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Wooyoung slipped in through the service entrance, smooth as breath. Black suit. Earpiece in. Hands in his pockets like he belonged.
He didn’t.
This place was a palace dressed as a house. Glass chandeliers, ivory columns, marble floors that gleamed like they’d been buffed with the tears of the poor. Waiters moved like shadows, faces tight, balancing gold-rimmed trays of caviar and wine older than Wooyoung’s childhood trauma.
God, rich people were exhausting.
He passed a woman laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t funny. A man in a three-piece suit talked about crypto like it was a personality trait. Wooyoung wanted to gag.
And then - him.
Choi San.
The crown jewel of Korea’s elite. Old money, old name. Born into it all. Inherited a tech empire and this oversized mansion that looked like it belonged on a Versailles brochure. And tonight, he was hosting some high-stakes business deal under the guise of a gala.
There he stood - near the grand staircase, a glass of something expensive in hand, black suit hugging his body like sin itself. The picture of control. Wooyoung could practically smell the entitlement from across the room.
Perfect.
The opposite of Wooyoung in every way.
Wooyoung, who stole for a living. Who took what he needed and didn’t apologize. Who counted every job like a borrowed heartbeat. Who knew his luck wouldn’t last forever.
He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here for what San wouldn’t miss until it was already gone.
He moved fast. Slipped past the hallway guards with a lift of a stolen badge and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Cut through the drawing room, ducked behind a pillar when a maid turned her head too quick. One camera above - he jammed the feed with a click of his wristwatch.
He was good.
One of the best.
The grand staircase loomed, roped off and guarded by a bored-looking man who probably didn’t get paid enough to care. Wooyoung waited until the next tray of champagne rolled by - slid behind it, quick and quiet, like smoke - and then up the stairs before anyone noticed the shimmer of his shadow.
The halls upstairs were quieter. Gilded wallpaper. Thick carpets that muted his footsteps. He knew what room he was looking for. He’d memorized the layout for weeks. The real party wasn’t on the first floor - it was in the vault behind San’s private study. And Wooyoung was already halfway to it.
Just one more hallway.
Just one more locked door.
He could taste the payday on his tongue.
Just one more hallway. Just one more door. The keypad shimmered faintly under the sconce light, tucked beside the ornate double doors of San’s private study.
Wooyoung exhaled slow, steadying his fingers. His gloves were thin, flexible - he’d practiced cracking this exact model in a warehouse basement with shitty lighting and a timer ticking in his ear. He knew the make, the weakness in the bottom circuit, the slight delay after the third digit.
Click.
The first pin.
His heart thumped once - too loud. He hated that. The adrenaline always got too close, too early, made it hard to hear, to think - but he could handle it. He always did.
Click.
The second.
Behind him, the mansion was muffled - just distant murmurs of laughter and string instruments and champagne flutes clinking like war drums for the elite. He was so close. He could already feel the velvet pouch in his hand. Feel the weight of the stones he was about to liberate from the people who wouldn’t even notice they were gone.
Click.
Third.
His breath caught.
Sweat slid down the back of his neck.
The vault was behind that door. Six feet in. Gold-plated safe. One of San’s many “private investments” - a nickname for blood money and blackmail tucked behind biometric security and antique art.
Just one more step.
Just one more pin.
Wooyoung’s fingers twitched - almost there -
“...And who might this be?”
His body locked.
Heart in his throat.
Eyes wide.
Fuck.
That voice - velvet smooth, low, with that polished, practiced tone of someone who always got what they wanted.
Choi San.
Of course it would be him.
Wooyoung didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. His mind raced. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard the lock? Had he seen his face?
Silence stretched.
“Did you get lost on the way to the wine cellar?” San’s voice came again, closer now. Almost playful. “Or were you looking for something… a little more expensive?”
Wooyoung finally turned.
And there he was.
Leaning casually against the wall, suit jacket open, sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he’d done it himself. One hand in his pocket. The other holding a half-empty glass of something rich and red.
His head tilted. A smirk played at the corner of his lips.
“You don’t work here,” San said, voice lilting. “And you definitely weren’t invited.”
San didn’t move at first. Just stared. Studied.
Wooyoung straightened, smoothing the front of his suit like it was just another normal night, like he wasn’t this close to robbing one of the most powerful men in the country.
He flashed a smile, all teeth and arrogance. “Wow. You’re prettier in person, Mr. Choi. Your pictures don’t do you justice.”
San arched a brow, amused. “Is that so?”
“You should sue whoever took your LinkedIn photo,” Wooyoung added, voice light, eyes flicking over him like he wasn't panicking. “They made you look like a tax auditor.”
A soft chuckle. San pushed off the wall and took a slow step forward. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”
“Am I?” Wooyoung tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You don’t even know what I look like.”
San’s eyes glinted. “Don’t I?”
Before Wooyoung could flinch, San reached forward - two fingers catching the edge of the black fabric covering the bottom half of his face. He tugged.
The mask slipped off in one smooth motion.
And for a second, they just stared at each other.
Wooyoung’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected to be caught. But he really hadn’t expected to be seen.
San’s gaze raked over his face, slow and unhurried. Like he was admiring a painting. Or sizing up a new pet.
“I knew you were pretty,” San murmured, voice low and warm. “Like a stray little black cat wandering in… looking for treats.”
Wooyoung shivered.
Something about the way he said it - fond and sharp at the same time, like he already owned him - sent heat curling up his spine.
He took a shaky breath. “Do you always flirt with your attempted robbers?”
San smiled. “Only the ones that make it past my front door.”
San circled him once. Slow. Calculated. Like he had all the time in the world.
Wooyoung stood still, jaw tight, pulse hammering under his skin. He kept the smirk on his face, even as San stepped in close again - fingers brushing down the lapel of his jacket.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” San said, soft and amused. “No more witty remarks?”
Wooyoung scoffed, light and easy. “Trying to let you enjoy the view.”
San hummed, fingers drifting to his collar. “How generous of you.”
Then - deliberately - he undid the first button. Wooyoung tensed.
“Hey,” Wooyoung started, laughing too lightly, “if you wanted to undress me, you could’ve just asked - ”
“Shh.”
Another button. Then another.
“I want to see what kind of liar you are underneath all this polish,” San said, voice silky. “You looked so smooth downstairs. But here?” He leaned closer, lips brushing Wooyoung’s ear. “You’re already shaking.”
Wooyoung’s breath caught. “I’m not - ”
“Shaking,” San repeated, smile curving, like he knew. “Strip.”
Wooyoung blinked. “Excuse me?”
San stepped back, folding his arms. Watching. Waiting.
“Jacket first. Then the shirt.”
“I’m not a damn stripper,” Wooyoung muttered.
“No,” San said, lips twitching. “You’re a thief. And you’re in my house. Play nice.”
Wooyoung hesitated - but he knew that look. That subtle edge behind San’s calm. This man had grown up in luxury, but he wasn’t soft. No one stayed this powerful by being soft.
So Wooyoung rolled his eyes - dramatically, performatively - and peeled the jacket off his shoulders. Tossed it to the ground with flair.
“Happy?” he drawled, as he started on the shirt buttons.
San didn’t answer. Just watched. Closely.
By the time the shirt hit the floor, Wooyoung was bare to the waist. His skin flushed, chest rising with each breath. His smile was still there, crooked and cocky, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Now,” San said, voice a shade lower, “on your knees.”
Wooyoung’s expression didn’t change, but inside, he bristled.
This smug bastard.
Still, he knelt.
Slowly. Deliberately. Shoulders straight, chin tilted.
He could play this game.
“Well?” Wooyoung said, tone sugar-sweet. “You gonna pet me now? Or just stare?”
San stepped forward. Bent slightly, fingers tipping Wooyoung’s chin up.
“Oh? What do we have here…” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth. “Pretty little thing. All dressed up in stolen confidence.”
Wooyoung grinned through gritted teeth. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“I think I’m starting to,” San said, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see how far you’ll go to save yourself.”
And Wooyoung?
He hated him.
Hated the way San looked at him.
Hated how much he liked being looked at.
"Mm,” Wooyoung said, lips curling around the syllable as San’s fingers drifted lazily down his jawline. “You touch all your guests like this, or am I just special?”
San didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him - head tilted, eyes narrowed, mouth relaxed into something unreadable.
“This pretty boy talks too much,” he said at last, almost to himself. “I wonder what it’d be like to shut your mouth forever.”
Wooyoung froze.
The words hit him like ice down his spine.
They weren’t shouted. There was no raised voice, no threat barked into the air. Just calm speculation, like San was talking about cutting the crust off his toast. Like he wasn’t holding Wooyoung’s life between two fingers and a passing thought.
