all the colours of desire
pairing: sehun/suho/tao
rating: NC-17
length: 2,422
genre: smut. literally just smut. but artsy smut.
warnings: daddy kink
summary:These boys are art and Junmyeon is the sole surveyor, curator, recipient.
a/n: this is my suhoney fic, originally posted here.
To Junmyeon, control is everything. It’s power, stability, reliability, dominance. It’s making sure things will get done; knowing that his words will be taken seriously; assurance that people will abide by his demands.
It’s also restraining hands on soft, willing skin; deep, heavy words in attentive, reddened ears; desperate cries, begs of his name from damp, parted lips.
He takes it wherever he can get it.
At work, it’s the neat and tidy organisation of his paperwork and stationery; the clean, spotless surfaces; striking, sharp angles of his office.
But in his own time, on nights like these, it’s the outrageous yet comforting contrast of a nightclub - his tightest black ripped jeans and a snugly-fitting button up, his dark hair styled up just right, his confident, piercing gaze searching through the crowds for something, someone that catches his eye.
If he likes what he sees and it’s reciprocated, he takes it. It’s mostly one-night things he does; thinks it’s probably better that way. More efficient, more effective. If they don’t end up being what he wanted, there’s no expectation to see each other after the morning after. But every now and then, he finds someone special, someone perhaps worth keeping longer than one night.
Sehun, the boy’s name is. Twenty years old, in his second year of university. He’s a pretty young thing - that’s what had drawn him in at first -; pitch black hair just shy of falling into his hooded eyes, plump, rosy lips contrasting so well with his smooth, pale skin. Then they start talking and Junmyeon realises that Sehun is all attentive eyes, witty responses, shy smiles that grow each time Junmyeon cracks a joke that wouldn’t have been that funny to anyone else. He’s too pretty, too genuine, too kind to be in this kind of place.
It’s a surge of protectiveness that comes over him; a need to keep Sehun safe, preserved, away from the tainted eyes and air of this club; out of danger of falling into the wrong hands.
Junmyeon hasn’t even kissed him yet but he already knows this boy is something to be treasured, something he would look forward to seeing in the morning, maybe every morning after that. He thinks of Sehun’s head on Junmyeon’s pillow, rough, sleep-laden voice in his ear, shy smile around a morning cup of coffee.
The thoughts, images dance in his mind, and Junmyeon admires the way they look.
And Junmyeon is halfway through admiring his hand resting gently on Sehun’s thigh - the boy oh so subtly melting into the touch - when they’re interrupted by the sound of glasses being placed on the table they’re seated at, and the figure who’s placing them there.
Sehun tells him he’s his friend, his best friend, Zitao, a Chinese boy the same age as him. As the name leaves his lips, Junmyeon looks up at a tall boy with deep red hair, equally deep, deep dark eyes, a surprisingly kittenish smile.
Usually Junmyeon would be put off by the company, but Junmyeon grows fond of Zitao quickly as they strike up conversation, sees how he and Sehun get on so well, how they’re so similar yet have individual charms. Zitao is just that tiny bit more forward than Sehun, eyes unafraid to roam over Junmyeon’s body as he speaks, hands unafraid to brush along Junmyeon’s forearm as he urges them to get up and dance.
And that night it escalates, from suggestive moves and long, flowing bodies on the dancefloor, to dark, hot corners of the club, mouths burning against each other, warm lips on scorching necks, even darker marks on skin, hands roaming under tight clothes and muffled, lilting moans, to soft skin against pristine bedsheets, Junmyeon’s name a repeated melody sung by two beautiful boys, ending in the prettiest cadence as they unravel underneath him.
They become a regular thing, then - because once Sehun and Zitao get a taste they’re always desperate for more, and Junmyeon will never deny them that.
Junmyeon takes pride in making Zitao and Sehun kiss, touch; watches how Zitao’s tan fingers press into Sehun’s pale skin, admires the contrast. Loves the mingling sounds of Zitao’s loud, low moans and the quiet, shy noises Sehun makes.
