The first time Win gets one of those messages he isn’t expecting it.
His boyfriend’s name flashes across the screen (the little heart next to it Win’s own doing), with a simple image attached , and nothing seems out of the ordinary. They send each other mundane snapshots of their lives enough times during a day for it to be embarrassing, and there was nothing to suggest this message would be anything else. Expecting something along the lines of a picture of Team’s dinner, Win opens it in the middle of class.
His breath leaves him in one sharp exhale, his eyes widening as he stares at the screen.
Not dinner then.
Win has never felt so glad to sit in the back row until this moment. They’d sent each other the occasional topless gym selfie before, sure, but this? This was unprecedented. Not unwelcome - a message from Team could never be unwelcome - but certainly unexpected.
Thank fuck it wasn’t a video.
Win, fortunately, has the wherewithal to quickly lock his screen, slamming his phone face down on the table with unnecessary force, drawing the attention of his professor to whom he offers a squeaky “sorry!”.
He takes a number of deep breaths.
Pocketing his phone and futilely trying to return his attention to his lecture, Win tries his level best to not think about what he’d just seen - an impossible feat considering his mind is playing the two millisecond memory over and over in some sort of parade of distraction.
It had to be a mistake, right?
Win shakes his head at the thought. There’s no way you could accidentally take a picture like that. Right? Right?
Economic theory swims on the page before him as his professor’s lecture fails to make even a slight impression to his brain. Win isn’t even sure his brain can actually process words right now, quite frankly; his own thoughts are made up entirely of crashing cymbals and white noise and flashing memories of a brief glimpse of exposed skin.
He isn’t proud of how quickly he springs from his seat the moment his professor dismisses the class, throwing his things haphazardly into his bag and dashing out of the door before half of his classmates have even looked up from their work.
He half-runs half-sprints his way back to his dorm room, thanking every deity he can think of that he’d chosen to live on campus. If he had to take a bus in his current state, he thinks, he could very well run the risk of being arrested for public indecency.
Jabbing the key sharply into the lock of his single room, Win rushes inside and collapses onto his bed, the door swinging shut firmly behind him. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he groans as it opens on the same screen he’d hastily closed not twenty minutes earlier.
It’s deceptively simple, at first glance. Team is in the centre of the photo, kneeling on his bed with his arms behind him, the pose causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and expose the flat planes of his stomach. Only his left hand is visible, the other hidden behind his body, and his fingers are clenched in the bedsheets. Win’s sheets, he realises; the ones he’d left with Team when he left for the UK nearly three months ago.
Looking closer, Win realises Team is also wearing Win’s shorts. They’re a sinfully thin pair of black running shorts that Win had always felt came up too short and too sheer on him, but on Team they are nothing short of criminal. On the other man the issue was less with their length and more with the tightness. Whilst Win himself is a thin sort of muscular, boarding on lanky, Team is much more filled out. Win personally loves it; loves the feeling of Team’s muscles under his hands, a reminder of how strong his sweet and shy boyfriend actually is. He delights in the way the muscles of those powerful thighs will jump and twitch whenever Win would drag his fingertips from knee to groin, teasing as he would avoid the one place Team wanted him to touch. But seeing those muscles made to appear so much bigger by the tight fabric of Win’s own shorts was setting every single synapse in Win’s brain into overdrive, slowing his thoughts until every brain cell can do nothing except focus on the waistband of those shorts and, more specifically, what was peeking out over the top.
Yep. That was a dick alright.
Did you just send me a nude???????
[Team <3 | 15:13]
[Team <3 | 15:13]
You have to be naked for it to be a nude, hia.
Win blinks at his screen.
Half your dick is out, Team.
He waits a long time for a response, the little dots that signaled Team was typing continuously appearing and disappearing.
[Team <3 | 15:19]
I think you’re hallucinating, hia.
[Team <3 | 15:20]
Maybe London is bad for you.
Win clicks back to the photo. Surely not? Sure, it’s been a while since Win has managed to spend some quality time with his right hand and his favourite memories of Team, but he couldn’t be that horny, right?
Nope. He definitely was not hallucinating.
