Work Text:
In which San was a poet, but Wooyoung was poetry,
or:
the dot on your lips
halts me to a full stop
and i stare
unaware that it is, in fact
a starting point
San's poetry may be a little bit on the artsy side, but he, himself, is painfully bland. He wears blue jeans and black t-shirts and a bomber jacket he owns since high school.
Wooyoung, on the other hand, wears long pearl earrings. When he turns around during a lecture, they sway next to his slender neck like a pendulum, hypnotizing.
San stares at his burgundy lips, carefully tinted with lipstick, and swallows. He belongs to evening banquets and elegant garden tea parties, he thinks. The light in here, loud fluorescent lamps, can't reflect his full beauty at all; it's like reciting Neruda's poetry in the Tesco's parking lot, or listening to a symphonic concert with earphones without stereo.
San shakes his head, turns his attention to the screen again, tries to take notes but ends up scribbling a verse or two, words equally intimate and desperate, he wants to cover it all with ink and make them disappear, out of his system forever.
As if he could.
He's thinking about the way Wooyoung smells, a little bit like his mother when she used to kiss him on his forehead before going out to the theatre with his father, back at the time when they still had money for that; he can recall the smell, amber and something deep, like the sea.
Wooyoung may be seated two rows ahead of him but he is as far away as his mother's kisses now, unobtainable and unreal.
He thinks that if his readers imagine San in any way, this is how they probably do - as effortlessly charming and beautiful as Wooyoung is. That's where the apologetic smiles came from, and sighs filled with disappointment, when they met him face to face this one time, a few years ago.
Wooyoung would recite his poetry much better than San does, of course he would. After all, it's been months since San wrote about anything other than him.
[About The Blog]
Online notebook filled with personal poetry I wrote over the years. Irregular entries, sometimes nsfw, but most of the time simply pathetic.
[About The Author]
Nothing to share about my life except what's in my poems, which is already too much if I think about it.
[Posts]
> untitled 309. (posted 7 minutes ago) [308 entries; 5 comments]
> untitled 308. (posted 1 day ago) [4398 entries; +100 comments]
> dot (posted 5 day ago) [12574 entries; +100 comments]
[ go to page 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 ]
© All Rights Reserved Mountain Poetry 2022
Contact Me at: [email protected]
He started the blog back in high school, when people still sometimes read blogs. Now they barely did, but he learned how to use social media to his advantage and linked his posts on corresponding instagram profile, where, occasionally, he posted snippets of his poems, along with some aesthetic photos to match the vibe of it.
He started his blog just for himself. He was scared that his parents would find the paper notebook and learn that he was gay, and anxious, and so painfully lost. He loved poetry because it somehow could fit his whole heart into a few tiny verses and it just stayed there, forever, even when his heart changed.
He started his blog for himself, but somehow other people loved it too. They kept on leaving comments, short ones but also long ones, night confessions awakened by his own creation. He barely responded to them, it felt too intimate - two strangers pouring their hearts on the internet should stay just like that, interconnected but not intertwined, he thought at first. Then the blog blew up and he simply didn't have time to read all these comments. It was too overwhelming, too public for something he started just for himself - now he wondered if his mother might find him on her instagram feed too.
He never quitted posting, though. The blog was his diary and confessional, his safe space and his rostrum. He couldn't see his readers and they couldn't see him. They were just a number next to his posts, and he was just a string of words lined in rows.
trivial
to write how beautiful you are
vulgar
what to you-
cheesy
what with you-
-I would do
useless
to write about generalities
after all it's not for what my heart burns
brave
of me to think
I know you better than these
San pressed enter and turned off his tablet, the lingering sadness unshakeable as he stood up among other students, wore his jacket and slowly walked out of the lecture hall, trying not to look at Wooyoung in front of him, although it was only natural to look ahead like that. Someone tried to squeeze between the students in a hurry and forced San to step closer, his foot stepping on Wooyoung's sole pathetically. Wooyoung made a displeased grunt and turned around enough to check who he was.
"I'm sorry," San mumbled, his eyes fixed on aggressively swaying earrings. Wooyoung didn't answer, let out a barely audible sigh and kept on walking, the distance between them growing, San's heart aching, eyes now unable to look away.
