Work Text:
The video is titled “Day One,” length 15:28, the thumbnail a shot of Kyungsoo’s plush, parted lips, his pale throat.
Perched on his tiny mattress, Chanyeol swallows hard, clicks it open. His laptop whirrs in protest.
Kyungsoo, his boyfriend, a history grad student three years into his program, he’s away for the next two weeks on an archeological dig in the American South. Three hours ahead, decidedly indisposed. And though, they don’t live together, spend only ever 4 or 5 nights together on non-busy weeks, though it shouldn't be that serious, it still—kind of really fucking—is.
It's the fact that they're in love, maybe. The fact that Chanyeol always feels so much, is always so needy for his attention, Kyungsoo ever receptive, feeling and needing just as much. It's the fact also that Kyungsoo is too easy and too consuming a love, too easy and consuming a presence for Chanyeol to feel anything but hyper pronounced distress at the news. Happy, happy news, a great opportunity, a cushion for Kyungsoo’s CV. But even then it was too shocking an announcement for Chanyeol not to have expressed this distress, begged to come, too, his own classes, job be damned.
Kyungsoo had said no, but he had promised a consolation of prize of sorts.
This, a series of videos on a thumbdrive pressed to Chanyeol’s palm the night before they’d left. And Kyungsoo had warned him to pace himself, asked him not to deviate from schedule. One a day, he'd planned this out special. Chanyeol should really try to respect his wishes. Make it last, not ruin the surprise.
Chanyeol, he's going to. He really is. And his body is already thrumming with anticipation, earbuds in place, eyes trained on the screen, lips parted as Kyungsoo swims in his vision.
Kyungsoo is older, five years older, and Chanyeol can see it sometimes, in the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his eyelashes on particularly stressful days. There are bruises sometimes on the pale, smooth skin just beneath his eyes, stubble that he in his haste and distress has neglected, an extra hollowness to his small, small bird's bones. Kyungsoo bone-weary, ready to crumple, alternately fly far far away.
But there’s nothing of that age, that fatigue now. No, the Kyungsoo on camera now is shy, almost boyish in his charm, smiling softly, rubbing absently at the back of his neck, ruffling his bangs in the process.
He’s freshly showered by the looks of it, wearing Chanyeol’s favorite shirt, the one that falls to midthigh, covers just enough to make Chanyeol’s mouth water. The fabric pools around his bent, rouged knees, a tantalizing vision of decadence, or maybe Chanyeol is just in too deep.
By his bedside are the paperbacks that Chanyeol frequently knocks over on his nights over. On their particularly enthusiastic sessions. Novels, books that people in Kyungsoo’s field have published, textbooks for his classes.
“I miss you already," Kyungsoo starts. “You're still here. I’m still here. But I miss you already. Just the thought of not seeing you for two weeks. It’s getting to me."
He blows out a quick breath, puffing out his cheeks. Shoulders hunched, he looks vulnerable, so impossibly small, too.
“I know you like to be told sometimes, too, so I miss you already. Even now when you’re only a phone call away. It's not the same." Kyungsoo shakes his head. “Won’t be the same,” he murmurs.
Kyungsoo shifts the laptop further away. There’s a peek of his arm, the pronounced network of blue veins beneath his soft, smooth skin.
His fingers tense and untense on his thighs. He’s not wearing anything underneath, Chanyeol can already tell. He swallows hard.
“I’m doing this because I already miss you.” Kyungsoo drags the hem of his shirt up, fiddling with it, biting his lower lip. “And because I love you,” he adds. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this. I’m nervous. But I love you.”
The admission, though begrudging, makes affection swell in Chanyeol’s chest.
Kyungsoo pauses, as if expecting him to say it back. Chanyeol does. And the Kyungsoo on the screen smiles like he's heard it.
“So I got you something,” he continues after a beat. “It’s under the bed. I stashed it the night before I left."
The night he'd bent Chanyeol over the bed, fucked him until he'd cried. The night he'd bitten Chanyeol with the explicit intention of leaving marks for him to press into when he missed him. A bittersweet, hot and heavy goodbye. Curled together in the afterglow, Chanyeol had cried for another reason. He was gonna miss him. He knew it was dumb honestly, but really why did he have to go? Was there another way? Kyungsoo kisses and eyes and touches solemn and heavy and tender and comforting had told him no, there wasn't. But they'd be okay. He promised they'd be okay.
And yes, Chanyeol has to—under his bed.
The Kyungsoo onscreen purses his lips as we waits, shifts to roll his shoulders. Chanyeol gropes under his squeaky mattress.
Kyungsoo rests his fingers in his lap, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He is tiny, tiny, tiny, small and soft, made to be held, Chanyeol has tried to impress upon him on numerous occasions. Tiny and soft and made to be held, he fits perfectly against Chanyeol’s body in those moments he allows himself to be held. Chanyeol’s heart turns over in his chest, brimming with love again, even as he tugs open the box, swallows hard at the contents. Flesh-colored silicone encased in black tissue paper.
"It’s my cock," Kyungsoo is saying. He bites his lower lip nearly white then lets it pop free. Something shifts in his demeanor, then. Something all too familiar, all too perfect. A distressingly potent aura of authority. "I had it custom made a couple of weeks back, for when I’m too—tired, busy. It was supposed to be for your birthday, but then this came up."
And yes, Kyungsoo isn't wearing anything underneath his shirt. He demonstrates this in the next instant, spreading his thighs, pulling the material up to wrap a loose fist around himself. Right, right to the point. He's still mostly soft, groans about it, too. How he wishes that Chanyeol were here because Chanyeol—naked and panting and eager—always makes him so, so hard. He wishes Chanyeol was here to suck him off, he's so good at it.
Chanyeol's hands are shaking so bad as he tugs his own pajama pants down, matches Kyungsoo's movements, strokes himself in time to Kyungsoo's lazy, languid pace. Lip caught between his teeth, cock in his own hand, Chanyeol watches Kyungsoo harden fully.
"You're touching yourself, right?" Kyungsoo's fist skates slightly faster, thumb catching on the crown with every flick. His chin crashes forward against his sternum, and he lets out a low moan, eyebrows puckering with pleasure. "Touching yourself because this turns you on?"
