Work Text:
The fluorescent lights of the fanmeet hall had barely dimmed in Woonhak's memory when the first tendrils of warmth began curling low in his belly, insidious and persistent, like smoke seeping under a door. Some girl—barely twenty, smile too bright, hands shaking as she pressed a homemade macaron into his palm—had looked him dead in the eye and whispered, “For your energy, oppa,” He'd eaten it without thinking, sugar-starved and autopilot-smiling through hour four of meet-and-greets, his jaw aching from the performance of gratitude.
Now, at 2:47 AM, Kim Woonhak had finally understood exactly just what she'd meant.
He lay sprawled across his narrow dorm bed, sheets kicked to the floor in a tangled heap, sweat-slicked and trembling like a leaf in a storm. At twenty, he was still the baby of the group, used to being coddled and protected by his hyungs, used to them looking after him with that gentle, patient wisdom that came with being the older ones. But there was nothing gentle about this—nothing that his hyungs' usual careful guidance could fix, nothing that the usual remedies of tea and rest could touch.
The air conditioning hummed useless against the furnace of his skin. His third shower of the night had done nothing; the water had felt like ice for three seconds, then boiling, then irrelevant against the heat building inside him. He'd tried jerking off—desperate, mechanical, humiliating—twice already, spilling over his fist with a choked sob each time, only to feel the heat rebuild before he'd even finished wiping his stomach clean, before his heartbeat had slowed, before the trembling in his thighs had stopped.
“Fuck,” he gasped, arching off the mattress, hand wrapping around himself again because he couldn't stop, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but chase relief that wouldn't come, that retreated like a mirage every time he reached for it. “...Fuck, fuck—”
The sound of skin on skin was obscene in the silence of the dorm, wet and rhythmic and absolutely desperate. He tried to muffle himself, biting into his pillow, but the whimpers escaped anyway—high, broken, pathetic sounds that didn't sound like him, that sounded like some wounded animal. Three years as an idol had taught him discipline, had taught him control, had taught him to swallow desire down deep where cameras couldn't see, where fans couldn't speculate, where the public image remained pristine. But this—this was chemical, biological, a betrayal of his own body that laughed at willpower, that made a mockery of his usual restraint.
Just outside his room, Lee Sanghyuk paused the movie he was watching mid-scene, remote hovering forgotten in his hand, the blue light of the screen casting strange shadows across his face.
He'd been looking forward to this all week—rare solitude, a decent film, the luxury of silence in a dorm that was usually bursting with six young men and all their noise. Their schedules had been brutal since the comeback, back-to-back promotions and variety shows and practice sessions that left them all running on fumes, and their manager had finally granted them two blessed days off. He'd planned to savor it, to stretch out on the couch and let his mind go blank for a few precious hours.
Instead, he'd been listening to their youngest member fall apart for the past forty minutes.
At twenty-two, Sanghyuk had gotten used to looking after Woonhak—the baby of the group with his sunshine smile and his habit of working himself to exhaustion, his tendency to take every criticism to heart. He'd held Woonhak through panic attacks at 3 AM, through fevers that left him delirious and clinging, through the aftermath of malicious comments that had sent the sensitive maknae sobbing into his pillow until his voice went hoarse. But he'd never heard him sound like this.
At first, he'd tried to ignore it. Told himself it was none of his business, that everyone handled stress differently, that three years in the industry meant you learned not to ask questions about what happened behind closed doors, that privacy was the only luxury they had left. But the sounds kept bleeding through the thin walls—wet, rhythmic, desperate in a way that didn't sound like pleasure. Woonhak's voice, usually so carefully modulated for interviews and fan calls, reduced to breathy whines and stuttered curses that made Sanghyuk's chest tighten with something he couldn't name.
Sanghyuk pressed his headphones tighter, turned the volume up until his ears rang. Took them off thirty seconds later when he realized he could still feel the vibration of Woonhak's bedframe against the shared wall, the rhythmic thump that matched the desperate cadence of his breathing.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring at his dark ceiling, the movie forgotten. Another whimper, louder this time, cut off abruptly like Woonhak had shoved fabric in his mouth. Sanghyuk's face burned—not from embarrassment, though there was that, but from something sharper, more complicated. Concern, maybe. Or protectiveness. The same fierce, almost violent instinct that had always risen in him when the maknae was hurting, when someone looked at him wrong, when the world got too heavy for those young shoulders.
