Work Text:
Wooyoung doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of the rush.
The cacophonous roar of the crowd leaks past the barrier of his in-ears as he holds the ending pose of the choreography to their final song of the night. His bare chest glistens with little beads of sweat, heaving from exertion. Wooyoung schools his expression into a sultry, alluring gaze, turning up the charm in a way that’s become second nature. His makeup artist had really outdone herself tonight when she’d decided to rim his eyes with a dusky, dark eyeshadow, smoking it up and outwards at the corners of his lids. The shade glimmers ever so slightly under the blinding lights above. Wooyoung pinches the corner of his lips up into a subtle little half-smirk, and the crowd fucking erupts.
Fuck yeah. That’s the stuff.
There are only two times when it really goes to his head like this. Otherwise, Hongjoong’s always there like a little gnat flying around his head that just refuses to be shooed away, nagging and humbling and reminding. Wooyoung complains that he bears the brunt of their leader’s light scoldings, but Yunho tends to assure him that he’s just overthinking it and that it comes from a place of love, Young-ah. Yeosang, though, thinks that Hongjoong’s tendency for needling them in the way that he does is necessary to keep everyone in check—to keep Wooyoung in check, particularly—and to keep the entire team from erupting into a crew of full-blown egomaniacs. Can’t be helped. It goes hand-in-hand with being an idol, Wooyoung supposes—the kind of fucked up narcissism that comes along with knowing that you’re hot shit.
Wooyoung likes it, though—likes knowing that about ninety-five percent of the people he encounters on any given day are too busy undressing him with their eyes to be able to speak to him with any real type of eloquence. Exhilaration blazes through him like wildfire every time it happens—when he finds himself yet again to be the object of another’s desire, or the tacit, prime subject in their dirtiest fantasies.
It’s fun. And Wooyoung, to his core, likes being wanted.
He casts a subtle sideways glance to his left, and there’s San. He’s in a similarly sweaty state, massive pecs heaving from where they’re nearly fully exposed thanks to that skimpy little leather vest that the stylists have been fitting him in these days. San’s golden, completely glowing beneath the kiss of the colored stage lights. His eyes glint like two trenchant little switchblades as he gazes out into the vastness of the arena. In all the years that had flown by, the one thing San had absolutely mastered with no room for discussion was his stage presence. Even now, at a standstill, his fierce, assiduous focus was enough to pluck the air right out of any onlooker’s unsuspecting lungs.
In Wooyoung’s humble opinion, San always looked hot; however, he tended to look especially irresistible after a live performance—with those brawny muscles all pumped up thanks to the exertion of their routine, entire body covered in a glossy sheen of perspiration, expression severe and biting and sharp. San’s stage persona was one of those things that Wooyoung had come to really love about the other over the years, particularly because it was so starkly different from the version of him he knew behind the scenes. Because on stage, San was a beast; a vicious, domineering force to be reckoned with. But off stage, away from the cameras and the bright lights? Not so much.
Wooyoung flits his eyes back to gaze out at the stadium of adoring fans before him, casting one last cheeky wink out to the crowd as the lights go dark. They had no fucking clue—not a single fucking clue, really—what their beloved Choi San was actually like. His heart thuds in avid anticipation as the team of eight hastily makes their way backstage, leaving the raucous applause behind for yet another night.
Wooyoung catches San’s eye the moment they make it back into the semi-privacy granted by being backstage. He grins as he watches his boyfriend’s expression morph from ATEEZ’s San back into regular San. The stage-ready sharpness in his eyes recedes and melts into something softer, needier. Something familiar. San—the second he confidently stalks off stage—is like an ice cube melting against hot summer asphalt.
Wooyoung deliberately turns on his heel, marches directly over to San, and grabs him by either side of his face to crash their lips together. San makes a soft grunting noise on impact, fingers scrambling upwards to twitch delicately at Wooyoung’s shoulders, at the sweat-slicked edges of his neck.
Still riding the high of that delicious post-concert adrenaline, Wooyoung licks roughly into San’s warm mouth like he’s angry—like it’s personal, or something. But it’s nothing new, really—engaging in such blatant PDA like this. A behind-the-curtains kiss is hardly the ballsiest thing they’d ever done backstage after a show. Still, it’d become a bit of a habit, so the stage managers and staff had all learned to avert their eyes in those brief moments of heated intimacy between the two of them. Because, as long as everyone had their NDA’s signed and dated, and there were no cameras to catch it on film, it was really none of their business if two of their performers wanted to suck on each other’s tongues for a few moments after another incredibly successful (and profitable) performance.
San whines real high-pitched into Wooyoung’s mouth, but just quiet enough for only him to hear, and Wooyoung feels his heart convulse with a sick sense of pride. Yeah. The only other time the rush gets to his head like it does on stage is when it comes to San.
“You guys really can’t wait until you get back to the hotel…?”
Mildly irritated by the interruption, Wooyoung hesitantly breaks the kiss. San, a little bleary-eyed now, makes a quiet noise of disapproval and presses forward to try and follow the motion. Wooyoung rolls his eyes at Hongjoong—the culprit—who’s got his hip cocked out to the side and is eyeing them with his usual unimpressed expression that reads as something like ew, you guys are so fucking shameless.
“And you’re really not used to it yet, hyung?” Wooyoung quips back airily, winking just to get under his leader’s skin. Hongjoong makes a whole show of physically shivering and groaning in response, just to prove how absolutely peeved he is.
“Fucking ew, Wooyoung,” he groans, rolling his eyes. He sighs, pushing some hair out from the front of his face. “Well, the rest of us are still going for that celebratory dinner at Le Bernardin,” he continues. “I was gonna check if you two still wanted to come along, but…” Hongjoong pauses, looking them both up and down in a lackadaisical manner. “Yeah, who the fuck am I kidding.”
Wooyoung twists around, leaning backwards into San’s bigger body. He grins when San naturally settles his hands around his waist, as if pulled there by some sort of magnetic force.
“Huh?” Wooyoung asks in an over-dramatic, sarcastically whiny voice. “What do you mean?” He leans back into San’s chest just a bit further, jutting his chin up. He’s being facetious, being annoying, just fucking around—because it’s too fucking fun to try to get under Hongjoong’s skin like this.
“You guys are so gross,” Hongjoong deadpans. “Have fun fucking the shit out of each other. Again.”
San chokes out a scandalized little huff at the crude nature of Hongjoong’s words, but Wooyoung isn’t as easily ruffled. He erupts into a fit of amused giggles as Hongjoong innocuously flips them both off and walks away to join a few of the others who’d been lingering around the dressing rooms and the snack bar.
“Why do you do that,” San murmurs quietly, hiding his face in the back of Wooyoung’s head of sweaty, hair-sprayed locks. He tightens his grip around Wooyoung’s waist just a twinge, swaying them slightly from side to side. Fidgeting. Like he’s embarrassed, or something. Wooyoung’s not an idiot, though—he knows that he’s gotten San flustered, and he’d barely had to do anything at all to get him there.
“No clue what you’re talking about, Sannie,” Wooyoung says sarcastically. A mischievous grin that San can’t see spreads across his face like the spilling of ink.
They each make quick work of taking hasty, backstage showers and changing into casual, post-concert attire. San opts for a gray tank top that makes him look especially beefy—and especially fucking mouthwatering, in Wooyoung’s expert opinion. He pairs the top with a simple pair of black sweatpants, his sneakers, and a baseball cap. After his own shower, Wooyoung pulls on a small, slightly cropped tank top, sweatpants that match San’s completely besides their opposing size tags, and a chunky pair of leather boots to stomp around in. They each pull on a face mask—just in case—before following their manager out of the artist’s exit of the venue and down to the company car.