Chanyeol nods uselessly, legs spreading, lip catching on his teeth as he moans in turn.
"Been awhile since we've done this," Kyungsoo notes softly, shakily. "Mutual masturbation. Good, too long.” He pauses on the downstroke to fondle his balls, sigh Chanyeol’s name. “But that's—that's not what I want from you now. I want you to finger yourself," he breathes. "Stick out your tongue like you always do whenever you fingerfuck yourself for me. Always—fuck—look at me like you just can't wait for me to get inside. Love it when I fuck you, right? Make the prettiest sounds for me."
Kyungsoo chokes on a moan, free hand sliding up towards his nipples, pinching through the cotton as he pants.He answers Chanyeol's silent request in the next instant, pulling the shirt over his head, tossing it quickly aside. He's pale but flushed, gorgeous. And the muscles are dancing and jumping beneath his tense arm as he strokes himself, to the thought of Chanyeol, so hard from thinking of Chanyeol.
Kyungsoo’s thumb digs into the slit, always a little rough with it, pleasure-pain even with himself. And Chanyeol’s mouth waters as he watches, remembering the heft of it in his own palm, the exquisite burn as it drags inside of him, the way it stretches his lips, makes his jaw ache. Chanyeol whimpers.
“You’re making them right now, right, baby boy? Fingering yourself, right, baby boy?” Chanyeol isn’t, but he starts, groping blindly for lube in his nightstand, slicking his fingers and pressing two in without preamble, hissing as Kyungsoo strokes and strokes and strokes. “Wish I could hear you. Wish I could see you, too.”
And even though Kyungsoo can’t, Chanyeol presents himself like he can, presents himself like he does for Kyungsoo’s approval, hips lifting off the bed, head tilted back in provocation, fingers thrusting more vigorously inside of himself as he waits further instruction, heats with need. Take me take me take me.
“Spread your fingers for me then press down on your prostate.” Kyungsoo rasps. “Long as you can, want you to tremble like you do when it’s almost too much, and you just want me to fuck you.”
Chanyeol shuddering heavily does for one, two, three beats before retreating just like Kyungsoo always does when he fingers him. And Chanyeol misses the heat of Kyungsoo’s mouth on his chest, the dark promise of his words. Gonna be my cock soon. Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Feel so tight, so hot, want you so bad right now.
On screen, Kyungsoo’s let go of his cock, dragging his fingers down his thighs, nails leaving red, red trails.
If he keeps touching himself he’ll come, Chanyeol thinks deliriously. He’s stopping himself from coming to soon.
“Again,” Kyungsoo says. “Longer this time, baby. I know you can.”
Chanyeol bites back a sob as he complies, his knees knocking together, limbs flailing and threatening to upend the laptop. The sharp spike of pleasure has tears swimming in his vision, sliding down his overheated cheeks.
And as if he’s really there, really able to watch him, able to take him apart, Kyungsoo is thanking him for listening, saying he loves it when Chanyeol gets like this for him.
“Fuck yourself with my cock,” he rasps in a husky command, gripping himself again, but this time a tight, tight ring around the base. Chanyeol moans heavily, momentarily distracted as his eyes rake over Kyungsoo’s flushed, gorgeous erection, the prominent veins, the precome pearling at the tip. And he fucking wants—that, Kyungsoo’s real cock, Kyungsoo’s real breath, Kyungsoo’s real lips, Kyungsoo’s real skin burning him alive. Chanyeol, as good as this is, as good as he knows this will be, he’s still settling, and it’s only been a day.
His fingers pop free, trembling as he reaches for the dildo—Kyungsoo’s cock. Kyungsoo’s fingers have moved upwards, and he’s palming himself again. There’s that dizzying command in his eyes, something in the tilt of his chin, the furrow of his eyebrows that has Chanyeol ever eager to please. He would kiss him if he were here, drags his fingernails down Kyungsoo’s tense biceps to urge him closer.
“Ease it in, baby,” Kyungsoo is urging him. Chanyeol’s gaze locks with Kyungsoo’s as he obeys, and the stretch has him fighting a heavy shudder, heavier moan. “Nice and slow,” Kyungsoo murmurs, and if he were here, he’d be kissing his chest, his collarbone, breathing labored and hot against his skin, eyelashes kissing rapidly as he groaned about how good it felt. But as it is— “Feel every centimeter. That’s me. You’re squeezing so tight around my cock. Gonna fuck you sobbing.”
He’s started to touch himself tighter now. “Tight like you,” he groans. His chin crashes against his shoulders, the tendons in his neck pronounced. “Are you fucking yourself yet? Like I do? Do it like I do, Chanyeol.”
True to form, Chanyeol, after a breathless minute of cursory thrusts, sets a perfect imperfect pace. He fucks the toy into himself this side of too slow, too deep, grazing like it really is Kyungsoo’s cock inside of him and he’s teasing him to the point of tears, fucking him a veritable mess. Whimpering helplessly, trembling helplessly, he struggles to keep his eyes on the screen, struggles to hear Kyungsoo’s own perfect, beautiful sounds over the rush of blood in his ears.
Kyungsoo he’s squeezing hard, tugging fast, panting loud, groaning about how it’s so good—this all feels so, so good.
“Gonna come,” he groans, fist trembling, but still so quick now. “Need to come, need to fuck you, babe. Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He breaks off with a long, long moan. One that Chanyeol has tasted numerous times. On screen, his entire body bows, shakes. The pixels are hyperpronounced, unable to capture his helpless tremor, but Chanyeol knows what it looks like, Chanyeol remembers the way that sweaty, gorgeous shudder feels over him, remembers the rush of blood, heat, the exquisite pulse of Kyungsoo inside of him when he comes.
Wrist aching, ass aching, body aching for release, he redoubles his efforts, stutterfucking now, like Kyungsoo does, grinding hard and sloppy against his rim, the lube leaving a tacky mess, making obscene sounds as he works himself closer and closer to the edge. He watches Kyungsoo on screen, the rise and fall of his bare, sweaty chest, the weak pants still leaving his plush, red lips.
