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Jang Jae-young is a toucher. He’s tactile, no bones about it – he gravitates towards an easy arm slung over a shoulder, towards feet tucked under another’s legs, towards the soft affirmation of another’s warmth against his.
Chu Sang-woo isn’t, doesn’t, and it leaves Jae-young on the wrong foot, off-balanced, never quite sure what to say or how to say it when his go-to taps and nudges are off the table. But – as some kind of fragile, delicate peace begins to bloom between them – he resolves to learn (and resolves also, just as strongly, not to think too deeply about why he cares so much). Learning how to use his words is a small price to pay if it means Chu Sang-woo will let his guard down, even just a little.
He never considers that Chu Sang-woo might be doing the same.
Until, of course, Chu Sang-woo upends everything he’s been working for by petting him on the head.
It’s an average spring day, not too hot and not too cold, nothing outstanding about it, except for the way the programmer’s fingers are carding slowly, gently, perhaps even lovingly through his hair. Jae-young freezes entirely, every atom in his body straining, silently and desperately, towards the hand of the man across from him. They’re outside, on a shitty university bench next to the vending machine that only rarely works, and it should be ridiculous, Jae-young should be able to shrug it off and laugh or joke – but Chu Sang-woo’s hands are on his head and his voice is in his ears and Jae-young thinks, desperately, that he might, actually, be dying.
(He refuses to acknowledge the thought that comes after, the one that sounds suspiciously like this wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.)
Chu Sang-woo’s pets are almost hesitant, each stroke as soft as his voice, the words only an octave or two above a whisper as he murmurs a quiet good job. And it’s that, even more than the lingering touch, that splinters across Jaeyoung’s awareness, that has him swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort it takes him.
(Chu Sang-woo tilts his head, ever so slightly, hooded eyes looking down at the seated Jae-young from an artificially tall angle, and Jae-young has to remind himself five separate times that Chu Sang-woo is not, despite what it might look like, tracking the lines of his throat.)
(He very nearly manages to convince himself.)
There’s a pause, the air between them oddly silent for all that the hustle and bustle of students can be heard all around them, and then Chu Sang-woo is grabbing his stuff, is walking away, and so Jae-young forces himself to snap out of it, to do what he does best –
He runs after him.
If later, at home alone, he remembers that quiet good job, remembers the intensity of Chu Sang-woo’s gaze, remembers the way Chu Sangwoo’s fingers had sifted through the strands of his hair, remembers the weight of Chu Sangwoo’s attention…
If he lets himself imagine the scene in a different setting, imagines Sang-woo trailing a fingertip down his cheek and a palm across his chest, imagines arching into those delicate hands as Sangwoo tells him good job, hyung, good job for me…
Well.
There’s no one else around but him.
(So much happens – they kiss, they fight, they make up; they kiss again and fight again and make up again – that Jae-young forgets it, lets the memory get covered up in their new experiences.)
(Chu Sang-woo doesn’t, but Jae-young doesn’t know that yet.)
“Hyung, can I try something?” Chu Sang-woo’s voice is light, teasing, as though he’s aware that there is no possible way that Jae-young will deny him – and, well, maybe he is. Jae-young hasn’t exactly tried to hide how besotted he is with the prickly programmer. He’s definitely not trying to hide anything now, not when said programmer is straddling him on their old, beat-up couch, the one Jae-young refused to leave behind and nearly broke a leg trying to move into their new, shared, third floor apartment.
A year into dating, a month into returning from France, and he’s whipped, pure and simple. Jae-young decides to make the younger man work for it anyway, biting back the yes, whatever it is, anything you want threatening to spill over his lips in favor of a lackadaisical shrug, letting his head fall back slightly to bring his gaze back up towards Sang-woo’s face.
…This attempt at sangfroid backfires almost instantly, because even the slightest of movements increases the friction and pressure between them. The catch of Sangwoo’s jeans drags against his stomach, the weight of the other man settling further against him, pressing down against where he is straining against his own pants, and Jae-young can’t help the harsh hiss that leaks out of him.