I don’t think I am, Team.
[Team <3 | 15:22]
I just wanted to send you a photo of my outfit.
[Team <3 | 15:22]
I won’t next time.
No no no please do.
Or you could wear less.
That’s cool, too.
[Team <3 | 15:24]
[Team <3 | 15:24]
I need to wear clothes to send you a picture of my outfit.
[Team <3 | 15:24]
Do they teach you anything at grad school?
Clothes-less pictures are absolutely welcome, that’s all I’m saying.
He doesn’t get a response for a long time - too long, in fact, and Win has to resort to taking matters into his own hands. Quite literally. He would almost be embarrassed by how quickly he manages to get himself off, but he’d dare anyone to look at that photo of Team and last longer. Well, maybe not a photo of Team, but still.
It’s not until three or so hours later that Win’s phone chimes with another message, but this time it’s completely innocent; nothing more than a simple message from Team before he goes to sleep. Win sends back a cheesy message, filled with lines of emojis that he knows will make Team blush and roll his eyes in equal measure, before locking his phone.
What a day.
The second time Win gets one of those photos, he’s in a much safer location. He’s also supposed to be working on a paper, but honestly, just how important are international management principles, anyway. Unlocking his phone, it takes only a single glance to confirm that yes, he has much much more important things to be doing. Namely, jumping onto his bed and settling down for a good time.
The picture Team has sent him this time is somehow, impossibly, even more risqué.
He’s on his knees again, the silky sheets of the bed pooling around his calves, but this time his body is facing away from the camera. He’s also leaning back slightly, his face turned just enough that Win can see the sharp angle of his nose and the soft blush of his cheek.
Win’s gulp is audible.
The physical effort Team is exerting by holding himself at that angle is visible in the bulging muscles of his thighs, and Win can feel the saliva begin to pool in his mouth as his eyes roam over the wide expanse of skin on show. Skin that he knows is deliciously soft and supple to the touch.
Making matters both worse and exponentially better at the same time is how Team has managed to take the photo at the exact time of day when the light of the setting sun streams through the window, casting a deep warm hue over everything in the room; the slats of the blind breaking the light’s path and draping horizontal shadows over the planes of Team’s body.
If Win wasn’t currently both horny and possessive in equal measure he would be submitting this photo to the Louvre for immediate consideration.
As it stands, he simply lets his head fall back against the headboard as he pulls in a deep breath.
Fuck, his boyfriend is gorgeous. And likely to be the death of him.
Win palms himself through his sweatpants, keeping the pressure light as he lets himself drink in more of the photo in front of him. Team is wearing little more than a thin shirt, the sort of loose cotton number he is fond of sleeping in, Win knows, and it rests tantalisingly at the swell of his ass. The fabric ruffles slightly, displaced by the angle Team is at, but it only serves to draw attention to the plump skin facing the camera.
He’s not wearing anything underneath.
Win groans, and barely possesses the presence of mind to reach over and turn some music on. He thinks the walls are thick enough, if he’s careful, but he’s sure his flatmates probably don’t want to hear him just in case.
Letting the fingers of his right hand slip teasingly below the band of his sweatpants, Win sends a quick message with his left.
You're gorgeous, baby.
He’s not expecting Team to respond, the other boy notoriously shy - despite the images he’s been sending - but he’s pleasantly surprised when the phone he’d abandoned on the sheets beside him dings with a response.
Slowing his hand from where it had begun to dip under his underwear, he unlocks his phone with a swipe.
[Team <3 | 14:09]
Win grins at his screen. He doesn’t need to see Team to know that the man is probably blushing, a deep flush that always reached the lobes of his ears. Fuck, Win wishes he were there so he could bite them; little nips that would surely draw the cutest of squeaks from the younger man.
I think you should send more ;)
[Team <3 | 14:11]
Win laughs. Worth a try , he thinks, as he finally takes himself in hand, sweeping a thumb through the precome gathering at the tip and using it to ease the slide. Never one to rush pleasure, Win continues to stroke himself lazily, the friction from his bare hand and the rub of his underwear just the right side of uncomfortable. He’s just beginning to work up a rhythm, debating whether or not to bring out the lube now or later, when his phone buzzes again.