“Touch yourself if you’re not already,” Kyungsoo urges, voice weak, warm, sated. “Come for me, baby. Come just for me.”
Three strokes, three fucks, and Chanyeol does, whimpering helplessly. A sticky mess, he collapses back into the mattress with a long moan, jostling the laptop in the process.
Chanyeol fumbles to drag the computer weakly to his side, watches through glazed eyes as the Kyungsoo on screen drags his fingers through the mess on his stomach, sits up. Chanyeol groans weakly, perched on an elbow, watching his orgasm-slow movements
“Wish you were here to lick this off,” Kyungsoo notes softly, raising his sticky fingers, and Chanyeol nods—uselessly—in agreement, swallowing another groan.
The way Kyungsoo always cradles his jawline, thumbs at his trembling throat when pressing his come-sticky fingers into Chanyeol pliant mouth—
“Wish you were here to hold, too,” he admits, much softer, interrupting Chanyeol’s train of thought as he wipes his fingers absently on the rumpled shirt at his side, eyes and words heavy. “I love you.”
Again, he waits for Chanyeol to say it back. Then, he smiles, shaky hand sliding forward. The screen goes black.
Chanyeol feels cold, lonely, but he sits up, too, gropes for tissues to clean himself. He showers, dresses, orders takeout, tries not to think about how on Fridays off, Kyungsoo doesn’t have class, complains about his pizza choices, leans back against him as he reads his textbook.
Chanyeol has class readings, work in the morning. He swallows past the memory of Kyungsoo's arms around his side, big enough to be the big spoon he always insists. Maybe Chanyeol’s in too deep.
He glances at the clock, gropes for his phone. watched day 1, he sends. Then ;).
His phone buzzes with Kyungsoo’s own bet you came right away :).
They text back and forth—about Kyungsoo’s room, what he had for dinner, what he’s most looking forward to finding—until Chanyeol passes out.
Day 2, 7:48, thumbnail of Kyungsoo with his thighs spread, hands around his cock.
No preamble this time, it opens with Kyungsoo already holding himself, already prompting Chanyeol to do the same.
Chanyeol tugs off his pants, readily follows suit.
“Remember when you jerked me off in a movie theater?” Kyungsoo asks, voice husky, eyes dark. “After like four months together in the middle of that foreign film.”
Chanyeol nods needlessly. Kyungsoo bites his lower lip hard. It pops free in the next instant with a low moan. His eyelashes flutter, stark against his cheekbone as he trembles with exertion.
Chanyeol whimpers.
“Started touching me in the middle of that sex scene. Told me I should drink my ICEE to keep quiet.”
Chanyeol shudders, stroking himself faster, recalling the heat of Kyungsoo in his palm, the way the elder had hissed, moaned, rocked into his palm, the way his furrowed eyebrows and bitten lips and liquid eyes had looked in the theatre’s neon glow.
"That's one of the hottest things you’ve ever done,” Kyungsoo continues. “Touching me like that where anybody could see just how eager you were. So fucking hot."
His eyes flutter shut, but they stay that way this time, eyebrows pinched, lips parted in pure, pure pleasure. He’s decadent and beautiful with it.
"Fuck, Chanyeol, " he manages after a beat, voice so so deep. "You're always so fucking hot. Wanna fuck you—wanna fuck you. Wish I was—” He breaks off with a low-pitched moan.
He doesn’t speak after that. Just moans, jerks himself faster and faster and faster until he’s coming loudly, arching sharply, spurting across his bare, tense stomach.
Chanyeol whines at the sight, redoubles his efforts. Legs spreading, he drags a one finger teasingly along his entrance, the dry touch sending an extra jolt of heat through his body.
He’s so close, and he misses Kyungsoo most right now.
Kyungsoo turns his attention on him again. And once more, he gets Chanyeol off with his voice, his praise, his commands alone. Sated, thrumming in the afterglow, Chanyeol craves his gentle endearments, his soft touches, his lazy kisses.
He glances at the clock, 3 hours ahead, Kyungsoo is probably long asleep.
He sends him an i love you, turns his phone over as he crawls into his bed.
He gets a reply in the morning. A simple i love you, too, a photo of Kyungsoo’s sleep-rumpled face. The circles are under his eyes again, but they’re crinkling nonetheless from the force of his smile.
Day 3, 5:34, the constellation of moles on Kyungsoo’s throat. A fantasy this time. How he wants to bend Chanyeol over his shared TA office desk, fuck him into the rickety wood until he’s upsetting all the papers, scrapping his orgasm against the varnished wood, moans drowning out the whine of their temperamental air conditioner.
Following Kyungsoo’s pace, Chanyeol comes embarrassingly fast, sags back against the mess of throw pillows on his mattress as he recovers.
He’s made the mistake of watching it before his shift at the barbecue place. Tingling, trembling with orgasm still, he takes unnecessarily long to get ready.
Kyungsoo calls him when he gets back. 10PM his time. "Want to have phone sex?" Chanyeol wants to whisper, starts to whisper, but Kyungsoo sounds tired. The strain—his age—obvious in his voice. This voice is term papers and Teaching Assistant duties, late nights in the college library, course readings piled high high in precarious towers. His voice is coffee tremors, dark eyecircles and unkempt hair, highlighter stains on his fingertips and across his wrist.
Kyungsoo is tired, but he hums for Chanyeol to continue.
And "Want to kiss me?" Chanyeol offers instead, smacking his lips obnoxiously loud to hear the deep rumble of Kyungsoo's laughter. "Too late," he laughs in turn, and he can hear the smile in Kyungsoo's quiet, chiding Chanyeol. There's never any heat in it, any real disdain, Kyungsoo's love drowns it all out.
"I miss you," Kyungsoo groans softly after a beat. "I just want to hear your voice," he confesses after another. "I should have asked you to send me something, too."
"A sex thing?" Chanyeol proposes. "Do you want a voice note?"
Kyungsoo lets out another sigh. "No, just I want you to say my name like you love me. Want to hear it in person.
