Work Text:
The dance studio was quiet except for the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint squeak of sneakers against the polished floor. San sat on the edge of the low stage at the front, elbows resting on his knees as he scanned the room of students who were still stretching and warming up. The afternoon sun poured in through the tall windows, lighting up the mirrored walls and bouncing against the metallic strips of the stereo equipment.
He adjusted the cuff of his open shirt, the fabric clinging slightly to his tan skin with a sheen of sweat already forming. He’d been demonstrating moves to a couple of earlier arrivals, and though the studio wasn’t stifling, it was hot enough that he hadn’t bothered to button the shirt back up. His chest and the top ridges of his abs were exposed, the heat of exertion and the glow of the sunlight making him look almost staged.
San liked things to start on time. He was strict about it—discipline was part of dance. Yet as he glanced at the studio clock ticking past the hour, he knew one of the new students was still missing. A boy he’d been told about, one who’d signed up last minute. San had prepared himself for the usual range of beginners—eager but clumsy, nervous but determined. What he hadn’t prepared for was the sound of the door crashing open in the middle of his mental roll call.
The sharp noise drew every pair of eyes in the room.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry I’m late!”
The voice was high and breathless. A boy stumbled inside, panting hard as if he had run the entire way from wherever he’d been before. His black hair was tousled and stuck to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks flushed with both exertion and embarrassment.
He clutched his backpack strap, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Even in his awkward, clumsy entrance, there was something arresting about him—something San couldn’t help but notice.
He was slender, almost delicate, with a frame that seemed made more for balance than brute strength. His clothes hung loosely, oversized compared to the defined lines of the other students in fitted athletic wear. His face, though—San found his gaze lingering there. He was beautiful in a way that didn’t feel intentional. His cheeks still had the faint softness of youth, baby fat that hadn’t melted away, giving him a boyishness that contrasted the sweat shining across his jawline.
San’s first thought, unwilling but insistent, was: Would he even have the stamina for this? The boy looked like one of those students who might burn out after fifteen minutes of serious training. And yet, there was a spark in his eyes that didn’t match the fragility of his frame.
The boy dropped his bag with a clumsy thud and bowed low, his voice breathless but polite. “I apologize, instructor. I ran here, I promise it won’t happen again.”
The apology was earnest, head lowered, shoulders heaving with the effort of trying to compose himself.
San tilted his head, amused despite himself.
His students rarely bowed so formally unless they were trying to impress him. But it wasn’t the bow that caught his attention—it was the moment the boy raised his head and froze.
Because Wooyoung’s eyes had landed squarely on San.
Truthfully, when Wooyoung had first signed up for the dance class, it wasn’t exactly because of the dance.
Sure, he liked music, and yeah, he’d watched enough flashy performance videos online to think that maybe, one day, he could move like that too. But if he was being honest with himself—the brutally, shamefully honest kind—he would never have set foot in that studio if it weren’t for one name on the announcement.
Choi San.
He could still remember the moment he found out. He had been scrolling through the campus bulletin boards online, skimming halfheartedly through class openings he had no real intention of joining. And then his eyes had snagged on the notice:
Temporary Instructor Change: Due to an injury, the advanced dance course will be led this term by Choi San.
Wooyoung’s thumb had frozen mid-scroll. His heart did a strange little leap, then tumbled straight into a sprint.
Choi San.
It wasn’t just any name. It was the name—the one that had been lingering at the back of Wooyoung’s mind since his very first year at university.
He’d seen San around before, of course. Everybody had. San wasn’t the kind of presence you missed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy confidence that made people turn when he walked by. He wasn’t loud, but somehow his silence spoke louder than most people’s chatter. And when he did speak, his voice was deep enough that Wooyoung always felt it somewhere in his chest.
The crush had been instant, unshakable, and completely ridiculous. Wooyoung never expected to do anything about it—San graduated and was older, obviously more experienced in every way, and he’d always seemed untouchably out of reach. The kind of man you admired from a safe distance, tucked between the lines of your notebooks and the daydreams you’d never admit to your friends.
But then the bulletin appeared.
San wasn’t just some upperclassman anymore. He was going to be teaching. Leading. And for the first time, there was an opening—a way to get close without it being strange, without having to invent some excuse to talk to him.
Wooyoung had signed up within five minutes.
And then the panic set in.
Because there was one glaring problem: Wooyoung wasn’t a dancer. Not really.
He knew little bits here and there—moves he’d picked up from TikTok challenges, half-learned routines from dance clubs his friends dragged him to, the occasional YouTube tutorial he abandoned halfway through.
But an actual class? With an actual instructor? And San, of all people?
The thought made him queasy.
He couldn’t walk in there looking like a fool. Not if San was watching.
So, for the next several weeks, Wooyoung threw himself into practice like his life depended on it.
Every night, after classes and shifts, he cleared space in his tiny apartment and stood in front of his mirror. He replayed the same tutorials over and over, muttering counts under his breath, tripping over his own feet until he finally started to remember where they were supposed to go.
“Five, six, seven, eight—damn it!”
He cursed more often than not. His downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling twice in one week. His thighs ached, his calves screamed, his arms felt like rubber.
But every time he thought about giving up, San’s face floated uninvited into his mind—the sharp line of his jaw, the easy curve of his smile, the depth of his voice when he said something as simple as good job to another student in passing
That thought alone was enough to keep Wooyoung going.
I just have to be good enough not to embarrass myself, he told himself as he practiced turns until he was dizzy. I just have to impress him a little. Just enough that he’ll notice.
The weeks blurred together in a haze of sweat and determination. His friends started noticing he disappeared more often.
“Why are you always so busy lately?” Yeosang had asked one night, eyeing him suspiciously over ramen.
Wooyoung had shrugged too quickly, stuffing noodles into his mouth to avoid answering. “Just… stuff.”
“Stuff like what?”
“None of your business.”
Because how could he explain? That he was spending hours every night just so he wouldn’t look like a total idiot in front of one man? That he was training himself, step by clumsy step, out of the desperate hope that San might actually see him?
It was insane. Pathetic, maybe. But Wooyoung didn’t care.
He imagined it sometimes—San watching from the front of the class, his dark eyes following Wooyoung as he nailed a routine. He imagined San raising an eyebrow, impressed. Maybe even giving him one of those rare smiles that seemed to knock the air right out of you.
That was the dream. That was the fuel.
And as the first day of class drew closer, Wooyoung’s nerves only grew sharper. He practiced harder, until sweat soaked through his shirts and his body ached in places he didn’t know could ache. He messed up, he got frustrated, he even flopped onto the floor more than once and groaned into the carpet.
But then he’d get back up.
Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about dance alone. It was about San.
And when he finally sprinted into that studio, panting and late and mortified, bowing so deeply his lungs almost collapsed—it wasn’t just nerves that made his cheeks red. It was the weight of weeks of secret effort. It was the crush that had followed him since freshman year, finally standing only a few feet away, real and solid and so much more breathtaking up close than any memory had allowed.
Wooyoung hadn’t just joined a class.
He’d walked straight into the gravity field of the man who had been quietly holding his attention for years.
And he was determined—no matter how many times he stumbled, no matter how strict San was—to prove that he belonged there.
Back to reality was when he realized San’s shirt was open.
For a second, San almost smirked. He saw the exact moment Wooyoung registered it: the way his gaze flickered down San’s chest, then darted away too quickly, as though burned. The boy’s cheeks, already pink from running, darkened into a full flush. He stammered something incoherent, words lost as his lips parted then closed again.
“Why are— I’m… your shirt… oh”
San let the silence stretch for a beat longer than necessary, enjoying the way Wooyoung shifted on his feet, torn between embarrassment and fascination. Finally, San rose from the edge of the stage, his tall frame unfolding smoothly. His shirt shifted with the movement, the fabric gaping wider.
“So you can come late,” San said casually, his voice carrying across the hushed studio, “but I can’t get a little hot and unbutton my shirt?”
Wooyoung blinked rapidly, clearly caught off guard.
San took a step closer, his eyes locked onto the boy’s reddening face. The teasing tone curled deliberately around his next words. “Does it make you uncomfortable, pretty thing?”
The room seemed to hold its breath. The other students exchanged amused glances, but no one dared to laugh aloud. Wooyoung’s mouth opened in silent shock before he managed to choke out a reply.
