Holding you, Holding me

by itsosweet

Summary:

“Can we—please?” Hongjoong asks, the words slipping out before he can overthink them into silence. His voice is quiet but strained, need threading through it unmistakably. His body feels warm all over, desire simmering beneath his skin, something that’s been building slowly all evening and now refuses to be ignored.

He doesn’t even know how to explain what he wants. The shape of it feels blurry, tangled up with exhaustion and affection and the lingering ache of being touched and then wanting more. Shame pricks at him for needing this much, for asking when he’s the one who’s usually careful, restrained. But Seonghwa looks at him and understands anyway. He always does.

Notes:

So um...this is not my usual content but this idea was not letting me sleep so I just had to write it down.

This is honestly pure fluff, I hope you will enjoy this just as much as I enjoyed writing this.💕

It’s 1 a.m. when Hongjoong eases the front door shut behind him, fingers careful on the handle, breath held like that might somehow soften the sound. His shoulders sag the moment the lock clicks into place, exhaustion crashing down all at once now that he’s finally here. He toes off his shoes before looking up and coming face to face with San.

For a split second, he feels like he’s been caught doing something wrong, like a kid sneaking back in past curfew. He blinks, eyes stinging, brain lagging half a beat behind the moment. San’s silhouette sharpens as his eyes adjust, familiar and achingly comforting all at once. “Hyung?” he asks, eyebrow lifting, confusion soft but real. He looks between Hongjoong’s face and the door, like he’s trying to figure out how long he’s been standing there and how much of a mess he looks.

Hongjoong exhales, the sound more a collapse than a sigh. “Hi, Sannie.” His voice comes out rougher than he expects. He leans back against the door, forehead tipping to the cool wood with a quiet thud. The pressure feels grounding, like the door is the only thing keeping him upright.

San’s expression changes instantly. Concern flickers across his face, sharp and instinctive. “What are you doing here?”

Hongjoong lets his eyes close. For just a second. Just long enough to pretend he’s already lying down and being held. “Can’t you already tell?” he murmurs, a weak attempt at teasing slipping through the exhaustion. All he wants—desperately, painfully—is to be in bed. To be warm. To feel Seonghwa’s arms around him so he can finally let go.

He’s so tired it feels like it’s soaked into his bones. The kind of tired that isn’t fixed by sleep alone. The kind that comes from too many days holding himself together, from too many hours without rest or reassurance or touch. His skin feels tight, oversensitive, like it’s been waiting all night for contact that never came.

San hums softly, understanding dawning. “Oh, oh, okay. Right.” He nods, glancing down the hall. “I think he’s still awake.” He jerks his chin toward Seonghwa’s room, voice dropping instinctively. “Goodnight, Hyung.”

“Night,” Hongjoong breathes, barely audible.

San disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The hallway falls quiet again, and Hongjoong is left standing there, heart heavy and hopeful all at once. He pushes off the door and When he reaches Seonghwa’s door, for a moment, he just stands there, breathing, already imagining the warmth waiting on the other side. The way Seonghwa will pull him in without questions. The way his hands will anchor Hongjoong back into his own body. God, he needs that. Needs to be touched, needs to be held.

He opens the door, and Seonghwa’s eyes are on him instantly—wide, dark, almost boba-like in the low light of the room. He stops just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He leans into the doorframe as if his body has decided that this is as far as it can go on its own.

For a second, he just watches.

Seonghwa is half lying against the pillows, blanket pooled around his waist, hair a soft, chaotic mess like he’s been running his hands through it absentmindedly. There’s something unbearably gentle about him like this, stripped of stage lights and sharp tailoring. Just Seonghwa. Just home. On the TV, a documentary murmurs quietly about oceans, but it barely registers.

Seonghwa reaches for the remote and turns the volume down without looking away. His gaze never leaves Hongjoong’s face, like he’s afraid he might disappear if he blinks. “Hey,” he says, voice warm and low, even softer than usual.

The sound of it hits Hongjoong square in the chest. He tries to answer, really he does, but his throat tightens around the word until it won’t come out. The relief is sudden and overwhelming. Just seeing Seonghwa，knowing he’s here, awake and waiting makes something in him finally loosen. Love spreads through him in a slow, aching wave, leaving him unsteady and far too aware of how much he’s been holding back recently.

Seonghwa’s expression shifts, concern threading gently through his features. “What’s on your mind,” he asks, “that got you here?”

Hongjoong swallows, the motion visible. His fingers curl against the doorframe, knuckles pale. “Remember that conversation we had,” he starts, voice quiet, “about me not running from my feelings?” Seonghwa nods immediately, a soft, encouraging smile forming, like he already knows where this is going and is ready to meet him there. “Well,” Hongjoong continues, words faltering, “I’ve been in the studio for nine hours and I—I—” He breaks off with a frustrated breath, shoulders hunching in on themselves. He hates how hard this still is, how naming his needs feels like prying his own ribs apart. “I guess… I was feeling lonely. All by myself.”

