Summary: Changmin's car breaks down. Yunho fixes it. For a price.
Notes: AU. PWP for a_happy_twat's kink meme prompt Changmin is a college student with a clapped-out car, Yunho is a sexy shirtless Gwangju mechanic. With thanks to Eric the Car Guy.
The car hiccups, lurches, and comes to a dead stop.
“Shit.” Changmin bangs his hands on the wheel. “No. Fucking no, you piece of crap!” He hits the wheel again and manages to punch the horn. It blats out, a feeble noise that makes Changmin cringe. Thank God the street is empty and there’s no one around to witness his humiliation.
He turns the key and pumps his foot on the accelerator. The engine roars, the revs building, but the car doesn’t budge. Not even when he bounces in his seat and yells at the fucking heap of shit to move right now or else.
The engine cuts out.
Changmin yanks at his seatbelt, gets out of the car, and stands in the middle of the road with his hands on his hips. He slides down his sunglasses and glares at his vehicle as if the power of his stare alone will make the damn thing work, and then for good measure he kicks the tyre. This achieves nothing except to scuff the polish on his shoe.
Just fucking great.
He looks up and down the road. There’s nothing here but warehouses, one after another, grey and blue and red warehouses, all of them with their doors locked and shutters rolled down. Of course his car would choose to crap out on him in an industrial estate. He’s probably miles from the city centre. Not that he knows where the city centre is, because he doesn’t know where this is. Awesome, he’s lost in Gwangju. Not only that, he’s lost in Gwangju on the hottest day in August and he has no way of summoning help.
“Fuck.” Changmin gets back into the car and picks up his phone. The battery died this morning, but maybe it’s miraculously resurrected itself between now and then. He presses a few buttons, shakes it, then bangs it against the steering wheel. Nothing.
He exhales, sweat prickling on his nape and sliding down his back. “Okay,” he tells himself. “Think.” He left the university maybe forty minutes ago. Maybe he can walk back the way he came—if he can remember which way he came. Or maybe he should pick one direction and start walking and hope that eventually he’ll find a phone box or a shop or something, anything, showing signs of human habitation.
His flatmates aren’t expecting him back until tomorrow. God, they’ll piss themselves laughing when they find out about this. He will never, ever live it down. They’d told him to take the train and the bus, but no, he had to do things his way, he had to drive down in his joke of a car just because he’d wanted the space to bring more than one bag. If he hadn’t packed three suits and four casual outfits, if he hadn’t wanted to make such a good impression at the conference, he’d be on his way home now.
A boot full of smart clothes won’t get him anywhere. Sitting on his ass feeling sorry for himself won’t help, either. Changmin gets back out of the car. He can’t leave it stranded here in the middle of the street. Not that he thinks anyone is going to come speeding down here to complain about it, but still. It’ll look tidier by the kerb. Normal. Like he parked it there on purpose. He turns the steering wheel hard right and puts his shoulder against the open door, and after a few tries he manages to guide the car to the side of the road.
He stows his useless phone in the glovebox then locks the doors. Walking backwards away from the car, Changmin tries to fix its location in his mind. By the grey warehouse with the rusty roof, next to the blue warehouse. He turns, reaches a corner and heads left. The street is full of grey and blue warehouses so similar to the ones he just saw that he has to go back to make sure his car is where he left it.
It’s almost one in the afternoon. The sun is painful, the heat beating down and bouncing off the pavement, reflecting from the endless row of warehouses. Changmin sticks to the shade wherever possible, scanning the empty streets for any sign of life. Hot wind rolls over him, carrying the sharp stink of melting asphalt and heavy industry. It’s so deserted he wouldn’t be surprised to see tumbleweed blowing past or a mad dog zigzagging the street, or maybe even zombies shambling along.
God, it’s so hot. He’s losing his mind. Changmin swallows, throat so parched he hears it click. His body is running with sweat, slick and uncomfortable. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn his jacket, no matter how lightweight it is. So much for his cool, professional image.
He rounds another corner and is faced with another empty street. A whine of frustration builds in his chest, but then he hears it. Music, tinny and faint. Changmin hurries towards it, leaving the safety of the shadows to cross the road. The music gets louder, the volume suddenly cranked right up, and it’s loud enough that if anybody else had been working or living in the area, they’d probably have called the police to complain about noise pollution.
The sound of belting drumbeats, long, dirty guitar riffs and a thick, gravelly voice singing something mostly incomprehensible leads Changmin around yet another corner. The music is blasting out of the half opened slide-doors of a garage. A couple of cars covered in blue tarp are parked outside. By the open door there’s a stack of tyres and a battered tin sign advertising engine oil. On the corrugated frontage is a sign: Jung and Lee, Auto Repairs. Someone has painted a smiley face on the end.
Changmin takes off his sunglasses, hesitates for a moment, then steps inside.
The garage seems dark after the glare of the sunlight, and he breathes in the smell of metal and oil as his eyes adjust. The song reaches its midpoint, a wailing, thrashing guitar break. Changmin can feel the vibrations through the concrete floor. He glances around. The car nearest to him is suspended on a rack and stripped down to its frame, without wheels or an interior. Jumbled around the place are crates and boxes labelled in some sort of code. A row of three faded yellow plastic chairs welded together are set against the wall near the door.
At the back of the garage is a desk covered in paperwork, with an old-fashioned telephone sitting next to a can of Pepsi. The wall behind is corkboard, pinned with scraps of paper, a year planner, postcards, and magazine clippings of hot cars. Two calendars hang either side of the year planner. On the left is the usual girlie calendar, a platinum blonde with her tits out and a big smile on her face as she poses with a set of spanners between her splayed thighs. The calendar on the right shows an arty black and white shot of a naked hunk leaning against a fence and holding a rugby ball in front of his crotch.