“I—no! I mean yes—I mean—uh—” He ducked his head again, his hair falling into his eyes to hide his expression. His voice came out in a rush. “It’s fine! You can—you can do whatever you want—sir.”
San’s lips curved into a smirk. The boy was even cuter up close, stumbling over his own words, unable to decide if he wanted to look or hide.
“Well,” San murmured, buttoning his shirt back up with deliberate slowness, “if it’s fine, then I suppose I should save you the distraction.”
The last button clicked into place. He clapped his hands sharply, the sound ringing across the studio and snapping the atmosphere back to attention.
“Alright,” San said, his voice commanding again. “Now that everyone’s here, we’re starting. And don’t think that just because it’s the first class, I’ll go easy on you.”
There were a few groans from returning students who knew what that meant. San’s eyes, however, slid back to Wooyoung. He stood awkwardly near the wall, still trying to steady his breathing, his hands fiddling with the hem of his oversized sweater. His blush lingered, though he avoided looking directly at San now.
“Positions,” San ordered.
The students spread out across the room, forming loose lines. Wooyoung scrambled to join the back row, clearly hoping to blend in. But San didn’t let him.
“You—new one. Front row.”
Wooyoung’s head snapped up, wide-eyed. “M-me?”
“Yes, you,” San said, pointing to the empty spot directly in front of him. “If you were late, then you’d better make up for it with effort.”
The boy swallowed hard but obeyed, shuffling forward to stand where San could see him clearly. His reflection filled the mirror wall, highlighting his awkward posture, the uncertain bend of his knees, the way he tried to copy the others without quite knowing what he was doing.
San crossed his arms, watching. He could already see it: the clumsy feet, the hesitant energy. But there was also something stubborn in the way Wooyoung planted himself there, refusing to back down even though he looked like he wanted to disappear.
San found himself intrigued.
“Warm-ups,” he said curtly. “Let’s see what you’re capable of.”
Wooyoung’s ears went red all over again.
The warm-ups were over, but the air in the studio had only grown heavier. Every inch of the room pulsed with energy—the thump of sneakers, the sharp exhale of breaths, the squeak of pivots against polished wood. San paced the front of the room, his eyes flicking across the rows, correcting posture here, adjusting timing there. His gaze always came back to the newest addition, though, whether he meant for it to or not.
Wooyoung had surprised him. He’d expected the boy to fold after ten minutes, all awkward limbs and shallow breath, but instead, he kept going. His face was flushed, his chest rose and fell rapidly, but he never asked to stop. There was determination in the way he pushed himself, even when his arms lagged a half beat behind the rest or his footing slipped. It was raw and unpolished, but it was there.
Still, San wasn’t about to let him think determination alone was enough.
“Back row, keep your lines tighter!” San barked. His voice echoed off the mirrored walls. “Wooyoung—your knees lower. You look like you’re trying to sit in a chair, not dance.”
Wooyoung flinched but obeyed, dipping lower. His lips pressed into a thin line.
San allowed himself the smallest smirk. Good. He listens, at least.
Minutes blurred into nearly an hour. Sweat dampened shirts, dripped down temples, turned the studio’s air thick and humid. Students began shifting uneasily, some sneaking glances at the clock, silently praying for a break. San, however, was relentless.
“Again. From the top.”
Collective groans filled the room, but no one dared argue.
By then, Wooyoung’s oversized sweater clung to him like a wet blanket. His breaths came short, sharp, and finally, with a huff of frustration, he tugged it over his head in one swift motion.
The white shirt beneath was thin, plastered to his skin with sweat. The overhead lights combined with the sun streaming through the wide windows made the fabric nearly translucent in places. And when Wooyoung raised his arms overhead to stretch, the light cut around him, outlining his silhouette—slender waist, subtle curve of ribs, the hint of muscle beneath softness.
San’s throat went dry.
He cleared it immediately, almost too loudly, dragging his gaze away before anyone could notice where it had lingered. His jaw tightened, the clench of his teeth audible to himself over the music still playing softly.
Get a grip, San.
This was absurd. He had taught countless students over the years, bodies of every shape and skill level, none of which had fazed him. So why did this one boy—a late, clumsy, stubborn twenty-one-year-old—pull his focus like gravity itself?
His annoyance at his own reaction only fueled his strictness.
“Wooyoung!” he snapped when the boy’s arms lagged. “You’re behind again. Keep up, or you’ll drag the entire line down.”
Wooyoung bit his lip, trying harder, but his timing faltered once more. San exhaled sharply, the sound of disapproval cutting sharper than words.
And that’s when it happened.
Wooyoung froze mid-step, his chest heaving, and spun toward him. His face was red—not just from exertion this time, but from frustration. At first it was hot how San was commanding him but now? It was just pissing him off. His lower lip jutted out in an unmistakable pout, his brows knitting together.
“It’s only my first day!” Wooyoung burst out, his voice louder than the music. “Can’t you just take it easy on me and stop bitching with me?!”
The room fell silent. The other students stopped mid-motion, some gaping outright. No one ever spoke to San like that.
San’s brows arched slowly, the corners of his lips twitching in something dangerously close to amusement. The sharp retort that should have risen—about respect, about professionalism—stalled on his tongue, because the word that echoed instead was: bitching.
Something about the way Wooyoung said it, pout still pressed firmly in place, fire in his eyes, sent an unexpected jolt low in San’s chest. Amusement curled into something darker, heavier.
Instead of yelling, San stepped forward.
One step. Two.
The room seemed to shrink with each one, the students instinctively parting, holding their breath.
He stopped directly in front of Wooyoung. The size difference was glaring now. San’s shoulders blocked out the light, his chest rising inches from Wooyoung’s face. He was taller, broader, every inch of him radiating authority. Wooyoung’s eyes widened, his bravado flickering.
San leaned down just slightly, his voice low enough for only Wooyoung to truly catch. “Careful, darling. You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone still tripping over his own feet.”
Wooyoung opened his mouth—whether to argue or apologize, San wasn’t sure—but no sound came out. His breath hitched audibly when San’s hand came up, fingers firm as they caught Wooyoung’s chin, tilting it upward.
The boy’s skin was hot beneath his touch, flushed from exertion and something else. Wooyoung’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting automatically under the gentle but unyielding grip.
Up close, San could see every detail—the faint sheen of sweat on his temples, the stubborn set of his brows, the quick dart of his tongue against his lower lip. His own chest tightened in response, an unfamiliar heat crawling through him
“Look at you,” San murmured, his voice steady despite the current thrumming in his veins. “Pouting like a child but daring to talk back like a man. Which is it, Wooyoung?”
The boy stammered, words catching in his throat. His eyes darted between San’s and the floor, unsure where to settle. “I-I just… I—”
San let the silence linger, the tension stretching taut like a wire. For a moment, the entire room felt suspended in that closeness—the authoritative grip on Wooyoung’s chin, the dominance in San’s stance, the way Wooyoung looked so small compared to him.
And then, just as abruptly as he’d closed the distance, San released him. His hand fell away, leaving Wooyoung blinking rapidly, disoriented, lips still parted.
San straightened to his full height, his voice suddenly sharp again as he clapped his hands once. “From the top. One last time before class ends.”
The spell broke. Students scrambled back into position, some exchanging wide-eyed glances, others focusing determinedly on the mirrors to avoid staring.
Wooyoung, however, stayed rooted to the spot for a second longer. His face burned scarlet, his mind scrambling to catch up with what had just happened. He blinked once. Twice. His hands twitched nervously at his sides.
San didn’t look at him again, though he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s gaze lingering.
“Music!” San barked. “Three, two, one—go!”
The routine restarted, bodies moving in sync once more. But the rhythm of Wooyoung’s heartbeat remained scattered, his chest tight with something that had nothing to do with dance.
And San—despite himself—couldn’t shake the image of that stubborn pout, that sharp little voice calling him out, the heat that had surged through him at the boy’s defiance.
He shut it down, burying it beneath the strict precision of an instructor. Still, the pulse of it remained, echoing in every beat of the music until the final note fell.
When the class ended, Wooyoung was still blinking furiously, cheeks redder than ever.
And San?
San wasn’t sure who had been tested more that day.