He gave it five more minutes. Tried to focus on the movie, on the dialogue, on anything but the sounds of distress coming from the next room. The sounds didn't stop; if anything, they grew more frantic, more pained, edged with something like fear that made Sanghyuk's stomach clench. Woonhak definitely wasn't enjoying himself—Sanghyuk had heard enough to know the difference between pleasure and desperation, and this was the latter, raw and ugly and frightening.
Holy shit, Sanghyuk thought, the panic rising unbidden, automatic after years of looking out for the youngest. Something's wrong. This isn't normal.
Sanghyuk stood, bare feet silent against the carpet. He padded to Woonhak's door, raised his hand, hesitated. Knocked softly—three quick raps, shy, almost inaudible over the noise within.
The slapping sounds stopped instantly. A scramble, fabric rustling, a muffled thud like someone had kicked their nightstand in their haste. Silence stretched, heavy and breathless, broken only by ragged breathing.
“Woonhak-ah?” Sanghyuk called, voice gentle, careful, the same tone he used when Woonhak was on the verge of tears. “Can you... turn it down, please? It's a bit...” He gestured vaguely at nothing, realizing Woonhak couldn't see him. “Loud.”
More scrambling. A drawer opening, then closing. The wet sound of someone wiping their hands on something—sheets, probably. Sanghyuk waited, patient, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, telling himself he wasn't listening for the hitch in Woonhak's breathing, and the tremor in his footsteps approaching the door.
It swung open.
Woonhak looked wrecked. Hair darkened to damp gold at the temples, plastered to his forehead in sweaty strands. Eyes blown wide, pupils blown wider, his irises reduced to thin rings of blue around black that spoke of chemical arousal, of something beyond his control. His face was flushed crimson, sweat beading along his jaw, his collarbones, then disappearing into the neckline of an oversized hoodie he'd clearly thrown on in haste—inside out, Sanghyuk noticed, tag visible at his throat, evidence of his desperation.
“Hyung,” Woonhak breathed, voice wrecked, raw, stripped of its usual polish. The word sounded younger than usual, vulnerable in a way that made Sanghyuk's chest ache with protectiveness. “I'm sorry. I didn't—I thought I was being quiet, I—”
“You weren't,” Sanghyuk said, not unkindly. He took in the details: the way Woonhak gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up, the tremor in his thighs visible even through loose sweatpants, the obvious, unmistakable tent of his arousal straining against the fabric, thick and heavy and obscene. “…Are you okay?”
Woonhak's laugh was brittle, desperate, bordering on hysterical. “I wish.”
Sanghyuk studied him—the fever-bright eyes, the damp sheen of his skin, the way he kept shifting his weight like he couldn't stand still, like standing still would make him combust. Not normal arousal. Something else, something chemical and dangerous.
“Why don't you watch a movie with me?” Sanghyuk asked, the words leaving his mouth before he'd fully thought them through, driven by instinct, by the need to fix this, to help. “Take your mind off... whatever this is.”
Woonhak's expression crumpled, conflicted, hungry, ashamed. “Hyung, I really shouldn't. I'm not... I'm not good company right now.”
“You're shaking,” Sanghyuk observed, reaching out to brush a damp strand of hair from Woonhak's forehead, the gesture automatic after years of caring for the youngest, of wiping away tears and adjusting collars. “Come on. Sit with me. If you still want to be alone after twenty minutes, I'll leave you alone. Promise.”
He held out his hand, palm up, an invitation that was also a lifeline.
Woonhak stared at it like it might bite him. Then, slowly, he slipped his own hand into Sanghyuk's—burning hot, clammy, fingers trembling like a trapped bird—and let himself be led across the hall.
The couch was small, designed for utility rather than comfort, and Sanghyuk had positioned himself at one end, leaving Woonhak the other. But Woonhak kept drifting closer, inch by inch, until his thigh pressed against Sanghyuk's, radiating heat like a fever that could spread.
Sanghyuk pretended to focus on the screen. Woonhak pretended to watch.
Twenty minutes in, Woonhak kept squirming. Not the subtle shifting, no—a genuine, uncontrollable squirming, hips rolling against the couch cushions, hands clenched white-knuckled in his lap. He'd pulled his hoodie sleeves over his fists, hiding his fingers, but Sanghyuk could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath came in shallow, careful pants like he was trying not to pant, like he was trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.