Further inside the garage is a red three-door BMW. A CD player sits beside it. The car has its bonnet propped open and a half naked mechanic is bent over inside it, focused on his work.
Changmin goes closer, his shadow long in the stripe of sunlight glaring into the garage. The mechanic is twisted around and tapping at something in the car’s engine. Changmin decides to wait. It gives him the chance to admire the mechanic’s long legs in those tight, raggedy jeans. It also gives him the opportunity to appreciate the ripple of muscles moving under the mechanic’s smooth, tanned skin.
The song fades out on a long guitar solo. In the moment of silence between tracks, Changmin coughs to get the mechanic’s attention.
The mechanic ducks out from beneath the hood and straightens up, smiling.
Changmin’s mouth drops open. All the blood in his body goes straight to his cock. And maybe his brain goes with it, because his head is suddenly empty of thought and he’s just staring at this—this incredible vision of total hotness standing in front of him.
Now he’s glad he wore the jacket. It’s the only thing hiding his inappropriate reaction.
The mechanic looks like something beamed down from Planet Sex for Changmin’s personal delectation, and when he smiles some more and says something, Changmin’s first heat-scrambled thought is wait, what, he is an alien, what is that language—and then his brain plays catch-up and he blurts out, “Hello. I’m Changmin.”
The mechanic raises his eyebrows and says in more normal speech, “But of course you are.”
“What?” Changmin wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. Inwardly he berates himself for mistaking the local dialect for some sort of extraterrestrial chat. Just because it sounds like rocks through a garbage crusher doesn’t mean it’s completely unintelligible. Flustered, he says, “My car,” and points outside. “It broke down. I think. I mean it won’t drive. It has petrol in it. But it won’t go. I think—” he screws his face up, takes a wild guess, “I think it’s the carburettor?”
“You do, huh.” The mechanic grabs a rag and wipes his hands on it. There seems to be more oil on the rag than on his hands, so surely the act of wiping his hands will just make things worse, but then Changmin decides it’s not his business and he tries not to think about the mechanic’s oily hands all over him. A wave of prickly heat tightens his skin, bangs through his head, and he retreats one step into the shade, a small, confused noise escaping his lips.
The mechanic switches off the CD player. He looks concerned. “Were you outside for long? You look like you’re too hot. Take your jacket off.” He speaks slowly, as if he’s worried that Changmin is sun-struck. “Ah, one moment...” Tossing the rag onto the cluttered desk, the mechanic goes around it and leans down. A moment later he straightens, holding a half-litre bottle of water. He brings it over to Changmin, breaks the seal on the cap, and holds it out. “Here. Nice and cold.”
Changmin takes it. The ridged plastic is gloriously chilled in his hands, condensation misting and dewing. “Thank you.” He drinks, the shock of it like ice funnelled down his throat, and he shivers, goosebumps rising at the contrast between hot and cold. He takes another swig, spills some down his shirtfront and jumps back in surprise, wiping his mouth. Embarrassed, he laughs and glances at the mechanic.
The mechanic jerks his gaze from Changmin’s wet shirt to Changmin’s mouth and then up to his eyes. He smiles again. “Feel better?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Changmin recaps the bottle and offers it back.
“You finish it.” The mechanic stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets and rocks on his feet. It’s pretty much an invitation for Changmin to look at his body, and Changmin darts surreptitious little glances, too shy to be completely blatant about it. He wishes he could be blatant, because this guy has a body made for honest-to-God full-on staring. And groping. And licking. Fuck, yes.
“Uh,” says Changmin, desperate to head off his thoughts before they get too lust-addled, “nice calendar.”
The mechanic grins. “Gods of the Stadium. My birthday present to myself every year. Naked French rugby players, what could be better?”
A naked Gwangju mechanic. Changmin laughs breathlessly. He fumbles with the bottle of water and takes another sip. The heat is making him crazy.
“Where did you leave your car?”
“Um.” Changmin drains the last of the water and gestures vaguely with the empty bottle. “Sort of around the corner. Maybe five minutes away?”
The mechanic nods. “Okay. Let’s go look at it.” He heads out, not bothering to put a shirt on or to lock up or anything. Changmin trails after him, staring at his back, the width of his shoulders, admiring the sweep of his waist and those narrow, snakey hips. His jeans are scruffed and torn and ride so low that Changmin can see more than the waistband of the mechanic’s underwear.
Changmin rolls his tongue back up and points to the right. “Up there and left.” He hurries his pace and they walk together. “So, are you Jung or Lee?”
The mechanic gives him another sunny smile. “Jung. Jung Yunho.” He offers his hand and Changmin takes it, senses fizzing at the warm clasp of work-roughened fingers. “Lee Donghae is my business partner. He’s on holiday at the moment. Things get pretty slow this time of year. Usually the only vehicles that come in have bust air cons.”
“This isn’t the air con,” Changmin says. “My car doesn’t have air con. Apart from the windows.”
Yunho laughs like it’s the best joke he’s heard all week. “You said it’s the carburettor.”
“Yeah, I reckon. I mean, the car just stopped. The engine turned over but it was like there was no power going anywhere. That’s got to be a carburettor problem.” Changmin tries to sound authoritative, like he does when he’s addressing a tutorial group full of undergraduates. Real men know about car parts. He doesn’t even know where the carburettor is located, let alone what it does, except he saw a TV show once where a character complained that it was leaking. Or was that the radiator? Shit, he hasn’t got a clue. “Maybe it’s the radiator,” he says, just to be sure.
