the sin bin

last night’s dinner dishes still littered the counter after a tired promise to handle them in the morning. the hum of the heater would be the only sound anyone would hear if they walked through the front door. they wouldn’t hear anything in the living room. not even in the kitchen.

but down the hall, last door on the left, the almost imperceptible sounds of pleasure reside. quiet, private. a secret shared, a promise to hold it close. sweat, not enough to form drops, but just enough to make the skin sticky. stifled moans and praises sang into a pillow, so beautifully. a gorgeous melody. a song meant only to be heard by lovers.

a hand slides slowly up his spine, finding home in the messy tangle of dark hair, sticking out at funny angles, evidence of a successful slumber. the fingers grip around the crown of his head. a gentle kind of firmness to their claim. tender, but possessive. they tug back until the man’s gorgeous noises escape the confines of the pillow.

“don’t be shy, jongho-ya,” yeosang pants, pounding into him in a steady rhythm, each thrust serving as a reminder that he belongs to him.

“you know i love it when you sing for me.”