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It was the middle of the night, or early in the morning. The time when the portal to the other side opens up. Quittin’ time for San, dreamland for most.

He was just coming off another 10 hour shift. By the time he makes it to the edge of their turf it’ll hit three, when he’s officially off the clock. He traded his post out with Yunho a few minutes prior with a good natured handshake turned bro-slap on the back. He filled him in on the updates: a petty theft at Salon Park and a car-turned-foot chase that ended with the perp tackled to the ground in the eerie overnight bus lot. San had shot him in the arm. He had to, since the other beta got away. His scent had been too subtle to chase, and they couldn’t let them both escape. Their pack existed to keep the peace of everything south and east of the Han. It didn’t matter if the thieves were from a rival pack or a rising rebel group within their own borders - without governance, real governance provided by the local community-members, a city like Seoul would burn down fast.

San believes in what he does. He’d like to be a pacifist but he knows it doesn’t work - he’s seen it time and time again. So he’s convicted.

Conviction isn’t enough to erase the exhaustion at the end of another frustrating night, however.

He crossed over the metro line that signals the end of their turf and the gateway to a few rare blocks of peace in this city. There’s a small park, some cafés, mostly laundromats and religious structures. Keep going and there’s another metro station, then a different pack’s territory. He’ll never know what their side smells like.

San was walking a little too fast, still had three minutes before he could cross into the neutral zone. He deviated from his usual path to the 24 hour mini-mart where he always buys a coffee and whatever pre-packed meat skewer has been left under the warming light the longest, the tradition he’d started after any shift where he resorts to violence. The deviation put him two blocks down, skirting the edge, until the clock struck three.

A few minutes into his new route and he spotted movement at a corner diner he sometimes notices but never enters, not knowing it was open all night until now. San halted, watching the body crossing in and out of view behind the half-closed curtains, pockets of warm light splashing out onto the sidewalk.

Suddenly, fried eggs sounded better than convenience-store meat.

Low-hanging bells chimed when San pulled open the door. An unseen voice called out, “Take a seat, be out in a minute.” The room was wide open, booths nesting along every available wall with a scattering of tables in the middle. On the far end was a long, vintage metal bar accompanied by stools whose leather-bound tops were just starting to crack, partitioning the food prep area and the rest of the kitchen. There was only one other customer, a little old lady holding a newspaper at arm’s length like she was trying to get it in focus. An omega, when he filtered her musk out from the stifling aroma of diner food. The owner of the voice was nowhere in sight, but they must be the one San had seen from across the street because this ahjumma didn’t look like she moved anywhere too fast. San walked to the front of the establishment and sat himself at the bar.

“Sorry about that, we get some wild late-night orders and chef’s busy restocking the heavy-ass coke syrup-”

The owner of the voice stopped cold when he laid eyes on San, his lips still parted around the next word, body halted mid-motion walking out from behind the kitchen curtain. He gave San a hard once over, eyes lingering on the gun laid on the countertop like one would lay a cellphone or their car keys. His mouth snapped shut. Then he crossed his arms and widened his stance.

San’s nostrils flared, breathing him in.

He returned the full-body scan, eyes reading with a drawl. The man looked funny, making himself bigger, because he was donned in a powder blue wrap dress tied off with a bow, short flouncy sleeves, short hem, and a ruffled waist apron in watermelon print. San found it even funnier when he saw his bulky black combat boots. They were the kind that needed to be fully tied up, no zippers in sight.

A real badass.

The survey of his face revealed a pissed expression on gorgeous brown eyes with more eyeliner than was necessary for a hole-in-the-wall diner at 3AM, thick lips in peach, blonde hair that was tousled like he either forgot to fix it this morning or he just gave the chef a blowjob behind the deli slicer.

The peach lip was intact, so it must be the former.

Heavy crystal studs hung off his ears. They were fakes. San’s been trained to know.

“Are you the proprietor of this fine establishment?”

“Who’s asking?”

“A famished patron.”

He glared without inhibition. “I don't keep much cash in the till. Any extra is hidden in my shoe and if you want it you better know I’m good with a knife.”

Even without his training San could tell that he was dealing with an omega per his juicy, caramelized scent, and that his name was Wooyoung, per the golden nametag that drug the v-collar of his dress down with its weight, down enough to reveal the majority of his left collarbone and the top of his soft pec.

San blinked. “First of all, I’m the one with a gun. If I wanted your shoddy earnings I promise I would have no problem taking them from you. Second, I’m only here for a bite.”

Wooyoung scowled. “My body is not for sale.”

San leaned on the bar, fingers coming to rest at his temples. The sleeves of his leather jacket scrunched up around the elbows. “Seriously, I just need food. I’ll even pay, I promise. Now pass me a hard copy of your specials menu because the chalkboard is illegible.”

He made no move to comply. Their silence was boxed in by brill building pop. “Why here?”

San sighed. “This is neutral turf. There’s not much left, only a few blocks anywhere in Seoul, but this is one of them.”

“Sure, if the bank doesn’t count as a gang, then yeah, it’s neutral.” San nodded, but apparently it’s insufficient. “But why here?”

“It’s 3AM. This is the only place open.”

Wooyoung glared at him. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

Exasperated, San asked, “What do you want me to say?”

“That it’s because I’m so beautiful. They gossiped about me even across town, huh? You just had to come see for yourself,” Wooyoung mocked.

San snorted. “You wish, pretty boy.”

Wooyoung eyed the gun on the bar, the underside of San’s mullet dyed silver. Pack colors. “Are you trying to make it your turf?”

“No, I’d rather it stay neutral. I’d rather everything would, honestly, but that’s not how this city works.”

“Oh really? Then get your gun off the counter.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Just in case.”

Wooyoung scowled. “Just in case what, you being here lures out all the other thugs and you start a brawl in my diner?”

“That sounds about right.”

“Then your patronage isn’t worth the risk.”

“But just think,” San smirked, “wouldn’t the presence of a strapping young alpha with a pistol make you feel even more protected in the middle of the night?”

Wooyoung stared at him. “You should leave.”

The smirk slipped off his face. His alpha stirred. “Okay, not a joker. That’s fine. But I promise me being here won’t be any trouble. Just think of me like any other hard working citizen in need of a good, wholesome meal. Won’t you help someone in need?”

“Get out.”

San felt a growl form in his chest and he froze. He tried to cut it off before it escaped but he failed, unused to unbidden annoyance or his body’s reaction to being challenged, especially by someone who should be grateful for his business. Especially by an omega. A very attractive, very infuriating omega, wearing a pastel dress.

Said omega didn’t take the growl well. “Out.”

San considered him. Considered arguing. Considered negotiating. Instead he stood, ran a hand through his hair and left, slipping the gun inside his jacket as he went.

That was the first time he met Jung Wooyoung.

.:.:.:.

The signature on the bottom of the bill says his name is Choi San. The scent that lingers on the stool says he is an alpha. The gun on the bar says he is in a gang.

The anger Wooyoung feels when he looks at him says that he is attractive.

After Wooyoung kicked him out, he never expected to see that face again, never wanted to see that face again, but the man came in a second time, then a third, and his puppy-eyed persistence was slowly dulling Wooyoung’s pre-sharpened words.

