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San wishes that, when he picked out the decor for his new bedroom prior to their dorm rearrangements, he’d chosen a more comfortable chair.
The bamboo seat is uncomfortable and rigid underneath his ass, and the back is no better, unyielding against his spine and offering no lumbar support whatsoever. Every time he shifts, it creaks loudly and makes him flush with embarrassment.
To be gracious to his past self, he’d spent far more time picking out the chair that is neatly tucked into his desk in front of his computer. That one is all sleek black leather, ergonomic and perfectly adjusted to best fit his body, with oiled wheels that roll smoothly across the floor. This one, the one making his thighs go numb and his back ache, had been an afterthought, more of a place to pile laundry than anything.
The chair is facing the bed in profile, a bed that San should, by all rights, be in. It should be him pressing Yeosang down into the mattress, kissing him senseless. It should be him brushing his lips over the apples of Yeosang’s cheeks before he leans down to lick and bite his gorgeous throat. It should be him making Yeosang whine and squirm.
But no.
Instead, he’s been relegated to the goddamn chair while Jongho slowly breaks Yeosang apart in front of him.
As Jongho sucks a bruise into the base of Yeosang’s neck, Yeosang moans and tips his head back, exposing the full length of his throat. He’s blushing all the way from his birthmark to where his collarbone is peeking out of the neckline of his loose pink sweater. His black hair is a tousled mess, proprietarily splayed across San’s pillows in the exact way that usually makes his heart skip a beat.
Now, it just makes his aching fingers flex around his knees.
“Jongho,” Yeosang groans, hands rubbing over Jongho’s shoulders before they clench into his shirt, pulling the black fabric tight across his broad back. Even though Jongho has done nothing more than kiss him so far, Yeosang’s legs are already wrapped around Jongho’s waist, heels digging into his ass as his hips roll upwards, seeking friction.
For all that he likes to try and shy away from San’s kisses when they’re in front of the cameras, when they’re alone, it is so easy to make Yeosang fall apart. One deep kiss, a handful of pretty words or a single brush of San’s mouth against the side of his neck, and he turns into soft clay in San’s hands, desperate to be shaped and handled however San chooses.
It’s disconcerting to watch it happen from an outside perspective.
Jongho laughs, lower and smoother than his normal giggle. “Poor thing.” When he pulls away, his eyes sweep down Yeosang’s body and settle between his legs, where San can already see him straining at the front of his jeans. As his hand smoothes down Yeosang’s chest, he murmurs, “You’re already so hard for me. So desperate. When was the last time San-ah touched you?”
The lack of honorifics is a punch to the gut. Vicious, scorching heat floods San’s face as Jongho slowly pulls Yeosang’s sweater up, exposing the exquisite lines of his abs, the curve of his waist, his shuddering ribs as he sucks in shaky breaths.
Yeosang’s face turns even pinker as he whispers, “Yesterday.”
“Yeah?” Jongho pauses, leaving Yeosang’s sweater bunched up just below his nipples, high enough that San can see the swell of his pecs. With another rueful laugh, he says, “Let me guess. He was all gentle and soft with you, wasn’t he?”
It’s the truth. San had taken his time, explored every inch of Yeosang with his mouth and fingers before he slipped into him and fucked him slow and deep while he whispered praise against Yeosang's open mouth, told him how beautiful and strong he was, how he felt so good and took San so impossibly well.
Yeosang nods again. “He was…” He trails off, and each second of silence, broken only by San's own labored breathing and the pounding of his heart, is an agony all its own. “He was sweet.”
Jongho clicks his tongue in a way that makes San feel like a student being scolded by a teacher. “Sweet.” For the time being, he abandons Yeosang’s sweater in favor of dragging both thumbs down the midline of his abs. Yeosang’s stomach visibly tightens under the touch, and under different circumstances, the sight would be enough to make San moan appreciatively. “Is that how you want to be treated, hyung?”
Yeosang’s breathing quickens, and his fingers clench into the navy blue sheets, sheets that Yeosang helped pick out as he answers with, “Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?” Jongho pauses with his thumbs hooked under the waistband of Yeosang’s jeans and raises an eyebrow. “What about the rest of the time?”
“Jongho,” Yeosang whines, turning his face away. Before his cheek can hit the pillow, Jongho curls his fingers around Yeosang’s chin and turns him back, so that their noses are nearly brushing.
“I asked you a question, hyung.” The words are soft, but there’s an underlying edge to them that makes the hair on the back of San’s neck stand up. “How else do you want to be treated, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. That’s supposed to be San's pet name for Yeosang, the one that he whispers into his ear right before they fall asleep or that he buries into Yeosang’s open mouth as he slips inside of him.
Yeosang makes a quiet, wounded sound and closes his eyes before he finally speaks, voice so low that San can barely make out the words.
“Sometimes, I want it to hurt.”
San’s stomach curdles like milk tainted with lemon juice.
“Don’t worry, hyung,” Jongho murmurs, releasing his grip on Yeosang’s jaw and tucking a wayward piece of wavy black hair behind his ear. “I’ll give you what you want.”
Jongho tips his head, but even though he’s so close that Yeosang must be able to feel his warm breath, he doesn’t lean in for a kiss. Instead, for the first time since San sat down, Jongho looks directly at him with a self-satisfied smirk unfurling across his plush mouth.
