Archive of Our Own

Muffled vinyl scratching sounds fill San's flat as the record player's needle tries to find its rightful path. San cocks his head to the side in an attempt to loosen the tension straining at his neck. He allows the day to wash over him, acknowledges every new cut and novel pain that comes with a day of pest control. The thralls are always chomping at the bit to enter the sanctum, but it seems to be worse of late. Maybe it's their way of getting into the holiday spirit. San would ask why if only they had souls with which to converse. Unfortunately those were lost to the dark reaches of the nether realm.

The music finally kicks up, filling the cramped apartment with some much-needed warmth. Low, calm beats echo across the studio. The calming sounds enter his ears and sink into his bloodstream, suffusing him with a measure of calm. The netherworld. Hell. Nifleheim. Hades. Pandemonium. There are lots of names for it - the place where Heaven's rejects are left to fester.

San calls it home.

And, to some, its inhabitants may be demons, fiends, devils, spirits. To him, they are people. Some are stricken with the misfortune of losing their personhood, but that only motivates people like San to protect their humanity even more. They may be cast off by the heavens, but they are not destitute. 

The demon heaves a sigh as he melts into his worn sofa. He drains the cup of water he poured himself with alarming speed and, as a result, is pulled onto his feet entirely too soon. With a sigh, he hoists himself off of the furniture and walks the half-dozen paces it takes to reach his kitchen. His fist is wrapped around the handle of his pitcher when noise cuts through the music in his apartment. Initially, he writes it off as the apartment building's age. The place is held together moreso with dreams than mortar at this point; however, the consistency of the sound makes San take pause. He realizes what he's hearing isn't just rattling pipes but a soft rapping on his door.

At this hour?

San approaches his door dubiously. He can't imagine anyone would need anything pressing or productive at this hour, which only leaves the possibility of mischief. Wooyoung once approach San's door late at night, tempting him to pull a prank on Hongjoong. The elder took having his hair dyed in his sleep surprisingly well - that being said, it's not a risk San is interested in taking twice. He's content gambling with his life once a millennia and no more. San opens the door a mere crack at first, squinting through the slight opening in preparation to scold Wooyoung.

His heart jumps at the sight greeting him instead - a vision greatly contrasting anything he expected. The surprise jolts San awake, kicking his entire being into overdrive. His mind instantly wakes up, and sheepish warmth trickles into his body. In spite of his abashed state, he schools his outward appearance into the picture of calm collectedness. He raises his brows with curiosity and unsubtly rakes his gaze over the specimen illuminating his doorway.

"I wasn't expecting you." He says frankly.

"May I come in?" The other asks, voice hushed like he's telling a secret. There's no risk of being seen, but even if there were, his presence would hardly be of note. It isn't the first time an angel has crossed realms to consort with the underworld. Nor will it be the last.

"Please. Be my guest," San opens the door fully and gestures inward. The angel plods in, anxiety radiating off of him with near as much intensity as his divine aura. "Please, take a seat. I'll get you something to drink."

The angel obliges the offering without a word. He clasps his hands in his lap and stares at the unlit fire. The sight strikes San as a bit pitiful, so he takes mercy and lights the fire with a flick of his power. Smoldering embers sputter to life as they begin eating at the skinny logs piled inside the hearth. The angel perks up at that, probably grateful for something to look at other than his lap.

"Back so soon?" San teases as he grabs a glass from his cupboard.

"You make it sound as if I was here so recently. It's been nearly a decade." The other responds. San picks out the definitive point - nearly.

"Has it? Time truly flies, I suppose. And what brings you here today?"

"Don't act as if you don't know."

"So you've come to indulge-"

"Indulgence it is not. It's merely a necessity. Venting. You know this."

"Of course. Here," San passes a glass tumbler filled with clear liquid to the angel. The other accepts the offering politely and takes a sip. His face contorts, taken aback by the taste of its contents.

"This-"

"Oh, please. You're here, aren't you? Loosen up a bit."

The angel fixes San with a withering look, but any further protest dies before passing his lips. It reminds San of the first time they met, almost two centuries ago.