“Uh-huh.” Yunho gives him a twinkling look, then points ahead. “Is that your car? The Toyota Carina?”
“Um, yeah, it’s a Toyota.” Oh God, he’s so lame he doesn’t even know the model of his car. At least he recognises it on the street, that’s got to count for something.
Yunho makes a sound that he turns into a cough as they cross the road. “1988. They were a pretty reliable model. Pop the hood for me.”
Changmin fumbles the keys from his pocket. He jabs at the lock a few times before the key slips in and turns. He exhales, feeling stupidly self-conscious, then yanks open the door and leans down to hit the lever for the bonnet. It unlatches with a clunk. Yunho lifts the hood and stands poised for a moment with his arms tensed, taking the weight of the open bonnet, his body all sexy and glowing with fresh sweat.
Fuck. Instant hard-on. Again. Changmin puts his hand out and grips the steering wheel. The sun-heated moulded plastic burns his palm, a stripe of pain sharp enough that his erection wilts somewhat.
Yunho drops the bonnet. “Release the handbrake.”
“Uh, sure.” Changmin shuffles into the driver’s seat and disengages the handbrake, then yelps in surprise when Yunho gives the front of the car an almighty shove and lets it roll backwards.
“Stop,” he calls, and Changmin stamps on the brake.
Yunho crouches, pokes a finger in something puddled and slimy on the tarmac.
“What is it?” Changmin puts the handbrake on and gets out of the car. He eyes the puddle. “What is that?”
“Transmission fluid.” Yunho stands up, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. “Your gearbox is knackered.”
“Ah.” Changmin scrubs at his hair. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Bad for you,” Yunho agrees, smiling widely, “but good for me.”
Together they get the car back to the garage. Changmin even takes off his jacket and folds it onto the passenger seat as he half pushes, half steers the Toyota while Yunho cheerfully shoves it along at a steady pace. By the time the car is coaxed into the shade of the garage and is hoisted onto the jacks beside the BMW, Changmin feels as if he’s melting. If he thought he’d looked like a mess before, it’s nothing compared to the way he must look now, with his hair all limp and sticking to his forehead and dark patches of sweat beneath his arms and painted down his back and his linen trousers looking like someone screwed them up and used them as a dishrag.
Yunho, on the other hand, looks gorgeous. Just as sweaty, but since he had the good sense to go out half naked, he looks sexy rather than like something the cat dragged in after a hard night partying. He’s also disgustingly cheerful, whistling as he wanders around the garage collecting wrenches and screwdrivers and fuck knows what else.
He has cause to be cheerful. Fixing the gearbox will cost one and a half million won. Changmin doubts the car is worth that sum for scrap.
“One and a half million if the transmission needs replacing,” Yunho says, catching sight of Changmin’s dejected expression. “I might be able to patch it up enough for you to get back to Seoul.”
Changmin curls up on one of the plastic chairs. Plucking his shirt away from his sweat-dampened chest, he unfastens a couple of buttons and fans one hand over his throat. “How do you know I’m from Seoul?”
“Your accent.” Yunho drags a toolbox across the concrete floor and then kicks a wheeled trolley from beneath the BMW over to the Toyota. “You look like a proper city boy, too, in those clothes.”
“I was at a conference at Chosun University.” Changmin undoes his cuffs and rolls them up. “I gave a paper on the overlap between Western and Eastern thought during Late Antiquity and the end of the Han Dynasty.”
Yunho looks amused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Philosophy,” Changmin says. “I’m a student. I’m doing my Master’s degree.”
“Must be interesting.” Yunho positions the CD player by the car and hits a button. He turns down the volume, picks up a wrench and a pokey stick thing, then leans back on the trolley and scoots under the car.
Changmin stares at the patch of sunlight by the garage door. Maybe his degree is interesting. Maybe it’s not. He was excited to give his paper yesterday, and he was thrilled to discuss his thesis topic with a group of eminent professors this morning, but it seems very far away now. He likes the disconnect, likes the sense of existing in a little bubble, sun-dazzled and drenched in heat, just him and Yunho and this long, lazy afternoon.
The muted sound of rock music is disturbed from time to time by a few knocks and bangs from beneath the Toyota. Changmin shifts in the hard plastic seat. Sweat rolls down his back, soaks into the waistband of his linen trousers. The inside of his thighs feels sticky. The underside, too, where he’s pressing against the chair. He squirms, hot and restless.
Yunho emerges from underneath the car. “Good news—I can overhaul the gearbox without replacing it. Bad news—you need new boots on the front axle and a change of fluid in the differential.”
Changmin’s heart sinks. He has no idea what any of that means, except it sounds expensive. “How much will it cost?”
“Hmm.” Yunho looks up at the garage roof for a moment, rocking back and forth on the trolley, and then he says, “About one million eight hundred, but since I quoted you one-five, let’s stick with that.”
“Great. Thanks.” Changmin clutches at the sides of the seat. He doesn’t have one million five hundred thousand won. He’s got maybe forty thousand won in his wallet and that’s it. He should be honest and stop Yunho from doing the work on the car, but his throat seems to have dried up and there’s a funny jumpy feeling in his belly, halfway between desire and nervousness, and his palms are slippery and he feels lightheaded, an idea swelling in him, pushing and pushing. He opens his mouth to let it out, but all that emerges is a shuddering, helpless breath.
“By the way,” Yunho says, expanding the toolbox and rootling through it, “there’s beer in the fridge if you want one. May as well make yourself comfortable. This will take a couple of hours.”
