#smut.writings

the night is one where hands shake, bones ache and hearts break.

outside the door, there's a cacophony of noise blending together. a song's thumping bass, a drumming of hearts beating erratically within the chests of dancing drunks, a riff of different voices all growing louder in an attempt to be heard over one another. it's headache inducing, yet it's not the cause of the pounding inside his skull.

inside the stranger's bathroom, the bass is every shallow breath he pulls into oxygen-hungry lungs, the drumming comes not from jumping bodies but a sink that's not quite been turned off correctly, drop after drop clashing onto white porcelain and mixing with the red from his veins, diluting it into a sickening colour similar to the oxidation of a rusted metal.

his hands, though weak and unreliable, hold a grip on the surface and are the only thing separating his tired limbs from collapsing onto the dirty tiles below.

"five things i see..." his usual boasting voice is a shadow of it's usual self, barely above a whisper under the artificial light. "the, uh, soap dispenser, a snapped hair-tie, a half filled bin, a used razor and... me."

he's trying to remember what namjoon had told him about, the tools he'd given him to ground him in a moment like this. instead, he's stuck on the broken sight he catches in the reflection of the dirty mirror.

changes in appearance are a main symptom, he'd known that long before the aching had even begun. what he hadn't known was how drastic the change would be.

expecting tired eyes and cracked lips, the sunken-in look on his face and the growing rottenness of his flesh is almost too much to handle.

if he were to be truthful with himself, a courtesy he's unable to extend towards you, he'd been in denial at first.

it's just a stomach ache, i'm just nauseous from dodgy take-out. because that's really all it started as, nausea. at first, whenever you were near, then whenever you were mentioned, then when he thought of you, until eventually it became a permanent part of his life. he would wake every morning, the sun would rise, the clock would move forward, the nausea would dance on his insides.

the headaches were what pushed or, more accurately, forced him to unveil his predicament to the others. they'd been expecting it, waiting on it ever since they'd accidentally stumbled upon you in the little cafe, a pretty outfit and a dreamy-eyed complexion while you giggled at the person sat across from you.

jimin had been empathetic, the first to pull him in for a bone-crushing hug till he pried him off when expressing it was hurting it.

taehyung had been angry, even if misplaced, ranting over words of integrity and birth rights and defiance of fate. i told you, we all told you, that you needed to let your secret out. why won't you just be honest with your mate? why're you letting this happen over an implicit rejection? like he had any control over the way his beastily dna reacted to the feeling of heartbreak.

namjoon had been logical, pulling him out of the room for some privacy. sullen expression, he explained what this meant, what would come next, what symptons would follow those he'd begun to present. you've already progressed to the second phase, the headaches. the nosebleeds will come next, alongside the hallucinations. then, a loose control over beast and man while your insides reject your bodies own attempts to keep your heart beating, until the pressure and pain all becomes too much and... crack. your heart breaks, literally.

the remnants of dried blood coat the rim of his left nostril. pulling in a breath, he watches the image of himself reflecting back at him. a walking corpse, more dead than alive, one foot in the grave while the other idly kicks back at every one of life's painful attempts to remind him of how much he misses you, despite his efforts to convince himself otherwise.

he'd been doing so good, having the first semi-normal night in weeks. sure, his stomach had been doing more flips than a gymnast's olympic routine and his brain felt as if it were growing too big for his fragile skull, moments away from bursting out through his ears, eyes, mouth and splattering across the four walls of the cramped kitchen he'd spent most the night chugging back various cheap liquors in. but he'd been able to lose himself in the frat party, allow him to feel like not a thing had changed and he was just another student who's only stress was how to fit studying into a busy life of sex, drugs and partying.

this false reality all came to a hault the minute he caught wind of a familiar smell.

velvet oud, fresh daisies, home.

for a moment, he reminisced on the before times. on the times he'd get himself a little too drunk, a little too high, a little too everything, and someone, anyone would call you up. you'd appear before him, like a guardian angel, smile always sweet and voice never scolding as you'd let him wrap his arms around you. he never remembered the journeys home but never forgot the mornings waking up next to you, your eyes still shut and giving him the chance to fantasize about the future, the one where he no longer has to keep a secret locked in his chest that you're his other half, the predestined love of his life, the kind of future where waking up to you is a habit more than it is a gift, and seeing your eyes open promises a flurry of sleepy kisses and lazy lovemaking, rather than a growth in the distance between you and joke about how he's sweating out the alcohol all over your poor, freshly cleaned bedsheets.