"Kyungsoo," Chanyeol says, and Kyungsoo lets out a quiet hum of contentment. Chanyeol’s skin suffuses with goosebumps. “Kyungsoo,” he repeats, and Kyungsoo lets out a breathier sound. “Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo.”
“I want to kiss you so badly right now,” Kyungsoo tells him. “I miss holding you, too,” he supplies after a beat. All your too long limbs, I miss them around me, you know. You always suffocate me with your armpit hair, but I miss it.”
“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol repeats, and Kyungsoo sighs heavily.
“Stop that, you’re gonna make me miss you even more. Let’s—about something else.”
“Is it fulfilling?” he asks, and Kyungsoo laughs.
“You sound like doctor Kim's wife," he chuckles. "Are you eating well, love? How is the weather treating you? Are you feeling fulfilled?" He pitches his voice high in imitation.
“Well?” Chanyeol presses.
Chanyeol can hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, it's nice to have it as a this...concrete thing. Nice to see things and touch them and be a part of something.” A pause, his voice softer, more awed. “Nice to feel important and on the forefront of something.” Another pause, a jostle, as he rights himself. He’s probably in bed, should be getting to sleep soon. “The weather is balmy, but the food is good. I’ve got a roommate, too. He’s nice, really quiet, tall as fuck.”
“Taller than me?”
“Maybe, but he’s really skinny so that makes him look more...you know those giant inflatable men.” Chanyeol hums. “He’s just a kid,” he supplies after a beat. “Why? Are you jealous?”
“That he gets to see you when I don’t, yeah.”
“Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo says—starts to stay—and Chanyeol smacks his lips annoyingly to distract him. A very, very loud smooch. Kyungsoo lets out another groan, fondly deprecating again. He kisses him back in the next moment, promises to text more.
Day 4, 5:01, Kyungsoo's shy smile, the crinkle of his left cheek.
In keeping with last night's vein, about how much he misses kissing him. About how he can’t stop thinking about it, he’s become so used to it.
"I wanted to kiss you the first time we met, you know," Kyungsoo sighs on screen, fully-dressed, soft-eyed and wistful. At the school library, a year and four months ago, finals week, Chanyeol had offered him a seat, a gummy worm, forcing a half-smile out of him. "Your goofy grin, your loud laugh, your awful oral fixation. You just kept—chewing your pen cap and applying lip balm and eating gummy worms and smiling and humming and apologizing and asking me if I was okay. And I was on like, three hours of sleep, and I needed to study, but more than anything I wanted to kiss you, climb onto your lap, tug on the strings of your black hoody, and kiss the fuck out of you. Maybe the sleep deprivation,” he muses softly, rolling his shoulders, letting out a shy puff of a laugh. “Maybe it was your undeniable charm. But I wanted to kiss you so badly.”
Chanyeol’s hands linger at his waist as he tugs his pants back on, and his heart aches.
“I built it up so much in my head, you know, wanted it so fucking much. It wouldn’t go away when we started ‘hanging out.’ And when I actually,” Kyungsoo sighs, almost dreamily, eyelashes fluttering quickly, “It was even better than I imagined. You kissed me right back, just so eager and perfect and warm and like we were meant to kiss each other. And I regretted not kissing you sooner because I could have been doing it so much more, feeling so right so much earlier.”
Kyungsoo’s ears are bright red, and that ache in Chanyeol’s chest has bloomed to his whole body, a sweet sort of pleasure pain, mixed with heat. Kyungsoo laughs softly, tugs on his ear. “That’s cheesy, right? Feeling like you’re just so fulfilled by a kiss alone. But—I don’t know that’s what you do to me.” He exhales loudly. “And I’m only telling you because I miss you. Your stupid tongue, your awful lips. Miss the way you always smile into kisses and cradle my face in your giant hands, and urge me closer and closer until it’s hard to breathe.”
Chanyeol swallows hard as Kyungsoo moves closer, his lips plump and deliciously red as he moves closer and closer to the webcam lens.
“I want to kiss you now, too. I can already—I’m gonna miss kissing you. Gonna miss your mouth, miss feeling right.”
He moves even closer, until the screen goes black, speakers ringing with a loud smack. He’s kissed him through the video.
Kyungsoo chokes around a laugh as he retreats, then blinks rapidly, catches his eyes—seems to want to catch his eyes.
“Thinking about this is making me sad,” he admits after a beat, shoulders shifting beneath his shirt, but he forces a smile. “I’m sorry this isn’t a sex thing, if you were expecting a sex thing, I mean.” Kyungsoo rolls his neck, blinks up at Chanyeol through his eyelashes. Expression ever unnerving, it makes him looking soft, small, deferential, turns Chanyeol’s resolve to utter mush. “Let me know if you’re really feeling deprived, and I’ll see what I can do about it, baby boy.”
Chanyeol falls asleep in his bed, chest tight, after sending a simple you never leave me feeling deprived. Kyungsoo, he knows, is asleep.
Chanyeol wakes up on to a simple I jerked off in the shower this morning thinking about you, the next morning, phone ringing with his his special Kyungsoo kissing tone.
Bit my own arm and came so hard when i remembered how you do that, he sends after a minute.
Follows up with Always bite and scratch and beg.
FUCK, I miss you babe
He sends a picture of his arm, the purple indentations left by his own teeth.
It’s noon, his time. Lunch time. He can make out the crinkled wrapper of his hamburger. Momentarily unoccupied.
Chanyeol's body stirs. He sends a winky emoji, asks if he can call. Kyungsoo says no. He's gotta go back to the site in an hour. Chanyeol should just watch his videos to tide him over. Kyungsoo will jerk off in the shower, thinking of how much Chanyeol’s enjoyed them.
Chanyeol works another shift, catches up on course reading, a couple of episodes of a crime drama marathon on cable, showers, before opening his laptop. A Friday night well spent.
Day 5, 7:35, Kyungsoo with his head tipped back against his shoulder.
Chanyeol perches his camcorder on his desk, recording over solo rap cams, to capture this instead. Inspired, he balances his phone by his pillows, too, recording his response to Kyungsoo’s filthy, filthy recollections.