Sehun is all soft skin, pale and smooth; Renaissance painting. Junmyeon makes a mental note to invest in some deep red, satin bedsheets to complete the scene. Sometimes he ponders over taking a picture of Sehun like this, having it framed and hung up in his office. That boy deserves to be put on display, viewed, exhibited, awed over.
Zitao is golden proportions, defined, marble sculptures; Michelangelo’s finest work. But his eyes have more life than those stones ever held, the way they widen, flutter as Sehun kisses down his neck, send a gaze full of want, neediness, desperation as the other pulls away.
These boys are art and Junmyeon is the sole surveyor, curator, recipient.
It’s found out that Sehun loves being complimented, bathing in the positive words, praises leaving Junmyeon and Zitao’s lips and drawing beautiful little moans from Sehun’s.
So Junmyeon appreciates him, scratches onto Sehun’s skin like the finest red graphite pencil on parchment, hickeys meticulous, deliberate smudges, imprints, etchings onto the immaculate canvas of Sehun’s skin. Every mark carefully, lovingly embossed with a “you’re perfect”, “so beautiful”, “baby boy”.
Zitao isn’t dissimilar; keening as Junmyeon tugs at his hair, nibbles and licks at the shell of his ear as he whispers to him about how he’s so, so gorgeous and I’ll give you everything you want if you’re a good boy; fuck you so good, make your pretty little mouth moan my name.
And what pleases Junmyeon is the way Zitao squirms under him then, with a breathless whine of “Daddy”, an upwards lift of his hips to rub his erection against Junmyeon’s, his endless need for attention, rewards, appreciation.
Junmyeon has always had a fine eye for art and now he’s found the most perfect diptych - but not simply something to be added to his collection, recorded and then forgotten about. These boys aren’t works to be covered up in paranoid preservation, left to gather dust - they’re something meant to be on display, fondly handled, to be watched and appreciated as they flourish and shine.
It’s a beautiful scene as Junmyeon works Zitao open, fingers caressing every inch of him, inside and out; Sehun’s joining too, hands running over a fluttering chest as he kisses Zitao, open, slow, biting kisses full of filthy, beautiful moans.
Zitao’s hands grasp at the sheets, Sehun’s skin, Sehun’s hair, Junmyeon’s wrist; pulling, whining, begging for something better, the stammered exhales of “fuck me” indicating just that. And Junmyeon tells him to be patient, baby boy, with a curl of his fingers, a tender stroke up Zitao’s inner thigh. Zitao shudders, his knee jerking where it’s hooked over Junmyeon’s shoulder, urging him closer.
Junmyeon hears Sehun’s little breathy, unmistakable noises grow louder and more frequent then, and sees that Zitao has a hand wrapped around his cock, pumping him loosely as Sehun bucks into his hold. Junmyeon makes a disapproving noise, pulls Sehun back up against him by his hair.
“Hands off, Zitao.” Sehun whines in the back of his throat as Zitao does as he’s told and loses the friction on his cock.
“We don’t want you coming too soon and missing out on all the fun now, do we?” Junmyeon tugs Sehun closer, leans in so his breath is ghosting over his earlobe, “I’m going to be the one to make you come, baby.” Sehun’s back arches even more, breaths quickening - “Daddy will make you come.”
Junmyeon loves the way Sehun becomes totally pliant under his touch, pink-cheeked and loose-limbed as he tells him to hold Zitao’s wrists down. Junmyeon also loves the way Zitao takes his cock when he finally eases into him, admiring how tight Zitao is around him, how his wrists turn in Sehun’s grasp, how his head tilts and his eyes close in the pleasure-pain, and the cute half-moans and whines that accompany it all, the most perfect narration over the unfolding scene.
“Such a good boy,” Junmyeon soothes, gentle hands stroking over Zitao’s knees, thighs, up to his stomach, thumbs lightly circling over tense muscle, fluttering under his touch.
