Acts of Contrition 9/20
Title: Acts of Contrition (9/20)
Authors: Butterflyweb and Nemesis_cry
Rating: NC-17(overall)
Warning(s): Violence, language, graphic m/m sex
Pairing(s): (currently) HoMin, JaeChun, HoSu, JaeChunMin (eventually) HoSuMin, JaeSuChun, YunChun, JaeHo, OT5
Summary: The Imperial Guard is the elite combative force of the Empire. Changmin Shim was lucky to even get recruited. But when a mission goes wrong and he finds himself stranded behind enemy lines, it's up to his former Captain to get him back. No matter the cost
A/N: Banner made by the talented
luvmeanddespair
Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight
Chapter Nine
Yoochun takes one look at his hand the next morning, swollen and caked with blood, and takes him by the arm, all but dragging him down the hall.
He makes to pull away but the shorter man is stronger than he looks, fingers in a vice-like grip around his bicep as he pulls him into what must pass for the med bay in this place, pushing him down onto a cot. Changmin watches as the older man digs through metal cabinets, coming away with bacta salve and a length of bandage, sitting down on the cot across from him.
“Give it here,” he orders briskly, opening the jar.
Hesitating, Changmin offers his abused hand after a moments pause, hissing as Yoochun spreads the salve over the cut efficiently and impersonally, moving to wrap the bandage in place.
They don’t speak, the act seemingly more one of maintenance on a weapon one hoped to restore to use than any real kindness.
“You’re being a fool,” comes the quiet reproach, dark eyes burning into his when his head snaps up, anger tinting his features.
But no more is said, the older man pushing himself to his feet, steps heavy on the tarnished metal as he heads for the door. Changmin presses a hand over his eyes, trying not to think of the throb in his hand, the reason for its presence. Trying not to think of Yoochun’s hands, on him, on Jaejoong.
He curses softly under his breath, thoughts in turmoil, stomach hollow from emptiness and self-disgust.
A touch to his shoulder startles him, jerking out from underneath it, gaze spinning around to see Jaejoong behind him, features soft but unreadable as ever and fuck, he’d almost choose the brig over this, the continuous push and pull of these men, picking apart his loyalties like carrion over a corpse.
Jaejoong sits beside him, offering him none of the personal space that his lover had, oppressively present and real, dark eyes inscrutable as they study Changmin’s features.
“You didn’t stay,” he notes, and the tone is amused, humiliation hot in Changmin’s veins.
“It was a mistake,” the younger man retorts, hand going unconsciously to his collar. Jaejoong’s eyes following the movement, reaching up to push Changmin’s hand aside, gentled fingertips stroking at the joint of his neck and shoulder.
He shivers under the touch, looking resolutely at the floor.
“Who is he?” Jaejoong murmurs, thumb smoothing over an invisible mark. “Someone important?”
And Changmin feels so broken. Like he has no defenses left, except this one, this one thing and Jaejoong is ripping away at it as surely as he has any other barrier. His gaze doesn’t leave the floor, voice steady, if barely audible.
“My Captain. And yes. He’s…very important.”
Fingers slide from his neck to his hair, and he knows he should move, pull away from this man. They are not friends, not allies. He doesn’t want Jaejoong’s touch, Yoochun’s care. He wants Junsu’s easy laughter. He wants…
“And you? Are you important to him?”
He feels something sink in his stomach, leaving a raw, hungry emptiness in his wake.
“I…” A swallow, jaw clenching. “I was being transferred. At his request.”
It hurts as much now to say it as it did then to hear it. Jaejoong doesn’t speak for a long moment, fingers carding through Changmin’s short hair, wringing confessions from him with simple actions and he’s desperately ashamed of his weakness, but he can’t seem to help himself.
“Love never wants separation,” Jaejoong murmurs, hand curling at the nape of Changmin’s neck. “Love is burning need, is a constant pull to be near, to be close.”
A whisper.
“He doesn’t love you, dongsaeng.”
Changmin shut his eyes tightly, good hand clenching the edge of the cot. “Don’t call me that. You have no right to call me that. To say that. You don’t know him.”
A hand comes to grasp his chin, forcing his eyes to meet obsidian slates. “I know you, dongsaeng. I can see it in your eyes how desperate you were for him. You needed more than was given, didn’t you? You asked for it and were cast aside, weren’t you?”
“Stop,” Changmin hissed, trying to pull from the other’s grasp. “Just shut the fuck up, you don’t-“
A warm mouth cuts him off, full lips moving against his own as he’s held in place with firm hands. Changmin shuts his eyes tightly, grief, anger welling up inside him, clawing at his throat.
“Don’t,” he whispers against the other man’s lips, choking on the word. “Don’t.”
The man pulls back ever so slightly, enough for Changmin to see black eyes burning into his, full lips red from their contact.
“Let him go,” comes the silken words, a thumb stroking over his cheek. “Let us love you.”
And it’s a lie, he know it is, just another fucking attempt to fuck with his head, but he can’t stop himself from returning the kiss when Jaejoong’s mouth meets his once more, hands sliding onto his hips.
