Fic: Try
Title: Try
Pairing: Junsu/Hyukjae/Yoochun, Hyukjae/Donghae, Hyukjae/Junsu
Rating: R
Hooker!fic! ...clearly the medicine is addling my brain. BUT I DID SAY THE OT3 WAS COMING, DIDN'T I. Also, fixed!OTP. Somewhat, anyway. Not well done, in my opinion, so anyone's welcome to write an alternative fixing up of the OTP!
It’s work, as usual, his last delivery of the night, and he’s delivered to enough seedy motels in the course of his job not to be fazed by the thought of sweaty, half-naked middle aged men, hungry after sex and closing the door rudely in his face the moment the packages leave his hands. Hyukjae is understandably surprised, then, when the door to the room opens, when it’s a young man on the other side, tall, attractive, smartly attired. Hyukjae doesn’t recognize him, until he speaks, and then he remembers, remembers a dark alley and Junsu on his knees and the man’s groans, low, sensual, titillating. He can feel himself flushing hotly at the images, dredged up, unbidden, from the recesses of his mind, feel the man’s gaze on him, curious, searing.
“You”, and Hyukjae contemplates dropping the food and fleeing. His voice, however, is nothing beyond wondering, musing, and Hyukjae wills his erratic pulse to slow.
“Me”, he agrees noncommittally, waits while the man opens the door wider. “On the table”, with a curt tilt of the head, and Hyukjae walks in, too relieved to notice the oddity of actually being invited in.
He can hear the sound of water running in the adjoining bathroom as he sets the food down, hear the click and pop of a tab as he turns, watches the young man as he leans languidly by the counter, back to the mirror, can of beer raised casually. “Junsu’s in the shower.”
“Oh.” Hyukjae can feel the flush suffusing his face again. While they’re best friends he’s never felt the need to pry, despite what he’d seen the other night, and this, much too surreal- Hyukjae pauses when the other man speaks again.
“Park Yoochun”, he offers, lips quirked slightly, still staring, staring, and Hyukjae wills himself not to betray his discomfiture. “Lee Hyukjae”, he replies, throat suddenly dry; nearly fumbles and drops the can Yoochun tosses to him.
“Here”, and Hyukjae pulls the tab; swallows gratefully. The liquid is warm down his throat, and he avoids Yoochun’s gaze as he drinks; wonders if he should just forget about asking for payment and leave, right now, before Junsu can come out of the shower, before the whole situation devolves into something infinitely more awkward.
“You’re…friends, are you?” Yoochun’s eyes are dark, dark, inscrutable, and Hyukjae swallows hurriedly, deposits the near empty can on the tabletop.
“Best friends.”
“I…see. I suppose you would know what he needs all that money for, then?”
Hyukjae is grateful for the support of the low table, the wood digging into the backs of his thighs. “Money?”
“Money”, Yoochun agrees; drains the last of his drink. “He…asked for an advance, for want of a better word. He’s currently in my, how should I say this? Employ, for the next month or so.”
Hyukjae’s stomach gives a strange, jolting lurch, even as he stumbles, the backs of his knees colliding with the wood of the bed frame nearby. He sinks onto the cool sheets, gaze never once leaving Yoochun’s, Yoochun who’s still standing there, cool, unruffled; thinks of rolls and rolls of bills, of Junsu’s voice, you need it more than I do, thinks of Donghae, hair tousled and spread out on the sheets below him.
“His mother”, Hyukjae manages weakly. “His mother is…very ill.”
“But the money never went to his mother, did it? If my memory doesn’t fail me he brought up the request of an advance in payment the very next night after he took you home.” Yoochun moves then, quick, oddly graceful, so close Hyukjae can smell the faint tinge of alcohol on his breath, the sweetness of his cologne. “Tell me, Lee Hyukjae. What are you to him, that he would do these things for you?”
Hyukjae can feel the roiling in his lower belly, wishes he had somewhere to go to throw up. “That’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough.” Yoochun is leaning back now, arms crossed, expression still unreadable. “I just thought you’d…like to know.”
“Cancel his debt.” The sheets are cool under his fingers, and Hyukjae is only just barely aware that he has them in a death grip. He can see Yoochun’s eyes widening, his composure wavering momentarily.
“What?”