The admission hangs in the air, fragile and bare. But Seonghwa’s smile widens and he lifts the blanket, opening it in a silent invitation, shifting to make space. “Wanna watch this with me, then?”

Something in Hongjoong finally gives. He nods, eyes burning, and crosses the room in a few slow steps. The moment he crawls onto the bed, Seonghwa’s arms are around him, firm and certain, pulling him close until Hongjoong is pressed warm and solid against his chest. He exhales shakily, melting into the contact like he’s been waiting for it all night. Seonghwa’s hand finds his hair, fingers carding through gently, unhurried. He closes his eyes, exhaustion sinking deep now that he’s not carrying it alone.

Hongjoong doesn’t remember actively deciding to cling to Seonghwa. It just… happens. One moment he’s settling into the space the older makes for him, careful and tentative out of old habit, and the next his hands are fisting into Seonghwa’s shirt, forehead pressed into the warm slope of his neck. His body curves inward instinctively, seeking, anchoring. Seonghwa’s arms tighten around him without hesitation, like this is exactly where he is meant to be.

Usually, Hongjoong is careful with touch. Guarded. He tolerates it when he has to—on stage, during schedules, when fans or members need reassurance—but it’s never easy. His skin feels too sensitive most days, every brush of fingers registering too loudly in his system. Even with Seonghwa, whom he loves with a depth that still surprises him, he tends to keep a little distance. Shoulder to shoulder. Fingers barely linked. Controlled, manageable affection. This desperate closeness is rare. Reserved for nights like this, when he’s so tired he can’t keep the walls standing anymore.

Seonghwa doesn’t comment on it. He never does. He just adjusts, one hand splayed wide across his back, the other cradling the back of his head. His thumb moves in slow, repetitive strokes at Hongjoong’s nape, grounding and warm. He breathes him in, and lets his full weight sink into Seonghwa’s chest.

“Better?” Seonghwa murmurs after a while.

Hongjoong nods, the motion small, muffled against Seonghwa’s collarbone. “Mm,” he hums. It’s not a lie. The exhaustion is still there, heavy and deep, but it’s softer now. Blunted by touch. They let the documentary continue in the background, volume low enough that Hongjoong can focus on Seonghwa’s breathing instead, steady and calm beneath his ear. He matches it without thinking, lungs finally slowing to something sustainable.

Seonghwa’s fingers pause briefly, then resume their gentle path. “You said you were in the studio all day,” he says quietly. “What were you working on?”

“It started as… nothing,” he admits after a while. “Just sounds. I wasn’t supposed to be there that long.” He exhales. “But then something clicked. Or almost clicked. And I couldn’t leave it alone.”

Seonghwa hums in understanding. “Those are the dangerous ones.”

A faint smile tugs at Hongjoong’s lips. “Yeah. It’s not finished. It doesn’t even have a name yet. But it feels… important. Like it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

Seonghwa’s hand resumes its slow rhythm, grounding him back into the bed, into the moment. “Does it feel like you?”

Hongjoong considers that, eyes closing. “Too much,” he admits softly. “That’s the problem.”

Seonghwa doesn’t push. He never does. “That can be scary,” he says instead, voice warm against Hongjoong’s hair.

He nods again. shifting slightly and pressing closer, one leg hooking over Seonghwa’s without asking, who welcomes it with familiarity, adjusting so Hongjoong can fit more comfortably against him. “I didn’t realize how lonely it felt,” he murmurs. “Being there by myself. Usually I’m fine. I like it. But today…” He trails off, frustration flickering briefly across his face. “I kept thinking I heard someone behind me. Like I was supposed to turn around and you’d be there.”

Seonghwa’s arms tighten just a fraction. “I’m here now,” he says simply.

Hongjoong exhales, tension leaking out of him in a long breath. He shifts again, tucking his face fully into Seonghwa’s neck now, hiding there. His body feels boneless, pliant, entirely surrendered to the comfort Seonghwa offers. They fall into a gentle rhythm—talking in quiet bursts, pausing often. Hongjoong describes fragments of the song: a melody that won’t leave him alone, a lyric he keeps rewriting, the way the chorus feels like it’s hovering just out of reach. Seonghwa listens like it matters, like it’s precious, asking the occasional question but never interrupting the flow.

All the while, he keeps touching Hongjoong. Never too much. Never overwhelming. Just enough to remind him he isn’t alone in this, that he doesn’t have to hold himself together tonight.

At some point, Hongjoong realizes his grip has loosened, fingers no longer clenched but resting open against Seonghwa’s chest. He’s still pressed close, still soaking in every stroke of the older’s hand, but the desperation has eased into something calmer and safer. Seonghwa kisses the top of his head when their conversation quiets down. He doesn’t pull away before the next one, his mouth simply drifts, brushing another kiss into Hongjoong’s hair, then another. His lips trail down to Hongjoong’s forehead, pressing there, lingering, then moving again, never quite breaking contact.