As Wooyoung settles into the backseat snug right up next to San, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats. Will prob be out late, Hongjoong’s message reads. Gonna bring home extra food for u guys. Wooyoung grins, because even though he’s kind of made it his life’s mission to piss off his hyung, Hongjoong still always makes sure to take such good care of him and the team. Thx hyung, Wooyoung types back. Make sure to get something sweet for sannie, cuz he’s gna want dessert!!!
“Hongjoong-hyung’s gonna bring back a very delicious and very expensive French dessert for you later,” Wooyoung announces as he locks his phone and slips it back into the pocket of his sweats. San hm’s quietly, pulls his mask down to hook it underneath his chin, then starts nuzzling subtly into Wooyoung’s neck.
“You’re my dessert,” he hums, right as his pouty lips brush across the bare skin on Wooyoung’s shoulder, just over the thin strap of his tank top. It causes him to shiver lightly, as if San’s sugary words are somehow laced with little electric sparks.
“Ugh, gross,” he snickers, even though he’d actually thought it was kind of cute. San’s always cute, though. Wooyoung knows he’ll never be immune to it, no matter how much he pretends to hate it at times.
“Mm, you’re right,” San agrees unaffectedly. A small kiss to the clavicle. “I’m super gross.”
Wooyoung casts a nervous glance forward towards the rearview mirror of the car, praying that he won’t meet eyes with their manager. This particular staff member must’ve gotten the memo, though, because his eyes stay glued to the road, completely ignoring the two of them in the backseat. San starts mouthing lightly across Wooyoung’s neck, right below his jawline, and Wooyoung feels his breath catch, eyes still busy monitoring the mirror.
“Be patient,” Wooyoung murmurs firmly, catching San’s wrist between his fingers right as he’d begun to get a little too bold, a little too brazen—right as he’d just attempted to dip his sneaky little fingers directly beneath the stretchy waistband of Wooyoung’s sweatpants. “We’re not alone, Sannie.”
“Didn’t stop you earlier,” San counters lightly, but retracts his hand anyways. He opts for harmlessly nuzzling back into Wooyoung’s neck again, instead.
“Don’t be a brat,” Wooyoung huffs, amused. “It’s different if there’s just one other person around.” In a very confined, intimate space, he adds mentally with a twinge of anguish. He stares daggers into the back of their poor manager’s head. Ugh.
San hums. “Sorry,” he murmurs. A brief pause, then he adds under his breath: “Just really want you, Young-ah.”
Wooyoung doesn’t grace San with a verbal response, but preens under his simmering attention. He doesn’t even dare to glance back in San’s direction for the remainder of the car ride, instead wrestling his expression into a practiced mask of straight-faced, unaffected composure. God, he loves being wanted so badly—but what he loves even more is making San work for what he wants.
There’s that rush, again.
As they slip through the discreet back entrance of the hotel, clamber into the private elevator reserved for VIP guests, and ride it all the way up to the top floor, they begrudgingly keep their hands to themselves, because—again, just in case. San fidgets with a loose string on the bottom hem of his tank top, and Wooyoung watches on with a broiling sense of satisfaction as his fingers tremble. The elevator dings.
They’re both in front of their hotel room door in moments, and San’s prepared. With still shaky hands, he tugs the keycard out from his pocket, buzzes them in, and clicks open the door. Wooyoung snickers under his breath, because San’s just too fucking cute when he gets all giddy like this—so excited that it transmutes itself into nervousness—an eager, borderline desperate energy oozing from him in waves. Even without him saying it verbally, Wooyoung knows for a fact that San’s desire for him in this moment is achingly carnal.
San must have it bad tonight, because suddenly, he’s frozen in place, entirely immobile in front of their semi-opened door. When he shows no signs of moving for a few seconds longer, Wooyoung lightly kicks the back of one of his knees to get him moving. With a small ah! sound, San presumably gets the hint and stumbles into action.
“You looked too fucking sexy, tonight,” Wooyoung huffs as soon as they’re safely inside the privacy of their shared suite. Roughly, with a hand on either side of his sturdy chest, he shoves San back against the locked door.
“S-says you,” San counters lamely, head tilting backwards as he thuds lightly into the wooden paneling. His fingers twitch at his sides as if he’s itching to reach out. “You kept staring at me with those eyes. I thought I’d mess up the choreo, or, like, miss a cue.”
Impishly, Wooyoung grins. “Mm. Couldn’t help it. That little vest is super distracting.” He trails his index finger smoothly up San’s chest, which quivers ever so slightly under the featherlight touch. “It’s so tiny,” he continues, lowering his voice a decibel. “Like, it’s practically just a scrap of fabric. It barely even covers anything.”
Right as his fingers trace across San’s nipple over the fabric of his tank top, Wooyoung pulls his hand back for half a second. Then, he lands a harsh smack across his pec, grinning toothily as he notices the recoil. San gasps out breathily, muscles contracting tightly under the impact. Still, he doesn’t move from his rigid place stuck against the door. In fact, he hadn’t even attempted to touch Wooyoung again at all after he’d earned himself the silent treatment in the car, because he knows how their little game works; knows that he’s the mouse, and that Wooyoung’s the glue trap.
“Your tits look like they’ll pop right out of it if you stretch even a little too far, you know,” Wooyoung murmurs cheekily, eyes glinting up as he pins his gaze on San’s flushed face. He soothes the spot where he’d just hit the other by lightly massaging his fingers into the thick muscle there, taking his time. “Makes you look like a real fucking slut,” Wooyoung continues, voice hushed. “And I think that you like looking like that, in front of all those people.”
San knits his brows together and whines—a desolate little noise that crawls up the back of his throat.
Wooyoung laughs airily at the reaction, taking a step closer into San’s personal bubble, carving out a space for himself right between his thighs. San, of course, allows Wooyoung in automatically and without question—because San would give Wooyoung anything he could ever ask for, so long as he said the word.
Wooyoung slinks his arms around San’s neck and tilts his head to the side, playing coy. “What?” he asks sarcastically, mouth pinched up lopsidedly in amusement. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“N-no,” San murmurs with a quick shake of his head. His cheeks flush into an even prettier shade of peach pink, and unconsciously, his tongue flits out to lick wetly at his bottom lip. San bravely holds his scrutinizing, sultry eye contact—but Wooyoung thinks that even if he’d wanted to break it in this moment, that he’d never be able to tear his gaze away successfully. The ‘medusa-effect’, San had called it once, while lying breathless and boneless and fully tangled up together in bed. The term had pulled a full-bodied type of laugh from Wooyoung that night.
Wooyoung snickers, brushing the tip of his nose up against San’s, tightening his grip around him just an increment. “No?”
“Nope,” San repeats weakly.
“And why not?” Wooyoung presses, ghosting his lips over San’s, but not quite close enough to kiss him. San squirms, clearly tugging together every scrap of self-restraint he can possibly muster up to keep from pressing their lips together properly.
“Because you’re right,” San admits breathily, whispering the words barely audibly against Wooyoung’s mouth. “I…I like it.”
Wooyoung flicks his tongue out, offering up a single kitten lick to San’s plush bottom lip, who then proceeds to quake like a fucking leaf. “You like it?” Wooyoung asks, eyes narrowing roguishly.
San uh-huh’s and subtly licks his lips again. His eyes go a little hazy as he nods, causing their noses to bump against each other again thanks to their tight proximity. “I like looking like a slut,” he continues, suddenly with a quiet air of boldness. “Especially when I know that you’re…watching.”
