He is your everything ; but to him, you are nothing - JaejoongxYunho
He is your everything ; but to him, you are nothing.
Pairing: JaejoongxYunho
Rating: NC-16
Genre: angst? possibly.
Length: One-Shot
He is your everything.
But to him - you are nothing.
He comes back every night, alcohol surrounding him, its bitter scent unwelcoming and something you've come to hate. Sometimes, its an mis-buttoned shirt smudged with lipstick that gives him away, ohter times - simply the stench of perfume exposes him, but worse would be the huge red marks that blossom along his collarbone. But what you loathe, what you really hate the most, what really gets you, would be when its not perfume, but when its cologne that marrs his angelic being.
All those signs. But then again, why do you need any signs when something has become routine.
The key turns in the lock, and you jump from your seat on the couch, knocking over the remote which controls the muted television to the floor. You don't bother picking it up though, because you can already hear the door opening, you know you only have a few seconds.
A few seconds.
You make it to the door in time.
Just in time for him to crash into your arms. He smells of alcohol (whisky, you are guessing) and expensive perfume (marc jacobs for women, prehaps?). You manage to support him with one of your hands, while the other reaches for a scrap of paper sticking out of the pockets of his skin tight jeans - he really does make denim look like a sin.
A female name, followed by a number scrawled down in lipstick (bright red). You snort before crumpling the paper and tossing it out in the hallway. You know he won't call, because he never calls them back.
Never.
"Jae-ah." you sigh softly as you start to drag him towards your room - he is a rambling drunk tonight, and that means you're giving up your bed for him, because everyone knows that Yoochun enjoys his sleep. Everyone knows that Yoochun minus sleep means one thing : hell on earth. Besides, if you're not wrong, the shuffling along with muffled squeaks you heard ealier meant that Junsu had been snuck in for the night due to Jaejoong's abscence, and god knows what you might open the door too.
Then it starts, just as you stumble into your room.
His hands, they start to wander, over your body, fingertips ghosting every dip and curve created by gym sculpted muscles.His mouth, it moves, starting from a point on your neck, making its way up - the tongue peeking out from ruby red lips licking, teasing, creating a fiery trail all the way up where it stops at the crook behind your ear, your most sensitive spot, which he had guessed right the first time.
"Fuck. Jae, stop it." you mumble as you shove him blindly onto your made bed while stumbling back, tripping and falling so that you end up, sitting on the floor, hands behind your back, holding you up. Not again, never again - you had promised yourself, because slowly, lately you've begun to realise : its hurting you.
Because, because - because you don't want to just be his fuck buddy.
Because, because, because - you love him.
What else, could explain the guilt, the horror, the sadness you always felt after he falls asleep, still drunk next to you, his flushed skin pressing against your own. What else, could explain the passion with which you hate his late nights, hates the lifestyle he choose to embrace, and yet - can't hate it, because it is him.
In a flash (you don't see how he can be so fast drunk) he is on you, pushing you down, causing your arms to buckle under you as your back collides with the floor. His hands are already reaching down to the waistband of your old sweats, his mouth crushing your lips in tight embrace.
You can feel yourself getting sucked in again - because, who can ever resist him? And yet, you can feel yourself dying with every touch, suffocating, even as you push him onto the ground, flipping him over as you allow him to pull your shirt off with a single, practiced, fluid motion.
And yet, you can't help yourself, you can't help but be drawn into him.
Dying, you are sure you are, so sure you are. He is killing you, slowly, draining you - but why can't you stop? (Because, you know the truth is : you're addicted, to your own personal brand of drug.)
You feel his hands on your hips, bracing you and he pushes in, with one harsh stroke.
A moan fills the air, fallen from his lips, vibrating against your skin as his head falls forward, alcohol stained lips coming to rest on your bare shoulders - and you swear, that was the moment you died.
-
The next morning greets you, with soreness, with aches and a constant tug at your heart. You push yourself out of bed, not even bothering to glance at the blanket-covered figure lying beside your vacanted space for the first time, because you know (just as you always have), you've finally admitted : there is no hope, no future.
