hello, heaven - remix (kris/luhan, 2160 words; nc-17)
Title: hello, heaven - remix
Genre: romance, smut, light angst
Rating: nc-17
Pairing: kris x luhan, (sort of) kris/lay
Synopsis: You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
Word Count: 2160
a/n: slight revision of classic vanicola fiction, "hello, heaven". for prompt 27 on xoxocamp.
You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
“They’re making love,” you said. You were lying on your side on the one queen-sized bed in the room, playing with my hair - fiddling with the sleeve of my t-shirt.
I asked, voice low, “You don’t think they’re just fucking to fuck?”
Your eyes were still concentrated on my t-shirt’s sleeve when you chuckled. You said, voice as low as mine, “People don’t just fuck to fuck.”
You might have said something after that, but I don’t think I was listening to you; I was only listening to the sound of your chuckle, resonating off the walls like your image in a room of mirrors.
The rise and fall of your chest grew slower as we laid there and listened to the moans of the woman next door - listened to the sound of naked skin against naked skin.
It wasn’t voyeurism, because we weren’t getting off from it.
“How much do you think she loves him,” you began, your gaze flicking towards my face. “They’ve been going at it for quite a while now.”
As your fingers splayed against my cheek, I shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. I breathed slowly as you traced your fingertips along the contour of my lips.
The pads of your fingers were soft yet tough as you dragged them down the side of my face. The sound of your breaths - soothing as you pulled yourself on top of me.
And maybe it was the way your cheeks became rosier or the way your lips felt like home against mine, but I think I fell in love with you, somewhere between the queen sized bed and the periwinkle ceiling.
I met you in the SeaTac airport, the portmanteau’d airport serving for both the cities of Seattle and Tacoma, Washington. You looked like a teenage boy, with your wide eyes and your red-and-white striped cardigan, something you had called ‘candy-cane patterned’ in the text you’d sent to me. ’I’m waiting for you near the baggage claim, in a candy-cane patterned cardigan.
The first thing you said to me, with your voice flowery and sweet, was, “You’re Kris, right?”
I had nodded and replied with a question. “You’re Lu Han?”
You nodded and we made small talk as you led me to your car. The weather was nice, but you didn’t like it. It was too cold for you and you said you were thankful that it would be sunny the next weekend. You asked how Yixing was and I told you, ‘fine’. Smiling, you said, “Good.”
My legs were too long for the little red Toyota Camry you drove that day and you had laughed and told me I was in luck because the drive was short. And you were right (not that I had expected you to be wrong); your dodgy apartment complex was only a ten minute drive from the SeaTac airport. You said, “I think I live in the perfect place - close enough to the suburbs and close enough to a big city.”
We unloaded my luggage from the trunk of your car and I followed you into your one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment - me with my suitcase in tow and you, insisting on taking my bags every few seconds. Your ceilings were a gross shade of periwinkle and the lighting was dim.
“Sorry about the clutter,” you said as you kicked a sock away from your living room floor. You jiggled the door to your room open and stumbled in. “The door’s kinda sticky, sorry about that, too.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Where should I put my suitcase?”
You picked some dirty clothes off the carpet of the room and told me, “Anywhere.” And after a second, you added, “You’ll have to sleep on the floor, though. I’m really sorry.”
I told you that it was okay and to stop apologizing. You said, “Okay, sorry,” and told me to make myself feel at home. Food would be done in fifteen minutes.
Yixing told me you’d be sort of hard to get along with, but you had seemed to be fine so far. You didn’t really speak all that much, our first few meals together were quiet and we hadn’t really done more than travel around a few places in Seattle and eat at good restaurants you knew.
The things we talked about were mindless, just idle chatter to keep our mouths busy.
“How long have you been seeing Yixing?” You asked me this as we were eating dinnerl cooked by you in your apartment, sitting at the “breakfast bar” you had.
“A year or so,” we were taking a break from the restaurant food.
“Ah, that’s cool, how are the two of you?” You cooked something simple, some Chinese dish your mother had taught you how to make.
“Fine,” it tasted good and reminded me of home.
