Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Monday morning sun had barely broken through the smog-hazed skyline of Seoul when Baek Kanghyuk stepped into his office. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting behind him, but Kanghyuk’s attention was already on the thick stack of files laid neatly on his desk.

His mornings followed a precise rhythm — coffee brewed exactly six minutes before he arrived, temperature tested, the surface of the desk arranged with surgical precision. Even his secretary knew not to disturb the quiet hum of his focus.

Today’s file stack was heavier than usual, most of it dull corporate sponsorship paperwork and a few cases he’d been asked to review. He opened them in order, each decision marked swiftly with his immaculate black signature. Then he reached the second-to-last folder, the one with the scholarship applications his firm funded annually.

It should have been routine — he didn’t normally read them. But his secretary had included this one at the top with a small handwritten note: “Potential PR value — promising athletic record.”

Kanghyuk flipped open the folder without much thought, scanning the first page:

Name: Yang Jaewon Age: 21 Major: Sports Science Athletic Discipline: Archery — National University Representative GPA: 4.27 / 4.5

Neat handwriting. Modest personal statement. The kind of disciplined language he’d expect from an athlete who trained alone for hours a day.

Then he reached the attached photograph.

It was nothing dramatic — a competition headshot, Jaewon standing with his bow in uniform, hair cleanly cut, gaze fixed just past the camera. But something in that gaze made Kanghyuk’s hand still on the paper.

There was focus, yes. But also an unguarded quality, as if the boy didn’t yet understand the effect he could have if someone really looked at him. His posture was perfect: back straight, shoulders even, hands steady. No wasted motion, no self-consciousness.

Kanghyuk let his eyes travel over the lines of the face — the smooth jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way the light in the photo caught in his dark eyes. His own reflection in the glass of the frame behind him shifted slightly as he leaned closer.

Most people, when they caught Kanghyuk’s attention, were already aware of it — and they angled themselves accordingly, seeking favor. But this… this boy had sent this file into the void expecting it to be skimmed by a faceless administrator. There was no performance here.

Kanghyuk closed the folder, his thumb lingering against the edge of the photo before he slid it into a smaller stack — the personal stack. The one he handled himself.

By the time his coffee had cooled, Kanghyuk had decided: he would meet Yang Jaewon personally. And from that first meeting, the boy would learn that Baek Kanghyuk was not a man you could encounter once and forget.

The invitation had arrived by email the day after Jaewon submitted his scholarship application. At first, he thought it was some kind of formality — maybe a short verification meeting with the foundation’s administrative officer. But the wording was different, the sender’s address official enough to make him sit up straighter.

“Baek Kanghyuk, CEO of Baek & Partners Law, requests a personal interview with scholarship applicant Yang Jaewon. Please arrive at 09:00, 12th Floor, Baek & Partners Tower.”

The name alone was enough to unsettle him. Everyone in Seoul knew Baek Kanghyuk. Even if you weren’t in the legal field, you knew his face from magazine covers, televised trial clips, or the whisper networks that spoke about him with equal parts reverence and unease.

On the morning of the meeting, Jaewon woke before sunrise. His uniform — pressed slacks, pale blue shirt, blazer — felt too formal for a scholarship interview, but anything less felt disrespectful. His bow and gear stayed behind; this wasn’t a competition. This was something else entirely.

The Baek & Partners Tower loomed over the district, its glass facade catching the pale morning light. Inside, the lobby was all marble and steel, every surface polished enough to reflect your own expression back at you. A receptionist led him to a private elevator, the kind with no buttons — just a single keycard slot.

By the time the doors slid open on the twelfth floor, Jaewon’s palms had begun to sweat despite the cool air.

The corridor was silent, lined with thick glass panels revealing private offices, each more minimalist than the last. At the far end, a double door of dark wood stood closed. The receptionist gestured to it with a polite bow. “Mr. Baek is expecting you.”

Jaewon took a breath and pushed the door open.

The office was vast — not cluttered with papers or books, but arranged like a deliberate frame around the man who sat behind the desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast Kanghyuk in the pale gold of the morning, outlining the sharp fit of his charcoal suit.

His gaze lifted from a file in front of him, and for a heartbeat, Jaewon felt as though that gaze reached straight through him.

“Yang Jaewon-ssi,” Kanghyuk said, his voice low, smooth, carrying the faintest trace of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come in.”

Jaewon stepped forward, bowing once, then twice — deeper the second time, instinctively. “It’s an honor to meet you, Kanghyuk-hyung.”

The word had slipped out before he could think better of it. He used it for older teammates, sometimes for coaches, rarely for strangers — but something about Baek Kanghyuk’s presence made the honorific feel automatic.

Kanghyuk’s lips curved faintly, as if he’d just been handed a gift he hadn’t asked for but intended to keep. “Hyung,” he repeated quietly, tasting the syllables, then gestured to the leather chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

The interview didn’t feel like an interview. Kanghyuk asked about his studies, his training regimen, his reasons for pursuing archery at a competitive level. But each question felt carefully placed, like a chess piece nudged into position. He listened intently to every answer, his gaze steady, hands folded loosely on the desk.

At one point, when Jaewon mentioned how he balanced classes with early-morning training sessions, Kanghyuk leaned back slightly, studying him. “Discipline,” he said softly. “Not many your age have it. And loyalty — I imagine that matters to you as well.”

Jaewon hesitated, unsure whether it was a question or an observation. “…Yes, hyung.”

The corner of Kanghyuk’s mouth lifted again, sharper this time.

The meeting lasted longer than Jaewon expected. There were moments of silence — not awkward, but weighted — where Kanghyuk seemed to be measuring something in the set of Jaewon’s shoulders, the way he held eye contact.

When it was over, Kanghyuk didn’t shake his hand. Instead, he walked him to the door himself, standing close enough that Jaewon caught the faint scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something darker beneath.

“We’ll be in touch about your scholarship,” Kanghyuk said. “And, Jaewon-ah…” His voice dropped half an octave, intimate without losing its composure. “I expect to see you again soon.”

As the elevator doors closed, Jaewon realized his heartbeat was still too fast. He told himself it was nerves. But even then, a part of him knew — this wasn’t the kind of meeting you left behind.

For two days after the meeting, Jaewon heard nothing. No calls, no emails, no updates from the scholarship committee. He assumed that was normal — these things took time.

On the third morning, his phone buzzed at 06:42. Unknown Number: Have breakfast with me. I’ll send a car. —K.H.

Jaewon blinked at the message, half expecting it to be a prank from one of his teammates. But within minutes, a sleek black sedan pulled up outside his dorm, the driver holding the rear door open like he’d been standing there all morning just for him.

The restaurant was one of those places students never set foot in — discreet, quiet, the kind where the menu had no prices. Kanghyuk was already there, seated by the window, a cup of coffee in front of him, perfectly pressed suit as if this were just another business meeting.

“Hyung,” Jaewon greeted, bowing as he slid into the seat.

