fourcoldpaws

b1a4; we and us

fourcoldpaws — Thu, 28 Aug 2014 21:03:30 GMT

cnu/girl!cnu. r. 10,641 words. warnings: clonecest

dongwoo and woori are not orphans because they never had parents. they were born in a lab some twenty-five years ago, grown in test tubes and harvested from synthetic wombs.

He pauses in the hallway, after putting on his shoes, taking out his cellphone to hack into the tracking chip embedded at the back of his neck and set it to loop the coordinates of his apartment. It jolts and beeps. Dongwoo blinks. Then takes the elevator down to the basement, gets into his car and speeds out towards the Inner Ring Lane through the thick protective coat of night darkness.

On his right the city spreads out beneath him like a carpet of light, to his left, the suburbs, dotted bright in neat squares as far as his eye can see. His back presses deep into the seat padding, but already he can feel the tension melting off his shoulders and his hands growing softer around the wheel. One by one, thoughts of work – reports, results, unsolvable enigmas – and worries drop from his mind, tumble away with the air whirls stirred by his speeding vehicle and are left behind somewhere along the dark curving road. It’s strange, maybe it shouldn’t be like this, but something always lifts off him like this, already in the car, and he sinks down, like he can breathe again after days of holding his breath.

On the other side of the city he glides in under an apartment complex identical to his own, and rides up to the eighteenth floor. After he has pressed the door-bell, it takes a while. If he listens carefully, he can hear the light metallic sound of the peephole cover sliding back into place. Then the jingle of the door chain. He pulls his face mask down under his chin. The lock clicks and the door opens.

“Hey,” Woori says.

“Hey,” Dongwoo says, and slips quickly inside.

Her apartment is dark, lit mainly from the three big monitors set up on the dining table, streaming light in blue and green. Most of the floor and almost every surface are littered with technical miscellany – scrap metal, tools, stripped pieces of computers, naked chips and tangled wires. It’s a stark contrast to the smooth, grey, rounded walls and interior of her standard government apartment. The only spared area is the alcove on the far side of the room where the wide, grey band of a treadmill is lowered into the floor, handles and monitor rising above it.

“Just a minute,” she says, sinking cross-legged to the floor, back onto the empty spot in the middle of a heap of junk and gadgets that she seemingly just left. Woori has an innate ability to see patterns and structure, even in chaos. Her eyes move fast around, hands occasionally reaching for something. Then putting it back.

Dongwoo carefully makes his way between the little islands of naked floor, then stands watching her, waiting. After a minute he sinks down to his haunches and reaches out and hands her the piece she didn’t know she was looking for, filling in the connection he saw her trying to make.

“Ah,” she says, grinning shortly at him, “thanks.”

She stands up when she’s done, moves close to him, puts both arms around his neck and kisses him on the lips. “Hi.”

She’s nine days older than him. Tall, almost as tall as him, and, like him, awkwardly broad, but thin, like spread out too far, and a bit sunken down into herself, like curled in at the edges. Since she cut her hair off, they really are the spitting image of each other. The same small peering eyes, chunk of a nose, the same oddly angled face. But it’s more delicate on her, prettier, just like his hands and waist and shoulders are softer and slimmer on her body.

If he didn’t know her, he might have said that she’s fragile. But he does know her, and he knows that she can also unfold and stretch out into full height and lean strength, meet anyone’s eyes with a calm gaze, and run far and fast on long stable legs.

“How are you?”

“I have a deadline on Monday, I’ve been writing codes for three days straight. My brain’s pretty fried.” She looks into his eyes through the turquoise half-dark, her nose stretching a flickering shadow over her right cheek. Her nails slide softly over the skin of his neck. “You?”

She has a lingering, thoughtful voice, her words coming out slow, but always like she truly means them. Dongwoo can’t ask anyone because he hasn’t met anyone who knows both of them in many years, but he thinks – or likes to think, maybe – that they have a similar way of speaking. His friends and colleagues tend to tease him about talking slowly and pausing too often.

“A bit tired.” He catches some hair falling over her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. “But it’s good now.” His shoulders are sloped and his hands are soft, his breathing calm and easy. His head suddenly feels clear. She tends to have that effect on him.

“How’s work?”

“Let’s not talk about work.”

She eyes him, and he feels a little bit like he’s being scanned. He wonders if she sees anything in him. He often gets the feeling that she can see right through him, if she wants. Whatever she was looking for, she seems satisfied, and she relaxes, her gaze softening and drifting.

Perhaps by account of her gender, she always seems to be one step ahead of him. Especially when they were kids, painfully so during their teens, but even now, she seems to have something that he doesn’t have, doesn’t reach, and if he does get there, by that time she has already moved on to something different, something higher, deeper, older, darker.

“Do you want tea?” she mumbles, twirling a thread of his hair around her finger. Her bangs curve down over the left side of her face, his over his right. Her eyes are resting somewhere around his mouth, but look blank and empty, like she’s actually somewhere else, looking at something completely different.

“Yeah,” he says.

She nods. “Plain,” she says, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.”

She nods again, gives his mouth a little smile. Then leaves him.

They were born in a lab some twenty-five years ago, by immaculate conception, grown in test tubes and harvested from synthetic wombs. Cloned for the good of the people from desirable DNA that had been tampered with; higher IQ, sharper senses, faster thinking – the usual. Less prone to diseases, better physique, perfect eyesight. Then split in two.

They’re not orphans because they never had parents, just a distant fore-father who was a good scientist and whose tissue sample is preserved in a tube in one of the storage fridges in the Institution basement. Dongwoo has seen it, walked past it several times while he was doing his internship. Jung Shinwoo, it says, and then a long row of digits. He opened the fridge and took it out once, held the cold cylinder in his hand, wondered if he could call this the closest he ever got to a father. Some people have a human being with a face and a body and strong arms to lift you with and warm hands to tuck you in at night. Dongwoo has a small transparent tube that is ice-cold against his fingers. The frozen content was clear like water and completely homogenous, no bits or chunks, nothing tangible. He held it for a minute, like to memorize the feeling of it, then put it back and never touched it again. (He wonders sometimes whether this man would ever have consented to what was done to his remains. Consented to them.)

It’s not weird to be curious, Dongwoo reasons. A couple of years later he looked up some papers their ancestor had written, found a picture of himself thirty years from now. Thinking it was funny, he wanted to show Woori. But Woori wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Woori never wants to talk about stuff like that.

They both grew up at the Institution, Dongwoo is the boy wing and Woori in the girl wing. Spent their entire childhoods within those thick walls; sat long hours in classrooms, long hours doing homework in the dormitories, and in-between played with their fellow little experiments, all destined to be great people and do great things. They were all like kids tend to be; afraid of the dark, picking their noses, unfond of vegetables, and touching their pubescent bodies in bathrooms and under bed sheets. It was not a bad upbringing. Each class had a nanny who made sure all children were fed and clean and had done their assignments, to whom you could go when you were sad and cried or ask for a glass of milk when you woke up in the middle of the night. But there’s only so much love you can squeeze out of a person who has to divide it equally between ten little boys, all lacking a fixed point in their lives, all feeling like something’s missing, despite not quite knowing what.

Dongwoo remembers, from around the age of six or so, looking across the dining hall or play room or school yard and seeing Woori there with the other girls. He was very soon drawn towards her, childishly fascinated by her, innocently, irresistibly curious, his eyes constantly sailing in her direction, jolting every time she looked back and their gazes met for a moment. He was already at that age fully aware of the way of things, the way children can knows things instinctively, already feeling an intense connection. Already knew that they belonged together – not necessarily on a psychological, emotional level, but simply knowing that they were of the same kind. A lot of other boys in his class also had copies of themselves in the other classes, and when Dongwoo looked at Woori he thought; “That one’s mine. I’m theirs.” Or, on his less articulate days, at least; “That kid looks just like me.” He would look at her, and look at himself, both in the unisex uniforms and standard haircuts, and wonder if they were actually the same person, and he just didn’t know.

Just when he had gotten old and bold enough to actually dare to walk up to her, and talk to her, and play with her, and get to know her, things changed. He didn’t realize it then, but the ominous, mysterious condition known as Puberty was washing over his other self. That gap, that he might have sensed sometimes, the little extra way she had on him, suddenly widened into an unbridgeable abyss. They were branching off, he realized in the back of his head. They were not the same person, they were to become different, two different humans, of two different kinds. She grew, on every end. Suddenly she started having thoughts he couldn’t identify with, and wanted to ask questions he couldn’t understand. An air came over her that reminded him of those older girls who would sit on the stone steps outside West Gate in the afternoons and converse quietly among themselves, those he never dared to go near. But she was also slowly sprouting a new, different body, alien and uninviting, while he was still short and silly and had a high pitched voice. She was drifting away from him, drawing so far ahead that it felt like he could never catch up with her. He felt inferior and lost interest.

A year or two later, Dongwoo entered his own pubescence on his own. He never thought about it as that he was following Woori, but rather that he was following the boys in his class who were changing alongside him, or were a bit ahead, and had already stretched up into the air and spurted hair at all kinds of places. He didn’t think much about Woori at all. He was busy suddenly having thoughts he hadn’t had before, wanting to ask questions he didn’t see the point in asking earlier. His mind felt different, simultaneously more chaotic and more calm. He was growing a new, different body, all baby fat translating to height and lean young muscles. He was still awkward in a way that was half teenaged boy and half his own special brand, but he was taller (taller than Woori now) and stronger and had a darker voice and carried the subtle, half sub-conscious sense of dignity that comes with feeling like you’re on your way somewhere. He might not have thought about it, but he was catching up.

That time, it was she who initiated contact. Still today he has a fleeting feeling that she waited for the right moment, waited for him to be ready.

One day at lunch when they were fifteen, she sat down across from him, grinning at him like they didn’t at all not talk for four years. She had her hair tucked behind one ear, and a small clip-on earring on the lobe. She had a way of fiddling with her fork while she ate, and gradually Dongwoo realized that he was doing the exact same thing himself, probably had for a long time. He looked at her, saw the amounts of himself in her, and wondered briefly if they were actually the same person after all. Just happened to branch off in different directions.

She kept doing that; walking up to him, talking to him, playing with him, getting to know him. She dragged him on long early morning runs over the grounds, she taught him how to disable the tracking chip so they could go into the woods and over the meadows, she talked him into ditching homework with her on sunny days, she laughed at him when he got nervous because the girl he had a crush on was in the room, and she answered all those questions he was mulling over and which she had already figured out. They spent long hours in the library where as long as you looked studious nobody would care much about you, half studying and half slowly digging deeper and deeper into each other’s heads. Their minds worked so much in the same way that he sometimes suspected that she knew exactly what he was thinking. She knew when he had secrets, and worked them out before he could tell her they were none of her business. Then she’d smile gently, and promise not to tell anyone. He could always tell when her smile was fake and when it was real, when she was honest and when she was just pretending. She never lied to him in words, but often tried to lie with her body, hide and mask and cover things up. It never really worked.

He wondered sometimes if this was what having a sister was like, but somehow doubted it. This was different. This was not like anything else in the world.

At this time, he had recently developed a deep sense of understanding of the differences between the male and female body, and the implications of them, like all biology classes and anatomy textbooks finally had sunk in, grown context and dimension, like when things you learnt by rote suddenly come together and make sense. At that age, he wished sometimes that he had been born a girl, or she had been born a boy. He felt, some days, acutely aware of their differences, of how their genderless child bodies had been separated by the impending adulthood, ripped apart and forcibly molded in different forms. Where she grew soft, he was to grow hard and muscular, where she was in, he was out, where she was out, he was in. He supposed they complemented each other in a way. Two of a kind, one of each kind. But he had rather been of the same kind altogether. Had rather been all the same.

They never touched each other back then.

Graduating at eighteen with a university degree each, their classmates dispersed for the mandatory training period. By Institution custom, most information, such as the whereabouts of the Subjects, is confidential. Dongwoo stayed to do his internship at the Institution, but still had to pack his things and get into a car to the station and take the train to West Sub-Capital the day after the ceremony, then take the train back again the same night after everybody had left.

Woori left. She was to specialize in software and computing. That was all she could tell him. They met in an empty corner of the garden after the last supper, both still in the black ceremonial robes and looking almost identical, except her hair was longer. She hugged him, and he wound his arms hard around her waist, his nose at her shoulder. For some reason, he hadn’t really expected it to feel this way, to feel this much. There was hard knot of something in his belly. I’ll find you again, he thought to himself, but didn’t want to say it out loud. She pulled away from him then, and grinned widely.

“I’ll find you again,” she said. “Somewhere, somehow.”

He thought of the big wide world about to swallow them both up, but forced himself to nod. “Yeah.” He knew that when he woke up in the morning, she would already be gone.

He lingered a couple of minutes the next evening in front of the digital board announcing arrivals and departures at the Wessub Central Station. It was gigantic, hung from the ceiling over the hundreds of people streaming through the waiting hall, maybe four meters tall, and double wide, with hundreds of time-stamps and destinations to choose between, constantly blinking updates. There were trains going to the airport and seaport, each probably offering another hundred different destinations.

He blankly scanned his eyes over the board, then fixed on a random line, and pretended that that was the train she had taken, that was where she was. His brain absently calculated the minutes and the distance to the platform. If he would make it.

Someone bumped into his shoulder and didn’t apologize. Dongwoo felt tired and dizzy. His neck was hurting from bending back so he left. He got on his train and went back home.

For five years, he didn’t see her, didn’t talk to her, didn’t even know where she was. He finished his training, got a job, was assigned an apartment, dated, made friends. Grew up.

Then one day, a colleague asked him if, perhaps, he has a sister. She saw someone on the street that looked just, eerily much, like him.

Woori’s kitchen is empty and clean, the light in there yellow and warm. They sit by the window, watching the city glitter below.

“You’re pale,” Dongwoo tells her. “You should get out more. See some people.”

“I see people.”

“Government people aren’t people.”

“I see you.”

He opens his mouth, but then closes it again. He watches the silhouette of her profile against the yellow-grey wall. She’s sunken deep in her chair, feet on the low windowsill, stirring her tea and not looking at him. She bites her lips together for a moment, and continues;

“You’re the only person I have a connection to in the whole world. Everybody else is just people. Blank faces. I can never remember any of them. They could be anyone. They pass by, come and go. They’ve got nothing to do with me. I’ve got nothing tying me to them.”

“You’re supposed to create those ties yourself,” Dongwoo reminds her, and himself. “You have to work for it. You have to try.”

“I have tried,” she says. “I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t care.” She pinches the spoon to the mug edge with her thumb and takes a sip. “I’ve given that up.”

“You’re twenty-five. You can’t give up people.”

Her lips stretch back in a little smile, shoulders lifting in a little shrug.

It’s not like he walked around thinking about her for five years. He had his own life, his own problems, his own things to think about. At twenty, he left the Institution and was transferred to Norsub. This was the real world, with real people, bred from other real people. With real lives and real memories and real families. Dongwoo quickly grew painfully aware of that he had spent his entire life, all his first twenty years, in a single, isolated place, a micro-cosmos of its own, with a total population of a few hundred people, where everybody lived pretty uniform lives and where nobody asked about things like your hometown or parents or siblings. He never knew how to answer this new brand of questions. The Institution never thought to teach them things like that. The things that really mattered. (He could have told them about Woori, could have mentioned having a sister somewhere, but he never did. She was not that. She was not a sister.)

At first, he was petrified. He only left home when he absolutely had to, for work and for food, and spent the rest of his time alone in his room. Alone. He had nobody. He knew nobody. He was tied to nobody. He was a single separate organism floating in the immense darkness of the universe, and allegedly there were other organisms all around him, like him, but they were like invisible – he couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see him. He saw the shadows, of people, but it was like they were of a different kind, or in a different dimension, separated from him with a thick veil. He couldn’t reach them. He didn’t know how.

It took almost a year before his brain started cracking the code. It was like slowly breaking through a surface of water, into air. He suddenly found how starved he was of human interaction, of mental and physical touch. For all his shyness, he was – is – a social being, he needed a pack. He had already known he was alone, had always felt the solitude, but it scared him now.

Frantically, Dongwoo threw himself into the project of creating a social network. Every former shadow had grown its own personal spotlight. Every human around him was an undiscovered acquaintance, a potential connection. Like a trawler he swept through the laboratory coffee rooms, the local public houses, the gym, the Food Courts, the streets and houses close to his own, and through the night, the sweeping strobe lights of the forbidden underground clubs.

He couldn’t keep that up for long, but enough to tie himself a web of connections (a safety net). There were the co-workers, the sport mates, the clerk ladies at his Ration Center, the nodding neighbors and the strangers he knew for one night only, and through it all grew the small buds of friendship, or something like it, popped up here and there for him to nurse and harvest. Every connection had its own net, which he could crawl into, speed along, jump from hub to hub, like a shortcut, connect through osmosis. A friend of a friend is a friend. The buds weren’t many, and the web wasn’t tight, but he had something, something to rest on, something to cling to in the width of the world.

Dongwoo knows what Woori means, he knows that feeling. It felt good, the nodding, the small-talk, the gatherings, the beers with the colleagues, the casual dates. But it was, in a lot of ways, like scraping on an impenetrable surface, trying to dive in and skidding off the shield. He had learnt how to reach people, but not how to get close, how to get deep, how to dig in under someone’s skin, how to actually get to know someone. It was all shallow, pleasant but puddle-deep, all various levels of acquaintance. For a while he thought that this was the way it was supposed to be, this was what relationships were like. People kind of boring, sex kind of dull.

He missed her sometimes; their talks, her company, her presence. But he didn’t realize that what he was missing was the exchange, the understanding, the having something to give and getting something in return. He didn’t realize that that empty spot, the something lacking that he couldn’t quite define, the feeling of something missing, despite not quite knowing what, was the space she had left behind when they parted. (Had been ripped apart.) No matter how hard he looked, how far he searched, how well he nursed his connections, he couldn’t find anyone who gave him what she had given him, whom he could give what he had given her. That was not like anything else in the world. Nobody could fill her spot.

It’s not like he walked around thinking about her for five years. But he didn’t forget her. He didn’t give up on her. He hates the thought that he gave up on her. Even for a minute, even for a day. Maybe he could have looked for her. Maybe he could, and he didn’t. Maybe he just didn’t know what he was looking for.

That day when he was given a clue, the sheer possibility that she might be near, caught a faint whiff of her scent, something awakened within him. The memory of something more, the memory of her.

He came home in a daze that evening, and went to lie down on his bed. It was like it took his brain a while to process it.

She’s here.

I have to find her.

He remembered her words, crystal clear, her voice and her mouth, in that garden, five years ago, on a lukewarm summer night; software and computing. That was all he knew. That was his only lead.

He combed through all the computing departments at the laboratories and Science Centers and universities in the city, finding excuses to go, needing this or that equipment or this or that person for his project, asking inconspicuously at front desks, running down corridors and reading the names on office doors, scanning crowds and staff pictures, the authors on articles in magazines, ultimately just walking vainly around and hoping someone would recognize his face, having seen it somewhere, one someone else, and come up to him and somehow tell him everything he wanted to know.