He’d be annoyed at Sang-woo’s triumphant expression if it wasn’t so cute.
Ah, well. So much for seeming unaffected. He’d never really had much of a chance anyway, not with Chu Sang-woo strong and glorious above him, both their shirts off, a blush working its way up the younger man’s chest. It’s a good look, Jae-young thinks; for all that the other man hates red, Chu Sang-woo sure looks beautiful in it.
He leans forward to trail sloppy kisses along the other’s collarbone, forgetting, for a moment, that Chu Sang-woo asked him a question. He only remembers when he realizes Chu Sang-woo hasn’t moved or responded, that his expression is in fact placid, eyes peering out at Jae-young as he waits for an answer. His programmer has a tendency to get a bit…stuck, sometimes. Jae-young stifles a sigh that he knows is going to sound more affectionate than exasperated, and tilts his face up, chin resting on the planes of Sang-woo’s chest. “Alright, Sang-woo ah , what is it?”
Chu Sang-woo doesn’t answer right away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth (and Jae-young is gone, truly, because all he wants to do is suck that lip between his teeth, instead). After a pregnant pause, Sang-woo pushes him back, gently, and begins dragging his fingertips slowly up the length of Jae-young’s chest, all the way up to his neck, letting them trail long and slow up and down the sides of Jae-young’s throat. Jae-young can’t help it; his breath hitches, mouth drying, his whole body zeroing in on Sang-woo’s hands against the vulnerable catch of his throat.
Gently, delicately, Sang-woo starts pressing down, ever so slightly, on the tail end of every pass of his fingers, the pressure causing his fingertips to catch slightly along the edges of Jae-young’s throat. Jae-young’s fingers are twitching, grasping mindlessly where they rest on Sang-woo’s thighs, and he’s starting to keen, just a little bit, without quite being aware of it. As though in response, Sang-woo drags his motions out longer, tantalizingly slowly; he presses down just a faint bit harder, as though just to tease, as though just to see the way Jae-young arcs beneath him, eyes widening, mouth falling ever so slightly open.
Jae-young would protest, or maybe complain, because Sang-woo is being mean to him again, is doing that thing where he gets lost in Jae-young’s sensations, where he gets caught in the web of Jae-young’s reactions, and he loves it but that doesn’t mean it’s fair – except then Sang-woo leans in, and the hand around Jae-young’s throat stills, settles, the pressure solidifying as Sang-woo pushes down incrementally, inexorable and inescapable. Jae-young, in the increasingly shrinking part of his brain that can still function, has the sudden, crystal-clear realization that Sang-woo has precisely calculated this, has likely done research on how much pressure is safe, and he whines, impossibly turned on, hands scrabbling at Sang-woo’s sides, because isn’t that just horrifically and all-consumingly sexy –
“Hyung?” Sang-woo sounds worried, and the pressure around his throat lifts, and Jae-young doesn’t like that, doesn’t like that at all, even if he can’t quite marshall enough brain cells to figure out why. “Hyung, are you ok?”
The person Sang-woo’s asking after doesn’t answer, and it takes a couple seconds before Jae-young realizes that that’s him, actually, that he’s the hyung Sang-woo is calling out to and that he should, probably, say something. He licks his lips, grappling with foggy thoughts made foggier by the reminder that Sang-woo calls him hyung now, and that Sang-woo likes him enough to kiss him now. It’s been a year , but it’s still as revolutionary as the first time, and his brain feels overheated, oversensitized, run ragged and run down with the effort of trying to make sense of all the feelings he has for the asshole of a programmer sitting on top of him.
It’s only when that weight across his hips starts lightening up, Sang-woo clearly pulling back, expression pinched and nervous, that Jae-young remembers he was being asked a question. Sang-woo bites his lip, clearly wondering if he’s done something wrong, and Jae-young absolutely cannot have that. Not only because his dick would dearly regret the loss of Sang-woo pressing down on top of him, but also because Sang-woo is perfect, is everything Jae-young never even realized he wanted, and it’s suddenly pressingly important that Sang-woo knows that. Jae-young raises a shaking hand to rest atop Sang-woo’s own, trapping those long fingers back against his throat. He absolutely does not think about the way Sang-woo’s eyes go wide and wondering, because he needs to stay focused right now. He can be horny in a moment, once they’ve cleared this all up.
