Round 1, Challenge #4: "T-Minus Eight"
Title: T-Minus Eight
Rating: R
Word Count: 680
Summary: They've got eight minutes to make it last.
Warnings: Sex.
eight.
nine - now eight - minutes in the shower, and it's like your heart's beating down the seconds, faster and faster. you're unstoppable, vibrating with energy and frustration and passion you had channeled into dancing and laughing and silky vibratos for too long; eight minutes seems like a blessing from the long-haired, dark-eyed devil himself.
curling trembling fingers in yunho's hair, the puke green and sparkly hair barretts yoochun had wrestled into his bangs dislodged and falling onto your toes, you know you won't last for that long, and neither will he.
seven.
bits of orange peel underneath his fingernails, souvenirs from four:fifty-five am and t-minus twelve hours from concert showdown, rubs off in rough stripes as he scrapes his fingers over your hips in his haste to pull off your boxers. this close, his tongue in your mouth, you grimace a bit because all of a sudden you realize you haven't brushed your teeth since t-minus eighteen, and it's already t-minus two.
separated by only two stained tank tops, clinging tight to muscle, yunho strains his breath. it's almost like he's embarrassed, a little hesitant, to press closer, as if he's once again sixteen, fresh-faced and body-shy.
he smells like he hasn't showered for days. you grind up against him and pull him against you and rub the boundaries between you and him raw and open.
six.
he can't stop staring into your eyes and it's like on stage, with his presence and being invading your senses like changmin invades your personal space, hand darting out, a nimble mallet, to pummel you into submission, except it's anything but forced and everything natural in the world, like yoochun's laughter and junsu's voice colliding and winding and soaring with yours and oh, he won't look away.
so you match him, eye for eye, second for second, unsexy squint for slightly-sexier squint and you know you're close, not so so close but close enough, just on schedule, because you can't stop rambling and muttering things in a broken combination of korean, japanese, and english "oh baby, oh baby, fantastic"s. he kisses you in a way that's oddly chaste compared to the compromising position the two of you are in, your back running a bruise from the edge of the tub and his legs splayed and ass sticking out as he struggles to tear off his top and yours at the same time but you arch into the kiss anyway because there's nothing better than this moment.
five.
full and desperate, ready to urge him to move his hips already so you can feel what you've seen on stage for the past month, you focus on his body, moving attention beyond his cock and his eyes.
the inside of his wrist, purple-green-blue veins pulsing. elbow, awkwardly angled and banging against the soap holder. his stomach, flat and dusted with just the shadows of defined muscles. a scar, marking his face for airbrushing and a layer of makeup.
you love those things about him, and you want him to know, need him to know, so you reach up, force his head down, and kiss him where the scar smiles at you. above you, he finally moves.
four.
close close close so close
yes yes yes yes don't stop
here, there, harder, faster
so close
don't stop
don't ever stop
three.
two.
ragged breaths like whispers into parted lips, fingers uncurling before tensing around each other again, like having bungee jumped and withstood the adrenalin plunge and the repercussion bounces.
you're here. you're okay. this has been the best six minutes of three months, and you kiss yunho with laughter filling the empty spaces. he matches you, corner for corner, line for line, space for space.
one.
time to go, and he and you are massaging shampoo into each other's scalp like foreplay rather than the slow down of rising suns and a purpling horizon. he taps you on your hips, against the bruises, once; it's a question you answer the same you way answer every time you're on stage and he breaks free of routine long enough to ask: you smile.
you're ready for anything.
zero.
"this is love," he never says. he helps you dry your hair.
"then i love you, too," you never answer back. you help him with his shirt.
Rating: R
Word Count: 680
Summary: They've got eight minutes to make it last.
Warnings: Sex.
eight.
nine - now eight - minutes in the shower, and it's like your heart's beating down the seconds, faster and faster. you're unstoppable, vibrating with energy and frustration and passion you had channeled into dancing and laughing and silky vibratos for too long; eight minutes seems like a blessing from the long-haired, dark-eyed devil himself.
curling trembling fingers in yunho's hair, the puke green and sparkly hair barretts yoochun had wrestled into his bangs dislodged and falling onto your toes, you know you won't last for that long, and neither will he.
seven.
bits of orange peel underneath his fingernails, souvenirs from four:fifty-five am and t-minus twelve hours from concert showdown, rubs off in rough stripes as he scrapes his fingers over your hips in his haste to pull off your boxers. this close, his tongue in your mouth, you grimace a bit because all of a sudden you realize you haven't brushed your teeth since t-minus eighteen, and it's already t-minus two.
separated by only two stained tank tops, clinging tight to muscle, yunho strains his breath. it's almost like he's embarrassed, a little hesitant, to press closer, as if he's once again sixteen, fresh-faced and body-shy.
he smells like he hasn't showered for days. you grind up against him and pull him against you and rub the boundaries between you and him raw and open.
six.
he can't stop staring into your eyes and it's like on stage, with his presence and being invading your senses like changmin invades your personal space, hand darting out, a nimble mallet, to pummel you into submission, except it's anything but forced and everything natural in the world, like yoochun's laughter and junsu's voice colliding and winding and soaring with yours and oh, he won't look away.
so you match him, eye for eye, second for second, unsexy squint for slightly-sexier squint and you know you're close, not so so close but close enough, just on schedule, because you can't stop rambling and muttering things in a broken combination of korean, japanese, and english "oh baby, oh baby, fantastic"s. he kisses you in a way that's oddly chaste compared to the compromising position the two of you are in, your back running a bruise from the edge of the tub and his legs splayed and ass sticking out as he struggles to tear off his top and yours at the same time but you arch into the kiss anyway because there's nothing better than this moment.
five.
full and desperate, ready to urge him to move his hips already so you can feel what you've seen on stage for the past month, you focus on his body, moving attention beyond his cock and his eyes.
the inside of his wrist, purple-green-blue veins pulsing. elbow, awkwardly angled and banging against the soap holder. his stomach, flat and dusted with just the shadows of defined muscles. a scar, marking his face for airbrushing and a layer of makeup.
you love those things about him, and you want him to know, need him to know, so you reach up, force his head down, and kiss him where the scar smiles at you. above you, he finally moves.
four.
close close close so close
yes yes yes yes don't stop
here, there, harder, faster
so close
don't stop
don't ever stop
three.
two.
ragged breaths like whispers into parted lips, fingers uncurling before tensing around each other again, like having bungee jumped and withstood the adrenalin plunge and the repercussion bounces.
you're here. you're okay. this has been the best six minutes of three months, and you kiss yunho with laughter filling the empty spaces. he matches you, corner for corner, line for line, space for space.
one.
time to go, and he and you are massaging shampoo into each other's scalp like foreplay rather than the slow down of rising suns and a purpling horizon. he taps you on your hips, against the bruises, once; it's a question you answer the same you way answer every time you're on stage and he breaks free of routine long enough to ask: you smile.
you're ready for anything.
zero.
"this is love," he never says. he helps you dry your hair.
"then i love you, too," you never answer back. you help him with his shirt.