fic: not quite sinatra (but close enough)
not quite sinatra (but close enough)
park yoochun x shim changmin
dana (dahchi)
rating NC-17 for language, the debauchery of grammar laws and unrepentant, pointless smut. thank you to dreaminthepast for the beta.
inspired by THIS.
x-posted to seuki and musicaloddnotes
:::::
The theme of the day is beds and threadbare sweaters and Yoochun slips (with cunning and stealth) into the dressing room, lifts the little white plastic gun and says, “Drop your pants!”
He’s expecting violence, he’s expecting sarcasm. He’s not expecting to be hit in the face with a pair of jeans. He drops the gun, smiles sheepishly.
“That sort of backfired, didn’t it?”
And Changmin is laughing at him; bright and beautiful and with the shuddering force of his entire body so Yoochun only feels slightly idiotic. Even less so when he realizes that Changmin is standing there in nothing but a green sweater and his underwear.
He leers.
“Hyung?” Changmin sounds confused; his head tilted, his hair in his eyes. And, really, Changmin is all grown up and impossibly brilliant but still as dense as a brick wall.
Yoochun locks the door, feels strangely victorious.
“Hyung.” This one is laced with understanding, heavy with disapproval.
And it is a very bad idea.
But.
“It’s not my fault.” Yoochun states blithely and stares at Changmin’s legs. Changmin tugs the edge of the sweater down his thighs subconsciously, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance. The image makes Yoochun’s fingers twitch.
“The bed is out there.” Changmin answers, but he's grinning; all sharp edges and awkward come hithers. Seduction according to Changmin. He pushes himself up onto the table in one long, languid movement, swinging his bare feet back and forth, forth and back. An invitation. “Come here.”
And Yoochun’s heart thumps, thumps and nearly stops because he had been joking. Maybe. Just a little. Except something stumbles and catches when he realizes this could happen (this is going to happen, dammit) and the look in Changmin’s eyes is suddenly much more important than it had been a heartbeat ago.
“You can say no,” Yoochun says weakly, pathetically. He’s lost his footing, he realizes, this wasn't the same game he had been playing when he came through the door.
But Changmin is zen. Changmin is unmoving. Changmin is kissing the tip of Yoochun’s nose in a ridiculously adorable way. And the world shatters a bit under the weight of Yoochun’s understanding because, oh god, Changmin has been waiting and Yoochun is a complete bastard.
“Don’t-" Changmin says quietly, circumventing half-formed apologies, “It wasn’t-" a nervous laugh, “It was important that you were sure.”
“Changmin-ah…” It hurts.
Changmin hums a little, utterly evaporating the stillness in the room, “My feet are getting cold.”
“I think you’re missing the point.” Like maybe we should talk about this more, Yoochun thinks wildly; like maybe we should remember how to breathe.
But Changmin looks frustrated and obtusely determined in that way Yoochun has no defence against. “No, you’re missing the point. I’m not wearing any pants.”
--And then Changmin is leaning forward and pressing his lips to Yoochun’s and Yoochun doesn’t really want to think anymore, Yoochun really can’t think anymore, because Changmin tastes like oranges and heat and all of his arguments die in the whisper of Changmin’s breath, in the aggressive press of Changmin’s thumb across his chest, over the swell of his nipple.
Jesus.
And it would be so easy just to keep doing this all night, Yoochun thinks; just fighting and fighting and surrendering to the slow pressure of Changmin’s tongue sliding languid-slow along his lips. It would be so easy to make this more than what it was.
Changmin's fingers run up and along his thighs, over his ass and up the back of his rucked up shirt and just this, harsh kisses and the burn of warm hands is enough to push his mind into incoherence beginning and ending with Changmin's name. Yoochun slides his attention downwards, tracing a path of wet, sucking kisses along the swell of Changmin’s jaw as he pulls down the sweater’s collar to lick at the sweat pooling along the line of his throat. He wants to mark, he realizes, dragging his teeth across the slip of exposed shoulder, he wants Changmin to remember.
Changmin’s hands scramble at the hem of the sweater, trying to pull it up, off, but Yoochun stops him and he nearly chokes on his words when he says, “Leave it on. Please.”