“Good,” I began to think about Yixing.
“Yeah, how do you know Yixing?” So I asked you about him.
“I fucked him once,” and then I started thinking about you.
I walked in on you jerking off once. Sometimes you called this “wanking”, I often called it “masturbating. You looked at me with your doe-eyes and you were still holding your cock in your hand. When you were talking about your own, you said “penis”, but when you were talking about mine, you said “dick”.
You gave yourself one, long stroke, and your head lolled back against the backrest of the shitty computer chair you were in. Your lips were parted and your cheeks were flushed as you moaned. Then, you whispered, “help me”. On tamer days, we called this “assistance”. On days when we felt more playful we called this, “lending a helping hand".
So, I did what you told me to do. I walked over to you and I leaned against your busted computer chair, my thigh pressed against the handle of it. I bent my knees a bit and I took your cock in my hand, giving you a rub and tug - a handjob.
The way you moaned, the way your eyes shut. It was beautiful. You were beautiful. Beautiful - from the way you panted my name to the way you arched your back when you came in my hand.
Later that night, when you were in your bed and I was on the floor, we both stared up at the periwinkle-colored ceiling. You waited until it was midnight and you murmured, “I won’t tell Yixing.” Suddenly, we were the dictionary definition of “affair”.
See also: infidelity.
See also: adultery.
“Why are you in Seattle?”
“The same reason all people travel.”
“What are you trying to find?”
“I don’t think I love Yixing as much I did before.”
I walked in on you jerking off a few more times and you walked in on me a few times. I’m not sure if it was on purpose. But I know it wasn’t accidental.
Yixing called me twice during the duration of my visit to Seattle. I was beginning to believe that my visit had been to you, because we’d gotten more comfortable around each other. Less handjobs, more blowjobs.
“Hello?” I asked the receiver when he called the first time.
We were seated in your computer chair and I had you in my lap, placing gentle kisses upon my neck.
“Hey,” he’d said. “How’s Seattle?”
I told him, “Fine,” as I returned to tilted my head back for you.
“How’s Lu Han?” he asked. For a second, I believed he had a sixth sense because I wasn’t sure if he heard the loud smacks of your lips against my neck, but I told him you were doing fine. You chuckled as quietly as you could.
“Good,” he said.
It was the same thing that you told me when I told you Yixing was doing fine and I realized that you were similar to him in more ways than one. But for some reason, you were so much better.
The second time Yixing called me, my cock was nestled against the inside of your cheek and I was seated in that same computer chair.
“You better pick that up,” you said as you pulled my dick out of your mouth.
“But - “ I was already thinking about how I didn’t want the phone call to happen, how I didn’t want to have to listen to his voice right then and there.
“He’s gonna suspect something,” you said, and I reminded myself that I had always done what you told me to do.
“Hello?” I said as I brought the phone up to my ear.
“Hey, how is Seattle?” Right as he said that, your lips had wrapped around my length once more.
“It’s fine, just like last time,” you stared up at me, head bobbing slowly.
“You’ve done anything fun with Lu Han yet?” He didn’t know a single bit of it.
“Yeah, in fact, he’s right here,” I brought the phone to your ear. “Talk to him.”
You glared at me and let my cock go with a tantalizing ‘pop’.
“Hey, Yixing,” you said, wrapping your fingers around me.
“Hey, is Kris being a good boy?” You looked up at me and I could hear him chuckle through the phone.
You gave my cock a slow stroke, mouthing, ‘are you?’’ And, shit, you made me groan. I think Yixing heard.
“He’s being nice, yeah,” with your devilish grin, you kept doing things with your hand and my dick.
“Keep him on track for me, alright?” You took my cock back into your mouth and you hummed, “mm,” into the phone before handing it back to me.
“Lu Han is surprisingly easy to get along with,” I said, and you grazed your teeth against my length in retaliation.
“That’s good, I was afraid you guys wouldn’t get along,” Yixing chuckled again and I wasn’t sure if we were getting along in the way you had wanted us to, but we were getting by.
A month into my vacation, you said, “Sleep with me tonight.”