His grin faltered.
Just for a second.
Then it was back, shakier, stretched thinner.
“Wow,” Wooyoung said lightly, though his throat was dry. “That’s kinky. You into choking, Mr. Choi?”
San’s smile didn’t change. But his gaze sharpened - predator-glint, glass-cutting cold.
“You think this is a joke,” he said. “That I won’t make one call and have your body dumped in the Han by sunrise.”
And Wooyoung’s heart - fuck.
It dropped.
Plummeted.
Because he had. He had thought that. Somewhere in the back of his cocky little brain, he thought San would get mad, maybe slap him around, maybe even turn him in - but kill him? For this?
It hadn’t felt real. Until now.
But San’s hand was still on his chin. His thumb dragged slow across his cheek like he was memorizing the bone beneath it. Like he was deciding if this face - this body - was worth sparing.
Wooyoung swallowed.
“I mean,” he said, voice lower now, less bravado, more desperation hiding under silk, “wouldn’t it be a shame to waste a face like mine?”
San’s eyes lingered on him for a long, unreadable beat.
Then -
“It would,” he said softly. “That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”
Wooyoung’s breath hitched.
He tried to laugh. Tried to act like his pulse wasn’t a fucking jackhammer in his neck. “You’re flirting again.”
“I haven’t started yet,” San said.
And then he leaned down, real close, voice like velvet dragged over a knife’s edge.
“But you will beg, little cat. One way or another.”
Wooyoung sucked in a breath, fingers curling against the rug. Still on his knees. Still shirtless. Still trying to pretend that every part of this wasn’t spiraling fast.
“I bet you like them desperate,” he murmured, tilting his head up, voice low and tempting. “On their knees. Pretty and helpless, right?”
San just raised a brow.
Wooyoung leaned closer, arching his back a little, smirk curling like smoke on his lips. “You want begging? I can make it sound good.”
He let his voice drop, all honey and heat. “Please, Mr. Choi. I’ve been so bad. Teach me a lesson - ”
“Stop.”
Wooyoung blinked.
San stepped forward. Not rushed. Not angry. Just inevitable.
“You think you’re in control?” he said, gaze raking over him like heat. “That you’re seducing me?”
Wooyoung’s breath caught.
San crouched down. One knee on the floor, one gloved hand dragging up Wooyoung’s arm - slow, knuckle by knuckle - until it cradled the side of his throat. Not tight. Just present.
“I let you talk,” San whispered, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “I let you flirt.”
Wooyoung swallowed hard, but the sound caught in his throat when San’s thumb brushed up - lightly - along his jaw.
“You're cute when you try to be clever,” he added. “But I think you’re even cuter when you break.”
“Fuck you,” Wooyoung hissed, low and shaking.
San chuckled. “Mm. There’s that fire.”
Then, almost lazily, his fingers dipped lower. Down Wooyoung’s bare chest. The lightest graze. No real pressure. Just touch.
And yet Wooyoung shuddered like he’d been struck.
“Sensitive,” San noted, amused.
Wooyoung gritted his teeth. “Don’t call me - ”
“Kitten,” San said, sweet and cruel.
Wooyoung’s knees pressed harder into the floor. His body flushed, skin prickling all over. The word hung in the air like perfume - sharp, heady, humiliating.
He hated it.
Hated him.
Hated how his body reacted.
San’s palm settled on his sternum, pushing gently. Wooyoung fell back onto his elbows, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.
“Look at you,” San murmured. “Already a mess. And I’ve barely touched you.”
Wooyoung opened his mouth. To retort. To curse him out. To say something - anything -
But nothing came out. Just a quiet, helpless exhale.
San smiled.
“That’s better.”
San didn’t rush.
His hand drifted from Wooyoung’s chest to his ribs, trailing barely-there touches like a phantom. Fingertips gliding over skin, soft and slow, not pressing - just teasing.
Wooyoung’s whole body tensed under it.
Not from pain. Not even from fear.
From how goddamn good it felt.
Every nerve lit up. His skin betrayed him before he could think, before he could stop it. He stayed silent, but his breath hitched. His hips twitched - just barely. His lips parted, chest rising faster.
San noticed everything.
“Sensitive everywhere, aren’t you?” he murmured, almost curious. “How does a body like this end up doing dirty little jobs like robbing people?”
His fingers swept across Wooyoung’s abdomen, featherlight. No pressure. Just enough to drive him insane.
Wooyoung stayed quiet.
Barely.
His fists were clenched against the floor, every muscle pulled tight. His jaw locked, his throat bobbing as he swallowed down every sound threatening to escape. He refused to give San the satisfaction.
San leaned in again. Close enough to feel his breath against his cheek.
“I’m glad you know your place now,” he whispered, low and thick with satisfaction. “Kitty staying quiet for me now, hm?”
Wooyoung shivered.
Still silent. Still trembling.
But his eyes - dark and glassy - flashed with something desperate and defiant.
San smirked.
“You’re trying so hard,” he said, letting his nails drag in a slow arc down Wooyoung’s side - so gentle it was cruel. “So obedient now. Is it because you want to live, or because you’re starting to like it?”
Wooyoung exhaled sharply through his nose. Refused to answer. His skin felt like fire under San’s touch - every swipe of his fingers left behind a trail of heat, of want, of shame.
San’s hand slid up to his sternum again. He pressed - just slightly - right over Wooyoung’s heartbeat. It was thudding so fast, it felt like a warning.
He leaned down, lips brushing the edge of Wooyoung’s jaw.
“Your silence is the sweetest thing you’ve given me all night,” he whispered. “But I wonder… how long you’ll last.”
San pulled back, just slightly - enough to look down at the flushed, trembling boy on his knees.
Wooyoung’s cheeks were burning. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. He still hadn’t made a sound, but his silence wasn’t strength anymore - it was fragile. His whole body screamed with restraint.
San looked pleased.
But not satisfied.
Not yet.
“Wait here,” he said casually, like they were discussing dinner plans. And then he stood and walked away.
Wooyoung’s body jolted like it had been unplugged. The loss of San’s touch was abrupt, jarring. His knees ached against the floor. His fingers twitched with the effort of holding himself together.
He didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare move.
When San returned, he was holding something small. Delicate.
A feather. Black. Sleek. From one of the ridiculous ornamental centerpieces that probably cost more than Wooyoung made in a month.
Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.
“You’ve lasted longer than I thought,” San murmured, crouching again in front of him. “But let’s see what happens… when I stop being merciful.”
Wooyoung glared. “You think that’s scary? A feather?”
San’s smile was razor-sharp. “No, kitten. You are.”
Then - he touched him.
Not with his hands this time. Just the feather. Dragging it across Wooyoung’s collarbone, down the curve of his chest, tracing lazy shapes over bare skin.
Wooyoung twitched. Every nerve screamed. The sensation was unbearable - too light, too much - his body jolted with every flick, every pass. It was maddening.
Still, he kept his mouth shut.
Barely.
San watched with cold amusement. “You’re trying so hard. But your body’s betraying you, sweetheart.”
He ran the feather in slow circles around one nipple - never touching directly, just teasing the skin around it - and Wooyoung shook.
His breath hitched violently. He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. His whole face scrunched, and still - not a sound.
San laughed, low and rich. “God, you’re adorable.”
Then - his voice dropped, almost kind.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Wooyoung glared up at him, lips parted, panting. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to say fuck you. Wanted to tell him he hated him.
Instead, he choked on a breath and said nothing.
San leaned in again, brushing hair from Wooyoung’s damp forehead.
“You’re breaking so beautifully,” he whispered. “I wonder… will you purr when you beg? Or whimper?”
He let the feather trail lower. Down his stomach. Just above the waistband of his pants.
Wooyoung’s whole body arched - hips lifting instinctively, shamefully, trying to escape or get more or anything - he didn’t know anymore.
But still - he didn’t make a sound.
Not yet.
San smiled like a man watching a wine glass crack from the inside.
“Keep quiet a little longer, kitten,” he said softly, “and I might even let you live.”
Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.
That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A gentle one. Too gentle. It made his blood run cold.
He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. And worse - his body was still reacting, still prickling from every feathered touch, every low-spoken word. His chest ached. His thighs trembled. His lips were sore from how hard he was clenching them together.
He didn’t know if he was turned on or terrified.
He didn’t know if it mattered anymore.
San was watching him like he was a puzzle piece that finally clicked into place. He leaned in again, lips brushing against his temple as he whispered, “Kitten’s so quiet now.”
Wooyoung snapped.
“Fuck you,” he hissed, voice cracked, breath shaking. “You’re a fucking pervert.”
