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Suho likes it when Sieun asks for what he wants. With his eyes or with his hands: often. With his words: rarely. So it’s a sweaty, now-memorable August night in bed when Sieun opens his mouth and asks—wait, what did he just say?
“Come again?” Suho asks, though he’s pretty sure he heard. He’s well-versed in Sieun’s mumble-talk, with the way he sounds with his face mashed into Suho’s shoulder, soft in the languid post-orgasm haze.
“Nevermind,” Sieun mumbles again, barely even a word. Suho can feel Sieun’s nose pressing almost into his armpit with the way he’s turned inward. He feels the way Sieun lets out his breath in a hot gust, tries not to shiver.
They’ve been together for about half a year now. Suho’s learned a lot about Sieun in that time: how he fights, how he fucks, how he loves. How, if Suho pushes just right, Sieun will always—
“Sieun-ah,” Suho says, voice pitched low and rough, the way he knows Sieun likes, “c’mon, baby, say it again.”
Sieun turns his face outwards, takes a breath. He asks, “Have you ever wanted to do it the other way?”
Sure enough: the same words Suho thought he had heard. Still, he doesn’t really know what Sieun’s asking. He knows by “the other way” Sieun doesn’t mean Suho bottoming, which they’ve already tried, and which Suho hadn’t particularly liked, which Sieun has told him repeatedly is fine, obviously, it’s not like I’m not happy to—you know—though Suho still feels bad about it sometimes, upset by his own inability. So, barring all that, he must mean—what, then?
Suho doesn’t know. So he asks. And Sieun answers.
“Letting someone else lead,” Sieun says, swallowing. Suho feels Sieun’s eyelashes flutter on his neck as he blinks. “Me. If you wanted to—to submit. To me.”
It clicks into place. Suho feels his face melting into a slow, syrupy smile. “Yeah?” he asks, amused. “You want to tell me what to do? Throw me around a little?”
Sieun inhales. “I—”
“You might need to put in a few more days at the gym,” Suho adds. He can’t stop the amusement from coloring his voice. Sieun’s strong, especially for a guy of his size, but Suho’s taller, heavier, bigger in every aspect. “But, hey, you can always give it a shot—”
Sieun scoffs, cutting him off. “Whatever. You could just say no. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
Not Suho’s intention—never Suho’s intention when it comes to Sieun, not when they’re being serious. But he doesn’t know why his brain flinches away from the idea of Sieun leading, of letting himself go like that. He can joke about it, can imagine it, can—yeah, can jerk off to it, but to actually be at someone else’s mercy? There’s a halo of terror surrounding it. He clawed himself out of the depths, out of the coma, to inhabit his body again, to take control of it. Would it even be possible for him to do the opposite? To give it all up?
“Sorry,” Suho says, trying not to let it come out too bitterly. “I’m not trying to be a dick. If you want it, then—”
“I don’t want it if you don’t,” Sieun says, like he’s annoyed that he even has to say it. “I just thought—you know, sometimes, you…”
A beat passes. Suho tries to prompt him, “Sometimes I…?”
Sieun shifts, lifts his head from the crook of Suho’s neck to prop himself up on an elbow. He looks down at him. Suho has never, not once, been able to hide from those eyes. He meets Sieun’s gaze and lets him look.
After a while, Sieun says, “I get it.”
Suho smiles. He always seems to.
Then, instead of asking again what exactly he means, Suho leans up to capture Sieun’s mouth with his own. He tangles a hand in Sieun’s hair, lets his body do the talking. It’s better that way, out of his head. Just instinct. Just this.
-
The next day is normal. Then the next week. Sieun doesn’t bring it up again. Suho doesn’t know why that bothers him so much.
-
The weather stays miserable: hot and muggy and yet barely any sun. Baseball practice is hell, everyone sweaty and cranky, especially when the sky opens up to torrential rain halfway through their practice game.
“Jesus fuck,” Suho swears, raising his mitt to try and block his face from the downpour, half-jogging to the dugout.
He lets out a relieved breath when he reaches the awning, finally sheltered. They were letting their backup catcher have a turn, so Sieun wasn’t even on the field. Suho finds him immediately, sitting at the far end of the bench. When the rest of the team crowds in, cursing and soaking wet, he’s smiling: that tiny, mean one that Suho loves so much. The curve of it thaws him, makes him burn, makes him want to curl up small in Sieun’s lap and let him—
Or, no, wait—
Yonghoon shoves him, friendly, says, “Killer curve in the third, bro.”
Suho has to blink a few times before he’s able to respond. “Thanks, man,” he says, and then immediately turns away to walk towards the end of the dugout, towards Sieun.
When he gets there: “Killer curve in the third, bro,” Sieun repeats quietly, mocking, still with that mean little smile, kicking Suho softly with his cleat.
Suho tilts his head down to laugh, hidden. He feels a drop of rain fall from his bangs onto his upturned cheek. Then, on instinct, he shakes his hair out like an animal, watches as the water flies onto Sieun. Provoking, pushing Sieun’s buttons on purpose.