the smell of something darker, a hint spice that stabs at his throat like a thorn of a rose had him tumbling back into the now times. the times where your calls go unanswered, messages no longer opened, name-calling ignored on campus.

you'd tried so hard to ignore his obvious avoidance the first two weeks. and, while he thrived at how much effort you were putting into not letting your best friend turn his back on you, he crumbled in the way he had to fight back harder to get the unspoken message across: he didn't want to see you.

for reasons you didn't know, for reasons he couldn't tell.

he could sense you growing closer, panic consumed his soul, unprepared to see you for the first time in this setting, with a drink in his hand, with pupils blown wide, with him by your side. before he had the chance to see how such a reunion would go down, a drop of blood landed in his drink.

you promised you'd let us know when it got worse, hoseok had never sounded so betrayed, eyes focused on the centre of his face, the dripping faucet of red making a mess all over his inked hand.

"jungkook," he wretched at the sound, mouth clamping shut to hold back the contents of his stomach long enough for him position himself over the toilet. a knock came to the bathroom door, as if he didn't already know there was someone on the other side. "are you in there?"

he coughs up all that he can, and when there's nothing left in his stomach, his lungs join the party. one, two, three, four chest shaking coughs and a gooey, red tinted substance splashes onto the rim of the toilet seat.

that's new, he thinks. and thinks, and thinks, mind trying to get back to the excercises namjoon had given him.

"four things i can smell," he takes a grip on the toilet lid and heaves his body back into a standing position. "blood, beer, old pauperie, you."

if the sounds he was making before weren't enough, the flushing of the toilet should be suffice in confirming his presence within the bathroom.

it hurts to breath, there's now a miscellaneous stain next to the blood on his shirt and his hands can't quite seem to get a grip on anything but, at least, when he makes his way back to the mirror on shaky legs, his skin is no longer rotting.

the hallucinations, he thinks the obvious, they're getting more realistic.

so realistic, in fact, that he sees you standing behind him in the doorframe, mouth agape and eyes bordering on crying.

"oh my... jungkook, what's-" your voice has never taken that tone with him, not even in his darkest nights when he'd be high in the clouds with no one to bring him back down but you and your caring hold. heartbroken, emotionally mirroring how he was physically feeling. "have you been using?"

he wants to lie, wants to say no, wants to shove you out the bathroom and scream at you to leave him alone.

instead, he mutters your name like it's a warning, a blessing, a curse that's been cast upon him, the feeling of missing you nearly as bad as the feeling of loving you.

your gaze burns over every inch of his skin that it inspects, from the tips of his bitten fingernails to the drained look on his face. it's instinct to look away when your eyes reach his own, so afraid you'll stare too deeply into his pool of despair that you'll fall in and drown in the sounds of his overthinking mind, have your lungs crushed under the pressure of the secrets he's trying so hard to keep.

"let me help you, kook."

you're the opposite of help, he thinks but never says. he couldn't cast out words so cruel, not to you.

never you.

always yours, and that's the problem. how can one belong to someone who's none the wiser?

"or i can just... go, if that's what you need."

he knows he should say yes, let you walk out the door of the bathroom and his life. he wonders if you'd slam it as you leave, or not quite close it over in hopes that, eventually, he'll call you back in.

but the flood gates open with no warning and every inch of paranoid heartache seeps through his blood, veins working overtime to deliver it to every fibre of his being. tiny little daggers in the shape of longing and need and gut-wrenching love pricking at his skin and all giving him one simple command: make you stay.

with energy he does not have, he moves across what feels like the ocean-wide distance between both you and him, no warning given before he's pulling you into a coffin of arms. your own remain plastered to your side.

he knowns you can hear- or, more accurately, feel the way his chest shakes with every intake of breath. and, that once you do eventually give into his embrace and drag your hands up the expanse of his back, the sweat covering every inch of his skin doesn't go unnoticed.

he wonders if you feel the drop of blood stain your skin as he burrows his head in the space between your neck and shoulder, or if you catch the hiccups he's releasing while holding back rib-shaking sobs.

he wants to ask if you're suddenly overcome with emotion too, if the weeks of no speaking took a toll on you so badly it's rendered you a shell of who you used to be as well.