“Are you watching, San?”
For a moment, San is very concerned that he’s about to pass out. He doesn’t trust himself to stay upright if he were to try and stand up, but the bedroom door and the freedom beyond it has never been so tempting.
Jongho dives back in, and this time, there’s no tenderness to the way he handles Yeosang. He doesn’t brush their mouths together softly, doesn’t slowly push his clothes up or gently lick at his neck. Instead, he clamps both of his powerful hands around Yeosang’s wrists, pins him to the mattress and kisses him like he’s trying to devour him whole.
And underneath him, like a snowflake in the sun, Yeosang absolutely melts.
San’s emotional turmoil doesn’t lessen at the sight of Yeosang going limp and pliant, legs falling open around Jongho’s hips as he moans around Jongho’s tongue. His mind is a tumultuous maelstrom, as violent as the storms that come off the ocean sometimes and lash Namhae in the night.
He’s embarrassed. He’s mortified and a little sick and genuinely hurt.
The problem is that he’s also the hardest he’s ever been in his entire fucking life.
As Jongho roughly tugs the collar of Yeosang’s sweater to the side, hard enough that San suspects the neckline will be permanently misshapen, and bites down hard on Yeosang’s shoulder, San’s cock throbs in the confines of his jeans. If he were to tear his eyes away from the bed and glance down into his lap, he’s sure that the bulge would be painfully obvious.
The thought of looking down and seeing his shameful arousal so clearly reflected back at him is embarrassing enough. The thought of Jongho noticing his momentary lapse in attention and calling him out, maybe even snapping his fingers like he’s trying to summon a dog, makes him want to die.
After he’s bitten Yeosang one more time, Jongho sits up and tears Yeosang’s sweater off. He carelessly tosses it in San’s direction, and San catches it before it can flutter to the ground. It’s still warm from Yeosang’s skin, and his fingers reflexively clench in it, as if hoping that clutching the fabric will be able to satisfy the urge to drag his hands over Yeosang’s body.
It doesn’t work.
Jongho lets out a low, appreciative hum as he settles back on his knees between Yeosang’s splayed legs. San can see the way Jongho’s gaze sweeps up Yeosang’s body, the hunger in his eyes. Hands dropping to Yeosang’s heaving chest, Jongho curls his fingers around Yeosang’s pecs and squeezes tight as he murmurs, “God, hyung, look at your tits.”
The safe word, strawberry, is sitting on the tip of San’s tongue, ready to be spoken aloud, to bring this whole sordid scene to a close. It’s not necessarily that he wants to stop things for himself (although the thought of getting relief from the spiral of sharp jealousy and cruel humiliation is tempting, no matter what his cock says), but if he’s embarrassed, he can’t imagine how Yeosang is feeling. It took a concerted effort, practically a downright campaign, for Yeosang to convince the company to let him work out to his heart’s content. Having Jongho so casually dismiss the hard work that’s gone into Yeosang’s chest with one lurid word must be downright mortifying.
But instead of flinching away or showing any sign of discomfort, Yeosang arches up into Jongho’s rough hands and moans, loud and pretty.
Jongho hums again. His watch glints in the light as he squeezes again, pressing Yeosang’s pecs together in a way that, San is reluctant to admit, does look like cleavage. “You like that, hyung?”
Yeosang’s cheeks are scarlet, but he nods as he arches up into Jongho’s grip, lips parted around another moan, breathy and high in a way that is unrecognizable to San.
“Should get you a bra,” Jongho continues, absently rubbing at both of Yeosang’s sensitive nipples with his thumbs. “Something pretty and lacy that you could spill out of. Maybe something red. Would you like that?”
Yeosang turns his head to look at San, and seeing the sheer level of desire in Yeosang’s dark eyes, the wet gleam of his lips and the pink hint of his tongue, makes San’s body burn even hotter.
He’s never actually thought about seeing Yeosang wrapped in something strappy and lacy. Yeosang has never shown any sign of being interested in something like that, seemingly happy to live in sweatpants and one of his fifteen identical tank tops whenever the cameras are off. San likes when the stylists put Yeosang in something pretty, but he’s also completely content with him being barefaced and cozy, half buried in an oversized hoodie as San fucks him.
But now that Jongho has raised the idea, San can perfectly imagine lace (he’d prefer purple over red, a soft lavender or something bold and bright that would contrast with Yeosang’s fair skin) stretched across Yeosang’s full chest. He can imagine it gently scratching against his palms as he copies Jongho’s actions, squeezes him until Yeosang is breathlessly gasping San’s name and arching his back.
As Yeosang continues to look at him, San wonders if Yeosang is imagining the same thing.
But maybe he isn’t thinking of San at all.
“Don’t look at him,” Jongho says sharply, firmly grasping Yeosang’s chin and turning his face away. “I asked you a question, hyung.”
“I'm sorry,” Yeosang stammers, eyes brimming with tears.
“I’ll forgive you if you answer my question,” Jongho replies, hand slipping from Yeosang's chin in favor of curling around the back of his neck. “Do you want to be all dolled up for me, hyung?”
“Yes, sir,” Yeosang whispers as one of those pretty tears breaks containment and spills down his cheek.
San can't hold back his gasp. His head swims, ears echoing with the sound of Yeosang's pretty, low voice whispering sir.
