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Wooyoung clicks his tongue.

“Again?” San asks mildly. He shifts to peer over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Youngie, I told you—you’ve got to stop screenshotting everything you see. Why don’t you just, like, bookmark shit like a normal person…?”

“Because!” Wooyoung huffs. “Bookmarking is like…finite. You know? Like, what if the person who posted the original thing deletes it, huh? Then it doesn’t even matter if I bookmarked it.” Theatrically, he tosses his hands up in the air. “Just like that,” he says, wiggling his fingers in San’s face. “Poof. Gone.”

San snorts at him. “You’re that worried about losing…?” He trails off as he reaches for Wooyoung’s phone, then takes a moment to scroll through the horrors of that seemingly bottomless camera roll. “A, uh—a recipe for ‘sheet-pan miso chicken with radishes and lime’…?” San glances up and quirks an eyebrow. “Okay…or, um, this random infographic…? ‘12 ways to get in touch with your inner feminine aur—”

“Seonghwa sent me tha—”

“—or the…ha. What the hell…? The ‘definitive weird girl lit reading guide’?!” San pulls an incredulous face. “God, what even is all this shit, babe?” With a snort, he continues thumbing through the mess of photos. “Jeez. You’ve got about a zillion-and-one screenshots of movie recs, and workout routines—you hate the gym, by the way!—and—oh.”

Abruptly, San clamps his mouth shut, then just blinks down at the screen.

“What…?” Curiosity piqued, Wooyoung quickly snatches his phone back to see what’s got San so tongue-twisted all of a sudden, and—oh. Ooh. He grins dopily at one special little thumbnail in particular.

Delightful. He lets out a soft hum.

“Jesus Christ, Wooyoung,” San mutters, cheeks pinkening. He crosses his arms and glances out the window. “You should really have things like that, like—you know. Hidden.”

“Okay, yeah, but…well, besides me,” Wooyoung argues, “the only other person who literally ever looks through my phone is…you. So, like—why should I? Right? I like having, ah…” he puckers his lips thoughtfully, “easy access, I guess.”

San whips his head back around and scoffs. “You’re shameless,” he says with an exaggerated grimace.

“And you’re sexy…!” Wooyoung whines, tapping on the photo to see it full-size. “Ugh. Like, c’mo-o-on,” he continues, tilting his screen, smirking. “Fuckin’ look at you here, baby.”

The photo’s nothing short of a masterpiece in Wooyoung’s most, ah—professional of opinions. It’s semi-blurry, caught with evident haste. Snapped from a raised vantage point. San’s the centerpiece of the shot, of course—sprawled out and bare in the mess of their cream-colored bed sheets. His hands lay limp, staggered. Callused palms flash the camera lens, and all ten of his fingers hinge into loose, lazy curls at either side of his head. And from a narrow waist blooms a beautiful broadening of the body—some sort of outrageous, boneless stretch that seems to pull his shoulders impossibly wide.

San’s skin canvases his structure. He’s a sweaty mess in the photo, bronzed and flushed, wet, dripping like paint—glimmering beneath a sheer coat of daylight that floats through an off-camera window. The map of his skin whittles a pattern of dints across the trembling tug of his abdomen, then protracts further, no higher, sloping over the soft crown of each of his pecs. Naked, postured to perfection, San flares—that quivering body as strong and solid as it is soft. Malleable, actually, might be more accurate language, Wooyoung thinks. Malleable beneath the right hand. Beneath his hand.

Because San’s staring straight at him in the photo—not at the lens, but just past it. It’s this nearly unbearable fucked-out type of gaze that he wears, bleary and exhausted and satiated, a ‘thank you-thank you-thank you—!’ translated into visual imagery. And it’s not just another case of Wooyoung’s wild imagination spinning loose, either—because San had really begged for it that day. He’d really, truly spilled his thanks when he’d been granted that sweet gift: release.

Rolling hips, a tight twist of the wrist. Yes! He’d thanked him, and there’s that perfect proof—San’s spent cock, pictured there, right there, at the base of the photo. It blushes even harsher than the rest of him.

White, drooly splatters of cum reach their obscenities all the way up to his clavicle, too, painting him hot in sticky, pearled evidence. His lips are wet. Parted soft like a whisper. Swollen, most notably, from being bitten and kissed, tugged at and toyed with.

And he’s just a dream, Wooyoung thinks—San’s really just a goddamn fucking dream, and so how could he not want to keep his most special photos (such as this one!) so easily accessible, right? Right?

Yes. Hell fucking yes. With a soft sigh of satisfaction, Wooyoung presses down and holds his thumb over the photo to watch the live version. Three seconds of sweet, blissed out heaven greet his ears, his eyes: San’s big, heaving chest, shimmering with perspiration. And then the melodic sound of his panting, of his coming down. As well as the flutter of his wet, curling lashes—and the way that a few droplets of the cum that he’d painted himself with drip down just a little bit at a time, just past his pert, pink nipples, over the strained barrel of his expanding ribcage, expanding, contracting, expanding again, and—

“I—put that away!” San squeaks, smacking Wooyoung’s phone out from his hand. It lands with a soft plop sound on the couch.

“Oh my Go—it’s not my fault that you’re so sexy!” Wooyoung whines obstinately. He wastes no time nuzzling into San’s neck and offering him a few forgive-me-baby kisses. “It’s just…it’s fucked up,” he goes on against San’s skin, tone a little wistful now. “I’m serious. You get me so fucking hard that it feels like my dick’s about to, like, shoot straight off my fuckin’ body, sometimes.”

San sighs through his nose and runs a gentle hand through Wooyoung’s hair. “You’re…incredibly dramatic,” he says flatly.

“Like a missile…!” Wooyoung continues resolutely.

“Mm.”

“Or…or like a rocket launcher.”

“Ooh.” San nods his head. “Yeah. Good one.”

Abruptly, Wooyoung shifts out of, then back from San’s embrace, and eyes him soberly. “Sannie.”

“What…?”

“You wanna make a sex tape?”

“What—?!”

“I just—I just think it could be…fun,” Wooyoung says coyly. He tips his head to the side, flashes a cheeky grin, then slowly drags his pinky finger over San’s thigh in long, looping ovals. His skin is bare and exposed by the flimsy crop of his shorts—warm, silk-smooth, nearly hairless. Wooyoung leans in a little closer again. “You know?” he goes on in a lower, slower, furtive type of timbre. “And, like—fuck. It’d be fucking hot.”

“God. You’re so fucking—ugh.” San loudly clears his throat. “We’ve…um, we’ve already made videos before, though,” he argues half-heartedly. “Like, short ones.” His eyes follow the up-and-down path that Wooyoung’s fingers ceaselessly trace over his leg. “L-like…like the pictures and stuff.”

“No, but that’s…” Wooyoung hums and casts a pout up to the ceiling. “Those are like—those are just clips, Sannie,” he says, gaze dropping back down again. “Little snippets. Not real videos.”

“Is there a difference…?”

“You’re really asking me if there’s a ‘difference’ between a thirty-second clip on my phone of you sucking my dick and, say, a thirty-something-minute video, taken on a real video camera, of me, like, fucking railing yo—”

San cuts Wooyoung off with a loud, whiny sound—something scandalized, something caught between the hairs of a gasp and a shriek and an embarrassed cry of his name, something accessorized by a frenzied flap-flap-flapping of his hands, an: ‘u-u-ugh, Wooyou-u-u-ung, sto-o-o-op i-i-it…!’

North to south, fire to ice—Wooyoung meets San’s blushing diffidence with a brash, cheeky snicker. He twists around on the couch to throw one leg over him, and ass-to-lap—and nearly nose-to-nose, too—Wooyoung lands across San in a heavy straddle that causes the latter of the two to hiss.

“So you agree,” Wooyoung murmurs brazenly, eyes alight.

Automatically, San’s hands settle around Wooyoung’s waist. “A-agree with what, you sicko?”

“Agree that it’d be different.” Wooyoung pecks San over the twitching lid of his left eye, then the spot just below it, then the spot just below that, too.

“I…guess,” San murmurs. “Yeah, I…I mean, I guess you’re right.” He admits it like it costs him, or something—and then his lashes flutter and his mouth shifts, and he squirms a little, bracing, fingers tightening around the circumference of Wooyoung’s body.

“Mhm.” When Wooyoung ghosts his nose and lips over the smooth expanse of his neck again, San’s blush appears to amplify. “And you wanna know what the best part would be?”

“Yeah…?”

“We’d be able to watch it back,” Wooyoung hums. “Yeah, I’d be able to watch it back.” He presses a slow, wet kiss to San’s bobbing Adam’s apple, eliciting a small, breathy squeak from him. “Whenever I miss you, y’know? It’d be as close to having you as I could get without actually having you, Sannie.”