He shouldn't have fallen in love with someone he practically didn't know. Who the fuck San thought he was to ache like that? Goethe's Walter? Was he about to turn Wooyoung into Laura and create god knows how many poems for him, Petrarca style?
Wooyoung stopped next to the staircase and bent down to fix the back of his vans shoes that San somehow managed to slip out of his foot. It was embarrassing to pass next to him like that, but he couldn't think of anything better than this.
He should edit the last post. He should delete them all.
[22:05] [rabid_raccon] what kind of vulgar things do you mean? i keep on thinking about it since you posted it yesterday
[22:08] [rabid_raccoon] you probably don't even read these comments anymore lol
San was about to close the notification tab the way he always did, but his finger lingered a little bit longer. Long enough for his mind to trail off and formulate an answer he was about to never send.
He thought about the November night when he ended up in a local gay club after a few drinks by himself, wrapped around someone's body on a dancefloor, wet kisses without meaning and clumsy hands with a purpose, vision blurry and mind mellow, just desire and emptiness ready to be filled with whatever someone wanted to offer him that night.
He remembered cold bathroom tiles and panting, hot skin and burning tissues and everything spiralling, time slipping between his heavy eyelids.
He didn't remember the man's face, or name, or whether he was mindful enough to wear a condom. He doesn't remember how he ended up on the dancefloor again, this time seated by himself in the corner, a glass of water placed firmly in his sweaty hand next to the piece of paper with a phone number written clumsily which he will leave behind untouched, but he remembers Wooyoung dancing on the dancefloor.
He was with another man, but San didn't care about that. He was drunk, heartbeat loud in his ears despite Kylie Minogue's Magic blasting around him, and he was mesmerized. He knew his name was Wooyoung. He saw him once or twice during the lectures, but never long enough to properly look, just long enough to acknowledge his existence. Wooyoung's hands were wrapped around the other man, bodies flowing to the rhythm of the music, rainbow colored lights touching his bare shoulders. San had no reason to look away, so he stared, watched him like a music video, indulged every hip move and every body roll.
Wooyoung laughed at something the other one said and threw his head back, exposing his neck. The other kissed it, hesitant at first, planted another kiss higher, closer to his jaw. San was watching. Wooyoung stilled, his hands moved to the other's chest, but didn't push him away. When San's eyes wandered back to his face, Wooyoung was looking at him too, and maybe it was just alcohol and this damn song, but when their eyes met it felt like magic indeed, a second, five, ten.
Soon the music changed to some RuPaul-ish tune; the other man grabbed Wooyoung's wrist and pulled him in the bar direction. San emptied his glass, checked if he still had his phone and wallet in his pockets and left, only to vomit in front of the bus stop trash can, unnoticed in the break of dawn.
He clicked on the second notification.
[22:14] [responded to: rabid_raccoon] i read them all on my notification bar, even if briefly.
P.S. I think this is the magic of poetry. It doesn't matter what I would do. Fill the gaps with your imagination.
He pressed the send button and closed the app. If only he could kiss Wooyoung the way that man did. If only he could kiss Wooyoung. If only. If he was about to write all the vulgar things he would do to Wooyoung, it wouldn't be poetry anymore.
Since that November night, something shifted. Suddenly he noticed Wooyoung everywhere, even in places he wasn't present. Debussy's music he listened to before sleep and little daisies in his favorite bistro. Morning clouds when he opened the curtains and the taste of his grandmother's apple pie. And in study hall, when he saw his focused expression, strand of hair he was tucking mindlessly behind his pretty ear, slender fingers turning the pages of his textbook, firm body under elegant, ironed clothes, San's heart clenched and his own palms sweated, no coherent thought in his head except this unbearable need to be closer to him, in every possible context.
He never tried to talk to him. He just felt like their first meeting already happened back then, on the dancefloor; since that day the course of their relationship was already established as parallel strangers, who once almost crossed ways but now just headed in the same direction at a fixed distance. He had no idea if Wooyoung even remembered him from that day: a drunk fellow student who creepily stared at him making out with someone else. Were they bound to stay like that, he wondered. Could he reintroduce himself, and if so, as who, he wondered, sitting on his bed, sleepless.
Another notification came in. San looked at it without much interest, but a familiar username caught his attention.