And I said, “Okay.”
The night had started off slow; we laid on your bed and stared up at the ceiling until midnight. The glow of the moon was dull and I could barely see anything, but I could feel you, dragging your fingers against my arm.
I wasn’t sure how you saw it, “You have a tattoo?”
I thought the dark was enough to hide it, “Yeah.”
It took you a few seconds, “I like it.”
Sometime in the middle of the night, you curled up against me, arms wrapped around me and legs splayed on my stomach. I knew you hadn’t fallen asleep, because you were still staring at me. I was still staring at you.
It was cute and I think I was falling. Not in love. But something like it.
You let me sleep on your bed for the rest of my visit. Like a mantra of yours, on some nights, you would say, “I promise I won’t tell Yixing.” over and over again, hushed as to not disturb any type of feeling lingering in the air.
You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
“They’re making love,” you said. You were lying on your side on the one queen-sized bed in the room, playing with my hair - fiddling with the sleeve of my t-shirt.
I asked, voice low, “You don’t think they’re just fucking to fuck?”
Your eyes were still concentrated on my t-shirt’s sleeve when you chuckled. You said, voice as low as mine, “People don’t just fuck to fuck.”
You might have said something after that, but I don’t think I was listening to you; I was only listening to the sound of your chuckle, resonating off the walls like your image in a room of mirrors.
The rise and fall of your chest grew slower as we laid there and listened to the moans of the woman next door - listened to the sound of naked skin against naked skin.
It wasn’t voyeurism, because we weren’t getting off from it.
“How much do you think she loves him,” you began, your gaze flicking towards my face. “They’ve been going at it for quite a while now.”
As your fingers splayed against my cheek, I shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. I breathed slowly as you traced your fingertips along the contour of my lips.
The pads of your fingers were soft yet tough as you dragged them down the side of my face. The sound of your breaths - soothing as you pulled yourself on top of me.
And maybe it was the way your cheeks became rosier or the way your lips felt like home against mine, but I think I fell in love with you, somewhere between the queen sized bed and the periwinkle ceiling.
Genre: romance, smut, light angst
Rating: nc-17
Pairing: kris x luhan, (sort of) kris/lay
Synopsis: You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
Word Count: 2160
a/n: slight revision of classic vanicola fiction, "hello, heaven". for prompt 27 on xoxocamp.
You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
“They’re making love,” you said. You were lying on your side on the one queen-sized bed in the room, playing with my hair - fiddling with the sleeve of my t-shirt.
I asked, voice low, “You don’t think they’re just fucking to fuck?”
Your eyes were still concentrated on my t-shirt’s sleeve when you chuckled. You said, voice as low as mine, “People don’t just fuck to fuck.”
You might have said something after that, but I don’t think I was listening to you; I was only listening to the sound of your chuckle, resonating off the walls like your image in a room of mirrors.
The rise and fall of your chest grew slower as we laid there and listened to the moans of the woman next door - listened to the sound of naked skin against naked skin.
It wasn’t voyeurism, because we weren’t getting off from it.
“How much do you think she loves him,” you began, your gaze flicking towards my face. “They’ve been going at it for quite a while now.”
As your fingers splayed against my cheek, I shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. I breathed slowly as you traced your fingertips along the contour of my lips.
The pads of your fingers were soft yet tough as you dragged them down the side of my face. The sound of your breaths - soothing as you pulled yourself on top of me.
And maybe it was the way your cheeks became rosier or the way your lips felt like home against mine, but I think I fell in love with you, somewhere between the queen sized bed and the periwinkle ceiling.
I met you in the SeaTac airport, the portmanteau’d airport serving for both the cities of Seattle and Tacoma, Washington. You looked like a teenage boy, with your wide eyes and your red-and-white striped cardigan, something you had called ‘candy-cane patterned’ in the text you’d sent to me. ’I’m waiting for you near the baggage claim, in a candy-cane patterned cardigan.
The first thing you said to me, with your voice flowery and sweet, was, “You’re Kris, right?”
I had nodded and replied with a question. “You’re Lu Han?”