“When do you even—ha, have the chance to m-miss me?” San stutters out. “We’re together, like, nearly all the t-time…”

His eyebrows tremble, and he tilts his head back slightly, automatically, his entire body giving a quick jolt when Wooyoung dares to take his teasing even further. He licks a thick, cheeky stripe up San’s neck—starting from the soft hollow below his Adam’s apple, then drawing a wet trail all the way up to the delicate skin just beneath his pierced ear. With a puff of hot breath, Wooyoung lightly tugs at it by the small, silver hoop threaded through the lobe. He rolls his hips forward, grinding their bodies together a little hotter, harder—and when he pulls away, leaning back on his haunches, Wooyoung finds himself pleased about two distinct things in particular: the dazed, red-faced expression that San’s currently sporting being the first, and the hardness that’s beginning to dig into his backside being the second.

“I…miss you,” Wooyoung declares matter-of-factly, “literally when-ever I’m not in you.” He surges back in to press a chaste, fleeting kiss to the corner of San’s drooping mouth, then pauses in thought. “Or, like—whenever you’re not in me.”

“Oh my Go—!”

“Listen,” Wooyoung goes on doggedly, draping his forearms over San’s shoulders. “I know for a goddamn fact that you’ve thought about it—about filming an actual tape together.” A pause. “I…I know you, Sannie,” he says. “I know you real well.”

A little drunk on his own impertinence now, Wooyoung reaches up and squeezes San’s sweet, rosy face between the meat of his palms. His cheeks are squishy like dough, pink dough, Play-Doh—and his dark eyes are so wide and shiny right now, coffee-colored marbles staring out in a heady daze of self-restraint, thick brows so twitchy, living things, and those lips…! They’re even pinker than the suffusion of berry blush on his cheeks, pillowy and wet and ripe, ballooned outward like two petals by way of Wooyoung’s manhandling, and, and, he’s just so—!

With a whiny noise of protest, San starts to paw at one of Wooyoung’s arms. (Translation: lemme go, asshole…!)

And with a snort, Wooyoung does.

San huffs and passively massages his jaw. “I hate it when you grab me like that,” he complains, pouting.

“Oh, please.” Wooyoung snorts again. “You do not.”

San sighs. “I…ugh. I know.” A little sheepish, he glances up at the ceiling to avoid Wooyoung’s hawk eyes. “You’re…um, thinking about using your old camera from college, right?” San asks weakly. “Is it…is it even c-charged?”

Like two twin matchsticks, Wooyoung’s eyes flare with fresh light. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Wait, is that a yes?”

“Answer the question…!”

“Baby.” Wooyoung squishes San’s cheeks together again. “Baby. Just tell me yes, or tell me no, and we—”

“N-no,” San sputters out, “I—fuck, no, y-yes!” He drops his gaze to meet Wooyoung’s in the middle. “I mean—yes. Yeah. I…I wanna do it.” Weakly, he swats Wooyoung’s hands away from his face again. “Obviously I wanna do it…”

Life can really be so damn good. Wooyoung grins, counts the bounty of his blessings, then rolls forward to kiss San again. He kisses him roughly, all proof in the pressure—and when they pull apart with a pop, San’s eyes look more dazed than they do embarrassed.

“I’ll charge it up while you’re in the shower,” Wooyoung announces. Cat-like, he slinks off of San’s lap, and dog-like, lands in a heap of his own long limbs back on the couch. “Oh—wow.” Wooyoung whistles lowly, nodding in approval as his gaze lingers on the front of San’s little shorts. “You’re, like, really ha—”

“You were just, like—g-grinding on me!” San practically shrieks, “and…and licking me…! Like some kind of animal!”

“’Cause you’re so se-e-exy, baby!” Wooyoung coos teasingly. He scrambles forward to quickly kill the distance he’d just created, then presses a wet, juicy kiss to the freckled side of San’s neck. Wooyoung makes a whole show of it—feeling up the musculature of those toned arms, that thick, thick chest. The shoulders. “Can’t help myself,” he tacks on lowly, “but you already knew that, right?”

“You’re so—”

Wooyoung snickers and reaches down, cupping San’s bulge and squeezing. “Right?”

Instantaneously, San’s entire body stiffens. He sucks in a sharp gulp of air. “Oh my Go—o-okay.” With a strong, stiff arm, he shoves a giggling Wooyoung backwards—who, delighted by eliciting such a reaction, willingly allows himself to go flying into the couch cushions. Abruptly, San stands. “I…I’m showering…!” he announces, stalking off towards the bathroom, “so…d-don’t come in…!”

He fails to spare even a single glance back, then punctuates his declaration with a courteous and very caring door-slam.

Too easy.

Wooyoung yells after San, lovingly suggesting that he take his time, then takes a moment for himself to just catch his breath.

Way, way too easy.

Practically bursting with enthusiasm now, Wooyoung darts into the guest room at breakneck speed to dig up his old camera bag. Gah. His heart races. The tripod better be in there somewhere, too.

Leaning back against the bedroom wall with his ankles crossed, Wooyoung fiddles around with his (successfully unearthed) camcorder. It’s been at least six long months since he’s last used the thing, but as he takes a few minutes to reorient himself with all of its buttons and settings and general ins-and-outs, he’s pleased to find that his memory of how to operate it swims back to him almost effortlessly.

Just as he hears the shower shut off, Wooyoung’s eyes flit down to the battery indicator in the corner of the display: three bars out of four. It’ll be fine, he thinks—thank Christ this camera’s such a quick charge—but, just in case, he rushes to toss his backup battery on the charger in the meantime.

Wouldn’t want to miss anything.

There’s footsteps from the hall. Soft ones. Apparently, San had embraced Wooyoung’s suggestion to ‘take his time!’—because, it’s only after the passage of at least thirty-or-so long, stretching minutes that he’s finally slipping in through their bedroom door to make a fresh reappearance.

Wordless. Still a little wet. Still ignoring Wooyoung entirely.

And God…! It gets him kind of hot. Because it’s always sort of done something for Wooyoung—these instances of San conducting himself in such a way: with his shoulders drawn up tight and his mouth a little bratty, and his words, soft words, still just sharp enough to snag at him. But Wooyoung likes the ‘before’ just as much as the ‘after’—the ‘before’ being the current ‘now,’ a ‘now’ in which San’s not even speaking, because he’s actively pretending that Wooyoung’s not even in the room right now at all.

With San ignoring his presence completely, Wooyoung becomes nothing more than an invisible man with a very visible camera—but he knows how this game works. He plasters on a smirk that San refuses to see and tightens his palm around the camera, raises it, then presses the REC button.

00:00:00:01. Yeah, and he knows how to win it, too.

“Hey,” he murmurs, still grinning to himself. “Sannie.” Wooyoung watches with heavy eyes as the pixel-drawn lines of San’s body come into focus on the display screen. “You look so good, baby.”

Wooyoung bites at his lower lip as he zooms in a little closer. Although San’s fresh out from the shower, he’s foolishly bothered to dress himself: a thin tank top, loose cotton shorts. No socks. He’s still got his towel draped around his neck, a thick, fluffy white one, but what’s really drawing Wooyoung’s eye is the hue of San’s skin. No, the luster of it.

It’s distracting. And it looks unreal today, for some reason—glowing from the inside out, as far as Wooyoung’s concerned—but maybe that’s just his dick talking. But really…! San’s just completely luminescent. Dewy and clean. Still a little pink from the heat. It’s most noticeable in his cheeks. That peachy flush double-saturates when he glances behind to finally face Wooyoung, to face the video camera—eyes widening in surprise first at the sight of it, then flickering silently between Wooyoung’s face and the dark void of the lens.

“O-oh.” When San swallows, Wooyoung can see it. “Y-you, uh—you found it?”

San’s voice comes out in a bit of a squeak, and his feet remain stubbornly stuck in place in front of their shared closet, stuck there just staring—at the camera, at Wooyoung, at the camera, at Wooyoung—seemingly unsure of how to proceed with the fresh knowledge that each move of his is being captured, recorded, kept.

“Course I did!” Wooyoung says proudly from behind the lens. “It was in the guest room with all our other old shit. Under the bed. Oh, c’mon, Sannie,” he goes on, tone a little softer now, more coaxing. He unhooks his ankles and, with his free hand, pats his own thigh. “Quit running already and just get over here.”

San presses his lips into a tight line. His wide, owlish eyes flit down to the floor for a moment. “Is it…are you, like, recording right now?” he asks shyly, gaze slowly rising. This time, as if in an attempt to size the thing up, his eyes linger on the camera lens a bit longer.

