Fic: The Bond of Broken Hearts
Title: The Bond of Broken Hearts
Band: B.A.P
Pairing: Himdae, Onesided Himup, onesided Daejong.
Rating: R
Warning: Angst
Summary: Jongup is straight.
Notes: The Weeknd's Wicked Games.
Hands slide over his skin, cool and direct. They raise goosebumps in their wake, causing his throat to tighten somewhere between uncertainty and desperate longing. The fingers are long and callused when they tug down his zipper, more knowledgeable as they tug his jeans down and brush the tender skin of his thighs.
They are nothing like the shorter, sturdier ones he wishes they were.
Eyes shut tight, he answers the lips that press against his with a soft groan, hands tangling in hair that is a lot longer than it should be. He nips a full lower lip and breathes in when those cool hands slide higher to push up his shirt, rough padded thumbs tracing his ribs and hip bones, and hot mouth following down a wide arch around where he wants it to be. Where he wishes it was.
Too much experience.
He loosens his grip and instead slides his hands down, nails dragging over a too long back, too pale skin reddening and rumbling with the low groan the other murmurs against his hipbone in response.
A nip of pain and a slow burning has him gasping into the dark room, hips rolling and legs bracing as he welcomes it further.
It dulls the sense of wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He feels warm air as the other shifts above him and turns his head to the side, hands sliding down a slimmer chest, over less defined muscles. He grits his teeth when a cool hand grasps his to stop it.
“Don’t.”
Closing his eyes against the shadows on the wall, he nods, and exhales as they settle into a slow rhythm.
One beat. Two.
The springs creak but the sound is lost beneath the rustling of the sheets, beneath hard breathing and cool resignation kept sharp and painful by the what-ifs and if-onlys.
He feels the familiar tightening in his gut, imagination grasping at everything that isn’t there as his hands tighten reflexively around less defined shoulders to keep it there. He stutters a simple warning. Warm lips react and crash against his at the last moment, smothering the gasp of a name, the same echoed on the tip of the other’s tongue as hips stutter out of control.
There is no afterglow, no soft nothings or lingering touches of comfort. They don’t cuddle, or say anything at all. It’s not about love, and it never will be.
It’s an understanding.
His eyes open as the bed dips on the other side, the soft sound of jeans sliding back up firm thighs and a buckle being done up loud in the otherwise quiet.
I love him. He loves me not. He loves him, he loves him not.
“Himchan..”
Himchan pauses at the door, and smiles sadly to himself. “Goodnight, Daehyunnie.”
This is all we’ll ever have.
He’ll never love us, so all we have is each other.
Band: B.A.P
Pairing: Himdae, Onesided Himup, onesided Daejong.
Rating: R
Warning: Angst
Summary: Jongup is straight.
Notes: The Weeknd's Wicked Games.
Hands slide over his skin, cool and direct. They raise goosebumps in their wake, causing his throat to tighten somewhere between uncertainty and desperate longing. The fingers are long and callused when they tug down his zipper, more knowledgeable as they tug his jeans down and brush the tender skin of his thighs.
They are nothing like the shorter, sturdier ones he wishes they were.
Eyes shut tight, he answers the lips that press against his with a soft groan, hands tangling in hair that is a lot longer than it should be. He nips a full lower lip and breathes in when those cool hands slide higher to push up his shirt, rough padded thumbs tracing his ribs and hip bones, and hot mouth following down a wide arch around where he wants it to be. Where he wishes it was.
Too much experience.
He loosens his grip and instead slides his hands down, nails dragging over a too long back, too pale skin reddening and rumbling with the low groan the other murmurs against his hipbone in response.
A nip of pain and a slow burning has him gasping into the dark room, hips rolling and legs bracing as he welcomes it further.
It dulls the sense of wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He feels warm air as the other shifts above him and turns his head to the side, hands sliding down a slimmer chest, over less defined muscles. He grits his teeth when a cool hand grasps his to stop it.
“Don’t.”
Closing his eyes against the shadows on the wall, he nods, and exhales as they settle into a slow rhythm.
One beat. Two.
The springs creak but the sound is lost beneath the rustling of the sheets, beneath hard breathing and cool resignation kept sharp and painful by the what-ifs and if-onlys.
He feels the familiar tightening in his gut, imagination grasping at everything that isn’t there as his hands tighten reflexively around less defined shoulders to keep it there. He stutters a simple warning. Warm lips react and crash against his at the last moment, smothering the gasp of a name, the same echoed on the tip of the other’s tongue as hips stutter out of control.
There is no afterglow, no soft nothings or lingering touches of comfort. They don’t cuddle, or say anything at all. It’s not about love, and it never will be.
It’s an understanding.
His eyes open as the bed dips on the other side, the soft sound of jeans sliding back up firm thighs and a buckle being done up loud in the otherwise quiet.
I love him. He loves me not. He loves him, he loves him not.
“Himchan..”
Himchan pauses at the door, and smiles sadly to himself. “Goodnight, Daehyunnie.”
This is all we’ll ever have.
He’ll never love us, so all we have is each other.