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Two silhouettes stepped out from the treeline, eyes cast to the manor standing stark against the night.
In daylight, the manor gave the same impression as every other abandoned building in town: its groundskeeper was as absent as its owner and so left the once-proud walls festered with ivy, the once-gleaming windows dusted and cracked. In moonlight, it appeared heavier, as though bloated with the secrets that it held inside. It looked more lonely than sinister, like it had been waiting to be found all this time.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” one whispered to the other. “Or a safe one.”
“Ideas are only ideas until something’s been done with them. Whether they’re good ideas or not is only an idea, too,” said the other, face tilted up to the windows. When he spoke, each word felt like stones finally being lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe better, easier: “Besides, what do we know of what’s really safe?”
Where he stood, the moonlight caught the windows just right, giving the illusion of light dancing behind glass.
Through one of them, he swore, there were eyes watching him back.
— ✼ —
Every year, on the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month, the night swallows up the moon and leaves the world scrounging for light. It’s a night to indulge for the brave, a night to cower for the fearful, and a night to let nature run its course for the wise. Whatever creatures roam in the dark are indiscriminate in their devouring: overnight, disappearances double, nearly triple, as bright and dull souls alike never return from the dark.
It’s for this reason Wooyoung thinks he lights the candles — despite the layers and layers of protection spells that shroud the Choi estate, it is still only a shape in the night, one that falls prey to the darkness as easily as all other material things in the world — but if he’s to be honest, he lost grasp of the true reason long ago. He’s familiar with darkness, and he’s familiar with San, and so he doesn’t need light if he can sculpt every line and contour of San’s shapes from memory alone. It’s one of the many luxuries he has now, to no longer need reason. San makes life simple here, and there isn’t a day that he wishes for anything different.
But still: something compels him.
Bearing a box of matches and the golden candleholder that San gifted him on a night just like this years ago, Wooyoung makes his way dutifully through the windows of the house. He begins in the lowest, leftmost room, lighting a candle for the lone window there, then makes his way through the rest of the level. Once each windowsill has its own small flame, he moves onto the second floor and strikes a light for every window there too.
Occasionally, he pauses to look.
Outside, the world has been eclipsed by darkness, with no forms and no colors to pin the distant sounds of howling and shrieking to. Sometimes he thinks he can hear teeth, so many teeth, and bone and sinew and flesh, indistinguishable from the devourers and the devoured, and plays a little game of imagination with himself.
But these things don’t concern him; he’s safe here.
When the windows of the second level have been lit too, he heads for the stairwell that leads to his and San’s bedroom.
It sits behind ornate double doors, an arched set of heavy oak with meticulously-shined golden handles. Carved into its borders are wards and sigils beyond his knowledge, with the largest symbol centered across the doors like a seal: a crane poised in flight, the intricate details of its wings marred by sets of five-line gouge marks.
Out of habit, Wooyoung fits his fingertips to them.
His hands are just a little bigger than the ones that made these marks. Whenever he asks, San says that none of his guests before were ever as intelligent or as well-mannered as him, which leads him to conclude that all other guests before him were idiots.
But he would’ve been able to deduce that from the gouge marks alone, too. Who in their right minds would even think of damaging such a melancholic symbol?
He pets the shape of the crane consolingly. A moment later, the doors, recognizing the magic imbued within the amethyst pendant that lies beneath his nightgown, open and welcome him inside. His candle casts a weak halo of light in an otherwise dark stairwell.
Even when San isn’t home, Wooyoung can still feel him. It’s hard to explain how that is; it’s the sensation of a phantom hand splayed over his back, guiding him along, the brush of a barely-there kiss to the back of his neck, the warmth of another by his side, effortlessly matching every move he makes. He feels it throughout the house, but it’s the strongest here.
It’s soothing, the kind of comfort he imagines that Ariadne would have felt if she had stood at the heart of the labyrinth, her thread sprawled out before her, translating every tug to a step that the minotaur took out there the darkness on his way back to her.
The thought brings a smile to Wooyoung’s face as he reaches the top of the stairs.
The room is quiet. Their bed is canopied, the curtains often tied open until he and San retire for the night; on the bedposts cling those silk ties that Wooyoung likes to feel on his skin so much.