“Cancel it.” Hyukjae closes his eyes, steels himself. “If it’s sex you want-”
Yoochun’s grin is wide, skeptical, amused. “And I suppose you think you’re skilled in that line of work-”
“Skilled enough”, and Hyukjae hears the beginning of a gasp before his hands find the lapels of Yoochun’s jacket, before he drinks down the rest of the sounds from the back of Yoochun’s throat. Yoochun tastes deep, warm, dark like strong coffee, heady with spice. Hyukjae imagines he can taste Junsu on Yoochun’s tongue, as Yoochun pushes him back, back, as he pushes up, up and out and into Yoochun’s palms, he’s not sure which. Yoochun is above him, when they break apart for air, lips red and hair in disarray, eyes heated, heated, wanting.
“You can still leave”, Yoochun’s arm, raised to indicate the door, still open a crack, and Hyukjae blinks.
“No”, the word echoing in his ears, louder than even the roaring of his blood, and it’s Yoochun’s turn to look startled. “No”, Hyukjae repeats, more firmly this time, fingers already reaching to tangle in the fabric of Yoochun’s shirt when they both hear the click of the bathroom door unlocking.
“Yoochun? I heard somebody- Hyukjae.” Hyukjae turns, cranes his neck to see, hard as it is on his back. Junsu, sweet, sweet Junsu, hair wet, towel tied low about his waist, face caught between utter bewilderment and complete disbelief.
“Your friend”, and Hyukjae shudders at the timbre of Yoochun’s voice, suddenly at least half an octave lower, “has decided to stay.”
“Hyuk?” Junsu is crouching by his head, then, confused, hair dripping onto Hyukjae’s shirt, eyes wide, wide, appealing.
Hyukjae tries for a reassuring smile and bites back the groan when Yoochun shifts, when he settles more firmly on Hyukjae’s hips; mouths his answer into the line of Junsu’s jaw.
---
“Your mother.” Hyukjae pauses when he feels Junsu tense. They are alone now in the darkness of Hyukjae’s room, the sound of the overhead fan the only break in the silence. “What about your mother, Junsu-ah?”
“She’s dying.” Junsu’s voice is flat, flat, emotionless. “The doctor- He said there was nothing left to do, nothing-”
“Oh.” Hyukjae tightens his grip about Junsu’s waist, breathes in the familiar scent of his shampoo. “I’m so sorry, I-”
He falters, gropes for the right words, comes up with a blank. For minutes there is quiet but for the hum of the fan blades, and Hyukjae is almost certain Junsu has fallen asleep, when his friend speaks again.
“Fix it, Hyukjae-ah.”
“W-what?”
Junsu sighs heavily, turns to bury his face in Hyukjae’s chest. “Fix it, you idiot.”
“But- you-”
Junsu yawns loudly, snuggles in deeper. “Goodnight, Hyukjae-ah.”
Hyukjae shifts, listens as Junsu’s breathing slows and stares up at the racing, flickering shadows on the ceiling until his eyes water.
---
Donghae is fire and flesh and motion, and Hyukjae has to struggle to keep up. “Where”, Donghae’s fingers plucking, discarding, popping buttons carelessly, “where did you get so much money?”
“I worked for it. The same way you do.” Cruel, Hyukjae knows, cruel, cruel, but Donghae’s expression doesn’t change.
“Is that so?” Donghae’s smile is white, white, feral, head dipping slightly, lips fastening on the juncture of neck and shoulder. “What was he like?”
Hyukjae growls when Donghae’s hand moves lower, ghosts across his abdomen, lower, teasing. “You would like him”; groans when Donghae’s fingers grip, stroke. “He fucks better than I do.”
He can hear the laughter in Donghae’s voice, even if he can’t see his face, dark, dark promise that fans the need in him to a desperate, hungry inferno. “But, Hyukjae-ah”, and he can’t quite stifle the cry that rips forth, can’t quite bring himself to care, when Donghae thrusts into him, smooth, fluid, “does he fuck better than me?”
“No”, and he loathes the way Donghae can reduce him to this, loves it, “oh god, Donghae-”, memorizes the curve of Donghae’s smile, exultant, triumphant, the delicate arch of his neck, head thrown back, eyes closed, hips moving, moving, moving.
It’s always over too soon, Donghae reaching for his garments the moment they’re both done. “Donghae”, and it breaks something in him, the way Donghae moves away, just out of reach, “Donghae-”
“Don’t.” Donghae’s voice is quiet, soft, and Hyukjae traces the marks he’s left behind with his eyes, red on pale skin, bruises on hip, on neck, on shoulder.