The final beat of the music pulsed through the studio, and San clapped his hands sharply.
“Good work, everyone. That’s all for today.”
A collective sigh of relief rippled across the room. Students slumped to the floor or bent over to grab water bottles, sweat dripping freely down their faces and necks. A few muttered to each other—complaints about sore calves, jokes about how San must secretly enjoy torture—but none of them denied the class had been worth it.
“That was intense, instructor!” one of the regulars called as they rolled up their sweat towel. “But it felt good. Thank you!”
“Same here,” another chimed in, already half out the door. “See you next week!”
San nodded, his professional smile settling easily into place. “Rest well. Stretch before you go to bed tonight, or you’ll regret it tomorrow.”
The line earned a few groans and laughs, but students filed out in good spirits. Several gave San quick bows or casual waves, their sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as they disappeared into the evening.
The studio grew quieter with every departing body, the mirrors fogged at the corners, the scent of sweat and effort hanging in the air.
Wooyoung lingered near the back, bent over to tie his sneakers. His hair clung to his forehead, damp and messy, his thin shirt sticking stubbornly to his chest. He tugged at it absently as if trying to peel it away from his skin, his lips pursed in faint annoyance.
San’s eyes followed him without meaning to.
He shook himself slightly, clearing his throat as he busied himself with shutting down the stereo. He’s just a student, he reminded himself firmly. Nothing more.
Still, when he saw Wooyoung slinging his backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the door, San moved before he could think twice.
“Wooyoung.”
The boy froze, his hand hovering near the handle. He turned slowly, wide-eyed. “Y-yeah?”
San crossed the distance in a few strides, his expression softer than it had been all class. He could see the way Wooyoung’s shoulders tensed as he approached, expecting another critique, maybe even another scolding.
But San stopped a few feet away, his voice low. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry if I was harsh on you today.”
Wooyoung blinked, clearly surprised.
San exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “I push all my students hard, but I might’ve pushed you more than I should have, especially on your first day.”
For a moment, the boy just stared at him, unreadable. Then, slowly, a small smile curved across Wooyoung’s lips
“It’s fine,” he said lightly, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. “Really. The class was fun, even if I thought I was gonna die halfway through.”
San huffed a quiet laugh, relief easing the tension in his chest. “Good. I’d hate for you to walk out thinking it wasn’t worth it.”
Wooyoung tilted his head, his smile growing a little wider, the flushed pink of his cheeks returning. “I wouldn’t have stayed until the end if it wasn’t worth it, right?”
Something about that answer tugged at San. Determined. Honest. Uncomplicated in a way that made him feel more complicated.
He cleared his throat, hesitated, then spoke again. “Then… how about I make it up to you properly?”
Wooyoung blinked. “Make it up?”
“Yes.” San’s hand slid back to the nape of his neck again, a nervous habit he hadn’t realized he’d picked up until now. “Class was long, and I know you worked hard. You’re probably starving.” His lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite serious. “Let me treat you to dinner.”
The silence stretched between them.
Wooyoung’s brows arched, his head tilting just so. His lips parted, and then curved into something mischievous, brighter than before. “Are you…” he drawled slowly, deliberately, “…asking me out on a date, instructor?”
The word landed like a spark.
San stiffened. “I—” His hand slipped from his neck to his side, his composure wobbling for the first time all evening. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
Wooyoung stepped forward before he could stumble through more deflections. His arms lifted, light and deliberate, wrapping easily around San’s neck.
The sudden closeness stole San’s breath. Wooyoung pressed against him, slight but warm, his damp hair brushing against San’s jaw as he leaned in.
Up close, his smile was different. Less boyish, more deliberate. His eyes narrowed just slightly, his lashes lowering in something that looked suspiciously like seduction.
“Because if you are,” Wooyoung murmured, his voice honey-sweet and teasing, “then my answer is yes.”
Wooyoung was fucking squealing inside
San’s breath hitched, his chest tightening beneath the unexpected weight of arms draped around him. His taller frame loomed over Wooyoung’s, his broad shoulders nearly engulfing the boy’s smaller body. The difference had been stark during class, but now—with Wooyoung pressed close, tilting his chin up, eyes gleaming—it was undeniable.
The instructor in San screamed for distance. For boundaries. For professionalism.
But the man in San—the one whose pulse had been thrown off balance since the moment Wooyoung crashed through that door, panting and flushed—was caught entirely off guard by how good it felt to have him there.
His hands hovered at his sides, unsure where to land, his throat working to swallow down the rush of heat that had no business being there.
Wooyoung’s smile deepened when he saw it—the faint flicker of uncertainty in San’s eyes, the way his composure cracked for just a second.
“Dinner, then?” Wooyoung whispered, tilting his head closer until his breath fanned across San’s cheek.
San inhaled slowly, grounding himself, his lips parting around words he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to say.
The studio was quiet now, the hum of the air conditioner and the faint echo of their breaths the only sounds. Time stretched, the moment suspended like the last note of a song that refused to end
And San realized, with startling clarity, that whatever had just begun between them wasn’t going to be something he could easily step away from.
The restaurant San chose was tucked into one of the nicer streets downtown, a place with glowing lanterns outside and a glass façade that reflected the city lights. The moment Wooyoung saw it, his jaw dropped. His hand brushed along San’s arm as he tilted his head, lips curling into a playful grin.
“Wow,” he drawled, throwing San a wink. “Fancy. You trying to impress me, instructor?”
San rubbed at the back of his neck, muttering, “It’s not that fancy. Just… decent food.”
But the corner of his mouth twitched when Wooyoung gave him that kind of look—teasing, bright, like he already knew how to get under his skin.
Inside, the waiter’ led them to a booth near the window. Candles flickered on the table, and soft jazz hummed in the background. San slid into his seat with careful posture, but Wooyoung plopped down across from him with all the carefree energy of someone who wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.
“You know,” Wooyoung said, stretching his arms above his head, “I thought after class you’d probably just point me toward a convenience store and tell me to grab a triangle kimbap or something. But this? Candlelight? Jazz? What am I supposed to think?”
“That I’m feeding my student because I pushed him too hard,” San said dryly, though there was warmth in his tone.
“Mhm. Sure.” Wooyoung rested his chin in his hand, grinning. “That’s all.”
Before San could answer, the waiter approached with menus. Wooyoung snatched his like it was treasure, eyes scanning every page. San pretended to read his own, but really he was watching Wooyoung—the way his lips pursed in thought, the way his hair flopped forward as he leaned down to squint at the smaller text.
When the waiter came back, San gestured with his hand. “Order whatever you’d like. Don’t worry about it.”
“Really?” Wooyoung’s eyes sparkled.
San nodded, assuming Wooyoung would get something light. Maybe a small pasta, or a salad—something that matched his lean frame. Instead, Wooyoung rattled off a list so long that San wondered if he was joking. An appetizer platter, a spicy noodle dish, braised beef, dumplings, and even dessert already.
San blinked at the waiter, then at Wooyoung. “You—you’re serious.”
Wooyoung sat back with the most satisfied grin, folding the menu closed. “What? You said whatever I wanted.”
“I didn’t mean the whole menu,” San muttered, but there was a hint of a laugh under it. He couldn’t decide if he was horrified or impressed. Probably both.
“Don’t worry,” Wooyoung teased, leaning forward. “I’ll share.”
San sighed, but his chest warmed. He hadn’t expected dinner to start like this—so light, so playful—but maybe that was what he needed after hours of strict teaching.
“Oh and an extra glass of water for later please”
When the waiter left, the two of them fell into easy conversation.
They traded bits of themselves, little pieces of history. San spoke about how he started dancing young, how his older cousin used to sneak him into street battles. Wooyoung admitted he’d only really gotten serious about dancing because of university performances, but the sparkle in his eyes gave away his deeper secret—one San didn’t know yet.
At some point, Wooyoung leaned his chin on his hand, eyes soft. “You talk about your family a lot,” he said.
“You must be close to them.”
San hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. My mom always said dancing kept me out of trouble. My dad… didn’t get it at first, but now he shows up at competitions like a proud parent.”
Wooyoung smiled, his gaze never leaving San’s face.
San, caught in the openness of that expression, felt the words tumble out more easily than usual. He talked about his little sister, about the way she begged him to teach her spins. He was in the middle of describing how she’d once accidentally kicked over a lamp when his attention snagged on movement across the table.
