EXO || make it last forever (Tao/Sehun)
make it last forever
Tao/Sehun
NC-17, ~2.4k.
"Internet buddies finally meet after a long time!"
drabble for this prompt on exopromptmeme (and as a fandom-warming gift for preorder~)
Sehun can't stop stealing looks at Zitao.
im flying in friday nite, pick me up? he had emailed two weeks ago, swallowing his nerves, and now here they are. Standing at a street intersection together, waiting to cross the road to arrive at Zitao's apartment. Sehun had gotten permission from his parents for a week-long stay in Qingdao under the pretense of visiting the college senior who had mentored him last term. Lu Han has a spare bedroom, he'd reassured them, though of course Lu Han had no such thing-didn't even live in Qingdao. It was a testament to how well Lu Han spoke and behaved with adults that Sehun's parents agreed to the trip.
"How was the flight?"
Taking an unsteady breath through his mouth, Sehun peeks over at Zitao. Zitao is grinning at him, so wide that his eyes crinkle into crescents. Sehun smiles back as attractively as he can. Zitao is attractive. The cut of his jaw is unreal in real life. "Uh, fine," Sehun says. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. The traffic around them is loud and reckless, and it makes him feel that much smaller.
Before Sehun can dwell on his own awkwardness, Zitao grabs his wrist. "Let's go!" he says, and Sehun lets out a yelp as he's dragged onto the road.
"It's a red light!"
"You're not in Seoul anymore," Zitao shouts. "It's every pedestrian for himself!"
They make it across the street in one piece, Sehun's suitcase banging along in Zitao's grip. The handle slides out when it hits the curb, and Sehun bursts out laughing at Zitao's startled expression. Zitao looks at him, and Sehun covers his mouth with his hand, a little self-conscious. Zitao shakes his head, and pulls Sehun's hand away from his face. He glances at his feet, keeping the loose clasp of his fingers around Sehun's wrist, and Sehun feels his face heat up.
"We're finally meeting," Sehun says, and swings his arm, pitching his voice to sound light-hearted.
"Three years," Zitao says, wiggling Sehun's wrist in the circle of his fingers. "I feel like I'm dreaming."
"Am I as cute in real life?" Sehun teases automatically, then wants to take it back. It's probably too early for that kind of joke. What if he isn't? He probably isn't. Camera angles and webcam lighting do wonders.
Zitao ducks his head, biting back a smile. "You're cuter," he says, the quietest he's been since he yelled Sehun's name and barrelled towards him at the airport. Zitao has been barely-restrained exuberance since they set eyes on each other, but now on the quiet side of the street, in the shadow of dusty building complexes, he walks with his chin down and his shoulders slightly hunched, shyness creeping up the back of his neck. Now that they're out of the public bustle, there's no one to jabber for. It's just Zitao and Sehun. The low afternoon sun crests on the close-cropped blond hair at Zitao's nape, sliding shadows down the collar of his coat. Sehun presses closer.
"You too," he says, and Zitao's surprised, flattered giggle makes Sehun wish he'd said something more honest. You're gorgeous.
They shuffle down the block. Sehun tries not to shiver. Qingdao in February is cold enough for down jackets and scarves, but he only has the cotton-padded coat and t-shirt he'd worn on the plane. Zitao is in a leather jacket, open over a fisherman knit sweater. He wears an assortment of beads and braided leather straps around his right wrist.
"Ah!" Sehun holds up the hand Zitao isn't holding hostage. He shakes his wrist, showing off his bracelet.
Zitao blinks, then beams. He swoops in, clumsily smacking a kiss to Sehun's pulse point, right above the string of beads. Sehun almost stumbles, heart rate picking up.
"I'm so glad you're wearing it," Zitao says, perfunctory but sincere.
"I haven't taken it off since you sent it to me," Sehun admits. They both smile at each other, and half of Sehun wants to melt away in the sheer masculine indignity. The other half wants to melt out of giddiness.
Zitao lives on the sixth floor. There is no elevator, and Sehun is only a little embarrassed by how hard he's breathing by the time they reach the right landing. He tells Zitao he's tired from his flight and from the backpack weighing on his shoulders, and delivers a limp punch when Zitao smirks at him.
"Gym rat," Sehun whines. Zitao ushers him inside, tossing a pair of slippers down from the shoe rack. He takes Sehun's backpack and puts it on an armchair, rolling Sehun's suitcase to one corner.