“Donghae”, and Hyukjae wants to laugh, at this crazy dance, Donghae backing away as he advances, “please-”
“That won’t work anymore, Hyukjae!” Donghae’s eyes flash dangerously, hands clenching, unclenching, feet moving back and back and back. “You were the one who brought a whore home-”
“He was my friend, Donghae! He found me, I was drunk, and he brought me home, and-” Hyukjae fights down the bubbling despair, tries to make Donghae see. “You left, Donghae. Why?”
“Why? Why?” Donghae laughs, cracked, cracked, harsh. So I wouldn’t have to watch you walk away- “I thought you understood, Hyukjae. This is my job. You ask too much, you want too much of me-”
“You were angry.” Donghae’s back is to the wall now, and Hyukjae is close, close, too close. “Angry, the night you came and found Junsu. Tonight, when I told you. Angry at the thought of someone else touching me, someone else’s hands, tongue, someone else’s lips wrapped around my cock, angry-”
“Stop it”, Donghae hisses, fingers digging into his shoulders, hard enough to draw blood, “stop it-”
“Then you understand.” Hyukjae can’t quite keep the snarl out of his voice, the raw, aching desperation, hands pushing Donghae back up against the wall. “It’s what I see every night, goddamnit, you and somebody else, some filthy, rich bastard fucking you on those sheets-”
“Stop it, Hyukjae, shut up-” Their meeting this time is sharp, clumsy, the crashing of waves on jagged rocks, teeth clicking, cutting. There is a brief struggle, until Donghae gives in, head tilting just so, and Hyukjae tastes the blood from the cut in his lower lip in the melding, the salt of Donghae’s tears. Donghae’s cheek is smooth under his palm, wet under his fingers when he draws away. I’m sorry, Hyukjae hears in the press of Donghae’s lips to his chin, to his temple, to the corner of his mouth. He traces the words onto Donghae’s skin with the pads of his thumbs, soft, soft, careful, stay, over and over, again and again and again, stay, stay, stay-
Donghae’s smile is tremulous, shaky, bright as the sun. “We will… just have to try-”
“Yes”, into Donghae’s hair, the bands in his chest loosening when Donghae leans in, when they fit, edges sliding in smoothly next to each other, “yes”, when Donghae draws him back down, hand cool on the nape of his neck, kisses him like it’s the first time.
Pairing: Junsu/Hyukjae/Yoochun, Hyukjae/Donghae, Hyukjae/Junsu
Rating: R
Hooker!fic! ...clearly the medicine is addling my brain. BUT I DID SAY THE OT3 WAS COMING, DIDN'T I. Also, fixed!OTP. Somewhat, anyway. Not well done, in my opinion, so anyone's welcome to write an alternative fixing up of the OTP!
It’s work, as usual, his last delivery of the night, and he’s delivered to enough seedy motels in the course of his job not to be fazed by the thought of sweaty, half-naked middle aged men, hungry after sex and closing the door rudely in his face the moment the packages leave his hands. Hyukjae is understandably surprised, then, when the door to the room opens, when it’s a young man on the other side, tall, attractive, smartly attired. Hyukjae doesn’t recognize him, until he speaks, and then he remembers, remembers a dark alley and Junsu on his knees and the man’s groans, low, sensual, titillating. He can feel himself flushing hotly at the images, dredged up, unbidden, from the recesses of his mind, feel the man’s gaze on him, curious, searing.
“You”, and Hyukjae contemplates dropping the food and fleeing. His voice, however, is nothing beyond wondering, musing, and Hyukjae wills his erratic pulse to slow.
“Me”, he agrees noncommittally, waits while the man opens the door wider. “On the table”, with a curt tilt of the head, and Hyukjae walks in, too relieved to notice the oddity of actually being invited in.
He can hear the sound of water running in the adjoining bathroom as he sets the food down, hear the click and pop of a tab as he turns, watches the young man as he leans languidly by the counter, back to the mirror, can of beer raised casually. “Junsu’s in the shower.”
“Oh.” Hyukjae can feel the flush suffusing his face again. While they’re best friends he’s never felt the need to pry, despite what he’d seen the other night, and this, much too surreal- Hyukjae pauses when the other man speaks again.
“Park Yoochun”, he offers, lips quirked slightly, still staring, staring, and Hyukjae wills himself not to betray his discomfiture. “Lee Hyukjae”, he replies, throat suddenly dry; nearly fumbles and drops the can Yoochun tosses to him.