Wooyoung huffs out a sound that falls somewhere between a pained whine and an amused cackle. Well! San’s certainly playing dirty tonight—because when he says things like that, it’s the exact type of thing that makes Wooyoung want to break down and give him anything he wants. After years of practice, San knows how to play this game just as well as Wooyoung does.
“You like talking like a slut too, apparently,” Wooyoung bites back, then tilts his head forward to catch San’s pretty bottom lip between his teeth. He exhales sharply as he tugs just enough to force San’s mouth open slightly, then releases the bite to surge forward, pressing a searing, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Unlike how they’d kissed backstage less than thirty minutes prior—ravenous and urgent and starving—this kiss is torturously slow, more tongue than lip, sopping wet and licentious. After a moment, Wooyoung pulls back a centimeter, and another faint whimper bubbles up from San’s throat.
San’s face is flushed real handsomely now—completely—all the way up to the tips of his ears. He pants out little puffs of air, brows drawn together to paint a pathetically helpless expression across his face. Despite Wooyoung draping himself over him, San continues to play his role to perfection and keeps his hands to himself. His fingers twitch stiffly against the door behind him. God, Wooyoung loves when San’s like this—so eager to be good, to please. To put his own desires on the back burner and follow Wooyoung’s every whim and order and demand like some kind of stupid little puppy. Even with each year that passed by, that aspect of their relationship had never once wavered.
“Fucking—ah, seductress,” San breathes out, pupils blown wide.
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Wooyoung hums. He bites his lip and feels his mouth curl into a smirk before he can help it. Maintaining eye contact, he frees one of his arms from around San’s shoulders to reach downwards. It makes him feel impertinently bold that he doesn’t even have to look to know that San’s already throbbing hotly beneath his sweatpants.
San gasps out the moment Wooyoung cups him through the fabric. Pleased, Wooyoung quirks a brow when he feels that San’s almost fully hard already, and all they’d done is fucking make out.
“You’re so gross,” Wooyoung snickers, then callously smacks San’s bulge, just to be cruel. Just to watch him squirm. San chokes out a pathetic little half-sob of a noise as he doubles over, forehead thudding into Wooyoung’s bare shoulder.
“Ah, uh—uh-huh,” San coughs out, nodding urgently against Wooyoung. “T-thank you.”
Oh, he’s fucking perfect, Wooyoung thinks to himself hopelessly, although this realization is anything but new. I smack him in the dick and he fucking thanks me for it…! Wooyoung offers a few mental words of praise to the cosmic power of fate for guiding him through each necessary winding pathway to ultimately lead him right here, with San, together in their ritzy, private hotel suite.
“San-ah,” Wooyoung murmurs, eyes glinting. He gestures to the chair tucked into the corner of the room behind him with his thumb. “Go sit.”
As he steps out of the way, San scrambles forward, making a beeline for the armchair. “Throw a towel down,” Wooyoung calls after him as an afterthought—not only for the sake of hygiene, but also because he’d really rather not have to explain to the company why there had been extra cleaning fees charged to their room. San doesn’t object, of course, quickly veering off from his original course to make a pitstop in the bathroom to grab a towel off the hook. Obedient. San’s good like that.
San sits carefully, legs slightly spreading apart naturally, palms flat down against the armrests. As Wooyoung approaches him, his fingers dig down into the upholstery in anticipation. San raises his head, gazing up at Wooyoung with a reverence so brilliant that Wooyoung nearly blushes—but Wooyoung’s the one calling the shots here, so he mentally beats down the urge. He drops his gaze down lower—down to San’s crotch—and sees his cock throb pitifully beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants stretched taut to keep it confined. Wooyoung feels his eyes glaze over with want at the sight of it.
Wooyoung lifts his right leg, and then—with the toe of his leather boot—lightly presses down against the inside of San’s right knee. “Spread your legs,” he murmurs, coaxing San’s thighs open just a touch more with his foot. “Yeah, wider.” He flits his eyes back up to San’s face when he hears him stutter out a breath and grins at the sight he’s met with. San looks like he can barely breathe.
Wooyoung drops his leg back to the floor and takes a half-step back. “That’s perfect,” he hums, crossing his arms as he admires the picture of San before him now—straining sorely against the lightweight fabric of his sweats, white-knuckling the armrests, panting and flushed and so fucking pretty. “That’s really good, Sannie.”
“Thank you,” San squeaks out, blinking up at Wooyoung with huge, dilated pupils. He swallows audibly, then shifts around a bit more in the chair. Wooyoung feels his heart light up triumphantly when he catches San’s bulge throbbing again, presumably in response to the praise. He moves to raise the toe of his boot for a second time, now hovering it just above San’s crotch, who inhales sharply then holds his breath in what Wooyoung knows to be a buttery mixture of fear, charged anticipation, and rousing, red-blooded excitement.
Wooyoung waits. And waits. And fucking waits some more—just holding his boot there, the sole of it just a centimeter from brushing over the length of San’s clothed cock, until San finally exhales that breath he’d been holding.
“Young-ah…” San whines, brows pinched together in obvious frustration. Got him.
“What?” Wooyoung practically purrs out, real cheeky and suave. Spirited nerves whiz pleasantly across the surface of his skin, right up his spine. “What’s wrong, baby?”
San squirms woefully beneath Wooyoung’s gaze, below the looming threat of that boot, under that iron grip of control he holds so firmly over the other. “I…I want—” San starts to say, then cuts himself off with a humiliated groan as he screws his eyes shut and turns his head to the side.
“Words,” Wooyoung quips. “Use them.”
“I want—” San tries again, daring to open his eyes back up to cast Wooyoung a wary, sideways glance. His expression crumbles as he falters for the second time. “Ugh, come on, Young-ah…!”
Wooyoung dials up his show of irritation with a noisy huff and moves as if he’s going to drop his leg back down, but that must scare San, or something, because he’s making a sudden, astonished noise of disagreement and his eyes are widening in disappointment, and—
“Step on it,” San finally bumbles out, face burning red with shame. “Please.”
Yeah, there it is. Totally got him.
“Step on what, idiot?” Wooyoung murmurs, a sly grin pinned to his lips. “I’m not a fucking mind reader. Be specific.” He shifts his foot slightly to the left, slowly pressing the toe of his boot down against the tight muscle of San’s inner thigh. “Here?” Wooyoung asks rhetorically. He drags the shoe up a little bit higher then, up past the crease of San’s hip and to the center of his belly. “Maybe right here, instead?”
“Ah, please—”
“Be fucking specific,” Wooyoung bites out again lowly, emphasizing his words with a rough shove into San’s abdomen. The gesture proves that it’s neither a request nor a suggestion, but rather, it’s a demand. San gasps out an airy breath on impact, but doesn’t complain—because, again, San’s good like that.
“Step on my cock,” San finally spits out, eyes glassy, welling up around the edges with those sweet, sweet tears that Wooyoung had been so maniacally enamored with for years now. “Please,” he tacks on hastily. Manners.
Wooyoung hums out a sarcastic little oh sound, finally dragging the rubber sole of his boot down to rest lightly over San’s throbbing crotch. He drives the toe of it down then, roughly, rubbing up and down real nice and slow. “Like that?” he croons frivolously, heart absolutely bursting at the seams with joy as he watches San’s face contort into an expression that twists together a gnarled mixture of pain and pleasure.
“Like t-that,” San groans, tossing his head back against the chair. “Yeah—yeah, like that.” Finally, when that first tear slips past his lashes, Wooyoung feels his heart fucking soar.
