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Wooyoung knows there are only two outcomes for tonight’s events—San will either choke on his own blood as Wooyoung watches him writhe in a pool of crimson, or he will be so deep inside Wooyoung that both of them can pretend, for as long as ecstasy allows them, that nothing is wrong with the world, their lives, or who they are at their core.
It’s not like Wooyoung wants to kill his temporary teammate, but there are only so many obvious glances he can ignore from the other man before he gets fed up. It’s even more infuriating that San, the most daunting assassin of the House, has the audacity to keep it under wraps, always turning his attention elsewhere when Wooyoung whips his head around and catches him in the act.
One would assume the man is shy. Sure, that works if the man in question isn’t a living weapon taught to kill before he could even read properly. No one dares to look San in the eye, even if they have a bone to pick with him. They always scurry away, lowering their gaze or stuttering their words so that San will take pity on them and not cut their throats as he passes by.
But no, San isn’t shy. He’s stoic, with a heart of stone and a perfectly sculpted face that seems allergic to emotion. The only time Wooyoung saw him smile, he swore he imagined it.
He was wrong. San’s mouth curling for a mere split second after Wooyoung jokingly said he’ll kill one of their superiors was no figment of Wooyoung’s imagination.
The thing is, Wooyoung wasn’t joking. And if anybody else heard him, his “joke” would have landed him straight into the depths of the basement of the House, tied with leather strips to a bloodied chair. His “joke” was an act of rebellion, and San’s smile, whether intentional or not, had signaled that he shared the same thoughts as Wooyoung.
After that, Wooyoung stopped making a fuss whenever they were paired together for missions. He even pretended he somewhat tolerated San’s presence, even though the man didn’t react to most of his witty remarks and sass. If anyone else talked this way to San, Wooyoung thinks, San wouldn’t hesitate to drive a blade through their hearts.
It’s now obvious why San acts this way, why he lets Wooyoung run wild around him despite the constant taunts and jabs sent his way. San wants him, and he makes almost no effort to hide it, instead letting Wooyoung simmer in this boiling soup of uncertainty, anxiety, and fury. Who does San think he is? Does he expect Wooyoung to throw himself at him, to beg on his knees for San to fuck him?
Rage boils under Wooyoung’s skin, unbearably so.
He pulls at his shirt, thankfully stopping himself before he exposes too much. There’s still some blood left to clean up under his change of clothes, a sight the hotel receptionist wouldn’t take too kindly to seeing.
“Space shouldn’t be an issue, despite the type of room. Would that be okay with you two?” she asks.
Considering their string of successful missions over the past couple of months, it was only a matter of time before luck left them. A symposium is scheduled to take place in the hotel’s main event room, and it just so happens that all the rooms are booked with university professors, assistants, and probably a bunch of good-for-nothings with three diplomas and absurdly inflated egos that will extend tomorrow’s event by several hours with their boring, drawn-out speeches.
Well, there is one room available, one that would force San too close for Wooyoung’s comfort. They could bid their goodbyes to this friendly receptionist and try to find another hotel, but the summer rain has turned into a full-on downpour, and as much as Wooyoung would kill for a cold shower, he’s not a big fan of getting his clothes soaked. Especially with the dried blood under his shirt.
He offers the most businesslike smile as he fishes his wallet from his pocket. “Certainly. Cash, please.”
If San has any complaints about this arrangement, he had plenty of time to speak up. He hovers behind Wooyoung like a ghost, watching from over his shoulder as Wooyoung counts the bills.
Even in the elevator he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he loosens his tie as he inspects himself in the reflective interior. San’s hair is slicked back, not a single black strand out of place despite the brutality of their previous mission. His rectangular glasses slip down his nose, so he pushes them higher. Wooyoung has a feeling those glasses are just for decoration, but then why would San bother wearing them all the time?
It doesn’t take them long to find their room. Wooyoung unlocks it, throws his jacket on a nearby chair, grabs a pair of clean briefs from his bag and slams the bathroom door behind him without a word. To muffle his labored breath, he bolts for the shower, cranking the temperature to the max. The water falls down in a violent flood, and some stray droplets land on Wooyoung’s pants.
He won’t let this get to him. It’s just for one night; they’ll just sleep it off. If San dares to make a move, then Wooyoung won’t hesitate to stand his ground. And if things escalate, then he’s fine with just one of them leaving this hotel room alive. Whether that’s him or San, Wooyoung doesn’t really care.
It’s just that… he can feel a long-forgotten desire creeping up from the depths of his heart. Something he buried long ago, something he wasn’t sure he would ever feel again.
No. As attractive as San is, he’s a cold-blooded killer. Why would sex evoke any emotion in him? Wooyoung secretly wants him, but that’s just his brain ignoring all the bright red flags because he craves an attractive man. A very attractive man.
Too bad San’s a psycho.
Wooyoung kicks his clothes into a corner after he strips. He’ll shove them in a plastic bag and burn them once he’s out of town—if he’s still alive by then. For now, he lets the hot water wash away his worries, watching them go down the drain alongside the red trickle dripping down his legs.
He spends way too much time drying his hair. The hotel doesn’t bother supplying its guests with conditioner, so Wooyoung’s hair appears even more fried than it normally does after blow-drying it. It doesn’t look half bad, Wooyoung thinks as he unplugs the dryer and tucks his hair behind his ears. The ends of his mullet could look a little better, but that’s not important right now.
The silky bathrobe feels nice against his skin. It’s black and not very long, revealing a good chunk of Wooyoung’s thighs. He should have fished the rest of his spare clothes from the bag before locking himself up in the bathroom. Now he has no choice but to change in front of San unless he scurries back to the privacy of the bathroom like a bashful virgin.
Well, San isn’t much of a talker, so chances are he won’t comment on it. He probably won’t even care.
When Wooyoung steps out of the bathroom, he’s surprised to find San still dressed, save for his jacket, ditched next to Wooyoung’s. San’s tie is loose around his neck, and he even popped open a button of his black shirt, not bothering with the rest. He’s on the phone, most likely talking to one of their superiors, judging by the report he’s giving.
Wooyoung’s eyes briefly scan the room. There’s a rectangular wooden table propped against the wall, with chairs placed on both ends. A wide TV looms just above, reflecting the back of San’s head as he wraps up his report. Violent raindrops splatter against the balcony glass door, tearing apart some stray leaves that glued themselves to the transparent surface after being carried over by the violent winds.
And then, there’s the bed—queen-sized, just like the receptionist promised, so there’s plenty of space for them to sleep without knocking knees. So far, whenever he and San were paired together for missions, they always had their individual rooms and only interacted during their assignments. Now, things are different. Very different.
Wooyoung snaps out of his thoughts, startled by the poignant silence. The distant voice on the other side of San’s call is eerily silent. San isn’t replying either.
Slowly, Wooyoung turns his head in San’s direction. His phone is on the table, screen turned off. The call probably ended some moments ago, but Wooyoung was too distracted to notice.
The strangest part is that San is watching him. Intently.
Wooyoung looks away, almost tears open the zipper of his bag as he searches for a clean shirt and shorts—no, scratch that, San will stare even more if he wears shorts. He should go for actual pants… Shit, did he pack any pajama pants?
Wooyoung takes a step away from the bag, his face burning with anger and his heart hammering in his chest from the sheer anticipation of what is going to happen. Will San make a move on him? Will he continue to stare like a creep and hope Wooyoung will just offer himself to him, like some sleazy House leader thought years ago?
Too many thoughts race in his mind. Wooyoung closes his eyes, grateful to the darkness for hiding San from his sight. He needs to calm his beating heart, or he won’t be able to get any sleep tonight. Not that he plans to sleep too deeply, considering there will be someone else in the same bed as him tonight, someone who has been eyeing him like prey for months now—
“Wooyoung.”
San’s voice is usually cold, like a cube of ice on the tongue, empty of emotion and full of unspoken threats. Hearing San speak is enough for Wooyoung to back off in fear. His voice isn’t the most lethal weapon he has, but it’s a weapon, nonetheless.
Wooyoung freezes, but not because of any iciness San sends his way. No, it’s the total opposite. There’s a strange warmth behind his voice, as if he’s genuinely concerned, as if he didn’t just murder an enemy crime lord and his associates just a few hours ago.
It sounds wrong, Wooyoung thinks. He’s never heard San speak this way. Which can only mean one thing—he’s really planning to make a move tonight. After all, he was handed the opportunity on a silver platter because they have to share a room. A bed, even.
Wooyoung glares daggers at the other man. What he hears next, however, makes him pause in his tracks.
“I can find another accommodation if you’re uncomfortable with me being here. I don’t mind walking in the rain.”
San’s words baffle Wooyoung so much that his voice cracks a little. “Huh? What are you saying?”
Time comes to a standstill as San gives him a knowing look over the frames of his glasses. His sharp, expressive black eyes make up for his otherwise impassive face. It’s obvious he knows Wooyoung is taking him for a fool, and the people who take San for a fool never end up breathing for much longer.
“Your movements are jittery, your eyes unfocused. If I poked you in the side, you’d probably jump. Something angered you so much that it took over your thoughts, to the point that you don’t realize just how transparent you have become. Everything was fine until the receptionist told you this was the only room available. So, what am I supposed to think? That you have a phobia of single-bed rooms? Or that your state of mind has something to do with being in this space with me?”
San never plays by the rules, nor does he shy away from voicing his thoughts with a sharp-edged tongue that matches his trustworthy blade. Each of his words cut deep into Wooyoung’s heart, shattering his resolve. He’s right, and Wooyoung hates it when San is right. The man might not show it, but Wooyoung can tell San feels very smug when he shuts people up, either with a knife across their throats or with his deadly words and fierce eyes that render any form of opposition silent.
If only Wooyoung wasn’t so blinded by rage, he would have realized there was no vanity in San’s short psychoanalysis, no superiority complex behind his words. Just the harsh, raw truth, and a small jab (but a jab nonetheless) at Wooyoung’s ridiculous behavior.
Still disillusioned with the idea that San is trying to start something, Wooyoung drops the shorts he fished from his bag earlier and takes a series of decisive steps toward San, whose expression doesn’t change. His eyes, however, sparkle with interest.
Two can play this game, Wooyoung thinks as he stops mere centimeters away from the other man’s face.
“What about you, San? Care to explain why you’ve been eyeing me like a piece of meat for months?”
Then he sees it. The smallest, faintest blemish on the blank canvas that is San’s face. It’s like a shadow blankets his expression.
San dismisses him with a simple, “What?”
“Don’t be like that,” Wooyoung whines, pouting for good measure, too. “You take me for a fool, Choi San? Or a blind man? Which is it? You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?”
San’s stoic gaze searches Wooyoung’s face. Whatever he’s looking for, Wooyoung doesn’t know. All he needs to know is that San’s eyes are shaky.
It doesn’t seem like his question will be graced with a reply, so Wooyoung takes one more step forward. Daring to be bolder, he hooks his index fingers into the belt loops of San’s black pants and pulls himself into the orbit of the other man, so close that he feels San’s breath on his mouth.
“Six months ago, during the Busan mission. I was the bait, you were the hook. The guy you killed that night, the one who wasn’t on our list, remember him?”
A bone moves at San’s jaw.
“You didn’t kill him because you confused him with one of our targets, like you said in the report. Oh, don’t give me that look. I specifically combed through that file later to see what big fat lie you wrote on those pages. No, you killed him because he wanted me, didn’t you?”
Wooyoung isn’t holding San accountable for the murder of a scumbag. The guy was rather sleazy, smirking and winking in Wooyoung’s direction in such a disgusting manner that Wooyoung had to refrain from gagging in public from the unwanted attention. If San hadn’t put a bullet through the back of the man’s skull alongside all the other bastards on their list, Wooyoung would have definitely done it in his stead.
Back then, in the heat of the moment, Wooyoung thanked San, not thinking much about the incident, but something in San’s gaze—just the slightest bit of vulnerability and surprise—had left Wooyoung wondering for months to come, especially when his partner stared at him from the corner of his eye and treated him differently from the others.
It all makes so much sense now.
He can’t hear San’s heavy breathing, but he feels it on his face, sees the way San’s chest rises and falls faster than normal. Wooyoung’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees more and more shards of San’s flawless visage shatter.
It doesn’t feel real. Could Wooyoung really have so much influence over the untamed beast of the House?
San’s fists clench over the surface of the table. He’s still leaning against it, his knife discarded in his bag now that the mission is over, but that doesn’t mean Wooyoung can afford to drop his guard. San is strong, much stronger than Wooyoung is, sadly. He can easily overpower Wooyoung, then reach for his blade and aim it at the other’s throat since he’s not used to being backed into a corner. Judging by his clenched fists, perhaps that’s exactly what he’s planning.
Wooyoung’s eyes snap from San’s hand to his face. “You want to subdue me?”
“Never,” San replies almost immediately, his voice gaining an unfamiliar edge. He sounds so sure of himself, as he always does, but there’s something else there, something like a vow.
That takes Wooyoung aback. A horrible mistake on his part. If San really wanted to hurt him, this was the perfect opportunity to attack, or at least gain the upper hand. Yet all San does is watch from over his glasses, his fists trembling ever so slightly, as if he’s itching for something. Or for a certain someone.
San doesn’t move. With his gaze still trained on Wooyoung’s face, he says, “But I want you.”
Such a simple admission, yet so heavy with implications. Of course, it was a no-brainer that San was interested in Wooyoung, that he looked at the man in a non-platonic way. Yes, he sometimes stared, but he always looked away when Wooyoung caught him. Perhaps he really is shy, like Wooyoung initially suspected, although… would a shy person really admit their heart’s desire so easily?
That’s because he’s a psycho, Wooyoung reminds himself. His own breathing turns shaky, especially under San’s heavy gaze. He tries to play it cool, letting go of San’s belt loops to spread his palms wide on the man’s tummy, dragging them until he can feel the firm outline of San’s muscular pectorals under the thin, black shirt that conceals the dried blood of men who were alive until just a few hours ago.
“So?” Wooyoung asks after regaining his voice. “What are you going to do about it?”
San swallows, his attention flickering between Wooyoung’s face and the palms on his chest. He really feels like a cornered animal like this, small and helpless under Wooyoung’s touch and demanding gaze. It’s such an incredulous sight that Wooyoung wants to pinch himself to make sure he’s awake. Not even in his wildest dreams could he have predicted that the tables would turn in such a strange manner, not with San, someone who’s as sturdy as a diamond.
“What am I going to do about it?” San repeats the question. “Whatever you allow me.”
Wooyoung swallows as well, feeling heat trickle down his face, all the way to his neck, spreading like a disease. He definitely didn’t expect things to turn out this way. If this is an elaborate ploy to get him to lower his guard completely, then it sure as hell is working.
Only one question remains: why doesn’t San try to gain the upper hand when it’s so conveniently within reach? Is that not what he wants?
Wooyoung feels the flame of desire burn within him, setting his nerves ablaze as he wraps San’s tie around his fist. A small spark is all it takes for the fire to burn steadily after years of icy winds blowing in his ribcage, extinguishing all forms of yearning and any shape lust may have taken within his heart, leaving only ashes of charred desires behind.
The flame doesn’t want to stay within his heart. It moves around, skittish, unable to find its place. Wooyoung can feel its downward journey, his breath hitching at the thought of having San all for himself, something he did not think was within reach. He’s way past wanting anything that doesn’t involve survival or climbing the ranks of the House, or so he thinks.
Wooyoung pulls at San’s tie to yank him forward, close enough for the other man’s lips to ghost over his own for a brief second. Even that small amount of contact makes the fire under Wooyoung’s skin rage uncontrollably. No matter how enticing this is, Wooyoung knows he cannot afford to lose himself in this illusion. For all he knows, this might be a trick, yet another fanciful dream that will turn to dust as soon as he wakes up to reality.
“You’ll only do what I allow you?” Wooyoung asks, peering into San’s black eyes, two pools from the same bottomless abyss. “What do you want?”
“You,” San says again. “Just you, however you want me. Nothing else.”
Wooyoung laughs in San’s face, dumbstruck. It’s more of an exhale, one that makes San’s eyelids flutter in surprise, though he does not pull away, nor does anything in his expression tell Wooyoung that the man is angry with him for not being taken seriously.
San is still watching, just as intently as he has been for the past few months. This time, however, he does not look away when Wooyoung locks eyes with him.
The grin melts from Wooyoung’s face as realization dawns on him. “You’re serious.”
Finally, San shows a reaction—frustration, well, more like light annoyance.
“I don’t think I can be any more serious than this, Wooyoung,” he says with a barely perceptible eye roll. “Do you want me to spell it out for you?”
Wooyoung frowns. He’s not an idiot; he just experienced the shock of his lifetime, that’s all. Yes, he had a good hunch this man wanted him, but this scenario seems ripped from a very unrealistic dream, one that his brain would weave together after passing out drunk on his bed.
“You surrender control,” Wooyoung says in a low voice, his grip tightening on San’s black tie. “All of it. Is that our arrangement for the night?”
San offers a single nod, sharp and precise. His lips form a straight, unwavering line. No sweat drips down his forehead. His unshaken gaze is focused on Wooyoung and Wooyoung only, as if he’s the center of the universe and San has no choice but to revolve around him, like a moon faithfully revolving around its planet.
At first glance, San resembles a moving, breathing statue, with warm skin and an even warmer breath, but Wooyoung knows better. His other hand still rests on San’s chest, right above his heart, and he can feel it jackrabbiting out of control, as if it wants to jump out of San’s skin and become one with Wooyoung’s palm.
Wooyoung barely suppresses another grin from taking over his lips, though he knows his eyes reflect a smirk of their own. Perhaps tonight might go down the fun route after all.
“Come,” Wooyoung says, pulling San by the tie. For a split second, he feels San tumble forward. Thankfully, he catches his footing and follows obediently behind Wooyoung without a single complaint.
The bed is nice. There isn’t much to comment on it. Clean, soft sheets from the looks of it, a bunch of extra pillows they don’t need… Wooyoung wastes no time inspecting it. Hopefully, by the end of the night, he’ll even forget the color of the blanket.
When his calves brush against the edge of the mattress, he turns back to San. The cracks in his expression are so visible, it’s almost hilarious. It’s like they’re being held together by hopes and dreams, ready to shatter the moment Wooyoung knocks too hard against them, which will be soon.
The bed is just behind Wooyoung. No matter how soft the mattress feels against the back of his calves, Wooyoung looks straight into San’s eyes with enough venom to kill as he undoes San’s tie.
“Turn around. Hands behind your back.”
Everyone at the House knows Wooyoung doesn’t let people touch him anymore. San is no exception to that rule.
As much as Wooyoung wants to savor this, to drown out all the unpleasant experiences of the past and relish in having someone as fearsome as San at his mercy, he cannot shake off the feeling that this is nothing but an elaborate ploy to get him to drop his guard completely. He’s glimpsed San’s personality probably better than anyone else, as he’s the only other hitman San tolerates—no, accepts—as a partner. If only past betrayals didn’t cloud Wooyoung’s mind, he would realize just how many things San has let slide during their missions, things that would have landed anyone else on the House’s death row without the possibility of parole.
Well, he doesn’t need to think too deeply if he just ties San up, right?
San does as he’s told, offering his hands at the base of his spine. Wooyoung doesn’t admit it out loud, but simply seeing San’s broad back makes his cock twitch in his briefs. Not just because he can see the outlines of the trained muscles under the tight black shirt, but because San is leaving himself wide open to any attacks. Like this, he’s at a terrible disadvantage if Wooyoung pulls a blade or a gun on him.
Or, well, he would be if he wasn’t San. Wooyoung has seen what the man is capable of. Even with his arms tied behind his back, he can fight his way through a bunch of men and leave them all unconscious or worse while he walks away with barely any scratches or bruises.
A wave of satisfaction washes over Wooyoung as he fastens the tie around San’s wrists and forearms as tightly as he can. If San willingly gives away his power, he’ll have to tear it back from Wooyoung’s grasp with his teeth.
“Face me,” Wooyoung instructs, voice as sharp as the switchblade hidden in the inner pocket of his robe.
San obeys once again, his face devoid of any emotion, save for the faint red in his cheeks. A corner of Wooyoung’s mouth tugs upward.
“On your knees.”
In the next moment, San kneels at the foot of the bed, most likely creasing his impeccably ironed pants. The smirk on Wooyoung’s lips grows wider.
“Interesting. Didn’t take you for an obedient little puppy, but is it really that surprising considering just how well you follow orders from the higher-ups?”
San’s eyes snap up. The tips of his ears are red, yet his lips remain sealed. Wooyoung runs a hand through the man’s slicked-back hair, intentionally messing up some strands as he sits on the edge of the bed, spreading his legs to reveal the expanse of his golden thighs. Immediately, San’s gaze lands on the exposed skin. He swallows, trying to hide the reaction by momentarily burying his chin in his chest.
He looks up when he hears the little click of Wooyoung’s switchblade springing to life. He doesn’t seem surprised to see it—hell, he would have to be a total idiot if he expected Wooyoung not to have this on his person despite the very few layers of clothes on his body.
Wooyoung watches the switchblade as he waves it in the air, the flames within his body traveling lower and lower as he takes notice of San’s eyes watching him instead of the blade.
“I know what you’re capable of, San. I think I’m the only one in the House who has witnessed you going berserk and walked away unscathed to tell the story. Not that I ever told anyone what I saw, especially to those slimy underlings who think they deserved such precious information just because they don’t call me a whore to my face. One day, I’ll sneak a blade behind their backs to pay them back for the way they talk about me when they think I’m out of earshot.” He presses the button on the side of the hilt, watching the blade disappear back inside. “Don’t make me use this on you tonight. I can be just as feral as you if you corner me.”
San shakes his head. “You won’t need to use it. I’ll do what you tell me, remember?”
Wooyoung plays with the switchblade in his hand for a bit before placing it on the mattress. “You’ll do anything?”
For a moment, San falters. “As long as I also agree with it, yes. But I don’t think you’re the type to abuse your power, Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung nods. San seems to trust him, otherwise he wouldn’t offer himself like this, and Wooyoung would have to be the biggest imbecile on the planet to take advantage of San in a vulnerable position, something he didn’t think was possible. If Wooyoung oversteps his welcome, the torture he will experience at San’s hands will leave him begging for the sweet release of death with every breath taken.
What San says next makes Wooyoung wonder if the world tilted off its axis and he momentarily slipped into a different version of reality.
“You’re not one to abuse your power, but I’d love to see you try it on me.”
In this reality, San is a masochist.
The grip on San’s hair tightens. His jaw clenches, though he makes no sound of pain. Wooyoung’s cock twitches slightly in his briefs at the sight before him, something that San immediately notices, his eyes snapping to the slight bulge that Wooyoung’s naked thighs lead to.
“That’s bold coming from you,” Wooyoung says, his voice coming out steady despite his internal turmoil. Thankfully, his mask doesn’t slip, though he isn’t sure how much longer he can keep this up. “You sure you want that? I hope you didn’t delude yourself into thinking this will be pleasurable. It will be everything but that.”
San leans forward. His breath ghosts over Wooyoung’s thigh, just above his knee. “I’m sure you can make it feel good. Real good.”
Wooyoung swallows. “What makes you so sure?”
San sighs over Wooyoung’s skin. He dips his head as if he wants to press his lips against the golden tint of Wooyoung’s thighs. He doesn’t. Instead, he hovers at a distance that must feel like torture to him. “Call it a gut feeling.”
Wrong answer. Wooyoung’s eyes narrow, a long-forgotten rage searing his veins as he continues messing up San’s previously impeccable hair. His switchblade is back in his grasp, the blade materializing into existence with the same quiet click as before.
“Gut feeling, huh?” Wooyoung asks, his voice warm and honeyed, a glaring contrast to the icy blade under San’s jaw. “Do you know what I had to do to become an assassin like you? The depths from which I had to crawl? Of course you know. Everyone in the House does. Whenever new recruits arrive, they find out about my past within their first hour of stepping foot into the House. Jung Wooyoung, the slut who climbed the ranks because his killer instincts were better than what his body had to offer.”
If Wooyoung had to choose between death and joining the House, he would willingly shove his hand inside his chest and rip his heart out. The bad news is that he already made that choice, and since his heart is still pumping life into his body from the confines of his ribcage, it wasn’t the wisest decision of his life.
Fresh out of high school and pretty much homeless, he ended up in the wrong type of entourage in exchange for a shabby mattress to sleep on. But, just as he was about to leave that shithole, agents of the House barged in and shoved a cloth with a funny smell over everyone’s mouths, including Wooyoung’s. That’s all he remembers before the world went black around him.