Sieun’s smile shifts, though it doesn’t entirely fade. His cleat moves up to Suho’s shin, his knee, then all the way up to his thigh; with it, he pushes Suho backwards until his back hits the other side of the tiny dugout. One of Suho's hands comes up to grip the metal gate behind him, steadying. Suho glances over—no one’s looking at them, too busy drying off, thank god—and then, with his dirty shoe still on him, eyes bedroom-dark under his cap, Sieun says:
“Bad dog.”
Suho feels his face do something stupid. His dick does something even worse.
Sieun sees it. Or maybe he can just tell. The air between them becomes thick and charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike; that hair-raising static electricity, a portent of something huge and new. His face doesn’t change, but he knows, and Suho knows he knows, and then before either of them can say anything—
“Catch, dude!”
A towel hits Suho in the side of the head. Fucking Yonghoon. He hears Sieun laugh, sharp and quick like he can’t help himself, which is almost enough to quell Suho’s ire.
Almost.
When they’re back on the field half an hour later, Sieun back in place as his catcher, Yonghoon up to bat, Suho lets a pitch go sideways, hitting him in the thigh. Not hard—he’s not evil. Just payback. Yonghoon winces, rubs his thigh. Sieun lets his masked head drop down, and Suho knows he’s laughing even without seeing, even before he does the sign they’d worked out a couple months back, two fingers and a curved thumb, the sign that means: nice one.
That means, like a kiss from across the field: you did exactly what I wanted.
That means, underneath it all: good boy.
-
So maybe Suho gets what Sieun meant, when he tried to imply that sometimes Suho acts like—like he wants it, like he wants Sieun to—yeah. Maybe. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it would even be—
-
They don’t really talk about it. It comes up anyway.
-
Wednesday:
On the couch between classes. Sieun under him, sweating. Suho, biting a mark deep into the flesh of his neck.
“Ow,” Sieun says, a flinch. “God, Suho—your teeth. You’re like a fucking dog.”
“Woof,” Suho says, stupid, trying to ignore the way that the words make his stomach feel tight with pleasure. He licks at Sieun’s skin, soothing, salt on his tongue. Then he bites down again. He can feel the blood rush under his skin. Sieun arches up against him, wraps his legs tighter around Suho’s back, pushes him deeper.
Suho breathes out wetly, kisses the marks he’s made on Sieun’s neck. The spaces deep inside Sieun that he’s altered. He wants so badly to be able to crawl inside, to see, to know—to live there, kept like a—
Thursday:
In the morning, tangled together, before gym, before practice. The fan spinning lazy circles around the room.
“We’re gonna be late,” Sieun murmurs into the nape of Suho’s neck. They had woken up like this, spooning, Suho cradled in the solid hold of Sieun’s arms.
“Don’t care,” Suho replies, even though they’re sticky, even though they really are going to be late. “I’ll bite anyone who tries to take you away from me.”
Sieun huffs a laugh. Warm puff of air on his skin. “Scary,” he says, holding tighter. “You have a promising career as a guard dog.”
Sieun’s always softest like this, loose-tongued early in the morning, before he’s had a chance to put his walls up. It’s devastating, every single time; Suho feels his heart being pulverized like meat as Sieun buries his face into his nape.
Suho, feeling dumb and silly and happy, growls deep in his chest, turning his body around to get his arms around Sieun. Suho nuzzles into the top of his head, still growling, holding tightly onto him.
Sieun’s laughing, soft as the air of the fan. “You’re such a freak,” he says, words he’s heard from Sieun before, but never quite this fondly. “I’m not even leaving. We’re going to the same place.”
But I want you here, Suho thinks, oddly fevered, suddenly desperate, only here, in my arms, me in yours, to just be—yours, to be completely—
Then Sieun’s alarm rings again, the real last one, and Suho almost whines. But before Sieun gets up, he turns in close to Suho, says, low: “It’s okay, Suho-yah. I’m here. All you have to do is follow me.”
It’s easy after that, to get ready. To follow Sieun, to let him drag Suho around their lived-in apartment, simple, thoughtless, almost like he’s leading Suho around on a—
Friday:
Late, moonlit, sultry night. Suho’s head in Sieun’s lap. Sieun’s small, rough hands tracing heavenly lines through his scalp.
Sieun, saying, low, “We had a dog when I was a kid. Some terrier that my mom wanted and then abandoned. I used to feed him; I’d give him treats all the time. He would follow me everywhere. He hid in my room when my parents fought. He’d lay in my lap like this. When I pet him,” a particularly meaningful scritch of Sieun’s fingers at this, “that was the only time I’d feel him stop shaking.”
Suho breathes in, doesn’t try to hold on; just lets it out, one clear rush of air.
Then Saturday, early:
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Sieun says. He’s speaking so quietly, it’s almost hard to hear him. But Suho knows it’s hard for Sieun, too, to say any of this at all. “So we don’t have to. But I don’t want to hurt you. So can you just answer one question?”
Suho nods, feels Sieun’s hands move with the motion.
Sieun asks, “Are you letting me?” He doesn’t have to elaborate on what he means. Suho knows.
So he answers, around a shallow breath, “I’m letting you.” Even though he’s turned away from Sieun’s gaze, he still needs to close his eyes. “Fuck. Of course—you knew I wanted it before I did. I promise I wasn’t being stubborn on purpose.”
“I’d be a hypocrite if I faulted you for that,” Sieun says. His hands continue their steady work in Suho’s hair. “Sometimes it takes time. To—accept. Or even just to know.”