He was constantly looking for her, eyes always open, childishly entertaining the belief that he might just run into her on the street. Several times he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye, thought himself see something familiar in a stranger that had just swept by; a way of moving, a shape of the shoulders, the flutter of hair (even though he had no idea how her hair looked now), or just a feeling, fleeting and hard to place, like an aura. Several times he spun around, started taking quick steps, to follow, before seeing something that didn't fit, catching the whole image, and realizing it wasn't right. Too short, too straight, too fluid, too curvy, too much swaying of the hips when walking. A couple of times he ran, caught up, grabbed the arm of a startled unknown woman, jerking her around, and had to stare at her face for a moment, breathing harder than he should, before apologizing profusely and hurrying away.

He was constantly looking for her, eyes always open, knowing that it might all be completely futile, it might be too late. She might already be gone, she may never even have been there. For all he knew, she could be at the other end of the world.

I’ll find you again.

It wasn’t he who found her. It was she who found him.

She rang his doorbell one day, like they hadn’t at all not seen each other for five years. He opened without looking in the peephole first. There she stood, outside his door, in the cold white light of the hallway, on the floor tiles he walked every day, hands in her pockets. State jacket over sweats. Weird combo. She looked older. Her face slimmer, features more developed. There was something heavy over her face, like she had seen more than he had, lived more. (Higher, deeper, darker.) She looked adult. Maybe he did too. Her hair was long.

They stared at each other for a minute. Then she took a step forward and hugged him, arms around his waist, his nose at her shoulder. His hand shook faintly against her neck.

At first, it was just like back in the library. They hung out, at his apartment or hers, they talked, they played, they grew to know each other all over again. She would bring him puzzles, riddles, codes, things she had been thinking about, and they would solve them together. It was a good time. He felt alive.

But you don’t go five years apart, you don’t grow up in different parts of the world, without changing. Without things coming to change.

Something was different. Something had changed.

The realization was creeping and ice-cold, subconscious only at first, and he was denying it, suppressing it, pushing it away before he was even fully aware of it, before he had acknowledged it, before he had words for it, before it had even taken shape.

It came in the longing for her, which he had always done, he had always longed for her, and not felt bad about it, but this had a different taste. It sat in touching her, which he had always done, which she had done to him, easy things, a hug, at the door, a teasing shove, a pat, bumping in, brushing by. It was no different, in form. It was, somehow, different, in core. It seeped in his looks at her, which is a natural thing, looking at someone, whoever you’re talking to, but not stealing them, in secret, taking too many, without reason, hoarding them, stretching them, hungering for them. It screamed in his thoughts at night, when he was in bed, hands on his stomach, unable to sleep.

He knew the feeling it brought him. He was not old but he had been a child, he was no stranger to it. It was shame, the kind you can’t wrestle down, the kind you can’t come to term with, the kind you can’t stand and can’t bear, the kind that slithers inside you in tight painful knots and makes your whole body writhe, because this comes from inside of you, this is all you, all your own fault, all your own sin, and you can’t take it out of you, this ugly and sinful and revolting thing, you cannot make it go away. You have to stand there, and stare yourself in the face, watch the slitherings of the dirtiest side of you, the filthiest pit of your being.

It was creeping and ice-cold, the realization that he wanted her. In what way and to what extent, he was not sure, but certainly in ways and to extents that he shouldn’t.

His subconscious had been right. Deny and suppress, push it away, far away, crumple it into one single tight heavy little knot and bury it deep inside of you where no one will find it and you can go through your daily life without having to feel it burn. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you will even forget about it that way. And maybe it will wither. Maybe it will die.

She noticed. Not it, but something. She must have. He pulled away from her. He couldn’t help it. Not from her company. He couldn’t do that. He needed that. But from her immediacy, her easy presence, her mental and physical touch. It fucked them up. He knew that. The touch was what was important. The contact. If they didn’t have that, they were nothing. No more than two strangers on the street. But he had to. When she reached out to him, he had to pull further away.

Deny and ignore, ignore ignore. He took pride in one thing, and this was the fact that he never consummated his atrocity. He never acted on it. Not in front of her, of course, not towards her, but also never on his own, in the privacy of his solitude, with himself as the sole spectator, the only one to judge. He never touched himself to thoughts of her. He managed to keep those images far away, in the deep corners of his brain, when he immersed himself in his own or in someone else’s body.

It was close, at times. The mind is vulnerable, especially in that kind of situation. It’s hard to control what is supposed to control, when it slips away, and as always the idea of prohibition had the forbidden bubbling just under the surface, more tempting than ever. It skimmed over his mind sometimes, it did, soothing in a way, soft and delicious, pulling at him, so easy to sink into. But he didn’t. He never submitted to that. That was his only redemption.

She came over one afternoon, or early evening, around 6 p.m., after she had been out, to the officials, or the rare but inevitable round to the office, when she couldn’t postpone it anymore. She used to do that, come to him afterwards, a two birds with one stone kind of thing, or a way of cleansing herself perhaps. She only left her home for work and for food and for him.

“Hey,” she said, outside his door, tugging at the stiff state employee’s uniform. She didn’t like it, always said she felt so confined. He did too, but not as much. Barely had she got inside before she dug her regular soft shirt and sweatpants from her bag and excused herself in the direction of the bathroom. He nodded at her to go ahead.

He needed something in his bedroom – right now can’t remember what – and followed her after a minute, standing for a while looking at the closed bathroom door just opposite of his bedroom one in the small hallway leading away from the living area in all standard apartments. Then realized he was being creepy, and turned around and pushed through his bedroom door, which was already a bit open.

There she stood, on his bedroom floor, side to him, jacket and clothes thrown over the edge of his bed. Her shirt was off and her bra just about to follow, her hands just on the clasp.

Her head turned to him. Dongwoo was frozen.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said, automatically, hand still on the door handle, but not making any effort to look away because he couldn’t move and he could hardly breathe.

Woori hadn’t even startled.

“It’s okay,” she said, slowly, and her hands moved, equally slow, she was turned more towards him now, he couldn’t see her fingers on the clasp, just the elastic loosening around her, the straps falling down over her arms, and then the fabric from her chest.

She stood there, turned towards him, looking into his eyes, but he wasn’t looking into hers because he was looking at her breasts. Small, pointy, rounded at the bottom, resting just so against her chest, casting a thin shadow. Her nipples, contracted slightly in the coolness of the room. Her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the lines of bone under her skin. Her skin. He could feel it all etching itself into his brain, like scratching a painting of scars, slowly growing clearer.

Something came to mind, distantly, like under a layer, like separated from the rest of his brain with a folding screen; those differences between the male and female body. These breasts, that he doesn’t have. He is all flat, the soft mound of muscle, dot of nipple, that is all. They are not the same, they are different. Where she is out, he is in, and where she is in, he is out, like two pieces of a puzzle, fitting together, possibly. It had been so vain of his sixteen-year-old self to think that he had understood the implications, that he had understood any of it at all. But how could he have known? Yes, technically, the male will breed with the female, but that he would want to breed with her?

They stood there, she looking at him, arms along her sides, he looking at her, hand still at the handle, for probably not a very long time, but the seconds felt long, like minutes, felt still and stubbornly unmoving. He didn’t know what kind of look that was, that she had on him. He didn’t know why she didn’t move. They stood there, not long but for too long. Her nakedness seemed to grow between them, till it had filled the room completely, pressing on them, till it was setting, like permanent, like he’d never be able to get it out.

“I’m going to,” she said then, suddenly, putting a hand on her stomach, on the button of her fly. “The pants.”

That woke him up. He spun around, so quickly he almost lost his balance, found the handle again to steady himself, to grip something. The other hand came to his forehead, over his eyes, even though his back was already turned. “Oh,” he said again. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. I’m sorry. I’m just. Gonna.” He realized he should close the door, and did so.

It didn’t mean anything, this, he knew that. He knew that so hard in the core of his body that he didn’t even bring up the possibility of it meaning something. Because it didn’t. They both had a very relaxed relationship to bodies and nudity, had always had. When he thought about it, it had just been a matter of time before something like this happened. And it’s not a big deal. Not when you know each other. It’s just skin.

She didn’t comment on it when she came back out, didn’t comment on it for the rest of the evening. Didn’t seem weird. It was nothing.

He stood in the bedroom doorway after she had left, looking in. It took him a couple of minutes to step over the threshold.

The night after that, he slept on the couch.

The third night, he worked late. He dreaded having to come home. He sought any kind of distraction, from that room that haunted him. Ignore ignore ignore, think about other things, occupy yourself. He dragged himself in through his door, finally, just before midnight. He stepped into the shower, ran the water cold, stood there till the pain of the temperature had faded away and he was numbed all over, could barely feel a thing. He was exhausted, maybe he can blame that, that he could barely stand up, barely knew what he was doing. He fell down onto his bed with just the towel around him, sank down into the mattress like all his limbs were made of lead. It curved under his back, soft, protective.

The ghosts of her presence swirled all around him, he could almost see them, faint, transparent against his pale-grey ceiling. He could still feel it, her nakedness, like a faint hum through the room, just under his range of hearing, just a vibration through him, like picked up by a sixth sense, not sure if it was actually there. It had set. He was never going to get it out. His body was starting to thaw from the shower, he could feel the tips of his fingers again and the edge of his skin was growing warm.

He lay there, in that room, the same room whose air had touched her bare skin just three days ago. It was touching him now, flowing over his arms and legs and torso. They were both half-naked in that room, mere meters apart, separated only by time; her then and him now.

He pulled himself back to that day, painted the scene that had etched itself into him, mapped it out in his head, projected it before him. He saw her standing there, just like that day, arms along her sides, eyes unreadable on him, her skin and her body. But this time she didn’t just look at him. Now she moved towards him, slowly, over the carpet, her body coming up to his. She stood close, like he could feel her, even though they weren’t touching. Then she raised a hand and touched his face with it. Her fingers, light, on his cheek, his nose, his temple. His mouth. The corner of it, the line of his upper lip, the swell of the lower, short across the seam of them both. Dongwoo, in bed, felt his real mouth open.

He wanted to keep it slow but things quickened. Her mouth on his, her body on his. He could feel the shapes of her naked breasts pressing against him. He could feel a hand, his own hand, on his other body, travelling down over his stomach. Halting by the towel, momentarily, pulling back like a brain-dead slug, blindly waving its antennas. Then forward again, finding the way, finding what it wanted, what it was looking for.

He had never thought about her when touching himself, had never let fantasies of her fuel him. And it had also never been like this, never felt like this. He had never writhed like this, curling and twisting, never breathed like this, like the room around him was running out of air, never sounded like this, so ragged and helpless, and he had never come like this, like bursting, like exploding, leaving him so tired and empty and flat.

He breathed, mechanically, in and out, staring up into the swirls of the ceiling, slowly fading away.

He fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When he woke up he couldn’t at first remember why he was naked. He had overslept, by a good four hours, and was just scrambling out of bed and pulling on the nearest pair of pants when he saw the towel. He stared at it for a moment. The fibers were stiff with dried semen.

He sat back down then, on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, arms and shoulders stiff. He sat and stared his shame in the face, nodding at it slightly, in greeting, or acknowledgement, because it was fully part of him and there was nothing he could do to remove it. He cleared his throat, tried his voice a couple of times to make sure it held, then dialed work and called in sick.

In the afternoon, his phone buzzed in announcement of a message. He considered ignoring it at first, didn’t want to get off the couch. Didn’t want to stand up. Didn’t want to move. But he needed to piss too, anyway, and had already postponed that for quite some time. He swept the screen unlocked with his left thumb while getting his pants down with the other hand, and was hit with a gush of aching nausea at the sight of the name of the sender; Woori. He swiftly pulled his pants up again. He didn’t want to touch his dick at the moment.

Can you come over tonight?

Can, not do you want to. He got paranoid for a moment. Did that mean something? Did she know something? How the fuck would she know?

Then worried. Was something wrong? For a split second he forgot all about himself and his personal qualms. Then they came back again.

He thought about saying no. Making some excuse. Would she buy it? Could he just refuse? Would it be weird, would it make her wonder? He didn’t want to refuse. He wanted to see her. More than ever.

He pressed her door-bell thinking to himself that it still wasn’t too late to run away. He thought it would take a while, as usual, but the door opened almost immediately. Now it was too late.

“Hey,” Woori said, with something strange in her face, over her eyes. He blinked, and then it was gone. “Come in.”

He followed her into her living room. It was cleaner than usual, he noted. All computers were shut off but one, one big monitor sending a steady, blood-red glow over the dark room.

“Is something wrong?” he asked her when she stopped and turned to him in the middle of the floor. He couldn’t see her face well, it was all dark red shadows, his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted. Thoughts raced through his head for a moment, that she had found out, somehow, that she was going to tell him they could never see each other again, that she never wanted to see him again. It made him want to reach for her, put his arms around her. If she’d let him.

“I wanted to tell you,” she began, looking into his eyes. That strangeness came over her again, but it might just have been the shadows. “I was lying awake in bed last night, after midnight.” Dongwoo’s muscles stiffened. “I was thinking about you. I thought about you, last time, at your apartment, a couple of days ago. You know? I thought about you there. I thought about you touching me. I touched myself, picturing it was you touching me. I made myself come, thinking about you.”

It wasn’t necessarily an invitation. It was honesty, sharing something, a thought, an event, a problem, maybe wanting advice on it, maybe just wanting it out there, clearing the air, being honest, so it doesn’t sit between them and chafe, fucking things up. Maybe wanting confirmation, acknowledgement, wanting someone to say that this is okay, you don’t have to be ashamed of this, and this doesn’t make me hate you. It was honesty, and it was so like her, not being afraid of the shame, not being afraid to say it, being more bothered by what it made her feel, that it bothered her, and the risk of fucking up a relationship, than by what the rest of the world might think of her.

But she was also trying him, challenging him. She was giving him a choice.

He could have said oh or okay or those things happen sometimes, and nothing would have happened, or he could have given her honesty back, could have told her. Could have told her everything. But he couldn’t say a word.

She took a step forward, closer. It was like he could feel her, even though they were not touching. Her eyes were firm on his, the left side of her face red, the right almost black. She said; “I want to fuck you.”

She did, on her smooth red-grey government couch, he deep against the cushions, she in his lap, his hands on her back.

It had never been like that, he had never felt like that, with another body. He had never lost himself like that, lost time and space and thought, like all he could see were the moving shadows over her blood-red skin, all he could feel the burning spaces on his body where they touched, were connected. No, that was not true – he could feel his body, his whole body, and hers, like that was his too, part of him, could feel them like a humming field of glow in nothingness, black vacuum, from the cores of their bodies to the edge of their skin, to the tips of their fingers, like confined fire, like they were buzzing, shining, radiant.

He had never clung to someone like that, never moved with someone like that, never looked at someone like that. He had been right, long ago, he had understood something. She was different, they were different, this was different. This was not like anything else in the world.

He knew, in the back of his head, that she knew, that she had known, all along, had probably known longer than he had. Of course she knew. She knew all his thoughts, she knew all his secrets. Still today he has a fleeting feeling that she waited for the right moment, waited for him to be ready.

They lie together in the cool sheets of her bedroom, grey and dark save from the pale white city lights reaching up through the window, playing over her ceiling, streaming, circling, fanning out, sweeping by.

“Do you ever wonder,” Woori asks against his chest, arm thrown over him, “if they made a mistake… if they fucked up somehow, when they made us?” Her fingers play slowly over his ribs, sliding back and forth, like waves. “Do you think we’re broken or something?”

“We’re not robots,” Dongwoo reminds her, and himself. He has his arm tucked under his head and he can feel the small bump of the chip on his neck against his wrist. He moves his other hand, slides his fingers up under Woori’s hair and finds hers too, like by heart, on the top knob of her spine. Inside of it, tiny wires run through the bone into the nerves of her marrow. Taking it out would be too risky. It’s most likely going to sit there for the rest of their lives, reminding them. That they are being watched. That they are valuable. That they are a commodity. That they are fabricated. That they are not their own.

He pulls her closer to him, lets his fingers move through her short hair. He remembers the day she cut it. She had asked him, out of the blue, a couple of days before, why he had grown his hair out. He had had to think for a moment. He had barely even thought about it, it had just happened. It was just after his transferal, out into the real world, when he was no longer subjected to the Institution’s mandatory bimonthly trimming appointments, or the chart of the six standard male hairstyles that he had had to choose between. It was part a freedom thing and part being terribly busy, and by the time he got around to it he had grown quite shaggy, and also grown used to it. He took it off by the neck, bangs long, and that’s where it has stayed since. But in retrospect, it was probably a subconscious thing. He was leaving it long for a reason.

She had grinned at him, after his explanation, fingering her long braid. “Maybe I’ll cut mine off then,” she had said. “Meet you half-ways.” So we’ll match.

When she had come over afterwards, they had stood side by side in front of his bathroom mirror, two carbon copies, like an extra print-out, just one a little smaller than the other.

“Did you actually bring a picture of me to the hairdresser?”

“Yeah. I said it was me last year. Nobody even looked twice.”

He likes it, more than he thought he would and more than he really wants to admit. It reminds him of when they were little, when all the kids had their hair cut the same way. She wasn’t even smaller then.

He remembers how some kids used to fuck around with the teachers, switch classes and say they were their other self. The most notorious ones got colored crosses drawn on their foreheads with permanent markers that didn’t come out for a whole week. Dongwoo, with a child’s vast but peculiar sagacity, sometimes wondered if the switchers themselves weren’t sure of who was who after a while. Aside from scanning the chip, there was no way to tell them apart. Did they ever wake up in their clone’s bed and wonder whether they were actually themselves, or the other one?

It was a scary thought, but also an appealing one. He liked the idea that, maybe, if you were close enough with someone, you might seep into them, while they seeped into you, so you were half you and half them, drifting back and forth. Maybe you would even shift sometimes, switch bodies for a little while. He liked to picture the gooey brain matter being the same color, or something like that, like a precocious manifestation of the soul. Didn’t matter which head it was in, it was all the same stuff anyway.

He has always liked the idea of being identical to her. It makes them feel closer. Him, to her. Blurs out their differences. When he sees her like this, in the short hair and one of his t-shirts, or the state jacket, he can pretend she is actually him, and that he is looking at himself from outside. He can watch his shoulders, the length of his back and shape of his arms and profile of his face, he can look into his own eyes and touch himself with other hands.

Maybe he is her, then. He can feel the shell of her body, around him. Her waist, the swell of her hips, the soft layer under her skin, the hollow of her womb within him. She is him, and he is her. They can switch, for a moment. Or share, maybe, halfway, be a little bit of both. (He likes it extra much when they have sex, when he can look at her and see himself, look at her and feel himself drift, can simultaneously feel the press of her, around him, and the press of her, inside him. He can feel her body, like it is his own.)

Or he is still himself. He exists, simultaneously, in two places, copied and pasted. Separate, but not different. There are two of him, like the world in the mirror. Except he can talk to this one, touch this one, kiss this one.

He has always liked the idea of being the same, of being one. Two parts of a thing. Connected. He never saw her as a twin, barely as a separate individual. She’s him, another version of him.

