Work Text:
top dog /ˌtɒp ˈdɒɡ/
competitive favorite, expected to win
✠
March 25th. Saturday. 03:43 a.m.s
San inclines towards the flickering, dotted lights at the root of the alleyway, pant legs permanently grazing the damp pavement. Weather forecast: rain. All week long, intermittent but constant. San tucks his hands inside his pockets, maneuvering past a gloomy bus stop crowded with sleeping bags. Underneath its tin roof, a concoction that stings in his eyes burns sharp and crisp, shielded from the rainfall.
He’d opted for the anonymous ensemble: baseball cap lowered to his brows, baggy denims in mismatched greys. The perfect, inconspicuous shadow. The traffic light blinks rapidly at him, red, then neon green. San walks. In the distance, a dog barks.
The gas station reeks of petrol and piss. The sliding doors beep as he wedges inside the stuffed aisles, browsing listlessly: canned dog food, various pretzel sticks, and coin-shaped AirTag knockoffs line the shelves. Behind the counter, a girl in a fishnet pantyhose and cuffed booty shorts guards the nicotine assortment, picking disinterestedly at her acrylic nails. San fishes for his earbuds, plugging them in.
Therefore, the intrusion comes without preamble.
“Mmm, loads of protein.” San looks up from his playlist—and into bantering, heavy-lidded eyes. The intruder plucks the canned dog food off the shelf, intently studying the label. “Bit strange of a meeting place. Not my first choice, but I suppose you needed the edge.” His gaze flits to the counter, then boomerangs, sticky as liquorice. “Choi San, forthcoming star athlete, gunning for the Olympics. Success is sweet, but not as sweet as committing minor felonies. Did you know?”
San clears his throat. “I probably don’t, which you’re about to change.”
“Co—rrect,” The menace sing-songs, chipper at three in the morning. “Minimum sentence? Five years, give or take. Possession alone can send you to prison. You’d be blacklisted, too. No more Olympics. Not even some friendly quarrelling at the local gymnasium.”
San jostles past him. The guy quips a lot, and talks a whole lot of nothing.
At the counter, he pays for his usual clutter: two lighters, because he manages to scatter those concerningly often, and a cheap protein bar made of wafer and maple syrup. The sticky membrane clings to his teeth as the doors slide open again, spitting their shadows onto the damp pavement. This particular road is frequently trafficked. Copious headlights streamline the parking bay.
San indicates the carwash, and they quietly slide behind it, into a vacant, scarcely lit backstreet. The distant flicker of the gas station sufficiently illuminates the man before him: Jung Wooyoung, aged twenty-six, otherwise identified by carnivorous orbs for eyes, and the signature Chrome Hearts bracelet dangling off his wristbone.
It is their second encounter in the flesh, after San had spent a large chunk of his evenings browsing the guy’s hyper-curated Telegram channel, wherein a sepia snapshot of his collar bones serves as a header. He’d then flubbed his first impression by accidentally typing ho instead of hi, which most likely branded him some desperate washout. San is in fact desperate, considering his former dealer left the scene to invest in cryptocurrency. In the meantime, he explores further options. Strictly recreational. To pass time, and fill it with adolescent nonsense.
But Wooyoung is more than a filler. Wooyoung is pretty, and that is imperative.
He is also, bafflingly, smarter than the average peer of his kind. No customer leaves without disclosing a fair share of personal information. Anonymity is sacred, and therefore serves as leverage in case the whole ordeal comes to light. San is no exception to the rule. Wooyoung knows his name and occupation—and because San is a simple guy with two functioning eyes—a bunch of trivia facts not even his mother would be able to answer without confirmation, too. Wooyoung has that effect. On San, and just about anyone within his radius.
Wooyoung leans into his space, pushing his bottom lip out. “So fucking’ secretive for a bit of pot. I’ve got some much better stuff. The kind that has you meeting your ancestors, but I suppose you wouldn’t tap into that.”
San has catalogued his palette—amphetamines, steroids, stuff he couldn’t pronounce, stuff designed for spelling contests. The list is long. In his short-lived experience, San has gotten around. There is a market for anything, so long as it is advertised suitably. Wooyoung tends to optimize his quota depending on the latest trends that surface around town, on social media, or via hearsay. He is attentive, opportunity-oriented, and obscenely attractive.
Precisely the stuff wet dreams are made of.
Not for the first time does San study his obscene face, latching onto his supple lips. Stealing a glance feels illicit. San fears if he stared too much, he might end up chasing a high unavailable for purchase. Wooyoung talks, talks, talks—no commas, no purpose to his musings—and grins at San askew for missing his cue.
It comes with some effort to reconstruct his monologue. San hadn’t listened. Not with Wooyoung’s mouth proximal to his, and his saccharine scent mingled with hash. Angel’s Share. San had googled it. Cognac, vanilla, cinnamon. Sweet and intimate. He swallows.
“You know how it goes. Your stuff can’t show up in the test results.” During season, his records are tightly monitored. Off season, San indulges in the occasional breather. So long as he minds the intervals, he will manage, he thinks. Hopes, against all odds.
Wooyoung scoffs. He picks his pockets for the exchange, lip twitching mischievously. “It’s sweet you think cannabis won’t, but honesty is pretty bad for business.”
San hates that his dealer of choice is a pretty, notoriously cocky tease with a trench for a mouth. Makes it hard to focus on the dealing part, and harder not to focus on the thought of stuffing him quiet. The type of market San returns for is not quite so evident such as this; and Wooyoung likely bargains accordingly. San enjoys his stuff delivered with the crude passion of a character worth looking at.
The pornographic face is optional, and clearly a plus.
Wooyoung lights a cigarette, hand outstretched. “Come on, I don’t have all night. Besides, I won’t be in town for a while. Got some stuff to take care of.” He takes a drag, coupled with an obscene groan, and waits for reactionary damage.
“Stuff,” San enunciates. He contemplates this. Stuff, as in questionable rendezvous. The prospect dampens his mood.
With some reluctance, he hands over the cash. Wooyoung charges outrageously, which comes with the territory. This neighborhood is deserted, and therefore depends on his supply. San cushions the blow by stealing another glance. After this, his wallet requires a cooldown.
Wooyoung pockets his harvest with a hearty groan. It disappears inside his baggy Limp Bizkit sweatshirt. “You can still order. You know the drill. I won’t kick you to the curb, distance be damned. You’re a patient guy, aren’t you? Meditate some, in the meantime.”
San grimaces. Wooyoung is notoriously popular, and the cheeky thing cashes in on it. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“You’re such a sweetheart,” Wooyoung giggles. “I would’ve ditched my shitty high school flings for a charmer like you.”