It’s clear that Sieun’s trying, so hard. It’s a little difficult to believe that he deems Suho worthy of it: the effort, the care, the genuine words that he used to have to fight so hard to hear. Suho has to turn his face further into Sieun’s lap; he feels his heart ache, that pulverized meat feeling again.
He’s scared of it. But he wants it, still. To be led, to be good, to be Sieun’s—
Suho mumbles, trying to get his heart under control, “Just don’t be mad if I fuck it up.”
“You won’t,” Sieun says. His hand finds the nape of Suho’s neck. He grips loosely at the hair there, but it’s still enough to sting. “You think I’d let something of mine fuck up?”
Oh, Suho thinks. Oh. Now? It’s going to happen now?
All of his senses kick up. He can suddenly feel his mouth, open against Sieun’s thigh, the sparse hair tickling his lips. Can smell him, soapy and musky and familiar. Can feel himself, the way adrenaline is rushing through his veins, lighting up his neurons, his breaths starting to come quick and shallow.
“Um,” Suho says, stupidly nervous, so fucking embarrassing, “I, uh—"
Sieun’s hand moves from Suho’s nape back up to stroke through his hair again. The air around them settles. No lightning, not yet. “You can tell me,” he says, “when you want it."
On his terms. That should be what he wants. But the thought of having to voice it makes his skin crawl.
Sieun’s the same way; he must know, must understand, because he then amends, “Or you can just show me. I’ll figure it out.”
Suho feels relief flood through him, along with a wave of self-loathing. He tries to push past it, says, “‘Course you will, ‘cause you’re my little genius—“ reaching up to try and pinch at Sieun’s cheeks.
“Quit it,” Sieun says, swatting him away, but his own hands find their way back into Suho’s hair and stay there. Until Suho falls asleep like that: lying diagonal in their bed, in Sieun’s lap, his pitching hand face-up, like they’re on the field and he’s just waiting for Sieun’s call.
-
It doesn’t take very long.
It’s rare that a week passes between the two of them without a fight. They’re usually harmless, stupid bickering, but not always. They haven’t been living with each other for very long, which is likely part of it—two solitary creatures learning to live in a space newly made together. They’re both stubborn, and Sieun can be mean, and Suho doesn’t always remember to pull his proverbial punches. They both know exactly where, and how, to hurt. Which is why it’s so miraculous that there are so rarely any lasting bruises.
It helps that they’re both so adept at sublimating anger into sex, probably.
So Suho really shouldn’t be so shocked when, on Tuesday, he finds himself kneeling in front of Sieun.
The premise of the argument this time: Sieun’s a notoriously awful, forgetful texter. (So is Suho, which Sieun immediately points out, but—fuck, whatever, he’s getting better, and it’s not about him right now.) Sieun was out, and he didn’t tell Suho that he was going to be home late.
Sieun says, like he’s trying to keep his voice steady, “I already said sorry. I was just cramming at the library, and I didn’t realize what time it was—”
“And you couldn’t do that at home?” Suho asks. He knows it’s a needlessly pathetic question even as it comes out. But he can’t swallow it back.
“You make it difficult,” Sieun replies, slow, “to concentrate,” which is flattering, even through the haze of his irritation.
Suho’s about to sigh, to let the argument go and sweep Sieun up into his arms, to show Sieun how much of a distraction he can really be, when Sieun adds: “I don’t even see why it’s such a big deal. It’s not like I wasn’t going to come back.”
Suho’s eyebrow twitches. Irritation comes back in full force. “And I’m supposed to just know that? Is it that fucking hard to just update me?”
Sieun scoffs. He’s quiet, like he’s deciding whether to say something, and then it comes out: “Okay. And when I woke up alone last week? Because you decided to head to the field an hour early for no reason? Without telling me?”
And that’s—Suho still remembers how bad he felt after, when Sieun found him with scared eyes and a voice he tried to pretend wasn’t wavering when he asked, Why did you go? It was somehow even worse than how bad he felt when he had woken up that morning with the overwhelming urge to run, to get out of there, to be alone. But he had missed Sieun near-immediately, after, and he apologized, and he didn’t think Sieun was still mad, but now—
He knows Sieun well. Really well. But sometimes Suho still feels like all he’s doing is just getting glimpses of him. That still-solitary, far-off island. His, but never entirely his. And isn’t that the crux of all of this? Even if Suho wants to be—even if he would let Sieun have him, completely—is it even possible?
“So I need to get on my knees and grovel?” Suho asks, frustrated, more upset now than anything, that horrible angrysad feeling that he thought he had grown out of, “while you don’t even get what the problem is?”
“If I don’t get it,” Sieun says, “then tell me what the problem is.”
“The—I don’t know, the precedent? Am I just supposed to wait up for whenever you decide to come back? If you can’t even be bothered to tell me you’re going to be late?” Suho can feel himself breathing hard, can hear it, spits out: “Just waiting here like a fucking—”
Sieun’s eyes flash. His voice, then, getting softer and more strange: “Like a fucking what?”
Suho’s gaze darts around the room. Then he’s pulled back into the gravity of Sieun’s eyes, those twin moons that he’s always going to orbit, no matter how hard he tries to pull away. He says: “You know what.”