Changmin gets up as if on automatic and goes over to the desk. He finds the fridge, opens it and lets the cool draught spill over him before he pulls out a bottle. “Do you want one?”
“Not while I’m working.” There’s the clatter of trolley wheels, and Yunho’s voice goes muffled. “Take whatever you like.”
Straightening, Changmin closes the fridge door. He finds a bottle opener amongst the mess on the desk and cracks the lid. The beer is smooth and silky on his tongue. He leans against the desk and watches Yunho work, watches the way his sneaker-clad feet tap and jog in time to the music.
Asshole, you’re an asshole, Changmin’s mind barks at him. Drinking his beer and letting him fix your car when you have no money. Tell him already, before it’s too late. Tell him, fuckwit.
He takes a long swig of beer then bangs the bottle down on the desk. “Yunho,” he says, fumbling a couple of uncertain steps towards the Toyota. “Yunho.”
The words stick in his throat. Changmin scrunches his face. Maybe it’s better that Yunho is underneath the car and can’t see him. “I don’t have any money,” he says. “To be honest, I have something like forty-two thousand won on me and that’s all. My credit card is maxed out and my phone is dead, so it’s not like I can even ring my parents and get them to pay you. Not that I could even if I borrowed your phone, because my parents are on holiday in Japan and actually I don’t know where they are right now. Somewhere near Kyoto, I think—”
Oh God, he’s babbling, he’s really babbling. Changmin grits his teeth, speaks with his jaw tense. “I could call my friends but they’d just be dicks about this and they don’t have any money either, and I’m really sorry but you should stop working because I can’t pay you. Or if you carry on, then I’ll pay you when I get back home, I’ll get a loan and wire you the money, I’ll send the full one million eight hundred because you’ve been so kind. I’ll give you my address and my ID numbers and everything so you know I’m not trying to cheat you, I wouldn’t do that. Just... I don’t have any money.”
Yunho rolls out from beneath the car. He’s got a smudge of grease on his chest and another on his forehead. He smiles. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “I’m fixing your car.”
Changmin stands there, his breathing erratic and his head spinning with the dance of sunlight and shadow around him. “Or,” he jerks out, voice sounding rusty all of a sudden, the idea pushing at him again, “or maybe—maybe I could... Maybe I could do something—uh, do something for you.”
He cringes inwardly. Oh my God, Shim Changmin you just offered this guy sex in exchange for fixing your car, oh wow you big slut, you are such a loser, he’s gonna laugh at you, someone like him with a geek like you? In your dreams, kiddo.
For a moment Yunho looks at him, face unreadable, and then he slides back under the car and resumes tinkering with the gearbox or the axle or whatever the hell else needs repairing down there.
Changmin wants to die. Right now would be good. Spontaneous combustion, so there’s nothing left of him. Offering payment in kind, what the fuck was he thinking? Burning with humiliation, he takes a sideways step towards the open door. Maybe he’ll just go for a walk around the block and when he gets back, they can pretend this never happened and—
“Come here,” Yunho says from beneath the car. “Changminnie, come here.”
It’s the way he says it, Changminnie, like they know one another, like they’re lovers or something, and it flicks a switch inside Changmin. All the shame drains out of him, all the cold tension turns hot, and he’s suddenly breathless, frantic, and he gets on his hands and knees and then lies flat on the dusty, dirty concrete floor, and wriggles himself backwards under the car.
Yunho budges over on the trolley and makes room for him. It’s difficult to balance, one of the wheels digging into his shoulder blade, and Changmin gets a crick in his neck after ten seconds from trying to hold his head up.
It’s not as dark as he expected. He stares at the guts of his car, the unfamiliar shapes of metal and moulded plastic, wires and tubes and belts. The space is heady with the stink of oil and petrol and heat, and when Changmin turns his head, he can smell Yunho, too—warm flesh and sweat and the clean underlying scent of some sort of vanilla-spiced soap or hand gel or...
“This houses the transmission,” Yunho says, tapping a finger against the gearbox.
“Uh.” Changmin doesn’t care. He traces his gaze down Yunho’s arm, wrist to elbow to bicep to armpit. He stares at the dewing of perspiration streaked up the underside of Yunho’s arm and the slow slide of sweat from his armpit down over his ribs. The hair under his arms is wet, drenched. Changmin’s breathing gets all stuttered again and his head pounds. He inches closer to Yunho, inhales through his nose. God, yeah, the smell of him, hot and ripe and musky and oh fuck he has to have a taste, just one, just a little, the pheromones are making him do it oh yes—
Changmin buries his face in Yunho’s armpit. He opens his mouth and licks long wet stripes into the musky heat. He explores the curve of Yunho’s underarm, kissing and nibbling; sucks at the damp hair and lets the tang of Yunho’s sweat slide across his tongue. Changmin groans, mumbles “Oh, you taste incredible, ohhh,” into Yunho’s armpit, and then slow-licks his way along the plush curve of Yunho’s pectoral muscle until he can curl his tongue over Yunho’s nipple.
God, he wants, he wants so bad. In awkward increments, Changmin turns onto his side, and then Yunho brings his arm down, blocking Changmin’s access to his body.
Yunho looks at him, expression serious in the half light. “You’re sure about this?”
Changmin stares. He’s offering sex in exchange for car repairs and yet Yunho seems to think that he’s the one taking advantage. Biting back the reply he wants to make—baby, I’d beg for your dick even if I didn’t owe you money—Changmin nods. “I’m sure.”
“Fuck.” Yunho closes his eyes for a moment. He takes a deep breath. Looks at Changmin. “I want... I want you to suck my cock.”
