78
Dollface
Super Junior (KiTeuk)
1,344 words. PG-13. Second person. For k0uryuu in return for the KiHan she wrote me. &hearts!
You wipe the wet from your forehead with the back of your hand as you step through the door, toeing off soaked shoes, listening to the soft squelch as you pull your feet out. You can hear the rain through the apartment windows, steady and constant, a sheet of water against concrete and metal, seeping into the earth.
Eeteuk is sprawled on the couch like a cat, half asleep with a book on his chest. He looks up when you walk in, blinking slightly at the sight of your wet clothing and dripping hair. You suck in a quick breath as the air conditioning hits you, finally, and he raises and eyebrow at you.
“You’re wet,” he says, and you bite your lip to keep from rolling your eyes. Instead, you smile, because it’s what you do. It’s not fake, exactly, but it’s not the whole truth. You’re used to that.
“Well, yeah,” you reply. “It’s raining.” He smiles back, then, and gives you a one shouldered shrug. You watch his eyes crinkle at the corners, the dimple that’s hard to miss.
“Take a shower and warm up,” he says as he stands, careless of the book, which falls to the floor with a thump. He stretches, back arching, flash of skin between his shirt and his pajama pants. “I’ll make you some tea.”
*
You wrap a towel around your waist and step out of the shower, into heat and steam, whorls of white swirling around you. You wipe the mirror clean with the palm of one hand, holding the towel up with the other, and you look at your reflection. You could use a haircut, you think. You brush your fingers over the glass, touching the cold reflection of your cheekbones, your chin, your smile. You watch the bags under your eyes and the tightened corners of your mouth, and you smile them away.
“Kibum?” a voice asks from the hall, warm with slight amusement, and you secure your towel before pulling open the door. Eeteuk smiles at you, and you watch his eyes flick over your body, down and then back up. “Tea’s ready,” he says, meeting your eyes steadily with a slight shrug and dry fingers brushing over your damp shoulder, curling down the back of your arm, the outline of your tricep. You clear your throat.
“Give me a second to get dressed, okay?” Your voice is slightly off, half an octave deeper.
“Sure thing,” he says with a grin, and pulls his hand away from tracing your shoulder blade. You watch him walk down the hall.
*
You’re sitting on the floor by the window when he comes out of the kitchen. You look up, briefly, smile, and then turn back to the rain.
“Here,” he says, and holds out a mug. You watch his reflection in the window, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s watching your back, the curve of your spine through your white t-shirt.
“Thanks,” you say, and you slide around so your back is pressed to the cold glass of the window; you pull your knees up to your chest, accepting the mug. The tea is almost hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth and green.
You wait for him to ask what brings you home so late? or what were you doing out in the rain? or what’s wrong? but he doesn’t. He just returns to his sprawl on the couch and sips his own mug of tea, silent.
He’s not grinning, but you smile anyway, lips quirked at the edges. You lean your head back against the window, you drink your tea and you relish the quiet sound of the rain on the pavement.
*
You wake up curled on the floor with a throw pillow under your head and the window still at your back. Someone had taken the time, at some point, to cover you with a blanket, and you sit up, wrapping it around your shoulders. You yawn, scrubbing a hand through your hair, fingers snagging in the knots and tangles.
“Finally awake, I see,” Eeteuk says from the couch.
You look up, wiping your eyes with the heels of your hands, and you raise your eyebrows. He’s grinning at you, propped up with a hand on his cheek, stretched out on his side.
“Not really,” you say in response, voice rusty and thick like molasses, webbed with sleep. You pull the blanket more tightly around you and hunch down, tempted to pull it over your head and fall back asleep. The wood floor is cold under your butt, but you’ve slept on it already with no sore muscles, so you think you could get used to it.
“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” Eeteuk observes from his high position on the couch.
“I take what I can get,” you say, and your words trail off into another yawn.
“Come here,” Eeteuk says, sliding half off the couch so he can wrap his fingers around your wrist, tugging you closer. You protest in a mumble, but obligingly climb up into the couch, pulling the blanket up after your. The cushions are magic on your cold thighs, and you sigh. Eeteuk’s feet are under your hip, but you don’t care, curling up against the armrest and letting your eyes fall shut.