“Baby,” a touch more of that teasing pressure, “does it hurt?”
“So bad,” San admits with a sharp gasp and a singular curt nod. His expression twitches again, eyes fluttering shut as a second tear slips down his cheeks. “Hurts ah—really bad, Youngie. T-thank you.”
So polite, such a gentleman—even in this state. Wooyoung loves that San can’t help but be such a sweetheart, even as he drags him through something so torturous.
“Really, you were too hot tonight,” Wooyoung hums out as he keeps up the pressure. “Like, the way you were practically fucking the floor during IT’s You? You know, during your solo part.” A pause. “While I watched you from the sidelines—God. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to do this to you,” Wooyoung grinds his boot even harder into San’s bulge, “right there on stage, in front of all of those people.”
Another heavy beat of silence, punctuated only by San’s breathy inhalation of air.
“What would the fans think?” Wooyoung continues lowly. “Imagine they could see you now. What the fuck would they think, knowing that Choi fucking San gets off on having his cock stepped all over like this?”
San absolutely keens—but Wooyoung’s not appeased by it and clicks his tongue when that’s the only reply he pulls from the other. He lets up a bit on the pressure, drawing back. “Answer me,” he murmurs, firm and tight-lipped. “And fucking look at me. What would they say?”
“Ah—sorry, I’m sorry, um,” San pants out, blinking his bleary, wet eyes back open. “They’d say that I—that I’m, ooh, fuck—!” He cuts himself off as Wooyoung grinds his boot back down, right into the head of San’s dick.
“Go on,” Wooyoung lilts, quirking a brow.
“They’d say that I’m fucking pathetic,” San whines out despairingly, chest heaving. “A-and—and that I’m, like, disgusting, that I’m a—oh, fuck—a fucking pervert, or something…!”
Wooyoung hums, feeling quite satisfied with that new mess of an answer. “That’s right,” he muses with a grin, placing his foot back down on the floor again. “You are a pathetic, disgusting pervert.” Wooyoung takes a step back and makes a show of raking his eyes up and down San’s quivering form. “So gross, Sannie.”
San’s entire body shudders then—maybe due to the loss of contact, maybe from being on the receiving end of such humiliating, debasing words—but Wooyoung would bet good money that it was probably some kind of perverse combination of both.
He turns on his heel then and heads towards the back of the room where he’d haphazardly left his luggage splayed open. Wooyoung feels San’s heady gaze glued to his back as he crouches down, unzips one of the compartments inside the suitcase, and fishes out the pair of metal cuffs he’d secretly snuck into his bag when he’d packed. Discreetly, he pockets the key, too. San’s eyes light up as he catches sight of the cuffs, at the way the metal glints dangerously under the low light of the room. It’d been a little while since they’d last played with these.
“You brought those?” San asks, blinking owlishly.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung hums, tossing a wily, close-mouthed smile over his shoulder. “Just in case.”
“Love how you think,” San says, huffing out a pathetic little half-laugh.
Wooyoung snickers, carefully striding back over to where San was still waiting so patiently for him in that cushy chair. He stops directly behind it, then slowly leans forward over the arch of San’s shoulder—just enough—until his lips brush right up against the feverish shell of his ear.
“Arms, please,” Wooyoung murmurs, grinning as he watches the other shiver subtly upon hearing the demand. San obeys without question, of course, and silently pulls his arms backwards off the armrests to hold them behind the chair, twisted back at what must be an uncomfortable angle. Wooyoung hums in approval as he bands the first cuff around San’s left wrist with a quiet click sound. San’s entire body shudders at the sensation, and when Wooyoung cuffs his second wrist, his head falls forward into his chest with a soft gasp.
Slowly, Wooyoung rises up and strides back to the front of the chair to face San head-on again. He looks like a birthday present like this, all strung up and waiting with restless anticipation to be unwrapped—for Wooyoung to unwrap him, to open him up, to tear him apart, layer by layer by filthy layer—until there’s nothing left but tattered scraps. Wooyoung feels his heart pump out a weighted thud, the thrill of the power trip really beginning to settle into his bones now. Holding that scalding, unwavering eye contact, he sinks unhurriedly down to his knees. San inhales sharply at the sight of that, his eyes scarcely widening.
Wordlessly, Wooyoung places his palms lightly over each of San’s thighs to spread them even wider, etching out that space for himself again. As expected, San offers absolutely no resistance. Still maintaining that stifling eye contact, Wooyoung opens his mouth, lets his tongue loll out, and lets a glob of spit fall right off the tip of it to land directly over the tip of San’s throbbing bulge.
“Fuck,” San hisses out. “You’re so fucking—God, Wooyoung, you’re—ah!”
Wooyoung leans down a little lower then to start mouthing wetly at the shape of San’s cock through the cottony material of his sweats. He licks and kisses and sucks at the hot fabric, eyes falling shut as he works them both further into that trance. Even through the infuriating barrier, San still manages to taste just like candy—but, maybe, Wooyoung’s a little biased.
“F-fuck.” San whines out the stuttered expletive again. Wooyoung can feel the way his quads bulge and contract beneath his palms, wound up tight as a spring. “Fuck. Holy fuck. Young-ah, you—”
“Shut the fuck up already,” Wooyoung murmurs against San’s crotch. He drags his hands up higher, fingers catching right beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Sorry,” San chokes out rigidly, then obediently clamps his mouth shut. Wooyoung really likes that. With one sharp tug, Wooyoung pulls San’s sweats down past his thighs—just enough to get better access to what he’s been craving so terribly. San gasps as he’s forcibly undressed halfway, and like this, Wooyoung can really tell how hard San is right now—throbbing and pulsating so fervidly beneath the paper-thin fabric of his boxer briefs. With a twinge of pride, he notices that the fabric is damp—damper than what should’ve been possible from that brief, half-assed over-the-pants blowjob. San’s leaking under there, all needy and desperate.
With a low hum of approval, Wooyoung tilts forward on his knees again. This time, he rests his hands a little bit higher—right at either side of San’s trim little waist. He places a searing hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tip of San’s cock through the fabric, exhaling a stuttered breath from his nose as he feels the heat of it meet his lips. San whines, but the sound is muffled because he’s still got his mouth closed tight—just as Wooyoung had told him to do—because he’s so eager to follow instructions. To be good.
Right as Wooyoung licks a long, wet stripe up the throbbing length of San’s covered shaft, he flits his eyes open to gaze up at the man trembling so helplessly above him—and fuck, the sight is so debauched that it nearly makes Wooyoung want to weep. San’s got his mouth screwed up into a tight little coil, pinched slightly upwards to the right, clearly forcing himself to keep his lips shut, to be quiet. His eyes are shut too, lashes quivering wetly over the apex of his high cheekbones. Wooyoung breathes out an agonized puff of air right over the tip of San’s clothed cock as he watches, mesmerized, as three thick pearly tears slip past those pretty lashes in quick succession. San’s the perfect picture of devastation—thick brows pinched up in tension at the center of his forehead, cheeks flushed, a lick of sweat glinting at the base of his twitching jaw. He looks like a fucking slut, Wooyoung thinks offhandedly to himself, fingers squeezing tightly over San’s rugged obliques. He looks like a filthy little whore.
Wooyoung sits back on his haunches, winds his hand back, and slaps San’s cock hard. San’s eyes fly open—and so does that pretty mouth of his—as he chokes out a stuttered sob.
“Oh fuck,” San whines, crumbling forward in the chair, straining against the cuffs. Wooyoung feels his own cock throb beneath his sweatpants at the pathetic sight of him like this.