He wants to reciprocate but moving feels like effort, so instead, he tilts his head just enough to reach Seonghwa’s neck and presses his lips there, soft at first, barely more than a brush. Seonghwa doesn’t stop kissing him even then—his mouth continues its slow path, hairline to temple to forehead, like he’s mapping him out through touch.

Hongjoong kisses his neck again, lingering this time, letting his mouth stay there. Another kiss follows, then another, warmth building slowly. His lips part slightly, breath ghosting over skin, kisses turning deeper without losing their gentleness. He nuzzles closer, mouth finding the sensitive hollow just beneath Seonghwa’s jaw that makes the latter hum quietly. Encouraged, Hongjoong lets his kisses turn into soft nibbles, teeth grazing skin between presses of his mouth. He’s careful, restrained, but there’s a need creeping into it, something hungrier beneath the tenderness. Seonghwa’s breath catches, a quiet groan slipping out as Hongjoong’s teeth sink just a little more deliberately.

“Joong,” Seonghwa exhales, voice low, affectionate, breathless. He leans in, mouth finding Hongjoong’s hair again, kissing through the sound of his name.

His hand slides to Hongjoong’s neck, cupping it gently. He lifts him just enough to bring them eye level, lips still brushing in quick, soft presses against Hongjoong’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, never fully breaking the flow. The loss of having something solid under his mouth makes Hongjoong whine softly, unguarded, even as Seonghwa’s lips continue to chase him. “So it’s like that, hm?” he murmurs, thumb brushing up and down Hongjoong’s neck in slow strokes. He punctuates the words with another kiss, then another, mouth lingering at the edge of Hongjoong’s lips like he’s waiting to be invited closer.

“I guess so,” he admits quietly, eyes heavy, voice honest. His hands fist in Seonghwa’s shirt again, tugging him closer without even realizing it.

Seonghwa doesn’t make him ask twice. He kisses him properly then—mouth to mouth, slow and deep, still tender but unmistakably more intense. The kiss doesn’t rush, but it builds. Lips moving together in an unhurried rhythm, breaths mingling, Seonghwa’s hand steady at Hongjoong’s neck, who melts into it instantly, lips parting, body relaxing even as the kiss deepens. Every nerve feels awake and soothed at the same time. When Seonghwa shifts the angle slightly, pressing closer, Hongjoong follows without hesitation, kissing him back just as steadily, just as softly.

They don’t really stop kissing after that.

Even when Seonghwa pulls back, it’s only far enough to press their foreheads together, mouths still brushing, exchanging small, lingering kisses between breaths. His lips trace along Hongjoong’s cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, before returning again and again. The longer he keeps kissing him, touching him, holding him, the more he wants. He shifts nearer without thinking, leg draping over Seonghwa’s, arms sliding up as he presses another lingering kiss to his neck.

“Can we—please?” Hongjoong asks, the words slipping out before he can overthink them into silence. His voice is quiet but strained, need threading through it unmistakably. His body feels warm all over, desire simmering beneath his skin, something that’s been building slowly all evening and now refuses to be ignored.

He doesn’t even know how to explain what he wants. The shape of it feels blurry, tangled up with exhaustion and affection and the lingering ache of being touched and then wanting more. Shame pricks at him for needing this much, for asking when he’s the one who’s usually careful, restrained. But Seonghwa looks at him and understands anyway. He always does.

“We’ll have to settle for third base,” he says gently, thumb brushing along Hongjoong’s jaw. There’s affection in his voice, not dismissal. “Busy day tomorrow.”

“I know,” he sighs, leaning into the touch. “Still better than nothing.”

Seonghwa smiles at that, fond and a little amused, and leans in to kiss him again. Then his mouth trails down Hongjoong’s neck, kisses pressing warmth into his skin as he guides them lower on the bed until they are lying down face to face, and Seonghwa’s hands begin to roam, broad palms warm as they slide over Hongjoong’s back, his sides, his waist. “We had sex two days ago,” he says lightly, a quiet laugh slipping out as he speaks.

Hongjoong tries to give him his best glare, but somehow it never works on Seonghwa, who is looking back at him, bright and indignant despite the flush creeping up his neck. “So?”

Seonghwa laughs properly this time, forehead pressing to Hongjoong’s. “So,” he says, kissing him again before he can argue further, “someone’s very needy.”

“I’m allowed to be” he huffs, even as he arches subtly into Seonghwa’s hands.

The desire doesn’t spike into something frantic; instead, it settles deeper, slower, coiling low in his stomach while his body relaxes everywhere else.

“Oh—” he gasps, fingers clutching at Seonghwa’s shoulders as the older reaches inside his sleep shorts, palming at his leaking cock. The touch is confident, familiar, and most importantly, devastatingly gentle. Seonghwa kisses along his neck, following the line of his throat, teeth grazing just enough to make Hongjoong shiver. His body reacts before he can think, curling inward instinctively, overwhelmed by how good it feels—how much he’s wanted, how clearly Seonghwa is reading him. He exhales shakily, heat pooling low, every nerve tuned to his lover’s movements.