Maybe that is a bit fucked up.

“I don’t think we’re broken,” he murmurs, into her hair. “Maybe we’re just a bit narcissistic.”

She snorts at him. He can feel her smile against his skin.

"What happens if we're found out?” she asked him once, or maybe herself. It was at a time much like this, when they were lying together in bed and felt good and safe, and things like that felt distant and surreal. He didn’t like bringing that into this moment, but maybe this was the time and place for it.

“That we’re seeing each other or that we’re…”

“That we’re fucking.”

Dongwoo stared up into the ceiling. He thought back to his training period at the Institution, but he had only worked in the lab, not with administration. He didn’t remember having seen or heard about a case like this. But he knew how the authorities worked, and so did she.

They wouldn’t be killed, they’re far too valuable for that. They probably wouldn’t be put somewhere where they couldn’t work and contribute to society either. Possibly there would be some kind of punishment. A fine, withdrawal of privileges or liberties, isolation. The only thing sure was immediate separation.

“We’d be transferred. Maybe just one of us, but probably both. We’d be sent far away, in different directions, so we’d never be able to find each other again.”

She was quiet for a while, staring up into a spot next to his. “So what do we do. If we’re found out?”

They worked out a strategy.

If their meetings were discovered, if someone saw them in the hallway, or the tracking chip jammed, how far would they be able to take the act that this was just an innocent friendship, a brotherly, sisterly kind of thing? Friendships are encouraged, and even though their positions are supposed to be classified, nowhere does it say anything about continuing contact in the event of happening to find one another. Would the authorities buy it? Would they not really care? Or would there be investigations? Would they be watched more closely? Would they receive notifications that these encounters would have to stop, in accordance with this or that paragraph in this or that decree? They would have to be more careful. Look for bugs, maybe. Shorter meetings, or find other places. No more sleeping over.

Then there’s plan B.

If one of them is just gone one day, doesn’t answer the phone, apartment empty. Or if one of them has people coming knocking at their door one evening, tall men and women in black coats and eyeshades, telling them to pack two bags and come with them right away, and they have to get into a car with dark windows and sit there for hours and hours, or maybe get taken to the airport and have to get on a plane, and they’re taken far far away from there, taken to another place to start a new life and never see anyone they knew ever again.

Woori took our her phone and opened a map of the State. She flicked her fingers over the screen and zoomed in at random, stopping at a small city, a couple of hours from Sousub. Far from Norsub, far from the Institution and everyone they know.

“Here,” she said. “We meet here.” She zoomed in closer and found a square outside a big Ration Centre, with a statue in the middle. “Here, at noon, every Sunday. Till we find each other again. Or till we give up.”

His arms tightened around her waist as he memorized the position over her shoulder. He’ll never give up on her. Not this time. Not when he knows what he was missing. They'll find each other again. And then they'll go far away, together, and start a new life.

“What would you do?” she asked him once at one of these occasions, when they had been talking about things they didn’t want to have to talk about. She was leaned forward towards him, looking at him with a bright, delighted smile. It was a nice smile. He wished she’d smile like that all the time. “What would you do, if you could do anything you wanted? Nothing tying you down? No government people telling you how to spend your days and live your life?”

He grinned back at her. It was contagious, that excitement of hers. It faded the hard feeling of before, eased the pressure in the air. Maybe she was doing it on purpose, changing the direction, changing the mood.

“You know what I would do.”

He would find some rare, untouched piece of land somewhere, if there is such a thing anymore, far away from big cities and large crowds of people. He would build a house, (Woori rolls her eyes at him, “you don’t know how to build a house,”) by a river, unassuming but comfortable. Then he would find a profession for himself, whatever he thought felt right, something you do with your hands and your body, something leisurely and carefree, something where you take your life as it comes, day by day. Maybe he’d become a fisherman, or open an eating place, or breed chickens, or just plant things into the ground and reap whatever came out of it. Potatoes, rice, beans, vegetables. He’s usually sitting smiling at the wall or, lying, into the ceiling at this point, eyes twinkling, and this is where Woori tends to snort at him (affectionately so, he thinks).

“You should come with me,” he tells her at these times.

“Shouldn’t you have a wife or something, helping you dig up those potatoes,” she usually replies, like he knew she would, looking at him with her head tilted to the side, like wondering if he'll say it. Challenging him, trying him. It’s like a game, and they’re both pretty tired of playing it.

Sometimes he does say it, pulls her close and whispers it in her ear, so low it’s barely even there; you can be my wife.

She just laughs and disentangles herself from him then, says something like; “Right, and we’ll have four little copies of ourselves running around, and nobody will think that’s weird.”

It hurts that she goes for the kid thing, knowing that it's his weakness. But it also hurts because she's right.

She said another thing, though, another time. "I don't dare to," she said. "You know it's dangerous. That's why it's not allowed. They could be sick, or there could be something wrong with them. I don't want to be responsible for that.” She looked down and away from him, speaking in a low voice, like he didn’t understand. “They could die. I wouldn’t be able to bear that.”

Woori must have been thinking along the same lines, because suddenly her fingers stop moving over his ribs and she says; "I think it's common. That's why they spread us out, that's why we're not allowed to know each other. Because we're all longing for that connection, the only connection we have. They're bringing it on themselves, breeding lonely, rootless children. So they have to separate us, so we don’t go around producing bad offspring. I think we're all a bunch of narcissists."

Her voice drops, lower and darker, slower. “All yearning for each other, all drawn to each other, all seeking the contact. By nature. Might not even think about it.” Her hand presses against the skin on the side of his chest, palm flat and fingers spread, presses hard. “Wanna get so close, closer than skin. Wanna melt together, become one big blob.”

He pictures all the synthetic, rootless people, slithering through the immense darkness of the universe, creeping, fumbling blindly towards the sole point of light in the black, seeking the only visible thing. Their other half. He pictures her hand sinking into his skin, like warm wax, their bodies melting into one. Their identical cells, fusing. He thinks about the moment, some twenty-five years ago, when they were just a lump of cells in a tube, before they were split (ripped apart). The one moment they actually were one. Maybe that’s what they’re all longing for. Going back to the natural state.

They come from the same seed, the same spore. They are of the same matter. Just branched off.

“Maybe we’re the same person,” he whispers to her. “Maybe we just don’t know it.”

The hand stops pressing. “What do you mean?”

“We’re just variations,” he says, “of the same thing. Happen to exist simultaneously. Like alternate time-lines. But side by side. We share the same core. We are one, just split.” His voice drops too, lower and softer. “You are me, and I am you.”

She pushes away from him, rests on one elbow to scan him over. Her eyes are hard, then they soften, and she smiles. Fondly, he thinks. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re being ridiculous.”

It doesn’t hurt him. It’s contagious, he smiles too. “Maybe I am.”

He kisses her, letting her lean up over him, his fingers in her hair, the shape of his lips against the matching shape of hers. Then she lies down against him again, shifts herself comfortable. His arm curls over her shoulder.

“Sleep, silly-bear.”

Dongwoo lies awake for a while, looking out over the city lights and night darkness. When summer comes, they will get on a train and he will take her out to the countryside, maybe to a lake, or a big river, or just a spot that is green and quiet and warm. They will bring a picnic basket and sit in the grass and drink lemonade and feel the sun on their skin and the wind in their hair and the earth beneath their bodies. That will do her good.

Woori is breathing slow sleep-breaths against him. Dongwoo closes his eyes.

b1a4; new constellations

fourcoldpaws — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 19:04:12 GMT

cnu/baro. pg. 3243 words. sunwoo is an “every-wednesday-and-every-other-weekend”-dad and dongwoo is his “buddy”. domestic au. (written for b1a4ss)
warnings: subtle homophobia

Eunsol looks away from him, her small face hard as stone. She has her black hair in two pigtails with fluffy pink ties around the ends. She’s always neat like that. He resists the urge to tug at them a little. It probably wouldn’t make things better.

b1a4; ember and ash

fourcoldpaws — Tue, 29 Jul 2014 18:58:00 GMT

cnu/gongchan. r. 6319 words. chanshik and dongwoo fight the same fight, but on different fronts and with different methods. (written for b1a4ss)
warnings: implied violence and death

Dongwoo files down his black nails to the finger, and his pointy Prodigal teeth into a straight even line. He hides his yellow eyes behind his thick spectacles.

b1a4; joint efforts

fourcoldpaws — Sat, 19 Jul 2014 16:17:04 GMT

gongchan/cnu/girl!cnu. r. 940 words. they like it like this, when it's the three of them, taking care of each other.
warnings: twincest

She can be a bit tricky to get off sometimes, but two mouths are better than one.

She’s sprawled out on her back on Dongwoo’s big bed, legs a bit bent and a bit parted, her black tank-top hiked up and bundled above her breasts. Chanshik is lying next to her, straining against his jeans, watching her. He was being useful before but suddenly found himself not. He tends to do that. He can’t help watching her, can’t help just lying and grinning to himself.

She’s quite a sight, like this, her face scrunched up, her back arched, her chest heaving. Her breasts pool out soft and flat on top of her torso, skin pulled together a little in the middle where her nipples sit tight and stiff, and jiggling subtly when her breath comes out raspy or in in a sharp gasp. Her brows are furrowed, eyes blinking open and shut, her lips wet and parted. He can’t get enough of her, like this, when she’s all flushed and close and doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Her hands move, constantly shift position; gripping the sheets, clutching the pillow, pulling her bangs from her face, stroking down over her body, (nails over stomach and thighs, quick, fleeting, thoughtless brushes over her breasts), over their bodies, through Dongwoo’s hair, over Dongwoo’s hands at her hips, and over to Chanshik, fumble and grip, turning her head to look at him with glossy eyes, like he’d be able to do something about it.

He laughs, catches her hand in his, bends over her to kiss her, strokes his other hand over her stomach and over her scrunched, uneven nipples. Her back pulls and stretches, mouth barely touching his, head digging back into the pillow, she grunts; “fuck.”

Dongwoo is between her thighs, half curled up by the edge of the bed, one leg off it, foot on the floor, the other bent underneath him, his tongue soft and steady and unrelenting. He looks up a bit sometimes, at Chanshik because Woori isn’t looking, and Chanshik thinks he grins.

When they get tired they switch. Dongwoo straightens his back, hand on Woori’s thigh, licking around his lips. Chanshik starts to move. Dongwoo catches him by the shoulder, kisses him over Woori’s knee. Chanshik can tell Woori’s watching. He licks over Dongwoo’s bottom lip, grins when Dongwoo licks at him back. He can taste her on his mouth. Then Dongwoo moves, lands one knee on the bed beside Woori and stretches up and kisses her too, the same way. Chanshik sees the way she tenses with want at the touch, curling a hand around her brother’s neck to pull him closer.

Chanshik skims his fingers down her thigh, brushes between them, grinning at how it makes her jolt and break the kiss, though that wasn’t his intention. She meets his eyes for a moment, and Chanshik thinks she tenses a bit again. He kisses down her leg, lets his tongue find the way.

It’s Chanshik who gets to do the honors, mainly because he happens to be there at that specific point. He knows how to get her through it, keeps his tongue hard against her till it’s over, lets her fingers claw at his hair, while Dongwoo lies close beside her, nose against her temple. Chanshik can’t see it now, but he knows that her eyes will squeeze tightly shut right before she comes, stay that way for a couple of seconds, then whip open again with a big exhale, like she’s snapping back into reality. Like she’s being rebooted, or reborn.

Dongwoo leans over her when she comes down and her breathing calms, nosing over her face, kissing her cheek and forehead, grins and whispers something affectionate or something teasing or something a little bit of both; “was it nice?”

“Shut up,” Woori grunts, folding her legs together and rolling away from him, over to her stomach.

Chanshik wipes over his mouth with his hand and reaches for Dongwoo instead. Dongwoo props himself up on his elbow and pulls Chanshik close by the neck to kiss him again, but his mouth goes limp for a moment when Chanshik gets his pants open and curls a hand around him. He’s so hard, so full, like he’s about to burst.

Woori lies watching them, chin on her hands.

“Suck him off,” she says. They both look at her. Then Chanshik grins, moves down and bends over Dongwoo’s lap. Dongwoo’s head tips back, his mouth silently falling open.

A lazy, affectionate grin spreads gradually over Woori’s face as she watches Chanshik blow him. After a while Chanshik notes that one of her hands has sneaked down, under her belly and down between her legs. He can see her butt sticking up a little bit, legs a bit parted. Her other hand has stretched over the mattress and found Dongwoo’s, their fingers laced tightly together. She teases him back; “you should come on his face.”

Dongwoo is beyond replying, only laughs shakily around his moans, flat on his back with his hair falling messily over his head.

Chanshik isn’t sure, because Dongwoo’s was kind of drawn out and Woori’s kind of quiet, but he thinks her second fell in time with his first.

He slumps down between them when they’re done, careful not to break the link of their hands, smiling when they both curl closer to his body. Woori turns his face towards her and kisses him, Dongwoo’s limp lips touching his shoulder on the other side.

Chanshik isn’t particularly hard to get off at all, but two mouths are still better than one.

b1a4; night things

fourcoldpaws — Sat, 07 Jun 2014 16:31:26 GMT

cnu/gongchan. r. 1882 words. it's late and dongwoo is sleepy, but it's not often that they get this.

Naturally Dongwoo has fallen asleep when Chanshik comes out of the bathroom, not in his pajamas yet and not even in bed. He’s curled up on the couch in nothing but the white hotel bathrobe and with his damp hair slowly softening over his forehead. Chanshik would sort of want to let him be, because he knows that feeling. He hasn’t felt it so much lately, more when he was a kid – and he’d like to think that he’d handle it better now, when stirred; blinking and putting himself together rather than kicking and whining and doing everything to stay beneath, closing his eyes, sinking back so fast, it feels so good – but he recognizes it, instantly. Feels it and sympathizes with a tenderness he doesn’t often experience and doesn’t really like. Maybe Dongwoo hasn’t slept so well lately, had a long day.

At the same time he has this weird urge to stir, to fuck the image up, that maybe he should think a bit about rather than act upon, but he doesn’t make the effort. Not when he can mask it as care.

He sits on the edge by Dongwoo’s side, picking briefly at the strands of hair coming undone between his fingertips – some lighter brown, separating easily, some darker, clinging tighter together. He pokes, scratches softly a nail at Dongwoo’s cheek. Blows some air over Dongwoo’s ear. Grins when Dongwoo finally moves, blinking small squinting eyes and making a noise. He picks some more at Dongwoo’s hair because he can’t help himself. Dongwoo swats at him.

“You have to brush your teeth.”

“Mm.” His voice is dark and rough with sleep.

“And take out your contacts.”

“Mm.”

“And put on a pair of pants.”

“Mm.”

“Go.”

He’s a bit more conscious when coming back out, raising his eyebrows and pulling his lips into a mock-grin.

“You think the others are asleep by now?” Chanshik nods towards the room on the other side of the wall.

“Yeah,” Dongwoo says and helps Chanshik push the hotel twin beds together.

Dongwoo’s robe isn’t wrapped around very well, the belt hangs low and the edges flap dangerously when he walks. Dongwoo has never been very concerned with keeping himself covered. Chanshik sees chest, sees nape, sees thigh, sees a lot of thigh when Dongwoo sits down on the bed and doesn’t really keep his knees together and the robe edges stretch open.

“Oof,” Dongwoo says when Chanshik pushes him back on the beds and lies on top. He fingers along the temples of the glasses Dongwoo just put on, then takes them off. “Hey,” Dongwoo says, and Chanshik lets him at least scoot around so his head is towards the headboard and all limbs are on the mattress. The robe rides down in the process, barely hanging onto his shoulders. Chanshik pushes himself up and bites at one of them a little. Dongwoo’s breath does a funny thing, like he’s laughing but not really.

“I have to put on a pair of pants,” he says.

“Mm,” Chanshik says, moving his mouth over Dongwoo’s shoulder, down over a sharp clavicle and the top of his chest, feeling the skin grow tiny bumps of gooseflesh under his breath. He runs his nose over the collar curled into a soft roll over the thin pec, wondering how many centimeters there’s left down to a small dark nipple; three, four? He feels Dongwoo’s hand coming up to comb through his hair that’s still wet.

“I set the alarm at six,” Dongwoo mumbles. “They won’t get up before six.”

“Mm,” Chanshik says; weighing whether to or not, then deciding yes, nosing down under the collar till he finds something small and protruding. He traces circles around it with the tip of his nose and doesn’t think about the extra lost sleep, doesn’t think about what would happen if somebody came in to wake them before they had put the beds back in order. Those are day thoughts. This is night. These are night things. He puts his lips on the flat nub and feels how it has stiffened. Dongwoo’s breath does a funny thing again.

“Are you tired?” Chanshik asks, looking up. We don’t have to do this, it means. If you don’t want to, if you haven’t slept well, we don’t have to do this today. But he can’t really say that because that’d be like he’s planning something.

“Why?” Dongwoo asks back, mouth doing a funny thing as well. His eyes are small and grainy, but focused. Chanshik moves up Dongwoo’s throat, draws his nose along the sides of the ridge that grows there, along the little dip where it meets lean neck muscle. The skin is thin and a bit uneven, finely textured. It lifts easily when he sucks it gently into his mouth. Dongwoo bends his head back and makes a low noise.

“You were fast asleep fifteen minutes ago.” Chanshik puts his lips on the bigger of the two lumps on Dongwoo’s throat, feeling how it moves under him when Dongwoo swallows, feeling it vibrate against his tongue when Dongwoo speaks;

“Well, I’m awake now.”

Chanshik laughs and sits up, feeling a little bit bad. They could just sleep, he could just as well leave it at that, would be just as happy just lying close to Dongwoo and feeling his warm skin on his skin all night. It’s not often that they get that. But it’s not often that they get this either. Dongwoo knows that too. Chanshik sees it on him. His chest is moving, slow and gentle but high up and deep down. There is a small twist at his mouth that Chanshik doesn’t really know how to interpret. He thinks about it until Dongwoo grabs his arm and pulls him down.

Dongwoo’s mouth is half-limp on his, but it’s okay. Chanshik can feel his dick even through layers of fluffy fabric. He slides their tongues together and pushes down against it, rocks back and forth without really trying to be smooth. Dongwoo draws his hands over Chanshik’s hips and up his waist, and back again. For each time the pace grows a bit more uneven. Chanshik kisses his cheek and his chin, grinning at how Dongwoo chases after him, catching him again and kissing him with slow lips. Chanshik licks at him and then leaves him, heaving up on his arms for leverage, and Dongwoo’s shoulders lift off the mattress to follow.

“Chan,” he complains, and Chanshik laughs, just quietly because suddenly all noises feel big and dangerous with the room filled with their breathing and the small squeaks of the bed. They won’t be heard through the walls, he knows that but he still can’t stop thinking about it. He shifts gently, fits his leg in between Dongwoo’s and startles when feeling thigh skin on his thigh skin.

