(no) Strings Attached

Too Far

Wooyoung swallowed hard, his fingers twitching in San's grasp. "I said let go, San."

Still, nothing.

San's stare was unreadable, dark and unrelenting. His grip didn't tighten, but it didn't ease either.

And Wooyoung hated the way his heart fluttered at that.

Hated the way something in San's expression—something small, vulnerable—made him want to stay.

Made him want to believe this was more than just possessiveness.

But then, San did the worst thing he could've done.

He smirked.

It was slight, barely there—but Wooyoung caught it.

San, even now, was acting like this was still just some back-and-forth. Like Wooyoung hadn't spent weeks drowning in feelings San refused to acknowledge.

Like he hadn't just had someone else's mouth on him an hour ago.

Wooyoung exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he yanked his arm free.

"You don't get to do this," he whispered, voice shaking—not with fear, but with barely-contained hurt. "Not after tonight."

San's smirk faltered. Just for a second. But Wooyoung caught that, too.

And that's what made it worse.

Because for the first time, it hit him.

San knew.

He knew how badly he was hurting Wooyoung, and he was still doing it anyway.

Wooyoung turned on his heel, pushing past the crowd before San could see the sting in his eyes. Before he could second-guess himself.

Before he could do something stupid like believe in Choi San again.

But San follows. He always follows. He reached for Wooyoung's arm the moment they reached a more quiet spot.

Wooyoung lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. Unbelievable.

"You're acting like I did something wrong," he scoffs, finally yanking his wrist from San's grip. "Meanwhile, you were literally getting your dick sucked a minute ago."

San's jaw tightens. "That's not the same—"

"Oh, it's not?" Wooyoung cuts him off, voice sharp. "You disappeared with someone else, did whatever the hell you wanted, and I didn't say shit. But the second someone even looks at me—" He gestures wildly at the empty space between them. "This happens?"

San clenches his fists at his sides, frustration evident in every inch of his body. "You don't get it, Wooyoung."

"Then make me," Wooyoung challenges, chest heaving. "Because all I see is a hypocrite who plays games but can't take it when someone plays back."

San steps forward, close—too close. "It's different with you," he mutters, voice low.

Wooyoung's breath stutters. His heart betrays him, pounding too hard against his ribs.

Different?

But he won't let himself get swept up in that—not this time.

"So what?" He scoffs, taking a step back, putting distance between them. "You care now? You finally decided I'm worth it—right after getting off on someone else? That's when you give a damn?"

San opens his mouth—then closes it. Because fuck. He doesn't have an excuse.

Wooyoung laughs again, but it's hollow. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

And just like that, he turns around, pushing through the crowd, leaving San standing there—angry, frustrated, and for the first time in a long time—panicked.

He reaches for Wooyoung again.

The younger turned around abruptly, making San flinch. "What do you even want for me? Sex? Is that what you're trying to achieve?" He shouted over the music. His heart hammered in his chest at the possibility of the answer being positive.

San stayed mum as he looked into his eyes. His body was tense, his lips tight.

Wooyoung laughed again, too emotionally exhausted to actually think straight.

"Okay then, San, wanna fuck? Wanna get it out your system?" He asked mockingly.

San's breath hitched.

The words should have pissed him off—should have made him roll his eyes, throw back some cocky remark, keep up the game they had been playing for way too long.

But this wasn't a game anymore.

Not when Wooyoung's voice cracked on the last word. Not when his eyes were burning, not with anger, but with something much, much worse.

Something broken.

San felt it like a punch to the gut.

Wanna fuck? Wanna get it out of your system?

It wasn't a real invitation. It was accusation.

San clenched his fists. "That's not—"

Wooyoung scoffed. "It's not what, San? The fuck do you want from me?" His voice wavered, emotions bubbling over now that the dam had cracked. "Because I swear, I can't fucking do this anymore. I can't keep—"

His breath hitched, and he looked away, swallowing hard like he was trying to shove the words back down.

San took a step forward. Wooyoung stepped back.

San hated the space between them. Hated that he was the reason for it.

"Wooyoung..." His voice was quieter now, the fight in him faltering.

But Wooyoung just shook his head, as if he was exhausted, as if San was exhausting. "You don't get to be gentle now," he muttered, looking anywhere but him. "Not after everything."

San's chest tightened.

He should say something. Anything. But what could he say?

What could he possibly say that would make this better?

Nothing.

There was nothing.

Wooyoung inhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his chin up in that stubborn way he always did when he was trying not to fall apart. He met San's gaze one last time—cold, distant, so unlike him.

Then, with a final shake of his head, he turned on his heel and walked away.

San didn't stop him this time.

Didn't reach for him.

Didn't call out his name.

He just stood there, frozen in place, watching Wooyoung disappear into the crowd.

And for the first time in his life, Choi San realized—

He had finally gone too far.

A/N
I've realized a lot of this story's readers are suckers for angst like myself so I hope this satisfied even a bit of your angst lover hearts

ALSO happy birthday to my baby; Park Seonghwa.

See you soon.🤍