GAHHHH. FINALLY.
Title: Damn Hips
Author: anoukinparis
Rating: R/NC17
Genre: Unadulterated smut...=3
Summary: His hips move too damn well for someone who giggles when he watches children play outside and drinks juice straight out of the box.
Dedicated to my lovely kitty Junsu babe!!!!!!
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His hips move too damn well for someone who giggles when he watches children play outside and drinks juice straight out of the box.
Sometimes I’ll just watch him in practice, water bottle loose in my grip, as they slide from position to position. Dipping and curling as the music pounds from the speakers. Slick as water. My eyes will follow a dangerous trail from the back of his neck all the way down that curved spine, and then I wonder how much farther it would curve if I placed a single finger at the small of his back. If I pressed, just a hint of a touch, watching that lithe body melt under me.
And then he’ll stop dancing, and all I’ll feel then is the annoying pressure fit snug in my pants. I want to curse myself.
I’m consumed with this sin on a daily basis.
Maybe if it was just his hips, I’d be able to get past it, find a way to ignore it (I don’t want to ignore it), but every piece of him strikes a match somewhere inside of me. Every careless movement somehow tortures me.
The way he’ll raise his arms above his head when he first wakes up, slowly, slowly, so slow I’ve come to believe glaciers move at a quicker pace, and the hem of his shirt will raise, raise, raise until that stretch of skin just barely peeks out at me, showing that tight stomach, and just when I’m about to lose it he sees me watching and gives me a smiling good morning before bouncing out of bed.
The way he’ll eat ice cream when the heat outside becomes too unbearable, how he casually sits himself cross legged on the floor of the apartment, leaning on the couch while the fan above softly stirs his hair and simply licks the cone clean of the creamy substance, the liquid pooling along the corner of his mouth before he takes a swift thumb to wipe it away, and I’d give anything to be that damn ice cream as he sucks the treat from his skin.
The way he always comes into my dressing room before a concert unannounced, half-ready, shirt never on correctly, and proceeds to go through my bag to get something he left inside of there the day before, bending down to reach it.
The way he’ll close his eyes whenever he listens to a song he really likes, head inclined at just the slightest angle, completely lost to the world.
The way his hips move.
And every time, I’m the snake to his charm. As much as I recognize this awful burning, that doesn’t stop me from watching, looking, wondering, hoping, longing.
But he has no idea. He can’t even guess how much everything he does drives me deeper into this crime, this pleasure I know, I know for certain I shouldn’t feel from simply breathing the same air as my best friend.
But God, those hips…
That image always sustains me at night whenever the need becomes too strong, even for me, and I give in to how good it all feels.
In my mind, he does melt under my finger.
Junsu.
***
The sweat is making my shirt cling to my back as I amble down the darkened hallway back to our dressing room, the light and heat from the stage following me, still breathing down my neck. Looking around to see the other’s satisfied faces, I know we performed well, but that isn’t taking the edge off my body. I wonder if it will be like this every single time Junsu performs his solo. Every time he has to touch me because of the choreography, the screams of the fans not nearly as bad as the way my heart begins pounding, knowing exactly what’s going to happen but still hoping for more.
Fingers skimming my shoulders behind me before sinking down the entire length of my body, hands smoothing every line before traveling back up, and I have to pretend that the soft moans are an act. I have to pretend that I don’t really derive any pleasure from it. That even though he’s never told to do so in practice, he’ll linger before pulling away.
Just those few seconds are enough to drive me mad. Those few seconds where I can actually allow myself even just a glimpse of what it feels like to have him touching my skin. Pressing himself to my back. And I want to press back, every time. Anything instead of just standing there, forcing myself to be still when he’s moving like that, so close that it’s hard to even decipher what song we’re singing, why we’re on stage in the first place.
It’s not real. I know it’s not.
But I’m weak.
And tonight I finally caved into all of it, after weeks of amazing, excruciating self-control. But I couldn’t control my body anymore when Junsu decided to place in a certain roll of his hips whenever he first made contact, hands pulling at my shoulders, and all thoughts of restraint instantly died the moment I reached behind me, gripping his waist with a breathless demand, needing to feel him again, wanting him so bad in that moment that it was too easy to forget where we were, how many people could see.
But he blinded me.
His hands only went through the usual movements, hot breath hitting the back of my neck, but I knew he had heard me. I wasn’t even in the position to try and hide it, my head leaned back as his fingers slipped from my stomach back up to my shoulders, all quick, all rushed, and the music crashed in my ears, and just before he slipped away, back into the group where he was supposed to go, supposed to be, that unmistakable sensation.
Those hips grinding into me, slower, and so much better than any night spent alone. I would have completely lost it if it weren’t for the sharp look I caught from Yunho right at the last second, the iciness completely and instantly cooling the heat Junsu just seared into me.