Sieun looks and looks. Suho can’t be sure what’s going on inside the island of his head, but he has an idea.
He doesn’t have to say it; there must be something in his expression that’s showing, telling, because Sieun was right. It’s clear. He’s figured it out.
Sieun says, “You don’t have to grovel. I already forgave you.”
Suho’s trying to figure out how to respond to that, to understand what sort of game Sieun is playing, when Sieun continues:
“Now I’m going to help you forgive me. Get on your knees.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Suho feels his heart stutter. He looks up at Sieun, who’s a little pink-faced but composed, his eyes serious and watching.
Okay, Suho thinks. Okay, yes, okay.
He gets on his knees.
Sieun walks forward so that Suho’s in arm’s reach, but he doesn’t touch him. Just looks down.
Then he lifts a leg, props his knee up on Suho’s shoulder, then suddenly pushes him down with the force of it.
Suho, not expecting the weight, gasps and half-collapses, ends up supporting himself on the floor with a hand. He swallows. If he put his other hand down, he’d be on all fours.
“I’m going to the bedroom,” Sieun says. Even without looking at his face, Suho can tell he’s affected by the sight of Suho like this, beneath him; his voice wavers around his composure. “If you want something from me, then—”
Suho breathes. He can feel his dick hardening, just from this, from nothing.
“Then you can crawl,” Sieun says, finally. Then he walks away, towards the bedroom.
Fuck. It’s already overwhelming, humiliating, nothing Suho thought he’d ever want, much less be willing to actually do. If he could see himself from Sieun’s point of view he’d probably want to end his own life. Ahn Suho, at someone else’s mercy, for the first time since—since—
God. It’s impossible to finish the thought, to even care at all. He wants it too fucking badly.
So he turns his brain off and crawls.
And then suddenly he’s there, in their room. He finds himself kneeling in front of Sieun sitting on the bed, looking up into Sieun’s perfect, prophetic face, his legs bracketing either side of Suho’s body. Sieun pulls him closer with them, so that Suho’s near enough to rest his face on Sieun’s thigh, which he does, pushing up the soft fabric of his shorts with his nose so that he can touch his cheek to bare skin. It’s nice. Warm.
Sieun runs a hand through Suho’s hair, and it’s immediately reminiscent of that night when Suho fell asleep in his lap, waiting for Sieun’s call. Now, too, he waits.
Eventually Sieun says, after a long silence: “I’m always going to come home to you, okay?”
It takes a second for the words to register, quiet and honest, so far from the rough command that Suho was expecting. Suho opens his mouth to reply, but Sieun continues, hesitant, “I’ll—I’m going to be better about saying it. I’m just still not used to… having someone. Someone who cares where I am. But you’re not alone. Okay? I’m here—”
He’s cut off by Suho’s mouth high up on his inner thigh, biting down hard.
Sieun hisses, pained, “Fuck, Suho, really? I’m trying to be serious for a second—”
“I know,” Suho says, head spinning. He bites because he doesn’t know how to say any of it: I know I know I know you amaze me so fucking much you know that with everything you do sometimes no all of the time I want you even when you hurt me you make it better I don’t think you even know how much I admire no love you I love you I love you I love you—
Suho kisses the spot he just bit instead of trying to say any of that, laves at it with his tongue, sucks the skin into his mouth. He hears Sieun’s breathing get heavier and heavier until, suddenly, he’s pulled up by the hair, head maneuvered so that he’s still resting on Sieun’s thigh but looking face-up at him instead.
Sieun says, rough, “I thought you were going to be good.”
Suddenly brainless, looking at the fire in Sieun’s eyes, hearing the heat in his voice, Suho says, “I will.”
“Yeah?” Sieun asks. “So you’re going to stop when I tell you?”
Suho tries to nod, but Sieun still has a handful of his hair in a too-tight grip. So he just says, “Yes.”
“And you’ll go where I tell you?”
Again: “Yes.”
“Good,” Sieun says. Purposeful warmth in his voice, a contrast to his strong grip. Then Suho feels his head maneuvered again, closer to Sieun, to where Sieun’s—hard, straining against his shorts. He’s not wearing any underwear, and he’s almost fully hard, just from this: Suho’s mouth on his thigh, Suho kneeling between his legs, doing what Sieun tells him, going where he’s led.
It’s a relief, stupidly. He didn’t even know he was worried about it until he wasn’t anymore. To know that Sieun likes it too, that he’s not just doing it to humor Suho. It bolsters him, imbues him with the confidence to look up to make eye contact as he opens his mouth against Sieun’s cock.
Sieun was already looking down at him; when their eyes meet, the bolt of lightning that’s been following them around for the past week begins to crackle and spark. Yes, Suho thinks, yes, this is it—
Sieun wants it; Suho wants it too, the warm weight of Sieun’s cock in his mouth, but he hasn’t been told he can have it yet, so he just licks and mouths at him through the fabric, the length of him, the thickness of it, the gray fabric already darkening to an almost-black with Suho’s spit, with Sieun’s precome, mingling together. He can hear Sieun’s hitched breathing, can feel his thighs twitching under his hands, the way he’s stopping himself from pushing forward into the heat of Suho’s mouth.
