Chapter Text
Wooyoung is fucking exhausted. Work blows, and today was no exception. The bus is almost to his stop when he spots San, leaning against the concrete of his apartment building, dressed in dark baggy jeans and a hoodie that’s two sizes too big for him.
Four sizes too big for Wooyoung, but if anyone asks, Wooyoung doesn’t know that. Not like he steals San’s hoodies often. San shouldn’t just leave them lying around.
The bus squeals to a stop, and Wooyoung makes his way toward the exit, shuffling behind other passengers pushing their way out, desperate to get home.
“Why are you waiting out here?”
San drops his cigarette and smooshes it with the ball of his foot. “I always wait for you.”
“I told you Yeosang is home. You can just go up, and he’ll let you in.”
The taller shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Wooyoung watches his eyes drop to his stupid work loafers and drag up his legs, his torso, and over his face.
Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “Let’s go.”
On their way up the steps, Wooyoung can smell San’s cologne, woody and musky, and the way it mixes with the smell of smoke does terrible things to Wooyoung’s brain. Terrible, wonderful things.
Yeosang is camped out in the living room, blankets and pillows piled on the sofa. A thick-knitted beanie is pulled over his head, sitting just above his eyebrows, and his shoulders are hunched over his laptop. Fucking workaholic . He doesn’t even look over at Wooyoung, probably doesn’t even notice that San is behind him.
They go straight to Wooyoung’s room, closing and locking the door behind them. San’s hands are on Wooyoung’s waist in an instant, squeezing and pulling Wooyoung back against his body. His fingers make themselves busy undoing each button of Wooyoung’s shirt, fumbling from not being able to see, but unbothered, lips leaving a messy trail up the side of Wooyoung’s neck.
“San,” Wooyoung sighs.
San hums against his hairline, teeth scraping the skin behind Wooyoung’s ear.
“I’m so tired.”
The hands on his chest freeze for half a second, resuming almost immediately, tugging Wooyoung’s earlobe between his teeth now. “I’ll do all the hard parts. You don’t have to lift a finger.”
His words send shivers down Wooyoung’s spine, his exhausted body betraying him. He lets out a shaky exhale and turns, body wedged between his desk and San’s muscular frame, arms draping over San’s shoulders.
“Please, Young-ah?” San’s eyes flick from Wooyoung’s eyes to his lips.
Then San sucks Wooyoung’s bottom lip into his mouth, and Wooyoung has never been able to tell San no, body melting against the touch. San grips the black fabric of his tie and pulls him closer, tongue pushing past Wooyoung’s lips.
The kiss is messy, sloppy. They’re rushed, racing against a nonexistent clock. San fumbles with the buttons of Wooyoung’s shirt again, trying to get them open, wanting nothing but his smooth skin in his hands. Wooyoung is just as impatient, slapping San’s hands away and doing it himself, almost popping one in the middle—one San missed earlier.
“Tie,” Wooyoung gasps, San’s lips sucking bruises against the thin skin of his neck. “Take off my fucking tie.”
“You take off the damn tie,” San bites back.
“What happened to you doing all the work?”
San pulls back enough to jerk on the fabric again. “You liked when I left it on last time.”
Wooyoung laughs, all high and breathy, face flushing from being called out. “Fuck you.”
San smirks, hands reaching for Wooyoung’s top, trying to push it off his shoulders.
Wooyoung pushes his hands away. “No, you don’t get anything now.”
He’s teasing, and San knows it, but it doesn’t stop the older from dropping to his knees, lips pressing against the bare flesh of Wooyoung’s stomach, just under his navel. Wooyoung tries to step back, but strong hands have found his hips and keep him in place.
“Wooyoung-ah,” San chides from his knees. “Don’t be a brat.”
“You’re the one on your knees right now, Sannie,” Wooyoung mocks. “Thought you were going to do some work tonight.”
Like a switch, San’s expression flips, head tilting to the side, eyes narrowing, sizing Wooyoung up. His chest heaves with a deep breath before he pushes himself up to his feet. He yanks on the knot of Wooyoung’s tie enough to loosen it. “Take it off.”
Wooyoung’s heart thumps in his chest, and he fights every urge to listen. His fingers twitch, but it’s more fun to drag things out. And San makes it so easy to get under his skin. All Wooyoung has to do is mouth off or stare back for too long—he takes the bait every time.
