Buckets
Title: Buckets
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, sex
---
I surrounded myself with the things we hated, tonight. The night when you said those fated words to me. Those words that I wanted to shove to the back of my mind, those words that I wanted to rip out of my head, throw on the ground, light on fire and stomp on on the ashes. I surrounded myself with alcohol, smoke, marijuana, ecstasy. All of the things we hate, all of the things we despise. Of course, I didn't do anything. I didn't drink anything - not even a glass of water when offered. Not even an unopened soda. Nothing. Because I didn't want to participate; I wanted to witness.
I wanted to see these people with heavier problems in their life drown themselves in this horrible style. I wanted to drown myself in their woes; I wanted to drown myself in you.
Because you told me... that it wouldn't work.
And why is it supposed to work? We're a top idol group. We're not allowed to date, have girlfriends, participate in that stupid We Got Married show. We're young, we're the epitome of yunhanams that noonas all over the world love.
But how can SME think that they can control everything? They can tell us not to date. They can tell us not to have any sort of relationship with anyone. But they can't tell us to not develop crushes, to no harbor feelings for anyone. I'm sure that they wouldn't expect it to happen within the idol groups, though. Five boys in one dorm 24/7, wasn't it bound to happen eventually? Not just physically, but emotionally?
I wanted to drown myself in the woes of others in order to forget my own issues. I wanted to see other people's pitiful lives to remind myself that I have it good - incredibly good. Way more than any kid my age could ask for. I wanted to prove to myself that I'm a spoiled brat and I need to learn how to hear the word 'no' without pitching a fit.
And yet... I still pitched a fit.
I open the door to the dorm, and it's past two a.m.; I've broken curfew, but at this point SM himself could come to me and berate me and punish me or whatever -- it's nothing compared to the sting your words left on my brain. It's like the insides of my ears are sizzling, melting off of my head, down the sides of my face, down my neck, chest, hips, legs, all the way down to the floor to form a puddle of adjectives and nouns and a verb or two. A grammatical slush sits at my feet as I take off my shoes in the entryway, and I could care less.
But thankfully, no one is up waiting for me. Sighing to myself and trying to keep quiet, I shrug off my jacket and catch a whiff of the horrible stench that followed me from that party. Cigarette smoke clings to my hair and the jacket, and I strip right then and there, throwing my clothes into the wash. I've experienced enough for one night, I'm ready to wash it all away and move on with my life.
I move into the bathroom and turn on the shower spray to a moderately hot temperature, not wanting to scald my skin but still hot enough to make me flinch when I step under the spray. I feel like I'm in a trance, mechanical as I go through the motions of washing my hair. I run my hands over my face and pull them away, glancing at them, seeing the black and blue smeared across my palms. I had forgotten that I was wearing make-up. We had had a schedule earlier and I had been all prettied up for it, but once we got home and his words ripped through my mind, I had grabbed my jacket and left once more. Without a thought. Without even bothering to grab an extra scarf, or a hat to hide my identity. It was late enough that no one young enough was outside to recognize me.
Shaking my head, I rub my hands over my face again, before I grab a cloth to properly wipe away the make-up. The yellow cloth is stained permanently from the multiple uses of eyeliner-removal it's had in its day, and when I'm done I wring it out and hang it on the little bar in the shower. I grab the soap and lather my body up quickly, rinsing off and shutting off the water as I reach out and grab the towel from the rack -- only to realize that I forgot to grab some before I came into the bathroom.
For some reason my hand quests further anyways, as if it knows something I don't. My fingers touch something soft and plushy, and I peek out from the shower curtain to see him standing there, amongst the steam and the moisture-ridden air, his hair curling at the ends due to the humidity.
"Here," he says, placing the towel in my hand.
I grasp the fabric and disappear behind the shower curtain again, trying to fight up the bile that's rising in my throat. Why is he in the bathroom? Why is he looking at me still? How can he stand to be in the same room as me? I do a quick dry of my hair, tousling it for a few seconds before I run the towel over my body, wrapping it around my waist. I pull the shower curtains back and he's still standing there, leaning against the door, his huge eyes glued to the floor.