The elder reminisces over the first time they had sex. In Chanyeol’s dorm room, when he still roomed with Yifan. His thumbnail circles the crown, his hand skating disconcertingly slow, he recalls how Chanyeol crawled into his lap, grinding down hard and sloppy, saying fuck, he just wanted Kyungsoo to fuck him hard. How he just wanted to ride Kyungsoo until he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. And how he had, braced himself on Kyungsoo’s shoulders, fucked himself until he was a sobbing, beautiful mess. So tight and eager and fucking perfect. Kyungsoo had had to hold off from coming too fast, it was so fucking perfect.
Kyungsoo’s voice is thick with desire, his head tilted down to look up at him as he strokes and strokes and strokes.
And Chanyeol comes embarrassingly fast, shuts off the recording on his phone to snap a picture of his come-covered chest.
And Chanyeol does end up sending him a voice note—unsolicited—throaty, grainy moans, arousal-husky comments about missing Kyungsoo’s perfect, perfect cock, the bite of his fingernails on his skin. “Coming,” he rasps, purposefully, “coming and wish you were here to lick it off my fingers, too.”
fuck, i have to go to go jerk off in the fucking bathroom now.
Chanyeol smiles at his screen.
Kyungsoo texts him more beyond this, makes a greater effort after Chanyeol complains.
Kyungsoo texts him in the morning, around noon, late at night. In those moments where his phone isn’t relegated to its designated “cellphone box.” When he’s not on a dig, when he’s not in class, when he’s not showering, when he’s not eating or sleeping. Chanyeol fits in only during his leisure time, and there’s not quite enough
But Chanyeol makes due, treasure what he can get. Selfies now, i miss yous and i love yous and boyfriend worries about whether Chanyeol is eating enough, staying cool, doing his homework. He wishes Chanyeol well on his upcoming quiz.
The next two days, Saturday and Sunday, Kyungsoo’s offdays, they talk on the phone again, innocent, small, just to hear each other’s voice, keep Kyungsoo’s roommate from being traumatized.
And Day 6, 5:45, Kyungsoo’s open mouth, curled tongue, it has then walking down memory lane again. Last Christmas this time, when Chanyeol had tied a bow to his dick, urged Kyungsoo to claim and unwrap and take him any way he wanted. Chanyeol, by the twinkling Christmas lights, with his forearms around his knees, eaten out, fingered, fucked to hitching, echoing sobs.
And Day 7, 9:38, Kyungsoo's crinkled nose. "Not a sex thing—again," he establishes from the beginning. "Or maybe, I don't know, you can jerk off to this, too, but I just want to—”
He recounts their first date, tells him how nervous he was. How he knew it wasn’t a date, they were both too scared at that point to call it a date. Just hanging out all alone at the movies, the Korean restaurant, a cafe, the park. Friendship cut with lingering touches, kisses, conversations outside of Chanyeol’s decaled dorm room door afterwards. Building up and and up before overflowing.
But that first one, fuck that first one. Kyungsoo had changed his outfit five times, sampled six or seven colognes. Jongdae had had to calm him down.
“You kept fiddling with your watch and tapping your foot underneath the table, and I was so nervous, too, but you were just so—are just so fucking gorgeous. And you kept biting your lip and trying to make conversation about my favorite bands, and I just wanted to kiss you. It was so awkward and perfect.”
Kyungsoo sighs so hard, he blows his bangs out his eyes.
“You unnerve me,” he admits. “You are so completely and utterly the opposite of who I am. You’re so happy and bright and—and I don’t even understand how it’s even possible for you to always...you always fucking want me. Wanted even then to spend time with me. It’s heady and kinda confusing, but the best thing.”
A boyish grin. Kyungsoo looks beautiful like this, with his cheeks stained pink and his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbone.
“You're the happiest person I've ever met, you know. It's infectious,” he laughs. “My happy virus. You're so different than what I've come to expect, so different from what I thought I wanted, but you still somehow—you're exactly what I didn't know I wanted and exactly what I need. I know you like me to tell you. I'm trying to tell you right now.
Kyungsoo moves closer to the camera, blurring briefly before he comes into focus again. And fuck, he really is beautiful.
“This is so hard on camera. If I were with you, you'd be watching me with your giant eyes and your adoration, and I would know what to say. Or I would be allowed to just kiss you and hold you. But right now, we’re settling. And I’m telling you I love you. I’m telling you I miss you.”
He moves closer still, urges him to close his eyes, flushing darkly as he presses his lips to the camera—Chanyeol peeks—to kiss him loudly.
Bittersweet because Chanyeol still misses him when he closes his laptop, the dull ache only sharpening when Kyungsoo texts him goodnight, asks him to leave a slice of mattress empty in his memory.
Chanyeol gets a 95% on his online quiz for his Asian Humanities course. He rewards himself with cheescrust pizz, 2 liters of Coke, one trashy Lifetime movie, then another Kyungsoo video.
And the next one is grainier, shakier. Day 8, 3:01, the thumbnail a still of Kyungsoo's heaving throat. It was filmed with his cellphone camera, Chanyeol knows, in the university bathroom, with Kyungsoo's head tipping back against the ugly neon-blue partitions, as he touches himself.
He’s already touching himself, and Chanyeol palms himself through his sweats at the strain of Kyungsoo’s heady moan.
"I'm—I'm supposed to be preparing a powerpoint right now, but—fuck—remember the first time you ate me out," he gasps. "I still do. I think about it sometimes when I’m fucking you. When I'm at work. When you apply that awful lipbalm. When fuck, when you send a stupid selfie with your fucking mouth open and your fingers in a V. I remember what it felt like, and I have to stop myself from jerking off. Stop myself from doing this—what I'm doing right now."
His eyes pinch shut, eyebrows furrowing. His lips purse around a moan. "And usually, fuck usually I think about you blowing me, how enthusiastic you are and how you get all teary and keep gagging and moaning and trying to swallow as much as you want. Fuck, I love your mouth. Always so eager to please, always so fucking good at pleasing. Fuck.”
Chanyeol’s hand slips beneath his waistband, stroking in time to Kyungsoo’s gasps. And it’s embarrassing almost, how easy he is for Kyungsoo.