Dongwoo’s hand comes between their stomachs, fumbles around Chanshik’s belt. Gets the knot loosened and slips in between the fabric. The fingers on Chanshik’s stomach make it suck in. He kisses him again, gentler than he feels, amazed that the weight of trying to squeeze so much into small moments like this doesn’t show. Dongwoo’s other hand is in his hair again, on his neck, pressing in a weird way and Chanshik thinks that maybe it feels the same way.

It’s starting to bunch up awkwardly between them, lumps of fabric dig into Chanshik’s skin. The tie of Dongwoo’s belt is coming undone all on its own, the robe barely stays in place. Dongwoo’s hand pulls back and suddenly they’re skin to skin, stomach to stomach, the hot and hard and pointy pressing into Chanshik’s hip.

Like instinctively, his hand finds it between them, curls light fingers around the smooth. Dongwoo twists. Chanshik grins again, but feels how it is soft and edgeless on his face. Feels how his breaths have grown edge instead.

“Are you tired?” he asks again, resting his fingers around that familiar shape, amused by how he never gets tired of holding it, of feeling it in his hand. Every time is somewhat like the first, that hot pride and excitement in his belly, only better because he’s not as nervous now. He knows what to do and how to do it. He tightens his fingers in that right way, just holds them there, glancing up on Dongwoo’s face.

“Shut up,” Dongwoo only mumbles, and pushes up against him.

It’s nice like this, mouth on mouth, warm dick in Chanshik’s hand, at least until it gets hot under Chanshik’s bangs and the angle suddenly is really weird and Dongwoo’s breathing hard and not really kissing back anymore. Chanshik huffs and pushes himself up, kind of clumsily, one knee on Dongwoo’s left thigh. He pushes his robe out of the way, hanging off his shoulders, then Dongwoo’s, so it’s bunched up along his sides. He moves his hand tight and even, watching Dongwoo’s naked body in the soft half-dark from the bed-stand lamp; his chest and stomach, arched up, his stretched neck and knotted face, his cock in the nest of Chanshik’s fingers.

Dongwoo’s hand comes on him too, fumbles and finds, grips with a drunken security that makes Chanshik curl forward. Dongwoo grins at him, a slow sleepy smug little grin, flexing his fingers. They’re warm and nice but kind of limp, don’t hold on very tight, lag and stop a lot and finally just flop down on the mattress when Chanshik does something and Dongwoo’s legs twitch. The hand soon comes back up again, but Chanshik pushes it away and grabs himself with his left hand, jerking them both in tandem, trying to catch up, so he can follow him through it.

Dongwoo’s hands stretch out towards him, hanging in the air. If he were blowing him, Chanshik knows Dongwoo would want to have his fingers in Chanshik’s hair, or if they were lying side by side, hold around his neck, and kiss him. Always wants to touch, to hold and feel. Chanshik leans forward until he can kiss the fingertips. They stroke over his cheek for a moment, then let him go.

When Dongwoo stretches his back, eyes closing, looking like he’s drifting off, Chanshik knows he’s close. He tenses, hands fisted feebly in the corners of Chanshik’s robe and frowning in that way like he’s very angry at something and Chanshik always wants to kiss him like that, because it makes him laugh and makes it hurt a little in his chest, but he knows better, keeps at it and drinks in the dizzying noise Dongwoo makes as he releases on his own stomach.

He comes down in stages, body relaxing, the frown smoothing out, and then he opens his eyes. “You’re behind,” he says, peering down with the tiniest smile on his lips, and takes his soft limp right hand around Chanshik’s left, follows him clumsily, and it’s not like he’s particularly adding anything but somehow it makes Chanshik come anyway.

When he comes back out after wiping them clean and washing his hands Dongwoo has curled up and fallen asleep, not under the sheets yet and not even fully covered. Chanshik lets him be. (He’ll wake up and tuck himself in properly when his toes get cold enough.)

b1a4; coming home

fourcoldpaws — Wed, 23 Apr 2014 16:32:05 GMT

gongchan/girl!cnu. r. 277 words. chanshik and woori grew up next-door to each other, and then meet again as adults.

They meet again when he’s 23, four years after he last had his hands on her body, four years after he went to college and their home visits stopped coinciding and they completely fell out of touch. She’s in town to visit a friend and calls him up for coffee and within two hours they’re naked in his bed, him flat on his back and her riding him all the way back to nineteen.

It’s like a frenzy, wordless and rushed, hands gripping over bodies like it’s something essential that’s been deprived them, like a beast smelling blood after years of darkness, and Chanshik wonders how he didn’t miss this, how he didn’t think about this, thinks of all the people he has fucked over the past four years and realizes that none of them turns him on like she does, none of them makes him feel like this. Everything comes back so easily, hands remembering where to touch and how to move like ingrained in the muscles. They already know each other in and out, but those extra four years of experience transforms pubescent fumbling under sports bras and down shorts into something slick and well-oiled and relentless and adult.

When she’s sweating and falls down next to him, he rolls over on her and she whimpers and props her ass up, and he equally pathetically whimpers into her shoulder - chest on her back to feel her, as much as possible, their fingers laced hard together under her chest - hitching into her until he can’t take it anymore.

By the time of round five, the birds are waking and the sun is coming up.

b1a4; can't start a fire without a spark

fourcoldpaws — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 12:21:51 GMT

cnu/gongchan. r. 6166 words. gong chanshik is almost nineteen, and it's fucking pathetic that he hasn’t gotten laid yet. (written for b1a4ss)

Dongwoo has paused for a moment, standing turned towards them. Chanshik briefly meets his gaze.

b1a4; what friends are for

fourcoldpaws — Sat, 22 Feb 2014 21:53:48 GMT

baro/gongchan. nc-17. 647 words. chanshik shows sunwoo the joy of being on the receiving end.

Sunwoo always thought he wasn’t very into the getting fucked part of fucking, until Chanshik bends him over the kitchen counter and actually does it properly and holy fucking shit.

They talk about it, for whatever reason, standing there over a cup of coffee and it comes up or something, sort of casually, and Sunwoo says it casually, because he likes the image of Chanshik thinking it’s not a big deal to him, because it sort of isn’t. He has sex with guys sometimes, takes cock up his ass sometimes, I mean who doesn’t. But that he was never a big fan.

“It’s a lot about, I think,” Chanshik says slowly, glancing down into his mug, “how you do it.”

Sunwoo shrugs. “Or it’s just not my thing,” he says, feels that he has asserted his manliness and thinks that’s the end of it. But then Chanshik says;

“I can give it a go if you want.” And takes a sip.

It’s like Sunwoo can feel it through his whole body when he slides in, like the pressure transports out, like every limb is filled and heavy, like his blood has thickened in tiny veins, but it doesn’t hurt because Chanshik isn’t very big, he’s just the right size to press gently and firmly on every edge and end and Sunwoo’s readiness hangs like a lump of lead in his belly.

Chanshik stops there, one hand on Sunwoo’s hip and the other on his shoulder, possibly because Sunwoo is already letting out a long shaky wail against the knuckles of his fingers.

“You’ve done this before,” he notes, sort of sheepishly, when he finds air again.

He can actually hear the wide grin in Chanshik’s voice. “I never said I haven’t.”

It’s like he’s been thinking he’s liquid, just goo in a shell, but suddenly realizes there’s something solid inside him. It’s weird, having it touched from inside. Backwards, like he should turn himself inside out and get it right, so he can see it, can have control over it. But it doesn’t work like that.

“How are you holding up?” Chanshik asks in a silky, annoying voice. Sunwoo only mumbles vaguely against his hand but apparently it’s enough because Chanshik starts fucking gently into him.

He can’t even tell what’s different, what Chanshik’s doing that’s so right but it must be something because within minutes he’s huffing and whining and making pitiful cries; groans and gasps, chokes and pants and can’t even control himself. Maybe it’s some sort of chemistry thing, he thinks distantly and in a rush, brain on autopilot, but it’s weird because he never thought about Chanshik like this, never felt about Chanshik like this. Yet somehow all it takes is for Chanshik to ask and here they are, pants around their ankles and heavy swollen cocks.

Chanshik is half panting, half laughing at him behind, casually conversing through it, or at least Chanshik’s conversing and Sunwoo not really answering coherently, asking “You okay man?” and “Feels okay?” and “Wanna go slower?” and Sunwoo wavering out some kind of nnoooohh followed by a string of nasal consonants.

He speeds up a bit, hitches hard into Sunwoo two or three times and Sunwoo’s bare chest skips back and forth over the cold countertop because he can’t really stand anymore. He feels Chanshik bending over him, lips and forehead touching his slack spine, and he hears distantly Chanshik too panting harder behind him, his hand a little too rough on Sunwoo’s shoulder.

Before he knows it he realizes he’s coming and just barely has time to find his dick and give it a few artless, flappy tugs before he’s spraying semen all over the cabinet door.

“Well,” Chanshik says, just a little breathless, and Sunwoo feels how he’s leaning sideways to look at it dripping to the floor. “Maybe not in the kitchen next time.”

(bec this) (i'm sry)

b1a4; about her

fourcoldpaws — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 00:10:23 GMT

gongchan/girl!cnu. nc-17. 1557 words. it doesn’t matter how long it takes, if it never happens. if woori doesn’t want it, chanshik doesn’t want it either.
warnings: cnu as an intersex girl

It takes time.

Chanshik never pushes. Never nudges or touches or hints. Never makes it out to be inevitable, a natural point to come to, that everybody comes to, that everybody must come to. Never nags or argues or repeats himself. He asks sometimes when they’re lying close together and are flushed and messy-headed and breathing kind of hard, once, just once, with a low voice, mouth against her shoulder or in her hair; would she want to? Is prepared for Woori to tense, tie her mouth together and turn it away from him, pull her shoulder up and jerk her head. He is prepared, and he takes it. He hooks his arm around her waist and kisses her naked shoulder, the strap of her top, lies still and quiet until she moves. Either she laughs, after a couple of minutes, laughs a short laugh that some days sound soft and genuine and some days just painful, kisses him shortly on the lips or on the nose. And then it’s good. Or she’s quiet, lies stiff and hard until suddenly shrugging him off and getting up and going into the bathroom and not coming out for a while. It’s not so good then. He wants to hug her but he’s not sure she’d like it so he doesn’t. He wants to say sorry. But she always shrugs that off.

He doesn’t even dare to show just how much he wants it because maybe that would make her feel like she should. He really doesn’t want her to feel that she should. He wants her to want it. He wants her to think about it, to dream about it, play around with it in her mind until she is entirely sure and entirely ready, until she’s longing for it, until she can’t wait any longer. If she doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want it either. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, if it never happens.

But he tries to tell her, tell her how great she is. How much he likes her body, all of it, the stuff she likes and the stuff she doesn’t like. That there’s too much stuff about it that she doesn’t like. How much he likes her mind. How much he likes her. He tries to keep his hands soft when he touches her, on her waist, her hips, her stomach. Not the breasts, not the thighs. He tries to kiss her to the best of his ability. He wants to be good. He wants to make her feel good. He pulls her on top of him and lets her set the pace, lets her make the decisions.

He sees it as progress the first time she takes her shirt off. It would be a dick-move to celebrate, or to congratulate himself, or to have any expectations. This is not about him. This is not about what he’s gonna get. But his stomach flips, tightens in a way, more at the fact that she’s doing this than at the skin coming into view before him. Her hands are not quick and not steady, but it’s her initiative, and she smiles down at him with the fabric still in her hands. Her breasts are small. Just flat mounds, barely there, not even heavy enough to hang, small flat nipples. They look soft. They’re awesome. He tells her that. She grins wider, tilts her face down. They’re awesome. But he doesn’t touch them. Not that time. This is progress.

Then again it’s not nearly as much progress as the first time she takes his shirt off. Slides her hand up under it, lets it hike up, tugs at the edge a little bit with eyes that are only a little bit insecure. She waits for permission. It sizzles in his stomach when he lets her pull it off, with how she flings it back over her shoulder so it lands on the floor, with how she puts her hand to his chest, splays it flat and warm, the nub of his nipple pressing softly into her palm. Not nearly as much progress as every time she grins and laughs and kisses him with open mouth, as when she rolls on top of him, sets the pace, takes control, makes the decisions. Not nearly as much progress as when she’s moaning into his mouth and grinding down against him, absorbed and unashamed, and swear to god if he could soften his dick so to make sure it wouldn’t bother her he would, but there’s no fucking way.

She’s not fragile. It’s not that.

She has pride. Mustn’t bruise that.

It takes time, before she takes her pants off. Her panties are black and cotton. Something small juts out at the front, stretching the fabric a bit. He doesn’t touch it. Not that time. They kiss soft kisses that night, then fall asleep.

He can’t help looking, the first time she stands naked before him. He sitting down on the edge of her bed, and it’s good because he feels a bit weak and shaky in the knees. His dick is swollen in his pants. He can feel it pulsing. Under the patch of short pubes her clit sticks out between two small lips. It’s pink, the size of his thumb maybe, but shorter and thicker.

Her hands hang by her thighs. “Is it gross.”

He looks up at her face. “No,” he says. “No, it’s awesome.”

He doesn’t know if she believes it. He doesn’t know if anything he says can make her believe it. He can’t expect that. This isn’t about him. He can’t just swoop in and fix things. That’s not how it works. He stretches out his hand. She comes closer, takes it in her own. He looks up at her face, and is honest;

“I wanna eat you out.”

She smiles a small smile. “I know.”

It takes time, but then it happens. It’s hot in the room, hot between their bodies, they’re half-naked and breathing shallowly. His mouth is on her left nipple, her head is bent back, there is a noise in her throat. He presses his hand down the front of her jeans. She takes his face in her hands then, pulls him up, looks into his eyes, makes him look into hers. She looks so entirely sure and entirely ready, like she can’t wait any longer.

“I want you to eat me out.”

She fits so well into his mouth. He feels drunk on feeling his lips around her clit, feeling how hot it is, not small but not big either, just the right size to fit his lips around. He lets his tongue play over it, sucks softly. Woori gasps above him. She’s moist and swollen and squirming, her thigh vibrates beside him, he puts his hand around it, holds it carefully. This is just what he wanted, this, being here, having his mouth on her, getting to make her feel this way. Her wanting him to make her feel this way. It is all he needs, getting to make her feel this way. He doesn’t want anything other than this.

He traces his tongue over her lips, down. Searches, explores, maps out everything that she is, memorizes the taste of her wet. He touches her with the knuckle of his finger, so not to be too pointy and startling. Presses, softly softly, until it finds her slit.

He looks up. “Can I…”

Woori doesn’t even look at him. Just nods.

It’s slick and easy to slide his finger in. Woori sighs heavily, clenches around him. It’s tight. He slips out and tries with two fingers, carefully. Woori makes a noise, but a different noise.

“No?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No.”

He slides his middle finger in again, alone. Not too deep.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low.

Woori nods.

“Good?”

She sighs like that again, sucks air in quick and then releases slowly. “Good.”

He fucks slowly into her, listening to her noises and trying not to come. She’s tight, very tight. Just the right size for his finger. His finger just the right size for her. He could never fit into her, this space could never accommodate him. He knows that. This is hers, and hers alone. The pleasure here is just for her. And she is so sensitive; he draws his finger back, over the knuckle, and her hands fist in the sheets beside her.

He feels entirely selfish, for getting this. It makes him grin.

“Chan-ah,” she says, gasps up towards the ceiling.

Her clit twitches before him, standing right out. He takes it in his other hand, it’s still wet with his spit, it slides easily between his fingertips. Woori’s whole body twitches. Chanshik reminds himself to breathe.

“Chan-ah.”

“Yeah?” He leans up over her, presses a kiss between her breasts. Tries crooking his finger upwards, feeling how it makes her tense.

“Fucking suck me off.”

Her fingers are in his hair, tugging, her leg repeatedly pulls up, stretches out a bit, pulls up again, her toes curling beside him. He presses his lips tight around her, his tongue hard against her, sucks her till she’s stiff and hard and shaking.

His dick is aching in his pants, but he tells it to shut up. This is not about him.

i'm not an expert on intersexuality, i cannot vouch for the accuracy
of this portrayal and these descriptions. do pm me if there are any
concerns, because i do not wish to offend or harm anyone.

b1a4; nice girls

fourcoldpaws — Tue, 14 Jan 2014 19:08:03 GMT

girl!cnu/girl!gongchan. nc-17. 552 words. chanmi accidentally fucks woori on the floor.

They end up on the rug, that first time, didn’t get further. It’s strange finally having Woori’s naked body in front of her. The undressing sort of happened too quickly for Chanmi to be fully aware during it, to savor it or whatever, but the presence and knowledge is still so acute; these expanses of skin close in front of her, hot and electric, all hidden corners and treasures – they’re right there. Hers to explore. It sets her breath heaving, the weight of it, the stark reality of this moment, like dawning on her.

Woori’s fingers are digging at the shag. She’s flat on her chest, legs bent a little so her butt sticks up, Chanmi on top of her, right hand snaked down over her waist and around her hip and between her legs, middle and index finger on either side of her clit, pressing, shaking, squeezing, whatever. The curve of Woori’s ass against her front, vibrating almost; sometimes a sliver of air between them, sometimes pressed flush, hot and sticky. Woori’s hair falling over her shoulders and down on the carpet, except for few thin strands lying up over her back. She’s getting damp at the temples, Chanmi can see. Her back, broad and thin, everything underneath coming up to the surface when she moves. Chanmi feels every brush of her nipples against it, how hard they are, how much it feels, almost so much it hurts.

She presses her mouth to hot shoulder, tries to keep it shut but it keeps falling open, bites down on the shoulder blade whenever Woori shifts so it juts out. Must just have her mouth on something, must have her mouth occupied, and has to hold herself in check so she doesn’t bite too hard, actually bites, maybe would even draw blood. There’s something so clenched inside of her.

Woori’s face is clenched too, mouth clenched shut, eyes clenched shut, brows clenched low over eyes. Chanmi knows from her breathing – the starting and stopping, short gasps, h h h, longer pauses and harsher gasps, accelerating, rising – knows, not consciously, but like in her body. Brief satisfaction drenched in the rush of her own hot blood, not worded, and maybe never doubted, just a note; what she can do to Woori, that she can do this. Knows it’s not far, knows to follow, faster, up up up. Pants almost as hard as Woori does, doesn’t even think about trying to mask it. Their feet touching, legs touching, thin thigh skin brushing. She hasn’t even been touched yet but still it pounds in her cunt, feels so swollen, like she’s ready to burst. Woori jerks and jerks against her fingers.

She stays, after it’s over, flat with her face in the pile. Like she’s embarrassed.

“Sorry,” Chanmi ends up saying, sitting beside her, because this wasn’t really supposed to happen, at least not like this. Not quick and clenched, not on the floor, not with Woori ass up grinding into Chanmi’s hand. Woori is a nice girl, Woori is going to marry a nice boy and have nice children. Five or six or so. She’s not supposed to grind into girl-hands. Their nakedness suddenly feels cold and misplaced.

