requeim
yoochun/jaejoong
angst
nc17
919 words
Somehow, somewhere skin deep under flashlight photographs and the sound of shared notes a fourth apart, short of three others, you’ve always known it’d come down to this. Clean hotel sheets tangled around your waist, shivering from the fragile bones in your fingers to the broken capillaries of the bruise on the underside of your arm because someone’s gone and left the air conditioner on high again. There’s no one else to blame now anyways, is there? Artificial air creeping down the sides of the walls and seeping into your skin.
Shiver, shake.
Yoochun is stripping to nothing but his shirt in the bathroom.
Shiver, shiver. Shake.
Close your eyes and Yunho is a phone call away, a phone call too far.
-
Skin still soft from the shower, lips bitten hard.
Yoochun climbs into bed beside you and you kiss him on the cheek from habit, a soul mate thing carried over from days when kisses were kisses and left at that.
Skin feeling like it should belong to someone else, lips bloodless now.
You catch his hand as he reaches for the lamp switch by the bed.
“Yoochun.”
And you hate yourself, you hate Yoochun. Yunho, the far away bastard that he is. The whole lot of you. His name weighs thick and heavy on your tongue, the act of swallowing after it almost impossible but your Adam’s apple shifts in your throat, muscles working on their own accord. You hate yourself. You want this. You want this. You need this.
Yoochun looks at you from under too long fringes and you hold your gaze. You want this. You need this. Come on. Click and the room plunges into darkness, a Yoochun-esque shape pressing up against you. You want this. You want this. Maybe if there was light, his eyes would be sad to look into.
“Don’t say my name,” he whispers into your ear and untangles the sheets, tugs and pulls and exposes all with the dry sound of starched cotton on skin.
You hate yourself.
-
The dark helps of course, comes in handy when he curls his hand against your thigh and swears under his breath, Junsu’s name lingering on the tail end of the last syllables. You don’t think you would be able to stand the look on his face in the light.
“I’m not Yunho.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to be.”
But that’s a gray lie, he knows it well enough too from the way you look for echoes of Yunho in the way he kisses you. Too rough. Too needy. Too fast. Too deep. Too Yoochun.
You guide him to the places Yunho found before him, the translucent skin of your wrists, the spaces above your collarbones. Sides of your mouth before the neck, moving on to shoulder blades after that. Routine, routine. Slowly now, Yoochun, slowly. Not like this. Let me show you, yes. Yes.
He’s not Yunho but it doesn’t mean you can’t try.
You want this.
-
Perhaps Yoochun wants this too, the way he has the courtesy to kiss you on the lips before moving to your cock, pursing his lips around the head and wrapping freezing hands around the rest of your length. Once, twice, buck your hips and hold on tight to the headboard baby, it’s a helluva ride isn’t it? Does Junsu like it like this? Do you like it like this? Yunho would have, wouldn’t have done that like this. There is no better or worse from the last time when they’re two different people. You’re still the same, maybe.
“Yoochun,” you say through clenched teeth and come into his mouth, “Yoochun, Yoochun.”
He spits into the bin by the bedside table and comes back to lie beside you, hands wandering. Smooth muscles of your stomach to waist and back up again, circling in lazy patterns, somehow always just short of the words cursive on your chest. You want to touch the exact same ones on him but the thought itself stays your hand and you keep it flexing slow against the mattress when he moves on to spread your legs.
“Don’t say my name, Jaejoong.”
There is a pause hanging in the air as he lets you taste what it feels like to be on the receiving end. The sound of your name, too low, too deep. Too Yoochun. You don’t say anything after that.
-
He fucks you quick and hard, long strokes that make you think that he doesn’t take Junsu like this, face down and keening into the mattress. Yunho wouldn’t.
But this isn’t Yunho and you aren’t Junsu.
-
Later, you step into the shower and scrub your skin raw, water something short of boiling snapping you away from the cool dark of the bedroom and into the white tiled surface of shared hotel bathrooms. You smell of Yoochun- his shampoo, his soap. Yoochun is buried somewhere just beneath your skin and try as you might, you don’t think you’ll be able to get him out. Shiver, shiver, shake. Not tonight, at any rate.
He knocks on the shower screen and you can feel his eyes on your back, gaze tracing rivulets parallel to your spine.
“Is it my turn yet?”
You don’t turn the shower off when you step out and he steps in, sidestepping, towel passed and accepted. The sound of running water is better than nothing at all.
-
“I’m sorry.”
A phone call away is still a phone call too far.