"i'm worried about you." four words never hurt so much.

"i'm sorry." his lips brush over your skin as he speaks, goosebumps rise in the path the movement leaves behind.

"why're you sorry?"

"for making you worry."

you squeeze him tighter against you, and it somehow makes him whole and rips him apart. heart beating faster at the prospect of you wanting him closer than physically possible, body screaming as pain licks up his tired limbs like a fire dying to keep itself alive.

who knows how long the pair of you stand like that, arms in a tangled mess, bodies so close the tips of your feet are pressing down on his and chests rise with syncopated breathing.

he doesn't think about all the things he should, like how the stains on his ruined shirt are likely making a new mark on your own outfit or the fact your boyfriend's cologne remains a lingering scent in the hair he's currently burrowing into. instead, the cruelty of imagination takes over and images swirl behind his closed eyelids: the embrace you share morphing into lips being pressed to lips, kisses leading to confessions, confessions leading to his bed- which, in itself, brings forth images of bruised skin from your neck to his own, and hardened nipples glistening with traces of his saliva, and fingers pulling on his hair as he devours you into a crying mess, the very same fingers that scratch masterpieces into the skin along his back as he holds you in a mating press-, and from his bed to the rest of your lives, lives where you never say goodbye when it gets a little dark outside and he never has to smell that smokiness on you ever own, replacing it with his own cinnamon infused essence.

it's almost like neither of you want to address the elephant in the room, you never mentioning the fact jungkook's been avoiding you like the plague and him never uttering an apology for doing so.

there's a part of him that can't help but wonder if you know the truth, if you've known all along- taehyung had always been a little looselipped after a couple shots of tequila- and have just been playing dumb, hoping it'll go away if you never speak it out loud.

heaven knows he's been wishing that were possible.

"it's, uh," he's the first to pull back, though it kills him more than the rejection. he clears his throat, hoping you believe him to be ill instead of holding back tears. "good to see you, really."

"jungkook-"

"but you should go." he cuts you off, he has to. the sound of your voice only makes you feel more real, and that's the last thing he wants you to be right now. "back out to the party. i'm sure yeonjun's looking for you."

the pounding in his head feels a little stronger and the sick feeling increases at the mention of his name.

"yeonjun's not here."

"why not?" he sounds more accusatory than he intends to, heart becoming jaded every time your boyfriend is the topic of conversation.

"we, just... yeah." you're dancing over the topic, eyes suddenly plastered to the ground instead of his bloodshot ones. "we broke up."

his heart pauses, the music outside comes to a halt, the planet stops spinning for a blink of a moment. everything is upside down, inside out, the truth is false and lies are honest.

the sun no longer burns, he's not slowly dying and you're not dating choi yeonjun.

when the moment passes, only one of those statements remains true.

"i'm sorry, i didn't know-"

"we've not exactly been talking, have we?"

"did he at least... give you a reason?" he chooses to let you have your dig, not even bothering to give a reason behind the ignored the calls or the missed meet-ups.

"no," your eyes are now on the shower curtain behind him, scanning up the various stains along the once white fabric. the offensively bright bathroom light shines a reflection in your eyes and it reminds him of the nights spent gazing up at the night sky before you were both grown up, nights where he swore the stars would freefall all the way from outer space and land directly in your wide eyed gaze. only, he never remembered your eyes looking as sad as they do now. "i was the one giving reasons. i ended it."

"why?"

"i just... i realized he's not really who i want to be with, and it's not fair to string him along over a teen-like crush when there's already someone who i'm in love with."

this is it, he thinks, the final blow to knock his lights out for good.

if the implicit rejection of hearing the words this is my boyfriend, yeonjun were enough to send him down this path that leads to peril, heart cursed to a fate of tearing itself in two, then he can only stand in shaking fear at what explicitly hearing you name the person you're in love with will do to him.

perhaps he'll die on the spot, put an end to drawn out process.

he contemplates, for a moment, just letting it all off his chest. throw away the silly promise he'd made to himself, one where he swore to never tell you about the fated bond that had formed between your soul and his, too cautious of you fearing a life where you feel forced to be with him and too enamoured with the thought of watching you fall in love with him slowly, naturally, no outside pressure. like normal, non-canine-infused relationships do.

it's too late now, though, so he holds back the confession like always.