“I,” Woori mumbles then, maybe cracking a little. “I really fucking wanna eat you out right now.”

b1a4; night watch

fourcoldpaws — Tue, 14 Jan 2014 17:49:22 GMT

cnu/jinyoung & baro/gongchan. r. 874 words. chanshik and sunwoo are fucking, dongwoo and jinyoung watch from the sidelines. (originally posted at kprompts)
warnings: voyeurism

When Dongwoo first finds out, he’s scared. He wants to tell someone, a manager, a coach, anyone, an adult. Being oldest is worth nothing, Dongwoo realizes, and feels so much like a child. Someone has to come and sort this thing out for them, with a hand so steady you never have to doubt their authority and never have to think for yourself.

It’s not so much for the whole obvious part of it as for that Chanshik is seventeen and a half years old and still laughs at knock-knock jokes and does aegyo whenever you ask him and sometimes cries in his bed at night because he misses his parents but vehemently denies it when you ask him how he feels. Yet he seems so good at this, seems to know exactly what he’s doing, seems to be so in control. And Dongwoo can’t for the life of him keep from wondering what it feels like. What both of it feels like. The control, the adulthood. And the filled up, face down, biting the pillow full of breathy whiny stuttery sobby choppy noises that Sunwoo struggles so hard to keep from the dead of the night and equally hard fails for every firm hitch of Chanshik’s cock into him.

When Jinyoung also finds out, Dongwoo decides to be a man. Jinyoung is a leader in the making, and this is what it’s gonna be like from now on. It’s gonna be the two of them, the two of them against the world, and they’re gonna take care of these three kids, and they’re gonna do everything that needs to be done, carry everything that needs to be carried. And they can carry this, together.

“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Jinyoung says, with a splotchy flush from his temples to his throat but still. “It’s just a phase. When we debut, then, then they’ll stop,” he says with conviction so sincere it bleeds over to Dongwoo as well. At the debut, then they’ll stop. For sure. And then everything will be fine.

What it feels like. He doesn’t try it; doesn’t touch himself when washing in the shower. Doesn’t look up grainy videos on the internet, doesn’t google the human anatomy. He suspects there is something else he’s looking for, that it’s something else about it that fascinates him so. The something he thinks himself seeing between Chanshik and Sunwoo at daytime, invisible to anyone but him. That thing shared, connecting people together and opening them up.

In folder upon folder in the depths of his hard drive he collects pictures of people kissing. Always has. And even though his insides pound thick at tongues and lips he never masturbates to them. But at the same time he’s nineteen and has had to go through all those nineteen years with not much more company than his own right hand, and dreams of the burn of a special hand upon your skin, of being connected to someone, of seeing and actually being seen, are mixed with dreams of faceless strangers fucking him till he weeps, making him wake up so hard it hurts and with the sensation of being slid into and filled up to the brim still pounding in his nether regions. What it feels like.

Jinyoung doesn’t judge when finding him on the floor outside their door, open just enough to let a slim stripe of soft yellow light cross vertically over Dongwoo’s face and then continue over the floor. It’s not the first time.

“Did. I wake you?” Dongwoo mouths and clenches his fingers around his dick, much too late to tuck it back in. “Sorry.”

Jinyoung makes a move that is neither a shake of the head nor a shrug of the shoulder and stands behind Dongwoo’s back to join him.

Chanshik’s shoulders are naked and golden. Sunwoo’s hand comes up over one of them sometimes, digs fingers in, clamps over his neck, pulls him down. Dongwoo’s stomach twists hotly for every wet sound of their kisses, so tight with good that it’s painful. He leans his temple against the doorpost and thinks that he might as well close his eyes, could just as well just listen to their noises; the breathing, the swallowing, the low groans, the squeaks of bedsprings, movements.

Dongwoo thinks about the bed stand lamp, what it being on could mean in this world of adulthood. Is seeing each other’s faces a thing of nonchalance, or a thing of intimacy?

There is movement above him and he looks up to find Jinyoung digging around in his sweats, and Dongwoo squeezes his dick again, with both danger and relief rushing through him. He gets his hand moving again, thinking of feeling skin on his skin, naked body under his. Then Jinyoung sits down next to him and moves his fingers over Dongwoo’s thigh and they jerk each other with accustomed hands. Chanshik rocks steadily into Sunwoo and Dongwoo watches Jinyoung’s face in the dark, tries to picture a connection, a burn, a feeling. Wonders if there could be something between them at daytime, just invisible to him.

But when Jinyoung leans in to kiss him, he turns his head away.

They close the door and leave when Sunwoo climaxes.

exo; how we like it

fourcoldpaws — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 09:52:31 GMT

sekai. nc-17. 669 words. sehun takes jongin out into the woods. (originally posted at exopromptmeme)
warnings: salirophilia, d/s elements(?)

After rain, comes sunshine. Sehun takes Jongin for a walk.

All the way to the forest they walk close close together, side by side, arm pressed against arm, in step, so that nobody’ll see the piece of string connecting them. When straying from the trail and heading down the valley, Sehun takes it out from his pocket and unwinds the length. Jongin dutifully lags behind, stumbling over tree roots and jumping over rocks, until the rope is stretched between them, tugging his arm up and digging lines into his wrist. Sehun makes sure to not look back, so he won’t have to see the smile on Jongin’s face.

Their little dip in the slope has soggied up well. The mud is wet and oily and dark, dark brown. Sehun halfheartedly looks out for joggers while Jongin strips down, and then butt-naked Jongin halfheartedly looks out for joggers while Sehun wears his apron and rubber gloves and tucks his pant legs into his wellingtons.

“Juice, by the way.”

Sehun looks up. “Huh?”

“You’re out of juice.”

“How do you know?”

“I drank it.” Jongin scratches at his buttock. The puddle makes a slick, sucking noise when he falls to his knees and makes himself comfortable, for every movement sinking deeper into the sludge. It swells up against his thighs, pooling fluid in the cracks, creeping bubbles up his skin.

“Okay.” Sehun stands before him, tilts his head up with a nudge at his chin. Strokes his gloved rubber thumb over one of Jongin’s pimples. “We’ll pick some up.” Sehun likes Jongin’s pimples. Likes his wonky nose, his perpetual dragon breath, how shitty he is with people. Likes everything that makes Jongin a little less perfect, a little less out of Sehun’s reach. He presses down a little, wonders if it hurts. “We need dinner anyway.”

He bends down and digs his fingers into the grime, clasps a generous fistful.

“Great,” Jongin says, closing his eyes. The sun falls on his hair, on his full lips, on the dots of scars across his cheek. Sehun lifts his hand. Jongin twitches when a drop hits his forehead. Doesn’t twitch when Sehun releases the handful into his face.

It always takes him some time to get into it. Jongin sits quiet and patient as Sehun’s crouched in front, sprinkling small, artsy splatters across Jongin’s chest. It’s almost pretty. Then Sehun wipes them off, leaving a big swipe of brown instead.

Before long he’s knee-deep in it himself, staggering and panting and hauling entire lumps of mud onto Jongin’s body. Every strike has Jongin swaying faintly, tipping backwards with the force until he finds his balance again. Sehun fills his lungs with air and screams into Jongin’s face.

He feels his body pounding, feels the breaths burn in his throat and he wipes sweat off his brow and gets some mud on it in the process but just tugs the apron up and out of the way and yanks at his fly and starts jacking off with muddy gloves and all.

Jongin sits covered in and surrounded by filth and with his cock hanging thick and swollen and dirty between his folded thighs and he dutifully doesn’t touch it, just smiles up at Sehun — “Don’t smile.” – just looks up at Sehun with thick streaks of dirt over his face and his chest and his entire body, splatters and spots, cakes and clots, smelling faintly spoilt (soil, still water, dead things), and Sehun genuinely, genuinely genuinely finds him disgusting like this—

He lands his load right across Jongin’s face.

When Sehun has wiped himself and his genitals off with kleenexes they lie together in the still damp grass, moist seeping into Sehun’s clothes and making the caking mud on Jongin’s naked skin melt and bleed.

“Chicken, by the way.”

Sehun looks up. “Huh?”

“I want chicken for dinner.”

“Okay.”

All the way home they walk close close together, Jongin with his hood pulled deep over his face so that nobody’ll see the brown covering it.

exo; the maybe and the more

fourcoldpaws — Thu, 12 Sep 2013 08:50:59 GMT

baeksoo. r. 892 words. kyungsoo and baekhyun cut class to go home and make out. (originally posted at exopromptmeme)

Kyungsoo knows Baekhyun’s been counting, because he has just come out of fourth period, slipped into the boys bathroom and tucked himself back in after pissing when the text bleeps into his phone. Kyungsoo knows he has roughly fortyfive seconds before a second, impatient, one will plop in after the first, and struggles to fish the phone out of his right pocket with his non-dicky left hand. It’s characteristically concise (the main reason behind Baekhyun’s ridiculous typing speed); ‘come out’

‘I have class.’ Kyungsoo notifies him.

He counts the seconds. 37 of them later; ‘i have strwbrry milk. better thn class’

And really, he has a point.

Three pm is a great time of the day. Not too early, not too late, the air is fresh and the sun still stands high but streets are calm and houses are empty, and it’s a great time to be lying on Baekhyun’s bed and sucking synthetic strawberry aroma off his thin, taut lips.

It’s like they today don’t seem to reach that urgent stage, the panting and sweating stage, the fumbling, fat-fingered hands stage - but instead have remained on a very comfortable level of small heat-waves down the collar, of a slight thickness of the chest and of slow pulls of the stomach, tightening firmly inwards and holding, for just a moment, maybe two. Instead of quickened breathing, it has slowed down, stretched out, lazier than usual, heavy and thorough.

They have done this a lot, know each other, are good at this now.

As with most things about Baekhyun, there is an arrogance to his kissing. He kisses like he wants to prove that he has seen the world and that he cares about nothing in it. Rolling flowing easy and nice, then sudden tight biting sucks and nails digging into Kyungsoo’s wrist. It amuses Kyungsoo more than anything else because that edge there, razor-sharp like Baekhyun himself, usually comes out more and more frequently a while in, when eyes are flicking and heads spinning and it’s increasingly harder to be and seem in control of things.

Kyungsoo has no such concerns. Kyungsoo kisses like he means it, because he knows that the ability to be swept away by things is a strength, not a weakness.

Baekhyun sits back with his knees on both sides of one of Kyungsoo’s and wrings his uniform jacket off. He grins down for a moment, tugging at the knot of his tie.

“You should think about this next time you’re sitting there doing algebra or whatever,” he says. “You should think about me.”

Kyungsoo’s stomach curls, not a lot but hotter than it should, especially when Baekhyun’s hair is on end and there’s two blotches of red on his cheeks and his grin is half and angled and stupidly self-satisfied. Kyungsoo pulls him down by the tie, coaxes his mouth open with a thumb across his cheek. Baekhyun lies more on top of him than beside him, presses him down, sucks tight biting sucks to Kyungsoo’s lips, upper, lower, lower and upper again. His hand wanders over Kyungsoo’s chest and undoes his jacket buttons, one by one, struggling at some but still working them open with one hand, with long nimble fingers. He touches Kyungsoo’s stomach over the t-shirt, runs his hand light down the inside of Kyungsoo’s thigh.

They haven’t actually gone past this over-the-clothes-petting stage, although there has been moments of touching and legs between legs and Grave Seriousness where Baekhyun looked up at him from under his bangs with his mouth a little open and both a distance and a focus in his eyes, more focused that Kyungsoo’s ever seen him, and it hit Kyungsoo too how real things suddenly can be.

It’s not that Baekhyun is afraid, not at all. Kyungsoo isn’t either. Not like that. But it’s a boundary to brave. Even at urgent times, even at shivering pulsing panting times. They have drawn it out until body is pressing tight against body without daring to move because where does that line lie anyway, does it budge when you push it, is it right to try. Have suddenly parted and gotten up and had to go into separate rooms for a while. Or just lied completely still next to each other, not daring to move because that line is really fucking close now, just lied still until it goes away. Have lied there with small twists in their bellies, part painful and part eager, at the realization that one day, it will happen, for real.

He does hitch a breath when Baekhyun actually works the shirt out from under the waistband and slides cold fingers through the soft strands of hair under Kyungsoo’s bellybutton. Kyungsoo’s stomach pulls in, tightens, holds, two moments, three. Baekhyun’s opened mouth breathes lazy and thorough against his collarbone. Soon the hand moves, slides down, comes to rest over Kyungsoo’s fly, just lying there and he feels the pressure through the pants (knows that Baekhyun can feel the shape and the heat underneath,) but just lies there, soft, still, natural.

Then Baekhyun looks up at him. Kyungsoo looks back for a while. And then Baekhyun grins, that half grin spreading to a whole, and removes his hand. Kisses him again. Kyungsoo grins too, winds arms around his neck, plays with his tongue.

Today is not the day.

exo; these secret spaces

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 01 Sep 2013 19:46:41 GMT

sekaiyeol. nc-17. 903 words. jongin and chanyeol fuck sehun's armpits in a backyard. (and this takes place in the 19th century because reasons)
warnings: a bit of violence.

They both watch him as he hoses himself off. Chanyeol leaned against the wall chewing on a toothpick, Jongin glancing over his shoulder every now and then, down out at the strip of backstreet between the house walls. The night air and the water is cold and Sehun feels his nipples scrunch up and harden. His suspenders are dangling over his thighs, his shirt is thrown over a barrel by Jongin who was handed it. His trousers get a bit wet at the front but it doesn’t matter. He twists at the tap and sniffs at his pits. All left is a faint scent of man that’s not going anywhere. He turns around and raises his arms up, knitting his hands together behind his neck. Chanyeol spits out his toothpick. Jongin sends one last look out at the quiet street and then they close up on him, and Sehun leans back against the wall.

Chanyeol takes out a small package from his pocket, just a bit of brown wrapping paper folded up. He nods towards Jongin, who produces a stick of soap, but Sehun’s eyes stay on the brown package being unfolded in Chanyeol’s hands. The blade glints in the sparse light from the window above, it’s square with a slit in the middle and it looks small and dangerous between Chanyeol’s big fingertips. Chanyeol catches him looking, and he doesn’t seem to like it because he grabs Sehun’s elbow and pushes it hard into wall. The rough bricks scrape Sehun’s skin but he doesn’t say anything about it. His loins are already pounding.

Jongin lathers and Chanyeol shaves. He’s more careful than Sehun dared to hope but still slips and cuts him up at times and Sehun hisses at it. He gets foul glares in response. Jongin rinses him clean and Sehun’s trousers get even more wet but it doesn’t matter when Jongin’s fingers touch soft at the short stubble of his armpits. Jongin nudges Chanyeol to do it again, shave it closer. Sehun hisses when he cuts him. He bleeds a bit, he sees when he looks down. Jongin rinses and the blood runs thin with water down his sides. Jongin rinses till he stops bleeding.

Chanyeol grunts when he’s done. An appreciative grunt, perhaps. Sehun’s pits are smooth and naked, on full display. Chanyeol stands looking at them, taking them in. Then takes a grip of Sehun’s elbow again, wrings it back till Sehun arches off the wall and leans close in, spreading his tongue and sliding it in a big wet lick from Sehun’s top rib to his bicep. Sehun’s cock twitches in his pants, and he holds back his breath to keep it silent.

He’s pushed down to his knees and the gutter water soaks through his pants but it doesn’t matter. Chanyeol nods towards Jongin who produces a small bottle of rapeseed oil and Sehun forces himself to breathe again. Chanyeol undoes his pants with quick and stable hands and then his cock springs free into the air, already hard and thick and dark and staring Sehun down while being slicked up. Sehun stares back, takes it all in. Jongin’s smaller, thinner but stands taller and Sehun tries to watch them both at the same time, tries to suck up as much of this as possible. When Chanyeol isn’t looking he pushes the heel of his hand down over the front of his pants. Jongin sees, he knows. But Jongin doesn’t say anything, Jongin just watches with dark empty eyes and his mouth open.

He grunts without shame when they both fit themselves in under his arms. The cuts burn and there is a dull pain when Chanyeol thrusts hard straight up into his armpit. Every beat pounds hotly in his groin. He grips Jongin’s thigh with his right hand, finds Chanyeol’s pocket with his left, and remembers to keep his elbows to his sides only when Chanyeol swats him over the head, harder than necessary. Jongin’s cock slides back and forth right under the juncture, and he presses it tight, until he can feel the head rubbing against his skin and can hear Jongin gasping above him.

Chanyeol has to bend his legs more and they’re starting to shake. He pants too, heavy, groans loud and obscene like he’s putting on a show and Sehun feels deep in the pit of his belly how deliciously much he hates Chanyeol, how disgusting Chanyeol is. He drops his left hand and presses down on his groin again, rubbing small hard circles and twitching, bucking up against it until Chanyeol catches him and hits him again, twice, trice, hard enough to make his head spin, until he removes it. Jongin’s curling fingers in his hair, Chanyeol’s scraping deep marks on his shoulder. The thick smell of oil is all over him, almost nauseating, and he can feel heavy tendrils running down his sides and arms.

He comes from them fucking him like this, comes into the strain of his pants, pitched forward with his breath stuck deep in his throat and mouth opened without sound.

Afterwards, when Sehun’s being pulled up to stand on unsteady legs, Chanyeol jerks his arm up again, pushes him back and licks the unholy mess of oil and semen and sweat from his armpit. Jongin folds up the razor blade in its package for next time. Then they leave him to hose himself off.

b1a4; under weather

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 11 Aug 2013 14:46:23 GMT

baro/cnu. r. 1023 words. dongwoo's wearing short shorts and what's sunwoo to do but to thigh-fuck him on the sofa.

Thunder’s been raging all day. It’s the late summer kind of thunder that hangs heavy and pressing in the thick air and gives Sunwoo gnawing all-day headaches. It’s starting to ease up now, and he comes up like from beneath a surface, but the equally pressing, clammy urban heat stays tight even as afternoon glides into early evening, and leaves everybody sprawled and sticky on floors and furniture.

Somehow Dongwoo has obtained a pair of yellow running shorts, that kind that were in in the nineties and are so short and wide and flimsy that they really don’t do the job of clothing at all, especially not when he’s stretched out on the couch with one leg thrown over the edge and the other bent, resting against the backrest and they’re like really far apart and Sunwoo can see his black undies through the pant legs.

Dongwoo smiles a lazy smile when Sunwoo drags himself up on the couch and in between Dongwoo’s legs, keeps smiling also when Sunwoo drags his fingers up the inside of his folded thigh (it’s meant to be smooth and feather-light but the moist sort of glues them together and he more than anything hitches up the leg), and it’s not quite the effect Sunwoo was looking for but okay.

He leans down and presses his lips to the thin skin near the bright yellow hem, one of the few areas on Dongwoo’s body that is pinchable (he doesn’t pinch it, though) and a little loose. The top of the thigh, and the outside (Sunwoo slides his hand in between it and the couch cushion, for science) is lean and firm, and Sunwoo likes that too, but it’s not quite as warm, quite as soft. He finds some dark strands of hair under Dongwoo’s groin, like there to lead the way, and picks at them until Dongwoo swats at him.