“You never make things easy, do you?” San says, voice low in the back of his throat, stepping forward to invade Wooyoung’s space, nose running up the slope of Wooyoung’s jaw, fingers knotting in Wooyoung’s hair, long enough to pull his head to the side and hold him there.
It forces a gasp from the younger’s lips, eyes fluttering shut when San’s mouth sucks over his pulse point. San’s other hand slides down Wooyoung’s back and over the swell of his ass, squeezing him through his work slacks.
“Take it off.”
San’s lips are flush against the shell of Wooyoung’s ear, breath hot, the tip of his tongue just touching Wooyoung’s skin, and it’s too much.
Wooyoung groans, hands flying up to the tie and tugging it over his head, tossing it to the side, then surges forward to seal their mouths together again. San lets Wooyoung lead, licking into each other’s mouths and biting each other’s lips.
San is obsessed with Wooyoung’s neck. Wooyoung hates that he loves it.
He can see himself in the mirror behind San’s broad back, deep red and purple blooming over his skin. They’re deep, too dark to cover with makeup—Wooyoung is going to have a hell of a time in the morning. A whimper slips out when San pulls away, the feeling too good. He’s practically panting, still half-dressed.
“Isn’t it so much better to be good?” San whispers.
Electricity rushes through Wooyoung’s veins. He could let San win. He could nod and let San do all the things his filthy mind desires, but at the same time, he’s not ready. He likes to push, push, push until San pushes back harder. So instead, Wooyoung laughs. It’s a sarcastic, shrill smattering of notes, short, but to the point. Enough for San to know that he’s not done.
Wooyoung fists the front of San’s hoodie and tips his chin up, defiant. “It’s so much better to be bad.”
San grips Wooyoung’s wrists and forces his hands down, and, fuck, his face . He looks pissed. It’s hot as hell.
It makes Wooyoung giddy, another laugh bubbling up from his chest. “What’s wrong, Sannie?” Wooyoung grins. “You didn’t think I’d give up that easy, did you?”
San takes a step back, eyes still hungry.
Wooyoung leans back against his desk, propped up on his arms behind him, shirt falling open, honey-colored chest on full display between panels of white linen. “Haven’t you learned after all this time?”
The room is quiet, a thick cloud of tension swirling around them, only the sound of Wooyoung’s panting filling the space between them. San doesn’t move, just runs his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s considering what comes next.
Then San blinks, and he looks normal again. Calm.
Wooyoung is confused, mind racing to sus out what San is doing, why he looks like they haven’t spent the past who-knows-how-long mind-fucking each other.
San nods to himself then looks up to meet Wooyoung’s eyes again. “You know, I’m pretty thirsty.”
Thirsty?
“I’m gonna go get some water. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Wha--”
San licks his lips. “I suggest you’re ready to behave when I get back.”
And before Wooyoung can utter a single syllable, San is unlocking the door and leaving the room, leaving Wooyoung half-dressed with zero thoughts except, What the fuck.
Wooyoung and San have been fucking around for a long time, and Wooyoung thought he knew all the tricks in San’s book. They’ve done so much, experimented, fumbled, failed, even, always willing to try anything once. San has never left him like this before. The back and forth is common—pushing and pulling each other until they each snap, one of them bending to the other’s will and then getting on with it. Most of the time, Wooyoung ends up being the one who decides when it’s enough, whether he’s on his knees pleading or pushing San to the brink, telling him he better make him behave.
San has never just stopped.
He didn’t even say how long he’d be gone.
The realization makes Wooyoung scramble, taking his shirt off the rest of the way, letting it crumble into a heap on the floor next to the discarded tie and yesterday’s outfit. He shoves his trousers off and rushes to his bed, figuring leaving his underwear on was fine—San didn’t give exact instructions, and this still counts. It should still count. He’s being good.
Minutes pass. Three. Five. After seven, Wooyoung considers getting up to make sure San didn’t actually leave. But he said he’d be back, and San wouldn’t lie. So, he sits there, legs straight out in front of him, hands in his lap. As the ninth minute ticks by, the doorknob twists, and San slips back into the room.
San’s hoodie is gone, a tight black tank top clinging to his torso like a second skin.
Wooyoung gulps as San’s eyes wander over his skin, lingering at the words inked into his side, the marks left on his neck, back down, admiring the slightly defined abs and pretty waist. His heart races as San moves to stand right in front of the bed.