San feels his heart thump in his chest. Thud, thud, thud. The pain is stagnant, grounding him. Their relationship is merely transactional. San does, however, enjoy the view; despite their few encounters. He tends to fixate. This is purely factual.
Wooyoung might charge him twice, if San admitted his prime substance was, in fact, far from the few grams satchelled in his bag. After all, he hasn’t touched the damn stuff in weeks. It sits inside his drawers, collecting dust like antiquaries.
Screw that.
“Any chance you could meet me right after?”
This stirs some reaction. Wooyoung quirks a brow, but ultimately complies. “Works for me.”
✠
April 14th. Thursday. 02:14 a.m.
The night is crisp and damp. Light drizzle coats the vacant pavement, dusting the curbstone. The faint shadow of a person, unmistakably distinct, encourages approach. San follows his instincts, twice-waged by a vague nod and a crinkled, bemused grin presumptuously slanted his direction.
Wooyoung has propped a cigarette between his lips, cracked but all the more enticing, mumbling incoherently with his idle hand occupied in his pocket. Evidently, groping for a lighter. San thinks he might benefit from his next purchase, given his impressive amount of lighters that have reached nirvana. Habits tend to stick.
They shuffle inside the nearby minimart—not the gas station, this time—to fetch a box of matches, a surplus packet of Marlboros, and caramel-flavored cough drops. Just the right mix-n-match for the chain-smoking, vain little shit.
Outside, San lights the match in a fluid go, and Wooyoung groans obscenely when the first, sweet inhale travels from tongue to lung. The sound fills the vacant backstreet, alongside the stagnant buzz of the vending machine positioned directly across their shadows. Wooyoung has gone lax against the brick wall, occasionally bumping his ringed fingers against the surface. His pants hang loosely off his hips, exposing his briefs. Chrome Hearts, per usual.
Wooyoung puffs. Gives a little cough, and repeats. “Still off-season? Shit, they got you athletes on a loose leash.” San plucks his gaze off his pants. There is a skittish grin on his lips, like the motion alone is daring. Wooyoung continues unabashedly, “My goods are up here, San.”
“Depends,” San settles on. His tone is shy, but firm. Honest, because San likes things simple.
Nothing about his attraction to Wooyoung is simple.
Wooyoung rolls his eyes, but a like-minded grin tugs at his lips. San focuses on the little twitch. The image prompts a visceral response, which he successfully squashes before the menace can push further.
“This is different. You were such a goody two-shoes just three weeks ago. Bummer.”
San considers this. Wooyoung does seem the sadistic type, after all. “Did you manage?”
“Funny question,” Wooyoung smirks. He flicks his wrist, exiling the gleaming stub of his cigarette to the curb, then drags his Converse back and forth to quench the small flame. “I wasn’t out of town for shits and giggles. I had a fantastic time, though.” He rakes a palm through his box-dyed, bleach blond hair. It compliments his features, albeit scarcely visible in the dim light. “The clientele was sorta iffy, but they got what they paid for. Can you believe people still organize raves? I had to hang around for a while, but at least I got some good revenue off feeding those sharks. Shit, they had me dancing up the big guns. Just a bunch of pushovers, though.”
“Right,” San replies half-heartedly. His focus is elsewhere again. Wooyoung probably looked ridiculously sultry misleading those fools, just to chat them into copping some molly.
Wooyoung catches on. “Ugh. You piss me off, Choi San.” Before San can intervene, Wooyoung slides him the treasure and stuffs it in his pocket. The residual warmth of his hand lingers well after parting. San shivers on demand. “Well?” Wooyoung cocks a brow at him, glaring demandingly.
The thing about aspiring athletes is the fatal emphasis on aspiring. San croaks. Croaks again, when his voice fails. “I don’t have cash on me.”
“This shit isn’t card and cash,” Wooyoung grimaces. “Do I look like a storefront to you?” Multiple profanities later, he compromises reluctantly. “I will make an exception. Transfer it, and we have a deal. This is pretty exclusive, so don’t go around repeating your offense. Heard me?”
San blocks him from chucking his phone in his hands. “I don’t have cash on me,” he repeats cautiously.
“I heard you the first time. Lucky for you, I am unimaginably generous to offer you an alternative.”
San sighs. “Think you can give me an extension?”
Wooyoung glares at him affronted. His illicit eyes have gone cold. “Fuck, this is irritating. Suave boneheads like you are my least favorite.”
The troubling part about this conversation hits San like an avalanche.
Something visceral stirs in his belly, warming his face and throbbing in his pants. Wooyoung dishes out the way he swallows: with a cheeky mouth and an insult of choice. The lack of reaction only serves to accelerate his tantrum, but San just feels pure, unadulterated bliss. Wooyoung thinks him suave, in addition to boneheaded. San omits the latter, bearing his scolding. Wooyoung knows a lot of bad words.
San isn’t ignoring him per se, but the alternative is so, so much more vexing.
Eventually, Wooyoung cools off. Smoothing his features, he fixes San sharply, surveying him; from eyes, to mouth, to arms, like a butcher grading his cattle. He yields with an irritated, indulgent groan. Canon fodder for the imagination, San thinks. His groin agrees.
“Three days,” Wooyoung declares icily. “Consider this ultimatum definite. Don’t show up at all, and I will leak your information to the press. I know a few guys in publishing.” He pauses for effect. Grins the cheeky little grin that gets San twitching in his pants. “No bad blood, just business. I can only shelter so many dogs before they bite the hand that feeds them.”
San is confident Wooyoung knows a few guys. They probably know him likewise, from multiple angles. Wooyoung picks his fill from a range of guys, who then conveniently stick around as customers. San doesn’t think it entirely tactical. Instead, the little shit simply gets the best of both worlds.
If San fails to meet his end of the trade, Wooyoung will spoil his reputation before his career even had a chance to kick off. San doubts he would find another agency to sign with once the news broke. The few achievements to his name don’t make him stand out. He isn’t worth the trouble, never mind recovering an image tainted by substance abuse. Wooyoung is aware of this, and negotiates accordingly. This is what he does for a living, after all.
San knows he is to blame for this dilemma, because he doesn’t need to summon Wooyoung. In fact, he’d be infinitely better off without him. Better off without that pretty, beckoning face of his.
That, however, simply won’t do.
“Sure,” he complies.
✠
April 15th. Friday. 5:37 p.m.
“Choi San,” Wooyoung hums. When this doesn’t achieve the desired effect, he pushes it. “San. Sannie. San-ah.”