You can still hear the plinks and patters of the rain on the window, and when the fingers weave into your hair, you let them.
*
You’re warm when you wake again, warm and secure and relaxed. You shift slightly, wiggling your fingers, and find that you’re trapped on the couch, wedged between the back and Eeteuk’s body. The fingers of his hand are wrapped in the hem of your t-shirt, the flat of his palm resting against your belly. His other hand is curled under his head, which is leaning on the cushion just by your chest. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your collarbones, sliding across your skin. His hipbones are pressed, pointed, against the tops of your thighs, his feet, bony toes, curled under your heels. He looks precariously balanced and very young, and you brush your fingers over his cheek before you can think about. The fingers curled in your shirt clench slightly, thumb grazing just under your belly button, and you shiver faintly, but you don’t pull your hand away from his face. You curve it under his jaw, thumb touching the skin just under his ear. You can feel his pulse jump under the heel of your palm.
You watch him for a few minutes, for an hour, for you don’t know how long, until his eyes slide open, slow and smooth, and he smiles at you.
“Hi,” he says, leaning into your fingers on his jaw. His hand scrapes softly up your belly and under your shirt, and he presses his palm flat over the skin just above your belly button.
“Hi,” you say in return, ignoring the hitch in your breath, the quickening of your pulse. This isn’t anything. This is different, it isn’t new. But you know that you’re lying to yourself.
Eeteuk grins, and you can feel the hum of it on your fingers, red orange hot. The hand under his head moves to brush your bangs away from your forehead, and when your first response isn’t to pull away but to lean in, you decide you don’t feel like questioning. You kiss him, bite at the corner of his lips, slide your tongue into his mouth. He doesn’t seem surprised. He pushes you more firmly against the back of the couch, and he runs his fingers over your stomach, and he smiles as he kisses you.
You listen to the rain, and you can almost taste it in his mouth, cool and clean, sweet. When you pull away, you press your face into the crook of his neck, smelling the scent of his skin, feeling him breathe against you, chest pressed to yours, legs tangled.
You decide that when he smiles, you don’t have to.
Super Junior (KiTeuk)
1,344 words. PG-13. Second person. For k0uryuu in return for the KiHan she wrote me. &hearts!
You wipe the wet from your forehead with the back of your hand as you step through the door, toeing off soaked shoes, listening to the soft squelch as you pull your feet out. You can hear the rain through the apartment windows, steady and constant, a sheet of water against concrete and metal, seeping into the earth.
Eeteuk is sprawled on the couch like a cat, half asleep with a book on his chest. He looks up when you walk in, blinking slightly at the sight of your wet clothing and dripping hair. You suck in a quick breath as the air conditioning hits you, finally, and he raises and eyebrow at you.
“You’re wet,” he says, and you bite your lip to keep from rolling your eyes. Instead, you smile, because it’s what you do. It’s not fake, exactly, but it’s not the whole truth. You’re used to that.
“Well, yeah,” you reply. “It’s raining.” He smiles back, then, and gives you a one shouldered shrug. You watch his eyes crinkle at the corners, the dimple that’s hard to miss.
“Take a shower and warm up,” he says as he stands, careless of the book, which falls to the floor with a thump. He stretches, back arching, flash of skin between his shirt and his pajama pants. “I’ll make you some tea.”
*
You wrap a towel around your waist and step out of the shower, into heat and steam, whorls of white swirling around you. You wipe the mirror clean with the palm of one hand, holding the towel up with the other, and you look at your reflection. You could use a haircut, you think. You brush your fingers over the glass, touching the cold reflection of your cheekbones, your chin, your smile. You watch the bags under your eyes and the tightened corners of your mouth, and you smile them away.
“Kibum?” a voice asks from the hall, warm with slight amusement, and you secure your towel before pulling open the door. Eeteuk smiles at you, and you watch his eyes flick over your body, down and then back up. “Tea’s ready,” he says, meeting your eyes steadily with a slight shrug and dry fingers brushing over your damp shoulder, curling down the back of your arm, the outline of your tricep. You clear your throat.
“Give me a second to get dressed, okay?” Your voice is slightly off, half an octave deeper.