[2:56] [rabid_raccoon responded to his own comment under post from: 2021-11-27] i keep coming back to this one, had to scroll a little bit thru comments but yeah, I'm going feral over this coincidence AGAIN (how delusional am I thinking you write poems about me?)
San clicked on it, curious what post he was referring to.
tucked in a corner, drunk-dazed and sore
i stare at you dancing
If you would let me be anything
I'd be okay just being your whore
I'd be okay just being your whore
I'd be more than okay
pressed to your body, the way he is
sucking your neck, the way he is
I'd be more than okay
San gulped. He decided to check the original comment the raccoon user responded to.
[19:37] [rabid_raccoon commented under the post from 2021-11-27] it literally happened to me yesterday in the club the fuck man… am i trippin fr or—
San stared at it for a solid minute. He hasn't seen this comment before. He remembered posting this one poem hangover as hell, then sleeping for the rest of the day. He never checked the feedback - actually he felt kind of ashamed of this one, like he shared too much, stripped out of the last layer of dignity he had. But it was what it was - if it was what San truly represented, then let it be.
He went into comments' settings and found filtering options, choosing to filter only comments from rabid_raccoon.
Filtered: 8 comments from rabid_raccoon
[3:46] [rabid_raccoon commented under the post from 2018-05-16] you're so good?? I literally binge read all your poems and now idk what to do with myself (might cry)
This one was from his high-school days - back then he read all the comments, anxiety mixed with anticipation, and this one made him really happy - he remembered having read it. Obviously, he never responded. Typing "thank you!" every time when someone gave him good feedback looked like he didn't mean it, even if he did. To know that this person read his blog for so long… San didn't even bother to check which poem it was under, he wanted to see the rest.
[20:28] [rabid_raccoon commented under the post from 2018-07-10] happy birthday! Too bad my train literally didn't arrive and I couldn't make it to the meeting on time… please, make another fan meeting soon! I tell all my friends about your poems, got you a few fans already
San made a face. He already forgot about the 'fan meeting' Seonghwa kind of forced him to organize in his uncle's cafe shop. It was supposed to be his birthday present, but no one came. San remembered sitting awkwardly with Seonghwa, munching on a cupcake with whipped cream on top, just feeling bad for expecting someone to come late. He even prepared a pen and some printed copies of his poems. He promised himself to never listen to Seonghwa again, although the upcoming months changed everything - he blew up somewhere around October. Park uncle's place wasn't big enough anymore - he decided to try again, and host the poetry night in one of the gay pubs in Seoul.
[00:56] [rabid_raccoon commented under the post from 2019-01-15] it's been three days since the meeting and I'm still salty I had to stand in the door frame because of the crowd and couldn't get your autograph. I printed my fav poem and wanted it signed so bad… can i send it to you, somehow? I can pay!!!
San felt bad for never replying to it. He ignored the comment, but he couldn't remember the reason. It was too late right now… unless it wasn't. He still read his poems. And San's curiosity was growing with every comment. Him being at the meeting meant he saw San. In a face mask and a beanie that covered his hair, but still. San groaned, hid his face in his hands. Could he recognize him two years later? Intoxicated and messed up after hooking up with a stranger? Quiet and invisible in the back rows during the lectures?
[3:15] [responded to: rabid_raccoon] I know this is a very late response, but if, by any chance, you still want my autograph, can you send me an e-mail? I'm sorry you couldn't make it that day.
How dumb it was, hoping that he would e-mail him right away? He still had one comment to read, so he came back to filtered searches, phone tightly pressed between his hands, blue light illuminating his focused face.
[05:32] [rabid_raccoon commented under the post from 2020-04-23] fuck, this hit close to home… sorry for spilling my heart here, I'm just so lonely rn and it made me cry so bad when I read the last verse… Anyway, I just wanted to share that I got dumped again today. He literally told me I'm not good enough and that I will never be enough. Maybe it's my fault for letting him sleep with me on the first date? I wish someone loved me for who I am. Is it too much to ask? I'm not that bad, I promise. But it's so tiring to be used and left, I'm tired of starting shit only to be told crap like that. Can someone approach me and stay? I hope, dear author, that your prayers will also come true. But tbh I also hope you will never read this comment… haha.
San clicked on it, which redirected him to the commented poem.