“Tell me how much it hurts,” Wooyoung says, rubbing San gently over the wet fabric, soothing him. He squeezes lightly at the base of his cock, and San breaks down even further.
“Hurts so fucking—ah, so badly,” San babbles out wetly. “I love it, I—oh, I fucking love it.”
“You want another slap?” Wooyoung asks, despite already knowing the answer. His mouth twitches upwards into a devilish little grin.
“Yes,” San says immediately, urgently. He gazes down at Wooyoung with a look so pathetic and anguished that it’s nearly funny. “Please—yeah, I want another.”
Holding that eye contact again, Wooyoung winds his hand back up as if to land another blow, but halts directly before making contact. He snickers when San flinches, then deflates and groans at the feint. “Please, Young-ah, please,” he whines, struggling harder against his imperious restraints.
“Please what?” Wooyoung presses, just for the thrill of it.
“Please slap my cock again.” San grates out the words like it physically hurts to say them. Another tear slips out. Then another. Wooyoung could absolutely cheer right now.
“Good,” Wooyoung grins, that familiar, frenzied excitement buzzing through his veins like an electric hum. “Good job. You know that I love it when you ask me so sweetly, right?” He winds his hand back then releases it, landing another heavy-handed smack to San’s tormented cock. San chokes out another pained noise, followed by another hushed thank you, Young-ah. Fucking lethal.
He’s been dragging this out for quite a while now, to the point where Wooyoung himself is starting to feel a little impatient, so he smartly decides to pick up the pace just a smidge. Wooyoung slips his fingers into San’s boxers and finally begins to tug them down over the thick, trembling muscles of his thighs.
And, wow—San’s, like, really fucking hard. Wooyoung had expected that (especially after kind of torturing the poor guy for so long), but the candid sight of it before him—empirical and concrete—is more than welcome. San’s aching cock thwacks wetly against the crease of his hip as soon as Wooyoung pulls his boxers out of the way. It pulsates there, hot, heavy, the cherry-red head of it glistening with a pearly bead of precum. Wooyoung kind of feels his mouth start to water as he soaks in the full view of his big, hulking unit of a boyfriend twitching and panting before him. San strains weakly against the cuffs again, the impressive muscles in his shoulders bulging as he does, and it’s just—ugh.
Too hot. San’s just way too fucking hot for his own good, these days.
Wooyoung can’t help himself—seriously, he can’t, not when San looks so fucking delectable—so he leans forward again to give the flushed head of his cock a wet, spit-soaked kiss. Wooyoung makes a little show of it, of swirling his tongue around his pathetic, leaky tip real slow, because he knows it drives San absolutely mad. Expectedly, the other shudders under that burning touch, the muscles in his abdomen tensing and rippling as he scrambles to hold it together. After all these years, San knows better than to come without Wooyoung’s explicit go-ahead, after all.
“Tastes so good,” Wooyoung muses, all light and breathy. He pulls back his spit-slicked lips to grace San with another tight-palmed smack to his cock, finally skin-to-skin.
“Ah—fuck, f-fuck,” San whimpers. His cock leaks a little more, and it’s almost as if it’s crying too, just like San is right now.
“Don’t struggle so much, dummy,” Wooyoung tuts, nuzzling his cheek into the sweaty skin stretched across San’s inner thigh. “The cuffs are gonna leave marks if you do.” A pause as Wooyoung considers the enticing idea of that. “Mm. You’d probably like that, though.”
The managers sure wouldn’t, he adds mentally as an afterthought—but struggles to find any real motivation to care all that much about things like that right now. Nothing some makeup and editing can’t fix.
Keeping his face pressed up against San’s leg, Wooyoung gathers some saliva up in his mouth and lets it drool out past his slightly swollen lips and into his palm. Then, slowly, he reaches forward to wrap his hand snugly around the circumference of San’s shaft. He slips his tight, warm palm up and down, the spit providing just enough give. The motion creates an obscene squelching sound with each movement. San groans low in his chest, body twitching tragically as he tugs against the cuffs, fighting to keep himself from fucking upwards into the mouthwatering heat of Wooyoung’s fist.
“Feels so good, right?” Wooyoung purrs, brushing his thumb over San’s leaking slit.
“Yes,” San gasps out, bottom lip quivering.
“You want me to go faster, don’t you?” Wooyoung asks, eyes glinting from his place against San’s feverish inner thigh. “You look like you’re just dying to come already.”
“Yeah, I—please, faster, Young-ah, I really—”
Another smack to the cock. Wooyoung watches on in amusement as San throbs particularly hard in response to the blow. “Did you earn it?” he muses, resuming stroking San up and down.
“No, no, I didn’t, but—” San throws his head back roughly, a strangled groan clawing its way up from his throat. His abdominals clench and quiver as he forces himself to hold back, hips wriggling as he fights to keep himself as still as he can manage. But San’s close, and Wooyoung can tell—because San right up on the edge is one of Wooyoung’s favorite versions of him.
“Oh fuck,” San whines, biceps bulging around the frame of the hotel chair as he begins to writhe. “Fuck—f-fuck, I’m gonna—” A sharp, stuttered inhalation. “I’m gonna come, I—Young-ah, I’m gonna fucking come, can I? Can I please come? I wanna come—”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Wooyoung breathes out, right as he pulls his hand away again.
“God—”
San’s really a weepy, whimpering mess now, tears streaming down his blotchy red face and slipping over the thick expanse of his neck. His wide, burly chest heaves with the pained effort of respiration—of maintaining his self-control—and then he blinks his bleary eyes back open to cast Wooyoung an expression so desperate and delirious that he nearly caves. Almost.
Instead, Wooyoung levels his boyfriend with a tight-lipped smile and holds that steady eye contact as he wraps his hand around San’s throbbing shaft for the third time that evening.
“What do you want?” Wooyoung asks, fist racing up and down San’s aching, wet length.
San’s eyes nearly roll backwards into his skull. “Oh—I wanna f-fuck you, so fucking badly,” he stutters out, entire torso trembling as he fights tooth and nail to keep himself in check, to keep himself from teetering over the edge.
Wooyoung squeezes his palm tight on that next upstroke. “How badly?” A scoff. “I don’t think you’ll last more than thirty fucking seconds inside me.”
“So so so badly, Young-ah, please,” San begs wetly, tears spilling freely again now. “Oh, shit. Fuck. Please, I can do it, I can. I wanna—I wanna fuck you so badly that I could die.”
“You’re nasty.”
Wooyoung bites out the word like it’s a curse, even though internally, he’s fucking reeling with wild ecstasy. As he releases his hold around the other’s shaft, San crumbles forward like a flimsy house of cards in the wind at the loss of contact—at being denied his orgasm again and again and again—held upright only by the cuffs restraining him from behind. “You’re fucking disgusting, Sannie,” Wooyoung continues cruelly. “Look at you, sitting here crying and begging to fuck me. Fucking shameless.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” San weeps, blinking his bleary eyes back open.
“Tell me what you are,” Wooyoung demands, gaze measured and austere.
“I’m disgusting,” San parrots back to him with zero hesitation. “I’m a f-fucking, ah—I’m a fucking disgusting, shameless loser.”
And God—Wooyoung feels his heart expand tenfold and then some. Because he’s chipped away at San’s resolve just enough to have gotten him to the point where the shame is so normalized and constant; the point at which he no longer feels hesitation to beg for what he wants, to plead and cry, to internalize and repeat Wooyoung’s scathing, cruel words right back to him. Wooyoung basks in it, because this is when things start to get interesting—when he manages to break San down to this level.