Wooyoung was sipping his water through a straw. Harmless. Ordinary. But his eyes were locked on San the entire time, gaze lifted just enough to watch him from beneath his lashes.
And then—San saw it—the faint swirl of Wooyoung’s tongue against the straw’s top before he drew more water in.
San’s words died mid-sentence. Heat crawled up his neck. His mind scattered to places he didn’t want it to go—not here, not with a student, not during dinner.
He coughed, dragging his eyes back to the candle on the table, but it was too late. His hand jerked. The glass in front of him tipped, water spilling across the table and straight into his lap.
“Shit.” San pushed his chair back, denim darkening with a cold wet patch spreading across his thighs.
Wooyoung gasped, then snatched the napkins from the holder. “Oh my god, here—let me—”
“It’s fine—” San tried to wave him off, mortified, but Wooyoung was already leaning across the table. He pressed napkins against San’s shirt where water had splashed upward, blotting at his chest.
San froze. He should move. He should tell Wooyoung to stop. But the boy was so close, his scent mingling with the faint cologne San had applied earlier, his fingers pressing against the fabric of San’s shirt like they belonged there.
Then San did move—backward, quickly, trying to put space between them. But just as he did, a group of diners squeezed past behind Wooyoung’s chair. Someone bumped him lightly, enough to throw off his balance.
“Ah—!”
In an instant, Wooyoung tipped forward, napkins still in hand, and landed squarely in San’s lap.
Time stalled.
Wooyoung’s wide eyes blinked up at him, lips parted in shock. San’s hands instinctively caught at his waist, steadying him. The position was undeniably compromising—Wooyoung perched on San’s thighs, their bodies pressed close, the heat of him radiating through damp denim.
For a beat, neither moved.
The hum of the restaurant seemed to fade under the thunder of San’s heartbeat. His throat went dry. Wooyoung’s face was right there, cheeks flushed, lashes trembling. His hand still rested against San’s chest, napkin crumpled between his fingers.
“I—” Wooyoung started, voice soft, almost breathless.
San cleared his throat, but the sound came out rougher than he intended. “Careful.”
Wooyoung blinked, then—unbelievably—smiled. A small, crooked thing that tugged at his lips as if this wasn’t embarrassing at all, but instead something deliciously funny.
“Guess I’m… really clumsy today,” he murmured.
San’s grip on his waist tightened before he realized it. He forced his hands back, resting them on the booth instead, giving Wooyoung the choice to move. His self-control strained like a bowstring.
But Wooyoung didn’t move right away. His gaze lingered on San’s mouth, then flicked back up to his eyes.
The tension between them pulsed, tangible as the candlelight flickering against their skin.
Finally, Wooyoung slid off, back into his own seat, cheeks scarlet now. He laughed under his breath, fiddling with the napkins. “Sorry about that. First I yell at you in class, now I’m practically sitting on you at dinner. You must think I’m a nightmare student.”
San exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm inside him.
“Something like that.” His lips twitched. “But… not boring, at least.”
Wooyoung’s smile widened, bright even through the embarrassment. “Good. I’d hate for you to think I was boring.”
Their food arrived then, saving San from having to reply. But as the waiter set dish after dish onto the table, San couldn’t shake the echo of Wooyoung’s warmth in his lap, the glint in his eyes, the way his tongue had swirled around that straw like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And dinner had only just begun.
The plates were nearly empty by the time Wooyoung set down his chopsticks, sighing happily as though he had just completed some glorious mission. San leaned back against the booth, staring at the battlefield of plates scattered across the table, still trying to process how one skinny boy had managed to devour more food than San usually ate in two days.
“You’re…” San shook his head slowly, lips twitching. “Unbelievable.”
Wooyoung wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back, clearly proud of himself. “You told me to order whatever I wanted. Don’t get mad at me just because I actually listened.”
San let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I thought you’d order one thing. Maybe two. Not half the kitchen.”
“I’m a growing boy,” Wooyoung replied with mock seriousness, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Besides, you worked me hard today. I needed the fuel.”
San tried not to smile, but it was impossible. He had to look away, reaching for his water instead, only to realize it was nearly empty. He set the glass down and said, a little softer, “You did well today. I know I was harsh, but you kept up, even after being late.”
The words slipped out more naturally than he expected. A genuine compliment.
Wooyoung froze mid-movement. For once, he wasn’t smirking or firing back a cheeky remark. His lips parted slightly, his lashes fluttering as he looked down at his hands.
“I…” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “I joined the class because of you, you know.”
San blinked. “What?”
Wooyoung glanced up, cheeks pink. “I heard you were teaching now. The old instructor got injured, right? So when I found out it was you… I signed up. Even though I barely knew anything about dancing before.”
San’s heart gave a strange lurch. He didn’t say anything right away, waiting, and Wooyoung’s voice dropped lower, almost shy.
“So, um, I practiced a lot before class started. Weeks, actually. I wanted to… you know. Not make a fool of myself. I really wanted to impress you.”
The words landed heavy between them, soft but powerful. San felt something warm coil in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He wasn’t used to this—students didn’t join classes to impress him. They came for the art, the training, the chance to perform.
He swallowed, keeping his composure even as his pulse raced. “…You impressed me more than you realize.”
Wooyoung’s head snapped up, eyes wide, lips curving just slightly.
San cleared his throat and added quickly, “I don’t usually invite students to dinner. It’s not… professional. But something about you—” he paused, struggling to phrase it without sounding reckless, “—pulled me in.”
The candlelight flickered across Wooyoung’s face, highlighting the smirk tugging at his lips. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand again.
“So I’m special?”
San stared at him, caught in the trap of those big eyes, that teasing little smile. His throat bobbed. “…Maybe.”
Wooyoung’s grin widened triumphantly, and before San could backpedal, the waiter arrived with dessert. A small cake, beautifully plated, with two spoons set delicately on the side.
Wooyoung clapped his hands together. “Perfect! Let’s share.”
San opened his mouth to protest—he didn’t even like sweets that much—but Wooyoung was already scooping a spoonful and holding it out across the table.
“Say ‘ah,’ instructor.”
San’s ears burned. “I can feed myself.”
“Not tonight you can’t,” Wooyoung said with infuriating confidence. “Come on. Open up.”
Reluctantly, San leaned forward and let Wooyoung slide the bite past his lips. The cake melted on his tongue—soft, creamy, decadent—but San barely tasted it. His focus was entirely on the way Wooyoung’s eyes were glued to him, watching every motion of his mouth.
“Good, right?” Wooyoung asked innocently. Then, with deliberate slowness, he brought the spoon to his own lips. His tongue flicked around the metal, swirling, before he slid it into his mouth and sucked the last bit of cream off—never breaking eye contact.
San’s entire body went rigid.
“It’s tasty,” Wooyoung murmured, lips curving in satisfaction.
San nearly choked on air. He sat back hard in his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest like that would stop his thoughts from spiraling. He could not let himself fall into this trap, not with a student, not when he was supposed to be the responsible one.
So he said nothing. The two of them finished dessert in silence, San’s internal battle raging louder with every stolen glance.
By the time they left the restaurant, night had fully settled over the city. The air was crisp, the kind that bit at your skin just enough to remind you it wasn’t summer anymore. Wooyoung shivered dramatically, rubbing his arms despite the fact he still had a sweater on.
San sighed and wordlessly shrugged off his jacket, draping it over Wooyoung’s shoulders.
Wooyoung blinked, then smiled so brightly San almost regretted it. “Look at you. Boyfriend material.”
San snorted. “If you didn’t have the jacket, you’d probably freeze to death. Or the wind would blow your twink ass away.”
Wooyoung gasped, scandalized. “Excuse me?! I’m not a twink. I have muscles!” He flexed pathetically through the sleeves of the jacket.
San barked out a laugh, the sound escaping before he could stop it. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Wooyoung rolled his eyes, but the mischievous glint in them only sharpened. “Good sex would be helpful.”
San stopped in his tracks. His head snapped toward Wooyoung so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Wh—what?”
Wooyoung tilted his head, gaze steady, lips curving into a smirk. “You heard me.”
San sputtered, utterly thrown off his balance. His face heated, and for once, he couldn’t summon a sharp comeback.
