brim. And when he smiles he shows his teeth.

He shows his canines just as quickly. He shows his top ones—and the length of them—before they hide again beneath his lip. To any other alpha it’s a warning. But to Lin Ling it’s a promise. These upper canines are the only ones that make it permanent, that make it stick. And there are plenty of places to leave a mark on if Lin Ling doesn’t stop.

Lin Ling waits for him to give him the signal.

Nice is tempted to call him good. But instead he looks down. He looks at the glass. And then he looks up. “Do enjoy.”

Lin Ling finishes the glass of water like it’s one step towards a knot. And he probably has no preferences whether he takes it or gives it out.

Because when he finishes he’s wanting more. He doesn’t purr for it. He doesn’t have to.

He sets the glass down—oh so neatly—with the only sound being his nails, the pitter-patter around the rim before it trails off does the talking. And what the nails want is something more, something wet enough it could score, something that sings back—just as sweetly—when they saunter a weeping back, and something firm enough it could take them if they just happen to be rather cruel.

Like the fox he is he doesn’t trim them on the regular—if at all. They’re only filed down when he’s forced down or when he scrapes them into thighs, pushing the flesh of those higher up until his shoulders become a throne. Or when he scrapes them over nipples, over sucked ones until they stand, over a taut one that his teeth couldn’t help themselves but want to pick. Or when he scrapes them up a scalp, up the northbound going to heaven, only to wrench it down where hell itself isn’t suffering if it’s kind. Or any matter of pretty things he has experience with as a man. But when it comes to drinking he’s an amateur.

He really needs someone to hold his hand. And his hands are empty—save for the glass. But this too demands a weight.

Lin Ling taps his nails because he’s waiting. Because he’s wanting. Because he’s drunk. Because he’s so sure Nice will give him something stronger to make his night. And he’s sweet about it when he looks away—just as Nice takes the empty glass, any resistance is just for show for the calluses within his reach. But he doesn’t reach. He doesn’t linger. He pulls away—he’s being smooth, if there’s any contact it’s accidental when he makes room for Nice to come, if there’s any contact he doesn’t start it. Lin Ling folds his hands over the counter. And he slouches in.

His yellow tie is a massive knot fumbling down, whoever laced it together knew what they were doing. Where it ends up looks like a leash. And Nice could reel him in. So easily. So perfunctorily it’s like his job. So naturally he could look up and see that Lin Ling wouldn’t mind. And see for himself just how steady this drunk man can really be.

Five glasses of Ophora hasn’t changed the fact he is thirsty. And Lin Ling waits for him.

Nice obliges. He’s not licensed to serve alcohol. But that’s not the real thing Lin Ling’s after. Nice leans in for the effect. “Did you like it—sir?”

He cocks his head.

Lin Ling follows his adam’s apple.

It’s a there it is and there it’s not.

It’s a who exactly am I fooling. 

It’s a do you have any idea what you look like. Or a what are you. Or are you mine.

And at the same time those eyes of his couldn’t see straight if he tried. Lin Ling follows his adam’s apple. Lin Ling wanders to the bottles.  Lin Ling darts over to the dance floor just as someone gets it on, a shock of silver locking lips with a pair of glasses overturned. And then he’s looking back to where he started when there’s a new glass set before him. But it’s not water. It’s not vodka. There isn’t anything for him to drink. But what tugs him are the clean nails that flick the rim. He darts up.

Nice waits for him.

Lin Ling swallows.

It is the cutest thing he’s said all night. And what he actually says is a close second. And he’s sober. Sober enough. And he takes his time. There’s no rush.

Lin Ling snorts. “Fuuuuuuck. I’m still talking. Aren’t I?” And then he realizes what he’s saying. Because then he blurts out, “I think I’m—drunk. Please don’t mind me. I’ll just get out. Thanks for everything. I really mean it. Don’t—just keep the tip. I don’t need it. I just gotta—” He slurs his words.

Then he palms around for his phone. It’s in the third pocket of his dinner jacket. It takes him five minutes just to find it. And when he finds it it’s then a struggle trying to type out his easy password. He barely gets it in before he’s timed out of doing anything but simple calls. But with the mess he is it’ll be a miracle if he could type out any numbers. And he sure as hell is still talking as he putters around in his contacts, the application zoomed in that the whites of it brighten his eyes. And he is everywhere and anywhere and somewhere all at once.

“Just please—ignore me. I’m not even here. I shouldn’t be here. You were so nice. I didn’t—goddamm it, pick up your phone. You see me ringing—” Lin Ling swipes. Then to Nice himself he kind of squeaks when the other man folds his arms. “I know—I know I’m bothering you but I’ll be out of here—I swear. I just—look at my phone. No one’s answering. Do you see this? A decline. I barely got around a single ring and they’re already telling me to fuck off. Can you believe that?”

Nice shakes his head.

He’s the definition of sympathetic.

He doesn’t tell him that all his contacts are on the dance floor making moves. Or that the last thing they want to think about is Lin Ling when there’s flesh, when there’s another hero they’re here to vy for while Lin Ling is made for him. And so he widens his eyes. He makes the noises of acknowledgement Lin Ling needs. He takes a good look at all the numbers Lin Ling doesn’t hide. And he is there with him for every call. Every missed one. Every decline. Every reroute to a voice mail that will never be listened to. And he shakes his head.

He plays his part. He tilts to the other side. He tuts. The pièce de résistance is not his brows but his parted hair doing the work, the soft strands move together so his left eye isn’t hiding. And then he breathes out, “That’s rather harsh. Are they friends of yours?” Then a—“Sir?”

Nice taps his fingers against his neck, against the juncture towards his shoulder, the quiet rhythm maps the shape of his modest scenting glands. And the scent patches wearing thin, peelable beneath his nails. It wouldn’t take anything to rip them off. But Nice prefers it with some teeth. So he looks back. He looks at him. He pushes the phone down with his eyes. And for good measure his other hand tips it lower.

Lin Ling blinks.

It’s like he’s slowly putting together what those few words seem to imply, and at the same time he’s not computing what the words mean because he’s drunk. As if he was just asked what was his preference for intestines and for tongue, if the end of the world is about to happen and his preference will save it all. Because he blinks again.

He doesn’t stutter. But it’s a near thing. He hides his phone. He barely puts it away before his fingers are only tremors down his wrists. And his tie knot fools around like his adam’s apple when he gulps. Because he’s drunk enough.

“They’re—just coworkers. I don’t know them like I know myself. Well—scratch that. Let me—think. Do I really? How old am I? I think you know me as well as I know me if you’ve been giving me things of vodka. Or I might be out of here with a record—Miss J is going to kill me. But—huh? Oh—my contacts. They’re just people I think I know. I guess—I know their names. I know their numbers. I know a lot of them are really—busy. And it’s—that time of the year again where there’re parties just to get them pretty sloshed. But they’re pretty disciplined compared to me—” He doesn’t turn around despite the noises.

