binkikitty (binkikitty) wrote in bamsedorok,
binkikitty
binkikitty
bamsedorok

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Pink Spider

shimin; R, fluffy smut.
For Sungmin, there's no distinction between sex and music.



From the moment you first touched your guitar strings, you knew nothing could ever compare to that feeling. Virgin steel quaking beneath bare, unconditioned flesh, and the sound that came with it – the pure cry of an even purer instrument, not like a piano with its own mind, its own will. It was as if threads of your soul had coiled tight around the elegantly polished neck, and you knew you would never be able to put it back down again.


You glance over your shoulder where Heechul's lips are nearly brushing the microphone, waiting to lead you into the chorus, and when he does it's like you've entered into another dimension, a different Sungmin with a different life and different clothes and a different future and, fuck, you sigh, you are the music.


Your fingers fly, always without a pick.


You know what it does for him, for his drums, for that deep chest-pounding beat that only he commands. Siwon is a slave to visual and auditory input, and you learned a long time ago the secrets to his passion, his need to watch your nimble fingers stroke and jerk your Dexter to his rhythm, to fill his mind with memories of all the times he's been in your guitar's place with him the one crying out from beneath your hands.


Heechul's voice carries you to a place you only get to when the music wraps around your core and guides you ever closer to the finish – on autopilot, you don't need to think about any of it anymore. Shameless, you open your eyes to watch Siwon's muscles ripple beneath the strain of the tempo, solid yet limber arms you've felt around your shoulders countless times before, flexing as he commands his Vic Firths across his set with practiced agility. Sweat glistens on his forehead, down the smooth curve of his throat, dampens the front of his shirt – sweat you know isn't entirely the product of physical effort. He snaps his head back and purses his lips and his body shakes, and your cock twitches against the constraint of your boxers at the images flashing through your mind – that very same expression, flushed mid-orgasm, shredding the last of your control as you squirm against soft sheets and pillows.


This isn't the first time you've done this, but each time is never quite the same. Tonight he pounds his snare and snaps open his eyes and stares in a way that makes you feel naked, vulnerable, caught. But it doesn't show. You're music, and music has no physical expression; no pair of toffee brown eyes will never undo music. So you sigh against your tuners and flick your tongue against an edge of cold metal to make him remember, fingers flying over your strings, dead to your commands, and he swallows so you can see his Adam's apple bob in his throat.


If you were anything else but the music right now, you'd be on your knees with your wrist down your pants while you fucked his dick with the other. But you have better self-control than that.


Then Heechul's booming melody comes to an abrupt halt, so abrupt you're dizzy from the impact, ears ringing with the echoes of the music you'd just been. Siwon is panting, his damp shoulders catching the light of the practice room, face as red and flushed as yours feels. You both must look fucked out because for a minute Heechul only stares, glancing between you both like a spectator at a sports game with no idea how the game's supposed to be played, but it's gone soon, replaced by the satisfied twinkle he gets in his eyes when he's in his element. The silence is thick except for Siwon's labored breaths and your own quivering sighs while Heechul gathers his things, pats his forehead down with his towel and cheerfully calls for a lunch break.


When the door clicks behind him, it's just you and your guitar and Siwon and his drum set and a tension that speaks more than anything you could ever say, or want to say. You turn your back to him once your knees feel steady again and brush the strings of your guitar with the tips of your fingers, once, twice, three times, calling the music back to fill the open space around you both. The melody is different this time, slow but full, unfamiliar but comfortable, solid, so you can hold onto it while it carries you away. At least, you try to but you can't quite fall away this time, too aware of the throbbing swell between your thighs, violent clanking of Siwon's drumsticks on the ground as he advances, wraps those rock hard arms around your waist from behind and wraps his lips around your earlobe with a purr.


That's the problem with boyfriends: the good ones always know how to undo you.


You steel yourself against his gentle attack on your throat, the tickle of his hands as they caress your sides beneath your shirt – no matter how good it feels, despite the way your spine tingles to feel his heat pressed against your ass – and you play steady, unaffected, because you know how much he hates being ignored.