It's just another bullet point on the long list of things that Yeosang is apparently into that he's never mentioned to San, that San has never thought to ask about.
At the very least, while this revelation eats away at him along with all the others, it's clear that he isn't alone in being affected by the word, because for a moment, Jongho's composure slips. His eyes widen, and his lips part around a moan, so quiet and vulnerable that San wonders if Jongho even knows he made the noise.
The sight of him softening makes San consider his options. Maybe, at some point in the future, he could actually work with Jongho, work in tandem to have Yeosang crying and flushed the prettiest shade of pink, begging and calling both of them sir.
But that thought only lasts for the time it takes for Jongho's face to harden again. His parted lips twist back into a smirk, and he turns and looks at San again, palm lightly wrapped around the front of Yeosang's throat.
“Bet he's never said that to you before,” he murmurs with a vicious, cruel glint in his eyes. “Has he, San-ah?”
It’s another punch directly to the gut, and before San can stop himself, he opens his mouth and says Jongho’s name. He isn’t exactly sure what he plans on following it up with, maybe a request to dial it back a bit or maybe even a denial, a lie to try and save what little dignity he has remaining.
But before he can say anything else, Jongho snaps, “Shut up.”
The words are so deeply shocking that San’s jaw closes with an audible click, teeth coming dangerously close to clamping around the tip of his tongue.
He remains speechless, breath leaving his nose in loud pants, nails scratching at the rough denim covering his thighs as Jongho steals Yeosang’s mouth again.
He lingers there for just long enough for Yeosang to gasp for air when Jongho pulls away, thick spit keeping them connected until Jongho ducks his head and returns to work on Yeosang’s neck. After leaving a rosy red bruise at the crux of Yeosang’s neck and shoulder, Jongho moves lower and licks at the hardened bud of Yeosang’s nipple. Once it’s so red that it looks painful, he nips at it, teeth gleaming as they cinch around his swollen flesh.
Yeosang howls.
His back gracefully arches off the mattress again as he claws at Jongho’s shoulders, and for the briefest of moments, Jongho’s eyes flick back to San. Despite the way his mouth quirks up in another smirk, the tips of his ears are red, and San can’t help but feel a little relieved that he isn’t the only one waging a battle between arousal and embarrassment.
But then Jongho’s eyes dart back to Yeosang as he bites down again, teeth greedily pressing into his pectoral.
Yeosang sobs and paws at the back of Jongho’s neck, cheeks glistening with tears that San desperately wants to lick up.
It’s not the first time he’s seen Yeosang cry during sex, but that’s always been when they’re in the thick of it, when he’s rocking into Yeosang deep and steady and precisely hitting his prostate with every thrust, when he’s driving Yeosang towards his third or fourth peak of the evening and he’s nigh on incoherent.
Jongho has barely touched Yeosang and yet, he’s already falling apart, all before his pants have even come off.
Jongho works on Yeosang’s other nipple until it’s puffy and purple before he starts using his mouth to carve out a swath of marks down Yeosang’s chest. Yeosang quakes underneath him, ribs flexing as he breathes fast and hard, eyes closed, lashes heavy with teardrops as pretty as morning dew.
It hurts to see him like this, turned into a moaning mess by someone else’s touch, but even despite the betrayal sitting heavy in his gut, sweet and bitter like poisoned cake, San would have to be dead to not be aroused by how beautiful Yeosang is, sweaty and flushed and needy.
By the time Jongho makes his way to Yeosang’s navel, leaving behind bites and scratches as colorful as a graffitied bathroom wall, his carefully styled hair has been pulled into disarray by Yeosang’s fingers. When he sits back on his knees, he runs one hand through it, mostly smoothing it back down as he sweeps his gaze over Yeosang’s body.
“So pretty, hyung.” Jongho squeezes both of Yeosang’s pecs again, and San can only imagine how the friction of his rough palms feels against Yeosang’s swollen nipples. “Prettiest mouth I’ve ever seen, prettiest tits…” His hands slip back down over Yeosang’s chest and stomach and come to settle low on Yeosang’s hips. “Bet your pussy is just as pretty as the rest of you.”
San squeaks.
He's not a prude (or at least, he didn't think he was, not until tonight), but the way that Jongho says such a lewd thing with such utter ease makes him want to bury his head in his hands or cross his legs to hide how painfully hard he is.
Yeosang whimpers and bucks up into Jongho's palms.
Jongho lets out another appreciative hum and trails his hand lower, palm rasping over the thick denim wrapped around Yeosang's strong thighs. “Wanna see the rest of you, hyung. Are you gonna let me look?”
Yeosang nods, hair flying around his face, sticking to his sweaty forehead and cheeks. “Yes, want you to look, please.”
Jongho traces one thumb around the button of Yeosang’s jeans. The click of his blunt nail against the metal seems impossibly loud in San’s ears. “Please what, hyung?”
Yeosang tucks his face into the crook of his elbow, but his mouth is still visible, making it perfectly easy for San to hear him softly reply, “Please, sir,” his lisp thickening and softening his words.
“Good boy.” With a quick, efficient series of movements, Jongho tears Yeosang’s pants and boxers down his legs. Once they reach mid-thigh, his cock slips free and bounces against his lower stomach, and San is so entranced by it that he barely notices Jongho toss Yeosang’s clothes across the room.