“You’re punctual,” Kanghyuk said, pouring him tea. “I like that.”

They spoke about archery training, about his coursework. But between questions, Kanghyuk let his gaze linger just a second too long, as if committing the details of Jaewon’s face to memory. At one point, when Jaewon hesitated over an answer about his tournament performance, Kanghyuk leaned in slightly.

“You doubt yourself too easily,” he murmured. “You’re better than you think. Let me show you.”

Over the next weeks, Kanghyuk’s presence became a rhythm. Some days it was a simple text: “How was training?” Other days, a car waiting after class to take him to dinner.

At his next competition, Jaewon spotted him in the stands — no fanfare, no entourage, just a single figure in a dark suit watching intently from the middle rows. When Jaewon won, Kanghyuk was the first to approach, not with overblown congratulations, but with a quiet, satisfied nod and a hand on his shoulder.

“I told you,” Kanghyuk said. “You just needed someone to see you clearly.”

Soon, small details began to shift in Jaewon’s daily life.

His training facility received a sudden upgrade — new equipment, better lighting. The manager mentioned “anonymous donors,” but Jaewon knew.

A persistent ankle ache earned him a same-day appointment with a top sports doctor, the bill covered before he even left the clinic.

The scholarship deposit came early — double the amount he’d expected.

When he tried to thank Kanghyuk, the older man only smiled faintly. “Gratitude is nice, Jaewon-ah. But loyalty… that’s worth more.”

Jaewon told himself they were just becoming friends, that “hyung” was nothing more than a polite habit. But the truth was harder to ignore: Kanghyuk was everywhere. His number sat at the top of Jaewon’s message list. His voice had a way of threading into his thoughts at random moments — during practice, during late-night study sessions.

The older man never pushed physically, never crossed a line without invitation, but every conversation felt like a step closer to something irreversible. Kanghyuk didn’t need to rush; he had the patience of someone who already knew the ending.

The turning point came on a rainy Thursday evening. Jaewon had just finished practice when Kanghyuk called, his voice deep and warm over the line.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Heading back to the dorm, hyung.”

“Don’t,” Kanghyuk said. “Come here. I’ll have dinner waiting.”

There was no pressure in the words, no threat. Just an unspoken certainty that Jaewon would say yes. And he did.

From that night on, it wasn’t just dinners and competitions. Kanghyuk began asking about his dreams, his regrets, his relationships. He remembered every answer, bringing them up weeks later as if keeping an invisible ledger.

When Jaewon mentioned an old high school friend, Kanghyuk’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly — a flicker, gone as quickly as it came. “I see,” was all he said.

The next time Jaewon tried to make plans with that friend, the boy was suddenly “too busy.”

Kanghyuk never called it control. He called it “taking care of what’s mine.” And though Jaewon never said it out loud, part of him was starting to believe him.

It was late afternoon, the kind of late autumn light that softens edges and turns the air a little gold. Jaewon’s latest competition had been a small regional match — not one of the televised majors, but still important enough for local media to be there.

He’d been on form all day, his arrows finding their mark with clean, satisfying thunks that carried across the quiet range. By the time the final scores were tallied, his victory felt inevitable. There were polite claps, the usual handshakes, the faint scent of fresh grass under the trimmed turf.

Someone from the event committee asked him to sit for a quick interview. It would be casual, they said — just a few questions, maybe a photo for their website. Jaewon agreed, not thinking much of it.

The “interview stage” was nothing more than a patch of lawn near the bleachers. A portable camera on a tripod, a boom mic, a smiling host in a blazer. Jaewon sat cross-legged on the grass, his bow resting neatly at his side, the string still faintly warm from use. The faint breeze lifted his hair now and then, the late sun catching the sheen of sweat at his temples.

The interviewer began with the usual: training schedule, favorite moments from the match, advice for younger athletes. Jaewon answered politely, his voice measured, eyes steady on the host.

And then — with the kind of casual pivot only a practiced interviewer could manage — the host tilted her head and asked, “What is your dream?”

It caught him off guard. The easy answer would have been “to win the nationals” or “to compete internationally.” But maybe it was the tiredness after the match, or the softness of the moment, or just the way the question was asked — something in him reached further back than sport.

He smiled, not the small polite one he wore in front of Kanghyuk, but a faintly wistful curve, his gaze dipping slightly before meeting the camera. “…to see my first love again.”

The words hung in the air just long enough for the boom mic to catch the subtle shift in his tone. The crowd nearby gave a gentle laugh, the interviewer grinning as if she’d been given a gift. “Oh? That’s sweet,” she teased, leaning in slightly.

Jaewon’s smile stayed, a little shy now, as if he’d revealed more than he meant to.

Elsewhere, across the city…

The twelfth floor of Baek & Partners Tower was silent, save for the soft hum of the central air. Kanghyuk sat at his desk, the same way he did during strategy meetings or witness preparations — perfectly still, pen set down, elbows resting lightly on the armrests of his chair.

On the monitor before him, the live feed from the competition played in crisp clarity.

He’d watched the match earlier in the day, leaving the stream running in a corner of his screen while he worked. But the interview… that had his full attention.

His eyes tracked every detail: the way Jaewon sat, the faint tilt of his head, the moment his smile changed — that was the moment. And then the words.

“…to see my first love again.”

Nothing in Kanghyuk’s body moved. Not a twitch, not a shift of posture. But deep behind the controlled surface, the words landed like a stone dropped into still water — ripples spreading, silent but unstoppable.

Dream. First love. Someone who was not him.

The interviewer was speaking again, but Kanghyuk didn’t hear her. His gaze stayed fixed on the frozen image of Jaewon’s face as the feed buffered for a half-second. He replayed the moment in his mind, down to the small breath Jaewon had taken before answering.

His fingers moved at last — slow, precise — lifting the phone from its stand. He scrolled once to find the contact. The line began to ring.

At the venue…

Jaewon had just stepped away from the camera when his phone buzzed. Seeing the caller ID, he straightened instinctively.

“Hyung?” he answered, tucking the phone closer to shield it from the background noise.

“Where are you now, Jaewon-ah?” The words were low, calm — so calm they made the back of Jaewon’s neck tighten.

He glanced at the equipment being packed up, the other competitors chatting nearby. “Still at the venue. I was just—”

“Come to me,” Kanghyuk said, cutting cleanly across his sentence. “Now.”

There was no edge to the tone, no raised voice, but the certainty in it left no room for negotiation.

“…I’ll come over, hyung,” Jaewon replied after a pause, the words feeling both like a promise and an instinct.

“Good.” The call ended there, leaving only the faint hiss of the disconnected line.

Back in the office…

Kanghyuk set the phone down with the same care he used to place an exhibit on a courtroom table. He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the frozen frame of Jaewon smiling into the microphone.

He watched it once more, silently, before closing the stream.

The expression on his face didn’t change — but somewhere under that stillness, something had shifted, and Jaewon would feel it soon enough.

