Archive of Our Own ^beta

“What do you think?” Wooyoung’s voice is soft, almost lazy, but the mischief woven through it draws a faint, unwilling smile from San.

San shivers, though not from the cold. His bare back is pressed to Wooyoung’s chest, the rhythm of the younger man’s breathing tracing slow, steady patterns against his spine. A sigh escapes him, fogging the air in the dimness. “Think y’should go back to sleep, babydoll,” he murmurs, words slurred with drowsiness, the pet name slipping from his lips like a secret he’s too tired to hide. His eyes flutter half-shut, lashes trembling against his cheeks, and his mouth is soft and swollen from too many unhurried kisses in the dark hours before dawn.

Wooyoung only hums in response—a low, amused sound that vibrates through San’s bones. He shifts closer, chin finding the slope of San’s shoulder, pressing in until the curve of his jaw digs in just enough to make San groan. It’s not pain he feels, but the insistence of presence—the heavy, tender kind that demands to be noticed. Wooyoung’s hands wander, mapping the shape of San’s small waist beneath the quilt, tracing warmth into his skin as if to mark the moment there.

“It’s my birthday,” Wooyoung whispers, voice a shade of laughter and longing all at once. His breath ghosts over San’s ear, carrying the faint sweetness of sleep. “Gotta do whatever I want.”

San exhales through his nose, a half-hearted protest forming somewhere between affection and surrender. Wooyoung’s birthday has to be one of his favorite days out of the whole year—though he’d never admit it aloud. There’s something about it that softens him, makes him want to indulge every whim, every mischievous spark in those dark, clever eyes. Obviously, he’s willing to do whatever the hell Wooyoung asks for, but it’s not even midnight yet; the clock on the nightstand still hums softly toward the promise of morning, its red digits blinking 11:38, 11:39—time slipping quietly past.

San blinks against the dark, heavy-lidded, the edge of sleep still tugging at him. The world beyond their window is painted in muted shades of blue and grey—November’s breath curling against the glass, frost etching faint silver veins across the corners. The hum of the city has quieted into something tender, like even time itself has decided to move slower tonight.

“Not midnight,” San murmurs, voice thick, nearly swallowed by the pillow. His words tremble on a yawn, one hand emerging from beneath the quilt to find Wooyoung’s fingers and still them. “You can’t start pullin’ birthday privileges early, that’s cheating.”

Wooyoung laughs softly, the sound muffled against San’s shoulder. “You’re just saying that because you know I’ll win.”

San huffs, not quite a laugh but close. His breath leaves a faint warmth against the chill in the air. “You always do,” he admits, the words a lazy confession. His body is pliant, warm against Wooyoung’s; he feels his pulse where their wrists touch, feels the steady thrum of a heartbeat that has long ago become his favorite sound.

The quilt rustles faintly as Wooyoung shifts, his hand slipping higher to splay across San’s stomach. His palm is warm—too warm—and San shivers at the contact. 

Wooyoung notices it immediately; the faint twitch of San’s shoulders, the way his breath stutters before settling again. His smile curves slow against the nape of San’s neck, his words a murmur that threads through the dark. “Cold?”

San hums in answer, but it’s a sound made of warmth, not chill. The air in the room carries the brittle edge of early snowfall, yet beneath the quilt, their heat gathers and folds between them like a secret. The world outside could freeze solid, and still, Wooyoung would be too warm.

“Not cold,” San finally whispers, his voice a rasp softened by sleep. “You’re just… too close.”

“Too close,” Wooyoung repeats, amused. His hand spreads over San’s stomach, the heel of his palm pressing lightly into the curve of his waist. “Didn’t know there was such a thing.”

San shivers again—small, involuntary, betraying him. The hand doesn’t move away; it lingers, tracing idle shapes that burn more than they soothe. Wooyoung’s touch isn’t greedy, but reverent in its persistence, as though he’s relearning San’s body through the hush of dawn.

“You’re warm,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice brushing low against San’s ear. “You always are.”

The words melt into the air between them, half confession, half praise. San breathes out slowly, feeling every place they touch—his back against Wooyoung’s chest, the drag of a fingertip at his side, the faint scrape of a jaw grazing his shoulder.

“You talk too much,” San mutters, though the protest is ruined by the way his voice catches at the end.

Wooyoung smiles, his breath ghosting over the curve of San’s throat. “And you like it when I do.”

San’s breath stutters. The words hit somewhere low in his stomach, coiling heat where there had only been the soft blur of drowsiness a moment ago. His lashes flutter, a futile attempt to keep the sleep-heavy haze from giving way to something else—something sharper, hungrier.

“Mm,” he hums, pretending disinterest, though the sound is faint, unconvincing. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Wooyoung’s tone is featherlight, innocent only in rhythm. His fingers flex slightly where they rest, then slide upward—slowly, deliberately—until his palm lies just beneath San’s ribs. He feels the rise and fall of San’s breath there, shallow now, careful. “You said I could have whatever I want.”

San’s eyes open halfway. The faint light from the window spills in silver streaks across the sheets, catching on the edges of Wooyoung’s hand as it moves. “You’re gonna use that against me all day, huh?”

“All night, too,” Wooyoung says, a quiet promise disguised as a tease. His nose drags against San’s neck, breath pooling warm against his skin.

San exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Greedy.”

The quilt shifts as Wooyoung pulls him closer, until there’s no space left between them—just heat and heartbeat, the soft tangle of limbs under the weight of the late hour. San can feel the steady thrum of Wooyoung’s pulse against his back, feel the faint scrape of his teeth grazing the skin just below his ear.

“Wooyoung-ah,” he warns, though it sounds nothing like one. His voice has gone low, unsteady.

Wooyoung hums against his throat. “What?”

San turns slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him—messy hair, eyes half-lidded and gleaming with mischief even in the dim light. “You’re impossible.”

Wooyoung grins, unrepentant. “And you love me for it.”

San doesn’t argue. He can’t. The silence stretches, intimate and heavy, until Wooyoung’s thumb strokes once over his stomach, the touch languid but deliberate. It sends a shiver chasing up San’s spine, and Wooyoung feels it—of course he does—and laughs softly into his shoulder.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, words sliding slow, coaxing. “That’s you. You always pretend you don’t want me this close.”

San swallows, his throat dry. The air feels thicker now, the room smaller. “You’re just fishin’ for trouble.”

Wooyoung’s smile deepens against his skin. “It’s my birthday. I’m allowed.”

And before San can reply, Wooyoung presses his mouth to the curve of his shoulder—barely a kiss, more of a claim—and San goes utterly still. The sound that leaves him isn’t quite a sigh, isn’t quite a groan, but it’s enough to make Wooyoung’s breath catch in satisfaction.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung whispers through a grin, lips ghosting along the line of his neck, voice breaking into something rougher now. “That’s what I want.”

San exhales, slow and shaky, the sound slipping out of him before he can hold it back. The air feels thick—like it’s made of the same warmth pressing against his skin, the same pulse that thrums through both their bodies. His fingers curl instinctively around the edge of the quilt, knuckles whitening, but he doesn’t move away. He can’t.

“Wooyoung…” His name falls quiet, drawn out in that soft, warning tone that never means stop. It only ever means careful—as if Wooyoung has ever been anything but.

“I’m being good,” Wooyoung murmurs, the words vibrating against San’s skin. His lips trail down the side of San’s neck, across the splattering of freckles, slow enough to make him shiver. “Barely touchin’ you.”

“That’s the problem,” San breathes, the sound coming out smaller than he intends.

Wooyoung chuckles, a low, pleased sound that curls through the dark. “Thought you liked it.”

San lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, but it falters when Wooyoung’s hand moves again—up, then down, the heel of his palm pressing into his stomach before slipping lower, just enough to make San’s breath catch. Every motion feels unhurried, unspoken, the kind of intimacy that comes from knowing someone too well.

“See?” Wooyoung murmurs. “You’re already shaking.”

San’s lashes flutter, his throat working soundlessly for a second. He doesn’t have an answer—just the rhythm of his breathing, uneven and heavy, the faint tremor running through his body that betrays him. Wooyoung feels it, hears it, feeds on it.

“Always so easy for me,” he says softly, his mouth brushing the shell of San’s ear. “Doesn’t even take much.”

“Young-ah,” San tries again, but the sound of it turns into a quiet gasp when Wooyoung’s teeth graze the place just below his jaw, careful and tender all at once. The scrape sends a flash of heat down his spine.

“You say my name like that,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice gone husky, “and you expect me to stop?”

San swallows hard. His pulse hammers where Wooyoung’s lips linger. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he manages, though the words sound thin, half-lost.

“I’d rather have you.”

It’s the simplicity of it that undoes him. Not the tone, not the teasing edge that Wooyoung always uses, but the quiet, unguarded truth underneath. The kind that seeps through everything, like light through a crack in the dark.

San turns in his arms, finally facing him. The quilt shifts around them, falling low enough for the cold air to find the edges of their skin. Wooyoung’s face is close, too close—his breath brushing San’s mouth, eyes dark and soft in the half-light.

The silence between them hums, a living thing—warm, fragile, threaded through with breath. Wooyoung’s face is only inches away now, close enough for San to see the faint shadows of sleep clinging beneath his eyes, the soft curve of a smirk he’s too tired to hide.

San’s chest rises and falls against his, the air between them thick with quiet wanting. He should move—say something, pull back, breathe—but he doesn’t. Can’t.

Wooyoung tilts his head, just slightly, until their noses brush. The touch is featherlight, a whisper of contact that makes San’s breath hitch. “What are you thinkin’ about?” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice low and roughened by sleep.

San almost laughs. He isn’t thinking at all. Everything has gone slow and hazy, like the world has been dipped in honey. “You,” he says, barely a sound.

A small smile tugs at Wooyoung’s lips. “Good answer.”

The kiss that follows is slow—almost hesitant, as though neither of them wants to break the spell they’ve accidentally spun around themselves. It tastes like warmth and sleep, like something that belongs to the hour between night and morning. Wooyoung’s mouth is soft against his, coaxing rather than taking, and San feels the shiver crawl up his spine before he can suppress it.

When they part, the air feels different. He can hear everything—the tick of the clock, the hush of the city outside, the faint rustle of the quilt where their bodies move. Wooyoung’s hand finds the edge of his jaw, thumb tracing a languid path along the curve of his throat before settling against his pulse.