“Again,” Wooyoung bites out coldly. He punctuates the demand with another cruel smack to San’s cock.
“I’m disgusting,” San babbles out with a wince, gasping for breath.
“Again—”
“I’m gross and I’m pathetic and I—fuck, I need it,” San prattles on. “I need you, Wooyoung, please. Please, ple—”
A harsh clap rings through the room as Wooyoung abruptly stands and lands a heavy-handed smack to San’s sodden, tear-streaked face. The sound San makes in response is so debauched, so lewd, that Wooyoung thinks that if he hadn’t totally perfected the fine art of self-control, that he might’ve just come on the spot entirely untouched. Fuck. Choi San must be fucking three-times AVN Award winning pornstar trapped inside of an idol’s body.
On his feet now, Wooyoung reaches forward to curl his fingers through San’s dark hair to tug him close. “Be patient,” he murmurs darkly as he looms over the other, getting all up in his face.
“Okay,” San breathes out, wide-eyed and wet. “I—yeah, okay. Okay. I-I’m sorry, I’ll be patient.” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “I’ll take whatever you g-give me, Young-ah.”
Ah. Wooyoung loves this.
Well, Wooyoung loves San all of the time, even when he’s being a brat or when he takes too long in the shower or when he ticks him off after a particularly grueling day of practice or filming, but he especially loves San like this, when he’s totally fucking gone. In the place of his functioning adult brain sits the dull hum of television static—useless, empty, until Wooyoung picks up the remote and decides which channel to flip to. San, lost in the spiral of that utterly exquisite submissive headspace, was nothing but a puppet for Wooyoung to toy with. A lonely dog, all desperate and panting for his master. A plaything.
San’s eyes are glassy as he sniffles, face sodden and puffy and pink. Yeah—that look on his face never gets old. Wooyoung’s painfully hard now, at the sight of San looking so…vacant. Utterly defeated. Denied, over and over and over. Wooyoung knows in the back of his mind that there had to be something at least kind of wrong with him to be getting off on the sight of his boyfriend like this—a screw or two loose somewhere in the back of his brain—but, thankfully, he’d come to terms with his…‘less than conventional’ tastes years ago. It helps, of course, that San sits in the same boat—although, at the other end of it, perhaps.
“Color?” Wooyoung asks quietly, just to err on the side of caution.
“Green,” San murmurs blankly, vacantly blinking away a few more stray tears. “B-bright fucking green.”
Thought so. Wooyoung’s cock throbs. God, he loves him.
Slowly, Wooyoung moves to stand behind the chair again. He hovers there, staring at the flushed skin prickling with sweat at the nape of San’s freckled neck. As he finally slips the key out of his pocket, Wooyoung leans forward to press a gentle kiss right behind San’s ear, just beneath his hairline. He shivers at the sensation.
“You’re doing incredible, Sannie,” Wooyoung murmurs into his ear as he subtly unlocks the restraints with a flick of his wrist. “So perfect.”
San whimpers weakly in response to the quiet praise. Wooyoung leans forward over San’s shoulder then to place one more kiss on his tear-stained cheek, right beneath his eye, then gently clicks open the cuffs. San doesn’t dare to move, practically holding his breath as he waits for whatever comes next. Wooyoung tuts as he slips off the restraints and lets them clatter to the carpeted floor with a quiet clanking noise.
“I told you not to struggle so hard,” Wooyoung quietly admonishes the other as he massages his thumbs into San’s wrists. “You’ve got bruises.”
“I like having bruises,” San says in a hushed voice, finally breaking his silence. “Reminds me of you.”
Fu-u-uck. Wooyoung could die a happy man right now. He rewards San for that little comment with one last sweet kiss, this time to the shoulder.
Wooyoung stands and straightens, walking back around to the front of the chair to face San head-on once more. Despite no longer being restrained, San still doesn’t budge, arms hanging down weakly over either side of the armchair. He waits there, chest rising and falling slowly, staring up at Wooyoung through the dampness of his lashes. As Wooyoung perches himself at the foot of the bed nearest to the chair, San’s cock pulsates again. He knows that San’s waiting there, obedient as anything, to be told what to do next.
Fuck. The state of him like this is such a sharp contrast to his stage persona, to the idol who exists in the face of the public. ATEEZ’s San is a beast; but San now—Wooyoung’s San—is nothing but a bitch.
“Take off your shirt,” Wooyoung says, crossing one leg over his knee. “Do it slowly. Do it like I’m paying you.”
San’s weary eyes blink back to life as the sound of Wooyoung’s latest directive strikes his ears. With a wet sniffle, he nods twice in quick succession. Then, just as Wooyoung’s requested, San finds the bottom hem of his tank top with shaky fingers and starts to slowly tease the garment up the chiseled expanse of his torso.
“L-like this?” San murmurs, breath hitching as the fabric passes over the top of his broad chest, over his pert, pink nipples.
Unconsciously, Wooyoung licks his lips. “Just like that.”
Wooyoung keeps his eyes sharp as an eagle’s as he watches San strip for him. With each agonizing pull of that flimsy little shirt upwards, with each subsequent inch of glistening, golden skin that San reveals for him, Wooyoung feels his cock ache even further. San’s body is no fucking joke. He’d worked hard for that new physique of his—Wooyoung knows it, because he’d watched the transformation happen in real time—and the payoff is outstanding. San’s no longer the lithe, slender boy he was in the beginning of their idol career; no—San’s evolved into a rugged, burly man now. Abs defined like they’d been hand-chiseled from marble, biceps bulging with every movement, chest so big and broad that it’d become difficult for the stylists to fit him into his stage outfits. The difference is like night and day, like San’s transformed from one person into another, but Wooyoung knows better.
That metamorphosis was only physical. Only skin-deep. On the inside, Wooyoung knows better than anyone else just how much San’s remained exactly the same: the same sniveling little sweetheart, the same hopeless little crybaby that had always been so eager to please. Evidently, no amount of new muscle mass would change that core piece of his identity.
San’s Adam’s apple bobs acutely in his throat as he finally tugs the top off completely, letting it fall to the floor next to the chair in an unceremonious heap. His chest glistens with a thin luster of sweat under the dim light of the hotel room, glinting like gemstones in the sun as he breathes. He sits there, squirming restlessly, completely naked save for his sneakers and his sweatpants still pooled around his ankles. Wooyoung remains at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, and deeply satisfied by their contrasting states of dress.
“Up.”
Wooyoung murmurs the one simple word quietly, accessorizing the command with a curl of his index finger. San stumbles into action instantly, so eagerly that it’s nearly laughable, and pushes himself into a slightly unsteady standing position. As he rises, he nearly trips thanks to his sweats stuck around his ankles like shackles, and fuck, it’s cute. It’s pathetic. Wooyoung wants to devour him whole.
San stands there, hands clasped behind his back—perhaps in a way that’s muscle memory. No touching allowed. He knows the rules well. As he stands there, still as a soldier, his cock throbs again completely untouched. Wooyoung smirks as he watches San’s face flush into a pretty pink yet again underneath his leaden scrutiny.
“Get properly undressed,” Wooyoung says. Twice, he pats the cushy mattress next to him with his palm. “Then lie down.”
San nods dumbly, hanging onto every last word that Wooyoung offers him. He kicks off his sneakers, tugs off his socks, and nearly stumbles over his own two feet as he finally pulls off those sweatpants entirely. Wooyoung watches on, amused, as he distractedly removes his own boots and socks.