San’s easel sits in one corner with a small table of paints and palettes. Against the wall, his finished works are beginning to accumulate, a byproduct of them being too busy these last few weeks to decide where to hang them. Next to the easel is San’s piano for when Wooyoung feels like singing with him, and next to that is their dresser table with Wooyoung’s record player for whenever they feel like dancing together instead. A double bookshelf covers the opposite wall, stocked end-to-end with San’s tomes and Wooyoung’s favorite anthologies, spines sitting neatly together.
There’s a single window here. It sits in the center of the wall opposite to the end of their bed, arched and bigger than the other windows of the house, its rich plum drapes swept neatly to the side.
Of course, there’s nothing to see beyond it tonight, but when San’s limbs are too heavy to drag out for a daytime stroll and he spends most of the day inside taking care of San, he’s given a beautiful view of the rich, sprawling gardens in front of the estate and the glittering lake behind it. There’s no candle on this one’s sill, but that’s because Wooyoung always saves the most meaningful light for last.
Careful not to let his candle go out now, he steps up to the window and sets the candleholder down, finally completing his route.
Just as a familiar sense of accomplishment washes over him, a shift in the air suddenly blows the candle out, plunging the room in darkness. It happens to coincide with the presence that suddenly unfolds itself against his back, filling out into strong arms that wrap around him and a profile that nuzzles against his cheek; a mouth that presses a kiss to his temple; a voice that murmurs there, amused, “You and your candles.”
Overhead, a small ball of fire flickers to life, and he sees San’s pale arms wrapped around him from behind.
It looks like he’s just recently returned. An autumn chill clings to his leather hunting cloak, prompting a shiver out of Wooyoung as San noses into him. Judging by the melting flakes in San’s dark hair, they’ve had an early snowfall, but it just gives Wooyoung a valid reason to set the matches down and nuzzle back against him. “You have your rituals,” he hums. “Let me have mine.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t, darling.” San drags his lips to the shell of his ear. “I’m a little jealous, that’s all—you always look so reverent when you light them. Do you even remember what for?”
Wooyoung tilts his cheek over his shoulder to give him a pout. He knows that San knows he doesn’t, but he asks it from time to time anyway, like he finds great amusement in it.
This time, however, there’s a knowing lilt to San’s voice. “How about today's date? Do you remember the occasion?”
Hm. It’s the darkest day of the year. The day of San’s most important hunt. Wooyoung gives him these as answers, but San just chuckles and shakes his head.
“Those things, yes. But it’s also your birthday, sweetheart,” he says, pressing a kiss to Wooyoung’s cheek. “I was planning to spoil you tonight, but I was afraid you would forget like always. And what would you know?” he teases. “I was right. Again.”
“It’s one day out of three hundred and sixty-five,” Wooyoung says, sulking. “But you don’t think I look at you reverently enough?” Candles would be a strange new addition to the list of things that drew San’s envy—all of which are beyond Wooyoung’s understanding. San can be so silly sometimes.
San clicks his tongue at the subject change, but he hums obligingly, giving it some thought. “Reverent isn’t the first word I would use.”
Wooyoung takes his own pause at that answer. Then his pout tugs up into a coy little smile instead, and he glances down at the tempting curve of San’s mouth—only to look, of course, not touching without San’s permission. He knows from experience that San’s hunts always leave him with a bout of restless energy afterwards, and although Wooyoung always enjoys filling the role of his most attentive, doting caretaker, he likes it on this day of the year best.
“Would it help if I were on my knees?” he asks, looking up at San with wide eyes.
San takes his chin between two fingers, smiling down at him fondly. “If you were on your knees, I would have entirely new words for you instead.”
Wooyoung leans eagerly into his space. “Tell me,” he says, even as his mind already rushes to fill in the blanks.
That earns him a small tut as San rubs a hand over his hip, fingers twisting into the thin, satin fabric of Wooyoung’s nightgown. “Why don’t you give me a reason to?” he says playfully.
Oh. Yes, Wooyoung can do that.
He turns to wind his arms over San’s shoulders, sighing when he finds himself fitting naturally against San’s chest. It distracts him for a moment, how well they fit—even with him barefoot and San in his hunting boots, towering over him in his leather vestments and forcing him to push up on his toes just to be able to reach his jaw, it’s perfect, the perfect strain to be able to accommodate San. Wooyoung would be as pliant as he needs to be for San to push and pull around as he likes.