There’s a tight circle around Queen when she bares her teeth at another alpha, the tension palpable from the bar when she puts herself in front of her mate. And the lucky omega—or the unfortunate—corrals her for a dance. Because—quote unquote—they don’t remember what they taste like on her tongue. And there’re some other things being said that Lin Ling doesn’t hear. Because he looks at Nice. Because he rambles. Because his chapped lips say it all. And then at some point Lin Ling’s words have drowned out what’s on the dance floor. Because he’s all in.

“I think—hold on. Are you all drunk?” It’s rhetorical. He speaks it out there to the space in-between him and the breath from Nice. He doesn’t wait around for an answer, not that a good one will ever come.

Then he’s fidgeting. He’s glancing. He’s trying to scry out a thing from god; he dares the lights above to give him something or he’ll topple out from his stool. And the lights above don’t give a shit. They must’ve told him. Or so he heard. Or so the thought of it was so persistent he actually looks like he’s getting sober. Because Lin Ling looks sober. He looks as sober as he’s going to get. And it’s almost beautiful how it happens—how it drains the colors from his face. Before he slouches, so deeply, so intentionally he had to will it, and before he smacks his head against the counter to make him drunk again. He whines. But not the kind of whine to pop a boner but the kind of one to make it freeze, unsure if this is the trouble where it should stick itself for some fun. It’s not the kind of whine to inspire imaginations—if at all. And Lin Ling belts it. From the throat—of course. And the responsal is still a rise.

This is the sort of trouble Nice is into when he has the scars to show his proof. And he drops his elbows onto the counter—not for his sake but for Lin Ling’s. The other alpha rambles on as he smacks himself back to stupid. Because he’s caught on.

“Oh my—gaaaaaaaaaah. I’m really sorry—man. This shouldn’t be happening. But—just look here. I think my—people are getting wasted—and I’m fucked.” And it helps tremendously that part of his face is pressed up against the counter, his teary eyes turning copper from the bounce light off the wood. And that he looks at Nice through his hair, through the shock of white—more an orange, through the little window where some brown isn’t lost yet this late in the season. And Nice can see himself.

He sees his face.

He sees he’s neutrally put together.

He has to wonder if Lin Ling sees just how thirsty he really is.

Because Lin Ling whines again, “I’m sure I got here with—probably a friend. You see—they drove me. I’m pretty sure. We came together. I don’t know where they are. And they might be wasted—or already are—and no one’s picking up my fucking calls. So I guess you got me as long as you want me while I figure out what I should do.” And those eyes of his haven’t moved. “I can stay—right?”

“…I’ll do you better.” And it’s quiet, so quiet, so light enough it will fade. The flashing colors and the humdrum of a dance floor a limb away could really drown this out until there’s nothing but an alpha splitting wood. He’d rather claw his nails into Lin Ling but the counter will have to do. He’ll just pass the tip money Lin Ling gave him to the real bartender when he’s done. There’s only so much Nice can deal with before he pries the man off the counter. And have his way with him. “…I’ll get a taxi.”

Nice palms down for his phone. In reality it’s in his back pocket but he touches himself like he forgot.

He pats himself down. He pats his blouse, fingers running beneath the opening, fingers folding back to show more skin as if his phone’s here against his chest. And then he swipes to the right, towards his hip, towards the taut thing against the counter, where the end of his blouse becomes a ribbon and there’s a diamond cut along his pants. And yes—he palms here. He takes his time. His phone could be here. Who knows. But once he’s very sure it isn’t there he tiptoes to the left. He palms his other hip. He holds himself. Once he’s pretty sure then he leaves. And then he skirts by to the centre. It’s just a few steps by his fingers. His dance around where his fly is—like his phone’s there behind the zipper. And he takes his time around the teeth. Really at this point it’s just for him.

From where Lin Ling is all the details are hiding beneath the counter. But in being real with him he gets Lin Ling to lift his head up.

“…hello there.”

It’s such a tiny thing when Lin Ling swallows like he forgot to on his own, like without Nice he’ll choke down his saliva and be a statistic. But that’s not happening. At least for now.

At least for some time.

But maybe later.

And it’s too presumptuous to put a time frame—or a deadline—on that ‘later’. When it could very well be an hour or an hour more until he chokes. When it could easily be some minutes if Nice shoves him into a closet. Because there’re plenty of them throughout the venue—throughout the building—behind the bar.

It wouldn’t take much for Nice to tell him there’s a special space they should go, where for Nice’s sake it is private while for Lin Ling’s it is heaven, where for one of them remuneration is not that different when it comes to sex. But for the other one that’s a lie.

There’s no time card.

There’s no receipt.

There’s not a damn thing that’s policing how should pleasure fall off the tongue. Because it’s wanted.

Because it’s held.

Because there’s room for it between the gaps.

Because the most selfish thing it demands is whether Nice enjoys it too; and Lin Ling—the fool he is—doesn’t jot down any favors. Because that’s who he is.

Even now.

Even right now when he swallows.

Even right now when he looks at Nice. Even right now—so disheveled.

Even right now when he looks away because he’s audibly standing tall, every single sound from the barstool pretty much shouts it to the roof. And then the smell too: the intensity.

His scent patches at their max. That harbinger of his undoing is a deep breath in Nice’s mouth.

He can taste the apples off of Lin Ling like the man’s neck is at his nose. And Nice tells himself they need to leave. He has no intentions of sharing him.

Nice’s own scent must’ve said it.

Lin Ling swallows where he can. It must be the hardest thing in the world but he can do it because of him. Because Nice is—Nice.

Nice wants him too.

Nice even tells him. But it’s not in words. But it doesn’t have to be. Because this is better.

Because the demonstration surely sticks.

Because Lin Ling might be jealous of that one hand going south, of that thumb and palm getting a feel of a round ass he wants to gnaw.

Because Nice reaches back into his pocket just to pluck out his own phone. And once the shape of it is where it should, Nice poses when he takes it out. And to any other alpha it’s a warning that the man in front of him is his. But to Lin Ling it’s a show.

Nice can give or take any knot. But he just might have a preference that Lin Ling can get behind, if the way he pops it is any signal when Nice rights himself and strands straight. And now the show begins.

The real one.

Nice taps his phone off of idle.

He swipes the dialer and presses numbers only to close out when he’s done. He motions to Lin Ling to give him a moment while he calls up taxi service. He shows his best angle when he tilts in like he’s listening to a call. And doesn’t glance back until he has to. He only needs to when there’s a whine, his shoulders twisting before he stops them because of Lin Ling and his wants. And so he looks at him.

It’s instinctual.

It’s as natural as having to breathe.

And the tightrope between his shoulders will fall apart when it should, as soon as he makes it clear—and it’s acknowledged—he’s not ignoring him for someone else, as soon as Lin Ling hears it too. Hears how good for him Nice can be.

Because at the perfect moments Nice nods. And he smiles. And he adjusts. And he shifts back between his feet, his other hand inside his pocket, the longest parts in his coif does a sashay over an eye. And he shows his teeth. And of course he bites; he bites a morsel of his bottom lip. And the push and pull makes it fuller before he says a word for this charade.

He recites the address of the venue. He doesn’t say more than he needs. He selects the options. He runs them down. He repeats some. He doesn’t change. He is resolute with what he wants, with what he’s asking, with what he’ll take. He doesn’t let himself get distracted with how Lin Ling absorbs it all. Or the indiscretion from the barstool when it fidgets at every turn.