[fin] - D: I think I need sleep. OTP, it's still Jaeho btw~
angst
nc17
919 words
Somehow, somewhere skin deep under flashlight photographs and the sound of shared notes a fourth apart, short of three others, you’ve always known it’d come down to this. Clean hotel sheets tangled around your waist, shivering from the fragile bones in your fingers to the broken capillaries of the bruise on the underside of your arm because someone’s gone and left the air conditioner on high again. There’s no one else to blame now anyways, is there? Artificial air creeping down the sides of the walls and seeping into your skin.
Shiver, shake.
Yoochun is stripping to nothing but his shirt in the bathroom.
Shiver, shiver. Shake.
Close your eyes and Yunho is a phone call away, a phone call too far.
-
Skin still soft from the shower, lips bitten hard.
Yoochun climbs into bed beside you and you kiss him on the cheek from habit, a soul mate thing carried over from days when kisses were kisses and left at that.
Skin feeling like it should belong to someone else, lips bloodless now.
You catch his hand as he reaches for the lamp switch by the bed.
“Yoochun.”
And you hate yourself, you hate Yoochun. Yunho, the far away bastard that he is. The whole lot of you. His name weighs thick and heavy on your tongue, the act of swallowing after it almost impossible but your Adam’s apple shifts in your throat, muscles working on their own accord. You hate yourself. You want this. You want this. You need this.
Yoochun looks at you from under too long fringes and you hold your gaze. You want this. You need this. Come on. Click and the room plunges into darkness, a Yoochun-esque shape pressing up against you. You want this. You want this. Maybe if there was light, his eyes would be sad to look into.
“Don’t say my name,” he whispers into your ear and untangles the sheets, tugs and pulls and exposes all with the dry sound of starched cotton on skin.
You hate yourself.
-
The dark helps of course, comes in handy when he curls his hand against your thigh and swears under his breath, Junsu’s name lingering on the tail end of the last syllables. You don’t think you would be able to stand the look on his face in the light.
“I’m not Yunho.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to be.”
But that’s a gray lie, he knows it well enough too from the way you look for echoes of Yunho in the way he kisses you. Too rough. Too needy. Too fast. Too deep. Too Yoochun.
You guide him to the places Yunho found before him, the translucent skin of your wrists, the spaces above your collarbones. Sides of your mouth before the neck, moving on to shoulder blades after that. Routine, routine. Slowly now, Yoochun, slowly. Not like this. Let me show you, yes. Yes.
He’s not Yunho but it doesn’t mean you can’t try.
You want this.
-
Perhaps Yoochun wants this too, the way he has the courtesy to kiss you on the lips before moving to your cock, pursing his lips around the head and wrapping freezing hands around the rest of your length. Once, twice, buck your hips and hold on tight to the headboard baby, it’s a helluva ride isn’t it? Does Junsu like it like this? Do you like it like this? Yunho would have, wouldn’t have done that like this. There is no better or worse from the last time when they’re two different people. You’re still the same, maybe.
“Yoochun,” you say through clenched teeth and come into his mouth, “Yoochun, Yoochun.”
He spits into the bin by the bedside table and comes back to lie beside you, hands wandering. Smooth muscles of your stomach to waist and back up again, circling in lazy patterns, somehow always just short of the words cursive on your chest. You want to touch the exact same ones on him but the thought itself stays your hand and you keep it flexing slow against the mattress when he moves on to spread your legs.
“Don’t say my name, Jaejoong.”
There is a pause hanging in the air as he lets you taste what it feels like to be on the receiving end. The sound of your name, too low, too deep. Too Yoochun. You don’t say anything after that.
-
He fucks you quick and hard, long strokes that make you think that he doesn’t take Junsu like this, face down and keening into the mattress. Yunho wouldn’t.
But this isn’t Yunho and you aren’t Junsu.
-
Later, you step into the shower and scrub your skin raw, water something short of boiling snapping you away from the cool dark of the bedroom and into the white tiled surface of shared hotel bathrooms. You smell of Yoochun- his shampoo, his soap. Yoochun is buried somewhere just beneath your skin and try as you might, you don’t think you’ll be able to get him out. Shiver, shiver, shake. Not tonight, at any rate.
He knocks on the shower screen and you can feel his eyes on your back, gaze tracing rivulets parallel to your spine.
“Is it my turn yet?”
You don’t turn the shower off when you step out and he steps in, sidestepping, towel passed and accepted. The sound of running water is better than nothing at all.
-
“I’m sorry.”
A phone call away is still a phone call too far.
[fin] - D: I think I need sleep. OTP, it's still Jaeho btw~