I let him go. He flew back into formation. As if nothing happened.
I had never been so frustrated in my entire life.
Or so irritated that I had actually let myself fall into it. That I let myself forget that he’s something I can’t ever have, not on stage, not in the dressing room, not in bed, not ever. And no amount of choreography can change that. As much as my body craves those touches night after night, they can’t sustain the illusion that perhaps there’s something more beneath the predetermined movements. The quick fingers that move across my body, so sure, and they fit every groove as if made for them, but they don’t, and I can’t think that way. There’s nothing there. It’s all for show. It’s just an act.
I can’t be with him right now. I can’t deal with it.
So I tell the others not to wait up for me, that I’ll catch a ride back to the hotel myself, that I just want some time alone, and none of them even try to argue with me. I can feel the press of Junsu’s eyes, but I never look back, too afraid of how my body would react then, as twisted up as it is already. I stall in getting my things together, waiting for everyone else to leave.
Slowly they filter out, one by one. The door thudding softly in back of me, and then there’s just one person left, and I don’t understand why he would want to stay behind. The show’s over. Back to reality.
Maybe he wants to say something to me, but I don’t stay around to find out, merely grabbing my bag and heading out the door, hearing the slow murmur as it clicks back into place. My hand lingers on the doorknob, but I can’t even explain what I’m waiting for.
It’s not real.
I turn and leave.
***
The wind’s murmuring when I walk outside, brushing against my cheeks and lifting my hair, a gesture so refreshing that it’s hard not to simply close my eyes and let it all wash over me. So much more inviting than the rough heat from before, a heat that had nowhere to go, nothing to catch onto. I love the cool breeze on my skin.
Gravel hits the soles of my sneakers. Shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans, I begin walking down the street, not really noticing the emptiness around me or the fact that it’s quickly growing darker outside. I can only guess what time it is. Time to go back.
But my feet don’t listen, only taking me farther. I can’t really object.
There’s a bus stop near the corner of the street, and the light from the hovering lamp above seems to be beckoning me closer, as if it will somehow pull me away from all these thoughts still rolling around in my head, the warmth left over from too good to be true touches. I think again how weak I am, before slipping inside the small waiting area and sinking down on the old bench inside.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
One minute, five minutes, fifteen minutes pass, and by then the moon is beginning to show, a pearly gold sphere, and I wonder if he’s watching it back at the hotel. He’s always liked watching the moon. One of the only things that can actually keep him quiet.
I need to stop this. I need to stop this. I need to stop thinking about tonight. I need to stop imagining those hips behind me, moving not because of the music but because of something else. I need to stop imagining those hips altogether, those hips that belong to my best friend. Purge the sin.
But then I hear the sin coming down the street.
The footsteps are soft, unmistakable. I hear the light hum brewing somewhere in his mouth, singing some nameless tune, and it continues to drift closer and closer. My ears fill almost painfully.
I don’t turn as he stops to look at me through the clear glass of the waiting area, but I feel as I did before, back in the dressing room, thrown into the spotlight of his gaze, and there’s nothing I can think to do or say. After a few moments, he raps on the smooth glass.
“Knock, knock.”
Finally I look up at him. I see him shaking just slightly in his fitted black coat, cheeks spotted with a tinge of warmth, features bathed in the lamplight, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t give just to take him in my arms and ravage him right there.
But I can’t. And I don’t.
“Who’s there?”
“Can’t you see?”
He moves from the glass and comes inside, still burrowing in that coat, and my eyes quickly pursue the line of his body as it takes a seat next to mine. He sighs, looks at me.
“You’re alone,” he points out.
“Not anymore.”
“I wanted to keep you company.”
I can hear the friend coming through, and it’s too bad that I won’t ever be satisfied with that. I was never truly satisfied with just that. My throat’s already constricting, tightening just at the fact that he’s sitting so close to me, far too close, and now that we’re alone it feels even that much closer.
Why is he even here? He should have gone home with the others. He shouldn’t be sitting on a bench under a flickering streetlamp in the middle of the night with me.
But if he shouldn’t, then why is he moving closer?
I feel a sudden warmth against the side of my face, and before I can even snap my head to him, he’s already pulled his lips away and scooting even closer, sitting himself down into my lap. It all happened so fast I can hardly find the air to breathe, much less consider the slight moisture near my cheekbone or the weight now settled on top of me.
“The bench is cold,” he complains almost immediately afterwards.
And apparently that’s all the justification I get, for he’s already leaning back against me, intent on staying. I keep expecting something else, anything else, but there’s nothing but the warning sirens in my head, telling me this is definitely not good, not good at all that his weight is hitting a particularly sensitive spot, pushing down on me.