Nice looks at him when he says out loud that an extra large would be perfect. Nor does he look away when he comments—“Oh—a luxury will have to do.” And then his noises.

His agreement.

His chirps then of what to expect.

His patience—it’s limited—when the address leaves his lips. And then the white whale.

His—“Alright.”

His breath then.

The click of his tongue.

The slide of silk sleeves and his waiting when he rolls up either end.

The mildness in the words he deliberately has to choose.

Because for any one of these there is nothing when it’s coming from someone else. But for an alpha with a mission it’s a timbre from the chest.

It comes from the same place where every growl becomes an instrument during a rut; and on the receiving it’s even lower for a nice knot to get in shape. So he repeats the one Lin Ling likes. The more the syllables the more he’s stiff. The more that barstool tries to hide just how precious Lin Ling is. And Nice’s smile might be mean.

He just nods along.

He repositions.

He then tilts himself to the other side just so Lin Ling can whine again, only to glance back to keep him strung-up a little longer for him to toy. And keeps his phone close—and even closer—when he says this, “How about a no. It wouldn’t do well to charge like that when my client here needs to get home. He’s had a long night. You might just scare him. See—listen to me. I want the best. He’s done a lot of good and I want him—do you want this easy or make it hard.” Nice frowns. “Well then.” It doesn’t slide off until he’s done. “You can take your surge charge and there’re a few things you can do with it. Do you want to know. Let’s take that one. How about you shove it—” And that tone of his does the talking. And then he mouths to Lin Ling to give him a moment while he wraps up this little call. And at the same time he winks at him.

It is the cherry made to pop.

Wiping the back of his hand against himself there are bits of drool at his sleeve. And at the same time it’s pointless when Lin Ling has to swallow. And then he wheezes out that he’s thankful. And he really means it. He says it again.

He bows his head low—he might just drop it—when he rumbles it means a lot.

He’s never had someone call him a taxi. He’s never had someone be that kind. It’s usually vice versa when he’s with others—as the youngest one within the bunch. He isn’t really sure what’s the etiquette but he’s thankful he has Nice. Because then he stutters out, “You’re really nice.”

There might be more things he wants to say. But this drool of his is in the way. He keeps swallowing like it’s a need. So he bows again. Even lower. It’s an impressive ninety degrees. While sitting down.

While aching.

While swallowing.

While polite.

Lin Ling has done his damndest to be a good boy while with Nice. It’s such a turn on that he’s forgiven. He’s forgiven for being drunk, for being so sure that he’s single that he’s bowing low to his mate. And every good boy gets what he wants if he can say it—and be as selfish. So Nice smiles.

It’s all teeth.

It’s upper canines saying hello, like a nip slip or an ankle that’s undeniable during a walk, like the sweet sound of a body when it clamps down on a knot. And he drops the act.

“Let me walk you. Your car tonight will be in the garage. It shouldn’t take long but—” His eyes have found the right place for him to stare. And then he pointedly drops it further. He gives a good shot before he’s blocked.

Without the counter edge he’d still be frustrated with all the clothing in the way. And the belt buckle. And the belt itself; he wouldn’t go further until it was off. And the pair of hands that would find their way in a crossfire between two thoughts, where on the one hand it’s embarrassing to be this teased up because of him, where on the other it’ll pull him down until he’s flushed up to taste a knot. Or something like that, Nice imagines.

If looks could kill they can burn.

He’ll burn the counter. He’ll burn the dress shirt. He’ll burn the nice slacks with them too. He’ll take his sweet time to take the belt off because he gave him that for his birthday, because that’s the surest way to make a putty out of Lin Ling when he’s hard. And if a pair of hands are embarrassed they’ll be lassoed before he stops.

Under everything in Nice’s way is a bite mark on a hip. And the jagged corners are incisors that he pushes on while he talks, each of them still remembers the night that Lin Ling had to be his. And the matching pair is somewhere public, if Nice had opted for something else, if he didn’t put away the backless dare that was waiting for him across their bed. One that Lin Ling must’ve fingered out of the closet for him to wear. One that Lin Ling always said was the easiest to strip off. Because it’s lace and lace and more of it just to wind him up like a doll, Lin Ling’s own teeth in the pattern from the last time he gnawed this off. Because he made him his.

He shared his surname.

He shared a family he wanted too; and the evidence besides the papers at the court house are on a shoulder.

Or more specifically the shoulder blade, the one right behind Nice’s heart, the one that Lin Ling did again when there were hot tears out of Nice. Nice buckling into pieces because there was a place for him where he belonged; Nice insisting there had to be blood so part of him lived in Lin Ling. And now Lin Ling wanted to share that.

To the city.

To the world.

To the universe—and there beyond—about this perfect hero known as Nice. And what does he mean to him if the alpha never wanders off from his orbit. But this was vetoed.

At least for now.

But not forever.

Nice purrs. It’s as instinctual as him reaching out to help Lin Ling onto his feet, as instinctual as pulling closer when they make their way out of the party, and as instinctual as him breathing. As him filling up on this man. As him willfully wanting to burn just as Lin Ling nuzzles in. And hears his heartbeat.

And feels it too.

And sets it righteously on fire.

And makes no demands to have it pumping between his canines like a fool, like Nice wouldn’t tear his heart out if Lin Ling wants a bite. Or better yet he’ll get instructions to kiss him open to fish it out. Because he breathes in.

He saunters down.

He is cheek-to-silk.

It’ll soon be skin.

He is deliciously cherry red like the chapstick he prefers; and all the while he swallows in what his nose couldn’t get enough of.

Because there is no barrier to the harshness that’s synonymous with Nice’s scent. It is a sterile pungent burn that is no different from rubbing alcohol. But Lin Ling breathes in like it’s perfect. Like he wouldn’t have him any other way. Like he wants to wake up and have this smell be as part of him as all his bones. And because he’s greedy.

He’s addicted.

He’s drunk on it.

He wants more.

It makes him slur his words and stumble around while he’s held up before he drops; he’s in a situationship with an arm that will never let him go. And he breathes out. He lets out a sigh. Like he bobbed himself into liquor. Like he is the sole owner of a bottle everyone else thinks is just a myth. And he breathes in.

He savors.

All his noises are allowed.

All the spicy notes of cinnamon wafting off of him can kill a man. Or at the very least break their teeth. At the very least cut their tongue. At the very least tear a muscle, from the neck itself or a cheek. Because there is no way someone could smell him and reserve themselves not to bite. Even trying to would harm the person much more than they could to him. But Nice is different. He isn’t just someone. No—he’s Lin Ling’s. And he can wait. And he can starve himself for as long as he needs to pay it double for everything. And at the very least nothing’s broken when he breathes out evenly, if those are even the right words to describe how tight he is when they leave.

Nice can only imagine the scent they’ve made as soon as the dance floor fades away, as soon as the heroes’ party is a daydream he has no intentions of getting back. And he operates on muscle memory.