The alpha has been coming in sporadically for almost a month now. He comes in all broad-shouldered, tiny waisted, like that serves any purpose other than to be obscene. The leather jacket is superfluous, as is the tinted lip balm. He always comes in at 3AM, claiming he’s just gotten off shift and is looking "for a bite.” Wooyoung figures that means ‘for ass.'

Every time the bells above the door chime at his entry, Wooyoung wants to rip them down. That wolf needs no announcement. The wind already does a fine job gusting his scent in to proceed him. It’s patchouli and amaretto and bitter spring greens, the kind that end up bedazzling fancy pizzas. Or at the bottom of expired bag salad.

Omega-3’s would never serve salad from a bag. Say what you will about the appeal of hot, greasy food, but Wooyoung would never stoop that low. No thank you.

Wooyoung straightens his lavender dress. There’s nothing he can do about the brass name tag that always pulls his collar down and to the side. It’s Wooyoung’s favorite name tag, the only one he wears anymore. It’s from their inaugural set - he, ahjumma Park, and her late mate all had one. The original triad. The Omega-3. They basically raised him, and their love proved that Wooyoung didn’t have to conform to tradition. He could fight it, and he would, to have a chance at a balanced love like theirs. Now down to two, he does everything he can to keep that spirit alive, even if that means he has to flash his collarbone to virile alphas.

The bells finish chiming and Wooyoung looks up. He wasn’t expecting this particular patron to come in tonight or he would’ve worn something...different. Alphas are known for their one-track minds.

.:.:.:.

His dress is thin. San can see the crowns of both nipples. They’re highlighted by the gentle slopes of his chest, accentuated by the well-endowed name tag. It hangs low, like San’s balls.

Focus, San.

He clears his throat, waiting for Wooyoung to give him his menu. He always does this - makes San wait until the point most would find uncomfortable. It’s like the omega wants to revel in the height difference while San’s seated, like he wants to assert that he has the power here. San looks up. Only then does the glossy, oversized trifold get slapped in front of him. The surface of the bar is chrome, the kind that’s impossible to clean all the fingerprints off of. The black metal of San's gun looks good in contrast.

The omega scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you to get your gun off the counter?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Wooyoung conflates the terms “pack” and “gang." To Wooyoung, San works for a bloodthirsty knot-dictated gang, and apparently gang members worship their guns and kill anyone who threatens their fragile dominance. San is actually part of a community-based pack that hosts neighborhood townhalls and acts on the issues that the party-elected officials platform, then ignore. They also act as first responders and enforcement officers when necessary. And yes, on occasion, that may include inter-pack enmity. Hence, the gun.

To San, Wooyoung is a wanna-be rebel who spends too much time reading omegan erotica and strolling blissfully unaware through these ten bank-owned intersections of safe space instead of living in reality.

San smiles at him. “Why put mine away when you’re not willing to go defenseless either?”

The omega growls in return. San wonders if it’s the same growl he would use while being fucked on the counter, snapping his jaws the way he’d like San to snap his hips.

.:.:.:.

In her usual booth, ahjumma Park snorts into her coffee cup. She’s always liked San.

Wooyoung ignores her. He grabs San’s usual mug, ready to make his tea.

“Wait,” San calls. “Can you make me a half-caff instead?”

Wooyoung halts. “What the hell for?”

“I could really use the caffeine tonight.”

“Then just drink coffee.”

“It’s the devil’s hour.”

“And? The devil drinks coffee too.”

San shrugs. “At this time of night it’s like picking a side, heaven or hell. I’ll toe the line with my half-caff, thanks.”

Wooyoung squints at him. “Just drink tea.”

“Is that what she’s drinking?” San tilts his head toward the elderly omega. She’s reading yesterday’s newspaper, sipping at a pink ceramic mug, the only one with hearts on it, the one Wooyoung saves just for her. She looks bored, eyes moving back and forth across the text from behind her farsighted glasses, the kind that magnify her slow-blinking eyes. Wooyoung knows she listens to everything they say.

Wooyoung’s gaze slides back to his unwelcome customer. “No, she’s got balls. Bigger than yours, apparently, because she’s got big-boy coffee in her mug.”

They compromise. Wooyoung won’t brew anything special but says he’ll split the mug 50/50, first pouring regular, then decaf.

“I didn’t peg you for the religious type,” Wooyoung says, pouring part one.

San smiles, the crinkly kind that Wooyoung hates. “I’d have to be spiritual after laying eyes on you.”

Wooyoung slides the pot right back onto the burner. “Coffee privileges have been revoked. You’re going back to tea. It’ll help calm the hormones radiating straight out of your knot.”

“So you’ve pictured my knot then?”

“Holy hell, enough.”

“Flustered, angel?”

Enough,” Wooyoung gruffs. By now, San knows just how far to push him to get a reaction. “You’re making me nauseous.”

“My scent too intoxicating, huh?”

Wooyoung scoffs. “Yeah, your patchouli ass mixes so well with the scrambled eggs and octopus we’ve already got going on.”

San grins. “Oh, you noticed?”

“Yeah it gags me every time.”

The alpha’s positively preening that Wooyoung picked up an undertone of his scent. Wooyoung replaces his mug with a hot cup of barley tea. San frowns. “What if someone came in and tried to hurt you? This is unclaimed territory, after all. And what if the ‘chef’ just so happens to be in the freezer? Wouldn’t it be better to have an alpha with a weapon around just in case?” The chef is a made-up entity Wooyoung uses to threaten anyone who comes in during the deep hours of the night, to make them think they’re not alone with two omegas. The alpha’s tone tells him he knows it’s a ruse.

San leans in and puts up a discrete hand to point, then whisper. “And what about her? She’s won your trust, but what if she decides to attack?”

Wooyoung stares at him. “You’re at least six times more likely to attack me than ahjumma Park. She’s like, 67.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. But at least she’s an omega.”

Wooyoung bristles. “Oh, like an omega can’t gouge your eyes out? I’ll show you right now with the coffee spoon if you want to test it. Hell, I’ll show you with a paper straw. At least it’ll be sustainable.” San scoffs but Wooyoung asserts, “Bet you’ve come across at least a few dangerous omegas in your time underground.”

San sighs. “Nothing about what I do is underground-”

“So I’m not wrong then. Omegas are out there, and they’re dangerous. Don’t underestimate us, dickhead.” Wooyoung slaps the cup holding packets of sugar, sending them shooting across the bar.

San gapes at him. “You’re making your own messes now, Wooyoung-ssi.”

“Screw off.”

He marches to the walk-in freezer to cool down. Inside, he flaps the hem of his dress, airing out the space between his thighs.

.:.:.:.

Wooyoung is so pretty when he’s annoyed.

San regrets that their relationship has taken this turn. He really does. When he originally entered a few weeks ago, he just wanted a meal. Then he hoped persistence would show Wooyoung his true colors - he always tries his best to do what’s right, even if not by the usual moral code, and to be respectful. It’s clear the omega has no interest in guns or ‘gangs’, even though he seems to be rather violent himself. So it’s become a different kind of challenge - one where San wants to prove that not everyone in a pack like his is out for domination. More than that, he wants the omega to feel safe enough to drop his defenses, too.

San isn’t going to hurt him. Maybe just lick him a little.