There was once a time he would pass you by without even a second glance, a time you were only Sungmin-hyung, the quiet, pink-loving, musical hyung that had neither the spark nor the aura to hold his attention the way Heechul seemed to do effortlessly. And there was a time when Siwon was only your polite, religious, but all together mysterious dongsaeng whom you'd only throw a smile at once in a while, when you noticed him there. As he pinches your nipples and tongues the side of your throat, you try to remember when it was you first began to really see him and realized that he did have two adorably deep dimples in his cheeks, that the innocence in his eyes was only a mask for the zeal, the passion, that lay beneath. He strokes the bulge straining at the front of your pants, and you remember that night after your first daesang victory, when you cupped his face in your hands like a thirsty man cradling water and kissed him until his lips were bruised and yours were burning, right there on the bridge overlooking the Han River, the engine of his car humming softly behind you. Then, as he tears your hands off your Dexter's strings and lifts the instrument off your shoulders, as he yanks you around to face him with his nails digging deep into the back of your neck, you wonder why he chose to take you there that night, you of all people.


His scent is intoxicating, a potent combination of sweat and yesterday's cologne and sex, musky sex that fills you from head to toe, pools the heat in your aching dick. You cling to him like a starving man, your fingers in his hair, scratching and pulling while you struggle not to drown in his kiss. He tastes like salt and sweetness, and the soft rumble in the back of his throat tells you he's found your scent, your taste, too. You're moving forward, he's moving backward, but whether or not it's you who's pushing, or him that's pulling doesn't really matter; he lands on his leather stool and pulls you to stand between his legs while you pull his shirt up over his head, without the least regard for tearing or discomfort, while his mouth works over your belly and his fingers undo your belt buckle, your button, the zipper.


There's always that moment after he's peeled every last shred of clothing from your body, a weightless, breathless beat in which his eyes sweep over you from your toes to the top of your head, so hard and hot that you can feel them on your skin, your heart pounding one-thousand miles a minute in your chest. After he's had his fill, you wrap your arms around his neck and settle onto his lap with the gentle guidance of his hands on your waist and he kisses you so hard you can't feel the pain when he pushes into you with one quick jerk of his hips. You're only vaguely aware that your body's moving at all until he pulls his head back with hum; that's when every nerve in your body comes to life and you burn with need, the most primal part of you urging you to let go, to give in.

You always do.


Siwon's body has a rhythm all its own, but it's never too hard to adjust. With him, it's all about signals, knowing the difference between verbal approval and physical pleading. He arches his back inward and you fan your fingers against the rippling muscles on his chest for leverage, beads of sweat gathering between the index and the thumb, and when you lift your eyes to the ceiling the world seems to spin on a tilt; it's a kind of vertigo you're not used to. You meet his upward thrusts with a strangled moan that sounds nothing like you, except Siwon growls a response against your jaw so it must be. A hot hand grips your swollen dick between your stomachs, messy, unpredictable jerks that make your head swim and your hips snap harder, faster.


Your first night together had been both his and your first time with any man. It was awkward and painful and quick, altogether unpleasant. His hands shook against your skin, you fumbled your way through a sloppy, unsatisfying blowjob, and in the end you cried in pain until he came inside of you. Siwon jerks his hips sharply, hits a spot within you that brings white spots to your eyes, and gasping you think, fuck, we've come a long way.


He presses his forehead into the junction of your shoulder and neck, cheek flat against your collarbone; that's the way Siwon begs, and you wrap your arms around his head, bury your nose in his hair, steady him as the world melts away the lights, the room, the clutter and leaves behind only sensation, and music. You think of the way his lips part and his eyes squeeze shut as he brings his drums to life and suddenly you're thrashing, grunting, shaking as liquid heat splashes onto his abs and there's nothing else but violent pounding in your ears.


The world returns slowly, in tiny fragments of sound and touch and smell and taste; first it's the lights – bright even behind your eyelids – then the muffled conversation from the other side of the door, somewhere in the hall. By the time you open your eyes, everything is back in its rightful place, Siwon's eyes glittering down at you through his lashes. Your heart leaps at the sight. It makes you feel human when he looks at you like that, but you won't ever say it out loud.


You lift a quivering hand to his face slowly, brush the curve of his jaw with your knuckles, then gently trace your way down the bridge of his nose with your middle finger. He cups his hands against the small of your back to hold you steady and waits until your finger brushes over his lips before he pulls you in so that there's no more space between your bodies and catches your lips with a kiss he only ever saves for you.


Then another, and another.


Again and again.


Kiss after slow, tender kiss and you wonder – as he slides his hands up your back, murmuring sweet nothings into the corner of your mouth – why he chose you, of all people, that night by the Han.

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