Seonghwa thumbs at his slit, gathering the precum there and spreading it with two fingers so the dry friction is a little more pleasurable. Hongjoong lets out another breathless sound, this one closer to a whine, and strains forward despite himself. He tilts his head back, chasing Seonghwa’s mouth, needing it—needing him. Seonghwa lifts his head immediately, meeting him halfway, lips crashing into Hongjoong’s with a kiss that’s deeper now, hungrier, but still careful.

Seonghwa swallows every broken sound he makes, kissing him through each breath, each soft gasp as his hand keeps moving. Their mouths move together in a slow, unbroken rhythm, like they’re sharing the same air. Seonghwa’s hand tightens slightly at his waist, holding him in place. Hongjoong clings to him, fingers threading into Seonghwa’s hair, tugging just enough to keep him close. He kisses back desperately, body trembling, need coiling tighter with every second. The world narrows down to warmth and breath and touch, to the way Seonghwa knows exactly how far to push without overwhelming him.

The latter hums against his skin, clearly pleased, and keeps kissing him; slow, deep presses of his mouth that make Hongjoong’s knees weak. His hands don’t stop moving, steady and coaxing, drawing quiet, broken sounds from Hongjoong’s throat. He bites his lip, trying and failing to hold them back, every nerve ending alive and tuned to Seonghwa. His hands keep moving, twisting and tugging at his cock, thumbing the vein on the underside of it, making Hongjoong hiss from pleasure-pain, all with the same steady confidence, unhurried and knowing.

One of the perks of being together for nearly two years and having a healthy sex life, is that they know each other’s bodies inside and out. Every shortcut to pleasure, every spot meant for teasing, every touch that draws out soft whines or makes the other lose themselves completely.

Seonghwa’s touch feels impossibly familiar and devastating every single time. It’s overwhelming in the quietest way, like being pulled under by something gentle but relentless. Hongjoong gasps, breath stuttering as his body reacts without permission. He clings tighter, fingers digging into Seonghwa’s shoulders, needing something solid to hold onto. Every nerve feels exposed, tuned too sharply, and Seonghwa knows it—adjusts without being asked, grounding him even as he pushes him closer to the edge.

“Hwa—” his voice breaks on the name. He tries to say more, tries to warn him, but the words dissolve into soft, breathless sounds instead. Seonghwa presses a kiss to his mouth, swallowing them easily, like he doesn’t want Hongjoong to feel embarrassed by a single one.

“Quiet love, I’ve got you. But I think the kids are still awake.” Seonghwa murmurs against his lips.

“Yeah, I—” The sensation builds slowly, until it feels like too much, until his body tightens, curling inward again as the tension coils tighter and tighter. “met Sannie.” he finishes with a punched out breath. Seonghwa chuckles, kissing his temple and forehead, soothing him.

He whines softly, hips shifting without thinking, chasing what Seonghwa is giving him. He follows immediately, never breaking rhythm, never letting Hongjoong feel lost in it. One arm wraps firmly around him, holding him close, keeping him grounded even as everything inside him starts to unravel. “Let go,” he whispers, voice steady, sure.

And Hongjoong does. The feeling crests suddenly, sharply, like a wave finally breaking after pulling back for too long. His breath catches, body shuddering as everything snaps loose at once, pleasure washing through him in a dizzying rush that leaves him boneless and shaking. He buries his face against Seonghwa’s neck, biting down on his collarbone to muffle his cries as the aftershocks roll through him, mind going blissfully blank.

The older man doesn’t stop touching him, not completely at least. His hands soften, slow, shifting from intensity to comfort, rubbing soothing paths along Hongjoong’s back. He keeps kissing him too, gentle now, reassuring, like he’s guiding Hongjoong back down to himself. “That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Hongjoong can’t answer. He just nods weakly, breath still uneven, body heavy and loose against Seonghwa’s chest. He lets himself be held, lets the warmth and safety settle over him, knowing he doesn’t have to move or think or be anything right now. But when the aftershocks finally fade and the haze clears enough for him to feel like he’s back in his own skin, he exhales slowly and lifts his head. His body still feels warm and loose, limbs heavy in the most pleasant way, but there’s a spark back in him now—something sharp and playful threading through the softness.

He looks at Seonghwa, and the way he’s propped slightly on one elbow, hair tousled, lips parted from murmured reassurances he’s just finished giving. At the fond, attentive expression on his face, like he’s still making sure Hongjoong is alright. The sight does something dangerous to him. Before Seonghwa can ask anything, Hongjoong presses his palms to his chest and gently—but decisively—pushes him back against the mattress. Seonghwa goes easily, a soft laugh escaping him as he lets himself be guided down, trusting without question.

Hongjoong shifts, climbing over him and settling between his legs, knees sinking into the bed on either side of his hips. He straightens, feeling steadier now, more himself, and lets a slow, wicked smile curve across his mouth. It’s the kind of demonic smile he only ever wears up on stage, the kind that earned his place in the ‘demon line’.