I'm never alone and will never be
I pray before I sleep
Maybe if I repeat it again
And again
And again
I won't be alone
At least tonight
At least in the morning
At least with someone who knows
The way to my door without asking
For address
I'm never alone and will never be
I repeat as he undresses
I repeat as he takes a shower
I repeat as he sneaks out
Thinking I'm asleep
I lay in bed fully awake
And I pray that
I'm never alone and will never be
San let the phone screen turn black by itself. He pressed his wet eyelids tight with his fingertips. Then he woke up on the next day, his phone under his ribs, with one e-mail waiting for him in the mailbox.
He was late for lectures. San sprung out of bed, cursing under his nose.
to: mountainpoetry.gmail.com
from: [email protected]
Hi, this is rabid_racoon.
Uhh, it's kind of awkward, isn't it? I'm surprised you responded after such a long time. I hope you haven't seen all my comments and took pity on me. Anyway, this is my e-mail address. I know you asked if I wanted an autograph, but would it be possible to meet you in person? I don't feel like giving you my home address to send it via post, for various reasons, I'm sorry.
Have a nice day!
Your fan, rabid_raccoon.
San turned his gaze from the screen to look at Wooyoung seated in front of him, to his left, next to the window. The professor was currently trying to connect the computer to the screen, so there was nothing else to do.
He was resting his head on the sleeve of his fluffy beige cardigan, eyes shut. San wished he could blink twice and save this image in his memory, like a photograph. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, but his lips were still painted a familiar shade of burgundy red. He must have eaten some of it - his lip mole was showing, making San wanting to scratch it gently, with his teeth.
The professor spoke. Wooyoung opened his eyes slowly and looked directly at San. Then his eyes smiled, and his lips smiled too. San smiled back, then felt his whole body turning burgundy red, as if Wooyoung smeared his lipstick all over him with sacred dedication.
to: [email protected]
from: mountainpoetry.gmail.com
Hi, thank you for reaching out, rabid_raccoon.
Honestly, I am kind of cautious about meeting my fans in real life. Please, don't take it the wrong way - I don't think so highly about myself or my poems. It's just I don't want my real identity to be known to the public and I guess you should know why.
But I keep pondering…. What if you're right and I do write my poems about you? Meet me at that dance floor again? Then I can give you my autograph.
It's so awkward, I'm sorry.
It took him a whole lecture to send this response. He observed Wooyoung discreetly, waiting for him to sneakily check his phone, but he didn't. When the lecture ended, Wooyoung packed his bag and left, only then taking his phone out without much heat. San couldn't see his face nor if his e-mail reached the person he hoped it would.
to: mountainpoetry.gmail.com
from: [email protected]
And if we don't meet, then what?
to: [email protected]
from: mountainpoetry.gmail.com
I don't know. I will probably write a very dramatic poem about it then.
He arrived around nine, finding the entrance just fine despite not being here for so long. It was a Friday night, so the club was packed - he squeezed through the dancing crowd to the bar, somehow finding a free stool. He wanted to check his phone, but there was no signal here - he looked around for a Wi-Fi password.
"What can I get for you?" the bartender asked, interrupting his thought process. San blinked twice.
"Just a beer, thank you."
He paid and scanned the room, hoping to see a familiar face among dancing bodies. A song passed like this, then another one, then, half beer empty, he remembered about Wi-Fi and managed to connect to it after a few attempts at guessing the password.
to: mountainpoetry.gmail.com
from: [email protected]
Where u at?
"Choi San?" he heard someone calling his name and looked up. There he was. San swallowed his beer and inhaled amber and something deep, like the sea, into his lungs. "Waiting for someone? Do you dance?" Wooyoung asked.
"Yeah?" he answered, glued to the stool, paralyzed. He was actually surprised Wooyoung knew his name; there were a lot of students, and he didn’t stand out in any way, or at least that’s what he believed. "Nice to see you… here. Wooyoung."
Wooyoung smirked and grabbed his beer, took a solid gulp without asking, left elbow prepped on the counter. He handed him the almost empty mug back. There was a lipstick stain on the glass and San pressed his lips next to it to drink the rest.
"Who are you waiting for?" Testing the waters, careful, Wooyoung looked at him through his narrowed foxy eyes.
“I… need to give something. To someone.”
“Someone, huh? C’mon.”