“Na-a-ah.” Wooyoung shrugs. “I’ve just been, like, holding it and pointing it at you for fu—”

“Wooyoung—!”

“Ha—sorry, sorry…!” Amused, Wooyoung snorts and peeks around the body of the camera to meet San eye-to-eye. “Yeah, babe,” he continues, his grin sly, slanted, loose. “So, c’mo-o-on—! Smile for me.”

San rolls his eyes at that—scoffs at it, too—then whips back around in a huff. He begins to towel off his still-damp hair, working with quick, jerky movements, shoulders drawn up high in tension, but…it’s not nervousness, exactly, that’s causing San to behave in such a way. Not a chance. And Wooyoung knows it—that San’s not nervous, and that he’s most certainly not having second thoughts, but, really…! It’s almost funny, honestly: how self-conscious San can get sometimes—especially concerning the things that they both know him to be desperate for.

That’s right. No, San’s not trembling with anxiety, right now—because after loving him for years, after sharing life and location and body heat with him for years, after fucking him for years, Wooyoung feels confident enough to say that he knows Choi San like the back of his own hand. And now, right now, San’s anything but nervous.

He’s fucking excited.

Ah—poor thing. Wooyoung has to make a conscious effort to hold back his impulse to coo, because poor Sannie just has such a hard time expressing it, sometimes: how big he can want.

(It’s quite fortunate, they’ve both come to learn, that Wooyoung’s presence—paired with a few helpful shoves in the right direction—makes for an excellent conduit into authentic self-expression.)

Wooyoung snickers to himself, zooming in on the back of San’s body, the back of his head. He captures the cute sight of his ears on video, too—pink, matching the shade of his face. Sighing softly, San finally slings his towel up over the top of the closet door. His hair’s still fairly damp when he dares to turn back around, clinging film-like to his forehead and his temples, his smooth nape. Where a soft smile usually lingers, a twitchy, wobbled grimace sits as a placeholder.

“I feel…stupid,” San admits meekly, voice hardly above a grumble. His eyes flash, pupils adjusting their aperture.

Wooyoung bites at his lip. He tilts his head as he watches San squirm beneath the spotlight. “What,” he snorts, “you camera-shy?”

“It’s just…a, um—a really bulky camera.” San makes a vague gesture with his hands, and his eyes linger somewhere between the lens and its periphery, unsure of where to settle. “Can’t…can’t miss it.”

“Oh, c’mo-o-on,” Wooyoung says in objection. “It’s not that big.”

“Bigger than your phone,” San argues. “Or mine.”

Well, true. Wooyoung hums to himself. “Sannie.”

“Mm…?”

“Go on and sit,” Wooyoung suggests, nodding towards the bed. “I’ll just come to you if you won’t come to me, you little smart-ass.”

“Rude…” San grumbles under his breath—but Wooyoung finds himself pleased nonetheless, pleased by the easy obedience shining through San’s veneer of aggravation. With a careless smile, he watches him drift over to their hastily made-up bed and perch himself on the edge of the mattress.

San knots his fingers into loops over his lap. His thighs look soft, smooth, supple. Wooyoung could really drool at the sight of him like this—red-faced, lumbering and lean, yet still so petulantly childish. “C’mon, San,” he murmurs next, just loud enough for their walls to hear it. “Look at the camera for me.”

And then San’s eyes, so wide, fluttery, dark—they finally raise in deference, tumbling back to their target, a shy gaze trembling directly into the lens.

“See?” Wooyoung hears himself ask. “Easy, right?”

A scintillating sensation of pride. Guts to chest to throat, Wooyoung feels it rush up through him like a flare when San gulps and holds steady. It’s clear that he’s fighting his impulse to look away—staving off the urge to avert that gaze again, to shrink or to laugh this all off, to tell Wooyoung to quit recording already! and to put the damn camera away, but he doesn’t. Throat bobbing, fingers twiddling, eyes wide as cherry pies and rapidly, so rapidly blinking—he doesn’t.

“I love you,” Wooyoung says, dark almost—no, like smoke, almost—and the words slip from him sharp like a secret. A little thing. A double-edged and rugged thing, oozing out through the devilish stretch of his smile. “You love me?”

San blinks, blinks, his brows two loose, squirming scrawls of charcoal across his forehead. “C-course I love you,” he manages in a low, breathy voice. His fists tighten over his lap. “Love you like crazy, Youngie.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung grins.

“Mhm…”

“And you trust me?

“I—I do,” San admits. “You know I always do.”

Wooyoung stands up a little straighter at the sound of that. One after the other, his bare shoulders, sticky with summer heat, peel off from the wall. “That’s good,” he murmurs. “God, how are you so fuckin’ good? Shit. This is gonna be fun.”

“Fuck, I—I know,” San breathes out sharply, “it’s just—! I…I feel like someone’s, like…watching, or something.” For a breath of a moment, his gaze flickers over to Wooyoung’s face just behind the lens. “Like…like someone can see me.”

“Just me,” Wooyoung says gently. With a steady hold on the camera, he steps away from the wall completely now to approach the bed. A hand breaks through the frame—his own—recording it close as he advances, tracking the slow movement of himself carding his fingers through strands of San’s damp hair. “It’s just for us, baby,” Wooyoung adds when San gazes up at him through his lashes, up at him, then into the lens. “Just me and you.”

“But—but what if it wasn’t?” San asks hastily, rushing out the sound. “L-like, what if…what if this somehow gets leaked?”

Ah. Wooyoung pauses a moment. “Do you want it to get leaked?”

“I—” San inhales sharply, gaze dropping down to his own lap now. The subsequent pout that forms on his lips is nearly outrageous. “Wooyoung.”

And God, does he feel his skin simmer. “Oh, you want people to see it?” Wooyoung asks, eyes alight. “Wow—! I mean, I had my suspicions, but Sannie, that’s—”

“I…I didn’t say tha—”

“—pretty dirty,” Wooyoung says. “Even for you.”

San scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Again—I…did not…say that…!” he repeats—slowly, for emphasis. Weakly, because it’s all he can manage.

“Didn’t have to,” Wooyoung snorts. He coils his fingers into a tight fist around the hair at San’s nape and gives it one sharp tug. “How do you keep forgetting it, huh?” he asks, grinning when San gasps. “I know you really, re-e-eally well.”

“And I—I know you,” San retorts with a breathy wince. “I…I know you just as well, Wooyoung.”

“Yeah? You think?”

“Mhm.”

With his free hand still knotted into San’s hair, Wooyoung raises a brow in challenge. “Yeah?” he asks again. “Then what do I want right now?”

“A—a show, probably,” San breathes, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah. You…you want me to l-lose it, don’t you? Bet you want me b-beggin’ for you.”

Wooyoung releases his grip on San’s hair, pats him twice on the cheek, and sucks his teeth. Well…! “You really kill me sometimes, you know,” he says with a crooked grin. “Acting like you don’t love this shit just as much as I do.”

San squirms and crosses his legs.

“Just admit it,” Wooyoung goes on. He gazes at San from around the camera.

“Admit what?”

“Admit that just my attention’s not enough for you,” Wooyoung says. “Admit that you want to put on a show. Man—I bet you’re wishing this was a live stream, or something, right? Bet you want the whole damn world to see how well you can take my dick.”

“God,” San scoffs, blushing fiercely. “You make me sound like a slut, or something…!”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue. “Aren’t you?”

That blush flares. “A-aren’t you?” San shoots back, brow quirking up.

Ha…! Two for two, but—well. Wooyoung supposes that’s fair.

“Alright, alright,” he hums, reaching out again to cup San’s face this time. Gently, he draws his thumb up and down his cheek. “Can we drop the attitude now? C’mon. Sweeten up for me.”

“I’m always sweet,” San grumbles under his breath.

“The sweetest,” Wooyoung agrees easily. “So, you gonna show off for me? For the camera?”

San’s mouth twitches around a smile that he’s mostly failing to hide. “G-gross…”

“Mm.” Wooyoung trails his fingers down the line of San’s jaw. He twists his wrist slightly, thumb prodding at that thick bottom lip. “God,” he sighs, “you should just quit your job, babe.”

“What…?”

“You could make a goddamn killing, I bet—selling clips of yourself online.” Wooyoung finds himself grinning when San’s mouth drops open in alarm. “You know? Camming…porn. Or, like—whatever. OnlyFans. Shit like that, you know? C’mon, look at the camera.”

San sucks in a breath and does.

“Shit,” Wooyoung smiles, watching through the display screen. “You’ve got no idea, like…this face of yours, Sannie. God. This sweet, fuckin’ face. People would drain their savings to watch a face like yours get fucked.”