“But sometimes, fuck, sometimes I remember the way you—you were so sloppy and so good. So so so good," he stutters out, lips bitten and red, throat bobbing. Chanyeol wants to kiss across it, feel the vibration of Kyungsoo's moans against his lips, wants to feel the trembling bite of his fingernails on Chanyeol's skin, in the rare, rare moments when Kyungsoo completely lets himself go for Chanyeol's sake.
"So excited to keep me remember how you kept—kept moaning into me and your fingers kept digging into my thighs to hold me open and you—"
A broken whimper, it harmonizes with Chanyeol's own desperate sounds.
“I almost came from your tongue inside me, you know. Just your tongue inside me and your hands around my cock. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted so badly—”
The camera shakes, and Kyungsoo lets out a quiet fuck. Chanyeol gasps, pitches in response.
“I almost, almost asked you to fuck me, you know. With your fingers or your cock, I was so desperate to be filled, you were so good.” His jaw goes slack around another broken moan. “I want that again, when I come back. Want you to eat me—fuck—eat me out, Chanyeol and maybe, maybe if you’re good—”
He cuts off there with a long, drawnout Chanyeol.
Chanyeol strokes himself faster, barreling closer and closer and closer.
“It’s your tongue, Kyungsoo gasps. “Your tongue, so good.”
And oh fuck, he’s—he’s fingering himself, oh fuck fuck fuck—
“And you’re doing that thing where you’re getting all sloppy and slick and slurping and humming, and I’m tugging your ears and asking you to fuck it inside even harder. And you’re listening because you’re so good. You’re always so fucking good. So so so so so—fuck fuck fuck—”
He bows, whines as he comes, crashing back against that ugly blue partition as he trembles with it. Chanyeol follows soon after, the image of Kyungsoo’s disheveled bangs, parted lips, pleasure-glazed eyes sending him over the edge with a desperate whine.
Chanyeol is still panting, boneless when Kyungsoo congratulates him on his test. Tells him that he’s proud of him.
Chanyeol cleans himself up. He browses movie databases afterwards, torrents films for his class.
Sehun, Kyungsoo’s roommate—Kyungsoo has divulged over a series of texts—he snores, has to sleep with a nightlight, sucks—really, really sucks—at Korean. Ever-present, ever-awkward he’s a solid 6 foot impediment to anything more fulfillign between teh two of them. But he’s out tonight, Kyungsoo informs Chanyeol via text, on a date, so Kyungsoo shouldn’t wait up. Kyungsoo follows with i want you.
Chanyeol rushes to turn his laptop on, already half-hard by the time the Skype app beeps on.
Kyungsoo, on screen, in real time, is grinning.
“I watched video 8,” Chanyeol says, and Kyungsoo’s smile falters just slightly. He looks down, his knuckles white as they tense against his knees. He’s in his boxers, half-hard, too, straining against the little heart insgnias. Chanyeol had bought those for him. “Eating out,” he clarifies unnecessarily apparently as Kyungsoo nods with a flush, murmurs I know. He—he remembers the order. He decided based on—he knows, is the point.
He's ineloquent now, and pride surges in Chanyeol’s chest.
Chanyeol tries his hand at setting the pace. “I jerked off afterwards,” he confesses, stroking himself slowly, hardening further as he catches Kyungsoo’s gaze on the movement.
“Yeah?”
“Thought about eating you out again. Thought about you sitting on my face.”
Kyungsoo is touching himself now, too, and his voice is trained, his breathing labored. “Riding your tongue?”
“Fuck, fuck yes. Thought about—your your thighs around my cheeks. Your fingers in my hair pulling. Telling me I was doing so good.”
“You are. You are.”
“Want you to fuck me, I’m so good.”
“I will. I will. Chanyeol, my Chanyeol.” His voice is distressingly fond, raspy and ruined as it is. “Get my cock.”
Chanyeol does, makes a grab for the lube, too.
He fingers himself quick, methodical, efficient, the burn of the stretch, his just slightly too quick movements combined with the burn of Kyungsoo’s gaze, it all just adding to the drugging pleasure.
His body is a mess of tremors, moans by the time he eases Kyungsoo’s dildo inside of him, fingers trembling so badly, he has to rest them briefly on his inner thigh.
“So pretty,” Kyungsoo compliments anyway. “So good.” Then he’s slipping into his usual demeanor, guiding, setting the pace. “Match my rhythm,” he’s urging. “Like it’s actually me inside you right now. It’s me, it’s me.” Then a quiet curse. “Fuck yourself faster, I’d never fuck you that slow.”
Chanyeol fights to keep his eyes open, his wrist aching, his body thrumming as he follows through. But it’s worth it for the sensations, worth it for the sounds, worth it for the sight. Kyungsoo, in real time, telling him he’s been wanting this for days.
“Gonna come,” Chanyeol gasps, twisting his wrist sharply, stroking clumsily along his cock. “Gonna come.”
But Kyungsoo tells him to wait. Eyes imploring, Chanyeol whines, catches Kyungsoo’s gaze on the screen.
Arousal stains Kyungsoo’s chest, darkens his eyes. Chanyeol remembers when he first met Kyungsoo. When he thought Kyungsoo was something soft, something sacred, something easy to love. He is—easy to love, but better for it when he tears Chanyeol down like this, has him balanced on the cusp of something exquisitely hot and overwhelming like this.
Kyungsoo’s lips part, eyes hood, eyebrows pinch in pleasure. His fist skates quickly over his flushed erection, so fast it blurs on the camera. “You’re so fucking tight, Chanyeol,” he moans. And Chanyeol’s strokes tighten. His wrist flicks even harder, faster. Just just shy of too rough, too hard. “It’s so good with you. You’re so good. I’m always fighting hard not to come as soon as I get inside you."
Kyungsoo bites his lips, then lets them fall open with an obscene groan. “Wait,” he insists. Delayed gratification always makes the pleasure all the sweeter, sharper when it peeks, overflows. But he can barely—he’s too—
Chanyeol trembles, tears stinging in his eyes as he tells Kyungsoo he can’t much longer. Please, he can’t. Please, he’s not gonna make it.