San stuffs a napkin in his mouth, grimacing in passing. Bloody ragebaiter. “You said a bite. Not a holiday inn treatment.”
Wooyoung spits it out, scoffing, gleaming silver stacked on his wrists. Small, chunky earrings dangle off his earlobes. “This ramshackle hut of yours hardly registers as holiday. I can hear mice crawling about this place. How vintage.”
San frowns. “I didn’t invite you.”
“No shit. You were spacing out the whole time.”
San reconstructs the events prior to their bizarre mingling. Distinctly, he remembers going home, washing up, and indulging in his favorite late-night program: matchmaking and dramatic rendezvous, spiced up by teleprompted theatrics. He fell asleep just before the crack of dawn, eyes bloodshot and fluttering from drowsiness.
Naturally, Wooyoung memorized his address, and promptly decided the best reminders come in form of uninvited courtesy visits. After a minute of persistent ringing, San had given up on sleep altogether, and groggily padded to the door. Just a bite, Wooyoung had fluttered at him, waltzing inside like a bulldozer. Those chunky, large loafers of his he’d left primly lined up at the threshold.
The scene lacks decorum: from the cheap paper plates hosting leftover lasagna to the stinking laundry piled on the floor. Wooyoung sits splayed on his sofa, clad in a baggy Courréges hoodie, stuffing his mouth with shrimp crackers, which he conveniently purloined from the pantry. San stares at him from the kitchen sink—a vantage point sufficiently removed to prevent his groin from rejoicing—and grants his gaze the domestic sight. For daydreaming purposes.
This is just that, after all.
Conversation is slow and mundane. Wooyoung routinely surveys his phone to examine a particularly fatal crack in its display. Up close, his eyes are heavy and telltale bloodshot.
When San joins him on the sofa, he promptly slides his feet in his lap. The crunch of shrimp crackers, ground to crumbs, follows without preamble. Wooyoung tucks his hands inside the greasy bag, chews, and repeats, then parts his lips to suck the dust off his fingers. San tracks his motions, abuzz with hormones. The slow, easy drag of his tongue. The sweet, smacking noise with each finger inserted, and sloppily withdrawn.
San stirs. Swallows, hard.
Wooyoung swats the empty bag off his lap. “Thanks for the treat.”
“Glutton,” San murmurs distractedly.
“Pardon me—is what I’d say if I cared,” Wooyoung curveballs.
He tucks his arms under his head, and stretches blissfully. Not for the first time does San notice the antagonal slenderness of his lithe body, down to the long, toned legs hidden beneath his track pants. The label sticks out at hip height. Balenciaga. Wooyoung doesn’t need his money, per se. That much is evident.
San scoots aside to accommodate him, avoiding contact to the best of his abilities, but Wooyoung adjusts like he has a hunch. His heel bumps softly against something solid and stiff, registering movement. Wooyoung cocks a brow at him. Repeats the motion, torturously slow, to test his hypothesis. San twitches.
“Would you look at that,” Wooyoung lilts smugly. “No wonder you’re so quiet.”
Trapped in his seat, San endures. The worst part about Wooyoung is, without a doubt, the irksome fact that his smug confidence is nowhere near misplaced. San sustains a pokerface, because admitting defeat seems like the infinitely worse counterplay. That’d mean Wooyoung got something on him—which, all things considered, he does. But this time around, San isn’t willing to cooperate. Not with a pathetic hard-on tenting his pants, and those carnivorous, loopy eyes pouncing on his suffering.
“Say something,” Wooyoung pokes sulkily. San slants him a glance, then looks aside; plays it off as disinterest, although his face warms under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. “You’re no fun,” Wooyoung officially ceases, tucking his hands inside his hoodie.
In degrees, San relaxes again.
When Wooyoung announces his leave, he brushes past San without further acknowledgment of their prior tussle. At the threshold, he reminds him of the deadline. Their mutual agreement, in his words. Then, he leaps down the stairs. The last thing San sees of him is his palm groping about, procuring a rusted lighter. It catches on the third attempt, and flickers like a parting star. After some time, San finally plucks his gaze off the stairwell, and kicks the door shut.
Humiliation sears him.
His living room smells like Wooyoung—sweet, sharp, and slightly charred like burnt cinder. Angelic, like his signature scent.
Dropping onto his sofa, San stares at the ceiling to contemplate.
Those few grams aren’t worth their blackmailing appendix. If San didn’t blow a quarter of his miserable income on sustaining this pathetic crush, he wouldn’t be up at night, jerking off to sepia clavicles. Perhaps, he needs to try some of the stuff Wooyoung insistently advertises. Drugs hardly sate the craving; unlike the guy distributing them.
Next time, San will call it quits.
✠
April 16th. Saturday. 2:56 a.m.
The gas station is vacant, save for two silhouettes.
San monitors the scene with hesitation. Not because he dreads the encounter, but more so the person leaned blissfully unaware against the gasoline pump. He slowly treads the pavement, his shadow arriving first. The stench of nicotine engulfs him.
There is a beat of silence.
Wooyoung lifts his gaze, then cocks a brow at him in signature fashion. “You’re starting to make me believe in fate.”
“You smoke like an oven,” San comments begrudgingly. In truth, he doesn’t really mind. Prefers his mouth occupied. Mundane conversation with Wooyoung always feels like jesting for his approval.
In the near distance, the doors slide open with a beep, hosting another customer. San scrutinizes his haul: his favorite protein bar, a slice of strawberry shortcake for cheat day, and a sealed box of Marlboros. San doesn’t smoke—not habitually, anyway. That’d be detrimental for an athlete.
Wooyoung takes a deep, throaty drag, as if to underline the statement. The damn chainsmoker has the nerve to cackle. “Mind taking over?” Before San can intervene, Wooyoung glances mischievously at him, then ungently stuffs the half-burnt stub between his lips. Residual lip balm and spit cling to it. San inhales, in moderation, chasing the aftertaste, prompting Wooyoung to ogle him ambiguously. He whistles appreciatively. “Suits you.”
Part of this ongoing dilemma shows in subtle ways; Wooyoung directing, and San obliging in a heartbeat. In terms of substances, nicotine is preferable to Jung Wooyoung—and slightly less addictive.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” San remarks. This, at least, is the truth. Wooyoung prefers to meet elsewhere, where the bustling conceals his shady affairs, but San is the quiet, atmospheric type. Tranquil is sacred to him.
Wooyoung winks at him. The image lingers a good, pathetic while. “Got shivers?”
San hands him a lighter, a coy smile tugging at his lips. The chrome feels cold and smooth against his skin. “For you.”