Once he opened his eyes, he found himself in what he would later know as the basement of the House—a grimy, miserable labyrinth of rooms which reeks of blood and rust. Unfortunately for him, the only reason he was there was his proximity to people who had gotten on the bad side of the House. Fortunately for him, he was the only one among his “friends” to walk away alive.
The price he had to pay, however, was not a low one. One does not simply walk away from the House of Ice after finding out about its existence. They either get swallowed by it or vanish without a trace.
San looks up with something akin to pride as the blade dances across his jaw. He doesn’t seem afraid in the slightest. Of course, the great Choi San doesn’t flinch even if a gun is fired in his vicinity. If he so wanted, he could catch the blade in his teeth and throw it away. Just because he’s tied up, that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. They both know this.
Wooyoung wonders if San is growing hard inside the confines of his pants, just like he is.
“Remember what they used to call me?” Wooyoung asks, trying to keep his voice calm. “What they still call me behind my back, thinking I’ve gone deaf? Pretty face, if they like me and want to fuck me. Prostitute or whore, if they hate me but still want to fuck me. I still remember those men’s shit-eating grins as they walked up to me to strike a conversation. You’re so pretty for a man, may I see what’s between your legs? Sounds like a request, albeit a rather vulgar one, no? Too bad the world doesn’t work that way. It was a command in disguise, one I had to obey because I was desperate to survive. Suddenly I had a debt to pay off, but that debt didn’t seem to shrink no matter what I did. Until I cut open that bastard’s throat and, instead of skinning me alive, the House promoted me to an assassin. Shocked me at first, but something like this fits their morals perfectly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Memories of that night are blurry in Wooyoung’s mind. It’s like he tries to peer inside a birdcage despite a dark cloak covering it. All he can do is guess at the contents inside. Schrodinger’s crime scene. Crumpled sheets, a warm body beneath him that will grow cold in mere hours, and blood everywhere. On his hands, clothes, skin, hair, under his nails, and deep within the corners of his mind, causing nightmares he doesn’t remember once he wakes up, even years down the line.
San blinks slowly at him. “I hope you know I never called you any names, Wooyoung,” he says, his voice sweet as sugar, as if the blade under his chin is a gentle caress and not a threat to his life.
The blade stops. It doesn’t push into the skin, just hovers over San’s throat. “Never?”
San shakes his head, pushing his throat against the dull side of the blade, as if taunting Wooyoung to cut him. “You were always just Wooyoung to me.”
Strange. For half a second, Wooyoung believes him. All these hellish years at the House have taught him not to trust in telltale lies and alluring illusions, but once, just once, he wishes he could surrender to a pipe dream, even if it will be the last pipe dream of his life.
Instead, he steadies his heartbeat and puts on the mask he has been forced to wear for years, even in his sleep. San might take it off him later if things progress smoothly, but only during his most vulnerable moment, something Wooyoung can brush off as soon as his orgasm leaves his body.
The dull edge of the switchblade swipes across San’s cheek. “Tell me what you want from me.”
San hums, his gaze falling on the exposed skin of Wooyoung’s legs. There is no actual physical touch, but Wooyoung swears he can feel ghostly touches on his skin from San’s piercing gaze alone. “For starters, I’d love to drag my lips across your thighs. Kiss them, lick them. Bite them maybe, if you’ll let me.”
Wooyoung swallows. His mask of nonchalance slips a little, so he fixes it, hoping San doesn’t notice. “Surely you didn’t beg me to tie you up just so you can kiss my thighs.”
“Surely,” San purrs, his eyes dripping with endless want. “But they’re so close to me. How can I resist?”
The blade taps at his bottom lip. “Patience isn’t my strongest virtue, nor do I enjoy prying information from you as if you’re tied up to a bloodied wooden chair. Tell me, what else do you want from me, Choi San?”
San makes a sound in his throat as he leans toward the blade. If Wooyoung didn’t know any better, he would assume the man is nuzzling into it. “I want to give you a piece of paradise. Neither of us will ever get to see it, given our past. Doesn’t that thought ever sadden you? Thing is, we don’t need to see heaven, Wooyoung. It’s enough if we feel it.”
Choi San is a lot of things. Psychopath, cold-blooded killer, the best assassin of the House—the list goes on. Aspiring poet isn’t on this list, for obvious reasons. Wooyoung wants to ask him what the fuck he’s talking about, but he ends up swallowing his words the moment San opens his mouth, not to speak, but to drag his tongue across the dull side of the blade.
“And then,” he says as he gives a little kiss to the knife, “I’ll worship you. Like I’ve wanted for a very long time. How does that sound to you?”
Okay. Wooyoung knew San was evil, but not this evil. All he needed to do to disarm Wooyoung was a few sugarcoated words with honey on the side, the excess of sweetness melting his victim into an unrecognizable puddle.
No, Wooyoung won’t give in so easily. He can’t. He’s supposed to be the one in control. The look in San’s eyes is an obvious hint that he expects something in return, maybe a reaction, a choked moan from Wooyoung, a scoff of disbelief—anything. What he gets instead is a blade on his tongue, pressing but not cutting—San will need his tongue in one piece soon enough.
“You want to worship me?” Wooyoung asks, his voice ringing hollow in his ears. It’s such a strange concept, he can’t even take it seriously. Only someone who wants to mock him would tell him that. “That’s a bold declaration, Choi San. You want me to surrender to you?”
He takes the blade out of San’s mouth so he can speak, though he doesn’t put it away. The knife rests next to the man’s cheek, glistening with saliva.
A shadow passes over San’s eyes as he offers his response. “No. I offer myself to you.”
That doesn’t sound right. Wooyoung frowns, the flames under his skin momentarily extinguished alongside his intrigue and desire just because of this one comment. “I think you misunderstood something. I’m not a top.”
The devil behind San’s eyes, the incarnation of passion and desire, grows bigger. “No, you misunderstood. I want to make you feel good. Use me however you like for your own pleasure. For both our pleasure.”
Time stops. Wooyoung’s heart wants to jump out of his chest. He wants to kill San on the spot. His pulse is so loud that he can’t hear anything else, storm outside be damned. San surely hears his heartbeat, too, and it must make him feel so proud to have such an effect on Wooyoung despite the restraints around his wrists and the rug burn on his knees.
Wooyoung sheaths his switchblade with a flick of his wrist before throwing it on the bed. Overthinking won’t get his dick wet, that’s for sure. If San is serious—and Wooyoung fails to see what San will accomplish from this exchange if this is all an act—then he would be a moron to refuse, especially when San looks so eager to please, so mouthwatering as he kneels between Wooyoung’s legs.
If he wants to be ruined so badly, so be it.
Wooyoung looks down at his prey with hooded eyes, the sides of his robe sliding a bit from his frame, revealing his shoulders. He pushes himself closer to San, his knees knocking against the man’s shoulders. It’s as much of an open invitation as it can be, yet San still looks up with a question, lips slightly parted.
“No biting,” Wooyoung tells him. Now, the message should be clear.
San gives him a look. The brief haze in his eyes must be a trick of the light, because Wooyoung doesn’t find it believable that such a simple action can pull the man so deep into the depths of submission.
Then he dives in. He starts slowly, tentatively; testing the waters to see how Wooyoung will react, to find his most vulnerable spots to exploit later.
Wait.
I’m the one in control.
It’s such a foreign concept to Wooyoung. Yes, sometimes his clients asked him to take charge, to step on their pride until they became a sobbing mess in his grasp, but he was never truly in control during those experiences. Everything had to be done by the book, following every single request from the client, lest Wooyoung wanted to feel punishment on his own skin later.
Sure, domming can be like that—knowing what the other person likes and what counts as a hard no for them is essential for the role—but those sessions really felt like checking things off a shopping list. If he forgot something or did something wrong, getting slapped so hard that his skin tingled for days was the best-case scenario.
Bottom line is this: Wooyoung’s former job wasn’t enjoyable, at least not in that environment. He still likes sex, he thinks, even though he hasn’t let anyone touch him in years.
Maybe that’s why shivers roam his entire body the moment San’s lips settle on his thigh, right above his knee.
They’re the softest lips Wooyoung has ever felt on his skin. Sure, San is all sharp edges, but he uses chapstick religiously, a strangely mundane ritual that made Wooyoung stop in his tracks when he first witnessed it. During the few seconds the chapstick connected with the man’s lips, San didn’t look like a killing machine. He didn’t resemble one at all, actually.
San’s kisses are mere pecks at first, quick presses of lips before moving a little to the left or right, looking up with curiosity in his eyes at Wooyoung for… something. If he’s looking for praise, he has to do a lot better than that. Wooyoung’s hand is still firm in San’s hair, lightly scratching at the scalp as San continues his journey.
Soon enough, his lips gain a little more fervor as he kisses with passion, trying to cover every inch of skin he can get his mouth on. His kisses get bolder, sweeter, wetter, every single one the equivalent of a match striking a flame against Wooyoung’s thighs. The grip on San’s hair tightens, pulling at the roots whenever teeth ghost over the skin. San gasps at the merciless torture his strands are being subjected to, then returns to his task at hand as if nothing happened. He never bites, just like Wooyoung instructed, but he does the same thing that gets him punished over and over again.
Wooyoung grins. Instead of pulling, he runs a hand through San’s hair, trying to smoothen his disheveled bangs. San looks up briefly over his glasses, kissing the inner side of Wooyoung’s thigh, moving higher and higher without breaking eye contact.
One could even say he looks cute.
“If you wanted me to pull your hair, why not just say so?” Wooyoung asks, playing with a black strand between his thumb and index finger.
San doesn’t offer a reply. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink, warm against Wooyoung’s skin. The tiniest of gasps leaves his lips when Wooyoung yanks him back by the hair with one particularly brutal pull to his scalp. There’s no softness in their line of work, and San is no stranger to pain. No, it turns out he’s an old client who can’t help but keep coming back for more.
“I know your favorite sound is silence, San, but if you won’t talk to me, I’ll make you. Answer my question.”
A smirk plays at the corner of San’s mouth. It grows until his lips curl upward, yet another unbelievable sight tonight, just like his flustered expression from earlier.
“We already went through this, Wooyoung. This session is all about you, not me. I give myself to you. Use me however you see fit.”
How can he sound so sincere despite that maniacal smile on his face? “Why?”
The smirk drops from San’s lips, expression turning serious. “Because I want you so bad. I want you to want me, too.”
Wooyoung shakes his head. “That won’t do us any good, San. What could you possibly gain from this?”
Why would you ever want me like this? You’re not like my old clients, you…
His train of thought snaps when San ducks his head low and presses a long, wet kiss on the innermost side of Wooyoung’s thigh, the highest he’s made it so far.
“You think too much,” he whispers against the skin of Wooyoung’s thighs as he licks around the spot, sucking lightly with only his lips, no teeth involved. When he looks up, stars dance around his vision. It’s as if he’s a completely different San, one who doesn’t kill as easily as he breathes, one untainted by the filth of the House. “Fuck the House. I know you’re thinking about it, so stop.”
The smallest shard of hope shines brightly in Wooyoung’s heart at those three simple words. Fuck the House. If any of their superiors heard San, not even his spotless reputation and high rank would spare him from being flayed alive. No forms of rebellion or disrespect toward the leaders are tolerated within the House. The only reason Wooyoung escaped with his life after killing his abuser was that the scumbag got on the bad side of the House, so the fossils in charge were already planning how to get rid of him. It just so happened that Wooyoung offered them the kill on a silver platter, absolving them of any involvement and forcing him to bear all the guilt and fault for the crime.
San nuzzles into his thigh, the softest gesture anyone has ever done toward Wooyoung in his entire life, let alone throughout his stay at the House. “Focus on me. If those thoughts return, take them out on me. Break me if you so want. I’m from the House, too, and just as despicable as everyone there.”
Wooyoung struggles to swallow. He doesn’t need a mirror to know how hollow his eyes look, how haunting his expression is. Yet San doesn’t seem phased. Those pleading, black eyes of his, looking over the rims of his glasses, are a sight to behold. Where was this side of him hiding all along?
Wooyoung brings his other hand to San’s face, thumbing at his cheek as he takes in the silent plea in the other man’s gaze. If he’s going to beg so nicely to be corrupted from the inside out, then who is Wooyoung to tell him no?
A grin graces Wooyoung’s face, painted by a strange force he has not felt in ages. Embers of desire dance under his skin as he temporarily abandons San’s messy hair and hot cheeks and presses his palms into the mattress, pushing himself forward until he cages San completely with his thighs.
It’s nice to be in control, to drink in the blush on San’s powdered cheeks and his slightly parted lips. Wooyoung scratches under the man’s chin, watching his eyelids flutter with bliss until his head gets shoved down, not directly above Wooyoung’s crotch, but close enough to it.
“You may continue,” Wooyoung instructs him, his hand finding its rightful place in the haven of San’s dark locks.
So San does, mapping Wooyoung’s thighs with his lips as he pushes away at the silky robe with his nose whenever it gets in the way, revealing more skin. He makes his way higher and higher, glancing over his glasses with fire blazing in his eyes. He’s made it pretty far, close enough to nuzzle into Wooyoung’s crotch if he cranes his neck. The position has to be uncomfortable, but Wooyoung won’t make it easier for him. Not yet, at least.
San’s hair is so soft despite the unruly amount of gel he put into it before their mission. It’s rather addicting to ruffle it, to see the messy bangs fall into San’s eyes as he looks up with a puzzled yet intrigued look. He teases teeth on the inner side of Wooyoung’s thigh, where the flesh is the softest, where he’s the most sensitive, so Wooyoung yanks him back by the hair in one ruthless motion with a grin on his lips.
“You like breaking rules, don’t you?”
“Haven’t broken any,” San says as soon as his eyes refocus.
“But you want to so badly. Does riling me up get you hard?”
San cocks his head to the side. “Wanna see?”
Interesting provocation. As if Wooyoung is going to get up and check. It’s pretty obvious what he’s doing as soon as he shuffles, his knee no longer next to San’s shoulder. San goes limp in his grasp when Wooyoung presses into the hardness in his pants with his foot, applying just enough pressure to make San uncomfortable but not enough to kill his boner. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll see some tears flowing down the man’s cheeks shortly.
San, however, is the epitome of resilience. He barely gasps, his sounds just as contained as his emotions usually are, but that’s enough of an indicator he wants more. Too bad Wooyoung is in no mood to play around like this. Instead, he leaves San’s bulge alone, throwing his leg over San’s shoulder and pulling him closer to the prize he seeks.
“Why do you want to bite me so much? So you can mark me? Make me yours?”
It’s a dangerous question. The answer will determine how Wooyoung will treat San for the rest of the night. Because no one has made Wooyoung theirs, and no one ever will. He would much rather die than let someone have that kind of power over him again.
Humans are creatures of reason, but San isn’t human. He doesn’t give a yes or no answer, despite what Wooyoung expects from him.
“I want you so bad,” he emphasizes, eagerly dragging his lips up, up, up, until the tip of his nose lifts the hem of Wooyoung’s briefs. “So, so bad, I can’t contain it. If I don’t set this feeling free, it will eat me alive.”
He gasps around Wooyoung’s skin, moving from one thigh to another, his kisses gaining more momentum with every press of his lips. Wooyoung ends up cupping the back of San’s head with his palm, pulling him closer without realizing it.
“You want to brand me with your desire?” Wooyoung asks, throwing his head back, vision unfocused as the ceiling comes into view. He’s not praying—he hasn’t done that since he got out relatively scot-free from the torture chamber of the House prior to his recruitment. San just so happens to pay extra attention to a sensitive spot on the innermost side of his thigh, something he hasn’t brought up but is sure San can deduce from his reaction. His first rule of survival is to never show weakness, yet here he is, letting San explore his entire catalog of vulnerabilities like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes,” San replies, breathless. “I want you to feel it, too. So you can understand what you do to me.”
Wooyoung lets out a small moan against his will. His vision swims from how fast he snaps his head back down, only to see the crown of San’s head, black hair ruffled from all the messy handling as he sneaks his lips under the hem of Wooyoung’s briefs, greedily asking for more.
He stops as soon as Wooyoung pulls at his hair hard enough for the veins on his hand to bulge. “Go lower.”
San doesn’t actually have to do anything because Wooyoung guides him with an iron fist.
“Kiss the spot you abused before.”
San does. Softly, at first, then with loud, wet noises, looking up over his glasses, the faintest trace of madness in his eyes.
“Now bite,” Wooyoung instructs, running a soothing palm over San’s scalp before shoving his head back where it needs to be.
“How hard?” San asks against the skin, his warm tongue caressing the spot, preparing it.
It takes a few seconds for Wooyoung to respond. “Softly.” It’s the only way he will accept it.
San gives a short, barely perceptible nod. He kisses the area one more time for good measure, then lets his teeth sink into the soft skin.
Wooyoung’s eyes snap shut, the world going momentarily black around him as darkness swallows him. He never liked looking into the mirror and seeing a nasty bruise on his neck or arm from someone he specifically told not to mark him. Not because he didn’t like hickeys, he just didn’t like hickeys from musty, depraved men who thought they could trample on Wooyoung’s words and use him however they liked just because he was the House’s pet.
This time, it’s different. Wooyoung wants this. It’s as if all his life he has been eating sour cherries with a wince, only to get his lips on a very savory one and realize he didn’t actually hate the fruit that much. It helps that San is obedient, that he listens so well. His teeth bite into the skin, bruising it, making it pulsate under his lips, but he doesn’t increase the rate of aggression despite the very obvious boost of enthusiasm.
Wooyoung has a feeling that, if given permission, San would maul his thighs. For now, he lets Wooyoung guide him by the hair, biting down only when he senses a pleasant scratch to his scalp, right behind his ears.
It feels good, way better than it should. Wooyoung blames it on the lack of sex over the past few years. He would hurt anyone from the House who tried touching him after escaping the clutches of prostitution, just so he could continue solving matters with a gun instead of using his body as a bargaining chip. He’s leaking so much, making a mess of his underwear, soaking them in precum. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he sure is now. The bulge tenting his briefs is clear proof of that.
The rhythm of San’s kisses and bites decreases until it comes to a standstill. He lets his head fall on Wooyoung’s thigh, nuzzling into it. Wooyoung almost calls him cute, a descriptor he never thought would use for Choi fucking San of all people, yet here he is, gasping from kissing and marking his teammate’s thighs, a semi at the very least in the confines of his pants just because Wooyoung agreed to sleep with him, even though they’re far away from any real action.
Perhaps Wooyoung isn’t the only one who’s felt lonely for a long time.
San lifts his head from the kiss-peppered skin of Wooyoung’s thighs, though he does not look up at the man’s face. “I want you.”
Wooyoung follows his gaze. Sure enough, it lands on his own tented briefs, a growing wet spot right where the tip is.
Of course San wants him, Wooyoung thinks as he gently pets the man’s hair. Who doesn’t? The main difference is that San asks nicely in a sweet, lovely voice that makes Wooyoung (or perhaps both of them) forget who they are outside of this hotel room, when they have to track down debtors or rival gang members and cut their lives short.
“What do you want, San?” Wooyoung asks, mimicking the other man’s lovely voice, but not without adding a little poison to it, one that San cannot help but get addicted to despite the toxicity. Like a vice. “Oh, don’t get shy on me now. You have such a lovely voice. You better make sure I’ll keep hearing it tonight.”
Especially if tonight is my only chance to see you like this.
San lets out a small groan. He tries to get closer, his knees bumping into the foot of the bed. Wooyoung won’t have it—he presses the heel of his foot into San’s spine, urging him to speak. Still, San remains silent, his lips drawn in a straight line.
Chuckling, Wooyoung grants him a couple extra seconds before pulling his head back by his disheveled hair. The motion is so sudden that San’s glasses tilt precariously on the tip of his nose.
“Want me to tell you?” San licks his lips, still staring down, too entranced by the sight of Wooyoung’s bulge to spare his face a single glance. “I want to taste you. Feel you. Choke on you.” The ripples in his eyes turn still, like the surface of a lake after a monster poked its head out to watch its prey from a distance. “What about you, Wooyoung?”
Good question. Wooyoung scratches San behind the ears in praise, something San clearly enjoys since his eyelids flutter like butterfly wings and he leans ever so slightly into the weight of Wooyoung’s palm. He’s so pretty like this, so malleable in Wooyoung’s grasp, the complete opposite of his usual persona. The sharp edges that cut everyone who comes in contact with him soften, melted by Wooyoung’s touch alone. Perhaps these sharp edges were never meant to envelop San to begin with. At least, not all the time.
“What I want?” Wooyoung asks in a dreamy voice. His mind would have never conjured the image of San on his knees, tied up of his own volition, ready to surrender at Wooyoung’s mercy. It’s a pipe dream that not even drugs can invoke. “To give you what you’re asking for. After all, you seem to be begging for it.”
Wooyoung rarely sees San outside of their shared missions, except for some rare encounters in the House. Before they were formally introduced, San would just watch from a distance, wordlessly. Unlike everyone else, San never sneered or glared in his direction, never let his eyes wander over Wooyoung’s frame, like all the others. His statue-like, expressionless face helped with that tremendously. Surprisingly, he’d even offer a plain hello whenever they walked past each other, which is strange now that Wooyoung thinks about it, because San doesn’t tolerate anyone at the House.
Chances are, San doesn’t want to be the House’s slave, much like Wooyoung. And because of his clear-cut and calculated persona, he would want someone to surrender himself to, someone he can look straight in the eye as he removes his mask and unveils everything underneath.
It would be courteous for Wooyoung to do the same, to put his mask down, but that would ruin the magic, wouldn’t it?
He gets up from the bed, his movements slow and sensual, and walks to San’s right side. The silky black robe slips from his frame slightly, grazing against his pierced nipples and exposing his shoulders. San glances from over his glasses, turning in Wooyoung’s direction like a moth to a flame. His eyes glisten at the metal jewelry shyly peeking from one side of the robe. This hypnosis lasts for only a moment, his eyes snapping back up once he feels Wooyoung thumbing at his cheekbones with a satisfied smirk.
Once again, San offers a simple, decisive nod. “Been watching you ever since you came out of the bathroom.”
Wooyoung chuckles, his thumb traveling down San’s cheek until it reaches the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been undressing me with your eyes, San? So shameless of you.”
“I tried not to,” San claims, face flushed and lips parted as Wooyoung drags a thumb over his soft bottom lip. “But you’re so beautiful, Wooyoung, I couldn’t resist.”
“Everyone tells me that,” Wooyoung interrupts him, shoving his thumb inside San’s warm mouth and pressing hard on his tongue. “What makes you different from the rest?”
He takes out his thumb with a loud pop to hear a response, wiping the spit on San’s chin. For the first time since they started this little game, San falls oddly quiet, his eyes losing focus as they trail down Wooyoung’s body. Not looking, just… staring through him.
“Because I’m not like them,” San replies, finally looking back up to meet Wooyoung’s eyes. “I’m like you.”
A small whine leaves his lips when Wooyoung fists his hand in his hair. “Don’t speak in tongues to me, Choi San. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Fuck my face and find out,” San bites back.
“Demanding. I thought I make the rules tonight.”
San lifts a defying eyebrow. “So what’s stopping you?”
Another good question. Fuck, Wooyoung has to give it to him. For someone who barely offers a reply even to Wooyoung during their field missions, he sure loves talking back during sex.
A smirk seeps into Wooyoung’s lips when he gets an idea. His grip loosens around San’s hair until he lets go completely, hands dropping to his side as the robe falls all the way down to his elbows. Still, the silky belt is tied around his waist, albeit loosely, barely hiding the bulge in his briefs.
San peers with a questioning look as Wooyoung simply stands there, not doing anything.
“What?” Wooyoung asks, smile at the ready as he tilts his head to the side. “If you want my cock so bad, you’re gonna have to take it out yourself.”
San scoffs. “I’m tied up.”
“Well. Time to get creative.”
San stares at him, lips parted as if he can’t believe it, but Wooyoung doesn’t reach out for the belt. All he does is slip his fingers under the waistband through the opening of the robe, pulling at it before letting it snap against his hip.
“Come on, I know you want to. Whatever happened to worshiping me, Sannie?” he taunts.
San’s eyes light up at the pet name. His throat bobs as if he’s trying to process the word by swallowing it. It’s very likely no one has ever called him this way.
