Archive of Our Own

The hotel room was too quiet.

Wooyoung lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the thin strip of morning light cutting across the wall in that too-bright way that only ever happened when you weren’t ready to be awake yet. Outside the window, the city was barely stirring — the occasional car here, a distant honk there…

He rolled onto his side with a frustrated sigh, burying half his face in the pillow. The sheets were warm, his body still loose from sleep, but his brain was doing that annoying thing where it wouldn’t stop thinking . About the schedule later. About the interview yesterday. About how cold it was in the room even with the thermostat set to twenty-four degrees.

About San.

Wooyoung groaned and shoved the blanket off, sitting up and scrubbing both hands over his face. It wasn’t even six yet, and none of the others would be up for at least another hour. But the thought of lying here, wide awake and alone, felt unbearable.

He needed comfort. He needed San .

Which, honestly, wasn’t that weird. They’d shared beds before. Cuddled after a long day, after emotional nights, after parties when Wooyoung drank a little too much and got clingy. San never minded. If anything, San was always warm, always solid and quiet and safe to curl against.

So, maybe Wooyoung didn’t think twice as he padded over to his suitcase in the dim room light, pulling on the oversized Ateez tour shirt he’d left on the chair and tugging on the first pair of shorts he found.

He didn’t think about it. His body was still half-asleep, heavy and warm and slow-moving as he left his room and padded barefoot down the hall, not even bothering to knock.

Wooyoung stood outside San’s door, phone held loosely in his hand as he blinked sleepily at the screen. He scrolled to the notes, thumb hovering for a second.

2610 .

They all had each other’s hotel room codes in case of an emergency.

Quietly, Wooyoung entered it on the keypad and waited for the soft click of the lock. When the door eased open, he slipped inside on bare feet, careful to close it behind him with a soft push and no slam.

The room was dark, blackout curtains drawn, only the faintest blue light from the thermostat display casting a glow on the carpet. He stood still for a second, letting his eyes adjust. The air was cooler than his room — San liked it chilly — and the sheets on the bed were a messy tangle, but the familiar shape of San was curled beneath them, facing the windows, deep asleep.

Wooyoung exhaled. Quiet. Relieved.

He padded over, careful not to trip, and sat his phone on the nightstand next to San’s, which was still plugged in. He then lifted the blanket slowly, slipping under it like it was something they did all the time — and maybe they did. Maybe this was normal. It didn’t feel strange.

He was still warm from his own bed, and the moment his body touched San’s — knee brushing the back of his thigh, an arm sliding around his middle — he sighed, letting his weight settle in. He buried his face between San’s shoulder blades, nuzzling in.

That’s when San stirred, mumbling something low and half-conscious.

“Mm…?” He shifted slightly, still facing away, but his body tensed at the unexpected contact.

“Shh,” Wooyoung whispered, voice thick with sleep. “Couldn’t sleep. Just me.”

A beat of silence. Then San blinked awake, slowly rolling onto his back to look at him.

His eyes landed on the messy hair, the oversized shirt — and then dipped lower. Wooyoung immediately draped over him like a blanket — all warm limbs and soft exhales, tucked in close like he belonged there. His thigh was thrown over San’s hip, and his arm was looped lazily across San’s stomach, fingers twitching occasionally against the fabric of his shirt. Wooyoung dug his head under San’s armpit, making him lift his arm slightly so that Wooyoung could lay in that dip between San’s shoulder and his chest.

San wasn’t so lucky.

He was very awake.

Not just because there was a solid, unmistakable weight pressed against his body. Not just because Wooyoung’s skin was hot where it touched his—

No.

San was awake because something about this felt like crossing a line.

It wasn’t new, cuddling with Wooyoung. Wooyoung touched everyone, flopped across every available lap, threw his arms around people mid-sentence and stayed there. But this… this wasn’t the same.

There was an unmistakable pressure on his hip right where Wooyoung’s body connected with San’s.

Okay, fuck , Wooyoung had a morning wood.

He had come here half-asleep, in next to nothing, and curled up on top of him without thinking twice. He hadn’t even noticed he was hard — and now San couldn’t stop noticing.

San let out a slow breath through his nose, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Maybe if he just stayed still, didn’t move, didn’t think—

Wooyoung shifted.

His hand slid lower, over San’s stomach, fingers curling lightly into the hem of his shirt.

San’s muscles tensed. “Youngie…”

Wooyoung hummed in response, voice muffled. “Mm?”

“Are you… okay?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah. Why?”

San swallowed. “Just… you came in here pretty early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Wooyoung mumbled. “Kept waking up. Thought being here would help.”

His thumb started rubbing slow circles over San’s side, just beneath the hemline, skin to skin now. Barely there — like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

San was thinking about it. A lot.

“You didn’t even knock,” he said, trying not to let his voice sound too breathless.

“You’d let me in,” Wooyoung said simply. “You always do.”