San stilled. And then - he smirked.
“Oh?” he murmured, brushing a thumb over Wooyoung’s lower lip. “Maybe hearing you talk isn’t so bad after all.”
Wooyoung scowled. “You’re a creep. A psychotic, rich asshole - ”
San leaned in, lips ghosting over his neck, and whispered, “Keep talking.”
His hands were back now - real hands, warm and deliberate. He slipped one up Wooyoung’s chest, palm flat, slow and possessive. The other followed, fingers circling his nipples, toying cruelly. No mercy. No rhythm. Just deliberate flicks, pinches, cruel little rolls that made Wooyoung jolt.
“ - a manipulative freak - ” he gasped, “ - with a control kink and a God complex - shit - ”
San laughed softly against his skin. “Is that all?”
“You’re not even good at this,” Wooyoung spat. His back arched involuntarily when San twisted just right. “You think you’re hot shit, but you’re just - just - fuck - ”
“Just?” San asked, amused, lips trailing hot and slow along the curve of his throat. “Come on, kitten. Use that sharp little mouth.”
“You’re insane,” Wooyoung groaned. “Insane and disgusting and - oh my god - fuck off - ”
San grazed his teeth lightly over the shell of his ear, his hands working mercilessly now - pinching, rubbing, teasing until Wooyoung’s breath was catching in his throat and every nerve under his skin felt frayed and raw.
“Still so noisy,” San said, smiling. “But you’re whining now, not fighting.”
“Shut up,” Wooyoung snapped, voice shaking. “You don’t get to be smug - just because I’m hard doesn’t mean I like you.”
San chuckled. “You’re hard because I’m touching you.”
Wooyoung hated him.
Hated his voice. His hands. His stupid, perfect face. The way he smiled like he’d already won.
Hated that his body kept giving him away.
San dragged his mouth lower, over Wooyoung’s collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.
“You can hate me all you want,” he whispered against his skin. “But your body doesn’t.”
Wooyoung whimpered. Just once. It slipped out before he could stop it. His hands fisted the rug beneath him like it could anchor him, like it could stop the heat flooding his chest, his belly, the throbbing between his legs.
“Go to hell,” he snapped.
San just chuckled - low and warm, like Wooyoung was telling him something sweet.
“You first, kitten.”
His mouth brushed along Wooyoung’s cheekbone, soft, almost affectionate - and it made Wooyoung want to scream. Because even now, after all the defiance, all the snarling, San was still touching him. Still kissing him. Still treating him like something beautiful and his.
He wanted to hate it. He did.
“You’re disgusting,” Wooyoung growled. “Obsessed. Fucking sick in the head - ”
San kissed the corner of his mouth.
“You like sick men, don’t you?” he whispered, smiling. “They’re the only ones who know what to do with brats like you.”
Wooyoung’s entire body flushed. His back arched instinctively as San’s fingers rolled his nipples again - relentless, cruel, perfect. He felt dizzy. Heat pooled between his thighs and spread like wildfire.
“You’re not special,” Wooyoung snapped, breath hitching, voice ragged. “You think you’re in control, but you’re just - some spoiled rich kid with a twisted fantasy - ”
San kissed him again, softer this time. Cheek. Jaw. The tip of his nose.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Talking all this shit, and you’re trembling for me.”
Wooyoung wanted to shove him off. Wanted to sink his nails into San’s skin. Wanted to beg him not to stop.
He clenched his jaw instead.
“Keep pretending,” he spat. “Keep acting like this means something. Like I’d ever want you.”
“You do,” San said calmly, like it was a fact. “And I don’t need you to say it. Your body says it for you.”
He licked into Wooyoung’s mouth, not a kiss - just a possessive taste - and Wooyoung moaned. Loud. Shamed. Furious.
“I fucking hate you,” he gasped.
“I know,” San whispered, kissing down his throat. “But look at you.”
Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered, shameful heat curling in his gut, thighs squeezing together like he could do something about the throbbing between them.
“You’re letting me touch you,” San said softly. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me play with your body like it’s mine.”
His hand drifted down again, hovering just above Wooyoung’s waistband.
And Wooyoung - still panting, still shaking - didn’t stop him.
He couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just fear anymore.
It was need. And he hated it.
“I should kill you,” he whispered, voice breaking.
San smiled.
“But you won’t.”
San’s fingers dipped lower, teasing the edge of Wooyoung’s waistband with maddening patience. Not enough. Never enough. Just the threat of it - just enough to make Wooyoung need.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured. “Sweaty. Red. Mouthy.”
Wooyoung’s head dropped, chest heaving. His knees ached, his thighs were trembling, and every part of his body burned with overstimulation.
“Fuck… you,” he gasped, but it barely had any teeth left. His voice cracked halfway through.
San chuckled. “Still fighting?”
His hand slipped under the waistband, slow and possessive. Wooyoung jerked with a sob - shoulders shaking, lips trembling, body begging without words.
“You’re almost there, kitten,” San whispered. “But I need to hear it.”
Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. He shook his head, even as his hips lifted into San’s touch.
“No?” San tilted his head. “Still too proud to admit it?”
He leaned in - so close, nose brushing against Wooyoung’s, their breath shared.
“Admit you like this,” he said softly. “You like me. You like being on your knees for me.”
Wooyoung whimpered.
“No?” San said again, voice still gentle, mocking in its sweetness. “Even now?”
His fingers played again - flicking, teasing, cruel around his nipples, dragging fire down his sides. It was too much. Too light. Too deliberate.
Wooyoung’s hands slapped weakly at his thighs, grasping at anything to hold on to.
“Stop - fuck - please - ”
“Please what?” San asked, tilting his head. “Use your words, kitten.”
Wooyoung’s head dropped again, chin to his chest. His breath came in broken gasps. He was red down to his chest, tears welling in his eyes, pooling hot and shameful.
San kissed his forehead.
And then - his voice dipped lower.
“Beg for it.”
Wooyoung snapped.
“I hate you,” he sobbed, tears sliding down his cheeks. “I fucking - hate - you - ”
“I know,” San whispered.
“But please - fuck - please, I need - just touch me, I need you to - ” His voice broke again, and he gasped. “San - please - ”
San’s name came out choked, cracked. A shudder passed through his whole body.
And San smiled.
“There it is.”
He cradled Wooyoung’s face in his hands like he was something precious. Kissed each tear as it fell.
“You’re beautiful when you beg.”
“Shut up,” Wooyoung sobbed.
“You’re mine when you beg.”
Wooyoung let out another strangled, helpless noise - half rage, half ruined pleasure. Still on his knees. Still trembling. Still begging even as he swore he hated every second.
And San?
He kissed him.
Deep and slow, like he owned him.
Because he did.
And Wooyoung hated how good that felt.
Wooyoung was trembling in San’s lap, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks streaked with tears. His knees were still red from the rug, his body overstimulated and twitching with every breath.
And San? San was holding him like he was fragile.
“You did so well for me, kitten,” San whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “So fucking pretty when you beg.”
Wooyoung let out a broken sound - half groan, half whimper. His body burned with shame, with leftover need, with something deeper he didn’t dare name.
“I hate you,” he whispered, voice cracked.
San smiled softly. “I know, baby.”
He laid Wooyoung down - slowly, carefully - onto the thick carpet, his hands guiding every inch like he was handling silk. Then he stripped him completely, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down with unhurried reverence.
Wooyoung flinched.
San kissed his knee.
“Shh, kitten,” he murmured. “Let me see you.”
And he did. He looked.
Eyes roaming over every inch of bare, flushed skin. Over bruises blooming on his ribs. Over the red pinch marks on his chest. Over the way Wooyoung’s thighs trembled when San spread them gently apart.
“You’re beautiful,” San breathed, almost like it hurt to say it. “So beautiful like this. Laid out. Ruined.”
He ran his palms up Wooyoung’s thighs, warm and slow. Wooyoung gasped when fingers brushed close to his cock, still sensitive and needy. He tried to jerk away.
San just held him there.
“Kitten…” he cooed. “You were so brave for me. You begged so sweet.”
Wooyoung turned his head, eyes glassy. “Don’t call me that.”
San smiled. “But you like it.”
“I don’t - ”
“You do,” San said, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “You’re purring when I say it.”
Wooyoung opened his mouth to argue - but gasped instead when San’s hand wrapped around his cock again.
Gentle. Careful. Loving.
“Still so sensitive,” San murmured, watching his face. “Still hard for me.”
“Fuck - ” Wooyoung moaned, hands flying up to grab at San’s shoulders.
San kissed down his chest, soft lips ghosting over each nipple, pressing wet kisses between.