"who?"

you sigh out his name, eyes somehow having found their way back to his. he leans in with anticipation. he's twisted, broken, dying, and he wants to at least know who he's leaving you behind for. wants to know that, if he can't have the luxury of loving you, the person who does actually deserves it. but you're not saying anything.

you're just staring.

and staring.

and staring.

and staring.

he stares back. he blinks one, two, three, four times. on the fifth, he rubs his hand over his eyelids, wondering if that'll clear up his vision and show him reality, instead of yet another deadly hallucination.

you're still there when his eyes reopen.

"y/n." he whispers, voice trembling while he struggles to find it. he feels sick to his stomach watching you look at him the same way he's looked at you for years now, like everything begins and ends with him. longing, loving, belonging. it's all he's ever wanted from you, in the worst way it could ever happen. "oh, y/n."

because here you are, loving him, and there he is, dying.

he'd thought the fates were cruel before, when they cursed him with a mate who would never want him the same way, a whole different species that could never understand the all encomposing emotions of a lupin in love. turns out, they're far crueler than he dared to fear, letting him begin the process of losing his life to his mate's rejection, only to flip the switch and reveal his mate loves him, wants him, sees him in the same star-littered light.

he's spent so many years waiting for this moment, imaging how it could play out, yet he never expected this.

he can't talk, or think, or make sense of anything that's happening. all he can do is inch closer, lean lower, hold you closer before he finally gets a taste of what it's like to love you.

he's seen what it's like to love you, in moments where you're sweating in his living room and demanding a rematch against taehyung at whatever song you'd just done on just dance. he's smelt it, when you crash into his arms with giggles and uttered hellos in the middle of campus, sending a cloud of your perfume and natural scent right up his nose. he's heard it, too, on halloween nights where he'd drag you to scary houses and witness you call out to him every time you got scared, hand clutching onto him to reassure yourself he was right behind you. and he's felt it, in every moment his heart beats harder around you, whether you're snoring a drool patch onto his couch or you're spinning under shinning lights, with a pretty dress and a forgotten prom date.

and at last he tastes it, when lips press to lips and space ceases to exist. it's not rough, nor as desperate as he expected it to be. a hand lays flat against his erratically beating chest, while one of his own finds a resting place on your warm cheek, the stroke of his thumb over your skin mimicking the way his tongue meets your bottom lip, searching to taste more of you, all of you, in just one kiss, savouring what might be the only chance he gets.

“for a d-defamation lawsuit to turn out success- fuck!” from the moment your resolve slips, you regret it, almost going as far as to complain verbally, if you didn’t already know better.

talking back will only get you punished, and not in the way of whips and chains and all things spice, but in the way of being left high and dry, pussy wet and unfilled. 

cold air brushes up against your sensitive folds as the man beneath your desk pulls away from your sopping core. you glance down in time to catch the way he swipes his tongue over his lips, collecting the juices you’ve covered him in, in as little as the three minutes he’s been down there.

he’s looking at you with one eyebrow raised, expectantly, awaiting you to correct the error of your ways.

“did i tell you to stop reading, princess?” his voice, the way the gruff in it curls over his words and his beautiful lips move as he speaks, sends a fresh rush of arousal down your nerves.

“no, mr. choi.”

“and what did you do?” 

“stop-” you start, only to do the very thing you said when you jolt in your seat, moments after he’d blown air onto your pulsating heat, torturing you with the minimum amount of pressure against your clit. it takes a deep, calming breath on your end to centre yourself again. “i stopped reading.”