Cautiously I step out of the tub, my feet sinking into the soft bath mat that's on the floor for the very purpose of drying your feet once the shower is completed. I run my fingers through my hair and wonder briefly why he's in the bathroom, why the door is shut, and why the hell he decided it'd be okay to hand me a towel when I had perhaps conveniently forgotten to grab one.
"Minho--"
"Kibum."
His voice cuts me off, and there's a finality in his tone that tells me that he's going to speak, and I'm going to listen. He pushes away from the door and straightens, running a hand through his hair, which is looking a bit heavier with the steam logging it down. Didn't I turn on the fan? The flip is switched to 'off', so apparently not.
"I'm not going to ask you where you went, or what you did." His voice is a low timbre and fuck I love hearing it so much, whether he's talking or singing or rapping or cussing at a video game. "I'm not going to interrogate you or make you feel guilty." He licks his lips, his thick, plump lips, and I shift my gaze to the side. I can't keep watching him. "I just -- I don't know why I said that. I got scared, when you told me, I didn't know what to do --"
I wasn't watching him, but maybe I should have been. Because in the next instant, I'm being pushed up against the wall of the bathroom, his lips devouring mine as his tall body holds me captive. I'm confused, I'm elated, I'm scared, but I'm here, I'm feeling everything that he's saying, everything he's not saying, I'm not listening to a damn thing save for his heart beat that is melding with mine through our chests. Is there even a need for words? A want for words? I can't, I won't, I refuse to say anything as I revel in the feel of his lips moving desperately against mine.
His fingers are at my towel and the material drops to the floor easily enough, fingertips skating over my still-damp body. I can't help it, I mewl into the kiss and grind into him like the fucking slut I know I am, for him, only him, forever and always. We've never done anything like this but it feels familiar and like an old rhyme, as he pulls his pajama pants down his long legs, discarding them, and as my hands remove his shirt, our lips parting for a fraction of a second to get the material over his head. In equal states of undress, need and arousal I feel like we're on the same page, that we're both melting together, creating a new puddle on the floor. A different puddle than the one I left in the entryway, a different puddle than the one I left at that party, a different puddle than the one I left at Minho's feet when I stormed off earlier tonight.
My leg is being lifted over his sharp hip, and I can't even fully enjoy his body even though my hands are running over his skin. It's like my hands aren't mine and his body isn't his, like this is some sort of weird out of body experience where I'm not really here but I can feel all of the pleasure that's jolting through my cock, through my veins, through my entire fucking body as his fingers continue to trail over my body. I can feel all of him against me, and yet I feel nothing against me, like a phantom lover that has known me for eons, ready to caress every sensitive spot with knowledge of an old lover.
"Mino..." I breathe out once our lips disconnect, his luscious mouth attaching to my neck, suckling gently and biting lightly. I want him to go further, to mark me, but I know we won't be able to hide this, this painfully sinful and glorious thing, from the members, the manager, the public. I feel so utterly desperate that I'm not embarrassed in the way my body bucks against him, ready to claim what rightfully belongs to it.
His hands skate down my sides to my thighs, drawing one of my knees up over his hip. It's odd because he's tall, but easy because I'm flexible. Our arousals grind together and it's so wrong that it's right, the black and whites fading into dull grays and blurring around the edges because we shouldn't be doing this but we are and it's just too good to stop. My other leg joins its counterpart around his hips, ankles locking at his lower back as he shifts me up the wall, one of his hands raising to my mouth. I suck in the fingers like I've done it a million times before, like I know what I'm doing; his head drops back and he lets out a low moan, before pulling the now drenched digits out again and reaching beneath my body.
The first breach is uncomfortable, but not intolerable. The second one is a bit more uncomfortable, and a bit intolerable, but I grit my teeth. He moves the knuckles of his free hand close to my mouth and my teeth sink into his index finger, biting the knuckle to suppress the groans that he knows I want to let out. The working and massaging is helping a bit, and he's whispering sweet things, adoring things that shouldn't be said between us, things that will just lead to trouble, but I'm eating them up and murmuring them back to him, the I love you's and you're so beautifuls and I need you so badlys all blending into one another. I feel like this is our only chance, we'll never have another like it, and he'll just vanish like the phantom lover he is, and I'll be alone again.