San immediately knew the stranger didn't belong in their neck of the woods. The man practically screamed it - from his hunched, closed off posture to his shifting eyes, every ounce of his being screamed insecurity. Of course, even if the stranger managed to feign confidence, his aura assured he stood no chance of being inconspicuous. He wreaked of holiness. Oozed it. It seeped out of his every pore with such turgid concentration that the surrounding air was noxious with it: heavenly light.

An angel.

Angels weren't as strange in the underworld as they'd like to pretend they were. Higher beings toed a fine line between divinity and arcaneness. Even the universe's most deific beings had vices - as all soul-bearing entities did. The core difference was that demons - those rejected, cast off by the higher realms - indulged in them. Angels did not. Or, at least, they weren't supposed to - and they didn't dare go against divine law in the heavens. The netherworld, however, served as a bastion of sin in their eyes. A lawless land with no fucks to give provided an ideal place for someone to gratify their innermost desires with no consequence. No, there was no novelty in the sight of an angel using the lesser discretion of demons to get their kicks.

But that angel - the one with the dazed eyes, coiled tight into himself - that angel was more than a novelty.

San didn't dare approach the stranger outright. He could tell by the way the man conducted himself that he was a rabbit - a timid prey animal, all too ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. The demon allowed the other some time to settle in and sip at a drink. He nursed his own drink while watching the other out of the corner of his eye, waiting. When the other's high anxiety abated to nervous boredom, San seized his chance to strike. He ordered the other soju and waited for it to arrive. The angel's brows knit in confusion upon receiving the drink. His eyes followed the bartender's gesture, and they widened at the sight of the demon who'd offered him the spirit.

"Do you like it?" San asked, sliding onto the stool next to him.

The angel's eyes remained fixed on his glass as he answered, "It's very sweet."

"Is that a no?"

"...It's fine. Thank you." The angel didn't follow up the comment. When it became clear the other wasn't going to, San carried on.

"What brings you down to our neck of the woods?"

"I'm... New to the area."

"You don't need to play coy , angel. You may be hiding your wings, but I can smell your light across the bar."

"Right. Pardon, I just- I was told never to trust a... Sorry. I left heaven for personal reasons."

"Oh? Recently disgraced? Exiled?"

"No!" The angel finally dignified San with eye contact. He frowned, eyes wide with devastation at the mere idea of being banished from the heavens. San spots a red birth mark adorning his eye. A tiny spot on an otherwise porcelain complexion. At that precise moment that the demon determines that he must have the angel. San simply quirked a brow, a silent question. "I do not intend to stay. I am simply here to..."

"To what?"

"I... I have an issue that I must address. I've been told that this- this place is where one can address those types of... Issues."

"You mean sin, right? Urges?"

"Can- can you keep it down?" The angel sputters, his cheeks tinting an adorable pink color.

"Your kind don't come here for anything else. So, what is it? Gluttony? Avarice- do you fancy flashy clothing? Or sloth- wait, no... Wrath? No, it can't be."

"None of those." The angel said, embarrassed. His nervous eyes skittered around San's face in appraisal. San smiled in a manner he prayed seemed disarming. Apparently, his attempt at warmth worked. The angel proceeded to loosen his lips, hesitantly muttering out. "It is..."

"I'm sorry? You got quiet."

"It's..."

"Sorry if you could just-" San leaned in.

"Lust. I need- I want- just. Lust." The angel clenched his fists atop the bar, shuddering with shame.

San suppressed the ear to ear grin threatening to split open his face.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" He replied, tone thick with geniality. "Say- What is your name, angel?"

"My name is Yeosang."

"Yeosang. You have a lovely name. My name is San, and, well- I would be happy to help you with your problem."

"What do you want for it?"

"What do I want?"

"I don't expect this is something you would do without some type of exchange."

San chuckled, "I doubt anything material you have to offer me would be of much use down here. I don't need anything but your trust, Yeosang. Please, let me help you. It would be my pleasure. And yours."

Yeosang heaves a sigh and knocks back the flavored soju.

"I'm here for our arrangement."

That's what he likes to call their relationship. An arrangement.

