demo reel

[Super Junior AU] [Kangin/Heechul, Donghae/Heechul] Smack That All On the Floor

Mon, 20 Nov 2006 22:26:25 GMT

Smack That All On the Floor (give me some more, till you get sore)
AU, kangin/heechul, donghae/heechul, R;
Written with k0uryuu, because we are both on an express handbasket to Hell. ♥ I should also note that there are two endings to this fic. This is the happy one. We torture these boys enough in sujunatural. XD ~~/subtle pimping~~

*

You breathe smoke through your mouth, the cigarette tucked loosely between your fingers. You're only sixteen, but you've been smoking since before you remember, stealing the colorful cases out of the convenience store down the corner from your shitty apartment.

You're neither rich nor privileged, but you know how to act it, how to stare down at them with distaste in your eyes, as if you're above them. You're not, but they don't know that, all they see is the way you flip your hands, the twist of your sneer, the way you draw your voice out, as if your words are empty of care.

When you get home, you toss your backpack down the dirty floor, flip the channels on the grimy TV, and wait for your mother to finish with the nameless man in the bedroom, so you have enough money to go out and buy some food.

You turn the volume up to drown out the moans, and the sounds are so familiar you fall asleep on the couch, waiting on an empty stomach.

*

You wake up to an unfamiliar touch on your skin, the feel of rough hands, the cold slide of metal.

"Careful," the man says, lifting your hand and taking a drag on your cigarette, holding the smoke in his mouth instead of swallowing, blowing it into your face. "People have died, because the house burned down around them," he cautions, and watches you take a drag, but when you open your mouth he closes the space and swallows the smoke you breathe out.

"Fuck off," you hiss, shoving at him, and he smiles, holding up his hands, and leaves. You stub the cigarette out on your coffee table, so charred already another circle adds nothing to the mess.

*

You're walking home from school the next day, and an expensive black car pulls up next to you. You feel uneasy, but you don't show it, because you can't show weakness in front of anyone.

"Want a ride?" he asks, and all you can see through the window are his dark shades, the shape of his expensive clothes, cut to fit.

You shrug indifferently, but you slide in next to him when he opens the door, staring straight ahead when he tugs the cigarette from your fingers, kisses you with the taste of smoke on his tongue.

"How much?" he asks, pulling your shirt up, his hand between your legs.

You suddenly feel claustrophobic, and you jerk away, the car door opening when you push at it, stumbling up and away. It wasn't locked, and you don't find out until much, much later that he won't need locks to keep you from running away.

Your palms are bruised and scratched raw from where you hit the pavement, but you don't stop running until you slam the apartment door behind you, breathing hard. You wrap your arms around your knees, swallow back the bile rising in your throat, thinking about the taste of smoke.

*

When you get home the next day, the place is completely silent, but it's not rare for your mother to make house calls, so you don't think anything of it. You drop your backpack by the door and make your way to the bedroom, opting to catch as much sleep as much as you can while the bed is free.

You wake up to the touch of metal on your skin, and he holds a hand over your mouth when you try to scream.

"How much?" he asks again, releasing you, and you know 'no' is the wrong answer.

Your shirt is bunched up around your elbows and the way he's looking at you sends shivers down your spine. But you have nowhere left to run, so, "a thousand," you say haughtily, tossing your hair, as if you don't care.

He laughs, seeing right through you, and when he reaches for you, you flinch back, scrambling off the bed.

"You want the money first?" he asks, pulling out ten hundred dollar bills and tucking them in your hand, closing your fingers around the cash.

It's more money than you've ever seen in your life, and you know your mother doesn't make this much in a year. You think you might have realized then that he was buying more than your body, but you don't understand what that means until it's far too late.

He forces you down on your face, and you sob into the pillow for a long time after he's gone.

*

You leave the money on the kitchen counter, and your mother doesn't look for you when you don't go home the next day, or the next, or the next.