Suho wants it, wants it, wants it—he starts to focus on the head, getting his mouth around him even through the strange feeling of the material. When he starts properly sucking, cheeks hollowing, Sieun’s hips finally buck up, uncontrollable, and he makes his first real noise of the night, a low moan that he clearly tried—and failed—to stifle. His hand gets tighter in Suho’s hair.
It slips out: “Please,” Suho says, taking his mouth away to—to beg. “Let me. C’mon.”
Sieun obviously wants it, is pink and panting above him. “You need it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Suho says, and it feels true, like he might die without it, mouth wet and empty as Sieun stares untouchably down at him.
Sieun doesn’t say anything, but he takes his shirt off, slowly. Then, he lifts his hips up to slide his shorts off too, and, god, Suho can almost taste it, can feel his own cock throb as he looks at Sieun’s, moist and swollen and fucking perfect, the perfect size for Suho to take into his mouth—
But when Suho leans in to do it, he’s jerked back, a humiliating yelp leaving his throat. Sieun’s hand in his hair is impossibly tight, and when his head is yanked away from Sieun’s cock, it stings, a lightning bolt of pain.
Sieun’s grip loosens, and he looks down at Suho with a question in his eyes. Suho knows what he’s asking. Is it too much?
Suho doesn’t even have to think about his answer, and their eye contact is enough to convey it to Sieun: No. Give it to me. More, anything.
Sieun doesn’t quite smile, but there’s something there, praise half-given just by the slightly upturned line of his mouth. Discordant from the words that come out of his mouth next, dry, a little sharp: “Bad dog. Do you deserve it? Did I say you could have it?”
Suho wants to cry, wants to kiss him, wants everything all at once. He says, quietly, “Sieun-ah.” He doesn’t think he’s capable of much else.
Sieun leans back against the mattress with a hand. Suho looks at him: the strong muscle of his throwing arm; his chest that Suho likes so much, littered with half-healed bruises and bite marks; his thick thighs, converging at the center of him, where he’s hard and aching and denying himself, because he—because he’s going to—
Sieun has both of his feet resting on the floor, legs still spread to accommodate Suho between them. He lifts one of them to press a foot down on Suho, hard and heavy, right in the vee of his spread legs, where his cock is trapped between two layers of fabric. The pressure, the incredible white-hot pleasure-pain of this first touch, makes Suho keen, makes his hips buck up, instinctive, makes his eyes water.
He looks up at Sieun, who takes a sharp breath at what he must see in Suho’s face. Suho turns his mind away from that, what he must look like, then notices that Sieun’s—touching himself. He’s lightly stroking his cock, instead of letting Suho—why, because he wasn’t good? Because he was bad, a bad d—how can he prove—how can he make it up to him?
Suho must say some or all of that aloud, thoughts and words coalescing into a single messy barely-coherent slew, because Sieun answers, punctuated with renewed pressure on Suho’s cock, making him gasp: “Use my leg, then. If you’re so desperate.”
Suho’s hips stutter, uncontrolled, ashamed and, yes, desperate. He ruts against Sieun’s ankle, his calf, cock throbbing. It’s nowhere near enough, even when Sieun helps, which he barely does, more focused on his own pleasure, moaning louder than usual on purpose, goading, above him in every way.
“Fuck,” Suho manages to say, a little slurred. Then, eventually: “Sieun-ah, you sound so—please, can I—”
“No,” Sieun says, and then, along with the slick sound of his hand moving, “Ah—mm—”
Suho makes a mortifying, desperate noise, turning his face to breathe wetly into Sieun’s bare leg. His cock hurts, trapped, beyond-hard. Then: “I can make it better,” Suho says, a plea, “baby, you know I can, please, just let me—”
“I don’t know,” Sieun says, gasping, “I think I’m doing a pretty good—”
“Please,” Suho says, aching, his shame reaching a fever pitch, still trying to rut forward as he bites at his lips, wanting to stifle the words but he can’t, he wants it too fucking bad—“please, baby, please, please—”
Sieun finally deigns to look back down at him, and what he sees must give him pause, because his hand stops moving. There’s silence, both of them breathing hard. Suho knows that Sieun’s looking at the desperate need in Suho’s face and weighing it, how much he can handle, how much he’s willing to give. Suho looks at Sieun’s pink mouth and tries not to think about it. He’ll get what he deserves.
And then Sieun says: “Take your pants off.”
Suho breathes out. He does what he’s told, with trembling hands at his waistband, and then they’re gone. His boxer briefs stay on, because Sieun didn’t say anything about those.
“You’re learning,” Sieun says, with his sharply sweet little half-smile. “Good dog.”
His hand comes over to scratch through Suho’s hair. And then he just pets him, with an open palm. An affectionate hand curled around his ear. Suho swallows; he feels something inside him settle.
“You can have it now,” Sieun says, quiet, guiding Suho forward with his palm. Suho’s mouth waters. “C’mon, boy, there you go.”
And then there’s Sieun’s cock in front of him, leaking at the tip. And now he’s finally allowed, so he wraps his mouth around him, does what he’s been wanting to do ever since Sieun walked through their front door an hour ago, even though he was pissed, he still wants it all the time, he wants Sieun like this always—pleasured and happy and his—
Sieun breathes out, a moan caught in the back of his throat, as Suho sucks him off. Suho tries to let his mind go blank, the way Sieun always seems to. Gradually, Sieun starts to let his hips rock forward, using Suho’s body as a vessel to chase his own climax, and it’s easy, after that, to go away, knowing that he’s been good.
