On The Red Couch (SMM Universe) YunJae: Chapter Eight
Title: On The Red Couch
Pairing: YunJae (with some YooSu and Min7en)
Chapter: Eight
Chapter Rating: R
Genre: Slash/Relationship
Author: wedspawn
Part One: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Se7en, 8, 9, 10, 11
Part Two: 12, 13 (Extremely Mature Content), 14, 15, 16, Comments Regarding Storyline , Se7enteen, 18, 19, 20, 21 (Lemon)
Part Three: 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, Twenty-Se7en (LEMON), 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 (LEMON), 33, 34, 35, 36, Thirty-Se7en, 38, 39, 40 (Final)
Summary: Hot Korean boys. Sex. Dancing and some angry words. Not necessarily in that order. Not necessarily in each section. Final Book in SMM series.
“It’s going fine,” Min assured Se7en as he stirred sugar into his cranberry spice tea.
Set up in his favourite coffee shop, Changmin stretched his long legs out over the davenport, tucking his phone under his jaw to hold it in place as he unwrapped the package of oatmeal cookies he’d purchased. The scent of baked sweet cinnamon-sugar and raisins seduced him first, followed by a hearty shake of earthiness from the slightly over cooked oatmeal. It had taken some convincing on his part to get the counter woman to sell him the nearly burnt cookies but the coaxing had been worth it. The cookies’ bottoms were a delicious brown, nearly the colour of Se7en’s eyes and once plump raisins along the edges were caramelized and crisp.
His iPod lay on the table, its white earbuds curled around a book in simple Japanese. The words were difficult at time but Min struggled through the manga, noting the characters he couldn’t read in a notebook. His lazy scrawl filled the page, pencil scribbles of the kanji nana cribbed into the margins.
“And Kimura?” Se7en broached.
“Why do you ask about maneejaa?” Min sipped at his tea, wrinkling his nose at the underlying bitterness of the black tea under notes. More sugar went into the cup with a vigorous stir, a tap of his spoon against the rim to knock off stray drops of the deep magenta steep.
Maneejaa. Se7en mused. Not the formal choumoto or even the more respectful chishou but maneejaa, a coarser slang for a drudge work admin.
The Gang of Five had closed its ranks, the Korean singer thought with a twist in his heart. Changmin had stepped away from being his Minku and wore the Dong Bang mask with ease. There would be no teasing the information out of him, the casual inquiry about Se7en’s interest bristled with warning. The matter was clearly not the older man’s business, solely resting in the hands of SM’s pretty boy thugs. Se7en debated for a moment on pushing his young boyfriend on the topic but couldn’t find an angle to approach without bringing up mention of Jaejoong.
“I was just asking how you guys were doing,” Se7en kept his tone pleasant and light, wondering how much Min would tell him.
“We’re alright. The company is hoping to get us on some shows. Jaejoong’s Japanese is good enough. I’m working on mine. Junsu and Yoochun are worthless and Yunho is only learning words that have to do with sex and kissing,” Changmin muttered then blushed, remembering who he was talking to. “Forget I said that.”
“If I listened to you every time you tell me to forget what you said,” Se7en teased. “I would have very very short conversations to remember.”
“You might be better off that way,” Min replied. “Now, tell me about your music. What have you written?”
Across the tea room, Yoochun lay back in a settee, looking around while Junsu retrieved their drinks. Set up like a poet’s living room, the tea room gave customers privacy with tall wooden bookshelves and screens blocking off smaller areas. He could see Changmin at the far end of the shop, diligently reading a manga while speaking on the phone but the younger man’s face was hidden behind a fall of his chestnut hair. Disgruntled, Yoochun swung his legs up and crossed his ankles, staring at Junsu’s shoulders over an oak highboy.
The tenor giggled at something the counter woman said, either sharing a bad pun or laughing off his bad Japanese. With only a few words, the elegant faced Korean struggled to find a common ground with most people, searching among the tidbits he’d picked up from Jaejoong and Min. Yoochun was doing no better, often answering in a blend of Korean and English before Japanese. They’d had a spot of embarrassment when Yoochun ordered, not able to explain he’d wanted a cup of cocoa. Understanding finally came after he sang a jingle for a popular chocolate bar, making Junsu burst into hysterical laughter.
After that, Yoochun decided Junsu could go get the drinks.
“Here, boyo,” Junsu said, handing his lover a steaming cup topped high with whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate. “Your cocoa.”
“Boyo?” Yoochun repeated the English word. “You’re supposed to be learning Japanese. What’s that?”