“You’re such a good kitten,” he whispered. “Letting me play with you. Letting me touch what doesn’t belong to anyone else.”
He licked around one nipple, then dragged his tongue across it - slow, circling, until Wooyoung cried out and twisted beneath him.
“Please - San - ”
“That’s it,” he purred. “Say my name, baby. Let me take care of you.”
Wooyoung didn’t know what to say. His body was on fire, nerves shot, every inch of him screaming. He didn’t understand how San could be so soft after being so cruel. Why it felt worse like this. Why it felt like being loved when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.
San kissed his hipbone, then nuzzled into the space between his thighs.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Even when you’re crying. Even when you’re hating me.”
He licked a stripe up his cock and Wooyoung sobbed.
“Fuck - San - please - ”
“Begging again?” San smiled against his skin. “I haven’t even gotten started, kitten.”
San kissed down his stomach, slow and deliberate, while Wooyoung writhed beneath him - body flushed, lashes wet, mouth parted around a whimper.
Every kiss was placed like a brand. Across his hips. Between his thighs. Along his trembling inner thigh, where San let his lips linger.
“You’re so soft here,” San murmured. “You really want me to stop, kitten?”
Wooyoung groaned, high and wrecked. “You’re - ugh - fucking obnoxious - ”
San licked a stripe along the underside of his cock and Wooyoung sobbed, hands clawing at the rug.
San chuckled. “Thought so.”
Then he sucked him in - slow, deep, filthy - and Wooyoung screamed.
His back arched off the floor, legs shaking, every thought slipping out of his head at once. San’s mouth was hot, wet, devastatingly gentle and exact. He wasn’t in a hurry. He wasn’t rushing to make him come.
He was worshipping him.
Every flick of his tongue. Every suck. Every swirl around the head. It was practiced. Cruel. Kind. Enough to make Wooyoung tremble with the edge of another orgasm and not give it to him.
“You taste like a fucking dream,” San murmured against the tip, voice low and reverent.
Wooyoung choked on a sob.
And still - still - his mouth ran.
“Are you gonna monologue all night,” he gasped, “or are you finally gonna - fuck - do something right?”
San pulled off with a wet pop, smirking up at him.
“Still got mouth on you, kitten,” he said. “Aren’t you glad I let you live?”
Wooyoung glared down at him through glassy eyes. “No, bitch. You’re not even good in bed.”
San stilled.
Then he smiled. Not sweet. Not cruel.
Something worse. That soft, dangerous smile that meant he was about to ruin him more.
“Oh?” he said, cocking his head. “Do I need to put you in your place again?”
He grabbed Wooyoung’s hips - hard enough to bruise - and pulled him up into his mouth deep. All the way.
Wooyoung’s answer was a scream.
“FUCK - San - fuck, fuck, fuck - ”
San didn’t let up. He swallowed around him, hands pinning his hips in place while his mouth worked him over like he was starved. Every sound Wooyoung made only spurred him on - moans, curses, please, don’t stop, I hate you, fuck, San - they all poured out in a mess of voice and tears and sopping heat between his legs.
It didn’t take long.
Wooyoung was already too sensitive, already too close, and San -
San didn’t stop until Wooyoung broke.
He came with a strangled cry, body jerking, thighs closing around San’s head as he sobbed through it - eyes squeezed shut, back arched, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes like his pride was leaving him too.
San swallowed every drop.
Licked his lips.
Crawled up Wooyoung’s ruined body and laid over him, chest to chest, their skin slick and burning.
“You okay, kitten?” he asked sweetly, kissing the side of his face.
Wooyoung was panting, wrecked, ruined - his lashes damp, his thighs trembling, his mouth still parted from that last moan. He couldn’t see straight. Could barely think.
But his mouth?
Still worked.
“I’ve had better,” he rasped, breath shaky. “By myself. At age eighteen.”
San went still.
His head tilted slightly.
And then - he laughed.
Low. Dangerous. Delighted.
“Well,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to Wooyoung’s jaw, “thank you for the feedback.”
Then - he flipped him over.
Wooyoung yelped as his bare chest hit the carpet, arms instinctively bracing. His legs were already spread, ass red from friction and exposure, his body far too spent for another round - except his cock was hard again, twitching helplessly between his thighs.
San knelt behind him, hands smoothing over his hips, thumbs digging into the softness just beneath his ass.
“Don’t get rug burn,” San said casually.
And then he went down on him.
Wooyoung screamed.
The moment San’s mouth met him from behind - hot and wet, tongue flicking over his rim with maddening precision - Wooyoung arched, fists pounding the carpet.
“FUCK - San - fuck, what the fuck - ”
San didn’t answer. Just buried his face deeper, tongue stroking him open with slow, devastating pressure. He licked, sucked, moaned against him like he was starving.
It was obscene. Loud. Filthy.
Wooyoung clawed at the floor. His legs kicked uselessly, trembling with the overload of sensation. His voice cracked.
“Fuck - fuck - I’m gonna lose my fucking mind - ”
San just grinned against his skin, dragging his tongue in slow circles, fucking him with it, reaching places that made Wooyoung sob and moan and bite the carpet to keep from screaming again.
“Still think I’m not good in bed?” San purred between licks.
Wooyoung let out a choked whimper, legs twitching. “I - I - I hate you - ”
“I know,” San breathed.
He spread him wider, spit-slick fingers joining his tongue, stroking inside him as his mouth kissed and sucked and made Wooyoung fall apart for the second time - this time face-down, eyes wild, drool on the rug, tears on his cheeks, and nothing but San’s name spilling from his mouth.
He came again - hard - without a single touch to his cock. Just San’s mouth. Just his tongue. Just the way he owned him from the inside out.
And when it was over, when Wooyoung collapsed into the carpet, twitching and boneless and silent for once, San finally pulled away, licking his lips clean.
San leaned over him, kissed the back of his neck, and whispered:
“Don’t lie again. You would’ve never been able to do that by yourself.”
Wooyoung let out a shaky breath, face half-buried in the carpet, body limp and twitching. He was a mess - sweaty, sore, breathless. There was slick between his thighs, a rawness in his throat, heat everywhere.
And still - he twitched at San’s words. Something in his spine snapped tight.
San kissed the shell of his ear next, voice a teasing lilt:
“Let this be a lesson. Don’t go breaking into strangers’ houses… taking things that don’t belong to you.”
Wooyoung moved.
Fast.
He shoved himself up, legs trembling, hair a halo of chaos around his flushed face. San didn’t even have time to react before Wooyoung was on top of him - straddling him, palms on his chest, eyes wild and blown wide.
San’s back hit the carpet with a soft thud.
He blinked up, surprised - and maybe, just maybe, a little turned on.
Wooyoung’s voice was hoarse, shredded, but sharp:
“Then let me take what’s mine.”
San’s lips parted.
And Wooyoung leaned down, fingers curling in his collar, mouth crashing into his like claiming war. All tongue, all teeth. Sloppy. Starved. Like he hadn’t just come twice. Like he needed more. Like he wanted San now.
San groaned into it - deep and surprised - and let himself be pushed. His hands gripped Wooyoung’s hips automatically, grounding them both as Wooyoung ground down against him, still panting, still flushed.
“You’re mine now,” Wooyoung whispered between kisses. “You ruined me. That makes you mine.”
San chuckled, breathless.
“Oh?” he said, letting Wooyoung pin his wrists for show. “Is that how it works?”
“It is now,” Wooyoung growled.
And San let him have it.
Let him ride the high, let him take control, let him kiss and bite and mark him like payback, like proof, like he wasn’t just the ruined one - he was the one who survived.
He kissed down San’s neck, hips rocking lazily into his, both of them sticky with sweat and slick and something hotter, messier. San let his eyes flutter shut, moaning softly as Wooyoung mouthed at his throat.
“You’re such a brat,” San murmured, lips curling. “But I think I like when you fight.”
“Good,” Wooyoung whispered. “Because I’m not done yet.”
They ended up in San’s bed.
Of course they did.
It was massive. Obnoxiously soft. Sheets like cream. Pillows that swallowed Wooyoung whole. And San - San was curled around him like a damn space heater, one arm thrown across his waist, one leg hooked over his thigh like he had to physically anchor him there.
Wooyoung was fed. Warm. Raw. Muscles loose in that wrecked-but-satisfied way that made him want to purr.
San nuzzled against his neck with a sleepy little hum.
“You still hate me?” he murmured.
Wooyoung, eyes half-lidded, muttered, “More than ever.”
San smiled into his skin and kissed his shoulder. “Mm. Good.”