“Sang-woo ah , you’re being unfair to me. How can I stay focused when I have you on top of me?” He waggles an eyebrow, exaggerated and silly, and something in his chest loosens when Sang-woo huffs, his heart warming, a curl of steam on a wintry day. Jae-young taps a hand lightly at Sang-woo’s cheek as though in admonishment and teases, “Mr. Chu, are you trying to take advantage of me? Asking me questions when you know I can’t answer?”
Sang-woo rolls his eyes, mouth finally starting to twitch out of its faint frown. His voice, though, is still quiet, unsure, fingers remaining hesitant against Jae-young’s skin. “Should I have been more clear? It seemed like this was something you wanted, but the internet said it was a good idea to ask. Was that alright?”
Jae-young nods, eager to let Sang-woo know he’s alright, more than alright even, even as he’s also wincing, something that might be embarrassment curdling in his throat. Who knows what kind of crazy content Sang-woo found Googling… whatever he Googled to get them here. He’s about to ask what, exactly, Sang-woo found on the “internet,” when his eyes narrow, the first portion of Sang-woo’s statement finally hitting him.
“It… seemed like something I wanted?”
Sang-woo shrugs, casual as usual in ways Jae-young never would have expected, though he supposes it tracks with the other’s incessantly blunt nature. “I’ve noticed the way you’ve responded to me touching you. And then, when I accidentally tripped and knocked you over the other day, even though I jostled hard against your neck, it was obvious that your pupils dilated, plus your breathing –”
Jae-young cuts him off, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “Yes, yes, Sang-woo ah , I get the picture.” He clears his throat, searches for stable ground, gives up, and sinks back into the couch behind him, resigned but somehow grateful for it, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. “You’re something else, Chu Sang-woo.”
There’s a pause, both of them waiting for something, something Jae-young can feel forming just on the tip of his tongue.
He sighs, whispers a silent farewell to his dignity, and lets it out.
“But… Yes. You’re right. This is something I want, if you want to give it to me.” Sang-woo narrows his eyes, slipping into what Jae-young affectionately considers his “thinking face,” and it’s like something breaks between them, the last dregs of tension slipping away. Jae-young can breathe again, chest loosening, because it’s just them, just him and Sang-woo, two idiots who’ve made it this far despite everything. He runs an adoring fingertip along the outside of Sang-woo’s forearm, tracing along the fine musculature, and Sang-woo relaxes, ever so faintly. “I’ve never wanted anyone quite like I want you, Sang-woo ah, but I can be patient.”
Sang-woo laughs at that, and Jae-young tugs at his hair in retribution, because he’s trying here, even after Sang-woo caused all his brain cells to leak out his ears. He takes a deep breath and goes for broke: “I mean it. I want this – want you , but only if you want that to. I don’t need...” Jae-young stutters, a little unsure how to address Sang-woo’s knees around his hips and fingers around his neck. He eventually settles on waving vaguely at their current position. “Well, this, to be happy with you. I love how we have sex already.”
Sang-woo tilts his head, consideringly, drumming his fingers absently along the edges of Jae-young’s neck as he thinks. Jae-young tries very hard not to notice it.
“But hyung, what if I need it? What if I like how it makes me feel?”
Jae-young chokes, and Sang-woo smiles, and it hits Jae-young with the force of a truck. There’s something entirely feral, sharp and glinting, about the way Sang-woo’s lips curve around his teeth, and Jae-young flops back, groaning, because he’s never really been able to resist Chu Sang-woo, least of all when he looks like that – like the cat that got the canary and cream both.