He wants to play with San’s hair, but he wants to be good even more and he can't touch there without permission, and so he keeps his hands obediently crossed behind San’s neck. Occasionally, however, his fingers brush against the long vertical slit that runs up San’s clothes, radiating heat from the skin hiding underneath.
Just the hint of it has Wooyoung already aching. He doesn’t mind the chill that clings persistently to San’s clothes, molding himself tightly against him in an effort to wring it out and replace it with his body heat as he kisses San’s jaw. San is warm there, his heartbeats ticking faintly against Wooyoung’s lips.
He makes his way up San’s jaw until he reaches his earlobe, dragging his teeth lightly over the soft, unpierced skin. He earns a subtle shiver from San. Happy, he starts making his way down San’s neck next, brushing aside San’s collar to kiss over the ink black speckles that decorate his nape, teasing the rest of his skin hidden beneath his coat. Wooyoung lays wet kisses along his collarbone, careful not to use his teeth without San’s permission either. It’s not nearly as satisfying, but he hopes that maybe he might be recognized and rewarded for his self control.
Instead, San’s hand moves to the small of his back, bunching his nightgown tighter between his fingers. “Tease,” San rumbles, and that’s when Wooyoung realizes that he neglected to give San a proper kiss first. Oh, he can see how San might’ve misunderstood now.
“I’m sorry.” He looks up and gives San an earnest look. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Did you, now?”
He can always deduce how well a hunt went by San’s mood afterwards. San seems indulgent right now, his voice mild but still playful—Wooyoung is happy to suspect that he fed well tonight.
“I didn’t,” he insists. He pushes up on his toes again, this time to press a chaste, apologetic kiss to San’s lips.
San wastes no time entertaining it, pulling Wooyoung flush to his chest and snaking his other hand down to palm a handful of his ass, nearly lifting Wooyoung’s toes right off the ground in the process. Wooyoung squeaks at the reminder of San’s strength, only for the sound to be muffled when San slips his tongue past his lips. He moans, crooking a leg in an attempt to hike it over San’s hip, but it’s half-hearted when he knows San likes him best like this, helpless and panting for breath in his arms.
Then, San finds something that he had forgotten about, but also hoped that San would have forgotten about. Unfortunately, San’s memory is better than his.
“What’s this?” San murmurs, his ring and middle fingers slipping between the cleft of his ass. Wooyoung jolts when San rubs right over his hole, the nightgown doing little to dull how sensitive it still is.
Wooyoung’s mouth goes dry. He instinctively reaches back, trying to push his nightgown back down and out of San’s questing hand. “Sannie, I can explain—”
A tremor rolls through San’s body, one that Wooyoung feels through his own body too like it was his own. Wet squelches fill the air as the rest of San’s limbs unfold from the slit of his clothes, all of that leather straining when the sheer mass of his tentacles uncoil and stretch themselves out. Ink black like the markings on his neck, they nearly blend into the darkness of the room, only distinguishable by the thin, gleaming coat of slime that covers them.
Wooyoung gasps when San unceremoniously yanks his nightgown upwards, fisting the cream satin fabric over his lower back and baring his ass to the air. Out of reflex, Wooyoung twists his legs together to preserve some modesty, but two tentacles only wind around his left thigh and hoist his leg upwards, open, while a third one slides over his hole.
He’s still loose and faintly aching, but he’s distinctly emptier than San left him before his hunt.
Another rumble rolls through San, distinctly unhappier now, and Wooyoung knows that he’s come to that exact realization.
He bites back a wounded noise and buries his face into San’s chest, trembling in his grip. The tentacles holding his leg up tighten and lift his leg higher, forcing him to cling to San’s neck for balance while the bulbous tip of the third budges against his rim, its slit secreting more clear rivulets of slime.
It’s smaller than the other two, and Wooyoung is still well-stretched from both the previous night and that morning, which means that one push is all it takes for it to slip in.
Wooyoung’s mouth falls open with a small, hitched cry, muffled against San’s chest.
“You touched yourself without my permission.”
A statement, not a question. San’s voice sounds like the voice of two, ten, a hundred, resounding in Wooyoung’s ears and thoughts with the tenor of disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whispers immediately, curling his hands fitfully into the lapels of San’s coat. “I couldn’t—” A flush erupts across his cheeks, burning all the way to his ears. “It wouldn’t stop dripping when I tried to walk, and— Ah!”