His long arms wind around my body as he pulls me away from the wall, his strength surprising as he evenly carries me to the counter, setting me gently on it and settling between my legs. I scoot closer to the edge and keep my legs close around his waist - I can't lose any contact with him, if I stop touching him, he'll vaporize and blow away with the non-existent wind in this tiny enclosed space, into the vents, through the building and out into the night sky never to be seen again. The tip of his cock is against my entrance and we both know I'm not nearly ready to be penetrated, but I wrap my arms around his neck and bring us closer, breathing against his lips.
With my encouragements of it's okay, I need you, please, he pushes forward slowly. I almost wish he wasn't being so gentle with me, then I could pretend that this didn't mean as much as it actually does to the both of us, I could pretend that when I wake up in the morning it was all a dream and I could go about my life normally as if this night hadn't happened. But the masochistic part of me wants to make this real, wants to imprint this into my memories, the ones that won't melt and create a puddle on the floor to be trodden on and forgotten and swept under the rug or mopped up.
It's painful, it is, and the tears in my eyes are definitely real, even as his angel-like kisses take them away. More compliments, more sweet words, more things that are produced by that sexy, melodic, beautiful voice that is lulling me into a sense of complacency despite the fact my entire body is on fire, I feel like I'm being split in two - but it doesn't matter because he unwinds one of my arms from his neck and laces our fingers together, resting them on the counter to brace us better as he pushes in the rest of the way. Fuck it hurts, it's uncomfortable in every way manageable, and when he starts moving it only feels worse. But people do this all the time, I know it, I'm not stupid, and I'm bound to enjoy it just like the rest of them.
And soon enough, the angle changes and I let out a soft oh! in exclamation, my hips gaining a mind of their own as they roll to meet his movements. And soon enough we're moving together, a beat all of our own, a music all of our own, and it's stuff like this that I wish we could capture in our music, to spread out and give to the entire world. But as soon as I have that thought I get selfish; I want to keep this to myself, in my memories, the ones that won't turn into puddles, so I can continue to indulge in it for the rest of my life, never to forget, always to remember, because one day Minho might not be here. One day SHINee will disband. One day I might be alone and I'll be damned if I left all of those puddles all over the Earth because I was too careless to try and hold a bucket beneath my head to catch the tears, to catch the memories of everything that's happened.
I'm trying to keep my voice down, and it's surprising how vocal he is, but I'm loving every minute of it. We're in the bathroom, we're locked in here, it's still steamy and more condensation is forming on the mirror thanks to our heavy breaths, and we're riding this ecstasy train together, lost in each others' body, love, lust, loneliness. And as we both reach the finale, as our bodies tighten and our eyes close; our foreheads press together and soon our lips meet as well, our passion exploding between us as he slumps against the counter and I slump against him, my hands cupping his face as our foreheads never lose contact, trying to regain our breaths.
It's only a few moments that we're like this, before he straightens and grabs the discarded towel, cleaning both of our bodies of the evidence. I can only help but think deeply as he wipes the essence from my stomach, and my silence must be strange to him but he's not saying a word as he offers me a small, sad, half-smile, and holds his hand out to me to help me off of the counter. I wobble a bit and he makes sure I'm steady before he gets dressed, handing me a pair of extra pajama pants that he'd brought for me.
As we exit the bathroom and make our way towards the bedroom, I can't help but start to wonder just when Minho's puddles got so big, when they ran into mine, and when we suddenly created a small lake together. I can only wonder, but I know I won't get any answers.
Because I've found the bucket to go under my head, the bucket that will catch my memories, my tears, my pain and my happiness.
Minho smiles at me as he climbs into his bunk, and I offer a smile in return. My eyes close and I feel my body relax for the first time in the past few weeks, and then I finally drift off to sleep.
Our lake is in a calm, peaceful valley, and we'll fill our buckets together, sharing our findings and making a new bucket completely. Our own bucket.