Chu Sang-woo presses his advantage, because of course he does, leaning further into Jae-young’s space, fingers catching along the dip of his throat. “Can I, hyung?” Jae-young makes as though to speak, but Chu Sang-woo stops him, lifts his chin back with surprisingly strong fingers, forcing the column of Jae-young’s throat to extend. His voice is hushed, intent, a promise meant just for Jae-young, “Hyung… will you be good for me, and let me be good for you?”
Time feels heavy and slow between them, something unnameable in the space between their inhales, in the muscles between their ribs. Jae-young wets his lips (ignoring, or rather failing to ignore, the way that Sang-woo zeroes in on the flick of his tongue). He discovered, early on in their time together, that the scariest thing about Chu Sang-woo in bed is that he’s brutally, viciously honest. What might be sweet talk or white lies from any other partner are bald truths in Chu Sang-woo’s mouth, and it never ceases to take Jae-young’s breath away. When Chu Sang-woo says he wants to watch Jae-young break apart, he means it, wholly and entirely.
And, really, who is Jae-young to deny such a heartfelt request?
So he nods, because there is really no world, no life, where he chooses any other option. Chu Sang-woo grins, so blinding that Jae-young is pretty sure it’s leaving spots in his vision. The younger man leans in for a quick peck, almost chaste, before reaching down between them to fumble with the zippers of their pants. Jae-young makes as though to help and earns himself a nip on the ear for his trouble, as well as Sang-woo’s hands off his dick (tragedy) and onto his wrists (less of a tragedy), pinning them to his sides. Jae-young wiggles, slightly and fruitlessly, sparing a fleeting thought to wonder how, exactly, the notoriously skinny Sang-woo is managing to keep him in place. Perhaps the other man’s morning exercises really aren’t just for show, even if they’re the same moves he’s seen grandmas do in the park on his morning skates to school.
“I thought you were going to be good for me, hyung.” There’s a pout in Sang-woo’s voice, and Jae-young freezes. Inexplicably, he feels the sudden urge to yell, or maybe cry, because he does, really, he just didn’t realize –
Sang-woo kisses him, and the nameless panic recedes. There’s something that might be indulgence in the other’s tone when Sang-woo murmurs, “It’s ok, I get it. I just want to touch you, too.” The younger man’s voice turns thoughtful, measured, the same tone Jae-young has heard him use when he’s working his way, piece by piece, through a tricky bit of script, and he feels himself heat up, electricity skimming through him at being the focus of Sang-woo’s attention, of Sang-woo’s mind. It only gets stronger when Sang-woo finally speaks.
“Is that what you want, hyung? To make me feel good?”
Jae-young nods, just on the edge of frantic, not even minding when Sang-woo laughs. His cock is aching, the faintest sheen of sweat starting to form on his brow, his breaths harried and shallow, but none of that matters because Sang-woo is long and lean above him, is guiding Jae-young’s hand down towards his fly, is encouraging Jae-young to show me, hyung, just how good you can be for me.
Sang-woo’s cock is, for lack of a better word, pretty, just like the rest of him. Jae-young strokes him slowly, lets his thumb linger around the head, lets himself get lost in the tiny hitches in Sang-woo’s breath, in the way Sang-woo’s hips stutter. With every passing second, Sang-woo presses his leaking cock further into Jae-young’s grasp, each jerk of his body rubbing up against Jae-young’s still clothed crotch. Jae-young falls in, succumbs to Sang-woo’s gravity, mouthing messily at the planes of Sang-woo’s chest as he does, feeling the way Sang-woo heaves and arcs rumble through his lips and teeth and gums.
Above him, Sang-woo is speaking, praises and love and gibberish in equal measure, and below him, Sang-woo’s body is pressing up into him, is shaking open beneath him and for him. Jae-young feels like he’s burning up, or maybe freezing, too hot or too cold or simply too much , every nerve ending on high alert. He feels Sang-woo seize up, and he opens his eyes, feeling sluggish, desperate, as he braces his forehead against the other’s shoulder, gaze fixed on where Sang-woo is coming, hard, all over both their bellies with a shaky hyung on his lips.
