49
Title: Untitled, with a Purpose
Fandom: Super Junior
Pairing: KiHyun
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: You slip at his name, though he seems to remember yours.
Notes: Second person. 1,074 words. Plotless, mostly, but not quite porn.
The party’s dumb, and you know it the minute you cross the threshold, a posh apartment filled with empty people in fancy clothing. Their colorful martinis just a slightly more respectable way to get shitfaced, and you loosen your tie, undo the top button on your shirt and sling your jacket over your arm. You can’t believe you let your coworkers talk you into this.
The room is sultry dark, colors deep and rich and utterly overrated. Maroon purples and deep beiges and wine reds. Glints of gold. Plush pillows and tasteful artwork, low slung curtains. You grab a bottle of whiskey from the bar and settle in a chair in the corner, sinking into overstuffed pillows. If you’re going to get drunk, it’s going to be the old fashioned way, no fruity drinks or feta-stuffed olives for you, just the burn in the back of your throat and the slide of a glass bottle in your hand.
Don’t feel like sharing? a voice above you says, and you pull the bottle from your lips and let it rest on your thigh, looking up into dark eyes and equally dark hair. A quick smirk of a smile, sharply glinting white teeth. The face, the face you remember, but it takes you a second to place it. Friend of Hyukjae’s you met at one of his vapid parties, and the only reason you remember at all is because he was actually intelligent and funny, something almost completely unheard of under the circumstances. You smile like the predator you are and take another swig, holding out the bottle for him. You slip at his name, though he seems to remember yours. You like the way it leaves his lips, like it’s a pleasure to say and he’d like the chance to say it again.
Kibum.
He’s close behind you, his hand on your back for a second and then gone. You still don’t remember his name, but you’re pretty sure it will come to you soon.
You barely get into the elevator before he’s on you, hands scrabbling over your body and his teeth nipping at your neck. Thigh pressed up high between yours, and you can’t help but laugh and take a swallow of whiskey as he presses himself against you like a second skin. You regret the ding of the doors opening on the ground floor, but you sincerely enjoy the look of shock you get from the old lady and her even older husband when they step back to let you out, you pulling him along by his shirt as he reluctantly pulls his mouth away from your neck. You are going to have a hell of a hickey tomorrow.
The rain is coming down a steady wave of pure wet, and you’ve lost your jacket somewhere in the shuffle from the apartment to the entrance of the lobby. Your shirt is untucked and mostly unbuttoned, and you’ve stolen the bottle of whiskey as payment for the fact that you were forced to attend to party to begin with.
You’re completely soaked before you get five steps, white shirt now completely transparent, but you don’t mind. You give him a once over, wicked grin and soaked clothing and are glad that he won’t be wearing them much longer. He presses his hands flat against your chest, pushing your shirt off of your shoulders and running his tongue over your collarbones and into the hollow of your throat. You think you hear the bellboy clear his throat, but you don’t care; you just wave over a taxi. You need to get the boy home before he sucks your cock out here on the street. And while the thought makes you gasp a little, the feel of his tongue on your wet skin, the image of his dress pants soaked at the knee with murky water, getting arrested is not your idea of a good night. You have work in the morning.
You love good sex, fantastic, orgasmic, life-changing sex, even. Who doesn’t? But the boys you usually meet, well, they care more about it ending than about it being good, more about the fact that fucking you might, could, or will get them a raise than the fact that they should be a willing participant, not just a hole for you to stick it in.
This boy, though, this boy. His body opens for you like some sort of obscene flower, his mouth gasping open, head thrown back, throat swallowing convulsively (and you know what he can do with that throat). His fingernails are grasping the sheets so tightly that you wonder if he’ll be able to move them later. The noises that he makes when you thrust in pull out are like some needy, half-wounded animal, growling for more and whimpering when he gets it. His heels are digging into the muscles in your back, and when you can make out his words they’re mostly like fuck you, don’t have it in you? and more, fucking harder, goddamned bastard and oh god yeah, that’s it just like that. He’s the pushiest bottom you’ve ever met, and you think you might be addicted.
It’s only when you come inside him, though, that you finally remember his fucking name. You’re pretty sure your neighbors know it by now too.
Kyuhyun.
You wake up to sunlight and the smell of cooking meat. Huh. You didn’t think you had any food in the house at all, much less sausage or whatever the fuck is cooking.
You groan loudly before you think about it, eyes squinting to open, but the sunlight is too bright. You’ve never bothered to pull the curtains, the windows are too high for it to be worth it. Your muscles hurt to move, and that’s when you really know he’s a keeper. Fucking…what the hell time is it? you say, voice gravelly and rusty and very satisfied. You roll onto your back, letting your head loll off the edge of your king-sized bed.
You’re playing hooky, he says, and you can’t see him, but you bet he’s naked, and I’m making breakfast. And then we’re having sex, probably for the rest of the day. Think you can handle that?
You don’t answer, mostly because he’s walked over and is standing in front of you. You’ve discovered that yes, he is in fact naked, and you doubt that you will be eating breakfast anytime soon.
End Notes: I just felt like writing something short with lots of description. This fic really doesn't have a point, but it was fun for me to write. So. Yeah. Written while listening to Your Ex-Lover is Dead, by Stars. Feel free to download and listen.