San’s eyes flutter open, and by chance, or maybe not, they flick toward the nightstand.

11:59.

The red digits glow faintly in the dark, a small, steady heartbeat against the shadows. He blinks once, then twice, watching the seconds shift. Wooyoung doesn’t seem to notice; he’s still watching San with that quiet intensity that always undoes him, that gentle, knowing half-smile that says he’s aware of exactly what he’s doing.

The clock hums softly. The seconds slip past. And then, with a small click, the numbers turn over.

12:00.

San feels the breath leave him in a slow exhale, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns his head slightly, just enough to meet Wooyoung’s gaze, close enough that their foreheads almost touch.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, the words brushing against Wooyoung’s lips like a secret meant for no one else.

A sleepy, crooked smile makes it way onto Wooyoung’s lips, and San can feel the heat behind it, the subtle excitement of being celebrated in a way that’s theirs alone. “Thank you, Sannie.”

San’s chest tightens at the pet name, a faint rush of warmth curling low in his stomach. “Of course,” he murmurs, tilting his head to brush a soft kiss against Wooyoung’s temple. “Gotta make sure my birthday boy’s satisfied.”

Wooyoung hums in response, low and wet, a sound that vibrates through San’s chest. His hands, restless even in their sleepy haze, slide along San’s sides, fingertips dragging along ribs, over the curve of his waist, causing shivers that make him melt into the touch. “Hmm… Sannie,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice thick, husky, playful. “You feel so good—right here,” he says, palm pressing lightly into the small of San’s back, pulling him closer, teasing the bare skin exposed by the quilt slipping.

San’s breath hitches when Wooyoung’s hand drifts lower again, fingers brushing over the curve of his hip, coaxing a shiver from the pit of his stomach. “Wooyoungie,” he breathes, warning mixed with want, a faint tremor threading through his voice.

“Mm?” Wooyoung replies, tilting his head so his lips brush the hollow beneath San’s jaw. “You like that, don’t you? My hands everywhere. Holding you, marking you.”

San swallows hard, feeling the heat pooling low, his body responding before his mind catches up. “Stop talking,” he mutters, but it’s soft and broken, barely a request.

“But I like the way it gets you,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice husky, fingers tracing slow, deliberate lines along San’s waist. He leans in closer, lips brushing against San’s neck again, teasing, gentle, claiming, a rhythm that makes San tilt into him without thinking.

San melts against him, body heavy with a drowsy, pliant need. His limbs feel leaden, but every nerve hums with the exquisite tension Wooyoung is drawing out. The quilt has long since fallen to the floor, forgotten, leaving San exposed and soft. He’s half-asleep, half-hungry, entirely vulnerable, and Wooyoung senses it immediately—every subtle shiver, every shallow breath, every twitch of muscle that betrays how thoroughly he’s already undone.

Wooyoung’s lips trail over the slope of San’s shoulder again, slow, teasing, fingers tracing lazy, tantalizing circles along his waist, hips, inner thighs. San groans softly, muffled into the curve of his collarbone, body trembling with want and fatigue. “Youngie, don’t—ah—” The words stumble out, half warning, half plea, completely undone by the languid worship of Wooyoung’s hands and mouth.

Wooyoung hums low and approving, the sound vibrating through San’s chest like a slow, deliberate drumbeat. His teeth graze the tender hollow beneath San’s ear, tugging lightly, nipping just enough to make him shiver violently. The sensation is featherlight and maddening all at once, a teasing spark of pain and pleasure that coils tight inside him. “Sound so pretty, baby,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice rough, husky, laced with quiet amusement. “So easy to make you feel like this.”

San arches instinctively into him, hips tilting upward with a soft, needy whine that slips from his lips before he can stop it. Every touch—the brush of teeth, the sweep of lips, the teasing drag of fingers—sends sparks skittering through him, igniting a slow-burning warmth that curls low, heavy, making his stomach twist and coil in delicious frustration. His hands drift up to clutch Wooyoung’s back, nails scraping lightly along taut muscle, pulling him closer, as though proximity alone could quiet the ache pooling deep between his legs.

Wooyoung shifts slowly, letting the subtle change in weight draw San’s attention. His body hovers over him for a heartbeat, chest brushing against San’s, and in the dim glow of the room his gaze is dark, unreadable, almost predatory, yet threaded with an intimacy that keeps San’s pulse hammering. Then, carefully, Wooyoung guides him onto his back, moving like he’s carrying a fragile, treasured thing. The mattress sighs softly beneath them, a quiet counterpoint to the rapid, uneven rhythm of San’s heartbeat.

San’s back presses into the sheets, taut muscles quivering, nerves strung tight, every inch of skin alive to Wooyoung’s nearness. He can feel the faint scrape of hair across his collarbone, the heat of Wooyoung’s chest over his, the weight and warmth of a body that knows him, knows exactly how to push and pull without crossing into pain.

San shivers violently, hips lifting instinctively, arching into the relentless attention. The air feels thick around him, every brush of Wooyoung’s lips sending shivers cascading down his spine. He can feel the heat spreading fast as Wooyoung’s mouth moves lower, worshiping, licking, kissing, teasing every inch of him with calculated, languid precision. Fingers trail along his hips, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath his sweatpants, teasing just enough to make him tilt, rock, desperate for more contact.