*

He offers you the cocaine as if it's an afterthought, draws a line on the glass table and watches you snort it through your nose. It burns, but the world dissolves into a floodlight of white space, and you feel weightless, as if you are made of air, completely free.

When you slam back to reality, your body a heaviness that drags you down, you ask for more.

He kisses you, and doesn't refuse.

*

The first time he won't give you more is also the first time he hits you, shoves you up against a wall and fucks you raw, and you beg and beg until--

"You're pathetic," he says, and you have no breath left to scream when he hits you again, leaves you on the floor.

*

"You want this?" he asks, holding the small packet of white dust between his fingers, taunting you. You whimper, but you know better than to reach for it, the bruise on your cheek still dark and wet, where his heavy gold ring drew blood. "On your knees," he orders almost gently, sliding rough fingers under your chin, and you close your eyes and try not to think of what comes next.

"Please," you beg, and you don't resist when he pushes you down, your knees touching the floor, his hands forcing your mouth open.

You fingers follow the familiar path of his zipper, sliding it down and off, and you ignore the bitter taste in the back of your throat, the tattered edges of what must have been your pride scratching at your palms.

"That's good," he says, breathing deeply through his mouth, his hands pulling roughly at your hair. The carpet beneath your hands is thick and expensive, luxury you never had, and the bed he will fuck you on later is a smooth slippery silk.

*

When he first sees you, you're a naked mess on the floor outside Kangin's room. Nobody dares touch you, either to help or to hinder, because they know Kangin would have their intestines on a stick.

Except for him.

He stands over you -- towers, an eclipse of person over fluorescent light, and prods you with the toe of his boot.

"Hey. Hey, get up."

Weakly, you reach a hand up and blindly clutch at his pants -- black, dress, expensive -- in a wayward and failed attempt to pull yourself to your feet. He snorts, kneels down and disentangles trembling fingers from the fabric of his pants before he grabs your hand and pulls you up roughly.

"What's your name?" he asks nonchalantly, throwing a careless arm around your waist as he leads you, stumbling, down the hallway.

"H...Heechul," you whisper, voice cracking half because of surprise and half because you'd destroyed your vocal chords forty-five minutes before, your face shoved against a rough stone wall.

"Donghae," he replies cheerfully, ignoring stares from passersby. "Pleased to meet you."

*

You're sitting on the edge of his bed, silk blankets wrapped tightly around yourself as listen to voices outside the door.

"You weren't supposed to touch him."

"Well he was pretty damn unsightly just lying there like that, you know. Just thought I'd do the scenery a favour." You hear a thump, know Donghae has just been thrown against the wall, hear the sneer in his voice as he says, "Wouldn't do that again if I were you, Uncle."

"Don't play that card with me."

"Why? Because it works?"

You're expecting another thump, shouts, anything -- anticipation crawls up your skin like vines, but moments pass, and the only sound is traffic outside the window.

"Thought so."

You hear the door open, footsteps crossing over the threshold before it's closed again. You look up.

"You didn't have to--"

"I know," he says, and smiles.

*

He never touches you, not in that way. Still, you're not used to trusting, not used to random acts of kindness, and certainly not used to friends.

Which is why you never offer anything in return when he talks about himself, rambling on about this friend of his or that shady business dealing his father made. You learn about him gradually, like bits and pieces of a picture puzzle, but you suspect that he's still got a few of those pieces hidden.

He can't stop Kangin, not completely. Particularly not when he's staying in his house, eating his food, being served by his staff. He knows this. Still, he tries to take you out at first, 'ease you back into society,' but half the time you're high and the other half you're craving it. Most of the time you're bruised and bleeding.

Eventually he just stops trying.

*

"My mother was a whore," you say, and it's the first piece of information you've offered since you've met him. You're high.

"Ah." He's punching absentmindedly at the Playstation controller, the sound taptaptapping loudly in your ears, but his attention seems to be focused on the mockingbird outside his window. "Was she good?"

You choke back a surprised noise. "How am I supposed to know?"

He shrugs. "Stranger things have happened."

