All Your Life
Title: All Your Life
Pairing: Suho/Kyungsoo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,900
Summary: No one quite understands how they work, but that doesn't make it any less perfect.
Junmyeon is hard. Junmyeon is hard, but his hands are soft. Junmyeon is hard, but his hands are soft and his eyes are bright.
This is what Kyungsoo learns that night.
Of course, he learns other things. He learns the basic step, the easy embrace, a simple turn. But nothing compares to the way Junmyeon feels under his fingertips, the way his warm body molds perfectly against Kyungsoo’s, confusingly hard and soft and bright all too much and all at once.
“Did you have fun?” Junmyeon asks anxiously, once they’re back out on the cold pavement-gazing blearily into the dark, wet distance to try to spot the dark, wet bus pulling towards to their stop. He’s back to his usual self now, all wary and self-satisfied and curious all at once. But Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo feels like he left a part of himself behind in that dingy auditorium-or did he find a new piece of himself?-and he feels slightly dizzy, half-drunk on moonlight and the smooth jazz filtering out the cracked windowpanes of the apartment building behind them.
“Of course I had fun!” Kyungsoo replies easily, slipping into their routine, slipping his hand into Junmyeon’s. “That was amazing! I can’t believe you never took me before. I can’t believe you never even let me watch you before.”
“Well, I didn’t know how’d you feel about it,” Junmyeon smirks, and Kyungsoo squeezes his soft hand a bit too hard. “Seeing as how my partners are generally beautiful and extremely flexible women.”
“Oh, please,” Kyungsoo laughs, the sound catching in the hiss of the slightly-late bus and ending in a rush of stale air. “Wasn’t your ex-girlfriend a gymnast? If that wasn’t flexible enough for you, I doubt I have any reason to worry about dancers. Besides, I’m a hundred times more attractive than that instructor who kissed you on the cheek when we first walked in.”
“Hey,” Junmyeon warns, and Kyungsoo tries to hide his flush by sliding quickly into a window seat and turning to stare at the gold-eyed reflection glimmering back at him. Junmyeon somehow always manages to tell when Kyungsoo’s hiding sadness with irony, anger with sarcasm. “Don’t hold a grudge against Estefanía. She’s really nice, and we’ve known each other for years. Ever since college, actually.”
“I didn’t know you kept in touch with anyone from college,” Kyungsoo comments interestedly, this new tidbit of information surprising enough to draw him out from his tiny cloud of discontent.
“I don’t, really,” Junmyeon admits, casually swinging his arm around the back of Kyungsoo’s chair so it’s almost resting on Kyungsoo’s shoulders-almost, but not quite. “But she comes to dance about once a month, and I figure that counts as knowing each other, right?”
“Not in the biblical sense, it doesn’t,” Kyungsoo snickers, elbowing Junmyeon gently in the ribs to drive his point home. Junmyeon just smiles, lets his arm slide down until it’s really resting on Kyungsoo’s shoulders-solid, warm, reassuring.
“My place?” Junmyeon asks, and Kyungsoo nods absently, fighting the urge to link their hands, to brush his lips sideways until they meet Junmyeon’s cheek. Because they’re in public, and it’s force of habit for Kyungsoo to be discreet. It’s force of habit for him to hide. He knows it makes Junmyeon uneasy, probably secretly makes Junmyeon feel a bit slighted, a bit frustrated. And Kyungsoo is trying. He is. But habits like this are oh so very hard to break.
Junmyeon reaches for his hand and Kyungsoo can’t stop himself from jerking slightly out of reach, hissing in discontent the instant he does so. Within seconds, his hand has shifted back, curled warmly around Junmyeon’s, but he knows Junmyeon has noticed. Junmyeon always notices.
“You know I don’t mean it,” Kyungsoo whispers, because even though the sound of rain is loud on the roof of the bus he still feels like there are a hundred pairs of ears listening to him, listening to them. He feels like there are minds reaching out to yank his thoughts out of his own head, eyes watching them as closely as Kyungsoo watches Junmyeon sometimes when he’s napping on the couch, feeling his heart clench at the perfect curve of Junmyeon’s jaw, the way his muscles shift under his shirt, the way his small form-small, but still a tiny bit larger than Kyungsoo-fits perfectly into the empty space.
“I know,” Junmyeon murmurs with a small, tired smile. Kyungsoo grits his teeth and turns to look out the window, muffles a curse because all he can see is their reflection staring back at him. Their eyes glimmer dimly, pasted onto the black background. It’s cold on the bus, hard plastic seat digging into Kyungsoo’s back and cold damp air creeping through the windowpane beside him. But Junmyeon is so warm.
“No, no, don’t keep looking down,” Junmyeon admonishes him, tightening his grip on Kyungsoo’s waist to get his attention.
“But I can’t tell what my feet are doing!” Kyungsoo protests, a bit grumpily, because they’ve been doing this for almost an hour now and Kyungsoo can only take so much. He knows it’s another bad habit-getting frustrated, giving up so easily when he’s worse at something than whoever he’s with. But the music floating around them is teasing, enticing-it makes Kyungsoo want to be more than he is, makes Kyungsoo want to flow across the dance floor like some of the advanced couples he sees spinning off to the side of the room. Poetry in motion. A terrible cliché, but Kyungsoo could write it so beautifully no one would mind reading yet another short story about two dancers twirling across age-softened floorboards, lost in each other’s eyes.
“You don’t need to look,” Junmyeon grins teasingly, and his genuine kindness, his heartfelt belief in Kyungsoo’s ability to follow where he leads, works a grudging smile out of Kyungsoo too.
“I do need to,” Kyungsoo protests anyway. “This is only my second lesson! I don’t want to look like a total idiot.”
“Trust me,” Junmyeon says seriously, sliding much too close, but just as Kyungsoo is about to protest, about to make a sarcastic comment about Junmyeon perhaps wanting his toes stepped on, he finds himself spinning away, only to be scooped up in Junmyeon’s arms on the return a few seconds later. It’s disorienting, and Kyungsoo isn’t quite sure if he likes it. But he kind of wants to try it again.
“I know, I know,” Kyungsoo sighs, letting the hand clasped in Junmyeon’s squeeze as tightly as he dares. “Remind me when we go back to going on dates where I’m good at things?”
“Oh, do you not like this?” Junmyeon asks, his face suddenly falling, and Kyungsoo almost trips with how fast he tries to suck back in all his words.
“No! No, I like this,” Kyungsoo assures him. And he does. The slight discomfort, the half-felt pangs of embarrassment, self-consciousness, insecurity that are always lurking just on the edges of his mind are worth dealing with if it means getting to hold Junmyeon like this, getting to watch the way Junmyeon’s eyes light up when Kyungsoo masters another move, executes a perfect spin and ends up back in Junmyeon’s arm, pressed much too close. “But next week, before we come to this, we’re going to that open mic at the coffee house.”
