(no) Strings Attached

Almost There

The younger gasped. He would take at least months to get used to this. Because San used to gaslight even himself, never even admitted verbally that he liked him. But here he was, dropping the L word as if they were meant to be.

"This time, and every other time you will let me have; it's fully strings attached, Woo. You're mine. As long as you want me. You are." San knocked their foreheads together, lips brushing Wooyoung's as he spoke.

Wooyoung blinked rapidly, eyes glistening but not quite spilling. His throat worked, like he wanted to speak—but no words made it past the tight press of emotion that bloomed in his chest.

So instead, he kissed him.

This one was slow—like tasting something forbidden that had finally been allowed. Like memorizing the shape of forever.

San groaned into it, his hand slipping down to grip Wooyoung's waist, grounding them both. His other stayed cradling Wooyoung's face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye like he could protect him from even the idea of tears.

When they parted, Wooyoung let his forehead drop against San's, breath shaky, lips red.

"You're the only one who ever made me feel like this," he whispered. "Even when you didn't say it. Even when I hated you for it."

San didn't flinch. He just nodded. Let the truth hit and settle between them.

"I know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Wooyoung echoed.

There were still things between them. History, hurt, hard edges that hadn't yet smoothed out.

But this?

This was a start.

A real one.

San began to move again—slow, deliberate, reverent. Their bodies met with a care so full of meaning it was almost too much.

Every roll of hips. Every breath shared. Every quiet sound.

All of it said what they were still learning to believe;

This time, it matters. This time, it's real.

San growled slightly, sliding downwards to place open mouth kisses on Wooyoung's collarbones.

"Fuck," Wooyoung moaned, head pushed against the cushions in tries to offer more to the older.

"You've always been sensitive here haven't you?" San murmured against heated skin, just below his nipple.

"S-stop.." whined Wooyoung, but his hand all but stopped pulling him closer. One hand was deeply buried in San's hair, the other grabbed at the curve just above his ass.

San chuckled low against his skin, the sound rough, pleased, and far too aware. "Sensitive, needy, and mine," he murmured, lips brushing the edge of Wooyoung's sternum as his tongue flicked teasingly over the spot that made Wooyoung's thighs twitch.

Wooyoung whimpered and shoved at his shoulder—half-hearted, trembling—his breath already wrecked. "You're—such a bastard," he gasped.

San looked up, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "Maybe," he agreed, grinning slightly. "But you're still holding on to me."

And Wooyoung was—fingers still buried in San's hair, still gripping the swell of muscle above his ass like he'd fall apart without it.

"I hate you," Wooyoung whispered.

San pressed a kiss just above his heart. "You don't."

That made Wooyoung's breath catch again. His chest rose beneath San's mouth, trembling now with something rawer than lust. "No," he finally admitted. "Not anymore."