You nodded and we made small talk as you led me to your car. The weather was nice, but you didn’t like it. It was too cold for you and you said you were thankful that it would be sunny the next weekend. You asked how Yixing was and I told you, ‘fine’. Smiling, you said, “Good.”
My legs were too long for the little red Toyota Camry you drove that day and you had laughed and told me I was in luck because the drive was short. And you were right (not that I had expected you to be wrong); your dodgy apartment complex was only a ten minute drive from the SeaTac airport. You said, “I think I live in the perfect place - close enough to the suburbs and close enough to a big city.”
We unloaded my luggage from the trunk of your car and I followed you into your one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment - me with my suitcase in tow and you, insisting on taking my bags every few seconds. Your ceilings were a gross shade of periwinkle and the lighting was dim.
“Sorry about the clutter,” you said as you kicked a sock away from your living room floor. You jiggled the door to your room open and stumbled in. “The door’s kinda sticky, sorry about that, too.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Where should I put my suitcase?”
You picked some dirty clothes off the carpet of the room and told me, “Anywhere.” And after a second, you added, “You’ll have to sleep on the floor, though. I’m really sorry.”
I told you that it was okay and to stop apologizing. You said, “Okay, sorry,” and told me to make myself feel at home. Food would be done in fifteen minutes.
Yixing told me you’d be sort of hard to get along with, but you had seemed to be fine so far. You didn’t really speak all that much, our first few meals together were quiet and we hadn’t really done more than travel around a few places in Seattle and eat at good restaurants you knew.
The things we talked about were mindless, just idle chatter to keep our mouths busy.
“How long have you been seeing Yixing?” You asked me this as we were eating dinnerl cooked by you in your apartment, sitting at the “breakfast bar” you had.
“A year or so,” we were taking a break from the restaurant food.
“Ah, that’s cool, how are the two of you?” You cooked something simple, some Chinese dish your mother had taught you how to make.
“Fine,” it tasted good and reminded me of home.
“Good,” I began to think about Yixing.
“Yeah, how do you know Yixing?” So I asked you about him.
“I fucked him once,” and then I started thinking about you.
I walked in on you jerking off once. Sometimes you called this “wanking”, I often called it “masturbating. You looked at me with your doe-eyes and you were still holding your cock in your hand. When you were talking about your own, you said “penis”, but when you were talking about mine, you said “dick”.
You gave yourself one, long stroke, and your head lolled back against the backrest of the shitty computer chair you were in. Your lips were parted and your cheeks were flushed as you moaned. Then, you whispered, “help me”. On tamer days, we called this “assistance”. On days when we felt more playful we called this, “lending a helping hand".
So, I did what you told me to do. I walked over to you and I leaned against your busted computer chair, my thigh pressed against the handle of it. I bent my knees a bit and I took your cock in my hand, giving you a rub and tug - a handjob.
The way you moaned, the way your eyes shut. It was beautiful. You were beautiful. Beautiful - from the way you panted my name to the way you arched your back when you came in my hand.
Later that night, when you were in your bed and I was on the floor, we both stared up at the periwinkle-colored ceiling. You waited until it was midnight and you murmured, “I won’t tell Yixing.” Suddenly, we were the dictionary definition of “affair”.
See also: infidelity.
See also: adultery.
“Why are you in Seattle?”
“The same reason all people travel.”
“What are you trying to find?”
“I don’t think I love Yixing as much I did before.”
I walked in on you jerking off a few more times and you walked in on me a few times. I’m not sure if it was on purpose. But I know it wasn’t accidental.
Yixing called me twice during the duration of my visit to Seattle. I was beginning to believe that my visit had been to you, because we’d gotten more comfortable around each other. Less handjobs, more blowjobs.
“Hello?” I asked the receiver when he called the first time.
We were seated in your computer chair and I had you in my lap, placing gentle kisses upon my neck.
“Hey,” he’d said. “How’s Seattle?”
I told him, “Fine,” as I returned to tilted my head back for you.