And when Junmyeon starts moving, thrusts slow and deep to begin with, Zitao is all shameless drawn-out groans, sighed yeses, rolling hips. Then grips tighten, touches harden, the pace quickens and now, now Zitao is nonstop hot moaning, voice deep and breathy as Junmyeon fucks into him, breath catching and cries high and hiccup-y when he hits his prostate just right, tight, bitten whines of “Daddy, please, so good”.
“Do you like that, baby?” Junmyeon asks, holding his position so he’s pressed right against his sweet spot, and Zitao’s response is a jumbled slur of words, slipping into Chinese. Some of it seems to be aimed at Sehun, judging from the way Sehun replies quietly with a word Junmyeon recognises to mean no, smoothing his hands up and down where they’re curled around Zitao’s wrists.
“He wants me to let him go,” Sehun explains, flush still high on his cheeks, skin bearing the prettiest glow, the most beautiful sheen over medleys of pinks, peaches and porcelains.
So Junmyeon lets him, taking the chance to change things up, flips Zitao over onto all fours, pulls him up onto his knees, back pressed against Junmyeon’s front as he eases back into him.
“Is this better?” Zitao’s reply is a soft groan and a hand reaching back to grip Junmyeon’s nape. “Can you feel me better like this, baby?” Junmyeon buries a hand in Zitao’s hair, tugs his head to the side, exposing his neck, the smooth expanse of skin begging to be marked up, painted with colours.
Just as Zitao starts rolling his hips back; as Junmyeon’s mouth presses hot and wet against his neck, Sehun shifts so they’re face to face, head tilting down to leave messy kisses on Zitao’s chin and jaw, his arms reaching out past Zitao so they can skim along Junmyeon’s sides as he mumbles a Daddy, can I?
“What is it, baby?” Junmyeon frees up one hand to caress the side of his face, feeling the heat radiating off him, the subtle vibrations beneath his fingers as Sehun hums at the contact.
“I want to touch,” he says, with wide, glimmering eyes and a soft pink pout and just like that it’s so easy for Junmyeon to say yes, yes, baby boy, of course he can touch, help Zitao feel so, so good.
That’s how Zitao ends up with the addition of a keen hand around his cock, Sehun’s pace slower than Junmyeon’s as he pumps his length leisurely, leaving heated, gasped kisses full of teeth against Zitao’s shoulder, collarbone, anywhere his mouth can reach.
And it’s not long before Zitao becomes a mess of incomprehensible groans and begs, higher cries of Daddy and Hun-ah, eyes squeezed shut, bitten lips parted.
“Be a good boy,” Junmyeon says between kisses to trembling skin, “and come for Daddy.”
And Sehun only just manages to suck Zitao’s bottom lip between his own before he’s coming, body convulsing, spilling over Sehun’s hand, smearing onto his own stomach through his staccato moans and Junmyeon’s allegro thrusts. They gradually become adagio, slow and careful, accompanied with butterfly kisses, whispers telling him how he’d done so well, how he’s so proud of his baby. Zitao’s replies are increasingly slurred “thank you”s, progressively more and more sluggish movements.
It’s no surprise that as soon as Junmyeon pulls out, soothing a hand over Zitao’s forehead as he lies him down, Sehun is instantly close, eager to be the closing act, to please and be pleased, to be fucked, to belong.
Junmyeon cups him by the jaw and brings their lips together, and he can taste the heat, the want, all the colours of desire. Sehun is already so beautifully wrecked, light touches pulling the most vulgar noises from his lips, Junmyeon’s tender command of “ride me, baby” sending him scrambling to sit in his lap, long limbs wrapping around him in haste, anticipant gasps nuzzled into his shoulder.
But Junmyeon teases, presses the head of his cock against Sehun’s hole but not enough to push in, rubbing over it slowly, tantalising little circles around where Sehun wants it.