By the time Jaewon reached the Baek & Partners Tower district, the sun had already dipped behind the skyline, leaving the streets in that dim blue hour where the city’s lights began to bloom. Kanghyuk’s penthouse occupied the upper floors of a luxury building overlooking the Han River, its glass facade throwing back fractured reflections of the water.

The elevator ride felt longer than it should have, the smooth glide up broken only by the faint hum of cables. There were no buttons past the lobby — just a single, sleek panel that read PH. The keycard the doorman had given him slid in with a muted beep, and the doors opened directly into the private foyer of Kanghyuk’s home.

Inside, the apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that was intentional, not accidental. Dim lighting spilled across polished hardwood floors; the faint scent of cedarwood and something darker hung in the air.

Then came the sound — soft at first, then unmistakable. The steady rush of water.

It drew him through the living room, past floor-to-ceiling windows that held the river like a moving painting. Down the short hallway, a thin curl of steam rolled lazily from a half-open door. The bathroom.

He stepped closer, the muted roar of the rainfall showerhead growing louder, the warm, moist air spilling into the cooler hallway.

Through the gap in the door, he caught flashes — the gleam of marble tiles, the ripple of water on the glass, a silhouette moving with unhurried precision.

Kanghyuk’s shape came into focus when he turned slightly, water cascading down the sharp lines of his shoulders, gliding over the ridges of muscle along his back. He wasn’t rushing; every movement felt measured, deliberate, as if the shower was less about cleansing and more about letting time stretch.

He lifted a hand, slicking water through his hair, tilting his head back into the spray. The droplets caught in the dim bathroom light, running in thin rivulets down his neck, over the breadth of his chest, tracing lower before vanishing into the mist curling at his hips.

Jaewon swallowed, acutely aware of the heat rising in the air and in himself. He hadn’t been told to enter — and something about the scene made him hesitate. Kanghyuk wasn’t unaware of him. That much was certain. The older man’s awareness was sharp; if Jaewon was here, he knew.

Sure enough, without looking toward the door, Kanghyuk spoke — voice low, steady, almost felt more than heard through the hum of the water. “Wait for me in the bedroom.”

It wasn’t a request.

Jaewon’s pulse thudded once, hard, before his feet carried him back down the hallway.

The bedroom was dimly lit, the blinds half-drawn so the city lights spilled in thin, broken lines across the bed. The sheets were dark, neatly made — for now. The air here was cooler, but the heat from the bathroom seemed to follow him, clinging to his skin.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting loosely on his knees, trying not to fidget. The sound of the shower kept going, unhurried, and it felt as if each passing minute stretched into five.

By the time the water stopped, the silence that replaced it was almost louder. A faint click — the sound of the glass shower door closing. Bare footsteps on tile.

The air shifted again as Kanghyuk appeared in the doorway. He hadn’t bothered with a towel. Droplets clung to him, sliding slowly down the curve of his collarbone, trailing over the hard planes of his chest and stomach. His hair was damp, slicked back enough to reveal the sharp cut of his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth.

His eyes found Jaewon instantly.

No smile. No hurry. Just that gaze — steady, unreadable, but heavy enough that Jaewon felt it in his bones. Kanghyuk crossed the space between them with the slow certainty of someone who already owned the outcome.

When he stopped in front of him, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the lingering steam, warm and close. He didn’t touch him yet. Didn’t speak. Just looked down at him in a silence that seemed to tighten the air itself.

Then, finally, his hand moved — to the back of Jaewon’s neck, fingers curling firmly into the muscle there, guiding his head up until their eyes met.

“Stand,” Kanghyuk said quietly.

Jaewon obeyed.

Kanghyuk’s hand stayed at the back of Jaewon’s neck, firm and unyielding, guiding him to stand directly in front of him. The damp heat still clung to his skin from the shower, carrying the scent of cedarwood and something darker — the kind of scent that lingered on the air and under the skin long after you’d left the room.

Jaewon’s eyes darted once toward the floor, a flicker of instinctive submission, but Kanghyuk tilted his chin up until their gazes locked.

The silence was heavy, not because Kanghyuk couldn’t speak, but because he chose not to — and that choice alone felt like pressure building in Jaewon’s chest. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below and the faint tick of water droplets sliding from Kanghyuk’s hair to the hardwood.

“You were smiling in that interview today,” Kanghyuk said finally, voice low, almost conversational, as though they were sitting across from each other in a café instead of standing here in the dim, charged air of his bedroom. “Not the polite one you give me. A different one.”

Jaewon’s throat tightened. “Hyung… it wasn’t—”

“And when they asked you about your dream,” Kanghyuk continued, his tone steady but his grip tightening slightly, “you told them it was to see your first love again.”

The words hung there, the sound of them almost too soft for how sharply they landed.

Jaewon’s stomach turned — not in fear, but in that tangled knot of guilt and defensiveness. “It was just an answer for the camera,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” Kanghyuk cut in, the faintest tilt of his head suggesting interest, but his eyes sharpening like the point of an arrow. “Or you didn’t think I’d hear it?”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking,” Jaewon admitted, his voice dropping. “I’m sorry, hyung.”

Kanghyuk’s thumb brushed slowly along the line of his jaw — the movement soft, but the way his fingers stayed at the back of his neck kept Jaewon in place. “You’re sorry,” he repeated, almost tasting the words. “Mm. We’ll see how sorry.”

The quiet after that felt heavier. Jaewon’s pulse thrummed in his ears. Kanghyuk stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating into the space between them, until Jaewon could feel the damp heat of his skin without being touched anywhere else.

“Do you know,” Kanghyuk murmured, his mouth so close to Jaewon’s ear that the warmth of his breath sent a shiver down his spine, “how it feels to hear the person you’ve invested in — the person you’ve chosen — talk about wanting someone else?”

“I—” Jaewon started, but Kanghyuk’s fingers pressed just a little harder into the back of his neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to make the word catch.

“You won’t need to imagine how I feel,” Kanghyuk said softly. “I’m going to show you.”

Jaewon swallowed, heat crawling up his throat. He wanted to say something else — to explain, to repeat that it meant nothing — but the weight of Kanghyuk’s gaze rooted him in place. And underneath the edge in his tone, there was that certainty again — that no matter what happened next, Jaewon wouldn’t leave.

“Take off your blazer,” Kanghyuk said.

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

Jaewon’s hands moved automatically, slipping the fabric from his shoulders. The sound of it falling to the chair beside the bed seemed to echo in the stillness.

Kanghyuk’s eyes moved over him slowly, deliberately, as though committing every line to memory. “Shirt,” he said next, voice dropping even lower.

Jaewon hesitated only a second before unbuttoning, the fine tremor in his fingers betraying the way his body was already reacting.

When the shirt joined the blazer, Kanghyuk stepped close enough that the bare skin of Jaewon’s chest brushed against the faint sheen of water still on his own. The heat of that contact made Jaewon’s breath hitch.