The tentacle twists and thrusts deeper into him at the same time, leaving him wet and throbbing inside. Inspecting, he realizes dimly. Feeling out the extent of his transgressions.
He resists the urge to apologize again, instead trying to relax around the tentacle and its motions, gentle despite San’s unforgiving grip on his nightgown.
“Couldn’t hold it in?” San murmurs. “Did I fuck you too loose last night, darling?”
Last night: the hours he spent at the mercy of San’s whims, held prone and sobbing on a throne of San’s tentacles while they writhed and fucked and pumped him full on both ends. The memory sends a fierce shiver through him, and despite himself, his walls clench greedily around the tentacle inside him. His cock stirs.
As if sensing it, San suddenly stills halfway in.
Wooyoung mewls in protest, hips jerking back in a futile attempt to nudge it deeper again, but the other tentacles hold his legs firm, and two more wind around his stomach to keep him from moving. Another one, about as thick as the one pulsing inside of him, wraps around his throat and wrenches away from his hiding place in San’s chest. Another prods at his chin to look up.
San is looking at him, gaze hooded, expectant.
Waiting for an answer.
“Yes,” Wooyoung gasps through the pressure around his throat. The tentacle squeezes briefly, but then loosens, a silent bid for him to continue. San always likes to hear him describe how it feels to be split open by his cock. “You fucked me so well last night, Sannie,” he sniffles. “Could feel you all day today, like you were still inside of me, and— and I was dripping so much, and I was trying to push it back in but I just got carried away, and I— I’m sorry.”
“Got carried away, hm?” San cups his jaw with his hand, just as firm as the tentacles but warmer, softer. A couple of his tentacles slide against Wooyoung’s cheeks eagerly, leaving cool, stick trails of slime, but it’s like San doesn’t even notice them, gaze trained solely on Wooyoung. “Tell me how.”
The command has his cock swelling against San’s belly. Wooyoung’s eyes flutter shut in shame, but the tentacle squeezes his throat again, and he forces himself to open them again and meet San’s eyes. “I couldn’t even make it out of the bedroom,” he whispers. “I stood up, and it was already running down my thighs, so wet—”
“What was?” San asks patiently.
Wooyoung’s cheeks burn. “Y- Your cum.”
“Mm.” San bumps his knuckle over his cheekbone affectionately. “Go on, sweetheart. Did I leave you too messy, is that it?”
“Really messy,” Wooyoung whimpers. “I tried to— to get it back in with my hand, but then it felt too good, and—”
He’s sure he’s scarlet by now. He wants to turn away, but he can’t when San has him held open like this, nowhere to go and nowhere to look but San.
“Did you fuck yourself on your fingers right there?” San asks, sympathy bleeding into his voice, like he can somehow peer into Wooyoung’s memory of that very morning he spent with his cheek to the floor and ass to the air, desperately fucking his fingers into himself for any reminder of the fucking San had given him the night before. “So hungry to have something inside of you that you couldn’t ask me first? Are you so much of a slut that you didn’t think twice about wasting all that I gave you?”
The tears bubble over suddenly—Wooyoung wasn’t even aware they were pooling in his eyes until they’re spilling down his cheeks, branding hot, wet lines through the thin layer of slime covering his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he snivels, unable to stand the thought that San might think he’s ungrateful. “I’m sorry, Sannie, ‘m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Shh. Come here, sweetheart, it’s all right.”
The sound of the endearment sends another teardrop spilling from his eyes, this time from relief. The grip around his throat loosens as San pulls him into an embrace, hushing and kissing his hair all the while. Wooyoung cries into his shoulder, his hips jerking pitifully against San’s stomach.
“I just,” he hiccups, desperate to explain. He’s glad when San cards a hand through his hair and waits patiently for him to suck in a breath and go on. “I- I wanted you, wanted to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you during your hunt.”
San’s stroking pauses. A moment later, the tentacles around his stomach maneuver him back to look at San properly before slithering away. “Oh, Wooyoung,” he says softly, expression softened. “You’re never a bother to me.”
San cradles his face so gently that Wooyoung almost begins to cry anew at it.