“Daddy,” he whimpers, voice shaky, fingertips digging into skin where he’s holding onto Junmyeon’s shoulders. “Please.”
Sehun’s thighs are twitching but Junmyeon doesn’t give in just yet - he wants to see how much he can affect him, how pretty of a picture he can paint. It turns out to be a breathtaking one - Sehun begging “I need you”s and “fuck me please”s, dampness collecting at the corners of his eyes, voice breaking.
The feeling of Junmyeon guiding himself in pulls a loud sob of relief out of Sehun, and he sinks down, Junmyeon’s cock filling him up so desirably, so fucking perfectly.
Junmyeon doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as this moment; Sehun’s pastel skin and charcoal hair and watercolour tears rolling so delicately down his cheeks, leaving opalescent tracks that Junmyeon kisses over, kisses better.
“So pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he repeats, Sehun’s hips working frantically, every rise and drop accented with cut-off gasps, needy whines, desperate sobs. “Such a beautiful boy.” Junmyeon’s hands trail over Sehun’s sides, stroke over his ass, squeezing lightly, rubbing over his thighs.
“Do you think you can come like this, baby? Just from my cock in you?” the shudder that runs through Sehun’s whole body serves as an answer, and it only takes a few more rolls of his hips, a couple of hickeys passionately sucked into his skin and a whimper of “I can’t, I-I’m-”
Sehun comes untouched, tensing with a stifled cry as his release hits him, clutching Junmyeon hard as he rides it out, Sehun’s debauched, well-fucked expression so filthy but so pure. It’s that that pushes Junmyeon over the edge, gripping fiercely at Sehun’s hips, holding him still as he spills into the condom, moaning Sehun’s name against his collarbone.
Zitao is still awake enough to pull the other two down into some sort of haphazard embrace, and the silence that falls then is the most blissful he’s ever heard. Deep, sated breaths and whispered thankful affections, and Junmyeon wishes he could take a photo of that moment then, curled up in bed between these two gorgeous boys; enveloped in living, breathing art.
rating: NC-17
length: 2,422
genre: smut. literally just smut. but artsy smut.
warnings: daddy kink
summary:These boys are art and Junmyeon is the sole surveyor, curator, recipient.
a/n: this is my suhoney fic, originally posted here.
To Junmyeon, control is everything. It’s power, stability, reliability, dominance. It’s making sure things will get done; knowing that his words will be taken seriously; assurance that people will abide by his demands.
It’s also restraining hands on soft, willing skin; deep, heavy words in attentive, reddened ears; desperate cries, begs of his name from damp, parted lips.
He takes it wherever he can get it.
At work, it’s the neat and tidy organisation of his paperwork and stationery; the clean, spotless surfaces; striking, sharp angles of his office.
But in his own time, on nights like these, it’s the outrageous yet comforting contrast of a nightclub - his tightest black ripped jeans and a snugly-fitting button up, his dark hair styled up just right, his confident, piercing gaze searching through the crowds for something, someone that catches his eye.
If he likes what he sees and it’s reciprocated, he takes it. It’s mostly one-night things he does; thinks it’s probably better that way. More efficient, more effective. If they don’t end up being what he wanted, there’s no expectation to see each other after the morning after. But every now and then, he finds someone special, someone perhaps worth keeping longer than one night.
Sehun, the boy’s name is. Twenty years old, in his second year of university. He’s a pretty young thing - that’s what had drawn him in at first -; pitch black hair just shy of falling into his hooded eyes, plump, rosy lips contrasting so well with his smooth, pale skin. Then they start talking and Junmyeon realises that Sehun is all attentive eyes, witty responses, shy smiles that grow each time Junmyeon cracks a joke that wouldn’t have been that funny to anyone else. He’s too pretty, too genuine, too kind to be in this kind of place.
It’s a surge of protectiveness that comes over him; a need to keep Sehun safe, preserved, away from the tainted eyes and air of this club; out of danger of falling into the wrong hands.