Seonghwa’s breath stutters.

He lies back fully, hands relaxed at his sides, utterly unguarded. His wide, dark, and impossibly soft eyes never leave Hongjoong’s face. There’s curiosity there, and want, and that familiar, unwavering affection that always makes Hongjoong’s chest tighten. Their gazes lock, the air between them thick with intent, with the easy understanding that comes from knowing each other this well.

Hongjoong feels powerful in a quiet way, in the bedroom he often does. Seonghwa always makes him feel strong and powerful and wanted while gently taking control and quieting his mind.

Seonghwa lifts one hand, fingers brushing Hongjoong’s thigh in a silent question, giving him space even now.

He doesn’t answer with words. He leans down instead, hovering over the place where Seonghwa is straining against his pyjama bottoms, close enough that the older man can probably feel his breath, close enough that the moment stretches, charged and tender all at once. Seonghwa’s eyes soften even further, if that’s possible, and he lets himself sink into the mattress, utterly content to stay right there and watch Hongjoong.

He leaves a couple kisses on the clothed skin, Seonghwa’s hips already twitching in anticipation. He licks a strip from the base to the tip, making him groan and tip his head back in frustration. “Joong—don’t tease.” he breathes out. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing almost unconsciously, and Hongjoong feels a thrill at the thought of those fingers curling into his hair.

“Gonna ask nicely?” He teases just for the fun of it, letting his hand move lightly, brushing and exploring beneath the waistband of Seonghwa’s pyjamas. The playful lilt in his voice makes the other man’s eyes roll, dark and warm, lips curving into a fond smile.

He lifts his hips just enough, giving Hongjoong the permission his teasing had been waiting for. He tugs gently at the waistband as Seonghwa’s eyes never leave his. “Please?” Seonghwa murmurs softly, almost shyly despite the growing heat of the moment. There’s a vulnerability there, and Hongjoong drinks it in, heart beating faster, lips curling into a slow, wicked smile.

He leans down, lips brushing along Seonghwa’s hip again, teasing, soft. He trails kisses downwards as his boyfriend’s dark eyes follow him intently, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted, breathing hitching with every gentle press of Hongjoong’s mouth. He arches instinctively, small shivers rolling down his spine at the careful, relentless attention. Hongjoong feels the subtle tremors, the way Seonghwa’s hands twitch at his sides, or the way he swallows thickly, soft breaths shivering through his chest. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to; his dark eyes communicate everything, glossy and heavy with desire, completely open in trust.

“Gonna let you fuck my mouth, okay?” Hongjoong asks, and for a second, Seonghwa just stares at him, mouth slightly open, frozen. Hongjoong blinks at him, amused by the rare, startled look on his face. It’s brief, but he swallows a laugh—it’s actually kind of cute. Every couple of weeks he presents the opportunity to Seonghwa and seeing him caught so off guard never fails to make him grin.

He seems to snap out of it with a nod, reaching his hand out and catching Hongjoong’s wrist. “Give me your hand, then,” he murmurs, voice calm but firm, eyes warm and steady. “You know we don’t play like this.”

Right.

He slides his hand into Seonghwa’s, fingers tangling around each other’s wrists. They both know he doesn’t really need it—he never has—but Seonghwa likes to offer an out anyway. Two taps on his forearm are all it takes; that’s enough for him to stop without hesitation. It’s as good as a safeword.

He swallows Seonghwa down, who has to muffle a cry with the back of his other hand, hips twitching up into Hongjoong’s mouth. He relaxes his jaw because every other part of him is basically putty at this point, so pliable it would mold into any shape that he desired under his boyfriend’s hands. He takes Seonghwa down his throat and for a bit shuts down anything and everything other than the musky smell, the taste of the older man’s cock and the way it fills his mouth. Sweet and salty, and so him.

Hongjoong glances up and notices the way Seonghwa’s eyes are glossy, the edges darkened with tension and heat, a quiet shiver running through him. His lips curve into a slow, wicked grin. He winks—just a small, teasing motion—and the effect is immediate. Seonghwa groans softly, tilting his head back toward the ceiling, a curse slipping past his lips under his breath. There’s a tremble in his body, subtle but unmistakable, and his hips start shifting almost imperceptibly, tiny, restless movements that betray how thoroughly he’s undone. Hongjoong watches, amusement and fondness bubbling under the surface of his own need, feeling simultaneously protective and delightfully wicked.

Soon after he is moving in and out of Hongjoong’s mouth, fucking in deep each time, groaning every time he feels his own cock inside the younger man’s neck. Hongjoong would let him damage more, if he wanted; his body is playdough under Seonghwa’s firm hands, his to do as he chooses with—perhaps because he knows, exactly, that he can trust him to only ever do everything he needs while taking everything he, himself, wants.