“Fine,” Junmyeon laughs brightly, leaning his head on Kyungsoo’s shoulder and letting Kyungsoo pull him close, drop their perfect posture in favor of increased contact. “I’ll go and listen to you read some very deep poem about existence that will leave me feeling small and inadequate.”
“Thank you,” Kyungsoo replies primly, laughing when Junmyeon deliberately steps on his toes. “Your patronage is much appreciated.”
Kyungsoo blows Junmyeon against the kitchen table that night, stands just as Junmyeon rises to put his dishes in the sink and boxes him in against the smooth wood. Presses so close Kyungsoo can feel every breath, every shudder, as Junmyeon tries to drag him forward, seal their mouths even tighter together. Junmyeon is always so desperate-all hot fingers and wandering glances-and Kyungsoo loves riling him up just to watch him gasp like a swimmer desperate for air. Kyungsoo loves making Junmyeon moan. Kyungsoo is always quiet when Junmyeon drops to his knees, takes him into his mouth, fucks him slow and sweet to the soundtrack of rustling sheets and humming crickets. Another habit, another tiny part of who Kyungsoo is. But Junmyeon, Junmyeon is loud and greedy and Kyungsoo loves it.
“Beg me for it,” Kyungsoo groans as he pulls backwards, licks a stripe up the underside of Junmyeon’s cock, basks in the whine that Junmyeon doesn’t even try to stifle.
“Please, baby, please,” Junmyeon hums, jerking his hips forward ineffectively as his white-knuckled hands grip the table behind him. And it doesn’t matter that sometimes Kyungsoo is the one begging, the one desperate for Junmyeon’s mouth, Junmyeon’s cock. Because right now, Junmyeon is putty in Kyungsoo’s hands, and Kyungsoo feels more powerful than he ever does in his normal, day-to-day life.
And so he obliges, sinking down and slurping wetly around the head, glancing up every now and then to admire the way Junmyeon’s eyes are squeezed shut, he mouth gaping open in heady pleasure. Kyungsoo pries one of Junmyeon’s hands off the table, moves it to grip Kyungsoo’s messy hair, and Junmyeon gasps, hiccups, jolts forward when he comes hard, hands reaching down to yank Kyungsoo up so Junmyeon can kiss him, taste himself on Kyungsoo’s tongue.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” Junmyeon sighs, brushing his thumb across Kyungsoo’s cheek, and it’s so cliché but Kyungsoo loves it anyway.
“Do you want me to fuck you now?” he whispers, right in Junmyeon’s ear, right where he’s most ticklish. “Do you want to potentially destroy our couch and let me fuck you right there, right where all of our friends sit whenever they come over?”
“God, yes,” Junmyeon gasps, grabbing Kyungsoo’s wrist and practically dragging him over to the living room.
Junmyeon is a different kind of serious than Kyungsoo.
Everyone who knows them, all of their friends, don’t see much of a difference. They laugh and say that Junmyeon and Kyungsoo are perfect for each other, but that they must be the most boring couple ever since they’re both so responsible and reasonable. Not like Sehun and Tao, who are still just young enough that when they say they’ve decided to see other people (again), no one is surprised to find them making out in a closet two hours later. Not like Minseok and Luhan, who are also Real Live Adults but are still adding to the list of Public Places They’ve Banged In.
Kyungsoo and Junmyeon, to put it bluntly, both have their shit together. They have bank accounts, silverware, tastefully decorated apartments, well-paying and respectable jobs. They go out to ridiculously expensive restaurants on birthdays and anniversaries. They cut out coupons to bring with them when they go grocery shopping. They take public transport as often as possible to do their part in saving the planet. They’ve been to the same sandwich place so many times the workers know their orders by heart and always ask them how they’ve been, good week, but long, right? They both know how to tie a bow tie, and what a cravat is, though they rarely have occasion to wear either. Between the two of them, they probably own half a dozen plain white button-downs.
But Junmyeon is a different type of serious than Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo knew that from the first moment they met. On their first date, Junmyeon wore a blue button-down underneath a soft navy sweater. Kyungsoo wore a blue button-up underneath a dark green bomber jacket. They both wore jeans. They talked about what they did, how nice the weather had been recently, what they were planning for the upcoming holidays, how weird it was to go on dates right around Christmas-like, what exactly is the gift situation supposed to be, you know? Neither ever spent the holidays with their families, though not because of any feud or bad blood.
“It just seems like a hassle,” Junmyeon had sighed, eyeing Kyungsoo hesitantly like he was a bit embarrassed to admit it. “And I can always Skype. They just live so far away.”
“Ugh, and then you just have to pray there are no storms so you don’t get trapped in some dingy airport hotel for days on end with nothing to eat but whatever you can carry back to your room from the free continental breakfast!” Kyungsoo had moaned and Junmyeon had snorted in amusement, asked Kyungsoo if he was speaking from experience.
“Of course not,” Kyungsoo had laughed, and Junmyeon had shoved him gently in the arm, and right then Kyungsoo had started to fall in love with him.
Because Junmyeon wore sweaters over button-downs and was the principal of an elementary school and only really watched three television shows, all of which were sitcoms. Because he read articles about ladders and the science of junk food in his free time, went to the gym four times a week because that was what you were supposed to do to stay healthy, sometimes ate a whole box of Oreos in the space of a few hours when he got upset. Because he started learning how to dance when he was seven years old, and even though he was never the best, never really stood out from the other boys with tight leotards and slicked-back hair, he loved it more than he had ever loved anything before.
And Kyungsoo understands those things, loves those things about Junmyeon. But Kyungsoo decided long ago that he looks stupid when he wears sweaters over button-downs, and so he sticks to jackets. Before he met Junmyeon, he spent far too much time watching television-everything from ridiculous comedies to soap operas, though he rarely admits this to anyone-and he exercises whenever he remembers and whenever he feels like it, which probably isn’t nearly enough to stave off heart disease. And Kyungsoo’s parents forced him to start playing piano when he was six years old-young enough that in the beginning he didn’t hate his piano teacher the way he did when he was sixteen-and he never imagined that one day he would go to see the city orchestra perform and he would burst into silent tears because it was just so beautiful. Kyungsoo got the most gold stars stuck on the plastic nametag balanced precariously on the edge of his first grade desk, each one a small reminder of a book he’d finished, each one a harbinger of that time he fought off tears in the middle of his college English class because no respectable college kid cries at the sheer majesty of words, the sheer power they’re capable of wielding.
Junmyeon directs his anger inwards, cuts himself off from the world, blames himself for everything that goes wrong in his life. And Kyungsoo spits his anger outwards, snaps at his friends and drawls sarcastically at his enemies, imagines putting all those years of martial arts training to use in vivid detail.