*

"Don't," you whisper, "don'tdon'tdon'tdon't."

He has the packet you stole from Kangin's room in his hands, and the look in his eyes twists at your insides like talons.

"Please."

"You're going to die."

What do you care? you want to ask, but all you can do is crawl, feel the mockingly soft carpet drag beneath your hands. "Please," you whisper, fingertips trailing weakly up his legs, coming to a rest on the zipper of his jeans. "I'll do anything."

For a moment you think he might give in, give up, but then his eyes harden and he shoves you away roughly.

"You make me sick."

The sound of the door slamming echoes in your ears.

*

Kangin fucks you bloody that night, which is only unusual in that he does it over the sink instead of on the bed or against the wall.

A stranger stares back at you from the mirror, old bruises and new cuts overlapping each other all the way down your neck, where they disappear into the shirt Donghae gave you on the day you first met him. It's stained -- blood and tears, semen and shame.

You bite your lip, and look away.

*

"Where--?"

"Rehab."

"I fucking don't--"

"Please. For me."

*

You know it's only a matter of time before Kangin finds you. He's never been the type to be free with his possessions. Still, they're kind to you here, kinder than you'd have expected, and you find yourself beginning to open up, beginning to claw your way back to the surface.

Donghae visits every so often -- he needs to, he's paying -- and he sits on your bed with his head in your lap, talking like he's always done. You're only half-listening to what he says, because he never needs you to answer, but the sound of his voice is soothing.

And you don't say anything, but you notice every new bruise that blossoms just beneath the collar of his shirt.

*

When he finds you, he makes a show of pretending to be your uncle, paying generously for the check-out fees. Then he drags you back and you're expecting him to fuck you or to hit you, you're ready for that, but instead he throws you in a room with Donghae.

And that's when you know. You know.

He's tied to the bed, coarse rope wrapped unforgivingly around his wrists. The hollow look in his eyes is replaced by distress when he sees you, and he tries to say something around the silk between his teeth.

"He wants you," Kangin whispers into your ear. "Give him what he wants."

You tremble, but you have no choice when there's a gun to your spine.

*

You've remembered things in rehab that you learned from living on the street a long time ago, and you slip the keys from Kangin's pocket when he fucks you hard against the wall. You tuck them between the small of your back and the hard surface, and when you slide to the ground, shaking uncontrollably, you concentrate on the cut of steel into your back.

Kangin thinks you're harmless, because you're high, but it just takes away your sense of reality, the meaning of a larger picture past the moment, brilliant and blazing.

You open every drawer in his desk, fitting every key in every lock, and you reach into the depths of the dark corners with your face pressed to the cold surface, holding the thought of Donghae in your mouth.

*

You're not sure how to use the gun, and your hands shake shake shake, but you've seen Kangin kill enough times to guess correctly. You practice once, firing a quiet shot into the pillow, watch small down feathers flutter to the floor.

*

You make your way through the hallway, and people have become so accustomed to not looking at you that no one notices the gun in your hand.

You hear screaming, and when you open the door, Donghae slams into you -- you both hit the floor, a tangled mess. Kangin's laughing, and you smell the heat of blood that isn't yours, Donghae's sharp breaths echoing like knives in your ears.

"Help me," you whisper, and you guide his hand to hold over yours, and you feel Donghae's eyes widen when he touches the gun.

"No, no," he says, and tries to push your hand down, but Kangin's already caught the flash of metal and you're too high to care about what happens next.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Kangin asks with an incredulous expression, but then it slides back into a smug grin. "Give me the gun Donghae," he says, and you feel indecision moving in a wave down Donghae's back.

"Don't miss," Donghae murmurs, turning his head and kissing you, holding your hand steady as you bring the gun up and fire.

*

You're in jail for a few terrifying days, the shadows of the walls crawling on your skin, but you've got the cell all to yourself, and you know it's because Donghae paid a lot of money to make sure you were safe. You go through most of the trial while you're in withdrawal, and they almost write you off as insane, but you answer their questions while scratching lines on your arm with your nails, concentrating on Donghae who's watching you from the back of the courtroom.