That’s all he needs to get to work. He shuffles forward, creasing his pants around the knees until his mouth hovers right over the knot tying up Wooyoung’s robe around his waist. Over the rim of his glasses, he watches Wooyoung with ravenous eyes as he bites into one end of the silky bow. Slowly and without breaking eye contact, he lowers his head, dragging the black silk lower and lower until the knot untangles, revealing Wooyoung’s toned tummy, his pebbled nipples adorned with metal jewelry, and his black briefs, the only barrier left between San and his objective.
Before Wooyoung can speak, San surges forward, lips wrapping around the hardness protruding through the briefs to suck at the tip. The material was already damp, but he’s making it so much wetter, so much messier, his tongue darting around the hardened length as if trying to commit the shape to memory, his jaw opening wide enough to see if it can fit.
Wooyoung pulls San back by the hair—again. He’s been doing that a lot today. Clearly San is into it and pushes Wooyoung’s buttons just to have him do that, and Wooyoung plays along because he cannot get over the slight surprise on San’s face whenever he’s manhandled like this, his eyes out of focus as they roll back into his head. Watching him try to keep it together is cute. Too bad Wooyoung will take him apart soon.
“I’m not fucking you through my underwear,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth, trying to mask just how fucking good San’s mouth felt despite the layer of garment between them. He blames it on the lack of action he’s gotten in recent years. It’s hard to tell with the mess San made, but he’s sure he leaked a considerable amount while San’s mouth was on him.
Just thinking about it spurs the fire in his lower belly. He’s genuinely afraid his words will come off slurred if San doesn’t stop looking at him with those wide and pleading eyes over his crooked glasses.
Thankfully, San gets the hint. With a small huff of defeat, he inches closer, his teeth ghosting over the waistband resting low on Wooyoung’s hips. It’s hard to get a good grip without biting, especially since Wooyoung refuses to help him, but he succeeds in the end through sheer determination. Holding Wooyoung’s gaze, he grips the fabric tightly between his teeth, dragging the hem of the briefs down until he liberates Wooyoung’s hardened cock, red and wet at the tip. It slaps San in the cheek as it springs free, yet San makes no sound of surprise, his gaze still on Wooyoung, only on Wooyoung. He eventually looks away, the newly exposed member grazing his cheek as San draws closer to let the waistband bunch halfway down Wooyoung’s thighs instead of letting it snap against his balls.
So considerate. Wooyoung can’t help but run a hand through the man’s hair, feeling him nuzzle into the touch.
“So good, Sannie,” he praises in a deep voice laced with intrigue. “Who would have thought that a cold-blooded assassin can be so mindful of his partner?”
San’s eyelids flutter open. If this is the reaction to being called mindful or Wooyoung’s partner, Wooyoung has no clue.
“Can I take you in my mouth now?” San asks. He sounds so breathless already.
Wooyoung chuckles, his hand now resting on the back of San’s head, pulling him closer toward his cock. “I don’t know. Mind showing me if you can?”
The tip bumps into the corner of San’s mouth, and he chases it like a cat who saw a treat rolling past. His tongue pokes through his parted lips, licking clean the salty precum at the head as more takes its place, spurred by something as inconsequential as San’s tentative kitten licks. Wooyoung guides him by the hair, positioning him to sit up straight in front of him instead of nuzzling into his cock from the side. San doesn’t protest, too mesmerized by the prize between his lips. When he starts sucking on it, just barely more than the tip, he hollows his cheeks and flattens his tongue onto the underside before taking in more.
“Such a big mouth for someone who barely speaks,” Wooyoung says in a soft voice as he pushes back the disheveled bangs from San’s eyes. “Come on, you can take more than that.”
San can. There are sparkles in his eyes as he swallows more of Wooyoung’s length before pulling back, licking his lips, and mouthing at the tip before sinking back down. Each time, he takes a little more, encouraged by the hand on the back of his head.
That doesn’t mean he stops teasing. His tongue swirls around the underside, tracing a protruding vein that San seems obsessed with, despite the short amount of time he’s known it. When he pulls back to breathe, he kisses around the tip slowly, even presses his tongue into the slit. A bit of white drizzles onto San’s tongue before he swallows with a gulp, and it all happens under Wooyoung’s watchful gaze.
San’s eyes never leave Wooyoung’s as he constantly measures his partner’s reactions. He even has the audacity to arch an eyebrow when he sinks again, the action so easy to miss. If Wooyoung blinked in that very moment, he wouldn’t have picked up on the small moment of defiance. Clearly, San did it because he wanted Wooyoung to see.
Adorable. Wooyoung brings both hands to San’s head, scratching behind his ears before he grips two handfuls of black hair and pulls. Until San’s nose collides with his lower belly, until San sputters and tries to wiggle out of Wooyoung’s grasp without success. The crown of Wooyoung’s cock is all the way down San’s throat, blocking his airflow. If Wooyoung ever feels like topping, he definitely has the perfect tool to work with, that’s for sure.
“What’s wrong, Sannie?” Wooyoung asks, his voice cool as he interlocks his fingers at the back of San’s head. “I think you had enough of tasting and feeling me. What about the choking part? You asked for this. I just sped things up for you.”
He lets go. Surprisingly, San doesn’t immediately pull off. No, he lingers for a few more seconds despite the strain on his throat and the lack of oxygen. Sensing how his throat constricts around the hard cock in his mouth drives Wooyoung crazy, crazy enough to pull him off himself, yet San is not enough of a maniac to deny himself air for too long. He leans back, his lips red and eyes even redder as he gasps for air. His glasses are skewed, threatening to slide from the tip of his nose. Wooyoung pushes them back.
“Chin up,” he instructs, ignoring the way his cock twitches at San’s hazy expression and teary eyes as he wipes the spit off his partner’s chin.
It’s not just Wooyoung’s cock that reacts to the way San is looking at him. The strings inside his heart pull, playing a nostalgic melody he has not heard in years.
“There, Wooyoung-ah,” San whispers, his voice more of a breathy exhale than a whisper. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
Wooyoung doesn’t reply. Right now, he’s trying his hardest to maintain a stern expression, too afraid his eyes will reveal just how much it affects him to hear someone use that pet name on him.
San tilts his head to the side, his tongue darting across his bottom lip sensually, slowly gathering any leftover fluids Wooyoung missed. “You like it, don’t you? Don’t lie, I see the desire in your eyes. It burns you, just as it burns me. What do you say, think we could manage a controlled burn?”
“Is your mouth as good at sucking cock as it is at spewing lousy metaphors?” Wooyoung scoffs, momentarily losing himself as he plays with San’s hair. “Don’t answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.”
San chuckles. “Oh, does Wooyoungie know me so well already? Tell me.”
This fucking brat.
“You were going to tell me to fuck your mouth to find out, though I’m not sure how this is supposed to be a good display of your blow job skills considering I’ll be doing most of the work.”
“Well. Guess I’m gonna have to prove that to you some other time, no?”
Wooyoung swallows. His mask slips. This time, he doesn’t bother fixing it. “Normally, I’d tell you to tap my leg if it’s too much, but you look so good tied up. Not that I would have untied you anyway.”
“Of course.” San breaks eye contact for the first time in a while, his gaze wandering as he ponders. “I’ll shuffle backward if anything. Would prefer not dying by cock asphyxiation, thank you very much.”
A small laugh leaves Wooyoung’s lungs. This whole situation is unbelievable. San, on his knees, ready to give, ready to take, too. Out of everyone Wooyoung came into contact with in the past few years, it turns out that the man with a heart and face of stone is the one to make him laugh.
“If I wanted to kill you, one of us wouldn’t be breathing by now.” He runs his palms down the sides of his body, sliding them under the waistband hanging low on his thighs. His briefs pool around his ankles before getting kicked away. “Come here.”
San shuffles forward, his pants rustling against the carpet. Wooyoung has observed San’s handsome face from a distance for much longer than he feels comfortable admitting. From up close, San feels so much prettier now that Wooyoung’s palms cup his face, his sharp eyes softening when he meets his partner’s.
“Open up,” Wooyoung says, holding his cock by the base to guide it into the wet warmth of San’s mouth.
His partner accepts it like it’s a sweet lollipop. He lets San have his way for a bit, licking around the head, sucking on the underside, sinking as much as he wants but not as much as he can before pulling back with a teasing smirk in his eyes. That’s when Wooyoung smooths the other’s bangs one last time before pulling him in by the hair roughly, all the way down to the base of his cock, holding him until San sputters and moans around his length. The vibrations around his cock make Wooyoung curl his toes and bite his bottom lip, and he tries his hardest not to mutter San’s name.
He pulls San off, watching him cough and heave as soon as the cock slips from his lips. Yet his pink mouth latches onto the head as soon as the coughing fit is over, begging for more, satisfaction far from being achieved. How can Wooyoung refuse him?
“Look at you,” Wooyoung coos once San’s nose slams into his lower belly again. “Taking me so well. What is it, Sannie? Too hard on your pretty face? You were so reluctant to detach from my cock earlier. Surely you can hold on for a couple more seconds, right?”
San moans around the length, a sound that comes off as both pitiful and arousing. His glassy eyes glance up at the man holding the imaginary leash around his neck, so tight that he can’t breathe. Yet he does not blink, not even once.
Wooyoung repeats the motion a few times, letting San take a few deep breaths in between. His cock rests on San’s reddened bottom lip as he gasps, and whenever the tip of his tongue pokes out to swipe weakly at the slit, Wooyoung slams back in.
It feels so fucking good. He doesn’t want to admit he’s never done this before because, honestly, it would ruin the entire atmosphere. Not that San is complaining. His eyes are red at the corners, his cheeks tear-stricken. The glasses are barely holding on for dear life, but there’s no point in fixing them anymore. His mouth is so warm, so inviting, and his throat is the perfect sleeve. Wooyoung’s hand travels down from San’s messy hair to cradle his nape, and then his throat, feeling it constrict every time he thrusts inside as pitiful whimpers leak out of San’s poor, abused mouth.
His cock throbs at the overlapping sensations. If San notices Wooyoung’s hips jerking from the thrill, well, he has other things to worry about at the moment. Like the spit coating his chin, or the tears streaming down his cheeks. He still looks up at Wooyoung defiantly whenever his vision focuses, like he’s spurring him on to do his worst, to fuck his mouth harder, to leave bruises in the back of his throat.
It’s a challenge Wooyoung accepts with a decisive snap of his hips. San chokes, saliva dripping down Wooyoung’s cock as he pulls out to give San a short moment of reprieve before sliding back in. This time, San doesn’t try to mouth at the head to tease a little more precum. Wooyoung doesn’t let him.
Doing all this unveils something deep inside Wooyoung, something he’s never felt before. Watching San come undone before him brings him enormous satisfaction. Finally, a dog of the House gets what he deserves. He knows he’s being rough with San, rougher than he’s ever been allowed, but San didn’t ask him to be soft. If he did, they wouldn’t be doing this. Wooyoung would pretend to sleep for a couple hours, and when San wouldn’t pounce on him in the middle of the night like he expected, he’d take the elevator to the lounge area and stare at the ceiling until sunrise. But in this case, Wooyoung is the one who makes the rules. If San breaks their agreement in any way, he’ll suffer the consequences, as they agreed.
It feels oddly liberating, but also not quite right.
Wooyoung’s hand finds San’s hair again, his grip just as ruthless as the way he snaps San’s head back, pulling him off his cock with a wet, filthy sound. San coughs weakly, as if Wooyoung fucked his voice out of him. His tongue drags over his red lips in an attempt to lick the dripping fluids before they stain his shirt, but his tongue pauses over his bottom lip, all energy drained out of him. Because of his heavy breathing, he’s like a dog sweating in the scorching summer heat.
And all Wooyoung had to do was ram his cock down the man’s throat for a few minutes.
“Look at me.” When San lifts his head too slowly for Wooyoung’s liking, Wooyoung grips him by the chin with an iron grip, pushing his lips together into a pout that doesn’t fit the San he knows at all. “Are you still here with me? Or did your brain leak out of your mouth, too?”
San swallows. The clouds in his vision part, and the brat inside him resurfaces as his eyes focus on Wooyoung’s face. “You’d love to fuck my brains out, wouldn’t you?”
His voice is so raspy.
“I’d like to do many unorthodox things to you,” Wooyoung whispers, his voice dangling off a dangerous edge. He’s lying his ass off, but the mask he decided to put on for San’s sake has taken over his voice and reasoning, as if it glued itself to Wooyoung’s face and seeped into his thoughts. “I wonder if you’d let me.”
San tenses. “Don’t remember making a deal with the devil tonight.”
“I’ve been called worse names,” Wooyoung whispers as he traces the pad of his thumb over San’s cheek, where his cock was bulging out just seconds ago.
San looks down, no doubt trying to follow the blurry outline of Wooyoung’s finger on his face. “What do you have in mind?”
“Right now?” Wooyoung sweeps back San’s bangs with a gentle touch while not so gently shoving his cock inside his partner’s mouth. He doesn’t resume his thrusting, he just pushes it halfway inside San’s mouth, who immediately starts sucks on it like it’s the sweetest thing in the world. “I want to fuck you so stupid, you’ll never get your mouth on another dick without remembering what mine tastes like. And then… well, I take it you’re enjoying being tied up, no?”
San has the audacity to wink at him.
Wooyoung uses the grip on San’s hair to push him down all the way, until he feels the tip of San’s nose bump into his abdomen and San’s throat struggling to adjust to the thick obstruction shoved inside, depriving him of oxygen and a voice. It drives Wooyoung mad—the obedience, the cockiness that takes over San’s features the moment Wooyoung gives him a moment to gather his bearings, the skewed glasses Wooyoung doesn’t even bother fixing because they’ll resume their position the moment he resumes fucking San’s mouth.
“You’re unreal, Choi San. So fucking unreal. Is this what you’ve been dreaming of for months? Is my cock worth destroying your poor throat?”
San lets out a drawn-out moan, blinking tears when he glances up at Wooyoung. It’s the most pornographic sound San has made so far, one that Wooyoung couldn’t have imagined even if he wanted to daydream about this scenario. San’s lips around Wooyoung’s cock is especially shocking to witness in real life.
It’s getting harder and harder not to spill down that gorgeous mouth that keeps taking and taking. Perhaps it’s finally time to give it something in return for all of San’s efforts. Wooyoung scratches behind San’s ears and plays with his hair as he thrusts faster into his partner’s inviting mouth. San has the audacity to moan around the aroused length bulging his cheeks, low and steady, a sinful purr that Wooyoung would brush off as a hallucination for how unreal it sounds if it wasn’t for the pleasant vibrations around his cock.
“Sannie,” Wooyoung calls out, thumbing over the man’s stuffed cheeks, “Even in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have pictured you like this.”
San’s eyebrows shoot up. His eyes glisten, the flames behind them fueled by curiosity.
“The Hound of the House. The puppet on strings. Look at you. I wonder just how many have dreamed of having you like this, on your knees, taking it so obediently.”
San leans back, pulling off willingly for the first time since they started. “And you’re the only one who gets to see me like this.”
Wooyoung freezes. San’s voice sounds so coarse, perhaps he didn’t hear him well. “Only me?”
“Only you,” San replies, kissing around the wet tip. “Now finish what you started.”
Not like it’s going to be hard.
“Open up,” Wooyoung says, his voice once again cold and trained. He traces a finger over San’s cheeks, feeling himself inside, and asks, “Will Sannie like it if I fuck his face even harder?”
San nods, or as much as he can with a cock stuffed in his mouth. Wooyoung feels himself twitch inside, the moan from the depths of San’s throat sending shivers down his spine.
“You sure?” Wooyoung asks again, his tongue as sweet as honey. “You breathe so hard every time I pull out. Am I too big for you?”
This time, San shakes his head. As if to prove a point, he bobs his head back and forth, only for Wooyoung to yank him by the hair into his original position.
“Be patient. You can take only what I give you. I understand you’re so excited you can’t hold back. If I let go, you’d swallow my cock in a second. Commendable, but that’s not what we agreed on when we started, no?”
San shakes his head again. A single tear falls from his eyes, right over Wooyoung’s thumb.
Wooyoung pulls out almost all the way, the tip once again resting over San’s bottom lip. This time, however, San doesn’t try to lick. All he does is watch, stars and tears mixing in his eyes, a silent plea in his gaze.
Do it.
Wooyoung pushes in. Fast, mercilessly. He still lets San breathe every now and then, just not as often. If San’s warm mouth and wet tongue won’t be his undoing, then the noises he makes will be. It’s pitiful, truly, to hear those gargled moans and choked whines as spit drips from the corner of San’s mouth, coating his chin. The guy is pretty much drooling on himself, yet he still looks up with that subdued defiance in his eyes, urging Wooyoung to take and take, again and again until there’s nothing left.
Something clatters to the floor. It takes a few moments for Wooyoung’s vision to focus and spot San’s glasses on the carpet, lens down, right next to his discarded briefs. It was inevitable, considering the pace and intensity of Wooyoung’s hips, his grip firm on San’s hair to maneuver him as he pleased.
Wooyoung will never admit this out loud to anyone, but the sight of those glasses on the floor, with the lenses slightly fogged on the bottom half, is what makes him lose control. Finally, he allows a single sound to escape his lips, a moan pulled from the deepest depths of his lungs, something he didn’t think he’d hear after depriving himself of sex for so many years. Sure, he’s fingered himself and jerked off whenever time permitted it, but he didn’t think he would ever orgasm at the hands of someone from the House again, and he definitely didn’t think that person would be San.
His entire world collapses. He spills down San’s throat, his hips snapping forward pathetically as his thighs tremble, yet he doesn’t want to stop. He wants this to last forever, or at the very least, he wants to delude himself that stretching a moment into infinity is possible. San goes completely limp in his grasp, their moans mixing in the air between them, a filthy cacophony that drives Wooyoung insane and causes him to fuck into San even harder, for as long as his orgasm allows him. He jerks his hips forward once, twice, three more times until he halts altogether, his whole body shaking.
San whines as he pulls off. Or so it seems, at first. He’s not pulling off completely, he’s trying to prolong Wooyoung’s pleasure by moving his mouth accordingly, up and down, up and down, lips pink and slick from spit and cum. And it works. Just as oversensitivity settles in, San finally pulls off, hair falling in his eyes, cheeks a deep shade of pink, eyes red and teary, lips plump and abused, his chin wet from spit and precum smeared together.
He looks like a tarnished masterpiece.
Wooyoung snaps out of it. He bolts for his bag, very painfully aware that San follows his movements with a slow turn of his head. The tissues are in the same pocket as always. He returns to San, who’s still kneeling on the floor, having made no effort to get up. Wooyoung starts by wiping his partner’s chin clean, then he takes care of the sweat on San’s forehead and neck with another clean tissue.
And San just… watches him. Blinking slowly, as if he’s comfortable. At first, his breathing sounds haggard, but it doesn’t take long for him to go back to normal. His hair sticks out in all directions, and before Wooyoung realizes what he’s doing, he finds himself running a hand through it to smooth it over.
“Can you even see me?” he whispers. When San narrows his eyes, Wooyoung adds, “Without your glasses.”
He reaches forward to pick them up, then settles them on San’s nose.
“They’re not actual glasses,” San replies, his voice absolutely fucked. “I just like wearing them.”
“Why?”
San gives him an incredulous look. “I look good with them, don’t I?”
Perhaps it’s the look of absolute seriousness on San’s face, or perhaps it’s how quick he was to return to his usual self despite what just transpired between them. Either way, a chuckle makes it past Wooyoung’s dry lips. It’s silly, he thinks to himself, to laugh at something that wasn’t supposed to be a joke, but for a moment, Wooyoung found San funny enough to let out a genuine laugh, albeit cut short by his own reserved nature.
Wooyoung isn’t sure what’s stranger—to describe San as funny or even cute, or to laugh alongside him. Well, at him, actually, since San doesn’t even crack a smile. However, there is a particular look in his eyes, one that Wooyoung cannot read since he has not seen it before.
And that’s when he sees the wet patch of fabric on San’s crotch, glistening slightly in the dark blue light of the room. It’s only now that Wooyoung perceives the storm still raging outside, though the downpour is nowhere near loud enough to drown out his thoughts. San came untouched, and all Wooyoung had to do was play him like an instrument. Perhaps the moment he went limp in Wooyoung’s grasp was when he—
San follows his partner’s gaze. Nothing in his demeanor suggests his embarrassment, though the red tips of his ears give him away.
“Thank you,” is what he says, his voice coming off husky. “That felt good.”
Wooyoung isn’t sure how to respond. If he pinched the tips of his own ears, they would feel hot to the touch. “I’ve never done that before,” he confesses, fully expecting San to say that it was obvious, or laugh at him and call him a liar since Wooyoung clearly did a good enough job to make him come untouched in his pants.
Some mysteries get deeper the more you uncover them. San is one such mystery. His voice is low from having his mouth fucked, but this low tune makes it sound as if he’s sharing an intimate secret. “Me neither.”
Wooyoung’s world tilts again. He might as well be outside in the storm because of how drenched he feels. Not with water, but sweat. His heart rate picks up, something that shouldn’t happen considering his orgasm has already worn off.
“Up,” he tells San, sounding snappier than he’d like. “Go shower. You’re not fucking me with dried blood underneath your clothes.”
Thankfully, San doesn’t seem to mind. If he does, he doesn’t show it. As if he was given an order from a superior, he obediently gets up from the floor, turning around for Wooyoung to untie his restraints. They bit into his skin, leaving red lines around the wrists and forearms, lines that Wooyoung sees in great detail as the tie falls in his grasp.
San doesn’t comment on them. He rubs his wrists lightly, picks up his spare clothes from his bag, and walks into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Wooyoung shouldn’t dwell on this, yet he can’t help it. The tie in his hands is like a rope around his neck, deepening the guilt in his chest. San opened up to him for the sake of sex, but he opened up nonetheless. And what did Wooyoung do? Send him away as soon as the lines between them became too blurry, as soon as he remembered who they are, what is expected of them, and how the other House members would react if they found out about transpired between them.
Wooyoung shudders at the thought. Scenarios play in his head, each one more terrible than the other. The House will definitely have a say in the matter if they find out, especially considering his past and San’s nature.
San isn’t supposed to feel much of anything. It’s not that surprising he feels desire since it’s more or less ingrained in everyone. It’s just that Wooyoung never expected to see San express desire in a selfless, utterly submissive manner. Perhaps San is into having his control trampled and broken to bits, but what just happened between them makes Wooyoung think this wasn’t just a tactic for San to be deprived of control—it was a tactic to give control to Wooyoung.
Wooyoung, you’re not one to abuse your power, but I’d love to see you try it on me.
He stares at the tie in his hands, San’s scent permeating his nostrils before he realizes he pressed the fabric against his nose. The robe still hugs his frame, draped around his elbows, but instead of shrugging it off, Wooyoung pulls it back up, San’s tie still in his grip. It’s a stupid thought, but he doesn’t want to be fully naked in San’s presence, even though the robe reveals everything there is to be seen about him. It’s his last layer of defense, one that Wooyoung isn’t too keen on dropping even for someone like San.
Absent-mindedly, he shuffles toward the chair where he left his bag, rummaging through it until he finds what he’s looking for. Bottle of lube in hand, he walks back to the bed and lies down. There are splatters of raindrops on his left, splashes of shower water on his right. Walls are thin. Not that he cares.
The cap of the bottle gets lost in the sheets within seconds. With his left palm sprawled over his naked chest and his eyes glued to the ceiling, Wooyoung reaches between his legs and circles around his rim, pondering if he should go through with it.
He swore he would much rather set himself on fire than ever let another man from the House touch him, yet here he is, minutes after pumping his seed down San’s throat, considering opening himself up for the same man. Yes, the tables have turned, with Wooyoung being the one in control, fully in control, but will sex with San really be that different? Did Wooyoung not just end up playing right into that man’s palm? Is he not exactly where San wants him?
He brings the tie to his nose yet again. Traces of coffee, jasmine, and licorice—San’s perfume—engulf him, conjuring all sorts of images in his head. If he closes his eyes, he can picture San above him.
He pushes in.
His body fights back against the intrusion, as it always does when Wooyoung feels tense. The faint traces of perfume on San’s tie are oddly soothing, so Wooyoung resorts to draping the fabric over his nose and across his face, a black line splitting his face in two as he thrusts his finger deeper. He ignores his prostate for now, a thrill shooting down his spine as the pad of his finger accidentally brushes past it.
Prepping was always about getting himself ready. It was never about the pleasure derived from it unless he did it in his own free time to experience a proper orgasm, and not whatever those scummy men gave him, if they gave him anything at all. Wooyoung always had to do everything himself if he wanted a reward for his efforts.