“Such a romantic.”
“You keep scattering yours.”
Wooyoung thumbs the pretty linings. San had chosen a peculiar model, aligned with his aesthetic. “You’re so thoughtful, jeez. You almost make me feel bad.”
San switches direction. The warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach spreads, lingering. “Are you staying in town?”
Wooyoung digs in his pockets, brows crinkling, and retrieves a flat stack of bills. The cocky shit maintains eye contact, licking a stripe up his thumb to count his small fortune. San has some difficulty focusing on his input when his tongue keeps flicking, wetting his thumb, red as a cherry. “Yeah. I booked a room at the highway inn, fifth corner. Got some treats lined up inside. First come, first serve.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“Right. You’re allergic to fun stuff. Does deadlifting get you hard?” The mention stirs something. San looks aside, avoiding those cynical, baiting eyes. Wooyoung continues counting. “You don’t need the steroids, I’ll give you that.”
“I am coming tomorrow,” San establishes. Like he fears Wooyoung might doubt him. He gropes for the protein bar in his pocket, squeezing it.
“Obviously,” Wooyoung coos amusedly, “I got you on the chain letter for the highway address.” San frowns. The reminder that he's just another guy on the chain letter stings. Wooyoung continues unprompted, “I can picture the headlines. Aspiring athlete caught abusing drugs. They’d put it like that. Sophisticated terms. Pretentious bullshit.” He hums pensively. “Scratch that. They’d give you a feature article at best. Headlining is for top dogs.”
San drags his gaze from his mouth. Something, something, head.
It is a testament to his acting skills that Wooyoung doesn’t think him sidetracked. Each time, San simply stares and nods; complies to their natural order. Wooyoung calls the shots. They banter and bicker like something on the brink of budding, and San routinely fails to disentangle from his stranglehold. The vacant space inside his chest, previously filled by tedious routine and failure anxiety, reanimates beside Wooyoung. Those feelings are difficult to distinguish: excitement, desire, vexation.
San wants to be more than the guy on the chain letter. More than the pathetic, underperforming athlete Wooyoung considers him. The cigarette prods uncomfortably against his bottom lip. “What’s the plan after this?”
Wooyoung sighs. It is a deep, heavy sigh that belies his calm. “Nothing in particular. Get some sleep in, crash at the motel.”
“No, after this.” San gestures between them, features creased. The topic feels tender and vulnerable. Too vulnerable for their fleeting acquaintance. “You could do something else. It doesn’t have to be this.”
“Like living off protein bars and ground beef? Noted.” Wooyoung goes rigid. “Look who’s preaching. The guy who comes around to buy the stuff he dumps on. Thanks for the concern.”
San takes the lashings. Part of Wooyoung, small and cumbersome, stands protective of his livelihood. This, too, ignites an urge within San—to figure him out, down to the gritty details.
The stagnant buzz of an incoming phone call abruptly disturbs their tranquil. Wooyoung fetches his phone, rejects the caller with an incoherent murmur, and instead tends to his social media. From the small distance, San identifies multiple following requests, alongside the infamous, diagonal crack splintering the surface. Wooyoung must think his cash better spent on designer clothes.
“I gotta go,” Wooyoung quips after a long pause. He pockets his phone again. Leans in, generously, to reveal the cavernous collar bones underneath his wide, breezy shirt. “Sucks. I’d hate to leave so abruptly, if it weren’t for our rendezvous tomorrow.”
San nods. His face feels absurdly warm.
Wooyoung plucks the cigarette off San’s lips, murmuring a hushed thanks, before sliding it back between his. It is merely for show; the remainder is hardly usable. “I hope you will hold up your end of the bargain. I have to be consistent.”
“Will you make yourself at home again otherwise?” San hopes he doesn’t sound desperate. He fears he does.
“That home of yours—” Wooyoung air-quotes amusedly, “—reeks like a sewage plant. But sure, do give me a house tour. I’m itching to see you operate a stovetop.”
San partakes in the grotesque fantasy. The pleasant tingling in his chest lingers; spreads to his stomach and rolls through his body like rapture. Because Wooyoung is mean by nature, and San has taken a particular, perverse liking to it.
That’s the good part.
✠
April 17th. Sunday. 1:17 a.m.
The highway motel resembles a seedy construction site.
Multiple cars sit parked amidst lumpy gravel, windshields covered in dust. The thrum of wheels across asphalt fills the air, pulsing underneath wet soil, moths orbiting the scattered streetlights. Erratic flickers, on and off, on and off again, illuminate the cracked marble stone. San blanches at the hardwood hinges that are haphazardly affixed to stiff concrete, substituting generic aluminium. He is no craftsman, but that apparition can’t be sustainable.
The effect, in turn, is an irritating creak as Wooyoung yanks the door ajar, beaming suavely at him. Prepping for his masterclass in degradation.
San follows his lead, peeking inside, where chaos rules.
The bedsheets are dishevelled, and tidbits lay cluttered across it: bracelets, decorative glasses, double-sided scotch tape, a clunky wristwatch, multiple plastic bags. Wooyoung moves about the place, rearranging a pile of stacked dishes, then disappears inside the washroom to replace his joggers with frayed, wide shorts. He beckons, waving a hand. The faint scent of vanilla, coupled with tobacco, clings to him.
“Cute,” Wooyoung comments after surveying his mismatched socks, eyes crinkled amusedly. “Did you even bother trying to match those?”
“I was in a rush,” San supplies after a beat. The setting feels intimate. Casual, save for the looming reminder of the score Wooyoung has yet to settle with him. Something about it feels sacred, like carrying a piece of Wooyoung with him, deep inside his core. Like bringing it to this rotten place in sacrifice.
Wooyoung takes the bait. “Aw, to see me?”
“No. Yes. In a sense.” The words trickle out slowly.
“Heartwarming,” Wooyoung coos. Scooting his clutter aside, he pats the vacant sheets, inviting San to join him on the quilted duvet. It smells like mothballs. The stuff clatters to the floor without being retrieved, adding to the chaos. Wooyoung doesn’t seem to mind. Not much, at least, judging from his stoic shrug.
San thinks the bed, of all places, seems entirely ineligible for business transactions. His heartbeat quadruples. There is a knot, pushing trough his windpipe, forming vague words. “I don’t know.”
Wooyoung sprawls. Looks at him across the cramped room, arms cushioned comfortably. “I can’t figure it out. Does it get you laid? Acting like this polite little thing that just hatched, I mean.”
