Tell Me You Love Me; Interlude
Title: Tell Me You Love Me
Author Wishunew
Rating: R for a creepy imagination.
Pairing/Focus: Onew
Summary: In the movies, when a singer lost their voice, all you had to do was break the shell and they got it back, and everyone lived happily ever after, lesson learned. But movies aren't real, and when a voice leaves, sometimes it doesn't want to come back, and some lessons leave marks that even happy endings can't erase. . . .
I know i haven't been really consistent with my posting like i used to be, so i figured i'd post this too, since its done. also, I've been wondering why i get so little reviews compared to older chapter, but then i realized half of them were mine, so im going to start replaying to you guys again. sorry, my life has been shambles lately.
Also, I'm happy, and a little sad, to announce this, but we've reached the Half Way point. at least, if things go they way i plan them too, this is the halfway point.
as always manaphasm is my beta (I think i might have corrupted her)
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Onew would wear less clothing.
~*~
There was a single, twin-sized, cast iron bed in the middle of the room. The black bedding was soft looking; pristine and untouched. The bed side tables were laden with dead and dried up rose petals and burnt out candles. There was a mound of blankets and pillows taking up one of the corners of the room. All black; the same fabric as the ones on the bed. The difference was that these had white stains on them.
The room was plastered with pictures. Some small, blurry, and far away, as if taken candidly and quickly from a camera. Others were glossy and clearly torn from magazines. There were some posters hung up where they fit, and everywhere else there were pictures that were printed out. The only thing the pictures had in common was the subject matter: one Lee Jinki
A man forced the door open with a grunt, and then slid it closed after making sure no one followed him. He walked around the room, touching each picture with his free hand like one would stroke a lover’s cheek. In his other hand, he held a bag that he tossed onto the bed, before he took off his boots and followed.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment just imagined. He imagined his little lover was beneath him; his soft, milky skin looked so good against the black interior of his car; he would be stunning in the bed. He would blush pretty and slide his hot, lithe little body against the silky material when he asked the younger man to perform for him again, to stretch himself while he watched. And the smaller man would, as he whispered apologies because he couldn’t wait, how he had tried to be nice and romantic but he couldn’t wait, and I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly my love, and of course he would be forgiven, breathlessly, because Onew loved him, too.
The man blinked and pushed himself up, rolling over onto his back. He was hard; he always got too excited when he thought about Jinki, but more so after they’d made love in the car. None of that mattered now, though, as the man’s eyes shifted to the bag he brought with him. He should have taken better care of them; his car is so messy he knew he shouldn’t have flung them off somewhere. But what’s passed is passed, as he slowly, reverently extracted a bunched pair of boxer briefs. His hands shook at the sudden spike of arousal that shot through him; his dick throbbed, already hard just from the sight of them and the memories.
Memories of their first time together, as Jinki opened himself up for him, his own fingers spearing inside his body to make him moan. Panting, the guard couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough, couldn’t get his hand around his cock fast enough. It was never the same, never anywhere close, not anymore. Nothing felt like his love. Tight, searing heat that no other whore could match. The way his little body looked, bearing his marks. The sounds he made as he tried to be good. The man shivered and tightened his hand on his cock, moving faster, trying to lose himself as he thought about rocking into the young idol over and over as he silently begged for more with each shudder of his body. He thought about Onew’s lips and how soft they were under his when they had their first kiss; they bruised so easily. He thought about what it would be like to have those rose petal lips stretched around his cock, taking him deep in his throat. Jinki’s head would bob up and down to the guard’s favorite song, sometimes humming along, sometimes not. As he did this he would reach behind himself, slide a finger, then two, inside. He’d move them in and out as his mouth went up and down to the same rhythm.
He would cum deep in the idol’s throat, but pull back to splatter some of his essence all over the smaller man, because he’d look good like that. Jinki would whine and lap at the rivulets that dripped down his face and onto his lips; he’s such a cum-slut. But he would never stop moving his fingers; not until he was told to, because Onew was a good boy.
The man’s own moan startled him out of his fantasies. He was so close he could feel the edge, the hand on his cock moving faster and harder; the friction almost unbearable, but still nowhere near as hot as his lover. In his other hand he clutched his keepsake, the idol’s underwear, in a white-knuckled grip. He bit his lip as he dragged that hand upwards, shoving his face into the cloth and inhaling deeply. His back arched with the power of his orgasm; the cry he let out was muffled, his face still pressed into Jinki’s underwear.
He collapsed back onto the bed, panting. Still nuzzling the fabric, it smelt like his love, he realized that he hadn’t seen Jinki around for a while. Maybe he should check on the little whore?