Seonghwa’s fingers finally find their way into Hongjoong’s hair, tugging lightly, anchoring himself, holding him close. Hongjoong hums against his skin, satisfied by the grip, emboldened by the response. He lets his jaw hang open and lets Seonghwa take what he wants with increasing speed. He lets his other hand wander in the meantime, mapping out the shape of Seonghwa’s abs and chest, brushing over a nipple and down his sides. The older man breaks out in goosebumps while desperately trying to muffle his moans.

His eyes flutter closed briefly, lips parting in a soft, exhaled sigh. “Joong…” he breathes, voice thick, affectionate, strained with desire and trust. Hongjoong hollows his cheeks, sucking, tongue teasing the sensitive gland while he lets himself be used. “Ohmygod” Seonghwa breathes out, snapping his hips up and keeping Hongjoong in place with the hold he has in his hair. He is careful not to cause any pain and never pulls sharply, just small tugs and dull pressure.

He loves seeing Seonghwa like this, so close to losing control, driven by pleasure he is giving him. It’s such a powerful, heady feeling. “Baby—” that's the only warning he gets before warm liquid fills his mouth, a shudder running through Seonghwa’s entire body as his orgasm passes through him. He loves to watch this too, his lover’s face contorted in pleasure, the rapid, small bursts of air leaving his panting mouth.

He eases off his cock with a pop, leaving a small, final kiss on the tip before letting his hands slide upward to smooth the pyjama bottoms back into place. His movements are careful, as if even the smallest motion could break the fragile, tender bubble of the moment. Then he settles on top of Seonghwa, chest pressing against chest, limbs intertwining as if they were made to fit together this way. The warmth between them is immediate, and both of them let out soft sighs as the adrenaline and tension from before begin to melt into comfort and closeness.

Seonghwa lifts one hand, brushing it over Hongjoong’s hair, letting his fingers thread through the strands lazily. “Okay?”

“Always.” Hongjoong replies softly, nuzzling against the older man’s collarbone. His lips brush there gently, tracing light patterns across the skin as if memorizing the feel of him all over again. Every touch is slow, soft, and lingering, meant to ground them both after the intensity of what just happened.

Seonghwa hums quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest, and tightens his arm just a little around Hongjoong’s back. He presses a kiss into his hair, then another, slower this time. “Stay there,” Seonghwa murmurs, low and calm, more suggestion than command.

“Not planning to move,” Hongjoong mumbles back, voice already softer, heavier with exhaustion. He shifts just enough to get more comfortable, cheek resting fully against Seonghwa’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The older man’s fingers keep moving through his hair in slow, repetitive strokes, after a moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to disturb Hongjoong too much, and reaches toward the bedside table.

“Hey,” he says gently, brushing his thumb along Hongjoong’s jaw. “Water.” He brings the glass closer, nudging it lightly against his lips. “Drink.”

He sighs, but it’s fond, Seonghwa knows he doesn’t like to go to bed with the aftertaste in his mouth. The water is cool and refreshing, and he drinks slowly, pausing once to breathe before taking another sip. Seonghwa watches him the entire time, thumb still resting on his jaw. When he finishes Seonghwa sets the glass down again without fully letting go of Hongjoong, immediately guiding him back into place with a gentle pressure between his shoulder blades.

Hongjoong settles back on top of him easily, melting into the familiar warmth. He presses a lazy kiss to Seonghwa’s chest, then another, softer one, before tilting his head up to catch his lips. The kiss is unhurried and tender, more about closeness than anything else—just soft pressure and shared warmth. Seonghwa kisses him back just as slowly, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other resting flat against his back. He steals another kiss, then another, small and lingering, until Hongjoong lets out a quiet, content hum against his mouth.

“I love you.” Seonghwa murmurs, brushing his nose lightly against Hongjoong’s.

“Mm. I love you too.” he replies, eyes already half-closed.

Seonghwa smiles softly and presses a kiss to his forehead, then his temple, then the bridge of his nose. They adjust together without speaking, limbs tangling more comfortably. Hongjoong tucks one leg between Seonghwa’s, arm draped loosely over his chest, fingers idly tracing shapes there. Seonghwa’s hand keeps moving up and down his back, steady and rhythmic. He kisses Seonghwa’s collarbone once more, then settles completely, face tucked into the hollow of his neck. His movements grow slower, heavier, the last of the energy bleeding out of him.

 

 

✩✩✩

 

 

In the morning, Hongjoong wakes to the soft press of lips against his cheek, warm and unhurried. He squints, half-asleep, registering the familiar scent before the sound of Seonghwa’s voice properly sinks in. “Joong,” Seonghwa murmurs, affectionate and low, lips brushing his skin again. “Jagi. Wake up.”

Hongjoong groans, the sound dramatic and long-suffering, and immediately rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow. His arm flops out blindly, reaching for Seonghwa as if he can physically pull him back into the realm of sleep. “No,” he mumbles, the word stretched into something closer to a whine than an actual refusal.

Seonghwa laughs softly, fingers brushing through Hongjoong’s hair, smoothing it back from his face. “You can’t just veto the morning,” he says fondly. “Go wash up. I’ll get started on breakfast.”