“Woonhak-ah,” Sanghyuk said, pausing the movie. The silence felt heavy, electric, charged with something that made the hair on Sanghyuk's arms stand up. “Hey. Why are you so restless?”
Woonhak turned to look at him, and Sanghyuk saw tears gathering in the corners of his eyes—frustration, pain, humiliation, the shine of someone who had reached their limit. The maknae's lower lip trembled, and Sanghyuk had to resist the urge to reach out and soothe it with his thumb, to wipe away the distress. “Hyung,“ he whispered, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “It's just... it's hot—fuck—”
Sanghyuk's eyes widened when Woonhak doubled forward, forehead nearly touching his knees, fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to leave marks. Sanghyuk reached out instinctively, palm pressing against Woonhak's forehead, then his neck, then—when Woonhak didn't pull away—sliding down to cup his jaw, tilting his face up with gentle pressure.
Burning. Woonhak was burning up, skin fever-hot beneath Sanghyuk's touch, pupils blown so wide the blue was almost gone, swallowed by black.
“You're sick,” Sanghyuk said, thumb brushing over Woonhak's cheekbone, feeling the heat there, the dampness. His other hand moved without permission, settling on Woonhak's shoulder, then sliding down his chest, feeling the rabbit-fast heartbeat beneath his ribs, the way his breath hitched at the contact. “Woonhak, you're burning up. When did this start?”
“After the fanmeet,” Woonhak gasped, leaning into Sanghyuk's touch despite himself, chasing the coolness of his palm like a man dying of thirst. “A girl gave me... she said it was for energy. I didn't know, hyung, I swear I didn't know—”
“..Aphrodisiac,” Sanghyuk realized, the pieces clicking together with a sickening clarity. He'd heard stories—whispers in the industry, warnings from managers, tales of sasaengs slipping things into drinks, obsessive fans with dangerous gifts targeting the youngest, most vulnerable members. The thought of someone doing this to their baby, to Woonhak—rage flared hot in his chest, quickly suppressed beneath more urgent concerns. “Oh, baby. Oh, you poor thing.”
Woonhak flinched at the endearment, then melted, leaning fully into Sanghyuk's space, forehead dropping to his shoulder. Sanghyuk had called him that for years—baby, maknae, little one—usually teasing, usually affectionate, usually accompanied by a ruffle of his hair. But now it felt different, weighted with something darker, something that matched the tension coiling low in Sanghyuk's own belly.
“I came twice already,” he admitted, muffled against Sanghyuk's collarbone, breath hot and damp and desperate. “It just.. it won't... won't come down. Hurts, hyung. It hurts.”
His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against nothing, and Sanghyuk felt the hard line of him pressed against his thigh through Woonhak's sweatpants. Thick, insistent, desperate, leaking probably, a constant throb of arousal that wouldn't abate.
Sanghyuk's own arousal stirred, warm and sudden in his belly, a response to the heat and the need and the trust. He ignored it, or tried to, focusing on the trembling boy in his arms. “How long has it been?”
“A few hours,” Woonhak whimpered, the sound vibrating against Sanghyuk's neck. “Maybe four. Fuck—I don't know. Can't stop touching myself, but it's not—it's not enough, it's never—”
“Shh.” Sanghyuk carded his fingers through Woonhak's damp hair, soothing, even as his mind raced through options. A trip to the hospital at this hour would mean scandal, exposure, shitty headlines that would follow Woonhak forever. Waiting it out meant watching him suffer for hours more, maybe even days depending on the dosage, watching him tear himself apart with his own hands.
But there was a third option. One that made Sanghyuk's pulse kick, his mouth go dry, his own cock stir with interest against his will.
“..I can help you,” he said quietly, fingers tracing the shell of Woonhak's ear, watching him shiver, watching the way his breath caught. “If you want. I can make it better.”
Woonhak pulled back, eyes wide, searching Sanghyuk's face for mockery, for pity, for any sign that this was a joke. He found neither—only concern, only want, only the fierce protectiveness that had always been there. “Hyung,” he breathed. “You don't have to—I know you don't—I mean, we're not even—”
“We're whatever we need to be right now,” Sanghyuk interrupted, firm, sliding his hand down to cup Woonhak's jaw, thumb pressing against his lower lip, feeling the heat there. “Let me take care of you, Woonhak-ah. Let your hyung help.”
