anyone can fall

( /he’s no stranger to lust but god this was something different and he doesn’t know where to begin other than the heat radiating from Jongin is unbearable but in such a way that makes him want to sacrifice himself in it. His hands are rough and it’s all Myungsoo can do, not to bend under them when they start roaming, much more confident and enough to mildly warn him before it happens, that his back would be against a wall and he’d feel the beginning of bruises starting to blossom where his shoulders make contact. A wet thud. The staggered groan that follows. He feels the hair hiccup from his lungs, trembling, enraptured, only to be silenced by Jongin’s lips that start to taste of his demise; succulence he’s convinced he’s never experienced, a saccharine labyrinth he asks entrance to with a sigh as he catches Jongin’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs, unrelenting just as he promised. Myungsoo loses fights with Jongin just as much as he loses fights with himself. He’s not quite sure what to count this as, whether he’s winning or losing or fucking things up a little bit more than they’ve already been, just that he can’t get the first time he kissed Jongin out of his head because it was nothing like this; the contact was brief and his mouth ached and his teeth throbbed and it was nothing like this, nothing like fire hissing against ice and the steam that would eventually drown them out to the rest of the world. He didn’t have the depthless feeling in his stomach that told him they were so close to dying or maybe so close to living that none of it mattered, whether he clocks Jongin across his jaw or drags his lips over the sharp curve and down his throat. God, this was something different and he’s no stranger to lust but he can’t remember the last time he’s let someone take their hands and deconstruct him, unravel him enough where the little bits of him that are purely emotion become like exposed wires to a ticking time bomb.)(/ He thinks with his body, really calculates and maps out how to win a battle when the other side is at an obvious advantage. It’s warfare and Myungsoo’s told himself time and time again that winning isn’t some larger than life feat. Winning is a cumulative of subtle, intelligent moves, so his hands loosen their grip on Jongin’s hips to slide effortlessly behind him, dull nails sinking possessively into the swell of his ass, squeezing and simultaneously pulling him forward where the barrier of his own hands were all that kept their hips from gliding into place.) 

muscle memory

(/ He doesn’t really know why he was expecting something more violent to ensue, like Jongin decking him in the nose or trying to hurl him over his shoulder in the limited space of the shower stall, but at least it’s a bigger surprise to him when that doesn’t happen. Pleasantly, because he very much prefers the way Jongin’s hands start to map out his skin, stop and clutch and start again like he’s trying to find something—anything that would make sense really and Myungsoo doesn’t blame him because, despite being planned out to a certain degree, they probably have no idea what they’re doing in each other’s arms right now, when a month or so ago they were wanting to rip each other apart—and he tries to help out, as much as pulling by the waist until they’re chest to chest and a tight squeeze of lithe stomachs sticking together could rearrange the discombobulated mess of their actions. But he can taste breath on his tongue and he thinks he should probably kiss Jongin now, probably crush any hesitation and confusion and subtle paranoia between scraping teeth and swelling lips, so he does. He tastes like cigarettes and Myungsoo’s breathing is heavy because he’s beginning to feel impatient, but he’s been waiting to feel like that so he doesn’t have the ability to think about how anxious he is or how it’s been such a long time since he’s kneaded his thumbs into someone’s hips like he does to Jongin, like they’ve done this before and like most things it’s something they’ve mastered together; the particular art of pleasure.)  

( / it should be at the very least a little alarming when kai finds it difficult to breathe, but he welcomes it with open arms and flushed skin. he’s nursed a certain affinity for fire for as long as he remembers, cigarette lighters aside, and now is no different as he welcomes the fire in his veins and the burning trail that’s left behind by myungsoo’s touch. it feels different, in the way that when kai’s had his hands on myungsoo, gripping biceps and skimming his thumb over the sharp jut of his hipbone, it's been during a fight. a different sort of outlet, but an outlet nonetheless. the unfamiliarity of looking at myungsoo and seeing a blank map of somewhere new is intoxicating. he sees roads yet to be trailed over and over again with his lips and his fingertips, the soft hollow of myungsoo’s collarbones that kai could happily lose himself in. all this time spent attacking him has only familiarised kai with myungsoo’s body as a target, seeking out pressure points and vulnerabilities. but now that he can look and see myungsoo for the beautiful man he is, kai’s desperate to take free reign and find the spots that set myungsoo ablaze too. he lifts an arm to drape around myungsoo’s neck but he’s all too consumed with the taste of myungsoo on his tongue, and he only makes it to cupping his jaw and sweeping his thumb across the sharp curve. myungsoo feels perfect under his touch and, though he’s not convinced he won’t wake up any second now, kai takes the time to map out myungsoo in his entirety. warm palms skim over taut shoulder blades and down to the curve above myungsoo’s ass, and come to rest on his stomach as kai has myungsoo with his back against the shower wall. all the while taking desperate gasps of air only to meet myungsoo’s mouth again with even more thirst. )