He nuzzled in closer, breath fanning against San’s collarbone. San could smell his shampoo, the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of sweat of that oversized shirt. One of San’s hands twitched at his side, caught between wanting to pull him closer and push him away before this got out of hand.

Wooyoung was still hard. It hadn’t gone away. And now that San’s body had fully realized it, he wasn’t far behind.

He shut his eyes.

“Woo… you’re—” He didn’t finish. Just let the words hang. But, he pulled his hips away from Wooyoung.

Wooyoung finally stopped. His hand paused on San’s stomach. A beat passed.

Then another.

“…Oh,” he said softly.

San opened his eyes again. Wooyoung was looking up at him now, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes still hazy with sleep but suddenly more alert. His face didn’t go red, didn’t shift into embarrassment like San expected.

He just blinked, then glanced down at himself. Then back at San.

“Shit,” he said with a little breath of laughter. “Sorry. I didn’t even notice.”

San swallowed hard. “You, uh… definitely didn’t.”

Wooyoung didn’t move away. He didn’t look mortified. Just sort of thoughtful. Curious.

Wooyoung’s fingers flexed against San’s skin, absent-minded, like he was testing the weight of the moment.

“Does it… bother you?” His voice was low, not shy but careful.

San exhaled, a shaky sound that betrayed how awake he suddenly felt. “No. Just… caught me off guard.”

Wooyoung’s mouth quirked at that, a hint of a smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “So you don’t want me to move?”

The question landed heavy between them, thrumming like a pulse. San could only stare for a second, heart hammering, because it wasn’t teasing—Wooyoung meant it.

“…I didn’t say that,” San murmured finally.

That earned him a brighter spark in Wooyoung’s gaze. He shifted, deliberately this time, his thigh brushing closer against San’s. “Then what are you saying?”

San’s stomach knotted. He knew this wasn’t supposed to happen — not with Wooyoung, not with the warmth of his best friend pressed against him, not with the easy safety of their morning curling into something heavier. But the way Wooyoung didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil — how he just looked at him, steady and curious — somehow that made San’s skin burn hotter.

And before he could stop it, he felt himself stiffening too. For real this time. Shame pooled low in his gut.

Then Wooyoung shifted suddenly, peeling the blanket back and flicking the small lamp on. The soft glow spilled across them, too intimate, leaving nowhere to hide.

When Wooyoung sat up, his gaze dropped instantly, sharp and unhurried, and San realized with horror that his own arousal was painfully obvious now.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Wooyoung’s face. “I know why I’m hard,” he said, almost lazy, almost amused. His brows lifted as his eyes flicked to San’s tented underwear. “But why are you hard?”

San froze, words clawing in his throat, legs moving faster than he could stop it to cover himself up, pushing his knees to his chest. His face went hot, the kind of blush that felt like it had spread all the way to his chest. “I—It’s not—”

Wooyoung tilted his head, watching him fumble. Then, softer but sharper somehow: “Sannie… are you turned on by me?”

Not it . Me .

The question cracked through him, blunt and inescapable. San wanted to deny it, shove it down, laugh it off. But Wooyoung’s eyes didn’t leave his, and something in that unflinching gaze made it impossible to lie.

“…No,” he started, but his voice wavered. He swallowed hard. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened at the sight of San’s face turning crimson. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he murmured, voice low and fond in a way that made San’s stomach twist. Before San could react, Wooyoung gave him a gentle push back onto the mattress and slid down beside him, curling in close.

San stiffened in horror as Wooyoung pulled them front to front, their bodies pressing together. His breath caught the moment he realized just how much of him was being noticed.

Wooyoung only hummed, perfectly calm. “Breathe normally. You’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”

San let out a strangled sound. “Your dick is literally rubbing against mine.”

That earned him a laugh, quiet but warm. Wooyoung lifted his head, close enough that he caught the faint mix of sleep and morning on San’s breath, but he didn’t care. He just smiled, soft and unbothered, and brushed a kiss against San’s cheek.

San’s chest tightened — at the tenderness, at the closeness, at everything. And before Wooyoung could even pull back fully, San’s hand shot up, catching him and pressing their mouths together in a quick, almost panicked kiss. A peck, nothing more.

They both froze. Eyes wide, staring at each other, lips tingling from the brief contact.

“I-I don’t know why I did that,” San blurted, voice barely a whisper.

Wooyoung blinked at him, silent for a heartbeat. Then something in his expression shifted. Slowly, deliberately, he rolled his hips forward, grinding his erection against San’s.

The sound San made — half whimper, half gasp — was swallowed by the way he bit down on his lip, eyes screwed shut.

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped slightly, disbelief and hunger written all over his face. He did it again, dragging against San, watching every twitch of his expression.

San’s eyes opened, wide and desperate, locking onto his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move away — just held his gaze like he was waiting, daring Wooyoung to decide.

So Wooyoung did. He dipped down and caught San’s mouth properly this time, lips slotting against his with surety.