He makes an indignant noise into the pillow, legs kicking slightly in protest. They go back and forth like that for a good couple of minutes—him complaining and Seonghwa countering every excuse with infuriating patience—until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he pushes himself upright. “This is abuse,” he mutters, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be filing a complaint.”

“Noted,” Seonghwa says, amused, leaning in to press one more kiss to Hongjoong’s temple. “Go.”

He shuffles toward the bathroom like a ghost, shoulders slumped, eyes barely open. He takes a quick shower—barely five minutes, just enough to wake up properly—letting the warm water loosen the last remnants of sleep from his muscles.

When he steps out, he reaches into Seonghwa’s side of the closet and pulls out one of the older man’s oversized hoodies and a pair of loose shorts because well, his are kind of ruined. They hang off him comfortably, sleeves swallowing his hands, fabric soft and warm. He pads back out into the kitchen, hair still slightly damp, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

Seonghwa looks up from the stove and pauses, eyes softening immediately. “Cute.” he says and passes him a cup of fresh coffee. “Can you wake up the kids, please?”

Hongjoong looks up from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, mug warm between his hands, and blinks at his boyfriend. Once. Twice. He’s pretty sure he misheard. “Seriously? They’re adults.”

Seonghwa doesn’t even look apologetic. He flips an egg with infuriating calm and shrugs. “I’ve been doing it since pre-debut. It’d feel weird if I stopped now.”

Hongjoong stares at him for a second, then exhales through his nose. “You know what,” he says finally, resigned, “fine.”

He sets his mug down and pads out into the hallway, hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to keep them out of the way. The dorm is quiet in that specific early-morning way—too quiet for a place that usually hums with noise, laughter, and at least one person yelling about not being able to find something.

Mingi’s door comes first.

He knocks with his knuckles, sharp but not loud. “Mingi-ya?” he calls through the wood. “You awake?”

There’s a pause. Then movement. A heavy shuffle, like someone tripped over their own limbs. Something clatters faintly—maybe a phone, maybe a water bottle. Hongjoong smiles to himself. Tornado mode, as expected. The door cracks open a second later, and Mingi stands there blinking at him, hair sticking up in every possible direction, eyes unfocused. He’s wearing absolutely nothing but his underwear, posture slack, he’s only half assembled.

“Hyung?” Mingi says, voice thick with sleep and confusion.

Hongjoong doesn’t even blink. He takes him in fondly, amused in that quiet, affectionate way that comes from having seen this exact scene a hundred times before. He doesn’t get the confusion, honestly. He’s been staying here multiple nights a week for a year now. If he is not here then Seonghwa is over at their dorm, the idea of anyone being surprised by his presence feels almost funny.

“Good morning,” Hongjoong says evenly, lips tugging upward. “Breakfast is almost ready. We have to leave in an hour.”

Mingi stares at him, and he can practically see the gears grinding as his brain catches up. “…Oh,” he says finally. “Okay.” There it is. Fully processed.

Hongjoong nods. “Good.” Then, with gentle humor laced into his voice, he adds, “Put on pants.”

Mingi looks down at himself, blinks again, and flushes faintly. “Ah—right. Yes, hyung.”

Hongjoong is already turning away as he hears the door shut, a muffled shuffle of fabric following. He smiles again, small and fond. Mingi has always been like this—all limbs and volume and chaos until he fully wakes up. To be fair, even when he is awake.

Next is San, and his steps soften instinctively as he approaches that door. He knocks once.

Nothing.

He knocks again, louder.

Still nothing.

He exhales through his nose, already resigned. Some things never change, no matter how many years pass. Carefully, quietly, he opens the door.

The room is dim, curtains still drawn. San is nowhere to be seen at first—until his eyes adjust and he spots the familiar shape on the bed. San is completely cocooned in blankets, wrapped so tightly only a tuft of dark hair peeks out. His body is curled inward, tucked into himself like a very content cat that has absolutely no intention of moving.

Hongjoong’s expression softens immediately. He steps inside and closes the door behind him gently, the click barely audible. He crosses the room without rush, movements unhurried, careful not to startle. He’s learned this, too—San wakes best when coaxed, not dragged out of sleep.

“San,” he says softly.

No response.

He crouches beside the bed and tugs the blanket just enough to expose one shoulder. San doesn’t even flinch.

“…Sannie,” he tries again, quieter still, reaching out to poke his arm lightly.

San grumbles, burrowing deeper into the blankets, making a small, displeased sound that might be a protest. Hongjoong squints at him, lips pressing together, holding back a laugh. He flicks the edge of the blanket off San’s face.

“If you don’t wake up,” Hongjoong says sweetly, voice sugar-smooth, “I’m telling Seonghwa you’re skipping breakfast.”

That does it.

San twitches awake, eyes flying open. “So mean, hyung.” he whines, hair falling into his face.

Hongjoong straightens, grinning openly now. “Good morning.” San blinks at him, eyes slowly focusing. Recognition settles in, followed by relief—and then exhaustion. He groans and flops back onto the mattress dramatically. “Seonghwa is making breakfast, the car will be here in an hour.”