Kyungsoo is convinced that Junmyeon is fundamentally a good person. And Kyungsoo is not. Kyungsoo has imagined killing people, sometimes has trouble remembering that other people have real feelings-realer than the characters whose voices spill across the pages of his notebooks. And Kyungsoo is afraid of people, stands in the corner at parties with a bored look on his face so that everyone will ignore the way his glass is trembling in his hand. Junmyeon was the one sitting in the middle of a large crowd, the first time Kyungsoo saw him. Quiet, smiling gently at other people’s stories. But still unafraid, included, everything Kyungsoo wanted so badly to be and at the same time cared so little about.
Neither of them is afraid of being alone.
None of their friends had understood that at first. How they could go weeks without seeing each other, communicating solely by text, the odd phone call, and not fall into the gaping pit of loneliness inevitably spreading out before them. Now they just attribute it to the fact that both Kyungsoo and Junmyeon are quiet, introverted, independent, all just different ways of saying that they’re the same type of person. The type who doesn’t need anyone. Until they do, that is.
Kyungsoo had trouble admitting he needed Junmyeon. Junmyeon had always been open, frighteningly open, and Kyungsoo hadn’t quite known how to handle it. Because he never let any part of himself willingly into the open-made his friends pry every single bit of information out of him. But Junmyeon slipped little secrets into nonchalant conversations, threaded bits of himself into his stories and jokes so easily Kyungsoo quickly realized Junmyeon was used to them sliding past unremembered, flying under the radar as if they’d never existed.
For Junmyeon’s birthday-about a month after they’d started casually dating-Kyungsoo made him a chocolate cake with almost too-sweet buttercream frosting, presented him with a book wrapped in flowery wrapping paper because that was all Kyungsoo had and he hadn’t had time to drop by the arts and crafts store, and grinned when Junmyeon reached for the camera he’d bought a week ago and found attached to it a brand-new zoom lens. Junmyeon had started to tear up, thrown his arms around Kyungsoo and hugged him so tight Kyungsoo’s back had started to arch uncomfortably. And Kyungsoo had hugged back just as hard, ignoring the pain in his squashed lungs, because he knew exactly how good it felt to realize that someone understood, that someone had listened, realized.
“No, no, your hand goes here,” Junmyeon corrects gently, sliding Kyungsoo’s fingers down until they’re resting on the gentle curve of his hip.
“Are you sure?” Kyungsoo grimaces, annoyed at having gotten another thing wrong. “Don’t answer that. I know you are.”
“Stop worrying so much,” Junmyeon smiles, stepping forward and forcing Kyungsoo backwards so they don’t run into a couple twirling past. “You’re really doing well.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s what I said to you when I was trying to teach you how to play piano and we both know I didn’t mean it,” Kyungsoo points out, wincing when he steps on Junmyeon’s foot yet again. “Sorry! Sorry.”
“Please,” Junmyeon snorts, face crinkling in that completely unattractive way Kyungsoo loves. “You weigh practically nothing compared to other partners I’ve had. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Then I must not be trying hard enough,” Kyungsoo says sweetly, sarcasm tempered by the small hitch in his breath when Junmyeon unexpectedly steps left, lifts their arms, sends Kyungsoo into a perfect spin that ends with him clamped firmly back in Junmyeon’s arms.
Kyungsoo doesn’t fuck on the first date.
It’s a rule he’s established for himself, a rule he usually has no trouble following. His physical desire is usually so subdued, emerges so rarely from underneath the thick, down blanket he imagines covering it that it’s always easy to dismiss it. He so rarely wants sex that he never has trouble saying goodbye to his dates at the end of the night, carefully monitoring their reactions.
When he first meets Junmyeon, he thinks he’s cute. Cute and funny, actually. Cute and funny and interesting, by the end of the night. But he’s not sure they’re going to work.
“Not because he’s not a nice guy,” he insists to Sehun over coffee, coffee that Sehun of course almost spills all over his own sweater because he’s texting Tao instead of making sure his cup makes it to his mouth. “He’s just…I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
“You always say that,” Sehun points out, grimacing and wiping foam off his chin. “And it’s never really all that hard to explain. He sounds like just your type.”
“How would you know!” Kyungsoo exclaims, a bit irritatedly, because just a few years ago Sehun was still struggling through college, calling up Kyungsoo every few days for advice and comfort and cookies. And now, here he is, trying to tell Kyungsoo he knows Kyungsoo’s type better than Kyungsoo does himself. Kyungsoo doesn’t have a type. Types are for shallow people.
“Please,” Sehun smirks annoyingly, taking a large gulp of his too-sweet coffee. Kyungsoo hopes it burns his tongue. “He’s ridiculously attractive, looks like the kind of guy who’d fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk and then make you pancakes after. He’s a little bit weird, doesn’t let his every emotion parade across his face like Tao does, and he doesn’t feel the need to spend every second talking. He’s basically your ideal boyfriend.”
“Whoa,” Kyungsoo had snorted, holding up both hands as if to ward off Sehun’s presumptions. “We’re not boyfriends. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Sehun had acquiesced, ignoring Kyungsoo’s pointed glare.
Of course, when he said that, Kyungsoo hadn’t known that the next time he would see Junmyeon, he’d be wearing a suit. Kyungsoo has always had a thing for men who look good in suits. He’d never quite realized how much of a thing.
“I feel a little under-dressed,” he’d laughed, gesturing down at his purple button-down and khakis. They’re sitting at a little sandwich place Junmyeon had found online-in a part of the city midway between the buildings they each worked in. It’s on a quiet side street, and the gentle buzz of conversation around them is soothing. The sun is slanting perfectly through the window they’re sitting beside, dripping across Junmyeon’s fingers as he fiddles with his sandwich, adds some mustard. Piano-player fingers, Kyungsoo muses, something no one’s ever said to him despite piano being his primary instrument.
“No, I’m sorry, I completely forgot that I had a big meeting today,” Junmyeon laughs, carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin and grimacing down at his dark grey suit, subtlety pinstriped. His tie is a deep sapphire blue. And as his fingers drift upwards to adjust the knot beneath his throat, Kyungsoo feels a sudden overwhelming urge to grab him, drag him over the lunch table, bits of sandwich spraying everywhere, and…well. It’s completely unexpected, and very disorienting. Kyungsoo isn’t quite sure he likes feeling this way.
This is probably why he misses the next thing Junmyeon says, and snaps back into focus with an embarrassed smile and an apologetic “sorry?”
“Your tomato,” Junmyeon smiles back, quick, sincere, beautiful. He’s beautiful. “Do you want it? Or can I have it?”
“Oh,” Kyungsoo laughs, carefully transferring the slices of tomato he excavated from his own sandwich onto Junmyeon’s plate. “Sure. I hate raw tomatoes.”
“How!” Junmyeon gasps in mock-disbelief. “Tomatoes are so delicious!”
