[exo] freestyle choreography; yixing/kai; nc-17
Title: Freestyle Choreography
Pairing: Yixing/Kai
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Yixing and Jongin are together in the dance practise room. Yixing is precision. Jongin is freedom.
Word Count: ~2,000
freestyle choreography;;-
// because yixing is precision, and jongin is freedom, and opposites work together //
When Yixing and Jongin fuck, sweaty and panting and already spent from hours of practise, it's a carefully sculpted dance.
A look is all they need. Yixing slumps to the ground after the last strains of Two Moons fade away, shuffling into another track, and runs his hands through damp hair, breathing heavily. Jongin sits next to him, peeling off his jacket and throwing it off to the side.
“Hyung, you tired?”
“Hm?”
Jongin smirks and leans his head against the mirror. Yixing tilts his head, breathing still laboured. He watches the way Jongin’s chest heaves up and down, and then, Jongin turns his head-and there it is. The look that Yixing knows so well. The breathless curl of the lips, right corner slightly higher than the left, tip of his tongue darting out the side-and that's all Yixing needs to reach a hand out and grab Jongin’s wrist and pull Jongin towards him.
Skin on skin, limbs working together in perfect harmony, fingers entwining with hair, knees weak from exhaustion and sheer exhilaration.
They don’t even need to speak to communicate, because they know their bodies, and know each other’s bodies, and a look is all they need.
Move to the beat.
Jongin moves with the fluidity and ease of ten years of losing himself in the music.
Yixing moves with the care and technicality of five years of practised precision.
“Let yourself go,” Jongin murmurs against Yixing's collarbone as he sucks patterns down Yixing’s chest, a hand finding the curve of Yixing's waist.
Yixing grits his teeth and closes his eyes. “Yeah.”
He rolls his hips the only way he knows-the way he's been taught, the way that's been drilled into him countless times, over and over again by dance instructors.
Practised. Always practised. Not natural, not fluid, not like Jongin.
Practised.
Isolate. Wave. Power. Put your weight into it.
Jongin kisses lines down Yixing's jaw, thrusting a hand into Yixing's sweatpants and curling his fingers deftly around Yixing’s cock. Yixing groans, the friction sending tingles through him, and his whole body tenses as Jongin strokes slowly. He clenches tighter on Jongin’s hair, unintentionally yanking Jongin’s head back as Jongin palms him.
Jongin gasps sharply and squeezes. “Ow, hyung, relax. Let me-”
-but feel the rhythm. Feel it, and let it be free.
Yixing throws his head back against the mirror and loosens his grip on Jongin’s hair, spreading his legs so Jongin can kneel comfortably between them, and tries to forget. He tries to forget the rehearsed steps and strict left-rights and one-two-three-fours, the stress of late nights and choreography, and just get lost in the rhythm of Jongin's hand pumping him with an increasingly rough urgency-but it’s difficult forgetting something that’s hard-wired into his brain with permanent ink, like a tattoo. Difficult to forget something so ingrained into him that he’s woken up in the dead of night to find himself standing in the living room, halfway through a piece of choreography.
Jongin rubs his thumb over the slit of Yixing’s cock. Yixing rocks against Jongin’s hand, jaw clenched, feeling the hot friction and the heat building up inside him. Yixing bites his lips and reaches upwards blindly and hopes for Jongin to erase everything for him. Replace it with his freestyle.
“Hyung,” Jongin breathes, “hyung, I want you to-to touch me.” Jongin’s voice is deep, husky, with a hint of unsureness. His eyes are half-lidded, pink lips parted, amd his breath is hot on Yixing’s cheek as he leans over and takes off both their singlets, tossing them to the side on top of the discarded jacket.
Express yourself.
So Yixing reaches up, traces ribs, traces the curve of hipbones, traces Jongin's jawline, his full lips, trailing a gentle finger down Jongin’s bare chest.
Jongin is freedom.
No matter how many times Yixing’s seen the dance, sitting on the bench at the back of the practise room, Jongin makes it new. Mesmerises him. He can’t get enough of Jongin-the way that Jongin, easily-embarrassed, happy-on-the-sidelines Jongin undergoes a change and becomes someone completely different on the dancefloor. The way he spins on his toes, fluid and graceful. The way he hits the beats, hard and accurate. The way he responds to everything in the music, every small lilt, every nuance, every modulation, hips shifting and breath hitching and fingers curling around Yixing as he strokes Yixing harder, faster, breath ragged and free hand digging painfully into Yixing’s upper thigh.