He knew, of course, that Yeosang’s cock was pretty. His memory of the first time they slept together is a little hazy, but he’s pretty sure he said something along those lines when he pulled Yeosang’s sweatpants down. It’s the perfect size, thick but not overwhelming, long but not intimidating, and the prominent head turns the loveliest shade of pink when he’s aroused, the shade of blooming cherry blossoms and strawberry lip gloss.
But it’s even prettier than usual. Not only is it hard, resting heavily against his belly, it’s wet. The head is gleaming with precome, and San’s tongue aches at the thought of tasting him.
His heart also aches at the realization that, while his presence is probably a contributing factor, most of Yeosang’s arousal likely isn’t because of him. It’s because of Jongho, who is staring down at him like some kind of precious jewel.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tongue flicking over his lower lip. After squeezing Yeosang’s legs hard enough for San to see the flesh dimple under his grasp, he slaps one thigh, just hard enough for the room to echo with the crisp impact and for Yeosang’s skin to turn red as he jolts. “Roll over for me. On your elbows and knees.”
While Yeosang turns over, his progress slowed by having to unwind himself from around Jongho and by getting tangled in the sheets, Jongho takes off his watch, a gift that San bought for him a couple of months back, and tosses it in San’s direction. If it was any other time, San’s sure he could effortlessly catch it, but by the time he realizes that Jongho is acknowledging him again, the watch has hit his chest and fallen into his lap, cushioned by the puddle of Yeosang’s sweater.
Carefully, Jongho undoes the button at the wrist of his shirt and rolls the sleeve up to his elbow, exposing the golden skin of his forearm. He reaches for the other but pauses midway through, eyes lowered to where Yeosang has gotten himself settled as Jongho requested, braced on his forearms with his head dangling between his broad shoulders, knees splayed wide and hips tilted up.
San can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction when Jongho’s composure flickers again as he stares down at Yeosang, groans, and says, “Oh my god, you’re so fucking pretty, hyung.”
Jongho isn’t wrong - Yeosang really is pretty everywhere, from each lock of silky hair to each of his toenails (which are currently painted black, courtesy of Wooyoung), and his hole is no exception, dusky rose and waxed smooth, always so tight but so willing to open up for San’s tongue or fingers or cock.
The realization that he’s about to open up for whatever Jongho is going to give him makes San’s stomach go sour again.
“Stay just like that,” Jongho says as he finishes rolling up his other sleeve, movements less measured than they were mere moments before. “Don’t move.”
Before Yeosang can react more than starting to turn his head over his shoulders, Jongho grasps his cheeks with both hands and buries his face in Yeosang’s ass.
As Yeosang yelps, San forgets how to breathe.
He’s eaten Yeosang out an untold number of times - it’s truly one of his favorite things to do. And it’s statistically likely that he’s done it in front of a mirror, somewhere where he could have taken in the full sight of Yeosang writhing underneath him if he’d been willing to tear his eyes away for a second. But that’s not something he’s ever done. This is the first time he’s seen Yeosang from the outside as he turns into a drooling mess from someone’s tongue.
And what a sight it is.
As Jongho devours him, Yeosang shifts forward so that his chest is pressed to the bed and his arms are stretched overhead, fingers hooked into the narrow space between San’s headboard and mattress. His hips are still tilted up, and the curve of his back as he presses back against Jongho’s mouth makes San both wince and throb in his jeans, which feel so tight he’s slightly worried about his circulation being cut off. Yeosang’s face is pressed into San’s pillow, muffling his moans and whimpers, and while San can’t see, he’s willing to bet that the pillowcase is marked with dark splotches of spit.
The sheer beauty of the sight doesn’t lessen the jealousy coursing through him. The desire to be in Jongho’s place, the one gripping Yeosang tightly and slipping the point of his tongue into his soft hole, is absolutely overpowering.
But the image of Yeosang stretched out fully, body taut and muscles bulging as he sobs, is not one he’ll be able to forget anytime soon.
With Jongho being so occupied, San can’t help but let one hand drift up his thigh to settle into his lap. It’s a dangerous game, but he’s just so goddamn hard. He doesn’t want to jerk off - he just wants to pop open his button and squeeze himself to relieve some of the pressure.
But even though he moves slowly, even though he doesn’t make a sound as he slips his hand under the pooled fabric of Yeosang’s sweater in his lap, before he can do more than cursorily brush his palm against the bulge of his cock, Jongho still notices. Abruptly, he sits up and glares at San, a thunderstorm brewing behind his dark eyes as he wipes his mouth and chin off on the back of his hand.
“Really, San-ah?” he scoffs. “All you had to do was sit there and not touch yourself, and you couldn’t even do that.” Without taking his eyes away from San, he lands a crisp slap on Yeosang’s ass, hard enough to make Yeosang cry out. “No wonder your boyfriend came running to me.”
That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.
And yet, the wave of shame washing over San makes it almost impossible to recall exactly how he got into this situation, that it was his idea to try this out, an idea blurted out after the three of them had gone out for dinner and he’d maybe, just maybe, had a little too much to drink.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, throat raw and dry as he places both hands in his lap again, where Jongho can see them.