It drives his alpha crazy that Wooyoung tries to control his scent. Even under the rich smells of the restaurant he can pick out Wooyoung’s saucey, caramelized fragrance. He can tell when it browns in true anger, when it crystalizes, sweet, and when it bubbles hot and malleable and in need of a good stir.

When Wooyoung is annoyed his cheeks get red. San imagines they’d be similarly flushed if he was hot and bothered, like if he let San feel between his legs with a hand or his mouth.

Focus, San.

Wooyoung busies himself, cleaning counters and poking at the register like he’s not on edge feeling the effects of their consorting pheromones. Nature would suggest they’re compatible. San would agree.

“How many people did you shoot today?” Now Wooyoung’s tamping coffee grounds into a measuring spoon. Fresh coffee for who, San doesn’t know.

“Three. They’re from the north and they’ve been scaling central Gangnam for weeks. We finally caught them. We have reason to believe they were planning a coordinated multi-bank robbery, but the rest of my pack is taking over interrogation tonight...” He trails off when he hears Wooyoung’s insolent hum, dumping the grounds into the filter.

“Sounds like a long night, huh alpha?”

When Wooyoung calls him alpha, San’s body reacts the only way it knows how. It straightens in his seat, feet pressing flat to the floor, orienting itself to face the omega fully. His hands lay loose on his knees. He swallows.

“Yes, which is why tonight I have three times the reason to ask for a warm meal.”

Wooyoung turns. San feels his body begin to relax once the omega’s attention is fully on him.

Until Wooyoung levels him with his signature scowl.

“I don’t care if they’re bank robbers or tax evaders, get that blood-stained gun off my table.”

San bristles, but nature asks him to obey yet again. Progress is being made. His alpha isn’t the kind to prioritize pride when they’re getting somewhere.

The gun slides off the tabletop and into San’s lap. Uncovered, but off the table. He’s rewarded when the omega steps closer, scent stronger. “Oh, what a good alpha.” San laps up Wooyoung’s caramel and praline, but Wooyoung keeps coming, leaning across the table to place his hand on San’s cheek.

The alpha shudders. Wooyoung coos.

The alpha is no longer in control.

“I know alpha, I know. I know your pack makes you work so hard. I bet you’re so hungry, alpha,” he purrs, hand cupping San’s face, fingers petting at his jaw. San is too lost to hear the patronization, at least until Wooyoung pulls away. “Good thing there’s a mini-mart up the road.”

San’s body follows Wooyoung’s touch as it leaves him. He almost loses his balance, hands scrambling to clamp down on the tabletop. He grumbles, eyes narrowed.

Wooyoung pours himself a cup of coffee from the freshly-brewed pot. The mug is black like his combat boots. He takes a sip, disinterested.

The alpha balks.

If Wooyoung can play dirty, so can he. San’s tone is low, rumbling, on the setting meant to get an omega’s attention. “You would challenge me, omega?”

Wooyoung freezes up, eyes snapping to San's face, attentive. Of course it worked. San is an alpha after all. But when a command doesn't come, the omega thaws.

Then his voice turns metallic, like the bar. “You’re the same as all the rest, abusing my rank. But I guess I can’t expect much. You’re just the pack bitch after all. If you weren’t, you’d have more class and better shoes. What's next, gonna pinch my ass? Slide a 20 between my cheeks?”

Apparently teasing doesn’t work both ways.

Trying not to get offended, San smirks. “Why, not wearing any underwear?”

Wooyoung tsks. Then he walks away, flipping the back of his skirt up to reveal a thong. It’s the kind that doesn’t leave anything to the imagination.

He doesn’t look back. If he had, he would’ve seen San’s jaw on the table, right next to the cream.

.:.:.:.

Wooyoung returns to the freezer, doing squats. He spreads his thighs, then his cheeks. Maybe the escaping slick will freeze his asshole shut.

He sighs.

When he reemerges, he takes one look at the alpha sitting dutifully on his barstool reading over the specials again. He’s persistent. He’s loyal. He’s really, really handsome.

He needs to sit further away or Wooyoung’s going to need a cork stopper. He shoos him with a limp wrist. "Go sit over there."

San goes, making himself comfortable in his new arrangement.

For a brief moment, it's quiet. Peaceful, almost.

Then it's ruined.

Two alphas enter the diner smelling like hot tar and cherries with pits. They carry steak knives and bad juju. Wooyoung wouldn’t call himself a spiritual person, but he knows bad intention when he smells it. The bell above the door trills for them like it trills for any other, unbiased. Wooyoung wishes he could be more like that bell, judgeless, fearless, as he scrutinizes the two new faces.

A quick sideways glance at San confirms that he smelled them too. He’s already staring at Wooyoung over the top of his menu. Their hair isn’t dyed silver. Instead they’ve got tattooed rings on every finger, one for each of the ten stages of grief they’ll face should they disobey whoever they call Head Alpha. Different gangs, then.

The alpha in the booth has tried to tell him that gangs and packs are different. Watching him react to their presence, Wooyoung knows they’re one and the same.

Ahjumma Park ignores them. They ignore her too. That’s good, Wooyoung thinks, because he’s got enough problems dealing with the three assholes in front of him.

Bad intentions walk up to him, the pair giving him the once over he’s used to receiving from alphas. They gauge his hips, his skirt, his chest, and his face, in that order. They can’t see his combat boots from where he stands behind the bar. That’s a shame, really, because Wooyoung always enjoys the sneers.

“Hello, sweetness. We’re from the pack next door, the one that lights up that pretty bridge by the water? Well, we’ve just gotten off our shift, and we’re starving. Think you could spare a bite for two hardworking alphas?”

‘We’d like to eat your ass.’

The language of all alphas is the same.

Clink.

Wooyoung’s gaze slides to the booth. The heel of San’s gun is anchored to the tabletop, fingers loosely wrapped around the magazine. It’s a clear threat, yet the alpha acts like he’s choosing an appetizer.

The pair smell him at the same moment, whipping their heads to look, synchronized. They had been too drunk on fantasies and the scent of fry oil to notice him beforehand. One nudges the other. “Hey, isn’t that Choi San? When’d he crawl out of his ditch? Thought Kim’d put him there for good after his last fuck up.”

The other snorts. “Maybe he begged for it. Probably had to suck somebody’s toes.”

They’re trying to escalate San, Wooyoung knows. He also knows that Choi San is patient. Wooyoung has tried to escalate him himself, but it hasn’t worked as of yet.

“Maybe this is his bitch. Maybe that’s why he’s here - for some nice, neutral ass, since all his pack’s whores know he’s not worth the fuck. The only ones he can get anymore are the loose kind who don’t care if they’re hoeing themselves out to demoralized screw ups. I feel for him. So he’s out here looking for something fresh and tight like this little prissy bitch. Listen, I get it. And hey, if this one gets knocked up at least he can cook-”

San slaps down the tri-fold, snatches up his gun, cocks it, and stands. The barrel stays pointing at the ground. He growls, low.

This is Wooyoung’s worst nightmare.

The room explodes with heady alpha scent. All three are ruffled, eyes narrowed, and Wooyoung is intoxicated. He’s split between rubbing up against them and running the hell away from them. But at the end of the day this is his diner. So he gets between them and chooses the lesser of three evils.

