Kyungsoo hates them sometimes, Yifan’s—Coach Wu’s—soft, public little displays of affection: coffee on Kyungsoo’s desk the mornings before big exams, little dragon-shaped postage note i love yous and you’re amazings in his mailbox, soft, secret, fond, fond smiles, softer, more secret, fonder, fonder touches in the hallways, in the teacher’s lounge, during meetings beneath their old, wooden, pencil-graffiti-scarred tables.
Kyungsoo hates how warm his face gets and how jittery his heart becomes, hates how vulnerable and foolishly smitten and stupidly and helplessly in love it all always makes him feel—and at work. Yifan makes him feel like he’s being wooed all over again, falling recklessly in love all over again, even though they’ve been together for nearly five years, even though Kyungsoo should be used to it by now, even though—even though we don't even have to really hide it, Kyungsoo, it’s safe, it’s okay, you know this.
And yes, it’s not really hidden—doesn’t have to be—their relationship kept private more more by omission, Kyungsoo’s private nature, than active deceit, but Yifan’s soft public displays, his soft public affection, they still make Kyungsoo nervous, wary, the idea of an audience, the potential for hatred or disdain.
And Yifan’s easy, public gestures make him flustered, above that, Yifan’s shoulder bumps during assemblies and laced fingers during assemblies, the ostentatious but anonymous flower displays he sends on Valentine’s Day, the mistletoe tie he insists on wearing over his athletic gear with a wink whenever he chances to intercept Kyungsoo’s gaze.
Kyungsoo hates them, but loves them, too, in equal measure.
Earlier it’d been how loudly Yifan had cheered during Kyungsoo’s solo, how he’d stood at the end as Kyungsoo and his choir students bowed to their parents. And right now it's the flowers, the way that Yifan bows with a flourish in his pressed black slacks and burgundy button-up to present it, how his entire face crinkles with the force of his smile. It’s how fucking proud he is, how bright his eyes are, how warm his hands are on Kyungsoo’s waist when Kyungsoo accepts. He hates it then, too, especially as he registers the idle chatter of parents lingering near the auditorium doors with their stars.
Completely heedless of the idea of an audience, the potential for hatred or disdain, Yifan tugs him into his arms when Kyungsoo laughs nervously, and Kyungsoo is too adrenaline-bright, Yifan too warm and familiar and perfect for Kyungsoo to pull away, to do anything but melt into the embrace and let himself be led back to their car.
Yifan holds his hand on the drive home, holds it up the three flights of stairs to their two-bedroom apartment, holds it still—albeit awkwardly as they toe off their shoes in the entry way. And he doesn't drop it, even as he turns to kiss him softly, choosing instead to bring their linked fingers around Kyungsoo's waist. "You're a star. My star," he whispers into the seam of Kyungsoo's mouth.
Sighing, Kyungsoo melts into the soft press of Yifan’s mouth, the softer press of his fingers. They skate around to cup his cheek, his throat, and fuck, his hands are just so—big and so warm and gentle, always handle Kyungsoo with the most agonizingly tender care.
Yifan, he always wants to treasure it, always wants to savor it, always just wants to kiss and hold him for hours.
And it's Kyungsoo that has to strain on his tiptoes to kiss harder, deeper, dirtier, Kyungsoo that had to reach upwards to press their bodies closer—close as they should be. It’s Kyungsoo that is rewarded with a deep groan, the tremble of those big, warm, gentle fingers on his throat, around his waist.
"Yifan," he says, and Yifan groans again, even deeper. His eyelashes kiss against Kyungsoo’s cheekbone. His chest rumbles with his labored breathing. And his lips part.
And these helpless little responses, private little displays of affection and desire and need, Kyungsoo hates them sometimes, too, hates how they affect him, makes him feel so vulnerable and foolishly smitten and stupidly and helplessly in love.
"Yifan," he repeats, nipping at Yifan's bottom lip, letting it catch and swell on his teeth just to feel him shudder.
"Kyungsoo," Yifan moans back.
Dragging him into another hard, deep, dirty, dirty kiss, Kyungsoo traces lazily over Yifan's spine, fingernails catching on starched fabric, lingering on his waistband before teasing lower. He groans, too, at the way Yifan shudders into the exploration, back arching, ass pressing back into the graze.