Jongho scoffs again, and the noise makes San’s eyes film over with hot tears, so thick that they obscure his vision until all he can see is the dark outline of Jongho and the pale line of Yeosang’s body, still sprawled across the mattress as he pants loudly.
“I don’t believe you. But I’m feeling generous, so…” As Jongho trails off, he leans over and lets spit drip from his mouth. San can’t see it land on Yeosang’s hole, but he can still tell when it strikes home, because Yeosang moans again and mumbles something into the pillow, something that sounds an awful lot like please sir. When Jongho presses his thumb in, Yeosang moans even louder and arches his back to an even more extreme angle, head lifting away from the pillow, face obscured by his own hair.
“If you can sit there and not move while I fuck hyung’s pretty pussy,” Jongho says, looking down between Yeosang’s legs as he fucks his thumb into him, “then maybe you can have a turn, even though it’s more than you deserve. But if you try to touch yourself again, I’ll kick you out of the room, and you’ll just have to sit out there and listen while I ruin him. Understand?”
San’s cock hurts.
But the thought of Jongho throwing him out of his own bedroom and leaving him to sit in the hallway, reduced to pressing his ear to the wood and listening to his boyfriend cry as Jongho fucks him into oblivion, hurts even more.
So even though he doesn’t know if he can physically restrain himself for much longer, he nods, taking a moment to wipe away the tears sitting heavily on his waterline and dripping down his cheeks.
“Yes,” he rasps, curling his damp palms around the edge of his seat. “I understand.”
“Good.” Jongho gives Yeosang another spank, leaving behind a pink handprint on his pale ass. “Don’t make me regret this.”
As Jongho grabs lube and starts fingering Yeosang open properly, free hand splayed wide on his lower back while he thrusts into him and causes a litany of lovely noises to fall from Yeosang’s pretty mouth, San tightens his hands around the chair so tightly that he feels the bamboo flexing. The knowledge of exactly what Jongho is experiencing, of how Yeosang feels opening up around San’s own shorter fingers, wet and slick and soft, makes a moan bubble up in his own throat, and he slams his teeth into his bottom lip to keep it contained.
Miraculously, he succeeds.
But it grows more difficult to remain quiet when Jongho slips his fingers free, wipes them off on San’s sheets and opens his pants up. He slides them and his black boxers down just far enough to free his cock, and despite knowing that nothing good is going to come of it, San can’t help but stare and run comparisons in his mind as Jongho slicks himself up, groaning from deep in his chest as he strokes himself. San is pretty sure that he’s thicker, but Jongho is more veiny and might be longer.
Not that it really matters, because even though San knows that Yeosang prefers girth over length (at least when it comes to his favorite toys), San isn’t the one fucking him.
When Jongho slides forward and then guides himself in, one hand locked tight around Yeosang’s waist, he groans again, eyes fixed on where he’s slipping into Yeosang’s body.
San’s nose hurts from how forcefully he’s breathing through his nostrils, and there’s an ache setting into his fingers from gripping the chair so hard. The pulse of his blood in both his chest and his cock is so powerful that it’s like standing right next to a speaker during one of their heavier songs, the bass slamming into him and making his bones quake.
But no matter how tempting it is to try and defy Jongho, it’s not worth the risk.
As soon as Yeosang looks back over his shoulder, glassy eyes and ruddy cheeks peeking out from underneath the curtain of his hair, and begs him to move, Jongho sets up an unrelenting pace that makes San’s abs burn just to witness. Fingers tight on Yeosang’s hips, he thrusts hard and fast, hips hitting Yeosang’s ass with resonating thuds. While there’s sweat gathered at his temples and sitting in the hollow of his throat, if he’s bothered by being nearly fully clothed, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t move to take off his shirt or push his pants down further. He simply grips Yeosang tighter and snaps into him, keeping up a steady stream of both sweet praise that San wholly agrees with and scathing putdowns that cut San to the bone.
So wet for me, hyung, so soft and tight. Sound so pretty when you moan, sweetheart, let me hear you.
Bet you’re never this loud when San-ah is fucking you, are you? Bet he can’t make you feel this good.
While San burns in an inferno of fury and embarrassment and pure uncut arousal, Yeosang takes every last thrust that Jongho gives him, as if it was what he was made to do.
It’s not long before Yeosang’s moans reach a fever pitch as he scrabbles at the mattress, sheets rucking up underneath his frantic hands. Sweat trickles down the length of his curved spine as each of Jongho’s powerful thrusts rock him forward. His cock is bouncing against his stomach and dripping with precome, adding even more dark spots to the myriad of stains already marking the sheets.
San’s mouth aches to be on him. He longs to sink his teeth into Yeosang’s shoulder. He wants to slip his tongue into Yeosang’s mouth and feel their spit intermingle until it’s unclear whose is whose. He wants to curl his lips over his teeth and suck Yeosang’s glistening cock until he floods San’s throat with thick, hot come.
If he thought that there was any chance that Jongho would pity him enough to do something as innocuous as kiss Yeosang or lick beads of sweat off the length of his arms, he would gladly beg for it, would shove the embarrassment down deep and deal with it later.
But he knows Jongho will say no if he asks. He’d probably do something to make San regret speaking up, edge Yeosang for hours and make San watch the entire time or just laugh at him, make him feel small again.