San squirms as Wooyoung swipes that thumb across the ridges of his bottom teeth—then inside, deeper, slipping into the heat of that wet mouth. He makes a soft, breathy noise around the intrusion, lips parting open automatically, intuitively, huffing a long stutter of air out through each of his nostrils. San’s breath is hot, his mouth salivating, but he doesn’t suck. Not yet. He allows it with careful patience—Wooyoung, to hold his thumb there—a constant pressure dimpling into the place-mat of his tongue.

“You think you’d like that, baby?” Wooyoung murmurs. “People watching you get fucked? People paying to watch you get fucked?” He feeds his thumb a bit deeper into San’s mouth, watching through the monitor screen in a daze as he slowly thrusts it in and out—disappearing, reappearing.

It’s marvelous—going in dry, coming out glistening—and San just nods, a fervent, voiceless, ‘yes-yes-yes!’ lips suctioning around Wooyoung’s thumb now, eyes fluttering shut into blindness. Another twist of the wrist. Index and middle slide in, thumb slips out. And that tongue of San’s is just whip-hot, Wooyoung thinks. Metaled, summer iron. Sweet sweat. San sucks on Wooyoung’s fingers in the same way that he likes to suck on his cock: slow, swirling circles. Careful caresses. Sensual, always—until he can’t tolerate the frustration of maintaining a pace so slow.

And that frustration is building, Wooyoung can tell—because although San keeps his hands polite, clasped tight over his lap where his own arousal begins to grow, he’s squirming. Fidgeting. Thrusting up weakly, a little jerkily, into the pitiful friction of his own curling fists.

A shudder zips up the ladder of Wooyoung’s spine as he zooms in a little further with his camera, catching it all on tape—the way San’s cheeks hollow into pits as he works himself into this slutty little stupor, and the way his thick brows are twitching, drawing up tight at the center-point of his forehead. Winding, winding like rope, like Wooyoung’s got him lassoed and is tugging him in closer—and his lips…! They look thicker like this, even given the subtlety of the stretch. Saliva-wet and so shiny. A rugged pink from the pressure. San whines when Wooyoung pulls his two fingers out with a pop, and those pretty, wet lips of his balloon outward into a petulant pout.

“You wanna suck me off, Sannie?” Wooyoung asks in a murmur. “You gonna put on a good show for the camera?”

Dazed, San blinks. “H-huh?”

“Answer me,” Wooyoung demands softly. “Words. You want that?”

“Uh—uh-huh.” San’s throat visibly bobs as he swallows. He vigorously shakes his head yes again. Without needing further instruction, he drips off the edge of the bed, bones devolved into liquid, to sink to his knees on the floor. “Yeah,” he says. “I—I really wanna.”

“I know you do,” Wooyoung breathes. He watches through the screen as San reaches forward, shaky hands hooking into the elastic band of his sweatpants. In one practiced, familiar movement, he shucks them down to mid-thigh.

Under his breath, Wooyoung hisses out a sharp curse. “Just like that,” he murmurs, careful to keep San in the center of the shot. “Now imagine this is a live stream, okay? Imagine it, baby. There’s a-a-all these people watching,” he hums. “All these people who’d do near anything to fuck you. Imagine it—they’re paying to watch you do what you’re about to do to me.”

“I—”

“And you’re gonna give ’em their money’s worth, right?” Wooyoung goes on, arching a brow. “’Cause you’re just so good, right? They paid a lo-o-ot of money to watch you suck my cock, baby.”

“I—I’m…” San squeezes his eyes shut. A high whine rumbles up and out of his throat—some sort of perverse combination of frustration and humiliation and desire threaded into one, nasty thing. He presses the side of his heated face into Wooyoung’s bulge, through his boxers, and exhales a shaky breath. Then he flutters his eyes open, tugs his beautiful bottom lip between his teeth, and gazes up, up, up.

“How…much?” San asks the camera—a little bashful. Close to inaudible. “How much did they…p-pay?”

And that’s when Wooyoung really starts to grin—because he’s actually got San hooked now, immersed in the thick syrup of fantasy, squirming by way of the mere idea of being seen in such an obscene context. The creation of a footprint, digital, so filthy and permanent. San’s visibly embarrassed to be playing along to this extent—of course he is—but that’s to be expected. A bit of humiliation’s always made him hard.

Wooyoung hums and glances up at the ceiling in a faux display of deep thought. “Well,” he says slowly, “you’re pre-e-etty fucking expensive.” Wooyoung reaches down to twist his fingers into San’s hair again, and grinds that blushing face of his hot against his bulge. When San’s mouth drops open in a soft moan, he doesn’t bother holding back the satisfaction in his laughter.

“Three-hundred bucks each,” Wooyoung declares next, “just to tune into a single stream from you. God, so greedy, Sannie—charging that much.”

“Mm, mhm—”

“But they’re happy to pay you,” he goes on. “Yeah, no, they want to—’cause they all want you, baby. They wanna fuck you. And when they watch me fuck you—ha.” This next laugh is a sharp one. “Oh, they fucking wish that they could be me.”

“I-I’m s’lucky,” San slurs, gasping when Wooyoung’s grip on his hair tightens.

“So lucky, baby,” Wooyoung coos. “Who gets to fuck you?”

“You do—”

“Who else?”

“N-no one.”

“That’s fuckin’ right,” Wooyoung grins, chin held high. “Fuck, baby. Get my cock in your mouth. Yeah, c’mon. That’s it.”

And truly, it’s not just Wooyoung’s dick doing all the talking, this time, because he really does believe that San could make a total fortune like this: showing off on camera, doing porn. Slutting himself out for all the freaks lurking online. In all honesty, it’s hard not to go down that train of thought given his current vantage point—’cause Wooyoung’s got his very own personalized POV shot, a wet dream realized, a sweetheart at his feet scrambling close, closer, two trembling hands raising up again with his steaming, red face so near, and—!

Through the camera, Wooyoung watches as he does it. As San drags his tight, tented boxers down his thighs to meet the bunched fabric of his sweats. As his cock bobs free, the wet tip of it knocks at San’s open mouth, causing him to gasp. He whines, then he bites at his lip—and then he finds it, that daring audacity, to nuzzle his cheek right on up against the side of Wooyoung’s pulsing dick.

Dirty motherfucker—seriously, what a fucking slut!—but San’s never been one to waste time once he finally gets his engine purring. A hellcat when he wants to be, downright greedy when he’s horny, a take-take-taker, desperate, dripping desperate, fingers sticky and splayed to snatch at what he wants and claim his possession.

A sultry expression washes over San’s face as he gazes up again, straight into the camera lens without Wooyoung’s explicit direction this time. Then, a small, cheeky smile. A subtle retraction of the eyes. His pupils darken, eclipsing the brown of his irises, and then San presses his lips to the underside of Wooyoung’s shaft, opens his mouth, and drags the heat of his tongue all the way up to the tip.

I love you, he mouths soundlessly, daring through the tilt of his grin, and Wooyoung, Wooyoung—! Oh, his knees nearly buckle beneath him.

This devil—he’s a goddamn fucking natural—not just at giving good head, but at this whole charade, too. Because San’s a show-off beneath his sweetness. Loves the thrill that goes hand in hand with solid performance.

But that’s not quite it. ‘Performance’ implies a certain level of insincerity—and San, like this, is anything but a fraud.

No, he’s uninhibited when he finally lets the curtains drop—carved out by a confidence so animal and masculine. A proud confidence. A shameless confidence. Wooyoung wonders how it is that he’s failed to pose the idea of making a sex tape—a real one—to San before today. He could kick himself for his lack of initiative. Really, he could, because they could’ve had years’ worth of solid footage by now, a whole self-made collection organized by genre by now, because it’s so much hotter now—knowing it, seeing it.

Fucking recording it.

Whatever. Everything happens as it’s meant to, no? Maybe—but they’re still young enough for the years ahead of them to feel infinite.

Yeah. There’s plenty of time to make more movies.

So Wooyoung watches, watches, trying his best not to so much as even blink, although each second’s being seared into the SD card. He doesn’t want to miss the magic as it blooms in real time. God, is this how famous directors feel, Wooyoung wonders? Watching a screenplay bud to life? Watching the threads of an abstract vision take tangible form?

They must—yes, they must—and it must give them some sort of a god complex, too. Because Wooyoung feels on top of the goddamn world like this, the god of this universe, their universe, reigning supreme from the director’s chair of their apartment bedroom.

00:05:37:11. Because Wooyoung’s the one holding the camera.