But about twenty minutes later, when San’s breath deepened and his hold loosened just slightly, Wooyoung began his escape.
Slow. Careful.
One limb at a time.
He slipped out from under San’s arm like a pro, bare feet ghosting over the carpet. He grabbed his pants from the floor. His shirt. His watch. Mask. Almost made it to the door when -
“I wouldn’t go into the hallway just yet.”
Wooyoung froze.
Turned slowly.
San was still in bed, propped on one elbow, sheets around his waist, smirking.
“The police are waiting for you.”
Wooyoung’s mouth dropped open. “You fucking didn’t.”
San yawned like this was a totally normal morning thing.
“You think I’d let that go just because you’re hot?”
Wooyoung stared at him. “Yes,” he said flatly. “Obviously.”
San gave him a long look. A soft little hum.
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “maybe if you gave back as much as you take.”
Wooyoung flung a pillow at his face.
“Asshole!”
San laughed, catching it mid-air. “Kitten, you broke into my house.”
“You broke into my ass!”
San cackled, collapsing back into the pillows.
And Wooyoung - standing there in stolen clothes and ruined pride - couldn’t help the laugh that spilled out next.
“Fine,” he muttered, crawling back into bed with a dramatic sigh. “But I’m stealing your watch before I leave.”
San wrapped an arm around him immediately, tugging him back into his chest.
“If you leave,” San murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Wooyoung’s messy hair, “you better kiss me goodbye first.”
Wooyoung grunted, face half in a pillow. “Why wouldn’t I leave?”
San was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly: “Maybe instead of stealing that stuff… I could just give it to you.”
Wooyoung blinked.
Pulled back just enough to stare up at him.
“What,” he said flatly, “is the catch?”
San smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
“The catch is,” he said, brushing his thumb along Wooyoung’s lower lip, “you have to earn it, kitten.”
Wooyoung’s eyes went wide.
“The fuck does that mean - ”
San rolled him over in one smooth motion, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand, climbing over him like the conversation hadn’t even paused.
“I think you know what it means,” he purred. “You want the watch? The jewels? My Amex?”
Wooyoung swallowed. Hard.
San leaned down, mouth hovering over his.
“Then you’re going to have to be very, very good for me.”
Wooyoung’s breath hitched. “You’re sick.”
San kissed him.
“Mm. And you’re still here.”
He rocked his hips down once - just enough for Wooyoung to feel he was already hard again.
“Now be a good kitten,” San whispered, licking into his mouth, “and earn your prize.”
Wooyoung woke up alone.
That was the first thing he noticed - no weight beside him, no possessive arm flung over his waist, no warm thigh tangling with his under the silk sheets. Just quiet. Still. Morning sun slicing through the blackout curtains San had only pretended to close.
The second thing he noticed?
His body.
Sore. Tender. Deliciously used. His hips ached, his throat felt raw, and there were fading kiss bruises scattered across his chest like constellations. He groaned, rolling onto his back, arms flopping out wide.
“Asshole,” he muttered to no one.
He blinked up at the ceiling, then turned his head - and saw it.
Right there. On the pillow beside him.
A single sheet of thick cream-colored paper. Edges gold-foiled. The fucking audacity of it all.
San’s stationary. Embossed with his name.
Choi San
Private Estate
And below, in that familiar sharp, expensive handwriting:
To my favorite thief -
- If you want it, ask.
- If you take it, you thank me.
- If you want to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.
– Love, Mr. Choi 🖤
Wooyoung stared at it for a long time.
Then groaned into the sheets, dragging the pillow over his face.
“You arrogant, rich bastard,” he said, voice muffled.
Still.
He didn’t throw the note away.
He didn’t even crumple it.
Instead, he got up - naked, messy, half-hobbling - and stuffed the paper into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
He’d deny it later. But it made his chest feel warm.
Downstairs, San was already sipping espresso, lounging on the velvet sofa in a robe that shouldn’t look as good as it did.
Wooyoung padded barefoot into the room, collarbone still bruised, hair sticking up in all directions.
San looked up and smirked.
“Good morning, kitten.”
Wooyoung squinted at him. “You left me.”
“You needed sleep. You were… tired last night.” San sipped again. “Exhausted, even.”
“Because you - ” Wooyoung cut himself off, jaw tight. “You know what, nevermind.”
He flopped dramatically into the opposite armchair and grabbed a croissant off the platter like he paid rent here. Which he didn’t.
San just watched him, amused.
“Did you get my note?”
“No,” Wooyoung said around a mouthful. “I definitely didn’t read it. Or save it. Or put it in my pocket like some kind of emotionally complicated whore.”
San chuckled, setting his cup down.
“Well,” he said, “as long as you remember the rules.”
Wooyoung licked butter off his thumb. “What if I break them?”
San stood. Crossed the room in two unhurried steps. Then leaned down, palm braced on the armrest, mouth brushing the shell of Wooyoung’s ear.
“Then I treat you like the greedy little brat you are.”
Wooyoung’s breath caught.
But his voice didn’t falter.
“Sounds like a reward, not a punishment.”
San grinned.
“We’ll see.”
The boutique reeked of generational wealth and quiet judgment. Which meant Wooyoung fit in perfectly.
He strolled through racks of custom-cut designer pieces like they were discount bin rejects, fingers skimming fine silks, tongue clicking at the gaudy colors.
The employees watched him like hawks. But he didn’t care. San said he could pick something. Anything.
So he did.
A fitted leather jacket. Matte black. Cropped at the waist, zipper slightly off-center. Lined with satin. Screamed bad decisions and richer boyfriends.
He threw it over his shoulder and sauntered to the counter.
The cashier gave him a once-over. Her smile was tight.
“Will that be all, sir?”
Wooyoung pulled out the platinum Amex card San had casually tossed on the nightstand this morning. Just in case.
He placed it down like a mic drop.
“That’ll be it.”
She blinked. Looked at the name.
“Mr. Choi?” she asked, slow.
Wooyoung smiled. “He knows I’m here.”
She didn’t swipe it.
“Sir, I’m going to need some identification - ”
“Look, he said - ”
The bell above the boutique door jingled.
And in walked San.
Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Hair slicked back. The look of a man who either came from a board meeting or ruined someone’s marriage. Possibly both.
Wooyoung turned, arms crossed, smirking.
San barely spared him a glance as he walked up beside him, nodded at the cashier.
“He’s allowed.”
The cashier hesitated. “Are you sure, Mr. Choi?”
San turned to Wooyoung then. Real slow. That smile was back - the one that meant someone was about to suffer in the prettiest way possible.
“I am,” he said. “But…”
He leaned close. Voice low. Private. Not for the cashier. Just for Wooyoung.
“For every hundred you spend,” San murmured, “I get one hour. Alone. No safeword. The way you begged me to do the other night.”
Wooyoung’s stomach dropped.
His face went blank.
The cashier blinked.
San smiled at her politely. “Shall we continue?”
Wooyoung turned back to the counter. Very slowly.
“Actually,” he said, grabbing the jacket and folding it with shaking hands, “I’m good. Thanks. I’ll… I’ll just thrift something later.”
The cashier looked confused. “Sir, the card went through - ”
“Nope!” Wooyoung said quickly, shoving the jacket back onto the rack behind him. “Not worth it. I’d like to live to see thirty.”
San was still smiling when they walked out together. One hand tucked into his pocket. The other? Sliding slowly up the back of Wooyoung’s neck.
“You were gonna spend five grand, weren’t you,” San asked casually.
Wooyoung didn’t look at him.
“I thought you were kidding.”
San leaned down, voice low and delicious.
“I don’t kid, kitten.”
Wooyoung was brushing his teeth, shirtless, covered in faint bruises, and absolutely ignoring the fact that he was still in San’s penthouse two weeks after the break-in.
He spat into the sink and caught his reflection. There was a bite mark just beneath his collarbone, pink and obvious. He scoffed.
Fucking San.
He turned - and San was already behind him in the mirror. Silent. Perfectly dressed. Holding something small in his hand.
Wooyoung jumped.
“Jesus, warn me before you sneak up like that, you freak.”
San didn’t blink. Just held out a box.
Square. Matte black. With a silver ribbon tied in a perfect bow.
Wooyoung frowned. “What is that?”
“A gift,” San said. “For being such a good little thief.”
Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. “Is this a trap? Are you going to ask for a kidney next?”
San chuckled. “Not unless you’ve been particularly bad lately.”
He opened the box.
Inside: a collar.
Not leather. Not tacky. No spikes or bells or pet play kitsch.
Just a thin band of black velvet, impossibly soft, with a small, glinting diamond charm shaped like a key.
Wooyoung’s brain short-circuited.