Though loath to leave Yunho’s chest and armpits after such a brief acquaintance, Changmin eases himself off the trolley and onto the floor, and squiggles his way down Yunho’s body. It’s more difficult than he anticipated, especially knowing the full weight of his car is poised just above them. While he fidgets into position, Yunho picks up the wrench and resumes unscrewing the something-or-other.
Changmin takes this as a challenge. He unfastens Yunho’s jeans, pulls them down at the front, then fights to peel off Yunho’s underwear. Everything’s warm and musky and dark down there, and Changmin can’t wait. Lush, he thinks, then squirms his face into all that sexy hair and mouths at Yunho’s balls. If there’s something that tastes better than a hot, sweaty, gorgeous man, then Changmin doesn’t know what it is. Moaning with delight, he licks Yunho’s stiff length from root to tip.
Yunho’s hips jerk up. There’s a clatter of metal on concrete as he drops that damn wrench. Triumphant, Changmin flicks his tongue over the swollen head of Yunho’s dick, giving it wet, sloppy kisses until it’s smooth and glossy with the glide of pre-come and the slick of his saliva.
“Oh, your mouth. Wanted it on me since you first walked in here,” Yunho says on a groan, and Changmin thinks it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.
The underside of the car is only inches from the back of his skull. Changmin has to position himself just right, has to breathe through his nose while he crams his mouth full of Yunho’s big thick cock.
“God, Changminnie,” Yunho says, and it comes out all garbled and rough. “Oh baby, you give good head.”
Pleasure bolts through Changmin at the praise. He eases his mouth up and down, sucks hard until his cheeks hollow. Yunho fucks up into his mouth, curses when the trolley creaks and wobbles. “Changmin,” he gasps. “Kind of—hold me down, yeah?”
Changmin presses his hands against Yunho’s jerking hips, tamping down on the desperation of his movements. Yunho grunts at the restriction and writhes, body shuddering when Changmin laps and licks and licks.
“Touch me. Yeah. Stroke it.” Yunho’s voice takes on a frantic edge as Changmin circles fingers and thumb around Yunho’s dick and pulls upward, putting a twist in it as his mouth sinks down. “Oh God, you’re so good, I’m so close—”
Excited by the thickening taste over his tongue, Changmin gets all sloppy, starting to lift his head. Yunho grabs him, seizes a handful of hair and forces Changmin back down, gasps out, “Take it, take it all,” his hips rising, spurting hot and salty-sweet down Changmin’s throat.
Changmin swallows, greedy and fast, drinks it all down until it’s done. Then he rests his cheek on Yunho’s thigh, hand curled possessively over Yunho’s softening cock, aware of his own racing pulse and the smile tilting the corners of his lips.
The front wheels are off the Toyota and the axle is laid out, awaiting its new boots. Yunho does stuff with a vice and big cutting-type tools, and it all looks very complicated and grimy, even when the new boots are produced.
Changmin watches, feeling like a spare part. He cleans away the lingering taste of Yunho’s come with what’s left of the beer, and he’s just cracking open a second bottle when Yunho says, “Instead of standing there looking pretty, you could wash the Beemer.”
“Wash?” Changmin puts down the beer.
“Yeah, you know—water, soapsuds, splash it around, get the car nice and clean.” Yunho tilts his head, gaze hot as it sweeps up and down Changmin’s body. He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Wouldn’t want you to get your clothes messy though—” as if being crumpled and stained with oil and smeared in dust and soaked through with sweat doesn’t count as ‘messy’, “so...”
“So?” Changmin prompts.
Yunho sets the boots on the floor and bounces up. “My place is out back. I think we’re pretty much the same size. Wait there.”
Changmin stares after him, more startled at the idea of Yunho living at the back of the garage than at the ‘borrow my clothes’ thing. Though on second thoughts, Changmin is glad he didn’t mention the two suitcases and the overnight bag stowed in the boot. Even the most casual outfit he’d packed for the conference would be completely unsuitable for washing cars.
Yunho comes back with a folded t-shirt, a pair of denim cut-offs, and a pair of sneakers. “Cos you can’t wash cars when you’re wearing posh, shiny shoes.”
Still uncertain, Changmin takes the clothes. “Um...”
“Bathroom.” Yunho points to a door at the far end of the garage. “You can get changed there, if you like.”
Changmin goes into the bathroom and stares at his reflection in the slightly warped surface of the mirror. His hair’s a mess, he looks flushed and heat-struck, but there’s a gleam in his eyes, a cat-got-the-cream sort of expression that’s quite unlike his usual serious mien.
He drops his gaze. Dragging off his rumpled clothes, he stands there naked and splashes water over himself in an attempt to cool down. He uses his shirt to dry off, scrunching the garment even more, and then he reaches for Yunho’s clothes.
A wicked imp of devilry prompts him to go without his underwear. He likes the idea of wearing Yunho’s shorts snug against his bare skin. Feeling daring, he steps into them and almost reconsiders when he realises just how short and tight they are. The sneakers are a bit tight, too, but if he leaves them open and tucks the laces down the side they’ll do. Now for the t-shirt. It’s been washed so many times it’s almost worn through, the logo nothing but a pale imprint. Changmin pulls it over his head and is not totally surprised to discover that it’s also a tight fit, tight enough for the soft fabric to rub at his nipples and make them poke through like hello, please look at my chest.
He steps back and looks at himself in the mirror again. Hair slicked back, body on display, legs on display. Yeah, he’s a big slut and he doesn’t care. Changmin grins at his reflection, feeling cocky and confident in a way that he’s never been in front of his students or an academic audience, and he gathers up his clothes and struts out into the garage.