San pulls off with a groan and a slick pop. Open-mouthed now, brash, he licks a wild series of quick stripes up Wooyoung’s dick. Balls to tip, back again. It’s like he’s starving, or something, filthy. Hungry for it, like he can’t get enough of the taste. His hands come into play next. San wraps one—a little small, a little callused—around what he fails to fit easily inside his mouth. With the other, he cups Wooyoung’s balls—and then he’s sheathing the maximum length he can manage without gagging, both hands working tangentially to create a buzzing composite of heat, of pleasure, and it’s—red-hot.

Yeah, Wooyoung thinks, throat twisting as he gazes slack-jawed down at the screen. No, white-hot—as in thumbnail-on-PornHub’s-front-page worthy, or something. A million views and counting. ’Cause San can’t tear his eyes away from the camera, it seems, in full acceptance of his four o’clock fate. He moans vibrations around the shape of Wooyoung’s cock, and when Wooyoung involuntarily bucks into him in reaction, those moans pitch up into high, throaty whines.

This angle’s an award-winner. Wooyoung’s sure of it—and he’s also sure that he’ll be watching this video back, this scene, for the rest of his goddamn life. San there, on his knees. Tenting his stupid little shorts. Bulging his cheeks just to take Wooyoung deeper, to prove himself capable. Nasty, squelching sounds, wet sounds, slip out of him when he gets a little too eager—choking a bit, hot throat convulsing. The spasms force a squeeze around Wooyoung’s length, causing his entire body, head-to-toe, to tingle.

San’s hair is damper now that he’s sweating. When he pulls off this time, he makes more of a scene—sucking in a sharp, wet gasp as he goes, but he’s sure to keep his eyes, big and watery, pinned to the camera lens. That’s where they remain when San surges forward again, golden throat beautiful and open, as he slowly sinks himself back down to take Wooyoung as deep as he can manage.

Wooyoung chokes out a string of expletives. His mouth drops open in a long, low groan as he tries to refocus the camera, to hold it steady, to not miss this, but his head’s almost too spacey. So cotton-stuffed that it’s damn near close to spilling out his ears. It’s too much of a rush to watch San suck him off—always has been—especially when he deepthroats.

But a little bit of shaky camerawork’s never killed anyone. Wooyoung holds the camcorder as still as he can manage as he watches the round tip of San’s nose bump into the hair below his navel—then as his throat spasms and bulges, then as his lips stretch even further, fighting to make room. San’s doing his best not to move too much either, it seems—gurgling a bit as he holds steady, wet eyes getting wetter, hot mouth flaming hotter.

“You look perfect, baby,” Wooyoung breathes. He’s so wound up that he can feel the shape of his want in his own throat. “Fuck. Fuck, yeah—you want me to fuck your mouth?” he goes on, reaching down to fist San’s hair again. “Yeah? That what you want, baby? You want everyone to see how good I fuck your pretty mouth?”

A nasty, wet rumble of a sound. San gurgles again, and a tear slips down the sharp side-angles of his face from all his efforts. He pulls off with an abrupt, wet cough. “Y-yeah,” he gasps, wiping his messy mouth with the back of his hand. “Ooh, fuck—please.”

Wooyoung firms up that grip in his hair, sternly holding San in place, but it’s hardly a necessity. San wouldn’t move right now, he knows, even if he—for some strange reason—wanted to. It’s almost like a trance that’s taken him. Head just empty enough for Wooyoung to come around and fill it. Open and obedient. Mouth a wide, willing hole—a wet hole, and his eyes raised to the lens through his lashes, fluttering in a way that’s demanding and patient all in concurrence.

Leave it to San, Wooyoung thinks, to pull a face quite like that.

“Hands behind your back,” he spits, voice coming out in a rumble. “And no—ah, no t-touching.”

San groans as Wooyoung forces his cock back into his mouth with a rough forward thrust. He’s quick to clasp his hands behind his waist, and the movement pinches his shoulder blades together, straightening his spine. The meat of San’s shoulders bulge in this position, thick and strong as his bare thighs splay further apart on the floor. Wooyoung lets his gaze drop the rest of the way and—ah.

San’s leaking through the front of his shorts, poor thing.

Wooyoung sets a rough tempo right out the gate. With one hand sweating around the body of the camera and the other caught tight in San’s hair, he rocks forward. He grinds his hips relentlessly—harnessing sharp, demanding rolls that bring a fresh slew of tears to San’s wide, watery eyes. Wooyoung keeps himself laser-focused as he fucks that pretty mouth, abdomen tight, muscles clenching as he holds, aims, shoots.

San’s almost too good at this—sucking cock. Or rather, getting face-fucked, but—well. Wooyoung’s certainly graced him with plenty of opportunities to practice over the years. It never loses its charm, though, because Wooyoung always finds himself in awe of how well he can take it. ’Cause San’s mouth is just tight enough, throat just wide enough. Wooyoung can feel the hot breath being pushed out through his nostrils each time he snaps his hips forward again, little warm puffs, sharp, like a downward thwap of a hand-fan painting air over the base of his cock. San’s eyes are glassy but still so full of fire—a look of determination, challenge, trust, desire…!

Everything. Yeah, that’s it—San gazes up at Wooyoung like he’s everything, like he’s feeling everything, and that only spurs him on further. Fiercely, he drives forward, testing the limits of San’s endurance. Perfect toy, he is—truly a perfect one, drool spilling in small runnels from either corner of his mouth and gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight.

A mean, snappy thrust causes San to groan high in his throat, his own hips bucking up from the floor into nothing. Wooyoung holds still for a beat, jaw dropping as he chokes San on his cock, feeling him gurgle, hearing him gurgle.

“God, just look at you,” Wooyoung breathes out in awe. “Fuck—wish you could…s-see yourself right now, baby.” And then mercy, mercy! He pulls San off by the hair.

A thick, drooly string of saliva bridging from the tip of Wooyoung’s cock to San’s bottom lip shimmers like glass before snapping into two. San slumps slightly as he heaves in a humongous gulp of air, losing his proud, upright posture, going liquid-limp. He only allows himself a short moment of rest, though—surely too stubborn for anything more—before scrambling upward again, gazing up at the camera with bleary, wet eyes.

“I—I wanna…” San stutters out, voice gritty from the beating on his throat, “I wanna keep—”

“Kiss it,” Wooyoung demands sharply, fisting his own slick cock a few times. Slick from San’s spit. “C’mon. Kiss it and touch yourself for me.”

He pans the camera down San’s body, breath hitching when he lands on his trembling, taut thighs, then on the shape of his hard cock straining up against his shorts. It’s too cute, really—how honest San’s body has always been. A dead giveaway before his mouth can ever hope to catch up. With a pair of parted lips, San raises his gaze to the lens again. A ripped, ruined expression. He leans forward to press his mouth softly to the head of Wooyoung’s cock, wet-to-wet—and then, without even a lick of protest, reaches down to palm himself through his shorts.

“Like t-this?” San breathes. He keeps his mouth close enough to feel as he rocks up against his own hand, micro-twitches rippling through his face and his body, but his eyes—wet lava beneath the light from the window—never once stray from the camera.

“Y-yeah, baby,” Wooyoung murmurs. “Mhm.” His own fist begins to work a little faster. “You like it?” he asks, nudging his cock right up against San’s face now, leaving a wet streak of precum across his cheek. “You like showing the camera how you touch yourself?”

“Y-yeah—ah,” San gasps, “fuck, I…I love it. Wooyoungie, plea—”

“Mm—?”

“—f-fuck me already,” San breathes, expression desperate, decimated. “Please. Want you to fuck me, on camera. I wanna…we can w-watch it later. Together. Please.”

And what kind of man would it make him, Wooyoung thinks, to ever deny such a request?

Tongue sharp, he swears under his breath. Wooyoung catapults into action, gently tossing the camera onto the bed to free up each of his hands. He pulls San to his feet, then sears their mouths together, licking inside. San’s a whining mess. A boneless, open body. As they each savor that familiar flavor—the distinct intermix of shared spit and body heat, San’s hips stutter forward. His clothed dick ruts up against Wooyoung’s wet, bare one, and the friction’s close to bruising.

Wooyoung’s hands slur into antonyms, alternating between grasps and slips, slick motion over sweating skin, pushing, pulling. Lingering, exploring. He’s always loved San’s body—thick in all the right spots, muscular and rugged. So soft though, still, almost inexplicably. Because he’s dainty in the details—a smallness in his waist and hands, for example, almost feminine, but it’s this perfect marriage of opposites that make him so irresistible. San’s rough in the places everyone always assumes him to be so soft. Docile and pliant, in the spots that the untrained eye always fails to notice.