“Look how good you’re being.” That smirk creeps up the corners of his mouth. “I knew you could do it, baby.” San puts the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand and beckons Wooyoung toward him. “C’mere.”
Wooyoung scoots to the edge, looking up at the older, eyes soaking in the sight in front of him—the shoulders that taper into a tiny waist, strong arms and soft hands that are capable of sinful things. San runs his thumb over Wooyoung’s bottom lip, and Wooyoung’s lips part enough for San to slip his thumb inside, pressing down against Wooyoung’s tongue.
“Suck.”
Things move quickly from there: San replaces his thumb with three of his fingers, pushing them past Wooyoung’s lips, stretching his mouth until Wooyoung almost can’t wrap his lips around San’s knuckles, drooling over the digits instead of actually sucking on them. He strips himself of his tank top and jeans, no underwear because San is crazy enough to freeball in jeans. He helps Wooyoung out of his boxer briefs and pushes his back flat against the mattress.
“Gonna eat you out ‘til you cry,” San promises, hands pushing the backs of Wooyoung’s thighs until his knees fold against his bare chest. Only after Wooyoung’s stomach is a mess of his own come does San dip the tip of his first finger past Wooyoung’s rim, a pool of spit easing the stretch.
Wooyoung’s whining spurs San on, moving quickly to fit a second finger inside, and for as long as San laid there with his face between Wooyoung’s cheeks, the spit is already drying. San recognizes it a second after Wooyoung, carefully pulling out and leaning over to the bedside table, lube in the top drawer against the left corner.
He kisses Wooyoung’s lips again before settling between his legs, flicking the top of the bottle open. Wooyoung is so hard it hurts, leaking again already. A desperate hand finds San’s forearm, a silent signal, encouraging San to hurry.
He feels like he’s floating. San is treating him—Wooyoung’s first orgasm shook him to the core, and with the second already on the way, he doesn’t know how he’s going to walk in the morning because he knows San isn’t even close to being done. This is how they work—San rips orgasm after orgasm out of Wooyoung, a sick way of edging himself, then finally comes when Wooyoung’s on the verge of a breakdown.
The lube makes San’s fingers glide inside him, two turning to three, then dropping back to two that incessantly rub over his prostate. Wooyoung hopes Yeosang’s headphones don’t run out of battery, and he hopes Jongho decided to stay late to train. San is pushing awful noises out of him—high-pitched whines and broken cries that Wooyoung can’t swallow down.
“San,” Wooyoung gasps. “Fuck me, please.”
He pushes his lips into a frowning pout. “But I’m having so much fun.”
Wooyoung sobs as the pad of San’s finger pushes against his prostate again, head falling against his pillow. “Want you inside, need it.” He babbles, “San, need you so bad, please. It’ll still be fun, I’ll make you feel so good.”
San rolls his lips together, eyes roaming Wooyoung’s body. He pulls his fingers out again, hands bracing his weight on either side of Wooyoung’s head. He brings their lips together again, tongues sliding together. His cock nestles between Wooyoung’s cheeks, and Wooyoung is helpless to the way his hips rock, trying to get San inside.
“Patience, Young-ah.”
The roughness in San’s voice makes Wooyoung squirm, breaking the kiss to move his lips over Wooyoung’s throat and down his chest. San hums, tilting his head to lick over Wooyoung’s nipple, bottom teeth catching on the barbell of Wooyoung’s piercing. It’s been months since he fully healed, but he’s more sensitive than ever. San was obsessed when Wooyoung showed them off the first time—counting down the days to get his lips around the metal.
“I’ll never get tired of what these do to you.”
San sucks his nipple hard, biting around the nub almost too hard. Wooyoung whimpers, daring to glance down and seeing little indents from San’s teeth in his skin. San licks over the bite then moves to make the other side match.
Wooyoung reaches for San’s shoulders, blunt nails scratching his skin. “Sannie—Sannie, please.”
“Please what?”
He tries to get under San’s arms, tries to pull him up toward his face. “I need you.”
“I’m right here,” San says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Wooyoung sobs, shaking his head. “ Need you inside .” And he watches San’s face soften, hard demeanor flickering away from his eyes.