Pairing: Minho/Key
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, sex
---
I surrounded myself with the things we hated, tonight. The night when you said those fated words to me. Those words that I wanted to shove to the back of my mind, those words that I wanted to rip out of my head, throw on the ground, light on fire and stomp on on the ashes. I surrounded myself with alcohol, smoke, marijuana, ecstasy. All of the things we hate, all of the things we despise. Of course, I didn't do anything. I didn't drink anything - not even a glass of water when offered. Not even an unopened soda. Nothing. Because I didn't want to participate; I wanted to witness.
I wanted to see these people with heavier problems in their life drown themselves in this horrible style. I wanted to drown myself in their woes; I wanted to drown myself in you.
Because you told me... that it wouldn't work.
And why is it supposed to work? We're a top idol group. We're not allowed to date, have girlfriends, participate in that stupid We Got Married show. We're young, we're the epitome of yunhanams that noonas all over the world love.
But how can SME think that they can control everything? They can tell us not to date. They can tell us not to have any sort of relationship with anyone. But they can't tell us to not develop crushes, to no harbor feelings for anyone. I'm sure that they wouldn't expect it to happen within the idol groups, though. Five boys in one dorm 24/7, wasn't it bound to happen eventually? Not just physically, but emotionally?
I wanted to drown myself in the woes of others in order to forget my own issues. I wanted to see other people's pitiful lives to remind myself that I have it good - incredibly good. Way more than any kid my age could ask for. I wanted to prove to myself that I'm a spoiled brat and I need to learn how to hear the word 'no' without pitching a fit.
And yet... I still pitched a fit.
I open the door to the dorm, and it's past two a.m.; I've broken curfew, but at this point SM himself could come to me and berate me and punish me or whatever -- it's nothing compared to the sting your words left on my brain. It's like the insides of my ears are sizzling, melting off of my head, down the sides of my face, down my neck, chest, hips, legs, all the way down to the floor to form a puddle of adjectives and nouns and a verb or two. A grammatical slush sits at my feet as I take off my shoes in the entryway, and I could care less.
But thankfully, no one is up waiting for me. Sighing to myself and trying to keep quiet, I shrug off my jacket and catch a whiff of the horrible stench that followed me from that party. Cigarette smoke clings to my hair and the jacket, and I strip right then and there, throwing my clothes into the wash. I've experienced enough for one night, I'm ready to wash it all away and move on with my life.
I move into the bathroom and turn on the shower spray to a moderately hot temperature, not wanting to scald my skin but still hot enough to make me flinch when I step under the spray. I feel like I'm in a trance, mechanical as I go through the motions of washing my hair. I run my hands over my face and pull them away, glancing at them, seeing the black and blue smeared across my palms. I had forgotten that I was wearing make-up. We had had a schedule earlier and I had been all prettied up for it, but once we got home and his words ripped through my mind, I had grabbed my jacket and left once more. Without a thought. Without even bothering to grab an extra scarf, or a hat to hide my identity. It was late enough that no one young enough was outside to recognize me.
Shaking my head, I rub my hands over my face again, before I grab a cloth to properly wipe away the make-up. The yellow cloth is stained permanently from the multiple uses of eyeliner-removal it's had in its day, and when I'm done I wring it out and hang it on the little bar in the shower. I grab the soap and lather my body up quickly, rinsing off and shutting off the water as I reach out and grab the towel from the rack -- only to realize that I forgot to grab some before I came into the bathroom.
For some reason my hand quests further anyways, as if it knows something I don't. My fingers touch something soft and plushy, and I peek out from the shower curtain to see him standing there, amongst the steam and the moisture-ridden air, his hair curling at the ends due to the humidity.
"Here," he says, placing the towel in my hand.
I grasp the fabric and disappear behind the shower curtain again, trying to fight up the bile that's rising in my throat. Why is he in the bathroom? Why is he looking at me still? How can he stand to be in the same room as me? I do a quick dry of my hair, tousling it for a few seconds before I run the towel over my body, wrapping it around my waist. I pull the shower curtains back and he's still standing there, leaning against the door, his huge eyes glued to the floor.