No one who looks at you is going to convict you, and everyone who might have come after you dismiss you when they watch you shivering, your skin so tight over your bones you barely look alive.

Donghae's waiting for you when they let you go, and you lose yourself in the feel of his arms around you, the silk of his suit soft against your skin.

*

You're in Cannes, France, sitting in a small cafe overlooking the Riviera, and you listen to Donghae talk at you about people he used to know, all the people he's left behind.

You still have your bad days, where all you can think about is wanting, an emptiness inside you so deep you are afraid you will never be done falling. But Donghae's always there, with a soft word and a warm hand on your shoulder, and you breathe in the smell of his orange-scented shampoo, hold on to the sound of his voice.

Donghae's money won't last forever, not when it's all his father's money, and you know he can't escape the family business any more than you have escaped Kangin, but for the moment, you have all you will ever need.

*

[Super Junior/Supernatural] [Heechul/Hankyung] Cause & Effect

Sat, 28 Oct 2006 02:57:25 GMT

Title: Cause & Effect
Pairing: Uh. Heechul is a skank. CinHan. CinTeuk and CinHae on the side. ShiChul if you squint.
Rating: R
Summary: He dreams of steel and oil and smoke.
A/N: For k0uryuu, because this AU is our lovechild. ♥

The first thing you notice is the cold -- digging its fingers into your skin, underneath your flesh and between your ribs and surrounding you so completely that you forget what it's like to be warm. You breathe in sharply as you feel metalvelvet lips brush against your neck, so gentle and so familar but so c-c-cold. You're not sure when your eyes shoot open, but you're bathed in the half-light of dawn and there's this boy straddling your hips, hands moving over your chest like wheels on a smooth, open road.

"Good morning," he whispers, voice husky and low as he breathes into your ear. You shiver, open your mouth to ask who the fuck are you but then his tongue is down your throat and you're surprised at its warmth, at the taste of steel and oil and smoke.

*

"Are you okay?" Shiwon asks finally, and you hear the worry in his voice like you feel the pounding against your temples. You ignore them both.

Shiwon's driving today, because about ten minutes ago you nearly drove into a telephone pole. Not your goddamn fault that fucking cat jumped into the middle of the fucking road at the last fucking minute.

Might be your fault that you'd been too distracted by the humming of the engine to notice the cat, though. Maybe.

*

You feel the weight of his stare on your chest. Eyes black as fresh paint, glistening in the moonlight. Your gazes lock, and it drags together half-remembered dreams in the corner of your mind, coalesces into steel and oil and smoke at the back of your throat.

"Hankyung," you murmur, and he smiles, makes his way toward you.

"Yours."

*

"Where do you go at night?"

"To the ball, in a pumpkin carriage pulled by mice."

"I'm serious, Heechul."

"So am I."

Shiwon sighs, and you almost feel sorry for him. He's your brother, after all -- but he's not your keeper, and everybody has their secrets.

"Listen, just forget about it. I can take care of myself."

"I know that, Hyung, I do, just..." Shiwon's eyes are an unlocked diary, and even if you weren't his brother, you could read every line. I'm worried about you and why can't you just tell me and I love--

"I need to go," you say, and you grab the car keys before you shut the door on his face.

*

His lips are cold but his mouth is hot, and all attempts at restraint are foiled by his tongue around you, his hands leaving icy bruises on your hips. You arch up, bite back a scream and taste copper spilling down your throat.

You don't care if this isn't real, whatever that is, because it feels real, and you feel alive.

*

You wake just like you always do -- face against the steering wheel with the engine humming a song in your ears, and it takes you a minute to realize that there's somebody standing outside. He opens the passenger door, slides inside, shuts it again. Silence on tenterhooks.

He breaks it.

"I can make it real, you know." His voice is all oil and gasoline and alcohol, dripping from his lips. "I can make him real. All you have to do is ask."

