K-POP BxB Imagines

A Damn Good Feelin', Baby, I Can't Breathe In

Written by ugly_little_sandcastles

"Fuck me hard, ge. Fuck me like you mean it, ge."

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"Ten, baby, Ten," Kun murmurs into his thigh. "Do you want to come on my fingers or my mouth?"

But he flutters a kiss high, high, promising, taunting—before Ten has a proper chance to respond. Then another. Higher. Wetter. A little fluttering swipe of his tongue that has Ten's back arching sharp and shuddering.

Between his splayed, trembling legs, Kun—already three fingers deep, a half a dozen thrusts in—smiles, soft and aching against his skin. And his mouth, fuck, that fucking mouth—

"Kun," Ten moans. Then "Kun ge." Just, just, just to thank him for the elegant, practiced, perfect, perfect way he curls his fingers, sure and steady and thick and hot and just, just, just—

Kun likes it like this. On long, long days like this when they're both too dance practice or rehearsal or filming schedule exhausted to attempt anything more, like carving out a moment a space, close, close, close, grounding skin on skin. Likes eating Ten out until he's boneless, quivering, then flipping him over and thrusting between his quaking thighs until he's sobbing from oversensitivity. Likes tugging him afterwards into his strong, strong arms, cradling him to his strong, strong chest, making his entire body tremble with strong, strong, helpless, helpless affection.

And Ten, he likes it, too. But he doesn't usually ask. But, but—

"Your cock," Ten presses even as he twists his hips into it, drags shiveringly against the blunt, blunt pressure of his fingers right, right where he needs them. Even as he twists his own fingers into Kun's soft, soft hair, forces him down. Harder, harder.

And the blunt drag of his teeth on his perineum, it's nearly too, too sharp, too, too much, but Kun catches himself, softens it. Kisses. Shifts. Groans. Licks into him, around his fingers, with this rough, hungry sound. Continues with these slow, slow, luxurious sweeps of his tongue but with that same, low, low sound rumbling against Ten's delicate, quivering skin.

Ten's entire body tingles, and around Kun's shoulders, Ten's thighs quake, toes curl.

"Your cock," he continues, breathless. "Give me your cock. Wanna come around it. Think I deserve it." And then while he's feeling entitled. While Kun is listening, giving, giving. "Fuck me hard, ge. Fuck me like you mean it, ge."

Because he doesn't. Means it—truly can't do anything without meaning it—but doesn't mean it hard, doesn't mean it mean, doesn't mean it like he hates him. Never, ever means it hard, mean—enough. Not how Ten wants. Not how he knows Kun can.

But Kun, considering, tightens his free hand around his thigh, hard—harder, nearly, nearly enough to properly hurt, enough, enough for it to pulse through his entire body. But he misunderstands, loosens a beat later when Ten hisses at the ache of it.

Because with Kun, it's about coaxing it forth. Because with Kun, he has to work for it. And explain and ask and explain once more.

And it's never bad with him, fuck, it's never. Kun is never—

It's just the untapped potential of it. It's just the almost. The not quite. The maybe, maybe, maybe—

It's just Kun hinting and then withdrawing. But like he doesn't even know—know to want. But like it's Ten's job to teach him—to want. To take.

Because he's steady, safe, safe, but steel beneath his silken skin and soft kisses and gentle hands, because if Ten just pushes hard enough, he knows, scrapes at it enough, he knows, to the sharpness just, just beneath. To what will be only his.