"Of course you are," San says. He plops down next to Yeosang, sidling up to him without hesitation. The other struggles to maintain eye contact with the demon. He's always sheepish like this at first, before he thaws, but San doesn't mind it. The angel looks pretty with his lashes fanned out over his cheeks. Yeosang never likes to dally much. As much as San likes to tease partners, he doesn't have it in himself to torment the angel much. He simply can't resist giving in. Yeosang could ask San to move the heavens, and the demon would simply ask "Where to?". 

San sidles up close, so close that their thighs are pressed together. He places a hand atop Yeosang's knee and leans over to nuzzle at the angel's neck. Yeosang's breath shudders, and his eyes melt shut. His body immediately opens up, openly welcoming the demon's touch. Warm want trickles into San's bloodstream. Yeosang's responses are always so intoxicating. In spite of his repression, he is unabashed in his desire. He doesn't show it in words - he never has. Instead, he makes it known with how readily he opens up for the other. Like a flower he blooms, beautiful petals unfurling to welcome the sun's warmth. San's hand ventures up the angel's leg at a relaxed pace. He relishes in the sensation of muscle giving against his grip. Even moreso, he takes thrill in the way the angel shudders from mere caresses.

"M-my cup," Yeosang mutters. Without lifting off of the other, San relieves Yeosang of the glass he'd been sipping out of and carefully tucks it underneath the couch. The angel opts to occupy his hands with San's shirt in the absence of his fidget. Yeosang takes fists full of the worn fabric and leans closer. San trails his lips up to Yeosang's jawline and nips at his earlobe. The gesture elicits a surprised whine. Just like San knew he would. Over the centuries, he's learned the ins and out of the angel's pleasure points - where to touch to make him whimper, where to tickles to make him laugh. How to fuck him to make him cry.

Apparently fed up, Yeosang turns to face San and uses his grip on the demon's shirt to pull their faces together. San raises his brows with amusement, responding in kind. Yeosang still kisses the same after all this time. He's eager and feverish and excruciatingly sincere. Never is it so apparent that their arrangement is an outlet as when they're kissing. The angel is sloppy and desperate, all tongue and breathy whimpers - like a starving man who'd finally been given his fill to eat. Their tongues tangle, and Yeosang does everything he can to get closer to San. He clamors to the other, pressing his weight into the demon like a puppy demanding affection. Ultimately, he decides the best way to accomplish his goal is to straddle him - or, at least, half-straddle him. He slings a leg over San’s lap and arches his back to be closer.

San take the open invitation to grab the angel’s ass. He squeezes the supple, muscled flesh appreciatively, letting out a soft grunt of approval. If Yeosang minds he doesn’t say. Instead, he grinds wantonly against the demon. Arousal spikes in San’s gut at the sensation of Yeosang’s burgeoning hard-on fortting against his thigh. Angels are supposed to represent divinity. They’re the model of noble restraint, and yet there he was, groping one in front of the fireplace, living out his carnal desires.

His mind reels with the evening’s possibilities. What position will the angel favor today? He’s fond of being taken from behind - likes the intensity of it, the roughness; though San personally prefers seeing his face in the throes. Yeosang is a stunning beauty, and watching his beautiful features contort with pleasure is a privilege San holds dear. Regardless of his preferences, he usually allows Yeosang to lead the way. He’s but a mere servant for the angel’s pleasure. An outlet. If not for Yeosang’s charms, perhaps San would be bothered by that - but, truly, he’s a bit smitten.

Yeosang parts his lips from San (in so doing breaking the string of saliva connecting their mouths). He tilts his head back - his quiet way of asking for San to kiss his neck. San obliges the other with a grin, nosing at the junction of the angel’s jaw and neck. San shamelessly breathes in the other’s scent. He remembers how taken aback he’d been the first time they got this close. Yeosang smells unreal - like sunshine and clouds and perfection. He smells like all the things San doesn’t get to experience in his realm, and that makes him impossibly enticing to the demon. San nibbles at Yeosang’s skin, leaving a trail of blossoming bruises as he ventures downward. Yeosang clutches at the demon’s shirt weakly. For as fervent as he’d been moments earlier, his hesitance starts to trickle in.