It’s incredibly, unbelievably sexy, and Jae-young isn’t sure which of them is more overwhelmed, is panting more heavily. Sang-woo’s fingers are clutching at his biceps, twitching irregularly, and Jae-young feels like twitching himself. He’s so turned on he’s nearly vibrating, his heart beating two times too fast, but he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to interrupt, doesn’t want to rush Sang-woo’s comedown, doesn’t want to mess up the delicate process of Sang-woo slipping back into himself.
The pause between them grows, stretching out, and Jae-young finally manages to wrangle his breathing back into something approaching normal. He’s just about to move them, to lay Sang-woo down so he can grab supplies to clean them up (and, maybe, take care of his own… problem in the bathroom on the way), when Sang-woo nuzzles up against him, clearly still sated and pleased. The younger man trails his hands up Jae-young’s sides, letting his nails skirt along the edges of his ribs, and bites, softly, at the curve of Jae-young’s jaw, grinning against his skin when Jae-young starts at the sudden sharpness with a groan, his slightly flagging cock rallying back into action.
“Hyung…” Sang-woo trails a lazy hand down Jae-young’s chest, hooking a slim finger into the elastic of Jae-young’s boxers, sliding his hand along the edge of Jae-young’s pants. “Can I watch you make yourself feel good? As good as you made me feel?”
Jae-young bites back a moan, nodding mindlessly, fingers already fiddling with the zipper of his pants. This is familiar territory for them, in some ways; the choking is new, but Sang-woo has always been fascinated by Jae-young’s reactions, has always loved watching Jae-young bring himself pleasure. He tried to explain it to Jae-young once, that it lets him focus more on how Jae-young is feeling, that his brain short-circuits, sometimes, when he’s the one touching, when he’s trying to process all the different ways to make Jae-young feel good.
Luckily for him, Jae-young is shameless. He’s never been adverse to putting on a show.
Right now, though, his moves are less than practiced. He is so turned on that his fingers are nearly shaking, the first few pumps awkward and uncertain, even with both Sangwoo’s cum and his own precum to ease the way. Sang-woo bites at his jaw again, harder this time, and Jae-young keens, fucking up into his own hand quite unintentionally, and suddenly it all clicks back into place. He’s close, so close, and he nearly cries when Sang-woo leans back, frowning at the loss before he can help it, wanting to reach out to the other man – except then Sang-woo’s fingers are wrapping around his throat, a promise and benediction, and Jae-young is gasping, tipping his own chin back, exposing as much of himself as he can to the other.
Sang-woo hisses at that, a low curse, but Jae-young doesn’t have time to feel proud, because the other man is talking, is telling him, “I’m going to press down now. Tell me if that’s not alright.”
But it is alright, it’s so alright, it’s more than alright, and so he says as much, in garbled, half-spoken words, and then Sang-woo is pressing down, is calling him pretty , is calling him handsome , is telling him you’re so good, hyung, so good and so beautiful and all just for me – Jae-young shatters, sound warping around him, ringing through him, his eyes screwing up and mouth falling lax as he comes on his own hand, Sang-woo’s praise in his ears and Sang-woo’s fingers on his throat.
They’re quiet, for a moment, the apartment hushed and still around them, an odd counterpoint to the harsh gasps of both their breaths. Sang-woo doesn’t give them long to relax, because he’s a bully and also ridiculously fastidious, and Jae-young learned the hard way how petulant the other gets if they don’t clean up immediately after having sex.
(It’s ok, though, because Sang-woo babies him a little, teases him and takes care of him and tucks him into bed, and Jae-young smiles, loopy and sated and pleased. They curl up in Jae-young’s bed together, warm beneath the striped covers, and he murmurs I love you , or maybe Sang-woo says it first, or maybe they say it together.)
(Sang-woo falls asleep first, like clockwork, and Jae-young says it again, says it a million times, presses each word into the creases of Sang-woo’s closed eyes before he falls asleep himself, legs tangled with Sang-woo’s and an arm thrown across the other’s chest.)