56
Title: Rose Water
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: MinSu
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t own.
Summary: You want to taste his words in your mouth, roll them around on your tongue and see how they feel.
Notes: 852 words, drabble-ish. Second person. Vaguely disjointed.
Lately, you’ve had this thing about the sound of his voice. Or, maybe, not even the sound, the vibration. Touching the base of his throat with your fingers when he speaks is like laying your head on his chest when he breathes - tactile hearing, muscles contracting under the shell of your ear, under the pads of your fingertips. You want to taste his words in your mouth, roll them around on your tongue and see how they feel. You want to hear him sing against the skin of your jaw, lullabies of sound against your jugular.
The sound of rain is all there is when you climb into bed with him, for the first time. He’s not expecting it, but he doesn’t say anything and you’re almost disappointed. You want to know what his questions will taste like. You want to know what it feels like to have him scream for you, but you can wait for that.
Your lips are already against his throat when his asks what are you doing?, and the vibrations of his voice husky against your mouth makes you shiver. You can’t stop, and you’re suddenly aware that you don’t know what you’re doing and you don’t care.
In the end you squirm under the covers and press your face into the crook of his neck, listening to sound of him breathing. If he minds, he doesn’t say anything.
You wake in the morning with your hands curled up in the hem of his shirt and his hand tight around your arm high up near the elbow.
It starts with his voice and it moves. You find yourself obsessed with line of his shoulder blades when he pulls off his shirt, the girlish curves of his hips that somehow manage to be masculine. You love the taste of the underside of his jaw and the texture of his sheets. You haven’t spent the whole night in your own bed in over a week, and he hasn’t said anything about it to you.
You don’t touch him during the day, but at night, in his bed, you push him facedown into the mattress and lick a stripe up protruding shoulder blades, sticking out of his back like clipped wings, and you feel him shudder under your mouth. You don’t know why he lets you do this, but when you find the knot of his spine at the base of his neck and attack it with your teeth, you get a moan that you want to swallow whole.
His shoulder blades are like handles, and you fingers fit perfectly under them, thumb stroking up the inside, and when you press your nose to the back of his neck, up where the hair covers, you can smell his sweat and his shampoo. Salt and strawberries.
What is it that you want, exactly? he asks you, and your fingers, previously occupied with the dip of his collarbones, press up against his Adam’s apple.
You, you reply, and you find it true. You can feel his quick inhale against your fingers and you wonder how both you and him have missed this fact for song long, and if it matters.
Yeah, he says yeah, and he pulls you up from where your head has been lying on his stomach, and he kisses you. His hands wind into your hair and scrabble with the back of your neck, and when he moans, you can actually taste it.
You’ve never kissed him before.
He’s gasping when they find you, locked into your workroom. You’re straddling his lap and he’s sitting in your chair, one hand grasping at the keyboard like a lifeline, fingers pressing down key sequences that make no sense, and the other is in your hair, tangling in dark strands grown too long. Your teeth against the side of his neck, and your hands scrabbling down the front of his pants and they knock but you don’t care. They call both your names, but you don’t care.
You think they stick around long enough to hear him scream your name (and you feel that against your teeth and your tongue and it’s everything you thought it might be), but you still don’t care.
You map his skin. The three freckles trailing down the center of his back, the scar in-between his last two ribs, no birthmarks, but a mysterious pale splotch, the size and shape of a coin, just on the inside of his arm.
Small bites on the inside of his thigh and just above his left hipbone and under his left collarbone.
You point them out to him - here and here and here - with your fingers and like the way his skin shivers under you.
Do that again, he says, and you comply.
When he says I love you it feels like rainwater against the back of your throat, and you swallow it down, sweet, hook your fingers into the space under his shoulder blades and you make him say it again.
It goes down just as easily the second and the third and the forth and the fifth time.
Fandom: DBSK
Pairing: MinSu
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t own.
Summary: You want to taste his words in your mouth, roll them around on your tongue and see how they feel.
Notes: 852 words, drabble-ish. Second person. Vaguely disjointed.
Lately, you’ve had this thing about the sound of his voice. Or, maybe, not even the sound, the vibration. Touching the base of his throat with your fingers when he speaks is like laying your head on his chest when he breathes - tactile hearing, muscles contracting under the shell of your ear, under the pads of your fingertips. You want to taste his words in your mouth, roll them around on your tongue and see how they feel. You want to hear him sing against the skin of your jaw, lullabies of sound against your jugular.
The sound of rain is all there is when you climb into bed with him, for the first time. He’s not expecting it, but he doesn’t say anything and you’re almost disappointed. You want to know what his questions will taste like. You want to know what it feels like to have him scream for you, but you can wait for that.
Your lips are already against his throat when his asks what are you doing?, and the vibrations of his voice husky against your mouth makes you shiver. You can’t stop, and you’re suddenly aware that you don’t know what you’re doing and you don’t care.
In the end you squirm under the covers and press your face into the crook of his neck, listening to sound of him breathing. If he minds, he doesn’t say anything.
You wake in the morning with your hands curled up in the hem of his shirt and his hand tight around your arm high up near the elbow.
It starts with his voice and it moves. You find yourself obsessed with line of his shoulder blades when he pulls off his shirt, the girlish curves of his hips that somehow manage to be masculine. You love the taste of the underside of his jaw and the texture of his sheets. You haven’t spent the whole night in your own bed in over a week, and he hasn’t said anything about it to you.
You don’t touch him during the day, but at night, in his bed, you push him facedown into the mattress and lick a stripe up protruding shoulder blades, sticking out of his back like clipped wings, and you feel him shudder under your mouth. You don’t know why he lets you do this, but when you find the knot of his spine at the base of his neck and attack it with your teeth, you get a moan that you want to swallow whole.
His shoulder blades are like handles, and you fingers fit perfectly under them, thumb stroking up the inside, and when you press your nose to the back of his neck, up where the hair covers, you can smell his sweat and his shampoo. Salt and strawberries.
What is it that you want, exactly? he asks you, and your fingers, previously occupied with the dip of his collarbones, press up against his Adam’s apple.
You, you reply, and you find it true. You can feel his quick inhale against your fingers and you wonder how both you and him have missed this fact for song long, and if it matters.
Yeah, he says yeah, and he pulls you up from where your head has been lying on his stomach, and he kisses you. His hands wind into your hair and scrabble with the back of your neck, and when he moans, you can actually taste it.
You’ve never kissed him before.
He’s gasping when they find you, locked into your workroom. You’re straddling his lap and he’s sitting in your chair, one hand grasping at the keyboard like a lifeline, fingers pressing down key sequences that make no sense, and the other is in your hair, tangling in dark strands grown too long. Your teeth against the side of his neck, and your hands scrabbling down the front of his pants and they knock but you don’t care. They call both your names, but you don’t care.
You think they stick around long enough to hear him scream your name (and you feel that against your teeth and your tongue and it’s everything you thought it might be), but you still don’t care.
You map his skin. The three freckles trailing down the center of his back, the scar in-between his last two ribs, no birthmarks, but a mysterious pale splotch, the size and shape of a coin, just on the inside of his arm.
Small bites on the inside of his thigh and just above his left hipbone and under his left collarbone.
You point them out to him - here and here and here - with your fingers and like the way his skin shivers under you.
Do that again, he says, and you comply.
When he says I love you it feels like rainwater against the back of your throat, and you swallow it down, sweet, hook your fingers into the space under his shoulder blades and you make him say it again.
It goes down just as easily the second and the third and the forth and the fifth time.