“This is not about getting laid,” San murmurs. This pitying, berating act is worming through his resolve. Except San is positive Wooyoung isn’t just acting.
“You sure don’t look the part. You look like a guy who politely declines at parties.”
“I don’t—”
“Go to parties? No shit. You lift dumbbells to take the edge off.”
San sighs. Wooyoung rarely minds social etiquette; his bickering borders on spite. “Look, is there any way we can resolve this differently? I’d hate to waste our time here.”
Wooyoung studies him. His bottom lip quirks once, then twice, coaxingly. There is a beat of silence. Buffering. Carefully, San maps out his words. Surrendering, in theory, should be easy; easier than brushing off boners and trading barbs with a wirepulling daredevil. Wooyoung scrutinizes his nails, disinterested, groaning impatiently when San wouldn’t conjure forth an alternative to paying off his debt.
“I don’t care. You make the rules,” San blurts out to appease him. He cares very much. Pathetically, astronomically much.
“I do?” Wooyoung faux-reiterates with a lilt, and when San obliges his direction to come closer, the little shit casually stretches out a foot to trip him up. San lands, face-first, against his crotch. Wooyoung pulls him forward, gleaming like silver. “Sit upright.”
San obliges. He gives a small whimper when Wooyoung drags him by the forearms, resting his hands there. Silent negotiation ensues.
“Don’t you dare move a single limb, or I will personally fracture it.”
San straightens. Protest would imply he prefers the press involved. A muscle ticks in his jaw, stimulated by the visual as Wooyoung expertly slides off the bed. They swap seats by instruction, and San finds himself serviced by the prettiest, sultriest, deadliest eyes in existence. He'd lucked out.
Before he can intervene, there are two palms manacling his thighs. Wooyoung toys with the zipper of his jeans; first with bare hands, then with his teeth.
The slow, languid pace sets the tone. San squeezes his shoulder. His voice comes out thinly, like the prospect of Wooyoung blowing him for reparations is enough to set him on edge. Because, in truth, it is. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”
Wooyoung looks up through his lashes, tongue in cheek. Supplying the image. Halfway undone, the zipper clanks as it slips out of his mouth, in, and out again. “Relax, top dog. Don’t cream your pants.” Stiffly, San retracts his arm. The strain in his biceps remains, pulling his muscles taut. Wooyoung resumes his motions, palming him. “Shit, this thing better be worth it.”
“I didn’t meet the deadline,” San reminds him. Because, miraculously, Wooyoung is kneeling before him, proposing the unimaginable. San is no liar; a blowjob from the guy whose obscene face routinely gets him twitching in his pants scores high on his personal agenda. Highest, even.
“Focus on finishing this one,” Wooyoung scoffs. “You are paying for it. Consider this—” Wooyoung gives him a plump squeeze, rough through the denim. “Your currency.”
“Hard to consider,” San huffs. “You make it sound like you’re benefitting here.”
“You’re burning up in here,” Wooyoung states, placid, massaging him through the fabric. Slow, staccato circles. San dares not to rake a hand through his bleached hair, but the idea lingers. His hands twitch in tandem with his thighs, attuned to the rhythm. Wooyoung cocks his head, pausing movement. “Must be awkward to get this hard at the slightest touch. How many loads did you save on the off chance of this happening?”
“I didn’t ask for this,” San counters. “You started it.” Four, he thinks. Realistically.
Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “You were pretty cooperative.”
San swallows a groan as Wooyoung eagerly tucks his head against the twitching tent in his pants, then rests his chin there. Smirking up at him, like the smug little shit he is. San thinks he might just come from the image alone; akin to his wildest, sloppiest dreams: parting those obscene lips, and stuffing them with hot arousal. He fights the urge to thumb them, to slide two fingers inside the wet heat, knuckle-deep, and relish the softness of those rosy gums. His body reacts in automatisms, quivering with restraint.
Wooyoung huffs. “Thought so. Like feeding the starved.”
San feels delirious. There is no scientific explanation to this feeling, other than this magnetic, addictive pull. Wooyoung feels worth the humiliation of being chewed out like gum, then spat out and stretched apart. Dissected like something repulsive. Serviced on the grounds of pity, and pity alone.
Wooyoung spits in his hand and hums, snaking a palm between their bodies. A small, rapturous grin pulls at his features as he scoots closer, thumbing the spit-slick zipper. Then, he simply stuffs his sticky palm inside, maneuvering sloppily, the glide wet and warm like hot glue.
Few things get San excited. This is one of them.
Preserving breath comes second nature. It comes out staccato, ebbing. “Where did you learn this?” Stupid question. Setting himself up for inevitable disappointment.
Wooyoung angles his wrist. Their arrangement gives way to something softer. Sicker. Intimate, despite the permanent reminder that this fragile thing, this transactional hookup, wouldn’t rebound. He slants San an appreciative glance, humming through his teeth. His palm connects, then reconnects, mimicking short pinpricks of pleasure. “Where do you think?”
“I don’t know,” San answers untruthfully.
Wooyoung snorts. His wrist goes limp, still sandwiched between denims and briefs. “You still don’t look the part. You look pliant, and sweet, and civil. Like someone who kindly requests a blowjob, and reflects on his shortcomings when he doesn’t get it.”
San stills, focusing on the small adjustments Wooyoung makes; his hand, hyper-curated, tracing sharp, slow circles. Each ring, purposefully arranged. Meticulously chosen, from designer vendors. San arranges his thoughts, rearranges them, and articulates something akin to banter. “Are you complimenting me?”
The words hang between them.
Wooyoung cocks a brow at him. “I was curious.”
San returns the gesture. From his vantage point, Wooyoung looks significantly smaller in proportion.
“You were rock hard, just from a little slip. I had to see what it takes to tip you over the edge.” Wooyoung curses when the zipper catches on his bracelet, tugging with a shove so rough the whole thing comes undone at a stroke. He makes no effort to retrieve it; instead latching onto the very present, painfully erect evidence of weeks leading up to this. Breathing, just proximally enough, to cause reaction.
San stifles a groan—and fails spectacularly when Wooyoung starts stroking him, cock pulsing in his ringed hands. His pace is torturous; slow, deliberate, emphatic. He looks up to San, grinning, gaze laden like a promise. San absorbs the image before him, warm arousal pooling in his belly.
Instinctively, his hand shoots forward.
Wooyoung slaps it off before it can land, scoffing at his telltale signs of struggle. Noises, not entirely human, raw and primal. This, apparently, is as amusing as it is encouraging. He slides San a cattish smirk, settling properly between his thighs. “Hands off. This isn’t a welfare project, but a lesson in integrity.”