He opens and closes his fasts as if the motion will make San’s shirt magically disappear. Humored, the demon backs off to indulge the other. The air feels ten degrees cooler with the distance, but San doesn’t pay it much mind. He shucks the offending garment without ceremony, suppressing a smirk at Yeosang’s visible excitement. San nostalgically recalls their first encounter - how Yeosang gasped in shock at the sight of his tattoos. They’re familiar to the angel, now - been marked countless times by his gaze and his tongue. San likes to think Yeosang finds them attractive.

The angel acts so pure and haughty, ever insistent on their relationship as transactional. Transactional though it may be, that doesn't diminish the apparent thrill the angel takes in coupling with the demon. Every tattoo, piercing, eyebrow notch, and brush of the demon's carapicious horn serves as a reminder that they are different. That San is the other, the damned and Yeosang the righteous - and San's pretty sure Yeosang gets off on that, the idea of bedding a "bad boy" so to speak. Or maybe that's delusional coping. It doesn't make much a difference to the demon either way. They're all playing make believe in their own way. He pretends that Yeosang holds him to a higher degree than he probably does, and Yeosang pretends that he's the shining quintessence of a pure, wholesome angel.

San pulls Yeosang into his lap fully and recaptures his mouth. Yeosang sighs with contentment, wrapping his hands around San's neck to sink into the gesture. The pair of them lapse into something more lax for a minute - with Yeosang's initial fire temporarily tamped out, they luxuriate in their makeout session, grinding together and groping freely. There's something magical about their stints of listless kissing. He gets to bear witness as Yeosang unravels, thread by thread, tension gradually unwinding until he's naught but limp, tangled thread in the demon's lap. The fire in San's gut stews, want starting to bubble up into something more demanding. He dips a hand beneath the hem of Yeosang's loose pants, and the angel gasps. His skin is feverish in contrast to the stoic mask he likes to wear. San's eyes roll back as his fingers rake over hot, supple flesh. Yeosang isn't wearing underwear - he never wears underwear. It's not a thing up in heaven, apparently. The fact that angels are expected to be so pure when they're surrounded by such implicit intention has to be a divine trap - at least, San thinks so.

****

Yeosang starts getting damp beneath his pants. He tries to move things along by grinding more fervently, his own hand wandering to the demon's. San tries not to giggle as the other bites his lower lip and lays sloppy kisses across his jawline. He nibbles and laps at San's neck - tricks he seemingly picked  up from the demon himself. He mouths at San's nipples, eliciting a pleased gasp from the demon. San arches his back and places a hand atop Yeosang's head in encouragement. The angel's blond locks are feather-soft between his fingers - it's like touching threads of pure gold.

The angel continues his descent with rapacious enthusiasm. He tangles his tongue in the trail of coarse hairs that disappear beneath the demon's waistband. San can't help grinning, pleasure spiking in anticipation of what's to come.

"We should move to bed," San says. He's not saying it to be cheeky - it's genuinely more practical to move there than it is to dangle off of the sofa. He's bent Yeosang over the couch before. And over the kitchen counter. The table. Once against the front door- regardless, he concedes those aren't the most comfortable, and tonight he's inclined to be a little more classy. Among other motivations, of course.

Yeosang sits upright and fixes San with a quiet pout. His face glows with a pink flush that makes him look utterly coquettish. Though he protests with his gaze, he obliges and follows San to the bed. San pulls Yeosang into a hug when they conclude the (comically short) trip. He sits down on the edge of his bed and digs his fingers into the flesh, willfully working the tension out of the angel's muscles. Yeosang flinches initially as if shocked; however, he's putty within moments, leaning moreso than standing against the demon. San runs a hand up the angel's back until it rests between his exposed shoulder blades.

"You don't have to hide them, you know," He says softly.

The angel pauses, backing off slightly to fix the demon with a wilting expression. He always does this whenever San mentions his wings. It's not convenient for any of them to bear their wings, but it doesn't mean they don't like them. San finds his own wings - leathery, dark as they are - fairly utilitarian. He doesn't see them as being necessary, but it can feel nice to let them breathe upon occasion. Yeosang's wings, however, are an entirely different story. They are - like the rest of him - an indulgence in their own rite. Witnessing them is a pleasure that San treasures dearly. Not that he would dare admit it.