Jongin is freestyle.
Jongin dances with a fiery passion, a hushed urgency-like the world's ending-and when he finally kisses Yixing, Yixing thinks the world’s might actually be ending, because it feels like his tomorrows are being sucked away by a pair of soft, insistent lips. Jongin’s skin burns on Yixing’s, scorching, parching, and Yixing’s overcome by an unquenchable wave of thirst.
Jongin’s what Yixing isn’t, and won’t ever be.
Don’t lose control. Keep it steady.
“I-” Yixing mutters. His voice cracks. He pulls away, steeling himself, trying to regain control and get the upper hand. In the back of his mind he knows it’s no use, because his routine has never bested spontaneity, and he has never bested Jongin. “Fuck, Jongin,” he breathes, hips arching upwards. His hands fumble for the drawstring of Jongin’s sweatpants and he tugs on it hard, tugs down, tugs all the clothing on Jongin’s lower half off completely.
Jongin makes a pleased murmur. He presses his naked body against Yixing’s, straddling him, melting into him. Yixing feels electric where their skin touches, Jongin’s nipples taut and hard against Yixing’s chest, and Jongin gives Yixing’s cock another excruciatingly slow pump. Yixing groans. The music still blasting in the background sends heady thrums of bass through Yixing’s body. The vibrations resonate in the hollow of his chest, in his lower belly, between his thighs where Jongin’s hand is stroking languidly. Yixing spreads his legs even further apart, aching for more contact, pushing his own pants down to mid-thigh and enclosing Jongin’s half-hard cock in his hand.
Synchronisation.
Jongin pumps. Yixing pumps with him. Jongin looks him in the eye, gaze swimming in an out of focus, and strokes again, faster, tougher, digging fingernails into the pale skin of Yixing’s thigh.
Constant rhythm.
One. Two. Keep it together. Faster. Ride the beat.
They both know what it’s like to be confined to a rhythm, confined to a single song, a single set of moves. There’s no difference between dance and sex, really, because for both, they’re moving their bodies together, together, in perfect synchronisation.
“Together,” Yixing murmurs, rubbing at the head of Jongin’s cock with his thumb. The precome leaks, and Yixing smooths it over Jongin’s cock, tugging and teasing at Jongin so that he’s fully erect. Yixing strokes Jongin at the same building pace that Jongin’s stroking him in, to the rhythm of the distant bass, other hand finding the small of Jongin’s back and gripping so Jongin’s hips are brought forward to grind against Yixing’s.
“Together?” Jongin shifts, licking his lips. He grinds again, slowly, shifting and straddling Yixing, angling his hips so that their erections are finally touching. Yixing slides his hand off Jongin’s cock to let Jongin grasp them both together in one hand. Jongin rubs their cocks together, then leans forward to press another kiss to Yixing’s lips and pumps.
Break free.
“Fuck,” Yixing mutters. He can feel Jongin’s smile pressed against his lips, electric energy sparking on Yixing’s skin; feel the pool of heat building up at the base of his torso as Jongin rubs their erections against each other at an increasingly frantic pace, and-“Fuck,” Yixing mumbles, words slurred, “fuck, Jongin, faster-”
Jongin stops, and squeezes the base of Yixing’s cock, stopping the building sensation immediately. His smile is teasing. Yixing groans in frustration and grabs Jongin by the arm, skin moist with sweat, muscles hard underneath his hand, and flips them roughly so that he’s on top of Jongin.
Breaking free.
“Hyung,” Jongin says, sounding amused, “we’re dancing. You’re supposed to follow my lead.”
Something jolts in Yixing’s stomach, and then Jongin hooks his leg around Yixing’s and flips him over, slams him down, so that Yixing’s no longer pressed against the mirror but now flat on his back, uneven wood digging into his skin. Jongin’s perched over him, sweaty fringe matted against his forehead, the perfect lead dancer. He presses a kiss to the corner of Yixing’s lips. “Like our choreography.”
But follow the choreography.
“Follow the choreography,” Yixing repeats.
Yixing grits his teeth as Jongin pulls away, his throat parching, like he’s caught in the middle of a drought, and then Jongin’s flush against Yixing and his hand’s around both his own and Yixing’s cock and he’s jerking them both off, together, lips crashing against lips.
The floodgates open.