Yunho does a double take, the surprise on his face giving way to utter greedy lust. “Fuck, you got legs,” he says, followed by, “And man, are those shorts short.”
Changmin feels sexy. Really sexy. Right up until Yunho dumps an empty bucket and a sponge and a bottle of auto shampoo in front of him and says, “Now clean the damn car and let me work in peace.”
Determined to do a good job, Changmin fills the bucket with water, measures out the requisite amount of shampoo, and swishes it around with the sponge. It’s hard to walk sexy whilst lugging a bucket of water, and some of it sloshes over the side as he carries it to the car. Soapy water slides down his shins, tickles over his ankles. He grits his teeth, lets the bucket thud on the floor—stepping away from another splash of water—then lifts out the sodden sponge and splats it onto the bonnet of the BMW.
Yunho carries on doing whatever he’s doing to the boots.
So, this is another challenge. By the time he’s done soaping the damn car, Changmin will have made Yunho look at him. Guaranteed.
Determination pulsing within him, he begins to wash the car. Changmin drags the sponge over the windscreen and roof and works on the rear of the BMW first. The back of the car faces the garage doors and Yunho isn’t going to look at something he can’t even see. Changmin uses his time wisely, perfecting a series of sexy poses. At least he hopes they’re sexy.
He splashes water over the back window and leans close to rub the sponge over the boot, managing to get his t-shirt wet at the same time. Really, it’s completely accidental, just as it’s a big surprise when he goes to adjust the neckline of the t-shirt while the sponge is still in his hand, and oh dear, now his t-shirt is soaked all down one side, the thin cotton clinging to his body.
By the time he’s gone round the sides and reached the bonnet, Changmin has managed to spill almost as much water over himself than over the car. He flicks a look at Yunho, who doesn’t even glance in his direction. Time to play dirty.
Changmin moves the bucket around to the front of the car and spends a long time cleaning the BMW badge. He does it sexy, spreading his legs and balancing his weight equally through his feet, tipping forward at an awkward angle so his ass sticks out. He lets his bum sway and wiggle as he washes the bonnet. He can feel how high the shorts have ridden up at the back—up to the top of his thighs, and when he bends right over to scrub the sponge over the middle of the hood, he’s fairly sure he’s giving Yunho a good view of the upward curve of his ass-cheeks.
Still no response.
Annoyed, Changmin dumps the last of the water outside and stalks back through the garage. Yunho is frowning at the axle, his hands smeared with grease as he checks the balance and give of the joints. Changmin pauses beside him, but when there’s still no reaction, he huffs away in search of a chamois leather.
The chamois he finds is stiff, and he squishes it a few times to make it give. He passes the chamois over the damp car and, when the leather becomes soft and supple, he puts more effort into his task, buffing the red paintwork until it shines.
He loses himself in the effort, circling the car and ending once again at the bonnet. He’s bent over, polishing the central ridge, when he feels a prickle of awareness. He pauses; goes still. Waits.
“You have the cutest ass,” Yunho says, palming it through the worn denim.
Changmin’s breath hitches. The chamois scrumples in his hand. He wants to move, but it’s as if his feet are glued to the floor. He stands there and gets all tense, excitement doing a hill-start inside him.
Yunho drops his left hand to the back of Changmin’s thigh and strokes bare skin. Changmin jerks, makes a loud, embarrassing sound, kind of like unh but less coherent. He never knew that part of his body was an erogenous zone, and now the tickle of frayed cotton on the shorts is making him quiver. Yunho’s fingers slide up beneath the hem of the shorts, tickling some more, and then he’s stroking the upsweep of Changmin’s ass.
“Are you naked under this?” Yunho sounds deliciously scandalised. “Ohh, you bad boy.”
Changmin feels like he’s fallen into a porn film, but he can’t help himself. He urges back against Yunho’s hand, says, “Yes, yes, I’m bad, I’m dirty, what you gonna do about it?”
He half expects Yunho to spank him, but instead Yunho takes a handful of his ass and squeezes tight, almost hard enough to hurt. Changmin moans, wriggles, but it just makes things worse. The more he squirms, the more Yunho gropes him, and the shorts get tighter as Changmin’s cock stiffens and strains at the denim.
Yunho slides his hand down, following the inseam between Changmin’s legs. He rubs slow, tormenting circles all along the way until he cups Changmin’s balls through the shorts.
“Oh shit,” Changmin groans, the soft friction driving him mad.
“Unbutton your shorts,” Yunho says.
Changmin obeys, takes his dick out, then resumes his position without being told, the chamois caught beneath one hand and the other flat against the warm metallic skin of the car.
Yunho steps up close behind him and grinds against Changmin’s ass, left hand grasping at Changmin’s hip, right hand closing around Changmin’s cock.
Changmin almost takes off. Yunho’s hand is hot and slick, so fucking slick. Looking down, Changmin sees the golden shine of oil along his dick, catches the smell of it over his own ripe arousal, and oh fuck, Yunho’s smeared him all over with engine oil, and now he’s in a porn film, really truly, the hot mechanic greasing up the college boy’s driveshaft, except he doesn’t know what a driveshaft is but it sounds dirty, as dirty as he feels. He writhes in Yunho’s arms, pumps his cock through that hard, slippery grip, and it’s oh so good, making him mindless with want.
Yunho says something incomprehensible then adds roughly, “You like this, huh?”
“Yes. Yes. Oh fuck.” Changmin’s voice breaks on a sob. “Don’t stop.”
“You’re such a dirty boy, Changminnie,” Yunho purrs. “Anyone could walk in here and see what you’re doing.”