Then Wooyoung stepped closer, tugging the jacket tighter around himself with one hand while the other toyed with the strap of his bag. “Are you going to keep pretending you’re not interested?”
San’s breath caught.
Wooyoung’s grin widened at his silence, at the way San’s composure cracked right there on the sidewalk.
And San—flustered, red, heart pounding against his ribs—couldn’t deny it anymore, not when Wooyoung looked at him like that, daring him to admit the truth.
San still hadn’t found the words to answer Wooyoung’s bold question about whether he’d keep pretending he wasn’t interested. His lips parted, closed, then opened again, but nothing came out. He could almost hear the pounding of his own heart in the quiet street, too fast, too loud, betraying him completely.
And Wooyoung knew it.
The younger boy’s smirk deepened, like a cat who had cornered his prey. “You don’t have to say anything, you know. Your face already did all the work for me.”
San groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re… impossible.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Wooyoung replied, swinging forward a step, then turning around to face him while still walking backwards. His sweater sleeves flopped around his hands, San’s jacket looking far too big on his smaller frame. “But, hey… you could make things easier for yourself. Just… give in.”
San narrowed his eyes. “Give in?”
“Yeah,” Wooyoung said simply, falling back into step beside him. His voice dropped to something quieter, more sincere, though the playfulness didn’t disappear. “You don’t have to fight it. Not with me.”
San’s throat tightened, but before he could think too hard, Wooyoung leaned closer, brushing their shoulders together. “Come over tonight. Stay at mine.”
San nearly stumbled. “Wooyoung—”
“Oh, relax.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes dramatically, though his lips twitched at San’s obvious panic. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. You could just… sleep over.” He paused for a beat, then added with a deliberate lilt, “Unless you want it to mean something.”
San shot him a look, and Wooyoung laughed outright, victorious already.
But reality hit quickly—San hadn’t brought anything with him. His dance bag, his things—it was all still at the studio. He shoved his hands into his pockets and said carefully, “If I’m going to stay at yours, I need to grab something first.”
Wooyoung tilted his head. “Something?”
“My bag,” San explained. “It’s still at the studio. I’ll just pick it up, and then… we can go.”
For a moment, Wooyoung studied him in silence, as though weighing whether or not San was making an excuse. But then he smiled, soft and genuine, and simply nodded. “Okay. Then let’s go together.”
He didn’t give San a chance to argue—he slipped his arm through San’s and held on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
San froze, every nerve buzzing at the contact, but Wooyoung just started talking as they walked, filling the air with chatter. He talked about the song he couldn’t get out of his head, about the café he wanted to drag San to sometime, about the drama series he’d been binge-watching.
And San… listened. He didn’t even realize he was smiling until he caught his reflection in a dark shop window. But it wasn’t just the words that held his attention—it was Wooyoung’s mouth.
The way his lips moved as he spoke, expressive and animated, soft and plump in a way that made San’s thoughts drift somewhere he absolutely should not go.
Especially his bottom lip. God, it was full, curved, made to be bitten. San clenched his jaw, looking away for a second, trying to compose himself. He had no business staring at Wooyoung’s mouth like this—not when the boy was walking next to him, trusting, talking so freely.
But the urge gnawed at him, steady and insistent. He wanted to know what it felt like. How soft it would be, how Wooyoung would react.
By the time they reached the studio, San’s restraint was wearing dangerously thin. He unlocked the door, pushing it open, and the room was shrouded in darkness except for the faint glow of the speaker’s standby light.
“Hold on,” Wooyoung murmured, reaching for the wall to flip the switch—
But he never made it.
San moved without thinking, muscles acting before his mind caught up. He caught Wooyoung easily, one hand sliding low around his thighs, the other steadying him against his chest. In one smooth motion, he lifted him clean off the floor, carried him across the dark room like he weighed nothing, and set him down on the worn sofa in the corner.
Wooyoung let out a startled laugh. “What the—San!”
San loomed above him, chest rising and falling fast. His voice came out low, almost rough. “Can I kiss you?”
The world seemed to still.
Wooyoung blinked up at him, wide-eyed, his earlier bravado faltering in the face of San’s raw intensity. He shifted against the cushions, nerves flickering across his features, but then his lips parted and he nodded.
“Yes.”
San exhaled like the answer had been burning in his lungs.
San didn’t wait for the second nod. His mouth crashed down onto Wooyoung’s, hot and demanding, swallowing the startled gasp that slipped out of him. The kiss wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet—it was teeth and tongue and desperate heat, San shoving past Wooyoung’s parted lips like he’d been starving for this.
Wooyoung clutched at him instantly, fingers clawing at his denim shirt, tugging him closer. Their teeth clicked, breath mingling, San’s hand gripping his jaw firmly to keep him right where he wanted him.
The sofa creaked under their shifting weight as Wooyoung arched into him, trying to get closer, deeper, more.
In the chaos, Wooyoung’s hands found San’s belt. He fumbled at the buckle, tugging at it between sloppy kisses, a little laugh spilling into San’s mouth. “Take this off—”
San growled low in his chest, and without breaking the kiss, he caught Wooyoung’s wrists. His grip was iron. In one swift move, he shoved both hands up above Wooyoung’s head and pinned them there against the sofa cushion.
Wooyoung gasped, lips breaking from his, eyes going wide. “San—”
“Not yet.” San’s voice was rough, hungry, his breath hot against Wooyoung’s swollen mouth. “I decide the pace.”
Wooyoung’s body twitched under him, a shiver racing down his spine at the raw dominance in San’s tone. He squirmed in his hold, but San’s grip only tightened, the pressure on his wrists undeniable.
San smirked at the sound that slipped from Wooyoung—a helpless, shaky whimper. He dipped his head down, dragging his lips along Wooyoung’s throat, then sank his teeth into the sensitive spot just above his collarbone.
Wooyoung’s back arched off the sofa, a tiny moan tearing out of him. “Ah!”
San sucked hard, leaving a dark mark blooming on the pale skin. He lifted his head just enough to murmur against Wooyoung’s damp neck, “That’s the noise I want. Don’t hold back.”
He didn’t give him a chance to recover before moving lower, kissing and biting along his throat, sucking hickeys down the line of his neck. Wooyoung’s moans grew softer but more urgent, each one spilling helplessly as San mapped his skin with bruises.
When San latched onto a particularly sensitive spot, just at the curve where his neck met his shoulder, Wooyoung let out his first true moan—high, desperate, broken.
The sound ripped through San like gasoline to a flame.
He pulled back, eyes burning, and without a word, he yanked Wooyoung’s sweater and shirt up in one rough motion. The fabric tangled briefly, Wooyoung whining in frustration, before San shoved them off completely and tossed them aside.
Wooyoung lay bare from the waist up, chest rising and falling fast, nipples already stiff from the friction. His skin glowed under the dim light, flushed and perfect.
San sucked in a breath, then quickly went to work on his own shirt, unbuttoning it hurriedly while Wooyoung squirmed beneath him, wrists still trapped above his head.
“Closer,” Wooyoung begged, hips lifting to grind against San’s thigh. His voice cracked with need, whining in frustration. “San—fuck—hurry up.”
San chuckled darkly, popping the last button and shrugging his denim shirt off his shoulders, baring his tan chest and defined muscles. The sight made Wooyoung’s lips part, eyes drinking him in hungrily.
San caught the look and smirked, leaning down to kiss him again—brief, hot, biting—before trailing lower. His mouth moved down Wooyoung’s chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth without warning.
Wooyoung’s gasp was sharp, followed by a needy whimper. His back arched beautifully, wrists straining in San’s grip, but he couldn’t move.
San groaned around the bud, sucking harder, biting just enough to make Wooyoung jolt. He switched to the other nipple, teasing it with his tongue, listening to Wooyoung’s breathy gasps grow louder.
“San—please—” Wooyoung moaned, grinding his hips up again, his clothed cock brushing against San’s abs in a desperate rhythm. The friction had him whining,
rutting helplessly against him. “Need you—more, more, fuck—”
San finally released his wrists, but only to grab his waist and slam him back down into the cushions. His large hands spread over Wooyoung’s ribs, holding him still as he kissed down his stomach, teeth scraping lightly, lips sucking bruises into the skin as he went.