Junmyeon hasn’t even kissed him yet but he already knows this boy is something to be treasured, something he would look forward to seeing in the morning, maybe every morning after that. He thinks of Sehun’s head on Junmyeon’s pillow, rough, sleep-laden voice in his ear, shy smile around a morning cup of coffee.
The thoughts, images dance in his mind, and Junmyeon admires the way they look.
And Junmyeon is halfway through admiring his hand resting gently on Sehun’s thigh - the boy oh so subtly melting into the touch - when they’re interrupted by the sound of glasses being placed on the table they’re seated at, and the figure who’s placing them there.
Sehun tells him he’s his friend, his best friend, Zitao, a Chinese boy the same age as him. As the name leaves his lips, Junmyeon looks up at a tall boy with deep red hair, equally deep, deep dark eyes, a surprisingly kittenish smile.
Usually Junmyeon would be put off by the company, but Junmyeon grows fond of Zitao quickly as they strike up conversation, sees how he and Sehun get on so well, how they’re so similar yet have individual charms. Zitao is just that tiny bit more forward than Sehun, eyes unafraid to roam over Junmyeon’s body as he speaks, hands unafraid to brush along Junmyeon’s forearm as he urges them to get up and dance.
And that night it escalates, from suggestive moves and long, flowing bodies on the dancefloor, to dark, hot corners of the club, mouths burning against each other, warm lips on scorching necks, even darker marks on skin, hands roaming under tight clothes and muffled, lilting moans, to soft skin against pristine bedsheets, Junmyeon’s name a repeated melody sung by two beautiful boys, ending in the prettiest cadence as they unravel underneath him.
They become a regular thing, then - because once Sehun and Zitao get a taste they’re always desperate for more, and Junmyeon will never deny them that.
Junmyeon takes pride in making Zitao and Sehun kiss, touch; watches how Zitao’s tan fingers press into Sehun’s pale skin, admires the contrast. Loves the mingling sounds of Zitao’s loud, low moans and the quiet, shy noises Sehun makes.
Sehun is all soft skin, pale and smooth; Renaissance painting. Junmyeon makes a mental note to invest in some deep red, satin bedsheets to complete the scene. Sometimes he ponders over taking a picture of Sehun like this, having it framed and hung up in his office. That boy deserves to be put on display, viewed, exhibited, awed over.
Zitao is golden proportions, defined, marble sculptures; Michelangelo’s finest work. But his eyes have more life than those stones ever held, the way they widen, flutter as Sehun kisses down his neck, send a gaze full of want, neediness, desperation as the other pulls away.
These boys are art and Junmyeon is the sole surveyor, curator, recipient.
It’s found out that Sehun loves being complimented, bathing in the positive words, praises leaving Junmyeon and Zitao’s lips and drawing beautiful little moans from Sehun’s.
So Junmyeon appreciates him, scratches onto Sehun’s skin like the finest red graphite pencil on parchment, hickeys meticulous, deliberate smudges, imprints, etchings onto the immaculate canvas of Sehun’s skin. Every mark carefully, lovingly embossed with a “you’re perfect”, “so beautiful”, “baby boy”.
Zitao isn’t dissimilar; keening as Junmyeon tugs at his hair, nibbles and licks at the shell of his ear as he whispers to him about how he’s so, so gorgeous and I’ll give you everything you want if you’re a good boy; fuck you so good, make your pretty little mouth moan my name.
And what pleases Junmyeon is the way Zitao squirms under him then, with a breathless whine of “Daddy”, an upwards lift of his hips to rub his erection against Junmyeon’s, his endless need for attention, rewards, appreciation.
Junmyeon has always had a fine eye for art and now he’s found the most perfect diptych - but not simply something to be added to his collection, recorded and then forgotten about. These boys aren’t works to be covered up in paranoid preservation, left to gather dust - they’re something meant to be on display, fondly handled, to be watched and appreciated as they flourish and shine.