Wooyoung stumbles out from behind the bar, his omega dizzy, and falls straight into the chest of alpha Choi San. San’s eyes widen for just a split second, still trained on the impetus behind him, but uses his unoccupied arm to loop it around Wooyoung’s waist and hold him against his chest. It seems to serve its purpose. The other alphas’ scents fizzle slightly. Then one laughs. Wooyoung isn’t sure if it’s directed at his combat boots or his display of choice. To make it clearer, he turns his face into the crook of San’s neck, presses his nose onto his scent gland, and nuzzles.

If Wooyoung thought he was intoxicated before, now he’s downright inebriated. He focuses on how San’s arm feels wrapped around his waist, on how his own hands naturally fist into San's leather jacket. Unthinkingly, Wooyoung reaches up to cover the warmth of the alpha’s other scent gland, protecting it.

Wooyoung gets lost in amaretto and greens, impulsive until he licks at San’s neck and the alpha stiffens, grip on his waist growing hard. Wooyoung shivers when the alpha’s breath hits his nape and he realizes how much he’s pressed their bodies together.

Anger spiking from both the ridiculousness of the situation and hate for his body’s own reaction, Wooyoung manages to turn around, snapping, “This is neutral territory and if you keep acting up I’m going to have to ask you to leave. There’s no room for pack issues here.” He keeps San’s arm around him to maintain the illusion. His omegan scent sours with burning.

One of the duo tsks. “It’s not neutral if that’s your alpha. He’s in too deep to be able to maintain any kind of peace. But a wolf like that isn’t worth the fight.” They sneer at him, but San doesn’t return it. Wooyoung’s heard enough about San’s work to know the duo is just spouting gossip and falsities. San’s expression is still cold, but Wooyoung feels the tension under his skin. One nudges the other with his elbow in a gesture of retreat. Together they punch out two short, annoyed growls, useless to Wooyoung but apparently important in the way that alphas communicate with one another. “Good to know this dump isn’t safe anymore. Hope your business goes under, bitch. You won’t be getting any more customers from our pack. The food was shit anyway, ain’t much of a loss.”

Now that’s a falsity.

Wooyoung barks at them. “I wouldn’t fuck you anyway! You’ve probably got tiny cocks and worthless knots and your semen is impotent and off-color!” San pulls him back in before he can froth at the mouth. The pair backs out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, eyes trained on San until they’re through the threshold.

The moment the trill of the bell above the door ends, San’s nose is in his neck. Wooyoung slumps as the hot puffs of air hit his throat. San catches him, his chest still to Wooyoung’s back. He must’ve put down the gun because his other hand joins around Wooyoung’s waist. San holds him close, his nose snuffling its way along his collar bones, behind his ear, up and into the bleached tufts of Wooyoung’s hair, breathing him in. Then San scents him. He nudges his cheek into Wooyoung’s and the soft caress of face on face makes Wooyoung arch his neck further, opening up for San’s alpha to work. The alpha gobbles up the opportunity, mouth immediately moving down to rove over Wooyoung’s presented skin, lips leaving the tiniest hint of moisture behind.

Absorbed, Wooyoung blankly takes in the elderly omega still reading her newspaper. She’s smiling.

"Angel?" San begins to release him, but Wooyoung grabs his wrists before they can unwind from his waist.

Wooyoung growls weakly, still caught up. “You can’t stop halfway. Finish what you started.” It wouldn’t do to only scent an omega partway, whether he detests the alpha or not. The omega would feel rejected. It takes a second but then San understands, nudging Wooyoung’s head to the opposite side to continue scenting the other half of his neck. Wooyoung’s growls turn into soft vibrations. They could easily be confused for a purr.

When San's lips spend a little too long at his ear, Wooyoung's knees buckle. San maneuvers them back into the booth, holding Wooyoung across his lap with one arm supporting his back, the other under his legs. Wooyoung’s hands are in his lap until they’re not, one palm returning to the hot crook of San’s neck where it had landed before. San catches it. He glances down at Wooyoung and they make true eye contact for the first time since the duo walked in. Wooyoung is momentarily struck dumb. He isn’t sure what San sees, but it’s enough to make him press a kiss to the thin skin of Wooyoung’s wrist, then to rub his cheeks there too, until eventually he’s scenting all the exposed skin he can reach. Wooyoung’s neck lolls back and San kisses his Adam’s apple, no longer any form of subtle. San purrs, too.

Ahjumma Park coughs. It jolts Wooyoung out of his stupor. She doesn’t have a cold. She can probably smell how mellowed out he is, how comfortable, how bubbly his caramel has become, and knows how much he loathes this and all alphas. That, or she just wants Wooyoung to realize he’s turned on and doesn’t actually loathe this alpha. That’s what she’s been saying, anyways.

“I knew having you here would be a threat - you and your damn gun.”

San stiffens immediately. His face retreats from Wooyoung’s skin and he blinks. “I would never actually use it if I didn’t have to, Wooyoung-ssi, and they-” Wooyoung pushes away, lifting off his lap and out of the booth. The alpha looks wounded. “Wooyoung-ssi, I didn’t raise my gun with the intent to use it on them. It’s a tactic to show when you’re serious. I would have ignored them but they were being disrespectful to you-”

Wooyoung snaps. “I protect myself from alphas like you all the time, thank you very much. Your weapons only do more harm than good.”

San’s jaw clicks shut. One of his hands is still outstretched on the bench when Wooyoung walks away, a remnant of Wooyoung’s punishing severance.

.:.:.:.

After that, everything is awkward. Wooyoung knocks things over, San stumbles on his words. San knows Wooyoung is trying to distract himself from processing the confrontation and their following interaction. San only hopes he’s actually reflecting, not avoiding.

Eventually Wooyoung lets him order real food. San waited it out, another half hour before Wooyoung caved. Really, ahjumma Park probably caved, and what she says goes.

He asks for a surprise. Whatever the ‘chef’ feels like making, hoping Wooyoung will benefit from something he can fully control. After a while Wooyoung produces a plate of American-style french toast with sweetened elderberry syrup. Two sausages flank the stack, adorned by a few slices of notched orange. San can’t help but think Wooyoung’s natural caramel and nuts would be a better topping.

“The chef is generous.”

“Mm,” Wooyoung says, “when he wants to be.” He tosses down the plate and turns on his heel in a motion so fast a wedge of orange tumbles straight off the platter.

San considers this a sign of his appreciation.

He watches Wooyoung interact with ahjumma Park. He cackles high-pitched, forearms flexing where he leans his weight on the table so he can laugh full-bodied. San’s never heard her speak. Every time Wooyoung goes over he reads whatever she’s written on the newspaper in pen. Maybe she’s pointing out interesting things in the crossword, maybe she’s writing him notes, maybe she’s mute. San doesn’t know.

He watches from his new home in the u-booth, the one Wooyoung upgraded him to when he was banished from the bar. But when he looks at ahjumma Park in a booth of her own, he can’t help but believe Wooyoung sees him as a regular now, too.

At the end of his visit with the elderly omega, Wooyoung pushes off the table and comes to clear his plate. San says, “I’ve never heard her speak.”

“Yeah, that’s because she doesn’t want you to hear the way we shit-talk about you.”

San takes a sip of his refilled tea. Apparently they’re back to teasing. “So you talk about me.”