He kisses him fiercely, a harsh tangle of tongues and his fingers clutching at thin cotton. He wants to kiss the man bloody, biting at his lips, but each time Jaejoong gentles it with a soft sigh, a brush of his fingers through Changmin’s hair and he’s drowning, sinking so fast.
They break apart with a rush of air, eyes on them and Changmin looks up to see Yoochun standing there, watching them, a spike of fear in his chest.
Calm eyes study him, sliding to meet obsidian. “How does he taste?”
Changmin swallows hard, fingers still wound in Jaejoong’s shirt as the fey man smiles at his lover, the action slow and wicked, and he’s trapped, caught in the web, as Jaejoong murmurs, “See for yourself.”
Yoochun is warmth, where Jaejoong is cold and clear, like a pane of chilled glass. Changmin is rigid under his touch, remembering the screams, the agony those hands wrung from his body. They’re gentle now, still holding the firmness, the strength that is Yoochun, but not seeking to hurt. He responds hesitantly to the other man’s kiss, tasting spice and sweet and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching up to thread his fingers through dark hair.
The other pulls away before he can, a curve to full lips, even as Changmin can see the guardedness that lurks in his eyes.
But he’s being pulled to his feet, drawn by Jaejoong’s questing hands, following him blindly until they enter a small, dim room. The door latches behind him and Changmin feels dizzy, watches Jaejoong as the man turns to him, hand pressing lightly against the undeniable bulge in Changmin’s trousers.
“It’s okay,” the man murmurs, stroking him through the fabric, Yoochun’s breath hot on his neck. “Trust us, dongsaeng.”
He loses his clothes somewhere between Jaejoong’s kiss and Yoochun’s hands on his waist, guiding him towards the bed. The man’s erection presses against his hip and he tries to not panic, succeeds when warm hands stroke his stomach, brushing the inside of his thighs, so soft, so fucking gentle, like he might break.
He isn’t sure he won’t.
They fold him into their bed, wrapping around him, not letting him catch his breath and he’s losing himself to Jaejoong’s hard kisses, the man drawing Changmin’s body over himself. Hands stroking his back, his length, coaxing soft noises from his throat while steady eyes watch. There are words in his ear that he can’t understand; Jaejoong’s groans as Yoochun presses fingers inside him, and then slickness along his length and sinking into a tight, tight heat…
Changmin gasps, pressing his forehead to the curve of a shoulder, hips moving of their own volition, fucking the man, a warm, heavy hand pressed at the small of his back and he’s watching them kiss, is being kissed, each in turn drawing the fight from him.
“Ours now,” he thinks he hears, but it could just be a wish, until teeth prick white hot at the joint of his neck and shoulder, triggering a release in him, leaving a wet, reddened mark where its predecessor had faded, and all he can see are two pairs of black eyes, warm limbs enveloping him as he shakes.
**
Junsu tightens his grip on Yunho’s back, begging silently. They move together, sweat dripping from Yunho’s chest to the younger man’s, hands sliding over heated skin in its aftermath. A thrust of hips and Junsu cries out, grips the sheets in one hand, closes his eyes…
Yunho never stops looking, searching for discomfort, for pleasure. His fist slides over hard, tight muscle, scratching the skin. He moans with the sight of raised welts, knows how close he is, how quickly this can end.
“More, please… Please…”
Heart pounding in his chest, Yunho strokes faster, mouthing the skin of a pale neck, as yet unmarred. He lets his mind wander, but keeps their rhythm gentle, the movements of his wrist measured.
Junsu responds with a growl, fingers digging in the harsh cotton, hips arching up from the bed. His breathing catches, or maybe that’s what Yunho imagines.
They fall in tandem. Junsu cries out first, spilling between them with a blush to his cheeks.
Yunho follows with a whisper.
When he wakes up the next morning, Yunho can feel sweat sticking to his skin and the weight of an arm over his torso. He’s not back on the Acheron and he’s not on any pleasure cruise. Reality sinks in with surprising speed and for once, he’s glad for the bitter taste of Amrit lingering in his mind, even if last night had nothing to do with being drunk.
Junsu stirs slowly, brushing a hand over his face as Yunho sits up. His eyes are unfocused when he finally opens them, then horrified and, for a moment, amused.
“Did we…?”
Yunho sighs, expects the worst; expects the fallout. “Yes.”
“Well… shit,” comes Junsu’s only reply, followed by a low chuckle.
The sound of footsteps padding across the bare floors is soon replaced by the sound of boots and Yunho watches him dress. Methodical, ungraceful but wholly familiar movements dictate that he too should follow. For a moment, this is just another day in the Guard; so what if he’s fucked a man under his command? It wouldn’t be the first time. But then Junsu throws him a look that’s not quite shy and not quite joyous and Yunho does the unthinkable: he reaches for him.
Their hands meet first, then their bodies and finally, their lips. Any remnants of last night’s drunken passion are gone. All Yunho feels is Junsu; his skin, his gentle willingness to be led. When they draw back, he sees the smirk has yet to leave the other man’s features.