San moaned into him, the sound spilling free as Wooyoung deepened the kiss, licking into his mouth like he’d wanted to all along.

“Tell me to stop,” Wooyoung murmured against his lips, giving him one last out.

“N-no,” San gasped, clutching at him like he’d never let go.

Wooyoung’s lips curved against his, the sound of San’s shaky denial making something tighten in his chest. “Good,” he murmured, before sealing their mouths together again.

San felt like he was drowning, but not in a way he wanted to escape. Wooyoung’s kiss was warm, deliberate, nothing like the clumsy accident San had half-convinced himself it was going to be. His hands — when had they moved? — were braced on either side of San’s ribs, holding him close, pinning him down without force.

Their hips brushed again, harder this time, and San’s whole body jolted. His breath stuttered into Wooyoung’s mouth. He should’ve pushed him away, he knew that, but instead his fingers fisted in the fabric of Wooyoung’s shirt, dragging him closer.

“You’re so tense,” Wooyoung whispered between kisses, his nose brushing San’s cheek. He rocked into him again, slower now, deliberate, as if testing. “Relax, Sannie.”

San choked on a laugh, shaky, almost desperate. “I can’t. You’re— you’re literally—” Another grind, and he broke off with a gasp, hips betraying him as they pushed up into Wooyoung’s.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung said softly, almost smug, but not cruel. His eyes searched San’s, dark and hungry but still careful. “That’s the point.”

San wanted to hide. He wanted to pull Wooyoung back down and never stop. Both truths tangled inside him until his body answered for him, bucking up again, his head tipping back against the pillow with a helpless sound.

That was all the invitation Wooyoung needed. He kissed him again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against San’s as if he owned it, and San finally stopped trying to resist the flood swallowing him whole.

It wasn’t necessarily the first time they had kissed. Not only had they kissed each other’s cheeks on camera (not only) for the fans multiple times, there was this time or two when Wooyoung had gotten too excited and planted a kiss right to San’s lips instead on his cheek.

Oh , and that one time they made out after coming to their dorm after drinking at a company dinner, followed by San not so graciously vomiting the whole content of his stomach right next to Wooyoung’s feet.

But it was never like this — no small excited pecks, no drunken “ mistakes ”...

Still, the heat between them spiked immediately.

San’s other hand gripped Wooyoung’s waist tighter, fingers pressing just under the hem of that stupid shirt with their group name, right against bare skin. The next few seconds blurred.

San rolled them without thinking, pushing Wooyoung onto his back, settling between his legs like it was instinct. Their mouths didn’t break apart, only grew messier — wetter, hungrier, like something bottled up was finally being uncorked.

Wooyoung’s hands tugged at the hem of San’s shirt, slipping underneath, palms skating over his back, up his spine. His thighs squeezed around San’s hips, grounding him there.

San dragged his lips down — jaw, throat, collarbone — mouthing at the soft skin there as Wooyoung tilted his head back and let him. He tasted sleep and salt and skin, and it made him dizzy .

“San—” Wooyoung breathed, voice already wrecked.

San looked up at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “What?”

“You’re… really not gonna stop, huh?”

San smiled against his skin. “You want me to stop?”

Wooyoung arched into him, hips pushing up just enough to make his point.

“No,” he whispered. “I really don’t.”

San kissed him again — deeper, slower this time — and let his hand trail down, fingers brushing along the waistband of his shorts. Wooyoung’s breath hitched, his hips shifting again, and San paused.

He looked down, took in the way Wooyoung looked — flushed cheeks, swollen lips, shirt rucked up to expose his stomach, those shorts riding low now, stretched tight over a very obvious problem.

“Fuck,” San murmured, half to himself. “You’re killing me.”

Wooyoung grinned, breathless. “Good.”

San had thought about this a thousand times — maybe not like this exactly, not in this hotel room in the quiet lull between schedules, with the AC humming and the blackout curtains drawn tight — but the idea of it, the feeling of it, had been tucked somewhere deep in his chest for years.

He’d never been able to put a name to it before. Not when they were seventeen and clinging to each other during practice breaks, Wooyoung’s head on his shoulder like it belonged there. Not when Wooyoung used to curl up next to him on long car rides, one hand resting on San’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not even when Wooyoung started pressing kisses to his cheek in the name of fanservice, always lingering a second too long.

But this — the heat of Wooyoung’s skin under his palm, the way he looked up at him with absolute trust and something more, something real — this made it all make sense.

He hadn’t been wrong to want him.

He wasn’t wrong to want him now.

San leaned down again, pressed their foreheads together. He needed a second to breathe, to steady the rush in his chest. Wooyoung was always so much — too bright, too sharp, too overwhelming — and San had never minded it, never backed away. But now, with Wooyoung laid out under him and looking at him like that — like San could do anything and he’d still come closer — it almost broke something open inside him.

“You’re really sure?” San asked, voice low, careful.