He steers them quickly to where they should. They take the elevator to the garage—several floors down—and it’s hell. It’s not a long ride but it’s short enough that they barely make it out knowing their names. Nice can pinpoint when it started. It all started because he’s weak. Because he couldn’t help but toy around with that fumbling tie over Lin Ling, catching it and releasing it when it smacked the other in the chest, and pulling his thumb around it like a hook just to yank him down when he was trouble. Because Lin Ling wasn’t subtle that he wanted Nice—and his scent. Or that he’ll latch on to any part of him to start the process in his mouth. Like the adam’s apple.

Like the juncture, like the soft spot beneath the jaw, like the give and take before the throat has any chance to even swallow.

Like an earlobe.

Like the other.

Like the meaty part of a shoulder.

Like the supple skin—more and more—as this damn blouse was moved around, Lin Ling prompting it to give up with every sharp nudge from his nose. And like the precious thing he could spy on, a pointed nipple trying to hide.

The pebbled thing must’ve said to him that it wants him to lap it up. And before he tried to Nice yanked him.

He dragged Lin Ling to look him down. And simply reeled him by his tie whenever Lin Ling tried to come up.

It was not bad behavior being punished but a good one told to wait. Like if Lin Ling could pull it together there’ll be something bigger he can suck. And it should be obvious what it is. It should be obvious it wasn’t hiding. It should be obvious it got this far because of Lin Ling—and him alone. But if it’s not obvious Nice yanked him. He kept his finger on Lin Ling’s tie; and the cinched knot had no one else it could scream at when it squeezed.

The trembling thing sent fissures—and chafing—to Lin Ling’s neck. Or that was by design because the alpha tried to challenge him but was bested. And as good as the view was it wasn’t enough for the hunger he felt for Nice. But Lin Ling didn’t growl.

He didn’t need to.

He didn’t want.

Not when his ripe scent of burning apples came and conquered the elevator; the smell heavy enough Nice could feel it try to weigh down his every limb. And he could feel himself losing his edge. But he couldn’t back down: not yet. He couldn’t have him here without him needing to rub his scent glands until they were raw. Not a single foreign scent will ever latch itself onto Lin Ling. Not when Nice himself was still alive.

Nice plucked him by the chin. And breathed out to move the hairs that were covering one of his eyes.

He managed to make it clear they had to go home. They had to tear themselves somewhere familiar. They had to watch themselves until then. They had to be patient. He repeated. “I’m not fucking you where anybody can catch a whiff of it. Are we clear. So please. Please be good for me.”

His fingers clenching where they were.

He couldn’t steady himself anymore than this when he could easily break skin. So he breathed in.

He breathed out.

He fanned his own scent to try to soothe; and he had a good idea it’ll take some weeks before this elevator can be used again. Because they were so close. “…can you do that? If not for my sake—”

“—what are we?” Lin Ling flung them out like a knife he was dead set not to miss. Because he couldn’t make up his fucking mind. He couldn’t lock-on to one place: between Nice’s eyes and his mouth, Nice’s eyes and his nose, Nice’s eyes and his eyelashes, Nice’s eyes and his throat. But then he found a spot.

He didn’t look away.

 He was never steadier until he was sure.

He wouldn’t be the first one to back down until his curiosity was just as fed. And he was starving. He licked his own mouth just to make it easier for him to talk. And now that trouble showed its face Nice’s weakness comes out too.

Lin Ling’s brown—black—eyes are an animal’s after a wildfire doesn’t kill it. Like that sober side of him coalesced with the drunkenness on his breath. Like he scratched the surface of a manhole and now he’s hurtling through the dark. And the only freedom has a face that he desperately needs to kiss, needs to slot himself where he could just to realize what he is. He doesn’t spare Nice a single chance when he’s a half step from a pounce.

He follows Nice’s eyes to the paneling above the elevator’s only door, the floors slipping away like the sanity between the two of them playing nice. But only this time he isn’t joining. He doesn’t need to. Not like this. And so he surges. “You said our. Our apartment. Our bed. Our—” He goes on until he’s breathless before he breathes in Nice’s scent. “So what are you. Who are you. Why do you feel…”

He glances down.

It can’t be a coincidence where he’s looking. It can’t be—because he touches. And he runs his fingers around the outline of where his mating bite must be hiding, the give and take under millimetres of bunched up linen silk. There’re ten thousand different emotions flitting over Lin Ling’s eyes. But the most important one makes them wet. The most important one reels them in. The most important one has them mapping up the contours of Nice’s face; and he commits to memory what he’s seeing if maybe all of this was just a dream. Yet reality—on occasion—is sweeter than in sleep.

Because Nice squeezes—oh so gently—as he admires him just the same. And thumbs his bottom lip. “Let me take you home. You’ve had a lot tonight. You must be tired. You’ve had your one flute of Bollinger and you were adamant you’ll be having more. You had cosmopolitans by the fistful or—excuse me—I gave you water. And now you’re starting to realize you’re not as single as you thought you were, a-Ling.” He keeps his tone light. His voice soft. His touch desperately trying to be calm. And he narrows his eyes so his world is just the wet sheen of Lin Ling’s own. “And you’re my reason to be what I am. Take responsibility. Won’t you—please. I have no idea—” And then he’s pressing. And then he reaches in. Lin Ling opens. And then he taps against each of his teeth that were reachable from where he is. And he says to himself, “What do I do with you? You’ve been so good. Can you make it home? You almost look like you won’t make it unless I treat you. Have you been good?” 

Then that does it.

Lin Ling’s shaking.

It’s reverberations—all the way down.

He shakes his shoulders. He shakes his neck. He shakes a choked noise out of his throat. He shakes the heaviness off his eyes when it wells up into tears. He shakes the droplets—but they don’t fall. He shakes his eyelashes when he stutters. He shakes the loose hairs—those white ones—when he tries again to say a word. But it’s hard for him. It’s hard to talk. It’s hard to try to when he drools. It’s hard to get it out when Nice’s thumb pays a few more minutes on his lip. And strokes the inside there again. And pulls it lower. And pushes it back. And massages it to make it redder so it’s puffy when he lets it go. And Lin Ling can’t help but drool the entire time when he fondles. But not a single drop of it hits the ground.

Nice swipes it all with his hand. And then he leans in for a taste, for a fragment of something good, because he can be good to him as Lin Ling has always returned the favor. And the taste of it couldn’t be sweeter.

The elevator finally stops.

It almost closes and sends them back to the same floor they escaped from. But Nice gets them out.

He carries Lin Ling like how the other had carried him, all those years ago on their wedding night when Nice’s real name became what it is. And though he can’t say or sign it out, another byproduct of being him, another half hitch in his noose when he’s wriggling from Shang De, Nice’s real name sounds ethereal when Lin Ling says it small.

When it’s the sweetest sound in the world when he finally lets out a yelp.

Because he’s scrambling like an animal. He doesn’t drag himself to go south. He doesn’t let himself fucking fall when his feet pitch off the ground. And he throws his everything around Nice. Nice’s shoulders. Nice’s neck. Nice’s—laughter. Nice’s hair. Nice’s—rumbling that he’s good. And he latches on like a collar that has no business being this good.