Now, as he slowly slips back into old habits, he wonders if San will let him down like all the others. He came untouched just from having his mouth played with, but Wooyoung mentally gives himself a pat on the back for that one. Given he’s never done that before, especially with that level of roughness, he’s proud of the outcome. San’s eagerness and filthy sounds amplified Wooyoung’s orgasm to levels he didn’t know he could reach, and San seemed to enjoy himself considering… well, the wet spot on his crotch.
The question is: did San come untouched because he basked in the same ecstasy as Wooyoung, or does he do that by default? If it’s the latter, then this whole arrangement will end in disappointment.
A shame, really. Wooyoung was enjoying himself, doubts and fears be damned. A second digit joins the first one as he closes his eyes, back arched as his lips spell San’s name in the silence of the room. Eyes squeezed shut, he finds a pleasant rhythm for himself, purposefully avoiding his prostate to keep himself calm and collected for later. The tie slips down his face, over his mouth. Wooyoung takes it between his teeth, biting down fiercely as the pace of his fingers increases.
That’s how San finds him when he walks out of the bathroom.
Of course, Wooyoung hears him. That doesn’t mean he’s going to stop. He cracks open an eye to see San standing in front of the bathroom door, the light spilling from behind him shading his features. He’s naked save for the clean (Wooyoung hopes) pair of black briefs, the soft outline of his bulge telling Wooyoung everything he needs to know about the size despite the poor lighting.
San doesn’t move. Wooyoung doesn’t pause in his movements either, though he does slow down, his head lolling to the side as the tie falls from his face and into the crook of his neck.
“Cat got your tongue?” Wooyoung asks, a cheeky smile painting his lips. He chooses this moment to press against his prostate, his back arching involuntarily as a needy moan drips out of him. San’s perfume permeated his lips, Wooyoung realizes as he drags his tongue over them.
San doesn’t reply, doesn’t move. He’s a shade in the white light of the bathroom, a reverse candle that absorbs light and pulsates darkness. Meanwhile, Wooyoung crooks his fingers just right, letting out another moan that shakes his entire frame.
His robe slips off one of his shoulders. Wooyoung swears San follows the movement with his gaze.
Finally, San reaches for the switch on the wall, killing the light in the bathroom. His face lights up instead, the blueish hue spilling from the windows falling in waves on his handsome face. His glasses are nowhere to be seen.
San was wrong. He looks so much better without those fake, rectangular glasses that make his eyes bigger than they actually are.
Slowly, he approaches. Cautiously, as if Wooyoung will startle and run away the moment San gets too close for comfort. The thought crosses Wooyoung’s mind, but it’s too late to back down now.
“Speak, Sannie,” Wooyoung mutters, his fingers slowing to a teasing grind. “I don’t need you to finish this.”
San stops at the foot of the bed, his expressionless eyes raking over Wooyoung’s body—the ruffled hair, the pink lips, the silver jewelry peeking from his pebbles nipples. Then, he glances lower, where Wooyoung is pumping himself just for the sake of appearances, not to make himself feel good.
San’s mouth twitches, but he stays silent.
“You like watching?” Wooyoung asks, burying his fingers all the way to the knuckles before dragging them out slowly with a wet, squelching sound.
San swallows. His gaze snaps to Wooyoung’s face. “I’d prefer doing it for you.”
Wooyoung pauses. His eyebrows shoot up, but he hopes his shock isn’t too obvious.
Since coming to the House, no one has offered to do that for him. He was always expected to be ready when he was needed, that was all. If he didn’t prepare beforehand, no one was going to wait for him to do it during their booked time.
Wooyoung never skipped his responsibilities, but to this day, he shudders with fear at the possibility of what would have happened if he did.
His mask falls back into place as a smile laced with interest graces his face. “Do you even know what to do?”
San narrows his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“Is that so?” Wooyoung slips his fingers back inside, pumping himself faster. He loves watching San’s patience slowly slip from his careful grasp, and wonders what will happen once it fully depletes.
He just hopes he won’t have to use his switchblade tonight.
There it is. San looks down with parted lips as he searches for the proper words. His voice comes out steady when he asks, “Can I sit next to you?”
Wooyoung’s smile grows. “You can do a lot of things if you ask nicely, Sannie. Come.”
He scoots to the middle of the bed, patting the sheets next to him with his free hand.
San sits, his eyes pausing on Wooyoung’s face—did he catch the flicker of hesitation there?—before settling next to Wooyoung’s leg. His fists are clenched over his thighs, the red marks around his wrists brighter than before from the hot stream of water, a harsh reminder that he isn’t allowed to touch. Not yet, at least.
All he can do is watch. Wooyoung can’t tell in this light, but he’s sure San’s skin is burning hot, and not because of the shower he just took.
“Have you been with a man before?” Wooyoung asks.
San frowns. Maybe he finds the question absurd. “Yes.”
“Really? You said earlier that no one has seen you like I have.”
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t had sex before. I just don’t show this side to anyone.”
Wooyoung pauses. San’s frown deepens, his eyes still glued to his partner’s slick hole. “So then, why?”
“Why what?”
“Don’t play stupid, San. Why are you different with me?”
San turns to him. “Take a guess.”
Wooyoung removes his fingers, wiping them on the sheets without caring. “I’m not here to solve riddles.” And I don’t want you to change your answer based on what I say. “Tell me, or we put an end to this right at this very moment.”
San’s face does something Wooyoung didn’t know it was capable of—it softens. His smile is soft too, a strange overlap with his sharp features and the fresh memory of his bloodied face from hours ago as they carried out their tasks.
There’s something else, too. San has dimples. Perhaps this is why he never smiles. Those dimples don’t look like they belong to a hired killer.
“I knew you wouldn’t agree to this unless I left myself vulnerable from every angle, Wooyoung. Now that you know, are you still okay with this?”
“What is this? A business proposal?”
“It can be anything you want it to be. What do you say?”
San shuffles, kneeling on the bed between Wooyoung’s legs, fists clenched over the sheets. He wants to touch so badly, it makes him jump out of his skin—Wooyoung can tell. Unfortunately for Wooyoung, he also wants San to touch him.
“You always play by the rules, don’t you, San-ah?”
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
Wooyoung doesn’t reply. Yes, he knows that feeling all too well. That doesn’t mean he can afford to show it. San won’t doom himself by running to the higher-ups and telling them what they did tonight, but he can always fuck over Wooyoung in other ways, such as spreading word of his dissatisfaction with the conditions at the House. It would be San’s word against Wooyoung’s, and Wooyoung’s word is worth about as much as a rat’s droppings in his bosses’ eyes.
Before Wooyoung can lose himself in the spiral of despairing thoughts, San shakes his head. “Well, I have a choice now. Because we both have to agree on what we do beforehand, no? You’re not here barking orders, and I don’t have to bow my head just to keep it on my shoulders.”
This, Wooyoung didn’t expect. The higher-ups would execute San in the blink of an eye if they heard him say this. Not even his Hound reputation would save him.
“But I thought you wanted me to hold your leash tonight.”
“Exactly. I wanted something, and you agreed. We both get our fill this way. So, what do you say? Will you let me make you feel good, too?”
Wooyoung lets his eyes wander over San’s body. He didn’t get to do that a lot, too guarded in case San overstepped or misbehaved in any way. So far, he’s been a most obedient student. How can Wooyoung say no to San pleading to finger him?
With a lustful grin, he spreads his legs, inviting San to sit between them and take a good look at what he’s been deprived of.
“If you show me you’re worthy, I might even moan your name.”
“Oh, Wooyoung-ah.” San catches the lube bottle Wooyoung throws him. “Nothing would please me more.”
He takes his time warming the lube on his fingers, eyes trained on Wooyoung’s face as he leans forward, the pads of his index and middle fingers ghosting over the sensitive rim. He almost leans on Wooyoung’s thigh with his free palm but quickly repositions, finding leverage in the mattress next to Wooyoung’s hipbone.
The slide is smooth, facilitated by Wooyoung’s earlier endeavors. It doesn’t take long for San to find the promised land, the bundle of nerves Wooyoung has been teasing while he played with himself. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, San watches his partner intently, his gaze piercing into Wooyoung’s very soul, stripping him of its protective layers. As if Wooyoung isn’t entirely naked save for the silky robe, as if San won’t get to know him from the inside out once he finally fucks him.
It won’t be so easy, Wooyoung tells himself. He won’t let San have the upper hand for long. This is just a feint to make him lower his guard for later. But, damn it, San knows how to use his fingers—he wasn’t lying when he said he has experience.
Wooyoung grips at his robe, the sheets, the pillow under his head—anything. San gets rewarded with panted whines that get higher in pitch the more he works his magic, but he doesn’t get his own name moaned back to him. He’ll have to work harder for that.
“Enough,” Wooyoung says, out of breath.
Truth be told, he’d kill to have San keep going, but he’d also love to get fucked before it gets too late. They need to be back at the base by tomorrow afternoon, and he hates driving while sleep-deprived. Plus, he has no idea how long San is going to last, so if the experience turns out disappointing, at least he can finish the job by himself in the bathroom later.
Or… he can be ruthless and torture San if he ruins the fun.
San removes his fingers. A shadow of disappointment crosses his face. It doesn’t linger, for he looks up with a smile when he meets Wooyoung’s eyes. Wooyoung doesn’t understand the reason for that smile until he realizes how he must look—skin flushed, hair messy, crumpled robe pooling around his sides, revealing every inch of skin save for his arms. For San, refraining from jumping him must be the hardest thing in the world. But he won’t do that, Wooyoung prays.
San doesn’t. Instead, he shuffles backward, kneeling near the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap, awaiting further orders.
Cute.
Wooyoung pushes himself up, watching San with a mixture of glee and intrigue. His eyes rake over the firm lines of San’s defined muscles—his broad shoulders contrasting his ridiculously small waist, his hard biceps, the supple mounds of his pectorals, and the soft tummy. When he looks down, tented briefs greet him—San is already hard, or close to it, and all it took was a few panted breaths and whines from Wooyoung’s mouth as he was given the best fingering session of his life.
Yes, his standards are pretty low.
“Strip for me,” Wooyoung commands.
San nods, crawling out of bed and taking off his briefs with the determination of a virgin who was just promised sex.
As he steps out of the black fabric, Wooyoung admires the new sight before him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. San is bigger than he imagined. Not by much, but he has plenty of inches to work with. His cock stands proud, wet and flushed at the tip, at Wooyoung’s eye level, conveniently enough.
Wooyoung leans forward, focusing entirely on the length that seems to beckon him. He doesn’t miss the hitch of breath from above him, but that’s not important right now.
The moment Wooyoung’s lips meet the crown of San’s cock, the man’s fists clench again, and the outlines of his veins pop through the skin. Wooyoung smiles as he licks the bitter precum away, feeling more drip on his tongue as he presses into the slit. He looks up, eyes wide and innocent as he gets bolder, gripping San’s length by the base and jerking it into his mouth with loud slurps.
Watching San’s composure shatter is a sight to behold. It makes Wooyoung leak a little, though he doesn’t admit this out loud. His mouth is too busy doing something else anyway.
He parts from the hardened shaft with a heavy heart, but not before licking a long strip from the base to the tip, his own cock twitching when San graces him with a tiny, almost pained gasp. A small prize, but a prize nonetheless.
San looks so shaken. His face, no longer devoid of emotion, begs for more. His eyes, sharpened like his knife, soften, mellowed by the pure want that quickens his breathing. Or maybe he’s never had anyone worship his dick like this before, and now that he gets a taste of it, he doesn’t know how to ask for more without overstepping.
Wooyoung isn’t here to blow him, though he wishes they had time for that, too. Still, a subtle pain shoots through his chest, where his heart would be if he still had one. He knows San’s broken composure will haunt his dreams for many nights to come if he stops here, so he takes him into his mouth once more, but not before proposing something to take the edge off this spontaneous exchange.
“You can pet my hair if you want. Don’t pull or you’ll regret it.”
San doesn’t move a muscle. “Are you sure?”
“Just the hair. What, afraid I’ll kill you for not following the rules, like I did to that guy all those years ago?”
San swallows. “I’m not afraid. I know you’ll do it.”
His hand is light as a feather, pushing Wooyoung’s hair out of his eyes as he takes more and more into his mouth, his nose bumping against the trimmed hairs at San’s base only once before pulling away completely. The disappointment is clear on San’s face, but he doesn’t get to argue tonight.
“Lie down,” Wooyoung says, wiping his mouth. He tries to ignore the lurch in his chest when San’s hand leaves his hair.
“There’s a condom in my bag,” San says as he climbs back into bed. “Inner pocket, the one with the zipper.”
Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. Condom, yeah. Regulations called for members of the House to bring condoms and use them when soliciting his services, but Wooyoung soon found out the higher-ups didn’t follow the same rules as everyone else. Or, if they did, they sometimes changed their minds during the act.
The sandwich he ate on the way to the hotel is slowly making its way up his throat. Unless he pushes that thought away, he’ll ruin the entire night. He can’t do that, not when he’s doing so well.
Letting San down is the last thing he wants.
So, Wooyoung cracks a smile, despite feeling his mask splinter. When his lips curl upward, he swears he can feel the broken shards of his façade cut into his cheeks.
“Forgot about the condom when you took my dick in your mouth? Or did you only bring one?” Wooyoung’s voice doesn’t betray his internal turmoil. His smile deepens.
“Can’t blame me for forgetting about it. And you just had your mouth on my dick, too.”
“If I wake up with an STD, I’ll kill you.”
“I’d love to see you try. Well, do you want to use the condom or not?”
Wooyoung weighs his options. On one hand, because they were too horny to remember to use protection, ripping a condom now won’t solve much. On the other hand, it would get rid of the mess, and Wooyoung always hated messes, especially because they weren’t supposed to happen if people followed the regulations put in place.
With a serene smile that hides many regrets, Wooyoung walks to the chair where San’s bag lies. His first instinct is to rummage through it, just in case he finds a dirty little secret he can use to blackmail San later, but all he sees at first glance is a water bottle, a small black agenda, a wallet, and some cough drops. Inside the aforementioned pocket, there’s nothing besides the condom, so Wooyoung returns to bed with light disappointment in his heart.
His face, however, is a blanket of nothingness, keeping all unnecessary emotions at bay as he lets his eyes wander over San’s body once again, basking in the firm chest muscles and sharp V-lines of his hip bones. Everyone knows San is always at the gym if he’s not at the House, but Wooyoung has never seen the fruit of San’s efforts. Even in summer he stubbornly wears his usual black suits, leaving everything to the imagination.
Not that Wooyoung ever fantasized about San in that way. He was just… curious.
The mattress dips as he sits back in bed, thighs bracketing San’s hips. He looks San up and down, committing every scar and mole on his naked body to memory. This might be the first and last time he sees the man this way.
If they get found out, or if San betrays him in any way…
He sets the condom aside and leans forward, pressing his palms into the pillow on both sides of San’s head. Their hot breaths meet in the middle. Wooyoung’s long bangs tickle San’s forehead. If he ducks his head a little, he will finally learn the taste of San’s chapstick.
Alas, he does no such thing. Kissing San is out of the question, and San probably just wants to fuck him, so it’s not like it matters.
“Hands above your head,” Wooyoung says as soon as he spots the tie he left behind, partially hidden by the pillow.
The tie withstands all the tugging and aggressive knots Wooyoung applies to it, binding San’s hands to the headboard. The garment is smooth to the touch, and the pattern of black petals on a dark blue backdrop is simple yet elegant. It must have cost a fortune.
“Good boy,” Wooyoung purrs when he’s done, watching San’s biceps flex as he tests the solidity of Wooyoung’s handiwork. When he deems it sturdy enough, he meets Wooyoung’s eyes with a raised eyebrow.
“I get the feeling you’re having a bit too much fun with my Hound title.”
Wooyoung giggles, pushing himself away from San’s face before he does something he’ll regret in the morning. “You don’t like it?”
“Not really.”
“Then?”
San shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“And what if you don’t like that either?”
Those accursed dimples make another spectacular appearance. They’re such a sight to behold—Wooyoung feels dizzy just by staring at them. Tonight might be the last time he sees them, too, because San never smiles. At least, not when others are watching.
Wooyoung doesn’t know what to do with that information. He looks down at the condom in his hand, and then past it, where San’s flushed cock lies over his tummy, the shapes of abdominal muscles barely noticeable, but Wooyoung commits them to memory, too.
It dawns on him that he’s hesitating. If he ever showed such unprofessionalism in his days as a prostitute, he would have earned himself a beating and a deduction from his already minuscule pay. San watches him patiently, blinking lazily at him, like a cat.
Wooyoung watches back, frozen in place. He has a job to do—no, this isn’t a job, no matter how much his brain is trying to trick him. San might not be a client, but Wooyoung foolishly thinks he deserves to be given the performance of his lifetime just because he’s so nice compared to the others. If Wooyoung could shove his horny thoughts aside, he would finally hear the voice of reason shouting at him that he doesn’t owe San anything, and that he should just enjoy himself and not pretend to be someone he isn’t.
Unfortunately for him, pretending is all he’s known since joining the House. Before he was promoted to an assassin, he had to mask his walk of shame every time he passed by others in the hallway on the way to the cafeteria or the showers. After the higher-ups handed him a gun, trusting he wouldn’t turn it on them, he had to pretend to be okay with putting a bullet through someone’s skull, or cut their throat as he lured them to the bedroom to lower their guard.
Every single day and night, Wooyoung wears a mask of icy indifference to protect himself from scrutiny or people getting suspicious of him. Now that he’s alone with San, both of them naked save for the robe hanging loosely around Wooyoung’s shoulders, he has no idea how to proceed without going back to his roots as a prostitute. He hopes that will be enough to make up for his lack of domming experience.
Wooyoung takes a deep breath. He brings the wrapper to his mouth, bites into it, and rips it open. By the time he rolls the condom onto San’s cock and coats it in lube, he forgets all the phantoms of his past.
Or so he thinks.
“So, San. Can you guess the rules for this rodeo?”
San hums. “Well, since you tied me up so nicely, I assume no touching?”
“Mhm. What else?”
“Can I move?”
“Do you think I’m kind enough to let you do that?”
“So what? You just ride me like I’m one of your toys?”
Wooyoung tilts his head. “How do you know I have toys?”
San hesitates. His face drops. “I assumed.”
“Mm. Of course the whore would have toys to play with himself, wouldn’t he?”
“No, that’s not—”
“Shh.” Wooyoung brings a finger to his lips while gripping San’s cock by the base with his other hand. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I know what everyone thinks of me.”
And you’re no exception.
“I—”
“Enough words, San-ah. We’re not here to talk, are we? If we were, you wouldn’t have begged to fuck me.”
“It’s not like I get to do much of the fucking, right?” San asks back, no venom in his voice whatsoever.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Wooyoung aligns himself properly, relishing in the feeling of San’s cock catching on his rim. He lets it slip inside just a little, squeezing his eyes shut at the sensation. It’s been a while since he had something warm inside him, something that can fill him up. Not that he missed those times, and the condom gets in the way of San properly claiming him, anyway. He could have chosen to discard the condom altogether, but he feared that would bring too many bad memories, and he’s not ready to deal with that, especially after an orgasm, when he’s too fucked out to hide his vulnerability. If San will even give him an orgasm, that is.
He sinks slowly, looking everywhere but at San’s face. To say he feels overwhelmed is the understatement of his lifetime. Not because of San’s thick cock, no, that’s not the problem. It’s the way San stares at him, stars swirling in his eyes, lips parted with the promise of lost words on his tongue, cheeks flushed pink and probably hot to the touch. Seeing the Hound of the House rendered to complete mush when he’s far from bottoming out takes Wooyoung’s breath away, though he blames that on his body struggling to adjust to the intrusion that’s much thicker than San’s fingers.
Wooyoung braces himself on San’s hips. He takes his time sinking, not just because he doesn’t want to mess this up—he also wants to make this as torturous as possible for San.
“Question. Do you always come untouched?”
San doesn’t immediately reply. As much as Wooyoung wanted to avoid this, he’s forced to look up, hoping his scolding glare is powerful enough to mask the fluttering in his chest when he remembers the way San looks at him.
That look is gone. Partially. San’s smirk overshadows the admiration in his eyes, that’s why.
“Is there a reason you’d like to know that?”
Wooyoung gives a slight squeeze to San’s cock, just to test him. The reaction is instant. San hisses, the warmth in his eyes melting to reveal a hint of annoyance. “For starters, I’d love to know if you’re gonna last more than five minutes.”
“You have such little faith in me?”
“Says the one who came untouched just from having his mouth fucked.”
San chuckles, the sound low and raspy. Somehow, Wooyoung can feel it reverberate in his ribcage.
“Isn’t that the best compliment for you, Wooyoung-ah? You fucked my mouth so well that you didn’t have to do anything else after. The restraints made it even hotter, knowing I couldn’t touch myself if I wanted to. Which begs the question, would you have helped me come if I asked?”
“Don’t push it, San. You don’t get to demand stuff from me.”
“Asking isn’t demanding, Wooyoung-ah.”
Right. “Well, take a guess.”
San pretends to ponder. Wooyoung punishes him for wasting his time, clenching tighter than before as he lowers himself.
“I think,” San says with some difficulty, “that you would have made me do it while you watched.”
“And?”
“And…” He licks his lips. “You’d have stopped me every time I came close. Edged me until you got bored with watching my suffering.”
Wooyoung scoffs. “You seem to know me so well, Sannie. It makes sense, given you’ve been watching me for a long time.”
He’s lying so shamelessly. Truth be told, he has no idea what he would have done if San hadn’t solved the orgasm issue by himself. He didn’t think that far ahead since he was too busy shoving his cock down San’s throat as deep as he could.
San’s smile drops. He looks almost… vulnerable. “I don’t know you at all, Wooyoung.”
At least there’s only one liar between them, Wooyoung hopes. Whatever San may think of him, he knows it’s all in his head. During their missions, they strictly discussed strategies for their missions or any changes that occurred at the House—who got promoted, who disappeared without a trace after fucking up big time, and which one of the higher-ups would kick the bucket first. Small talk was minimal, especially from San, whose responses were usually monosyllabic when they didn’t take the form of hums or grunts.
Until tonight, both men were complete mysteries to one another. The only thing Wooyoung fears is coming undone before San’s eyes, unraveling everything he’s been struggling to hide for years.
“Do you want to know me, San?” Wooyoung asks, his tone cautious, the venom sitting at the base of his tongue as he awaits the answer.
San’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Would that be so bad?”
“Very, very bad. Terribly naïve, too. Why would you want to befriend a whore, San? Did no one teach you hookers don’t love you just because they sleep with you?”
“You’re not a hooker, Wooyoung.”
“Right. Tell that to everyone else at the House. You’re not special, San. You can say you like me for who I am and not for my body as much as you want. I’ve heard it countless times, and I’m sick of it. It’s not gonna work, so give up already.”
“If you’d just listen—”
“Shh.” This time Wooyoung throws his head back, ignoring all the unpleasant feelings and memories this discussion just unearthed, choosing to lose himself in the physical aspect of their agreement instead. “I told you we’re not here to talk, San-ah. If we were, we would have sat here in silence, and you would never know what it’s like to be inside me.”
He feels so full, so satisfied now that San bottomed out. His breathing quickens, matching the pace of his heartbeat. Pleasure mixes with impatience in his veins, but he needs to let his body adjust properly before he can take the reins and show off his expert riding skills. His hands wander from San’s hips to his tummy, palms sprawled over the soft skin that hardens under his touch, revealing the faint outline of abs.
Sinking his nails into San’s abs will feel so good later.
Wooyoung lets his head drop, eyes still closed as he savors the familiar burn of being stretched open. He hums, pleased with the sensation. It’s been so long since he had the liberty of just… pausing. Breathing in deeply, taking in the shape and sensation of another person’s body. He was always rushed, always ordered around. More often than not, Wooyoung felt like a toy, preferred over the others because of his pretty face and pristine obedience. Once his clients got bored of him, he was discarded until he was needed again.
San is the most patient man Wooyoung knows, but even he struggles not to fall into temptation. Wooyoung can feel the tremble of flexed muscles under his palms, the slight quiver in San’s thighs. Bucking his hips upward is just as irresistible as a bountiful dinner after not eating a single crumb for the whole day, but San isn’t stupid enough to give in. If he does, he’ll ruin everything.