And Changmin’s eyes are dark, so dark, but he doesn’t say no, just smirks in a way that makes Yoochun want to hit him. Or kiss him again.
Changmin moans softly and he moves, shifts and wiggles until he's fit himself properly; legs on either side of Yoochun's thighs, using the new position to lean forward, to drag his tongue along the shell of Yoochun's ear. Yoochun grips Changmin's hips, fingers opening and twitching feebly as the tongue continues its path down his neck and --stretch, gasp-- along his throat until it finds a nipple to fixate on and then there's the hard graze of teeth, sting, shiver and lightning.
Yoochun leans back (to breathe, to survive) to pull off his pants and wrestle out of the rest of his clothing. Changmin leans back (rumpled, debauched) his hands reaching for Yoochun and then it’s skin and skin and those long, long legs wrapped tightly around him. He slides the flat of his hand along Changmin’s stomach, down and down and down until his fingertips skim along the length of Changmin’s cock, tracing the hardness through the thin fabric of his underwear. He wants to follow the same path with his mouth and does, shoving the sweater up under Changmin’s arms and licking his way down. Changmin nearly jumps off the table as Yoochun mouths at his erection, lips and wet heat, his head thumping back hard against the surface as he arches up, his fingers scrambling, scrambling and failing to find something to hold onto.
Yoochun thinks he wants to laugh, thinks he wants anything besides this intense, unrelenting need because this has the potential to become something much more than he can handle. Changmin is giving him everything and all Yoochun needs to do is to decide whether or not he wants to take it.
“In my bag,” Changmin says breathlessly, eyes shining and his voice softer than Yoochun has ever heard it.
And what? Yoochun thinks, until he finds the bottle of lotion and the condom and then it’s oh. And fear, so much fucking fear that Yoochun nearly chokes on it.
But Changmin is smiling; his eyes impatient and the need curling at the edges of his lips, twitching at his ends of his fingers. The determination is nearly palpable; Changmin has started this and Changmin will end this. Changmin will probably rule the world.
Yoochun slicks his fingers with the lotion slowly, deliberately, tracing them down the slope of Changmin’s backbone and raising an eyebrow at Changmin’s agitation, “Is there a problem?”
“Well, you’re taking the scenic route.” Changmin deadpans through a gasping breath.
Yoochun laughs, thinks ‘and there he is’. The pushy little bastard, the Changmin that usually hides deep behind his eyes.
He leans forward to nudge Changmin’s cheek with his nose, a gesture that urges them back into a fragile kiss and the distraction is enough to slide a finger in, smooth and deep and oh god. Changmin makes a sound against Yoochun’s mouth, soft and keening and it’s enough of an incentive to move, to fuck, twisting in and down. Yoochun can nearly imagine it now; this heat around him, Changmin pressing in from all sides and he pushes in another finger, the rhythm faster, harder, Changmin panting hot against the curve of his cheek and--
No.
Yoochun pulls away slightly, groaning painfully, because Changmin has never--
“It’s okay,” Changmin manages, catching Yoochun’s wrist. Holding it in place. He strokes his thumb along the palm of Yoochun’s hand in reassurance when he sees the doubt surface in Yoochun’s eyes.
And there’s a sudden flash of comprehension and thoughts; Changmin alone in his bed at night. Changmin with his fingers buried inside himself as Yoochun’s name is smothered into a pillow and.
And.
God, he thinks, oh god. Only realizes he’s said it out loud when the tremble of Changmin’s laughter tickles the skin along his shoulder.
“Yoochun-hyung,” Changmin mumbles; teasing, low. And of course Changmin has thought about this, Changmin has probably mapped out every pro and con and possible position in painful, stunning, wonderful detail.
Yoochun is not sure what to say, the words tangled and jumbled at the back of his throat. The amount of trust in the other man’s eyes is terrifying.
But Changmin isn’t waiting for an answer, he doesn’t seem to give a damn about the absence of one, because he’s guiding Yoochun’s hand back down, all steel strength and persistence, and in one smooth movement he pushes Yoochun’s fingers back in, groaning sharply as they slide deep. Then he’s moving, fucking himself against the palm of Yoochun’s hand and everything is just gone, evaporated, lost in the white noise of his brain and the messy, beautiful sounds Changmin is making.