“tsk.” his response worries you. so vague, you’re yet to figure out if he’s going to even bother continuing with the pleasure he was giving you. as if sensing your unsure nature, the drag of his pointer finger over your soaked entrance becomes his answer to the unasked question. “how am i supposed to know you’re studying the notes i gave you if you do that, hmm? do it again and we’ll have to cut the tutoring lesson short today.”

he could have whispered the words and you still would have heard him loud and clear. your eyes reluctantly snap back to the textbook instead of staring down at the sight of him between your legs, hair perfectly slicked back and begging to be messed up, tie undone and hanging from his neck, shirt sleeves rolled up his arms and straining against the muscles of his forearms.

“the act of defamation occurs when someone makes a false and harmful statement...” you begin reciting the words again, after you’d cleared your throat.

as san’s face lowers back onto your aching cunt, you remind yourself over and over to read, just read. that’s all he wants you to do and, in exchange, he’ll take you to heaven with his tongue. but oh, it is so much easier said than done. your hands soon find a grip on the edge of the desk, a place to root yourself down while his tongue drags over you lazily.

“there’s two different types of defamation-” his tongue teases at your hole and you want to beg him, scream at him to shove it- or any other part of him- into your cunt, walls clenching around nothing but your own wetness, causing it to ooze out onto your tutor’s waiting tongue. “libel is the name given to any defamatory words that are written...”

“my princess has the prettiest pussy.” a hand snakes it’s way up your leg, wrapping a tight grip around your thigh before he props it onto his shoulder. when his tongue finally breeches your walls again, it’s at a whole new angle than earlier, and that alone has you wishing you could throw the textbook off your desk only for you to bend over it while mr. choi takes you from behind.

“slander is spoken defamation, and often more trickier to prove in court...” instead, you keep reading so that he’ll keep eating.

“what would your dad say if he knew this is what you use our tutoring sessions for, huh?” san continues to taunt you between licks of your cunt, switching his focus between your hole and your clit. he’s trying to get you to disobey him. “if he knew his dear friend who he asked to help his pretty little daughter get accepted into his law firm has actually been teaching her how to take a proper cock? oh, and just imagine his face if he knew that i fucked you under his very own roof.”

“d- defamation cases are often costly and are a long procedure...” you can’t help it when, instinctually, your hand flies down to tangle itself in his perfectly done hair. instead of pushing you away like you’d thought he would have, san only closes his eyes and let’s out a moan as you tug his hair, face nestling itself deeper between your legs and causing his nose to bump against your clit.

“you have no idea how much i think about you, baby.” his free hand lands on your heat, cupping it as he pulls back to stare up at you. “got me wishing i could have you every hour of the day. that you were mine alone to touch, and fuck, and kiss.”

“w-what would-” you become brave suddenly, spurred on by the moment of vulnerability from the man between your legs, looking so much more at your mercy than ever before, like he’s begging to worship the only goddess he’ll ever know. “your son, or your ex-wife, say if they knew you were doing this, hmm? that you took on an apprentice only to corrupt her?”

“you were corrupted long before i got my hands on you, y/n.” he smirks up at you, only to chuckle when he thrusts a finger into your cunt, no warning, and you gasp, tugging on his hair again. “the only thing i’ve done is show you how good sex can be when you’re doing it with someone experienced instead of some sweaty frat-boy who finishes in two minutes and doesn’t even know where your clit is.”

“you’d be surprised, some of them are better than you give them credit.” you’re lying, without an ounce of shame about it. and it’s more than worth it to see the way his eyes darken, his eyebrows frown, his hand picks up the speed that his finger thrusts into you.

no warning comes when he inserts a second finger. 

“really? can they make you beg for their cock like a bitch in heat?” he doesn’t bother to stall any longer, head diving back down between your legs to shut you up.

his mouth latches onto your clit, rolling it between his lips and prodding at it with his tongue while he continues to fuck you with his hand. a third finger enters you and you throw your head back, body curling off the leather of your desk chair while you tighten your grip on san’s hair.

“mr. choi, please.” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for.

“yeah, just like that. a little slut begging to be fucked full, that’s all you are, right? and no one knows how to give you what you want but me.” every whine, moan of your voice, every time your walls tighten around his digits, it strokes his ego and keeps him giving you more, more, more.

when the coil in your body is so close to finally snapping, he rips his hand from you. it’s a moment of devastation only, until you feel his hand, soaked in you, clasping around your other thigh and dragging it over his shoulder too. then his tongue is back in you, drinking in every bit of essence your quivering hole offers him.

when you cum, it’s with your body more sat on him than the actual chair, hands on your ass and holding you against his face as his tongue continues to work you through the electrifying feeling, nose bumping over your clit every so often. while your jaw is slacked open in a silent scream, san makes no attempt to hold back the moans and grunts ripping through his chest.