He doesn’t beg. Instead, a sly grin takes over his lips, and his cat-like eyes curl at the corners, spelling mischief.
“For someone who said talking is distracting, you sure are taking your sweet time. What is it, Wooyoung? Dick so big it knocked the voice out of your lungs?”
He really thinks he’s going to get away with this, that Wooyoung’s cheeks will burn red as he stutters in denial, flustered. Or maybe he knows exactly how to get punished for misbehaving.
Wooyoung clenches as tightly as he can. His expression doesn’t betray his efforts; the sly grin and serene gaze paint a clear image of mischief. As much as he loves feeling every single inch of San’s cock, the way San’s face drops once he realizes what’s happening brings Wooyoung unparalleled satisfaction.
San gasps. His eyes roll back in pleasure before he hurriedly blinks, trying to bring himself back to earth. The tie pulls taut as he tries to break free. It’s all in vain—Wooyoung made sure the knot was secure. San is the only man capable of freeing himself in this situation by bringing the entire headboard down, but he’s clearly holding back on his strength. His biceps tense, and if he could move his hands, he would be clenching at the sheets, ripping them apart.
Wooyoung regrets using San’s tie to bind him to the bed. He should have left it around his neck, lying limp over his naked chest, and whenever San disobeyed, Wooyoung would pull at it.
Having the Hound of the House on a leash—yeah, that sounds fitting.
“Ego so big you forgot who’s in charge?” Wooyoung asks, lessening the merciless grip on San’s length to give a teasing roll of his hips. Hearing San’s pitiful groan only makes him do it again. “Believe it or not, I’ve taken bigger. Don’t think so highly of yourself, Sannie. I told you, you’re not special.”
“But you let me bite you,” San says in a strained voice.
The smirk leaves Wooyoung’s face. He stops, giving San no time to prepare before clenching around him again, somehow tighter than before. This time, he doesn’t let go after just a few seconds.
“Isn’t that what a dog is supposed to do? Bite? Oh wait, you said you don’t like the dog bit. That’s too bad. You could have been such a good puppy for me. Bet I could make you bark if we had more time.”
San shakes his head, clearly displeased. The warmth around his cock leaves him a gasping, whiny mess, but he’s not into what Wooyoung is putting down, that much is clear from his expression.
A shame. Maybe he can be swayed if they fuck again, but Wooyoung doubts there will be a second time of this. Best to savor the moment while he still can.
“Fine, San. You’re not a puppy, though you are just as obedient as one. But you are just a puppet on strings in the grand scheme of the House. Say, would you like to be my doll for the remaining duration of our arrangement?”
San’s breath hitches. He was already getting lost in the teasing grind of Wooyoung’s little dance, but a hint of worry flashes in his glassy eyes. Perhaps Wooyoung isn’t the only one barely maintaining his composure with nothing but hope and dreams. He wonders just how fragile San’s defensive system really is when he leaves himself exposed in such a way.
“Sure,” San replies with a nod. “If I’m meant to be a doll, I’d prefer yours. No one else’s.”
There he goes again with that mindset. As if Wooyoung is special and he gets a pass to have San dance in his palm. Guilt eats at Wooyoung’s heart before he remembers this isn’t actually real, they’re just pretending. He doesn’t want to hurt San unless San tries something. So what if San is into being degraded and reduced to nothing but a plaything? That’s just something he gets off on. If there’s a deeper meaning to it, it’s not Wooyoung’s place to pry.
He’s doing a piss-poor job at domming, that’s for sure. Overthinking every single interaction makes him slip into a dangerous thought spiral, one that will drown him unless he swims to the surface before it’s too late.
So, Wooyoung does one of the few things he’s good at, besides killing—he starts riding like his life depends on it.
It feels better than he remembers it. No one rushes him, no one tells him what to do. He can milk an orgasm out of San at record speed and tuck himself into bed before it gets too late, or he can keep San under him until he makes a mess of the condom and his muscles spasm from overstimulation. Decision, decisions…
For now, he’ll just enjoy the ride. He hasn’t had the chance to do that in… he can’t even remember how long.
He starts slowly, putting all the pressure on his knees as he lifts himself up, slowly making his way down. The more Wooyoung repeats the pattern, the better it feels, especially as the tip of San’s cock brushes by his bundle of nerves, sending shivers throughout his entire body. The pleasure is overwhelming, suffocating him, turning him deaf to San’s quiet whines and the raging storm outside their hotel room. Wooyoung closes his eyes, reveling in everything he’s been deprived off for so long. He wishes this could last forever, that he didn’t have to wake up early tomorrow, and that nothing outside this hotel room existed. That way, nothing and no one can hurt him.
It’s all in vain. As soon as the second orgasm will fade from Wooyoung’s body, he will forget it all. There’s no point in deluding himself with fanciful dreams.
He can’t help but drag a hand over his chest, knowing it will drive San up the wall. An accidental (or was it entirely intentional?) brush of his pierced nipple causes a needy moan to roll down his tongue. It only amplifies Wooyoung’s bliss, so he starts playing with the bud, circling it with his fingers and moaning every time he pinches the hardened flesh. He thinks he can hear San respond with the same enthusiasm, as if he can feel his own nipples being played with just by watching Wooyoung put on a show for him.
Wooyoung finally cracks open an eye. Even in the blue light shining through the windows, San’s face is bright red. His wrists are bound, the knot still holding strong, though he keeps his hands as high as possible. Doing so can’t be comfortable in the slightest, but the tie would obstruct his vision otherwise. Wooyoung didn’t consider that when he tied the knot, nor did San bother to mention it, so now he has to suffer just to watch a show he isn’t allowed to take part in.
Wooyoung blames his inexperience for his lack of consideration. If only that could get rid of the guilt that momentarily slows his movements and shatters his confidence. He makes up for it by fucking himself on San’s cock vigorously, this time while maintaining eye contact with the man himself, who seems to break apart with every rise and fall of Wooyoung’s hips.
“You don’t look like you’re going to last long, San-ah,” Wooyoung taunts, trying to keep both of them afloat—San from coming prematurely, and himself from drowning at the bottom of his endless sea of thoughts. The only way to stop himself from thinking is to grind the crown of San’s cock into his prostate, almost sending him into a frenzy from how fucking good it feels.
“Don’t worry about me,” San tells him as a moan splits the sentence in two. “I won’t let you down.”
“Mm, we’ll see about that. You look lost. If I were riding a toy right now, would you touch yourself?”
“Yes,” San blurts out, only to realize he was hasty with his answer. “If you’d allow me.”
“That’s it, doll. Let’s make it more interesting, shall we? Imagine I was riding a huge fucking dildo right in front of you. Bigger, thicker than everything you have to offer. Depending on how long you’d last, I might let you put your dick inside me. What do you say? Would you still last?”
“Yes,” San replies a few seconds later, not sounding convincing at all. “I’d do anything.”
Wooyoung laughs, genuinely amused. His pace increases, just to torture San more, to make his inner battle harder than it already is. Having the Hound of the House crumble in his hands might make life bearable for a few weeks, at least. He would also no longer expect a knife in his back every time he looks away during their missions, though Wooyoung stopped suspecting San would do something like that after figuring out the man’s true intentions.
“Honestly, seeing you jerk off to me would be pretty hot.”
Wooyoung knows he’s breaking character, but the look on San’s face is so worth it—eyebrows arched, lips parted in shock, his carefully styled hair now spilling in messy bangs over his forehead. San has never been this expressive, and he has definitely never shown anything remotely close to glee. It’s more than that—his face spells out elation of the purest kind. There’s a smile on his lips, one that San is trying his hardest to conceal. Only its faint traces are allowed to slip past San’s thick layers of defense. Still, seeing this rewrites San’s entire nature in Wooyoung’s eyes. He feels shaken to the very core for being wanted so passionately by the person everyone in the House fears.
Despite this, Wooyoung doesn’t allow San to think too highly of himself for long.
“You like it when I offer myself to you, don’t you? How many times did you imagine me in your bed, willingly spreading my legs for you to claim me? How many times did you jerk off while thinking of me? When you fucked other men, did you close your eyes and pretend they were me every time? Did you want me to be there instead, moaning your name? San-ah, San-ah, San-ah… Like that?”
“Yes,” San says in a quivering, desperate voice. “Yes, to all of them.”
Wooyoung lets out an involuntary whine. His body shivers, also against his wishes. “Fuck, San. You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah? How so?”
Wooyoung’s face twists, both in pleasure and annoyance. “Don’t expect me to shower you with compliments. You’re not getting any more out of me.”
San flashes a knowing smile, like he expected it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He looks absolutely ruined, much so than when his cheeks were bulging with Wooyoung’s cock. Sweat drips down his temples, glistening over his rosy face. It’s only a matter of time until his bangs will stick to his forehead.
San has many names, most of them animal-related, strangely enough. It’s almost comical, as if the House, its associates, and its enemies called for a meeting to decide the theme for San’s titles. House members who fear him call him the black sheep of the House, but only behind his back. The higher-ups take pride in their Hound, the weapon they raised since he was an orphan, all skin and bones until the big boss took him from the streets out of the kindness of his heart. Certain rival gangs call him a bloodthirsty panther, others call him a lone wolf who wouldn’t hesitate to kill his brethren from the same pack if it benefits him.
As Wooyoung looks down at the man beneath him, the same man who kills just as easily as he breathes, he sees San for who he is—a barely functional puppet who begs to be used just to see how it feels when he’s the one who asks for it, and not when it’s expected of him. This is no wolf, but a lamb who has lowered himself onto a sacrificial slab, waiting for the killing blow.
Yes, it would be so easy for Wooyoung to kill him like this. Even with San’s strength, it would take him a long time to tear down the wooden headboard. If Wooyoung tried stabbing him in the chest, an elbow from San would knock him out long enough for the man to break free and steal the switchblade from him. But Wooyoung can disarm San in other ways. A precise stab in the liver wouldn’t kill him instantly, but it would get the job done eventually. Staunching the bleeding wouldn’t save him, and by the time the emergency services get to him, he would have stopped breathing. Wooyoung will be long dead by then, too, but at least he’d take San down with him.
God, Wooyoung thinks, despite knowing there’s no god out there to help him. Look at me. Plotting how to kill my partner while I ride him. I’m beyond saving.
He doesn’t need saving, nor does he deserve it. All he wants is to forget everything that has brought him to this point, even if just for a few minutes.
So, he does what he knows best—he rides like there’s no tomorrow. His nails scrape San’s tummy, teasing but not scratching. He loves the feeling of muscles flexing under his touch and the slight quiver of San’s frame as he bounces up and down without a break. His cock bounces, too, slapping against his tummy from how vigorously he’s riding, splashing his stomach with white drops of precum.
San watches the display attentively—Wooyoung swears he can see the man’s pupils expand, much like a cat when it spots a clueless bird within reach. If San could, he would pounce on Wooyoung’s cock, the memory of it still fresh on San’s tongue, no doubt about it.
It’s then that Wooyoung notices something. He considers himself pretty loud—not loud enough for the hotel guests to phone the reception desk and leave a complaint, just enough to make it clear that he’s having a good time. With San bound to the bed and instructed not to move, Wooyoung has free reign to do anything his heart desires, including setting a torturous rhythm that has San pulling at the restraints until the headboard creaks to hide his face.
But San barely reacts, at least audibly. He lets out small gasps and quiet whimpers that get swallowed by Wooyoung’s moans and the filthy, squelching sounds as Wooyoung fucks himself on the warmest toy he’s ever had. It wasn’t clear what San was doing until he brought his hands down as much as the knotted tie allowed him.
San is hiding from him. That won’t do.
Wooyoung stops. As expected, the action—or lack of—doesn’t immediately register in San’s muddled brain. He lets out a quiet, inquiring hum that would sound cute if he wasn’t, well, San—hired killer, ruthless assassin, and living weapon. But Wooyoung doesn’t budge. San’s chest rises and falls like mad, probably matching the rhythm of his heart.
Patience is a virtue, one that Wooyoung lacks. “Look at me, Sannie,” he commands. When San only lets out a shaky breath in response, Wooyoung presses his nails firmly into the soft flesh under his palms. “You’d better not ignore me. Look at me.”
San finally does, lifting his arms to reveal wet streaks from his eyes to his chin, one on each cheek. Choi San of all people is crying during sex, and it’s all because of Wooyoung.
“Why the tears?” Wooyoung demands to know. His astonishment, although present, is buried deep. It cannot be allowed to surface if Wooyoung wants to savor this.
He clenches again, fighting against his own moan as he does. The white dripping down the tip of his cock betrays him.
San whimpers again. He sounds so broken, so desperate, so eager to be taken apart. How can Wooyoung refuse him?
No. The real question is, how can Wooyoung resist him from now on, knowing everything he does now?
To punish him even more for his silence, Wooyoung rolls his hips at a torturously slow pace, glaring daggers at San, who stares back with glassy eyes. “I won’t get back to it unless you talk to me. Speak, San, or I’m leaving you here to come untouched a second time since I’m not undoing the knots on your tie.”
“The way you move,” San tries, his raspy voice making the exchange exponentially hotter, “makes me want to rip the tie to shreds with my teeth. You have the power to drive anyone crazy.”
Wooyoung tilts his head. “Even the Hound of the House?”
“Especially him.”
“Because you’ve wanted me for so long? Do I live up to your expectations?”
“Yes, a million times yes. Fuck, Wooyoung, I’ve never…” He swallows, giving Wooyoung a shameless once-over. Wooyoung knows how he must look, with his long hair in need of combing, his hard nipples begging to be sucked on, and his flushed cock deprived of a much-needed helping hand. “I never imagined you could move like this. It’s like…”
“I was made for it?” Wooyoung asks, hoping for a vigorous nod from San. All he gets is a look of shock. “I’ve been told that many times, San-ah. You need to come up with something original.”
San blinks at him, eyes wide. Wooyoung feels weird—did he say something weird? His clients always loved reminding him that he was so good at his job, that he was cut out for it. Does San not agree?
Wooyoung pinches one of his nipples, hard enough to pull him away from the stream of memories.
Stop thinking about it. You’re ruining everything.
He’s starting to think he wasn’t meant to be a prostitute, despite all the praise he’s received throughout the years. Because why else would San look at him like this?.
San’s face does that weird thing again—it softens.
“I think,” he says, wetting his lips, “if I were to surrender my life, it would be at your hands, Wooyoung-ah. No one else’s. How’s that for original?”
The only reason Wooyoung’s hips don’t come to a complete halt is how good it fucking feels to ride San without any consideration for how he feels. Although considering how gone he looks and how every time he pants, small moans spill from his mouth, he’s probably having a blast.
Maybe Wooyoung wasn’t that crazy earlier when he pictured himself killing San as he lies underneath him, a perfect offering willing to sacrifice himself. Wooyoung simply didn’t think San would just…
“You’d let me get away with it?” he asks, picking up the pace of his sinful dance. He hates to admit it, but what San just said sent his arousal into overdrive. The fresh streak of precum dripping down his flushed cock gives him away; he hopes San is too fucked out to pay attention.
Like a vulture eyeing its prey, San’s eyes snap down, where Wooyoung’s needy cock slaps over his tummy. “I think I’ve let you get away with plenty of things these past few months, Wooyoung.”
San’s mouth falls open. His back arches as he throws his head into the pillow, pulling his hands down to cover his face as much as the restraints allow him. Wooyoung repeats the same motion as before, lifting his hips before slamming down at a ruthless pace. He swears he can feel San’s cock spasm inside him despite the rapid movements.
“Hands up, Sannie. You’ve been depriving me of hearing your pathetic little voice for so long, now I don’t get to see your face, either? You better stop that or I’ll get up and leave in three… two…”
San lifts his trembling hands, revealing a fresh streak of tears on his pale face. The moan that leaves his lungs is guttural, desperate, and charged with desire, as if he’s pleading for a drop of water after a trek in the scorching desert.
“Wooyoung… Fuck, Wooyoung, you’re…”
The veins on his arms bulge. The headboard creaks. Wooyoung doesn’t speed up because he’s already treading on dangerous territory—San might come any second now if he keeps this up. If he doesn’t stop pushing the other man’s buttons, the headboard might really break.
Outside, the storm still rages, but it falls on deaf ears. Wooyoung only hears the way San calls his name, frantic and imploring, while San can only focus on the wet sounds filling the room, overshadowing the thunder outside.
“That’s it, Sannie. Let it all out. You sound so much like a whore, and that’s rich coming from me.”
Hearing San call for him so desperately sends an electrifying jolt throughout Wooyoung’s body just as he rocks his hips down, grinding against his sweet spot, using San like he begged to be used. He moans, loud enough for the entire floor to hear him, but he doesn’t care. The pleasure is too intense, the most feared assassin of the underground looks up at him like he’s actually worth a damn, and Wooyoung realizes he kind of likes it when San moans his name.
He likes it a lot, so much that he almost comes untouched once these thoughts hit him at full force. The promise of relief is just at his fingertips—his hand rests over San’s stomach, clenched in a fist, shaking from how hard he’s fighting to keep it there and not bring it anywhere near his cock. He could be selfish and get this over with—make himself come and then let San fend for himself. Hell, San would probably come just from seeing Wooyoung shooting white, given the helpless look on his face.
The infamous Hound gets reduced to a whimpering mess as he tries not to come too early. Wooyoung could weep with joy if his emotions were still intact. Thankfully, his cock is about to make up for it.
Fuck, he shouldn’t have gone so fast, so soon. He should have tortured San longer, but he got distracted by how much he wrecked the man. This power—Wooyoung had no idea he had it. Now that he made this discovery, he can’t seem to get enough of it.
His aching cock won’t last much longer. Carefully, he wraps a fist around the length, mindful not to squeeze. The last thing he wants (and needs) is coming before San, and then he’d really end this night on a disappointing note.
San’s hands are trembling. His biceps bulge as he swings the tie from left to right, waging a war against himself. He’s trying to stay put and not disrupt Wooyoung’s performance, or, at the very least, not tear the tie to bits. His movements halt when he sees the hand on Wooyoung’s cock glide up and down painfully slow, slick dripping through his fingers from his built-up arousal.
Wooyoung curls his palm around the base of his cock, squeezing lightly to prevent a disaster. It doesn’t help much. If anything, it frustrates him, because he wants to come so fucking badly, but he doesn’t want to be the only one who earns proper satisfaction from this exchange, business arrangement, or whatever it is they’re doing right now. Perhaps this is his way of proving he’s not a selfish monster like others make him out to be, or perhaps some deeper part of him, one of the few surviving fragments from before the House kidnapped him, wants to pretend this is a normal one-night-stand, and not two cogs of a corrupt machine treating each other the same way their soulless superiors have treated them throughout the years.
“Say, San,” Wooyoung whispers, slowing down a little so he can speak without gasping for breath. “Do you want to touch me?”
“Yes,” San blurts out, voice high and whiny, so quietly that the storm almost swallows it.
“Would you do it if you knew it would kill you?”
San shakes his head, his tears streaming all the way down to the freckles on his neck. “No.”
“Why? Because you’re afraid of repercussions? Or because you get so turned on from being forbidden something, you like it when the illusion of choice is taken away from you?”
San gasps. His eyes squeeze shut as Wooyoung rocks his hips down with clear intent. It’s a miracle he’s lasted this long. He moans again, louder and filthier than ever before. For a brief moment, Wooyoung wants to chase that sound, to hear it again, but he immediately shoves the thought away. The only things he’s allowed to want are more work, more blood on his hands, and more sleepless nights spent driving from one mission to another. Wanting Choi San is a death sentence that will seal their fates.
“I just… want you, Wooyoung. I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t care about anything else. If I can have this as long as I play by your rules, I’m fine with it.”
Wooyoung watches San’s abdominal muscles flex, revealing faint outlines of a six-pack. The sight spurs the pace of his hand, bringing him dangerously close to his much-awaited salvation.
San groans, using his forearms to hide the raw desperation on his face. “That being said, how much longer are you going to torture me?”
“Torture you?” Wooyoung questions, feigning nonchalance. “I’m not holding you back in any way, Sannie. In fact, I’m surprised you lasted so long, given your earlier performance. If I let you fuck me properly, would you have come in the first two minutes?”
“Wooyoung-ah,” San warns, though his voice is devoid of any danger. There’s only lust and madness left. “You give me so little credit. I would have treated you so well.”
Too bad I’ll never get to call your bluff.
“I’m sure you would have, doll. Now, you better brace yourself, because I won’t wait for you at the finish line.”
San fucking smirks. “I’ll race y0u.”
Wooyoung fights the impulse to smirk back. Both his hips and hand pick up the pace as he chases his own selfish desire, letting San to fend for himself. He seems to be more than fine with it, as long as he comes—which he should; it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet. Wooyoung has been doing everything in his power to beat San at his game, yet it was all in vain. San endured it all, despite having his defiance torn to pieces. The tie withstood all the tugging and pressure as if it’s indestructible—proof of its high-quality material and the equally high price.
That goddamn tie is probably worth as much as Wooyoung’s entire wardrobe. A part of him wants to see it torn in half from San’s constant pulling, a physical proof of his desire; another part fears this exact scenario, knowing he would instinctually recoil in fear if San broke free. The only reason he got this far is that tie, the physical embodiment of Wooyoung’s need for an anchor when phantoms of the past surround his lonely boat floating atop a sea of foggy memories.
He’s so close, he can feel it. His rhythm goes awry as he tries to urge his tired muscles to move, fatigue be damned. His thighs tremble, as do San’s. The man who inspires fear in everyone whimpers quietly, peeking through half-lidded eyes to watch Wooyoung come apart on his cock.
And Wooyoung does just that. His mind goes blank from how hard the orgasm hits him, like a wave of ecstasy knocked into his gut, spreading to every nerve of his body and lighting him on fire. Trying not to topple over is a struggle, but San’s spasming cock keeps him in place as San follows him right after, his guttural moan slashing through the wet squelching of skin-on-skin contact.
Wooyoung goes limp, his mouth twisted in a silent wail of pleasure. Ropes of white shoot down San’s stomach, chest, the rest dripping down Wooyoung’s fist. He doesn’t remember ever coming so much. Darkness encroaches on his vision, sparking colorful stars behind his eyelids when he tries to blink them away. Thankfully, he doesn’t faint, but he’s probably close to that. He barely ate today. The mission took more than half a day, and the forecast storm deterred them from going out to eat a proper meal.
When Wooyoung regains his senses, he realizes the room has gone eerily quiet, save for his heavy breathing. San no longer hides behind his bound wrists, choosing to keep them over his forehead instead. He’s staring at Wooyoung, his chest heaving, but Wooyoung can’t hear him breathe, almost as if San really is a machine who doesn’t require air. Maybe he put on an act every time he gasped while Wooyoung rode him into oblivion.
“Welcome back,” he says. His voice sounds wrong—too soft, too unguarded for someone who never lets others see through him. The headboard creaks as San gives the tie a weak tug. If he wasn’t tied up, he might try to reach out for Wooyoung.
Wooyoung leans back from San’s intangible touch, unsure why his body reacts this way. He feels… weird. It’s not unusual for his mood to plummet after a session with a client, especially if his only “reward” is a non-existent or disappointing orgasm. That’s certainly not the case, given the white coating his fingers as it drips down his fist.
Wooyoung removes his hand as an empty void opens in his chest. No matter how hard he tries not to, he still pictures himself in that bed he frequented for years, the one that creaked loud enough for the whole House to learn his schedule. San isn’t a client, but Wooyoung still thought of him as one, even for just a second.
The sandwich he ate a couple hours ago makes its way up his throat once again. He swallows.
“Wooyoung?” San asks, clearly aware that something is amiss.
When Wooyoung looks up, he beams, the plastered smile on his lips making a return after years of keeping it buried deep. It’s oxymoronic, really, that this is both his fakest and most authentic smile. He nails it so well, even he forgets how fake it is.
Slowly, he sits up from San’s softening cock, but this time he doesn’t feel the need to give himself another celebratory mental pat on the back for his efforts. Instead of feeling victorious, he feels dirty, vile, and pathetic for thinking he could ever run away from his past.
“What is it, Sannie? Have any complaints, any criticism?” Wooyoung asks in a voice too sweet for his own good as he leans over San to undo the restraints. “If you do, that’s on you for being tasteless. I rate my performance flawless.”
I want to tear my skin off.
Those accursed dimples make another appearance on San’s handsome face. Wooyoung managed to ease the tension, but not disperse San’s doubts, not completely. “I would have to agree. You are breathtaking, Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung’s smile almost turns honest. His heart almost quivers with emotion at what seems to be honest praise. But his body revolts, treating the warmth from San’s words as poison, something that needs to be guarded against.