Every mark was possessive, messy, and deliberate. By the time he reached Wooyoung’s navel, the younger was trembling under him, tugging at his hair, dragging him closer with desperate hands.
San paused there, his lips pressed to the sharp line of Wooyoung’s hipbone, sucking hard until another deep bruise appeared. Then he leaned back slightly, his eyes roaming over Wooyoung’s body—marked, flushed, needy, grinding against him for more friction.
“Fuck,” San muttered, voice rough with awe and hunger. He dragged his tongue up the trail of bruises he’d left, savoring the taste of sweat and skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. Desperate, ruined, all mine.”
Wooyoung’s only answer was a helpless whimper, his nails digging into San’s shoulders as he rocked against him, chasing friction with every shaky grind.
San’s hands slid down to grip Wooyoung’s thighs, forcing them open wider. He pressed down firmly, keeping him spread, grinding their hips together until Wooyoung cried out, his voice raw and high.
“San—ahhh—f-fuck!”
San just smirked, biting at his stomach again, leaving another mark. “That’s it. moan for me. Don’t stop.”
And Wooyoung didn’t—he couldn’t. His voice filled the room, gasping, begging, whining, as San worshipped his body with teeth and lips, grinding them together mercilessly, not giving him a second of reprieve.
San’s mouth left Wooyoung’s flushed stomach with a wet smack, his lips trailing spit down pale skin. His fingers worked fast at his belt, tugging it free with the metallic clink of the buckle, his breath ragged against Wooyoung’s body.
Wooyoung stared at him, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling quick, the sounds of his soft moans still hanging in the room. When San shoved his jeans down his thighs, leaving only black boxers stretched tight around his cock, Wooyoung’s lips parted.
For the first time all night, San pulled back. His hand rested heavy against Wooyoung’s chest, pressing him down into the sofa. “Darling,” he said low, voice rough with hunger. “I want to fuck your throat. Is that okay? I’ll be gentle”
The question hit Wooyoung like a stone in his stomach. His lips parted further, a nervous whimper caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to San’s boxers and the thick outline straining the fabric. Heat shot straight through him.
“Y-yes,” he whispered, then bit down on his lip. When San didn’t move, Wooyoung let out a shaky laugh and added, “I… I like it rough, so it’s okay.”
San’s chest rumbled with a dark chuckle. His hand slid up Wooyoung’s sternum, thumb grazing his throat. “Good boy.”
Wooyoung flushed all over, trembling at the praise.
San pulled him up just enough to shift him, muttering, “Lie back. Head at the armrest.”
Wooyoung obeyed instantly, crawling backward until his head dropped over the cushioned edge of the sofa, his neck tilted back, throat stretched in vulnerable exposure. His dark hair fell against the upholstery, strands sticking to his flushed cheeks.
San stepped to the end of the sofa, towering over him. With one slow tug, he hooked his thumbs under the band of his boxers and shoved them down. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, flushed dark at the tip and already slick with precum.
Wooyoung’s eyes went wide, throat bobbing visibly as he swallowed hard. His mouth opened slightly, a shaky breath leaving him.
San smirked down at him, stroking the base of his cock slowly, teasing. “Don’t look so shocked, sweetheart. You’re the one who asked for rough.”
Wooyoung whimpered, the sound high and soft, but his lips parted wider.
San stepped closer, the heat of his body pressing in.
He dragged the leaking tip across Wooyoung’s plush lips, smearing precum along the seam. The sight made him groan deep in his chest.
“Fuck. Look at you.” He tapped Wooyoung’s cheek twice with the heavy weight of his cock. “Open up.”
Obediently, Wooyoung opened, tongue flattening out, lips stretched.
San’s hand slid into his hair, gripping tight at the roots, and he fed him the tip first—slowly, teasing, letting him taste. Wooyoung whined at the weight, the salt of precum hitting his tongue.
San gave him barely a second before pressing deeper. Inch by inch, he slid his cock between Wooyoung’s lips, groaning at the heat of his mouth.
“God, so warm—” His jaw flexed, eyes darkening. He rocked his hips forward, feeding Wooyoung more.
Wooyoung gagged when the tip hit the back of his throat, choking around him, but he didn’t pull away. His throat fluttered tight, eyes watering, saliva already pooling and spilling from the corners of his mouth.
San groaned low, the sound primal, and looked down at the sight of him—throat stretched, lips glossy around his cock, tears threatening to fall.
“You’re taking it,” he rasped, voice rough. “Fuck, you’re taking it so good.”
He pulled back an inch, then thrust forward harder, pushing past the resistance. Wooyoung gagged again, body jerking, but San’s grip in his hair held him still. His other hand pressed to Wooyoung’s throat, feeling the bulge where his cock pushed deep inside.
The sight made San’s head spin. He caressed the bulge with his thumb, pressing lightly, feeling himself moving in and out. “Look at that,” he groaned, hips rocking harder. “My cock’s in your throat. You feel that?”
Wooyoung’s muffled whine vibrated around him, spit bubbling at his lips, tears finally sliding down his cheeks. He nodded—or tried to—his throat fluttering tight around San’s length.
San hissed through his teeth, thrusting again, rougher this time. The couch creaked under his weight as he set a rhythm, dragging his cock almost all the way out, then slamming it back in. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room, each thrust punctuated by Wooyoung gagging and choking around him.
Drool ran down Wooyoung’s chin, dripping onto the couch. His hands clawed weakly at San’s thighs above him, not to push him away but to hold onto something, to ground himself as San used his throat.
San groaned, head tipping back briefly at the sheer heat and tightness of it. “Fuck, your mouth is perfect—made for me to ruin.” He glanced back down, gaze dark and hungry, watching Wooyoung’s throat bulge each time he drove in deep.
He couldn’t resist. He slid his hand back to Wooyoung’s neck, palm pressing over the bulge, stroking up and down as he fucked into it. “See this?” he muttered through ragged breaths. “That’s me. All the way inside you.”
Wooyoung choked on a moan, tears streaking his flushed face, spit stringing between his lips and San’s cock every time he withdrew. He hollowed his cheeks when he could, sucking weakly, his tongue flicking along the underside whenever San slowed enough.
The mix of submission and effort drove San mad. He groaned louder, thrusts growing sharper, rutting into his throat like he couldn’t stop himself. “God—you’re filthy. You like this, don’t you? Being used like this.”
Wooyoung managed a muffled whimper of agreement, throat convulsing tight around him. His eyes rolled back slightly, lashes wet with tears, drool soaking his chin and neck.
San’s grip tightened in his hair, holding his head flush against him as he drove in deep, hips snapping forward with force. The tip of his cock forced down Wooyoung’s throat, his balls slapping against his forehead.
Wooyoung gagged violently, body trembling, but he didn’t tap out. He held on, letting himself be used, lips stretched wide, throat bulging obscenely with each thrust
San’s breathing turned ragged, chest heaving as he lost his rhythm, thrusts becoming rough and uneven. “Shit—fuck—gonna—” He bit down on a groan, eyes squeezing shut. “Swallow it. All of it. Don’t waste a drop.”
With a final deep thrust, he shoved all the way down, burying himself to the hilt in Wooyoung’s throat. His cock throbbed, then spilled hot ropes of cum straight into him.
Wooyoung choked around the flood, throat contracting hard, but San held him there, cock twitching as he emptied himself. Cum shot down his throat in thick pulses, filling him until he had no choice but to swallow again and again.
San’s groan was guttural, hips grinding forward as his orgasm ripped through him. His hand stroked the bulge in Wooyoung’s throat as he came, feeling his cock twitching deep inside.
When he finally pulled back, Wooyoung gasped for air, coughing weakly, cum and spit dripping from the corners of his swollen lips. But he swallowed the last of it, throat working visibly.
San’s cock slipped free with a wet pop, still half-hard, glistening with spit. He looked down at the wrecked sight of Wooyoung—tears streaking his cheeks, chin and chest soaked, lips red and swollen.
“Fuck,” San muttered, crouching down to brush his thumb across Wooyoung’s wet lips. He leaned in, kissed him hard, tasting himself on his tongue.
Wooyoung whimpered into the kiss, still panting, but kissed back eagerly, messy and desperate
When San finally pulled away, he smirked, voice low and rough. “Good job baby. You swallowed it all.”