“Here”, and Hyukjae pulls the tab; swallows gratefully. The liquid is warm down his throat, and he avoids Yoochun’s gaze as he drinks; wonders if he should just forget about asking for payment and leave, right now, before Junsu can come out of the shower, before the whole situation devolves into something infinitely more awkward.
“You’re…friends, are you?” Yoochun’s eyes are dark, dark, inscrutable, and Hyukjae swallows hurriedly, deposits the near empty can on the tabletop.
“Best friends.”
“I…see. I suppose you would know what he needs all that money for, then?”
Hyukjae is grateful for the support of the low table, the wood digging into the backs of his thighs. “Money?”
“Money”, Yoochun agrees; drains the last of his drink. “He…asked for an advance, for want of a better word. He’s currently in my, how should I say this? Employ, for the next month or so.”
Hyukjae’s stomach gives a strange, jolting lurch, even as he stumbles, the backs of his knees colliding with the wood of the bed frame nearby. He sinks onto the cool sheets, gaze never once leaving Yoochun’s, Yoochun who’s still standing there, cool, unruffled; thinks of rolls and rolls of bills, of Junsu’s voice, you need it more than I do, thinks of Donghae, hair tousled and spread out on the sheets below him.
“His mother”, Hyukjae manages weakly. “His mother is…very ill.”
“But the money never went to his mother, did it? If my memory doesn’t fail me he brought up the request of an advance in payment the very next night after he took you home.” Yoochun moves then, quick, oddly graceful, so close Hyukjae can smell the faint tinge of alcohol on his breath, the sweetness of his cologne. “Tell me, Lee Hyukjae. What are you to him, that he would do these things for you?”
Hyukjae can feel the roiling in his lower belly, wishes he had somewhere to go to throw up. “That’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough.” Yoochun is leaning back now, arms crossed, expression still unreadable. “I just thought you’d…like to know.”
“Cancel his debt.” The sheets are cool under his fingers, and Hyukjae is only just barely aware that he has them in a death grip. He can see Yoochun’s eyes widening, his composure wavering momentarily.
“What?”
“Cancel it.” Hyukjae closes his eyes, steels himself. “If it’s sex you want-”
Yoochun’s grin is wide, skeptical, amused. “And I suppose you think you’re skilled in that line of work-”
“Skilled enough”, and Hyukjae hears the beginning of a gasp before his hands find the lapels of Yoochun’s jacket, before he drinks down the rest of the sounds from the back of Yoochun’s throat. Yoochun tastes deep, warm, dark like strong coffee, heady with spice. Hyukjae imagines he can taste Junsu on Yoochun’s tongue, as Yoochun pushes him back, back, as he pushes up, up and out and into Yoochun’s palms, he’s not sure which. Yoochun is above him, when they break apart for air, lips red and hair in disarray, eyes heated, heated, wanting.
“You can still leave”, Yoochun’s arm, raised to indicate the door, still open a crack, and Hyukjae blinks.
“No”, the word echoing in his ears, louder than even the roaring of his blood, and it’s Yoochun’s turn to look startled. “No”, Hyukjae repeats, more firmly this time, fingers already reaching to tangle in the fabric of Yoochun’s shirt when they both hear the click of the bathroom door unlocking.
“Yoochun? I heard somebody- Hyukjae.” Hyukjae turns, cranes his neck to see, hard as it is on his back. Junsu, sweet, sweet Junsu, hair wet, towel tied low about his waist, face caught between utter bewilderment and complete disbelief.
“Your friend”, and Hyukjae shudders at the timbre of Yoochun’s voice, suddenly at least half an octave lower, “has decided to stay.”
“Hyuk?” Junsu is crouching by his head, then, confused, hair dripping onto Hyukjae’s shirt, eyes wide, wide, appealing.
Hyukjae tries for a reassuring smile and bites back the groan when Yoochun shifts, when he settles more firmly on Hyukjae’s hips; mouths his answer into the line of Junsu’s jaw.
---
“Your mother.” Hyukjae pauses when he feels Junsu tense. They are alone now in the darkness of Hyukjae’s room, the sound of the overhead fan the only break in the silence. “What about your mother, Junsu-ah?”
“She’s dying.” Junsu’s voice is flat, flat, emotionless. “The doctor- He said there was nothing left to do, nothing-”
“Oh.” Hyukjae tightens his grip about Junsu’s waist, breathes in the familiar scent of his shampoo. “I’m so sorry, I-”
He falters, gropes for the right words, comes up with a blank. For minutes there is quiet but for the hum of the fan blades, and Hyukjae is almost certain Junsu has fallen asleep, when his friend speaks again.