Yixing drinks Jongin in, moving underneath him, feeling the rise and fall of Jongin’s chest as he breathes, rolling his body in time with the music, in time with Jongin’s pumping, in time with the unspoken rhythm set between the two of them-and Jongin gives a particularly rough stroke, delving his tongue into Yixing’s mouth, and Yixing’s so close, so close, tingles reaching the tip of his fingers and toes and nipples hardening and-
Yixing arches his hips and comes all over his own stomach, a burst of white behind his eyelids. He gasps quietly, letting the knot at the base of his stomach loose, letting all the tension and stress out, hands gripping the small of Jongin’s back. Jongin comes beats later to the driving thump of the bass, Yixing’s name a choked cry on his lips.
Jongin collapses on top of Yixing, boneless. Yixing draws him in, feeling his heart pounding, feeling Jongin’s breathing synchronise with his, feeling Jongin’s skin warm and sticky from sweat against him.
And keep on practising.
“We should get back to practise,” Yixing murmurs. They’d needed the break, both of them, but Yixing’s acutely aware that they have no more time to waste. “We should-for tomorrow’s performance.”
“Yeah.” Jongin wipes both him and Yixing off with the roll of toilet paper they use as a stage marker, and dresses himself. Two Moons is playing through the speakers again. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
It’s back to practise for them. It’s back to dancing until the early hours of the morning, limbs too tired to cooperate, unthinkingly going through the actions again. It’s back to Yixing watching Jongin through the mirror and admiring his natural ease, wishing he could move like that. But it's okay, Yixing realises, that he doesn't have that. It's okay that he can restrain himself, it's okay that he can bring all the technicalities to the dancefloor, and keep Jongin in check. They work in this way. Jongin and Yixing may be different in the way they dance, but opposites attract, opposites balance, and opposites collide to create a masterpiece.
When Yixing and Jongin fuck, it’s freestyle choreography.
And, Yixing thinks, as Jongin turns and smiles at him tiredly, it’s those moments where they let go, those moments where his practised precision melds with Jongin’s freedom and Jongin’s lips are pressed against his and gasping out his name, that their dancing has never looked more beautiful.
a/n: oops basically pwp again. my favourite dancer otp and...biases of the groups /o/ meant to be doing work studying oops bye.
Pairing: Yixing/Kai
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Yixing and Jongin are together in the dance practise room. Yixing is precision. Jongin is freedom.
Word Count: ~2,000
freestyle choreography;;-
// because yixing is precision, and jongin is freedom, and opposites work together //
When Yixing and Jongin fuck, sweaty and panting and already spent from hours of practise, it's a carefully sculpted dance.
A look is all they need. Yixing slumps to the ground after the last strains of Two Moons fade away, shuffling into another track, and runs his hands through damp hair, breathing heavily. Jongin sits next to him, peeling off his jacket and throwing it off to the side.
“Hyung, you tired?”
“Hm?”
Jongin smirks and leans his head against the mirror. Yixing tilts his head, breathing still laboured. He watches the way Jongin’s chest heaves up and down, and then, Jongin turns his head-and there it is. The look that Yixing knows so well. The breathless curl of the lips, right corner slightly higher than the left, tip of his tongue darting out the side-and that's all Yixing needs to reach a hand out and grab Jongin’s wrist and pull Jongin towards him.
Skin on skin, limbs working together in perfect harmony, fingers entwining with hair, knees weak from exhaustion and sheer exhilaration.
They don’t even need to speak to communicate, because they know their bodies, and know each other’s bodies, and a look is all they need.
Move to the beat.
Jongin moves with the fluidity and ease of ten years of losing himself in the music.
Yixing moves with the care and technicality of five years of practised precision.
“Let yourself go,” Jongin murmurs against Yixing's collarbone as he sucks patterns down Yixing’s chest, a hand finding the curve of Yixing's waist.
Yixing grits his teeth and closes his eyes. “Yeah.”
He rolls his hips the only way he knows-the way he's been taught, the way that's been drilled into him countless times, over and over again by dance instructors.
Practised. Always practised. Not natural, not fluid, not like Jongin.
Practised.
Isolate. Wave. Power. Put your weight into it.
Jongin kisses lines down Yixing's jaw, thrusting a hand into Yixing's sweatpants and curling his fingers deftly around Yixing’s cock. Yixing groans, the friction sending tingles through him, and his whole body tenses as Jongin strokes slowly. He clenches tighter on Jongin’s hair, unintentionally yanking Jongin’s head back as Jongin palms him.
