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yeoldontknow · 8 years ago

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Hi love. Congratulations on another milestone. People are discovering what a precious gem you are. I don't normally request anything ever but can I request 101 with Im Jaebum as an angsty*cough cough* smut, ehem...Here's to more and more people finding a girl who loves Park Chanyeol and Jung Hoseok with everything she is. And whose writing will being you to your knees. Love you Kat ♥♥♥♥

jfasjfalkfjl there is some smut here but like its mostly angst? i cant set up good smangst in a drabble format someone teach omg I LOVE YOU!

Prompt: 101: You don’t hate me, quit lying to yourself. Pairing: Jaebum x Reader (oc; female)Summary: After your breakup with Jaebum, you run into him at a bar and realize that old habits die hard. Genre: angst; some light smutRating: RWarnings: explicit language; mentions of breathplay; dirty talk; sexual situationsWord Count: 1,725

The day he left was the day, for you, the world died. Or perhaps, it did not die rather, it simply withered. Time passing around you made you understand that you were aging, becoming consumed by the weight of existence, but your mind found it terribly difficult to care about such a thing when your world was already filled with ghosts. In the kitchen, he lingered, smiling wide and laughing as he made pancakes - badly, and burning them into malformed shapes. In the shower, you could smell him, feel his fingers as they moved through your hair and his skin as he pressed his chest against your back.

Your bed, you thought, was the worst graveyard of all. Beneath the slip of the pillowcases, the down feathers refused to release the indent of his head, anxiously awaiting his return and stubborn in their desire to hold his body close. Wide awake and too aware of your loneliness, the frazzled edges of your heart refused to truly let you recline into the mattress, the springs your dirt and the blankets your coffin. Still, though, you could feel him, feel the even rise of his chest lift the blankets like a phantom limb.

For days afterward, you slept on the couch, told yourself to stop drinking, told yourself to switch to coffee. One night, you left a mason jar full of cold water on the fire escape, told yourself the moon would saturate the molecules and turn you into something cosmic, something transcendent - really, all you were trying to do was leave your corporal form behind. Even when he still wanted to touch you, even when he was here and you thought maybe things were going to be fine, your body had already started to feel like a cage.

It’s these things, you think, that push you out of the mausoleum that is your apartment and into the bar. With heavy footsteps you walk, the pattern strange and uneven as though walking is a task you will have to relearn simply because his hand is not there to hold yours, to a table in the far corner. It’s dim here, dark enough to forget yourself and dark enough to pretend that you don’t mind.

Without the harsh light of a brightly lit, forcibly happy place, you think you can almost move on, think that you can become the person you always wanted to be - the person you thought you were. After one drink, you become an oracle; after two, you become a priest, thanking God and thanking yourself for being strong enough to leave, to remake yourself in public even though you cannot even see yourself. Truthfully, it does not matter if you have reassembled all your parts in all the wrong places. All that matters is that the needle did not hurt.

The anesthetic of the third drink is fading when he walks in, alone and boyish in the way he stands, as if this kind of pain were a casual thing. At first, he does not see you, and you take this opportunity to take him in.

Even at this distance, the scar on his forehead is the first thing you see - or, perhaps, you see it simply because you know it is there. Your lips have kissed that scar, in the harsh light of the sun, in darkness, even in the rain. Your mouth knows its curvature, and, because of this, you think your endearment towards it is deadly. Still, though, you do not mind. Condensation builds on the glass of your drink was you watch him, sweating the same way your skin perspires, melting at the sight of him. Typical, really.

At first you see the scar but it’s the angle of his lips, the sharp turn of his cupid’s bow that makes your gaze linger, turns your gaze from lazy remembrance to the penetration of desire. Your thumbs have felt those lips, tugged at their plumpness and pulled at them with your teeth - you have come against that mouth, hard and long, and with his name on your lips as your hand fisted in his thick hair.

It’s this memory that makes your lips part and your breath halt. It’s during this memory that he decides to turn your way. And, even in the dark, his eyes still find you. Even in the dark, even in all your wrong shapes, you still want him.