Kanghyuk’s hand slid from the back of his neck to the line of his throat, thumb resting lightly just under his jaw, not pressing — not yet — but holding him there. “You’ll make it up to me,” he said quietly. “You’ll show me, right now, that I’m the only dream you have left.”

---

Chapter Text

Kanghyuk reached for the nightstand drawer without breaking eye contact. The movement was calm, unhurried, the way he did everything — but there was something about the precision in it that made Jaewon’s pulse pick up.

From inside, Kanghyuk drew out a neatly folded length of white cloth. The fabric was clean and smooth, but across one end, in bold, deliberate brushstrokes, was red writing — the sharp kind of calligraphy ink that looked almost alive against the pale material. Jaewon couldn’t make out the characters from here, and the thought of not knowing sent a faint prickle down his spine.

Kanghyuk let the cloth unfold slowly between his hands, the sound of the fabric whispering in the quiet. He held it loosely, letting Jaewon see it — letting the implication sink in before he said a word.

Jaewon’s voice was soft, tentative. “Hyung…?”

Kanghyuk stepped closer, the cloth hanging from one hand, and placed the other against Jaewon’s jaw. His thumb brushed once over the corner of his mouth, a touch almost gentle despite the weight in his gaze.

“You talk too easily when you can see the person you’re speaking to,” Kanghyuk said quietly. “We’ll fix that.”

Jaewon swallowed. “You… want me blindfolded?”

“I want,” Kanghyuk corrected, leaning in until his mouth was near Jaewon’s ear, “for you to focus on me — only me — without distraction. Without memory of anyone else. Without thought of this ‘first love.’”

Jaewon’s breath caught, but he nodded. “Yes, hyung.”

Kanghyuk moved behind him, the air shifting with his presence. The cloth slid over Jaewon’s temple, the faint drag of smooth fabric over skin, and then Kanghyuk’s hands were at the back of his head, knotting it with deliberate care. The red writing — unreadable to Jaewon now — settled directly over his eyes, the scent of the clean cotton filling his nose.

The knot was firm, not harsh, but secure enough that even a turn of the head wouldn’t loosen it. Darkness settled instantly, swallowing the room whole. The absence of sight made every other sense sharpen: the sound of Kanghyuk’s breathing just behind his ear, the faint creak of the mattress as he shifted, the warmth radiating from him.

Fingers traced along Jaewon’s collarbone, down the center of his chest, pausing briefly over his heartbeat before drifting lower. Kanghyuk’s voice came again, low and steady, each syllable measured:

“You’ll apologize properly, Jaewon-ah. And until I believe it, you won’t see me again tonight.”

The cloth sealed the world away, and for a moment, all Jaewon could hear was the deep, even sound of Kanghyuk’s breathing — close, but not quite touching. That silence between them wasn’t empty; it was loaded, like a bowstring drawn taut but not yet released.

Then Kanghyuk’s hands were on him again — large, warm, and certain — running from his shoulders down his sides, fingers pressing into muscle, mapping him without hurry. His thumbs brushed inward along the ridges of his hips, finding that sensitive line just above the bone.

Jaewon drew in a slow breath, the loss of sight turning each touch into something sharper, hotter.

“Lie back,” Kanghyuk said quietly.

Jaewon eased down against the sheets, the cool fabric whispering under his skin. The mattress dipped as Kanghyuk climbed onto the bed, the shift of weight moving deliberately closer until Jaewon felt the heat of him between his knees.

Then, without warning, Kanghyuk’s hand wrapped firmly around his thigh and pushed it outward, opening him wide. The movement was decisive, leaving no room for hesitation, and Jaewon let the air out of his lungs in a slow, shaky exhale.

There was a brief pause — a moment where Kanghyuk simply looked. Jaewon couldn’t see it, but he could feel it in the way the air felt heavier over his skin, in the slight hitch of Kanghyuk’s breath.

When Kanghyuk’s fingers closed around him, it was with a grip that made Jaewon’s spine arch off the bed. The size of his hand swallowed him easily, the warmth and pressure stroking once, slow, before releasing.

“You’re already hard,” Kanghyuk murmured, not as a question but as a statement that seemed to amuse and satisfy him at once.

Jaewon’s lips parted. “Hyung—”

The mattress shifted again. Then Jaewon felt it — the blunt, heavy press of Kanghyuk’s cock sliding against the inside of his thigh. Even without seeing, he knew Kanghyuk was big; the weight of him was unmistakable, thick and hot against his skin. Kanghyuk let it drag slowly upward, letting Jaewon feel every inch before pulling back.

A low sound left Jaewon’s throat, half involuntary.

“Remember this,” Kanghyuk said, the head of his cock brushing now against the crease of Jaewon’s groin, not yet where Jaewon wanted it most. “Every time you think of anyone else, you’ll remember what it feels like when I’m inside you.”

The first push was slow but inexorable — Kanghyuk’s hips driving forward with controlled strength, the stretch immediate and deep, pulling a ragged breath from Jaewon’s lungs. His size forced Jaewon’s body to open around him, the pressure and fullness swallowing any coherent thought.

“Hyung—” Jaewon gasped, his fingers curling into the sheets, blindfold dampening his vision but amplifying every other sensation.

Kanghyuk’s voice came low and steady, but edged with the heat of his jealousy. “Say it again. Apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaewon managed, his voice already breaking around the words.

Kanghyuk’s thrust was harder this time, the rhythm starting to build — not rushed, but with the kind of deliberate force that made Jaewon feel every ridge, every inch of him as he withdrew and pushed back in.

“Not enough,” Kanghyuk said. “Say it until I believe you.”

Kanghyuk’s hips moved with a rhythm that was punishing in its precision — deep enough that each thrust pushed the air from Jaewon’s lungs, slow enough that the weight of him inside lingered before withdrawing just enough to do it again. Every movement seemed measured to leave no part of him untouched from the inside.

The blindfold turned each thrust into a surprise. Without sight, Jaewon couldn’t brace for the timing — all he could do was feel the hot, heavy slide and the way Kanghyuk filled him so completely that it left a low, involuntary sound spilling from his throat each time.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” Jaewon gasped, the words spilling out between sharp breaths.

Kanghyuk’s hand slid up Jaewon’s chest, fingers pressing into the center, pushing him lightly back into the mattress as he drove forward again. “Again,” Kanghyuk ordered, his voice low but firm.

“I’m—ah—sorry, hyung.”

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry!” Jaewon’s voice cracked on the last syllable, but the rough push that followed left no time to recover.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet room, underscored by the ragged pace of Jaewon’s breathing. Kanghyuk leaned down, his mouth brushing Jaewon’s ear as he spoke. “You think saying it twice is enough for me to forget you told the world about another man?”

“No—ah—no, hyung—” Jaewon’s words stumbled as another hard thrust made his voice falter. “I’m sorry—sorry—”

Kanghyuk’s free hand found Jaewon’s hip, gripping it hard enough that the pressure would leave his fingerprints there. His pace stayed relentless, not hurried but heavy, each movement making Jaewon’s back arch against the sheets.