“Fine, I’m up.”

He makes it back to the kitchen, the dorm stirring awake. Doors opening, footsteps shuffling, voices overlapping over who gets to shower first. Seonghwa looks up from the stove. “All up?”

“Conscious is more accurate.” He says and sits down at the table, Seonghwa putting a plate in front of him with rice, pork belly and eggs. “Thank you.” he smiles up at his boyfriend, who leans down to kiss him before taking the seat next to him at the table.

Then Mingi wanders in, now fully dressed, San trailing behind him, still rubbing his eyes. They finally all settle around the table, plates full and steam still rising from the food. The kitchen feels warmer now, brighter with morning light and the low hum of voices layered over the quiet clink of cutlery. It’s still calmer than it usually is, there is no rushing yet, no schedules being yelled across the room.

Hongjoong talks with Seonghwa animatedly about the day ahead of them, hands moving as he speaks, chopsticks forgotten for the moment. He’s been looking forward to today’s shoot for weeks now—something about the concept, the styling, the way the music ties into it has had his brain buzzing nonstop. Normally, he keeps that excitement contained, folded neatly away behind focus and responsibility. This morning, though, it spills out of him freely.

“I believe you,” Seonghwa says easily, fondness threaded through his voice. “You don’t usually get this excited unless it’s worth it.”

Hongjoong beams at that, ducking his head a little like he’s been praised. The truth is, the excitement isn’t just about the shoot. He knows it, and Seonghwa probably does too. Last night still lingers in him, a warm, pleasant hum under his skin. He woke up lighter than usual, rested in a way that goes deeper than sleep.

Across the table, Mingi watches the exchange with narrowed eyes, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. His gaze flicks between them suspiciously, as if trying to solve a puzzle he’s seen before but still refuses to accept. “You’re awfully cheery for eight in the morning,” he says at last.

Hongjoong doesn’t even look at him. He reaches for his drink instead, takes a slow sip, clearly enjoying himself. “Am I?” he asks mildly.

“Yes,” Mingi replies flatly. “Painfully so.”

Hongjoong sets his glass down and finally glances up, lips quirking. “You know,” he says easily, “when two people love each other—” He lets the sentence trail off deliberately, waving his chopsticks like punctuation.

Across from him, San immediately drops his face into his hands with a dramatic groan. “I don’t need to hear this again,” he mutters into his palms.

Beside him, Seonghwa reaches over and swats Hongjoong lightly on the arm. “Hey.”

Hongjoong laughs, bright and unrepentant, rubbing the spot like it hurt far more than it did. “What? I thanked you.”

“I made breakfast,” Seonghwa replies pointedly. “I did not sign up for this narrative.”

Mingi snorts, shoulders shaking as he finally brings his fork to his mouth. “I’m once again begging you to change dorms with me, hyung.”

“Please don’t,” San says, peeking through his fingers. “I can’t handle this alone.”

Hongjoong lifts his chin proudly, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s getting. “What? Mum and dad need a little alone time sometimes too.”

That sets them off—groans, laughter, San’s muffled complaints overlapping. Seonghwa rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he starts eating again, shoulders relaxed. Hongjoong nudges Seonghwa’s knee lightly under the table, playful and subtle, earning a warning look that isn’t particularly convincing.

Hongjoong smiles into his food, warmth blooming in his chest. Everything feels just a little brighter, just a little easier. Even Mingi’s suspicious staring and San’s exaggerated suffering feel comforting, familiar in the best way.

“So,” Mingi says after a moment, clearly unwilling to let this go, “should we be worried?”

“About what?” Hongjoong asks innocently.

“About you,” Mingi replies. “You’re humming.”

San looks up immediately. “He is.”

Hongjoong freezes for half a second. Then he shrugs. “Creative mind.”

“At eight in the morning,” San repeats skeptically.

“Some of us are artists,” Hongjoong says loftily.

Seonghwa reaches out and steals a piece of food from Hongjoong’s plate without asking. “Some of us went to bed in a good mood,” he counters calmly, teasing in his tone.

Hongjoong chokes on his drink.

San groans again. “Please stop talking.”

Mingi laughs outright now. “Oh. That explains everything.”

“Nothing needs explaining,” Hongjoong says quickly, ears warming. “Eat your breakfast.”

Despite the teasing, the table settles into a comfortable rhythm. Plates empty slowly, conversation drifting from the shoot to schedules to whatever random thought pops up next. Hongjoong stays light and talkative, leaning into Seonghwa whenever he can—shoulder brushing shoulder, knee knocking knee—small touches that go unnoticed by anyone else but mean everything to him.

When Seonghwa stands to clear the dishes, Hongjoong instinctively reaches out to help, earning another quiet look. “Sit,” Seonghwa tells him. Hongjoong smiles and obeys, content to watch with heart-shaped eyes, everyone else be damned.

It’s him and Seonghwa against the world.