“shh, shh, i’ve got you.” he coos when he rises from under your desk, lowering your still quivering body back down onto your chair. you have half the mind to wonder if he’s a completely different man to the one who’d been buried between your thighs minutes ago, as he brings up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. instead of a smirk or a scowl, he wears a smile, even when you feel his fingers dip back between your swollen folds.

“mr. choi, i need a break first-”

“shh, it’s okay.” and you believe him, as he retracts his hand and brings it up to your mouth, commanding you to open it. your eyes flutter shut as your mouth wraps around his fingers, tasting yourself all over them. “so pretty, aren’t you?”

you can only nod, so relieved he gave you what you wanted even though you’d stopped reading. you’re unsure how long he lets you sit there with his fingers in your mouth but him removing them brings you back into the room instantly. coating your cheek in your own spit-mixed cum as he cups it, he leans down to place a kiss on your neck.

“i need to go make a quick call but, when i come back, i expect you to be naked on your bed, ass up and face down.” this time it really is nothing but a whisper, yet you hear him loud and clear.

“why?” it seems like a silly questions to ask, when you already know exactly why he wants you in that position.

it doesn't take a genius to see you're infatuated with san's mouth.

before the romantic side of your relationship had even sprung to life, back in the days where you both dismissed the butterflies in your stomachs as hunger and dizzy feelings as dehydration, there was a never ending urge to watch the pink of his lips, never able to pin point what quite exactly drew you to them in the first place.

maybe it's the way they seemingly unconsciously curl up into a grin when he's got byeol sitting in his lap, tail curling around his thigh and chest erupting purr after purr as he runs his fingers over her fur. all the while, he's cooing out love filled words aimed at the feline who's been part of his life far longer than you have.

he never fails to remind you of the first time you met the cat, her hissing every time you so much as dared to touch your boyfriend's hand.

but then there's the times when he's struggling to hold back a high-pitched, voice-cracking laugh as he pretends to not notice whatever shenanigan one of the other ninety-nine liners is getting up to, something that no doubt has the ultimate goal of frustrating poor seonghwa, who's just trying to read his book in peace.

it always ends with him doubling over while the cutest squeals escape him, eyes forced shut under the force of his wide smile and hand covering his mouth in a failed attempt to muffle his laughter as the eldest in their team of eight begins chasing the perpetrator- more often than not wooyoung- around the living room, book in hand when he threatens to beat some knowledge into his younger brother.

there's days where san's got the energy of a child, bouncing on the balls of his feet and striding off in every direction, you not too far behind thanks to the unbreaking grip he's got on your hand, not tight enough to hurt but enough to get one point across: he wants you close. he may not realise it himself, but on those days he talks sporadically, like the words can't leave him fast enough, like he'll forget everything he wants to say if he doesn't get it out immediately.

and so he talks, and you listen, eyes stuck between staring into his pretty eyes and the way his lips move when he speaks, how you can almost see the lisp that makes itself known when san get's a little too excited, a little too passionate about the words he's saying.

to this day, you still manage to pull a bashful smile and the faintest shade of pink on his cheeks when you remind him of how the lisp was present when he confessed his love for you.

there's other kind of days with san, though. days that break your heart while, at the same time in a paradoxic kind of way, make the beats of it speed up. it's on those days where san rarely says a word, body spent from weeks and weeks of non-stop schedules, throat sore from singing the same words over and over, mind too tired to conjure up intelligible sentences. the only thing he can bring himself to do is pull you closer under the covers, grunting in frustration with the sunlight peeking in through your bedroom curtains as he buries his head further into the crook of your neck, those lips that you love so much barely grazing over your skin in a way that sends chills up your spines.

at some point in the day, he'll ask you to talk and when you reply with an airy laugh and about what, he'll nuzzle closer- if even possible- and tell you anything, everything. he just wants to listen to you talk, wants to know you're the one who's arms are holding and healing him back to the man he is. and maybe, just maybe, he wants to hear the way your breath hitches when his lips apply the slightest of pressure on your skin.