Nice wants him to tighten the strap.

He needs to feel him when he breathes; he needs to feel him and his muscles and his blunt nails and his scent crowding closer every time he has to swallow before he speaks. Because he is more and more like the parts of him that are undoubtedly very alive. And every one of them shouts it loud as soon as Lin Ling needs him too. So forgive him for being greedy.

He noses Lin Ling to show his face. He noses Lin Ling to tip it higher. He noses Lin Ling before he sucks. And he consumes him.

He nuzzles him.

He delights him until he’s weak, until it’s hard enough not to stumble like moth work towards a flame. And he breathes him in.

He takes him in.

He laps him in.

He’s a glut. He doesn’t pull away when baby bruises mar the underside of Lin Ling’s jaw. He doesn’t pull away until they’re throbbing between his canines and his tongue. And he growls back as soon as Lin Ling growls for both of them to find the car. It’ll splash the headlines if anybody sees Number Two fucking Four; and as much as some people want to see that it’s a sex tape they can’t have. For the only copy belongs to Lin Ling; he has no intentions of making more. Nor could anyone even persuade him. Even if he’s taken them by the knot. So he’s stubborn. He’s persistent. He’s tenacious when he grits. When he growls at Nice it’s from the same place he would’ve done so if he was a  brat; and it would be the only warning Nice would get before he’s swung around to hit the bed, before it’s Lin Ling playing nice just for one of them to truly shriek. Because he growls again.

He growls his name. He growls his real one. He tells him to wait. And tells him to listen. And tells him to stop. And tells him up front to get it together. Because there’s a difference between foreplay and where Nice wants to fucking go; and Lin Ling needs him to get that. It’s hard enough as it is. And the only reason Nice listens when the hunger makes it hard, makes him need to dive into Lin Ling to make those words of his breathy whines, is because he knows he’s right. And he’ll do anything; he’ll blaze the world to make it true. But the second best thing is to find the car before Lin Ling growls again. And so he holds himself to what he needs to be when he searches for where they parked. He can be as good to him as Lin Ling will always try to when it’s hard. And because he needs to: he wants to: he loves to: he loves him back.

Nice is anything but a selfless man. But it’s Lin Ling who brings it out, who finds the parts of him that are difficult and will find a way to make a blade. Because the best ones can’t be soft. And at the same time not only hard. Some combination of them both will make the strongest for a cut. And Nice is both of them when he wants to be, when he ought to be, when he should. He’s the best man he can possibly be when Lin Ling holds him to it. And now it’s literal.

He can feel him.

He can feel him tap his neck.

He can feel him wander down just to mess with him—and make him faster. And it’s like forty minutes have gone on by since the last time Nice was busy, busy coloring in every blemish he could sprout up on his mate. But it’s thirty seconds in reality. Thirty of them to open the door. Thirty of them in-between that and Lin Ling pressed up against the latch. Thirty of them to make him senseless, make him drunk again, make him dumb, make him growl again until he whines when it’s too good and he wants, and to make him trouble. And to make him Nice’s. It’s thirty seconds—he’s keeping count.

It’s thirty seconds when they clamber in and the car doors auto-lock. It’s thirty seconds as they’re palming along the seat edge to wind them back. It’s thirty seconds before they’re tumbling. It’s in-between that when they drop. It’s in-between that when he hits himself on Lin Ling’s collarbone, when he’s nose deep into his cleavage and the opening in his shirt, and when the buttons there nearly snap. The buttons there nearly tear. The buttons there catch his teeth. And Nice could spit them out when he rises. And when Nice falls Lin Ling grapples the nearest thing he could grab. He grabs the seatbelt before it seizes and he’s locked-in by the wrist; and he’s thrust up. It’s how the moon forms all the craters on its surface. Sure an asteroid did the trouble but it was the moon first that took it in. And it’s not an accident. It’s not a coincidence. After the second time it’s pretty clear. After the second time Lin Ling pulls it just to have Nice pin him down, Nice finally pries the yellow tie off of Lin Ling to do just that. And he binds Lin Ling to the driver seat. Or more specifically at the headrest. Or more specifically where it’s adjustable before he jams it to keep him down. And then he winds the hand at the seatbelt around his own hand to keep it flushed; he clamps his fingers over Lin Ling’s just to dare him to fucking run. It’s really at this point he makes it obvious he couldn’t wait for them to get home. He’ll plead forgiveness only after they finish off what they started.

Because it’s thirty seconds before he leans in and he marvels the face beneath him; and all the white hair stripping away the brown undertone underneath. But there’re some brown ones here and there: here in the sideburns, there in the lashes, here at the eyebrows, there in the bangs, here in the patchwork trailing down. From a plump chest and the scattered bits across his stomach when buttons pop, from a happy trail swerving wild when Nice pushes it to see it better. For the hairs here are much lighter and they’ll eventually bleed to white; and they’ll eventually be back to brown as soon as winter is out of sight. But for right now they’re kind of pale, almost invisible before he squints, that Nice is reaching down to follow down and he noses them along the way. And he mouths to them he will miss them when he tugs down Lin Ling’s pants.

The little happy trail is even paler compared to Lin Ling’s swelling dick.

Even the hundredth time is like the first time when Nice aches it for it just the same. But he’s wiser now. There is strategy. There is tactical in love and war. He plans to choke on it before the party going upstairs wraps it up; and he knows that Lin Ling can keep growing because he’s learned that by mistake. And it’s a lot more pleasant in the mouth than a rearrangement through the guts, though he wouldn’t necessarily pass it up when it’s a one-way straight to heaven. He wouldn’t deny himself the opportunity when he had signed himself for life. So he breathes in.

He looks up.

From down here Lin Ling’s heaving. From down here all his tremors enunciate his naked chest, every unintentional little stutter wets the inside of Nice’s mouth, the crease and valley between those nipples hitch him right back. The dick can wait. And it can strain itself against his blouse—and his stomach too—for some friction; it’s like he binds it well with a necktie when he bends it back to press in. And then the seat moves.

He finds the button.

He takes them farther away from the steering wheel. He takes them far enough that the privacy screens at the back seats will suffice. If anyone snoops in for a picture they won’t see Lin Ling, they’ll see Nice. They’ll see how generous Nice can be and how adored he is—all the same. They’ll see the mating bite on his shoulder blade as soon as Lin Ling rips his blouse. Then the entire world can go on a tizzy on who exactly owns his soul, only to get it wrong when they speculate it must be an omega or a woman. And he won’t correct them.

He wouldn’t need to.

He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want. Though selflessly—and even selfishly—it might get Lin Ling a little bold. And it might just get the man to be agreeable if a wall is good enough for a show, whether it’s one of the ones in their apartment or a new dent upon the world, behind closed doors or in the limelight so that Lin Ling can make it known. And Nice can wait for that. He can be patient. He can selflessly lead him on; and at the same time deny it too so that Lin Ling can want it more.