Sudden panic at the reminder that the garage door is open adds to the frantic build of lust. Changmin jolts up. “I’m not doing anything. You’re making me do it.”
Yunho’s hand tightens, his grip glossy and strong as he changes the rhythm of his stroke. “A good boy would fight me off and tell me to stop.” His breath is hot against the back of Changmin’s neck, his voice as sweet and warm as trickling honey. “A good boy wouldn’t dress like a slut and slide all over my car with his legs spread.”
Changmin gasps. “Good boys never get what they want.”
“Is that why you wanted to play bad with me?”
The words pierce him, sharp and bittersweet and totally unexpected, and the shock of self-awareness almost makes Changmin shoot his load. He struggles, twists in Yunho’s grasp, hips jerking, thrusting through the tight, slick heat of Yunho’s fingers. “I wanted you,” Changmin says, starting to fall apart. “I just wanted you.”
“You got me, baby.” Yunho’s hand moves faster. Changmin sways, caught, pleasure coiling. Things flash and flicker: the slash of sunlight and the dusty shadows, the red gleam of the bodywork, the thick, heady smell of oil, and everything’s getting tight, screwing itself up, and Changmin moans, helpless.
“God, oh yes, I’m coming,” he blurts, flushed and frantic, and shudders over and over as he stripes the hood of the BMW with gorgeous white ribbons of spunk.
Yunho leaves the front axle off while he fixes the gearbox. Halfway through this task, he tells Changmin to ring for a takeaway. When it’s delivered, Yunho pays, and they sit on the plastic yellow seats and eat jajangmyeon and drink beer and talk about nothing of importance—football, TV shows, cute idols versus buff French rugby players.
The sun is setting, but the heat of the day still lingers. They finish their food, and Yunho dumps the empty cartons in the bin and turns on the light over the desk. He starts packing up, going outside to bring in the tyres and the sign for engine oil. The door rattles shut, and he locks it.
“It won’t take more than an hour for me to sort the differential and pop the axle back on tomorrow,” Yunho says.
Changmin looks at him. He’s not going to assume anything. Maybe Yunho will give him a piece of tarp and tell him to sleep on the tyres. Maybe—
Yunho opens the driver’s door of the BMW and folds the front seat forward. “Come here.”
They clamber into the back seat of the car where it’s warm and dark and smells of newly cleaned leather. Yunho kisses him for the first time, mouth tender and sweet, and Changmin kisses him back, licks at his upper lip, sucks at the swell of his lower lip.
Yunho pulls away. Laughs softly and stretches out, one arm around Changmin’s shoulders in a deceptively casual way. His fingers worry at the collar of Changmin’s damp t-shirt, then progress to stroking the curve where neck and shoulder meet.
Changmin knows where this is leading. He’s been waiting all afternoon for it, but he can be patient a little while longer. He turns his head and looks at Yunho, gaze flickering down to his mouth. “So,” he murmurs, “this is your car?”
“Yeah.” Yunho slides his fingers up into Changmin’s hair, plays with it. “Bought it a few weeks ago from a retired US Army serviceman. He’d imported it from Australia back in ’93 and kept it on the base. Hardly any mileage on it. Mostly original parts so some stuff needs replacing or modernising, but...”
“But?” Changmin prompts.
“You’re not really interested, are you.” Yunho grins.
Changmin smiles. “I’m not really interested. And I’m guessing you didn’t want me to cuddle up in the back seat with you so we could have a thrilling discussion about carburettors.”
Yunho snorts and runs his hand through Changmin’s hair, making it fall forward. “Okay, so I lured you here—”
“Ooh, lured, that sounds dirty.”
“Is that what they teach you at university, how to be suggestive?” Yunho’s smile flashes again, and then he looks serious. “You’ll probably think I’m stupid or weird or something, but for me, a car is somewhere you make memories. Happy, sad, exciting, sexy... a car is a memory box. And I want you in it.”
Changmin stares at him, stunned for a moment, then draws in a shaky breath. “Even if you say that to all the boys, it’s still one of the most romantic things I think I’ve ever heard.”
Yunho looks at him. “I don’t. And thank you.”
They kiss again, hot and passionate. “Oh God,” Changmin says against Yunho’s mouth, “I’m not going to be patient much longer. How do you want me?”
“And I thought I was pushy.” Yunho shoves up the hem of Changmin’s t-shirt and strokes his hand down into the front of the shorts. “Take these off. I want them around your knees.”
Changmin thinks he might expire if they don’t get to it soon. Anticipation churns in him, makes him eager. He tears at the buttons of the shorts and twists the denim down around his thighs, his dick bouncing up to slap against his belly.
Yunho runs his fingertips over the crown of Changmin’s cock, admiring it, then he lets go. “Turn around.”
There’s not a lot of room in the back, not when they’re both so tall, but Changmin squirms around and faces the side window, crouching over on the seat, the stitching on the leather scratching beneath his palms.
“You’re gorgeous,” Yunho says, soft and wondering, and Changmin aches, just aches for him, breath catching and a lump in his throat. “So fucking gorgeous,” Yunho adds, sliding his hands all over Changmin’s ass, down the outside of his thighs and back up the insides. He cups his palm around Changmin’s balls then rubs his fingers backwards, pressing over the perineum until Changmin makes an involuntary strangled sound and jerks up and back.
“Gonna fuck your pretty ass,” Yunho says, his voice gone rough and growly.
“God, yes, please,” Changmin bursts out. “Want you.”
Yunho shifts position, turns side on and puts both hands back on Changmin’s ass, spreading him open. Changmin squirms, feeling Yunho’s harsh breaths warm against his sensitive flesh, and then Yunho licks him, long and slow.