“Again,” Kanghyuk said.

“I’m sorry, hyung—”

“Not like that. Say it like you mean it.”

Jaewon’s voice thinned under the pressure, the effort of speaking between the steady, forceful pushes pulling heat to his cheeks. “I’m sorry, hyung. I mean it. I’m—ah—only yours—”

Kanghyuk’s breath came heavier now, but his rhythm didn’t falter. The blindfold meant Jaewon could only imagine the look in his eyes — and the not-knowing made his pulse race harder.

“Better,” Kanghyuk said finally, but there was no softening in his tone, no easing in the way his hips moved. “But I’ll decide when it’s enough.”

Jaewon’s hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles whitening as another deep thrust pulled a sharp gasp from him. His apologies kept coming, each one slightly more frayed, the words blurring into a mix of confession and plea.

“I’m sorry—ah—hyung—I’m sorry—I’m—sorry—”

Kanghyuk’s thrusts had settled into a rhythm that was almost cruel in its consistency — not frantic, not sloppy, but heavy, each one driving into Jaewon with the same deep, deliberate force. The kind of rhythm that didn’t let him catch his breath, didn’t give his body a moment to relax before the next wave hit.

The blindfold made it worse — or better, depending on how you measured it. Darkness wrapped around Jaewon’s head, the white cloth warm now from his skin, the faint scent of cotton and ink mingling with the humid air between them. He could feel every bead of sweat sliding down his temple, every shift of Kanghyuk’s weight, every drag and push inside him.

“I’m sorry, hyung,” he gasped again, the words tripping out between ragged breaths.

Kanghyuk’s hand closed around his jaw, tilting his head just enough that Jaewon could feel his breath hot against his cheek. “Say it again.”

“I’m—ah—sorry—”

“Again.”

“I—ah—” The next thrust cut his words in half, his voice breaking into a sound that wasn’t quite a moan and wasn’t quite a sob. “Sorry, hyung.”

The hand at his hip tightened, pulling him flush against Kanghyuk’s body with each snap forward, the stretch deep enough to force the air from his lungs in shallow bursts. His thighs trembled under the unrelenting pace, his hands twisting tighter in the sheets.

“You’ll remember this every time you think of anyone else,” Kanghyuk murmured, the words slow and even despite the power behind each movement. “Every sound you make right now—” another hard thrust drove into him, “—is mine.”

Jaewon’s breath hitched, a wet heat building behind the blindfold. “I’m sorry—sorry, hyung—I didn’t mean—”

“You smiled,” Kanghyuk cut in, voice still steady. “That’s what I remember. Not the words. The smile.”

“I’m sorry—ah—please—” The last word cracked, high and thin, and the heat behind the blindfold finally spilled over, dampening the edge of the fabric against his cheek.

Kanghyuk felt it — or maybe he just knew it was coming — because his thumb moved up to brush just under Jaewon’s eye, catching the wetness even as his hips drove forward again. “Tears, Jaewon-ah?” His tone was low, not mocking but thick with satisfaction. “Good. Means you’re learning.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaewon repeated, the words now hoarse, tangled with the sound of his own breathing. The sincerity bled through, raw and unguarded in a way it hadn’t been earlier.

Kanghyuk’s pace slowed — not much, but enough to let the thrusts stretch out, to keep him full while giving Jaewon the smallest chance to breathe. His free hand slid up Jaewon’s chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath the skin, before settling against his throat in a loose hold.

“Better,” Kanghyuk said finally. “Now I believe you.”

The relief in Jaewon’s chest was instant, but it didn’t lessen the way Kanghyuk’s body still pressed into his, claiming him with every last movement. The blindfold stayed in place, the darkness ensuring the only thing Jaewon could feel, think about, or remember was the man above him.

When Kanghyuk finally eased his grip, it wasn’t to let go — it was to cup Jaewon’s face, thumb brushing away the dampness under the cloth. “Good boy,” he murmured, voice deep and warm despite the edge that still lingered. “Now you won’t forget who you belong to.”

The moment Kanghyuk decided the apology was real, something shifted — not in his restraint, because even now his control was unshakable, but in the intensity. It was like he’d been holding a leash tight the entire time and now loosened it just enough to let the predator run.

His hand slid from Jaewon’s face back to his hip, the fingers curling in hard enough to leave him marked for days. The other braced beside Jaewon’s head, his weight shifting forward, his hips driving in with a force that made the mattress jolt beneath them.

The blindfold made it worse in the best way — the white cloth sealing Jaewon in darkness, the damp patches where tears had soaked into the fabric cooling slightly against his skin. Without sight, there was no warning before the first thrust of this new pace slammed into him, deeper, faster, his body stretching around the sheer size of Kanghyuk’s cock all over again.

Jaewon’s head tipped back into the pillow, a sharp cry escaping before he could bite it back. His hands fumbled for something to hold, finding only the sheets, twisting them hard.

Kanghyuk’s voice came low, rough now, the smooth courtroom cadence traded for something darker. “That’s right. Let them hear you. Let me hear you.”

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, louder now, wetter with the heat building between them. Each thrust was a claim, a brand, a reminder. The bed creaked in protest under the steady, pounding rhythm.

“You belong to me,” Kanghyuk said, the words guttural, pushed out between breaths as he drove in again. “Say it.”

“I—ah—belong to you—” Jaewon’s voice wavered, the syllables trembling with each push forward.

“Again.”

“I belong—ah—to you, hyung—”

Kanghyuk’s pace quickened, the hunger in him now openly showing. His body moved like a tide, unrelenting, pulling Jaewon under with each wave. His size filled him so completely that every movement left a deep, aching pressure, forcing his muscles to open and yield.

The jealousy still simmered under every thrust — not the insecure kind, but the kind that demanded proof, that wanted Jaewon so thoroughly wrecked that no memory of any “first love” could survive.

His free hand slid down Jaewon’s stomach, fingers splaying wide before curling to grip him from the front, stroking him in rhythm with the hard drive of his hips. The combined sensation made Jaewon’s legs tremble, his breath coming in uneven bursts.

“You’re mine,” Kanghyuk growled, leaning closer until his chest was flush with Jaewon’s, the heat and weight of him pressing down. “Say it while you still can.”

“I’m yours—yours, hyung—ah—” Jaewon’s voice broke again, the blindfold robbing him of any anchor but Kanghyuk’s body.

The slick sound between them grew louder as sweat beaded and slid down their skin, Kanghyuk’s jaw set tight as he moved harder, faster, the need to mark, to own, driving each motion.

When he angled his hips slightly, the thrusts hit deeper, harder, pulling a ragged, helpless sound from Jaewon’s throat. Kanghyuk’s breath hitched against his ear, his voice low and edged with pure possession. “Good. Now I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

And he did — pushing him through wave after wave until Jaewon’s body gave up trying to tense against the pace, surrendering entirely, his voice gone hoarse from the mix of moans, gasps, and the repeated mantra of “hyung” spilling into the dark.