Woonhak's eyes fluttered shut, a tear tracking down his heated cheek, leaving a wet trail through the flush. “Okay,“ he whispered, the word breaking in half, shattering on the way out. “Please, hyung, I need—“
“I know what you need,” Sanghyuk murmured, and kissed him.
It was meant to be gentle, reassuring, a grounding touch, but Woonhak surged into it with desperate hunger, mouth opening immediately, tongue seeking Sanghyuk's with embarrassing eagerness. He tasted like salt and desperation, like the mint toothpaste he'd used hours ago, like need and fear and gratitude. Sanghyuk let him take, let him devour, keeping the kiss messy and deep until Woonhak was whining into his mouth, hips rocking upward seeking friction, seeking relief.
“Easy,” Sanghyuk breathed against his lips, pulling back just enough to speak, his own breath coming faster now. He shifted off the couch, settling on his knees between Woonhak's spread thighs, looking up at him with dark eyes from below. “Let me lead, baby. Can you do that? Be good for your hyung?”
Woonhak nodded frantically, hands coming up to grip the couch cushions, fingers digging in hard enough to tear the fabric, knuckles white. “Yes, yes, please, hyung, whatever you want—”
“Good boy,” Sanghyuk praised, watching Woonhak's pupils blow wider at the words, watching him shudder like he'd been touched. He reached for the waistband of Woonhak's sweatpants, pulling them down slowly, revealing inch by inch of fever-flushed skin, the thick, flushed length straining against his stomach, wet and desperate and beautiful. Woonhak was gorgeous—thick and dark with blood, veins standing out in relief, tip wet and leaking steadily, a string of precome connecting him to his navel. “Fuck, Woonhak-ah. Look at you. So desperate you'd let anyone touch you right now, wouldn't you?”
“No,” Woonhak gasped, head falling back against the couch, exposing the long line of his throat, the flutter of his pulse. “Just you. Only you, hyung, please—”
“Flatterer.” Sanghyuk squeezed at the base, watching Woonhak choke on a moan, watching him fight to swallow it down, to be quiet. “But you'll take what I give you, won't you? Be good for me.”
He didn't wait for an answer, leaning forward and swallowing Woonhak down in one smooth motion, taking him deep until his nose pressed against the coarse hair at the base, until Woonhak filled his throat completely.
And Woonhak screamed—muffled, desperate, both hands flying to his own mouth to stifle the sound as Sanghyuk took him deep, throat working around the sensitive head, tongue pressing against the vein on the underside, fluttering against the slit. He was oversensitive, Sanghyuk knew, could taste it in the bitter salt of him, could feel it in the way Woonhak's thighs trembled beneath his hands, the way his hips stuttered like he wanted to thrust but was holding back, holding back, always holding back, trying to be good.
Sanghyuk pulled off with a wet, filthy sound, spit connecting his lips to Woonhak's cock, looking up with blown pupils, lips shiny and swollen. “Move,” he commanded, voice rough, wrecked already. “Fuck my mouth, Woonhak-ah. Show me what you need.”
Woonhak's eyes flew open, shocked, but Sanghyuk was already sinking back down, taking him to the root again, and Woonhak's hips jerked upward involuntarily, a shallow thrust that made him choke out a sob, his head falling back.
“That's it,“ Sanghyuk encouraged, pulling back just enough to speak, hand working what he couldn't take, stroking in tight, twisting motions. “Don't be shy. Use me. Use your hyung's mouth.”
Woonhak's control broke with a sound like a sob. He buried his hands in Sanghyuk's blond hair—not pulling, just holding, anchoring himself—and began to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper as Sanghyuk relaxed his throat, taking every inch with eager swallows, humming around him to create vibration. The sounds were obscene—wet, filthy, the slap of Sanghyuk's lips against Woonhak's base, the desperate whines Woonhak couldn't quite muffle, the slick slide of spit and precome.
“Hyung,” Woonhak gasped, rhythm faltering, hips snapping faster, harder, losing any semblance of rhythm. “Hyung, I'm gonna—it's too much, Fuck, shit—”
Sanghyuk hummed around him, the vibration making Woonhak cry out, a broken, desperate sound, and that was it—Woonhak came with a choked wail, spilling down Sanghyuk's throat in thick, hot pulses, body bowing tight as a wire before collapsing back against the couch, shaking. Sanghyuk swallowed around him, milking him through it, not pulling off until Woonhak was whimpering at the overstimulation, hands weakly pushing at Sanghyuk's shoulders, too sensitive.