Wooyoung follows San with his eyes as he steps over to the bed and crawls on top of the mattress. He props himself back against the headboard, and Wooyoung turns to follow his motion. Fully clothed, he shuffles forward on his knees to settle himself between San’s bare thighs. San watches, wholly enraptured, breath held tight behind his teeth as Wooyoung pauses there.
“My turn,” Wooyoung hums, tongue pressed into the side of his cheek as he hooks his pinky finger beneath the bottom hem of his little tank top. He teases it upwards just an inch, revealing a sliver of his midriff. “You wanna watch, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, please,” San breathes out, wide-eyed and fucking starstruck.
Duh. But Wooyoung preens under the attention nonetheless—and San’s just been so good tonight—so he decides he’s at least earned a striptease, for now.
“No touching,” Wooyoung murmurs, peering down at San through hooded eyes. He starts to pull the tank top up higher and higher, going slow as anything, absolutely rollicking in the look on San’s face as he follows the motion with his burning gaze.
“No…touching,” San repeats back, a little breathless. His hands are formed into tight little fists at his sides as he watches on, pupils blown real dark. And Wooyoung loves that—the way San looks at him like he’s fucking starving, the way that even in his desperation, he still wishes to please him.
Finally, Wooyoung pulls the tank top completely up and over his head. He shakes his hair out a bit as he drops the flimsy garment off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor. As he reveals his slender upper body, San lets out a quiet, breathy sound. He tries to hold it in, but Wooyoung really can’t help the little grin that wobbles onto his face when he hears that noise. He knows that San is just itching to grab him by the waist, to squeeze all ten of his fingers into the soft, sun-kissed skin at his sides.
Wooyoung sits up slightly off his knees to hook his thumbs beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. He starts dragging the fabric down, alternating from hip to hip, shimmying slightly with each fleck of skin he reveals. San groans low in his chest as Wooyoung pulls them down past the round swell of his ass to reveal the base of his cock.
“No boxers,” San notes incredulously.
“Surprised?”
San shakes his head. “Not particularly,” he murmurs, despite looking more than a little stunned. He swallows loud enough to be heard audibly as Wooyoung finally pulls his sweats down past his thighs, allowing his cock to thwack wetly upwards. “Fuck. You’re so fucking hot, Young-ah.”
Wooyoung snickers shamelessly. “I am, aren’t I?”
San makes a throaty sound of agreement. “Can I please touch you now?” he asks, desperate gaze flitting upwards to meet Wooyoung’s. Wooyoung rolls his eyes in response.
“Not yet,” he tuts, and giggles internally when a look of abject disappointment flashes across San’s expression like a shadow. “Be patient.”
Wooyoung leans forward over San’s body then, touching but not quite, as he reaches towards the bedside table. He feels San stiffen beneath him as he fights to restrain himself from grazing his fingers across his skin. Swiftly, Wooyoung grabs the little bottle of lube they’d discarded there last night, then settles back between San’s legs.
San lets out a massive, shuddered sigh as he watches Wooyoung squirt out a generous amount of the liquid onto his fingertips. Then, he whines low in his throat when Wooyoung reaches behind himself to start fingering himself open.
“You—you’re torturing me,” San groans, fingers fisting into the sheets below as he watches Wooyoung work himself open on fingers that he undoubtedly wished were his own. “Like, fuck—even more so than usual.”
“I’m feeling especially mean, tonight,” Wooyoung huffs out as he slips his ring finger in next to his middle finger, lightly scissoring himself open. “So shut the fuck up and take it.”
San gulps. “Hot,” he murmurs uselessly. “You’re really—fuck. So fucking hot.”
The praise strikes like a match thrown to gasoline in the pit of Wooyoung’s belly. His hips stutter forward slightly as he leans backwards, back arching alluringly to reach a better angle. As much as he loves to torture San by forcing him to keep his hands to himself, Wooyoung also loves this part of their game—of being the star of the show, of having San’s rapt, undivided attention as he performs for him. Of being the singular object of his wild desire.
Wooyoung slips in a third finger, eyes fluttering shut as he does so—and fuck, that’s good. He lets out a breathy sound in response to the stimulation and feels San twitch beneath him again.
“Please, Young-ah,” San rasps out. “Please let me touch you. Let me fuck you, please, I’m, like—I’m going fucking crazy.”
Wooyoung’s chest stutters with a shaky inhalation as he pulls his fingers from his hole. “Mm. You’re so lucky that I’m finally starting to lose my patience, too,” he breathes out, squirting a bit more lube into his palm. He reaches down then to slick up San’s cock, still achingly hard, solid as steel. San shudders at the sensation and hisses through his teeth.
Wooyoung inches himself up San’s body just a little higher, stabilizing himself with one hand on San’s sturdy chest. Again, he reaches behind himself—this time to finally line San’s twitching cock up with his slicked-up hole. With a pinch of tension between his brows and a tug of his bottom lip between his two front teeth, Wooyoung sinks himself down so slowly that it causes them both to whimper.
“Yes,” San rasps out brokenly, fingers twitching into the sheets at either side of him as Wooyoung bottoms out. He tosses his head back into the pillows to expose that gorgeous, freckled column of his neck, shimmering now with perspiration. “Yes, yes yes—oh, fuck,” San continues, rambling senselessly. “Can I—can I please touch you, Young-ah? Please?”
This part’s always been the hardest. Wooyoung does his best to gather up the remaining few shards of his willpower as he pretends to contemplate a possible answer to San’s request. Because of course he wants it—he’s wanted San to touch him all fucking night, after all. Wooyoung rolls his hips forward once in response, mouth falling slightly agape at the delicious drag of San’s thick cock inside of him. Fuck. He’s rapidly running out of the patience required to keep up his end of the bargain.
“F-fine,” Wooyoung bites out, anchoring his palms on each of San’s pecs. “I guess I’ll let you put your filthy little hands on me. Just my waist—you can only hold my waist.”
San’s face crumbles into an expression so strikingly indebted and grateful that, out of context, one would’ve thought that a genie had granted his most paramount wish on planet earth, or something. “Thank you, thank you,” he chokes out, hands flying to Wooyoung’s waist for the first time since they’d been backstage earlier that night. San’s palms fit the space flawlessly, spreading out there like two little hand-shaped puzzle pieces. Wooyoung’s heart offers a heavy thud as he considers the horribly romantic concept of that.
“Don’t even think about moving until I give you the green light,” Wooyoung huffs out, face reddening in response to the sensation of San’s hands finally touching him.
“O-of course not,” San stutters out, fingers tightening marginally around Wooyoung’s small waist. “You…call the shots. I know that.”
Ugh. He’s perfect. Wooyoung’s expression liquefies into something rather prurient and delighted as he rolls his hips forward again, even slower than the first time.
With each roll and twitch and bounce that Wooyoung offers him, San’s expression quickly shudders and contorts into a state of pained bliss. Pleasure at a price. Wooyoung rides San like he’s got all the time in the world, each motion leaking with intention and purpose, and God—Wooyoung’s beginning to lose himself in the moment. San’s always been above-average and well-endowed, but now he’s got the physique to back it up, too. San’s cock drags in and out of him in a way so tantalizing and addictive that Wooyoung nearly begins to drool. He’ll never get used to it—to how good San feels—no matter how many times they do this.
“Young-ah, p-please.”
Wooyoung’s guts do a triple backflip at the sound of that lilted desperation coloring San’s tone as he lies helplessly beneath him now. “Please what?”
“Please let me move,” San begs piteously, fingers squeezing so tight around Wooyoung’s sides that he’s nearly certain they’ll leave bruises. “P-please. Let me, ah—let me fuck you.”