So Suho doesn’t think; he lets it happen. Mindlessly, he goes back to rubbing the heavy weight of his cock against Sieun’s leg, which feels much better now that it’s only through the thin fabric of his boxers. The pressure of it, the now far-away shame, makes him ache, makes him whine in the back of his throat, whimper, mouth full.
Eventually, Sieun’s hips starts to jerk forward more forcefully, pushing his cock deeper into Suho’s mouth, out of rhythm, which means he’s close. Suho sucks harder, tries to loosen his throat, to make it even better. The wet, obscene sound of it. Mindless, he wraps a hand around Sieun’s other calf and digs his nails in, tries to tell him with his body, you can take, take me, please, fuck, take—
Sieun makes a desperate noise above him, half-choked, half-whined, and then a bitten-off, “Su—“ and then his cock is pulsing, and he’s coming in Suho’s mouth, his entire body in a taut line, wracked with pleasure. Suho doesn’t pull off, just takes it, all that Sieun’s giving him. He‘s good. He swallows some of it. The rest—
His brain starts to come back online. Jaw aching, sticky-mouthed. The rest—
He wants to—
Fuck it. Sieun can punish him afterwards if he really cares so much.
Suho gets up off his knees, ignores their ache, practically launches himself into Sieun’s lap. He ends up knocking Sieun backwards with the weight of him, pushed down to the mattress with a winded noise. Suho looks down at him, his dark hair splayed against the bright sheets.
He’s flushed, sweaty, beautiful. Suho kisses him with an open mouth.
Sieun must feel it; he gasps loudly, but he keeps his mouth open to meet Suho’s, even as his breath catches.
Then Suho does what he wants: lets Sieun’s come drip from his own tongue into Sieun’s hot mouth.
Sieun makes an involuntary noise as he takes it. His head jerks back, once, like he’s going to pull away, and then—a miracle—he presses even closer. Their tongues meet over and over again as Suho feeds Sieun to himself. Both of their labored breaths, the slide of it, the way Sieun keeps making that noise—
Then, when it’s all mostly gone, Sieun whispers, lips still brushing his, “You’re fucking filthy,” but he doesn’t sound grossed out, not really. He sounds almost—awed, like he can’t believe a person like Suho exists, like he can barely believe any of this is possible, that it’s happening to him. “What am I going to do with you?”
Sieun sits up again; Suho shifts to follow but stays on top of him. He says, “Whatever you want,” and it’s the truth, murmured into Sieun’s full, wet mouth.
“Well, for starters,” Sieun tries to say amid the onslaught of Suho’s constant kissing, “I don’t think I told you that you could get off your knees.”
“You don’t like me like this instead?” Suho asks, stupid, strangely giddy now that—he’s pretty sure—Sieun’s done torturing him. “In your lap?”
Sieun lets out a breathy laugh, right into Suho’s mouth. “I didn’t know they made lapdogs this big,” he says. “I might ask for a refund.”
“Fuck that,” Suho says, separating their lips, a pang of his heart, before he drops his head to nuzzle in the crook of Sieun’s neck. “You’re stuck with me.”
“Hm,” Sieun says, noncommittal, but Suho can feel the upturned curve of Sieun’s cheek against his temple. His heart twists, flips.
Then: Sieun’s hand makes its way down Suho’s still-clothed chest to rest heavy on his cock, still in his boxers. He squeezes, once, which makes Suho choke on an inhale.
Sieun says, still holding, “I thought you were taking care of this yourself.”
“Well,” Suho replies, hips pressing forward into Sieun’s touch, still rubbing his face all over his neck. “I could use a litle help, y’know, if His Majesty is willing.”
Sieun scoffs. Suho knows he still hates that nickname. “Already back to your old ways. Of course. Ahn Suho can’t be obedient for longer than, wow, how long was it? Twenty minutes—?”
“I’ll show you obedient,” Suho interrupts, but he’s unable to stop himself from grinning at Sieun’s teasing, how he’s always looser and more open post-orgasm—hence why Suho usually tries to make sure Sieun comes first, so that he can witness it for longer. He likes all of Sieun’s sides, but this one just might be his favorite.
They can be sweet later, though. Suho still wants something, and Sieun is still naked beneath him. He knocks Sieun’s hand away, then pushes him back down to the mattress again; all of his weight, his hard cock, pressed into him.
Sieun lets out all his breath in a rush. “Great first step,” he says, and Suho lifts his head so that he can look at the deadpan expression on his face. “Really, what happened to go where I tell you?”
Suho, still grinning, opens his mouth to answer, but then Sieun adds, reaching his hands out to curve around Suho’s ass, to rock him against Sieun’s thigh, the feeling along with the words like a shot to the heart: “Do I need to buy you a leash, Suho-yah? Are you so desperate that you can’t control yourself?”
Which, turns out he’s still cock-drunk after all, because it makes him—god, there’s really no other way to describe it—makes him whine like a kicked dog.