Wooyoung’s smile softened. “Sannie,” he said, voice hoarse and familiar in that way that made San feel like home, “don’t doubt me, okay? I’m abso-fucking-lutely sure!”

San huffed out a breath, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. That sounded about right.

He kissed him again, slow and certain. And San wasn’t overthinking it for once. He was just feeling it. All of it. Every inch of skin, every breath between them, every unspoken promise that came with the way Wooyoung clutched at his shoulders like he never wanted to let go.

Because San didn’t want to let go either. Not anymore. Not when it felt this easy to hold on.

San’s fingers dipped just under the waistband.

Wooyoung gasped.

And then there was no more waiting.

San’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband slowly, almost reverently, like he couldn’t believe he was finally doing this — touching Wooyoung like this, skin to skin, nothing between them.

Wooyoung’s breath hitched when San’s hand closed around him. He was already hard, already leaking, and the first slow stroke made his hips jerk helplessly up into San’s grip.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice rough. “Sannie—”

San kissed him again to shut him up, dragging his fist up the length, slow and deliberate. Wooyoung whimpered into his mouth, both hands gripping San’s shirt like he needed something to hold onto. His legs shifted restlessly beneath the weight of San’s body, thighs spreading wider, more open, more willing .

San pulled back just enough to see his face, to watch the way his lashes fluttered and his mouth parted with every shaky breath. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Wooyoung flushed, teeth catching on his bottom lip. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I’m letting you jerk me off in your bed.”

San grinned, wicked. “No. That’s just a bonus.”

He pushed the shorts lower, down past Wooyoung’s thighs, then off completely, tossing them somewhere onto the floor. Wooyoung’s shirt was still on, bunched up around his ribs, making him look even more undone like that — half-clothed, sprawled out, cock flushed and leaking, chest rising and falling too fast.

San sat back for a second, just looking at him, one hand still wrapped around the base of Wooyoung’s cock.

“You’re staring,” Wooyoung murmured, cheeks pink.

“I earned it,” San said, and leaned back down to kiss a trail down his chest, tongue flicking over the faint line of muscle before moving lower.

“You’re—” San started, but the rest of the thought got lost somewhere between his tongue and the taste of Wooyoung’s skin as he bent to kiss along his stomach, dragging his lips along the soft heat there. “You’re unreal.”

Wooyoung moaned, the sound soft but desperate, and tangled a hand in San’s hair.

“You’re such a tease,” he gasped. “Fucking please —”

San didn’t make him beg twice.

He licked the tip first, just a flick of his tongue — just enough to make Wooyoung jolt and curse and pull tighter on his hair. Then he wrapped his lips around him fully, sucking slow and deep, easing down until his throat tightened, then pulling back just as slowly.

Wooyoung whined , high and sweet and completely fucked-out already, and San felt drunk on it. Dizzy with the weight of it — that he could do this, that he was doing this, that he was finally allowed to taste the boy who’d always felt just out of reach.

And it wasn’t just about the sex — not really. It was about the years of tension coiled between them, the way San had always known exactly how Wooyoung smelled when he was flushed from dance, or how he looked half-asleep with messy hair and oversized shirts, and how none of that had ever stopped being intoxicating.

It was about how easy it was to fall into this rhythm, his mouth moving in time with the sounds Wooyoung made, his hands firm on Wooyoung’s hips to keep him from bucking too hard. It was messy and intense and more intimate than anything San had ever done, and he loved it — loved how unfiltered Wooyoung was beneath him, how every moan and curse and whispered “Sannie, fuck —” made his chest ache in the best way.

San hummed around him, the vibration making Wooyoung’s hips buck up before San pinned them down with one arm. He was sloppy with it, spit dripping down his chin, hand working the base while he bobbed his head — too eager, too messy, too good .

Wooyoung couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop writhing. He was already close — already losing it from how fast everything had flipped, how filthy San looked with his mouth full and his eyes half-lidded, hungry.

“Gonna cum—fuck, Sannie, wait —” Wooyoung tried to warn him, but San just sucked harder, faster, greedier , and that was it.

Wooyoung choked on a sob as he came, hips shaking, whole body tensing up beneath San’s mouth. He tried to pull back, overwhelmed, but San held him there gently, taking it all — licking him through it until he was twitching and whining, too sensitive.

San finally pulled off with a gasp, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rubbing the corners of his mouth with a thumb, watching as Wooyoung tried to catch his breath.

“So, you came to cuddle me, huh?” San asked, voice low and wrecked.

Wooyoung let out a shaky laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “I did come here to sleep, you asshole.”

“Uh huh.” San leaned in, pressing a filthy kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then roll over.”

Wooyoung blinked. “What?”

“You’re staying here, right?” San’s hand slid down his own stomach, palming his cock through the fabric of his underwear — obviously, painfully hard.

Wooyoung’s eyes darkened.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice dropping. “I’m not going anywhere.”

San smiled.

“Good.”