[Team <3 | 14:16]
He scrambles to pick up his phone, only to drop it again almost immediately, biting down into his fist with a groan. Team was going to kill him.
The room is much darker this time, the only light coming from a single lamp on Team’s desk. The gentle yellow of the light casts long shadows across the room, causing much of Team’s body to be swathed in a dim golden glow. His first picture must have been taken earlier, if the presence of the setting sun was anything to go by. Win files that bit of information away for later, refusing to miss an opportunity to coo over the fact that his boyfriend planned his nudes for aesthetics. At present, however, he had far more pressing tasks at hand. Or rather, in hand.
Team has turned around, Win notices with a swift exhale of breath, his front now on display. All of him, just for Win. His outfit is the same as before, but this time Team has brought a hand up to his chest, dragging the loose fabric of his shirt up with it. If Win looks closely, he can see the younger man’s thumb; can almost imagine the way Team is swiping it across his own nipple, the sensation causing him to throw his head back. Win lets his eyes sweep along the column of Team’s neck, muscles pulled taught. Win wants nothing more than to be there beside him, to bite and lick his way up that elongated expanse of skin until he reaches that spot under Team’s jaw that drives him wild.
Fuck I wish I was there, Team.
Touch yourself for me baby.
Just the thought of his boyfriend, thousands of miles across the globe, tugging himself to completion at the same time as Win is enough to bring him to the brink, and he has to take his hands away to stop himself coming too soon. Not yet. He needs to hear from Team one more time first. Just once.
He opens the photo once more, swallowing deeply as he takes in the deep flush of Team’s erection, standing proud against the flat expanse of his stomach. Win can almost taste it, can almost feel the weight of him in his mouth.
Letting his head fall back with a groan, he tightens his grip on his own erection, now almost impossibly hard. He strokes himself leisurely, twisting at the head in the way that always makes him gasp, as he wishes it were Team’s hands instead of his own.
[Team <3 | 14:21]
I want you here too, hia.
[Team <3 | 14:22]
You feel so much better.
[Team <3 | 14:25]
The sight of Team, his back pressed against the headboard as he sits with knees bent in front of him, one hand on his dick and the other pressing two fingers into his open mouth, is enough to send Win over the edge. He bites down almost painfully on his fist to quieten his shout as he comes, stars erupting behind his eyes as he strokes himself through his orgasm, the image of Team seared into his mind whilst he works himself into overstimulation.
Panting, he comes back to himself a few moments later, distantly noticing the mess he’s made of his sheets.
Worth it , he thinks. So worth it.
A month passes before Team sends the next photo. Win had tried a couple of times to instigate something, sending the occasional dirty text and at least one hastily shot video of himself, but Team hadn’t returned in kind. Win didn’t mind, of course; he was more than happy to do all of this on Team’s terms. Still, it had been long enough that Win unlocks his phone without giving it much thought, one eye still on the journal article he had open on his laptop as he taps on the message notification.
When it loads, he nearly drops his phone.
The picture is from a slightly different angle this time, the phone evidently propped up on the dresser at the foot of Team’s bed, allowing the bed to fill the shot. It’s not quite in the centre, and the whole photo is positioned slightly strangely, almost as if Team had taken it on whim. Warmth blooms in Win’s chest at the thought of Team thinking of Win as he pleasures himself, deciding to send another delicious picture just for him. He loves this, loves the way Team helps them keep that little piece of intimacy despite the distance.
Team himself is on his back near the headboard, a pillow stuffed under his hips whilst his legs hang in the air, toes curling at the pleasure that can be seen on his face. His dick lays almost flat against his stomach, the deep flush visible even in the dim lighting, and Win’s mouth dries at the sight of the way it glistens - from either lube or precome, Win can’t tell. Fuck, he wishes he could tell. Team has one hand fisting the bedsheets beside him, the silk bunching in his tightly closed fist, whilst the other sits between his legs, fingers pressing deep as he works himself open.
This time Win does drop his phone.