"Fuck off, Eeteuk."

"So we're on a first name basis now? I'm flattered you think we're that... close." He leans over, a hand settling behind your neck and the other between your thighs.

"Fuck. Off." You shove his hands away, feel them burn black and hot against your fingers -- I can make him real -- but you grab his wrists and maneuver him roughly into the backseat, not caring if you're hurting him because he hurt you first and will hurt you again. You can'twon'tdon't look at him as you pin him down, settle onto his hips with a snarl.

Eeteuk's laughter burns slowly behind your eyes.

Or maybe those are just tears.

*

You come back smelling like sex and sulfur, and that's when Shiwon knows something is wrong. You can tell, because he gets this determined look in his eyes, unstoppable as rocks crashing against the side of a mountain.

He has you cornered in the bathroom, your shirt hanging loosely on your shoulders as he stares you down. "Tell me," he says, and the look on his face almost makes you want to give in, almost makes you want to break down. But you can't break down, you can't be weak. Kangin didn't save you for this.

"Get out," you say, voice harsher than you intended. "I'm taking a shower."

His eyes flash, hurt and anger manifesting into his hands on your shoulders, shoving you against the wall. "What is your goddamn problem?"

"Right now? You."

You know the punch is coming, but you don't move away.

Somehow, you deserve it.

*

You refused him in the end, but it doesn't matter. He won. You fucked him into the backseat, left bruises and bite marks on his pale, burnedburning skin, but he won.

*

Black and blue blossoms on your cheek as you step out of the motel room, stumble into the parking lot to find a boy.

It's him, you know even before you see him properly, and the thunder cracks in your head before the lightning does in the sky. He looks up, naked and oblivious, and even now you feel a jagged current of warmth flow through you.

You take one step toward him, and then another, because in the end, it's something you need.

*

Hankyung is your name. You think that maybe you were something before you were Hankyung, but the memories are hazy and muddled, like a letter dropped during a rainstorm. Nobody ever goes back to pick up the letter, though, so you don't suppose it was very important anyway.

Your earliest memory is of a man, but of course you didn't know what a man was at the time; you found that out later. All you knew was that he was hot and you were cold, had always been cold, sitting next to other cold things like you. You were fascinated by this man, this sunbeat heat that radiated from him in cascades.

Heechul was his name. He took you, bought you, fixed you. There was another man, and he was warm too, but he was tired, a stubbornly burning ember fighting for oxygen. Kangin.

Shiwon's warmth was earth above magma, strong and steady and slow but constantly moving beneath the surface, bubbling over when the plates shifted and cracks appeared on his exterior. He left, you remember, and on that day Heechul took you out for a drive. He pushed you harder than he'd ever done before and ever has since, but you refused to give out. He needed this, and you needed him. Like you still need him.

There were others, flickering in and out like a black and white movie, but they never stayed long enough for you to learn their names. You remembered their heat, though, warming you more than that thing underneath your hood ever could.

One of them confused you because he was cold as well, but not metal cold, like you. He was ocean cold, sea spray and salt brine. He was warmed by Heechul's liquid sunrays, and you felt Shiwon's particular brand of heat on him too -- as well as something more sinister. The scent of sulfur clung to him like a funeral veil, you recall. Ocean turned hot spring. You think his name was Donghae. They made love in your front seat.

There were other things, and you smelled that sulfuric heat more than once over the months. The strangest time was when Kangin was with you, beaten and bloody as they carried him into the cottage. It didn't just cling to him, like it had with Donghae, it was inside him, eating at him like acid. When he came back outside, limping as he helped Shiwon carry Heechul into the backseat, it was gone.

Something must have happened, then, because suddenly you found yourself here.

Wherever 'here' is.

There are roses made of shrapnel and blood and skin, a flowerbed wrought in violence. That's to your left. To your right is a hospital, sterile and white and empty. Except for the ghosts.