“Fix it, Hyukjae-ah.”
“W-what?”
Junsu sighs heavily, turns to bury his face in Hyukjae’s chest. “Fix it, you idiot.”
“But- you-”
Junsu yawns loudly, snuggles in deeper. “Goodnight, Hyukjae-ah.”
Hyukjae shifts, listens as Junsu’s breathing slows and stares up at the racing, flickering shadows on the ceiling until his eyes water.
---
Donghae is fire and flesh and motion, and Hyukjae has to struggle to keep up. “Where”, Donghae’s fingers plucking, discarding, popping buttons carelessly, “where did you get so much money?”
“I worked for it. The same way you do.” Cruel, Hyukjae knows, cruel, cruel, but Donghae’s expression doesn’t change.
“Is that so?” Donghae’s smile is white, white, feral, head dipping slightly, lips fastening on the juncture of neck and shoulder. “What was he like?”
Hyukjae growls when Donghae’s hand moves lower, ghosts across his abdomen, lower, teasing. “You would like him”; groans when Donghae’s fingers grip, stroke. “He fucks better than I do.”
He can hear the laughter in Donghae’s voice, even if he can’t see his face, dark, dark promise that fans the need in him to a desperate, hungry inferno. “But, Hyukjae-ah”, and he can’t quite stifle the cry that rips forth, can’t quite bring himself to care, when Donghae thrusts into him, smooth, fluid, “does he fuck better than me?”
“No”, and he loathes the way Donghae can reduce him to this, loves it, “oh god, Donghae-”, memorizes the curve of Donghae’s smile, exultant, triumphant, the delicate arch of his neck, head thrown back, eyes closed, hips moving, moving, moving.
It’s always over too soon, Donghae reaching for his garments the moment they’re both done. “Donghae”, and it breaks something in him, the way Donghae moves away, just out of reach, “Donghae-”
“Don’t.” Donghae’s voice is quiet, soft, and Hyukjae traces the marks he’s left behind with his eyes, red on pale skin, bruises on hip, on neck, on shoulder.
“Donghae”, and Hyukjae wants to laugh, at this crazy dance, Donghae backing away as he advances, “please-”
“That won’t work anymore, Hyukjae!” Donghae’s eyes flash dangerously, hands clenching, unclenching, feet moving back and back and back. “You were the one who brought a whore home-”
“He was my friend, Donghae! He found me, I was drunk, and he brought me home, and-” Hyukjae fights down the bubbling despair, tries to make Donghae see. “You left, Donghae. Why?”
“Why? Why?” Donghae laughs, cracked, cracked, harsh. So I wouldn’t have to watch you walk away- “I thought you understood, Hyukjae. This is my job. You ask too much, you want too much of me-”
“You were angry.” Donghae’s back is to the wall now, and Hyukjae is close, close, too close. “Angry, the night you came and found Junsu. Tonight, when I told you. Angry at the thought of someone else touching me, someone else’s hands, tongue, someone else’s lips wrapped around my cock, angry-”
“Stop it”, Donghae hisses, fingers digging into his shoulders, hard enough to draw blood, “stop it-”
“Then you understand.” Hyukjae can’t quite keep the snarl out of his voice, the raw, aching desperation, hands pushing Donghae back up against the wall. “It’s what I see every night, goddamnit, you and somebody else, some filthy, rich bastard fucking you on those sheets-”
“Stop it, Hyukjae, shut up-” Their meeting this time is sharp, clumsy, the crashing of waves on jagged rocks, teeth clicking, cutting. There is a brief struggle, until Donghae gives in, head tilting just so, and Hyukjae tastes the blood from the cut in his lower lip in the melding, the salt of Donghae’s tears. Donghae’s cheek is smooth under his palm, wet under his fingers when he draws away. I’m sorry, Hyukjae hears in the press of Donghae’s lips to his chin, to his temple, to the corner of his mouth. He traces the words onto Donghae’s skin with the pads of his thumbs, soft, soft, careful, stay, over and over, again and again and again, stay, stay, stay-
Donghae’s smile is tremulous, shaky, bright as the sun. “We will… just have to try-”
“Yes”, into Donghae’s hair, the bands in his chest loosening when Donghae leans in, when they fit, edges sliding in smoothly next to each other, “yes”, when Donghae draws him back down, hand cool on the nape of his neck, kisses him like it’s the first time.