Wooyoung laughed sweetly and turned around, making San follow his footsteps wordlessly, down to the heart of the dance floor. The lights here were dim and the bodies pressed against each other, everything wet and warm, primal.
Wooyoung faced him and soon embraced the rhythm, eyes set on his face, expressionless.
San was pretty sure his own body was as still as a stone at that moment - he was an invisible observer who somehow became an actor himself, a protagonist himself, a creator, learning how to unsee himself from a third person perspective and just be. He felt his lungs first, oxygen and smoke and the familiar scent of presumably unconditional love. Then he felt his hands, impatient - they reached out and found Wooyoung's shoulders. Then he closed his eyes because it was easier this way, Wooyoung's body rocking his own, swaying him like the pendulums of his earrings, giving him time to find the momentum of his own greed and timidness. He felt Wooyoung grabbing his waist, a butterfly touch of his fingertips on the narrow strip of flash between his t-shirt and jeans and his own hands finally wrapping around Wooyoung's neck. They were dancing. San felt like they were about to stay this way for eternity, as parallel as always, just a little bit closer. He had no words in his head. With Wooyoung in his arms, he wasn't a poet anymore.
"You like it?" Wooyoung asked, lips painfully close to his ear.
If you would let me be anything, he thought. I'd be okay just being your whore, he thought.
"I-," he started, forgetting what he wanted to say, pulling Wooyoung closer instead, their hips brushing against each other. Wooyoung didn't push him away.
"So… will you give me an autograph, hm?" Wooyoung asked again, this time his nose pressing against his neck. They were dancing. Somehow they weren't at the center anymore, but closer to the wall, Wooyoung leading him into the corner, where the lights were even dimmer and people didn't care.
"I didn't bring the pen," he answered, a sly smile on his lips when Wooyoung pressed him to the wall, knee between his thighs and arms on his chest, travelling. It was the familiarity of it, the stranger's first touch, hunger and unintended hurry, pented needs surfacing all at once, avalanching. San knew it too well, he knew this wall's harsh surface and he knew the end, except he didn't want it to end like it always did.
"I wrote about you," he admitted, not able to push Wooyoung away. He wanted all of it, but also more. "And I meant every word."
Wooyoung hummed and slowed down, hands now playing with the hem of his t-shirt. There was too loud to talk.
“I figured it out, at some point,” Wooyoung shrugged, obviously unsure what to do with his hands anymore. San placed his own on his waist, fingers anxiously tapping to the rhythm of the music. “But you never talked to me during lectures. I’ve got confused.”
“Yeah… Didn’t know what to say.” A minute passed like this. Wooyoung didn’t let go of his t-shirt and San was still holding him close, back pressed to the wall, thinking, heart pounding in his chest. “I didn’t know you’re my reader.”
Wooyoung shook his head, smirked.
“I am not just your reader. I’m your biggest fucking fan, Choi San.” It was embarrassing. He wanted to hide under the rock and scream, but there was nowhere to hide except the creak of Wooyoung’s neck, where he placed his face almost instantly. It was so hot. “I heard your voice only once, back during the fan meeting. Imagine my panic when the professor was checking the attendance and somehow I recognized you right away. I was so–.”
“Stop-,” he whined, laughing.
“And then I saw you here, looking at me like that. And then I read this one poem, and was like, no fucking way…”
“I should have kept this one in the drafts.” San finally looked up, finding Wooyoung looking at him with amusement. “Well, also the rest of them, maybe.”
“No,” Wooyoung shook his head, gently patted his neck, fingers travelling up to his chin to scratch under it. San instinctively hummed. “I wanted to approach you too, just… didn’t want to be disappointed.”
“Why would you be-”.
“You know, you knowing me for real and being like, damn, this Wooyoung guy is kinda more annoying than I thought.” San sighed, pressed their foreheads together. He felt Wooyoung’s breath on his cheek. “It was nice, seeing someone dream about me. Write poems about me. The idealized me. I felt like an idol or something.”
It hurt. San closed his eyes and tilted his head just a tiny bit. Not kissing him yet, just anticipating. Letting him know that he might.
“We will never know unless we…” He brushed the corner of his lips, just so slightly. Letting him know that he wanted to.