“Australian,” He replied. “The girl at the counter is from Sydney. She says that’s a word they use.”
“She looks Japanese,” Yoochun snuck a peek around Junsu’s head, slightly confused.
“She is. Japanese in blood but born and raised in Australia,” The tenor sipped carefully at his own cocoa, leaving a creamy mustache on his upper lip. He ran his tongue up, scraping away the white foam, letting loose a soft moan at the taste.
Staring, Yoochun picked up his mug and gulped down a mouthful, nearly screaming when the hot liquid seared his tongue. “Oh… hot. HOT!”
“Aish, stupid,” Junsu slid off the settee and headed to the counter, begging for a glass of ice. Returning, he scooped a few cubes into his fingers and slid them into Yoochun’s open, panting mouth. “Here, suck on these.”
Mischievously, the baritone suckled at Junsu’s fingertips, drawing them deeper into his throat until the other man’s eyes darkened and he peeked about the tea room with a nervous glance. Yoochun slid his tongue out, licking at Junsu’s palm and grinned despite the prickly feeling growing over his tongue. The disturbed ruffle of Junsu’s elegant face always made Yoochun smile and the delirious flutter of his eyelashes were always a sign that Yoochun’s ministrations were rattling his self-control.
“If you keep doing that, Chunnie-ah, we are going to get kicked out of this tea room. And Changmin will pretend that he doesn’t know us.”
“He can pretend all he likes,” Yoochun replied, scraping his teeth against Junsu’s fingers, reluctantly drawing away. “We know better. If he snubs us, we shall go over there and molest him with everyone watching. He can’t ignore us then.”
“You might have to wait until there are more people in the shop,” The tenor slid over the cushions, giving himself some breathing space away from the other man’s wicked teasing. “It’s late. There’s only a few people here and most of them sing for Dong Bang Shin Ki.”
They both looked over at Jaejoong, the singer tucked into a corner as far away from the counter as possible. Pale, the young man looked fragile, nearly as breakable as the orchid embellished tea cup he drank from. Although staring intently at the door, he appeared to be immersed in thought, an open book set face side down on the table in front of him.
Jaejoong’s long fingers played with his cell phone, the soft rattle of charms keeping him company as he watched the rain fall outside. Water dotted the glass, round cabochon diamonds reflecting the lights, turning red then green with the traffic flow. Resting his temple on the glass, Jaejoong gave up all pretense of reading and lost himself in the flush of cars and people bustling by, waiting for Yunho to join him.
“He looks lonely,” Junsu whispered to Yoochun. “We should go over there.”
“No, we should maybe go home,” Yoochun winked, his full mouth crooked with naughty intent. “Min’s on one of his long phone calls and Jaejoong’s mooning over Yunnie-ah. We could go home and be alone.”
“Being alone would be nice,” The other man drawled, ducking his head to risk a nip at Yoochun’s earlobe. “We haven’t been alone for a while.”
“Kimura isn’t there,” Yoochun made a face, his grimace echoed by Junsu’s wrinkled nose. “He said he had work to do for the company but do you think he called Jaejoong to a hotel room? And Jae’s ignoring him.”
“Nah,” Junsu shook his head, drinking from his mug. “Joongie-ah would have told us. Remember his face when we all showed up for that one time?”
“Ke ke,” The baritone chuckled, a deep velvet purr. “I thought he was going to stab us. He looked so scary.”
“Oh, he was mad.”
“Spitting.” Yoochun flung his arm over the back of the settee, rubbing his fingers over Junsu’s shoulder. “It was worth having dance rehearsals every day for that.”
“Hah!” Junsu poked his lover’s ribs, digging in deep. “That’s because you didn’t have to stand near Min the Windmill. He needs to either stop growing or learn where his arms end. I think I had more bruises from his hands than Jaejoong did from…”
Junsu trailed off, growing serious and quiet. With a quick peek at the singer, he was tempted to snuggle up against Yoochun, begging to be forgiven for speaking thoughtlessly. Responding with a soft smile, Yoochun lightly bumped shoulders with the other man, a silent and nearly invisible kiss.
“I didn’t mean…” Sighing, he collapsed, draping himself over Yoochun’s body. “I should go home and …”
“Be punished,” Chunnie grinned. “I like that idea.”
“Aish, you’re bad. No, we should go keep Jaejoong company,” He said, gathering up his mug and napkin. “Come on, it is the right thing to do.”