With a frozen smile on his lips, Wooyoung undoes San’s bindings with shaky hands, hoping the man won’t notice.
San, of course, notices.
“You alright?”
He sounds worried. There’s no way for Wooyoung to know for sure, especially with someone like San. A few bold House employees mutter under their breaths rumors whenever San isn’t around—that the higher-ups extracted his emotions from his heart long ago; that he was raised like an animal, punished every time he showed weakness; that he was an experiment covertly traded by the secret services because they were afraid of the very thing they had created.
Wooyoung always dismissed those theories. Yes, San is weird, but everyone at the House is more or less a deviant. People fear San, so they make up stories to find reason in San’s nature since he never shares anything about himself, not even how he likes his coffee or when his birthday is.
The tie falls limply in Wooyoung’s hands. Earlier, he felt guilty for the red imprints on San’s wrists, now even worse for wear. Now, he feels nothing. The swirling chaos in his chest is too much to contain, so all he can do is stare at the expensive fabric as San gets up from bed.
“Wooyoung,” San insists. He doesn’t touch Wooyoung, but Wooyoung can feel the ghost of San’s hand on his shoulder.
It takes all the self-restraint in Wooyoung’s body not to lash out at San and push him away. So he mumbles a quiet “I’m okay” and lets the tie fall through his fingertips, remembering he’ll stain the material with the drying release on his hand. No, he’s not okay, but if he says anything else or tries to make the lie more convincing, San will see right through him.
Tonight, Wooyoung has been his most vulnerable self in years. The last thing he wants is to break down crying in front of Choi San, of all people.
San says something that slips right by Wooyoung. The words don’t connect, his brain can’t make sense of them. They come out mangled, twisted beyond recognition. There’s a cacophony inside Wooyoung’s head, rendering him deaf to everything but his growing panic. Ignorantly, he thinks the storm outside died down, when it’s far from over.
Everything goes quiet around him. He doesn’t hear San calling out to him or the bathroom door closing. His body screams at him from overexertion. It’s normal, especially after riding like he just did. It’s like a workout, a rougher variant of his usual gym routine that takes his mind off his endless worries.
Mindlessly, Wooyoung presses his palms into his thighs, hoping that would bring him back to the real world, at least a little. The storm returns, albeit deeply muffled, as if it’s on the other side of town and not rattling on the glass to his right.
Then he sees them. The bruises, already purple in the blue shade of the evening storm, the teeth marks San left behind on the soft skin of Wooyoung’s inner thighs. Wooyoung stares at them, drags his thumbs over the biggest one, which also happens to be the closest to his crotch, and presses into it until the pain turns numb, nonexistent.
What happened between them tonight is nothing but a mistake.
Wooyoung regrets it. Time and time again throughout his life, he wished he could turn back time. That way, his parents would have never found out about his sexual identity and kicked him out. He would have studied more for that university exam and earned himself a roof over his head with that scholarship, or he would have, at the very least, never ended up couch surfing at that scumbag’s house and landed straight into the House’s clutches. All these potential scenarios bring nothing but misery, but Wooyoung loves hurting himself sometimes. Why else did he willingly walk into the trap San laid for him?
He blames it on his loneliness. San’s offer was the ultimate temptation—letting Wooyoung take charge, not trying to bend the rules, not pushing at the boundaries set in stone unless Wooyoung was already considering it, like leaving hickeys or allowing San to finger him.
But everything else…
Wooyoung tried to do what San asked of him, he really did. He enjoyed it, too, or at least he thinks he did in the heat of the moment. No one has asked him before to fuck their mouth, and San was perfect for it—eager to please, very turned on by the concept, and with a big mouth that didn’t match his quiet nature.
Riding him was fun, too. His girthy cock reached in all the right places, and Wooyoung knew exactly how to make perfect use of it. That’s the root of the dilemma and what haunts him. The core of San’s proposition, the entire reason Wooyoung accepted this deal (or business proposition, as San called it), is what flips his stomach upside down now that the dust has settled.
I offer myself to you, San declared boldly after licking the edge of Wooyoung’s switchblade, the same one that weighs heavily in the inner pocket of Wooyoung’s robe. You’re not one to abuse your power, but I’d love to see you try it on me.
Great. Fantastic. Wooyoung agreed—as long as he wasn’t the one thrown and bossed around, he thought he wouldn’t feel as frail as he does now. How terribly wrong he was. Yes, he wasn’t in the same position he ended up loathing, but the disgust and shame burn just as brightly, searing his sins under his skin. Just because this was nothing more than sex with extra steps, an act that they both put up for each other’s sake, Wooyoung can’t seem to shake off the anxiety boiling in his belly, threatening to topple over. San better not be in the bathroom for too long because Wooyoung really doesn’t want to throw up in the bed.
His breathing quickens, his heart rate skyrockets. He feels like a scared little bunny, his weak heart threatening to burst from all the fear it cannot contain. How is he any different from all the men who used to book his services just to boss him around like a dog for an hour? San isn’t a prostitute, he was the one to propose the idea for tonight. So then why does Wooyoung feel so filthy? Why does he keep scratching at his forearms, hoping it would get rid of the filth he cannot see? San enjoyed himself, he came twice without Wooyoung having to do much, so then why does Wooyoung see himself as one of the many men who used him for their own pleasure without giving him anything in return?
Did San even like it? Was it all an act? Did he agree to Wooyoung’s rough treatment just to get a feeling of what it’s like to have sex with him? Did Wooyoung go too far? He wants to know, but he doesn’t want to barge into the bathroom to beg for answers.
Only when Wooyoung notices movement in his peripheral vision does he realize San has been calling to him for who knows how long.
The storm returns to full volume. Well, the thunder stopped, and the wind doesn’t bend the trees in half anymore, but the heavy rain still rams into the glass.
San pushes something towards Wooyoung, almost shoves it in his face. It’s a towel, white and small, but it emanates a certain warmth and it’s clearly damp.
“For you.”
Right. He never cleaned the cum off his hand and tummy. Now that he’s aware of its lingering presence, Wooyoung feels even dirtier than before.
Even worse, he’s hyperventilating. If San couldn’t tell something was wrong before, he definitely knows now.
“Wooyoung—”
He wants to speak. He wants to ask if he did everything right, or if San feels even a sliver of Wooyoung’s misery. Nothing but shaky exhales leave his mouth.
Wooyoung snatches the towel from San’s hand, rushes past him, and slams the bathroom door behind him.
He stares down at the sink, unable to meet the eyes of his reflection as he cleans himself with erratic movements. He’s not even sure what he’ll find staring back at him from the mirror—messy hair, glassy eyes, flushed skin, that much is obvious. His hands shake as he turns on the tap to hastily wash his face under the gaze of his judgmental reflection.
Wooyoung feels tiny under the weight of his thoughts. A part of him blames himself for ruining the night not just for San, but also for himself. All he had to do was be normal after they finished, go to sleep, and never speak again of what happened between them. But he can’t keep his thoughts at bay for a single night to enjoy himself to the fullest. He hasn’t had sex in years, let alone good sex.
Another part screams at him that he doesn’t deserve to feel good, that he’s forever tainted. Once a prostitute, forever a prostitute. All that filth those men left on him years ago will never wash away, no matter how hard he scratches at his skin. Red streaks line his forearms. If he presses his nails down any harder, he will draw blood.
He likes sex, he misses enjoying it, but even now he gets reminded of all the horrible experiences, of the circumstances that landed him in that position. It wasn’t his choice. He stopped having a choice since he was trafficked into that disgusting organization.
Wooyoung shivers. The bathroom floor is cold, too cold. He tries to wrap the thin robe around his frame, but it does nothing to warm him up. As he tries to pull it over his shoulders, the switchblade falls from the inner pocket, cluttering onto the white-tiled floor.
“Wooyoung?”
Wooyoung’s breath hitches. He pulls his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees in an attempt to warm himself up. Or maybe he’s trying to make himself smaller, hoping San will forget about him if he becomes the size of a summer ant.
A tiny sob slips past his lips against his will. It’s barely a breath, but San definitely hears it.
“Wooyoung, if you can, come outside. Please?”
As if. Wooyoung would much rather bury his head in cement than face San when he’s on the verge of crying. In a few minutes, San will give up and walk away from the door. Once he does that, Wooyoung will dash out to grab his clothes, get dressed in a hurry, and leave for the hotel’s lounge to bury his face in a boring magazine. San wouldn’t dare follow him.
As if to prove him wrong, San says something that freezes Wooyoung in place.
“Just… whatever you do, don’t hurt yourself. Talk to me. Tell me if I did something wrong.”
Wooyoung looks up, no longer resting his forehead on his knees. The misery clouding his mind dissipates, replaced by confusion. What San is implying hasn’t even crossed his mind. Hell, if anything, he’d try to take down as many bastards from the House before going down himself, though that’s not much better than offing himself in a hotel bathroom. There’s no glory in revenge if he ends up dead.
Then, his eyes fall on the switchblade, the knife still hidden inside the mechanism. Wooyoung didn’t bother picking it up after it fell. Perhaps that’s why San thought…
He hears a light thud from the door, as if San knocked softly on the surface. Or maybe he rested his forehead on the other side, though that seems impossible to imagine.
“Actually, I take it back. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want. But please let me know you’re okay. Even if you aren’t, let me help you.”
“Fucking leave me alone, Choi San!” Wooyoung shouts, feeling the anger from before returning to his veins. “Stop pretending you care just because you fucked me.”
Silence. San doesn’t reply for a few good seconds, but he doesn’t move from the door either. He can stay there and beg for as long as he wants. If anything, Wooyoung can sleep in the bathtub. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But San never yields, not even in the face of death. “Have you ever asked yourself why I let you get away with things that anyone else would have ratted you out for? Why I killed that man six months ago, even though I didn’t need to? Why I accepted to accompany you on missions when I had the authority to override those commands?”
Wooyoung’s vision darkens at the edges as he gets up hastily. His vision goes completely black as he swings the door open; he has to blink a few times to see properly again.
San’s image reconstructs itself before his very eyes. His hair is now combed in a more presentable manner, his bangs falling in a neat line over his eyes. There’s no sharpness in his gaze, only slight shock, either at Wooyoung’s sudden outburst or his appearance. San is shirtless but not naked—a pair of sweats hangs low on his waist, exposing his chiseled V-lines.
Wooyoung’s eyes linger on the rope marks on San’s wrist before he looks up, hoping the fire in his eyes blazes just as brightly as the fury in his heart. “So what? Do you want a round of applause? A bouquet of roses? My sincere gratitude for not getting me killed? Or do you want me to spread my legs for you again?”
San narrows his eyes. “Careful, Wooyoung. In case your memory fails you, you were the one to bring up sex, not me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I—”
Wooyoung stops. His tongue won’t move—there are no words that can make it past the blockade in his throat, anyway. It’s as if the regrets Wooyoung has swallowed for years have finally reached the maximum limit. There’s too many of them blocking his airway, suffocating him.
What about you, San? Care to explain why you’ve been eyeing me like a piece of meat for months? You want to subdue me?
Never. But I want you.
So? What are you going to do about it?
Whatever you allow me.
Wooyoung curses under his breath. San is right.
“I thought you were okay with it,” San says, his voice a lot quieter than before. “You’re almost as good as me at pretending nothing is wrong, Wooyoung-ah.”
“Shut up.”
“Why are you angry with me? Can you at least tell me what’s wrong?”
“That's none of your fucking business!”
He slams his fist into the wall next to him, punching the light switch and killing the lights in the bathroom. The blue hue of the outside world flows through the blinds, merging with the darkness of the room. Shadows play on San’s face, but they can’t obscure his worry.
Is his concern authentic? Or is this all an act? Wooyoung’s hand trembles over the hem of his robe as he pulls it over his chest, trying to cover himself.
“Why?” he asks so quietly, San leans forward to hear him over the downpour. “Why do you trust me? Just because you want me? I could have ratted you out too, you know. Especially about the guy you killed. The House needed him, but they let you off the hook because you claimed it was self-defense.”
San grows quiet. His face falls, and his gaze drops to the floor, suddenly very aware of Wooyoung’s scrutiny. Despite his broad shoulders and defined muscles, he doesn’t resemble the Hound Wooyoung has grown to know in the past few months.
Perhaps he never knew San at all, just as San doesn’t know him either.
“You’re very handsome, Wooyoung. Funny, too, when you can afford to unwind. But that’s not why I like you.”
A shiver races down Wooyoung’s spine. “Then?”
“You… remind me of myself.”
“What?” Wooyoung barks, laughter bubbling in his throat at the absurdity. “How can a prostitute remind you of yourself? Why draw such a comparison in the first place?”
San looks up, expression determined. “I don’t care about your former profession, Wooyoung, I wouldn’t care even if you made this choice for yourself. You did what you had to do to survive. I did, too.” He chuckles, though there’s no joy in his eyes. “We’re in the same predicament, you and I.”
“What the fuck could you possibly mean?”
“Pawns of the House, both of us. We’re still alive only because we’re useful. If we fuck up or stick our noses where we shouldn’t, we’re next on the chopping block.” San extends a hand. “I’m not your enemy, Wooyoung. Don’t turn me into one.”
Wooyoung’s nostrils flare. He looks down at San’s hand, palm sprawled upward, waiting to be taken, and slaps it away. The visible pain on San’s face makes him immediately regret his action.
“There are many others like me,” Wooyoung mutters, averting his gaze. He can’t stand the desolate look in San’s dark eyes. “I’m not the only one who was fucked over by the House.”
“No, but you’re the only one who hates it with every fiber of your being.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve been observing the people around us for years, Wooyoung. Ever since I was brought here as a kid.”
He drags a hand over his face, then sighs. There’s a certain lethargy behind his movements, and it’s not from overexerting himself in bed, that’s for sure.
“Everyone’s despicable at their core, myself included. For a while, I enjoyed what I did. Taking lives, blackmailing people I thought deserved it, ruining all the wealth they built up in a matter of days, just like I was ordered to. Until I realized all the peers I grew up with vanished, one by one. I found what was left of someone’s bracelet in the basement, near a torture chair, half buried in the ground along with filth and skin tissue. Someone misplaced a folder of documents in the archives, documents detailing what happened to my first and only partner. You don’t know him, you arrived at the House long after he was gone. He was like me, an orphan from the streets, brought in to do the House’s dirty work. But he dug around a bit too deep and got what was coming to him, or so the files stated. Who knows what happened to the rest of the people who were ‘like me.’ The House must have swallowed them. Every single person who’s left in this rotten organization is the same. That doesn’t absolve me of my sins, though. I kill despicable people. I myself am despicable. But that’s not how I want to be with you, because you might be the only one who hates this fucking place and everyone in it more than I do.”
Wooyoung grips the robe tighter. “Who do you take me for? Someone who thinks just like you? San, you shattered everything I knew about you tonight. I have no idea who the person in front of me is anymore, and you sure as hell don’t know who I am, either. Don’t think of me as a shoulder to cry on just because you believe us to be similar.”
San takes a step forward; Wooyoung takes a step back, wrapping the robe around his body. The murderous glance he sends San makes the man take three steps back, lips parted in shock. “I never said I knew you, Wooyoung. But I’d like to.”
Wooyoung scoffs. “Dream on. You got what you wanted from me already, now leave me be.”
San deflates. It’s hard to see his expression in the dark, but the sadness in his eyes cuts into Wooyoung’s heart like a knife. “I just wanted to—”
“Newsflash, San, things don’t happen just because you want them to happen!” Wooyoung screams, only lowering his voice because he doesn’t want any of the nearby guests to hear his frustrations through the thin walls. “Do you have any idea how many times I dreamed of escaping that godforsaken place? Or how many times I prayed someone would come save me? A rival gang, a hired assassin, the fucking cops, anyone? Did any of it happen? No. Even when I thought I was dead meat, that they would finally get rid of me after I killed that scumbag in cold blood, they gave me a gun and ordered me to kill. Since I’m so good at it. I only did it once, when I was at my wit’s end, but I had to keep going, had to obey and carry out my duties just to survive. And you… what? Want to be my friend? With benefits, maybe? Even the heartless Choi San wants something from me? Have I not been through enough?”
The robe feels like barbed wire around his body. He wants to tear it off, rip it to shreds, shove it in a dumpster and set it ablaze, but being naked in San’s vicinity again makes his skin crawl. San has already seen more than he’s supposed to—he doesn’t need another glimpse at Wooyoung’s nature, barely held together by spite and rage.
And now, as if he hasn’t already handed everything on a silver platter to San, Wooyoung breaks down crying in front of him. He’s turned to the side, but his staccato breath and repetitive wiping at his wet face give him away in no time. Soon, he can’t keep his shoulders from shaking, and his knees are seconds away from buckling under his weight. He’s cried when overwhelmed before, especially when alone in his room after a long day at work. It’s been so long since the last time he’s sobbed his heart out, he can’t even remember the last time it happened. Years have passed, that’s the only thing he’s willing to bet on.
“Wooyoung.”
San sounds so far away. He’s only a few steps away from Wooyoung, in the same spot he backed away earlier. Not even he wants to get close after seeing the inner depths of Wooyoung’s resentment, and how ugly and pathetic it makes him. That says a lot.
It’s alright. All Wooyoung has to do is get dressed and leave for the lounge. Clear his head, calm his anxious heart, convince himself not to walk into traffic—the usual. San won’t stop him. Perhaps he’s already given up.
But then, San takes a step closer.
“Wooyoung-ah.”
“No, San. Leave me be. Look at me, I’m a wreck. What could you possibly want from me if not my body?”
Another step. “You said so yourself. A friend, screw the benefits. As much as I’d love to spend another night with you, all I want is to talk to you. Get to hear your voice when you’re not holding back all the words you’re too afraid to say.”
“Why?” Wooyoung asks, his voice breaking as he tries to cage his sobs behind his dry lips.
One last step. San is within arm’s reach if only Wooyoung would turn around. “Aren’t you sick of being alone, Wooyoung-ah? Because I sure as hell am.”
“It’s not as easy as you make it out to be,” Wooyoung whispers, hugging himself.
“I never said it was easy. And I never intended this to change overnight. But if you ever want someone to talk to, I’m here.”
“What are you, a fucking therapist?”
“Well, no, for obvious reasons. Wooyoung, I…” San sighs. There’s no more fight in him. “If you want, we can both forget tonight ever happened. Next time we go on a mission, if we get paired up again, I’ll never show you this side of me again. It will be just like before.”
Wooyoung’s breath hitches. Slowly, he turns around, the robe slipping off his shoulders. It doesn’t fall entirely off his frame, only stops at his elbows as Wooyoung keeps his arms crossed over his chest.
“Is it really that easy, San? Do you just flip a switch and go back to how you were before? Would it really be the same? Would pretending nothing happened really work when the memories are still there?”
“You already know the answer to that, don’t you?”
Seeing San so unguarded, so human-like, is nothing short of shocking. Wooyoung is hesitant to call San human after witnessing how he carries out his assassinations, all of them defined by precision and swiftness without a margin of error. Maybe the vortex of emotions in Wooyoung’s heart caused him to drop his guard because he wants nothing more than to believe this human side of San is real, that it’s not an act. San claims it’s authentic, but what good is his word when he’s been lying all his life?
But then again, so has Wooyoung. Since he was brought to the House, he had to always watch his tone and manner of speech if he wanted to live another day.
Wooyoung takes a step forward, the confidence from earlier reigniting in his veins. He remembers how afraid he was of San when he wasn’t sure what San wanted from him, and how bold he became once he grasped the truth. This whole evening, Wooyoung has been oscillating between stable and unstable, his mind perpetually stuck in the past as he tries to focus on the present. If only letting go were as easy as San claimed. He doubts San believes that either.
He lifts a hand, feeling the robe slip down even more, once again revealing his naked body. This time, Wooyoung doesn’t pull it back, but he doesn’t fully shrug it off either.
He expects San’s sharp jawline to cut his palm upon contact. It doesn’t.
San watches him, his fierce eyes growing wide, confused, almost pleading. A question rests in his gaze, though Wooyoung can’t decipher it. He’s not used to this side of San, the one that actually feels emotions instead of shunning them away. San has always felt cold and calculated, like a robot. He’s supposed to lack any kind of emotional attachment because he wasn’t programmed with something like that.
“You said you liked me,” Wooyoung says, watching San’s wobbly eyes peer into his very soul. “Can you actually feel love?”
“I’m not a monster, Wooyoung-ah, no matter how badly others want me to be one.”
Wooyoung drags his thumb over San’s cheekbone, feeling the cold skin underneath. Somehow, San is colder to the touch than Wooyoung, even though he’s blushing. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Seeing you as a monster, too.”
“Can’t blame you. You’ve seen the worst side of me for months.”
“And now? I get to see the good side?”
San takes a deep breath through his nose, then exhales through his mouth. “Doubt I have a good side.”
“What else would you call this, then? You’re much better than the people at the House.”
“That doesn’t say much, though, does it?”
Despite the frailty of Wooyoung’s heart, he finds himself smiling. “The bar is truly in hell, isn’t it?”
“Well. Can’t imagine we’re going anywhere else once we kick the bucket, no?”
Wooyoung hums. “Keep going like that and I might start believing you have a sense of humor.”
“It’s there, but it’s rather underdeveloped. Didn’t really have anyone to practice with, you know?”
“So you want me around just so I can listen to your unfunny jokes? Is that it?”
“They can be funny… sometimes. Have a little faith in me, will you?”
Wooyoung tries to keep his eyes dry. He fails—miserably. His hand falls from San’s face, finding shelter in the soft shelf of San’s neck. The pulse pumping under his fingertips reminds him that San isn’t a machine or a freak of nature like others claim. Like Wooyoung, he was failed by vicious people and the corrupt society that allows those people to operate outside the law with little to no repercussions as long as they don’t meddle in the lives of normal civilians. But Wooyoung was also a normal person before all this. San, too. And yet no one looked for them. No one came to their rescue when they needed a way out. And, above all, no one cared about them.
Wooyoung’s shoulders shake—with his sobs and the weight of all the years he’s spent in the service of the House. How he wishes to turn back time and wipe away all the hatred and filth that blackened his heart since coming here. It’s all wishful thinking. Almost every night during his first year at the House, Wooyoung fell asleep with a prayer on his tongue—that he’d wake up in the morning and everything would have been nothing but a bad dream. But every morning he would find himself in the same creaky bed, the rays of the morning sun blinding him as they leaked through the torn, old curtains.
A fresh set of tears stream down his face, clinging to his chin before falling to the floor.
“Wooyoung-ah.”
“What?” Wooyoung asks, voice emotionless.
“If you’re not sure, we can always just drop it. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something by saying yes. We can always go back to how we were before. Or at least pretend.”
“What could I possibly owe you, San? I have nothing to my name other than the clothes in my closet and a couple pairs of sunglasses.” He barely swallows a sob. “I’m not worth risking everything. If they find out what we did, if this keeps going, they’ll… they’ll…”
It will be much worse than anything Wooyoung has gone through in his days as a prostitute. The only reason he was allowed to don the assassin attire was his killing skills, which proved impeccable after a few months of training. It was hard for Wooyoung to change his reputation around the House even as people came and went (more like disappeared into a body bag through the back door), but he knew the higher-ups had some twisted plans for him in case he ever used his seduction skills to turn their subordinates against them. As much as they belittled Wooyoung to his face, deep down, they feared his social skills and how he could use them to rally others into betrayal.
It’s the only reason they allowed San to accompany him on missions. San, the perfect weapon, the emotionless monster, would never fall for Wooyoung’s charms.
And yet here he is, looking at Wooyoung with nothing but kindness, a direct contrast to everything he stands for, everything he is meant to represent. And Wooyoung…
Wooyoung crashes into him, knowing San’s sturdy body would keep them from toppling over, and finally sets free the torrent of sobs he was fighting so hard to keep them away. He cries and cries like he hasn’t in years, as if he’s a child again and he broke his arm when he fell from his bike. The wails come out muffled against San’s neck, and as much as he wants to let them all out, he does not want others to hear him, or worse, call reception and have an employee check on him. It’s enough that San sees and hears him in his most vulnerable state.
If Wooyoung’s head was clear enough for him to care, he’d feel embarrassed or even angry. As it stands, all he can do is cry onto San’s shoulder while wrapping his arms around his broad yet comfortable back.