You're made of flesh, here. You wander aimlessly, not stopping to smell the roses because they're covered with maggots, and while you could crush them easily with your wheels, you don't have have wheels here. Just hands. Cold hands. You flex them experimentally, feel the skin stretched taut over bones.

You dream here, sometimes, but you don't think you sleep. Just dream. Heechul is in them, raw and warm, and you used to be content with just being near his warmth but now it's not enough because now he needs to be inside you, inside you like those other men and women he brought into the car, into you.

You think maybe someone picked up the letter after all, because you begin to recall things, brief snatches of conversation and fleeting apparitions of faces. A painting (you don't think you did it), a mirror (gilded, broken, bloody), a feather (wet from rain) -- and, yes, a letter. The ink runs over and into itself, the paper held together by bloated strands of pulp.

Just then, you feel liquid sunrays. The bottle is broken, the sunrays are leaking, but they fill your senses and leave no room for paintings and mirrors and feathers and letters.

You turn around, walking past the roses of rot and the hospital of ghosts, and the next thing you know you're in a parking lot, moon hidden behind clouds crashing together to create lightning, and Heechul is there, broken rays in a black and blue bruise. He walks to you, crushes you in his arms and chokes out something against your neck.

I'm yours, you whisper, syllables clattering together in his ear, and those are your first words.

[Super Junior] [CinHae] Paper Feelings

Mon, 23 Oct 2006 20:53:02 GMT

Title: Paper Feelings
Pairing: Heechul/Donghae
Rating: G
Summary: Wherein Heechul muses and I pun upon Donghae's name.
A/N: For ~~my crackdealer~~ k0uryuu. ♥ To tide her over until I finish that other fic I promised her. ~~And to distract her from college applications.~~

Live fast, love hard, die young.

A stupid childhood promise made between stupid childhood friends he barely remembers now. Funny, he thinks, how fast paper feelings and paper memories burn and crumble; how quickly best-friends-forever fades into once-upon-a-time and when-I-was-a-kid and a worn silver bracelet thrown into the back of a shoebox.

It only took one year.

One year, and they had stopped talking. One year, and they had stopped caring enough to try.

"What are you thinking about?" Donghae asks as he walks into the living room, and Heechul starts a little.

"What colour I should dye my hair next," he says after a beat. "Maybe I should go for blue."

Donghae laughs. "You're gonna go bald, you know."

"Whatever. Sit down."

Donghae complies, settling himself into the space between Heechul's feet and the edge of the couch. Their hands drift over pink paisley fabric -- I really should buy a new couch -- and intertwine, the action subconscious and familiar. Heechul doesn't give it a second thought. The clock ticks -- too loudly, Heechul notes -- as they sit in a comfortable silence.

"What were you really thinking about?" Donghae says finally, his voice a whisper that falls like autumn leaves. Heechul wonders if it would crack like autumn leaves if he pushed hard enough, if it would burn -- paper feelings and paper memories -- and send smoke up into the sky.

"The past."

Donghae absently runs his thumb along the skin of Heechul's hand. "Care to divulge?"

"Not really."

Donghae just nods, knows Heechul too well to pry. To need to pry.

"But there is this bracelet I used to wear..." and Donghae smiles, closing his eyes.

"Yeah?"

So Heechul tells him -- tells him of paper feelings and paper memories, of once-upon-a-time and when-I-was-a-kid. He leaves a few things out, maybe embellishes a few details, but never outright lies. Not by his standards, anyway.

He finishes, and Donghae hasn't said anything, hasn't done anything except hold Heechul's hand and laugh at the appropriate places. Heechul wonders if he should be offended. He isn't.

Donghae breathes, and the sound is like waves crashing against unforgiving rock, like sea breeze winding through tendrils of hair.

"I won't burn."

Heechul glances at him, finds Donghae staring at the clock -- tick, tock, too loudly and too quickly and time is fire, burning anything and everything -- and Donghae repeats, "I won't burn."

It's like hearing the ocean in a seashell. "No. You won't."

Donghae is the ocean, Heechul realizes, and the ocean doesn't burn -- the ocean drowns.