“These candles that you light every night,” San continues. “Do you know what they always make me think of?” He pauses to wait for Wooyoung to shake his head hesitantly. “They make me think of how fitting it is, that you bring light to this dreadful place just as you’ve brought light into my life. How could you bother me?”
The words bring about a fresh sting to Wooyoung’s eyes despite his best efforts to keep the rest of his tears at bay. “It’s not dreadful,” he mumbles. “It’s our home.”
San smiles—it’s a real one, the kind that makes those divots appear by the corners of his lips. “It’s our home,” he agrees, “and you’re the dearest thing it holds. Never doubt that I would answer your call in a heartbeat, no matter where I am, no matter how far. Do you understand?”
Oh, it does seem so silly now that he hears it from San. Perhaps he simply needed to hear it to be convinced of it. “I understand,” he rasps, reaching for San. This time, San lets him lean forward to embrace him around the neck, even if it’s a tight fit with the thicket of his tentacles protruding from his back. “I love you,” Wooyoung whispers, nuzzling into him. “I would always answer your call too, no matter how far away you were.”
“And I love you,” San soothes him in return, “and you’ll never have to worry about such a thing, because I do not intend to lose you to begin with.”
It brings a small smile to Wooyoung’s face, a smile that grows dreamier when San squeezes him tighter against his chest.
“Now,” San murmurs, shifting the tentacle inside of him and kissing the corner of his mouth when Wooyoung lets out a soundless moan at how deep it reaches, “no more crying, sweetheart. You know it will only make me want to fuck you harder.”
He rocks the tentacle inside deeper with a lewd squelch. Wooyoung lets out a strained noise, tilting his cheek listlessly against one of the tentacles hovering by his face. “But I like it,” he sniffles. “Like when you make me cry on your cock.”
“A lucky coincidence,” San says approvingly, “that I enjoy making you cry for it, too. But first—”
The tentacle slips out of him entirely, followed by the ones around his thighs retreating too. Wooyoung cries out in protest, instantly missing their touch, but then there are more of them lashing around his back, thick and thin ones alike, turning him over to face the window.
Suddenly without San to lean on, he scrambles to prop himself up against the cool glass. Wooyoung makes a confused noise, looking at San’s faint reflection in the glass, but he’d be a liar if he said his cock wasn’t fattening up under his nightgown again, only this time without the relief of San’s belly to rut against. Oh, he doesn’t have a good feeling about this.
“San,” he begins, nearly a whine, but San just shushes him and rucks his nightgown back up to his hips.
“Your last candle,” San says graciously. “You never lit it. Go ahead.”
I did, but you blew it out, Wooyoung wants to say petulantly, but San’s tentacles are sliding promisingly over his hips, his ass, teasing at his rim, and if this might get San back inside of him faster, then so be it. He takes a shaky step forward so he no longer has to support himself on the window for balance, reaching for the box of matches.
San steps forward with him, a beat delayed.
Busy trying to draw out a match in the scant lighting they have, Wooyoung misses the rustling of San’s trousers, doesn’t notice the difference of San’s cock nudging against his hole instead of a tentacle until he’s poised to strike the match and San fucks into him without warning.
Wooyoung moans in shock, the match scraping uselessly over the side of the box in all the wrong angles as he’s shoved against the window. “S- San,” he gasps, only to hear San grunt and thrust again, filling him up so well. The glass fogs with Wooyoung’s warm puffs of breath, smearing with drool.
He feels so—
“Sorry, Wooyoungie.” San strokes his thumb over his hip apologetically, pulling out halfway. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“S- S’okay,” Wooyoung mumbles. With shaky hands, he picks up the box of matches and braces his forearm against the window, bringing out a new match to light. But just as he strikes this one, San yanks him back onto his cock, making him cry out much louder than before.
“Sweetheart,” San sighs, palming one of his cheeks and squeezing reprimandingly. “Try to focus, please.” His tentacles rub against Wooyoung’s inner thighs, his belly, his cheeks, like they’re agreeing.
“M’trying,” Wooyoung mewls. “B- But you’re—”
“Try harder,” San says.
Wooyoung sniffles, beginning to suspect that San’s apology wasn’t that sincere after all, but still he picks up the box of matches once more. Draws another match out. Positions it firmly against the side of the box, and—
San snaps his hips forward again, and Wooyoung lets out a warbled cry when a spark forms and fizzles within the same moment. “Y- You’re horrible!” he sobs, and San just laughs, reaching down to wrap a hand around his cock.