there's the fights, too, like any healthy couple. tipically about petty indiferences, and scarcely about anything too serious. san's made it clear, not just to you but to most if not all he holds dear to his heart, that he hates going to sleep with unresolved issues still in the air, believing it's bad luck to end the day off on an angry note. it's why problems in your relationship tend to be resolved as quickly as possible, with the pair of you rarely finding the need to scream your points across an empty room just to be heard. he's taught you to see how much more effective it is just talk it out, sitting across from one another, hands intertwined in a way that allows his lips to place reassuring pecks to your knuckles whenever he notices your eyes welling with tears.

he never wants to see you cry, much less be the reason for your tears, not after the most infamous and worst fight in your relationship. truthfully, he can't remember why or what it was about, a vague memory of him mentioning your lack of understanding towards his career requirements and you countering that he fails to understand how hard it is to work every little detail of your relationship around the fact he's living out his dream. on that night you'd stormed out of the dorm, not even returning the wave good-bye yeosang gave you on the way out, a faux-smile on his face as he attempted to pretend the rest of the members hadn't heard every word you and san had spat at each other inside his and yunho's room. the last thing on your mind as you'd struggled to sleep was the way those lips you loved so much had curled down into a frown while he bit back his own tears, hands clenching and unclenching at his side while he struggled to find space to make his next point, for once not thinking about how to end the fight but, instead, win it.

weeks later, the scene that had unfolded between you in the very same room you'd fought in was overwhelming enough to make you both forget. hands on skin and clothes being thrown idly in to whatever dark corner of the room. his hands all you feel, his cologne all you can smell, his lips all you can taste. san's never been good at articulating in moments of extreme emotions, mind tending to shut down when a certain feeling became too intense. it's why he says nothing when his lips drift further from your own, dancing down the edge of your neck, over the expanse of your chest only to pause for a brief second, pulling away for a breath of air, glancing up at you with burning eyes and swollen lips, lips that latch onto one of the hardened buds on your chest, tongue swirling over it in a rhythm no one else but you two know as one of his hands comes up to pinch the other nipple.

much like his views towards fights, san rarely likes to start something he can't finish. he's enamoured with the amount of time you'll lay pliant under him, let him push every button on your willing body, the pair of you losing hours in a haze of lust, hours where you're reminded over and over of possibly why you like his lips so much, especially when they're between your thighs, tongue lapping up every drop of sweetness you let free like you're the holy grail and drinking from you is the answer to eternal life. when he's using them to let out sweet nothings and disgusting vulgarities that have you blushing for weeks after. when he finally can't hold back anymore, a surge of power bursting through your chest at the sight of such a composed man losing it all over you, hips stuttering in the final throws of his own pleasure and mind no longer quite working in tune with his lips, so many things he wants to say that simply come out as repeated pleases until it all builds to a crescendo where he reaches the ultimate level of euphoria, brain too fuzy to care about the fact he's just come inside of you with no form of protection, too busy rushing to capture your lips with his own and-

"hello? earth to y/n!"

the devil himself snaps you out of your train of thoughts and you jump at the sudden proximity. sitting crosslegged on the floor of the practice room, you'd expected san to still be moving his lithe body to the beat of whatever song plays through the speakers but, instead, he's crouching with his knees bent, accentuating the muscles of his thighs under the grey sweatpants. a veil of sweat lines his forehead, dampening the roots of his hair and you think, right now in this moment, that he's never looked as handsome as he does smiling at you from behind his mask, a sparkle of happiness in his eyes and tenderness in the way he reaches forward to pinch your cheek.

"what were you thinking about, hm?" his curiosity is so innocent, birthed by the simple desire to know what had you so distracted that you failed to notice him calling your name four times in a row. you wonder if it would change if you let the truth out, if the wideness in his eyes would soon switch to those familiar cat-like slits he stares down at you when he's got you on your knees for him.

you swallow at the thought.

"nothing important." you lie, he's everything important.