Fandom: Super Junior
Pairing: KiHyun
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summary: You slip at his name, though he seems to remember yours.
Notes: Second person. 1,074 words. Plotless, mostly, but not quite porn.
The party’s dumb, and you know it the minute you cross the threshold, a posh apartment filled with empty people in fancy clothing. Their colorful martinis just a slightly more respectable way to get shitfaced, and you loosen your tie, undo the top button on your shirt and sling your jacket over your arm. You can’t believe you let your coworkers talk you into this.
The room is sultry dark, colors deep and rich and utterly overrated. Maroon purples and deep beiges and wine reds. Glints of gold. Plush pillows and tasteful artwork, low slung curtains. You grab a bottle of whiskey from the bar and settle in a chair in the corner, sinking into overstuffed pillows. If you’re going to get drunk, it’s going to be the old fashioned way, no fruity drinks or feta-stuffed olives for you, just the burn in the back of your throat and the slide of a glass bottle in your hand.
Don’t feel like sharing? a voice above you says, and you pull the bottle from your lips and let it rest on your thigh, looking up into dark eyes and equally dark hair. A quick smirk of a smile, sharply glinting white teeth. The face, the face you remember, but it takes you a second to place it. Friend of Hyukjae’s you met at one of his vapid parties, and the only reason you remember at all is because he was actually intelligent and funny, something almost completely unheard of under the circumstances. You smile like the predator you are and take another swig, holding out the bottle for him. You slip at his name, though he seems to remember yours. You like the way it leaves his lips, like it’s a pleasure to say and he’d like the chance to say it again.
Kibum.
He’s close behind you, his hand on your back for a second and then gone. You still don’t remember his name, but you’re pretty sure it will come to you soon.
You barely get into the elevator before he’s on you, hands scrabbling over your body and his teeth nipping at your neck. Thigh pressed up high between yours, and you can’t help but laugh and take a swallow of whiskey as he presses himself against you like a second skin. You regret the ding of the doors opening on the ground floor, but you sincerely enjoy the look of shock you get from the old lady and her even older husband when they step back to let you out, you pulling him along by his shirt as he reluctantly pulls his mouth away from your neck. You are going to have a hell of a hickey tomorrow.
The rain is coming down a steady wave of pure wet, and you’ve lost your jacket somewhere in the shuffle from the apartment to the entrance of the lobby. Your shirt is untucked and mostly unbuttoned, and you’ve stolen the bottle of whiskey as payment for the fact that you were forced to attend to party to begin with.
You’re completely soaked before you get five steps, white shirt now completely transparent, but you don’t mind. You give him a once over, wicked grin and soaked clothing and are glad that he won’t be wearing them much longer. He presses his hands flat against your chest, pushing your shirt off of your shoulders and running his tongue over your collarbones and into the hollow of your throat. You think you hear the bellboy clear his throat, but you don’t care; you just wave over a taxi. You need to get the boy home before he sucks your cock out here on the street. And while the thought makes you gasp a little, the feel of his tongue on your wet skin, the image of his dress pants soaked at the knee with murky water, getting arrested is not your idea of a good night. You have work in the morning.
You love good sex, fantastic, orgasmic, life-changing sex, even. Who doesn’t? But the boys you usually meet, well, they care more about it ending than about it being good, more about the fact that fucking you might, could, or will get them a raise than the fact that they should be a willing participant, not just a hole for you to stick it in.
This boy, though, this boy. His body opens for you like some sort of obscene flower, his mouth gasping open, head thrown back, throat swallowing convulsively (and you know what he can do with that throat). His fingernails are grasping the sheets so tightly that you wonder if he’ll be able to move them later. The noises that he makes when you thrust in pull out are like some needy, half-wounded animal, growling for more and whimpering when he gets it. His heels are digging into the muscles in your back, and when you can make out his words they’re mostly like fuck you, don’t have it in you? and more, fucking harder, goddamned bastard and oh god yeah, that’s it just like that. He’s the pushiest bottom you’ve ever met, and you think you might be addicted.
It’s only when you come inside him, though, that you finally remember his fucking name. You’re pretty sure your neighbors know it by now too.
Kyuhyun.
You wake up to sunlight and the smell of cooking meat. Huh. You didn’t think you had any food in the house at all, much less sausage or whatever the fuck is cooking.
You groan loudly before you think about it, eyes squinting to open, but the sunlight is too bright. You’ve never bothered to pull the curtains, the windows are too high for it to be worth it. Your muscles hurt to move, and that’s when you really know he’s a keeper. Fucking…what the hell time is it? you say, voice gravelly and rusty and very satisfied. You roll onto your back, letting your head loll off the edge of your king-sized bed.
You’re playing hooky, he says, and you can’t see him, but you bet he’s naked, and I’m making breakfast. And then we’re having sex, probably for the rest of the day. Think you can handle that?
You don’t answer, mostly because he’s walked over and is standing in front of you. You’ve discovered that yes, he is in fact naked, and you doubt that you will be eating breakfast anytime soon.
End Notes: I just felt like writing something short with lots of description. This fic really doesn't have a point, but it was fun for me to write. So. Yeah. Written while listening to Your Ex-Lover is Dead, by Stars. Feel free to download and listen.