Yoochun chokes, curling himself against Changmin’s chest because too much, too much, and he thinks he could cum by just watching, by just letting Changmin use him like this.
“Want…” Changmin hisses through his teeth and rolls his hips up, tight and desperate and close. He surges forward to lick his way along Yoochun’s cheek possessively, his hands painfully tight in Yoochun’s hair.
Yours. Yoochun wants to say but twists his fingers harder into Changmin instead, free hand bunched in the sweater as he yanks him in for an open mouthed kiss that leaves his lips feeling raw and swollen.
Changmin reaches for the bottle of lotion and he’s shaking into the movement, fumbling with the cap, cursing and utterly unapologetic. He coats his palm sloppily, reaching between their bodies to cover Yoochun’s cock in a jerky, imperfect rhythm of rough and hard and yes. Yoochun groans, tangling his own fingers with Changmin’s and fucking into the circle of their hands and (ohgod) the pressure, the slickness, nearly breaks him.
“Wait,” It takes all of Yoochun’s control to pull back, to stop. “The couch…” he pants, guiding Changmin over, down, until the younger man is on his back and, really, Changmin deserves better than this, deserves much more than an ugly, ugly couch in a sterile dressing room but by this point waiting might kill them both.
He slides up and over Changmin, licking at a bit of exposed, sweaty collarbone as Changmin’s fingers curl over the edge of the cushions, white knuckled and trembling. Yoochun pushes Changmin’s thighs apart, draws soft circles along Changmin’s hips when Changmin shudders. The blood is pounding in Yoochun’s ears, a resounding thud thud thud, and he knows there is no turning back after this, no climbing back up the cliff once he jumps off it but Changmin is looking at him, really looking at him and Yoochun wants.
So badly.
“Do it,” And the words are rough, barely understandable, but Yoochun is pushing in and oh god oh god, he’s never imagined this. Never. Changmin makes a noise trapped somewhere between pleasure and pain and Yoochun whispers “hang on, hang on” against the line of Changmin’s neck as he thrusts deeper; so tight, so fucking tight.
Changmin struggles up, all elbows and knees and desperation, moving against Yoochun's weight and thrusting back against him. Riding him. It’s wet and raw and almost porn and Yoochun doesn’t care; he hopes the photographer outside can hear every moan he drives out of Changmin’s mouth. He arches, jerking his hips, the down stroke burning and--- “Changmin.” He’s in Changmin. Fuck.
The rhythm nearly hurts, the movement trapped somewhere between too close and not enough, and Changmin’s arms can’t hold him. He collapses down with a sound close to a growl, his fingers tightening feebly against Yoochun’s shoulders.
“Please,” It’s so damn close to begging that it breaks Yoochun’s heart but god, he loves this Changmin; the one that still needs them, if only for this one slivered moment.
“What do you need?” And Yoochun could live for this; the feeling of Changmin’s lips moving silently against the skin of his neck, whispering “please” over and over until the word is an incoherent mess of sound. It’s the moment he’s been waiting for, the tightening of Changmin’s hands in his hair as the younger man quivers around his cock and whimpers Yoochun’s name.
“I need…” Changmin’s breathing hitches, shudders, “Move, Yoochun.”
And Yoochun loses all pretense of rhythm, of control. He finds Changmin’s hands, wraps his fingers around Changmin’s cock and holds on; just holds and holds like he’s never going to let go. Changmin grunts beneath him; his face flushed, his long black hair stuck to the curves of his cheeks and jesus, it’s beautiful, just fucking beautiful.
“Changmin, look at me,” And he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn if he sounds more desperate than sexy because Changmin’s eyes snap open, his pupils blown wide in endless dark on dark, and the look he gives Yoochun (nothing, there was nothing in the messy ugly world but this, this and park yoochun) make the lights go off behind Yoochun’s eyes and it’s over. Free falls and fireworks and Changmin’s fingers clinging hard onto his shoulders and his sanity.
Breathe.
And then it's silence and panting and a complete lack of adjectives. Yoochun knows everything is a mess; the sweater, the couch, their friendship, but he doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay sticky/naked and curled around Changmin just like this for another day or two. A week. A month.