"hmm, are you sure?" san's hands reach for your own on instinct, both of you aware yet never voicing the fact you struggle to be near each other without physically feeling the other. "if there's something on your mind, you can talk to me. you know that, right? i like listening, especially if it's you."

you dismiss him with a smile, hands ripping away from his own to pull down the mask hiding his lips from you. you unveil the sight of his cute pout, perhaps the thing you love most about his lips.

"the only thing on my mind right now is kissing you." san seems to melt into your palm as it runs over the expanse of his soft cheek, back no longer straight and knees falling forward to hit the floor.

"good, because i've been trying to find an excuse to kiss you since you interrupted my practice."

instead of pointing out the fact he'd texted you, whining at you to hurry to the company building with some form of street food before he dies of hunger, you lean up and close the little distance between you. for a moment, you wonder if the way he always smiles during the first few seconds of a kiss is the reason you love his lips so much.

but you know you'll never know the true reason why you always want him to kiss you more or why you're so fascinated by the way they move when he sings.

you can live with never knowing, so long as it means getting to love all the other parts of him too.

nobody likes the taste of defeat.

it’s stomach twisting, ego bruising, confidence shaking. with a fear for failure present in humans since the dawn of time, failing to find success can leave a person confused, frazzled, unsure of what to do next and how to make sure such a thing never happens again. defeat tastes of sickeningly sour candy and rotten milk and achievements not reached.

or, at least it did before.

defeat now tastes of salted skin and unshed tears and aching jaws, humiliation soiling your soul while your body busies itself with soiling your underwear, covering it in the sickening slick of your sinful arousal. 

“open your mouth wider, whore.” his hand is struggling to undo his tie, his once perfectly styled hair now a disheveled mess of dark locks. his other hand has found a grip on your hair, gripping and pulling and tugging it to try get your head in the perfect angle for his own gain, his own pleasure.

teary eyes meet his disinterested ones, staring up at him and his stupid gold medal from the ground below. you shift and choke back a whine as you feel your knees scrape against the hard surface of the floor. the noise seems to please him, urging him to give an experimental roll of his hips, taking away the little control you had over the situation.

with fascination, and a level of marvel he’ll never admit to, kang yeosang, the newly named champion of the debate team, watches his hardened cock slide in and out of your waiting mouth, dragging over your tongue and brushing the back of your throat. the laugh he gives as you choke on his tip is sadistic, borderline evil.

just once, you’d wanted something for yourself. a place where you could thrive, have fun a something you were good at without it having to become a great challenge for you. but, no, of course the devil that is kang yeosang just couldn’t let you have that, signing up for the team only a week after you.

involuntarily, you whine when he pulls back completely, mouth now empty and eyes focused on the leaking tip in front of you and the pretty vein that runs along his hand as slowly wraps it around his cock.

“did you just- did you just fucking whine for my cock, y/n?” he’s bewildered, more surprised and turned on that he’d ever like to admit. this isn’t even the first, second, third time in your rivalry that he’s had you on your knees yet it’s getting to him more than ever, something about the way your cheeks are still stained in the tears you’d cried after losing to him yet your eyes- and mouth- don’t seem to have the will-power to leave his hardened member sending his brain into overdrive. “do it again- shit. please do it again.”

he’s the one begging yet, somehow, the humiliation is yours, increasing by tenfold when you obey his command and whine again, a wordless, near breathless plead to have him use your mouth again.

yeosang snaps back into action, hand griping your air tighter than ever before while the other safely guides himself back into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth, a fucked out expression taking over him for a moment when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock.

and then, he’s thrusting.

in and out, overwhelming your every sense and clouding every rational part of your mind with unbridled lust. when his hips thrust at a relentless pace, gone are the fears of ruining your makeup. when his balls slap against your face, gone are the worries of being too loud. when his cock hits the back of your throat over and over, gone are the possible scenarios where a fellow student or, worse, an event manager catches you two int he cramped bathroom stall.

“you like this, huh? like having your pretty face fucked?” yeosang is at a loss for breath, but not even that will stop his taunts. you can’t answer, mouth stuffed full and brain fuzzing over in arousal. “shit, you can’t even conjure up an answer, uh? what, is the little baby too dumb to give a simple yes or no? that’s okay, we both know your mouth was never meant for talking anyway.”

for you, the taste of defeat is kang yeosang.