“If you say so,” Kyungsoo sniffs, trying very hard to ignore the way Junmyeon’s suit jacket highlights his trim waist as he shifts in his seat.
Kyungsoo is never the one to initiate. He doesn’t invite, he doesn’t entreat, he doesn’t propose. He suggests, implies, recommends, and waits until the other person gets the hint. Once again, he’s shocked by how quickly Junmyeon catches on. How in-sync they are as they dance delicately around formalities, subtext, not-quite admissions.
“Can I see you tonight?” Junmyeon asks, just enough hesitation to let Kyungsoo refuse while showing that Junmyeon knows he won’t. “I’ve heard great things about your cooking from Luhan.”
And that makes sense, it’s how they met after all-through that complicated web of friendships and boyfriends and exes that arbitrarily draws people together and pushes people apart. Of course Junmyeon has heard good things about Kyungsoo’s cooking.
“I’ll text you my address,” Kyungsoo replies, hiding his smile with a bite of sandwich as Junmyeon moves his hand out of the patch of light coating the edge of their table.
Kyungsoo doesn’t hold hands. He just doesn’t. Some people might call it “romantic” but it just makes his hands sweat and he thinks there are so many better ways to fulfill his Relationships Quota of physical contact. But it’s cold when they leave the auditorium, winter chill seeping through their clothes, nipping at the fever-flush of warmth left over from dancing. And Junmyeon’s hands are always so cold-poor circulation, he always says-and Kyungsoo’s are always so warm.
“Hey,” Junmyeon says softly when he looks down at their clasped hands, up at Kyungsoo-who’s studiously gazing into the darkness in front of them, carefully counting the paces to the next streetlamp.
“Hmm?” Kyungsoo murmurs, grips tighter, fights the tiny smirk curling across his lips.
It’s not need, not desire, not exactly. Because neither of them are the type to need, the type to want to need. But it’s still heat and skin and heavy pressure as Kyungsoo writhes, presses his fingers hard into Junmyeon’s hips. Gasps out a hiccupping breath against his collarbone.
“Please,” he gasps, fucking back on Junmyeon’s cock because he feels so good, fills up Kyungsoo so good. And Junmyeon knows what he means, of course he does, because he’s Junmyeon.
“Kyungsoo, baby,” he groans, fingers shifting to curl in Kyungsoo’s hair, hips shifting just a bit to left so every thrust upwards has Kyungsoo stuttering, air leaving his lungs in a great quiet rush of pleasure. “Baby, god, you feel so good, keep going, fuck.”
“More,” Kyungsoo whimpers, surprising himself, because Junmyeon is the one who is loud, Junmyeon is the one who whines and pleads and gasps. And Kyungsoo takes, gives, silently, as his breath hitches and he sighs heavily, grunts quietly as Junmyeon meets him thrust for thrust. But Junmyeon is so beautiful, so fucking hot, with those blue-purple bruises blooming across his chest and, now unseen, down his thighs-Kyungsoo’s bruises, sucked into smooth, pale skin as Junmyeon bucked and begged for more, Kyungsoo, stop, I want to fuck you, want to make you come for me, come just for me.
Junmyeon is nothing if not obliging, using his grip on Kyungsoo’s hair to shove him back, so Junmyeon can sit up, spine molding against the hard wood of the headboard. So his cock can sink even deeper into Kyungsoo, drive the air from his lungs. And usually Junmyeon is so teasing, giving Kyungsoo almost what he wants before dancing away, torturously teasing him towards orgasm. But on nights like tonight, when everything is too much too fast, Junmyeon is pure motion, sucking in loud, wet lungfuls of air as Kyungsoo lifts himself up, drops, again and again and again.
“Fuck,” Junmyeon whimpers reverently, because he knows how much Kyungsoo likes it, knows how much it turns Kyungsoo on when he talks, when he tells him just how good it feels. Kyungsoo wishes it were just as easy for him to reciprocate. As easy as writing. As easy as music.
“Fuck, Junmyeon, fuck me harder,” he tries, hisses through clenched teeth, glad that he’s already flushed from exertion. But it’s intoxicating, the way Junmyeon instantly reacts, the way those simple words make him jerk, make his hips lift involuntarily, makes him bite down hard on his own lip as he pulses inside of Kyungsoo, drips come across their nice, clean sheets as he twists violently sideways, shoves Kyungsoo down so he’s suddenly gazing up into Junmyeon’s face, head encircled by a crinkled ring of blankets.
“That.” Junmyeon breathes, sliding down to mouth at the base of Kyungsoo’s erection, and Kyungsoo can feel him grin as Kyungsoo groans-so quiet, almost an afterthought, almost an exertion, but a start. “Was. So hot.”
And Kyungsoo would respond, maybe, would try to say something to let Junmyeon know that it’s just for him, just for him because Kyungsoo trusts him, wants him, loves him. But then Junmyeon is taking him into his mouth, tongue flicking against the underside of Kyungsoo’s aching cock, warm against too-hot skin. And Junmyeon chokes as Kyungsoo jerks forward, comes, hands balled into fists, eyes squeezed shut.
“Thanks,” Junmyeon murmurs huskily, when Kyungsoo drags him up, kisses him hard over and over again.
“I love you,” Kyungsoo whispers. And Junmyeon doesn’t need to say it back for Kyungsoo to know.
“I’m glad,” Kyungsoo hums, as Junmyeon wraps an arm around his shoulder, drags him closer. It’s cold out, and Junmyeon’s hands are cold but his chest is warm. Kyungsoo’s hands are warm and his heart is so full. “Glad that we’re learning, that you let me…that we came here.”
“Well, it was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to become a concert pianist, so we’re lucky you’re better at dancing than I am at music,” Junmyeon smiles, winks in that ridiculous adorable way he has.
“Maybe…” Kyungsoo pauses, hesitates, considers. But Junmyeon doesn’t even bother glancing at him to see if something is wrong. He knows by now to wait. “Maybe next time, I could lead?”
“Maybe,” Junmyeon laughs. Pulls Kyungsoo even closer, even though they’re outside, even though someone might see, someone might think. And Kyungsoo.
What they have-what Kyungsoo needs-it’s just so perfect. Junmyeon is so perfect. Thinks Kyungsoo is perfect.
“Perfect,” Kyungsoo replies, wrapping his arm around Junmyeon’s waist. Warm, sturdy, reliable, so different from the way his eyes are sparkling with understanding, appreciation, unpredictable energy.
“Perfect,” Junmyeon repeats, and Kyungsoo knows he isn’t talking about their next dance lesson. He knows.
And it’s so much more than enough.
a/n: WOW it’s been a long time since I wrote anything EXO. But hey, with this comeback I’ve found myself re-inspired. Anyway, the sudi dynamic is one that’s fascinated me for a long time (I’m so sorry if I wrote it wrong, how does one even sudi correctly?) and it was really fun to write.