So he scrapes his teeth against the inside of his cheek, digs his nails into the underside of the chair, and tries to remain quiet as Jongho presses his chest to Yeosang’s back and wraps a hand around his cock.
“You want to come, hyung?” he asks, grinding deep into Yeosang as he strokes him, fast and rough and loud.
“Please!” Yeosang gasps, shifting restlessly as he rocks back and forth, like a pendulum swinging between Jongho’s tight grip and cock. “Please, sir, please, it hurts.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Jongho nips at the back of Yeosang’s shoulder. “You said you wanted it to hurt, hyung.”
The noise that slips from Yeosang’s lips is an incomprehensible sob.
Jongho shushes him and reaches up for Yeosang’s messy hair with his free hand. San expects him to tuck a couple of locks behind Yeosang’s ears, something that he likes to do when they’re cuddling or when Yeosang is on top of him, hands planted on San’s chest as he rides him.
Instead, Jongho winds his thick fingers into Yeosang’s hair and pulls, forcing his neck into an arch that looks downright painful, tendons pressing against the column of his throat as Yeosang babbles and whines.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Jongho says. “Come for me.”
As if he was waiting for permission, Yeosang does.
With a series of choking moans, he spurts onto the sheets, eyes and cheeks wet with tears. Jongho fucks him through it, hips pulsing against his ass as he keeps grinding into him. He looks close to the edge as well - his bangs are plastered to his forehead, and he’s flushed deep red. As Yeosang goes completely limp, Jongho’s hand slips out of his hair, and he grabs Yeosang’s waist again, visibly smearing come against Yeosang’s skin as he keeps thrusting, each snap of his hips punctuated with a short grunt.
“You feel so good, hyung,” Jongho gasps. “So tight, so wet, so-”
With a sudden sharp breath and a final thrust, Jongho goes still. His eyes fall closed as he pants heavily, still holding Yeosang so tightly that San expects there’ll be bruises there in the morning. Underneath him, Yeosang is boneless, sprawled across the mattress, cheek resting against San’s pillow, breath shaky as Jongho fills him up.
For the first time in his life, San feels as if he is going to spontaneously combust.
He feels like a toy wound too far, vibrating with energy that he can’t release. Even his toes hurt from curling against the wooden floor. His cheeks are sticky with tears and feel sunburned, and he’s pretty sure a single stroke of his own hand would be enough to make him come. But even with Jongho’s eyes still being closed, he doesn’t dare risk his wrath by trying to touch himself. Instead, he shifts to try and find some relief from the stiffness sinking into his tailbone.
It doesn’t work. The new position hurts just as bad, and the chair squeaks loudly, once again betraying his restlessness. Jongho’s eyes flick open, and without pulling out, he glances over at San.
Or rather, he glances down at San’s lap, specifically, which only makes San burn hotter.
“You didn’t touch yourself,” he says, absently stroking Yeosang’s side.
San frantically shakes his head. He wants to stay calm, but as soon as he opens his mouth, lips sore from being chewed on, the words spill out like an overfilled cup. “I didn’t. I promise, I didn’t, Jjong, please, can I touch Sangie?”
He’s sure that, in a couple of hours, when the dust has settled, he’ll be utterly horrified by how eagerly he begs Jongho for the chance to touch his own goddamn boyfriend. But for now, he would do anything, would drop to his knees and offer himself up to Jongho, body and soul, if it means getting to touch Yeosang.
After a few excruciatingly long moments of Jongho staring at him, hips idly shifting like he’s playing with the idea of going for another round and making San wait even longer, Jongho nods.
“Fine.” With one last slap to Yeosang’s ass, Jongho slowly pulls out. He tucks himself back into his pants and zips himself up, and if it wasn’t for the sweat on his brow and his flushed cheeks, it would be impossible to tell that he just fucked someone’s brains out. “I doubt you’re going to be able to make him feel anything, but you did listen to me, so you can have a turn with him.”
“Thank you,” San gasps, fingers aching as he lets go of the edge of the chair for the first time in several long minutes. “Thank you, I-”
“I wasn’t done,” Jongho says, and San’s mouth closes so quickly that he hears (and feels) his teeth roughly clack together. “You can have a turn with him, but you can’t touch him.”
The violent storm of tangled thoughts filling San’s mind is abruptly replaced by buzzing static.
“What?” he manages to ask. “I… I don’t understand.”
Jongho rolls his eyes. “I’m not repeating myself. Take your pants off and lay down on the bed.”
It doesn’t make San any less confused, but it gives him something concrete to do, gives him a task that’ll move him one step closer to finally having Yeosang back and (hopefully) finding some relief from the painful throb of his cock.
He hurriedly strips down, leaving his clothes in a messy pile on the floor. Jongho manhandles Yeosang to one side as Yeosang weakly groans, and then pats the mattress.
“Hurry up,” he says, “or I might change my mind.”
San scrambles to comply.
When he lays down, the lingering warmth from Yeosang’s body bleeds into his back. He can smell Yeosang too, sweat and hints of perfume lingering on the sheets, and he can’t help but moan at the familiarity of the combination, even if the rest of the situation remains hopelessly alien.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do, so he settles for twisting his fingers into the sheets. It seems to be the right move, based on how Jongho nods before he slings one arm around Yeosang’s waist and pulls him up onto his knees.