It’s a beautiful scene as Junmyeon works Zitao open, fingers caressing every inch of him, inside and out; Sehun’s joining too, hands running over a fluttering chest as he kisses Zitao, open, slow, biting kisses full of filthy, beautiful moans.
Zitao’s hands grasp at the sheets, Sehun’s skin, Sehun’s hair, Junmyeon’s wrist; pulling, whining, begging for something better, the stammered exhales of “fuck me” indicating just that. And Junmyeon tells him to be patient, baby boy, with a curl of his fingers, a tender stroke up Zitao’s inner thigh. Zitao shudders, his knee jerking where it’s hooked over Junmyeon’s shoulder, urging him closer.
Junmyeon hears Sehun’s little breathy, unmistakable noises grow louder and more frequent then, and sees that Zitao has a hand wrapped around his cock, pumping him loosely as Sehun bucks into his hold. Junmyeon makes a disapproving noise, pulls Sehun back up against him by his hair.
“Hands off, Zitao.” Sehun whines in the back of his throat as Zitao does as he’s told and loses the friction on his cock.
“We don’t want you coming too soon and missing out on all the fun now, do we?” Junmyeon tugs Sehun closer, leans in so his breath is ghosting over his earlobe, “I’m going to be the one to make you come, baby.” Sehun’s back arches even more, breaths quickening - “Daddy will make you come.”
Junmyeon loves the way Sehun becomes totally pliant under his touch, pink-cheeked and loose-limbed as he tells him to hold Zitao’s wrists down. Junmyeon also loves the way Zitao takes his cock when he finally eases into him, admiring how tight Zitao is around him, how his wrists turn in Sehun’s grasp, how his head tilts and his eyes close in the pleasure-pain, and the cute half-moans and whines that accompany it all, the most perfect narration over the unfolding scene.
“Such a good boy,” Junmyeon soothes, gentle hands stroking over Zitao’s knees, thighs, up to his stomach, thumbs lightly circling over tense muscle, fluttering under his touch.
And when Junmyeon starts moving, thrusts slow and deep to begin with, Zitao is all shameless drawn-out groans, sighed yeses, rolling hips. Then grips tighten, touches harden, the pace quickens and now, now Zitao is nonstop hot moaning, voice deep and breathy as Junmyeon fucks into him, breath catching and cries high and hiccup-y when he hits his prostate just right, tight, bitten whines of “Daddy, please, so good”.
“Do you like that, baby?” Junmyeon asks, holding his position so he’s pressed right against his sweet spot, and Zitao’s response is a jumbled slur of words, slipping into Chinese. Some of it seems to be aimed at Sehun, judging from the way Sehun replies quietly with a word Junmyeon recognises to mean no, smoothing his hands up and down where they’re curled around Zitao’s wrists.
“He wants me to let him go,” Sehun explains, flush still high on his cheeks, skin bearing the prettiest glow, the most beautiful sheen over medleys of pinks, peaches and porcelains.
So Junmyeon lets him, taking the chance to change things up, flips Zitao over onto all fours, pulls him up onto his knees, back pressed against Junmyeon’s front as he eases back into him.
“Is this better?” Zitao’s reply is a soft groan and a hand reaching back to grip Junmyeon’s nape. “Can you feel me better like this, baby?” Junmyeon buries a hand in Zitao’s hair, tugs his head to the side, exposing his neck, the smooth expanse of skin begging to be marked up, painted with colours.
Just as Zitao starts rolling his hips back; as Junmyeon’s mouth presses hot and wet against his neck, Sehun shifts so they’re face to face, head tilting down to leave messy kisses on Zitao’s chin and jaw, his arms reaching out past Zitao so they can skim along Junmyeon’s sides as he mumbles a Daddy, can I?
“What is it, baby?” Junmyeon frees up one hand to caress the side of his face, feeling the heat radiating off him, the subtle vibrations beneath his fingers as Sehun hums at the contact.
