DBSG drabbles
o1; standby (Jaejoong/Changmin)
It’s cold out, and Changmin’s sweatshirt is too big for Jaejoong. It hangs loose on him, the sleeves swallowing up his hands so he ends up waving them around like limp flippers when he tries to get someone’s attention. The grey fabric bunches at his elbows, pools around his waist as he slouches on the bench, waiting his turn in front of the camera.
Changmin is practiced and professional during the photoshoot, now; he is all slender lines and long limbs and soulful eyes, self-confident and sensual-not gawky and cute like before (a year ago? a month? it seems like yesterday-) and Jaejoong finds his fingers curling unconsciously into the sweatshirt sleeves as he watches.
When Changmin is finished, he flies back over to Jaejoong with a laugh. “My shirt looks like it’s eating you!” he says with a grin and a shiver. “Can I have it back now?”
Jaejoong pulls it off over his head, and for that split-second of nothing but thick warmth and grey fabric before he’s part of the world again, he wonders when Changmin grew up.
o2; unchoreographed (Junsu/Changmin)
Junsu fucks like he dances-with a single-minded concentration that envelops his entire mind, his whole body, so minutely aware of everything just at his fingertips, but anything beyond that is a universe away. It’s transparent and raw and everything is overwhelmingly connected, a landslide of touch and movement and gasps and moans and frantic whispered words that tumble over each other like the beginning is just as important as the end. Junsu doesn’t move in pieces; it’s always his whole body, one fluid motion of hips and hands and shoulders, from the simple press of his mouth that still seems obscenely innocent to his back writhing in a smooth arc as Changmin’s fingernails dig into his shoulder blades.
When Junsu dances, he doesn’t think about before or after, and this is just the same, thinks Changmin: it doesn’t start slow or end slow; each movement, every nuance is just an intense as the last, from the first brush of fingers to the last thrust of hips-from the first murmured confession to the last wordless cry.
Changmin always worries that something will be gone when the passion finally clears from Junsu’s eyes-that once the haze of sex and sensuality has left, it will be different, but he’s always wrong. When Junsu rolls off of him, there’s always an arm that falls around Changmin’s waist, keeping him close; there’s always a whispered promise of loving and staying. Then there’s just the soft rhythm of heartbeats and the gentle rise and fall of breathing, a smile pressed to his neck and everything falling into place and Changmin thinks-maybe this is like dancing, too.
It’s cold out, and Changmin’s sweatshirt is too big for Jaejoong. It hangs loose on him, the sleeves swallowing up his hands so he ends up waving them around like limp flippers when he tries to get someone’s attention. The grey fabric bunches at his elbows, pools around his waist as he slouches on the bench, waiting his turn in front of the camera.
Changmin is practiced and professional during the photoshoot, now; he is all slender lines and long limbs and soulful eyes, self-confident and sensual-not gawky and cute like before (a year ago? a month? it seems like yesterday-) and Jaejoong finds his fingers curling unconsciously into the sweatshirt sleeves as he watches.
When Changmin is finished, he flies back over to Jaejoong with a laugh. “My shirt looks like it’s eating you!” he says with a grin and a shiver. “Can I have it back now?”
Jaejoong pulls it off over his head, and for that split-second of nothing but thick warmth and grey fabric before he’s part of the world again, he wonders when Changmin grew up.
o2; unchoreographed (Junsu/Changmin)
Junsu fucks like he dances-with a single-minded concentration that envelops his entire mind, his whole body, so minutely aware of everything just at his fingertips, but anything beyond that is a universe away. It’s transparent and raw and everything is overwhelmingly connected, a landslide of touch and movement and gasps and moans and frantic whispered words that tumble over each other like the beginning is just as important as the end. Junsu doesn’t move in pieces; it’s always his whole body, one fluid motion of hips and hands and shoulders, from the simple press of his mouth that still seems obscenely innocent to his back writhing in a smooth arc as Changmin’s fingernails dig into his shoulder blades.
When Junsu dances, he doesn’t think about before or after, and this is just the same, thinks Changmin: it doesn’t start slow or end slow; each movement, every nuance is just an intense as the last, from the first brush of fingers to the last thrust of hips-from the first murmured confession to the last wordless cry.
Changmin always worries that something will be gone when the passion finally clears from Junsu’s eyes-that once the haze of sex and sensuality has left, it will be different, but he’s always wrong. When Junsu rolls off of him, there’s always an arm that falls around Changmin’s waist, keeping him close; there’s always a whispered promise of loving and staying. Then there’s just the soft rhythm of heartbeats and the gentle rise and fall of breathing, a smile pressed to his neck and everything falling into place and Changmin thinks-maybe this is like dancing, too.