Zitao's studio apartment is small but well-furnished, with smooth white flooring and polished dark wood trim. A double bed is tucked in the far corner behind translucent curtains, an exposed clothes rack guarding its foot. As far as Sehun can tell, Zitao doesn't own a couch or a futon. He licks his lips, nervous. "I like your, um, apartm-"
He stops short, because Zitao is emerging from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a hanging towel and tugging his sweater over his head. The leather jacket is already vanished. Underneath, Zitao is wearing a white tank top. The cut of the straps curve away from his strong shoulders, and Zitao ruffles his hand through his pale bangs before shaking out the sweater and easing it on a hanger.
"Are you hungry?" Zitao says, and it takes a little for the clumsy Korean to process through Sehun's dazed mind.
"Yes," Sehun answers in Chinese, and Zitao rewards him with a look of delight. Sehun tries not to watch how Zitao tugs his tank top out of his pants, winding the hem up around his waist to expose his muscled stomach. It's warm in the apartment.
"Make yourself comfortable!" Zitao gestures, and disappears to the adjoined kitchen.
Sehun shucks off his jacket and sticks his hands in his pockets. He turns in a slow circle; so this is the room where Zitao sits and chats with him every night. There's a table across from the bed with a closed laptop, a velour chair in front of it. The wall behind has the Chinese brush painting Sehun's grown familiar with through their video calls. He shuffles up to it, peering at the amateur brushstrokes. A black leopard, from when Zitao injured his leg and briefly swapped martial arts for beaux arts.
Three years. Sehun's fists clench, then loosen. Somehow, the tension is washing out of him, nerves unwinding. He'd braced himself for all kinds of disappointment, big and small: that the atmosphere would be unbreakably stiff, that Zitao wouldn't be as sweetly charming in person, or as attractive, or even as tall. He had carefully counselled himself for pessimism, but it seems like his worries were unfounded. He can only hope the same is true on Zitao's end.
"Aish." Zitao reappears with a frosty pack of beer and a packet of dried squid under his arm. He scrubs his hand through his hair and sits on the floor before the low coffee table, crossing his legs. "You know, I really wanted to pick you up in my car."
Sehun squeezes in next to him. Zitao pops the cap off a bottle and hands it to him, then tears open the bag of squid and puts a piece to Sehun's lips. Sehun bites into it delicately, and Zitao sticks the rest in his own mouth. "Your new Benz?"
"Yeah." Zitao pouts. "How cool would that have looked, at the airport? In my," he twists around, fishing into a woven basket hung on the wall, and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, "Bottega Veneta shades." He slides them on and tilts his chin at Sehun. "Yeah."
Sehun buries his face in his knees. "Don't say it like that in real life," he manages through his laughter, and Zitao elbows him.
"Anyway, it's in the shop." Zitao takes a mournful swig of his beer. "I can get it tomorrow afternoon, so then I will take you out on the town. I'll show you the Qingdao club scene."
"Can't wait," Sehun deadpans. Zitao feeds him another piece of squid. "Is this all the food I'm getting?"
"I ordered take-out!"
Sehun shoves Zitao in the chest. He's warm and solid under Sehun's fingertips. Sehun tries not to think about it. "What happened to cooking for me?"
"Don't you hate heavy food after a long trip?" Zitao asks. "I do. This Muslim place does really good delivery." Sehun jabs him again, and Zitao pushes him away. "I'll take you to the seafood market tomorrow. Morning market first though, there's a tofu soup-"
Sehun snatches the packet of squid away and vengefully shoves three in his mouth. "Please, keep talking about food you'll feed me later." He can feel Zitao staring. "What?"
"You're so cute," Zitao says.
Sehun's fingers curl into the plastic packet. Zitao's gaze doesn't waver, and Sehun feels his heart thud in the back of his throat. He recovers with an exaggerated groan and covers his face, both in mock-defeat and to hide his blush. Zitao snickers, then abruptly stands up and starts undoing his belt.
Sehun looks up in horror. Zitao is shimmying out of his tight jeans, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he pushes them down to his ankles and kicks them off. There are faint creases in his skin from the seams, and now Sehun knows what kind of underwear Zitao wears. Black briefs, tugged too low in his hurry to undress. Zitao snaps them back up his hips, and sits down. They ride up the curve of his ass a little.
Sehun must still be gaping, because Zitao apologizes. "I really hate wearing pants at home."