Wooyoung sucks his teeth. “Only about how much of a disruption you are. She and I used to have a routine before you showed up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, we’d talk shit about everyone else.”

The alpha presses the wall of the mug to his lips. “Should’ve known.”

“Yeah.” Wooyoung stares at him before reaching across the booth to grab an extra napkin and place it near San’s arm. Then he walks away.

San always gets a new napkin to place under his mug. Wooyoung must know that. Must’ve watched him, too.

.:.:.:.

San asks for dessert. Another surprise.

Wooyoung considers the request from his safe space in the freezer.

San is a good alpha, Wooyoung knows. Wooyoung had purposely aggravated him many times, well aware that he worked for a gang, somewhere probably higher up, and wielded a gun he seemed to use a little too often, but he never lashed out. Each instance where his alpha flared San would tamp it back down again, always listening to Wooyoung’s demands in the end.

Wooyoung’s omega is not so well-behaved. It’s furious he hasn’t taken the alpha to bed. Seeing the alpha keep his word has only fueled it. His omega sees the alpha’s persistence as some weird-ass form of modern courting. It was inevitable, probably. The alpha puts up with his prejudices. Wooyoung understands San’s perspective on the work he does and why his pack acts the way they do, but he’s right; Wooyoung has always existed in the neutral zone, and as such he didn’t see why pacificity couldn’t be the answer. Maybe being half-raised by an omega couple did this to him. He has always looked to their perspectives on things, after all. And the alpha does do a good job of maintaining the power balance Wooyoung thought only existed in omegan relationships. Not only that, but the alpha always praises him to the high heavens, licking his plate clean no matter what Wooyoung serves him, no matter how much Wooyoung charges him. He probably knows Wooyoung wouldn’t accept any traditional means of courting, if that’s what he’s after.

Wooyoung’s omega, however, will translate any and all interactions as it sees fit. It will be damned if crinkly smiles and pointing a gun at the ground aren’t fantastic means for courting.

His omega doesn’t care about propriety. It thinks the alpha deserves dessert.

Wooyoung shivers, leaving the cold to stir up a tall glass of something frothy. When he slides into the wrap booth with San they’re sitting adjacent, just the corner of the table between them.

“The chef made you something special. Wanna try it?”

San nods. “Well, if the chef made it especially for me.”

Wooyoung places the drink between them.

.:.:.:.

For the first time, San smells Wooyoung’s nerves.

Maybe it’s the dulled scents thanks to effervescent grease and boiled seafood, or maybe it’s Wooyoung’s carefully restrained emotions. It might also be how rarely he gets to be this near to the omega on an average day. Whatever it is, the browning of his caramel has San on edge, body orienting to the omega once again. Wooyoung’s chest is parallel to his own, and even with the space between them, San’s alpha chuffs. At least Wooyoung’s body is oriented to him.

When Wooyoung oh-so-sexily dips a finger into the thick foam atop the beverage and slowly brings the cream to San’s lips with an air of false confidence, San understands why.

San opens his mouth, not enough for entry, but enough so that Wooyoung knows he isn’t being rejected, and waits. He forces Wooyoung to make eye contact before he opens wider, waits until he sees Wooyoung’s faltering vulnerability in his big brown eyes. Waits until his own pheromones have the chance to richen before they eek out, tangling with the omega’s.

Wooyoung presses his finger into San’s mouth. It settles on his tongue.

San licks it clean: homemade whipped cream. Gourmand and sweet. Like him. When he releases it, the finger returns to the glass for another swoop of topping.

“This would pair well with your slick.”

The finger halts, half-submerged. Wooyoung stares down at it.

“I want to taste you, angel.”

A beat, then the finger moves again. It returns to San’s lips, the omega’s body leaning further in, scent sweet. Bubbling.

.:.:.:.

Wooyoung’s omega is screeching.

He gives in.

He pulls his cleaned finger out of San’s mouth with a pop. Then he bends down, hands shaking as he unlaces his boots. He props one foot up on the seat, knee bent. His skirt slips up his leg. “Okay.”

He observes the effect it has on San. The alpha’s mouth slackens.

San’s eyes linger on his ankle, his knee, the soft curve of his upper thigh. It takes him too long to respond for Wooyoung’s liking so he shifts again, leaning an elbow onto the tabletop. It encourages his already deep neckline to fall even further to the side. He feels it catch on the peak of his nipple, showing off the moon of his areola.

San’s scent floods the booth all at once. The alpha blinks consecutively, trying to clear his thoughts.

Wooyoung runs a finger across his exposed collarbone. He hums, encouraged by San’s strong reaction. “My omega finds you rude and irresponsible.”

San’s eyes track the movement. “How so?”

“A proper alpha would take responsibility for his actions.” Wooyoung’s fingers rake up his neck to play with the studs in his ear.

“Oh?” It’s all the alpha can manage. “Which actions are those?”

“Fighting. Causing trouble.” Wooyoung lets the knee connected to the floor go limp. It falls to the side, spreading his thighs wider. “Getting an omega wet.”

San takes one glance at the lace thong splitting Wooyoung’s cheeks and loses it.

He grabs Wooyoung’s ankle and yanks him into his lap, the omega’s back falling flat onto the curving bench seat. The force of San’s pull makes the fabric of his dress catch and bunch up around his waist, everything below his navel on full display. His legs are almost doing the splits as San holds one ankle up, the other still anchoring him to the floor.

“A proper omega wouldn’t be spreading his legs at the breakfast table.”

“A proper omega demands amends.”

San notches Wooyoung’s foot behind his shoulder. He closes his eyes, turns, and presses his nose into Wooyoung’s soft ankle, inhaling.

He makes Wooyoung hot. He has for a while now, but Wooyoung’s never let himself go. Until today. Until it was earned. He feels a trickle, then more dampness between his thighs.

San’s eyes crack open, glancing at the moist lace against his ass. “Smell so good, omega.”

“For you, alpha,” he breathes.

San’s eyes widen. Wooyoung’s face flushes the longer San holds his gaze. San’s hands on him are big and warm, and he wants them elsewhere. Better places. He starts squirming, hoping to encourage the alpha to move. San licks his lips.

“Wooyoung, may I-”

“Just touch me already.”

That’s all the permission San needs before he gets his hands under both Wooyoung’s thighs, lifting him up by the legs and pressing him down along the far corner of the booth, settling himself in the other. The u-booth is the biggest in Omega-3’s, but it isn’t huge. One person couldn’t even stretch out all the way. But with Wooyoung’s hips propped up against San’s lap, both knees now hooked over San’s collar, they fit. The crown of Wooyoung’s head presses into the faux-leather backing, probably making it staticky. San squeezes around both Wooyoung’s slim thighs, fingertips pulsing into the fat of his skin. Wooyoung moans at the touch and the look in San’s eyes: Submit.

Locking Wooyoung’s knees over his shoulders leaves San’s hands free to do what they please. He trails one down to snap the thin strap of fabric around Wooyoung’s pelvis, the only thing holding his decorative thong in place.

“This is a bad look for a small business owner. What will the customers think?”

“Shut up, asshole. Pay your dues.”

San lifts the elastic again, pulling it up enough to briefly allow Wooyoung’s cock to unfurl from where it had been snuggling against his hip, trapped. This time, when San drops the strap, the tip remains poking out. The snap of elastic on erection stings. Wooyoung hisses.