muscle memory

(/Myungsoo’s never done something so bold. Simple plots found in an erotica book aside, and he focuses on the mentality it takes to continuously act like he’s not mapping out situations like this with a blindfold of sexual hiatus over his eyes. As opposed to Jongin who, he thinks, basks in the essence of midnight rendezvous better than anyone he’s ever met, Myungsoo sidesteps into hesitation a little too quickly. Over analyzing what everything means on an interpersonal level and standing there, wearing absolutely nothing ,but, perhaps an expression of impish disbelief. He’s caught in the lingering concept that this could, and quite possibly is, a tangible form of fantasy, giving him reason to feel provoked upon two-worded intimidation more than he’d normally be, because it’s Jongin; smart mouth and hard hitter, quite possibly the only person he’s ever wanted to break and piece together all at once. The curtain protests with a weak screech along its track, opens and closes behind him, swishes its edges. Inanimate pleas for decency, unheard. Hesitation melts down to his tongue on fiery veins, subsequent, wet trails over bicuspid warpaths between sinking the rounds of his teeth into a shoulder and the low sound he elicits at the top of the fightmaster’s spine. Myungsoo grinds his fingers against Jongin’s pelvis, breathes so thickly that his impatience condenses on flushed patches of the other’s skin. At this angle, he lazily watches three-fourths of a profile while he ushers open kisses under a jawline, all teeth and tongue and foreign obscenity. ) 

( / he would never let himself believe it, would never willingly allow himself to fall head first and steadfast for sanguine possibilities and probabilities that may or may not ever coexist with him. kai is as stubborn as he is hopeful, though he only ever voluntarily discloses one while keeping the other as suppressed as a whisper, granted only to those he's convinced will treat it with sincerity instead of judgement, with belief instead of dismissive shrugs that have the power to crush the fightmaster one muscle twitch at a time. kai is a fragile mess of woven insecurities that he braves with a face full of fury and a bark far worse than his bite, but he likes to think that myungsoo is aware, that perhaps the possibilities he's been afraid of for years on end won't occur this time around. jongin's back arches like the careful draw of a bow, breathing suspended in favour of a piercing surprise lodged in his throat, eyes screwed shut and eyebrows knitted together in an intricate pattern of confusion and unconsidered optimism; another fight with himself that he surrenders to immediately. the tilt of his head and the turn of his beck is reflexive, subconscious and casual and everything that kai trained himself not to be, but his training is abandoned and replaced by hope and fingers tangling in strands of black and grazing over skin resembling silk. the ghosting of kisses litter his skin and his defences fall, come crumbling to the ground and shattering like panels of glass around his feet, breathless words and tight grips left in its wake. )

Underestimate? { The sound that’s brought forth equal parts scoff and hidden amusement combined with a twinkle in those amber eyes, Gain reached upward in an attempt to help fix his unyielding mess of hair. Each familiar gesture was done in complete impulse, at ease and moving entirely at the pace of her natural inclinations. } I’m rather positive I’m just taking in all the variables. { His fatigue doesn’t escape her notice, thumb rubbing into his hand despite how much his own palm dwarfs her own. } A few things. Mostly involving dropping things filled with water from high places. Though a few pertain to reorganizing people’s desks. Maybe even considering going into town to see what fun is there. What do you think? { The mischief is back, tempered but still present. If she were any other creature one might pick a pixie or imp, something delicate that has teeth. Though by then she’d closed the distance between them again, snuggling close just because she could. Such was the benefit of being friends with someone who adored physical affection. }

( / he almost has the decency to feel offended when all he's met with is a quirk of an eyebrow and a scoff that could melt the most cowardice of men, but he's grown so accustomed to being underestimated—by his trainees, by any closed minded fool who judges him by the colour of his hair and not the scars on his fists. but even more so, he's used to shrugging it off like it doesn't register. ) the day i let you fall.. will be the day i beg for your forgiveness. ( / he offers with something close to a grin, though he would offer to shave his head, or simply insist that it shall never happen, but he's far too uncertain to propose either–and he likes his hair far too much. his attention is divided between the soothing circles against his palm and the image of extremely disgruntled strangers staring up at him, hair and clothes soaking from the spray of a water balloon attack. ) i knew there was a reason i kept you around. ( / unlinking his hand with hers after a short while, he drapes his arm over her shoulder instead, pressing his mouth to her temple in the briefest of pecks before pulling away to guide her elsewhere as they decide. ) i think that sounds perfect. we can have some real lunch while we're out, too.