Cautiously I step out of the tub, my feet sinking into the soft bath mat that's on the floor for the very purpose of drying your feet once the shower is completed. I run my fingers through my hair and wonder briefly why he's in the bathroom, why the door is shut, and why the hell he decided it'd be okay to hand me a towel when I had perhaps conveniently forgotten to grab one.
"Minho--"
"Kibum."
His voice cuts me off, and there's a finality in his tone that tells me that he's going to speak, and I'm going to listen. He pushes away from the door and straightens, running a hand through his hair, which is looking a bit heavier with the steam logging it down. Didn't I turn on the fan? The flip is switched to 'off', so apparently not.
"I'm not going to ask you where you went, or what you did." His voice is a low timbre and fuck I love hearing it so much, whether he's talking or singing or rapping or cussing at a video game. "I'm not going to interrogate you or make you feel guilty." He licks his lips, his thick, plump lips, and I shift my gaze to the side. I can't keep watching him. "I just -- I don't know why I said that. I got scared, when you told me, I didn't know what to do --"
I wasn't watching him, but maybe I should have been. Because in the next instant, I'm being pushed up against the wall of the bathroom, his lips devouring mine as his tall body holds me captive. I'm confused, I'm elated, I'm scared, but I'm here, I'm feeling everything that he's saying, everything he's not saying, I'm not listening to a damn thing save for his heart beat that is melding with mine through our chests. Is there even a need for words? A want for words? I can't, I won't, I refuse to say anything as I revel in the feel of his lips moving desperately against mine.
His fingers are at my towel and the material drops to the floor easily enough, fingertips skating over my still-damp body. I can't help it, I mewl into the kiss and grind into him like the fucking slut I know I am, for him, only him, forever and always. We've never done anything like this but it feels familiar and like an old rhyme, as he pulls his pajama pants down his long legs, discarding them, and as my hands remove his shirt, our lips parting for a fraction of a second to get the material over his head. In equal states of undress, need and arousal I feel like we're on the same page, that we're both melting together, creating a new puddle on the floor. A different puddle than the one I left in the entryway, a different puddle than the one I left at that party, a different puddle than the one I left at Minho's feet when I stormed off earlier tonight.
My leg is being lifted over his sharp hip, and I can't even fully enjoy his body even though my hands are running over his skin. It's like my hands aren't mine and his body isn't his, like this is some sort of weird out of body experience where I'm not really here but I can feel all of the pleasure that's jolting through my cock, through my veins, through my entire fucking body as his fingers continue to trail over my body. I can feel all of him against me, and yet I feel nothing against me, like a phantom lover that has known me for eons, ready to caress every sensitive spot with knowledge of an old lover.
"Mino..." I breathe out once our lips disconnect, his luscious mouth attaching to my neck, suckling gently and biting lightly. I want him to go further, to mark me, but I know we won't be able to hide this, this painfully sinful and glorious thing, from the members, the manager, the public. I feel so utterly desperate that I'm not embarrassed in the way my body bucks against him, ready to claim what rightfully belongs to it.
His hands skate down my sides to my thighs, drawing one of my knees up over his hip. It's odd because he's tall, but easy because I'm flexible. Our arousals grind together and it's so wrong that it's right, the black and whites fading into dull grays and blurring around the edges because we shouldn't be doing this but we are and it's just too good to stop. My other leg joins its counterpart around his hips, ankles locking at his lower back as he shifts me up the wall, one of his hands raising to my mouth. I suck in the fingers like I've done it a million times before, like I know what I'm doing; his head drops back and he lets out a low moan, before pulling the now drenched digits out again and reaching beneath my body.
The first breach is uncomfortable, but not intolerable. The second one is a bit more uncomfortable, and a bit intolerable, but I grit my teeth. He moves the knuckles of his free hand close to my mouth and my teeth sink into his index finger, biting the knuckle to suppress the groans that he knows I want to let out. The working and massaging is helping a bit, and he's whispering sweet things, adoring things that shouldn't be said between us, things that will just lead to trouble, but I'm eating them up and murmuring them back to him, the I love you's and you're so beautifuls and I need you so badlys all blending into one another. I feel like this is our only chance, we'll never have another like it, and he'll just vanish like the phantom lover he is, and I'll be alone again.