“Oh, that’s—that’s...” Changmin can’t find the right word and gives up, gasping, “No yes no,” as he’s spiked with delirious pleasure, desire a taut, hot line between his cock and his clenched hole.
“It’s good, oh, let me make this good for you,” Yunho murmurs, forefinger circling, stroking, easing past the ring of muscle until his finger slides in to the hilt. Then Yunho licks him some more, laps around where his finger is buried in Changmin’s ass, and it’s filthy and lewd and so fucking good.
Changmin trembles, his cock twitching and jerking. Yunho moves again, kneels on the seat and pulls down his zipper, frees his dick. Changmin glances over his shoulder, moans stupidly at the sight of Yunho tugging on his cock, long and thick and all for him. Changmin’s mouth floods, remembering the taste of it, the feel of it shoved between his lips, and he wants it again.
“Face the window,” Yunho says, and Changmin obeys, staring at the faint ghost of his reflection in the glass. He waits, heartbeat thumping; hears a rustle, a fidget, and then a slick noise, imagines Yunho rolling a condom over that gorgeous cock.
“Hurry,” Changmin urges. He’s more ready than he’s ever been, pre-come dribbling down his dick and onto the seat as he makes jerky little motions with his hips, wanting Yunho to cover him.
The leather seats squeak as Yunho crouches over him, fits against him, and then Yunho notches the tip of his cock to Changmin’s hole and pushes on in, groans oh you’re tight, oh fuck yeah, and Changmin is lost, breathless at the size of him.
Yunho takes hold of Changmin’s hips and pulls him further onto his dick, does it slow, slow, so fucking gentle, and it’s not enough. Changmin thrusts back, opening up and screwing himself onto Yunho’s cock. “More,” he pants. “Faster. C’mon, take whatever you want.”
Yunho chuckles, the sound a warm sexy slide over Changmin’s back. “You feel amazing. All hot and fluttery around me.”
“Oh, God.” Changmin bucks again, arms trembling, legs shaking. His hair hangs in his eyes, in his mouth, and the glass is misting in front of him, a layering of breaths and gasps and moans.
“Work yourself on me,” Yunho grunts, all savage and needy. “Like that, oh you slut, don’t stop.”
Changmin twists against the delirium rising in him, ramps back harder, snarling. “Fuck me, just fuck me.”
Yunho pushes him down so his face is against the seat, so that smooth leather smell is in his nose, his mouth open and slicking over the plumped shiny surface, cheek pressed to the pale grey stitching. Changmin scrabbles at the seat, shoves his hands at the side of the car, and shouts for more. Yunho grabs at his hips again, holds him still and ruts into him good and hard and deep, and oh God there, just there, and pleasure shimmers around him, hazing into the heat and darkness.
“Please,” Changmin begs, demands, and it’s curling inside him, making him jitter and shudder and he wants more, wants everything, and he can’t hold back. Grabbing his cock, he tugs and tugs and moans, sweat pouring from him, the seat all slippery beneath him.
“Oh yeah, that’s it,” Yunho says, and Changmin feels him swell and crest, feels him shaking. “C’mon Changminnie, give it up for me,” he pleads, then fucks into Changmin one last time and lets go.
Changmin yells and shoots all over the back seat, his orgasm huge and victorious.
Next morning, Changmin wakes in Yunho’s bed.
He lies there for a moment, then gets up—slowly, he’s kind of sore in a pulled, sexy way—and retrieves yesterday’s clothes, the linen trousers and oil-stained shirt. He dresses, runs a hand over the faint scruff of stubble at his jaw, and feels a kind of pride to look so unkempt.
A pot of coffee and an assortment of breakfast cereals wait for him in the kitchen. Changmin eats two full bowls of cereal, finishes the coffee, then goes through into the garage.
The Toyota has its front axle back on and it’s down off the jacks and parked with its nose to the street. The garage doors are opened wide, and rock music belts from the CD player. Yunho, dressed in black jeans and a black vest, sits at the desk writing something. He looks up when Changmin comes closer.
“Okay, so you want the 12. Go right out of here, turn left at the end of the street, then carry on for about half a mile and you’ll reach the 12. Head into town over the river and you’ll see signs for the 25 northbound. And that’s it. You’ll be home in a few hours.”
Changmin repeats the directions. Glances at his car, then back at Yunho.
“Um, I put my number on here in case you get lost trying to get out of town.” Yunho hands him a folded piece of paper. “Anytime you need a service, let me know. I’ll give you a good price.”
“Thanks.” Changmin feels ridiculously shy. “And thank you for the repairs. I’ll pay you back.”
Yunho smiles. “No need.” He gets up from behind the desk and saunters across the concrete floor towards the BMW. He slouches against the nice clean bonnet and grins at Changmin. “Take care now. Drive safe.”
Changmin smiles back. He goes to his car, gets in, and places the piece of paper on the passenger seat. He digs his sunglasses out of his jacket, puts them on, then starts the ignition. The engine catches, roars. He waits a moment longer, then puts the car into gear, releases the handbrake, and dabs his foot on the accelerator.
The car eases out of the garage. Changmin waves, then feels stupidly happy when Yunho comes out and waves back with both hands.
Changmin puts his foot down. Remembering the directions, he goes to the end of the street and turns left. Once he’s around the corner, he pulls over and lets the engine idle while he reaches for the piece of paper beside him.
He opens it. It’s a receipt, detailing all the work done on the car. Yunho’s phone number is scrawled across the top, with a smiley face after it, and through the middle, stamped in red, it says: Paid in full.
and yes, there will be a sequel omg i like these boys a lot