The last few thrusts slowed not because Kanghyuk’s hunger had burned out — it hadn’t — but because he wanted to feel every final drag, every tightening pulse around him before he stopped. The bed was damp with heat, the air heavy enough to taste, the rhythm of their breathing the only sound for a long moment.

Kanghyuk stayed inside him as he eased his weight down, pressing Jaewon into the mattress. His chest was hot and slick against Jaewon’s, the faint rise and fall matching his own. The white blindfold was still in place, warm and slightly damp where tears and sweat had soaked into the fabric, the red writing bold against the dim light.

One hand smoothed slowly up the side of Jaewon’s body, tracing the curve of his ribs, over his chest, then up to the edge of the blindfold. Kanghyuk didn’t remove it yet. Instead, his thumb brushed gently over the damp skin beneath, catching the last traces of wetness.

“Breathe,” Kanghyuk murmured, his voice deep but quieter now.

Jaewon’s chest rose and fell in slow, shaky pulls, the tension in his muscles easing one strand at a time. “Hyung…”

“I’m here,” Kanghyuk said. His tone was warm, but there was no mistaking the ownership in it — you’re here because I’ve put you here, and you’ll stay here.

After a pause, Kanghyuk slid the blindfold free. The cool air of the room touched Jaewon’s damp lashes, and the sudden soft light felt strange after so much darkness. The first thing he saw was Kanghyuk’s face above him — hair damp, eyes still heavy-lidded from focus and effort, but locked on him as if nothing else in the world existed.

Kanghyuk’s fingers threaded briefly into Jaewon’s hair, his palm warm against the back of his head. He pulled him forward just enough for their foreheads to touch. “Look at me,” he said quietly.

Jaewon did, his gaze tired but steady.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You,” Jaewon answered, the word instinctive now. Then, softer: “Always you, hyung.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close. He kissed him once, slow and lingering, before pulling back just enough to study his face again.

“You’ll remember tonight,” Kanghyuk said, almost conversationally. “The next time you think of saying something like that on camera… you’ll remember exactly what I do to you when you forget who you belong to.”

Jaewon’s throat tightened, but he nodded. “I will.”

“Good.”

Kanghyuk finally withdrew, moving with the same care he used to close a case file — deliberate, precise, but still claiming even in the way his hands steadied Jaewon’s hips as he pulled away. He reached for the towel draped over the chair, using it to dry himself before leaning down and wiping the sheen from Jaewon’s chest and stomach, the gesture slow, almost tender in its thoroughness.

When he was satisfied, Kanghyuk stretched out beside him, one arm immediately curving around Jaewon’s waist, pulling him in until his head rested against Kanghyuk’s shoulder.

The city lights filtered through the blinds in thin, fractured beams, catching on the lines of Kanghyuk’s jaw as he stared out at the skyline for a moment. His thumb moved in small, unconscious circles against Jaewon’s hip.

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Kanghyuk said, though it wasn’t a question.

“I wasn’t going to,” Jaewon murmured.

That earned him a brief, satisfied hum from Kanghyuk, followed by a kiss pressed just behind his ear.

In the quiet that followed, Jaewon’s eyes drifted shut, the exhaustion from the intensity of the night settling over him. But even as sleep pulled him under, the weight of Kanghyuk’s arm never eased — a constant, physical reminder that this wasn’t just aftercare. It was a seal. A claim.

The light in the bedroom was soft when Jaewon woke, filtered through the half-closed blinds so the city outside was a muted wash of gold. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent and something warmer — Kanghyuk’s cologne, sunk into the fabric during the night.

Kanghyuk was already awake, lying on his side with one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily over Jaewon’s waist. His eyes were steady on him, as if he’d been watching for a while.

“Morning, hyung,” Jaewon murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.

Kanghyuk’s hand slid slowly along his side, stopping just below his ribs. “Morning. You slept well.”

It wasn’t a question, and Jaewon didn’t think to contradict it. He let Kanghyuk guide him to sit up, the older man’s hand lingering on his lower back as they moved into the kitchen.

Breakfast was already on the counter — toast, soft scrambled eggs, coffee poured just the way Jaewon liked it. Kanghyuk moved with the easy grace of someone who didn’t need to hurry for anyone, sliding the mug toward him before sitting opposite.

They talked lightly at first — about Jaewon’s training schedule, about the next competition — but every so often, Kanghyuk’s gaze would linger too long, as if he were weighing the truth behind each answer.

When Jaewon excused himself to take a shower, Kanghyuk waited until he heard the water running. Then he picked up his phone from the counter and swiped to a private thread in his messages.

Kanghyuk: I want you to dig into Yang Jaewon’s history. High school, neighborhood, training circles. Focus on anyone he might have dated or been close to before university. Secretary: Understood. Are we prioritizing one name in particular? Kanghyuk: He called them his ‘first love’ during an interview yesterday. Find them.

He didn’t add what happens next — his secretary didn’t need to know that part.

By the time Jaewon came back, towel around his neck, Kanghyuk’s phone was face-down on the counter, his expression smooth as ever.

“Sit,” Kanghyuk said, pulling him in close on the couch after breakfast. His hand rested on Jaewon’s thigh, thumb brushing in slow, absent circles — the same absent circles that had marked possession the night before.

“You have training this afternoon?”

“Yes, hyung.”

“Good. I’ll send the driver.”

There was no reason for Jaewon to suspect anything. No reason to think that while Kanghyuk kissed him goodbye at the door, somewhere in the city a quiet investigation was already beginning — names being cross-checked, old photos pulled from archives, contacts called in.

And Kanghyuk knew: by the time he had the name, the face, the location of this “first love,” he’d decide exactly what to do with them.

For now, he kept his arm snug around Jaewon’s shoulders, letting him think the morning was just another calm moment in their strange, growing bond.

But behind his still gaze, the hunt had already started.

Chapter Text

Kanghyuk’s office was quiet that evening, the skyline bleeding out into night through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His desk was bare except for his laptop, a stack of neatly aligned legal briefs, and his phone — the true work happening in the encrypted conversations that rarely left a trace.

His secretary, Choi Min-seo, stood by the desk with a tablet in hand. Efficient, precise, her expression unreadable. She was one of the few people who knew better than to question the personal nature of his orders.

“I’ve compiled the preliminary report,” she said. “We traced Yang Jaewon’s high school years — class rosters, extracurricular activities, neighborhood. There’s a consistent mention of one person: Park Ji-hoon. Same age, lived three streets away, also competed in regional archery during their second year.”

Kanghyuk’s gaze sharpened. “Show me.”

Min-seo tapped the tablet, and a photo appeared — a grainy yearbook image of a boy with soft features, cropped hair, smiling with the awkwardness of someone unused to cameras.