Wooyoung rolled over without hesitation, pressing his cheek to the pillow and arching his back just enough to be an invitation. His thighs parted easily, the hem of his oversized shirt riding up even further, exposing the soft curve of his ass — and the faint trembling of anticipation that ran through his body.

San sat back on his heels, dazed.

There was something unreal about it. Wooyoung, bare and willing, looking at him over his shoulder with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, like he was already drunk on this — like he’d needed it even more than San had.

And God, San wanted to just take him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the small of Wooyoung’s back — slow, reverent. “You trust me?” he asked, voice low.

Wooyoung nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

San kissed him again, lower this time. “Then let me take care of you.”

He reached for the lotion on his nightstand — don’t ask — and slicked up his fingers, watching the way Wooyoung’s body tensed and then relaxed, like he was already bracing for what was coming.

The first touch made Wooyoung whimper .

San slid one finger between his cheeks, tracing over his hole with gentle pressure before easing in — just the tip, slow and careful.

Wooyoung exhaled shakily. “Fuck…”

San rubbed a hand over his back. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not.” He rocked his hips back, pushing onto San’s hand. “More.”

San didn’t need to be told twice. He slid the first finger in fully, twisting slowly, letting Wooyoung adjust. When the second followed, it was tighter — Wooyoung’s thighs trembled, his breath catching in his throat — but he took it beautifully, back arching with every careful push.

San leaned down, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispered. “So soft, so tight…”

Wooyoung moaned into the pillow, fisting the sheets. “Don’t say stuff like that— fuck —it’s gonna make me cum again.”

San chuckled, voice rough. “That the goal?”

He fucked him open with his fingers slowly, thoroughly — three fingers now, slick and steady, pushing deep and curling just right. Wooyoung was a mess under him, panting, whimpering, hips rocking back in desperate little stutters every time San brushed his prostate.

“ There, ” Wooyoung gasped. “Right there— fuck —San—”

San didn’t stop.

He worked him until Wooyoung’s thighs were shaking, until he was gasping please between every breath, until San could barely hold himself back from cumming just from the sound of him.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, Wooyoung whined like he’d lost something essential.

“You’re ready,” San said, wiping his hand on his underwear, already slicking himself up. “You okay?”

Wooyoung looked over his shoulder, eyes glassy. “ Please, San. I can’t—just—fuck me.”

“I don’t have lube,” San muttered, eyes scanning the nightstand as if something might miraculously appear. “The lotion will have to do.”

He glanced back at Wooyoung, waiting for hesitation. He felt almost guilty — like he should’ve planned for this, even though there was no world where he could’ve predicted this happening in some hotel room thousands of miles from home.

“I don’t have condoms either,” he added. “Didn’t really think I’d be hooking up abroad.”

Wooyoung just looked at him — calm, certain, already pulling his shirt over his head. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, but his voice was steady when he said, “I don’t care.”

San froze.

Wooyoung met his gaze. “We had our health check a few weeks ago. I trust you.” A pause. “I trust you, San. With everything.”

San’s throat tightened. He didn’t say anything — couldn’t — just nodded and started stripping the rest of the way down, tossing his underwear and shirt aside as Wooyoung reached for the hotel pillow and shoved it beneath his chest, lifting himself just enough to angle his hips up.

He looked a little awkward like that — legs spread, back arched in a way that didn’t look comfortable at all — but he didn’t complain. San reached for him, one hand on the dip of his spine, the other brushing sweaty strands of hair off his face.

“Turn your head,” San said, quiet, coaxing. “I want to see you.”

Wooyoung shifted, cheek pressed to the sheets, eyes tilted toward him. Even now — twisted up, stretched out, muscles tense from holding the position — he was beautiful. Unguarded. And he was doing this for him .

San’s chest ached with it.

After rubbing an awfully excessive amount of lotion all over his hard cock, San lined up the tip to Wooyoung’s hole and pushed in slowly, hands firm on Wooyoung’s hips. The stretch made them both gasp — Wooyoung squeezing around him tight and hot, body trembling as San sank deeper, inch by inch, barely holding himself together. Finally, he felt the release of build up pressure deep within him.

“Holy shit, ” San groaned.

Wooyoung couldn’t even speak. Just nodded fast, grinding back, needing more .

San started moving — slow, deep thrusts that built into something harder, sharper, rougher. Wooyoung took it all, head down, hands fisted in the blankets, moaning shamelessly with every slap of skin.

San leaned over him, biting at his shoulder, dragging a hand up to grab his throat — not squeezing, just holding, grounding him there.

Wooyoung sobbed his name. “San—don’t stop—please, don’t stop, don’t stop —”

San looked up for a second — caught their reflection in the mirror across the room.

And nearly lost it.

Wooyoung was wrecked , back arched, face flushed, tears in his eyes, biting his own wrist to muffle the sounds he couldn’t hold back. San’s cock disappearing into him over and over, his own mouth open, sweat dripping down his chest.