Author Wishunew
Rating: R for a creepy imagination.
Pairing/Focus: Onew
Summary: In the movies, when a singer lost their voice, all you had to do was break the shell and they got it back, and everyone lived happily ever after, lesson learned. But movies aren't real, and when a voice leaves, sometimes it doesn't want to come back, and some lessons leave marks that even happy endings can't erase. . . .
I know i haven't been really consistent with my posting like i used to be, so i figured i'd post this too, since its done. also, I've been wondering why i get so little reviews compared to older chapter, but then i realized half of them were mine, so im going to start replaying to you guys again. sorry, my life has been shambles lately.
Also, I'm happy, and a little sad, to announce this, but we've reached the Half Way point. at least, if things go they way i plan them too, this is the halfway point.
as always manaphasm is my beta (I think i might have corrupted her)
Disclaimer: If I owned them, Onew would wear less clothing.
~*~
There was a single, twin-sized, cast iron bed in the middle of the room. The black bedding was soft looking; pristine and untouched. The bed side tables were laden with dead and dried up rose petals and burnt out candles. There was a mound of blankets and pillows taking up one of the corners of the room. All black; the same fabric as the ones on the bed. The difference was that these had white stains on them.
The room was plastered with pictures. Some small, blurry, and far away, as if taken candidly and quickly from a camera. Others were glossy and clearly torn from magazines. There were some posters hung up where they fit, and everywhere else there were pictures that were printed out. The only thing the pictures had in common was the subject matter: one Lee Jinki
A man forced the door open with a grunt, and then slid it closed after making sure no one followed him. He walked around the room, touching each picture with his free hand like one would stroke a lover’s cheek. In his other hand, he held a bag that he tossed onto the bed, before he took off his boots and followed.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment just imagined. He imagined his little lover was beneath him; his soft, milky skin looked so good against the black interior of his car; he would be stunning in the bed. He would blush pretty and slide his hot, lithe little body against the silky material when he asked the younger man to perform for him again, to stretch himself while he watched. And the smaller man would, as he whispered apologies because he couldn’t wait, how he had tried to be nice and romantic but he couldn’t wait, and I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly my love, and of course he would be forgiven, breathlessly, because Onew loved him, too.
The man blinked and pushed himself up, rolling over onto his back. He was hard; he always got too excited when he thought about Jinki, but more so after they’d made love in the car. None of that mattered now, though, as the man’s eyes shifted to the bag he brought with him. He should have taken better care of them; his car is so messy he knew he shouldn’t have flung them off somewhere. But what’s passed is passed, as he slowly, reverently extracted a bunched pair of boxer briefs. His hands shook at the sudden spike of arousal that shot through him; his dick throbbed, already hard just from the sight of them and the memories.
Memories of their first time together, as Jinki opened himself up for him, his own fingers spearing inside his body to make him moan. Panting, the guard couldn’t get out of his clothes fast enough, couldn’t get his hand around his cock fast enough. It was never the same, never anywhere close, not anymore. Nothing felt like his love. Tight, searing heat that no other whore could match. The way his little body looked, bearing his marks. The sounds he made as he tried to be good. The man shivered and tightened his hand on his cock, moving faster, trying to lose himself as he thought about rocking into the young idol over and over as he silently begged for more with each shudder of his body. He thought about Onew’s lips and how soft they were under his when they had their first kiss; they bruised so easily. He thought about what it would be like to have those rose petal lips stretched around his cock, taking him deep in his throat. Jinki’s head would bob up and down to the guard’s favorite song, sometimes humming along, sometimes not. As he did this he would reach behind himself, slide a finger, then two, inside. He’d move them in and out as his mouth went up and down to the same rhythm.
He would cum deep in the idol’s throat, but pull back to splatter some of his essence all over the smaller man, because he’d look good like that. Jinki would whine and lap at the rivulets that dripped down his face and onto his lips; he’s such a cum-slut. But he would never stop moving his fingers; not until he was told to, because Onew was a good boy.
The man’s own moan startled him out of his fantasies. He was so close he could feel the edge, the hand on his cock moving faster and harder; the friction almost unbearable, but still nowhere near as hot as his lover. In his other hand he clutched his keepsake, the idol’s underwear, in a white-knuckled grip. He bit his lip as he dragged that hand upwards, shoving his face into the cloth and inhaling deeply. His back arched with the power of his orgasm; the cry he let out was muffled, his face still pressed into Jinki’s underwear.
He collapsed back onto the bed, panting. Still nuzzling the fabric, it smelt like his love, he realized that he hadn’t seen Jinki around for a while. Maybe he should check on the little whore?