"Would you prefer that?" Yeosang asks, like he cares. If he genuinely had care for San's opinion, he never indicated it.

"Open them up. For me." San asks. His voice is a mere whisper, a prayer full of hopes that he may witness the divine in ways most only dream of. A wish that he may, in some slight, faltering way, possess it, even.

The angel's cheeks flush slightly, but he obliges the demon regardless. A glimmer of light dazzles San for an instant. Once he's done blinking spots out of his eyes, they're unfulred before him: Yeosang's wings. Wide, stately, immaculate whtie, fluffy wings stretch long behind his back. He flexes and flutters them, adjusting for their presence. All the while, he appears sheepish - like a shy virgin would while doing a strip tease. The mental image sends San's mind to dangerously lascivious places, and he has to mentally slap himself to return to the present.

"Beautiful." He says. The hands on yeosang's back run up to the angel's wing base and begin stroking the soft, downy feathers meeting his back. Yeosang's eyes flutter closed, and he sinks forward again, resting his forehead on the demon's shoulder. San's eyes roll back at the sensation, and he slowly falls onto his back, taking Yeosang with him. The angel's featherd wings veil the pair, obscuring the dim fire and lamp lights. San relishes in the sensation of sanctuary - how it feels like they're somewhere else entirely. Not heaven, not hell, just them, like Yeosang's wings are a portal to another world entirely.

San pulls Yeosang until their bodies are flush. The angel straddles the demon with well-built things, and they resume rutting agianst one another, fire stoking yet again. Yeosang noses up San's bare shoulder and presses wet kisses up his neck to his jawline. Unable to hold back, San turns to capture the angel's lips. He groans, and Yeosang whimpers. San slides a hand down Yeosang's back and greedily grabs his ass, taking control of their canting rhythm. Yeosang's wings flitter in response to the stimulation. San thinks that's his favorite part - the way that Yeosang can control his facial expressions but not his body. Not his wings, the most definitive visual indicator of his status of a heavenly being. He may be able to deny himself up there, in hte heavens, but beneath the surface not even his angel's wings can help but succumb.

"Please," Yeosang whispers against his lips between fervent kisses. "Do not make me wait any longer."

The demon has to suppress a stupid-wide grin at the request.

"Eager, aren't we?"

"I have come here with a purpose."

"And, of course, you will accomplish your goal. You can even accomplish it with your pants on, if you want. It's easier if you're naked, though." San teases. Yeosang rolls his eyes and does what he's told (well, suggested) to. He backs off and strips in the most dignified way possible. San does the same in appreciation of the other's urgency. His eyes don't leave Yeosang's body as he scurries out of his loose pants. It's hard not to drool at the sight of Yeosang's naked body. He has gorgeous muscles - like something off of a statue. His arms are beautiful an dbuilt, giving him wide shoulders which taper into a waist decorated with pronounced abdominals. His leg muscles are well developed, too, his quadriceps particularly well formed. He's a seven-course meal tailored to San's tastes, and San is famished.

San yanks Yeosang onto him by the waist, hissing at the contact of their heated flesh. Yeosang kisses back in a way - it's more like wet whimpering against San's lips while the demon gropes him. San has one hand cupping Yeosang's ass, finigers dipping into the cleft between implicitly. His other hand is busy grabbing Yeosang's tits. He flicks at one of the angel's nipples roughly, eliciting a mewl so pitiful that San growls.

"You want it here, don't you?" San murmurs against Yeosang's lips, sliding a finger between his ass cheeks. He can't help it. The angel is just so fun to torture. Sure, he can give it up without a word - hell, that'd be the easy way out. San would happily give Yeosang everything he could conceivably think of or ask for. He'd give the angel even more. But where's the fun in that?

"Mn-" Yeosang makes a noise that could, in theory, be affirmative.

"That doesn't sound like a proper response. You said you didn't want to wait. So..."

The angel surges up, sitting upright so he can lord over San with his irritated pout. His wings flap with irritation as he answers.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me. I thought we- we established that." 

"Just checking." San says. He wasn't. They both know that. The demon nods toward his bedside table. Without needing words, Yeosang knows where to go and what to look for. In seconds he's straddling San again, bottle of oil in hand. "May I have the honor?" The demon asks, arousal swirling in his gut.