Pairing: Suho/Kyungsoo
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4,900
Summary: No one quite understands how they work, but that doesn't make it any less perfect.
Junmyeon is hard. Junmyeon is hard, but his hands are soft. Junmyeon is hard, but his hands are soft and his eyes are bright.
This is what Kyungsoo learns that night.
Of course, he learns other things. He learns the basic step, the easy embrace, a simple turn. But nothing compares to the way Junmyeon feels under his fingertips, the way his warm body molds perfectly against Kyungsoo’s, confusingly hard and soft and bright all too much and all at once.
“Did you have fun?” Junmyeon asks anxiously, once they’re back out on the cold pavement-gazing blearily into the dark, wet distance to try to spot the dark, wet bus pulling towards to their stop. He’s back to his usual self now, all wary and self-satisfied and curious all at once. But Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo feels like he left a part of himself behind in that dingy auditorium-or did he find a new piece of himself?-and he feels slightly dizzy, half-drunk on moonlight and the smooth jazz filtering out the cracked windowpanes of the apartment building behind them.
“Of course I had fun!” Kyungsoo replies easily, slipping into their routine, slipping his hand into Junmyeon’s. “That was amazing! I can’t believe you never took me before. I can’t believe you never even let me watch you before.”
“Well, I didn’t know how’d you feel about it,” Junmyeon smirks, and Kyungsoo squeezes his soft hand a bit too hard. “Seeing as how my partners are generally beautiful and extremely flexible women.”
“Oh, please,” Kyungsoo laughs, the sound catching in the hiss of the slightly-late bus and ending in a rush of stale air. “Wasn’t your ex-girlfriend a gymnast? If that wasn’t flexible enough for you, I doubt I have any reason to worry about dancers. Besides, I’m a hundred times more attractive than that instructor who kissed you on the cheek when we first walked in.”
“Hey,” Junmyeon warns, and Kyungsoo tries to hide his flush by sliding quickly into a window seat and turning to stare at the gold-eyed reflection glimmering back at him. Junmyeon somehow always manages to tell when Kyungsoo’s hiding sadness with irony, anger with sarcasm. “Don’t hold a grudge against Estefanía. She’s really nice, and we’ve known each other for years. Ever since college, actually.”
“I didn’t know you kept in touch with anyone from college,” Kyungsoo comments interestedly, this new tidbit of information surprising enough to draw him out from his tiny cloud of discontent.
“I don’t, really,” Junmyeon admits, casually swinging his arm around the back of Kyungsoo’s chair so it’s almost resting on Kyungsoo’s shoulders-almost, but not quite. “But she comes to dance about once a month, and I figure that counts as knowing each other, right?”
“Not in the biblical sense, it doesn’t,” Kyungsoo snickers, elbowing Junmyeon gently in the ribs to drive his point home. Junmyeon just smiles, lets his arm slide down until it’s really resting on Kyungsoo’s shoulders-solid, warm, reassuring.
“My place?” Junmyeon asks, and Kyungsoo nods absently, fighting the urge to link their hands, to brush his lips sideways until they meet Junmyeon’s cheek. Because they’re in public, and it’s force of habit for Kyungsoo to be discreet. It’s force of habit for him to hide. He knows it makes Junmyeon uneasy, probably secretly makes Junmyeon feel a bit slighted, a bit frustrated. And Kyungsoo is trying. He is. But habits like this are oh so very hard to break.
Junmyeon reaches for his hand and Kyungsoo can’t stop himself from jerking slightly out of reach, hissing in discontent the instant he does so. Within seconds, his hand has shifted back, curled warmly around Junmyeon’s, but he knows Junmyeon has noticed. Junmyeon always notices.
“You know I don’t mean it,” Kyungsoo whispers, because even though the sound of rain is loud on the roof of the bus he still feels like there are a hundred pairs of ears listening to him, listening to them. He feels like there are minds reaching out to yank his thoughts out of his own head, eyes watching them as closely as Kyungsoo watches Junmyeon sometimes when he’s napping on the couch, feeling his heart clench at the perfect curve of Junmyeon’s jaw, the way his muscles shift under his shirt, the way his small form-small, but still a tiny bit larger than Kyungsoo-fits perfectly into the empty space.
“I know,” Junmyeon murmurs with a small, tired smile. Kyungsoo grits his teeth and turns to look out the window, muffles a curse because all he can see is their reflection staring back at him. Their eyes glimmer dimly, pasted onto the black background. It’s cold on the bus, hard plastic seat digging into Kyungsoo’s back and cold damp air creeping through the windowpane beside him. But Junmyeon is so warm.
“No, no, don’t keep looking down,” Junmyeon admonishes him, tightening his grip on Kyungsoo’s waist to get his attention.
“But I can’t tell what my feet are doing!” Kyungsoo protests, a bit grumpily, because they’ve been doing this for almost an hour now and Kyungsoo can only take so much. He knows it’s another bad habit-getting frustrated, giving up so easily when he’s worse at something than whoever he’s with. But the music floating around them is teasing, enticing-it makes Kyungsoo want to be more than he is, makes Kyungsoo want to flow across the dance floor like some of the advanced couples he sees spinning off to the side of the room. Poetry in motion. A terrible cliché, but Kyungsoo could write it so beautifully no one would mind reading yet another short story about two dancers twirling across age-softened floorboards, lost in each other’s eyes.
“You don’t need to look,” Junmyeon grins teasingly, and his genuine kindness, his heartfelt belief in Kyungsoo’s ability to follow where he leads, works a grudging smile out of Kyungsoo too.
“I do need to,” Kyungsoo protests anyway. “This is only my second lesson! I don’t want to look like a total idiot.”
“Trust me,” Junmyeon says seriously, sliding much too close, but just as Kyungsoo is about to protest, about to make a sarcastic comment about Junmyeon perhaps wanting his toes stepped on, he finds himself spinning away, only to be scooped up in Junmyeon’s arms on the return a few seconds later. It’s disorienting, and Kyungsoo isn’t quite sure if he likes it. But he kind of wants to try it again.
“I know, I know,” Kyungsoo sighs, letting the hand clasped in Junmyeon’s squeeze as tightly as he dares. “Remind me when we go back to going on dates where I’m good at things?”
“Oh, do you not like this?” Junmyeon asks, his face suddenly falling, and Kyungsoo almost trips with how fast he tries to suck back in all his words.
“No! No, I like this,” Kyungsoo assures him. And he does. The slight discomfort, the half-felt pangs of embarrassment, self-consciousness, insecurity that are always lurking just on the edges of his mind are worth dealing with if it means getting to hold Junmyeon like this, getting to watch the way Junmyeon’s eyes light up when Kyungsoo masters another move, executes a perfect spin and ends up back in Junmyeon’s arm, pressed much too close. “But next week, before we come to this, we’re going to that open mic at the coffee house.”