“Relationship?”

“Unconfirmed. Several classmates noted they were ‘close,’ but we’re not sure if it was romantic or purely friendship. They trained together frequently, traveled to competitions in pairs. After graduation, Ji-hoon dropped archery entirely and started working at his uncle’s hardware store.”

“Where?”

She gave him the district name. Kanghyuk knew the area — small, old-fashioned, the kind of place where faces and names stuck in people’s minds for years.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Get me current photos, financial records, family details. I want a complete profile. Patterns, weaknesses, habits.”

Min-seo nodded, already making notes. “Do you want me to make contact?”

“Not yet,” Kanghyuk said. “No one approaches him until I decide how I want him to see me.”

The next 48 hours were spent in surgical detail.

Min-seo’s reports came in layer by layer:

Ji-hoon’s daily routine — opening the hardware store at 9:00, closing at 7:00, stopping at the same noodle shop every Thursday.

His family situation — unmarried, lives with his mother, no recent travel outside the city.

His social media — sparse, locked down, with only occasional public posts about sports scores and local events.

His financials — modest but stable; no debts, no significant savings.

Every piece was filed in Kanghyuk’s mind, assembling a picture not just of who Ji-hoon was now, but of how he fit into Jaewon’s past.

He lingered over one detail in particular — an old photograph from a local news archive, taken after a high school archery tournament. Jaewon and Ji-hoon stood side by side, uniforms rumpled from competition, both holding their bows. Ji-hoon was smiling; Jaewon was looking at him.

Kanghyuk stared at that photo for a long time, not because of Ji-hoon, but because of the expression on Jaewon’s face — open, unguarded, the same expression he’d worn during that interview when he said my dream is to see my first love again.

Late that night, Kanghyuk sent one final message to Min-seo:

Kanghyuk: Set up a meeting. I don’t care how you make it happen, but I want him in front of me within the week. Min-seo: What pretext should I use? Kanghyuk: He doesn’t need to know my name until I’m in the room.

He closed the chat, leaned back in his chair, and let the city lights wash over the glass.

It wasn’t enough to know where Ji-hoon was. Kanghyuk needed to see him, measure him, decide for himself whether the boy from Jaewon’s past was a threat — and if so, how best to remove him from the board entirely.

Kanghyuk’s phone never stayed silent for long. If Jaewon wasn’t in his apartment, he was in Kanghyuk’s pocket — not physically, but through constant presence in his messages.

Kanghyuk: Send me a photo. Jaewon: Of what? Kanghyuk: Where you are. Who you’re with. Jaewon: I’m just at the library, hyung. Kanghyuk: Photo.

The image came within seconds — Jaewon at a table, headphones in, the spines of books behind him. Kanghyuk studied it far longer than needed, noting the angle of light through the window, the reflection in the glass behind him.

Every night, Jaewon received a call before bed. Sometimes Kanghyuk would talk about his day; sometimes he’d simply listen to Jaewon’s breathing until he fell asleep.

“I like knowing you’re in bed,” Kanghyuk would murmur, voice low. “Even when I’m not there.”

Three days later, Kanghyuk’s focus shifted. Min-seo had arranged the meeting with Ji-hoon under the pretext of a potential sponsorship opportunity for the hardware store — an easy lure for a man whose business margins were thin.

The meeting was set for 9 p.m. in a small, unused storage lot on the outskirts of the district — neutral ground, empty after dark. Ji-hoon arrived early, wearing a clean shirt and carrying a folder of product catalogues.

Kanghyuk arrived five minutes later, dressed in black, the collar of his coat turned up against the chill. No driver. No secretary. Just him.

“Mr. Park?” Kanghyuk’s tone was pleasant, the handshake firm but brief.

“Yes — you’re with…?” Ji-hoon hesitated, searching for the name he’d been given.

Kanghyuk ignored the question, stepping past him into the dim-lit lot. “You knew Yang Jaewon in school.”

Ji-hoon blinked. “Uh… yes. We were friends. Why—”

“Friends,” Kanghyuk repeated, as if tasting the word. “Or more?”

A frown flickered across Ji-hoon’s face. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to—”

Kanghyuk moved before the sentence could finish — a single step closer, his hand catching the front of Ji-hoon’s shirt and slamming him back against the corrugated metal wall. The folder hit the ground, papers scattering.

“You’re not relevant,” Kanghyuk said softly. “And you won’t be again.”

Ji-hoon’s breath stuttered. “What—what is this—?”

Kanghyuk’s other hand came up, a glint of steel catching the low light — a slim tactical knife, small enough to conceal but long enough to end a life cleanly.

There was no rush. Kanghyuk pressed the blade flat against Ji-hoon’s chest, just over the heartbeat, the cold metal leeching heat through the fabric.

“You’re going to disappear, Mr. Park,” Kanghyuk said, voice calm, as though discussing a contract clause. “And you’re going to do it quietly.”

Ji-hoon shook his head, panic setting in. “I haven’t seen him in years, I don’t—”

The blade turned, the tip now pressing lightly through the cotton. Kanghyuk leaned in, his mouth near Ji-hoon’s ear. “You’re not listening.”

The knife slid in with clinical precision — no wild motion, no wasted force. Ji-hoon’s breath hitched sharply, a wet sound bubbling in his throat as Kanghyuk’s hand over his mouth swallowed the noise.

He held him there, the weight of his body pinning him until the struggling slowed, then stopped.

When Kanghyuk stepped back, Ji-hoon sagged against the wall, sliding down to the cold concrete. Kanghyuk crouched, wiping the blade on the man’s own shirt before folding it back into his coat.

He collected the scattered papers, stacking them neatly on the folder, and placed the bundle beside the body — a detail that would suggest robbery wasn’t the motive.

By the time he left the lot, the only sound was the faint drip of water from a nearby gutter.

That night, Jaewon’s phone buzzed at 11:32 p.m.

Kanghyuk: Are you in bed? Jaewon: Yeah, hyung. Why? Kanghyuk: Good. Stay there.

Kanghyuk lay back in his own bed, phone on the nightstand, eyes closed. The hunt was over. There would be no more first loves.

Chapter Text

The news broke three days later — a short segment buried in the local broadcast:

A 23-year-old man, Park Ji-hoon, was found dead late Tuesday night in an industrial storage lot. Police are treating the case as a possible robbery, though no official suspects have been named…

Kanghyuk was in his office when the report aired, watching from behind the reflection of his own face in the glass wall. Across the city, he imagined Jaewon seeing it too — the name, the age, the photo pulled from an old ID.

That evening, he stopped by Jaewon’s apartment unannounced. The door opened after a few seconds, Jaewon standing there in a loose hoodie, hair slightly damp from a shower.

“Hyung?” Jaewon’s eyes widened just a little, as if surprised, but his voice was soft. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“I wanted to see you.”

Kanghyuk stepped inside without waiting for an answer, the scent of warm laundry and green tea wrapping around him. He watched Jaewon closely as he set down his bag.