Changmin winces when Yoochun pulls out but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t even shift his face from where it’s pressed unattractively into the couch cushion. Yoochun is tempted to ask him if he’s alright, but that seems monumentally stupid in light of the sex and the kinky sweater fetish and-
He wonders if Changmin would kill him if he asked to cuddle.
Probably.
Changmin turns to blink sleepily up at him, a lazy smile curving at the edge of his lips, gentle and slow. The expression makes Yoochun’s chest ache just a little, and he reaches forward, puts his absolute lack of regret into the soft brush of knuckles along bare skin.
Changmin’s nose scrunches up, “I don’t want-" Their eyes meet for a split second, Changmin’s slide away.
“Yes, you do,” Yoochun replies quietly, his thumb tracing the line of Changmin’s swollen mouth. He’s never meant anything more in his entire life.
“They’re probably going to want this back,” Changmin answers wryly, plucking at the (oh god, utterly ruined) sweater. He's diverting the conversation, changing the topic.
“Changmin, how long?” Yoochun has to ask, has to know.
Changmin shakes his head and looks more than slightly put out, his fingers dragging through sweaty bangs, “Doesn’t matter, I thought that just shoving my hands down your pants would be too forward.”
Yoochun lifts an eyebrow, lets his utter disbelief show, “How long have you known me?”
And Changmin laughs, the sound obtrusive and sharp against the backdrop of their breathing, “Good point.”
“You can just say it.” Yoochun says quietly, as he ghosts his lips along the curve of Changmin’s jaw, curls his fingers along the slope of Changmin’s rib cage. Changmin looks down, face drawn tight in thoughtful lines. Yoochun can see the words pressing up from behind Changmin’s eyes even if he can’t hear them.
A silent beat, then another. Changmin wiggles his bare toes.
“Come on, I’ll cook you ramen.” Changmin announces with finality and it’s a completely ridiculous way to say ‘I love you’, Yoochun knows, but it’s enough.
It will always be enough.
:::::
fin.
i'm not entirely thrilled with this outcome but any comments (especially for unapologetic smut) = cookies ♥
park yoochun x shim changmin
dana (dahchi)
rating NC-17 for language, the debauchery of grammar laws and unrepentant, pointless smut. thank you to dreaminthepast for the beta.
inspired by THIS.
x-posted to seuki and musicaloddnotes
:::::
The theme of the day is beds and threadbare sweaters and Yoochun slips (with cunning and stealth) into the dressing room, lifts the little white plastic gun and says, “Drop your pants!”
He’s expecting violence, he’s expecting sarcasm. He’s not expecting to be hit in the face with a pair of jeans. He drops the gun, smiles sheepishly.
“That sort of backfired, didn’t it?”
And Changmin is laughing at him; bright and beautiful and with the shuddering force of his entire body so Yoochun only feels slightly idiotic. Even less so when he realizes that Changmin is standing there in nothing but a green sweater and his underwear.
He leers.
“Hyung?” Changmin sounds confused; his head tilted, his hair in his eyes. And, really, Changmin is all grown up and impossibly brilliant but still as dense as a brick wall.
Yoochun locks the door, feels strangely victorious.
“Hyung.” This one is laced with understanding, heavy with disapproval.
And it is a very bad idea.
But.
“It’s not my fault.” Yoochun states blithely and stares at Changmin’s legs. Changmin tugs the edge of the sweater down his thighs subconsciously, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance. The image makes Yoochun’s fingers twitch.
“The bed is out there.” Changmin answers, but he's grinning; all sharp edges and awkward come hithers. Seduction according to Changmin. He pushes himself up onto the table in one long, languid movement, swinging his bare feet back and forth, forth and back. An invitation. “Come here.”
And Yoochun’s heart thumps, thumps and nearly stops because he had been joking. Maybe. Just a little. Except something stumbles and catches when he realizes this could happen (this is going to happen, dammit) and the look in Changmin’s eyes is suddenly much more important than it had been a heartbeat ago.
“You can say no,” Yoochun says weakly, pathetically. He’s lost his footing, he realizes, this wasn't the same game he had been playing when he came through the door.