But Wooyoung, of course, speaks San’s language.

With two rough hands bracketing his face, he pulls him forward. It’s less of a kiss and more of a snarl—a possession, some sick kind of conquering. With the camera lens pointed away and out of focus for a moment, Wooyoung allows himself to relish in the pleasure of them, in what’s his. Just his alone. Because anyone, real or imagined, could look—but no one else on earth gets to touch San quite like this.

“How d’you wanna do this, huh?” Wooyoung asks him breathily. The question is an exchange of shared, eager breath, a slur of syllables spoken almost directly into San’s panting mouth. “You wanna face me?” He drags his hands down San’s body to roughly knead at his ass. “You want me to fuck you from the back? Ah, you wanna hop on top and ride, Sannie?”

“Ah—e-everything,” San whines. Their noses bump together, teeth grinding, foreheads slipping—hands everywhere, everywhere. “Do whatever you want, I—I don’t care. Do anything. Anything.”

And heavy is the head that wears the crown, but—well. Wooyoung thinks he can manage.

Grinning wolfishly, he slips his fingers beneath San’s shorts to get a proper double-handful of his ass. Just as Wooyoung had suspected, he’s bare beneath the fabric—skipped the underwear, dirty thing—so, without restriction, he squeezes. God, is San’s ass getting bigger these days? Sure feels like it—like, maybe he’s going extra hard on leg day, or something, Wooyoung thinks, but—ah.

His jaw slackens, gaze springing back up to meet San’s in the middle. “Holy shit,” he murmurs incredulously. Wooyoung’s tongue flicks out between his teeth as his smile curls into a devious smirk. Wet, are his fingers—wet as they slip through the drip of excess lube as he roughly pulls San open, apart, jostling his plug.

“This why you were takin’ so long in the shower?” he asks airily, nudging their noses together. “Hm? You were busy fuckin’ yourself open for me?”

“Didn’t wanna waste any t-time,” San gasps, leaning in for another urgent kiss. “Wanted to be…r-ready. For you.”

And Wooyoung could almost be disappointed—it really would’ve been a gorgeous shot, to film a pink-faced San as he cramped his fingers stretching himself—but his imagination keeps him from lingering on what could’ve been. Because the reality of the situation is nearly better, in a way. San, stalking off so sulkily into the bathroom, only to spend the entirety of his shower knuckle-deep in his own heat.

It’s an absolutely impeccable mental image. Wooyoung bites at his quivering lip, shakes his head in awe, then, with a flat palm to the chest, shoves San towards their bed. “C’mon,” he says, more fervent now. “Hands and knees. Lemme just—God, you make me crazy. I-I gotta set up the camera.”

San stumbles slightly as the backs of his thighs bump into the edge of their mattress. Wooyoung makes a quick grab for the camcorder—00:08:23:07.

He kicks off his sweats and his boxers the rest of the way as he goes and, eager, makes easy work of mounting the camera on top of his tripod. It’s tall and black and sleek from its place beside the bed. Completely conspicuous. Like, obscenely conspicuous, actually—and it brings a fresh wave of heat to Wooyoung’s face when he thinks about it: if someone were to walk in right now and see this set up, there’d be no doubt in their mind about what it is that he and San are getting up to.

Wooyoung huffs out a breath and adjusts the angle. He’s always had a keen eye for aesthetics, and from his point of view, the shot on the monitor screen looks picture-perfect. The bed’s centered. Light bleeds through a window from behind the camera, illuminating the scene in a golden glow. And then there’s San—on his forearms and knees, actually, not his hands—still clothed, scantily, with his face pressed into the mattress as he patiently waits.

So Wooyoung grants himself a fleeting moment to just bask in that beauty—the reality of it, this time, not just through the camera’s display. It’s almost otherworldly—the soft arch of San’s spine, for instance, and the slight splay of his smooth, solid thighs. Through the skimpy fabric of his shorts, Wooyoung can see the slight bulge of his balls, and how his cock jumps against the fabric, kissing smears of precum into the threads.

“That’s it, baby,” Wooyoung murmurs, stepping back from the camera now to take it in fully. “Mm, turn for me. Want your ass facing the lens.”

“Like this…?” San murmurs. He shuffles and rotates a quarter-turn, and Wooyoung sucks in a sharp breath at the sight that greets his camera—San’s sweet, peachy ass. His slutty little shorts stretched tight by the backward pull of his hips. A small stain, wet, from the leak of the lube.

“Perfect.” Wooyoung grins and bites at his lip in anticipation. “Mm, mhm. Yeah, now pull your shorts to the side, Sannie. Show everyone what you were hiding from me.”

San chokes out a pleased laugh. His muscles bulge as he reaches behind himself, behind and across, with one shaky arm. Biceps, triceps, and lats—they all tremble through the stretch, and then San’s hitching his little fingers beneath the hem of his shorts and tugging them, pulling them aside, revealing himself completely, and it’s just—!

Oh, it’s just fucking unfair, Wooyoung thinks. Involuntarily, he chokes out a groan at the debauched sight that he’s met with. Not just unfair, but almost unbelievable, too—for San to be this fucking hot.

A pearl at the center of an oyster, a spotlight casting a stiff beam through the dark, the glimmer of a geode amongst soft limestone—and God! Wooyoung reckons he’s really won the lottery on life, having this most perfect privilege to call San his own, because it’s the glass plug that he’s wearing right now. The purple, diamond glass one, hand-blown and shiny—the one that Wooyoung had bought for him on a whim last month, attracted by its brilliant luster, to add to their collection.

San uses one finger to keep his shorts out of the way and, with the rest of them, tugs at his hole. He’s practically presenting himself like a prize—spread wide and on display. The plug jostles, and more lube leaks out of him, shimmering bands down his skin, and Wooyoung just stares, stares.

No, but then he’s moving, surging in before his mind can even register his motion. With a tight fist, Wooyoung grips the edges of San’s shorts and, with one sharp tug, yanks them even further aside. San squeaks in alarm—ah, shit, must’ve been cheap—because then the fabric tears. Abruptly. Directly up the center seam.

“Did you just—! O-oh my God,” San gasps. “Wooyoung.”

“They were in the way,” Wooyoung says gruffly, more interested in seeing San naked right about now than caring about a bit of torn clothing. He tosses the shorts—or what remains of them—aside. “Relax,” he says. “I’ll just—”

“That was so fucking ho—”

“—buy you a new pair…” Wooyoung quirks a brow and grins. “Aw. You liked that?”

“You…you hardly even lift,” San whines into the bed. He visibly trembles, chest dipping down to the mattress as the arch in his spine deepens. “You…you complain every time I bring you to the gym with me,” he goes on, “and yet you’re still strong enough to rip my fuckin’ clothes off, apparently. G-god.”

“You know I’m strong,” Wooyoung says, a little cocky. He offers San a quick, tight-palmed smack to the ass for emphasis, making him squeak. “It’s in my DNA, baby. I can throw you around just as well as you can throw me around. Fuckin’ meathead.”

San turns his head to the side, cheek pressed to the blankets, and gazes up at Wooyoung with big eyes. “Baby.”

“Mm.”

“If you don’t get on with it already,” San says, brows trembling, “then I’m gonna hop on top and ride your little dick ’til it snaps.”

Gah. San’s just too cute, trying to be intimidating and mean when he’s the one with his bare ass up in the air, right now.

“Little?” Wooyoung scoffs out a laugh and rudely pushes San’s face back into the sheets. “Huh. Funny. Not what you were saying the other night.”

“Oh, fuck you,” San grumbles. It comes out all muffled. “J-just hurry up—fuck me.”

“I’m getting to it,” Wooyoung says airily. He glances behind himself and takes a quick sidestep—not wanting to block the camera—then reaches down to grab at San’s ass again. “God,” Wooyoung marvels under his breath, “just look at you.” He kneads his fingers into San’s skin, causing him to whine, wriggle. His balls are bare and heavy, his pretty cock drooling uselessly between the yawning splay of his thighs. Spread out for the taking, San trembles all over.

Again, Wooyoung gazes over his shoulder. With a cheeky grin spread proudly across his face, he looks straight into the lens and grabs hold of the plug. He turns—back to face San and his body—and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, begins to tug at it. Wooyoung pulls the plug out halfway, then shallowly thrusts it back inside. In, out—a subtle, squelching motion.

“So much attitude,” he murmurs, “for a guy who just fucked himself open for me.” Wooyoung draws up a mouthful of saliva, then crudely spits it across San’s ass and lower back, causing him to jolt. “Dirty bitch,” he goes on in a sneer. “You fucked yourself on your fingers while you thought about me, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” San groans, hands scrabbling into the sheets. His tank top pools high over the broad base of his shoulders, exposing his toned back, his little waist, his small, pert nipples. “Yeah, yeah, I, ah—”

“You make yourself come?”