To his core, Wooyoung loves to be wanted. But perhaps, even more so than that, Wooyoung also loves to win.
Abruptly—in a way that he’s sure will drive the other utterly psychotic—Wooyoung starts riding San’s cock so arduously that it’s almost as if he’s working towards the goal of fucking breaking it. San’s back arches upwards off of the mattress slightly as he sucks in a shuddered inhalation of air, head thrown back in pleasure. Wooyoung can feel his body seize up and tense beneath him—can feel it in his abdomen, in his strong thighs. Particularly, he feels how San tenses his hips, locking them down into place, doing everything in his power to stay still—to not fucking move—just as Wooyoung’s ordered him to.
“Oh my God, oh my God—” San starts to gasp out, the words morphing and modulating into a strangled moan as Wooyoung forcefully squeezes down on his chest.
“You wanna fucking move?” Wooyoung huffs out, face flushed and glowing as he strikes down and shatters the last of San’s resolve. “You wanna fuck me?”
“Yes!”
Wooyoung feels his breath catch. “How bad?”
Wooyoung drags one of his hands up higher, reaching forward to grab San’s face to pull him close and force some eye contact. He squeezes his cheeks together roughly, condescendingly, viciously. San’s eyes are brimming with a fresh swell of tears now, and Wooyoung’s heart nearly bursts with elated delirium at the ravishing sight of them.
“Tell me how bad, Sannie,” Wooyoung persists, words snapping from his tongue like darts. He punctuates the injunction by purposefully clenching down around San’s cock on that next fiendish roll of his hips. “Tell me how badly you wanna fuck me back right now.”
“Oh—fuck, fuck, so badly, Wooyoung, please,” San weeps, those lovely tears of his starting to spill in earnest now, over the bulging veins materializing at either side of his temples and slipping down into his ears. Wooyoung notices, offhandedly, that San’s hands are shaking at the hold he has around his waist. His eyes are bleary and red-rimmed, lips swollen and pouty, skin blotchy and pink and wet. A walking, talking wet dream.
“I’ll die if you don’t let me m-move, please, Young-ah.” Another stuttered inhalation followed by a particularly loud sniffle. More tears, wet and viscous and salty. “Let me fuck you, please, I—oh, God, I love you, please, I wanna—I wanna fuck you so badly, Wooyoung—!”
Ah. He said it. San finally caved and said those three little words—the ones he typically kept tucked beneath his tongue as a last resort in desperate times such as these.
I love you.
San says it in spite of the way that Wooyoung’s acted so wickedly all night. Sure, Wooyoung prides himself on being a hardass—but to hear those three syllables slip so brutally off the tip of San’s tongue is just unbearable. Yeah. Wooyoung will never get tired of San when he’s like this. His steel-walled tower of resolve crumbles down into sand.
“Then fuck me,” Wooyoung finally acquiesces—and that’s all San needs to hear before he absolutely catapults into action. Wooyoung chokes out a wet gasp as San steadies his tight hold around his waist, bends his knees, and thrusts upwards into Wooyoung so harshly that if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that San hated him.
“Thank you,” San gasps out, eyes screwed shut in a delicious mixture of single-minded focus and infatuated pleasure. “Oh fuck—yeah, yeah, thank you…!”
Wooyoung crumbles forward into the wide breadth of San’s sweaty chest as he continues reaming him from below, and fuck—somehow, it always catches him off guard. When it comes to their nighttime rendezvous, San’s got the self-control of a saint—so when he finally breaks, Wooyoung comes face-to-face with the grisly reminder of San’s physical strength and stamina. The muscles he’d worked so hard for over the years weren’t just for show, after all; they were physical proof of San’s brawn. And Wooyoung feels it down to his marrow right then—the extent of San’s power; every throbbing inch of it.
It’s nothing like that first time they’d had sex all those years ago anymore. In place of the nervous, second-guessed touches now stands something rougher, tougher, nastier. In the back of his mind, the hazy re-realization drifts back to Wooyoung like clockwork: he likes riling San up like this—teasing him all the way to the brink of oblivion—because when he finally lets up, San pays him back tenfold.
“Fuck—ah, ‘m sorry, Young-ah, I can’t—” San sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, hips pistoning upwards. “Can’t fucking—ah, hold back anymore.” The pained, tear-stained desperation displayed across his handsome face paints a stark contrast to the cruel, carnal way that San fucks. Night and day. On-stage, versus off. Wooyoung has the brief thought that maybe, when they really boil it all down to the gritty truth, that he’s the mouse and San’s the glue trap, after all.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” San babbles on wetly, frantically, chest heaving with exertion. San thrusts up in an exceedingly harsh manner then, and Wooyoung groans desperately into the feverish crook of his neck in response.
“Young-ah,” San rasps out urgently. His anguished voice drips right into Wooyoung’s ear and strikes him like a jolt of electricity. “I’m so close. Can I—can I please come? Can I please come i-inside? I wanna—oh, fuck. I wanna come inside you, I really wanna co—”
“If you d-don’t, I’ll fucking kill you,” Wooyoung gasps out, fingers scrambling desperately to hold onto San’s broad shoulders, somewhere, anywhere. “Come on, do it, fuckin’ do it, Sannie. Inside.”
Wooyoung’s words—his explicit permission—is what always does it for San in the end. Wooyoung’s come to learn this well over the years. Because, when push comes to shove, there’s absolutely nothing that gets Choi San off quite as much as following Wooyoung’s orders to a tee.
“Ah—thank you,” San whines, hips canting upwards as he buries himself to the hilt. Wooyoung chokes out a wrecked, full-bodied sob as he wraps his arms around the familiar space at San’s neck and shoulders. “Thank you, I’m gonna—fuck, coming—”
Wooyoung’s eyes roll backwards into his fucking skull as San spills hot and deep inside of him, painting him from the inside out with each pointed pulsation of his cock. The sensation is so irresistibly hot and overwhelming that Wooyoung finds himself right at the brink all but a moment later. His belly twists up in delicious, twitchy knots as that euphoric, frenzied rush he knows so well crashes through the entirety of his body like the ruthless surge of a riptide. With a high-pitched keen, he comes hard against San, spilling messily all over the rugged divots of his abs.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung gasps wetly against San’s neck. “Yeah, yes—love you, Sannie, love you so much.” The words have an instantaneous effect on the other, and San wraps his bulky arms around Wooyoung’s smaller frame and squeezes tight. In a way that seems a little dizzy and unintentional, he punchily thrusts his hips upward once more, pulling a heaving whine from Wooyoung’s throat.
“Ah—so good, you’re so good, Sannie,” Wooyoung rattles on breathlessly, spewing the sweet words of praise directly into the warm skin right below San’s ear. “So good to me. You did so good, baby. You’re perfect.”
Because on those nights where Wooyoung’s in the mood to be extra mean, he takes particular care to be extra nice, afterwards.
“T-thank you,” San whimpers out softly, body shuddering slightly as another aftershock runs through him.
“Love you, San-ah,” Wooyoung repeats. God—his limbs feel like jelly, right now. He shifts slightly, wincing as he leans upwards on his elbows to gaze down at San properly. In a way so completely opposite to how he’d handled San for a majority of the night, Wooyoung tenderly thumbs a strand of damp hair out from the other’s eyes. “I love you so much. Are you okay? Tell me your color.”
San blinks up at him then, bleary-eyed and dazed as he processes the question. And then, like the sun peeking out from behind rainclouds, a blissed out smile wobbles its way across his mouth.
“Green,” San murmurs, grinning all lazy and sweet. “Bright fuckin’ green.”