“ Look at yourself,” San growled, hand tightening just slightly on Wooyoung’s throat. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Wooyoung looked — and his mouth dropped open, a choked sound tearing from his throat.

San rocked into him again, slow and steady, watching every twitch of his face, drinking in every sound like it was sacred.

San didn’t last long like that — buried deep, moving slowly, watching Wooyoung fall apart under him with his face turned just enough for San to see every little reaction. It was too much in the best way. He wanted more. Wanted all of him.

“Turn around for me,” San breathed, hand sliding up Wooyoung’s back, gentle even though his body was shaking with restraint. “I wanna see you.”

Wooyoung whimpered, nodding, shifting his hips to let San slip out with a wet, reluctant drag. San helped him roll over, pushed the pillow aside, kissed the tip of his nose like he couldn’t help himself. Wooyoung looked ruined — hair wild, skin flushed, thighs trembling — but he still reached for San with those shaking hands, pulling him down into a kiss that was more tongue than anything else.

San groaned into it, lining himself back up, and pushed in again — easier now, slick and practiced, but somehow even more intense like this, with Wooyoung spread open beneath him. San braced himself on one elbow, the other hand gripping Wooyoung’s thigh, and started moving, slow and deep.

Wooyoung wrapped around him instantly — arms looped around San’s neck, legs curling over his hips, like he couldn’t stand to be even an inch apart. The way he clung made San’s heart hurt — not from fear or pain, but from how full it felt. Like he was finally where he belonged.

And the way Wooyoung looked at him — wide eyes, pupils blown, mouth parted in the softest little moans — made San feel like he was being worshipped . Like every stroke, every press of their bodies, meant more than just pleasure.

San kissed him — messy, open-mouthed, desperate. Let their moans tangle. Let Wooyoung taste every filthy sound he pulled from him. Their bodies moved in sync, San grinding deep, fucking him slow but hard, chasing that edge but savoring it too. Every time he pulled out, Wooyoung clenched around him, breath hitching, begging under his breath for more.

San didn’t mean to speed up.

But the way Wooyoung wrapped around him — clung to him like he’d die without the weight of San’s body keeping him grounded. The way his nails dragged down San’s back, leaving stinging, perfect trails. The way he moaned right into his mouth with every deep thrust… it undid him.

Completely.

San growled low in his throat and adjusted his hips, pulling back enough to fuck into him hard, deep, relentless. The shift in pace made Wooyoung gasp , eyes flying open, jaw dropping around a high, breathless moan.

“S-San—!”

He couldn’t even form a sentence. Couldn’t do anything but feel . The slap of skin on skin echoed in the room, filthy and loud, mixed with the wet squelch of each thrust and the way Wooyoung was just whimpering now, voice cracking around every sound.

San was sweating, panting, his entire body working over Wooyoung’s like he couldn’t get close enough. Every thrust punched a moan out of Wooyoung’s chest. He was trembling again, his legs locked around San’s waist, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God, you’re so tight ,” San groaned, fucking into him harder, faster now, barely able to hold back anymore. “You sound so fucking good , baby—fuck.”

And Wooyoung was loud — wrecked, raw, shameless . Moaning San’s name over and over, biting at his shoulder, his throat, anywhere he could reach. He was leaking between them again, his cock wet and twitching, untouched.

“I-I’m—fuck, I think I’m gonna—” Wooyoung gasped, voice cracking.

San didn’t slow down. If anything, he fucked him harder , lifting Wooyoung’s hips just a little to drive in even deeper. Wooyoung screamed his name, body jerking under him, thighs clenching.

And then he was cumming again — no warning, no hands — just a helpless cry and a burst of slick heat between their bodies, smearing across their stomachs. He came so hard he shook, his whole body going taut, back arching like he’d been electrocuted.

San swore , head falling forward, barely holding himself back from cumming right then and there.

“Fuck, look at you,” he panted, voice nearly unrecognizable. “You came untouched— Jesus , Woo—”

Wooyoung was a mess — still gasping, eyes wet, face slack with pleasure. He didn’t even seem able to process words anymore. Just kept clinging to San like he couldn’t tell where he ended and San began.

Their skin was slick, the air thick with sex and heat and them . San didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when Wooyoung was still twitching under him, still grinding up to meet every filthy thrust, chasing every aftershock like he needed it.

The sounds between them were obscene now — wet and hot and fast, the squelch of lotion and sweat and cum, the smack of their bodies connecting over and over again, the constant stream of choked moans and gasps and broken pleads.

San kissed him again, deep and desperate, swallowing every sound.

He was close.

So fucking close.

And he wanted to fall apart inside him.

San was shaking .

Every thrust now was pure instinct — deep, fast, unforgiving — like his body had taken over, chasing the edge with no way to stop. Wooyoung was still so tight around him, still twitching from his second orgasm, his legs locked tight around San’s waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Fuck— fuck , baby, I’m—” San rasped, voice cracking at the edges. He could feel it building — pressure low and heavy in his spine, his muscles locking, the heat climbing fast and unstoppable.