But Changmin is zen. Changmin is unmoving. Changmin is kissing the tip of Yoochun’s nose in a ridiculously adorable way. And the world shatters a bit under the weight of Yoochun’s understanding because, oh god, Changmin has been waiting and Yoochun is a complete bastard.
“Don’t-" Changmin says quietly, circumventing half-formed apologies, “It wasn’t-" a nervous laugh, “It was important that you were sure.”
“Changmin-ah…” It hurts.
Changmin hums a little, utterly evaporating the stillness in the room, “My feet are getting cold.”
“I think you’re missing the point.” Like maybe we should talk about this more, Yoochun thinks wildly; like maybe we should remember how to breathe.
But Changmin looks frustrated and obtusely determined in that way Yoochun has no defence against. “No, you’re missing the point. I’m not wearing any pants.”
--And then Changmin is leaning forward and pressing his lips to Yoochun’s and Yoochun doesn’t really want to think anymore, Yoochun really can’t think anymore, because Changmin tastes like oranges and heat and all of his arguments die in the whisper of Changmin’s breath, in the aggressive press of Changmin’s thumb across his chest, over the swell of his nipple.
Jesus.
And it would be so easy just to keep doing this all night, Yoochun thinks; just fighting and fighting and surrendering to the slow pressure of Changmin’s tongue sliding languid-slow along his lips. It would be so easy to make this more than what it was.
Changmin's fingers run up and along his thighs, over his ass and up the back of his rucked up shirt and just this, harsh kisses and the burn of warm hands is enough to push his mind into incoherence beginning and ending with Changmin's name. Yoochun slides his attention downwards, tracing a path of wet, sucking kisses along the swell of Changmin’s jaw as he pulls down the sweater’s collar to lick at the sweat pooling along the line of his throat. He wants to mark, he realizes, dragging his teeth across the slip of exposed shoulder, he wants Changmin to remember.
Changmin’s hands scramble at the hem of the sweater, trying to pull it up, off, but Yoochun stops him and he nearly chokes on his words when he says, “Leave it on. Please.”
And Changmin’s eyes are dark, so dark, but he doesn’t say no, just smirks in a way that makes Yoochun want to hit him. Or kiss him again.
Changmin moans softly and he moves, shifts and wiggles until he's fit himself properly; legs on either side of Yoochun's thighs, using the new position to lean forward, to drag his tongue along the shell of Yoochun's ear. Yoochun grips Changmin's hips, fingers opening and twitching feebly as the tongue continues its path down his neck and --stretch, gasp-- along his throat until it finds a nipple to fixate on and then there's the hard graze of teeth, sting, shiver and lightning.
Yoochun leans back (to breathe, to survive) to pull off his pants and wrestle out of the rest of his clothing. Changmin leans back (rumpled, debauched) his hands reaching for Yoochun and then it’s skin and skin and those long, long legs wrapped tightly around him. He slides the flat of his hand along Changmin’s stomach, down and down and down until his fingertips skim along the length of Changmin’s cock, tracing the hardness through the thin fabric of his underwear. He wants to follow the same path with his mouth and does, shoving the sweater up under Changmin’s arms and licking his way down. Changmin nearly jumps off the table as Yoochun mouths at his erection, lips and wet heat, his head thumping back hard against the surface as he arches up, his fingers scrambling, scrambling and failing to find something to hold onto.
Yoochun thinks he wants to laugh, thinks he wants anything besides this intense, unrelenting need because this has the potential to become something much more than he can handle. Changmin is giving him everything and all Yoochun needs to do is to decide whether or not he wants to take it.
“In my bag,” Changmin says breathlessly, eyes shining and his voice softer than Yoochun has ever heard it.
And what? Yoochun thinks, until he finds the bottle of lotion and the condom and then it’s oh. And fear, so much fucking fear that Yoochun nearly chokes on it.
But Changmin is smiling; his eyes impatient and the need curling at the edges of his lips, twitching at his ends of his fingers. The determination is nearly palpable; Changmin has started this and Changmin will end this. Changmin will probably rule the world.
Yoochun slicks his fingers with the lotion slowly, deliberately, tracing them down the slope of Changmin’s backbone and raising an eyebrow at Changmin’s agitation, “Is there a problem?”
