Work Text:
“Excuse me?”
Gun tries to make his voice as unfamiliar as possible as he pokes his head through the open classroom door, fighting hard to keep the grin off his face, which he fails spectacularly at.
Inside the classroom, Tinn stands, wiping out the text on the whiteboard, since he’s on cleaning duty this week. Gun frowns briefly because Tiw is supposed to be on cleaning duty with Tinn but Tiw is nowhere to be seen. Gun’s glad they don’t have an audience.
Tinn looks confused Gun’s way for half a second before a huge grin appears on Gun’s boyfriend’s face, threatening to split his handsome face in half. Even in his uniform, his regular boring uniform, Gun thinks he looks like someone straight out of a teenage rom-com; the main character’s love interest and the love of Gun’s life, maybe.
Unable to stop himself, Gun slips into the classroom, closing the door behind him before he beelines straight for Tinn in the front of the classroom, his heart speeding up. Gun hits Tinn with a little more speed than intended, he realizes, when Tinn makes a little ‘oof’ on impact. Gun buries his face between Tinn’s clothed shoulder blades, wrapping his arms tightly around Tinn’s small waist. Gun inhales sharply. His lungs are immediately filled with the smell of eucalyptus. Tinn’s detergent. Gun has seen the bottle his mom uses loads of times while visiting Tinn. Inhaling again, Gun manages to pick out the scent of tea tree — Tinn’s body wash, strong and sharp, but not overly so.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Tinn’s voice is a rumble against Gun’s forehead, soothing and familiar. Gun squeezes his waist tighter, basking in the feeling of Tinn’s warmth, seeping through his purple shirt. Gun squeezes and squeezes until Tinn lets out a little squeak. Gun loves how solid Tinn feels in his arms. Tinn’s real and Tinn is Gun’s.
“I was just checking to see if I forgot something after class,” Gun mumbles, lips catching on Tinn’s shirt, spit soaking into the fabric.
“Hm,” Tinn wonders out loud. “What could that possibly be? I’ve cleaned the entire classroom by myself and I haven’t found a single misplaced object.”
Gun laughs. He laughs at Tinn’s silly acting. Gun fucking giggles into Tinn’s shirt.
“I wonder,” Tinn says again, faux thinking out loud. Gun’s arms are gently pried from Tinn’s waist, just enough so Tinn is able to face Gun. Once Gun’s wrists are released from Tinn’s grip, he fixates them once more around Tinn’s waist, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops on each side of Tinn’s hips. Tinn’s hands, warm and large, come up to squeeze Gun’s face, thumbs sinking into the curve of Gun’s cheeks. “Ah, yes.”
“I misplaced my love, but he came back to me,” Tinn says unabashedly. His face is carefully schooled into neutrality, carelessness, but Gun is drowning from the love in Tinn’s eyes. Blood rushes to Gun’s face, butterflies wreck havoc on his insides. Shelter comes in the shape of Tinn’s chest. Gun bends. Tinn bends. Gun hides from the ongoing monsoon of love in Tinn’s shirt.
It’s Tinn’s turn to squeeze and squish Gun, which he does with the uttermost glee. At least it seems that way to Gun, when he takes Tinn’s little chuckles and squeals as an indication.
Gun is ruthlessly pulled from the safe confines of Tinn’s shirt. His cheeks are held so very carefully as Tinn gets Gun to a distance where their eyes don’t cross from looking at each other.
“Whose boyfriend is this, hm?” Tinn marvels softly. Gun’s fingers tighten their hold on Tinn’s belt loops. A gentle shiver runs through him. Tinn’s thumbs, soft, warm, trace gently under Gun’s eyes, pausing briefly to poke at Gun’s moles. Tinn pecks the mole on Gun’s nose. Tinn pecks the mole on Gun’s cheek. Gun’s jaw is angled upwards by Tinn’s middle fingers, sliding down, curling just underneath his jawbone. Thumbs bend, curl, tilt Gun’s chin upwards.
Tinn kisses Gun Briefly. A soft peck. Gun inhales eucalyptus, tea tree, boy.
“Oh,” Tinn exclaims in a whisper, his bottom lip brushing against Gun’s top. “That’s right. This is my boyfriend.”
Gun releases Tinn’s belt loops. His palms travel up Tinn’s sides, Tinn’s back. Palms pressed against cotton, pushing. Tinn’s spine is hard against Gun’s hand.
Gun kisses Tinn. It’s more of a kiss, less of a peck. Soft lips and shared breaths— Gun’s bottom lip between Tinn’s. Tinn’s teeth nipping playfully, worrying the sensitive skin. Gun feels his heartbeat pulse in between Tinn’s lips and teeth.
His stomach coils hotly when Tinn curls one arm around Gun’s waist, thumb pushing past the waistband of his shorts. Tinn doesn’t pull or tug at the cloth, just leaves his thumb there, holding. Tinn’s left hand finds Gun’s hip and then, then Tinn moves.
Gun yelps. Tinn keeps on kissing him as he guides them both. One step, two, and then three. Something hard connects with the back of Gun’s clothed thighs. Tinn’s tongue traces over Gun’s bruised bottom lip; Gun opens, welcomes. Tinn retreats.
“H—”
“Up.”
Gun doesn’t get a second to ask what the hell Tinn means with ‘up’. Tinn rearranges Gun like he’s a puzzle Tinn knows by heart. Gun’s arms are thrown over Tinn’s shoulders and then, Tinn lifts. On sheer instinct, Gun wraps his legs around Tinns hips when prompted to do so by Tinn’s long fingers curled around the back of his thighs. The noise Gun lets out is Manly, thank you very much, and does not at all resemble the sound of an old door that needs to be oiled.