He looked down at Wooyoung — eyes hazy and glassy, lips swollen from kissing, mouth parted like he couldn’t catch his breath — and it hit him. That face. That trust. That blissed-out, wrecked look he wore only for him .

San groaned, deep and guttural, and buried himself to the hilt, grinding down once, twice—

And then he came.

Hard.

His whole body tensed as the orgasm tore through him, hot and blinding, spilling inside Wooyoung in thick pulses. He moaned into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, shaking as he emptied himself, hips twitching with every wave. It was too much — too intimate, too good — his vision went white around the edges, his heart racing so fast it hurt.

San let out a choked noise, hips rolling one last time, pushing everything he had into him, until he was completely spent.

He collapsed with a soft grunt, catching himself on trembling arms before he could crush Wooyoung entirely. Their skin stuck together, the heat between them sticky and overwhelming, but neither of them moved right away.

They just breathed.

San’s head dropped to Wooyoung’s shoulder, still panting, body buzzing, his cum slowly seeping out around where they were still connected.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured against Wooyoung’s skin. “That was—”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung said, smiling, sounding completely gone . “I know.”

San turned his face, kissed the side of Wooyoung’s jaw, then his cheek, slow and soft. It wasn’t about lust anymore. Not now. Now it was just them , tangled up, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.

It took them a minute to move.

“Hey,” San murmured, brushing a hand over his cheek. “You okay?”

Wooyoung blinked up at him, dazed. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, I’m… fuck. Yeah.”

San slipped out of him slowly, and the sound it made was obscene — wet, messy, unmistakable.

Wooyoung groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “God,” he said, voice muffled. “I can feel it leaking out. That’s disgusting.”

San let out a breathless laugh, grabbing the edge of the blanket and wiping himself down with the least ruined corner. “You didn’t seem to think that when you were begging me to fuck you raw,” he muttered, looking over at him.

Wooyoung was completely wrecked — legs still spread, hair clinging to his forehead, sweat drying on flushed skin, come splattered across his stomach.

He looked fucking beautiful .

“I thought you would pull out ,” Wooyoung said, peeling the pillow away and half-glaring at him. There was no real anger in it — just the same softness that had lingered behind his eyes all morning. “Now I’ve got cum in my ass, San.”

San grinned and tossed the blanket to the floor, then grabbed one of the hotel towels. “Yeah, and now I owe you. You’ll be milking that one for weeks.”

“Obviously.”

Still, he cleaned Wooyoung up with careful hands, moving gently, not rushing. Wooyoung let him — eyes fluttering half-closed, body too warm and loose to protest anymore. He winced once, shifting with a small hiss, and San immediately pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Wooyoung just hummed, letting his hand rest on San’s arm. “You’re forgiven.”

When he was clean enough — still sticky in places, but not dripping — San finally climbed back up beside him. He opened his arms, and Wooyoung immediately curled into them, no hesitation.

San pulled him close, tucking Wooyoung’s head under his chin and wrapping both arms around him, like his body already knew how to hold him like this.

They lay together in the soft quiet, skin to skin, their heartbeats still evening out. Wooyoung's fingers traced light lines across San’s chest, and San kissed the top of his head, then his temple, then his cheek.

Wooyoung tilted his face up, eyes barely open, and San kissed his mouth — slow and lingering, tasting the sweat and heat and sweetness still there.

Then again.

And again.

Wooyoung smiled into it, lazy and content, and kissed him back just as much. Their mouths moved like they couldn’t stop, like they’d finally found a rhythm they never wanted to break.

“I like this,” Wooyoung whispered, eyes soft and unguarded. “Being like this with you.”

San’s chest tightened. He kissed the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth and held him tighter.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

No pressure. No labels. Just them — sticky and tangled up, kissed raw, with the weight of something real settling over them like a blanket.

* * *

The group interview was supposed to be routine — simple questions, polished answers, a few laughs here and there. But Wooyoung was not having it.

From the moment they sat down, he was giggly — the kind of breathless, can't-keep-still energy that made the quietest corner of the room feel like it might burst. His foot tapped relentlessly under the chair, knees bouncing, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Even the interviewer noticed.

The chair was the worst part.

Every time Wooyoung shifted, the sting in his thighs reminded him — vividly, intimately — of everything they’d done that morning. And maybe after that, too, when San had pulled him into the shower after a shared breakfast like he hadn’t already ruined him once.

And now?

Now he was in a folding chair on the loudest set of the week, cameras flashing, stylists darting in and out between questions, a mic clipped to his shirt collar… and San was sitting directly next to him. Relaxed. Hands folded politely in his lap. Not sore at all .

“Wooyoung,” the interviewer said, “you’ve been smiling a lot today. Is it the good weather, or is something exciting happening?” The interviewer probably looked for a little spoiler about their upcoming activities, using Wooyoung excitement as means to get it. But Wooyoung just choked on a laugh.