Because, he is your everything, but to him : you are nothing.
Pairing: JaejoongxYunho
Rating: NC-16
Genre: angst? possibly.
Length: One-Shot
He is your everything.
But to him - you are nothing.
He comes back every night, alcohol surrounding him, its bitter scent unwelcoming and something you've come to hate. Sometimes, its an mis-buttoned shirt smudged with lipstick that gives him away, ohter times - simply the stench of perfume exposes him, but worse would be the huge red marks that blossom along his collarbone. But what you loathe, what you really hate the most, what really gets you, would be when its not perfume, but when its cologne that marrs his angelic being.
All those signs. But then again, why do you need any signs when something has become routine.
The key turns in the lock, and you jump from your seat on the couch, knocking over the remote which controls the muted television to the floor. You don't bother picking it up though, because you can already hear the door opening, you know you only have a few seconds.
A few seconds.
You make it to the door in time.
Just in time for him to crash into your arms. He smells of alcohol (whisky, you are guessing) and expensive perfume (marc jacobs for women, prehaps?). You manage to support him with one of your hands, while the other reaches for a scrap of paper sticking out of the pockets of his skin tight jeans - he really does make denim look like a sin.
A female name, followed by a number scrawled down in lipstick (bright red). You snort before crumpling the paper and tossing it out in the hallway. You know he won't call, because he never calls them back.
Never.
"Jae-ah." you sigh softly as you start to drag him towards your room - he is a rambling drunk tonight, and that means you're giving up your bed for him, because everyone knows that Yoochun enjoys his sleep. Everyone knows that Yoochun minus sleep means one thing : hell on earth. Besides, if you're not wrong, the shuffling along with muffled squeaks you heard ealier meant that Junsu had been snuck in for the night due to Jaejoong's abscence, and god knows what you might open the door too.
Then it starts, just as you stumble into your room.
His hands, they start to wander, over your body, fingertips ghosting every dip and curve created by gym sculpted muscles.His mouth, it moves, starting from a point on your neck, making its way up - the tongue peeking out from ruby red lips licking, teasing, creating a fiery trail all the way up where it stops at the crook behind your ear, your most sensitive spot, which he had guessed right the first time.
"Fuck. Jae, stop it." you mumble as you shove him blindly onto your made bed while stumbling back, tripping and falling so that you end up, sitting on the floor, hands behind your back, holding you up. Not again, never again - you had promised yourself, because slowly, lately you've begun to realise : its hurting you.
Because, because - because you don't want to just be his fuck buddy.
Because, because, because - you love him.
What else, could explain the guilt, the horror, the sadness you always felt after he falls asleep, still drunk next to you, his flushed skin pressing against your own. What else, could explain the passion with which you hate his late nights, hates the lifestyle he choose to embrace, and yet - can't hate it, because it is him.
In a flash (you don't see how he can be so fast drunk) he is on you, pushing you down, causing your arms to buckle under you as your back collides with the floor. His hands are already reaching down to the waistband of your old sweats, his mouth crushing your lips in tight embrace.
You can feel yourself getting sucked in again - because, who can ever resist him? And yet, you can feel yourself dying with every touch, suffocating, even as you push him onto the ground, flipping him over as you allow him to pull your shirt off with a single, practiced, fluid motion.
And yet, you can't help yourself, you can't help but be drawn into him.
Dying, you are sure you are, so sure you are. He is killing you, slowly, draining you - but why can't you stop? (Because, you know the truth is : you're addicted, to your own personal brand of drug.)
You feel his hands on your hips, bracing you and he pushes in, with one harsh stroke.
A moan fills the air, fallen from his lips, vibrating against your skin as his head falls forward, alcohol stained lips coming to rest on your bare shoulders - and you swear, that was the moment you died.
-
The next morning greets you, with soreness, with aches and a constant tug at your heart. You push yourself out of bed, not even bothering to glance at the blanket-covered figure lying beside your vacanted space for the first time, because you know (just as you always have), you've finally admitted : there is no hope, no future.
Because, he is your everything, but to him : you are nothing.