#its exo harem :) unfortunately sans zyx and kji because i was kind of going for a canon esque angle

[sophluorescentmusing]

PULP-STICKY PALMS

In their youth, he volunteered more frequently to be the martyr—or at least, that is what he posited it to be back then, when the others were as wary and skittish as newborn foals—but as they’ve aged and grown to suit their skin and their bones, he’s relinquished the role to those that flourish in it. And this early martyrdom had made him seem the exhibitionist, but in truth, he is the opposite; so self-critical as to be absorbed, self-conscious as to be vain, he approaches his own sexuality and image through the lens of the watcher, the observer, the Eye of Fame (but also something more personal, like the eye of a lover). And so, while he seems the performer, he feels that he is the voyeur. He doesn’t experience the self-exposure so much as he watches it from that strange out-of-body place from which he watches all things. 

As Baekhyun’s pushed down onto his knees, he thinks himself out-of-practice.

The hands on his waist are firm, not-quite-mean. Kyungsoo has never managed to hone his interaction like that, at least, not with Baekhyun. He’s a little too similar (they both find themselves crushed by the weight of having chosen this life, and both are too self-devoted to do anything but excel at it) and so he never quite manages to pinch Baekhyun just right—to cause him that ache he sometimes… oftentimes… yearns for. His lips press against the knobs of Baekhyun’s spine: slow, languishing kisses from tailbone to axis. His body curls overtop Baekhyun’s naked back. He’s a solid weight, a solid warmth.

Baekhyun’s watching more than he’s feeling. His eyes are closed, and his breath hums out those little noises of pleasure, approval, appreciation. Still, he’s watching. He feels disembodied from the experience, though no less enjoying of it.

His gaze slits open. He stretches his arms out across the downy carpet upon which he’s been pressed, and looks across the room to whichever one of the couches first lands in his line of sight. Perhaps it’s instinct that Junmyeon’s the one sitting there, first to fall under Baekhyun’s unwavering gaze, or perhaps its fate. Nonetheless, it’s his pale feet that sit at the edge of the coffee-colored cushion and his pointed fingers that curl over the arm of the furniture. He looks like he belongs in Baekhyun’s home—sinking into the deep, brown interior like its as much his as it is Baekhyun’s. Baekhyun doesn’t quite know how to explain it.

“Junmyeon-ah,” Baekhyun purrs, somewhat growled by the way his chin is pressed to the carpet and his chest to the ground. He’s strained in the best way; with each breath, his lungs expand to the fullest and the muscles in his back pull taut and the joint of his hips begins to ache at the press and the steadfast way Kyungsoo just doesn’t let him relax. “Tell him what to do.” Not that he doesn’t think Kyungsoo could guess and come up with the right answer. 

Maybe, he just struggles with relinquishing control more now than he had when he was younger. He thinks that, back then, he’d found power in being the center of attention, the core of the desire filling a room. He doesn’t think he’s the core now (not with Minseok leaning so adoringly into Jongdae’s shoulder, not with Sehun vying for Chanyeol’s attention, even though he’s stretched out against Junmyeon’s side). He thinks he’s the inciting event, the one that’s going to force the desires out into the open, where everything is plain. But he doesn’t think they’re all awkward enough, strange-with-eachother to have the same command as he did back then.