Sanghyuk sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, watching Woonhak catch his breath. The maknae looked destroyed—hair matted to his forehead, chest heaving, eyes glassy and unfocused, lips bitten red.
But then Woonhak shifted, hips rolling upward experimentally, and Sanghyuk saw him—still hard. Still there, thick and insistent, not softening at all, standing up from his stomach wet and flushed dark.
“Hyung,” Woonhak whispered, voice wrecked, embarrassed, needy. He reached down, wrapping his own hand around himself, stroking once, twice, shuddering at the sensitivity. “I'm sorry, I—it's not going down, hyung... I can feel it, I'm still—”
Sanghyuk didn't take him to the bedroom—not yet. Woonhak was shaking too badly to walk another step, his arousal bobbing heavy and dark against his stomach with every trembling breath, and the couch was right here, and Sanghyuk wanted to see him, wanted to watch his face when he finally got relief.
“Stay still,” Sanghyuk commanded gently, pressing Woonhak back down onto the worn cushions when he tried to rise. “Right here. Look at me.”
Sanghyuk stood, stripping off his own shorts, letting Woonhak see him fully naked waist down in the dim light from the kitchen. Then he climbed onto the couch, knees settling on either side of Woonhak's thighs, straddling his lap. He reached down to guide Woonhak to his entrance, the tip hot and wet against his fingers, and sank down slowly, inch by inch, his head falling back with a gasp as he felt the stretch, the burn, the perfect fullness of Woonhak filling him once more.
“Fuck,” Sanghyuk breathed, settling fully onto Woonhak's lap, feeling him deep, so deep, throbbing inside him. They were eye-level like this, chest to chest, hearts beating against each other. He braced his hands on Woonhak's shoulders, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding down rather than bouncing, watching Woonhak's face crumble with pleasure.
“Hyung,” Woonhak choked out, his hands coming up immediately to grip Sanghyuk's waist, fingers digging in with desperate strength. “You're so tight—so hot—I can feel you squeezing me—”
“Look at me,” Sanghyuk commanded, his voice breathy, his control fraying at the edges. He tilted Woonhak's chin up with one hand, forcing those blown pupils to meet his. “Keep your eyes on me, Woonhak-ah. I want to see you when you fall apart.”
Woonhak forced his eyes open, tears gathering at the corners from the effort of holding back, from the sensitivity, from the overwhelming intimacy of being watched like this. Sanghyuk rewarded him by speeding up, lifting his hips slightly before sinking back down, creating a rhythm that was slick and filthy, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.
“That's it,” Sanghyuk praised, his own voice trembling now, his cock hard and leaking between them, slapping against his stomach with every movement. “Look at you, taking me so well. So desperate you'd let your hyung ride you like this, let me use you until I'm satisfied.“
“Yes,” Woonhak gasped, his hips snapping upward to meet Sanghyuk's downward grind, thrusting deep, making them both cry out. “Use me, hyung—please—anything—want you to feel good—”
Sanghyuk leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together, their breath mingling. He reached between them to wrap his hand around his own cock, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm of his hips, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head. “Touch me,“ he demanded, grabbing one of Woonhak's hands and bringing it to join his own, wrapping Woonhak's fingers around himself. “Stroke me while I fuck myself on you. Make me come, come on.”
Woonhak obeyed, his hand trembling as he stroked Sanghyuk in time with their movements, his thumb swiping over the slit, making Sanghyuk's hips stutter. They found a rhythm together—Sanghyuk rolling down as Woonhak thrust up, their bodies meeting in the middle with wet, filthy sounds that echoed off the walls, Woonhak's cock dragging against Sanghyuk's prostate with every movement, making sparks burst behind his eyelids.
“Hyung,” Woonhak whimpered, his grip on Sanghyuk's waist tightening, his thrusts becoming erratic, wild. “I'm close—fuck—'s too good, hyung—”
“Come,” Sanghyuk commanded, leaning forward to capture Woonhak's mouth in a messy kiss, their teeth clicking, tongues tangling. “Come for me now. Fill me up, Woonhak-ah. I want to feel you.”
Woonhak broke with a cry that Sanghyuk swallowed, his body arching up off the couch, his cock pulsing hot and thick inside Sanghyuk as he spilled into him, pulse after pulse, his orgasm seeming to go on forever. Sanghyuk kept riding him through it, milking him, his own hand moving faster on his cock until he followed Woonhak over the edge, coming with a groan across Woonhak's chest, his body tightening around Woonhak's still-hard length, drawing out every shudder.