“I thought so,” Sieun says. He uses his hands to pull down Suho’s boxers, gets his dick out, starts stroking him just right with his rough, pretty hands. Suho groans. “You’d want that, wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck,” Suho says, hips jerking, overwhelmed by how quickly the mood’s changed, by the pleasure already building in his gut, “I—yes, if it’s you, I—”
“I know,” Sieun replies. The mirth from his eyes is gone; they’re dark and intent again. He lets saliva fall from between his lips into his hand, a wet, shining string of it. Suho’s cock throbs, watching with rapt attention. Sieun uses his wet hand to jerk Suho off faster and harder, a tight, curving grip, exactly how he likes it, and it feels—fuck, it’s—
Sieun says it again: “I already know.”
The back-and-forth is making his head spin; the way Sieun can turn on his game-day seriousness in an instant, can merge it with his fucking obscene bedroom eyes; the way he’s willing to do almost anything to him, with him, so far from the distant stiffness that characterized their early interactions. Suho can’t believe how lucky he is, how perfect Sieun is, like they were fucking made to fit together, and—christ, he’s close, he can hear his own desperate moaning, and then—
Sieun’s hand goes away. All of Suho’s muscles lock up—he makes that same pitiful, kicked-dog sort of noise, but louder, startled out of his throat. Sieun just looks up at him. Then: “Oh. Did you want to come?”
God. He’s evil. He’s perfect. Suho’s so, so fucking gone.
“Well?” Sieun asks. He’s splayed out like ease personified, like he’s above it all, but Suho can see where his cock is hardening again; can hear the way his breaths are coming out, labored.
Suho answers, swallowing, “Yeah, Sieun-ah, I want to come. Will you let me? Can I?”
Something glimmers behind Sieun’s eyes, locks into place. He shifts, then, turns to their nightstand, grabs the bottle of lube from the top of it. Suho’s heart pounds. Sieun says, “Off. Kneel at the foot of the bed. Take everything else off.”
Suho does as he’s told. Then, from afar, he’s forced to watch as Sieun slicks up his fingers, as he spreads his legs. Watches the mark that he had bitten into Sieun’s inner thigh earlier come into view, a vivid red. Watches, with burning heat in his belly, as Sieun circles his rim, as a finger goes in nice and slow.
Suho’s breath catches; Sieun moans softly as he puts in another, then says, even softer, so quiet that Suho has to strain his ear to hear, almost like he’s talking to himself: “You were so good for me, earlier. I was going to let you fuck me. I—ah—I wanted it. But now, I think I’ll just do it myself.”
Fuck, Suho thinks, so hard it hurts, brain fuzzing into static again. He says, “Fuck,” aloud, then, “please, Sieunie, I can—”
Sieun shifts, trying to fuck his fingers deeper into himself, but his hands are smaller than Suho’s and Suho knows it’s not as good, even before Sieun lets out a frustrated noise.
“I know,” Suho says, or babbles, stupid with it, “I know, baby, please, let me in, I’ll make it better, I promise, just—”
Sieun asks, breathless, cutting him off, “Do you deserve it?”
And it’s—
The question, it hits him and hurts him and heals him, because—
It’s different from earlier, because this time Suho knows he does, knows he deserves it, because Sieun already told him so, has been telling him this entire time, even through the pain, through the denial, maybe even especially then—and Suho—
Suho knows he deserves it because Sieun’s here at all. Because he stayed when he didn’t have to, throughout all of Suho’s stubborn tantrums, because Suho’s sure, because Suho loves him, because he knows that Sieun loves him back—so he can answer, now, confidently:
“Yes,” Suho says, meaning yes to everything, “yes, I’ll show you, just,”—another gasp—”please, baby—”
Then Sieun says, “Come up here,” and it’s like the sun after a storm, like relief even before he’s gotten inside, crawling up towards Sieun’s body so that he can position himself between his legs, his favorite place in the world, his home—
Sieun asks, “You'll fill me up?” and he sounds embarrassed, but also like he’s too far gone to care, which makes Suho’s heart lurch; his baby being brave, using his words, both of them in these unfamiliar roles; and then Sieun’s taking his fingers out, and Suho’s lining himself up, cock finally pressed against Sieun’s hole, the heat of him, and then he finally pushes in, and it’s fucking perfect—
“Ah,” Sieun says, arching the beautiful line of his back. “Yeah, yes—”
Two, three thrusts, slow and deep and worshipful, and then Sieun says: “My good boy.”
Suho’s brain: aflame, full of static electricity, empty save for Sieun’s words, blank save for the image of Sieun spread open beneath him like this. His hips stutter, he wants—he wants—
“Fuck me,” Sieun says, arching up, “c’mon, Suho, c’mon—”
Suho deserves it, and Sieun wants it, so he lets go, letting instinct take over as he thrusts his hips into Sieun. He fucks him steady for a while, Sieun moaning beneath him, and then eventually with enough force that it shoves Sieun up towards the headboard. Suho slows down, braces himself with a hand wrapped around one of the metal pillars above Sieun. Looks down at his face, the way his eyes are wide open, full of feeling, staring up at Suho like—
It’s indescribable. It wakes Suho up.
“God,” Suho says, feeling reborn in some strange and fundamental way, “maybe I don’t deserve it after all. Do you even know how fucking perfect you look right now?”