“Fine,” Junmyeon laughs brightly, leaning his head on Kyungsoo’s shoulder and letting Kyungsoo pull him close, drop their perfect posture in favor of increased contact. “I’ll go and listen to you read some very deep poem about existence that will leave me feeling small and inadequate.”
“Thank you,” Kyungsoo replies primly, laughing when Junmyeon deliberately steps on his toes. “Your patronage is much appreciated.”
Kyungsoo blows Junmyeon against the kitchen table that night, stands just as Junmyeon rises to put his dishes in the sink and boxes him in against the smooth wood. Presses so close Kyungsoo can feel every breath, every shudder, as Junmyeon tries to drag him forward, seal their mouths even tighter together. Junmyeon is always so desperate-all hot fingers and wandering glances-and Kyungsoo loves riling him up just to watch him gasp like a swimmer desperate for air. Kyungsoo loves making Junmyeon moan. Kyungsoo is always quiet when Junmyeon drops to his knees, takes him into his mouth, fucks him slow and sweet to the soundtrack of rustling sheets and humming crickets. Another habit, another tiny part of who Kyungsoo is. But Junmyeon, Junmyeon is loud and greedy and Kyungsoo loves it.
“Beg me for it,” Kyungsoo groans as he pulls backwards, licks a stripe up the underside of Junmyeon’s cock, basks in the whine that Junmyeon doesn’t even try to stifle.
“Please, baby, please,” Junmyeon hums, jerking his hips forward ineffectively as his white-knuckled hands grip the table behind him. And it doesn’t matter that sometimes Kyungsoo is the one begging, the one desperate for Junmyeon’s mouth, Junmyeon’s cock. Because right now, Junmyeon is putty in Kyungsoo’s hands, and Kyungsoo feels more powerful than he ever does in his normal, day-to-day life.
And so he obliges, sinking down and slurping wetly around the head, glancing up every now and then to admire the way Junmyeon’s eyes are squeezed shut, he mouth gaping open in heady pleasure. Kyungsoo pries one of Junmyeon’s hands off the table, moves it to grip Kyungsoo’s messy hair, and Junmyeon gasps, hiccups, jolts forward when he comes hard, hands reaching down to yank Kyungsoo up so Junmyeon can kiss him, taste himself on Kyungsoo’s tongue.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” Junmyeon sighs, brushing his thumb across Kyungsoo’s cheek, and it’s so cliché but Kyungsoo loves it anyway.
“Do you want me to fuck you now?” he whispers, right in Junmyeon’s ear, right where he’s most ticklish. “Do you want to potentially destroy our couch and let me fuck you right there, right where all of our friends sit whenever they come over?”
“God, yes,” Junmyeon gasps, grabbing Kyungsoo’s wrist and practically dragging him over to the living room.
Junmyeon is a different kind of serious than Kyungsoo.
Everyone who knows them, all of their friends, don’t see much of a difference. They laugh and say that Junmyeon and Kyungsoo are perfect for each other, but that they must be the most boring couple ever since they’re both so responsible and reasonable. Not like Sehun and Tao, who are still just young enough that when they say they’ve decided to see other people (again), no one is surprised to find them making out in a closet two hours later. Not like Minseok and Luhan, who are also Real Live Adults but are still adding to the list of Public Places They’ve Banged In.
Kyungsoo and Junmyeon, to put it bluntly, both have their shit together. They have bank accounts, silverware, tastefully decorated apartments, well-paying and respectable jobs. They go out to ridiculously expensive restaurants on birthdays and anniversaries. They cut out coupons to bring with them when they go grocery shopping. They take public transport as often as possible to do their part in saving the planet. They’ve been to the same sandwich place so many times the workers know their orders by heart and always ask them how they’ve been, good week, but long, right? They both know how to tie a bow tie, and what a cravat is, though they rarely have occasion to wear either. Between the two of them, they probably own half a dozen plain white button-downs.
But Junmyeon is a different type of serious than Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo knew that from the first moment they met. On their first date, Junmyeon wore a blue button-down underneath a soft navy sweater. Kyungsoo wore a blue button-up underneath a dark green bomber jacket. They both wore jeans. They talked about what they did, how nice the weather had been recently, what they were planning for the upcoming holidays, how weird it was to go on dates right around Christmas-like, what exactly is the gift situation supposed to be, you know? Neither ever spent the holidays with their families, though not because of any feud or bad blood.
“It just seems like a hassle,” Junmyeon had sighed, eyeing Kyungsoo hesitantly like he was a bit embarrassed to admit it. “And I can always Skype. They just live so far away.”
“Ugh, and then you just have to pray there are no storms so you don’t get trapped in some dingy airport hotel for days on end with nothing to eat but whatever you can carry back to your room from the free continental breakfast!” Kyungsoo had moaned and Junmyeon had snorted in amusement, asked Kyungsoo if he was speaking from experience.
“Of course not,” Kyungsoo had laughed, and Junmyeon had shoved him gently in the arm, and right then Kyungsoo had started to fall in love with him.
Because Junmyeon wore sweaters over button-downs and was the principal of an elementary school and only really watched three television shows, all of which were sitcoms. Because he read articles about ladders and the science of junk food in his free time, went to the gym four times a week because that was what you were supposed to do to stay healthy, sometimes ate a whole box of Oreos in the space of a few hours when he got upset. Because he started learning how to dance when he was seven years old, and even though he was never the best, never really stood out from the other boys with tight leotards and slicked-back hair, he loved it more than he had ever loved anything before.
And Kyungsoo understands those things, loves those things about Junmyeon. But Kyungsoo decided long ago that he looks stupid when he wears sweaters over button-downs, and so he sticks to jackets. Before he met Junmyeon, he spent far too much time watching television-everything from ridiculous comedies to soap operas, though he rarely admits this to anyone-and he exercises whenever he remembers and whenever he feels like it, which probably isn’t nearly enough to stave off heart disease. And Kyungsoo’s parents forced him to start playing piano when he was six years old-young enough that in the beginning he didn’t hate his piano teacher the way he did when he was sixteen-and he never imagined that one day he would go to see the city orchestra perform and he would burst into silent tears because it was just so beautiful. Kyungsoo got the most gold stars stuck on the plastic nametag balanced precariously on the edge of his first grade desk, each one a small reminder of a book he’d finished, each one a harbinger of that time he fought off tears in the middle of his college English class because no respectable college kid cries at the sheer majesty of words, the sheer power they’re capable of wielding.
Junmyeon directs his anger inwards, cuts himself off from the world, blames himself for everything that goes wrong in his life. And Kyungsoo spits his anger outwards, snaps at his friends and drawls sarcastically at his enemies, imagines putting all those years of martial arts training to use in vivid detail.