“Fuck, Youngie,” San gasps, voice broken, raw, ragged with want. Every word trembles on the edge of desperation, carried by the heat pooling low in his belly. His hips press upward instinctively, seeking friction, needing it, pushing against the teasing barrier of Wooyoung’s hand as though the contact alone could set him alight. “Please—ah, please just—”

Wooyoung doesn’t rush. He lets the moment stretch, a predator savoring his prey, lips brushing over the sensitive curve of San’s inner thighs, teasing the tip of his cock through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. He lets the slick, warm wetness coat his fingers slowly, every motion measured to draw out the ache twisting inside San, to make him hover on the edge of want and despair. “Hm,” he murmurs, low and thick, voice dripping with amusement and desire. “You’re already this needy?”

San whines, a high, soft sound that shatters into the air, body trembling beneath the deliberate torment. Every nerve hums with anticipation, every muscle tightens with need, and he clutches at Wooyoung’s shoulders as the younger leans down, capturing his mouth in a searing, claiming kiss. Tongues slide, teeth brush, breath mingles—every second of contact setting his pulse racing, making him writhe helplessly, grinding against the teasing friction of Wooyoung’s fingers.

Then Wooyoung moves. The shift is slow, calculated, heavy with intent, as he slides fully onto San’s cock, straddling him with a weight that presses deep into his chest. The fabric of his shorts does nothing to dull the friction, every inch of contact burning, drawing soft cries and ragged gasps from San’s parted lips. His hands clutch at Wooyoung’s hips, nails digging in, rocking up, pressing desperately to meet the measured, powerful motion above him. Each grind, each drag of weight against him, sends shivers racing through his body, a cascade of heat and pressure that makes his vision blur slightly.

“You feel so good,” Wooyoung murmurs into his ear, voice rough and husky, teasing, possessive. He grinds on him with a slow, torturous rhythm, hips rolling deliberately, guiding San with both control and need. San’s back arches, lifting off the sheets as his cries become broken, breathless, wet moans, every nerve alight, trembling uncontrollably. Wooyoung leans down, lips grazing the slope of his neck, kissing along the collarbone, trailing lower, leaving a path of fire in his wake, unhurried.

San’s legs tangle around Wooyoung’s hips, pulling him closer, trying to lock their bodies together as the sensations build, pulse racing, heat pooling unbearably low. Every press, every roll, every grind sends him higher, closer to the edge he’s been aching toward, a delicious torment that makes him lose himself entirely. Words have abandoned him—only cries, moans, and broken whimpers escape, soaking the quiet of the late night with need.

San shudders violently, hips lifting against the teasing friction, eyes fluttering shut as a high, ragged moan tears from his throat. His sweatpants are soaked, heat settling against the fabric, slick and clinging, and he can feel the tight, desperate coil finally snapping. A shiver of release floods him, spilling over in trembling waves, his cock pulsing hot and leaking against the thin barrier, drenching the fabric.

Wooyoung freezes for a heartbeat, lips brushing the shell of San’s ear, then chuckles low, teasing, reverent, almost breathless. “Shit—did you just come?” he questions, voice thick with amusement and want. “So fucking messy, Sannie.” His grin presses against the sensitive skin of San’s neck, and the words, sharp and intimate, make San’s breath hitch again, even in the haze of his release.

He whines, head tilting back into the pillows, neck arched, lips parted in a soft, trembling gasp. His body shudders violently, slick with sweat, still pulsing from the overstimulation, every nerve alight and craving more. 

“Youngie… I—” His voice cracks, ragged and broken, swallowed almost immediately by the tight, desperate coil of his need. “‘M sorry, I just—” Fingers dig into Wooyoung’s shoulders, nails scratching against the taut skin, leaving shallow trails as if he could anchor himself to the only thing keeping him upright in the dizzy blur of sensation.

Wooyoung’s low, approving chuckle vibrates through him, warm and predatory. His lips brush along the curve of San’s neck, teeth grazing lightly, tugging just enough to elicit a shiver that races from spine to toes. “You’re unreal, baby,” he murmurs, voice husky with want, fingers dragging slow paths along San’s stomach, tracing the taut lines of his hips. He slips beneath the waistband just enough to feel the slick heat coating San’s skin.

San’s chest rises and falls raggedly, every nerve screaming for more. His hips twitch, thrusting upward instinctively against Wooyoung’s teasing hand, grinding into the friction, chasing sparks of pleasure that curl low and fierce. “Youngie… please,” his voice breaks into a high, shaky moan, thin and tremulous, somewhere between pleading and surrender, as his nails dig harder, raking down Wooyoung’s back, leaving shallow red marks, desperate to anchor himself as his body trembles under the slow, torturous touch.

Wooyoung leans closer, forehead pressing against San’s temple, lips brushing over the sensitive skin, teeth grazing the delicate line beneath his jaw. His eyes gleam dark in the dim light, unreadable yet feral. “Hm. You’re lucky it’s late, and I feel nice,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers under the waistband again, teasing just enough to feel the warmth slick and pulsing. “Otherwise, you’d be in trouble, San-ah.”