Just don’t…
He’s your friend. Don’t think about how good it feels. Just get him off. Don’t…
He wriggles slightly, pushing against my thighs and forcing my knees to part so he can claim the spot in between, and I hear the satisfied sigh coming from his lips, a murmur of ‘much more comfortable,’ and I don’t think my heart is beating anymore. It isn’t doing anything. Shock has it motionless.
It comes back full force when his rear presses to the growing hardness in my pants. So close. The blood is racing, the need beginning to grow again, but this time there’s no stage, no fans, no nothing, and my mind is spinning, churning, trying to spit out some logical reason why he’s…
There has to be some logical reason for it. There was before.
God, he has to feel me by now. I can’t hide it.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t pull away, disgusted, like I thought he would be. He only pushes himself closer, as if he...
I want to moan at those hips between me, rubbing along my thighs.
Moving as if he…
“I want it too, Yoochun.”
My heart shatters and clashes back into place.
I want it too, Yoochun.
I want it too.
I want it.
You don’t know how long I’ve wanted it.
I would have thought I was dreaming if it weren’t for that voice, raw and longing and dripping with the need I thought I would only hear from my own lips, much less his. A voice I had never heard before. But it matches the way he lingered at the concert. It matches the added roll of the hips, the heat.
It matches the shudder as I place a hand to the back of his neck, trembling with nerves and want and so much else, and let my fingers slowly trace down his spine, tips pressed to the fabric of his jacket.
My eyes take in the delicious sight. His back curves into the touch, a small gasp coming from his lips as I bring my fingers to the small of his back, curling underneath the layers of fabric to reach smooth, precious skin.
“Yoochun-”
His voice is sharper now, but his body incredibly soft to my touch, all curves and slopes that I’ve desperately wanted as my own, and my hands are moving by their own will now, slipping to his chest and yanking down the zipper of his coat. I can’t even care anymore if he’s cold.
Because the heat is strangling me.
I fling the clothing away, marveling at Junsu’s slight form, reveling in the pale arms, the graceful shoulders, and I feel all of it, everything melting underneath my fingers. Melting. Seeping back into me. Thoughts of purging this sin seem meaningless, useless when the sin is suddenly breathing whines of approval everywhere I touch.
He wants it too.
It’s real.
And I can only give in.
His hips are rolling against the mounting pressure below my abdomen, smooth dips that pull a groan from my throat, and I clutch his hips just as I did earlier tonight. But this time I’m not letting go. Not anytime soon. No, I’m gripping either side of him now, forcing him closer…
He jerks at the feel of my arousal pushed into him.
“You’re…”
The words die as I swoop down on the skin just peeking up from his shirt. I kiss his neck, messy, heated, and I’m overwhelmed by his taste. Fragrant sweet. Addicting. Nails dig into his hipbones, and he willingly pushes back into me. I’m getting harder.
Another rough thrust, and his head falls back against my shoulder, moaning lightly. I greedily suck at his smooth neck, bending down further to capture the column of his throat, all thoughts on him and me and the way he’s breathing now against the dark, and how I’m making him react this way.
“I’ve wanted it for months,” I rasp out, slowly pulling out of the kiss, remembering those times at practice where I simply watched, burning, burning, always burning. “I’ve wanted you.”
Junsu draws in a shaky breath.
“I want you, Junsu,” I plead fervently in his ear, watching his eyes lid over with desire.
“Then have me.”
***
Just a short hour ago I was thinking that the choreography would be the closest I would ever get to having him. That those briefs moments with those hips was the best feeling in the world. I thought that would be as far as it would go.
“Ahh…”
My fingers have already worked down the zipper and button of his jeans, attaching my lips once again to his neck as my hand draws a long stroke against him, feeling for the first time just how tender he really is, the attention to the sensitive skin making him breathe harder.
Another stroke, and another moan follows, begging, and the desperation I feel is making me go crazy. My grip tightens, squeezing him roughly while the pressure of my tongue laves at the skin below his ear. I’m satisfied with more moans, filling my ear, the sounds giving me more pleasure then I ever would have imagined.
But I’ve always been rather hypnotized by his voice.
His hips start moving again, desperately driving back into my hand, but I know enough of my own longing to realize this won’t be enough, that this won’t do anything to slake just what’s circling around my own sex.
He whimpers when I start to slow, before pulling away completely to fumble with my own jeans, and he shifts impatiently, edgily. The bus has already made its stop long, long ago.
Finally I’m free of the restriction, the night air making my erection crawl over with goose bumps, a slow tingle working itself down my own spine when Junsu brushes back down against me, apparently done with waiting and all its unpleasantness.
My fingers find Junsu’s hips again, smoothing across that mouth-watering ass, and I can’t help myself from grinning a bit, even through the heat that’s ripping through me.