And Heechul is drowning.

[Original] [Vignette] Tristyn

Wed, 04 Oct 2006 04:24:32 GMT

Voice.

Sound.

Whirling, twirling, heaven gone to madness like the cracked canvas beneath his fingers. He feels the paint chip, dirt and grime and watercolour memory lodged beneath his nails as he looks up into the eyes of infinity.

It sings a song for him. Lonely as the sunrise and colder than the sky. It startles him for a moment. A surprised noise bubbles its way up his throat and erupts in a volcanic -- what?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

Voice.

Sound.

He smashes into the painting with his fist and knows that this is the only voice he'll ever have.

[JE] [OT3] Trinity

Tue, 29 Aug 2006 08:07:06 GMT

Title: Trinity
Pairing: AkaNishiPi. Threesome. \:D/
Rating: Uhm. Hard R to NC-17.
Summary: PWP. This requires no summary.
A/N: Well, technically this was supposed to be Pin smut for darkeyedwolf, but the muses gave me AkaNishiPi drunken!sex so who am I to disagree, really? I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IN MONTHS I'LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.

Yamapi made his way towards the front of the theatre, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in large sunglasses and an oversized black hoodie -- and failing quite miserably. Luckily, none of the fans milling towards the exit recognized him (although he did have his suspicions about the gaggle of girls that had just tripped over themselves looking in his direction), and the security guards nodded him through after he had briefly flipped back his hood and removed his sunglasses.

So now he was backstage after watching a performance of Dream Boys, and he was fairly sure that there was something big and brown and plaid coming in the general direction of his face.

Thwack!

Oh, yeah. Definitely.

"Jin, I am not a coat hanger," he said as he removed the aforementioned coat from his head and whipped it back.

Jin looked caught between surprise and--scratch that, Jin just looked surprised. His mouth hung slightly open, hair wet and falling into his eyes, and Yamapi thought he looked rather nice that way and Ryo was there beside Jin with a slightly less deer-caught-in-headlights expression but they both looked quite nice because their shirts were off and Yamapi wondered what it would feel like to trail his fingers down--

No. Bad thoughts. Thoughts that were coming from the head below Yamapi's belt, not the one above. Thoughts best kept relegated to moments when Yamapi was in bed or in the shower or whereverthefuck jerking off. Not now.

Yamapi shook his head (not the head talked about above, because how sick would that be?) and walked over to Jin and Ryo.

"What, no hello?" Yamapi said with a casual grin as he landed a half-hearted kick on Jin's shin.

That seemed to snap him out of his trance, because he grinned back and swatted at Yamapi's head. "You never said that you'd be here, you bastard."

"Wanted to surprise you. Seemed to work." He turned to Ryo and raised an eyebrow. "... Zombie, douzo."

"Shut up." Ryo laughed and punched Yamapi's shoulder. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Getting hit in the face with coats, apparently."

"It was meant for Ryo!" Jin said indignantly. "He said I looked like a greasy Hispanic hobo in it."

"Well you did," Ryo said.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Not!"

"Too!"

"NOT."

"TOO."

"NOT!"

"TOO!"

Yamapi picked up the coat and hit them both in the face.

*

"Go club, get drunk, you stupid--"

"Shit, I'm fucking plastered," Ryo mumbled as he collapsed against Yamapi's shoulder.

Yamapi arched an eyebrow, leaning against the bar in Jin's kitchen. "Yeah. You are."

Jin happily poured Ryo another glass. "No, you're not!"

"Yes, I am, and if I drink another glass I'm going to throw up all over you," is what he meant to say, except Ryo was slurring pretty badly at this point so it sounded more like, "Yetham aahf adrii kanaahh glaahhh kahjdfkjadsdads..."

Needless to say, Ryo was in no shape to argue when Jin found it appropriate to lean down and kiss him.

*

Ryo tasted primarily of alcohol, but as Jin had just been drinking the stuff himself he didn't really mind. In fact, when Ryo finally groaned and threaded his fingers into Jin's hair, Jin decided he quite liked it. He made a mental note to spike Ryo's drinks with it whenever he could.