"Fine." Yeosang doesn't sound very happy about it, but he doesn't put up a fight, either. He hands San the oil bottle and waits for the other's prompting obediently.

San tugs Yeosang closer, seating the other in his lap. He pours a generous amount of oil on his fingers and sits up slightly to get a bit closer. Yeosang watches him silently, eyes dark with arousal. San wonders what he's thinking in that moment. Fuck, what he wouldn't give to get inside that pretty head of Yeosang's. Alas, he has many extraordinary abilities, but mind-reading isn't one of them. He tries to intuit based on the angel's shallow breaths, the way he nibbles on his lower lip, how his lashes fan out over his cheekbones. Slowly, the demon extends an oiled hand toward Yeosang. He grazes his fingers over the angel's nipple, touch featherlight, and delights in the sight of goosebumps pocking the other's porcelain skin. The demon continues the massage, drawing circles atop the other's nipples until each is engorged with arousal. The urge to sit up and take one into his mouth is overwhelming. San's tongue itches with the urge to lick lines along the other's pocked ribcage occurs to San, but he stops himself. He can feel the other shuddering with impatience on top of him. His own arousal grows ever demanding as well. As fun as it is to deny Yeosang the slightest bit - to just tease him to the edge of annoyance, it results in a delay of his own pleasure, too. 

The demon walks his fingers down Yeosang's chest and around his hips, yet again settling them between his ass cheeks. This time, he obliges the other, dipping a finger between and penetrating his entrance. Yeosang flinches, and the pink muscle clenches around the intrusion. He's tight from the long drought of deprivation. Even the mere action of dipping a singular finger in makes the angel shudder. Yeosang plants his hands onto San's chest, weight gradually crumbling as he weathers the sensation of being opened up. San can hardly focus on fingering Yeosang with how beautiful the angel's face is. He's rapt, watching intently to imprint every little flutter of lashes and shudder of his lip into his memory.

"More." Yeosang requests softly. He doesn't feel very relaxed by San's standard, but he can sense the urgency building in the other. The idea of teasing the other, bringing him to his first orgasm with fingers alone, occurs to San - but that would mean denying Yeosang what he wants. He simply can't whelm that.

San's second finger meets resistance. If it pains Yeosang, he doesn't make any indication of strain. On the contrary, the angel keens at it. He greeds for more, rocking his hips in tandem with the movement of San's fingers. Impatience seeps from his pores. He knits his brow and his hips buck - his body communicating his silent demands. San bites down on his lip, hard, the throbbing pain helping abate some of the burgeoning desire burning his insides. He'd love nothing more than to oblige Yeosang's haste, but one of them has to have a clear head about this. Despite what myth may tell, demons have no inherent wish to hurt angels. There simply isn't a point to it. Some are foolhardy enough to wage battles against those of the heavenly realm, but, powerful as they are, they're ill-equipped and unorganized. Even if they could arise, victorious, what would they do with their ill-gotten gains? What waits for them in heaven? No, San doesn't want to hurt angels, and he certainly has no wish to injure Yeosang - at least, not in ways that aren't pleasurable.

Yeosang opens up well for San. Even when his face scrunches and his breath hitches, he weathers the demon's prodding fingers with (relative) patience. In minutes, he's taking three fingers with ease, body rocking with perfect rhythm. Sometimes, San thinks Yeosang could've been a dancer. Do they dance in the heavens? He gets the impression that they don't. If they did, no doubt Yeosang would be the most stunning of them all with how gracefully he moves.

"Okay," San says quietly, afraid that speaking too loudly will somehow break the spell between them. He removes his slick fingers and strokes his engorged member to spread oil. A hiss escapes his lips at the sensation of attention finally being paid to his own arousal. He fears he won't last long for their first time. He finds respite in the fact that, pent up as he feels, Yeosang is in a state twenty times worse. "Up." The demon instructs.