Scrambling to pick it up from where it bounces along the floor of his room, Win fires off a couple of texts in response, absentmindedly palming at his growing bulge as he does.
Fuck Team what the fcjk.
Shit im so glad im at home.
Shit im so mad I’m not with yoy.
Fair is fair, he thinks, pulling himself out of his underwear, a couple of quick tugs bringing him to full hardness. He takes a sloppy photo, all shadows and strange angles, but he doesn’t pay too much attention as he sends it to Team. His boyfriend might be aesthetic, but Win is just plain horny.
He waits almost ten minutes for a response, leisurely stroking himself as he wonders if Team will respond at all. He’s about to abandon his phone for good when it vibrates in his hand, the proximity to his groin making his dick jump at the threat of stimulation. A low groan makes it way out of Win’s throat, unbidden, as he thumbs haphazardly at the screen.
Win’s consciousness temporarily leaves his body in a rush of white noise.
The picture that greets him is more than Win could have imagined in even his wildest of fantasies. Really, the photo isn’t all that different than the one Team had sent at first, but oh what a difference the difference makes.
Team has shifted slightly, his body further down on the bed and positioned at a slight angle. No longer propped up by the headboard, Team’s head lays flat against the bed, lips pressed together in what Win imagines is an attempt to keep quiet. He makes quite the picture like that, feet now planted on the bed as he cants his hips up slightly, chasing the feeling of his hands between his thighs, of his fingers searching for a spot Win knows Team struggles to reach by himself.
Except, Win notices with a start, it’s not Team’s fingers doing the searching.
There, nestled between his legs, just about visible through the fingers of the hand gripping it, is some sort of toy.
Win stares at the screen for long moments, blood rushing in his ears as he pulls in deep breath after deep breath. Slowly he comes back to himself, noting with a foggy mind that the almost painful grip he has on the head of his cock is perhaps the only thing stopping him from coming on the spot. He’s not entirely sure he hasn’t.
Win’s thoughts feel heavy, like he’s wading through honey just to form even basic cognition, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s pressed the video call function, his own flushed face staring back at him as he waits for Team to pick up. If Team will pick up.
The cheery jingle of the LINE call sound seems to stretch on for several eternities, Win’s entire consciousness narrowed down to his bed and the screen in front of him. Centuries pass, or at least thirty seconds, before the call connects, and Win’s own panting face zooms into the corner as the image of his beautiful, angelic, masterpiece of a boyfriend fills the main screen.
“Team, baby - hi.” Win breathes, unable to stop the grin that reaches from ear to ear.
Team is on all fours, now down near the foot of the bed to where he’s propped his phone, his hair sticking damply to his forehead as he returns Win’s smile with a shy one of his own.
“Hi hia,” he whispers, and Win’s heart clenches at the life-shattering effect of Team being cute whilst simultaneously looking so debauched. The image of Team right now could probably end wars, Win thinks - at least if the opposing side was Win.
Win drags in a breath, desperately pulling in oxygen as his mind clambers valiantly back into action. It wouldn’t do to die before they’d finished, he supposes.
“Is this okay?” he asks, temporarily taking a hand off himself to gesture vaguely at the phone.
Team laughs, sitting back on his heels as he brushes the hair from his forehead. Win tries his best to keep his eyes on his boyfriend’s face; a Herculean effort when the man’s dick was standing proudly in full view of the screen.
“It’s fine, hia.” Team says softly, smile still on his lips. The slightly grainy effect of the phone call does nothing to hide the glint that sparks behind his gaze as his smile transforms into a smirk. “Although, I do think I deserve a better look at you.”
Win’s eyes flick up to the little box containing his own face, laughing at the unattractive closeup of his chin and nostrils resulting from how close he’d pulled the screen. He shifts so that he is facing his headboard, arranging his pillows so they prop up his phone, and scoots back so that most of him is in shot, shucking his underwear off as he goes. The sharp intake of Team’s breathe doesn’t go unnoticed, the noise carrying through the connection, and Win smirks.
“Like what you see?” From this distance, Win can’t be completely sure, but he swears he sees Team lick his lips.