Kyungsoo is convinced that Junmyeon is fundamentally a good person. And Kyungsoo is not. Kyungsoo has imagined killing people, sometimes has trouble remembering that other people have real feelings-realer than the characters whose voices spill across the pages of his notebooks. And Kyungsoo is afraid of people, stands in the corner at parties with a bored look on his face so that everyone will ignore the way his glass is trembling in his hand. Junmyeon was the one sitting in the middle of a large crowd, the first time Kyungsoo saw him. Quiet, smiling gently at other people’s stories. But still unafraid, included, everything Kyungsoo wanted so badly to be and at the same time cared so little about.
Neither of them is afraid of being alone.
None of their friends had understood that at first. How they could go weeks without seeing each other, communicating solely by text, the odd phone call, and not fall into the gaping pit of loneliness inevitably spreading out before them. Now they just attribute it to the fact that both Kyungsoo and Junmyeon are quiet, introverted, independent, all just different ways of saying that they’re the same type of person. The type who doesn’t need anyone. Until they do, that is.
Kyungsoo had trouble admitting he needed Junmyeon. Junmyeon had always been open, frighteningly open, and Kyungsoo hadn’t quite known how to handle it. Because he never let any part of himself willingly into the open-made his friends pry every single bit of information out of him. But Junmyeon slipped little secrets into nonchalant conversations, threaded bits of himself into his stories and jokes so easily Kyungsoo quickly realized Junmyeon was used to them sliding past unremembered, flying under the radar as if they’d never existed.
For Junmyeon’s birthday-about a month after they’d started casually dating-Kyungsoo made him a chocolate cake with almost too-sweet buttercream frosting, presented him with a book wrapped in flowery wrapping paper because that was all Kyungsoo had and he hadn’t had time to drop by the arts and crafts store, and grinned when Junmyeon reached for the camera he’d bought a week ago and found attached to it a brand-new zoom lens. Junmyeon had started to tear up, thrown his arms around Kyungsoo and hugged him so tight Kyungsoo’s back had started to arch uncomfortably. And Kyungsoo had hugged back just as hard, ignoring the pain in his squashed lungs, because he knew exactly how good it felt to realize that someone understood, that someone had listened, realized.
“No, no, your hand goes here,” Junmyeon corrects gently, sliding Kyungsoo’s fingers down until they’re resting on the gentle curve of his hip.
“Are you sure?” Kyungsoo grimaces, annoyed at having gotten another thing wrong. “Don’t answer that. I know you are.”
“Stop worrying so much,” Junmyeon smiles, stepping forward and forcing Kyungsoo backwards so they don’t run into a couple twirling past. “You’re really doing well.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s what I said to you when I was trying to teach you how to play piano and we both know I didn’t mean it,” Kyungsoo points out, wincing when he steps on Junmyeon’s foot yet again. “Sorry! Sorry.”
“Please,” Junmyeon snorts, face crinkling in that completely unattractive way Kyungsoo loves. “You weigh practically nothing compared to other partners I’ve had. It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Then I must not be trying hard enough,” Kyungsoo says sweetly, sarcasm tempered by the small hitch in his breath when Junmyeon unexpectedly steps left, lifts their arms, sends Kyungsoo into a perfect spin that ends with him clamped firmly back in Junmyeon’s arms.
Kyungsoo doesn’t fuck on the first date.
It’s a rule he’s established for himself, a rule he usually has no trouble following. His physical desire is usually so subdued, emerges so rarely from underneath the thick, down blanket he imagines covering it that it’s always easy to dismiss it. He so rarely wants sex that he never has trouble saying goodbye to his dates at the end of the night, carefully monitoring their reactions.
When he first meets Junmyeon, he thinks he’s cute. Cute and funny, actually. Cute and funny and interesting, by the end of the night. But he’s not sure they’re going to work.
“Not because he’s not a nice guy,” he insists to Sehun over coffee, coffee that Sehun of course almost spills all over his own sweater because he’s texting Tao instead of making sure his cup makes it to his mouth. “He’s just…I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”
“You always say that,” Sehun points out, grimacing and wiping foam off his chin. “And it’s never really all that hard to explain. He sounds like just your type.”
“How would you know!” Kyungsoo exclaims, a bit irritatedly, because just a few years ago Sehun was still struggling through college, calling up Kyungsoo every few days for advice and comfort and cookies. And now, here he is, trying to tell Kyungsoo he knows Kyungsoo’s type better than Kyungsoo does himself. Kyungsoo doesn’t have a type. Types are for shallow people.
“Please,” Sehun smirks annoyingly, taking a large gulp of his too-sweet coffee. Kyungsoo hopes it burns his tongue. “He’s ridiculously attractive, looks like the kind of guy who’d fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk and then make you pancakes after. He’s a little bit weird, doesn’t let his every emotion parade across his face like Tao does, and he doesn’t feel the need to spend every second talking. He’s basically your ideal boyfriend.”
“Whoa,” Kyungsoo had snorted, holding up both hands as if to ward off Sehun’s presumptions. “We’re not boyfriends. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” Sehun had acquiesced, ignoring Kyungsoo’s pointed glare.
Of course, when he said that, Kyungsoo hadn’t known that the next time he would see Junmyeon, he’d be wearing a suit. Kyungsoo has always had a thing for men who look good in suits. He’d never quite realized how much of a thing.
“I feel a little under-dressed,” he’d laughed, gesturing down at his purple button-down and khakis. They’re sitting at a little sandwich place Junmyeon had found online-in a part of the city midway between the buildings they each worked in. It’s on a quiet side street, and the gentle buzz of conversation around them is soothing. The sun is slanting perfectly through the window they’re sitting beside, dripping across Junmyeon’s fingers as he fiddles with his sandwich, adds some mustard. Piano-player fingers, Kyungsoo muses, something no one’s ever said to him despite piano being his primary instrument.
“No, I’m sorry, I completely forgot that I had a big meeting today,” Junmyeon laughs, carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin and grimacing down at his dark grey suit, subtlety pinstriped. His tie is a deep sapphire blue. And as his fingers drift upwards to adjust the knot beneath his throat, Kyungsoo feels a sudden overwhelming urge to grab him, drag him over the lunch table, bits of sandwich spraying everywhere, and…well. It’s completely unexpected, and very disorienting. Kyungsoo isn’t quite sure he likes feeling this way.
This is probably why he misses the next thing Junmyeon says, and snaps back into focus with an embarrassed smile and an apologetic “sorry?”
“Your tomato,” Junmyeon smiles back, quick, sincere, beautiful. He’s beautiful. “Do you want it? Or can I have it?”
“Oh,” Kyungsoo laughs, carefully transferring the slices of tomato he excavated from his own sandwich onto Junmyeon’s plate. “Sure. I hate raw tomatoes.”
“How!” Junmyeon gasps in mock-disbelief. “Tomatoes are so delicious!”