Yeosang obeys, lifting off of his haunches and positioning himself above the demon's hard-on. San uses one hand to position himself while the other rests on Yeosang's hip, gently guiding him. The instant that San breaches Yeosang's entrance, they both let out a gasp. Yeosang's breathy groan pitches into a whine as he slides down, impatiently taking San to the hilt in one steady movement. San's knuckles go white, fingers digging into yeosang's skin until it bulges between them. His hips buck up involuntarily, eliciting a yelp that echoes loudly across the flat. Yeosang, ever desperate, starts moving without much time to rest. His movements are stunted and erratic, shallow little wiggles of the hips as he finds what he likes. San efforts to meet the other wherever he's at with gentle rocks of his hips. Yeosang wraps around his cock in a hot, wet vice, and San anticipates his cock will be sore after all is said and done.

Their rhythm quickens, and the two lapse into something steady, lead by the angel. Yeosang hoists himself up until only the head of San's cock is inside of him, then lowers himself until he's fully seated, fists clenching on top of San's chest. San watches, mesmerized as the other moves - his pert, muscled pecks and perky ass bouncing with his movements. Even more salacious than that is the sight of Yeosang's wings, flitting and fluttering with such veracity that a few downy feathers even disperse, drifting onto the bed. Yeosang's wingtips join in the rhythm, helping the angel to use the demon like a favorite toy.

Sometimes San thinks about it - how Yeosang is using him. Unapologetically, unashamedly, obviously using him. Their relationship is truly transactional, and sometimes that thought bothers San. But when Yeosang is like this - feverish and wanton, on the brink of tears, seeking out the demon for release - San can't bring himself to give a fuck. Yeosang is so beautiful, and debauching him is a privilege that San cherishes more than he really ought to.

San's eyes roll back into his head as the warmth in his groin kicks into a rolling boil. His wandering mind helps mitigate some of the pleasure, but it gets increasingly more difficult to stave off his impending orgasm. Yeosang is working so hard, and every pass of those warm, velvety walls over his shaft adds more kindling to the swell in San's guts. Determined to please, San reaches out to grab Yeosang's cock. Like him, it's beautiful, the head pretty and pink, spilling precome onto San's abdomen, cute in the way it's smaller than San's but still deliciously girthy. San finds it surprrising that the angel has never asked to fuck him. He wonders what it'd feel like. Occasionally, he wonders about that, too.

Now, though, San is happy to give Yeosang his fist to fuck it into - another part of him that's free use for the angel, for better or for worse. 

"San..." Yeosang's voice is so low, it sounds more like a hum than spoken word. Hearing ignites a livewire inside of San - his toes curl, and his entire body actually convulses as if a string inside of him got yanked. The motion makes him fuck into Yeosang roughly at an accidental angle, but apparently, it works wonders for the angel. Yeosang's face scrunches, his hips moving erratically, chasing the demon's cock while simultaneously frotting into his fist. A dozen expressions pass over his face in a matter of seconds until he's frozen - that's his tell. San knows the other is standing on the precipice, and he does his damndest to coax the other over the edge.

The two devolve from calculated to uncoordinated, lewd noises of slick flesh slapping accompanied by Yeosang's choked out whimpers. San can feel his balls tighten, aching to spill inside of the other, but he wants so badly for Yeosang to succumb first.

"Ah- ahh-" The angel's legs clench, and his back arches, hips lurching and sporadic. Yeosang's moans fill the room when he comes, the liquid spurting out of his cock almost searing against San's skin. Years of repression burst out over the course of the angel's protracted climax. His body clamps around the cock filling him, hips still rolling in an unconscious bid to milk San's orgasm out of him. He's still in the throes when San loses control.

"Fuck. Fuck- Yeosang-" San throws his head back, burying himself in the pillows beneath him as the thread of restraint inside of him snaps. He pulls Yeosang's hips flush to him and holds the angel in place as his orgasm unleashes. The pressure that'd been building up bursts, shooting out of his cock and into the warm clutch of Yeosang's walls.

Yeosang slumps forward when he's finally spent, cock spurting the last few droplets of come onto San's lower abdomen. He tries to balance himself on San's torso, but sweat makes the demon's skin slippery. The angel, clumsy and tired post-coitus, slips. He ends up flattened against the demon, come smearing across both of their torsos as the demon's softening cock slips out. The uncomfortable sensation makes the angel groan, but he doesn't bother moving to rectify it in any way. San can't help grinning with endearment. He wraps his arms around the other loosely and rubs soothing shapes atop the other's back. Yeosang's wings are still out, though they, too, are slumped. The warm, fluffy cloak feels like a blanket to San. The notion of dozing is tempting, but Yeosang's presence makes San too wired to really rest.