Sieun scrunches his nose up, suddenly cute again, so fucking precious. Suho’s never going to be able to get over his dichotomy: how he can have Suho on his knees with just a word, how he still gets red and shy every single time Suho compliments him.
He’s thought it before, that Sieun’s not the type of person you get used to. And the truth, still: Suho loves him that way.
Then Sieun cuts in, impatient, flushed and sweaty, “Did I say you could stop?”
Suho grins. “Sorry, Sieun-ah. You want it hard, like before?”
Sieun huffs, starts to say, “Don't make me ask agai—” but before he can get the words out, Suho’s already back at it, his hand still braced above him, pounding him hard into the mattress, just like Sieun wanted. Beneath him, Sieun’s litany of whines starts up again: “Ah, ah, mm, ah—”
Sieun’s cock is even more swollen than earlier, pink and thick and sensitive. It jerks against Sieun’s stomach as Suho rams into him, leaks small trails of fluid into the dips below his hipbones. Suho can hear himself panting like a dog as he watches, as Sieun takes him.
He says, pace becoming more frantic, “Tell me, baby. Was I good? I was, wasn’t I?”
Sieun just lets out a noise from deep in his chest, maybe intended to be a word, but it just comes out as an unintelligible ngh. Sieun doesn’t really like to talk when they’re fucking like this—Suho, for better or worse, doesn’t share that same sentiment.
He says, “I think I was good.” He tries to be coherent despite how incredible Sieun’s clinging heat feels around him, inside as he fucks forward, the burning-hot pleasure of it. He says, “I sat at your feet and made you come with my mouth. And now I’m fucking you just like you asked. And you’re gonna come again, aren’t you?
Sieun moans, finally lifts one of his hands to wrap around his own cock, palm around the head, not really stroking, just squeezing, the way he likes it when he’s oversensitive, when Suho holds him down and makes him come again even when Sieun whines and says he can’t, but he usually can, usually does, squirming and sensitive and so fucking—
“Fuck, Sieun-ah, fuck—you’re so—“ He doesn’t have the words; tries to tell him with a reverent touch stroking up his arm instead, in the way he clasps Sieun’s free hand in his, tangling their fingers together.
Sieun says it, then: “You were good, Suho.” A choked noise in his throat as he squirms under him, hips jumping trying to meet Suho’s thrusts, the way he gets desperate before he’s about to come. It’s hard for him to talk, but he does it anyway, breathes, “I knew you would be. I told you you wouldn’t fuck it up. Because you’re mine. Yeah? Mine. Mine—“
“Yours,” Suho manages to say through the oncoming wave of his orgasm, a torrential downpour inside him, hips stuttering, words stumbling, “fuck, god, always, yours—“
Sieun’s loudest noise of the night as he comes, when he can’t hold back anymore, a feverish moan along with the arch of his body as more fluid spills out from his cock, not as much as earlier, just a few desperate bursts; Suho finally lets himself go, watching, pleasure like lightning bolts down his spine, filling Sieun up, just like he had asked.
The room spins; the electricity disperses. Sieun holds onto him as they come down. Heavy breaths, lingering sparks of pleasure. Eventually, Suho pulls out, kisses Sieun through the ache. Sieun, then, looking at him like he’s—Suho has to turn away from it, it’s too much, too good. He tucks his head into the crook of Sieun’s neck.
Then, Suho drifts.
A few sensations filter in: the heat of the room, the soft susurrus of the fan. Sieun’s chest rising and falling underneath him, slowly steadying. His hands scratching up and down Suho’s back, caressing, petting. The joint beating of their hearts.
Mind and body, quiet and settled. In the circle of Sieun’s arms: safe, wanted, kept.
-
Suho doesn’t know how much time passes. He thinks they fell asleep at some point, or maybe only he did; when he comes to, it’s still obsidian-dark outside the window, and they’re shrouded in the calm otherworldly quiet of late night.
And then Sieun, cutting into the silence with a pillow-softened murmur, eyes sleepy and still a little dark, asking, “Was it okay?”
Suho feels his cheeks turn up, watches Sieun’s face soften, slightly, as they look at each other. He replies, “You don’t usually ask questions you know the answer to.”
Sieun lets out a noise. “Sue me for wanting to make sure.”
And this, not just dropping it, is the closest Sieun will get to asking outright for reassurance. So Suho pushes past any lingering embarrassment, says, earnest, “It was more than okay.” He reaches out for one of Sieun’s hands. “Thank you. I know it’s hard for you to—
“Don’t thank me,” Sieun cuts him off with a slight wince. “I wanted it, too. You know I’m not that selfless.”
“That I do,” Suho replies. A quick, tired grin. He plays with Sieun’s hand, tapping at his knuckles. “But really. I mean it.”
Sieun makes a sleepy affirmative noise, eyes closed. It almost seems like he’s about to fall back asleep, so Suho closes his eyes too. But then he hears, a little slurred: “And… about earlier. I’m sorry, again. Thank you for waiting up for me.”
Suho had already forgiven him, but still, it’s nice to hear. He mumbles, heart warm, “Always.”
One final tiny upturn of Sieun’s mouth, a murmured, “Good dog.” A pang of Suho’s heart, and then Sieun’s asleep.
Suho, leashed, follows him into the dark.