“If you say so,” Kyungsoo sniffs, trying very hard to ignore the way Junmyeon’s suit jacket highlights his trim waist as he shifts in his seat.
Kyungsoo is never the one to initiate. He doesn’t invite, he doesn’t entreat, he doesn’t propose. He suggests, implies, recommends, and waits until the other person gets the hint. Once again, he’s shocked by how quickly Junmyeon catches on. How in-sync they are as they dance delicately around formalities, subtext, not-quite admissions.
“Can I see you tonight?” Junmyeon asks, just enough hesitation to let Kyungsoo refuse while showing that Junmyeon knows he won’t. “I’ve heard great things about your cooking from Luhan.”
And that makes sense, it’s how they met after all-through that complicated web of friendships and boyfriends and exes that arbitrarily draws people together and pushes people apart. Of course Junmyeon has heard good things about Kyungsoo’s cooking.
“I’ll text you my address,” Kyungsoo replies, hiding his smile with a bite of sandwich as Junmyeon moves his hand out of the patch of light coating the edge of their table.
Kyungsoo doesn’t hold hands. He just doesn’t. Some people might call it “romantic” but it just makes his hands sweat and he thinks there are so many better ways to fulfill his Relationships Quota of physical contact. But it’s cold when they leave the auditorium, winter chill seeping through their clothes, nipping at the fever-flush of warmth left over from dancing. And Junmyeon’s hands are always so cold-poor circulation, he always says-and Kyungsoo’s are always so warm.
“Hey,” Junmyeon says softly when he looks down at their clasped hands, up at Kyungsoo-who’s studiously gazing into the darkness in front of them, carefully counting the paces to the next streetlamp.
“Hmm?” Kyungsoo murmurs, grips tighter, fights the tiny smirk curling across his lips.
It’s not need, not desire, not exactly. Because neither of them are the type to need, the type to want to need. But it’s still heat and skin and heavy pressure as Kyungsoo writhes, presses his fingers hard into Junmyeon’s hips. Gasps out a hiccupping breath against his collarbone.
“Please,” he gasps, fucking back on Junmyeon’s cock because he feels so good, fills up Kyungsoo so good. And Junmyeon knows what he means, of course he does, because he’s Junmyeon.
“Kyungsoo, baby,” he groans, fingers shifting to curl in Kyungsoo’s hair, hips shifting just a bit to left so every thrust upwards has Kyungsoo stuttering, air leaving his lungs in a great quiet rush of pleasure. “Baby, god, you feel so good, keep going, fuck.”
“More,” Kyungsoo whimpers, surprising himself, because Junmyeon is the one who is loud, Junmyeon is the one who whines and pleads and gasps. And Kyungsoo takes, gives, silently, as his breath hitches and he sighs heavily, grunts quietly as Junmyeon meets him thrust for thrust. But Junmyeon is so beautiful, so fucking hot, with those blue-purple bruises blooming across his chest and, now unseen, down his thighs-Kyungsoo’s bruises, sucked into smooth, pale skin as Junmyeon bucked and begged for more, Kyungsoo, stop, I want to fuck you, want to make you come for me, come just for me.
Junmyeon is nothing if not obliging, using his grip on Kyungsoo’s hair to shove him back, so Junmyeon can sit up, spine molding against the hard wood of the headboard. So his cock can sink even deeper into Kyungsoo, drive the air from his lungs. And usually Junmyeon is so teasing, giving Kyungsoo almost what he wants before dancing away, torturously teasing him towards orgasm. But on nights like tonight, when everything is too much too fast, Junmyeon is pure motion, sucking in loud, wet lungfuls of air as Kyungsoo lifts himself up, drops, again and again and again.
“Fuck,” Junmyeon whimpers reverently, because he knows how much Kyungsoo likes it, knows how much it turns Kyungsoo on when he talks, when he tells him just how good it feels. Kyungsoo wishes it were just as easy for him to reciprocate. As easy as writing. As easy as music.
“Fuck, Junmyeon, fuck me harder,” he tries, hisses through clenched teeth, glad that he’s already flushed from exertion. But it’s intoxicating, the way Junmyeon instantly reacts, the way those simple words make him jerk, make his hips lift involuntarily, makes him bite down hard on his own lip as he pulses inside of Kyungsoo, drips come across their nice, clean sheets as he twists violently sideways, shoves Kyungsoo down so he’s suddenly gazing up into Junmyeon’s face, head encircled by a crinkled ring of blankets.
“That.” Junmyeon breathes, sliding down to mouth at the base of Kyungsoo’s erection, and Kyungsoo can feel him grin as Kyungsoo groans-so quiet, almost an afterthought, almost an exertion, but a start. “Was. So hot.”
And Kyungsoo would respond, maybe, would try to say something to let Junmyeon know that it’s just for him, just for him because Kyungsoo trusts him, wants him, loves him. But then Junmyeon is taking him into his mouth, tongue flicking against the underside of Kyungsoo’s aching cock, warm against too-hot skin. And Junmyeon chokes as Kyungsoo jerks forward, comes, hands balled into fists, eyes squeezed shut.
“Thanks,” Junmyeon murmurs huskily, when Kyungsoo drags him up, kisses him hard over and over again.
“I love you,” Kyungsoo whispers. And Junmyeon doesn’t need to say it back for Kyungsoo to know.
“I’m glad,” Kyungsoo hums, as Junmyeon wraps an arm around his shoulder, drags him closer. It’s cold out, and Junmyeon’s hands are cold but his chest is warm. Kyungsoo’s hands are warm and his heart is so full. “Glad that we’re learning, that you let me…that we came here.”
“Well, it was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to become a concert pianist, so we’re lucky you’re better at dancing than I am at music,” Junmyeon smiles, winks in that ridiculous adorable way he has.
“Maybe…” Kyungsoo pauses, hesitates, considers. But Junmyeon doesn’t even bother glancing at him to see if something is wrong. He knows by now to wait. “Maybe next time, I could lead?”
“Maybe,” Junmyeon laughs. Pulls Kyungsoo even closer, even though they’re outside, even though someone might see, someone might think. And Kyungsoo.
What they have-what Kyungsoo needs-it’s just so perfect. Junmyeon is so perfect. Thinks Kyungsoo is perfect.
“Perfect,” Kyungsoo replies, wrapping his arm around Junmyeon’s waist. Warm, sturdy, reliable, so different from the way his eyes are sparkling with understanding, appreciation, unpredictable energy.
“Perfect,” Junmyeon repeats, and Kyungsoo knows he isn’t talking about their next dance lesson. He knows.
And it’s so much more than enough.
a/n: WOW it’s been a long time since I wrote anything EXO. But hey, with this comeback I’ve found myself re-inspired. Anyway, the sudi dynamic is one that’s fascinated me for a long time (I’m so sorry if I wrote it wrong, how does one even sudi correctly?) and it was really fun to write.