San heaves a sigh, opting to quietly bask in the afterglow. Yeosang shifts a little to bury his head in San's nape. Despite the cooling come spread over their skin, neither can whelm the will to move for quite some time. San doesn't mind in the least. He'd stay here for years if he could - laying in bed, blissed out with Yeosang in his arms.

A glimmer strobes in San's peripherals, and he instantly feels colder. He tries not to frown at the retraction of Yeosang's wings. The angel rolls over so he's beside the demon. He doesn't say anything at first - just stares at San as if the demon will psychically intellect his desires. San takes stock of the angel's body - a few bruises blossoming on his hips, nipples still hard, goosebumps, skin shining with come and sweat. He nearly offers to clean the other off, but Yeosang breaks the silence first.

"Again." He says, blunt. 

"You don't need to rest?" San asks, even though he knows the answer.

"No. I'd like to go again... Please."

"So polite. You really are an angel."

Yeosang pouts, ignoring the demon's snark, "On my back this time."

"Oh?" San doesn't waste time, hopping up to straddle the other with renewed energy. "Want me to do all the work this time?"

"That- that isn't-"

"I'm kidding. Don't give me that look. You know, we've done this a fair amount of times, but I just now realized... I don't know, Yeosang- what is your favorite?"

"Hm?" The angel's eyes widen with surprise.

"How do you like to get fucked best?"

Satisfaction blooms in San's chest when Yeosang's face turns pink. For having such an impressive libido, the other somehow manages to retain some measure of purity. San isn't sure how that math works, but he's grateful for the opportunity to tease the other. Seeing his horny little angel get bashful makes heat swim to his groin.

"It all goes toward the same goal," Yeosang responds with little confidence.

San considers pushing the other's buttons more, but he decides not to push it. Not today.

"Well, then, on your back this time," San murmurs before dipping down to capture Yeosang's lips in a wet, languorous kiss.

He doesn't dare admit it, but missionary is his favorite. It's when he can really watch Yeosang unravel - when he can wrap his arms around the other and plant kisses on his lips and his neck. It lets him whisper sweet nothings and puts him close enough to hear every shuddering breath.

Of course, like most of his thoughts about Yeosang, San keeps that to himself. He pushes all of those things away and focuses on living in the present. His little slice of heaven is fleeting. He'll hold onto him while he can.

"Someone's waiting for you," Mingi says.

San quirks an eyebrow at the bartender. He didn't even have both feet in the door and someone already wants something? San wrings a hand through his hair and groans. He approaches the counter with questions on his lips, but none are able to leave his lips before Mingi dismisses him, waving toward the far end of the bar. San's brows furrow with annoyance. He's about ready to unleash his irritated inquiries on his apparent caller.

Yet again, those questions wither before passing his lips.

He does the math in his head. It's been one, two, three- seven... No, not seven...

"Six and a half years," San says instead of hello.

Yeosang's hair is longer now. A few pieces curl inward, framing his face in a way that's both pretty and frustrating. San suppresses the urge to tuck the errant strands behind the angel's ear.

"Are you available?" Is all Yeosang asks. They both know what he's here for. What shocks San is how soon. He wants to ask why, but he gets the impression that Yeosang would dodge the question at best.

He doesn't dare push the other away.

San does have a slight awareness that Mingi is probably watching him. He feels sheepish about leaving as soon as he arrives, but it can't really be helped. At least - he can't help it. Maybe someone stronger than him could. 

"Don't want to stay for a drink?" San asks, half-facetious.

Yeosang body-checks San, possibly spotting one of his new scars, or maybe a new tattoo. The angel replies after finishing whatever assessment he'd been doing in his head.

"You have spirits at your place, I trust."

"Of course."

"Then, may I ask that we... Catch up at yours?"

"Whatever you want," San says with a grin. "What's mine is yours."

He means that sincerely. He wonders if Yeosang knows.