San whimpers, body arching instinctively, legs wriggling to wrap around Wooyoung’s hips, pressing into the teasing friction as if trying to fuse their bodies. His moans are ragged, raw, breaking over each other in a wet, desperate chorus. He claws down Wooyoung’s back, nails digging in, catching on muscle, leaving red streaks as he shivers violently. “Wooyoungie, don’t tease—please, I can’t—” The words crumble into a breathless, broken whine, utterly undone by the deliberate, measured torment of Wooyoung’s hands and mouth.

Wooyoung’s lips curve into a slow, predatory smile against the side of San’s neck, teeth grazing and tugging just enough to make him gasp, shuddering in surrender. Finally, he peels the sweatpants down, letting the cool air kiss his glistening, leaking cock, slick and swollen, catching the dim light in a sheen of need.

Wooyoung leans down, lips brushing the tip of San’s cock with featherlight teasing, teeth grazing the sensitive head just enough to make San arch violently, a sharp, ragged cry tearing from his throat. “Fucking hell, Youngie—” he gasps, nails digging deep into Wooyoung’s shoulders, leaving shallow crescents of red, shivering as his hips jerk upward instinctively.

Wooyoung hums in satisfaction, dragging his mouth down slowly, deliberately, licking the hot, leaking length, savoring every inch, letting the sharp scrape of his teeth graze the sensitive ridge beneath the tip. San’s cries grow higher, more desperate, a raw chorus of need that fills the small room. He presses his thighs against Wooyoung’s shoulders instinctively, trying to pull him closer even as every tease of tongue and teeth twists heat deeper, coiling tighter low in his belly.

“You’re so fuckin’ good like this,” Wooyoung murmurs against him, voice rough and husky, teasing as he laps at the come gathering at the tip, dragging it up slowly with a flick of his tongue. He bites gently at the shaft, tugging softly, the motion enough to make San shiver, trembling against the sheets. “So messy… so perfect,” he whispers, trailing a finger along the trail of wetness, flicking it across San’s lower belly, smearing what’s already there in slow, deliberate strokes.

Wooyoung’s mouth closes around the tip again, gentle but insistent, dragging it into his mouth just enough to feel the slick warmth coat his tongue. San arches, hips pressing up reflexively, a sharp, strangled whine slipping past his lips. His hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, and then find Wooyoung’s hair, tugging softly, almost pleadingly, as if to say don’t stop, don’t stop, please.

Wooyoung pulls back slowly, lips glistening with San’s slick, gaze dark and heavy with intent. He shifts just enough to slide the fabric of his shorts down over his hips, discarding the last barrier between them with a teasing flourish. San’s chest rises and falls, breath ragged, pulse hammering, eyes half-lidded and hooded with need. Every inch of skin exposed to the dim moonlight feels electric under Wooyoung’s gaze.

Without hesitation, Wooyoung leans down again, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of San’s inner thighs, marking and teasing, dragging small bites along the taut, warm skin. San shivers, hips jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, at Wooyoung, anywhere to hold onto something solid as the heat coils tighter. Wooyoung’s fingers trail lazily over the slick trail already smeared across San’s skin, teasing at the entrance just beneath, brushing the sensitive rim of his hole with the slightest pressure.

Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, Wooyoung’s tongue drifts downward, tracing along the curve of San’s thigh until it finds the small, intricate tattoo above his knee—the one they got together, matching, a secret inked in shared skin. He licks over the lines with reverent attention, the tip of his tongue dragging softly across the phrase etched in ink, eliciting a startled gasp from San.

Wooyoung doesn’t stop there. His lips crawl higher again, teeth grazing and nipping at the soft, sensitive skin just beneath San’s hip bones, leaving a trail of dark, bruising hickeys that bloom like petals across pale, moonlight-kissed skin. Each mark is deliberate, possessive, a silent warning and a promise all at once. San’s thighs quiver, hips rocking reflexively as his voice breaks into ragged, desperate whines. “Woo, please—God, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung pauses, lips glistening, teeth stained faintly with desire, eyes lifting to meet San’s. They lock; dark, heavy, predatory, yet molten with intimacy. He watches the tiny shivers, the gasps, the micro-jitters of muscle—every flinch feeding the coiled hunger tightening in his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he drags a finger along San’s slick, heated entrance, teasing, brushing over the sensitive rim just enough to make him quiver violently. Then he pulls back slightly, hovering, letting the moment stretch, long and delicious, until San arches even higher, whimpering, fingers curling desperately into the sheets.

“Look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice low, velvet-dark. “So desperate already… begging before I even touch you properly.” His hand flicks lightly over the rim again, teasing with maddening patience, each motion calculated, making San writhe beneath him. His body says everything: the curve of his back, the flush of his chest, the frantic rise and fall of his breaths. Need is written in every line of him.

Wooyoung leans back slightly, letting San’s pleading gaze follow every movement. Slowly, his hand slides down his own chest, tracing the line of his stomach, fingers brushing over the sheen of arousal, glinting under the pale light. San’s breath hitches, eyes wide, pupils dilated, desperate and unblinking, drinking in the sight like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

Wooyoung groans softly, dragging his fingers over himself in deliberate, teasing strokes, showing San exactly how he wants to be touched, exactly how he wants to feel. The motion is languid, slow enough to make San squirm in need.

“Look at me, Sannie,” he murmurs, voice low and growling, thick with desire. “Watch me get ready for you… watch how tight you make me feel.”