“Are you finding anything of interest?” Dongwoo asks. His eyes are squintier than usual, and parts of his bangs are sticking straight up, stiff with dried sweat. He isn’t particularly sexy like this, but Sunwoo supposes there comes a point of liking someone so much that you get turned on no matter what.

“Yes,” Sunwoo says, looking at him, and then knows what he wants to do. It’s not the day or the time of the day for this but he can’t be bothered feeling ashamed. “Can I…?” He strokes over Dongwoo’s inner thigh.

“What?”

“Um.” Sunwoo bites his lips together. Maybe he managed to feel a little ashamed after all.

Dongwoo grins. “Okay.”

With mysteriously appearing energy Sunwoo darts to fetch a towel and the small transparent bottle in the backmost left corner of his sock drawer, and then he’s back in the living-room.

“Lift,” he says, and Dongwoo digs his heels into the cushion and lifts his hips up to let Sunwoo spread the towel underneath.

“Is this gonna get freaky,” Dongwoo wonders airily and Sunwoo laughs, a little too unstably so for his liking. He suddenly feels a bit reluctant to get naked which is ridiculous because it’s not like Dongwoo hasn’t seen him naked before, like a lot of times. He fumbles his basketball shorts down his hips, just enough and not more. Dongwoo watches his dick with polite interest.

“Hold your legs together.”

Dongwoo clenches his legs up, lying stiffly straight with his arms along his sides. Sunwoo’s cheeks burn with the entire everything of this situation. “Not like that.”

“Then how?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. But grins when Dongwoo does, and climbs on top of him anyway. It gets better when he fits his slicked-up cock between Dongwoo’s thighs and leans over him, supported at arm’s length. Dongwoo puts his hands back over the armrest and gives a small thrust up towards Sunwoo’s hips with the worst of grins on his face.

“Shut up,” Sunwoo mumbles down to the yellow shorts, snorting unwanted laughter through his nose. He pushes himself up a bit, then slides back down again, and doesn’t actually dare to look at Dongwoo but can’t help himself. Dongwoo studies him with eyes half-lidded but wide-awake. His nostrils are flaring a little and in another situation Sunwoo might have found this funny but right now it tells him things he wants to hear, things he doesn’t take for granted.

Suddenly Dongwoo does look kind of sexy after all.

Another day he would want to lean down and kiss Dongwoo’s cheekbone, Dongwoo’s adam’s apple and Dongwoo’s upper lip, but his arms are starting to shake and he doesn’t trust them. He realizes that his torso is actually quite heavy, and that this is not quite the indolent afternoon activity he sort of pictured it to be. A fat drop of sweat runs down his neck and then over his chest, and he falls down on one elbow to huff into Dongwoo’s neck and rock against him. Something is squeaking beneath them, sweat is dripping down on Dongwoo’s collarbone and there is a small slick noise that takes Sunwoo way too long to figure out the source of. There is something very pubertal about humping someone on a couch, and Sunwoo increasingly feels all but fourteen with his shaking, wheezing and artless thrusts.

Then he feels hands on his waist, on his naked hips, warm and clammy. He can hear Dongwoo’s deep breaths by his ear, can even hear him swallowing as he puts his cheek to Sunwoo’s temple. Feels Dongwoo moving, faintly, pushing up to meet him. In one way this helps with the fourteen-year-old thing, but in another not at all because it makes him come embarrassingly fast and with an unfortunate hurl-like whine against Dongwoo’s shoulder.

Dongwoo smiles a lazy smile when Sunwoo wipes his legs off with a clean corner of the towel, sort of looks satisfied with himself. There’s a perky little tent in the yellow shorts, rising the flimsy leg hems in the air. He keeps smiling also when Sunwoo slips his hand in under one of them, fingering up along a familiar shape, and it’s not quite the effect Sunwoo was looking for but okay.

b1a4; after hours

fourcoldpaws — Fri, 12 Jul 2013 19:42:19 GMT

baro/girl!cnu. r. 1002 words. b1a4 is a co-ed group and sunwoo may or may not be sleeping with woori. (originally posted at kprompts)

For the sake of professionalism and good group dynamics and the company policies printed up in a neat little pamphlet stacked on shelves in the corridor outside the CEO’s office, Sunwoo very diligently does not sleep with Woori.

It’s not really about the fans, per se, (well, of course it’s about the fans, everything is about the fans, but,) while a part of Sunwoo sometimes thinks that most of the fans wouldn’t necessarily mind, (they have a witty ship name like anyone else) – if anything, it’s just not what they’d expect; Woori and Jinyoung, Woori and Chanshik, that’s the kind of story that’d make headlines and some extra grands in the company chest, maybe even boost their popularity for a month or two… but it really isn’t about that. It’s anyway not part of their job, their job is to be attractive and available always. None of it’s got anything to do with that.

Woori and Sunwoo comes down to Woori, and to Sunwoo, and sometimes Sunwoo thinks about what things might have been like if they had not been famous and subject to so many supposed-to’s and so fucking fucking busy – and doubts that they would be much different at all. They are who they are and that sets the course of things.

Woori is the kind of girl who you (well, Sunwoo anyway) wouldn’t talk to at a party, but if your friend asks you what you think of her you wouldn’t have anything negative to say. She’s just… not… You might noncommittally tell your friend that she doesn’t have it. Even though both Woori and Junghwa (and Sunwoo, for that matter) have properly shitty eyesight it’s Woori who gets the glasses because she (although nobody would say this out loud) needs something to be recognized by. Woori is the kind of girl who smiles when she’s uncomfortable, who punches your arm in earnest as an expression of affection, whose way of seduction is to corner you and look into your eyes and very honestly ask if you want to have sex with her.

It’s funny because Sunwoo is the kind of guy who (although this would never pass his lips during an interview or the likes; “Someone who communicates well and understands me, someone with a nice smile,” he recites from his memorized script, this so carefully put vagueness entirely void of specifics applicable to Woori and Junghwa) generally prefers the femme fatale type, the big gazonkers and a smashing ass (although swear-to-god he only harbors brotherly feelings for Junghwa he may have caught himself studying her rotund posterior on a few occasions – it’s right there and he’s a man okay, what’s he supposed to do, besides doesn’t she think he sees the way she looks at him when he’s wearing sweatpants), the long flowing hair and blood-red lipstick kind of type. Sunwoo is the kind of guy who pulled at girls’ pigtails at school, who thinks caring about things is a weakness, who, at the times when he really wants to kiss her, teasingly calls Woori “hyung” and then feels really bad about it because he knows that she harbors complexes about her height and wide shoulders and flat ass. He knows that if she puts her hand around his throat briefly and grins a little it’s okay, but if she just walks away it will plague him a whole day and he will hate that he’s too stubborn to apologize.

He never told her that she rocked the “Baby I’m sorry” undercut, never tells her how hot she looks when she raps, certainly doesn’t tell her that whenever she walks around the dorm in a t-shirt with no bra under he needs to go outside for a moment, and at those times in the van when everybody’s sleeping and she might lean her head on his shoulder and look up at him and smile a tired smile he will shrug her off and look out the window.

Instead there’s incidents of him walking in on her in just a tank top in the bathroom which somehow end with them aggressively ugly-snogging against the door for fifteen minutes before she leaves with stiff legs and a red face, and Sunwoo really wonders if stuff like that doesn’t fuck up the group dynamic more than anything.

Maybe it’s better then, the times that he actually fingers her against that bathroom door, the other hand clamped over her mouth because the others are probably up by now and he just can’t stop grinning like an idiot at her messy hair and squeezed-shut eyes and strangled noises against his palm and when she stretches up against the door and tips her head back and stops breathing he leans in and presses his lips and face against her neck and somehow making her come feels almost like he’s coming himself. (But it’s not like it’s easier to look each other in the eye afterwards.)

Maybe it’s better, the times that they fuck in her bed, granted still without talking but at least she looks up at him when he rolls on the condom and he looks back as good as he can, fumbling more than he should at this point and probably being a little too quick with it but she just wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close close to her chest so that they rock together and all he can do is bury his face in her hair and come way too fast and flush when she kisses his temple.

Sunwoo likes to think that it’s complicated. That some things are out of their hands. Sometimes he wonders if he’s afraid, and what he’s afraid of. But what would he even say? Hey this is never gonna lead anywhere and I’m also not sure if you’re good enough for me because you’re not what I fapped to in junior high. (And he’s also aware that this is the exact reason why he’s not good enough for her).

exo; favors

fourcoldpaws — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 12:02:34 GMT

lukai. pg-13. 207 words. because sehun had grey hair and then luhan had too.

It isn’t very complicated. Jongin has a best friend and issues with his Platonism. Luhan isn’t quite not straight and also (according to Chanyeol, with the right lightning) Sehun’s long lost (and suspiciously Chinese) elder-although-younger-looking twin brother. Sehun has a skateboard.

“It doesn’t suit you,” Jongin says, reaching down to pull at a frizzy strand of silver grey hair.

“Mhm,” Luhan hums. It had taken him forever to get just the right color. His scalp hasn’t quite recovered yet, but he holds in his whimper when Jongin tugs, a little too hard.

“Makes you look old.”

“Mhm.” Luhan presses kisses down Jongin’s stomach – one selfish, one selfless, one selfish, one selfless.

“Why did you even do it?”

Luhan stills over Jongin’s jean button. He suppresses an urge to lisp. “Look, what you see is what you get,” he says dryly. “Do you want it or not?”

Jongin shifts a little on the bed, tilts his head back. The hand leaves Luhan’s hair and Jongin throws his arm over his face, casually. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I want it.”

Luhan sucks the button into his mouth, trying to remember what kind of kiss the last one was.

“I really fucking do.”

Then decides that it doesn’t really matter.

exo; two's a crowd

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 17 Feb 2013 16:51:21 GMT

taohun. nc-17. 751 words. for anon who wanted taohun showersex.

What with light feet, the steady drone of running water and a high-pitched rendition of a familiar earworm audible all the way out in the hall, it’s fairly easy to sneak in on Zitao in the shower.

What Sehun doesn’t expect, however, is to catch Zitao mid-jerk, leaned back against the wall with shut eyes and his very erect dick in hand.

“COME ON GIRLS, COME ON BOYS,” belts Zitao who requires a couple of seconds to register a presence, open said eyes and cut his “COME ON, COME ON, GET YOUR CRAYON, CR—” short with a startled yelp.

“Uh,” says Sehun.

“Uh,” says Zitao, letting go of his dick. It flops merrily against his stomach before settling at a rough 45 degree angle, like peering up at Sehun with its single squinting eye. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Did. Did you want to wash?”

“Don’t you lock the door when you’re gonna wank?” Sehun mutters, pressing himself in next to Zitao and reaching for the soap.

“I didn’t plan to wank,” Zitao admits, his steam-induced blush darkening a little. “It came later.”

“Aha,” Sehun says, lathering up his armpits. “So. G-D sunbae-nim, huh?”

Zitao’s mouth ties together. “I would never—“ he starts, but then sees Sehun’s grin and breaks out into one of his own. “Fucker.”

So Zitao scrubs Sehun’s back with a purple loofah and Sehun sings the HOO-HOO-HOO-HOOH’s to Zitao’s GET YOUR CRAYON’s, diligently struggling to up him in terms of both volume and pitch inaccuracy until someone much sounding like Baekhyun pounds heavily on the door and howls something about hullabaloos and not appreciating them.

“Why so serious,” Zitao hums under his breath and spins Sehun around for a few strokes across his chest as well. “Hey, I can do you too,” he says, grinning with the left half of his mouth.

“Do me what?”

Zitao’s head cocks to the side, and then down between them. The loofah makes a detour down Sehun’s stomach while Zitao’s left hand finds his own still-stiff dick again, fingering along the base.

Sehun looks up at him and nods, and Zitao reaches for Sehun’s cock instead.

Of course Zitao wants to kiss, because he is Zitao. He stands close, breathing down Sehun’s neck while stroking him with easy tugs and barely has Sehun fully hardened before Zitao noses up his cheek and says; “Lips okay?” Sehun resists the urge to laugh at how Zitao’s korean always manages to sound weird one way or another, just nods one more time and Zitao’s lips carefully map out the path from his jaw to his mouth.

He stands close, pressing onto Sehun and Sehun’s personal space like wanting to feel as much of Sehun’s body with his own body as possible and sooner than later does Sehun find his back meeting the tiled wall. Zitao is busy licking Sehun’s mouth open with his tongue, finally having discarded of the loofah to curl his right hand around Sehun’s neck, and doesn’t really notice, but Sehun certainly does notice Zitao’s dick pressing into his hip. It’s distracting – not in a bad way but still – and he presses his hand down between them to wrap his fingers around it.

Zitao immediately swats him away. “I said I’d do, didn’t I?”

“Okay,” Sehun says. “Do then.”

Zitao rolls his eyes, kisses him again – a little harder, Sehun can’t help noticing – and switches hands; right on Sehun’s dick, left on his own, and then again; left on Sehun, right on himself, before making a noise in his throat and simply fitting his right hand around them both. Sehun’s throat makes a little noise as well. His hands find Zitao’s waist.

“Tongue,” Zitao demands and Sehun diligently stretches it out to let Zitao suck on it. He twitches at a thumb across his tip, hips bucking up against Zitao all on their own accord, making him slide in Zitao’s wet hand.

Zitao groans thickly against his mouth.

Sehun does it again. And again. Winds both arms around Zitao’s neck to pull himself up and thrust against him, angling his head to catch Zitao’s tongue between his lips and Zitao groans more, hand tightening dangerously around them.

It takes them a couple of seconds to register a presence, open their eyes and fly apart with startled yelps.

“Don’t you lock the door when you’re gonna jerk each other off?” Jongin mutters.

“Um,” Tao says. “Did. Did you want to wash?”

Jongin presses himself in next to Zitao and reaches for the soap.

exo; highway to the danger zone

fourcoldpaws — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 10:06:49 GMT

kaitao. pg-13. 525 words. originally posted at seoulfulness for the prompt Okay, if you're sure, I'll pierce it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be past this already?” Zitao says finally, weighing a big apple in his left hand and Jongin’s eyes are already snugly narrowed. He knows the mechanics of Zitao’s face. Knows the meaning of these inconspicuous, vaguely amused glances from behind gigantic sunglasses, knows the meaning of that small curl of Zitao’s lips that always makes him want to punch Zitao in the face, and he recognizes it all from Zitao’s last seven-or-so failed attempts to spill whatever ingenious observation this is he has made. The hesitation sort of pisses Jongin off more than being patronized because fuck Zitao for trying to be all considerate of his feelings but still not being able to keep it in, that big-mouthed asshat.

“What do you mean?” he grunts, picking at something spikey and expensive in the center of the fruit stand and sort of regretting he didn’t ask Sehun instead but then again Zitao has experience and Sehun would just fuck up anyway.

“I mean,” Zitao says, mouth curling up in a scarcely apologetic smirk of some sorts. He shifts over to his other foot and squeezes the apple (the importance of which Zitao after digging out needles and candles and antiseptic wash had stressed by slipping on his shoes and informing Jongin that they’re gonna have to go out and pick up some fruit, which, when questioned by Jongin, only received a pair of raised eyebrows and a Have you even seeeeen The Parent trap? as explanation) a little bit. “This revolting against the authorities business. Aren’t you a little too old for that? Did you never talk back to your mom when you were fourteen? Never cut class? Never got this out of your system?”

“Fuck you,” Jongin says and puckers his mouth. “I have the lips for it, you know.”

“You know how this is gonna go down, right?” Zitao cocks his hip out.

“It’ll be fucking hot.”

“It’ll hurt and you’ll whine and it’ll be fun for like two hours and tomorrow when the managers see you they will make you take it out, and then it’ll take two weeks for it to heal and hopefully it won’t get infected from the make-up and you will feel fucking stupid and that’s the end of it.”

“Fucking hot,” Jongin repeats. He pulls his lips up until the upper meets his nose.

Zitao snorts. He puts down the apple and picks up another one instead.

“I can do this myself,” Jongin remarks. “If you’re afraid of getting in trouble.”

“Yeah, yeah, no,” Zitao mutters, eyes rolling. “If you’re sure, I’ll do it.” He grabs a plastic bag and starts tossing down apples. “Upper or lower?”

“What?” Jongin says, recoiling on instinct from Zitao’s extended hand popping up in his face but Zitao follows him — “Lower.” – just enough to nip Jongin’s bottom lip between his thumb and folded pointer. It splits from the other with a small noise and Zitao’s thumbnail scrapes softly against the wet inside.

One of Zitao’s shoulders jerk upwards. “You’re right,” he says. There is a small curl at his mouth again. “You do have the lips for it.”

exo; bend over backwards

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 21:18:53 GMT

sebaekkaiyeol. nc-17. 3718 words. (for and because of ruby because she asked so nicely.)
in which jongin, baekhyun and chanyeol discover that sehun has a very sensitive back.

“Hey,” Sehun says suddenly. “Hyung.”

It’s actually an entirely pointless attempt of address since it applies to all present individuals of the room, but when none of the other two hyungs seem to feel considerably addressed Jongin decides to conclude that he’s the one in question, and grunts out a;

“Hn?”

“Hyung,” Sehun says again. There is something tight over his voice. Jongin bothers tearing his gaze away from the TV to shoot him a glance. Chanyeol lifts his head off the floor to do the same.

“Yeah?”

“Could you…” Sehun sits perched on the very edge of the couch cushion, and bent so far forward that his chest almost hangs down between his knees. Jongin can just barely see right into his ear from this angle. A small shift of Sehun’s jaw lets Jongin know that his tongue has slipped out to wet his lips.

“What?”

“Could you scratch my back?”

Also Baekhyun turns his head. Jongin’s eyes fall down towards his own left hand that had landed on Sehun’s lower back at the last gag a rough ten minutes ago, and then apparently stayed there. The muscles of Sehun’s jaw shift again.

“It’s, uh,” he says. Shift shift. “Itchy.”

Jongin notes Baekhyun glancing at Chanyeol, Chanyeol glancing at Jongin, and Sehun not glancing at anyone at all, before returning to the hand against the blue t-shirt. He curls his fingers a little. Sehun twitches.

“Uh,” Sehun says. “Un. Under.”

“What?”

There is a sharp shift at Sehun’s jaw. His hand jerks out, reaching back to inch the hem of his shirt upwards, just a teensy bit. Baekhyun glances at Chanyeol, Chanyeol glances at Sehun and Sehun refuses to glance anywhere other than straight ahead. Jongin glances at the thin strip of skin bared above the waist of Sehun’s jeans.

He traces a nail along it.

“Hooh,” Sehun squeaks. And then clears his throat and adds in a slightly more dignified tone; “Oh yes right there. That’s where it’s itchy.”

Jongin scratches at him a little; two nails, three. Sehun’s torso sinks another bit deeper between his knees. The three nails move up the bumps of Sehun’s spine, across a shoulder blade, down faint lines of rib to a soft dip of waist, and out to the spine again. Jongin’s attention slowly returns to the TV. His hand keeps circling over Sehun’s skin almost by its own accord.

After a little while Sehun excuses himself, and doesn’t come back. When the show’s over and Jongin shuffles out towards the kitchen, the bathroom door is locked.