His long arms wind around my body as he pulls me away from the wall, his strength surprising as he evenly carries me to the counter, setting me gently on it and settling between my legs. I scoot closer to the edge and keep my legs close around his waist - I can't lose any contact with him, if I stop touching him, he'll vaporize and blow away with the non-existent wind in this tiny enclosed space, into the vents, through the building and out into the night sky never to be seen again. The tip of his cock is against my entrance and we both know I'm not nearly ready to be penetrated, but I wrap my arms around his neck and bring us closer, breathing against his lips.
With my encouragements of it's okay, I need you, please, he pushes forward slowly. I almost wish he wasn't being so gentle with me, then I could pretend that this didn't mean as much as it actually does to the both of us, I could pretend that when I wake up in the morning it was all a dream and I could go about my life normally as if this night hadn't happened. But the masochistic part of me wants to make this real, wants to imprint this into my memories, the ones that won't melt and create a puddle on the floor to be trodden on and forgotten and swept under the rug or mopped up.
It's painful, it is, and the tears in my eyes are definitely real, even as his angel-like kisses take them away. More compliments, more sweet words, more things that are produced by that sexy, melodic, beautiful voice that is lulling me into a sense of complacency despite the fact my entire body is on fire, I feel like I'm being split in two - but it doesn't matter because he unwinds one of my arms from his neck and laces our fingers together, resting them on the counter to brace us better as he pushes in the rest of the way. Fuck it hurts, it's uncomfortable in every way manageable, and when he starts moving it only feels worse. But people do this all the time, I know it, I'm not stupid, and I'm bound to enjoy it just like the rest of them.
And soon enough, the angle changes and I let out a soft oh! in exclamation, my hips gaining a mind of their own as they roll to meet his movements. And soon enough we're moving together, a beat all of our own, a music all of our own, and it's stuff like this that I wish we could capture in our music, to spread out and give to the entire world. But as soon as I have that thought I get selfish; I want to keep this to myself, in my memories, the ones that won't turn into puddles, so I can continue to indulge in it for the rest of my life, never to forget, always to remember, because one day Minho might not be here. One day SHINee will disband. One day I might be alone and I'll be damned if I left all of those puddles all over the Earth because I was too careless to try and hold a bucket beneath my head to catch the tears, to catch the memories of everything that's happened.
I'm trying to keep my voice down, and it's surprising how vocal he is, but I'm loving every minute of it. We're in the bathroom, we're locked in here, it's still steamy and more condensation is forming on the mirror thanks to our heavy breaths, and we're riding this ecstasy train together, lost in each others' body, love, lust, loneliness. And as we both reach the finale, as our bodies tighten and our eyes close; our foreheads press together and soon our lips meet as well, our passion exploding between us as he slumps against the counter and I slump against him, my hands cupping his face as our foreheads never lose contact, trying to regain our breaths.
It's only a few moments that we're like this, before he straightens and grabs the discarded towel, cleaning both of our bodies of the evidence. I can only help but think deeply as he wipes the essence from my stomach, and my silence must be strange to him but he's not saying a word as he offers me a small, sad, half-smile, and holds his hand out to me to help me off of the counter. I wobble a bit and he makes sure I'm steady before he gets dressed, handing me a pair of extra pajama pants that he'd brought for me.
As we exit the bathroom and make our way towards the bedroom, I can't help but start to wonder just when Minho's puddles got so big, when they ran into mine, and when we suddenly created a small lake together. I can only wonder, but I know I won't get any answers.
Because I've found the bucket to go under my head, the bucket that will catch my memories, my tears, my pain and my happiness.
Minho smiles at me as he climbs into his bunk, and I offer a smile in return. My eyes close and I feel my body relax for the first time in the past few weeks, and then I finally drift off to sleep.
Our lake is in a calm, peaceful valley, and we'll fill our buckets together, sharing our findings and making a new bucket completely. Our own bucket.