"Fuck me," Kyungsoo says, even as he curls his fingers intentionally, presses on the seam of Yifan’s ass, teasing with a promise he has no intention of keeping. “Fuck me hard. Fuck me like I’m yours.” A monumental tremor wracks through Yifan's gorgeous, long, lean body, has Yifan pressing closer, firmer against him. His hardening cock drags over Kyungsoo’s clothed stomach, and Kyungsoo trembles, too, tighter, more controlled, but no less affected. “Yifan,” he whispers, reaching around to his front instead, stumbling over his tie, his buttons. “Hyung. Gege.” He bites again, harder, more lingering, and Yifan's groan is richer, darker.
Yifan punches his hip upwards into a dirty, dirty grind, fabric catching on fabric. “I want you,” he breathes into Kyungsoo’s throat, straight white teeth dragging along his Adam’s apple, teasing over his pulse.
Kyungsoo arches into the warm, wet caress, skates his fingers down Yifan’s front, teasing over the strained fabric near his crotch, hating and loving the way that Yifan pushes into his palm, hating and loving how dizzy with desire it makes him feel.
Kyungsoo drags his teeth deliberately along the jut of Yifan’s sternum, blinks at him through purposefully heavy eyelashes, tastes the shuddery need of his desire before he drops abruptly to his knees—right there, right in the middle of their living room.
Yifan cups his cheek with a gratifyingly trembling palm, watches him with gratifyingly glassy eyes as Kyungsoo teases his fingers over his zipper, drags it down, down, down, tugs his pants and boxers to midthigh before taking him into his mouth.
Kyungsoo only gets three wet bobs in before Yifan is urging him to stop— saying if he wants to fuck, if he really fuck and really wants Yifan to be the one fucking—then he needs to stop doing that thing with his tongue because fuck he's gonna come otherwise.
Kyungsoo smirks as he disengages, kisses along the trembling column of Yifan’s thigh, where the skin is extra soft, extra thin, extra sensitive, where the light hair tickles against his cheek.
"You asked me to fuck you," Yifan reminds him, and his voice is so satisfying wavery, hands so wonderfully shaky, trembling as they clutch at his shoulders.
Abruptly, Yifan drags him upwards, stumbles with him the 30 feet to their bedroom, dropping Kyungsoo on their queen mattress as he falls out of his pants and underwear. He’s still wearing his nice button—all rumpled and half-buttoned, and Kyungsoo rumples it further, unbuttons it further as he tugs him on the bed.
Crawling over him, Yifan kisses him like he’s his everything, touches him like it, too, like he wants to savor it still, even as his saliva-slick cock drags on the material of Kyungsoo's Impress-The-Parents pants.
It's Kyungsoo's touches, Kyungsoo's kisses, Kyungsoo's coaxing, Kyungsoo's demanding that help set the pace, and before long, Kyungsoo is naked and hard and aching, and Yifan shouldering his ways between Kyungsoo's spread legs, mouthing intently, cruelly, deliciously at Kyungsoo's rim.
He nuzzles in his balls on the retreat, sloppy and hot and wet and beautiful, his groan rich and so achingly deep that it reverberates through Kyungsoo’s entire body, and Kyungsoo arches mindlessly into the sensation. Yifan groans again, nuzzles further, lower, holding him open when Kyungsoo’s body jerks. His hands are so distressinglyy large and hot and rough, gentle as they are, caring as they are. Big and strong enough to pin, but they choose instead to coax, cajole, ease, ask, ask, ask as his tongue and lips do.
Kyungsoo chokes on something painfully close to a sob as he grinds up into the slick friction of Yifan’s mouth, shudders through the wet, wet, wet drag.
“Fuck me,” he reminds him, twisting pointedly for more, and Yifan nips lightly at his inner thigh before sliding his tongue more deliberately, more intently, the briefest penetration, a not-quite fucking that still has Kyungsoo’s body melting into the mattress, has his fingers tangling in Yifan’s hair.
“Fuck” he whispers, and Yifan groans again. “Yifan,” he tries. “Hyung. Ge—ge, more.”