“Yeah?” Wooyoung didn’t push him away. San placed his hand on his hair, tugged on it lightly and kissed him on the lips, his whole body melting when Wooyoung kissed him back. If they end up disappointed, then what? If they end up hurt, then what? He would rather risk being both in the future than be alone yet another night, writing sad thirsty poems about the boy he was holding in his arms right now. Wooyoung's tongue brushed his lower lip and San let him in with a tiny moan, audible only to two of them, buried under layers of voices and blasting music. They were kissing. Lips wet, eyes shut, San spread his legs just a little bit wider when the knee between them pressed tighter to his throbbing cock. He gasped for air, tasting Wooyoung on his tongue.
"Do you…" Wooyoung reached to run fingers through San's hair, thumb firmly on his cheek. San closed his eyes again, lips parted, like every touch was, in fact, an invitation for more. "Need help with that?" he asked gently, almost pleading, as if it was Wooyoung who needed it more, craved him more. San couldn't imagine it was physically possible.
San inhaled sharply when their hips brushed against each other again, meeting somewhere in the middle.
"You asked me," San tried to collect his thoughts, despite a voice in his head that was screaming a simple 'yes, just touch me here, now'. Wooyoung was hard, grinding on him excruciatingly slowly. San slipped his hands into his back pockets and gripped his ass, forcing him to stay in place, crotch pressed to his own. "You asked me what kind of vulgar things I wanna do… I can answer you now," he managed to whisper.
"Can you," Wooyoung teased, but the laugh that left his lips was giving away that he was doing an equally poor job at staying focused. San felt a hand squeezing in between their bodies, skillfully unzipping his jeans. No one cared. There were so many people he couldn't see what was happening two meters away, let alone below someone's waist. Dim purple ray of light landed on Wooyoung's cheek then disappeared, only to be replaced with blue. "Tell me, San," he encouraged, fingers slipping between the unzipped fabric. "Fuck, you don't have-"
"I hate underwear," he explained, head hidden in the creak of his neck again. Wooyoung's fingers touched him very lightly then stilled, waiting for an objection San wasn't going to give. He started stroking him, movements restrained and clumsy, fingertips running along his veins. It made him want more. "Just… unbutton… them," he pleaded.
Wooyoung ignored him, or maybe simply didn't hear, but San had no courage to ask for it again. He pressed his lips to Wooyoung's neck as he, somehow, managed to wrap his dick in his palm, thumb finding the leaking tip to spread the precum in circular motions. San knew the end, and he hated when it ended like this. But he wasn't strong enough to stop now. Wooyoung was rubbing him so right he actually wanted to cry; a shameless moan escaped his lips instead, a little bit too loud. San didn't bother to check if someone was looking at them.
"My little whore," Wooyoung smirked, pumping him slowly. He felt a shiver running down his spine - shame, arousal, a feeling of being seen through and exposed like never before. "You didn't lie, hm? So easy for me. You're okay with that?"
"I want you." He reached to the front of Wooyoung's jeans to grab a bulge in his palm. Wooyoung didn't push him away, but slowed down hand's movements even more, an open hand running up and down in his tight trousers.
"Bathroom?" Wooyoung suggested; a deja vu-like feeling flashing in San's head as Wooyoung carefully zipped the trousers for him and grabbed his wrist with a sticky from pre-cum hand to pull him in the right direction.
The bathroom was empty when they entered. They rushed to the most far away stall, grey walls and dark tiles, muffled music and yellow lightbulb illuminating the space from outside.
San realized he had never been there in such a sober state. It occurred to him how exposing it was, all these times he ended up here with random hook-up guys, barely a thin door away from others, audible and obvious. Wooyoung didn't make a move, but kept observing him, his body centimeters away, hand on the wall, fingers tapping a beat next to his head. He looked so goddamn gorgeous with his neck covered in hickeys and lips swollen from kisses.
"So, what would you do to me?" Wooyoung asked out loud, his voice echoing through the whole bathroom. "Seems like you're not so outspoken in real life."
The tone in which Wooyoung said it made it sound unnecessarily mean. San felt annoyance rising in him and his palm landed on Wooyoung's ass. The boy let out a surprised sound.