San leans closer, forcing Wooyoung’s legs to bend. He whines.

“What about our favorite ahjumma, hm, angel? You don’t want to lose your one regular customer.”

Wooyoung runs his hands up his own thighs until he can wrap them loosely around San’s wrists.

“She’s deaf.”

“I know she’s not deaf, you liar.” San twists his hands to grab hold of Wooyoung’s, a move he must have learned from his pack. He slams Wooyoung’s wrists into the thin spaces of leather next to his head. “Don’t lie to me, omega.”

Wooyoung’s already breathing heavy, lips warm from San’s proximity. “Want her to listen.”

San blinks. Then a growl rips through him as he lifts Wooyoung’s wrists up just to slam them down again. “You’re an exhibitionist?”

Wooyoung shakes his head. “Want her to help me evaluate if all my effort’s been worth the fuck.”

San balks. “Your effort?

“Yeah, putting up with all your shit. We talked about how you’d rather sit here and pine than put those big balls to use and actually make a move. We decided you’re either pitifully small or lack the confidence to please me.”

San fists into Wooyoung’s hair, yanking his head back to bare the line of his throat. “Oh, omega, how wrong you are." His voice is low, dripping. His lips float above Wooyoung’s skin, tracing from the pool between his collarbones, over his Adam’s apple, down to the sensitive turn where jaw meets ear. Wooyoung shivers. Another batch of slick encourages him.

“Hurry up and prove it to me alpha, I won’t ask again.”

Provoked, San slides his palms under Wooyoung’s back to arch him up until only Wooyoung’s shoulders connect him to the seat. The omega’s hands scramble to hold onto his wrists again. His legs are dangling haphazardly behind San’s back and he has to tighten his thighs around the alpha’s face to keep his knees from slipping, the muscles in his abdomen pulling taut from the effort.

And San - San’s nose makes a beeline for the soft spot between Wooyoung’s thighs.

He nuzzles into the fabric caught between Wooyoung’s cheeks, the tip of his nose dampening from Wooyoung’s generous slick. He inhales deeply, and Wooyoung feels the way the alpha’s body shudders as he exhales. When San opens his eyes to look down at him, his pupils are blown wide.

The sight could make Wooyoung cum on the spot. This strong, broad, leather-clad alpha who isn’t afraid to resort to violence if it means protecting his turf, his neighborhood, his omega, with his chiseled jaw pressed deep between Wooyoung’s legs, gulping down the essence Wooyoung’s produced just for him.

Yeah. He’d better not think about it or he’ll end their romp far too early.

He needn’t have worried, though, because when San tilts his head and curls his tongue under the bridge of the thong, the tip trails against Wooyoung’s asshole, and his mind blanks. The alpha sucks the thin band into his mouth and pulls back, pulls far enough that Wooyoung can feel the elastic pulling at his erection again, pulls far enough that he can just see the fabric between San’s lips, until the alpha releases it to snap against his rim and ballsac.

Wooyoung moans.

San looks delighted. The rumbling in his chest increases and his eyelids begin to droop over his still-enlarged pupils. He’s slipping, Wooyoung thinks, into his alpha headspace. The one Wooyoung’s avoided for so long. The one he now desperately wants to meet.

San repeats the act. Thong between lips, tongue against ass, snap. On the third go he lifts with his teeth, canines rubbing against Wooyoung’s puckers, nose dragging against perineum. The omega writhes. San’s hands tighten around his waist, fingers pressing into the divots that live low on his back.

When he retreats, Wooyoung sees the lower half of San’s face glisten. Glisten with slick. Wooyoung whines, pressing his feet into San’s back to try and find the leverage to lift his hips to San’s mouth again.

The alpha chuckles, rubbing his cheeks into Wooyoung’s thighs. Scenting him.

Wooyoung’s omega acts up. “What are you laughing at? This half-assed job you’re doing? Can’t ever just commit can you - half-caffs, half-baked ass-eating, half-” San cuts him off when he sinks his teeth into the thigh he had just been nuzzling.

“Shh, angel, no need to beg. Alpha’s got you.”

Wooyoung sputters, hands tightening around San’s wrists. “What? That was the furthest from begging-” He cuts himself off as San’s nose slides back to his perineum. When San hovers, watching, Wooyoung starts again. “Furthest from-” San presses the flat of his tongue to Wooyoung’s asshole, covering the width of the pink and pressing the thong straight down the middle. “From-” San pushes the tip of his tongue inside, dragging the fabric in along with it.

Words are forgotten.

Sure Wooyoung’s no longer going to talk back, San nudges the lace out of the way and gives Wooyoung the ass-eating he deserves.

San’s the kind of man to put his whole face into it. It’s like he can’t stay still, can’t hold himself steady and just lick, but needs to press his entire face into the plunge, needs to wet his lips between sucks, needs to roll his jaw against Wooyoung’s flushed skin. He’s the type of man whose body emulates what his tongue is doing, what his brain is feeling. His fingers dig in when his tongue does, his hips buck, his neck turns. He’s the kind of man who gets lost in another’s pleasure, who feels the warm clenches of ass against tongue like it’s his own, who sucks and nibbles and eats, eats, eats the hearty portions of caramel sauce the omega’s been feeding him. He requests a second helping, a third.

The chef is generous with his meals, after all.

It’s a bit rough, smattered with knicks of his sharp teeth, but Wooyoung likes it. San must be able to tell.

San opens his eyes again, still dutifully eating him out. He eyes Wooyoung’s length, rigid, petite, before raising his gaze. Wooyoung’s been watching him, enthralled, and his breath catches when San meets his eyes.

San burrows his face between Wooyoung’s cheeks once more, mumbling against his skin, “Cum for me.”

Wooyoung does.

Release bursts out his uncovered tip, splashing across his hip, his abs, the wall of the booth.

San laps at his slick until the supply dwindles to droplets that patter onto the seat below. San’s tongue retreats. He soothes kisses into the juncture between leg and pelvis while he waits, eyes on Wooyoung’s face.

Wooyoung melts. His body becomes so lax his leg starts to slip off San’s shoulder. The alpha catches it before it can. He hums at Wooyoung in approval, still dusting him with kisses.

Wooyoung hasn’t had many alphas, per his own design. He’s also never had an orgasm without a single pump to his dick. He thinks this change has more to do with Choi San than anything.

“San,” Wooyoung calls. Suddenly, he feels vulnerable. He hates it, but his need for the alpha’s affections outweighs his shame.

“Good job, angel.” San lets Wooyoung’s knees drape around his hips instead of his shoulders, giving him room to lean over Wooyoung’s body. San kisses him.

It tastes like slick. Wooyoung likes it. “Alpha.”

He wraps his legs around San’s back and threads his fingers into San’s hair, pulling him flush to his body. He kisses him, furious, until San breaks away to lick at the corners of his mouth, his cheekbone, the lobe of his ear. His teeth scrape there too. It’s not enough for his omega. Wooyoung gasps, rolling his hips up against San. He uses his grip to pull San’s face into the crook of his neck, baring it. “More, alpha.”