My fingers travel down, before twisting underneath to push inside of him, lips still at his ear. “Guess my dinner tonight’s gonna be duck,” I whisper, watching in wry amusement as he jerks at the contact, a strangled sort of gasping sound coming from his throat.
“You’ve…wanted to use that line for a while, haven’t you?”
I twist my fingers slowly, surrounded by his heat, the grin not fading.
“Maybe.”
“You really are sleazy.”
I only punctuate that statement by scissoring my fingers inside of him, using my other hand to draw languid circles over his tight stomach. He doesn’t use that accusing tone anymore, already lost in the sensations again, and it’s not long before I feel him clench around my fingers, telling me far more than words could.
I pull out, both hands firm on his waist as I slowly push him to lean forward, spreading his legs out even more as I position myself behind him. The tip of my length barely touching him. And I’m already cursing under my breath once I feel him sliding down onto me, the heat of his body almost overwhelming, and that’s when I think, Holy fuck, I’m actually having sex with my best friend. Holyfuckholyfuckholyfuck.
…Oh well.
He’s so tight. So tight, and I hiss, digging half-moons into the slope of his hips, trying to find some sort of grip. So tight. And I drag back out of him, almost painfully slow, before shoving his hips back down onto mine, groaning as the heat enfolds me, even stronger than before.
“Fuck.”
Surprisingly, I’m not the one to say it aloud. But it only makes me crazier, and the desire is roiling in my stomach. I repeat the motion, faster, and both of our breaths hitch, the darkness around us only making it seem that more noticeable. His head falls back to my shoulder, spine arching, trying to put me deeper inside.
“More, Yoochun,” he pants.
“Whatever you want,” I mutter, husky with want, feeling the cool air on my skin before thrusting into his sweet warmth, hitting it harder. As many times I’ve pictured him instead of my hand, dreamt his own body enclosing me, it was nothing but a shallow fulfillment. This is so much more.
So much better. God, so much…
And this yearning for him is finally driving my actions, all thoughts and memories of before completely slipping away, burning away and withering to a crisp before finally blowing away. A hasty rhythm somehow evolves from the anxious, heated thrusts, my own hips rolling against his, meeting the spot every time, going deeper into his core the longer I keep this up.
He pushes down on me, relentless, needing perhaps as bad as I do, and the low whimpers of my name make me want to scream out into the street. It’s mounting, I can feel it, just as I can feel every quiver of his skin, every vibration I coax after I fill him.
“More…”
Much more demanding now. I afraid I’ll break him if I grip him too much tighter, but I do it anyways, bracing him for my length as I pound into him, moaning into his neck, snaking out a tongue to lick aimlessly at a stretch of skin that’s already been marked, and I can’t even begin to guess how this must look to someone simply walking by.
Hurried, rushed presses to his neck, and he spasms on top of me, breaking as my last few thrusts push harder than before. The heat’s coiling around my tip, and he rides me for a few more moments before the pleasure spikes, crushing everything else, his lovely high voice crying out, my own answering back, lower, deeper.
I release inside of him, catching his own arousal in my shaking hand before he does the same, feeling the creamy substance spill over my fingers. I bring it to my lips, and it has to be the most erotic taste I’ve ever had, taking a few licks before I feel Junsu’s hand tugging it back.
I pull myself out just as he swipes his own tongue over my skin, swirling it around each finger, tasting himself.
Falling against the back of the bench, I simply close my eyes, my chest heaving as it draws in ragged breath after ragged breath, heart still pounding furiously away.
“Damn hips,” I growl under my breath.
I hear a light giggle pressed to the palm of my hand, a not-so-innocent squirm of his body still in my lap, and it’s hard to even try to relax when he keeps doing that.
“Oh, that’s nothing.”
***
It’s one in the morning when we actually decide to pull our clothes back on, stepping out of the waiting area that’s forever going to be cemented into my mind. I feel a sudden rush of pity for the next person who chances to sit along that bench.
One thirty once we find a cab to hail, and he’s not even all the way through the door when I take his wrist in my grasp, pulling him into a rough kiss, finally, and it never breaks on the trip back to the hotel, not once, and this time I feel the moans first hand, swallowing every one, lost to everything else.
Two once we reach the hotel, and his hand is eagerly yanking mine along, not even telling me where we’re going as he bounds the wrong corner, leading me to his room, not my own.
At the door, he leans up for another kiss, smiling when my fingers automatically reach for his hips, grasping not so lightly.
“Now you’ll see what they really can do…”
And with that he bounces away, slithering through the door and leaving me dumbfounded.
What an amazing best friend I have.
And I rush inside, slamming the door behind me.
Always the snake to his charm.
xD
Happy now?
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