"You mean clothes in general?" Sehun asks, because Zitao's tank is still rucked up around his ribs. "What about when the food comes?"
"You can get the door, right?" Zitao bats his lashes, and Sehun throws the packet of dried squid in his face.
Two and a half beers later, Zitao is lying on the rug, Sehun curled behind him, cartons of take-out littering the floor around them. The television is on and playing a mainland dating show Sehun is only half-watching. Mostly, he's preoccupied with Zitao's hair, the smooth, coarse strands under his fingertips, the warm smell of Zitao's skin and cologne. Sehun has his face buried in the crook of Zitao's neck, his lips touching the cord of Zitao's necklace. Somewhere in the back of his head a little voice is telling him this is too intimate too fast, but he's tired and tipsy, and Zitao is as relaxed as a cat, liquid against him.
Sehun reaches over Zitao to snag the crumpled squid snack packet, fishing the last shred out above Zitao's face and sticking it in his mouth. A bit of powder falls on Zitao's cheek, and Zitao scrunches his face, stretches his neck to snap at the other end so the piece of dried squid is caught between them.
Sehun hesitates. After a beat, he decides not to back down. He gently lowers his head to lessen the strain on Zitao, and in turn Zitao turns on his back, propping himself on his elbows. Sehun nibbles a little further on the strip, and Zitao's eyelids flutter. They go slow, nosing at the air like two shy puppies who've caught a scent they like, mouthing at the snack, drawing it between their teeth and letting the salt dissolve on their tongue.
Sehun makes the last move. A hand on Zitao's torso for leverage-heel of his palm on bare skin moving up and down with Zitao's breaths, fingers digging into the cloth of his tank-and he closes the gap, chaste but for the flicker of his tongue across Zitao's bottom lip.
Zitao kisses back immediately, and Sehun sinks into it. Zitao's body is hard under him but he gives every time Sehun shifts his weight, accommodating him, sucking Sehun's lip into his mouth. Zitao tastes like beer and the faint spice of their food, warm and slick enough for Sehun to drown in. It's an unhurried kiss, deep, fathomless, Zitao licking the top of Sehun's mouth, Sehun sucking on Zitao's tongue. A low rumble builds in Zitao's chest, rolling out of his mouth in a low purr, and Sehun pulls away, smiling and licking his reddened mouth.
"Is this a bad idea?" he says.
"Maybe," Zitao teases. His hands stroke down Sehun's back, shamelessly smoothing over the curve of Sehun's ass. There's a hot curl in Sehun's belly. "But I'm a bad boy, right?"
Sehun kisses Zitao to shut him up, both of them giggling into it, but more urgent this time, the coil in his body kicking him into high gear. He grinds down experimentally, and feels the answering hardness of Zitao's erection press against his hip. It makes him shiver, makes him push his face into Zitao's neck. It's not the first time Sehun's fooled around, but everything about Zitao shakes him off base.
Zitao has both hands on his ass, palming it, and Sehun nudges his leg between Zitao's, wanting to feel his heat. They're rubbing up against each other, Zitao making little breathy noises, high whines in the back of his throat. Sehun pushes his hands up Zitao's tank top, dragging his thumbs over Zitao's nipples, and rolls his hips, shameless, helpless. He bites back his groan when he comes, hand curled under Zitao's chin.
Slowly, he kisses along Zitao's neck like a kitten, wet and open-mouthed, and runs his hand over Zitao's taut stomach, wrapping it around the tip of Zitao's dick poking out of his briefs. Zitao grabs Sehun's other wrist when he's about to come, and presses his mouth to the knuckles in a hard kiss as he shudders through his climax.
"Hey," Sehun whispers, teeth still pressed to Zitao's collarbone, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest. "Where do I sleep?" He has a pretty good idea, but nuzzled against Zitao and basking in the afterglow, he just wants to hear it.
"Um," Zitao pants, a little bashful. "My bed is pretty big?"
"I don't know if I can sleep under a canopy," Sehun demurs, though he slides one leg over Zitao's with contentment. Being wrapped together so tightly with come in his pants feels disgusting already, but he's okay with it. At least for another minute.
Zitao huffs, then squeezes his shoulder, resting his chin on Sehun's head. "Don't worry, you're enough of a princess to me."
A/N:
- can everyone write internet buddies fic bc qtest taohun trope
- (i switched around the second part of the prompt, i hope op doesn't mind. it ended up working better with tao >__<)
- title from spice girls "wannabe" (friendship never ends~)
Tao/Sehun
NC-17, ~2.4k.
