Kyungsoo jerks and adjusts, too, to keep him comfortable, mindful of the angle of his neck, the way he keeps inadvertently inhaling blanket fibers. He’s burrowing into it sleepily again when he rouses, groans, leans back to crash against his seat.
Sleepiness is still dusting his eyelashes, has him squinting blearily, and there's drool drying and crusting on the corner of his mouth. His clothes are wrinkled, and his face is dimpled with patchy stubble, stained with the haggard lines of too-long overlays pretzeled around criminally hard terminal seats. But he wears it well. Or as well as someone can. Or maybe Kyungsoo is just too stupid in love to be objective.
Kyungsoo pulls out his ear bud, pauses his movie, smiles.
Groaning, stretching, Chanyeol pops his back, twists his neck, elbows and jostles Kyungsoo in the process. His chin drags haggard, stubbly, hard against Kyungsoo’s shoulder as he tugs listlessly at the waistband of his traveling track pants. And his knee knocks against the screen on their seat back.
“How long?” he croaks.
His smile is dopey, tired, handsome, worn well, too, or at well as someone can. Or just further proof of Kyungsoo being too stupid in love.
“Five hours,” Chanyeol repeats. “Then taxi. Then probably gonna shower, unpack.” He nuzzles into Kyungsoo’s shoulder, voice dropping, fingers dropping, too, squeezing entincingly around his waist. And though he seldom says it, it still gets to him how big they are, his fingers, his hands, how big he is, his arms, his legs—his cock. “Then I’m gonna fuck you,” he cotinues.
“Yeah.” Chanyeol has made similar promises in their travels, their honeymoon in Hawaii, their first anniversary trip to France, the Christmas trip they’d taken to Egypt when Kyungsoo had gotten his last promotion. Chanyeol, he’s good at promising, but bad at following through, always too tired afterwards, just wants to lay there as Kyungsoo fucks himself instead, or fucks into his Chanyeol’s fist, between his thighs, into his mouth.
Kyungsoo hums, bemused.
“Gonna make you come so hard,” he insists in a heated whisper, dragging his thumbnail along the waistband of Kyungsoo’s matching travel track pants, teasing also at the waistband of his boxers. “We’ll get noise complaints, and I’ll have to say, I’m sorry your sex life sucks, but I can’t keep my hands off my husband. And then we’re gonna get back to fucking. And they’ll be too humiliated to complain again. And we’ll order from room sevice, and I’ll kiss you until you fall asleep.”
“Sounds nice,” Kyungsoo concedes.
Chanyeol grins into his shoulder.
"I’m such a good fuck, babe, yu know. So romantic. So enthusiastic. So selfless. And I always want you."
"The best," Kyungsoo agress.
And Chanyeol hums happily into the colalr of his shirt, his lips dragging, then parting. His kiss is obnoxiously loud.
His fingers slide beneath the hem of Chanyeol's shirt, skating over his stomach, up, up, up towards his chest, his nipples, then back down, down, down, a circuit he repeats once, twice, thrice.
“Getting ahead of yourself,” and Chanyeol laughs, adjusts. His fingers fan apart, the pad of his thumb grazing deliberately over the dip of his bellybutton, gentle, lingering as a kiss, swirling at the fine hair there. His kisses are still loud, playful. Kyungsoo’s chin. His jawline. His cheekbone. His eyelid. His eyebrow. He laughs, obnoxiously loud, too, when Kyungsoo squirms.
“I love you,” Kyungsoo says, because it feels like the best time to say it.
And he loves how it makes Chanyeol’s eyes crinkle at the corners, how his lips pull automatically into a smile.
“I love you, too.”
you're up, hakyeonni