“What the fuck,” he breathed. “Is this a joke?”
San stepped behind him. Wrapped his arms loosely around his waist.
“Not a joke,” he said. “A reminder.”
He took the collar from the box and held it up.
“That you’re mine,” San whispered, brushing Wooyoung’s hair aside. “Even when you misbehave.”
Wooyoung stood very, very still.
“Are you seriously trying to collar me like a fucking housecat?”
“You’re the one who purrs when I touch you.”
“I do not - ”
But San was already buckling it in place, fingers gentle, lips brushing against the shell of Wooyoung’s ear.
The velvet sat perfectly against his skin. Light. Cold. Soft enough that he could forget it was there - if it weren’t for the tiny diamond charm resting against his throat like a promise.
“There,” San said, admiring his work in the mirror. “Beautiful.”
Wooyoung glared at him. “I’m not wearing this.”
San just raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
He turned and left.
And Wooyoung… didn’t take it off.
That night, when San pulled him into bed, the first thing he did was kiss the charm. Thumb brushing over the little diamond like it was something sacred.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
Wooyoung pretended to be asleep.
But when he rolled over, his fingers curled protectively around it.
The gala was beautiful in that grotesque, old-money kind of way.
Champagne pyramids. Golden chandeliers. Live string quartet in the corner. A room full of suits and smiles sharp enough to cut glass.
Wooyoung fit in better than he should’ve.
Black silk shirt tucked into high-waisted trousers. Hair styled like he hadn’t tried. Collarbone artfully exposed. San’s velvet collar replaced with a diamond choker - still a gift. Still a claim.
He was halfway through a flute of something French and expensive when some heir to an oil fortune sidled up beside him.
Tall. Polished. Trying very hard to be charming.
And Wooyoung? Smiled. Laughed. Touched his arm when he told a joke. Said things like “You’re bad,” with a wink.
He felt San watching from across the room. He wanted him to.
But San said nothing.
Not a single word.
It wasn’t until they were in the back of the car - pulling away from the estate - that San finally spoke.
“Did you have fun?”
Wooyoung looked out the window. Smug. “Mhm.”
San leaned back against the seat, legs spread, watching him in the dark.
“You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
Wooyoung smiled. Turned to face him fully.
“What?” he said innocently. “He was cute. Is it suddenly a problem to talk to someone?”
San didn’t move.
Didn’t raise his voice.
He just reached over and in one smooth motion, he slid his hand down the front of Wooyoung’s pants.
Wooyoung gasped.
“San - ”
“Shh.”
The driver was still in the front seat. Partition glass clear. Music low.
Wooyoung slapped his hand over his mouth, body jerking as San’s hand wrapped around him, fingers tight, already stroking him to punishment.
“You think that was cute?” San said, voice a low, dangerous purr. “Watching some other man try to touch what’s mine?”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened. He shook his head - but San squeezed, once, hard.
“I own you,” San growled. “This mouth. This cock. This needy little body.”
Wooyoung tried to buck his hips - couldn’t. San had him pinned to the seat with one hand. The other worked him over mercilessly, relentless and fast.
“San - fuck - fuck, we’re not alone - ”
“Be quiet then, kitten,” San hissed. “Or should I let him hear what you sound like when you come for me?”
Wooyoung bit down on his own knuckles, legs shaking.
“You want to act like a slut in public?” San’s mouth was at his ear now, teeth grazing skin. “Then you’re gonna come like one. Right here. In my car.”
Wooyoung sobbed against his hand. Every twist of San’s wrist was brutal. Perfect. Cruel. He was already so close, so desperate.
“You’re mine,” San whispered, biting down on his earlobe. “You don’t get to flirt with anyone else. You don’t even get to look.”
Wooyoung came with a choked cry, biting down hard on his knuckle, whole body trembling. His cum soaked into his expensive designer briefs, sticky and hot and humiliating.
San pulled his hand out slowly. Licked his fingers clean.
“Next time,” he said softly, “you can come on my cock. If you behave.”
Wooyoung turned to him with wide, wrecked eyes.
“I hate you.”
San kissed the corner of his mouth.
“I know.”
It started with Wooyoung straddling San like he owned him.
Which was bold. Dangerous. Hot as fuck.
San was shirtless, freshly showered, towel discarded somewhere near the edge of the bed. And Wooyoung?
Hair wild. Collar still on. Pupils blown.
He climbed into San’s lap with a smirk that said I’m in charge tonight and kissed him like a declaration of war - biting his lip, grinding down onto him, whispering things like:
“Lie back. Let me take care of you.”
And San?
San let him.
Laid back on the pillows. Hands behind his head. Watching with half-lidded eyes as Wooyoung kissed down his chest, sank down onto him slow and tight, moaning through his teeth.
“You like that?” Wooyoung whispered, breathless. “Me using you like this?”
San just smiled. “You look so good when you think you’re in control.”
Wooyoung growled, hips rolling. “Fuck you.”
“I thought that was your plan.”
For a moment, Wooyoung had him. Riding him hard, hands on San’s chest, back arched, panting like a pornstar and swearing like a sailor. He looked divine - flushed and filthy, so needy it was pathetic.
San let him have it.
Until he didn’t.
It happened fast.
San sat up without warning, grabbed Wooyoung by the throat, and flipped them, slamming Wooyoung’s back into the mattress with a thud.
Wooyoung gasped, wide-eyed.
“Thought you could ride me and win, kitten?” San growled, pinning both wrists above his head. “Thought I’d let you take what’s mine?”
Wooyoung tried to buck up - failed. San was stronger. Rougher now. Still buried inside him and getting harder.
“I was being nice,” San hissed into his ear. “You wanna play games? Then take the fucking consequences.”
Wooyoung moaned, furious and desperate. “You’re such a dick.”
“And you’re so wet for it.”
San fucked into him hard. Unrelenting. Deep. His hand still holding Wooyoung’s wrists above his head like he belonged there - spread and stuffed full and shaking under him.
“You can have anything,” San said, voice rough, breath hot. “Anything in this house. Anything you want.”
He leaned down, kissed the inside of Wooyoung’s thigh. Bit down.
“Except control.”
Wooyoung screamed.
“Say it,” San growled, fucking him harder. “Say who owns you.”
Wooyoung choked. Shuddered. Still clinging to the last shreds of pride.
“I hate you,” he gasped, wrecked.
San kissed his throat. Whispered -
“Good boy.”
And Wooyoung came with a sob, body arching, cum spilling untouched between them.
San followed right after, groaning deep against his skin, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise.
When it was over, they collapsed in silence.
San wrapped himself around him. Kissed his neck. Held him there like he was something soft again.
And Wooyoung?
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But when San’s hand brushed over the velvet collar still around his throat… he didn’t stop him.
It started with boredom.
San was in the shower - steam billowing through the crack in the bathroom door, his hum echoing faintly off the marble. Wooyoung was sprawled on the edge of the bed, naked under one of San’s silk robes, legs swinging like a teenager grounded at his sugar daddy’s penthouse.
He glanced around the room.
Luxury. Everywhere. Cufflinks made of literal platinum. A watch stand with something that ticked like it cost a small country. San’s wallet - black leather, sleek, heavy with secrets - sat abandoned on the nightstand.
Wooyoung eyed it.
…Just a peek.
He grabbed it, flipped it open. Black Amex. ID. Neatly folded receipts. A pressed flower (???), which he immediately chose not to ask about.
And then -
Behind the ID.
Tucked discreetly in the back pocket.
A photo.
Of him.
Wooyoung froze.
It wasn’t just a photo - it was personal. He was lying on San’s bed, half-asleep, curled into the sheets with one arm under his head. His mouth was parted. His collar was visible. The light hit his face soft.
It was domestic. Intimate.
And taken without his knowledge.
Wooyoung stared at it. Heart thudding.
What the fuck.
The water shut off.
Wooyoung didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Then San stepped out, towel around his hips, water beading down his chest, hair slicked back - and paused.
His gaze slid to the wallet. Then to Wooyoung. Then to the photo in Wooyoung’s shaking hand.
“…You snoop through my wallet?” he asked mildly.
“You have a picture of me in your wallet.” Wooyoung’s voice cracked in disbelief.
San smiled, slow and infuriating. “You looked pretty.”
“That’s - ” Wooyoung stood, robe falling open, finger jabbing at him. “That’s fucking insane. That’s creepy. That’s, like, full-on restraining order behavior!”
San just walked toward him.
Wooyoung backed up immediately. “No, don’t smile like that. Don’t - San.”
“I liked the way you looked,” San said, still calm, still terrifying. “Soft. Safe. Like you belonged here.”