Breaking away after a few more moments, Jin looked up and met Yamapi's eyes. Jin decided he quite liked the shocked look in them as well, but he liked it more when he brought his hand up and tugged Yamapi closer.

"Jin, what--"

"Shut up."

Jin kissed him. And yeah, he would definitely have to buy more of this drink.

*

A million thoughts cycled through Yamapi's mind -- oh my God Jin's kissing me, oh my God Jin kissed Ryo, oh my God I hope Mom remembered to walk the dog -- but when he felt Ryo shift and a pair of lips attach themselves to his neck, Yamapi gave up thinking and settled for just feeling.

*

Ryo wasn't sure how they made their way to Jin's bed, but when Yamapi started to lick his way down Ryo's chest, he decided it didn't really matter. He arched up and had to bite back a moan as Yamapi bit at a particularly sensitive spot on his hip, which of course meant Yamapi had to do it again. And again. And again.

"Yamapi!"

Yamapi laughed, biting at the spot one last time before moving on, and almost immediately Ryo regretted it because now he was teasing at Ryo's erection which was ten times as bad because it was ten times as good and Ryo knew he wouldn't trade it for the world.

*

For a little while, Jin just watched. Watched as Yamapi reduced Ryo to a writhing, moaning, begging mess and Jin couldn't help but wonder where Yamapi had learned to give such phenomenal blowjobs -- because the sounds Ryo was making would set a porn star to shame, and Jin would really like to see if this was just a Ryo thing or a Yamapi's Blowjobs thing.

But for now, Jin leaned over and silenced Ryo mid-groan with a kiss, sliding his tongue past Ryo's lips and ghosting his fingers over Ryo's side before trailing them back up to tease at his nipples. Ryo shuddered and Jin could tell he was close, so he pulled away. Yamapi must have had the same idea, because he sat up and laughed a little at the sound of protest Ryo made.

"Can't let you have all the fun, Ryo-chan," Jin said, tweaking his nose playfully.

"Fuck you," Ryo said as he batted Jin's hand away.

"Maybe later." Jin grinned at the half-hearted glare Ryo shot him and turned to Yamapi, who seemed to be one step ahead of him as he pushed Jin down roughly onto the bed and bit hard at Jin's neck before letting his tongue lave the mark gently. Jin sighed and tangled his fingers in Yamapi's hair, his free hand wandering down to stroke Yamapi's erection, and he was rewarded with a deep, guttural groan.

*

There was a fleeting thought of how hungover they'd all be in the morning, but Yamapi quickly decided that thoughts were overrated unless they felt as good as Jin did inside of him right now.

*

True to his word, Ryo fucked Jin -- fucked him deep and hard and likely would have fucked him through the mattress if Yamapi didn't do such a good job of protecting it. Next time, Ryo thought, he would have to fuck Yamapi through Jin's mattress because Yamapi was entirely fuckable and Jin's mattresses were definitely made to be fucked through but why was he thinking about mattresses right now because oh God.

*

As they lay in bed afterwards, sleepy and sticky and sweaty, Jin couldn't help but commend himself for a job well done. Already, his mind was using its superior plotting skills and he made plans for their next trip to the amusement park where they could have a quickie in a ferris wheel gondola, or maybe aim a bit higher and have sex in an airplane restroom. It would be a crowded fit, but--

"Jin, we are not having sex on a plane."

What?

Oh, he was just thinking out loud again. Yamapi didn't have psychic powers.

"But it'd be fun," Jin whined.

"No." The sound was muffled against the pillow, but it was undoubtedly Ryo's voice.

"You guys are no fun." Jin pouted.

"We don't need to be fucking several hundred feet in the air to be fun, Bakanishi."

A sudden thought struck Jin then.

"So, we could have sex several hundred feet below ground, in a mine--"

Yamapi and Ryo raised their heads in unison. "NO."