Yifan curls one dry, long, long finger besides his tongues, hums as he does, and Kyungsoo begs for it, twisting his hips to fuck back on the pressure, whimpering brokenly when Yifan fumbles for the lube, curls two slick fingers into him. By the third, Kyungsoo is panting, and Yifan is trembling as his arms bracket Kyungsoo's body, cock drags between Kyungsoo's thighs.
And it's Kyungsoo again, looping his arms around Yifan's shoulders, coaxing him into movement that has Yifan finally, finally sliding inside. The stretch burns through him, and Kyungsoo pants through the pressure, tilting his head back. “Yifan,” he manages. “Hyung. Gege.”
Arms trembling near Kyungsoo’s shoulders, Yifan watches him with the most gorgeous longing, and Kyungsoo had always loved the way that arousal stains his golden skin. Kyungsoo’s own reckless, helpless desire tingles through his entire body.
Yifan folds Kyungsoo into his arms, arching Kyungsoo's spine, tilting him just right as he fucks into him slow and deep, his fingers restlessly tight on his hips, and his eyes glassy and gorgeous with pleasure.
"Kyungsoo" Yifan keeps saying, punctuating between devastatingly dragging, deep, deep thrusts, and Kyungsoo feels like he's dying.
"Let me," he whispers in a ruined rasp. “Let me—fuck, let me just—”
And shaky, weak with want, Kyungsoo is pressing Yifan back into the mattress, climbing on top of him immediately afterwards, dragging his ass purposefully along the hard, hard ridge of Yifan’s cock. And fuck, Kyungsoo hates and loves the little choked off sound Yifan makes, how clumsily reverent and heartachingly tender his fingers are on his waist.
“Kyungsoo,” he says, dragging hot and wet and hard and perfect, and Kyungsoo shudders as he drops slow, slow, slow, moaning past the delicious stretch.
Kyungsoo twists his hips and gasps, grinds down hard before tilting back and bouncing once, twice, thrice—fucking himself hard, fast.
He braces himself on Yifan’s thighs as he moves, quakes, moans, and Yifan's face pinches with pleasure, eyes hooded, head tossing back, jaw slack.
"You're mine," Kyungsoo manages around a whimper, shuddering into the next quick drop.
And Yifan groans in agreement, fucks up minutely when Kyungsoo falls. Sharp, sharp pleasure shoots up his spine, burning and electric and dark and possessive. Kyungsoo’s fingernails catch on warm, golden skin.
"Yours," he agrees.
"Only mine," Kyungsoo pants. "Love me. Want me. Fuck me."
Yifan’s deep, deep groan, deep, deep thrust rattles through his bones, and Kyungsoo collapses back onto the mattress, drags Yifan on top of him once more. Overcome, he scratches his need and approval and love into the straining muscles of Yifan’s broad, strong back, biting and licking and sucking and chanting it into his shoulder, his throat, his collarbone, too, as every grinding fuck forward drives him closer, closer, closer.
One of Yifan’s strong, large, large hands stumbles down to Kyungsoo’s cock, grip shaky but secure, his stroke tight and quick and perfect, and Kyungsoo melts further, further, further, lets himself fall further, further, further.
“Yifan,” Kyungsoo moans, writhing back into every thrust, clawing all the while at more skin, biting at it, too as the pleasure crescendos into a feverpitch of hot, hot, hot sensation. “Hyung, g—”
And with a long, long moan, Kyungsoo falls completely apart, comes and claws and bites and quivers and moans and pants as he does, hates and loves how he can feel the deep ruin of Yifan's moan, the stuttering grind of Yifan's final, desperate thrust, the warm wetness of his release spreading hot and thick in his ass, shudders as he falls completely boneless into their sheets.
Yifan noses along Kyungsoo's sweaty throat, his throat, rumbling in satiation, cradling him close, then kissing him utterly breathless and dizzy.
“Want you,” Yifan whispers into his collarbone. “Love you.” Confessed into the hollow of his throat. A pause, the shyest, softest smile pressed to the apex of his neck, soft and shy and sweet against his throat. “Treasure you, too.”
harujongin, you're up