-

Jongin’s never really thought about Sehun’s back before. Or backs in general. He supposes he’s more of a front-person. That’s where boobs sit, after all.

It’s a nice back, though. When he does think about it. Sitting behind Sehun in class presents him a front-row view of it, and it actually is a nice back, now that he’s taking a better look. Wide shoulders, lean muscles, and sharp lines of bone visible even through the fabric of his t-shirt. A small shadow rests under his left shoulder blade.

Suddenly Jongin notes his own right hand reaching out over his desk. He watches the pencil slowly turning in his grip, inching further and further out between his fingers and over the backrest of Sehun’s chair. With his arm stretched out, the eraser-end of the pencil reaches just far enough give the shade a little

poke.

Sehun’s spine snaps up like a spring.

Jongin blinks. The pencil presses a little harder.

Sehun’s shoulders also shoot up, tensing him rigid and straight as an arrow in his seat.

The pencil moves a little to the left.

Sehun curves sideways, his right flank stretching out and quivering faintly.

The pencil runs down over his ribs.

A noise suspiciously similar to a whine escapes from Sehun’s jugular area. The professor at the front of the hall falls silent and looks up from her notes with a puzzled frown. Jongin swiftly withdraws his pen.

-

As Jongin at this point is still blissfully unaware of things, as his mind is still pure and unsullied; he doesn’t really think twice about mentioning this incident to Chanyeol and Baekhyun, just in passing at the breakfast table, like a child wouldn’t think twice about mentioning the funny little balloons he found in his parents’ bed-stand.

It’s easy to be wise with hindsight. It’s easy to feel that you should have known, should have seen, should have predicted. Should have remembered your roommates’ complete (in Chanyeol’s case) lack of and (in Baekhyun’s case) disregard for tact and grace. Should have realized that when Sehun shuffles his bleary ass into the kitchen Chanyeol is going to sneak up behind him, land two gigantic hands on his sides and rumble;

“Are you ticklish?”

Sehun gives a high-pitched yelp and jumps away, but Chanyeol swiftly scoops him back in and presses him up against the counter.

“Is that what it is?”

“No,” Sehun snarls, leaning forward across the countertop in a vain attempt at reclaiming some of the personal space Chanyeol has encroached upon but instead only ends up granting him full access to the expanse of his back. “I mean, yes. Or. No. Nooo.” He tries to casually reach for a mug but almost drops it when Chanyeol sticks a hand up his shirt.

“So what is it then?” Chanyeol wonders and starts grating away over Sehun’s back with small, determined movements, each eliciting a strangled noise and little twitch that curls Sehun deeper over the countertop.

“What do you mean, is? Hnnf. Nothing. There’s nothing.” The last syllable jumps an octave or two higher than the rest as Chanyeol apparently finds a special spot. Chanyeol immediately returns to it to investigate it further. Sehun squirms horribly, stretches upwards and sideways and tries to wriggle out of Chanyeol’s grasp but Chanyeol only winds an arm around his waist and moves up between his shoulder blades.

“But your back is so sensitive,” Baekhyun assists from the kitchen table, studying the two with narrowed eyes.

“What’s it to you?” Sehun huffs out with a glare backwards. His ears are starting to flush a deep shade of pink.

“Especially here, right?” Chanyeol wonders merrily and flicks his pointer over that spot under Sehun’s ribcage again.

“Gu-h,” Sehun says, landing a heavy hand on the countertop. His hips twitch back against Chanyeol’s, he’s all but trembling in the taller’s arms that’s when Chanyeol adds a second finger, scraping light just along the line of his last rib.

A loud noise grinds out of Sehun’s throat. Jongin meets Baekhyun’s gaze.

“You fucking—” Sehun growls and finally manages to push Chanyeol off him. His right hand immediately darts to tug the hem of his shirt down, first in the back and then in the front, stretching it far down over the front of his sweats with cramped fingers. Baekhyun meets Jongin’s gaze. “The fuck’s wrong with you!?” Sehun glares.

Chanyeol purses his lips.

Extends a sole finger towards Sehun’s waist.

Sehun punches his shoulder and storms out.

-

“He doesn’t dislike it,” Jongin determines over his lunch burger. “Obviously. I sort of did it when I was gonna wake him up the other day. He stretched out and purred like a fucking cat.”

Chanyeol shrugs. “He’s ticklish, simply. Just doesn’t want to admit it.”

“Who the fuck reacts to tickling like he does?” Baekhyun snorts. “You weren’t there last night, when I—“

Jongin rolls his eyes. “For the last time Baek it was not a moan—“

“—He fucking moaned are you kidding me,” Baekhyun hisses. “That shit was obscene. Or this weekend when I pretended to brush dirt off his shirt—“

“You know, the fact that you’re doing it on fucking purpose is starting to get pretty fucking creepy.“

“Or last Wednesday, when I offered to give him a backrub—”

“Like you’re experimenting on him or something.“

“Just saying, all the signs—“

Jongin leans across the table to glare at him. “You’re seriously telling me that his entire back is some kind of gigantic erogenous zone, and—“

“Sht-pt-pt,” Chanyeol interrupts them. “He’s coming.”

Jongin straightens his back and tries not to look red-handed, but Sehun only sends their table one long suspicious glare and swishes by with his tray towards Kyungsoo and Joonmyun at the other side of the cafeteria. He keeps his jacket on when sitting down to eat.

“Ten bucks Baekhyun has scared him out of the apartment by the weekend,” Chanyeol proclaims, slamming his hand down on the table. “What do you say, Jongin?”

Baekhyun tsks. “Fucking wuss.“

“Tickling can be really unpleasant,” Chanyeol informs him soberly. “Even if you’re laughing and all, it can really hurt, especially if you’re sensitive. Remember Yixing from—”

“Chanyeol,” Baekhyun says patiently, rubbing the pad of his middle finger between his brows, “when people tickle you, do you use to start humping—?“

“I hope you do realize.” Jongin leans over the table again, fixing Baekhyun with his glare. “That if you’re right… we’re stimulating him. Sexually.”

Baekhyun opens his mouth, but then closes it again. Soon his right eyebrow quirks upwards.

Jongin groans. “Oh god.”

-

Chanyeol has something considerably tight over his face when he appears in Jongin’s doorway.

“Jongin,” he says.

“Yes?” Jongin says.

“Come.”

Jongin is led into Chanyeol’s room and prompted to sit on Chanyeol’s bed. When trying to determine whether there’s a reason behind the request Jongin’s only met with an insistent finger in the bed’s direction. He takes a tentative seat on the edge.

“By the wall,” Chanyeol orders. He speaks in an entirely uncharacteristic hushed tone, just barely above a murmur. There is something considerably tight over his voice as well. Jongin swiftly scoots back against the wall.

“Yes?” Jongin notes that also his voice comes out low.

“Just,” Chanyeol mumbles. He waves his finger in the general direction of the wall. Jongin carefully leans back against it.

He’s just about to remind Chanyeol that he has an exam to study for when realizing that there are noises coming from the other side of the wall. From Sehun’s room. He presses his ear to the wallpaper. They’re vaguely reminiscent of someone having an asthma attack while simultaneously hiccupping; squeaky, breathy, whiny little noises tumbling all over each other in an endless, irregular stream – hitching silent for a moment before starting again, breathless and impatient.

Jongin sends a glance at the uncomfortable frown on Chanyeol’s face.

A syllable vibrates through the wall and Jongin swallows to himself, involuntarily pressing his face back up against it. The stream of noises is inconspicuously but undoubtedly growing quicker, a little louder, mixing in with high-pitched grunts. Jongin shifts on the bed, swallowing again. Soon it’s down to wheezing, choking, stammering; with ever-increasing volume climbing a desperate crescendo of nonsensical whimpers (Jongin bites down on his lower lip) ultimately reducing itself to a pitiful, stuttered ah – ah – ah (Jongin’s nails press into his palms) before, after a short moment of sudden, unbearable silence (Jongin’s eyes squeeze shut), finally tipping off the edge of climax with a shrill, drawn-out wail.

The silence following is uncomfortably heavy on Jongin’s ears. He slowly opens his eyes. Chanyeol has his glasses in one hand and the bridge of his nose between the fingers of the other.

They both start at the sound of a door slamming shut. One single glance is exchanged before Chanyeol has his glasses back on his nose and is out in the hallway with Jongin soon in tow. They catch up with Baekhyun just outside the bathroom, Chanyeol elegantly crashing into the doorpost to block his way and Jongin snatching a harsh grip of his wrist.

“What the actual fuck,” Jongin sputters, but Baekhyun swiftly yanks his hand free to fist it behind his back. “Did you just fucking jack him off?”

“Why do you care?” Baekhyun snarls, yelping when Chanyeol grabs his wrist from the other side and spins him around to bring it up. “For fucks sake,” he barks, “I’m sure you’ve both seen semen before.”

“Was this the first time?”

Baekhyun shrugs noncommittally. He brings up his clean left hand to wriggle his fingers in the air. “His third rib is just ridiculous,” he says, “makes him squeal like a fucking pig.” He grins at Jongin. “In case you’d like to know.”

“What is wrong with you—“

“Shut up.” Baekhyun rolls his eyes and shoves Chanyeol away from the door. “I have a plan,” he says while soaping up his hands. “You can help out if you want.”

-

Jongin’s task is to keep Sehun’s hands out of the way. He can’t help but to feel that ending up with Sehun’s wardrobe door pressed up against his back and Sehun’s face pressed into the crook of his neck is a little more than he bargained for.

One the bright side, Sehun’s hands are occupied supporting Sehun’s weight against said wardrobe door and aside from the occasional swat when they attempt travelling south, Jongin doesn’t have to do much. He’s entirely free to concentrate on his best friend’s hot, damp breath on his neck, on his best friend’s strangled noises right by his ear, on each and every of his best friend’s little twitches and squirms as their two roommates trail twenty light, teasing fingers all over his naked back. Entirely free to try to think of a way to get through the rest of college without having to look his best friend in the eye ever again.

If Jongin tips his head to the left, straining his neck a little, he reaches just far enough past Sehun’s shoulder to shoot a glance down between them. Sehun’s cock is pitching a magnificent tent at the front of his sweats. It shudders vaguely where it stands, jerking up against Sehun’s belly for a moment before dipping back out in Jongin’s general direction.

Yet another mouthful of saliva forces itself down Jongin’s throat. He comes across Chanyeol’s eyes over Sehun’s shoulder when straightening his neck. They’re stupidly wide and unusually dark where they’re darting up from under his lashes. Jongin swiftly directs his gaze towards the ceiling instead.

Sehun’s hand twitches against the door. Jongin is ready when it slips downwards, immediately shooting down a hand of his own to curl it around Sehun’s wrist and bring it back up. He’s not quite as ready when Sehun’s other hand almost instantly darts down as well, and he can’t help but to let out a little oohf as Sehun’s weight hits his chest. He still diligently lets his own second hand dip, fumbling around and brushing against something clothed and suspiciously pointy before finding Sehun’s bony fingers and snapping them in a firm grip.

“But whyyyyyy,” Sehun sobs into Jongin’s neck, struggling against his hold for a moment before giving up and slumping against him.

“Uh. Sorry,” Jongin hears himself say, desperately scrutinizing the ceiling lamp. Baekhyun had made it very clear that letting the subject of the plan in on the plan was not a part of the plan. He had also made it very clear that fucking up would not be tolerated.

Jongin hadn’t asked what would happen if it didn’t work. Whether there was a timeframe or something to go by or whether they’d just keep going until someone tired. Or until Sehun got angry. Jongin may have seen something like this in a porno once, but if his few sexual escapades have taught him anything it’s that porn rarely is the most reliable source of information.

But if Baekhyun says “I wanna see if we can make him come without touching his dick”, then that is what they’re gonna do.

“Hey Sehun-ah,” Baekhyun hums. “How about licking?” He leans down over Sehun’s shoulder blade.

“Fuck— fucking,” Sehun rambles, arching up towards Baekhyun’s mouth. Sehun had looked so strangely mature when Baekhyun had waltzed into his room to draw a soft finger up his spine, his voice entirely stable when shrugging okay to Baekhyun’s inquiry of whether he was up for some fun. He had slipped his shirt off with easy hands and something dark and focused glinting in his eyes that Jongin realized he has never seen before, that made Jongin find himself drawing his gaze over Sehun’s naked shoulders and wondering when they had grown so broad, wondering what happened to that brat one head shorter than himself who had flopped down in the seat next to him on the first day of junior high.

Now Jongin sees a little of that kid again; somewhere between Sehun’s strained wheezing and pathetic quivers he’s reminded of that time Sehun had fallen over with his bike and was sitting on the sidewalk with his scraped up arm in his hand and trying very, very hard not to cry.

Before he knows it, Jongin finds himself leaning some inch in towards Sehun’s ear and asking in a small voice; “Do you want us to stop?”

“What? No,” Sehun huffs. “No no no don’t stop, just let me—“ He works his right hand free from Jongin’s grip, but Jongin swiftly scoops it back up again.

“You fuckers,” Sehun whines, slumping even closer to Jongin’s body and Jongin takes to staring holes into the ceiling lamp again because he can very much feel Sehun’s dick against his hip, bumping against him with each of Sehun’s violent tremors. Jongin hears, like from afar, Chanyeol’s voice shakily remarking h-hey, you’re gonna give him a hickey before Sehun’s right foot shuffles forward and he feels Sehun’s thigh pressing in between his own.

“Oh god,” Jongin breathes out, biting down on his lower lip. There is a wet, obscene noise as Baekhyun releases Sehun’s shoulder blade, sliding down to his knees to experiment on that spot beneath his ribcage instead, and Sehun’s hips twitch helplessly into Jongin’s – faintly first but then suddenly a little harder, and another bit harder, thighs rhythmically pressing against Jongin’s and grunts working themselves out of his throat and –

Wait.

“Eh,” Jongin says, feeling how his body has stiffened against the door. He notes that his voice comes out with a slightly higher pitch that usual. “He’s humping me.”

“What?!” Baekhyun barks, immediately popping up over Sehun’s hunched shoulder, but Chanyeol has already wound an arm around Sehun’s waist to pull some air between the youngest two.

“You wanna get off, Sehun-ah?” Baekhyun says, digging his fingers into Sehun’s sides and leaning over his back. “You’re close?”

Sehun only nods into Jongin’s neck, hips continuously twitching in Chanyeol’s grasp.

“Come on then,” Baekhyun purrs into his ear. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t, you fucking—“

“Sure you can, just come on.”

All Sehun manages is a whined string of incoherent consonants. Jongin pulls in a deep breath, taking a grip of Sehun’s shoulders and pushing him away – despite himself shooting a swift glance downwards (the tent is still equally magnificent) – to look Sehun in the face. He looks like shit, for the record; panting and flushed a deep shade of pink with wet, blank eyes and a wet mouth hanging open, but he still props his hands back up at the door to support himself at arm’s length and struggles to focus on Jongin’s face.

“Think of someone sucking you off,” Jongin hears himself saying, reaching up a hand to wipe Sehun’s bangs out of his eyes. The left one twitches briefly as Baekhyun reattaches his mouth to the top of Sehun’s spine. “Uh. Think… Think of someone sucking your dick really hard.”

Jongin notes Chanyeol glancing at him from the corner of his eye, but concentrates on keeping his gaze locked with Sehun’s. Sehun wheezes to himself, blinking briefly before giving a vague nod-like tip of the head forward. He grimaces as someone comes across a good spot on his back, groaning deep in his throat.

“Uh. And. It’s wet, and warm, and,” Jongin continues, desperately flipping through his mental catalogue of fap fantasies and struggling to put words to his images. Baekhyun’s watching him over Sehun’s shoulder. “Stuff. Uh. You’re thinking about it, Sehun? Their, uh. Tongue. Their lips.”

Sehun’s left eye twitches again.

“So fucking hot, fucking slick and tight, and. You’re fucking their face and you’re really close and they’re gonna take your entire load down their throat…” Jongin notes from the same corner of his eye how Chanyeol is pressed up against Sehun’s hip, grinding his crotch against him with small, jerky movements while working his left hand over his back.

“Think of someone with real cocksucking lips,” Jongin says. He notes with a start how Sehun’s gaze flicks two or three inches down his face and then back up again. “Uh.” Chanyeol’s panting quietly beside him, eyes darting blankly from Jongin’s face to Sehun’s shoulder, over to Baekhyun behind and then up to Jongin’s face again. Baekhyun’s eyes are narrowed and hard, nails digging into Sehun’s waist. A bead of sweat rolls down Jongin’s neck.

Jongin looks deep into Sehun’s eyes, slowly opening his mouth to let his tongue run along his bottom lip.

Sehun gives one pathetic little hiccup of silence, and comes in his pants.

Jongin feels strangely exposed when Sehun slumps down in front of him. Chanyeol doesn’t think of hiding his boner, Baekhyun doesn’t care to, but Jongin doesn’t really have time to properly avoid looking at either of them (or worse, at their faces), before Sehun has fallen forward and accidentally pressed his face into Jongin’s own boner. Jongin gives a high-pitched yelp and jumps away.

“And what was all this good for?” Sehun grumbles when Chanyeol pulls him to his feet.

“Oh, y’know,” Baekhyun shrugs. “Many great scientific discoveries have been made by never neglecting to satisfy a flash of morbid curiosity.”

“I fucking knew it was you,” Sehun snarls, glaring at him. “I fucking knew it.”

“What, you got to get off, you shouldn’t— Wait—“ He squeaks when Sehun lashes out at him to claw at his neck, but they all halt as a loud noise, suspiciously similar to a moan, escapes Baekhyun’s throat at the contact.

Sehun glances at Chanyeol, Chanyeol glances at Jongin and Baekhyun refuses to glance at anyone at all. Soon Chanyeol’s right eyebrow quirks upwards.

Jongin groans. “Oh god.”

shinee/exo; time for a little something

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 17:06:32 GMT

taemin/kai. r. 963 words. in which taemin's cock-sucking skills decline alongside the temperature of his ass and he insists on blowing jongin by the radiator.

On the eve of December’s first Friday, snow starts falling. It keeps falling, during the night and during the next morning and during lunchtime – big lazy flakes calmly making their way downwards, numerous and consistent to the point where they’re just a perpetual, grey wall outside the window – and when four o’clock comes along to bring dusk and an importunate craving for some tea and a snack of some kind, Taemin rolls off Jongin, rolls off the couch and all but rolls across the floor; three and a half artless spins, each accompanied by a little ouhff, until his back hits the radiator under the window. His eyes slide shut and then his temple taps down against the floor with a little bonk.

Jongin pulls himself up and wipes over his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I thought we were in the middle of something here,” he says and tries not to sound too disappointed but his front is suddenly feeling kind of cold and kind of lonely, and his boner too.

“Hmneuurh,” Taemin says and flaps a hand in Jongin’s general direction. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, only wriggles closer to the radiator and sighs heavily. “And bring me a pillow while you’re at it.”