Wooyoung’s flushed face broke into the faintest smile, chest heaving, voice hoarse as he whispered, “Told you… I like it rough.”
San groaned, kissing him again, deeper, already hungry for more.
San leaned back from the messy kiss, chest heaving, his cock still wet and heavy between them. Wooyoung lay wrecked on the sofa, hair stuck to his damp forehead, throat red and glistening from being used so thoroughly. But his eyes — those dark, tear-stained eyes — still burned with hunger. He wasn’t close to finishing, and San could see it.
San’s lips curved into a grin. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
Wooyoung whimpered, his hands clutching weakly at San’s shoulders. “Please… San, I need you—”
That was all the invitation San needed. His big hands slid down Wooyoung’s trembling body, hooking at the waistband of his pants. In one swift, rough tug, he stripped them down, boxers and all, baring Wooyoung completely beneath him.
San froze for half a second, his eyes locking on the glistening slick between Wooyoung’s legs. Red, wet, swollen—his cock was dripping, precum glossy under the dim light. The sight made San’s cock twitch, a guttural groan escaping his throat.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” His hand wrapped between his thighs, fingers dragging through the slickness. He also let his other hand explore lower, his hand infront of Wooyoung’s hole, and Wooyoung gasped, back arching hard.
San smirked, leaning down to kiss his ear as his fingers traced slow circles. “So hard just from sucking me off? God, you’re perfect.”
Wooyoung let out a high, broken moan, legs twitching. His hips bucked against San’s hand, chasing the friction. “San—ahh—please—”
San slid two fingers lower, pressing against his entrance. The heat was unreal, a warm feeling coating him instantly. He pushed one finger in, groaning at the tight clench around him. “Christ—you’re squeezing me already.”
Wooyoung gasped, hands clawing at the sofa cushions. “More—need more.”
San chuckled darkly, pushing deeper, curling his finger inside until Wooyoung cried out. He added a second finger without warning, stretching him open, pumping slow and deliberate. Wooyoung’s cries filled the room, high and desperate. His chest heaved, nipples flushed and stiff, his entire body trembling with every thrust of San’s fingers.
San’s other hand slid down, wrapping firmly around Wooyoung’s cock. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, rough and steady, precum smearing across his palm.
The combination was devastating. Wooyoung’s back arched sharply, his thighs shaking. “Ahhh—fuck—San—” His voice cracked, his body twisting helplessly between San’s hands. “Gonna—gonna—”
San leaned down, teeth grazing his throat as he growled, “Come for me. Make a mess.”
With a strangled sob, Wooyoung shattered. His cock throbbed hard in San’s fist, cum spilling across his stomach in thick, hot spurts. His hole clenched violently around San’s fingers at the same time, milking him, slick gushing out to soak his hand.
Wooyoung moaned his release, seeing white behind his eyes, his body jerking uncontrollably.
San didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through it, stroking him rough until Wooyoung whined weakly, tears slipping down his temples. Only then did he slow, pulling his cum-streaked hand back. He lifted it to his mouth, licking his palm clean with a groan. “Fuck—you taste so good.”
Wooyoung whimpered at the sight, still shuddering from aftershocks.
San leaned down and kissed him hard, tongue shoving past his lips, making him taste himself. Wooyoung moaned into it, lips trembling, letting San take everything.
When he pulled back, San’s eyes were blown wide with hunger. He grabbed the back of Wooyoung’s knees suddenly, pushing them up against his chest, spreading him wide open on the sofa.
Wooyoung gasped at the position, face flushing scarlet as his hole was bared completely. His entrance fluttered, still wet and twitching from orgasm, some cum dripping onto the cushions. San groaned at the sight, cock twitching violently. He gripped himself, dragging the fat head up and down Wooyoung’s entrance to tease him, smearing him with his slick and cum.
He lined himself up, pressing against the tight, dripping hole. His tip slipped in just enough to stretch the rim, and both of them moaned at the same time. San leaned down, lips brushing Wooyoung’s ear, voice low and rough. “I’m gonna fuck you now. All the way. You sure you’re okay?”
Wooyoung whimpered, tears still clinging to his lashes, but his nod was desperate. “Yes—please, San—need it—”
San kissed his jaw, whispering against his skin, “Alright baby.”
Then, slowly, he began to sink in.
The heat swallowed him instantly, Wooyoung’s walls clenching tight around his cock. San groaned gutturally, his head dropping to Wooyoung’s shoulder as inch by inch, he pushed deeper.
Wooyoung cried out, back arching, nails digging into San’s arms. “Ahhh….San—so big. Ngh”
San kissed his neck, soothing between groans of his own. “Relax—let me in. That’s it, baby. Take me.”
Bit by bit, he buried himself inside, stretching Wooyoung open completely, until his hips pressed flush against his ass. His cock throbbed deep, filling him to the brim, the sensation overwhelming for both of them. San stilled, panting into his neck, his arms trembling with restraint. “Fuck—you’re so tight. Gonna ruin me.”
Wooyoung whimpered beneath him, thighs trembling in San’s grip. His lips parted, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks, but his voice was sure. “Move. Please—fuck me, San.”
San groaned, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You asked for it rough. Don’t hold back now.”
And then he drew his hips back, the thick length dragging against Wooyoung’s walls, before slamming forward again with a sharp thrust that shook the sofa.
Wooyoung screamed, his nails raking red down San’s arms. His whole body arched off the sofa, thighs trembling where San held them pinned against his chest. San groaned into his ear, teeth grazing his skin.
“Fuck, listen to you. Screaming already and I’ve barely started.”
He pulled out halfway, then drove back in with force. The wet, obscene sound of their bodies meeting echoed through the room, mingling with Wooyoung’s desperate cries.
“San—ahhh—f-fuck, too much—”
San’s hips snapped into him again, harder this time, the sofa jerking with the impact. His cock slammed deep, hitting a spot that made Wooyoung’s back bow and a broken sob fall from his lips.
“Not too much,” San growled, kissing him rough and biting at his lip. “Just enough to ruin you.”
He set a brutal rhythm, dragging almost all the way out before slamming home again, filling Wooyoung completely with each thrust. Slick squelched around them, cum dripping down onto the sofa, coating San’s thighs. Wooyoung’s voice was wrecked already, high and shaky, his cries spilling with every thrust. His hole fluttered desperately around San, squeezing tight as if it couldn’t decide whether to resist or pull him deeper.
San gritted his teeth, driving into him harder.
“Louder. Let the walls hear how fucked you are.” His hips snapped forward, forcing a broken scream out of Wooyoung’s throat.
Wooyoung’s head dropped, cheek pressing to the cool leather, his hair sticking to his damp forehead. His whole body shook with the rhythm of San’s thrusts, sweat sliding down his back, cum dripping between his thighs.
San’s eyes caught the reflection in the mirror—Wooyoung’s wrecked body sprawled out, face scrunched in ecstasy, lips parted in moans. Something dark flared in San’s chest.
He leaned down, one big hand catching Wooyoung’s chin. With a sharp tug, he wrenched his head to the side, forcing his gaze upward. “Look.”
Wooyoung blinked, dazed, until his own reflection came into view. His flushed skin, the marks mottled across his throat and chest, the way his lips were red and swollen from kissing. His eyes were glassy, lashes wet with tears, his expression wrecked.
“San—” His voice cracked, embarrassment flashing across his features. He tried to turn away, but San’s grip tightened, holding his jaw firm.
“No,” San growled, thrusting hard enough to make the mirror rattle faintly in its frame. “Eyes open. Watch yourself take me.”
Wooyoung let out a choked moan, forced to look. In the mirror, he saw the way his body jolted with each thrust, his ass slapping against San’s hips, his own cock leaking helplessly against his stomach. San’s lips brushed his ear, words rasping between heavy breaths. “You see that? See how pretty you are with my cock inside you? Look at the way your mouth won’t stay closed—moaning like a slut.”
Wooyoung whimpered, the humiliation hitting hard, but his cock twitched at the words. His reflection looked utterly ruined, and the sight sent a shiver of heat rolling through him.
San smirked at the reaction, his hips grinding deeper, pressing him harder against the floor. “You like it. I can feel you squeezing me tighter just from watching yourself.”