“I broke into your house,” Wooyoung snapped.
“And now you sleep in my bed, eat my food, and suck my dick on the regular.”
“I’m LEAVING.”
San caught him by the wrist before he could stomp off and pulled him flush against his bare chest.
“Kitten,” he said softly, brushing a thumb over Wooyoung’s flushed cheek, “if I wanted to lock you down, I wouldn’t use a photo.”
Wooyoung blinked up at him.
“Then what would you use?”
San kissed his forehead.
“Keys. Collars. And my last name.”
Wooyoung screamed. Loud. Emotional. Punched him in the chest.
“YOU NEED THERAPY, OH MY GOD.”
San laughed.
And Wooyoung… didn’t leave.
The guests weren’t interesting.
Wooyoung knew that.
Some boring trust-fund types. A CEO’s kid. A couple of charity board vultures. A model San had maybe fucked once back in his pre-Wooyoung era - which wasn’t even that long ago.
But the way San laughed with them? The way he touched that girl’s arm when he passed her a drink?
Wooyoung felt sick.
He stood just outside the terrace, drink untouched, fingers clenched around the glass. The collar was on tonight - black velvet, subtle, with the diamond key tucked just under his shirt. He was supposed to feel claimed. Untouchable.
But all he felt was replaceable.
Maybe San didn’t mean all the things he said in bed. Maybe Wooyoung wasn’t special. Maybe he was just a fun toy. A pet that’d gone a little too soft and now needed to be retired.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He didn’t even realize San was watching until the guests were gone.
The moment the door closed behind the last one, San walked toward him. Quiet. Controlled.
“Kitten,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”
Wooyoung looked away. “Don’t.”
“You’re upset.”
“Fuck off.”
San stopped just in front of him. “Was it her?”
Wooyoung laughed, sharp and ugly. “I don’t care who you fuck.”
San raised a brow. “Didn’t say anything about fucking her.”
“You don’t have to.”
A pause. Then - San stepped closer. Close enough to touch.
But he didn’t. Not yet.
“I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at you.”
Wooyoung scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
Then - San dropped to his knees.
Wooyoung’s eyes snapped to him.
“What the fuck are you - ”
San pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Then another. And another.
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he murmured. “Not just your body. Not just to own you. I mean this.”
His fingers slid up under Wooyoung’s shirt, slow and reverent, dragging it up over his head, exposing skin inch by inch like he was unwrapping something sacred.
“You could’ve run,” San whispered, kissing along his stomach. “You should’ve.”
Wooyoung was frozen.
“I’ve had a bunch of people in my bed. I’ve never had one I kept.”
San stood then - finally. Hands sliding over Wooyoung’s waist. Chest to chest.
“I know how I’ve treated you. I know I made it a game.”
He kissed his cheek. His temple. His jaw.
“But you’re not a game, kitten. You’re the only one who’s ever made me want to be wanted back.”
Wooyoung’s throat felt thick. His eyes were hot. He hated this. Loved this.
“San - ”
San’s hands cupped his face.
“I want to worship you. Not own you.”
Then he lowered him onto the bed. Slow. Gentle. Spread him open with shaking hands like he couldn’t believe he got to touch him.
He kissed everywhere.
Shoulders. Chest. Sides. Hips.
Mouth whispering, “So beautiful,” “So perfect,” “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
He sucked a mark just above his collarbone - one that wouldn’t show beneath the velvet band.
When he slid inside him, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t claiming.
It was intimate.
Wooyoung cried into his neck, arms wrapped around his shoulders like he’d fall apart if he let go.
“I hate you,” he whispered, voice shaking.
San kissed him softly.
“I know,” he said. “But I’m gonna make you love me.”
Afterward, it was quiet.
The kind of quiet Wooyoung didn’t know what to do with. The kind that made his chest feel tight, like something bad was going to happen just because something good finally had.
They were curled up together in San’s bed - one of those obscene king-sized mattresses with sheets that cost more than rent. Wooyoung was tucked beneath San’s arm, head resting on his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing the faint marks left on San’s ribs.
San’s hand was in his hair, carding through the strands slow and steady, like he had nowhere else to be. Like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Wooyoung hated how much he loved it.
“Say it again,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
San looked down at him. “Say what?”
“That you meant it,” Wooyoung muttered. “That I’m not just… some thing you want to win.”
San was silent for a moment.
Then: “You’re not.”
His hand slid down to cradle Wooyoung’s jaw, thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone.
“You’re not a game. You never were. You’re - ” He exhaled. “You’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t feel hollow.”
Wooyoung blinked up at him. Eyes wide. Vulnerable. Wrecked.
“You’re so fucking obsessive,” he whispered.
San smiled.
“I know.”
Wooyoung rolled his eyes and hid his face in San’s chest.
San pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
“I don’t even think about anyone else,” he added quietly. “I don’t want to.”
Wooyoung froze.
Something about the way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession.
“…You’re insane.”
“I’m yours.”
Wooyoung’s chest ached.
“…What if I fuck it up?” he asked suddenly. Voice small. “What if I ruin it? What if I leave?”
San pulled him closer. Wrapped him up like he could shield him from every version of that future.
“Then I’ll follow you,” he said simply. “Wherever you go.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Better than letting you go.”
Wooyoung stared at the wall, blinking fast.
“…If you ever leave me, I’m setting your house on fire.”
San laughed. “That’s fair.”
“And your wine cellar.”
“Cruel.”
“And your stupid monogrammed pillows.”
“Okay,” San said, turning and pressing a kiss to his forehead, “now you’re just being hurtful.”
Wooyoung huffed.
But he didn’t move.
He didn’t run.
He stayed in San’s arms all night, breathing slowly, fingers curled in his shirt.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t dream of being alone.
Wooyoung didn’t need to steal anymore. Not when San was giving him everything.
He’d offhandedly joked about wanting San’s $15,000 watch last week - just to be annoying, just to see if San would flinch.
He didn’t.
He unbuckled it immediately, slipped it around Wooyoung’s wrist, and fastened it like he was crowning him king of the goddamn empire.
When Wooyoung started laughing and said, “I was joking, you maniac,” San just looked at him and said:
“I wasn’t.”
And Wooyoung had no fucking idea how he got here.
But he didn’t want to leave.
Not ever.
Even if San was a completely insane, dangerously wealthy, therapy-avoidant control freak.
He was also… really fucking sweet.
Which is why, tonight, instead of dragging Wooyoung back to his penthouse suite overlooking the Han River, San came to his apartment.
Which was... not quite the same vibe.
San stepped through the door and immediately stopped.
Then blinked. Turned in a slow circle.
“…It’s cute,” he said, tone suspiciously sincere. “It’s giving… Parisian starving artist with a criminal record.”
Wooyoung shoved him. “Shut up. You rich asshole.”
San wandered in further, peering into corners like the room might collapse on him. “Is this a floor fan? Like… wind that you generate manually?”
“Get out.”
“Do you have cable? Do people still have cable?”
“I’m going to poison your food.”
San grinned, kicking off his shoes and tossing his coat over the tiny coat rack by the door that was already leaning slightly to the left. “No, really - it’s cozy. Like, if I murdered someone in here, I’d feel bad.”
Wooyoung glared at him. “You’re gonna live a day like me, alright? No private chefs. No bidets. No wine that costs more than a mattress. You eat what I make and you like it.”
San walked into the kitchen - which was technically just a narrow strip of tile between the fridge and the stove - and wrapped his arms around Wooyoung from behind.
“Okay, baby,” he said, nuzzling into his neck. “Lead the way.”
The food wasn’t fancy.
Stir-fried noodles, a soft-boiled egg, some chopped veggies, and a sauce Wooyoung threw together with leftover soy sauce packets and spite.
The counter space was nonexistent. The stovetop clicked when it got too hot. San bumped into the same drawer three times and cursed it like it was personally attacking him.
But when they finally collapsed on the couch, bowls balanced on their knees, knees pressed together - it felt perfect.
San moaned after the first bite.
“Holy shit.”
Wooyoung blinked. “Okay, you don’t have to fake it.”
“I’m not faking anything,” San said, already going in for more. “This is incredible.”
“You probably eat gold-dusted oysters every day.”
San swallowed, looked at him, serious.
“This is better.”
Wooyoung blinked. “San - ”
“I’m not just saying that.” San scooted closer. “You made this. You fed me. In your little shoebox apartment with the cursed drawer and the screaming kettle. I’ve never felt more taken care of in my life.”
Wooyoung stared at him.
San smiled.
“You’re a mess,” Wooyoung muttered, ears red.
“And you’re my mess,” San said, kissing his temple.