“Well, you’re taking the scenic route.” Changmin deadpans through a gasping breath.
Yoochun laughs, thinks ‘and there he is’. The pushy little bastard, the Changmin that usually hides deep behind his eyes.
He leans forward to nudge Changmin’s cheek with his nose, a gesture that urges them back into a fragile kiss and the distraction is enough to slide a finger in, smooth and deep and oh god. Changmin makes a sound against Yoochun’s mouth, soft and keening and it’s enough of an incentive to move, to fuck, twisting in and down. Yoochun can nearly imagine it now; this heat around him, Changmin pressing in from all sides and he pushes in another finger, the rhythm faster, harder, Changmin panting hot against the curve of his cheek and--
No.
Yoochun pulls away slightly, groaning painfully, because Changmin has never--
“It’s okay,” Changmin manages, catching Yoochun’s wrist. Holding it in place. He strokes his thumb along the palm of Yoochun’s hand in reassurance when he sees the doubt surface in Yoochun’s eyes.
And there’s a sudden flash of comprehension and thoughts; Changmin alone in his bed at night. Changmin with his fingers buried inside himself as Yoochun’s name is smothered into a pillow and.
And.
God, he thinks, oh god. Only realizes he’s said it out loud when the tremble of Changmin’s laughter tickles the skin along his shoulder.
“Yoochun-hyung,” Changmin mumbles; teasing, low. And of course Changmin has thought about this, Changmin has probably mapped out every pro and con and possible position in painful, stunning, wonderful detail.
Yoochun is not sure what to say, the words tangled and jumbled at the back of his throat. The amount of trust in the other man’s eyes is terrifying.
But Changmin isn’t waiting for an answer, he doesn’t seem to give a damn about the absence of one, because he’s guiding Yoochun’s hand back down, all steel strength and persistence, and in one smooth movement he pushes Yoochun’s fingers back in, groaning sharply as they slide deep. Then he’s moving, fucking himself against the palm of Yoochun’s hand and everything is just gone, evaporated, lost in the white noise of his brain and the messy, beautiful sounds Changmin is making.
Yoochun chokes, curling himself against Changmin’s chest because too much, too much, and he thinks he could cum by just watching, by just letting Changmin use him like this.
“Want…” Changmin hisses through his teeth and rolls his hips up, tight and desperate and close. He surges forward to lick his way along Yoochun’s cheek possessively, his hands painfully tight in Yoochun’s hair.
Yours. Yoochun wants to say but twists his fingers harder into Changmin instead, free hand bunched in the sweater as he yanks him in for an open mouthed kiss that leaves his lips feeling raw and swollen.
Changmin reaches for the bottle of lotion and he’s shaking into the movement, fumbling with the cap, cursing and utterly unapologetic. He coats his palm sloppily, reaching between their bodies to cover Yoochun’s cock in a jerky, imperfect rhythm of rough and hard and yes. Yoochun groans, tangling his own fingers with Changmin’s and fucking into the circle of their hands and (ohgod) the pressure, the slickness, nearly breaks him.
“Wait,” It takes all of Yoochun’s control to pull back, to stop. “The couch…” he pants, guiding Changmin over, down, until the younger man is on his back and, really, Changmin deserves better than this, deserves much more than an ugly, ugly couch in a sterile dressing room but by this point waiting might kill them both.
He slides up and over Changmin, licking at a bit of exposed, sweaty collarbone as Changmin’s fingers curl over the edge of the cushions, white knuckled and trembling. Yoochun pushes Changmin’s thighs apart, draws soft circles along Changmin’s hips when Changmin shudders. The blood is pounding in Yoochun’s ears, a resounding thud thud thud, and he knows there is no turning back after this, no climbing back up the cliff once he jumps off it but Changmin is looking at him, really looking at him and Yoochun wants.
So badly.
“Do it,” And the words are rough, barely understandable, but Yoochun is pushing in and oh god oh god, he’s never imagined this. Never. Changmin makes a noise trapped somewhere between pleasure and pain and Yoochun whispers “hang on, hang on” against the line of Changmin’s neck as he thrusts deeper; so tight, so fucking tight.
