They're supposed to be unpacking. Supposed to be writing down a list of things to buy from the local super market. Supposed to also being making lunch with the overpriced bread, peanut butter, jelly, cheap plastic forks that Jongin had picked up from the local convenience store.
They’re supposed to be being adults about this whole moving into their first apartment deal.
But Jongin, he makes it hard sometimes to do the things he’s supposed to. And Sehun, he’s never been very good at being responsible anyway.
Sehun doesn’t give a fuck about the boxes they’re supposed to be opening, the new apartment necessities that need annotating, the lunch—still that needs to be made.
Only about the heft of Jongin’s erection, the richness of his dark, dark moan, how his head pitches back when Sehun touches him just so, how this can be the first room they christen in their new home.
Sehun’s head is dizzy with the desire for more, and Jongin’s hands stumble over the muscles in his back, slide in between the gaps between his loose tank top and bare, quivering skin. His fingernail scrape, and Sehun stumbles further forward into the cradle of his body, dropping small, mindless kisses on the warm, golden skin.
Jongin moans again as he pulls him further forward, pulls him even tighter, the sound hot and breathy, and Sehun lets himself be dragged, shifts forward to grind against him. His elbow knock, knees stumble over the kitchen floor—real wood they realtor had sworn—in his haste to press closer, tighter, more.
And Jongin looks extra perfect like that, his dark hair, bleeding out across the light wood grain, all flushed cheeks and dark eyes and parted lips in this their new home, all lithe and long and luxurious and already Sehun’s home.
Jongin’s jeans are old, distressed, moving-into-our-new -apartment comfortable, moving-into-our-new-apartment loose, so so so easy to work open, and Sehun does, sliding his fingers over the light hair on his stomach, the goosebumps on his hips, the strain of his erection.
He thinks about the precarious boxes stacked around their apartment still, collecting dust in their bedroom, living room, kitchen counter, thinks about the neglected little yellow bills they have to pay—electricity, gas—of the recycled they still need to taken outside, the trash bags, dishes, towels, napkins, toilet paper, food they need to buy, thinks of the home—their home—they still need to make, as he touches him more directly, swallows another sharp, shuddery moan, trembles by proxy with another sharp, shuddery tremor.
sorry for the delay, harujongin, you're up!