“N-no, I—”

“Mm?”

“I just—”

“Oh, it wasn’t enough?” Swiftly, Wooyoung pulls out the plug completely, tossing it to the mattress. He spits directly on San’s clenching hole this time, then—with rapt fascination—watches as the excess of it slips down to his taint, mixing with a pooling of lube. “What,” he goes on, more condescendingly now. “Your fingers too short, or something? Can’t reach as well as mine can?”

Wooyoung makes a quick grab for the bottle then, of the lube that he’d left out on the bedside table, and squirts a generous amount onto his fingers. San groans at the sound it makes—course he does—because San’s always loved that: the feeling of being wet, drenched, full.

“Yeah,” San whines, “you a-always feel better, always, I—”

“Hm?” Wooyoung barks out a laugh as San melts into the bed the second he thrusts his fingers, two of them, into his open hole. “Speak up, baby.”

“I—ooh, I can’t—!”

“Oh,” Wooyoung sighs mockingly, “you can’t?”

The sound in the room is downright crass—a wet, rhythmic squelching, rough and relentless and just shy of cruel. It reverberates off the walls, soaked up by the bed, then spat back out, back into Wooyoung’s ears, into the camera’s built-in mic.

The red light blinks, blinks.

“P-please, Wooyoung,” San gasps wetly, electric now. “C’mon, please, ple-e-ease just—ah!”

He cuts himself off abruptly when Wooyoung dips down, and then his whining coils into a new sound—something that pitches up outrageously high. Yes, it’s a loud, shameless cry, first of shock, then of pleasure, pleasure—just hot, molten pleasure.

And then a throaty groan, wet, resonant. “You want more?” Wooyoung thinks he hears himself ask—but he’s too out of it to make full sense of it. He can hardly tell which sounds are coming from him, and which are coming from San, but—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t, not at all, because San’s always been Wooyoung’s favorite flavor.

He smiles into him as he works his tongue, pulling San to pieces. Wooyoung licks fat, shameless stripes into, against, his body. He eats San out in a quick, greedy sort of way—tongue and lips spreading him wider, breath growing hotter with each careless pass of his tongue—and the way San swears and arches further back into his mouth only serves to bolster his already over-inflated ego.

But San’s been promised a double-feature—not just a mouth, not just a set of fingers, but more, both, together—and Wooyoung’s always been one to make good on a promise, even when San gets a little mouthy. With his left hand, he reaches up to knead at San’s tightened balls, and with his right, he gets back to work. Alongside his tongue, Wooyoung nudges his fingers against San’s spit-slick opening, keeping him wet, open.

After a few moments, Wooyoung pulls back for air, chin glistening. “You want me to fuck you, baby?” he asks through a smile, nipping his teeth at San’s hip. “You want my cock?”

“Yeah, yeah—ah, please, I—”

And then Wooyoung pulls back, completely, leaving San entirely empty. “Oh—but I thought it was too little,” he breathes, lips stretching into a wild grin that San can’t see. “Too little for you. Isn’t that what you called it? My ‘little’ dick?”

And San, poor, desperate San, chokes out a sob.

“N-no,” he babbles, “please, ple-e-ease, ’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean it, okay? Please, I need you to fuck me, Wooyoung. C’mon. I—fuck me, fuck me, I’m—”

Wooyoung quickly slicks up his cock—a solid six inches, thank you very much—exploiting the few extra seconds he gains while San’s distracted, busy crying for more, for him. He’s eager to prove his strength yet again—hey, shorter doesn’t mean weaker!—so Wooyoung anchors one hand to San’s hip, another to his shoulder, then rotates him in one rough motion.

Caught off guard, San squeaks. “Wha—”

“Angles,” Wooyoung says simply, fisting his cock. He lines himself up with his prize. “I look best from the left.”

One, flattened palm to San’s lower back forces him hard into the bed sheets. His spine bows beautifully, art in motion—and then Wooyoung’s pressing himself inside. Inch by inch, slowly, diligently, assertively, he swears he sees heaven once he’s sheathed—because San’s still so tight, always so tight, even after being licked wide open.

Unabashed, San groans as he’s breached. “Yes, yeah—!” he pants, staggered pants, broad chest splashing downward and kissing the sheets. His fingers fist into them, and Wooyoung watches, vision nearing a blur, as a bead of sweat slips down the flume of San’s perfectly rounded spine.

“Turn your head, baby,” he breathes. “The—the camera. They wanna see your pretty face.”

And Wooyoung can’t see it. San’s face. Well, he can—just the side of it—but as he rolls his hips forward into the tight, sweet heat of San’s body, he can’t help but imagine how fucking exquisite it’ll be to watch this moment back. San’s blotchy, slack-jawed face staring straight into the lens. The bounce of his ass every time Wooyoung rocks into him. The way his breath hitches, catching on each beat, muscles rippling as he takes it—tiny waist, mussed hair, drool on his lips and his chin and his jaw, fucking him back, back, and—

“Ah, fuck…!” San groans. His body is solid and strong and sure as it meets each of Wooyoung’s thrusts with a match. “Fuck, wait, I wanna—”

“Mm?”

“—ah, l-lemme get on top…!”

Wooyoung sputters out a laugh. “Aw, why?” he asks tauntingly, drawing out the sound. He punctuates the question with a sharp snap of his hips, his lithe quads slapping against San’s bulging hamstrings. “Not—ha, not fucking you well enough? Hm? That it?”

“N-no!” San whines wetly into the sheets. “Fuck, you feel so—ah, I-I’m sorry, I just, I jus’ wanna—” A loud moan bullies away the rest of his words when Wooyoung bucks forward again, keeping up the rhythm. “I—I wanna see you,” San grits out after catching a fraction of his breath. “W-wanna see you when I come, baby.”

Fuck. Well, that certainly changes things.

As he pulls out, Wooyoung hisses through gritted teeth. “You’re too damn much,” he grunts. “Fuck, c’mon. Hurry up.”

“Okay, just—”

“What the—ha!” Wooyoung snorts, watching San scramble—then wince, stumble, and almost fall—as he lunges for the tripod. “What the hell are you doing?”

“It—it’s my turn,” San says, breathing sharply. Having successfully retrieved the camera, he swivels back around, raises it, then points the lens straight at Wooyoung.

Wild and loose, he grins—because, just like San, Wooyoung’s always been alarmingly photogenic.

That smile turns to a laugh when San shoves him backwards. Wooyoung shimmies himself up the bed and, as he quickly slicks himself back up, watches as San climbs in after him. “How do I look?” he asks, smirking as San straddles his thighs. “Like a pornstar? Your very own personal wet dream come to life? Ooh—or like an idol, maybe?”

“Shut up,” San laughs from behind the camera. “You’re obsessed with yourself.”

“C’mo-o-on. Do I look hot?”

San bites at his lip as he slowly pans the camera all the way down Wooyoung’s body, face to cock, then back up again. “Course you do,” San admits with a sly grin. “Fuck. You’re so fucking sexy, Wooyoung.”

“Mm.” That forthright compliment has Wooyoung preening. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” San agrees. And then, without further delay, he anchors one hand to Wooyoung’s chest—the other held snug around the camera—and sinks himself down, down.

Wooyoung groans, tossing his head back into the pillows as San’s body swallows him up. He always feels incredible wrapped around his dick like this, but it’s a little different when San’s on top. There’s a unique distinction to this particular brand of pleasure—and with that big camera in his face, it’s even hotter. It’s a little sick, maybe, a bit narcissistic, but San wasn’t joking—Wooyoung really is a bit obsessed with himself.

He turns himself on.

But he can’t help it—seriously!—because he knows that he’s hot. He knows he’s a good lay, too, well aware of how good he can fuck and get fucked, and fingers of heat crawl up his neck now, landing like two hot palms to the face, as he catches it. Subtle. It’s subtle, but Wooyoung sees it—his own expression reflected back at him through the dark lens of the camera. A moan, loud and full-bodied, cuts its way out of him.

God, he can only imagine how hard he’ll be when he watches this part back later. When he watches himself, himself through San’s eyes, from San’s point of view.

Yeah, San. San. Because that’s who it’s really about, when it all comes down to it. What matters is San, San! the star of their film, for sure—body sexy, tight like a jockey when he rides. Wooyoung watches him move through a heavy-lidded gaze—the way his fingers, small and short, sweat around the camera. The way his little waist twists and twitches, tightens and undulates with each forward grind of his narrow hips. San’s pecs jiggle from beneath his tank top, and his thighs squeeze Wooyoung’s hips, and he’s taking, using, riding so rough that it nearly hurts, but—well.