“How’s Lu Han?” he asked. For a second, I believed he had a sixth sense because I wasn’t sure if he heard the loud smacks of your lips against my neck, but I told him you were doing fine. You chuckled as quietly as you could.
“Good,” he said.
It was the same thing that you told me when I told you Yixing was doing fine and I realized that you were similar to him in more ways than one. But for some reason, you were so much better.
The second time Yixing called me, my cock was nestled against the inside of your cheek and I was seated in that same computer chair.
“You better pick that up,” you said as you pulled my dick out of your mouth.
“But - “ I was already thinking about how I didn’t want the phone call to happen, how I didn’t want to have to listen to his voice right then and there.
“He’s gonna suspect something,” you said, and I reminded myself that I had always done what you told me to do.
“Hello?” I said as I brought the phone up to my ear.
“Hey, how is Seattle?” Right as he said that, your lips had wrapped around my length once more.
“It’s fine, just like last time,” you stared up at me, head bobbing slowly.
“You’ve done anything fun with Lu Han yet?” He didn’t know a single bit of it.
“Yeah, in fact, he’s right here,” I brought the phone to your ear. “Talk to him.”
You glared at me and let my cock go with a tantalizing ‘pop’.
“Hey, Yixing,” you said, wrapping your fingers around me.
“Hey, is Kris being a good boy?” You looked up at me and I could hear him chuckle through the phone.
You gave my cock a slow stroke, mouthing, ‘are you?’’ And, shit, you made me groan. I think Yixing heard.
“He’s being nice, yeah,” with your devilish grin, you kept doing things with your hand and my dick.
“Keep him on track for me, alright?” You took my cock back into your mouth and you hummed, “mm,” into the phone before handing it back to me.
“Lu Han is surprisingly easy to get along with,” I said, and you grazed your teeth against my length in retaliation.
“That’s good, I was afraid you guys wouldn’t get along,” Yixing chuckled again and I wasn’t sure if we were getting along in the way you had wanted us to, but we were getting by.
A month into my vacation, you said, “Sleep with me tonight.”
And I said, “Okay.”
The night had started off slow; we laid on your bed and stared up at the ceiling until midnight. The glow of the moon was dull and I could barely see anything, but I could feel you, dragging your fingers against my arm.
I wasn’t sure how you saw it, “You have a tattoo?”
I thought the dark was enough to hide it, “Yeah.”
It took you a few seconds, “I like it.”
Sometime in the middle of the night, you curled up against me, arms wrapped around me and legs splayed on my stomach. I knew you hadn’t fallen asleep, because you were still staring at me. I was still staring at you.
It was cute and I think I was falling. Not in love. But something like it.
You let me sleep on your bed for the rest of my visit. Like a mantra of yours, on some nights, you would say, “I promise I won’t tell Yixing.” over and over again, hushed as to not disturb any type of feeling lingering in the air.
You told me the people in the next room over were making love.
“They’re making love,” you said. You were lying on your side on the one queen-sized bed in the room, playing with my hair - fiddling with the sleeve of my t-shirt.
I asked, voice low, “You don’t think they’re just fucking to fuck?”
Your eyes were still concentrated on my t-shirt’s sleeve when you chuckled. You said, voice as low as mine, “People don’t just fuck to fuck.”
You might have said something after that, but I don’t think I was listening to you; I was only listening to the sound of your chuckle, resonating off the walls like your image in a room of mirrors.
The rise and fall of your chest grew slower as we laid there and listened to the moans of the woman next door - listened to the sound of naked skin against naked skin.
It wasn’t voyeurism, because we weren’t getting off from it.
“How much do you think she loves him,” you began, your gaze flicking towards my face. “They’ve been going at it for quite a while now.”
As your fingers splayed against my cheek, I shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. I breathed slowly as you traced your fingertips along the contour of my lips.
The pads of your fingers were soft yet tough as you dragged them down the side of my face. The sound of your breaths - soothing as you pulled yourself on top of me.
And maybe it was the way your cheeks became rosier or the way your lips felt like home against mine, but I think I fell in love with you, somewhere between the queen sized bed and the periwinkle ceiling.