"Internet buddies finally meet after a long time!"
drabble for this prompt on exopromptmeme (and as a fandom-warming gift for preorder~)
Sehun can't stop stealing looks at Zitao.
im flying in friday nite, pick me up? he had emailed two weeks ago, swallowing his nerves, and now here they are. Standing at a street intersection together, waiting to cross the road to arrive at Zitao's apartment. Sehun had gotten permission from his parents for a week-long stay in Qingdao under the pretense of visiting the college senior who had mentored him last term. Lu Han has a spare bedroom, he'd reassured them, though of course Lu Han had no such thing-didn't even live in Qingdao. It was a testament to how well Lu Han spoke and behaved with adults that Sehun's parents agreed to the trip.
"How was the flight?"
Taking an unsteady breath through his mouth, Sehun peeks over at Zitao. Zitao is grinning at him, so wide that his eyes crinkle into crescents. Sehun smiles back as attractively as he can. Zitao is attractive. The cut of his jaw is unreal in real life. "Uh, fine," Sehun says. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. The traffic around them is loud and reckless, and it makes him feel that much smaller.
Before Sehun can dwell on his own awkwardness, Zitao grabs his wrist. "Let's go!" he says, and Sehun lets out a yelp as he's dragged onto the road.
"It's a red light!"
"You're not in Seoul anymore," Zitao shouts. "It's every pedestrian for himself!"
They make it across the street in one piece, Sehun's suitcase banging along in Zitao's grip. The handle slides out when it hits the curb, and Sehun bursts out laughing at Zitao's startled expression. Zitao looks at him, and Sehun covers his mouth with his hand, a little self-conscious. Zitao shakes his head, and pulls Sehun's hand away from his face. He glances at his feet, keeping the loose clasp of his fingers around Sehun's wrist, and Sehun feels his face heat up.
"We're finally meeting," Sehun says, and swings his arm, pitching his voice to sound light-hearted.
"Three years," Zitao says, wiggling Sehun's wrist in the circle of his fingers. "I feel like I'm dreaming."
"Am I as cute in real life?" Sehun teases automatically, then wants to take it back. It's probably too early for that kind of joke. What if he isn't? He probably isn't. Camera angles and webcam lighting do wonders.
Zitao ducks his head, biting back a smile. "You're cuter," he says, the quietest he's been since he yelled Sehun's name and barrelled towards him at the airport. Zitao has been barely-restrained exuberance since they set eyes on each other, but now on the quiet side of the street, in the shadow of dusty building complexes, he walks with his chin down and his shoulders slightly hunched, shyness creeping up the back of his neck. Now that they're out of the public bustle, there's no one to jabber for. It's just Zitao and Sehun. The low afternoon sun crests on the close-cropped blond hair at Zitao's nape, sliding shadows down the collar of his coat. Sehun presses closer.
"You too," he says, and Zitao's surprised, flattered giggle makes Sehun wish he'd said something more honest. You're gorgeous.
They shuffle down the block. Sehun tries not to shiver. Qingdao in February is cold enough for down jackets and scarves, but he only has the cotton-padded coat and t-shirt he'd worn on the plane. Zitao is in a leather jacket, open over a fisherman knit sweater. He wears an assortment of beads and braided leather straps around his right wrist.
"Ah!" Sehun holds up the hand Zitao isn't holding hostage. He shakes his wrist, showing off his bracelet.
Zitao blinks, then beams. He swoops in, clumsily smacking a kiss to Sehun's pulse point, right above the string of beads. Sehun almost stumbles, heart rate picking up.
"I'm so glad you're wearing it," Zitao says, perfunctory but sincere.
"I haven't taken it off since you sent it to me," Sehun admits. They both smile at each other, and half of Sehun wants to melt away in the sheer masculine indignity. The other half wants to melt out of giddiness.
Zitao lives on the sixth floor. There is no elevator, and Sehun is only a little embarrassed by how hard he's breathing by the time they reach the right landing. He tells Zitao he's tired from his flight and from the backpack weighing on his shoulders, and delivers a limp punch when Zitao smirks at him.
"Gym rat," Sehun whines. Zitao ushers him inside, tossing a pair of slippers down from the shoe rack. He takes Sehun's backpack and puts it on an armchair, rolling Sehun's suitcase to one corner.