Wooyoung moves deliberately, his movements slow, almost ceremonious. One finger drags along the slick length of himself, tracing it carefully, teasing the sensitive underside before slipping a fingertip inside his own tight hole. He circles it slowly, savoring the friction, the tight heat that coils inside him, coating himself with warmth and slick arousal. Soft groans escape him, low and needy, carried on each careful glide of skin against skin.

His other hand hovers over San, brushing along the curve of his thigh, skimming over the slick rim once, twice, dragging out ragged, desperate whines. San arches instinctively into him, hips lifting, thighs quivering, a shiver running from the small of his back down to the tips of his toes.

San’s hands twitch helplessly, gripping at the sheets, biting down on his bottom lip, desperate to press into Wooyoung, to grasp, to feel, to anchor himself in the rising tide of need—but Wooyoung shifts just slightly out of reach, teasing, patient, letting him watch, letting him ache. Every subtle motion of Wooyoung’s fingers, every groan makes San’s hips tilt, chest rising and falling frantically, trembling beneath him.

“Patience, baby,” he murmurs, voice husky, possessive. “I’m going to make you beg for me first. Gonna make you lose your mind watchin’ me.”

Slowly, he leans closer, lips grazing the sensitive skin of San’s neck, teeth just barely teasing over a fresh, dark hickey. One hand leaves himself, sliding down San’s slick, heated thigh, brushing along the rim with soft, maddening flicks that make San shiver violently. His groans grow sharper, desperate, hands clawing at Wooyoung’s arms, body trembling under the delicious torment. The raw, unfiltered want radiates from him like heat, and Wooyoung drinks it in; every flick, every glide, every moan guiding him.

Finally, when every inch of him is coated, glistening and slick, Wooyoung hovers above San, chest pressing close, his gaze locked on San’s flushed, trembling face. He wraps one hand around the base of San’s cock, steadying him, feeling the heat and pulse beneath his grip, while the other hand braces beside San’s shoulder, grounding himself. He leans in, forehead brushing against San’s, letting the scent of sweat and arousal fill him, and he can see every flicker of anticipation, every shiver running through San’s taut, slick body.

“Please, Youngie… I need you—sit on me. Ride me,” San gasps, voice fracturing with urgent need, each word a tremulous plea teetering on the edge of surrender.

Wooyoung’s grin is slow, dark, and profoundly elated, a private triumph etched across his features. His chest rises and falls with a mix of lust and uncontainable joy, every heartbeat resonating with the raw, palpable desperation coiling and snapping through San’s body. He senses it—the way San’s muscles dissolve under his weight, how his skin is primed and quivering, suspended between agony and rapture. Hesitation evaporates entirely.

With painstaking deliberation, Wooyoung presses himself down, inch by exquisite inch, letting every subtle curve and contour of San’s body greet him fully. The slow intrusion is not just physical—it’s an intimate exploration, a communion of heat, pressure, and desire. Every slick, yielding inch of San enfolds him, wrapping him in a taut, warm embrace that leaves no room for anything beyond this bed, this moment. The sensation is overwhelming: the press of skin against skin, the subtle flex of San’s muscles, the gentle tremors racing along him with each shuddering breath. Every slick, consuming breadth, every quiver of responsive muscle, is a declaration, a possession, a private, sacred claim shared only between them.

“That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Wooyoung murmurs, voice rough, low, possessive, threaded with awe so reverent it almost sounds worshipful. His hands clutch San’s shoulders and ribs, bracing, guiding, grounding them both as he rocks his hips with calculated patience. Each stroke is long, deliberate, measured—a teasing, tantalizing rhythm that draws San ever deeper into a liminal headspace, where thought dissolves, where the world beyond the bed ceases to exist, leaving only sensation, only this fevered, exquisite torment.

San’s cry escapes, high, broken, raw, the sound vibrating through Wooyoung like electricity. It’s a note of surrender so unfiltered it burns a trail through him, setting every nerve on fire. Every quiver, every tremor, every arching curl of San’s back fuels a devouring, intoxicating hunger within Wooyoung—the heady, primal thrill of trust, of complete, utter surrender. San is undone beneath him, and he drinks it in, reveling in the intimate vulnerability laid bare before him.

Wooyoung’s motions unfold with meticulous, almost ritualistic precision. Each slow, tantalizing stroke presses into San’s tight warmth, lingering just enough to prolong the friction, prolong the exquisite tension, prolong the shivers that rock through San with each measured movement. Each gasp, each trembling whine, each soft, strangled moan becomes a note in their shared, private symphony of sensation. Tears gather unbidden in San’s eyes, shimmering on lashes slick with sweat, and Wooyoung can’t look away—can’t stop himself from tracing them with the tip of his finger, from memorizing every flinch, every arch, every tremor as if it were scripture written in flesh.

San’s cries escalate, a crescendo of need and release, a desperate, aching want that fills the room like heat itself. He arches impossibly into Wooyoung, nails raking down his back, hips bucking, body trembling in tumultuous waves as if trying to consume Wooyoung with every undulation. And Wooyoung doesn’t stop. He leans down, forehead brushing against San’s, letting his gaze drink in the frantic, beautiful chaos of his face—the glossed eyes, the parted lips, the quivering jaw, the wild, ragged gasps breaking free in uneven bursts.