Between the sweet swell of either nipple Nice mosies with his tongue. And just because he’s been eyeing it, he latches onto one and pulls it taut. And he says he’s thirsty. Says he wants a drink. Says he wants it hard. Says no ice. Says no juices or umbrellas or anything but liquor. He recites the poor attempt of a cosmopolitan Lin Ling wanted at the bar. And then he bulldozes his demands just to get more of him into his mouth, and just to hold him there with the certainty that he could rip him to get his heart. And at the same time choosing not when it beats for him in his teeth. Because he ought to. Because he should. Because he’s opening even wider. Because he’s wide enough but there’s improvement when he inches in a little more.

Because he is a weak man if he turns away without punching this to his throat. He is a weak man—notwithstanding—what his true value says he is.

Because he is a weak man if he doesn’t do this at any moment that he could, especially when Lin Ling surges just to punch him right on back. With his swollen breast. His hardened nip. His clavicle climbing up. His adam’s apple a fickle thing when it bounces with every—fuck. And every—fuck me. And every—Nice. And every—not there. And every—god. And every iteration of his real name from what’s on paper and scored in bone, scored in all the places he couldn’t reach unless he had Lin Ling to guide him there. Until he chokes on it when Lin Ling seizes. Until he chokes on it when there’s a shout. Until he chokes on this—eyes watering—when he’s bucked off to get him to stop. And then it leaves behind growing bruises and the teeth marks setting deep. It leaves behind a weeping trail splashing Nice up on the chin. And it leaves behind something solid Nice is tempted to just ignore.

He doesn’t touch Lin Ling where he wants him to when he bends low towards his mouth. With one of his fingers he taps the spot where some precum hit his face. And then he taps the corner of Lin Ling’s mouth. He drags the lip down with just his nail. He taps a sharp tooth and another and he tells him that he’s good. “…so be a good boy and clean this up.”

Lin Ling surges at the order. And he only gets as far as his necktie and the generosity Nice has offered.

He licks the mess off and adds some red along the underside of Nice’s chin, along his jawline towards an ear before it’s too far for him to reach, and along the soft side of his throat. What he can reach for him along the nape. What he can reach for him on that juncture between the shoulder and the neck. And then he’s pinned down as a bad boy because he’s mouthing what isn’t dirty.

It’s the abrupt tsking on the tongue that says it all for him when Nice pulls. And then he shakes his head. He shakes his hair; he shakes the loose ones from his eyes. He wipes the strands back when he looks down, when he’s got Lin Ling in a vice, when he’s got him wrapped around with really nothing when he weighs him down with himself, and really slots in all the places that are more than happy to accommodate.

When Lin Ling twitches he ignores it.

He bends it all down within his palm. And then he seizes. “Let me show you. It’s not as difficult as you’re making it be. Just follow my lead. After I show you. You’re a smart boy—it won’t be hard. I’m not going to repeat this so listen closely. You just have to watch me. Now let’s start.”

He presses around Lin Ling’s girth just to squeeze out what it’ll give, rhythm really nothing special but it’s the rhythm that makes it weep, and it’s such a pleasant color if Nice is honest. What with little color he can see. What with tad bits he gathers up when he’s onwards towards the beading. And when he lets go it’s still standing in-between them to say it’s here, to say to Nice himself it’s been good boy so let it carry on to the finish. But Nice looks at it like he’s looking through it because he’s watching the happy trail. And those pale hairs are indistinguishable when they’re soaked down and Lin Ling’s red.

And he might just mourn for them: legitimately. And all he can offer is more of this: this paint palette, this viscosity, this salted thing, this mess, this handprint over the belly button and the few more reaching down, this tackiness he’d have to pay for if he wasn’t married to this man, and the bits of precum he couldn’t smear off so he licks them off with hooded eyes. And Lin Ling’s enraptured.

He won’t stop staring.

He won’t stop tracing the tongue he sees, doing long swathes against a palm just to whet itself for its role. And Nice can see himself in the darkness that has taken over Lin Ling’s eyes.

He wonders if Lin Ling knows what he looks like when he’s watching up at him like that.

Like does he know how irresistible he’s making Nice feel right about now. Or how irresistibly it’s getting difficult playing the bad guy when he wants. When he needs him. When he breathes him. When he saunters him. When he wants. When he could throw it away just to shove him where he actually should belong; and break the car seat before he’s twitching between his stomach and his ass; and sets the pace again to get there faster before Lin Ling gets a turn. Or something like that.

He lolls his head.

He’s got to clear out his dirty mind.

He’s got a man to teach and he’s soaking. It feels like his birthday is coming early.

But when he looks again that isn’t true. When he looks again he must’ve died. When he looks again he’s so sensitive that he’s undoubtedly very alive. And he knows deep down he’s not made for this but—fuck it—he will bounce; and make the impossible become possible if he can be swollen because of this man. And the realization makes him wetter. And maybe it shows up within his eyes.

Maybe he’s not alone in his dreaming when Lin Ling looks away, when he’s the first one to break it off when he was the first one to look back, when he tries to hide again what he must be feeling before Nice could see it and eat it too.

That he distracts himself with the gear shift—but it isn’t interesting for very long. It couldn’t keep him away from what matters. It doesn’t try to. Not when Nice starts. And not when the show begins. Not when he gyrates. Not when he makes sure the seat can take it. Not when he makes sure Lin Ling’s up to it when it’s obvious by his dick, but still he pats and eases and runs his hand along the spread thighs wrapped around him. Not when he taps on either knee and asks if Lin Ling will be alright. Not when he waits for him for an answer. Not when he’s genuinely just himself. Not when he perks up. Not when he smiles. Not when he breathes out a little sigh. Not when he reminds him it’s very important that he tells him when he’s hurting, when it doesn’t matter whichever knee has to hurt first for them to pause. And not when he tells him he’ll switch things up to make it easier for them to continue. Not when he tells him that his limits are as important to him as his heart. Not when he strokes down one of his knees just to ease up whatever tension. And pulls it loose enough—it must feel better. It must be comfier. It must be good. Nice is right back to being a bad guy when Lin Ling tells him he can go on, when Lin Ling tells him he wants a lesson from his executioner. Nice obliges. Yet the punishment isn’t painful if you just experience it and try not to touch. But Lin Ling wants to touch it, wants to reach for it, wants to fist. But all he’s meant to do is just take it. He is a bad boy—after all. And every bad boy has to lean back while the worst of them shows him the ropes.

Because Nice is leaning down to taste the precum he had smeared around earlier. He shows Lin Ling how it should be done, how he should clean up his own spills, and that at no point it involves biting. And yet he bites him anyway.

Nice bites again when Lin Ling growls. “I’m just showing you what not to do. Because see what it does. It makes you clench up. It makes you redder. It’s hard for me to see. I can barely see the hairs down here because they’re whitening up—you little fox. And I got to savor them before they’re all gone because you’re looking more like me. And we all know what terrible things are bound to happen if I’m into me. But it’ll make a good video if we can record it—” Nice bites back his own laugh. “And oh—you’d like it. We’ll get some contacts and I’ll have to give you more of my colors. We could even post it and no one would know if it’s the real Nice fucking himself. Or if it’s some doppelgangers with fancy cameras and voices that sound like me. I think the internet will be pretty convinced it’s some A.I. utter shit. And at the same they’ll be unsure if it’s fake stuff when it looks so good. Because you look good. You always do. The more you’re like me. The more you’re not. But give me a fucking moment just to mourn before you’re more of me than I know.” And the entire time his voice is gentle—and it’s a quiet thing—despite his words. Because he means it. He pulls away. “You wouldn’t be like this if we never met. So let me apologize to the other you. Let me tell him who he isn’t. And maybe out there in the universe he might tell me I’m being an idiot.” And when he laughs again he doesn’t hide it. It might be the sweet thing in the car. “I’m being a dumb-dumb. Aren’t I?”