“But for me,” Kyungsoo insists. “With me.”
And just just just when he thinks he can’t any longer, it’s happening, Kyungsoo is telling him to let go with a raspy “Come for me.”
Orgasm a fucking gift, a gasping seal of approval as the blood roars in his ears.
Kyungsoo looks, sounds, is so so pleased, warm and sated and soft, voice soothign as he laughs about how that’s long overdue. And Chanyeol wishes he could kiss him, wishes Kyungsoo would insist on holding him, but only after smacking his ass for him to change the sheets, clean them both off.
Kyungsoo does insist on the later, and Chanyeol switches to his phone. They talk until one—both of them fall asleep.
Chanyeol thinks about getting Sehun a fruit basket of some sort.
The video that Chanyeol watches after—Day 9, 4:14, Kyungsoo’s shy smile—it’s Kyungsoo talking about their first i love yous. How he’d been scared to say it because he’d been wanting to say it forever, but Chanyeol was so bright and so different and so—it was so easy to think that they didn’t see things the same way, that Chanyeol didn’t—
But he’d taken the chance, terrified as he was, heart beating out of his chest like it was. And it had all been worth it for Chanyeol’s smile and his kiss and just how—
“Perfect, it was. We are,” he decides. This thing between them much too precious for words.
The tenth day, his second Kyungsoo-less Wednesday, there are discount wings at the sports bar by the mall. Jongdae and Baekhyun ask him along, make him text Kyungsoo a picture of the sauce-heavy chicken wings and amazing beer and pouty boyfriend that Kyungsoo is missing. It’s too late for Kyungsoo to respond. Chanyeol stumbles home, pleasantly buzzed, laugh too loud, movements too sloppy with intoxication.
He peels off his pants to watch another video.
Day 10, 10:53, Kyungsoo’s wrist. He asks him to fuck himself with Kyungsoo’s cock again. Deep, slow, almost almost enough. Kyungsoo orders him to cry and beg and whine, like I’m right—right there.
He is he is he is—if Chanyeol closes his eyes, lets the gorgeous rasp of Kyungsoo’s voice drown out everything else.
It’s so so easy.
Tired the next day, body aching from the awkward way he’d slept the night before, he makes it through his shift on muscle memory alone, eats dinner with Jongdae afterward, listens to his troubles—he’s hit something of a slump in his sex life— as Chanyeol shovels forkfuls of hash browns into his mouth.
He sends Kyungsoo a selfie, per Jongdae’s prompting, reminds him once more what he’s missing.
Kyungsoo responds almost immediately—at dinner, a late dinner, probably, too—that he really does miss him. But almost and the reunion sex will be hot, i promise. i gotta go, watch your videos.
Day 11, 15:45, the camera tilted down to capture the flushed peek of Kyungsoo's cock from between his pale fingers.
And it shouldn’t—shouldn’t be that long considering that Kyungsoo is already stroking himself, talking about how hot and tight Chanyeol is. But Chanyeol doesn't question it, sliding his jeans to midthigh, palming himself through the material to draw it out. His head crashes back against his stuccoed wall, eyes lidding automatically as he skates his fingers faster to match Kyungsoo’s own pace.
“So tight,” Kyungsoo is praising, panting. “So hot. Keep squeezing, keep wanting more.”
Chanyeol gropes clumsily for the lube in his nightstand, slicking his fingers as Kyungsoo describes how pretty his eyes look like this, when Kyungsoo fucks him just right. All flushed and sweaty, tendrils of hair falling into his eyes, his eyes glassy and huge and black and hot.
“Wanna come?” he asks.
Chanyeol moans out a yes as he eases the first finger inside. He misses Kyungsoo’s fingers. They’re smaller, but more nimble, able to get that perfect angle, tease it until Chanyeol is sobbing in desperation.
“Don’t,” Kyungsoo hums, shoulders shifting, neck tilting just so. “Don’t come yet,” he says, voice stern, provoking a helpless shudder. “Only when I tell you.”
In his awful, irritating patience, he drags it on and on and on, the pleasure staggering, mounting and mounting until Chanyeol’s dizzy, painfulyl overwhelmed. But pushing himself to listen still, wait still.
He’s at three fingers, head tipped back, body trembling as he jerks himself off, too.
Kyungsoo hasn't slowed his own movements, moaning still as he strokes his cock, his free hand pinching at his nipples—Chanyeol mouth, his teeth, because they’re fucking right now and it’s so fucking hot, so fucking messy and fast and loud. But Chanyeol is waiting for him, waiting for Kyungsoo, waiting to be given permission.
If they were together, Kyungsoo would be asking him to earn it, to kiss him or bite his neck, beg enough or touch him enough to earn the right to touch himself, but he can't right now. Not with them far apart like this. And though it was filmed days prior, there’s magic in this, too. Obeying this too until it's too overwhelming and he's fucking begging, fucking pleading with Kyungsoo’s panting video to come come come.
“I'm almost there,” Kyungsoo moans, hand falling down, teasing over his sac. His face pinches with pleasure. “With me,” he groans. “Come with me. Wait, wait, wait—now.”
His body arches, snaps sharply, and the pleasure seeps deep into his bones, drowning out everything else. And there’s a certain magic in losing himself as Kyungsoo does—did.
His arm flops out weakly for his phone, as he pants, drags his come-sticky fingers down his rumpled sheets. Kyungsoo, if he were here, would scold him, drag him to the bathroom to clean himself properly. But Kyungsoo isn’t here, and Chanyeol’s heart lurches in his chest, the reminder sharper even in the pink, pleasant haze of afterglow.
Chanyeol is determined to tear this insecurity open, stamp it down.
i waited, he sends. made it.
Kyungsoo text back a minute later, a smiley face, an i love you. you’re so good. It's enough to have Chanyeol's skin suffusing with warmth.
Friday, morning shift, a three page response paper on a film—Bride and Prejudice—as he scoops ramen into his mouth, responds to Kyungsoo’s texts about children’s toys in the master’s house. Marbles, dolls.