Wooyoung let him.
Then pushed him off the couch. “You’re doing the dishes.”
San paused. Mid-noodle bite. Cheeks full.
He blinked slowly. Swallowed.
“…Are you sure?”
Wooyoung arched a brow. “Yes. I cooked. You clean. That’s how this works.”
San tilted his head like he was being asked to perform surgery.
“But.”
Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. “But what.”
San looked almost sheepish. “I don’t know how to.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then - Wooyoung howled.
He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his bowl, clutching his stomach and pointing at San like it was the funniest shit he’d heard in his life.
“You’re telling me,” he wheezed, “you’re a filthy rich CEO who runs a tech empire with global investments and stock portfolios and secret offshore properties probably - and you don’t know how to wash a fucking dish?!”
San pouted. “That’s not fair. I’ve always had people do it for me. Dishes are dangerous.”
“Oh my God,” Wooyoung said, tears in his eyes. “You’re a disaster. A bougie, helpless disaster.”
Eventually, Wooyoung took pity on him and did the dishes himself - grumbling under his breath the whole time as San stood uselessly nearby.
Or at least, that’s what he thought San was doing.
The moment he opened the dishwasher to load the last plate, San slipped behind him, wrapped both arms around his waist, and just… held on.
Tight.
“San - Jesus - can you not - ?”
San didn’t answer. Just buried his face in Wooyoung’s neck and started kissing the slope of his shoulder, soft and slow.
“Babe, I can’t move.”
“That’s the point,” San mumbled.
“You’re literally in the way - ”
“You’re warm.”
“You’re clingy.”
San hummed, lips trailing over his skin. “And you like it.”
Wooyoung groaned in defeat and leaned back against him. “You’re lucky I didn’t drown you in the sink.”
“Romantic.”
Eventually, the dishes were done. The lights were dimmed. Wooyoung flopped on the couch, phone in hand, legs stretched out, still feeling San’s mouth ghosting over his skin like it left a mark.
He scrolled. Answered a few texts. Refreshed Instagram. Checked the time.
Then blinked.
It’s been five minutes.
He looked around.
No San.
Which, in any other apartment, might not be a big deal. But this place? This place was the size of a walk-in closet.
There were two rooms. The bedroom. The bathroom. That’s it.
No sound of the sink. No footsteps. No “kitten” whispered from behind.
Wooyoung sat up slowly.
“…San?”
Nothing.
He stood. Put his phone down. Glanced toward the cracked bathroom door - light off.
“San?” he called again, walking to the bedroom.
Still nothing.
His chest tightened - just a little. Annoyance. Not worry. Definitely not worry. Definitely not the creeping thought of what if he left.
He opened the bedroom door.
And stopped in the doorway.
He stepped forward quietly, socked feet making no sound against the floor.
The door was already cracked, barely open. He nudged it wider.
At first, all he saw was San’s back - broad, still, hunched just slightly. Like he was speaking to something, or someone.
Wooyoung opened his mouth, already half-laughing, “San, what the hell are you - ”
But then he saw it.
In the far corner of the room. The little wooden table. The framed photo. The candle. The tiny vase with flowers long dead. And at the center of it all: the small, simple urn. White porcelain. Cracked at the lid. Unassuming.
His mother’s.
The shrine he never really talked about. Not even to San. Not even when they were tangled in bed at night and he was feeling soft enough to bleed.
Wooyoung froze.
San’s voice was low. Quiet. Almost shy.
“I know I’m crazy,” he said softly. “We met because he broke into my house.”
Wooyoung’s throat tightened.
He took a step forward, then stopped, hand frozen at the doorframe.
“But he’s amazing,” San said.
Wooyoung’s breath caught.
“He’s so kind. And caring. And beautiful. And he’s got this… this fire inside him that scares the hell out of me, but I love it. I really didn’t know what was going to happen that first night he stayed over. I thought it was just sex. I thought I’d wake up alone.”
San paused, then laughed a little under his breath.
“But now it’s been a while. And I… I like him. I like him so much it’s scaring me.”
Wooyoung’s hand trembled. His eyes stung.
San kept going.
“I should’ve asked a while ago, I know. I’m sorry I’ve been seeing him behind your back. But… will you give me permission? To take care of him? To make him happy?”
Wooyoung pressed a fist to his mouth.
“It’s weird,” San continued. “I’m not religious. I’m not traditional. I was raised on western ideals and red wine and therapists I never went to. But I don’t care. This feels right.”
San reached out and gently adjusted the wilted flowers in the vase. Then bowed his head and kissed the urn once.
“I think I can make him happy,” he whispered. “I hope he’ll let me stay by his side.”
Wooyoung choked on a breath.
San turned - stopped when he saw him.
They locked eyes.
San didn’t panic. He just smiled, soft and small, and turned back one more time to gently press the urn back into its place, straightening the frame beside it.
Then he walked over, silent.
And Wooyoung - already shaking - crashed into him with a sob.
San wrapped him up instantly, arms tight, hands smoothing over his back like it was instinct.
“Hi, Wooyoung-ah,” he whispered, warm against his ear.
Wooyoung broke.
He buried his face in San’s shoulder, crying full-body now, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, trying to breathe but shatteringunder the weight of it all.
“D-did you m-mean it?” he gasped. “All of it?”
San held him tighter.
“Can I stay by your side?” he murmured again, steady, quiet, real.
Wooyoung pulled back enough to see his face. His own soaked in tears.
He nodded. Wordless. Fragile.
But then his voice came out, barely a whisper.
“But… Sannie…”
San tilted his head.
“Why me?” Wooyoung said. “You know so many people. You could have anyone. I’m not special. I’m just… me.”
San cupped his face like it was precious.
“That’s why,” he said. “You’re you. You’re Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung blinked at him, watery and confused.
San hesitated. His hands trembled for the first time.
“…What is it?” Wooyoung asked.
San smiled a little, nervous now.
“I do want to say something else.”
“What is it?” Wooyoung pressed. “Tell me.”
San leaned in slowly, noses brushing, his gaze steady and burning.
“Why you?” he whispered.
They didn’t look away.
“Because I love you.”
Wooyoung exhaled a shaky, stunned, “Oh my god.”
And then he surged forward.
Their mouths crashed together - messy, hot, desperate. It wasn’t the first time they kissed, but it felt like the first time it mattered. Like the first time it meant everything.
San gripped his waist, pushing him back, guiding him down into the mattress like he belonged there. Like there was nowhere else in the universe he could be. Wooyoung let himself fall, hands sliding under San’s shirt, greedy and clumsy, wanting to feel every inch of the man who just said he loved him like it wasn’t the most terrifying, beautiful thing in the world.
Clothes disappeared in fragments - tugged, shoved, left hanging off elbows and ankles. San’s mouth was everywhere, open and warm on Wooyoung’s throat, his chest, his ribs. Wooyoung gasped, spine arching, legs spreading, every part of him aching to be wanted like this - held like this.
“I love you,” San whispered again, hoarse, right against his skin.
Wooyoung couldn’t answer.
He could only feel.
Fingers tangled in hair. Teeth against his collarbone. Bodies grinding together, too hot, too much, not enough -
And then San pulled back just enough to look down at him. Hair falling into his eyes. Lips red. Breath uneven.
“So does this mean you’re mine, kitten?” San asked, voice low, breath warm against his cheek.
Wooyoung smirked, dazed and wrecked beneath him.
“In your dreams, asshole.”
They kissed again.
And again.
And again.
Until language gave way to gasps, to whispered curses, to the wet, heady sound of skin against skin. Until their bodies stopped arguing and just fit, tangled and shaking and greedy. Until the night swallowed them whole, and all that was left were the sounds of them coming undone together, again and again, until there was nothing else.
It was quiet now.
The kind of quiet that felt earned.
San was out cold - sprawled across Wooyoung’s tiny mattress like he owned it, like he didn’t have several bedrooms of his own waiting for him on the other side of Seoul. His chest rose and fell slow, lips parted, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. He looked almost boyish like this. Still flushed from pleasure. Hair a mess. Entirely too rich and beautiful to exist in a room with a leaky ceiling and paint-chipped walls.
But he was here.
And Wooyoung didn’t care about the chipped paint or the sagging mattress or how San took up most of the bed. He just cared that San stayed.
He tiptoed in from the bathroom, body sore, legs a little weak, heart still hammering quietly in his chest.
He slid under the blanket, curled up beside San, and rested his cheek against his bare shoulder.
Warm. Solid. Safe.
San snored softly.
Wooyoung stared at him for a long moment.
Then leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose.
He smiled. Just a little.
And whispered into the dark, “I love you too, Sannie.”