Jongin gasps sharply and squeezes. “Ow, hyung, relax. Let me-”
-but feel the rhythm. Feel it, and let it be free.
Yixing throws his head back against the mirror and loosens his grip on Jongin’s hair, spreading his legs so Jongin can kneel comfortably between them, and tries to forget. He tries to forget the rehearsed steps and strict left-rights and one-two-three-fours, the stress of late nights and choreography, and just get lost in the rhythm of Jongin's hand pumping him with an increasingly rough urgency-but it’s difficult forgetting something that’s hard-wired into his brain with permanent ink, like a tattoo. Difficult to forget something so ingrained into him that he’s woken up in the dead of night to find himself standing in the living room, halfway through a piece of choreography.
Jongin rubs his thumb over the slit of Yixing’s cock. Yixing rocks against Jongin’s hand, jaw clenched, feeling the hot friction and the heat building up inside him. Yixing bites his lips and reaches upwards blindly and hopes for Jongin to erase everything for him. Replace it with his freestyle.
“Hyung,” Jongin breathes, “hyung, I want you to-to touch me.” Jongin’s voice is deep, husky, with a hint of unsureness. His eyes are half-lidded, pink lips parted, amd his breath is hot on Yixing’s cheek as he leans over and takes off both their singlets, tossing them to the side on top of the discarded jacket.
Express yourself.
So Yixing reaches up, traces ribs, traces the curve of hipbones, traces Jongin's jawline, his full lips, trailing a gentle finger down Jongin’s bare chest.
Jongin is freedom.
No matter how many times Yixing’s seen the dance, sitting on the bench at the back of the practise room, Jongin makes it new. Mesmerises him. He can’t get enough of Jongin-the way that Jongin, easily-embarrassed, happy-on-the-sidelines Jongin undergoes a change and becomes someone completely different on the dancefloor. The way he spins on his toes, fluid and graceful. The way he hits the beats, hard and accurate. The way he responds to everything in the music, every small lilt, every nuance, every modulation, hips shifting and breath hitching and fingers curling around Yixing as he strokes Yixing harder, faster, breath ragged and free hand digging painfully into Yixing’s upper thigh.
Jongin is freestyle.
Jongin dances with a fiery passion, a hushed urgency-like the world's ending-and when he finally kisses Yixing, Yixing thinks the world’s might actually be ending, because it feels like his tomorrows are being sucked away by a pair of soft, insistent lips. Jongin’s skin burns on Yixing’s, scorching, parching, and Yixing’s overcome by an unquenchable wave of thirst.
Jongin’s what Yixing isn’t, and won’t ever be.
Don’t lose control. Keep it steady.
“I-” Yixing mutters. His voice cracks. He pulls away, steeling himself, trying to regain control and get the upper hand. In the back of his mind he knows it’s no use, because his routine has never bested spontaneity, and he has never bested Jongin. “Fuck, Jongin,” he breathes, hips arching upwards. His hands fumble for the drawstring of Jongin’s sweatpants and he tugs on it hard, tugs down, tugs all the clothing on Jongin’s lower half off completely.
Jongin makes a pleased murmur. He presses his naked body against Yixing’s, straddling him, melting into him. Yixing feels electric where their skin touches, Jongin’s nipples taut and hard against Yixing’s chest, and Jongin gives Yixing’s cock another excruciatingly slow pump. Yixing groans. The music still blasting in the background sends heady thrums of bass through Yixing’s body. The vibrations resonate in the hollow of his chest, in his lower belly, between his thighs where Jongin’s hand is stroking languidly. Yixing spreads his legs even further apart, aching for more contact, pushing his own pants down to mid-thigh and enclosing Jongin’s half-hard cock in his hand.
Synchronisation.
Jongin pumps. Yixing pumps with him. Jongin looks him in the eye, gaze swimming in an out of focus, and strokes again, faster, tougher, digging fingernails into the pale skin of Yixing’s thigh.
Constant rhythm.
One. Two. Keep it together. Faster. Ride the beat.
They both know what it’s like to be confined to a rhythm, confined to a single song, a single set of moves. There’s no difference between dance and sex, really, because for both, they’re moving their bodies together, together, in perfect synchronisation.