By the time, he eats dinner, submits his paper, Kyungsoo has stopped responding. Asleep.
Chanyeol opens another desktop on his Mac, gets his earphones, pops open his fly.
Day 12, 5:57, Kyungsoo's face right right as he comes.
"Do you remember the first time you sucked me off?" Kyungsoo starts, moans. “It was for me, you said. It was for me for finishing 30 pages of my thesis, but you—fuck—kept touching yourself and moaning and fuck your oral fixation, your perfect fucking mouth.”
Kyungsoo breaks off in a sharp gasp, hair falling in his eyes as his head tips toward to crash against his sternum. His hand is moving so fast. Chanyeol is already straining his boxers, eyelashes fluttering heavily at the memory, dropping to his knees mid against-the-wall-makeout, nuzzling into Kyungsoo’s stomach and stamping wet kisses against his skin. “Please please please—”
“You—fuck, fuck, fuck—swallowed me down right away. Moaned so fucking loud when I pulled your hair and scratched your ears. Fucking came in your pants because of it.”
Chanyeol whimpers at the recollection, dizzy, desperate, everything narrowing to the aching stretch of Kyungsoo’s cock in his mouth, the heavy weight of his want, the deep rasp of his moans, the searing pleasure pain of his hard, hard tugs, his hard, hard cock.
Naked on the bed, he pauses to slick his palm with lube, lets out a wet moan.
“Think I fell a little bit in love with you that night, you know. You look so pretty with your mouth full of my cock, and nothing—fucking nothing except maybe your ass—feels as good as your mouth, Chanyeol. Your giant fucking teary eyes, how you always fucking want more.”
He breaks off with a reverent curse. Chanyeol watches Kyungsoo’s cock disappear into his fist with every sloppy, desperate stroke, and more than anything he wants Kyungsoo to be here, wants to touch him, kiss him, suck him off, be fucked hard.
This—this sight, these words, these sounds—it is all so fucking hot. So fucking good, but it’s still a substitute.
The camera blurs as it tries to capture Kyungsoo’s increasingly erratic movements. It doesn’t quite get the predatory gleam in his eyes. Doesn’t reproduce the exact timbre of Kyungsoo’s arousal-rich voice. It’s not quite as good at ruining, and Chanyeol is left yearning, aching for more, even as he moans loudly, pure heat and pleasure in his veins.
The comedown, he knows, will leave him feeling empty, lonely, sad. But right now at least—at least right now—
“You let me come on your face,” Kyungsoo rasps. “Licked your lips after like fuck fuck fuck—”
Kyungsoo breaks off with a heavy shudder, cock spurting in his grip, staining his stomach with his release. Chanyeol shudders, too, comes, too, two strokes later, eyes clenching shut as he falls over. Flooded with endorphins, he’s drained of all thoughs, existence, need beyond this.
Day 13, 4:30, Kyungsoo's lips up close, curled in a smile.
Cheesy again, perfect again. There’s a reassurance in it. The words. Stream of consciousness, a deliciously heady outpouring of affection now that they are far apart. Chanyeol learned long, long ago that Kyungsoo isn’t very good with words, not very good with touches either, but he’s trying—been trying.
Now conveying, now recounting. Three weeks ago, he muses softly, soft lips pursing in thought, delicate, beautiful features coloring with tenderness, staining with love.
“I woke up before you did, and I watched you sleep. Too much, you know, too close, you always koala-cling. You were drooling on my shirt, and it was too hot, but I just—you know how they say that moms love their babies even when they spit up on them. That’s—you’re not baby spit up, I don’t mean that. But you push me out of my comfort zone, and that’s good sometimes. Giving something to make you happy. I love making you happy. Love trying. Love loving you.”
Day 14, 8:37, Kyungsoo’s parted mouth.
“By this time,” Kyungsoo starts. “Depending on what time you wake up on Mondays, I’ll be getting on a airplane to come back to you.” He pauses, wrinkles his nose, murmurs something about how he’s been building this up so, so much, and now it’s allegedly over, but it hasn’t even started.
Chanyeol grins at the screen as Kyungsoo smooths his expression. Or tries to, his eyebrows are still furrowed, remain so even after he switches topics, tells Chanyeol he wants him hard when he comes to pick him up at the airport, but he wants Kyungsoo to be his first orgasm of the day. He wants Chanyeol to wait for him.
“Remember my birthday?” Kyungsoo presses. “When you wore mint green lingerie for me and I ate you out through the fabric, fucked you into that hotel mattress.”
Chanyeol groans. He shudders as he remembers the delicious performance of it all, the strain of lace against his aching cock, the devastatingly delicious curl of Kyungsoo’s tongue inside his body, the snap of elastic against his skin as Kyungsoo had torn it off with his teeth, the dull ache of Kyungsoo’s bruising, possessive fingertips at Chanyeol’s waist, holding him steady, keeping his shaking body upright as he licked him open and crying and begging.
He remembers those plush lips, sharp teeth dragging against his skin, sinking into his neck when he’d fucked him afterwards. Torturing about it, but whispering over and over again how amazing he looked, how hot this was, how fuck fuck fuck fuck Chanyeol was perfect. Still is. Always fucking will be. Don’t come. Fuck, don’t fucking come. Not yet. Please. Let me make you come. Wait for me.
Chanyeol listens because he’s helpless to resist, his entire body a livewire of pure sensation on the drive to the airport.
They meet at baggage claim, hug for probably too long, hold hands. And Kyungsoo drags them back into Chanyeol’s beat up sedan to kiss him over and over and over again in the airport parking lot, hands in his hair, thighs around his waist. He’s got the softest, most sinful mouth, and Chanyeol loses himself in it, hands sliding up and down his sides, remembering the weight of him again, the taste, the scent, the feel of him in his arms, chanting desperate I love yous in between breaths, Kyungsoo answering in turn, gliding his hands down Chanyeol’s body before flipping their positions, gliding his mouth now, too.
“You waited,” he breathes, dragging his lips—his perfect, perfect lips—across his hips, arms curling around his thighs to urge his thighs open. Then an “I love you,” as he swallows him down down down.