“Sure thing,” he says with a grin, and pulls his hand away from tracing your shoulder blade. You watch him walk down the hall.
*
You’re sitting on the floor by the window when he comes out of the kitchen. You look up, briefly, smile, and then turn back to the rain.
“Here,” he says, and holds out a mug. You watch his reflection in the window, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s watching your back, the curve of your spine through your white t-shirt.
“Thanks,” you say, and you slide around so your back is pressed to the cold glass of the window; you pull your knees up to your chest, accepting the mug. The tea is almost hot enough to burn your tongue, smooth and green.
You wait for him to ask what brings you home so late? or what were you doing out in the rain? or what’s wrong? but he doesn’t. He just returns to his sprawl on the couch and sips his own mug of tea, silent.
He’s not grinning, but you smile anyway, lips quirked at the edges. You lean your head back against the window, you drink your tea and you relish the quiet sound of the rain on the pavement.
*
You wake up curled on the floor with a throw pillow under your head and the window still at your back. Someone had taken the time, at some point, to cover you with a blanket, and you sit up, wrapping it around your shoulders. You yawn, scrubbing a hand through your hair, fingers snagging in the knots and tangles.
“Finally awake, I see,” Eeteuk says from the couch.
You look up, wiping your eyes with the heels of your hands, and you raise your eyebrows. He’s grinning at you, propped up with a hand on his cheek, stretched out on his side.
“Not really,” you say in response, voice rusty and thick like molasses, webbed with sleep. You pull the blanket more tightly around you and hunch down, tempted to pull it over your head and fall back asleep. The wood floor is cold under your butt, but you’ve slept on it already with no sore muscles, so you think you could get used to it.
“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” Eeteuk observes from his high position on the couch.
“I take what I can get,” you say, and your words trail off into another yawn.
“Come here,” Eeteuk says, sliding half off the couch so he can wrap his fingers around your wrist, tugging you closer. You protest in a mumble, but obligingly climb up into the couch, pulling the blanket up after your. The cushions are magic on your cold thighs, and you sigh. Eeteuk’s feet are under your hip, but you don’t care, curling up against the armrest and letting your eyes fall shut.
You can still hear the plinks and patters of the rain on the window, and when the fingers weave into your hair, you let them.
*
You’re warm when you wake again, warm and secure and relaxed. You shift slightly, wiggling your fingers, and find that you’re trapped on the couch, wedged between the back and Eeteuk’s body. The fingers of his hand are wrapped in the hem of your t-shirt, the flat of his palm resting against your belly. His other hand is curled under his head, which is leaning on the cushion just by your chest. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your collarbones, sliding across your skin. His hipbones are pressed, pointed, against the tops of your thighs, his feet, bony toes, curled under your heels. He looks precariously balanced and very young, and you brush your fingers over his cheek before you can think about. The fingers curled in your shirt clench slightly, thumb grazing just under your belly button, and you shiver faintly, but you don’t pull your hand away from his face. You curve it under his jaw, thumb touching the skin just under his ear. You can feel his pulse jump under the heel of your palm.
You watch him for a few minutes, for an hour, for you don’t know how long, until his eyes slide open, slow and smooth, and he smiles at you.
“Hi,” he says, leaning into your fingers on his jaw. His hand scrapes softly up your belly and under your shirt, and he presses his palm flat over the skin just above your belly button.
“Hi,” you say in return, ignoring the hitch in your breath, the quickening of your pulse. This isn’t anything. This is different, it isn’t new. But you know that you’re lying to yourself.
Eeteuk grins, and you can feel the hum of it on your fingers, red orange hot. The hand under his head moves to brush your bangs away from your forehead, and when your first response isn’t to pull away but to lean in, you decide you don’t feel like questioning. You kiss him, bite at the corner of his lips, slide your tongue into his mouth. He doesn’t seem surprised. He pushes you more firmly against the back of the couch, and he runs his fingers over your stomach, and he smiles as he kisses you.
You listen to the rain, and you can almost taste it in his mouth, cool and clean, sweet. When you pull away, you press your face into the crook of his neck, smelling the scent of his skin, feeling him breathe against you, chest pressed to yours, legs tangled.
You decide that when he smiles, you don’t have to.