“Come on, hyung,” he murmurs, nudging him towards San. “You get to use San-ah now, for as long as you want.”
Yeosang looks absolutely wrecked.
His eyes are glassy and wet. His head lolls loosely on his neck as he leans back against Jongho’s chest, pink skin contrasting with Jongho’s all-black clothes. There’s drool slicking his chin and tears crusted to his cheeks, and his lips are swollen and red. Deep marks from the pillow and sheets mark his face like fresh tattoos. His stomach is dappled with drying come, and his cock is stirring back to life between his legs, visibly hardening as he moans.
He’s the most beautiful thing San has ever seen.
“Tired,” he mumbles, turning and tucking his face against the side of Jongho’s neck. “I’m so tired, Jongho.”
“I know,” Jongho says, pressing a kiss to the tousled mop of Yeosang’s hair. Most of the sharpness from Jongho’s voice has bled away, leaving behind a fondness that almost hurts more than any of the degrading things he’s said, a fondness that makes San wonder if what he’s witnessing is just sex, the way it was supposed to be. “I’ll help you. Just need you to get on top of him, and I can take it from there.”
For a moment, Yeosang remains in place, swaying slightly. He really does look tired, exhausted down to the bone, and despite how painfully hard he is, San almost wants to whisper strawberry so that he can slip under the blanket, pull Yeosang against his chest, and sleep for the rest of the night.
But before he can make that choice, Yeosang nods and somehow finds the energy to shuffle over and sling one leg over San’s waist. He’s so warm that it’s like being embraced by the sun on a hot summer’s day, and San’s fingers twitch at his sides, desperate to feel Yeosang’s abs quivering under his palms, to grab his ass and guide him down onto San’s cock, to slip up into his messy hair and tug him down into a deep kiss.
But there’s no telling what punishment Jongho will inflict if San slips up, and the thought of having Yeosang taken away from him now, when he’s so goddamn close, makes San’s lungs constrict and his chest tighten until he can barely breathe.
He grips the sheets tighter as Yeosang sits up on his knees and whines, looking back over his shoulder at Jongho. He doesn’t say a word, but San knows that he’s asking for help. Jongho seems to understand as well, because he unearths the bottle of lube from underneath a fold of San’s blanket and pours some into his hand.
“I know, hyung,” he says again, slipping behind Yeosang. “Just a second.”
Without warning, Jongho wraps his slick hand around San’s cock.
San nearly blacks out.
After being wound up for so damn long, a single rough stroke is enough to make his abs tighten. He bites back a deep groan and closes his eyes, because if he wants to have any hope of lasting long enough to get inside of Yeosang, he can’t look at him, can’t stare up at his gorgeous face and bulging arms and the swell of his chest.
While it’s impossible to ignore the tendrils of pleasure seeping into him as Jongho continues to slick him up, he tries to distract himself so that those tendrils don’t reach too deep, so that he doesn’t come completely unraveled. He thinks of the night sky over Namhae, inky black and dotted with a million stars. He thinks of how much laundry he’s going to have to do tomorrow morning. He thinks of Seonghwa’s Lego collection and the new perfume Wooyoung bought that’s way too strong.
But as soon as Jongho stops stroking him, leaving his fingers curled tight around the base of San’s cock, his eyes fly back open, and he’s unable to think of anything other than what is directly in front of him - namely, his beautiful, fucked-out boyfriend as he whines again, thighs visibly shaking.
“Lower a bit,” Jongho says, curling one hand around Yeosang’s hip and gently tugging. When Yeosang follows his guidance, the head of San’s cock catches on his rim. He’s so wet, and if it wasn’t for the continued pressure of Jongho’s hand on him, it would be impossible for San to resist the urge to thrust up and bury himself wholly in Yeosang’s slick heat.
“Please,” he whispers, twisting the sheets so tightly that he expects them to rip. “Please, Jongho.”
Jongho completely ignores him. Instead, he presses a kiss to the side of Yeosang’s neck, fans his fingers across his stomach, and says, “Sink down, hyung.”
Yeosang’s legs widen further, and he slowly sinks down onto San’s cock with a reedy gasp.
“Oh my god,” San moans as he’s fully engulfed. His thighs are twitching from the effort of remaining still as Yeosang settles on top of him, hands braced against San’s stomach as he continues to tremble and moan. He’s so turned on that he can barely breathe, utterly consumed by the feeling of Yeosang wrapped around him, by how gorgeous he is as he takes every last inch of San’s cock.
“There you go, hyung.” Jongho hooks his chin over Yeosang’s shoulder and grabs his waist with both hands. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you now.”
Visibly gripping him tighter, Jongho lifts Yeosang up, just far enough for San to feel the wet slide of him, before he presses him back down. San bottoms out again with a loud squelch, which makes him realize that Yeosang isn’t just wet from lube or because Jongho ate him out exceptionally well.
As it turns out, even after everything he’s gone through over the last hour or so, the things Jongho has said and the pure mortification of watching Yeosang break apart under someone else’s hands, it’s still possible for him to hit a new depth of embarrassment.
There’s something truly, exquisitely humiliating about fucking his boyfriend while he’s full of someone else’s come.
Thankfully, if there’s any kind of silver lining to the situation, it’s that it’s a humiliation that he doesn’t have to suffer through for long.