“Try again,” he says sweetly.
Vision blurring with tears of frustration, Wooyoung brings out yet another match and strikes it against the box blindly, and this time, this time, it finally takes, San’s thrust coming just half a beat too late to knock him off-kilter again. But this time San also doesn’t stop, falling into a harsh rhythm that has Wooyoung helplessly pressed against the window by his cheek, panting and drooling against it. There’s a clatter as the box of matches falls somewhere to the ground, but the match is still in the death grip of his other hand, its flame flickering wildly in the dark while he’s swayed by San’s firm hands.
“Good boy,” San breathes, one hand sliding up to roll a nipple between his fingers, tugging and playing with the nub until it pebbles. A bead of sweat rolls down from his temple to his chin, splashing down onto Wooyoung’s back. “Now light the candle.”
Whimpering, Wooyoung looks down, finding the candleholder sitting where he’d left it on the sill. With great difficulty, he lowers the match, but just as he’s about to touch it to the wick, he feels a tentacle nudge at his rim already stretched around San’s girth, and just the suggestion of taking a second cock startles him so badly that the match falls right out of his hand and tumbles onto the windowsill.
“San,” he squeaks, but San is already there, laying a hand over the flame without missing a beat. Wooyoung watches in dumbstruck awe as San scoops up the flame onto his fingertips, leaving the burnt match behind.
With the flame, San lights the candle with ease.
“You jerk,” Wooyoung howls, clenching down on him in an attempt to punish him, “you c- could have just lit it yourself—”
But it has the opposite effect, San’s tentacles only pressing tighter against him in response while San gives an appreciative moan. Wooyoung finds himself being hoisted up and being turned over once more, body wracking with a full shudder as he’s maneuvered back to the same position as before, only now bouncing on the thick, hot length of San’s cock.
He’s quickly losing track of everything else. There is nothing else except for this, for his sole purpose to keep San’s cocks warm. Wooyoung knows that despite his waterworks, he’s going to happily take it just how San wants him to take it, because he loves it, loves the simplicity of a life where he waits for San to come home so he can take each one of his cocks in his hole and his mouth and his hands and help him unwind.
“I’m sorry, darling,” San says as he pushes his nightgown further up his chest and out of the way. He tweaks one of Wooyoung’s nipples, probably just to hear Wooyoung mewl because he’s terrible, and he confirms Wooyoung’s suspicions when he says, “You’re just so fun to tease.”
“You’re n- not— ah, sorry at all,” Wooyoung cries out. “You’re so—”
San chuckles, his eyes dancing with mirth. “So what?”
“So—” Wooyoung slurs, and the rest of it’s gone, erased by the blazing hot trail of pleasure racing up his spine.
The tentacles wrap around his stomach again but this time in greater multitudes, making for one firm grip that slides him up and down on San’s cock in tandem opposite to San’s thrusts. His ass must be flushed by now, he thinks distantly, with how San’s balls slap against them every time he’s forced to meet him in the middle.
More tentacles slither out from the dark, hosting his legs up by the thighs and calves once more and lashing across his arms and chest just below his nipples to support his upper back. Wooyoung feels even more helpless than before, something he didn’t think was possible, dripping in sweat and slime as he’s fucked on San’s cock like some mindless doll.
“Ah, ah,” San chastises, nudging a tentacle firmly against his cheek. Yet another tentacle replaces his hand on his cock and squeezes tightly around the base, and Wooyoung wants to cry when it cruelly halts the pleasure mounting in his gut. “I can’t have you losing your mind on my cock yet.”
“But,” he cries.
Something bright and warm dances in front of his eyes, and he goes a little cross-eyed trying to understand— oh, he thinks, San still has the flame dancing on his fingertips, and he’s holding it out to Wooyoung’s lips with a wicked smile and telling him, “Blow out your candle first.”
Wooyoung tries to suck in a breath, but his mouth feels unable to do anything other than pant around dumb little “ah ah ah"s in time with San’s thrusts. He manages one weak blow, but it just ends with his cheeks puffed up in a small, humiliated sob as San laughs openly at him.