Nice times it right to hear him scream. And if he wasn’t watching it isn’t loud. It isn’t audible. It isn’t there. It isn’t noticeable above his breathing. It isn’t something he would remember. It isn’t anything he would’ve wanted if he didn’t glance up from the beginning. Because when he crept down to Lin Ling’s balls and he pinched him to get him to jump, when he swooped in at the last moment so that Lin Ling could hit his mouth, and when he felt him smack the back of it, when he felt him burning hot, when he felt him growing bigger like at any moment he wouldn’t pop, Nice dared to look.

He had to see. He had to ogle over his lashes. He had to wander up as he’s nestling against a hip bone—against a bite. He had to pitter patter his own glance as he reminds himself he needs to breathe; and breathe the scent and musk of roasted apples plunged in caramel and set on fire; and feel the hairs here scratch and catch some of his noises when he sucks. And he had to watch him. And watch him throb. And watch him while he couldn’t talk. And watch him dearly while his mating bite turns his lips up into a smile.

While Lin Ling lolled his head. While his mouth was open—fully agaped. While his adam’s apples was at its highest. But there wasn’t volume coming from him.

But his veins twitch. His thighs pulse. His entire chest demands a bend. His entire chest like a chapel with all its scaffolds on the ground, yet it’s standing ever taller by the sheer will in its bricks. And there is no sound but Nice’s swallowing. But Nice’s hollowing to take some more. But Nice’s noises—unintentional—when he could gag himself without a care. But Nice’s clenching when he breathes out and when he breathes in through his nose. But Nice’s settling either thigh wrapped around him to grow loose. Or Nice’s humming, humming something, humming the same way he’d call out to him, humming a pet name with the enunciation being the swirl from his tongue. And there is no sound but him stifling all the parts of him that think it’s wrong, that think there’s no reason for him to take this when it’s Lin Ling who’s on his back. But these are quiet things in comparison to Lin Ling and his silence; and the cacophony deep inside him as he’s twitching—inch by inch. And his hands are shaking in their binds. The one that’s up there with his tie. Then the other one around Nice’s, now that one is knuckle-white. So Nice nudges him.

He pokes the soft side of his hip bone with his nose. And it takes a persistent one before Lin Ling finally cries out he’s still alive. He jolts the steering wheel with a sharp kick that ruptures out a blaring honk. And Nice grabs him. He lets go of his hand. He pushes these thighs down to have them under him. He crosses the legs then to keep them tethered before he crawls over to pin them down. And the entire time he’s still sucking.

He’s still swallowing.

He can breathe.

He has no idea where his saliva has to end first on his tongue, especially as Lin Ling starts to fuck himself in his mouth, especially as Lin Ling thinks the punishment must be done. But Nice’s canines aren’t just cute. Nor decorations. Nor for show. Nor tiny things he doesn’t have to hide when he smiles for all the pictures. Nor gentle things with rounded tips and the audacity of being harmless. But he can play it up for his audience, his audience of only one.

It wouldn’t be that different from what he normally does. The only difference would be the scene. But even with that it’s not too difficult.

It isn’t hard for him when he tilts. It isn’t hard for him when he nuzzles. It isn’t hard for him being kind. Because the only effort is in his eyes. Him glancing down. Him looking up. Him glancing down. Him distracted. Him pulling himself to see him straight. And then a once-over. An undressing. A strip down with just his eyes. Him mapping out all the pawprints where he mouthed him until he bruised, until he’s every color between purple and a pungent red growing stale. And the state of his hair. And the stickiness. And how it pales down to his dick. And how there’s hardly any color besides the whiteness between the strands; it’s like the last stand before he’s totally a lookalike is in his bangs. But even those hairs are far in-between the winter color Lin Ling’s sporting. And that’s the last distraction he gives himself. He has a show to run, and he’s the actor. He has a show to run, and he has a participant. And the participation is freely given. So he takes it.

He gently grazes where the slit inside wants to part. He pries it wider to feel it sputtering on his canine when he starts. The salt and Lin Ling hitting his throat makes him water even more. But he’s professional.

At least for now.

Nice breathes out and makes his moves.

He breathes in and he suckles. He breathes out to take him in. And he putters him. And he nudges. And he is clumsier with every twitch. And his cheeks are full with his saliva and the mess inside because of him. And he can’t get rid of it despite his swallows. And he can’t stop it when he laps it up. And he bats his eyelashes when he can feel him pick a favorite among his teeth, favoring more so one of his molars and the friction makes him leak. And just as Lin Ling kind of sounds like—kind of acts like—he’s going to cum, when all the signs are there from him clenching and the trembling from his throat, it’s far from over. Nice squeezes.

Nice holds him between his teeth.

Nice corrals him to make it big.

Nice demands it. He shows he’s good. And shows that Lin Ling has what it takes to be a good boy—after all. And that a good boy is sometimes messy—but he can clean up just as well. And so he lets him.

He waits for him.

He has the bite force of a pillow. And at the same time it’s like he throttled him when he spits him out. When he isn’t done. When he could fall apart. When he plops. When he tries to stand but he’s wavering. When he weeps for Nice—but so what. And then Nice wipes his own mouth; and in doing so all the stickiness smears him right up to his eyes. He’s more and more like Lin Ling the more he rubs it while it dries. And it’s so interesting what he sees when it’s Lin Ling’s turn to watch, when the plastered man is caught between his own needing and his wants.

Because it’s dirty. It’s obscene. It’s the opening climax to a tape. Nice can picture this on a thumb drive that’ll be hoarded beneath a pillow.

Because he’s caught in the act.

Look at him now: the amount of precum he must’ve milked, the way it stretches in-between him and Lin Ling’s tall dick with saliva, and the way the rivulets never stutter nor desire to even fall. They are coming down in heavy beads like wild grapes on the vine, unerringly still growing to be plucked off for a wine. And here’s the amuse-bouche to make it sweeter before it’s sour on the tongue; the proposition falling down as soon as Lin Ling bucks him up. Because he winds his hands around Lin Ling—around a soft thigh and his waist, around his kneecap and the bite mark and the inflammation of being insane. And he whispers he’ll be him. He’ll be Lin Ling. He knows his lines. He’ll play The Commoner—until it’s spring—while Lin Ling looks like him. He’ll be more of him in his actions so that Lin Ling doesn’t stray. He’ll play the best of him—and the worst of him—so that Lin Ling doesn’t forget. And because he wants him to see what it looks like when he’s devious than being good. “You can call it payback for getting cum on me and doing a poor job getting it off. Or as I like to call it,” Nice whispers. He licks most of his mouth until it’s clean. He lets Lin Ling go to feel him later—and that grip of his when it comes. And he drops his gaze. “It’ll be harmless. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad. Not when the important part is having fun. And being a little shit while you’re doing it. You know what I mean?”