“Wooyoung-ah…” San whispers in a shaky voice. He went completely motionless the moment Wooyoung fell into his arms, only slightly leaning his head toward Wooyoung’s. His nose softly nuzzles Wooyoung’s long hair, but it’s a small touch, very hesitant at its core.
At first, Wooyoung thought San felt uncomfortable. It’s a stupid theory, one that wouldn’t have taken flight in Wooyoung’s mind if he wasn’t so unstable. No, San isn’t holding back because he doesn’t know how to deal with a sobbing man in his arms—he’s just respecting the boundaries Wooyoung has set throughout the night.
Wooyoung lets out a small sound, too feeble to be a sob, too soft to be a whine. San notices, asks “What is it?” and lets his partner guide his hands from his sides to Wooyoung’s waist.
“Hug me back,” Wooyoung tells him as he wraps his arms around San’s neck. As much as he hates to admit it, he wants—no, needs—someone to hold him, to tell him life is not as bad as he makes it out to be, even if it’s nothing but lies.
And San does hug him. Slowly, as if he’s not sure how to do it, or maybe he doesn’t want to make a wrong move and ruin anything. Wooyoung placed his hands on the warm skin of his hips, not over the robe, and San malfunctions for a second.
As Wooyoung hugs him tighter, San returns the affection, slowly embracing Wooyoung until his arms completely envelop the other man’s waist. His palm presses into the small of Wooyoung’s back, massaging softly—a clumsy attempt to soothe the pain.
It doesn’t do much, but Wooyoung melts into the touch, anyway. No matter what, he appreciates it.
He’s not sure how long it takes him to stop crying. The rain dies down significantly by the time Wooyoung’s tear ducts run dry, but San doesn’t stop massaging him for even a second. He does, however, grow more confident with his touches, running his palms up and down Wooyoung’s back. He’s all comfort and patience, the complete opposite of what Wooyoung has seen from him during their missions together.
Wooyoung doesn’t want to let go. But he has to. As he does, the robe finally slips from his shoulders, pooling at his feet.
He doesn’t pick it up.
“Wooyoung,” San calls to him, his warm voice contrasting his cold skin. His hands hold on to Wooyoung’s waist, thumbs caressing softly at the tender skin. “Did I hurt you?”
The question takes Wooyoung by surprise. “What makes you say that?”
“After we were done, you just kind of… froze. Even as you were undoing the knot, you were all tense muscles and panicked thoughts. You seemed fine before, so I wanted to know—”
Wooyoung looks away, ashamed. “It’s not your fault, San. I ruined everything.”
“Ruined what, exactly?”
“The night. The atmosphere. I was enjoying myself, so were you, but I just… had to let the past eat me alive when I was supposed to focus.”
“Supposed to focus?” San leans closer, waiting to see if Wooyoung will pull back. He does not. “Wooyoung, you should have told me something was bothering you. This isn’t a mission or a job, you needn’t focus on it as if your life depends on it.”
“But that’s the thing, San,” Wooyoung says, lightheaded. His hands shake at his sides as an invisible hand grips his heart, paralyzing him, making it hard to breathe. San might judge him for this—damn him if he does—but if he doesn’t spit out the grievances scratching his throat, a fresh set of sobs will choke him until he’s left with nothing but a bottomless abyss in his chest. “So many years of my life have depended on doing a good job in bed. Moaning when I was supposed to, and keeping my mouth shut when I wasn’t. It’s a bit hard to shake that off, especially since you’re the first person I’ve slept with in so long. I’m grateful you let me in charge, I really do. It felt refreshing. And hot, of course. Seeing you, of all people, on your knees for me, begging for something only I could give you… it drove me crazy, I had such a hard time thinking straight. But when it was all over, I felt awful, disgusting, the scum of the earth. As if I wasn’t any different from the people who treated me just like I treated you, taking and taking and leaving you to deal with it yourself. No one cared if I felt good, too. No one cared if they were too rough with me. Seeing you willing to surrender everything must have reminded me of that, but I only realized after it was over, after I’ve already taken everything I could from you.”
“Oh.” San’s hand leaves a chill on Wooyoung’s skin as he thumbs at Wooyoung’s cheek. That touch, despite its iciness, calms Wooyoung a little. The grip on his heart lessens, and he blinks away the stingy sensation in his eyes. “I never thought of it like that. I thought you would like—”
“Being given full control? A few hours ago, I would have agreed with you. Turns out my issues run deeper than I thought.”
They never set up a safe word. And why would they? Wooyoung was thinking of ways to subdue or even potentially kill San for most of their lovemaking session. Even with a safe word in place, Wooyoung isn’t sure he would have used it. Not during the act, that’s for sure. Sex with San is the best thing that’s happened to him since coming to the House, and that says a lot. Not to say that it was bad in any way, but Wooyoung’s standards are really low.
San’s other hand finds Wooyoung’s wrist. “Wanna sit down?”
Wooyoung looks around the room. One chair serves as their makeshift closet, strewn around with jackets and shirts and bags despite the large cabinet in the corner, while the other is too small for two people to sit in comfortably. “Bed?”
San nods, gently guiding Wooyoung toward the bed.
It’s a strange feeling, seeing San like this. It will take ages for Wooyoung to get used to it, though he knows his time at the House isn’t limitless. Sooner or later, they’ll also deem him disposable.
He sits down on the bed, with San following suit at a safe but not considerable distance. Still, Wooyoung won’t have it. He scoots closer, closes the gap, and lets his head rest on San’s shoulder.
With a sigh of relief, San also props his head against Wooyoung’s. It’s peaceful. Even the rain has been reduced to nothing but a few speckles of drops lightly knocking against the glass. The drumming of Wooyoung’s heartbeat slowed down to an acceptable amount, though the uneasiness has yet to fully go away. He hugs San’s arm, tracing lines over the skin.
“Turns out I’ll have to kill you after all,” Wooyoung blurts out, feeling the muscles in San’s arm tense. “I can’t have you walking around and telling everyone about my crybaby side.”
San scoffs, instantly relaxing. “I’d prefer you didn’t try that. I wouldn’t like killing you.”
Wooyoung lifts his head to search the other man’s face, pleased to find a small hint of amusement in the corners of San’s features. “Would you really do it? If I attacked you?”
San looks up, pondering. The slight curve of his lips tells Wooyoung it’s just pretense. “No. I would defend myself, but I wouldn’t outright kill you.”
“San…” Wooyoung places a hand on San’s face. “What are you? I never thought you could feel so much. If you’re putting on an act, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I’m not. We both have to pretend to be something we aren’t in order to survive. You said so yourself.”
“So is emotionless San a lie? Just like the glasses?”
“Not quite. Just another side of me, one that I’m not sure I can ever get rid of. I’m a great pretender, Wooyoung, but I’m not a saint.”
“Young-ah.”
“What?”
“Call me that. I’d like to hear how you sound when you say that.”
San tastes the name of his tongue. “Young-ah. Is that okay?”
Wooyoung nods. “More than okay.”
Then, he kisses San.
It’s just a clash of lips at first, lacking sweetness and finesse. They bump noses, and Wooyoung pulls away, embarrassed. It’s been years since he’s had sex; it’s been even longer since he’s kissed someone. But then he feels a hand brush by his jaw, tilting his chin until San’s velvety lips meet his, and he finally finds out what the infamous chapstick tastes like.
Strawberries.
Surprisingly, San is a pretty good kisser. Not the best—his movements are a little mechanical, but that could just be his lack of experience. Wooyoung believes San doesn’t kiss that many people, despite not being a virgin. It’s Wooyoung’s lack of practice that makes him anxiously clench his fist over his thigh, fearing he’s making a fool of himself. Once San angles their mouths better and deepens the kiss, however, something switches in Wooyoung’s mind, and he falls right back into the familiarity and warmth of kissing someone he feels genuine affection toward.
It’s strange, really. Not even a couple hours ago, he was planning to kill San with his bare hands. Now, he’s willingly climbing into his lap and wrapping his arms around San’s neck. Wooyoung doesn’t kiss him again, though every part of him wants nothing but that; he brackets San’s thighs with his own and hugs him, sighing contentedly as he settles into a comfortable position. There’s a magnetic tug to San’s mouth, and every time Wooyoung lifts his head from the crook of San’s neck to nuzzle his jaw or hair, he feels that irresistible pull calling to him.
Wooyoung breathes in the cheap shower gel clinging to San’s skin—caramel and pears, sickly sweet in a way that clings to his nose, and not in a pleasant way. He doesn’t care. It’s that smell that grounds him in reality, steadies his heartbeat, evens his breathing. San’s touches help, too—his hands glide over Wooyoung’s back, tracing his spine, squeezing his waist as he tightens his embrace. If the man is itching to let his hands wander lower, or ask for more kisses, Wooyoung can’t tell. Right now, he’s happy like this, just existing in San’s arms—allowing himself to exist without pushing San away or doubting every single word that comes out of his partner’s mouth. He might come to regret this in the morning, but would one more regret mean anything, considering just how many have piled up over the years in that little corner of his mind? They overflow, burdening him every time his mind wanders off, and he forgets not to think about it all—the mistakes, the misfortunes, the misery.
Fuck the House. Focus on me.
What San said earlier still resonates with Wooyoung’s fragile heart. That was the first time he thought he could trust San—a completely blind assumption that had no basis in reality. For all he knew, San could be putting up a shameless act. That possibility is still quite high. If that’s really the case, then an Oscar award should drop from the sky right into San’s arms. He deserves it.
But the likelihood that this is real, that it’s not a lie, is just as high. Wooyoung weighs the two options and quickly reaches a conclusion. Lie or no lie, he should take full advantage of this night, now that his heart feels lighter. If San is being honest, it might take a while until they’re paired up for another mission, until they have another chance at this. And if San deceived him… well, it doesn’t matter what Wooyoung does anymore. For his last night on Earth, he may as well take advantage of San, too.
Wooyoung leans back, peering into San’s eyes. There’s no malevolence there, at least not for him. Or maybe he’s delusional, only seeing what he wants to see. Because for once in his life, he wants to trust that the other person won’t use him like all the others.
“Kiss me,” he whispers.
San’s lips slot against his the very next second. Wooyoung suddenly feels very self-conscious of his dry lips, but San’s grip tightens around his middle, squeezing at the skin there to pull Wooyoung closer in his lap, and Wooyoung moans into the kiss, losing all sense of reason.
“Young-ah,” San says when they pull apart to breathe.
“Hm?”
“Every night, I dreamed of having you in my arms, just like this.”
“Cute. We’d kill scumbags during the day, but once night came, you’d dream of me naked in your lap?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Were you jerking off while thinking about me? Knowing I was in the room next to you?”
San nods, his skin growing slightly warmer under Wooyoung’s touch. “I always kept quiet, too afraid you were going to hear me.”
“Good choice. I would have torn your heart out the next time I saw you.”
“The same heart that beats for you?”
Wooyoung kisses him again to shut him up, though he can’t wipe the smirk off San’s mouth no matter how hard he tries.
“I think,” Wooyoung says between kisses, “I liked you more when you weren’t throwing cheesy lines at me.”
“And I think—” San moans as Wooyoung pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth, “—you’re lying.”
Their mouths fall into a lustful dance of tongues and teeth, rough and possessive. Both crave more from the other, and both are unwilling to give up the small victories they have accumulated—a nip on the other’s lip, a moan or a whimper, or in Wooyoung’s case, the indents of his nails into San’s broad back.
Wooyoung pulls back, gripping San’s chin to keep him from chasing after his lips. “Touch me, San-ah.”
Seeing him hesitate, Wooyoung repositions in San’s lap, not so subtly rocking his hips against San’s erection. With a whimper, San obeys, his hands immediately flying to Wooyoung’s ass, gripping the skin there with desperation and reverence.
Wooyoung chuckles. He gives a playful wiggle of his ass, sensing San’s grip tighten on his plump behind. “I give you permission to touch, and your first instinct is to fondle my ass?”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not in the slightest.”
He pushes San on the bed with another giggle. San’s black eyes no longer resemble two abyssal pools, but rather two galaxies riddled with stars. Wooyoung almost loses himself as he stares at the man below him. Just like San, he can finally afford to touch the skin he’s been eyeing for so long, and he wastes no time running his palms all over San’s chiseled chest. San enjoys it, even whines when Wooyoung brushes past his nipples.
As much as Wooyoung would love to play with them, he has other plans in mind. Maybe he’ll consider another night with San if this one ends well.
“San, do you… want to try having sex again?”
San watches him intently. “Are you sure?”
“Mm. Just, let’s drop the roleplay and whatnot, okay? It was fun, but I don’t want to trigger a negative reaction again. Will you be alright not begging for my cock down your throat?”
San rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “I think I’ll survive.”
A wicked grin blooms on Wooyoung’s face. “Good. Now take these ugly sweatpants off. I’ll blow you properly this time.”
“Take them off yourself.”
Wooyoung does, but not before pulling at the waistband to expose San’s hip, where he leaves a hickey that will turn purple come morning.
A few minutes later, San tugs at Wooyoung’s hair as he receives the best head of his life, or so he claims. Wooyoung preens at the praise, his ego mending itself after the earlier breakdown. His cheeks bulge from San’s cock as he takes him deeper and deeper, all the way to the back of his throat, keeping him there as long as he can. San sings so beautifully for him, his tiny whines and soft moans plucked from a dream Wooyoung never had. He’s never imagined how San would look or sound as he gets his cock sucked, especially by Wooyoung himself. Yes, Wooyoung has always found San attractive, but his major worry has always been staying alive in his proximity, not accidentally falling mouth-first onto his cock.
Wooyoung wonders how his past self would react if he knew he’d end up like this, head between Choi San’s legs as he slurps around his cock, looking up every time he pulls off to watch another piece of San’s sanity crumble to dust.
Wooyoung licks his lips and San’s cockhead every time before he dives right back in.
“Fuck, Wooyoung-ah…” San tugs at his hair, pulling him off gently. “Too much.”
“You really come fast, don’t you?”
San makes a face. “I actually don’t. But when it’s you…”
“I have that effect on you?” Wooyoung asks, wiping his bottom lip with his thumb. “You know, it sends a thrill through my body, too. Seeing you so worked up when all I do is suck your dick. I was just getting into it.”
“Just sucking my dick, he says, when it’s the best fucking blowjob of my life.”
“Then you gotta reevaluate your standards. Or not let anyone near your dick when they have no clue what they’re doing.”
Wooyoung leans back on his heels, feeling the slight chill in the room now that his robe lies forgotten on the floor. He feels exposed without it, but not uncomfortably so. The way San looks at him smothers his earlier worries to some extent. No one has ever looked at him this way, even before he came to the House. The shadows lurking in the corners of Wooyoung’s mind aren’t gone, but he has them under control for now.
For the first time in forever, Wooyoung feels secure. And, as fate would have it, he feels this way in the presence of one of the most dangerous men alive.
“So, how do you want me?” Wooyoung asks, tilting his head to the side to expose his neck. San’s gaze immediately jumps to the vulnerable skin, eyeing the protruding vein pulsating there like a starving vampire.
“On your back,” San stutters. If Wooyoung’s chuckle didn’t snap San’s focus in two, he would have probably started drooling.
“Sentimental much? You want to look me in the eye as you fuck me?”
“Well, yes, but…” His eyes shift lower, toward Wooyoung’s chest. For a second, Wooyoung thinks he missed a spot when he cleaned himself in the bathroom earlier, but a simple glance downward tells him everything he needs to know. San’s locked onto the metal bars piercing Wooyoung’s nipples, glistening shyly in the dark blue light of the room.
Wooyoung grins. “You can touch, you know. No need to ask anymore.”
“I know that,” San replies, leaning forward to get a feel for one of Wooyoung’s nipples. He’s being gentle, yet the simple action shoots a shiver of pleasure through Wooyoung’s body, right toward his cock.
San notices. His gaze snaps lower, where Wooyoung’s hips jerked forward the moment San’s thumb and index finger settled on his nipple.
“For someone who teased me about getting hard fast, you’re not that far behind,” San teases as he curls a palm around the base of Wooyoung’s length, prompting a startled gasp from the long-haired man.
“It’s not my fault you moan like a slut when I have your dick in my mouth,” Wooyoung counters, fucking into San’s fist as San leans forward to flick his tongue over the hardened nipple he’s been toying with. It doesn’t take Wooyoung long to leak into San’s palm. “Fuck, San-ah, get to it already.”
San releases the sensitive bud with a wet sound before looking up with amusement. “What does it look like I’m doing now?”
“Playing with me. Last time I checked, I was on driving duty. If you don’t want me to fall asleep at the wheel tomorrow, you better fuck me soon.”
“Sounds to me like you’re trying to pin your impatience on me. Can’t I play your chest a bit longer? You sound so charming when I suck around your pretty nipples. They’re sensitive, aren’t they?”
“You’re gonna bruise if you keep going like this.”
“Am I not allowed to bruise?”
Wooyoung slaps San’s hand away from his dick. He’s embarrassed, not frustrated, and only because he might actually come from this.
“If you keep delaying, I’ll push you on the bed and ride you till you cry.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat, Young-ah?”
Wooyoung falls on his back amidst the pillows, making grabby hands at San, who watches him with delight. His dimples are probably out in all their glory, but Wooyoung can’t see them. It’s grown quite dark outside.
As San makes his way toward him, Wooyoung asks him to turn on the nightstand lamp. San obeys without a question, his handsome face coming into view thanks to the orange light spilling from the side of the bed. Before, Wooyoung didn’t mind having sex in the darkness. If anything, he preferred it, counting his blessings because he didn’t have to see the ugly faces of some men who hired him. Now, he grounds himself in the present by focusing on San’s face. If he can link San’s body to his face and learn to recognize his movements, he won’t fall back into the depthless abyss he found himself after his second orgasm.
“Is it too bright?” San asks with a smile, his dimples popping. Seeing them warms Wooyoung’s heart in ways he didn’t think were possible, especially after his heart has chipped away from all his years of work at the House.
“It’s perfect. Now finish what you started or I’m driving us into a ditch tomorrow morning.”
“But if you do that, there’s no guarantee we’ll survive.”
“I’m fine with that,” Wooyoung counters as San resumes licking around his nipples.
He insists on stretching Wooyoung open again as he swirls his tongue around the pebbled buds, despite Wooyoung reassuring him that there’s no need, he’s still loose enough from earlier. Two slicked fingers slip inside without issue after San searches for the lost bottle of lube like a madman, and Wooyoung really has to fight to keep his voice down. He’s forgotten how good it feels to have his nipples played with when the other person actually knows what they’re doing, or at least cares about Wooyoung feeling good, too. Some of his worst experiences include awkward twirls of the tongue that reminded him of licking into an ice cream cone, or inappropriate usage of teeth. San only teases the edge of his teeth around the nipples when he brushes past Wooyoung’s prostate. Adding a third digit for good measure makes Wooyoung arch his back, effectively pushing his chest into San’s mouth.
“Ah, enough, enough. If you keep this up, you’ll jerk yourself off at the thought of being inside me, for all I care.”
“Why, because you’ll come?”
“Yes, smartass. Happy?”
San smiles so widely that his eyes turn into crescents. Wooyoung’s heart drops to his stomach before leaping back into his throat, struck speechless at this version of his partner.
“Very. There’s just one problem…” He looks around, avoiding Wooyoung’s eyes, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I really only had one condom on me. It’s not like I had plans for tonight, much less for us to go at it more than once.”
Wooyoung laughs genuinely and without restraint. The sound almost explodes out of him—he half expected San to say that, but seeing him look so serious makes the entire exchange hilarious to Wooyoung. “Fuck the condom, San. But if you give me an STD, I’ll bring you to the depths of hell with me.”
“I’m clean, Wooyoung,” San clarifies with a hint of annoyance. “What kind of person do you take me for?”
“Sorry.” Wooyoung looks away, deflated. “Until recently, I thought you weren’t that different from the others.”
The silence is awkward but short-lived. San caresses Wooyoung’s thigh, tapping him to get his attention. When Wooyoung looks up again, there’s no frustration on San’s face, only understanding. “Well, I’m not like them.”
“I know. We wouldn’t be here if you were.”
San looks down, hungrily eyeing the flushed cock resting over Wooyoung’s tummy, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, his gaze falls on his own hip, where the hickey Wooyoung left earlier pulses in a bright shade of red.
“You left quite a mark on me,” San says, pressing into the blemish hard enough to hurt. There’s no trace of pain on his face, only fascination. “No one’s ever done that.”
Wooyoung’s heart climbs in his throat. “Was I not supposed to?”
“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. This might be strange to say, but I feel honored to bear your mark. Like it’s a badge of honor. Can you bite me again when it heals? Please?”
Wooyoung hates that his cock spasms at San’s proposition. The wild look in the man’s eyes only adds to his arousal. San notices, for his smile grows wilder, but he doesn’t say anything as he continues to press into the hickey.
“Sure,” Wooyoung says, utterly hypnotized by the circular movements of San’s thumb over the mark. “As long as no one else sees it.”
“No one but us,” San promises, caressing Wooyoung’s thigh with a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Do you want to bite me too, San?”
San’s smirk grows. “Is that even a question? Of course. But I thought you didn’t let others bite you.”
“Consider yourself lucky, then. I made an exception earlier, too.”
“So it wasn’t a one-time-only thing?”
“It might be if you keep me waiting. Just—make sure you don’t bite where others can see, okay?”
“You have such little faith in me.”
“I only want to make sure I’ll still have my head on my shoulders when we get back to the House tomorrow. What do you say, should we have matching hickeys on the hip?”
San shuffles backward, angling his body until his breath ghosts over Wooyoung’s thigh. “I think I have a better idea.”
Wooyoung’s hickey burns into the inner side of the thigh, brighter and bigger than the other kitten bites San left earlier when he kneeled on the floor, hands tied behind his back as he was entirely at Wooyoung’s mercy. San only gets to appreciate his work for a few seconds before Wooyoung urges him to get on with it, kneeling San in the shoulder as he tries to conceal his impatience for exhaustion. Yes, it’s getting late, and he’s rightfully tired after two rounds, but if San doesn’t get inside him soon, he thinks he’s going to be the one to plead for mercy. He’s never begged anyone for cock before, and he’s not exactly enthusiastic to start now.
Thankfully, San spares him the extra wait. His throbbing cock gives away that he’s going through a similar kind of torture, but he doesn’t rush when he finally pushes the tip inside.
“You can go ahead, you know,” Wooyoung says matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure? You keep me so warm. It’s pretty cozy.”
“San-ah, for fuck’s sake, if you don’t hurry up, I’ll do it myself. You were inside me not even an hour ago—”
San blinks. In the next moment, he thrusts forward until he bottoms out, much to Wooyoung’s shock, who swallows his words at the sudden action. How the fuck does San reach even deeper than before?
“Thought you wanted me to hurry up?” San asks with feigned innocence.
Wooyoung fights the urge to moan. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I can shut up, alright.” San leans forward until their noses touch. “If I can have another chance at kissing you, that is.”
Wooyoung blows air in San’s face, momentarily stunning him. He stares at Wooyoung in confusion before he gets pulled by the hair into a searing, open-mouthed kiss.
As their lips and tongues glide against each other, San finds one of Wooyoung’s nipples, pinching slightly around the bud. Seeing how knowledgeable San is about his body already sets off fireworks through every single one of Wooyoung’s nerves. It’s one thing to be wanted because he’s pretty or skilled at his craft. It’s a whole other thing to be wanted simply because he is loved.
Well, he’s not sure San loves him. There’s a good chance he does, and that he toned down the intensity of his feelings in his confession to not scare Wooyoung away. Being loved is already intense enough, but being loved by Choi San feels like being at the center of a thousand supernovas going off at the same time. At least, that’s how Wooyoung feels once San starts fucking him properly, slow and steady until he falls into a pleasing rhythm. One of Wooyoung’s legs rests over San’s broad back while San grips his waist with his other hand, firmly enough to keep Wooyoung from jostling all over the place, but not hard enough to bruise.
Wooyoung, frankly, has no complaints. San knows what he’s doing, so he definitely didn’t lie about not being a virgin. His thrusts are snappy yet precise, and he maneuvers Wooyoung around until he can brush his prostate with every jerk of his hips. Sweat drips down his brow as he works hard at making Wooyoung fall apart under him, his lips permanently parted as his gasps keep filling the room alongside Wooyoung’s muffled moans and the filthy melody their bodies are playing together.