His hands roam freely—one braced firmly on the mattress beside San’s shoulder, the other sliding along his ribs, fingertips tracing over sweat-slick skin, feeling every shiver, every subtle twitch, every desperate tremor that escapes beneath him. The subtle, frantic movements—the hips tilting, the grasping hands, the tiny, impatient arching of San’s chest—pull him deeper into their rhythm, every inch of motion a punctuation mark in this fevered, wordless conversation.

San’s gaze flickers downward, despite the tears and tremors, memorizing every line of Wooyoung’s thighs, the curve of his ass flexing with each deliberate thrust, the slick, shining expanse of his hips. His hands roam instinctively, pressing, rubbing, guiding, doing everything possible to keep Wooyoung in perfect alignment, to help him maintain the rhythm, to press him closer, deeper, tighter. Every gasp, every soft, strangled whine that escapes Wooyoung’s lips makes San shiver, clutch tighter, press harder, utterly lost in the sheer physical poetry of Wooyoung’s body moving against his.

“Just like that, don’t stop—please…” San moans, voice cracking, trembling, words shattered and broken under the weight of sensation. His chest rises and falls rapidly, every nerve alight with fire, every muscle quivering from the twin coils of need and surrender. And yet, beneath it all, his hands never cease exploring, never cease worshiping Wooyoung’s thighs, ass, and hips, coaxing, guiding, holding him as much as he possibly can while his body rides each long, measured stroke.

Wooyoung begins to pick up the pace, just enough to send delicious jolts of friction through them both, teasing and punishing in equal measure—torturously slow where it heightens sensation, teasingly quick where the burn demands attention. San’s cries, sharp and trembling, strike Wooyoung like sparks, igniting every primal center he didn’t know existed until now, making him ache to consume San with each punishing, perfect thrust.

“Look at me, Sannie,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice husky, rough around the edges with need. “Look at me while you come for me.”

San’s eyes lock onto Wooyoung’s, wide and glistening, lips trembling as a shiver courses through him. Every nerve in his body feels stretched taut, every muscle coiled around the delicious, burning friction that courses between them. His hands clutch at Wooyoung’s hips, nails digging just enough to leave faint trails, grounding himself even as his body threatens to unravel completely.

Wooyoung leans forward until their foreheads touch, breath mingling, skin slick and trembling between every heartbeat. The air feels electric, thick with everything they haven’t said and everything they can’t stop feeling. San’s chest rises sharply beneath him, each inhale a quiet gasp, each exhale Wooyoung’s name breaking apart on his tongue.

“Right there…” Wooyoung whispers, voice low and rough, slipping out like a vow, a prayer, a confession. His hands travel up San’s chest, fingers tracing every ridge of muscle, every taut line of strength beneath his skin, marveling at how it flexes under his touch, how it pulses with life and need. They slide higher, hands brushing over his collarbone, the sensitive curve beneath it, finally reaching San’s throat. Wooyoung cups it gently, thumb skimming over the rapid beat beneath the surface, and it’s not a gesture of dominance so much as worship—control laced with awe, threaded through his every movement.

San’s eyes flutter, lashes trembling, a sharp, involuntary sound catching in his throat. His hands tighten around Wooyoung’s hips, anchoring him, desperate, needy, pulling him impossibly close, as if letting go would make the world itself collapse. That small motion sends another shiver through Wooyoung, a sharp gasp splitting his lips, rhythm faltering for a heartbeat under the weight of it—under the intensity, the sheer consuming intimacy of having San clench around him, holding him as much as he holds San.

“Yeah,” he breathes, voice unsteady. “Just… like that.”

They move together in a devastatingly perfect sync—push and pull, rise and fall, heartbeat against heartbeat, breath against breath. Every slick slide, every subtle tilt of hip and shoulder, every electric graze of skin against skin is magnified, hallowed somehow. Time condenses until nothing exists beyond the heat, the slick friction, the helpless, aching desire.

San cries out, voice ragged, breaking under the pressure of it, head thrown back, chest arching into Wooyoung’s tight grip. “Wooyoungie, gonna come… g’na—can I… can I come? Pleasepleaseplease—” His words are frantic, a desperate litany that shatters the air between them.

Wooyoung’s hands dig deeper into San’s sides, holding him fast, trembling himself with the intensity of it. San can feel Wooyoung tightening around him, hot and consuming, each shudder sending a ripple straight through his core. He leans forward, pressing his chest against San’s, nose brushing the sensitive column of neck, mouth grazing the skin, tasting the salt, the fire, the absolute need emanating from him. He lets himself feel it—every twitch, every sigh, every desperate gasp—and slowly, impossibly, San begins to spill, shivering violently as he convulses. Warm, taut, surrendering, the exquisite heat of San filling him, clutching him from the inside, holding him captive in pleasure so profound it feels like a collapse of the very world around them.

And then, as San’s rhythm continues to pulse, wrapping itself around his senses, Wooyoung can’t hold back. The fullness, the burning, the overwhelming weight of being utterly consumed by the man he loves, the man who has held him just as tight—everything overwhelms him. His breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, body taut, hands gripping San’s shoulders with desperate need.