There’s something solid under Gun’s ass — a desk? Wood underneath his thighs. Tinn’s lips back on his. Tinn licks into Gun’s mouth the very same second he uses his hands to spread Gun’s thighs, stepping into the V of his legs. Tinn palms at Gun’s thighs, pushing the fabric up, up, up as his tongue coaxes Gun’s tongue up, out.
Unhelpfully, rudely, Gun’s brain starts firing off crude images of what Tinn sucking on his tongue resembles.
Gun clenches his thighs against the sides of Tinn’s, head spinning, stomach swirling with heat as Tinn sucks on his tongue, lets it go, only to capture it. Tinn’s mouth is so wet, warm and inviting. Gun wants to nest in it, nest in Tinn.
Heat, warmth, fire wakes Gun’s body up, racing through his body from behind his navel. Gun swears he’s going to fall. He’s going to fall off the desk, face first, but then melt into the floor and evaporate. His mouth feels dry, yet wet. The heat of molten lava surges down between his legs. Gun’s going to melt. Now.
Salvation comes in the form of Tinn’s hands, high on Gun’s thighs, holding Gun down, anchoring him to this moment. Tinn pulls back slightly, breathes, allowing Gun to breathe too. The air between them crackles. Gun uses this moment to ground himself, surging forward to press himself against Tinn, curling his fingers in the back of Tinn’s shirt once more. Tinn’s teeth press against Gun’s lips, clacking against Gun’s teeth.
Gun needs to be closer. Gun needs Tinn to stop being so far away. Gun needs Tinn here.
The wet slide of their lips is noisy, loud, ringing off the wall, settling in posters of the periodic table. Gun can barely hear it over the thrumming of his pulse in his ears, can barely hear it over the soft pants Tinn makes, can barely hear it over the sound of the wines he’s making. The tips of his ears feel like they’re on fire, but then again, so does Gun’s entire body at this point. He’s thrumming with energy, filled to the brim, ready to pop.
Tinn pulls back. Gun is ready to complain, loudly, but falls into a quiet moan when Tinn’s mouth, warm, warm locates that spot just underneath Gun’s jaw. Tinn nips at Gun’s pulse, soothing with brushes of his soft lips before he’s back with his sharp teeth that make Gun’s chest ache. His spine curls towards Tinn, his chest pushing against Tinn’s.
Warm puffs of breath fan over Gun’s sensitive neck as Tinn takes a break for a heartbeat. Gun’s hands slide down Tinn’s clothed back, basking in the feeling of muscles moving against his calloused palms. Gun pushes further. Tinn lets him.
Gun’s hands relocate to Tinn’s ass, splaying out over the familiar swell, pushing, grinding.
“Shh, shh,” Tinn hushes, soothes as Gun belatedly realizes he has been moaning Tinn’s name. Tinn gives Gun’s neck another loving nip before he’s back at Gun’s mouth, swallowing his moans.
Gun’s skin is too tight, doesn’t stretch in the right way. There’s an itch behind his ribs that he needs to itch. On his thighs, Tinn’s hands ride even higher, pressed against Gun’s groin, pulsating against Tinn’s hands, before moving upwards. Gun’s clothes are restricting him, holding him back when Gun needs to melt.
Tinn’s hands cup Gun’s ribcage, fingers splaying out, fitting, holding Gun up, keeping Gun gathered in his skin as Gun sucks Tinn’s top lip into his mouth. Under Tinn’s hold, against Tinn’s skin, Gun pebbles. Tinn’s thumbs find his nipples under his shirt, pressing.
“Tinn,” Gun pants against Tinn’s lips, into Tinn’s mouth. Gun’s hands on Tinn’s ass tighten their grip, bringing Tinn closer yet again, closer, closer until Tinn’s hips is flushed against Gun’s, their co—
The door to the classroom slams open on a moan. The door slams closed on another moan.
Moans that don’t belong to Tinn or Gun.
Moans that belong to black curls tangled in long, slim keyboard-playing fingers. Moans that belong to a student council badge. Moans that belong to a brightly knitted cardigan that’s slipped off one shoulder, revealing a uniform shirt that has been hastily buttoned.
Gun and Tinn watch in horror as Por slams Tiw against the closed door, his fingers searching out the buttons on Tiw’s uniform shirt, unbuttoning one, two —
“Holy fuck!” Gun exclaims loudly, setting of a chain of reactions. Tiw shrieks, his hands scrambling up to covered his semi-exposed chest. Tinn laughs, loudly, in that adorable way of his, that make flowers bloom behind Gun’s sternum. Por frowns at first, hands on his hips, looking terribly offended, and then flustered.
“You—” Tiw begins, cheeks scarlet, eyes bright.
“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” Tinn says accusingly, turning towards Por and Tiw, pointing his index finger at his best friend.
“Who he’s been doing,” Gun stage-whispers, hooking his chin over Tinn’s shoulder, feeling light, and giddy and in love.
“We had cleaning duty!” Tinn pouts, his lips red and well-kissed. Pride swells in Gun’s chest. “How long has this been going on?”
“I refuse—” Tiw protests, curling his left hand around Por’s wrist, pushing the door open with the other. Gun watches, mouth open as Tiw tugs Por out of the door and down the hall.
“See you later, Gun!” Por’s voice echoes off the walls. “I’m making barbecue pork later.”
Silence falls over the classroom. Tinn turns back to him, looking at Gun with eyes that are equally as shiny as Tiw’s, face as flustered as Por’s. He’s Gun’s.
“Did you know about them?” Tinn asks, crestfallen.
Gun shakes his head, tugging Tinn closer. Then. “Well, I think I’ve had an inkling.”
“You’re my inkling,” Tinn tells him. Gun punches his shoulder, then tugs Tinn back down for a kiss.