“I want to touch,” he says, with wide, glimmering eyes and a soft pink pout and just like that it’s so easy for Junmyeon to say yes, yes, baby boy, of course he can touch, help Zitao feel so, so good.
That’s how Zitao ends up with the addition of a keen hand around his cock, Sehun’s pace slower than Junmyeon’s as he pumps his length leisurely, leaving heated, gasped kisses full of teeth against Zitao’s shoulder, collarbone, anywhere his mouth can reach.
And it’s not long before Zitao becomes a mess of incomprehensible groans and begs, higher cries of Daddy and Hun-ah, eyes squeezed shut, bitten lips parted.
“Be a good boy,” Junmyeon says between kisses to trembling skin, “and come for Daddy.”
And Sehun only just manages to suck Zitao’s bottom lip between his own before he’s coming, body convulsing, spilling over Sehun’s hand, smearing onto his own stomach through his staccato moans and Junmyeon’s allegro thrusts. They gradually become adagio, slow and careful, accompanied with butterfly kisses, whispers telling him how he’d done so well, how he’s so proud of his baby. Zitao’s replies are increasingly slurred “thank you”s, progressively more and more sluggish movements.
It’s no surprise that as soon as Junmyeon pulls out, soothing a hand over Zitao’s forehead as he lies him down, Sehun is instantly close, eager to be the closing act, to please and be pleased, to be fucked, to belong.
Junmyeon cups him by the jaw and brings their lips together, and he can taste the heat, the want, all the colours of desire. Sehun is already so beautifully wrecked, light touches pulling the most vulgar noises from his lips, Junmyeon’s tender command of “ride me, baby” sending him scrambling to sit in his lap, long limbs wrapping around him in haste, anticipant gasps nuzzled into his shoulder.
But Junmyeon teases, presses the head of his cock against Sehun’s hole but not enough to push in, rubbing over it slowly, tantalising little circles around where Sehun wants it.
“Daddy,” he whimpers, voice shaky, fingertips digging into skin where he’s holding onto Junmyeon’s shoulders. “Please.”
Sehun’s thighs are twitching but Junmyeon doesn’t give in just yet - he wants to see how much he can affect him, how pretty of a picture he can paint. It turns out to be a breathtaking one - Sehun begging “I need you”s and “fuck me please”s, dampness collecting at the corners of his eyes, voice breaking.
The feeling of Junmyeon guiding himself in pulls a loud sob of relief out of Sehun, and he sinks down, Junmyeon’s cock filling him up so desirably, so fucking perfectly.
Junmyeon doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as beautiful as this moment; Sehun’s pastel skin and charcoal hair and watercolour tears rolling so delicately down his cheeks, leaving opalescent tracks that Junmyeon kisses over, kisses better.
“So pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he repeats, Sehun’s hips working frantically, every rise and drop accented with cut-off gasps, needy whines, desperate sobs. “Such a beautiful boy.” Junmyeon’s hands trail over Sehun’s sides, stroke over his ass, squeezing lightly, rubbing over his thighs.
“Do you think you can come like this, baby? Just from my cock in you?” the shudder that runs through Sehun’s whole body serves as an answer, and it only takes a few more rolls of his hips, a couple of hickeys passionately sucked into his skin and a whimper of “I can’t, I-I’m-”
Sehun comes untouched, tensing with a stifled cry as his release hits him, clutching Junmyeon hard as he rides it out, Sehun’s debauched, well-fucked expression so filthy but so pure. It’s that that pushes Junmyeon over the edge, gripping fiercely at Sehun’s hips, holding him still as he spills into the condom, moaning Sehun’s name against his collarbone.
Zitao is still awake enough to pull the other two down into some sort of haphazard embrace, and the silence that falls then is the most blissful he’s ever heard. Deep, sated breaths and whispered thankful affections, and Junmyeon wishes he could take a photo of that moment then, curled up in bed between these two gorgeous boys; enveloped in living, breathing art.