“Integrity,” San parrots. Nothing about Jung Wooyoung is integrous.
“Technically, this is cheating. Your innocent face really doesn’t let on that you’re packing,” Wooyoung retaliates silkily. Denim grazes his chin.
San wants to hold his face close, and let him have it. He rocks his hips forward, cock brushing against those gorgeous, parted lips. Wooyoung has mimed the cocky, conceited heartbreaker since their first encounter; a little challenge would keep him grounded. “Gotta open up wider than this, Wooyoung.”
In a perfect setting, San would personally direct his jaw. Craft the optimal angle—for thrusting and shoving, and stuffing that pretty, pretty mouth. He tends to fixate. Hyperfixates, sometimes.
“I have eyes,” Wooyoung counters admission. They gleam with purpose.
San twitches on demand, and Wooyoung instinctively parts for him, urging the tip inside. Instantly, San falters in his pace, a visceral thrust dismantled at its root as Wooyoung ungently steadies him, tonguing the sticky slit to sample its fluid, dragging small, wet circles to prolong the wait. San reins back the grunt pulling at his vocal cords. Frantic, small motions escape him; urging, pressing, cock slipping impatiently against flushed lips. The whole thing is messy and gross and marvellous.
“Keep still,” Wooyoung instructs calmly. He licks a stripe up the pulsing shaft, maintaining eye contact. “Stop rutting like a dog in heat.” San continues despite the warning, blindsided by sheer sensation. Raw whimpers explode in his throat, hands itching for something to grab. He twists them to fists, which earns him a pitying huff. “Good point. You sound like one, too.”
Wooyoung retches obscenely, and just a moment later, dribbles spit all over his shaft. Slowly, he lowers his head, and descends for the entree. The sensation comes hard and fast, like gunfire. Soft, and unimaginably silken. Wooyoung takes him without gagging, relaxing his jaw in degrees, breath calm and shallow. San fixates on the shape of his cock, hard and warm and pulsing for release, silhouetted against his throat. For a fraction, the room seems to spin. Gradually, the temperature has become stifling; warm, stale, unfiltered like a blocked vent, wheezing for release.
San yields to their order, because Wooyoung likes his men docile. This is evident in the nature of their settlement. He lets Wooyoung shoulder the pace, surrendering to his torture.
Eventually, Wooyoung releases him, wiping sloppily at his chin. His proposal comes unprompted, like something misplaced between them. “Take the lead.”
Tentatively, San scoots forward, towards the edge of the bed. Steadier then, as Wooyoung rolls his eyes with a hmph, as if to test his patience. Soft, small vibrations pulsate against him, within him, between them. The ecstasy is dizzying. Wooyoung would let him. The thought manifests something sinister, dragging San under.
Wooyoung goes limp, jaw slackening. He looks up through his lashes, driven by intention, and waits.
The pause feels monumental.
San lacks all reason to disprove the obvious. The world is dipped in glaring red; anger, frustration, infatuation, lust. His fingers find purchase in platinum hair, clutching tight for leverage. When Wooyoung yelps quietly, San tightens his grip. His idle hand lingers, tracing the jaw before him, the tan cheekbones accentuating feline, sharp features. Then, he thumbs the silken bottom lip, pressing a finger inside. The slide is slippery and vulgar like a skin flick.
“Fuck…” San groans, summoning all of his willpower not to ram inside the warm, coaxing heat.
His cock throbs, reared, anticipating. Throbs again, when Wooyoung clicks his tongue against him, saliva and precum dribbling down his chin. His breathy, warm hums echo like gospel, and San twitches as Wooyoung opens up for him again, lips smacking invitingly.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung pants reverently, “I’m about to let you do just that.”
Delirious, San gathers him by the nape, and promptly stuffs his cock between those gorgeous, plump lips. The effect is immediate. Wooyoung goes eerily quiet, setting the pace with each bump. Abandoning all restraint, San meets him with each thrust, thumbprints tracking his cheekbones. Fucking his pretty, pretty face. It has to be, San decides. Designed for fucking, he adds reverently.
“I thought—ah—about this,” he confesses in the spur of the moment. Multiple—countless—times, wide awake, reminiscing ringed fingers and steep clavicles. Wooyoung simply hums around him, acknowledging the fact. San groans, gritting his teeth, voice muffled but unmistakably aroused. “Thought about that pretty mouth of yours, stretched around my cock, all wet and tight. Knew you'd feel Incredible…”
Wooyoung relents with a shaky exhale, coughing. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he remains calm. “You did a whole lot more than thinking, judging from the amount of times you popped up on the channel.”
San keeps his hands locked in place. “But your traffic is high.”
“You are easier to identify, though. Because I wanted to blow you, so I kept checking for the little sweetheart whose face crinkles just like this—” Wooyoung laps at his tip, tongue sucking lower, tracing the prominent, pulsing vein along the shaft. His rhythm is slightly off, faltering, stimulating with intent. “Whenever it feels wronged.”
“Come on,” San pleads, melting at the touch that resumes, mercilessly, jerking him fast and hard.
Wooyoung is blowing him like a champ, and edging him like a fiend.
“I might. If you say please, that is. Pro-per-ly. Real proper, like you mean it. I barely get you to talk.” San presses his lips together. “Ah-ah.” Wooyoung climbs up a sliver, resting his elbows on the mattress. A slight, pink flush adorns his cheeks. “Say it.”
San returns his iron gaze.
Three inches, four at most, separate their heaving bodies. He swallows against the lump in his throat. Wooyoung is pretty. Prettier, up close and personal. Fatally distracting. Realistically, San stands no chance.
“Please,” he whines.
Wooyoung tilts his head. “I lied.”
For a minute, they simply stare at each other. The idea forms slowly at first.
San straightens to bump forward. There is no certainty to his movements, other than the raging adrenaline in his system, and the melting gaze slanted provocatively his direction. What San doesn’t expect, though, is the resistance put up against him. Wooyoung actively wrestles him back onto the sheets, and is swiftly humbled by their difference in strength as he is jostled up the bed frame. His skull hits the headboard with a thud, arms extended to cushion the fall.
The shit-eating grin that pulls at his features establishes precisely two facts: Jung Wooyoung baits for a living, and he is no stranger to the arts of manhandling.
San leans forward, gripping onto the headboard.
Wooyoung scoots lower to accommodate him, snorting amusedly. “You’re such a loser.”
San doesn’t have a clever comeback for that. He’d lament the fact, but the pretty face before him makes up for his fumble. He keeps close watch on those baiting eyes as he pushes forward, cock resting heavily on Wooyoung’s tongue, stuttering, twitching with the anticipation of what’s to come.