“Ah, hia,” the other man whines, bringing a hand up to stroke himself, “I wish I could touch you.”
“Me too, baby.” Win returns, eyes falling shut as he copies his boyfriend’s movements, the soft pants coming through the phone making him, impossibly, even harder. A hitch in Team’s breath makes Win open his eyes, and a groan rips from his throat as he watches Team’s other hand disappear between his legs again, the younger man raising his hips to make room.
All at once, Win remembers.
“Team,” he says shakily, slowing the movement of his hand as he tries again to calm that delicious heat in his stomach. “What’s that on the bed?” he asks, inclining his head slightly as he gestures to the purple object laying at the base of Team’s pillows.
Win can’t be sure, of course, but he would be willing to bet Team’s cheeks get even redder.
“Ah, hia,” he starts, whining slightly as Win watches him twist the hand between his legs. “It’s - ah - a toy.”
Win hums, raising an eyebrow at the thought. “And why do you have a toy, Team?”
“Well, some of us have boyfriends who decide to study halfway across the world, hia.” he huffs, both hands quickening slightly at the change in tone.
Inwardly, Win supposes that’s a fair statement. Team had always been particularly fond of having something in his ass. Why they’d not thought to include toys before was a mystery, now that he thought about it. Win filed the information away for later, deciding it was worth returning to when thoughts unrelated to his impending orgasm were easier to manage.
“So why aren’t you using it now?”
Team gasps, falling back on his heels as he reaches behind him with one hand, the other still pumping in time with Win’s own motions. Sitting up again, Win watches as Team positions it behind him, slowly starting to sink down before Win interrupts.
“Ah ah, let me see.”
Team groans low in his chest as he shifts on his knees, turning to the side so that Win can see where the tip of the toy disappears into his boyfriend; the sight, Win thinks, might be the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had. Up close, Win can see the shape of the toy better, and he notes with a small sense of smugness that it’s smaller than he himself is. It’s certainly longer than Team’s fingers though, if the long groan Team lets out as he pushes it in further is anything to go by.
“You’re so gorgeous, baby,” Win says, leaning forward as he keeps his eyes fixed on the way his boyfriend works the toy in and out, dragging gasp after gasp out of the younger man.
“Wish it was you, hia” he whines, and Win can only enthusiastically agree, the heat curling deep in his stomach getting tighter and tighter. His toes curl in the sheets at the dual physical and visual input, and he holds his hand still as he moves his hips upwards, thumb swiping over the head with every thrust.
“I’m close, baby” he warns, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he watches Team twist his hand again, a high keening accompanying the turns of his wrist.
“But, hia-” he pants, turning his head to stare straight down the camera as he slowly, ever so slowly, pulls the toy almost completely out, “you haven’t seen the best bit.”
Win makes a questioning noise, eyes watching the toy’s slow exit, as Team reaches his other hand back to grasp the base, index finger pressing at something Win can’t quite see.
All at once, Team cries out as he sinks back onto the toy, falling forward onto one forearm as the other continues thrusting, and Win gasps as he begins to hear the rhythmic buzzing.
The sight of his boyfriend, cheek pressed into the bed as he reaches one hand behind him, cock flushed and ignored as he chases his pleasure elsewhere is too much for Win, and he comes with a shout, Team’s name on his lips.
He hears his boyfriend follow suit moments later, the sound of his own name carrying through the phone like music to his ears as hot ropes of come hit his chest, and he leans back on his elbows as he waits to catch his breath.
Distantly he hears the sound of buzzing stop, Team’s soft whines stopping with it, and he opens his eyes to watch Team roll sideways onto his back, head lifting slightly so that he can grin at Win.
Win returns the grin with a soft chuckle, and before long they’re both laughing down the phone, riding the post-orgasm high until it’s time to hang up; both happy, sated, and more than a little sticky.
When his LINE chat dings! with a notification that evening, Win is torn between anticipation and trepidation. Still thoroughly spent from their… activities that afternoon, he clicks on the message with a shaky finger.
[Team <3 | 19:02]
I miss you, hia…
I love you too, Team.