“That really was pathetic,” San tells him, and somehow the affection in it makes it feel more humiliating. Then the flame dissipates, and San's shoving his fingers into his mouth and pressing down harshly on his tongue.
Wooyoung immediately gags around the digits, drooling around San’s fingers and feeling filthy for it—tries to say something like please please please can I cum as he tastes smoke, still doing his best to suckle on San’s fingers just out of instinct.
“Not until I fill you up,” San chides, and Wooyoung’s really crying again now, fat tears sliding down his cheeks when San gets a hand back on his poor cock. He doesn’t seem concerned that Wooyoung may really go out of his mind if he doesn’t get to cum soon, doesn’t seem to remember that he always takes disproportionately longer to reach orgasm, and that Wooyoung would gladly let him use him however he wants for however long he wants if he just lets him—
“I can’t,” he sobs, trying and failing to reach for San’s shoulders with his arms bound to his chest. “Please, ah, let me cum, Sannie, need to cum—”
“Don’t be impatient, Wooyoung. There’s only one way to spoil a slut like you,” San grunts, feeding two tentacles right into his searching hands for his troubles. Wooyoung squeals when they’re immediately joined by another pair wriggling under the curve of his wrist, each one following their own lurid pace in search of completion. There are more tentacles snaking their way into other crevices of his body—two smaller ones fighting for space between the fold of his left knee with a matching fat one claiming his right knee, one that’s coiled itself around the crease where his thigh meets his groin, and then the one that keeps teasing at his stretched rim like it’s just waiting for the opportunity to slip inside.
They make no effort to move in unison. Each one thrusts and twists against him as they please, using him as they please. And it’s exactly what Wooyoung likes to be used for: to milk San’s cocks, and to keep them warm and wet in him after.
“Here,” San pants, apparently still discontent. “Why don’t you give him a kiss?”
Another thick tentacle emerges from behind San, one of the few with a slit on the tip like a human cock. Wooyoung can only stare at it dumbly for a moment, the meaning of San’s words lost between how hard San is pounding him until it nudges against Wooyoung’s bottom lip and claims a ‘kiss’ for itself.
“Open up,” San coos.
But Wooyoung’s mouth has already been parted to let out an endless stream of stupid gasps and whimpers as he’s fucked senseless, and the tentacle simply takes that presented opportunity to slide right in. It doesn’t taste like anything, least of all like San’s cock, but it’s just as thick and reaches even deeper, hitting the back of his throat in one slide. More tears spring to Wooyoung’s eyes as he gags around it, with only the strength to slacken his jaw while it fucks his mouth.
He feels dizzy. Delirious. Where there’s nowhere for a tentacle to fuck itself between, it contents itself by rubbing against him and leaving viscous trails of slime — up against his face, along his jaw, between the flat planes of his chest, over his belly. However filthy he felt that morning with San’s spend leaking down his thighs is nothing compared to this, to being covered in San’s cocks, drooling, dripping sweat and slick onto the floor.
“There you are,” San utters. His pupils are blown, cataloguing every part of Wooyoung reclining on a bed of his limbs and being fucked to incoherence. “You’re taking care of me so well, Wooyoung, mmh, so fucking well—”
And then San, one by one, begins to cum.
The tentacles wedged under Wooyoung’s knees, having no reason to be gentle or slow this whole time, cum first, creaming the makeshift tunnel they’ve made out of his bent legs. Wooyoung absolutely keens at the sensation, thighs shaking with the disbelief of seeing his legs coated by cum. It’s different from when San cums with his human cock—thicker, less translucent, landing in stark white strips on the sunkissed skin of his thighs.
He drips right down to the floor.
“Good—” San is gasping, shuddering with each one’s release, “that’s it, that’s my good little cumslut—” but the rest of him isn’t slowing, still fucking and grinding and using Wooyoung until he cums again—ruining Wooyoung’s chest this time, the tentacle on his belly joining the one rubbing between his pecs and furiously pumping until it spills thickly all over his chest and the underside of his neck. Before it even finishes, the one grinding against his cheek jerks to completion too, making him whine pathetically around the tentacle stuffed in his mouth as cum spurts over his face, clinging to his lips and cheekbones. He gasps, whimpers, and gets a wet, full-bodied grind of the tentacle up the length of his face as a reward.