“Oh… fuck, San—fuck!” he groans, voice raw, breaking, every inch of him trembling. His release crashes through him, hot, shuddering, unstoppable, spilling over San’s stomach, marking them both in fire and surrender, skin slick and trembling under the intensity. His whole body quakes, hips stuttering against San’s, every nerve ending ablaze, and he buries his face into San’s shoulder, inhaling, tasting, worshipping him as they shiver together in the aftershocks.

Wooyoung’s chest heaves, trembling as if his body can’t quite believe the intensity of what just happened. He clings to San, forehead pressed to the curve of his shoulder, tasting the lingering salt and heat, the mix of their sweat and release, and it sends a shiver rolling down his spine. Every nerve feels alive, raw, buzzing from the aftermath, every tremor of San’s still-clinging body radiating straight into him.

San exhales shakily, tilting his head so his lips brush the crown of Wooyoung’s shoulder, a sound of breathless surrender slipping from him. “Fucking… Youngie…” he murmurs, voice hoarse, scattered. His hands slide up Wooyoung’s back, pressing against taut muscles, seeking, soothing, grounding him, as if he can feel the remnants of Wooyoung’s shuddering, trembling need and wants to absorb it into himself.

Wooyoung responds with a low, guttural hum, letting his fingers dig lightly into San’s sides, tracing over ribs and oblique lines, feeling the tension still lingering there, the pulse of his heartbeat hammering against his palm. “You—you’re mine, Sannie,” he murmurs thickly, voice trembling with awe and exhaustion. “Every bit of you…”

“I love you,” San murmurs, voice weak. 

Wooyoung freezes at the words, chest tightening in a way that makes him tremble even more. He buries his face deeper into the curve of San’s neck, inhaling the lingering warmth and sweat, letting the weight of it all—the heat, the intensity, the confession—sink in. Every heartbeat against his chest feels like a drum echoing in his chest, reverberating through his limbs, through his very core.

“I love you too,” Wooyoung whispers back, voice rough, raw, barely more than a breath. His lips press over the shell of San’s ear, brushing and teasing, letting the words soak into every nerve ending between them. “So fucking much, you don’t even know…”

San shivers at the tone, wrapping his arms tighter around Wooyoung’s back, clutching him like he could keep him from floating away, from slipping into a world where they weren’t entwined like this. 

“Don’t—don’t ever leave,” he breathes, pressing his face into Wooyoung’s shoulder, voice breaking with exhaustion, desire, and something fragile, precious. “Wanna spend all your birthdays with you.”

San’s last words hang between them—soft, trembling, so achingly sincere that Wooyoung almost forgets how to breathe. The world outside fades; even their ragged breaths seem to hush, caught in that fragile stillness.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to see him, to really look at him. San’s hair is damp, sticking to his temples; his lips are parted, still swollen from kisses that feel like they could’ve broken them both open. His eyes, though—his eyes are glassy and raw, the kind of open that leaves no room for doubt. It’s all there, laid bare: the exhaustion, the adoration, the unguarded devotion.

“Your birthdays too,” Wooyoung murmurs, his voice breaking on a whisper. He cups San’s jaw with both hands, thumbs trembling as they stroke over the flushed skin of his cheeks. “Every single one. You’re stuck with me forever, you know that?”

A small, breathless laugh escapes San—barely a sound, more an exhale against Wooyoung’s throat—but it still shakes through both of them. His smile is crooked, tired, and impossibly tender. “Good,” he mumbles, half against Wooyoung’s skin. “That’s… that’s exactly what I want.”

Wooyoung lets out a shaky breath, his chest swelling with something too big to name. He presses his lips to San’s forehead, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth—soft, unhurried. Each kiss lingers longer than the last, until San’s breathing slows under his touch, until their bodies stop trembling, the chaos of moments ago settling into quiet, pulsing warmth.

Their limbs are tangled, skin still slick, the sheets twisted around them in a halo of heat and color. Wooyoung traces idle circles on San’s chest with the tips of his fingers, following the rise and fall of each breath. The silence between them isn’t empty—it hums, alive with everything they’ve said and everything they don’t have to.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says quietly after a moment, brushing a thumb over San’s collarbone. “You mean that?”

San hums, eyes half-lidded. “What?”

“The birthday thing.”

That earns him another faint smile. “I meant all of it,” San whispers, turning his head to nuzzle against Wooyoung’s cheek. “The birthdays. The mornings. The everything.” His voice drops, soft as the press of lips against skin. “You’re it for me, Woo.”

Wooyoung’s throat tightens. He presses their foreheads together again, feeling San’s slow, steady breath fan against his lips. “You’re it for me too, Sannie,” he says. “You’ve been it for a long time.”

San’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers curling gently in his hair, holding him there. “Then don’t let go,” he murmurs.

“I won’t,” Wooyoung promises, and he means it with every beat of his heart.

They stay like that—tangled in the low light, slick skin cooling slowly, breath syncing once more. Outside, the night hums softly through the window, but inside, everything is still. Wooyoung shifts just enough to press one last kiss against San’s shoulder, lips lingering until San shivers and exhales, his whole body melting into the warmth of him.

Eventually, Wooyoung’s eyes drift closed, his breathing even and deep, and San just watches him softly, his fingers tracing slow, invisible words against Wooyoung’s skin. He whispers them into the quiet anyway, words meant for no one but the two of them.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

And for the first time all night, Wooyoung smiles in his sleep.