Thus, Wooyoung is on cloud nine. The familiarity of this dance momentarily makes him fall into old habits, like exaggerating his moans or filling the silence between them with empty words of praise. San does a remarkable job by default, and he’s acting smug as fuck about it, so there’s no need to further boost his ego. If anything, Wooyoung faking any of this would only ruin the atmosphere between them, and would for sure upset San.
Good thing there’s no need for any of that. Instead of making himself louder than he actually is, Wooyoung struggles to keep his voice down. He’d very much prefer if people didn’t knock on their door to complain about the noise. Still, it’s hard. Wooyoung even covers his mouth at some point, but San, like the devil he is, notices and fucks harder and faster—Wooyoung has to bite his tongue to keep himself quiet, and he doubts the frown on his face is in any way intimidating since San responds with a grin that turns his eyes into crescents.
“I’m starting to regret that I didn't let you move when I rode you earlier.”
San preens at that. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “Oh? Am I that good, Young-ah?”
“Now, now. Don’t start fishing for compliments when you’re supposed to focus.”
It’s only a matter of time until Wooyoung starts playing with his nipples, pinching and twisting them under San’s hungry gaze. He can still feel the warm skin around the buds, where San’s tongue explored freely until Wooyoung kicked him in the shoulder, a reminder that they are on a time limit. Well, not really, but Wooyoung would love to get his eight hours of sleep. There are rumors that San doesn’t ever sleep, that he keeps watch from his window, catching anyone who tries to sneak out of the House.
Wooyoung doubts that. Tonight, he will probably disprove another one of those ridiculous rumors that don’t belong in their line of work, but in a creative writing class.
When San’s movements become slightly uncoordinated, it’s clear lust has taken full control of him, and that their little game will soon come to an end. He’s still doing a great job, matching the rhythm of Wooyoung’s hips that push down against him, and grinding into that spot that makes Wooyoung curl his toes and moan so hard that he has to clasp a hand over his mouth to muffle himself. That only seems to spur San to fuck harder, to grip his thigh tighter as he holds Wooyoung’s leg over his shoulder.
Unlike Wooyoung’s teasing, San has plenty of stamina to spare. He didn’t have to do much to achieve his previous two orgasms, so now he can put to good use all the energy he’s saved up. Some of the other men Wooyoung has been with in the past finished the deed in as little as three minutes, whereas San looks like he can keep going for a while, impending orgasm be damned.
Wooyoung appreciates the outstanding performance from his partner in crime—he’d rate it a nine out of ten, just not to San’s face because he doesn’t want to inflate his ego that much just yet. He feels slightly dizzy from all the jostling. San isn’t being rough, at least according to Wooyoung’s standards; it’s Wooyoung who insists on pushing his hips against San’s, meeting him in the middle to make the exchange messier, filthier. And to show San that he wants this just as much as he does.
Well, that might not be true. San has been crushing on him for what sounds like months, maybe even years. That’s not important right now. What’s important is that San is good as fuck in bed, and Wooyoung wants to match his enthusiasm, no matter how sore he’ll be in the morning. If anyone from the House catches him limping, he’ll just say he sprained his ankle during the mission. Simple as that. No one will doubt his word, as long as he doesn’t make a habit of it.
The unfortunate part is that Wooyoung does want more of this. If San means what he said, if this isn’t an elaborate ploy to fuck him before turning him in to his superiors, then perhaps Wooyoung might just want this to happen again.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to parse a thought from start to finish. San’s breathing also grows rougher, his grunts more frequent.
“You know, perhaps I underestimated you,” Wooyoung breathes out as he reaches for his aching cock. “You last much more than others.”
The dimples re-emerge as a wide smile takes over San’s face. “Really? Do I get a prize for that?”
“Are my heartfelt compliments not enough? You’re so greedy, San-ah.”
Just as Wooyoung is about to wrap a hand around his length, San gently takes him by the wrist and places his hand on the mattress. The frenzied tempo of his hips pauses; when their eyes meet, San murmurs, “Let me do it.”
He lets go of Wooyoung’s leg to anchor his palm in the sheets, his other hand curled around the base of Wooyoung’s cock. The glimmer in his eyes steals Wooyoung’s breath, and when San resumes his relentless pace, his movements just as fierce as the determination that blazes in his dark eyes, Wooyoung chokes on air.
San’s hips stutter for a moment; he regains his senses immediately, but it’s clear he’s so close to breaking. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”
Wooyoung moans, stopping himself halfway as he realizes that might be interpreted as agreement. San isn’t lying, but Wooyoung doesn’t want to give him any more satisfaction when he seems to thrive off praise. “Could say the same about you. I can feel the mess you make inside me, you know.”
“Can’t help myself, Young-ah. Not when it’s you.”
All the pent-up ecstasy bursts out of Wooyoung after a mere three sharp thrusts perfectly coordinated with San’s hand. His self-control goes flying out the window, embracing the rain and early summer night air as he comes with a staccato moan, shooting onto his chest what little cum he still can after two orgasms. San guide him through it all, watching Wooyoung come apart as he continues rutting into him. His hand glides seamlessly up and down Wooyoung’s cock, spurred by the abundance of precum he leaked like a faucet while San pounded him boneless.
Wooyoung clutches the sheets, desperately trying to ground himself back into reality as the orgasm shakes his entire worldview. Without even looking for it, his spots San’s hand, the one still gripping his hip, and clasps it until the overbearing sensation wears off and he can think clearly again.
Then, a filthy whine cuts through Wooyoung’s labored breathing, and he feels San’s release filling his insides, warm and sticky. San’s pacing picks up, powered by desperation to ride out his own pleasure, and Wooyoung would love to match him, to push his hips down into San’s thrusts like he’s been doing so far, but he can’t lift a single finger. Even his grip on San’s hand wavers. That’s when San does something that leaves Wooyoung breathless for the third time in a minute—he grabs Wooyoung’s hand, presses it into the wrinkled sheets, and intertwines their fingers.
The world goes quiet around Wooyoung. There’s no rain splattering against the glass, no bed creaking, and no buff man above him catching his breath after coming inside him. All that matters is that cold hand draining the warmth from his skin, carrying the same sense of security Wooyoung has felt from San tonight.
The remnants of his orgasm melt from his thoughts before he gives into his impulses and squeezes back.
The sounds of rain return in the background, now distant and faint, like the unpleasant thoughts plaguing Wooyoung earlier in the evening. They’re still there, somewhere buried inside him—they’re not gone. Wooyoung doubts he’ll ever rid himself of them. Despite what others say, time doesn’t heal all wounds.
San’s head has been resting over Wooyoung’s chest ever since he came down from his own high, his warm breath tickling Wooyoung’s collarbone. Wooyoung isn’t sure how it happened, but his other hand ended up in San’s hair, his fingers laced through San’s short, dark strands. When San looks up, Wooyoung even combs through his hair. Slowly, gently. It’s not a moment of vulnerability, he tells himself, despite being nothing but wide open from every angle. He doesn’t feel drawn to San, he’s just… grateful, that’s all. Conveniently, he forgets that he’s never acted like this with anyone, or, more accurately, he makes himself forget. This isn’t the time to think about what the future may hold for him and San, not when they might not have a future at all.
“You good?” San asks, squeezing their intertwined hands lightly. A stray bang falls in his eyes; Wooyoung sweeps it back for him.
“Peachy. But my legs are starting to cramp. Can you…”
“Oh. Right.”
San leans back, pulling out slowly, though he stops halfway. They both know they’re gonna make a mess (Wooyoung can feel some of it already drip out of him because of San’s softening cock), but what can they do? They didn’t grab a towel or the extra blanket in the cabinet, so will they have to snuggle together to avoid sleeping in the wet spot? Somehow, Wooyoung doesn’t hate the idea.
“Wait.” San grabs the sweatpants he was wearing before, the ones Wooyoung took off with his teeth, folds them messily, and places them under Wooyoung’s ass. “I have an extra pair in my bag, so it’s fine.”
“Didn’t think I’d ever see empathy from you, San,” Wooyoung says, hissing as San separates from him and the fruit of their labor drips out of him. The sensation brings back a couple unpleasant memories, but he doesn’t give in to the despair they bring forth.
“I admit I’m still getting used to it,” San explains. His hands wander to Wooyoung’s thighs, caressing the skin as Wooyoung shifts into a more comfortable position.
He’s going to be so sore tomorrow. Normally, he’d sprint to clean himself up, the mere sensation of foreign release sticking to his skin making him sick to the stomach. Now, he’s too tired to move, too tired to even care after three fulfilling orgasms. Going to sleep like this isn’t an option, so he does something he hasn’t asked someone to do for him in years.
“Clean me up? Please?”
He expects San to agree, since he wasn’t against opening him up earlier. Wooyoung’s assumptions prove right.
“Give me a minute.”
San slips into the bathroom, cleaning himself quickly before returning with a damp towel. He’s gentle as he wipes away the mess, especially around Wooyoung’s still-sensitive cock.
Is the Hound of the House still there, deep down? Or did he switch places with this clone when Wooyoung locked himself in the bathroom?
Wooyoung urges his body to relax, to welcome another man’s touch when it seeks to comfort him, not hurt him. To some extent, he succeeds, but he must still be a little tense because San says, “I should have come on your stomach.”
Wooyoung frowns. “Why the hell would you do that?” he asks, too snappy for his liking.
“You seem uncomfortable.”
“Well, if you came on my stomach, I would have felt even worse.” He shrugs, his gaze wandering out the window as San holds the towel in his hands, his task now finished. “It’s alright. I’m just… not used to someone doing this for me.”
San watches him for a few seconds, still as a statue. Wooyoung isn’t sure what he would find in San’s eyes if he looked at him. Pity? Compassion? Something else, something like disappointment? The answer is within reach, but Wooyoung doesn’t feel like finding out, at least not tonight.
After giving Wooyoung’s thigh squeeze, San leaves for his bag, taking out a pair of underwear and some black sweats.
“You want me to give you your clothes, too? Or do you—”
“I’d prefer not to sleep naked, thank you very much. Why, do you want to ogle me while I sleep, too?”
San looks down. It’s hard to see, but Wooyoung swears he sees the tips of San’s ears turn a bright shade of pink. “That’s not it. I wanted to ask if you want to get your clothes yourself, or if you want me to bring them to you.”
“You fucked me twice, San. I’m not moving from here until morning comes, and even then I’ll grumble with every step I take. Give me my bag.”
San hands him the bag before disappearing behind the bathroom door to brush his teeth. At first, Wooyoung doesn’t suspect it, but when San takes too long to “just brush his teeth” like he claimed, it becomes clear he dipped out of sight to give Wooyoung some privacy to get dressed. Or maybe he’s taking the biggest shit of his life, Wooyoung thinks with an idiotic smile on his face, though he doubts that’s the case. The toilet was flushed long ago.
He asked San to bring him his bag because he didn’t want the man to snoop around his belongings like Wooyoung did earlier. Not like he has much to hide. Other than his clothes, gun, and secondary switchblade, there’s nothing of value inside. And if San really wanted to look through Wooyoung’s stuff, he would have done so while Wooyoung was in the shower earlier.
Wooyoung sighs. Paranoia has seeped so deep into his bones, he can never wash it all away, but maybe, just maybe, he can learn to trust San in time.
It doesn’t take him long to decide on his clothes for the night: a pair of black briefs, some blue shorts, and a shirt with an unfamiliar band name written on it. He settles into his half of the bed, facing away from the window and the lamp, his heavy eyelids beckoning him to sleep.
Not yet. He won’t sleep a wink until he asks San a few more questions. If San ever decides to come back to bed.
Just as Wooyoung thinks this, the bathroom door opens and closes, and the light switch is turned off. The nightstand lamp follows, drenching the room in darkness save for the eerie blue glow from outside. The rain has died down for the most part, only small droplets bouncing off the window into the chilly summer air.
San slides in bed, his movements light as a feather, a direct contrast from how he was fucking earlier—Wooyoung’s face heats up as he recalls San’s focused face, his muscles flexing as he moved, the wet sounds of skin on skin… Good thing he’s too spent to get hard a fourth time.
The distance San puts between them frustrates Wooyoung so much that he turns around as soon as San’s back hits the mattress. His hand reaches for San’s collar, but San isn’t wearing a shirt to begin with.
Of course.
“Any reason you’re staying so far away from me? You’ll fall out of bed if you turn to the side.”
“I can’t sleep on the side. Just a fun fact.”
“Why?”
“My shoulders are too broad. It’s uncomfortable.”
“So you sleep on your back? No wonder you’re a psychopath.”
San sighs. “Actually, sleeping on your back is really good for you. And I’m not—”
“I know,” Wooyoung says softly, dragging himself to San until they’re skin to skin. “It was a joke. Are you mad?”
San scoffs. “If my pride took a hit every time I heard people call me names, I would have lost it long ago. Although I would appreciate it if you of all people didn’t call me a psycho.”
Wooyoung curls into San’s side. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Oh my god, Wooyoung, I’m not mad.”
“I know. If you were, you would have snapped my neck.”
San sighs. “Lift your head a little.”
San releases his arm from between their bodies to slide it under Wooyoung’s head, wrapping around his partner’s frame until his palm cups Wooyoung’s shoulder. There it is again, that feeling of security Wooyoung has been craving for years while he was chained to the House like a dog. The sensation makes him feel warm, despite San’s low body temperature. Maybe that’s what being embraced by the man Wooyoung thought would be his undoing does to him.
On top of that, resting his head on San’s chest while San holds him feels ten times more intimate than San holding his hand as he comes.
To distract himself from the butterflies flapping their wings in his belly, Wooyoung asks, “Are you always this cold?”
“Not my fault your body is as hot as a furnace.”
“You’re freezing. Are you okay?”
“They slowed down my heart rate when I was young. So I could turn numb to all the blood they made me spill. So I could stop feeling so easily.”
He says that perfectly casually, as if relaying news about the weather forecast. Wooyoung can’t help but look up in shock.
“Jesus. How are you alive?”
San looks back at him in utter resignation. “I’m surprised I lasted this long, too.”
San is the embodiment of his name—sturdy, unshakable, tough as a mountain. Wooyoung has never seen anyone leave a bruise on him, let alone cut him. To think he might have a time bomb strapped where his heart should be…
“Are you dying?”
San laughs at that. “We’re all dying, Young-ah. Every second of our lives, the sand in our hourglass slips away until there’s nothing left.”
“That’s not what I meant, San.”
“I don’t know, Wooyoung,” San says, his eyes turning wistful. “Honestly, I have no idea what kind of drugs they pumped into me. I don’t feel like dying, and my body has been like this for over a decade now. Who knows, maybe I’ll live forever.”
Wooyoung buries his face in San’s chest, feeling the faint pulse of his cold heart. “You wish. It’s pretty nice hugging you to sleep like this, actually. You’re like a body pillow filled with ice.”
“I’m not that cold,” San says with a pout.
Wooyoung ignores his heart doing somersaults at San’s whiny voice. It’s getting progressively harder to keep his eyes open, so he needs to get to the point before it’s too late. If he leaves it until tomorrow morning, he might never get his answer.
“If you liked me so much, why did you never book my services? You had the right, given your rank. You’ve seen me around the house for years, surely you didn’t start paying attention to me only now that we got paired up. Or am I wrong?”
The grip on Wooyoung’s shoulder tightens for a second. San opens his mouth to speak, only to close it. Just as anxiety blooms in Wooyoung’s heart, thinking San lied to him about everything, he gets what he was looking for.
“It didn’t feel right. And I didn’t want just sex from you.”
“Then what did you want?”
“Back then? I’m not so sure myself. You did catch my eye—you caught everyone’s eye—but I didn’t want to become just another sleazebag in your eyes. Even if I was nice to you during our time together, you would have never trusted me. The House’s dog wanting more than sex from you? You would have thought I was trying to trick you into trusting me, to find out if you wanted to betray the House or not.”
“I still think that. Even now,” Wooyoung confesses.
San takes a deep breath, holding it for a long time, like cigarette smoke. When he exhales, he tenses a little. “You won’t trust me until we make it back to the House, right?”
“Honestly, if they drag me to the basement as soon as you report on me, I won’t even mind that much. I’ll still curse you in my dying moments, but at least the sex was great.”
“I won’t betray you. I give you my word.”
Wooyoung chuckles. “Ah, Sannie, you and I both know our words don’t mean shit in our profession. But sure, I’ll choose to believe you for now, just so I can sleep peacefully before getting flayed alive tomorrow.”
“No, Wooyoung, I mean it. I won’t betray you. Everything I said tonight is true. I…”
His voice quivers toward the end, prompting Wooyoung to look up. He’s not sure what he expects—to see San cry? It would take much more than that for him to cry. His face doesn’t disclose his hurt, but his voice does.
“I could tell you hated every moment at the House,” San adds. “Everyone else seemed to fit right in; it was exactly where they wanted to be. But not you. You didn’t deserve to be there, but the House swallowed you whole, just like they did with me, and all I could do was watch. They really wanted to execute you when you killed that guy, you know.”
Wooyoung feels dizzy. The air leaves his lungs, and he can’t take his eyes off San.
“Why did they change their minds, then?” he manages to ask after drawing a shaky breath.
What San says next makes the room spin.
“I was present at the meeting. Told them to reconsider, given the circumstances. You obviously lost your sense of reason, but your cut was precise, almost surgical, even. It wasn’t messy, there was no need for more. You didn’t stab him multiple times to get revenge on him, even though you couldn’t take it anymore. You cut once, all the blood gushed out, and he went limp in mere seconds. A murder like this isn’t mere impulse, it’s fueled by true killer instinct, something the House is in desperate need of. That’s the gist of what I told them, hoping they would believe me and keep you alive, even if that meant dragging you to a deeper hell. Don’t look at me like you owe me something, Wooyoung. I’ve watched too many people who wanted to change things around here leave in body bags. I couldn’t let you be another casualty if I could prevent it.”
Wooyoung sits up properly, gazing into San’s dark eyes from above. These aren’t the eyes of a ruthless monster, at least not when they peer at Wooyoung. “But why? You didn’t know me back then. We never even exchanged a word. Just because you liked me? How can you like me when you know nothing about me?”
“I didn’t like you back then, Wooyoung. Finding you attractive isn’t liking you. But I did feel drawn to you. I could barely keep myself from you. I thought everything would be fine as long as we kept to ourselves, but being in your proximity in recent months made things so much more difficult, Young-ah. Hell, I think you’ve been suspecting me since our first mission together.”
Wooyoung shakes his head. “I was scared shitless of you back then. Thought you were watching me so intently because you were waiting for me to make a mistake, to give you a reason to take me out for good. I wasn’t on par with you in terms of skills, so I thought the higher-ups sent you to keep an eye on me and report any of my mistakes.”
“You would be correct.”
“Did you ever tell them about any of my blunders?”
“If I did, would you still be here, breathing?”
Wooyoung feels a familiar sting in the back of his eyes. He’s cried enough to make up for all the years he hasn’t shed a single tear. Now he just wants to sleep. Some part of him should feel anger—at San for hiding this from him, for playing savior without telling him, for making decisions in his name, like advocating for him to become an assassin instead of getting punished for his crimes. But that’s the thing, there was no other path for Wooyoung to take. If San is telling the truth, he’s the reason Wooyoung is alive, which is a bitter pill to swallow.
“I didn’t tell you this because I want something in return, Wooyoung. Well, other than your trust, though you are within your right to doubt me. At the end of the day, both of us are nothing but puppets. Well, everyone is, but the others either don’t care or simply don’t realize it. Killing is all I’ve ever known, but that’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life.” The corners of his mouth curl slightly. “I like poetry.”
“Poetry?” Wooyoung huffs. “That’s more shocking than everything you’ve told me so far.”
“Yes. And gardening.”
“What?”
“Well, I have no experience with it, but I’ve been researching it in my free time.” San stares at the ceiling with a wistful expression. “Some days I want nothing more than to open a flower shop.”
Wooyoung somehow manages not to burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. San’s sense of humor might need some polishing, but the steadfast expression on his face betrays his sincerity.
“Selling flower pots is the last thing I imagined you doing, San-ah.”
“I always liked flowers, ever since I was a kid. But that’s not important right now.” He shakes his head, focusing his attention back on Wooyoung. The sadness in his eyes is gone, replaced by yet another emotion Wooyoung never expected to see from San—hope. “I have a proposition for you, Young-ah.”
“Shoot.” Straight into my heart, if you can.
“Run away with me.”
This time, Wooyoung doesn’t stop himself from laughing. He expects San to join him, despite the terrible delivery of the joke, but San doesn’t move—he only stares, no fear or reluctance in his eyes, just the hope Wooyoung noticed earlier gleaming ten times brighter before.
“You’re serious,” Wooyoung says, his face dropping. He pins San down with his gaze, but San doesn’t seem daunted. “San-ah, are you nuts? You fucked me once, yet you’re asking me this? You know what will happen if we try to run away. They’ll find us and kill us. We know too much. Even if we go to the police, they have moles there, too.”
“Then let’s kill them all. Burn the whole House down, and bury the evidence once we’re done. But not before we stash all their money and jewelry in the trunk and drive off into the sunset. What do you say?”
Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a while. At first, he wants to argue with San for even trying to suggest something so insane and reckless. He quickly deflates, too worn out from the earlier exertion, and he’s about to sigh in defeat when an idea sparks in his head, fueled by the ambition he glimpsed in San’s eyes earlier. Even if the higher-ups have no intention of getting rid of them soon, it’s only a matter of time until they figure out something fishy is going on between two of their best agents. Once that happens, they’re as good as doomed.
So why not tear the whole place down if death looms above them, anyway? There’s no guarantee they’ll succeed—hell, someone will probably put a bullet through their heads before they can do any real damage to the House. Still, just dreaming about it—the House in ruins after everything burns down, all the awful people that have ever wronged Wooyoung lying dead at his feet, everything those grumpy, fossilized men in charge have built throughout the years turning into dust…
The opportunity is too tempting to pass on.
Wooyoung grins, mirroring the devious expression on San’s face. “I like how you think, San-ah.”
Drowsiness be damned, Wooyoung and San spend the next hour plotting, discussing the details and risks. Excitement burns pleasantly on the tip of Wooyoung’s tongue, fueling his words. San matching his eagerness only makes Wooyoung crave him more. If he weren’t so tired, he’d ask for round four.
“We can’t afford to be hasty,” Wooyoung says toward the end of their debriefing session. Yawns keep cutting through their chat, and the Alarm in five hours notification on Wooyoung’s phone scolds him whenever he turns on the screen to write down their brainstorming results in the Notes app. “I’ll try to align my missions with yours without arousing suspicion, but you cannot be looking at me the way you are right now. It will doom us both.”
“I’m not stupid, Wooyoung-ah. I wouldn’t do anything that might endanger you.”
Wooyoung drops the phone on the nightstand before returning to his initial position, curled against San’s side while San embraces him. “You’d better.”
“You have my word, even if it doesn’t mean much.”
Right now, it means everything to me, Wooyoung thinks but doesn’t say out loud. Instead, he asks, “What do you say, San? Do you really think we can manage a controlled burn? Or will it destroy us both?”
San sighs, his breath tickling the top of Wooyoung’s head. As if Wooyoung’s hair isn’t disheveled enough already, San rubs his nose against it, messing it up further. Everyone was horribly wrong when they gave San titles such as Hound, Panther, Wolf… He’s obviously a cat—a scary, muscular cat, but a cat nonetheless.
“Only ashes will be left in our wake,” San says boldly, his fingertips pressing into Wooyoung’s skin, a gesture that spells both possessiveness and safeguarding. “I’ll make sure of it.”
It sounds too good to be true. Wooyoung has spent years praying for someone to help him, he just didn’t expect that person to be San, someone who has been stuck in the same cage as him, even longer than he has. But San cannot bear this cross alone. He’s not the salvation Wooyoung prayed for; he’s just a means to an end. If they want to make it out, to have the tiniest chance at freedom, they’ll have to fight tooth and nail for it.
Wooyoung has been fighting to stay alive for years. He won’t stop now, not when he’s this close to his heart’s desire.
“San.”
“Yes?”
“If this is all a lie, if this is nothing but an act, I’ll…”
“You’ll kill me?” San asks casually, amusement lingering in his blunt question.
“Yes. And… I’ll hate you. So much. For giving me false hope, for making me feel like I’m not alone, only to take everything from me.”
San makes a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. His hand leaves Wooyoung’s shoulder, making its way to Wooyoung’s waist to offer a squeeze that feels too intimate for two people who have only known each other’s bodies for less than three hours.
“You won’t be alone from now on, Young-ah. I’ll make sure of that, or I’ll die trying.”