“At least you’re in a better mood now,” he comments lightly, pulling back, moving to finish dressing himself. Yunho feels a pang of guilt. Whatever he started last night wasn’t for Junsu and the thought of having used him is bitter in his mouth.
But Junsu doesn’t notice, or if he does, he remains silent on the matter, unable to admit his captain is human and makes human mistakes.
“So, I was thinking,” he begins, lacing up his boots. “Do you think the school here might have a cortex?”
Yunho shrugs. “It’s possible, but unlikely, judging by what we saw last night.” Truly a backwater moon of depravity and sin.
“What do we do then? Half our credits went on this room.” And from the expression of unease on his face, Junsu doesn’t come across like the sort of person who would willingly steal, especially from people who seem to be quite this poor.
But what else can they do?
“Owner didn’t tell you anything about a crash?” Yunho suggests, hopeful.
“No, he said we’re the first foreign faces he’s seen in a year. Only people who make stops here are smugglers.”
“He’s lying, then.” No way could an Imperial Guard vessel hovering about their great big lump of a continent go unnoticed; no way could rebels exist without ever attracting attention to themselves. No one was that self-sufficient. “What did you tell them about us?”
Junsu grins, pushing aside the chair that he had blocking the door. “We’re brothers on the run from arranged marriages. I figured a man who keeps five hookers could relate to the need for freedom.” He manages to say this without looking too pleased with himself, but false modesty doesn’t become him.
“Hopefully that’ll be sufficient entertainment to keep him from running our names by the ships who docked recently.” If Jiexi finds them, he has a pretty good idea of their fates.
Yunho stands, checking the charge on his gun. Not enough if they get into trouble, but maybe enough to look menacing and make a quick escape.
“Think the crew on the Cerberus are still grounded?”
“I don’t trust what the Captain said, but you saw the condition of that boat,” Yunho sighs. “They don’t have the means to upgrade. Yeah, I think they’re still trying to patch up their hull.”
Outside, the dust has settled after the bustle of people the night before. The whores have gone, the music too. All that’s left in the aftermath is a couple of stalls in darkened corners barely protected from the sun. It doesn’t take long to understand why. Sunlight streams sharp and hot, burning skin, making every movement a struggle.
“Shit… was it like this yesterday?” Junsu asks, breathlessly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Can’t remember.” But even with the heat, some things are starting to make sense to Yunho: the eerie absence of villagers; the silence; the fact that half the continent is covered in dense foliage. Drawing Junsu close to him, they find shelter in the shade of a building, the wood cool behind their backs. “They must’ve heard off worlders were abound,” he pants, nodding towards the scattered tradesmen.
Junsu nods, pushing up a cloud of dirt with the tip of his boot. Heat brings restlessness. “No wonder everyone stays in doors during the day. This is fucking hell.” But good humor is never far from him. “Guess it means no more Amrit for us.”
It’s worse than that. It means they can’t move during the day for fear of becoming too dehydrated, even if they had an idea where to go; it means they have to brave the nightlife to gather information if they want to find the wreck. And if Jiexi’s smugglers are from these parts, they’ll lie in wait for their former prisoners.
Yunho sighs, tries to get his breathing under control. The more active he is, the more he’ll stress his body instead of conserving precious energy. Junsu, he notices, follows his example, falling silent.
Memories flood in. Bodies intertwined on a bed, Junsu’s lips pressed against sweat-slick skin, Junsu’s body shuddering beneath him… His own breathing, ragged, harsh to his ears as he kisses the nape of a smooth neck that isn’t Changmin’s.
Guilt wells within Yunho.
“Listen, about last night…”
Junsu’s hand is warm as it covers his. “Don’t worry about it. I know it didn’t mean anything.”
He shakes his head. That’s not true. He doesn’t know what last night was - except maybe a drunken escapade that shouldn’t have happened - but it wasn’t nothing. He’s known Junsu too long for that escape route. He owes the man too much.
“It’s not that,” he tries, raking his brains for an answer to satisfy his companion and his own conscience. The stalls full of trinkets offer no advice but it’s to them he looks. He can barely see the faces shrouded in darkness behind pots and pans and bits of gold from the old world; behind statuettes of the gods and weapon chargers; behind decades old Amrit and Imperial Guard memorabilia. “It’s… Changmin!”
Junsu frowns, following his gaze, not understanding. “What? Where?”
But Yunho isn’t hallucinating. “There, I mean… the uniform over there. It’s got the insignia.”
Together, they move away from the solace of shadow and into light.
“Do you think… do you think it’s his?”
Yes. No. It has to be. “It could be Idaho’s… or maybe something smuggled over here.” There’s been no shortage of dead pilots since the war began.
Junsu doesn’t seem to be hearing him. Ignoring the merchant’s offer and pitch, he’s checking the seams, the size. He looks up with something akin to hope in his eyes. “It’s got a Delta Phi sown on the inside of the sleeve.”
And then there were two.