(no subject)
new : fanfic : super junior
rating : R?
pairing : heechul x yehsung
suju 100 fic challenge. warning: light BDSM, kinks.
006. burn
The air is heavy with the scent of spiced apples when you enter the room.
Jongoon's games are rarely straightforward, but when he comes to you like this, you don't ask questions. You don't need to.
You don't bother turning on the light, either; the candles will be more than adequate, and the flickering flames turn his skin an otherworldly shade of gold where he is stretched face-down on your bed, bare from his neck to where his hips disappear under the scant modesty of a clinging sheet.
All crimson and gold decadence and the soft jet of his hair, he is spread out and waiting without a word, and you won't leave him hanging.
It's a matter of moments to reach across him, drawing his hands above his head and binding them together to the headboard. His breath hitches even when you touch him, when you tighten the knots in the scarf (this is how you know he needs it badly today, although he won't admit it in so many words, now or ever).
You're in no rush, now--all he can do is flex and strain impotently, as you trail your fingers along his arms, trace his shoulders, and skim every muscle in his back. You lick the line of his shoulderblade just to watch him tremble, impatient and fighting not to show it. You know exactly what he wants, but you'll take your time getting there.
If it's too easy for him, he won't be satisfied. If it's too easy for you, you might get bored.
The first spill of wax spatters across his skin, fresh and hot and as crimson as the sheets, and he jolts when it touches him, a deep moan clawing its way out past set teeth. His wrists pull at the binding, but he is arching his back up into it after the initial recoil, begging wordlessly for more.
You give it to him.
By the time the last candle gutters out on a puff of your breath, he is sweat-soaked and decorated from wrists to heels in abstract patterns of hardening wax, each one leaving behind a faint pink welt to remind him (when he moves, when he breathes, every time his clothes slide against his skin he'll be thinking of this). Whatever he's done, whatever's eating at him, the guilt will peel cleanly away like cooled wax, will leave a tender spot behind so he knows he's been absolved.
This is how it works.
rating : R?
pairing : heechul x yehsung
suju 100 fic challenge. warning: light BDSM, kinks.
006. burn
The air is heavy with the scent of spiced apples when you enter the room.
Jongoon's games are rarely straightforward, but when he comes to you like this, you don't ask questions. You don't need to.
You don't bother turning on the light, either; the candles will be more than adequate, and the flickering flames turn his skin an otherworldly shade of gold where he is stretched face-down on your bed, bare from his neck to where his hips disappear under the scant modesty of a clinging sheet.
All crimson and gold decadence and the soft jet of his hair, he is spread out and waiting without a word, and you won't leave him hanging.
It's a matter of moments to reach across him, drawing his hands above his head and binding them together to the headboard. His breath hitches even when you touch him, when you tighten the knots in the scarf (this is how you know he needs it badly today, although he won't admit it in so many words, now or ever).
You're in no rush, now--all he can do is flex and strain impotently, as you trail your fingers along his arms, trace his shoulders, and skim every muscle in his back. You lick the line of his shoulderblade just to watch him tremble, impatient and fighting not to show it. You know exactly what he wants, but you'll take your time getting there.
If it's too easy for him, he won't be satisfied. If it's too easy for you, you might get bored.
The first spill of wax spatters across his skin, fresh and hot and as crimson as the sheets, and he jolts when it touches him, a deep moan clawing its way out past set teeth. His wrists pull at the binding, but he is arching his back up into it after the initial recoil, begging wordlessly for more.
You give it to him.
By the time the last candle gutters out on a puff of your breath, he is sweat-soaked and decorated from wrists to heels in abstract patterns of hardening wax, each one leaving behind a faint pink welt to remind him (when he moves, when he breathes, every time his clothes slide against his skin he'll be thinking of this). Whatever he's done, whatever's eating at him, the guilt will peel cleanly away like cooled wax, will leave a tender spot behind so he knows he's been absolved.
This is how it works.