Changmin struggles up, all elbows and knees and desperation, moving against Yoochun's weight and thrusting back against him. Riding him. It’s wet and raw and almost porn and Yoochun doesn’t care; he hopes the photographer outside can hear every moan he drives out of Changmin’s mouth. He arches, jerking his hips, the down stroke burning and--- “Changmin.” He’s in Changmin. Fuck.
The rhythm nearly hurts, the movement trapped somewhere between too close and not enough, and Changmin’s arms can’t hold him. He collapses down with a sound close to a growl, his fingers tightening feebly against Yoochun’s shoulders.
“Please,” It’s so damn close to begging that it breaks Yoochun’s heart but god, he loves this Changmin; the one that still needs them, if only for this one slivered moment.
“What do you need?” And Yoochun could live for this; the feeling of Changmin’s lips moving silently against the skin of his neck, whispering “please” over and over until the word is an incoherent mess of sound. It’s the moment he’s been waiting for, the tightening of Changmin’s hands in his hair as the younger man quivers around his cock and whimpers Yoochun’s name.
“I need…” Changmin’s breathing hitches, shudders, “Move, Yoochun.”
And Yoochun loses all pretense of rhythm, of control. He finds Changmin’s hands, wraps his fingers around Changmin’s cock and holds on; just holds and holds like he’s never going to let go. Changmin grunts beneath him; his face flushed, his long black hair stuck to the curves of his cheeks and jesus, it’s beautiful, just fucking beautiful.
“Changmin, look at me,” And he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a damn if he sounds more desperate than sexy because Changmin’s eyes snap open, his pupils blown wide in endless dark on dark, and the look he gives Yoochun (nothing, there was nothing in the messy ugly world but this, this and park yoochun) make the lights go off behind Yoochun’s eyes and it’s over. Free falls and fireworks and Changmin’s fingers clinging hard onto his shoulders and his sanity.
Breathe.
And then it's silence and panting and a complete lack of adjectives. Yoochun knows everything is a mess; the sweater, the couch, their friendship, but he doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay sticky/naked and curled around Changmin just like this for another day or two. A week. A month.
Changmin winces when Yoochun pulls out but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t even shift his face from where it’s pressed unattractively into the couch cushion. Yoochun is tempted to ask him if he’s alright, but that seems monumentally stupid in light of the sex and the kinky sweater fetish and-
He wonders if Changmin would kill him if he asked to cuddle.
Probably.
Changmin turns to blink sleepily up at him, a lazy smile curving at the edge of his lips, gentle and slow. The expression makes Yoochun’s chest ache just a little, and he reaches forward, puts his absolute lack of regret into the soft brush of knuckles along bare skin.
Changmin’s nose scrunches up, “I don’t want-" Their eyes meet for a split second, Changmin’s slide away.
“Yes, you do,” Yoochun replies quietly, his thumb tracing the line of Changmin’s swollen mouth. He’s never meant anything more in his entire life.
“They’re probably going to want this back,” Changmin answers wryly, plucking at the (oh god, utterly ruined) sweater. He's diverting the conversation, changing the topic.
“Changmin, how long?” Yoochun has to ask, has to know.
Changmin shakes his head and looks more than slightly put out, his fingers dragging through sweaty bangs, “Doesn’t matter, I thought that just shoving my hands down your pants would be too forward.”
Yoochun lifts an eyebrow, lets his utter disbelief show, “How long have you known me?”
And Changmin laughs, the sound obtrusive and sharp against the backdrop of their breathing, “Good point.”
“You can just say it.” Yoochun says quietly, as he ghosts his lips along the curve of Changmin’s jaw, curls his fingers along the slope of Changmin’s rib cage. Changmin looks down, face drawn tight in thoughtful lines. Yoochun can see the words pressing up from behind Changmin’s eyes even if he can’t hear them.
A silent beat, then another. Changmin wiggles his bare toes.
“Come on, I’ll cook you ramen.” Changmin announces with finality and it’s a completely ridiculous way to say ‘I love you’, Yoochun knows, but it’s enough.
It will always be enough.
:::::
fin.
i'm not entirely thrilled with this outcome but any comments (especially for unapologetic smut) = cookies ♥