“But I don’t want to do the right thing,” Yoochun muttered, flaring his nostrils in frustration. “I want to do the naughty thing. With you. On the couch.” Finding himself talking to the air, he stood, tucking his napkins under one arm. “Fine. We’ll go keep Jaejoong company but you’re going to owe me at least one naughty thing. And I’m going to get to choose where.”
#
Yunho checked the address again, doubling back to recount the numbers. No, he thought, taking a few steps forward, it definitely is in an alleyway. Frowning, the young man darted across the street, dodging a careening taxi intent on making the green light. Its tires hit a puddle, splashing Yunho and soaking his jeans through to the skin. He stopped to wring out the worst of it but the falling rain grew heavy and he was fighting a losing battle.
The area was cramped, more so than the parts of Tokyo he’d seen and a lingering sense of fatigue lay on the buildings. They drooped as if too tired to hold up their own roofs and the night air kicked up enough of a breeze to grab at the tattered cloth banners that hung from a nearby restaurant’s wooden pole.
A fat man stood in the restaurant doorway, his eyes thin and fixed on Yunho as he walked by. Dressed in soiled white pants and a dirty wife beater, he smelled like rotten food and cigarettes, pungent and foul. Rain beaded on his bald head, running down the curve of his skull and collecting in the folds above his neck. The suspicion in his face told Yunho to move along and the singer hurried past, ducking his head in a short respectful nod.
Most of the shops in the area were closed and the few that Yunho could see through the rain seemed to be sparsely populated with goods. After passing by the third pawnshop on his way down to the alley, the Korean began to wonder at the neighbourhood. His disquieting thoughts were confirmed as he passed by a man closing the doors to his cigarette shop and the store owner called out to ask Yunho how much he wanted to sell his sneakers for.
Giving one last longing look at the relative safety of the rainy street, Yunho walked into the alley, stepping around the scattered garbage on the ground.
Something large and furry rustled up from a bin, its long naked tail draped over the metal edge. Ambient light hit its long face and it glared at the singer, chittering at the man with a snap of its elongated hooked teeth. Leaving the rat to its dinner, he continued out, trying to decipher the numbers painted above each doorway. Several were open, lights and the sound of loud television coming from the inside of what looked like to be single room apartments but Yunho saw no one, only encountering the smell of cabbage and stale smoke.
“Number five-seven-three,” Yunho stopped in front of a red door, its paint cracked and lifting from age. Two sets of metal numbers announced the address, one in common Anglo form and the other in old style Japanese script that Yunho could barely read. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his shirt and shook off most of the rain from his hair, hoping he looked at least marginally presentable.
Raising his fist up to knock, Yunho stepped back when the door opened before he could strike it and he swallowed hard at the woman standing in front of him.
In another lifetime… or even another neighbourhood… she would have been considered a beauty. Even in the harshness of her surroundings, the woman resonated with an unearthly elegance, out of sorts with the drab greyness of the room behind her. Standing in the doorway, she tilted her head and stared at the young Korean on her doorstep, a curious look on her cold, hard face.
Nature had given her a face and a body to distract most red-blooded men and even with his love for Jaejoong beating in his heart, Yunho was affected by the woman's beauty. Her hair hung in an inverted bob, cut short to the nape in the back and swinging down along her jaw in the front. The pink streaked black curtain moved as she stood, still shivering with the swing of her walk.
Yunho had to admit that the dangerous, sleek woman gave him pause. Her confidence shone in the self-assured way she stood, ripe lush hips cocked to one side with her weight resting on one foot. Nearly as tall as Yunho, she would tower over most men, and the competent way she held her shoulders meant that those men would also be intimidated by a woman who could break them in two.
“Jaejoong,” Yunho reminded himself. “Prettier, and at least less likely to break me in two.”
Not unless you touch this woman, he laughed to himself. And then Jaejoong would skin him alive and leave him rolled up in a vat of shoyu.
“Hello,” She sauntered back into the room. As she turned, Yunho spotted a tear in her jeans and a small peek at her pale backside, barely enough of a glance of skin to be bothered by but she wielded her sex appeal like a skilled swordsman.
“Hello,” He replied, clearing his throat. “Are you…”
“Netsuke.” Her smile seemed generous, like a black panther’s would as it contemplated which side of the mouse to begin its meal at. “What can I do for you?”
“My father, Jung, sent me,” Yunho replied, pulling a thick envelope from his jacket pocket. “He said you can help me.”
She took the envelope, cracking open its flap and inspected its contents. Satisfied, she nodded and motioned towards a rattan chair, settling down on a bench nearby. “What do you need?”
“I need him stopped.” Yunho looked up, his face hard and as cold as hers. “And I don’t care what has to be done to make that happen.”