Zitao's studio apartment is small but well-furnished, with smooth white flooring and polished dark wood trim. A double bed is tucked in the far corner behind translucent curtains, an exposed clothes rack guarding its foot. As far as Sehun can tell, Zitao doesn't own a couch or a futon. He licks his lips, nervous. "I like your, um, apartm-"
He stops short, because Zitao is emerging from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a hanging towel and tugging his sweater over his head. The leather jacket is already vanished. Underneath, Zitao is wearing a white tank top. The cut of the straps curve away from his strong shoulders, and Zitao ruffles his hand through his pale bangs before shaking out the sweater and easing it on a hanger.
"Are you hungry?" Zitao says, and it takes a little for the clumsy Korean to process through Sehun's dazed mind.
"Yes," Sehun answers in Chinese, and Zitao rewards him with a look of delight. Sehun tries not to watch how Zitao tugs his tank top out of his pants, winding the hem up around his waist to expose his muscled stomach. It's warm in the apartment.
"Make yourself comfortable!" Zitao gestures, and disappears to the adjoined kitchen.
Sehun shucks off his jacket and sticks his hands in his pockets. He turns in a slow circle; so this is the room where Zitao sits and chats with him every night. There's a table across from the bed with a closed laptop, a velour chair in front of it. The wall behind has the Chinese brush painting Sehun's grown familiar with through their video calls. He shuffles up to it, peering at the amateur brushstrokes. A black leopard, from when Zitao injured his leg and briefly swapped martial arts for beaux arts.
Three years. Sehun's fists clench, then loosen. Somehow, the tension is washing out of him, nerves unwinding. He'd braced himself for all kinds of disappointment, big and small: that the atmosphere would be unbreakably stiff, that Zitao wouldn't be as sweetly charming in person, or as attractive, or even as tall. He had carefully counselled himself for pessimism, but it seems like his worries were unfounded. He can only hope the same is true on Zitao's end.
"Aish." Zitao reappears with a frosty pack of beer and a packet of dried squid under his arm. He scrubs his hand through his hair and sits on the floor before the low coffee table, crossing his legs. "You know, I really wanted to pick you up in my car."
Sehun squeezes in next to him. Zitao pops the cap off a bottle and hands it to him, then tears open the bag of squid and puts a piece to Sehun's lips. Sehun bites into it delicately, and Zitao sticks the rest in his own mouth. "Your new Benz?"
"Yeah." Zitao pouts. "How cool would that have looked, at the airport? In my," he twists around, fishing into a woven basket hung on the wall, and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, "Bottega Veneta shades." He slides them on and tilts his chin at Sehun. "Yeah."
Sehun buries his face in his knees. "Don't say it like that in real life," he manages through his laughter, and Zitao elbows him.
"Anyway, it's in the shop." Zitao takes a mournful swig of his beer. "I can get it tomorrow afternoon, so then I will take you out on the town. I'll show you the Qingdao club scene."
"Can't wait," Sehun deadpans. Zitao feeds him another piece of squid. "Is this all the food I'm getting?"
"I ordered take-out!"
Sehun shoves Zitao in the chest. He's warm and solid under Sehun's fingertips. Sehun tries not to think about it. "What happened to cooking for me?"
"Don't you hate heavy food after a long trip?" Zitao asks. "I do. This Muslim place does really good delivery." Sehun jabs him again, and Zitao pushes him away. "I'll take you to the seafood market tomorrow. Morning market first though, there's a tofu soup-"
Sehun snatches the packet of squid away and vengefully shoves three in his mouth. "Please, keep talking about food you'll feed me later." He can feel Zitao staring. "What?"
"You're so cute," Zitao says.
Sehun's fingers curl into the plastic packet. Zitao's gaze doesn't waver, and Sehun feels his heart thud in the back of his throat. He recovers with an exaggerated groan and covers his face, both in mock-defeat and to hide his blush. Zitao snickers, then abruptly stands up and starts undoing his belt.
Sehun looks up in horror. Zitao is shimmying out of his tight jeans, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he pushes them down to his ankles and kicks them off. There are faint creases in his skin from the seams, and now Sehun knows what kind of underwear Zitao wears. Black briefs, tugged too low in his hurry to undress. Zitao snaps them back up his hips, and sits down. They ride up the curve of his ass a little.
Sehun must still be gaping, because Zitao apologizes. "I really hate wearing pants at home."
"You mean clothes in general?" Sehun asks, because Zitao's tank is still rucked up around his ribs. "What about when the food comes?"
