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“It’s okay,” Fuma said, a laugh lurking around the corners of his mouth. “You can if you want.”
K jumped, guilt written across his forehead, and reddened a few shades. “W-what? Can what?”
Hooking a couple of fingers under the hem of his shirt and leaning back on the couch a bit, Fuma lifted it a hand’s-breadth to reveal a glimpse of the triumph beneath. His newest achievement, and one he was rightfully proud of and happy to show off.
The redness of K’s face deepened dramatically, worst around his ears and throat. “No, I don’t— uh—”
“Yes, you do,” Fuma said. “Come on. There’s no one else around. Everyone else has been going for it already anyway, take your turn.”
Swallowing, K approached with wary caution, a wild animal mistrustful of a proffered chunk of meat.
Smile broadening a degree at a time, Fuma raised his shirt a little higher, watching how K’s eyes widened and fixed.
He loved this feeling. Loved to have eyes on him, admiring and hungry, enjoying the sight of him as much as they enjoyed hearing him or watching him dance.
K sank to the carpet in front of Fuma, between his knees, and hesitated for one last moment before laying his hands on Fuma’s thighs and sliding them slowly, slowly up, savouring the firm curves of Fuma’s quadriceps.
Fuma exhaled softly and closed his eyes halfway, holding himself still and letting K explore at his own pace.
As K’s fingers reached his hips and sank in slightly, thumbs caressing the ridges of his pelvic bones, his breath began to come a little unsteadily. It felt so good. It all felt so good, the hands and the eyes and the fact that it was K.
Leaning forward between his knees, bracing his forearms on Fuma’s thighs, K finally slid his hands up under his shirt and spread his fingers out over Fuma’s lovingly sculpted abdomen. His fingertips were feather-light, ticklish, but his thumbs were a problem, verging on a threat. The pressure was gentle, but the area from Fuma’s waistband to his navel was very responsive to it.
“You are so, so beautiful,” K murmured.
Fuma realized too late that K had continued leaning in, face-first, and now his mouth was close enough that the words brushed across Fuma’s skin and made his back muscles clench all the way down to the base of his spine.
K was pushing his shirt up higher, higher, until Fuma felt obliged to raise his arms and helpfully pull it off entirely.
Palms on his lats, thumbs on his upper abdominals, fingers fanning across the broad expanse of his pectorals, fingertips skating across his clavicles. K’s breath ghosting over him, warm for a moment and then cool as the humidity of it evaporated and took his heat with it. He shivered, and shivered, and trembled.
“K-hyung,” he rasped, with no idea what he meant to say or why.
K said nothing, only pressed his body full-length against Fuma’s and kissed the side of his throat with lingering devotion.
He’d known, academically, what he was asking for when he’d invited K to do this. He’d known, upstairs, but he hadn’t been prepared in the least for the intense physical reality of it. His heart was slow thunder beneath his ribs.
His restraint cracked and began to leak, slowly at first and then with increasing force. He had one hand around the back of K’s neck, sinking into his hair, and the other was on his upper arm, trying fitfully to pull him closer still.
K came up from the floor, smooth and controlled, to brace a knee on the couch between Fuma’s legs, corded runner’s thigh pressed right where Fuma needed it. Fuma groaned so low in his chest it wasn’t almost too deep to be sound, only a thrum between their skin where it touched.
There were tender, deliberate kisses climbing his neck to the crook of his jaw, hands curving around his back to his shoulder blades, weight politely suggesting that he tilt over and lie down beneath it. He did, and loved the feeling of K’s weight coming down on him so much he thought the joy alone might break him.
It would be a waste to fall apart so soon, though, when K’s mouth was moving along his jawline, open so that his tongue could follow along.
Fuma ran out of patience and turned into it, meeting K’s mouth with his own and opening to invite him in and deeper.
K’s hands moved down the erectors spinalis to either side of his spine, pressing a little harder in a massage that made Fuma’s back arch a little, and settled on his sacroiliac joints, pulling Fuma’s pelvis up against his, full unsupported weight driving Fuma deep into the well-worn cushions of the couch.
More. He wanted more. He needed more.
He pushed his hands up under K’s shirt and managed, after an awkward moment of squirming, to pull it over his head. Being skin to skin directly was a new and overwhelming pleasure.
K’s pants were snug, but there was just enough room for him to get a hand under the band and work it down far enough to feel the base of K’s spine and the upper edges of his gluteus muscles. He pulled, arching, grinding as best he could, all but begging.
Neither of them were the type to swear much, and words wouldn’t suffice anyway, but Fuma’s breath was keening out of him like a rough-edged knife, as filthy or worse than anything he could have said. K buried his face in the side of Fuma’s throat, fighting for breath himself, and drove down with hungry, demanding intent.
Fuma gave up on dignity entirely and raised his knees to wrap his legs around K and squeeze until it hurt and abraded him. The pain wasn’t a deterrent. He was far too hungry to do anything but ignore it.
Their ragged rhythm picked up, mismatched and unsteady at first until they found their way into the same resonance they had when dancing together. This was dancing, too, really. Expression and communication through the rhythmic medium of their bodies.
“I’m going to—” he managed to rasp, body stuttering and losing the beat, clenching high and tight on the brink.
“Go on,” K whispered. “I’m right behind you.”
Fuma went, prisoning the convulsions deep inside himself, savouring the ravaging twist and shudder of them wringing him out, trapped and surrounded by the hot solidity of K’s body above him.
True to his word, it was only a few protracted moments before K followed him down, pressing so hard against him in the last moment that it ached and burned. K’s mouth came down on his as he rode out the spasms, breath hitching against Fuma’s teeth.
Fuma already regretted not dragging it out longer. He didn’t want it be over already. He wanted to stay there for hours. He hated the thought of K pulling away and leaving his skin bare and cold.
“Let’s clean up,” K said into his ear, “and go to bed. Come to mine.”
The prospect of that compensation was enough to give Fuma the strength to follow K upright. He ached deliciously all over, aware of every stretch of skin and every powerful curve beneath it, aware of his blood scalding his vessels and of every nerve threading it all together with lightning embroidery floss.
They washed up, side by side in surreal silence. Fuma went to his room and got changed, as efficiently as he could, still a bit unsteady on his feet, and made his way down the hall.
K raised the covers to welcome him in, and wrapped them and his arms around Fuma until he was fully encompassed. He kissed Fuma’s forehead very softly.
For many more reasons than this, all the effort and discipline had been worth it. He loved his body so much, and how it felt to have others love it, too.
When he woke up, he resolved, he was going to return the favour, with interest. Leave no corner of K’s being unkissed, uncherished.
New dreams came for him, and he welcomed them.
—