San’s body tenses, then he rumbles, so, so low, and slides his arms around Wooyoung before grinding his hips down. He opens his mouth around Wooyoung’s neck and pulses his jaw. That sends Wooyoung limp, groaning as his nerve endings flare, his omega howling at the prospect of a mating bite. He falls limp for San, submitting. San licks at him appreciatively, holding Wooyoung even tighter. He laves long, broad strokes over the scent gland again and again. Wooyoung purrs.

Eventually, San returns his ministrations to Wooyoung’s mouth. He nips at his plump lips. He kisses one, the other, both.

They lay together long enough for Wooyoung’s ferocity to replenish. He pushes San’s chest up, but doesn’t release his legs from around San’s hips. Smirking, Wooyoung calls out. “Think he did okay, ahjumma?”

San’s rumbles stop abruptly.

From afar, the elderly omega answers. “Sounds healthy. Good for breeding.”

San’s lips part, aghast.

Wooyoung grins up at him, tongue tapping against his canines. “I’m not convinced.” He loops a hand around San’s neck to pull him down again.

.:.:.:.

Wooyoung drags him down into another fierce kiss and San wants to claw the seat apart. He’s so tense, ready to pin the omega down, to flip him over, to spread his legs. His nails start to dig into the aged leather bench and he’s growling into Wooyoung’s mouth, both irked and proud of having the omega underneath him in the face of an audience, no matter how small. More than that, he’s proud of finally seeing the man he’s patiently pursued accept his efforts. For as often as his primal side influences his thoughts, San really wasn’t pursuing Wooyoung for this. He wanted him to understand a different perspective on pack dynamics and protection, and to trust. But clearly, if he set his omega badassery aside and came to San in the middle of a standoff when he could’ve thrown paring knives and ran them all out instead, San had underestimated his efficacy. And, clearly, if the omega was baring his neck and looking up through his lashes, legs locked around his waist, thighs glistening, San had really underestimated how affected Wooyoung was by their natural chemistry.

Oh, fuck.

Said chemistry is about to drive San to shred the upholstery.

Wooyoung must be able to feel his tension.

“Lean back, San-ah.” Wooyoung clings as San scoops him up until he’s completely sitting in San’s lap, skirt fluttering down and providing the alpha a moment of visual respite. Wooyoung rubs up against his chest and murmurs against his cheek, “You seem torn. Want to be possessive, alpha? Not sure about being out in the open, other people listening, judging the way you pleasure me? Mm, there’s a couch in the office. Supplies too, if you’re interested.”

As San listens his rumbling grows, until its volume is covering any trace of Wooyoung’s words and he squeezes one hand on the back of Wooyoung’s neck, the other on his hip, and bares his teeth at Wooyoung’s clavicle like that’s at all productive. But Wooyoung is speaking to his weaknesses and his alpha is listening, ready to comply. When Wooyoung’s hand yanks San’s head back and he throws himself into a sloppy kiss, San crowds him into the corner and licks into his mouth dutifully, head tilting this way and that, giving Wooyoung kisses from all angles, even the ones that are hard to accomplish. The omega gives and gives and takes, compliant then nipping at his tongue when he wants San to change the pace. Everything is at his discretion. It always has been. San is happy to obey.

Thoroughly kissed, San picks Wooyoung up under the thighs and starts walking them through the curtain divider.

“Ahjumma Park, watch the front,” Wooyoung calls over San’s shoulder.

“Can she even see?”

Wooyoung runs his fingers through the silver of San’s hair, teeth nibbling at the strands. “She’s omega two of three. She’s tough. She can handle it.”

Then it clicks. The nametag, the ahjumma, the sign outside. No wonder Wooyoung’s been cold toward him. San hums in understanding.

He sets Wooyoung down on the plush green couch in an office lit only by a dim banker’s lamp. Wooyoung holds San’s face close as he stands up again, pulling the alpha’s jaw by his fingertips as he moves away to rustle through a desk drawer. But San isn’t having that. He plasters himself to the omega’s back, hands dropping to slide between and up his thighs, avoiding his pelvis, and trailing the pastel skirt over his hips until he drags so far he runs out of hemline. San’s palms find their way to Wooyoung’s soft chest, fingers splaying to cover more ground, truly and utterly feeling Wooyoung up. The omega stutters on his breath as he roots around in drawer one, drawer two, looking for something San isn’t interested in but better be pretty damn important if it’s a bigger deal than San’s hard-on pressing firmly against the crack of his ass. San cups Wooyoung’s pectorals and rubs over his nipples, hands moving down again to appreciate the slim curves of his omegan chest and waist.

Again, San puts his whole body into it. When his fingers press in his hips do too, his jaw tenses, his tongue licks, his knees bend. When his arms separate and one finds its way between Wooyoung’s thighs to cup his package, San’s whole body squeezes, too. When that hand slips beneath his hem then up under his balls and thong and around his shaft then wet head, the other sneaks under his neckline and caresses chest then areola then teat, and San’s body rolls like it would if they were fucking, hips into ass and teeth on ear. Wooyoung can’t help it, he can’t help it, when he foregoes the search and presses his chest on the desk and presents himself to San, thighs already parted but San spreads them more, draping himself across the omega’s back and imitating his pose until their hands lace together spread out on the wood, until his knees knock into the backs of Wooyoung’s, until the omega is small and trapped underneath him. Only then does San slowly rise and drag his fingertips along Wooyoung’s displayed form, tracing skin then dress, until they settle at the chintzy tie holding together his layer of modesty. His thumb loops in the bow, tugging lightly, until Wooyoung says, “Untie it, alpha. Hurry, I’m dripping.”

Indeed he is. The crotch of San’s jeans is soaked, chafing where it’s absorbed the excess through the sopping patch of Wooyoung’s skirt. San pulls at the tie of Wooyoung’s dress, letting it free, but it’s trapped under him and still covers his body.

San would like to change that. He drops to his knees and flips Wooyoung’s skirt up, revealing the perfect globes of his bottom. They’re juicy, like his slick. Bubbly and intoxicating. San likes the thong, he does, but he’s paid it enough appreciation and would like to seriously pursue getting the omega naked. So he notches his thumbs under either side and slides it down, Wooyoung having to present himself even further to free the elastic from under his bowed waist. San decides to take them all the way off, dutifully helping Wooyoung lift his socked feet out one at a time. He’s left with a mostly naked, presenting omega, and a hand full of wet underwear. He gives it a squeeze just for good measure. The fabric eeks out a few drips and San growls. He makes sure that Wooyoung’s skirt is safely caught up over his ass, around his waist, and lifts the soaked thong to hover just above Wooyoung’s peachy little asshole. Then he squeezes again and the fabric dribbles Wooyoung’s own arousal back onto his rim, the thong nothing more than San’s new slick rag. The omega shudders as they drip, the slick having cooled in its time away from his warm body. The alpha is immune to temperature, only focused on consuming every dewdrop, even the ones that are quick and explorative, trailing rapidly down Wooyoung’s thighs until San’s tongue laps them up and traces its way back home.

Pressed into the hardwood, Wooyoung moans. At some point he made his way onto his tiptoes, arms scrabbling so his fingertips could anchor themselves on the other edge of the desk, calves tensed where he pushes his ass firmly back to flank San’s jaw.

San would like to see if Wooyoung could cum again from this alone but there are more pressing matters, like the one pressing against the zipper of his jeans.