“Together,” Yixing murmurs, rubbing at the head of Jongin’s cock with his thumb. The precome leaks, and Yixing smooths it over Jongin’s cock, tugging and teasing at Jongin so that he’s fully erect. Yixing strokes Jongin at the same building pace that Jongin’s stroking him in, to the rhythm of the distant bass, other hand finding the small of Jongin’s back and gripping so Jongin’s hips are brought forward to grind against Yixing’s.
“Together?” Jongin shifts, licking his lips. He grinds again, slowly, shifting and straddling Yixing, angling his hips so that their erections are finally touching. Yixing slides his hand off Jongin’s cock to let Jongin grasp them both together in one hand. Jongin rubs their cocks together, then leans forward to press another kiss to Yixing’s lips and pumps.
Break free.
“Fuck,” Yixing mutters. He can feel Jongin’s smile pressed against his lips, electric energy sparking on Yixing’s skin; feel the pool of heat building up at the base of his torso as Jongin rubs their erections against each other at an increasingly frantic pace, and-“Fuck,” Yixing mumbles, words slurred, “fuck, Jongin, faster-”
Jongin stops, and squeezes the base of Yixing’s cock, stopping the building sensation immediately. His smile is teasing. Yixing groans in frustration and grabs Jongin by the arm, skin moist with sweat, muscles hard underneath his hand, and flips them roughly so that he’s on top of Jongin.
Breaking free.
“Hyung,” Jongin says, sounding amused, “we’re dancing. You’re supposed to follow my lead.”
Something jolts in Yixing’s stomach, and then Jongin hooks his leg around Yixing’s and flips him over, slams him down, so that Yixing’s no longer pressed against the mirror but now flat on his back, uneven wood digging into his skin. Jongin’s perched over him, sweaty fringe matted against his forehead, the perfect lead dancer. He presses a kiss to the corner of Yixing’s lips. “Like our choreography.”
But follow the choreography.
“Follow the choreography,” Yixing repeats.
Yixing grits his teeth as Jongin pulls away, his throat parching, like he’s caught in the middle of a drought, and then Jongin’s flush against Yixing and his hand’s around both his own and Yixing’s cock and he’s jerking them both off, together, lips crashing against lips.
The floodgates open.
Yixing drinks Jongin in, moving underneath him, feeling the rise and fall of Jongin’s chest as he breathes, rolling his body in time with the music, in time with Jongin’s pumping, in time with the unspoken rhythm set between the two of them-and Jongin gives a particularly rough stroke, delving his tongue into Yixing’s mouth, and Yixing’s so close, so close, tingles reaching the tip of his fingers and toes and nipples hardening and-
Yixing arches his hips and comes all over his own stomach, a burst of white behind his eyelids. He gasps quietly, letting the knot at the base of his stomach loose, letting all the tension and stress out, hands gripping the small of Jongin’s back. Jongin comes beats later to the driving thump of the bass, Yixing’s name a choked cry on his lips.
Jongin collapses on top of Yixing, boneless. Yixing draws him in, feeling his heart pounding, feeling Jongin’s breathing synchronise with his, feeling Jongin’s skin warm and sticky from sweat against him.
And keep on practising.
“We should get back to practise,” Yixing murmurs. They’d needed the break, both of them, but Yixing’s acutely aware that they have no more time to waste. “We should-for tomorrow’s performance.”
“Yeah.” Jongin wipes both him and Yixing off with the roll of toilet paper they use as a stage marker, and dresses himself. Two Moons is playing through the speakers again. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
It’s back to practise for them. It’s back to dancing until the early hours of the morning, limbs too tired to cooperate, unthinkingly going through the actions again. It’s back to Yixing watching Jongin through the mirror and admiring his natural ease, wishing he could move like that. But it's okay, Yixing realises, that he doesn't have that. It's okay that he can restrain himself, it's okay that he can bring all the technicalities to the dancefloor, and keep Jongin in check. They work in this way. Jongin and Yixing may be different in the way they dance, but opposites attract, opposites balance, and opposites collide to create a masterpiece.
When Yixing and Jongin fuck, it’s freestyle choreography.
And, Yixing thinks, as Jongin turns and smiles at him tiredly, it’s those moments where they let go, those moments where his practised precision melds with Jongin’s freedom and Jongin’s lips are pressed against his and gasping out his name, that their dancing has never looked more beautiful.
a/n: oops basically pwp again. my favourite dancer otp and...biases of the groups /o/ meant to be doing work studying oops bye.