“Gorgeous,” San breathes, sounding like he really means it, and he looks reverent, like Wooyoung in this filthy, fucked-out state could be something that he makes a ritual out of. It probably is. “I’m close, Wooyoung, I—”
San breaks off into a moan, the sound pitching into something just as high and needy as Wooyoung’s cries when the tentacle around his cock finally loosens and slithers away and San begins to strip his cock unevenly with his thrusts. Wooyoung sobs, jerking up desperately into the tight tunnel of his fist.
“That’s it, sweetheart, you can cum, cum with me—”
Wooyoung chokes on a scream as his orgasm finally razes through him, seizing around both cocks splitting him open while his own pulses in San’s hand. There’s not enough of him left to even try to swallow around the tentacle, faintly aware of coughing and gagging obscenely around the copious amount of its release until it yanks itself out and finishes the rest over his gasping mouth. There’s little more he can do than clench and twitch around San’s cock either, sunk deep in the sounds of San’s rough groaning as he fills him up until he starts to leak around his cock too.
He whimpers mindlessly when San pulls out with a hiss and promptly replaces his cock with his fingers, scooping up the excess and pushing it back into his hole. Still fettered in place, thighs aloft, Wooyoung just lies there and takes it, making pitiful noises every time San scrapes carelessly over his prostate. San’s spent tentacles rub affectionately through the mess they’ve made of him, little creatures with minds of their own.
He feels well and truly fucked out.
And yet—
“If you can make it to the bed without spilling a drop,” San rasps, bending over to mouth at his jaw, “I’ll forgive you for this morning.”
It takes a moment for him to realize that San didn’t bend over at all, but that the tentacles simply righted him and have started to straighten out his legs. Wooyoung makes a distressed sound and shakes his head furiously when San tries to lower him back onto his feet, clinging stubbornly to San’s neck.
“All right, all right.” San hushes his whimpering with a few kisses to his cheek, only marginally helping with the mess on his face. “I’ll let you lean on me.”
He says this magnanimously, when Wooyoung’s legs remember absolutely nothing about how to walk or support the rest of his weight. Wooyoung only takes about two steps on his own, the rest of it San’s strength that carries him to the bed while he cinches his thighs together as tightly as he can, but he makes it there nonetheless and collapses into the sheets with a smaller, fitful whimper of relief. Much of the world remains dark, though he’s not sure now if it’s the weak lighting or his consciousness struggling to sustain itself.
“See, sweetheart? We’re here.” San’s voice weaves in and out of it, like a thread working to stitch him back together. “Let me see you.”
With a small hiccup, Wooyoung gathers the last of his strength to pull his legs underneath him and lift his hips, spreading himself for San.
He hears a soft sigh of approval. Feels a hand, warm, cup the wet flesh of his ass and slide affectionately over his soft, dripping rim. “You did so well for me tonight, my darling. Let me handle the rest from here, hm?”
The rest. Possibly he means the cleanup, and Wooyoung wants to protest, wants San and all of his limbs curled around him instead, but his tongue is as heavy as his eyelids for now, and won’t San be there even if he’s not awake to feel it? Yes. Yes, Wooyoung knows he will be, and he knows that he’ll be safe here the whole while too, so when the dark finally comes loping around the edges of his vision, waiting to claim him, Wooyoung falls into it willingly, knowing that San will be there when he wakes.
— ✼ —
"You don't think it looks lonely?" said one silhouette to the other.
"I think it looks best left alone."
"That's cold."
"It's common sense."
"But don't you ever feel..." He sighed. “Never mind. I came to do one thing, and I don't intend to back out now. Don’t worry about me, Yeosangie.” He smiled, and it was perhaps the brightest smile he had worn in years. “How about this? When I reach the highest window there,” he pointed to the window that crowned the manor, where he could make out the shape of a candleholder sitting unused on the sill, then held out a box of matches he had brought with him, “I’ll light that candle so you know I made it safely.”
The other remained unconvinced even as he was tugged into an embrace, but he made no more protests. It seemed he finally understood that there would be nothing he could do to convince his companion otherwise, no argument he could make that was more compelling than whatever siren’s call he seemed certain was calling out to him from within that manner.
And so when his companion untangled himself from his arms and headed for that door that swayed open to welcome him in, he let him go, trusting that the smile he wore meant that he knew what would be waiting for him on the other side.