One finger slips in alongside his tongue: scissoring, swirling, sweet omegan moans. Two fingers: arching, whining, a found prostate gland. Three: “San-ah, alpha, fucking-shit-put-it-in.”

“Where are your condoms? You said you’ve got supplies.”

“Should’ve let me find them before you started humping me, fuckface, because now we both have to wait,” he snaps.

San is undeterred by the omega’s rude language, finding it rather endearing. “You think they’re in a drawer?”

“Yeah. There’s a package somewhere. I’ve caught my employees back here more than once, and I’d rather they be safe.”

“That sounds almost like condoning,” San muses.

“Yeah, well, good food makes people horny.”

San joins Wooyoung in pulling out the many shallow desk drawers one by one, still three-fingers deep with his other hand. He’s not going to let his hard work go to waste, after all. Wooyoung whimpers when a sharp movement knicks San’s nail on his prostate, so San keeps at it, flicking, distracted, until Wooyoung huffs, “Clearly you’d rather fuck around than find the condoms so I guess we should give up now-” he lifts to his tiptoes and San’s digits slip out. The alpha gasps, chasing the rim with his fingertips. “-or are you actually going to help me?”

San nods quickly, catching up to Wooyoung’s asshole and easing his fingers back inside, earning a low sigh from both of them. “I’ll help, I promise,” the alpha says, feeling better about being back inside the omega, at least in some way.

They find the package in drawer nine. As soon as Wooyoung retrieves it, San pulls him away from the desk and onto the couch, leaving the slick rag behind to soak stains into the surface. The front of Wooyoung’s dress opens where it’s no longer tied, and as San lays him flush to the seat, he slips it off his shoulders. Then the omega is in nothing but his socks and earrings: still fake, never more beautiful. He’d like to spend more time admiring the long lines of Wooyoung’s body, and maybe the omega will let him undress him again soon, but for now he kisses all the planes he can reach, trails his fingers up and down the contours, and unclasps his pants to roll on the condom. Wooyoung’s gazing at him with the kind of glazed over, intense look that San knows is careful and appreciating, is waiting for him to finally breach in. His hands are curled around San’s biceps, thumbs stroking the flexing muscle.

But San falls prey to a fleeting impulse and leaves a soft, lingering kiss against Wooyoung’s pouty lips in a moment of gratitude. The omega accepts the affection, reciprocating. San pushes in.

Yes, Jung Wooyoung makes him a very spiritual man.

San can’t move, won’t move, or he’d be tempted to quickly sheath himself all the way and spread Wooyoung’s legs again, knowing how flexible he is, how he can almost do the splits, how San would be able to contort him into all the recommended positions for peak stress reduction, peak spiritual enlightenment, peak breeding. They’ll have to try that sometime. But for now he forces himself to focus on anything other than the reality of Wooyoung around him as he lets the omega adjust to his breadth and length, bit by bit. He admires Wooyoung’s slackened face, then his arched back, then his small, bunched ballsac. San uses a hand to roll the hardened pods between his fingers, both massaging and teasing.

San is quite interested in Wooyoung’s balls. They’re basically useless. San likes that. Likes that they’re only there to be tugged on, rolled around, mouthed until they spring. It’s natural for a male of any rank to feel protective of his balls, no matter how useless. San would volunteer to protect them for Wooyoung. He’d like to keep the omega in his lap and just place a hand around his ballsac, keeping everything warm. He’d like for his hands to be associated with safety, with comfort. With being owned, if he’s into that. He’d like for Wooyoung to be more than willing to spread his legs, even in a non-sexual way, knowing San would take care of him. Would be passive or violent or whatever he needs. Would be his, too.

And just like that San’s loses it again, refocused on the heat of Wooyoung’s pulsing fertility around his burly alpha cock.

He’s submerged most of the way. He leans down to press more kisses into Wooyoung’s hair, around his open, panting lips, around his scent glands and mating point. Finally balls-deep, he strokes the bent thigh Wooyoung naturally opened up for the alpha and presses a kiss to lips grown cold from many cool gulps of air and the rush of blood all down south. Three kisses, four, before the omega comes to and responds to San’s affections again, softly humming and wrapping his arms around the alpha’s shoulders.

So San flips them over and now Wooyoung’s on top, sitting shocked and pretty with his palms flat to San’s clothed abdomen, balancing himself. The omega frowns at San’s leather jacket with the gun in the pocket, still on, and yanks it off his shoulders. He throws it onto the coffee table and looks just as displeased by San’s disequal state of undress, but he either decides it’s hot or a nuisance because he skips stripping him down to start rocking his hips, swirling his heat around San’s stiff prick. He throws his head back and leans this way and that, mapping out the way San’s cock fills his emptiness, documenting its touchpoints. Wooyoung takes advantage of being on top, the fingertips of one hand wandering their way up and into San’s mouth. He watches San suckle on them, entranced by the alpha’s easy compliance, rolling his hips all the same. He trades each finger out for the next until they’re all tipped with spittle and he flexes his hand, admiring it like one would admire a hand with a ring. The omega could use them to slick up his shaft and pull out a few tugs. He could use them to moisten the perked nub of a nipple and prep it for twisting. Hell, he could even slip them into his own mouth and lick them clean just for show. San would find all of that hot. But instead, the omega tilts his head and swirls them straight into his scent gland, maintaining eye contact the whole time, communicating his own desire to be scented and claimed and to be seen as his omega, as his, and San almost pops a knot right there.

San’s enamoured. He ruins Wooyoung’s groove and thrusts up into him instead, harder and faster until Wooyoung’s arms grow too weak and too shaky and he falls onto San’s chest, clutching at the fabric on his arms so he doesn’t get jostled away. San kisses and thrusts, kisses and thrusts, hips snapping and pulsing until Wooyoung shivers and the alpha doesn’t know if he’s cold or wrecked but he should be covered, his omega, covered and claimed, so he flips them and thrusts and thrusts in time with Wooyoung’s whimpers and moans until a neck is bared and teeth glint in the light, until there’s cum on skin and in condoms, until there’s a knot it’s San’s knot and Wooyoung clamps down, holds him in, nuzzling San’s face anywhere he can reach, until wave after wave of want is dumped into the condom, and San wishes it could’ve shot straight into Wooyoung instead.

His cheeks are red, like San imagined they’d be.

San ended up biting the couch. His teeth did leave a mark. He couldn’t help it, but he figures this is still better than tearing the u-booth to shreds.

They lay together, purring. Wooyoung licks at San’s mating point for the majority of the time, fingers looping in and out of the dual tones of his hair, hips adjusting every so often to wring out every drop of San’s cum. San lets himself be caressed. He enjoys seeing Wooyoung’s affection presented so obviously. It’s a rare thing, but it’s beautiful.

When San pulls out he soothes his tongue into Wooyoung’s swollen rim again, easing the ache. Wooyoung seems to like it. He hums and lays limp, still purring, hands still touching San wherever they can.

“Thank you for the dessert, angel.”

“Mm. Compliments of the chef. Thanks for sticking around, alpha.”

.:.:.:.

The letters on his tongue say his name is Choi San. The scent that lingers on his skin says he is an alpha. The gun tucked away in the jacket says he is in a ‘pack.'

The safety Wooyoung feels in his arms says that he is no longer a threat.