As soon as Jongho starts moving Yeosang properly, it doesn’t matter that he goes slow, that he lowers Yeosang carefully each time so that he’s not getting jostled. Just that, the steady rhythm of Yeosang riding him, nails digging into San’s stomach as he moans wordlessly each time that San bottoms out again, is enough to make the tendrils of pleasure radiating through San’s core dig in deep. His breath rapidly quickens, and he can feel sweat dripping down the sides of his face as his abs flutter with impending release.
He wants to last longer. He really, really does. He wants to last for as long as it takes Yeosang, who is fully hard again, cock bobbing in midair as Jongho manipulates his body, to come again, to spill hot onto San’s stomach and chest.
But he can’t.
“Sangie,” he gasps as a drop of sweat falls off his upper lip and lands in his mouth. “You feel so good, fuck, I’m so close.”
Jongho takes a break from nipping at Yeosang’s earlobe to scoff.
“Already?” With a deep sigh, as if San’s inability to last after being kept on the brink for so long is an annoying inconvenience, Jongho wraps his hand around Yeosang’s cock and starts stroking him again, fast and rough. “You’re pathetic, San-ah.”
San comes.
His vision goes blurry at the corners, although whether that’s from the sheer pleasure coursing through him or tears is impossible to say. His hips pulse off the bed as he fills Yeosang up, and he claws at the mattress, moaning desperately. Yeosang grows tighter around him, but he’s so wet, the way slicked by lube and two loads of come, that San has no difficulty in continuing to thrust into him.
“Gonna come,” Yeosang moans, the words slurring together as he tips his head back against Jongho’s shoulder and scratches at his own thighs. “Please don’t stop, sir, please.”
“Good boy,” Jongho says, voice edging into something akin to a growl. “Come for me, hyung.”
Yeosang breaks apart again.
With a broken cry, he spurts onto San’s stomach and clamps around San so tightly that it almost hurts. Jongho strokes him through it, teeth pressed into Yeosang’s neck, spit trickling out of his mouth and dripping down Yeosang’s chest. Only when Yeosang has run dry does he release both the bite and Yeosang’s cock.
“Good boy,” he murmurs again as he wipes his wet hand off on San’s hip. “Such a good boy, hyung.”
As soon as Jongho releases his hold on Yeosang, Yeosang collapses onto San’s chest. While Jongho hasn’t actually said the word they’d chosen to be an indicator that the scene was over, it seems clear enough in the way Yeosang is trembling and nuzzling into the side of San’s neck, as if he’s going to float away if they’re not touching at every conceivable point.
San understands, because he’s experiencing the exact same thing.
“I love you.” As his entire body shakes, he throws his arms around Yeosang’s back and presses messy kisses to every part of him that he can reach - his forehead, his cheek, his temple and birthmark. “Love you so much.”
“Love you too,” Yeosang replies in a shattered voice, smearing the words along the line of San’s jaw.
Eventually, San’s cock slips out of Yeosang, and while he misses the wet heat as soon as it’s gone, it does mean that he can roll onto his side and take Yeosang with him so that they’re facing each other. Immediately, he takes advantage of the position by wrapping around Yeosang like an octopus and tucking Yeosang’s head under his chin, so that he can feel Yeosang’s warm, quick breath brushing over the thin skin covering his heart.
He’s unsure how long they stay tangled like that, clutching each other like drowning sailors. But as the last of the trembling leaves San’s body, he hears the faint click of the door opening. When he peels his eyes open, it’s in time to see Jongho returning. He’s changed into a pair of San’s sweatpants and a sweater that looks like Mingi’s, and he has a bottle of water tucked under each arm.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he says, placing the bottles on the floor beside the bed. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want snacks or not.”
Even though the only thing about him that has changed is his clothes, he looks so much softer now. There’s no smirk or annoyed grimace cutting into his round cheeks - there’s just a faint smile, tinged with clear uncertainty, as he looks at where the two of them are entwined.
But despite looking more familiar, San isn’t sure how to feel about not only Jongho and the ease with which he was able to fall into his role, as if degradation and disrespect were second nature to him, but the whole scene in general. There’s no denying that it was hot - the evidence of that is spattered all over his stomach and dripping down Yeosang’s thighs - but that doesn’t mean that he wants to do it again. Definitely not anytime soon. Especially not without having a full debrief.
But now isn’t the time for that. That can wait until after they’ve showered and napped and had some food, after San has had time to try and pick apart the complicated knot of emotions filling his brain.
Now, messy feelings or not, he doesn’t want Jongho to be alone.
“Cuddle us?” San asks, dropping his arm from Yeosang’s back and extending it out in invitation. “Just for a bit?”
Jongho’s eyes widen slightly. “Are you sure, hyung?”
San nods. “Yeah. Please.”
Yeosang makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snore and snuggles in closer to San’s chest.
Jongho giggles. It’s such a pretty sound, light-years away from the scathing laugh that cut so deeply earlier, and seeing the way Jongho smiles, even if it doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes, sets San’s heart somewhat at ease.
They have a lot to talk about, but he thinks that, in the long run, they’re going to be okay.
“Okay,” Jongho says, laying down and pulling the tangled bedding up to cover the three of them as he curls himself around Yeosang’s back. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”