San nods, holding himself over Wooyoung with one arm, his other hand around his cock, fingers holding the base as he guides himself inside, one inch at a time. Wooyoung lets his jaw fall open, eyes rolling back as San wedges himself inside, stretching him open, filling him up slowly. He hears a familiar controlled exhale as San bottoms-out, hips flush against Wooyoung’s thighs.
His thrusts start slow, shallowly rolling his hips rather than pulling out and pushing back in. It’s somehow worse, the way San’s cockhead nudges Wooyoung’s prostate with every movement. It doesn’t take him long to adjust—San's thick, but Wooyoung loves it, is used to being split open by his best friend—and he wraps his legs around San’s waist, ankles locking behind his back.
“Please,” Wooyoung begs.
“What?” San taunts.
Wooyoung’s going to cry. “Fuck me properly.”
San pulls out and slams back in, a broken whine shoved from Wooyoung’s lungs. “Like that?”
“Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like you mean it.”
San delivers, hard thrusts that push Wooyoung up the mattress, sheets bunching beneath him. He whispers encouraging words and praises into Wooyoung’s ear, so opposite to how hard he fucks into him, and it makes Wooyoung dizzy. He’s a mess, stringing unintelligible syllables together, nodding, nails dragging lines down San’s back.
“Close,” Wooyoung whines, one hand flying up to brace himself against the headboard, palm flat against the wood. His hand slips, sweat from San’s back sliding against the surface. “ Fuck .”
San shuffles his knees up, hooking his arms under Wooyoung’s back and over his shoulders, pulling Wooyoung down with each thrust, going impossibly deeper than before. A bead of sweat drips from San’s temple and lands on Wooyoung’s cheek, San’s biting his shoulder, and it’s all so much all at once that Wooyoung comes completely untouched between them, painting their stomachs white.
San fucks him through it, not letting up until he’s shaking from the effort of holding Wooyoung’s body against his. “Inside?” he asks, voice strained.
“Inside, inside, please.”
San bites him again—teeth around his collarbone this time, and then he feels it. He feels San coming inside him, and it’s so hot that Wooyoung thinks he might come again just from how full he feels. He doesn’t, which he’s secretly glad, because he knows it’d hurt, too sensitive for a third tonight. The older all but collapses on his chest, and Wooyoung’s arms automatically wrap around him, both thoroughly exhausted.
Wooyoung winces when San pulls out, still panting, a complete wreck. His hair is soaked with sweat, the little makeup he wore to work smeared across his cheek, covered in come. San helps him up, wiping the come off his stomach with a ratty shirt they keep next to Wooyoung’s bed just for these occasions.
When he’s vertical, he feels San’s come start to dribble between his cheeks, and he grimaces.
San laughs. “Shower?”
Wooyoung nods, and they stumble to the bathroom together, dashing across the hall without dressing first. Yeosang’s seen worse.
They shoot the shit in the shower. San talks about work, how the new kid they hired almost broke the espresso machine. Wooyoung tells San that Jongho has barely been home, always training these days. San suggests they drag everyone together for a movie night soon, Yunho and Mingi included.
“Busan isn’t that far,” San comments as they’re drying off.
Wooyoung stuffs his legs into a pair of sweats and a giant t-shirt, then makes his way to the living room. Yeosang is gone, laptop not in its usual place on the coffee table. Wooyoung can’t help that the walls are thin. He shuffles out to the balcony, San’s box of cigarettes and lighter in his hand, dropping both on the seat beside him.
When San joins him, he drops his hoodie in Wooyoung’s lap and sits in the second plastic chair. He smacks the carton against the palm of his hand before plucking a cigarette between his hands. Wooyoung takes a couple drags, but tobacco never does it for him. If he’s gonna smoke, he’s gonna get high and pig out on instant ramen and honey butter chips.
They stay out there until the sun starts to set, until Wooyoung gets cold and ultimately buries himself in the gifted hoodie. He falls asleep, mind-fucked and physically exhausted, completely upright, not waking up until San nudges him.
“You going home?” Wooyoung asks.
“Think I missed the last bus,” San says sheepishly, a ring of orange glowing from the end of his cigarette.
Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumb fuck, Choi San.”
San lifts an eyebrow.
“I’ll just use you as my pillow, I guess.” Wooyoung stands, stretches his arms over his head, and disappears into the apartment.
“What else is fucking new?” San calls out, following him inside.