Wooyoung can get off with a bit of pain, too. Always makes the pleasure taste just that much sweeter.

“Y-you look,” San gasps, “fuck—you look so fucking…g—ah!” He moans high in his throat when Wooyoung grabs him by the waist, a strong, helping hand, propelling his body forward.

And, just that quick, Wooyoung snags back the reins.

“F-fucking—ah! Gimme that,” he gasps. Leaving one hand seared into San’s waist, he reaches up with the other to snatch the camera from him. San doesn’t even put up even a semblance of a fight, to Wooyoung’s mild surprise—actually appearing almost thankful to be relieved of the responsibility of holding it up.

It certainly seems that way, at least, given the way San quickly snaps back into focus. A one-track mind, on a mission to get himself off, he doubles down on his efforts—hips rolling like the crash of summer waves, both hands braced backwards on Wooyoung’s thighs now, fucking himself roughly, shamelessly.

Wooyoung lies back and watches it through the camera, jaw dropped open, hands shaking. His throat is sweaty, bobbing like an apple at the surface of a water-filled barrel. He hisses out a swear when San smiles for him, for the camera, and drags his tank top up his front. Like the unfurling of a carpet, a rolling expanse of smooth, golden skin is revealed to him—taut muscle, a blushing sheen of sweat, hard nipples. San pulls that shirt even higher, naughty thing, and catches the fabric between his teeth and a cheeky grin.

His abdomen tenses with each tight, forward roll of his hips. His ruddy, bouncing cock, dripping with precum. San holds his shirt up proudly the whole time, chin jutted out, gaze lazy down the slope of his nose, holding and displaying himself—showing off not just his body, but the blaze of his confidence, too.

And it’s different, watching San fall apart through a four-inch display screen. Different watching his hard, untouched cock slap between their bodies. God, it’s obscene—the tip weeping like that, just begging to be touched—so Wooyoung reaches with his free hand to play with it. Harshly, decisively, he wraps a fist around San’s shaft and jerks him off in time with each bounce.

“Ah, ah,” San cries out, “wait—!” And when he gasps, the shirt slips out from his mouth.

That’s when Wooyoung, wordless and euphoric, aims for the money shot. He points the lens back up to San’s face, and he’s fucking gorgeous—flushed into a splotchy pink, his head thrown back weightless and limp between the quivering peaks of his shoulders.

“I’m so—I’m so fucking—ah, Wooyoungie,” San gasps, “I—I’m gonna fucking—!”

A long, golden throat. The pink of a bottom lip blanched to white by the indentation of his teeth.

“Yeah, baby?” Wooyoung asks, pleasure swelling as San’s entire body begins to tighten. “You close? You gonna come on my dick?”

“Mm—uh-huh, uh-huh, I’m g’nna—!”

Wooyoung’s mouth drops open in the shape of a delighted laugh, watching with absolute glee as San’s body viciously shakes, his head dropping forward just in time to catch his eye, to flutter a look into the lens. A series of tremors rushes through him. San always comes hard, but now he’s coming like a faucet—cock spurting ropes across Wooyoung’s stomach and chest, just narrowly missing the lens of the camera.

The sight alone could be enough to topple him over the edge, but now San’s clenching down on him as aftershocks flush through his core. With a sharp gasp, Wooyoung drops the camera to the side—then grabs San rough by the hips, bends his knees, and thrusts sharply up into him.

It takes hardly three more snaps of the hips for him to come. Wooyoung feels his mouth drop open, hears a long, low sound crawl out of him—a shameless, satiated moan. His skin’s on fire as he falls headfirst into sensation, as San falls headfirst into him, trembling all over again. It’s electric—and San’s body jolts like a live wire as Wooyoung fills him up, up to the brim.

And then he’s spent, boneless. With a weak whine, San drops himself dead weight and limp into Wooyoung’s chest. Their fronts are hot and damp. Sticky where skin meets skin. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, Wooyoung realizes that cum is seeping into San’s tank top right about now.

Oh, well. Exhausted, he huffs out an awed, lazy laugh.

“Fuck,” San murmurs dreamily, finally finding his voice again. It lands soft and close, where throat meets jaw. “Love it when you come in me,” he goes on. “Feels so fucking good, babe.”

Wooyoung squeezes his eyes shut and groans. As he continues to ride out the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hips buck upward into instinctive, shallow thrusts. “Shut…up,” he hisses. The resulting tone comes out at a cross between agony and amusement. “Don’t…! I—I’m gonna, like, get hard again in four fucking seconds if you say shit like that.”

“Good,” San mumbles, completely sedated. “I could go another round.”

“Mm, you could always go another round.”

“So could you,” San retorts—then clenches around Wooyoung’s slowly softening cock just to make him squeak.

Asshole. Still buried inside, Wooyoung grabs San by the hips and roughly flips him, swapping their positions. “I’ll fuck you like this next time,” he grumbles, hips jerking forward as he noses into San’s sweaty neck. “Record your pretty face from up here.”

San’s eyes light up. “Oh,” he says, grinning. “Next time, huh?”

“We could make a whole series,” Wooyoung says. He presses a long, sweet kiss to San’s grinning mouth. “Possibilities are endless, babe.”

After he’s pulled out, fetched San a spare towel, and cozied back up next to him in their wreck of a bed, Wooyoung decides to voice his next idea. “So,” he says loftily. “Should we, uh—ha.” Wooyoung clears his throat and glances over at the camera, still lying beside them—still recording—in the sheets. “Should we, like, actually upload it somewhere?”

“Wooyoung, oh my God.”

“Wha-a-at!” Wooyoung whines, openly pouting. “You seemed really into the idea earlier, so I figured I’d just ask…”

San turns and groans into the pillows. “I—I was horny,” he announces—as if that matters. “I…I’ll say anything when I wanna come. You know that.”

“’Cause that’s when you’re most honest,” Wooyoung says sagely. The comment earns him a light smack to the arm.

“…Faceless stuff,” San says after a moment. (Wooyoung’s ears perk up.) “If we ever did post anything, it’d have to be faceless, alright? And, like, in a completely unidentifiable room. I don’t actually wanna quit my job to become a pornstar, you sick fuck.”

(Alright, not a bad deal.)

“Well,” Wooyoung hums, reaching over him to grab the camera, “if you ever did wanna quit your job to do porn, I’d proudly support you. Emotionally and—while you’re first building a following!—like, financially.”

“Right.”

“I mean it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Wooyoung snickers and presses a kiss to San’s jaw. “I’d be your top supporter,” he says brightly. “Your number one fan.” He gazes down at the camera to finally stop recording, and notices the timecode on the display: 00:23:45:17.

Wooyoung frowns.

“What is it?” San asks, peeking over to get a look for himself.

“I just…huh.” Wooyoung shrugs. “I just thought it’d be a bit longer, is all.” He eyes San askance, causing him to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“God,” he groans. “What now?”

“I wanna beat this next time,” Wooyoung says sincerely.

“Baby, what? What are you—ugh.” San tosses his head back to the pillows and groans again. “You last plenty long. Your bedroom endurance is…” he gesticulates vaguely, “…unbeatable.”

Taken aback, Wooyoung gasps. “It—it’s totally beatable!” he whines. “And, you know what? We need more cameras.” He shifts to lean over San, blinking down at him. “More cameras and tripods, and just one handheld, so we can catch every angle without worrying.”

“Yes,” San drones, blushing, “because I was so worried about that.”

“You will be,” Wooyoung snickers. He presses a series of playful kisses into San’s neck and cheeks, landing a longer one on his lips. “There’s at least, like, two minutes of black footage in here. From when I tossed the camera on the bed that first time.”

San’s mouth wobbles around the smile that he can never, not entirely, obscure.

“You were melting,” Wooyoung whispers into his ear, grinning around the word. “Melting when I kissed you. Fuck, and grinding your dick against mine, and—”

“Okay, okay—!” San sputters. He closes his eyes and, unbridled now, begins to laugh. “Fine, yeah,” he says after catching his breath. “We…can make a sequel.”

Wooyoung narrows his eyes and smiles. “Just one?”

“You know what I mean,” San scoffs.

Perfect. Wooyoung makes a mental plan to treat himself to a couple of new cameras, soon—plus a couple more SD cards with plenty of storage—because really…! San’s on fire, even in his shy, blushing afterglow, and Wooyoung doesn’t want to miss this. Not a single second, sound, frame. He grins and shoves the camera to the side for now, though, because now, now, he’s got the real deal in his arms—not the version on film.