“Why do you have to complicate everything all the fucking time,” Jongin grumbles but still tosses a cushion into Taemin’s face, crawls over and lets himself be pulled close by a finger hooked into his belt-loop. Taemin grins lazily, squints up at him through barely open eyes from where he’s reclined on his side and wriggles the same finger in under the protruding fly of Jongin’s jeans to poke along his zipper.

“Because my cock-sucking skills decline alongside the temperature of my ass,” he says, finding the slider and, with some difficulty, managing to coax it down. “The two are intimately connected.”

He grins again (Jongin decides it’s an affectionate grin) at the clothed, dick-shaped bump now peeking out between the zipper teeth, fingering at it for a moment before leaning up and pressing a little kiss to its summit. With some assistance from Jongin, who notes a risk of having the elastic of his underwear slapping back over his poor genitals under Taemin’s drowsy fingers, the dick in question is finally freed and receives another little kiss for the effort.

“My knees hurt,” Jongin says. A third kiss, a fourth. A lap. Jongin’s eyes follow the movements of the little tip of tongue sticking out between Taemin's lips.

“Shut up,” Taemin says. Two cold fingers curl around the base of Jongin’s cock. “I’m doing this for you.” A languid swirl of tongue melts into a kiss again. Taemin opens his mouth.

Truth to be told, half-asleep Taemin tends to be better at sucking cock than fully-awake, hot-and-eager-and-impatient Taemin, because whereas half-asleep Taemin is all soft lips and warm tongue and slow, thorough sucks around the tip; alert, horny Taemin is quicker, wetter, rougher, deeper – which, Jongin supposes, has its charm but also its time and place. He watches Taemin’s eyelids, his drifting attention, his lips tensing, tightening; and then softening again when they come up to meet, molding plump and pliant over his tip.

If anything, it’s a whole lot more appealing to watch like this.

Taemin glances up from the corner of his eye when Jongin reaches back into his jean pocket, and pulls away to laugh when Jongin’s cellphone comes into his view.

“Can I?”

“Whatever,” Taemin snickers, and picks up where he left off.

Jongin props up his elbows against the windowsill to steady the small tremor of his hands and notes with a strange flash to his belly that Taemin doesn’t even care to pose. His head stays rested against the cushion and his mouth sucks gentle nips across the underside of Jongin’s cock; down the base, up again – Jongin draws in a breath between his teeth and clicks a shot – up to suck the head into his mouth – clicks another one – to tongue the slit – one more –

Taemin pulls his lips back to laugh at him.

“Me too,” he says.

“What?”

“Touch me too.”

Jongin’s right hand leaves the windowsill and finds a stiff shape through the fabric of Taemin’s sweats. Taemin hums in his throat. Jongin measures the length, traces its outline, maps out its shape, locates all the spots that has Taemin twitch. He grins through his breaths; trails his fingers upwards, under the hem of Taemin’s shirt and up over a warm stomach, and Taemin resolutely squirms in protest until he’s back on his groin again; sucks a little tighter in retaliation.

“Can I…” Jongin says. He started out with a whole sentence but the second half of it got lost somewhere on the way.

“Mm,” Taemin hums, and swallows everything Jongin offers him. He cracks an eye open and wipes over his mouth when Jongin slides down next to him and tugs at a corner of the pillow. “You owe me one.”

“Yeah,” Jongin grins. “Yeah, sure.” He presses Taemin a little tighter into the radiator and lets his fingers find Taemin’s stomach again, find the edge of his pants, but Taemin swats him away and rolls over to his back.

“No, I want something to keep my mug company,” he says and stifles a yawn. Jongin also tips over to his back and frowns up at the ceiling. It has a cold, grey color, much like a consistent downpour of snow. “Preferably something with shameful amounts of chocolate chips.”

Jongin sighs. “Will you brew, then?” he asks and pulls himself to his feet.

“Yeah, sure,” Taemin says. His eyes remain shut.

“Don’t fall asleep!” Jongin calls out from the hallway as he laces up his shoes.

The response lags a bit. “…Yeah, sure.”

exo; to wait

fourcoldpaws — Sat, 17 Nov 2012 21:53:12 GMT

kyungsoo-centric. pg-13. 100 words.

Right there – just above a speck of dirt on the glass, left of the top branch of the biggest oak, at the very tip of the little bear’s tail, right where the polar star peers down at him; right there.

Or, rather; not there at all. Not even close. More like 34 trillion kilometers behind Polaris, in some all-but-straight line that hides whatever distance doesn’t – but still. Kyungsoo pulls his duvet up over his chin in the dark; feeling the earth move beneath him, feeling them both revolve around the same axis.

One day, they will come back for him.

exo; seven inches

fourcoldpaws — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 17:07:59 GMT

chansoo. nc-17. 1822 words. chanyeol thighfucking kyungsoo requires some logistics. (originally posted at seoulfulness)

This, Kyungsoo wants to think, is ridiculous.

It was ridiculous already when Chanyeol came up to him three weeks ago with a little ruler in hand. Positioned himself in front, chin to nose, and put the ruler on Kyungsoo’s head. Hummed a bit. Then took a step back to shamlessly study Kyungsoo’s clothed crotch while occasionally flipping his gaze down towards his own. The hand holding the ruler made a small, jerky movement forward, but then he shook his head and left, muttering to himself.

It got more ridiculous when Kyungsoo was going through Chanyeol’s backpack for his lost mittens and realized that Chanyeol for an unknown period of time had been walking around through his daily life carrying a pint-sized bottle of lube. Judging by the speed with which the bottle disappeared from Kyungsoo’s grasp and the lengthy explanation of how dry Chanyeol’s hands had been feeling lately and how many new brands of hand lotion that had appeared on the market just over the last few months, this was clearly a revelation Chanyeol never intended Kyungsoo to make.

And things get truly ridiculous when Chanyeol, after adamantly insisting on them going for Sunday brunch at all-but the other end of town, suddenly jerks Kyungsoo from the extensive crepe-menu he with increasing saliva production had been studying and, with a quick look around, locks them both into the small bathroom by the end of the hall.

“Um,” Kyungsoo says with somewhat sour glance at his boyfriend. “Look. We both know it’s gonna take me at least ten minutes to decide what from that glorious list of pan-fried batter that’s gonna get the honor of adorning the inside of my stomach today, and I’m sure you’re old enough to go without someone standing beside holding your han—“

“I want to,” Chanyeol says. It comes out in a rush, but then he halts. His eyes, Kyungsoo notices, keep flicking down towards the floor beside the sink, but aside from a small ledge, perhaps six or seven inches tall, running along the wall, Kyungsoo can’t find anything of interest there.

“I want to have sex,” Chanyeol spits out. “In here.”

Kyungsoo leans back a bit and studies him. Chanyeol looks as serious as ever, staring back down at him with brows pushed low over his eyes.

“Um,” Kyungsoo says. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says.

“Does it,” Kyungsoo says. “Does it have to be in here?”

“Yes,” Chanyeol says. “As a matter of fact, it does. As a matter of fact, it happens to be of outmost importance, that we do it in this specific room.” For a short moment his eyes leave Kyungsoo’s. Flick down towards the floor beside the sink, just briefly, before whipping back up to Kyungsoo’s face again. The arch of his brows tightens a bit. Kyungsoo realizes it’s probably not a good time to snort.

“Um,” He says instead.

“I mean.” Chanyeol clears his throat. “If you’re up for it.”

Kyungsoo casts a quick look at the door; a sturdy kind sealed snug against the doorframe. The soft buzz of voices and jingling of cutlery from outside is almost entirely muted. He then casts a look up and down Chanyeol’s frame. Chanyeol fidgets a bit. The front of his jeans already looks suspiciously pointy.

“Okay,” Kyungsoo says. He struggles to keep a grin away from his face. “Okay. What is it you wanna do?” He hooks two fingers into Chanyeol’s belt-loops, pushing him against the wall and beginning to slide to his knees, but Chanyeol swiftly pulls him back up by a grip of his elbows.

“I, uh.” Chanyeol’s eyes flick down towards a familiar area by the floor. “I want you to stand on that.”

Kyungsoo looks from the ledge, to Chanyeol’s finger, to the ledge, and then up at Chanyeol’s face.

“Um,” He says. “Is there a specific reason…”

“You’ll see.” Chanyeol proceeds to wring his bag off his shoulders, giving Kyungsoo a soft but not-so-subtle nudge backwards in the process. Kyungsoo dutifully steps up on the ledge, balancing against the wall and watching Chanyeol rummage through his bag to – what do you know – finally produce the big bottle of “hand lotion” from the depths of the backpack. His mouth twists up in a sheepish grin when he meets Kyungsoo’s gaze.

“I, uh,” he says, standing in front, almost nose to chin (it’s a bit strange seeing Chanyeol from this new angle, but Kyungsoo can’t say he hates it), and placing a careful kiss on Kyungsoo’s lips. “You are. Uh. I really—“

“Yeah, yeah,” Kyungsoo says. He might be rolling his eyes a little. “Get on with it.”

This, Kyungsoo wants to think, is ridiculous. Standing on a ledge in a restaurant bathroom with his pants around his knees and a shirtless Chanyeol’s big, shivering hand slobbering lube all over his inner thighs. It’s beginning to dawn on him what’s going to happen. So far, his main concern is how hard it will probably be to get all this gunk off his body before going back out.

But he also thinks about the fact that Chanyeol has been mulling over this for at least three weeks. Thinks of the image of Chanyeol happening to walk into this bathroom god-knows-how-long-ago and coming to the conclusion that with this ledge, Kyungsoo will be just tall enough for me to thigh-fuck him. The image of Chanyeol coming back to the restaurant actually bringing a ruler, just to confirm. The image of Chanyeol walking around with a huge bottle of lube in his bag, just in case he’d stumble upon the right opportunity to suggest “going for crepes”.

The heel of the hand that Chanyeol warily presses down over his protruding fly where he’s on his haunches by Kyungsoo’s feet, and the low whine escaping his throat at this careful touch, make something tighten in Kyungsoo’s stomach. The other hand, slick and warm, sliding over the sensitive skin on the inside of Kyungsoo’s thigh tightens it further, twists it hot and expectant.

When this other hand, slick and warm, then comes up to curl around Kyungsoo’s dick to give it a few familiar squeezes; when Kyungsoo sees the glow in Chanyeol’s eyes as the first hand twists the buckle of his belt open; when Kyungsoo sees the glow in Chanyeol’s eyes as he stands up, positioning himself so close in front (almost nose to chin, and Kyungsoo could really get used to this); and when Kyungsoo feels the shiver with which Chanyeol’s lips press up against his – gunk swiftly rattles down to the nether regions of Kyungsoo’s list of priorities.

“I, uh,” Chanyeol says. His voice sounds uncharacteristically small. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo says. He realizes he sounds a little breathless. “Yeah. Come on. Do it.”

This, Kyungsoo wants to think, is ridiculous. Standing on a ledge in a restaurant bathroom with his pants around his knees and with Chanyeol’s absurdly hard dick sliding in between his thighs – is, should be, maybe, ridiculous. But noise produced in Chanyeol’s throat when Kyungsoo inches his feet together, just a teensy bit; the somewhat sweaty hand finding Kyungsoo’s waist and the fervor of Chanyeol’s kiss, only twist the tightness in Kyungsoo’s belly harder around itself, three rounds and back again.

This is serious business.

Something hitches in Chanyeol’s breathing when he starts moving his hips. His body is warm and solid as it presses against Kyungsoo in a slow and careful pace, each thrust letting Kyungsoo’s own (rapidly stiffening) cock rub between their naked stomachs and Kyungsoo feels the tension in Chanyeol’s lips, in Chanyeol’s muscles, feels how he just almost shakes a little. Feels his own face smoothing out, feels like something dawns on him.

“Is this,” he asks, although suddenly not sure if he’s allowed, if he’ll break something. “Is this good?”

“Mmh,” Chanyeol hums. He draws in a thick breath and presses it out again, like it takes effort, like it’s something he needs to remind himself to do. “It’s. Very good.” He kisses Kyungsoo again, hot and tight and absorbed and groans when Kyungsoo tries clenching his legs together, just a bit, just to see what would happen.

Chanyeol’s hand strokes over Kyungsoo’s waist and Kyungsoo winds both arms around Chanyeol’s neck to keep his balance, enjoying the ease with which he can do so, enjoying the fact that it’s suddenly Chanyeol who has to tilt his head up, the fact that Kyungsoo can lean down to kiss him and the fact that he can kiss him, that both of their mouths are unoccupied. He enjoys the pressure of Chanyeol’s dick against the skin of his thighs, enjoys the little streams of sensitivity it sends up towards his groin. He enjoys the heat and the presence of their bodies molded tight together – this is good.

He lifts his ass from the cold wall and starts meeting Chanyeol’s movements. A sob-like noise draws form the depths of Chanyeol’s throat. Initially he just follows, but soon begins working against the waves of Chanyeol’s hips; colliding with him, gentle but firm, until Chanyeol’s free hand has flied up to the wall for leverage, smearing lube on the tiles. His breathing is growing heavier, his mouth is absentmindedly stuck sucking on Kyungsoo’s lower lip and he groans weakly with every connection of their bodies. The other hand clutches at Kyungsoo’s waist; lets him draw back, and then pulls him closer again, closer and closer, gluing them together and grinding Kyungsoo into the wall.

Kyungsoo slips a groan of his own against Chanyeol’s mouth. He digs his heels into the ledge to meet the movements, to keep up with the tightening pace. One of his hands leave Chanyeol’s neck, travelling down his chest with a little hitch for every grind of their bodies but then it’s on his cock and he huffs out a grunt, he’s hard and sensitive and wedges his hand in between them to grip himself. Chanyeol’s forehead falls down onto his collarbone. His breath is hot on Kyungsoo’s skin.

“You—,” is all he says, and then removes his still slick hand from the wall to curl it beneath Kyungsoo’s own fingers. Finds and falls into his pace, ups it, matches it with the flow of their hips smushing the whole package between them and Kyungsoo leaves him to it, his hand flies back up to claw at Chanyeol’s shoulder in a vain search for leverage but all he can do is follow him, join to move together in his quick, jerky rhythm. He feels Chanyeol’s cock pulsing between his legs, feels Chanyeol panting against his neck, feels Chanyeol’s hips stuttering, feels the pressure growing in his own belly – this is good, this is very good.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, and then he comes.

-

Later, Kyungsoo can’t help but to look up from his spinach & feta cheese crepes and ask;

“Couldn’t you just have bought me a stool?”

rainbow; tidal waves up the shore

fourcoldpaws — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 22:22:47 GMT

noeul/woori. nc-17. 758 words. woori edging noeul in the shower.

Noeul likes the way Woori’s legs are folded, spread a bit as she’s kneeling on the tiles and shins just almost touching Noeul’s toes. She likes the way they intersect her own where she’s on her haunches against the wall, likes the rhombus stretched out between their bodies. Likes the way they take the space formed under hers and the way she, if she tips her pelvis forward just a little bit, almost can rest her kneecaps at the top of Woori’s thighs. She likes the way the two of them fit together, like pieces of a jigsaw; where Noeul isn’t, Woori is, clasping into her shape, like… like some fucking yin-yang symbol or something.

The yang, the white, is the male, and. Or something. And. They. Something.

Noeul coughs in a breath against Woori’s mouth. Her hips are bucking, clenching, and that’s when Woori pulls away, sitting back against her feet and letting the concentrated spray from the disassembled hose draw up over her chest. It splashes obnoxiously until she raises a hand to the faucet and quells the jet a bit.

Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Hooks a thumb at Noeul’s chin to straighten her craned neck and fit their mouths together again, kisses her slow and tight and with one hand skimming over Noeul’s inner thighs. Opens them up another tad wider.

Noeul’s legs are starting to ache. Her feet are cold and purple with stagnant blood. She’s sweating in the saturated air, her stomach repeatedly sucks heavy twinges into itself and her entire groin feels hot and uncomfortably swollen. She has a limit, but Woori doesn’t let her go. She brings her close and close and then sits back with that little smile on her face and watches Noeul sink. Waits a bit, kisses a bit, before going at it again. Maybe twisting the faucet knob a little further than last time. Lips move to jaws and breasts when Noeul’s mouth stops responding. Over and over, rise and sink, clench and relax, a little higher every time, reaching for it, but without taking her all the way.

Noeul bites back all the curses, all the demands. Woori is adamant. Woori is merciless and absolutely fucking horrible and Noeul just wants to grab her and pin her down on the shower floor and straddle the nearest protruding extremity on her body and rub, rub hard and frantic, rub until she can finally fucking come. Everytime should be the last time, everytime should be the one time, and Noeul is so close to begging, so close to giving up – her groin is burning with impatience and this needs to happen, this needs to happen right now but then Woori pulls away again, rocks back and wets her own hair.

Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. Soaked hair hangs in thick strands around her face and her eyes are comfortably narrowed. One hand lays rested, light, at Noeul’s shoulder. Slow kisses, tight kisses, adamant merciless horrible kisses.

But maybe, in a way, it’s the best, like this. Slowly being led, slowly being risen. It lasts and lasts and for every spray of water the frustration will grow better and better and when Noeul finally hits it, when it finally cramps hot and thick inside of her, higher than ever and with some sort of panic clenching up her entire body, she will forget to breathe. She will grab on to Woori’s wrist, hold the jet still, pleads and warnings of staystaystay and she might be shaking a little and that never fails to give her what it takes, to push her off the edge. The wait and the build will make it so so much sweeter, will make it all so fucking worth it, it will unfold almost lazily and she will hold her breath to ride it out, she knows the process by heart but she still never seems to fully recall it afterwards, or before, that moment when it hits; it will hit her so hard, hit her hard enough for her to curl into herself, curl into Woori’s shoulder with a low, undignified whine and breathe as if she has never breathed before.

And maybe, in a way, it’s all about that single second before it breaks.

Woori says nothing. Woori just grins. One hand fingers the nozzle of the hose by her hip. The other reaches up towards the faucet. Twists it, maybe a little bit further than last time.

Noeul supposes she can wait another minute or two, after all.

exo; check out

fourcoldpaws — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 16:48:32 GMT

suho-centric. r. 200 words. (originally written for seouldout)
warnings: suicide

A strengthening and deliciously ironic bar tab – coincidentally both grand as the year he’s turning tomorrow and an exact permille of the grands due (he tried to fit his blood ratio into the equation but failed to calculate said ratio’s tendencies to induce failure of such calculations) – later, (through giggles smug with the drunkard’s shameless appreciation of his own master-plan’s brilliance promised to be paid tomorrow,) Joonmyun sings on the top of his lungs a merrily slurred ode to life’s infallible talent of fucking you the fuck over, because the night has finally been brought upon him, the night where he will finally get to rest. Will get to check out. Call it a day. Slap the flaccid elastic of the most washed-out sweats around his belly, crack open a perspiring lager and take a deep breath of his well-deserved, never-ending weekend.

He nods towards an elderly man passing with a terrier, it’s my party nuh… nuuuhnunununuh still blasting out of his opened mouth at a stubbornly unsubsiding volume. Joonmyun declines the offer of assistance, casually leaning back against the wrong side of the bridge railing.

“No, sir,” he placates. “Just going for a swim. See where I end up.”