“Do it,” Wooyoung breathes against him, scarcely audible. Baiting him.
San feeds him an inch. “Your face is so vulgar.” The tip disappears. Another inch. San registers the kick in his gut, the small vibrations pooling in his stomach the further he slides inside, carving a space for his cock. “Such a feast for the eyes. You have the prettiest mouth. Such a pretty, vulgar mouth to throat-fuck.”
Wooyoung takes with an eagerness akin to expectance. San has to actively fight the urge not to recklessly thrust forward; to savor the obscenity of his stuffed, stretched groans each time his skulls bumps against the headboard. Despite his loose mouth, the fit is incredibly tight. Distinctly, San remembers the way Wooyoung would hollow his cheeks in pondering thought, on the brink of reinventing his tactics to humble a man. Those few expressions often had him hyperaware of this unhealthy, obsessive infatuation.
The brutal part about this arrangement, though, is the permanent eye contact Wooyoung retains. Like he knows his gaze is a weapon, and insists on using it.
San ruts into his mouth; sharp, visceral thrusts, stilling in pursuit of something slicker to ease the glide. His cock slips out with a groan, and Wooyoung instantly mouths at it again, spit dribbling down his chin, letting the slobber lubricate the slide.
“There you go,” San rasps, blissful. Wooyoung is great at his craft; at giving sloppy, sticky head and providing ample visuals. At getting a cock hard as a rock, just from batting his lashes. San’s mouth opens on instinct, a groan falling from his lips as he thrusts inside again, wetter, easier this time. “Get it nice and wet. Such a gorgeous face, all stuffed with cock. You’re the prettiest like this.”
Wooyoung chokes on him, just a little, but enough to gag around him, the sound muffled from the stretch. San holds tight onto his face, his head, his thumb tracing the corner of his lips. “God, fuck, Wooyoung-ah.” It slips out like an admission, by nature of intimacy.
San pulls off, cock flushed and dripping, tilting Wooyoung askew. Spit and precum watermark his lips. The visual would serve San much later, much further, once Wooyoung would remain an abstract delusion within his daily musings. San plucks him by the jaw, and thoroughly picks up the pace. Not once does Wooyoung look aside.
“Good,” San groans intuitively. “I’ve been dying to fuck that pretty face of yours.”
“Sucks to be on the waiting list,” Wooyoung quips. San grips him tighter, thumbprints dimpling his chin. The menace continues, “This is hardly fucking.” San retreats again, and slams sharply inside his wet, warm mouth. Infatuation and spite align. San hates that he loves Wooyoung, down to his cruel, rough edges. The sensation is nearly unbearable—particularly with those taunting, orbiting eyes resting calmly on his. “Go faster,” Wooyoung supplies, slouching further. His ringed fingers reach for San, grabbing his forearms for proper leverage. Counteracting him. His voice sounds raw and thin, like broken strings. “You fuck like a virgin, San-ah.”
San squeezes his jaw, then gathers the spit dribbling down his chin, and slides it back inside. He savors the view; Wooyoung, gorgeous and fucked out, panting underneath him. San is a patient man—with limits. He sports a brutal pace, and when Wooyoung tries to pull off for air, San simply draws him closer by the nape, pulsing with pent-up arousal at the sight of his watery, glaring eyes refuting the motion.
The poor thing gags again, and San finally relents. His hand goes lax against Wooyoung’s neck, cradling him.
Wooyoung wipes his mouth. “C+ for effort,” he rules, fingers curling. San twitches in his tight, warm grip. Twitches again, when the menace squeezes him, hard, his dignity—and lack thereof—on full display. At the mercy of Wooyoung and his fickle, bratty antics. Wooyoung jerks him off faster, harder, tighter, right in front of his face. “I knew you’d take the bait. You’re so predictable. You came for the lame weed, and stayed to find out just when you’d get this far. Such a lucky guy. Got your goodies and the blow of your life. Didn’t have to pay a dime, and got your cock sucked on top of that. You're hilarious, Choi San. You act all celibate, but you’re fuckin’ eager to stuff that thing down a throat.”
San bristles. “You're eager enough to take it."
“What a charmer. You should see yourself. Built to mount and fuck, but trained like a dog.”
“Do I get to?” San pleads, blood pulsing in his guts. The thought simmers at the back of his head, hot and urging.
“What?” Wooyoung scoffs, disbelieving, upping his pace. His fingers make a squelching, sucking sound with each jerk, each stroke, up and down. “Greedy thing.”
“I owe you one,” San grits out. This is it. His stomach pulls taut, and—
“Earn it, champ. Instruct me.” Wooyoung releases him. “You can do that much.”
San presses his cock to Wooyoung’s lips, parting them. “Open up, gorgeous.”
Committing the image to memory, he lets the easy, final slide push him to a fast, ricocheting orgasm. His muscles contract as relief rolls through him, pump after pump, emptying his load with one hand cramped around his twitching cock, the other fisting roughly into platinum hair. Wooyoung strokes him through it—devilishly, purposefully, swallowing dutifully. Towards the end, San pulls out with intent, and spills half of his load all over those plump, ravaged lips.
The aftermath is a blur, of which San recalls slumping against the headrest, and bumping into a messy tangle of damp, clothed limbs. Wooyoung holds him for a moment, chin tucked against his shoulder. His heartbeat is a steady, soothing thrum. The silence stretches.
“My diagnosis is pretty accurate,” Wooyoung eventually says. San hums, encouraging him. “You don’t play by the rules, and that’s why you’re stuck being a shitty D-list athlete scrounging for approval.”
San detaches, assessing. The post-orgasm bliss borders on comatose, but his cock feels hard and restless underneath the haze, aching for the real deal. Suavely, he maneuvers Wooyoung below him, frowning at the stiff arousal tenting his wide shorts.
Wooyoung glowers. “I wasn’t done with you.”
“I can see that.”
“Fuckin’ smartass.”
Wooyoung hoists himself up, scooting into his lap. His hips are warm and flexible in San’s grip, yielding to his touch. Reigned by primal reciprocation. Like this, Wooyoung belongs to him. By force of instinct.
San pulls his comically wide shorts down to his ankles, where the fabrics pools around their tangled bodies. Wooyoung has gone commando, revealing the firmest, leanest stretch of rosy skin underneath. San gasps at the contact, short-lived but arousing, clearing the way for a second round.