"You can get the door, right?" Zitao bats his lashes, and Sehun throws the packet of dried squid in his face.
Two and a half beers later, Zitao is lying on the rug, Sehun curled behind him, cartons of take-out littering the floor around them. The television is on and playing a mainland dating show Sehun is only half-watching. Mostly, he's preoccupied with Zitao's hair, the smooth, coarse strands under his fingertips, the warm smell of Zitao's skin and cologne. Sehun has his face buried in the crook of Zitao's neck, his lips touching the cord of Zitao's necklace. Somewhere in the back of his head a little voice is telling him this is too intimate too fast, but he's tired and tipsy, and Zitao is as relaxed as a cat, liquid against him.
Sehun reaches over Zitao to snag the crumpled squid snack packet, fishing the last shred out above Zitao's face and sticking it in his mouth. A bit of powder falls on Zitao's cheek, and Zitao scrunches his face, stretches his neck to snap at the other end so the piece of dried squid is caught between them.
Sehun hesitates. After a beat, he decides not to back down. He gently lowers his head to lessen the strain on Zitao, and in turn Zitao turns on his back, propping himself on his elbows. Sehun nibbles a little further on the strip, and Zitao's eyelids flutter. They go slow, nosing at the air like two shy puppies who've caught a scent they like, mouthing at the snack, drawing it between their teeth and letting the salt dissolve on their tongue.
Sehun makes the last move. A hand on Zitao's torso for leverage-heel of his palm on bare skin moving up and down with Zitao's breaths, fingers digging into the cloth of his tank-and he closes the gap, chaste but for the flicker of his tongue across Zitao's bottom lip.
Zitao kisses back immediately, and Sehun sinks into it. Zitao's body is hard under him but he gives every time Sehun shifts his weight, accommodating him, sucking Sehun's lip into his mouth. Zitao tastes like beer and the faint spice of their food, warm and slick enough for Sehun to drown in. It's an unhurried kiss, deep, fathomless, Zitao licking the top of Sehun's mouth, Sehun sucking on Zitao's tongue. A low rumble builds in Zitao's chest, rolling out of his mouth in a low purr, and Sehun pulls away, smiling and licking his reddened mouth.
"Is this a bad idea?" he says.
"Maybe," Zitao teases. His hands stroke down Sehun's back, shamelessly smoothing over the curve of Sehun's ass. There's a hot curl in Sehun's belly. "But I'm a bad boy, right?"
Sehun kisses Zitao to shut him up, both of them giggling into it, but more urgent this time, the coil in his body kicking him into high gear. He grinds down experimentally, and feels the answering hardness of Zitao's erection press against his hip. It makes him shiver, makes him push his face into Zitao's neck. It's not the first time Sehun's fooled around, but everything about Zitao shakes him off base.
Zitao has both hands on his ass, palming it, and Sehun nudges his leg between Zitao's, wanting to feel his heat. They're rubbing up against each other, Zitao making little breathy noises, high whines in the back of his throat. Sehun pushes his hands up Zitao's tank top, dragging his thumbs over Zitao's nipples, and rolls his hips, shameless, helpless. He bites back his groan when he comes, hand curled under Zitao's chin.
Slowly, he kisses along Zitao's neck like a kitten, wet and open-mouthed, and runs his hand over Zitao's taut stomach, wrapping it around the tip of Zitao's dick poking out of his briefs. Zitao grabs Sehun's other wrist when he's about to come, and presses his mouth to the knuckles in a hard kiss as he shudders through his climax.
"Hey," Sehun whispers, teeth still pressed to Zitao's collarbone, feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest. "Where do I sleep?" He has a pretty good idea, but nuzzled against Zitao and basking in the afterglow, he just wants to hear it.
"Um," Zitao pants, a little bashful. "My bed is pretty big?"
"I don't know if I can sleep under a canopy," Sehun demurs, though he slides one leg over Zitao's with contentment. Being wrapped together so tightly with come in his pants feels disgusting already, but he's okay with it. At least for another minute.
Zitao huffs, then squeezes his shoulder, resting his chin on Sehun's head. "Don't worry, you're enough of a princess to me."
A/N:
- can everyone write internet buddies fic bc qtest taohun trope
- (i switched around the second part of the prompt, i hope op doesn't mind. it ended up working better with tao >__<)
- title from spice girls "wannabe" (friendship never ends~)