"I would make you stop asking, how about that?" Before Wooyoung answered, someone entered the bathroom - laughs and caught mid-sentence conversation filled the space, the door opened and closed, running water. "Shhh-" San put a finger on Wooyoung's lips and silently unbuckled his belt, falling on his knees in front of him. More people came in, someone shut the door in the stall next to them. Wooyoung smiled, ran a hand through his hair as San pushed his trousers down to his ankles along with the underwear. Wooyoung cock was right here, wet and hard.
"Can I?" he mouthed and Wooyoung nodded hastily, fingers still in his hair, reassuring. San opened his mouth and took him in, eyes fixed on Wooyoung's face, examining his expressions, but mostly admiring how pretty he was. Wooyoung's dick was in his mouth, pulsating, leaking into his throat, filling him with every head bob. San hoped it felt good, because he never felt this good while sucking someone off.
Some more people came in. Someone knocked on their door. San stopped moving, but Wooyoung's grip on his hair tightened, giving him a push.
"Taken," Wooyoung answered simply, his hand still holding San's head, his hips moving upward, thrusting just slightly into his throat. Whoever was on the other side gave up, answering something inaudible. "Damn," Wooyoung whispered and moved his hand to his cheek to pat it lightly, a satisfied smile on his lips when San opened his lips wider, hands secured on both of Wooyoung's thighs. San wanted to groan and moan and be obnoxiously loud, but he couldn't now. He felt his face going all red at the little wet noises that couldn't be helped, an obvious sound of thrusting around his saliva-dripping mouth, loud breathing through his nose. San pressed his thighs together and rubbed, desperate for friction.
"Soon," Wooyoung said. San wasn't sure if this was a promise or a threat or something entirely different, but Wooyoung let go of his hair and stilled, his breathing shallow as San retrieved his own tempo, sucking around the hot tip. Someone knocked on their door again and this time Wooyoung didn't answer, instead pressed open hand to his lips and threw his head back, cum spilling out on San's chin and lips.
"Is anyone there?" Another knock. San let go of Wooyoung's cock with a loud squelch and cleared his throat.
"Yeah, sorry," he rushed to give an answer with a hoarse voice. "A minute."
Wooyoung laughed under his nose and helped him stand up, then fixed his clothes. They were standing there for a while, just breathing, Wooyoung's hands wrapping around San's body, head resting on his shoulders. People kept coming in and out. He didn't care. He kept Wooyoung in his arms.
"San," Wooyoung's velvet voice made him open his eyes and look at him, still panting. He bit his lip, redirecting his attention from his dick still pulsating in now-surely-wet pants. "Do you wanna… or do you-" There was something in Wooyoung's face at that moment, was it a flash of insecurity, or something running much deeper in the corners of his slightly trembling lips, like an anchor that could be ripped out just with a single pull, an old wound. San blinked.
"Yeah?"
"Do you wanna come home with me?"
San smiled. He found Wooyoung's hand and caressed it with affection.
"Sounds much better. Just give me… a minute," he laughed quietly, fingers now intertwined. They were wet and dirty and now they both had it smeared all over each other. Wooyoung nodded. They left the stall avoiding looks from people standing in line, San belatedly cleaning the sticky corner of his lips.
/a few poems later/
San heard his phone vibrating. He tapped the screen and read the notification.
[08:20] [rabid_raccon] what do you want for breakfast?
"Really?" He turned around to face Wooyoung who was still typing something on his phone. "I'm literally right here."
"I don't know what you're talking about, San," Wooyoung giggled, finally dropping the phone next to the pillow. He leaned closer and kissed San on the cheek. "You have a secret lover? Oh, it would cause some commotion in your fandom!"
"What fandom, stop," San found his lips and placed a kiss there; the best silencing technique he came up with so far. Wooyoung wriggled in his embrace but didn't resist.
"If you don't want a scandal…" Wooyoung chimed in between kisses, "you should stop posting about me."
"I know you love it. Also I want toasts."
Wooyoung hummed in agreement. He kissed San one more time and sat on the bed, fixing his wrinkled T-shirt. San waited for him to leave the bedroom, then grabbed his phone and started to type.
and I pray it will never end
mornings when you puff
in your sleep
cuddled in my weak embrace
us - who crossed ways more than once
sometimes I wonder, what it was
a stroke of luck
destiny, or maybe
accidental encounters
realization strikes me
as you wake up and not letting go
say "did you sleep well, my love?"