Next to him, San looked sideways with a knowing tilt of his head. “He’s just in a great mood.”

That was it. Just six harmless words.

But Wooyoung’s face lit up like a warning sign.

Yunho, two seats down, stared . Jongho leaned forward a little, catching the exchange. Mingi shot Yeosang a look that said: Did they finally? Yeosang, bless his soul, just blinked and tried to stay focused on the cue cards.

Wooyoung coughed. Cleared his throat. “I, uh—yeah. Great mood. Happy to be here.”

San leaned back in his chair, absolutely smug.

Wooyoung couldn’t sit still. He tried crossing his legs — bad idea. Tried straightening his spine — worse . Every move made him more aware of the dull ache lingering deep in his hips and lower back. Every time he made eye contact with San, he had to look away again immediately.

The camera crew started adjusting lighting and asking them to “look at each other and laugh naturally” for B-roll.

“Oh no,” Wooyoung muttered under his breath.

San turned toward him easily, resting his chin in his hand. “You’re not gonna make it through this, are you?”

Wooyoung smiled. Or tried to. “Shut up.”

“What was that?” the photographer asked.

“Nothing,” Wooyoung said quickly. “I just—he’s annoying!”

But San was already laughing, that laugh — the deep one, with teeth and dimples that made his eyes disappear, far too pleased with himself.

Wooyoung giggled helplessly.

Mingi leaned in from his other side. “Okay. What happened? ”

“Nothing!” Wooyoung squeaked, very well aware that there were mics attached to them, capturing every single word.

“Are you blushing?” Yunho gasped, eyes wide. “Is Wooyoung blushing?”

Wooyoung made a sound that definitely wasn’t safe for broadcast, immediately pulling himself together.

“Take five!” the director called.

“Actually, take ten,” their manager said, head not lifting from his phone. “But be ready for hair and make-up touch ups soon. Go, go,” he dismissed them with a wave of his arm.

A break. Not just from shooting, but also the crew. Brilliant — just what Wooyoung needed.

Wooyoung shot out of his seat too fast and hissed under his breath. “Fuck—bad idea, bad idea—”

San stood up slowly, smirking, and clapped him on the back, turning off his mic with a single switch. “Need help walking?”

“San,” Wooyoung said dangerously.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

San didn’t.

But he did wrap an arm around Wooyoung’s waist while they walked off-set, leaning down to whisper against his ear, “You’re not gonna sit properly for days, baby.”

And Wooyoung — red-faced, smiling, and utterly gone — didn’t even try to deny it.

They barely made it back to the waiting room before the teasing started again. The staff sitting there took the hint, leaving the members alone, letting them have their well-deserved few minutes of peace.

Jongho, deadpan as always, spoke first: “So. Are you walking like that on purpose or…”

“Fuck off,” Wooyoung snapped, plopping onto the couch with all the grace of a car crash and immediately regretting it. He winced — just slightly — and shifted in his seat, hoping no one noticed.

They did.

“Oh my god ,” Mingi breathed, wide-eyed. “That wasn’t a joke? You’re actually—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Wooyoung warned, jabbing a finger at him.

Across the room, Yeosang was scrolling on his phone like he didn’t care, but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away. “So when did it happen? Before the interview? Or is that… left over from last night?”

“Yeosang,” San said warningly, but he was grinning too.

Wooyoung threw a pillow at him. “You’re no help!”

“I’m not the one who showed up at call time glowing like a trophy wife,” San said.

“ Glowing? ” Yunho echoed, scandalized and delighted. “ Oh, he said glowing— ”

“Okay, okay,” Hongjoong cut in, stepping in like some kind of responsible adult. “I think it’s time we have a conversation.”

All heads turned.

Wooyoung looked like he might actually burst into flames. “Hyung. No.”

But Hongjoong had already adopted his leader voice . “Listen, I don’t need details. But if this is becoming a thing, we should talk about boundaries, about discretion, about—”

“Joong,” Seonghwa interrupted gently.

“What?”

Seonghwa nodded toward the couch, where Wooyoung was curled against the armrest and San had slouched next to him, their shoulders pressed together, pinkies hooked without thinking.

Wooyoung was pretending to be annoyed — still swatting Mingi off, still muttering death threats under his breath — but he hadn’t stopped smiling. Not once.

And San kept looking at him like he’d won something.

“Just look at them,” Seonghwa said, smiling. “They’re fine.”

Hongjoong sighed like a father outnumbered in his own household. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if one of you leaves a hickey where it shows, I will hold a full PowerPoint presentation on professionalism.”

“Noted,” San said, resting his head back against the couch, smirking.

No one said it out loud. Not exactly .

No one said “together” or “dating” or “finally.”

But when Wooyoung laughed — really laughed — and San turned to look at him like there was nothing else in the room, no one had to.

They all just knew .