Wooyoung instructs him, maneuvering his hand across the taut expanse of his stomach, down the slopes of his firm, soft thighs. San is swiftly welcomed by tight, warm heat, pushing past the ring of pulsing muscles sheathed in between. Wooyoung is pretty there too; tender and shaven like a girl. The fact registers, dimly, that San has bedded copious men before, but neither of them had been as alluring as Wooyoung, who remains still in his hold, facing away, shoulder blades pulled taut.
San focuses on the little twitches, the small signs of his body responding to his doing, to return the gesture.
“God, yes—” Wooyoung pants quietly, lifting his hips with each thrust, urging another digit inside.
The drag is slow and purposeful, pulling San in. His pelvis stutters with each rise and fall, head atilt, groping for firm muscle. His nails leave small half-moons in their wake, his toes curling into the mattress. San cradles him, firm against his chest, gazing devotedly at his damp collar bones. This is worship. Divine intervention. The mood has shifted significantly, giving way to something firmer and steadier. Frenetic urgency fuels their bodies, keeping them adrift.
“Keep fucking them in. Gotta open me up properly.”
“Are you sure—”
“I am sure,” Wooyoung barks, catching his breath in tandem with the slow, eager roll of his hips.
Awed, San watches their bodies connect, disconnect, and reconnect. Wooyoung feels taut and lean and tight everywhere—even from the inside. San withdraws his fingers, counting three now, and buries them knuckle-deep inside his warm, gaping hole. Sweat beads on his tailbone.
He enters a state of deep trance, movements rhythmic. Wooyoung still refuses to face him, a testament to his cold, cruel tactics, but his head ever so often lolls back, platinum obstructing the view. San loses track of time, focused on working Wooyoung open. On pleasuring him. On sating his hunger. A strange, sultry limbo that reimagines their roles.
Wooyoung sinks onto his fingers with a sharp gasp, pausing where their bodies connect. His head hangs limply now, bent forward, erratic breaths wrecking his spent body. San has to physically fight the urge to bend him over. Instead, he waits for the slightest sign of permission, per instruction.
“Enough,” Wooyoung spits. Sluggishly, he turns, facing San. His face is gorgeously flushed, lips red and bitten, pupils blown wide.
“Condom?” San asks, breathless, ruffling the sheets as if they’d spit up a rubber. His patience has worn thin. He needs to be inside Wooyoung, fast, soon, before he'd come undone. This time, prematurely. He wouldn't stomach the embarrassment.
“Pfft,” Wooyoung snorts, guiding their hips closer. His hard cock slaps against his stomach, neglected but painfully erect, aching for attention. Like the rest of his lithe body, it looks pretty; flushed, pink, and slightly smaller by comparison. Wooyoung guides his hand over his clothed belly, spreading his fingers apart. “Do it like this. Deep inside. No condom. Can you do that?”
San’s breath hitches. He nods, frantic to please, frantic to sate his own cravings.
“Mhm, of course you can. I got so much dirt on you, Sannie. Better get to work.” His gaze is sultry, inviting, lascivious. “Fuck me. I want to feel that thing—” Wooyoung lifts his hips, pelvic muscles tense from effort. The words die in his throat as the tip breaches him, and San promptly, carnally, fucks into him without a second thought, governed by lust and the need to pump him full of warm, potent seed.
He’d look his prettiest thus far, all splayed out and devoured, and so, so incredibly full.
“Bastard,” Wooyoung huffs.
“I can’t wait,” San whimpers impatiently, buried to the hilt, muscles taut and primed to move, to piston, to deposit the load he’s been saving for this sweet, sweet off chance. His adrenaline spikes, and he roughly jostles Wooyoung into his embrace, grabbing onto his shoulder blades, their chests tightly compressed. Wooyoung arches into him, groaning, panting sweetly. “Can’t let that pretty face go to waste. Look at me. I want to see it. You have no idea, do you? What this—” San roughly squeezes his jaw, just shy of kissing his lips, afraid to plunge in. His pace is erratic but constant, forceful and giving, building a rhythm towards release. Wooyoung twitches. “Does to a guy.”
“You’d be right, ‘cause I only fuck men. Come on, keep up, sweetheart.”
San bristles. He wrestles Wooyoung in place, held upright with a single forearm, shirtsleeves sticking to his skin. Thrusts becoming unrhythmic, heavier, more forceful. Loaded with gumption.
“That’s it—” Wooyoung sobs, voice ebbing. The rest of his sentence withers in his throat, reduced to mindless blabbering.
San braces for the inevitable impact, gaze straying up, then down, relishing the pretty face, eager to see where their bodies connect. “I don’t think—”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung breathes airily, strained, chasing the high. “I know. You don’t think. Fuck, I knew this would be worth it.”
“Wooyoung—” San tries again. Alarm bells register faintly, dim and hazy at the corners of his consciousness.
“Go ahead,” Wooyoung pants, head tilted so prettily at him, San abandons the final smidge of his composure. “You earned this one. You’ve been saving it for me, no?” Another sharp thrust, teetering on the edge. Wooyoung groans, pliant in his hold, eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop. Don’t fuckin’ stop. I’m so close—”
He gives a few frantic pumps, cock twitching in his clammy palm, and comes with a force so reckoning, his entire body convulses. San holds him through it, fucking him through his orgasm, ploughing into him to savor the resulting tightness. Delirious, he marvels, singing sweet, indecipherable praises, chanting. Their position becomes uncomfortable, contorting, straining their limbs, but San has to chase this one. He has to finish inside; feel his balls tighten with the need to spend, to plug this sweet, cruel thing to the brim.
It doesn’t take much.
San slows, sheathed balls-deep to the hilt, and pins Wooyoung in place. Their bodies compress lazily, the warm slide settling deep in their cores. “Gonna cum, gorgeous. Take it well. Gonna pump you so full—” San collapses on top of him, grunting, pulsing his load inside with a guttural, cementing growl. It feels right and natural, for their spirits to unite, for the warmth oozing from one into another to complete their transaction.
Wooyoung lets him. Much like before, he feigns calm, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest belies his antics.
For a solid while, they remain interlocked, breaths thrumming to a regular pitch. When San pulls out, the sloppy mess is too much to bear, and he fears he might’ve imagined the whole scenario. He might wake up any second now, blissful and spent, alone in his vacant bed.
But Wooyoung simply stares at him, gazing skeptically at the proof of their doing. Rubbing his fingers over his entrance, fingers pads positively sticky. “You’re so much nastier than you look. Stupid dimples can’t fool me.”
San draws out the momentum, fearing it might disappear otherwise. “Blame it on the side effects.”
Wooyoung snorts. “You’ve never even smoked the damn stuff.”