But Woonhak didn't soften. The drug kept him hard, throbbing, sensitive to the point of pain. He whimpered as Sanghyuk continued to grind down on him, overstimulated, tears tracking down his cheeks.
“Hyung, I—it's too much—I can't—” he stammered, his hands weakly pushing at Sanghyuk's hips, though his hips kept jerking upward, seeking more.
“I know,” Sanghyuk soothed, not stopping, rolling his hips in tight circles that made Woonhak's eyes roll back. “I know it's sensitive, baby. But you need to come again, okay? Be good for me?”
Woonhak nodded frantically, sobbing now, his cock twitching inside Sanghyuk, still hard, still desperate. “Please—please, hyung—“
Sanghyuk leaned back, bracing his hands on Woonhak's knees behind him, changing the angle again so Woonhak could see himself disappearing inside his hyung, could watch where they were connected. The sight made Woonhak groan, his hips snapping up harder, chasing the friction despite the sensitivity.
“Look at you,” Sanghyuk breathed, his voice wrecked, his own cock already stirring again at the sight of Woonhak so lost, so desperate for him. “So beautiful like this. So mine.“
He rode Woonhak through a second orgasm on the couch, then a third, never letting him soften, keeping him buried deep as he used his body to wring every drop of pleasure from the drugged arousal. By the time Sanghyuk finally lifted off, his thighs shaking with exertion, Woonhak was a mess—sobbing, trembling, his cock red and leaking, still hard against his stomach.
“Bedroom,” Sanghyuk whispered, pressing a kiss to Woonhak's tear-stained cheek. “Can you walk, baby?”
Woonhak laughed weakly, breathless and delirious. “Can't feel my legs, hyung.“
They collapsed onto the narrow mattress, Sanghyuk guiding Woonhak down with gentle hands, following him to cover his body with his own. The bedroom was darker, quieter, the walls thicker, and Sanghyuk felt a surge of possessiveness—here, they could be louder, could take their time, could explore every desperate need the drug had created.
“On your back,” Sanghyuk commanded, stripping off what little clothing remained between them. Woonhak obeyed, sprawling across the sheets, his cock standing up from his stomach, wet and dark and still impossibly hard. “I'm going to take care of you properly now, baby. Going to make sure you're empty.”
He climbed over Woonhak again, but this time he turned around, facing away, lowering himself onto Woonhak's cock in reverse. The angle was different—deeper, hitting places that made Sanghyuk's vision blur as he sank down.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hands bracing on Woonhak's thighs behind him. “So deep, baby. Can you feel how deep you are?”
Woonhak could only whimper, his hands coming up to grip Sanghyuk's hips, spreading him open as he thrust up helplessly. Sanghyuk rode him like this, facing away, giving Woonhak a view of his ass taking him deep, watching himself disappear inside his hyung. The sight seemed to drive Woonhak wild—his thrusts became harder, more desperate, his fingers digging into Sanghyuk's flesh.
Then Sanghyuk shifted, rolling off and guiding Woonhak to the edge of the bed. He lay back on the mattress, pulling Woonhak between his legs, wrapping them around Woonhak's waist as the younger man thrust into him with desperate, rhythmic precision. The bedframe creaked, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, Woonhak's face twisted in concentration as he tried to hold back, tried to be good.
“Let go,” Sanghyuk urged, his legs tightening around Woonhak's waist, pulling him deeper. “Come for me again. Fill me up, baby.”
Woonhak came with a cry, spilling inside Sanghyuk for the fourth time, his body shaking, his hips jerking through the aftershocks. But still he didn't soften.
They moved through every position Sanghyuk could think of. Woonhak taking him from behind, gripping his hips, fucking him slow and deep and endless. Sanghyuk on top again, facing Woonhak this time, watching his face as he rode him to another shattering climax. Woonhak pressing Sanghyuk against the wall, taking him standing up, their bodies slick with sweat.
Each time, Woonhak came with a cry—inside Sanghyuk, on his stomach, his chest, marking him, claiming him—each orgasm leaving him more sensitive, more desperate, more grateful for Sanghyuk's relentless care. The drug kept him hard, kept him needing, kept him on the edge of madness until Sanghyuk guided him through it, over and over.