When his hands are pressed flat against your back, hot and fingers pressing bruises in the muscles, you start to question how you got here. Somehow, you made it to his car, to the driver’s seat with your knees on either side of his hips and his seat reclined all the way back. The position is awkward, uncomfortable, fitting for how you are now, but you don’t really have it in you to mind. Against your thigh, you can feel the thick hardness of his cock pressing against you as he moves. This is what grounds you to the moment, this and the wetness that pools in your underwear at his touch.

The position is awkward but his mouth against yours is not. His lips, even after all this time, are skilled and remember yours, remember how to fit with yours, as though they are still a puzzle piece made just for you. He’s made it clear they are no longer yours to kiss, but tonight he does not seem to care nor does he want to stop you. Tonight, he kisses you as a means of possession, as though he means to take hold of you and break you apart for the sole purpose of moving inside. Tonight, if he tells you he loves you, you will believe him, even though you know he does not. Not anymore.

In your mouth, his tongue is needy. His hands glide down your back, nails scratching hard enough to leave marks - you welcome them. They slide past the waistband of your jeans, burying beneath the cloth and cupping your ass to push you down onto his covered cock. Both of you break apart to gasp at the sensation, pulling back enough to look at each other - really look and see into one another’s eyes.

‘Jae -’ you begin, but he cuts you off.

‘We were always good at this, weren’t we?’

For a moment, you’re distracted by the redness of his lips and the harsh line of his brow. Stern, is how you always said he looked. At this moment, he looks statuesque, like something made of marble, and your soul starts to ache at the knowledge of why you ended to begin with.

‘Sex isn’t the same as feeling,’ you breathe, resting your forehead against his as you struggle to slow your heart rate. It would be best, you think, if you could remove your hands from his hair. You hesitate, though, because he always did look best with your fingers messing up his style.

‘I feel you right now,’ he says, thrusting up against you as if to prove his point. ‘Why can’t that be enough?’

With a moan, you nestle your face into his neck and suck at his pulse. Beneath your lips he is vital, alive, absolutely flourishing in his desire for you, but this was the only time you ever felt connected, felt like he cared. This was the only time he ever felt like something living, like something yours, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to speak.

‘Because it doesn’t last.’

Eventually, his pulse will slow. Eventually, things will return to how they used to be. Whatever this is, you don’t think you could survive it twice.

‘The feel of your cunt around my cock always lasts.’ Once more his fingers press into your ass, and you know that if he could, he would spank you hard enough to leave a mark.

‘Jaebum,’ you hiss, biting your lip as you pull away from his neck.

He pulls one hand away from your ass to rest it against your throat, tilting your head back to expose the length of your neck to him. Fear should come into play here, you know that it always should, but even when he presses against you, even when your breath becomes limited, you only ever feel a cascading swell of adoration wash over you. If anyone could control your breath, you think, it should only ever be Jaebum.

‘You always so malleable,’ he says, and you think the word does not fit, think it might be wrong as first. But then, for him, you always did bend to fit his will.

And, because you always bend, you still let him into your house - the house you once shared.

With his body beneath the sheets, the bed comes alive once more. It creaks as it smacks into the wall, as the springs bounce beneath his thrusts. He sweats against you and fucks into you like he’s never had you before, like it’s your wedding night and a way to say goodbye all at once. He fucks you into ash, fucks you into dust. Jaebum fucks you like he’s stopping time itself and erasing you altogether. His cock is buried deep inside you when you come, clutching at his shoulders and eyes wide open, yet seeing nothing.

From you lips, his name spills - loud and broken and splintered, and he swallows it whole, much the same way he swallows your heart.

Your hands shake in the morning after he leaves, your fingerprints tainted and stained with the feel of him, and forced to tap out a text to him against the cold glass screen. As if this feeling would be consolation, as if this feeling could match the burn of his skin.

YN[8:02 AM]: i fucking hate you for what you did to meJB[8:03 AM]: what did i doYN[8:05 AM]: fucked me like i mattered to youJB[8:09 AM]: i told you we were only ever good at sexYN[8:11 AM]: ur such a fucking shitYN[8:13 AM]: i fucking hate youJB[8:14 AM]: you dont hate meJB[8:14 AM]: quit lying to yourself

He is right, you know. The only thing you truly hate is how much you love him.

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