“Ahhh—f-fuck—” Wooyoung sobbed, his eyes locked unwillingly on the mirror. His face was glowing red, strands of hair stuck to his cheeks, his mouth falling open every time San bottomed out.
San’s hand left his chin only to wrap around his throat, lifting his head higher so he had no choice but to watch.
“That’s it. Don’t look away. Watch how I’m ruining you.”
The reflection was obscene: San’s thick cock disappearing into him again and again, his stomach bulging faintly with each deep thrust, precum gushing out around the stretch. Wooyoung moaned helplessly at the sight, his thighs trembling, his body betraying him.
San leaned closer, his lips brushing Wooyoung’s damp skin.
“You look so fucking good like this. Red, sweaty, dripping for me. Everyone thinks you’re this cocky brat in the studio, but here—” He slammed in hard, making Wooyoung cry out. “Here you’re just my pretty little whore.”
Wooyoung’s eyes glazed over, his voice breaking. “Ahhh—y-yes—yours—”
San groaned at the sound, grinding deep, his cock pressing perfectly against his sweet spot. His hand slid down Wooyoung’s stomach, pressing at the bulge again. In the mirror, they both watched as it swelled with each thrust.
“See that? That’s me. Deep inside your guts. Look at how full you are.”
Wooyoung’s scream was hoarse, his vision swimming as the pressure built. “I—I can’t—San—gonna—”
San’s smirk widened in the reflection, eyes burning. “Cum for me. Cum watching how pretty you look getting destroyed.”
With his hand pressing down on the bulge, San thrust in sharp and deep, and Wooyoung broke. His entire body convulsed, cum shooting across his stomach in hot spurts as he clenched violently around San’s cock. His cry echoed through the studio, loud and raw.
San groaned at the sudden tightness, rutting through Wooyoung’s orgasm, forcing him to keep watching himself come undone.
Tears streamed down Wooyoung’s face, his reflection a mess of sweat, spit, and bliss. And he couldn’t look away—San wouldn’t let him.
When his orgasm finally eased, Wooyoung collapsed against the floor, trembling, still pinned by San’s grip. His reflection blinked back at him—wrecked, ruined, beautiful.
San kissed the side of his jaw, eyes locked on the mirror. “See? Told you you’re beautiful. Especially when you’re mine.”
San’s jaw clenched as he continued fucked into him, sweat sliding down his temple. He glanced down—and froze.
There, in the middle of Wooyoung’s stomach, just below his navel, was a small bulge. It swelled each time San bottomed out, the outline of his cock visible through the thin wall of flesh. San’s thrusts slowed briefly, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. “Well, well… would you look at that.”
Wooyoung blinked up at him, dazed, confused through the haze of pleasure. “W-what?”
San smirked, pressing his palm flat against the bulge. Wooyoung gasped instantly, a strangled whimper leaving him.
“I told you that you were my little twink, baby, I can practically see myself inside you.” San rubbed in slow circles over the swell, pushing down lightly. His cock shifted deeper from the pressure, and Wooyoung let out a scream.
His body convulsed under San, nails clawing helplessly at the cushions. “Ahhh—fuck—San—c-coming—!”
San’s smirk widened, his hips snapping forward again, hand pressing harder on the bulge. “Already? Just from me touching your belly?”
Wooyoung sobbed, his entire body trembling as his orgasm ripped through him, sudden and intense. Cum spurted across his stomach again, his hole clenching down violently on San’s cock, milking him as if it never wanted to let go.
San groaned at the tightness, thrusting rougher to fuck him through it, the bulge under his palm twitching with every spasm. “God, you’re filthy. Cumming from this like a little slut.”
Wooyoung’s cries were broken, incoherent, his chest heaving with sobs of pleasure as the orgasm tore him apart. His thighs shook violently, pinned wide by San’s grip. San eased his hand up Wooyoung’s stomach, cupping his jaw to force him to look up. “You’re mine,” he growled, hips still pistoning into him mercilessly.
“This ass, this body—mine to use. Say it.”
Tears streaked down Wooyoung’s face, his lips trembling. “Y-yours—ahhh, all yours—”
San kissed him hard, swallowing the desperate admission. His hips slammed deeper, harder, chasing his own release now.
The sofa banged against the wall with the force of his thrusts, Wooyoung’s voice breaking into raw moans. San felt himself tipping, balls tightening, cock throbbing deep inside the tight clutch of Wooyoung’s heat. He buried his face in Wooyoung’s neck, groaning loud and raw.
“Fuck—gonna fill you—” His thrusts turned frantic, sloppy, the sound of wet skin clapping echoing. “Take it, Wooyoung—take my cum—“
Wooyoung sobbed against him, clinging weakly to his shoulders. “Yes—yes, San—fill me, please—”
With a final, bruising thrust, San shoved all the way in, hips grinding flush. His cock twitched violently, then spilled hot inside, thick spurts pumping deep into Wooyoung’s ‘womb’.
San groaned gutturally, the sound tearing from his chest as he pressed hard against him, forcing every drop in. His hand slid back down to Wooyoung’s stomach, pressing the bulge again, feeling his cum spreading inside as his cock pulsed.
The pressure sent Wooyoung over the edge one last time, his body jerking, convulsing hard around San. He screamed hoarsely, voice breaking, his vision blurring with stars as another orgasm wracked him.
San shuddered through his release, hips grinding shallowly, prolonging the ecstasy. His cum leaked around the seal of his cock, dripping down onto the sofa in messy streaks
When the last pulses faded, San collapsed forward, his body heavy against Wooyoung’s trembling frame. His lips pressed to Wooyoung’s sweaty temple, murmuring against his skin.
“You’re unreal,” he panted, voice rough. “Took me so good… I can’t fucking believe you came just from me pressing your belly.”
Wooyoung let out a weak, breathless laugh, though his voice was wrecked. “Y-you’re… such an asshole.”
San chuckled, kissing his damp cheek. “Maybe. But you love it.”
Wooyoung whimpered softly, clinging to him, his body still twitching with aftershocks.
San held him close, still buried deep inside, both of them trembling in the wreckage of the moment.
The studio was quiet again, except for the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint hum of the lights above. San slowly pulled out, both of them groaning at the mess that followed, cum dripping down Wooyoung’s thighs onto the couch.
“Shit,” Wooyoung muttered, collapsing onto his side on the worn couch at the back of the room. His chest was still heaving, his hair sticking to his damp forehead. He laughed weakly between huffs of air.
“We’re so fucking stupid, San. Who the hell has sex in the practice room?”
San, still flushed and sweaty, grabbed a towel from the corner and gently wiped him clean, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “Does it matter?” he said, voice rough but teasing. “You were moaning so loud it could’ve been anywhere. Besides…” He leaned down, brushing a kiss over Wooyoung’s temple. “…frankly, it was kinda hot.”
Wooyoung snorted, swatting at his arm with what little strength he had left. “God, you’re impossible.” But his lips curved into a grin as he melted against the cushions, letting San finish fussing over him.
They lay there together for a while, the mirrors now only reflecting two spent bodies tangled on a couch. San had one arm under Wooyoung’s shoulders, the other stroking lazy patterns on his stomach. Every now and then, Wooyoung would huff a laugh, and San would kiss it out of him.
Eventually, the silence stretched, and San glanced at the clock on the far wall. “It’s late,” he murmured.
“Mm,” Wooyoung replied, eyes barely open, body heavy with exhaustion. “Don’t care.”
San chuckled softly, then stood and bent down. “Come on, brat. You’ve got no strength left, do you?”
Before Wooyoung could protest, San bent and hauled him onto his back with ease. Wooyoung let out a surprised squeak, then immediately wrapped his arms around San’s shoulders, legs dangling as he clung to him.
“Piggyback?” Wooyoung mumbled, nuzzling into the crook of San’s neck.
“Piggyback,” San confirmed, adjusting his grip and carrying him toward the stairs.
They made their way down slowly, Wooyoung’s head heavy against his shoulder, his soft breaths warm on San’s skin. For the first time that night, the world was calm. No mirrors, no echoes—just the quiet rhythm of their bodies pressed close.
Wooyoung’s lips curved into a sleepy smile against San’s neck as he murmured, voice low and cheeky:
“You’re a great dancer in bed though, you know.”