“…I know I love you. But seriously. What the fuck.” And just as he’s peeling out from his clothing and the necktie around his hand, as he’s shucking off all his filters when he gestures if he can strip him too, Lin Ling says again that he loves him. It’s hard to word why for some reason. But it might just come to him if Nice is honest as Lin Ling is to him. “Because you’re—like you said. You know my schtick. And I know yours pretty well.”

There’s not a mean edge to his words—or his tone at all—or his breath. But that’s the kind of thing Nice would do if he had to say that if he was him; and it brings him that much to the tipping point hearing Lin Ling be like him. That he cuts how much he is straining through his dress pants and his belt, how he could very likely pop a knot at the imagination then alone. And he tempers.

He is neutral. He is neutrally growing flushed; he can feel the raw heat climb the stairwell of his lumbars and his spine. And feel the piston he has to kill, has to mutilate beyond repair, has to tell himself it’s not that special when there’s something better he ought to chase. Because he’s got to see what this man is like when he tries not but falls apart; and how he’ll try to get it together before he’s toppling when he cums. And the face he’ll make. And the noises. And how he’ll babble for Nice’s touch. And those are the only things he’s thinking about when he tries to settle down from his high, trying to deny himself what he’s feeling. He won’t cum first. They have all night. And so he breathes out. Nice trains himself to keep his eyes on a single rivulet, one of the fattening ones on the precipice of almost falling off of Lin Ling’s dick. And Nice can feel the man looking through him when Lin Ling tells him he won’t be mean; and that being mean is not his thing when he pulls Nice up to see his eyes.

And at the same time he throws his dress shirt over his shoulders to reel him in. But clearing the distance is Nice’s choice though the ending is predetermined. And he wants to laugh at that. He wants to give pointers. He wants to joke with him that isn’t nice. He wants to pick his brain on how he sees him when they’re this riled up in the car. But Nice is professional when he isn’t as he saunters for another taste, and remembering how Lin Ling cleaned him Nice copies him with every stroke. And it starts with kissing. It starts with biting. It starts with teeth marks falling behind. It starts as a rushed job—and the desperation—to get as much of him inside his mouth. And he isn’t so much trying to stuff it when he’s swallowing what he can, when he imitates his damndest to get it perfect despite his urges. And what he’s wont to do if he isn’t watched like he’s somehow committing a crime. Nice bobs for it—and every crumb—like how he’s noticed it vice versa. And he’s doing a great job if he can be cocky—and that’s the moment Lin Ling strikes.

He sets a deceptively gentle hand along the backside of Nice’s head. And he talks to him—expecting nothing—while he twines around some of his hair. And he asks Nice about his throat: if he’s tired, if he’s bruised, if he wants to keep going, if he’s doing alright, if there is anything Lin Ling can do. And every response to those is a head shake or a head nod or a hum. And at the last question Nice pops off just to tell him he wants a surprise.

But something about that wasn’t Lin Ling—or as Lin Ling as it could be. And Nice could feel him start to tighten.

He could feel him move him around. He could feel him tug his hair in lazy circles before he’s swift. And he could feel him almost wonder if he should be doing this—after all; and at the same time pick his answer when he sets the pace in Nice’s mouth. And Nice takes it.

He tries to. He’s a lucky man this isn’t a rut. He’s a lucky man he wasn’t lying about his answers earlier. Not that any of this isn’t wanted. Not that any of this isn’t earned. Not that any of this isn’t needed.

Nice needs this.

He can keep up.

But more it’s hard for him not to be messy when there’s a lot of this coming down, when he’s leaving droplets over Lin Ling like he’s telling him he wants more. And when he wipes his mouth he’s still dirty. And when he pries it wider it’s not enough. And when he breathes out through his nose it’s hard to breathe in and not be smacked. Or be jostled. Or be aching. Or be backing up—but not that far. Or wanting Lin Ling to show him mercy and to kick him into the wheel; and to fuck him there while the car blares for the world to figure it out. Or to press him up to the dashboard. Or the windshield. Or the other seat. Or on the floor too if they topple from the driver’s to the back. Or just about anything but this rhythm where he’s nose deep into his hairs, where his chin’s smacked by his balls when they keep telling he’s beautiful, and those deceptively gentle fingers on the back of his head to keep him still. Or Nice will find a way to hurt himself when pleasure makes it good; and when Nice groans down his pelvis it’s Lin Ling who pulls him up. And he takes the shuddering, the resistance, the good old motion into his palm. Lin Ling cushions much of the impact that would strain Nice if he didn’t. And it’s such Nice thing for him to do that the namesake cums in his pants. And it sets part of his jaw off alignment when it punches him in the chest. And he almost lops off Lin Ling’s tip when he bites back his own frustration; his face a taut thing when he holds himself with his tattered self-control. And there’re tears in his eyes.

He didn’t notice.

He might never if they didn’t drop.

Lin Ling pulled himself to wipe them away, to wipe them right up before they break. And Nice was so sure that Lin Ling would just laugh at him in his face. Because—Nice had everything put together and he was the first one to come undone. And he was so sure that he closed his eyes. He only opened them when he heard his name, when he saw Lin Ling lick the tears he had been swiping with his thumb. And when said his name he said that was the hottest he had ever seen Nice.

“But you didn’t cum though,” Nice teases. Or he tries to: flatly. His voice hoarse with a bruising he’ll really feel come tomorrow. But it’s not the end of the world. It’s embarrassing. He thinks he’s redder than he feels. He looks at the swollen dick looking up at him with an interest that wouldn’t go down. And it curves towards him like a compass Lin Ling might use to find him out. Because he asks him—so what. Nice’s eyelashes begin to flutter. And then he looks up. And then he steadies. And then he tells himself not to run. And then he tells himself he can be honest. He can honestly be a coward. Because he goes with this. “Well—alright. How old are we? Yeah—I thought so. You see—I’d like to think I have some control not to finish first before you. Before you’re happy first,” Nice amends. He turns his head away, suddenly shy. “…doesn’t it bother you?”

He hears a hum.

Lin Ling tilts him back just to look at him.

He says he’s having fun. He’s having a lot. He says he would have it all again; and he would like to if he was stumbling like his thoughts are right about now. But since he’s partially getting sober he’ll treasure this until he dies. It’s going to be hard for him not to remember the way the stars were in Nice’s eyes. Or the way his throat looked—his adam’s apple eclipsing the nearby lights. Or the push of his chest. The push of his waist. The push of his shoulders when he lolled. Or the way he grappled Lin Ling’s body for a safe space to keep him tall, to keep him sitting still when he could fall apart and hit the steering wheel with his ass. Or even more than that. He could write it out. He could thrust it if Nice prefers. Because he by no means is disappointed that Nice was comfortable to let it out. Because if anything he’s pretty greedy.

He’ll see it thrice more before he cums.