“You heard the news?” Kanghyuk asked casually, though his gaze was sharp.

Jaewon nodded, lowering his eyes. “Yeah. It’s… strange. I haven’t thought about him in a long time.”

Kanghyuk studied him for the flinch, the subtle crack — but Jaewon’s face stayed perfectly composed, just the right shade of quiet sadness.

“Strange?” Kanghyuk prompted.

“Yeah. To think someone you knew back then could just… be gone.” He shook his head, turning to pour Kanghyuk tea. “Life’s short, hyung. You have to hold on to the people who matter.”

The words slid easily into place, almost too easily. Kanghyuk took the cup, his eyes not leaving Jaewon’s face.

Later, when Kanghyuk left to take a call in the other room, Jaewon’s smile shifted — no longer soft, no longer sad. It was slow, deliberate, curling upward with something sharper underneath.

He already knew. He’d known from the moment Kanghyuk’s secretary started sniffing around, from the little inconsistencies in Kanghyuk’s schedule, from the way Ji-hoon’s name vanished from their conversations without him ever asking.

The truth didn’t scare him. It didn’t even shock him. If anything, it thrilled him.

Because Kanghyuk thought he was the one doing the keeping — the one building the cage. But Jaewon had built it first.

The late-night phone calls? Jaewon answered them because he wanted Kanghyuk to need them. The shy apologies? A performance, carefully measured to push Kanghyuk deeper into obsession. Even the “first love” comment in the interview — bait. Perfect, shining bait.

And now the trap had closed, exactly as planned. There was no Ji-hoon anymore. No one left to draw Kanghyuk’s attention but him.

Jaewon turned toward the hallway where Kanghyuk’s voice still murmured into the phone, and his smile softened back into the familiar mask. The patient, pliant boy Kanghyuk thought he’d shaped.

He could wait. Let Kanghyuk believe he was in control a little longer. After all — what was more satisfying than letting your obsession think they’d caught you, while knowing you’d been holding their leash the whole time?

Jaewon had seen Baek Kanghyuk long before Kanghyuk had seen him. The first time was two years ago, in the lobby of the Seoul Central Court building. Jaewon had been there with his uncle, delivering documents for a small case. Kanghyuk had stepped out of an elevator, all clean lines and controlled presence, speaking to two men in tailored suits who seemed to hang on every word.

Jaewon didn’t hear the conversation — he didn’t need to. The voice in his head was already filling in the sound, deep and smooth, a voice that matched the precision of his movements.

He knew the name almost immediately. Baek Kanghyuk wasn’t just a lawyer — he was the lawyer. Articles about him weren’t hard to find: high-profile wins, charity sponsorships, photos of him at industry galas, his arm around politicians and CEOs.

The first thing Jaewon learned was Kanghyuk’s routine. It wasn’t difficult — men like Kanghyuk were creatures of habit. Morning runs along the Han River, black coffee from the same corner café, office by 8 a.m., gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays after work.

Jaewon didn’t stalk in the clumsy way amateurs did. He didn’t lurk in alleys or leave obvious footprints. He collected pieces — overheard comments from baristas, timestamps from news appearances, the way his court schedule matched certain case filings.

The more he learned, the sharper the craving became. It wasn’t enough to watch him. Jaewon wanted to be in Kanghyuk’s head, under his skin. He wanted to be the thing that made that perfect composure falter.

The scholarship had been the key. One afternoon, while researching Kanghyuk’s law firm, Jaewon found a press release about their athletic sponsorship program — archery, fencing, swimming. It was almost too easy. Jaewon had been shooting since middle school; his scores were good enough to qualify, but that wasn’t the point.

He filled out the application with care — not just the facts, but the kind of small, personal details he knew would draw a man like Kanghyuk in. References to discipline. A humble tone about financial hardship. A carefully chosen photo, clean-cut but with just enough softness in the eyes to make someone want to protect him.

And then he added one more detail — one that wasn’t required. Under “personal statement,” he mentioned, almost in passing, that his dream was to reunite with his first love.

Not because it was true. Because he wanted to see what Baek Kanghyuk would do with that information.

When the acceptance came, Jaewon wasn’t surprised. But he played the part — the wide-eyed gratitude, the quiet awe when he met Kanghyuk in person for the “first time.”

He didn’t tell Kanghyuk about the way he’d chosen his clothes for that meeting to mirror one of Kanghyuk’s exes — someone he’d found in an old magazine photo — just to trigger a faint, unplaceable familiarity. He didn’t tell him about the subtle ways he steered conversations, always letting Kanghyuk think he was the one guiding them.

And he certainly didn’t tell him that every time Kanghyuk texted, every time he called, Jaewon’s smile wasn’t shy or flustered. It was satisfied.

The interview — the one where he said, my dream is to see my first love again — had been the final push. He’d known Kanghyuk was watching. He’d looked directly into the camera and let his lips curve just enough, knowing it would land like a blade in Kanghyuk’s chest.

The reaction had been immediate: the call, the demand to know where he was, the summons that ended in Kanghyuk’s bed. Exactly as Jaewon had planned.

Jaewon didn’t need to know the details of what happened to Ji-hoon. He knew Kanghyuk well enough now to fill in the blanks. The man was too thorough to leave loose ends.

And wasn’t that the point? Now, there was no one left from Jaewon’s past for Kanghyuk to fixate on. No ghost to compete with. Only Jaewon.

He lay back on his bed that night, scrolling through their messages — Kanghyuk’s clipped, possessive texts, the ones that would have terrified someone else. Jaewon read them like love letters.

Baek Kanghyuk thought he’d caught a beautiful, fragile thing and tamed it. But the truth was simpler, darker.

From the moment Jaewon saw him in that courthouse lobby, he’d been setting the stage. And now, Kanghyuk was exactly where Jaewon had wanted him — chained, without even realizing the leash was around his neck.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city beyond the glass. The sheets were tangled, heavy with the heat of the night — the kind that clung to skin and slowed every movement into something languid.

Jaewon lay on his side, his breathing slow and even, the faint rise and fall of his chest almost too perfect. His body was still marked from earlier — the faint reddened lines where Kanghyuk’s fingers had gripped, the deeper, bruised impressions of a mouth along his shoulder and collarbone.

Kanghyuk lay behind him, close enough that his breath ghosted over the back of Jaewon’s neck. One of his arms was draped loosely across Jaewon’s waist, the weight of it as much a shackle as a comfort.

For a while, Kanghyuk was still. Then, as if the quiet had loosened something in him, his voice came low, almost a murmur.

“You drive me insane.”

Jaewon’s eyelids didn’t even flicker, but inside, his pulse quickened.

“I watch you and I can’t stand the thought of anyone else seeing you like I do,” Kanghyuk continued, the words curling hot in the dark. “I would break their hands if they touched you.”

Jaewon’s breathing stayed steady, but in his mind, he was turning each word over like a rare jewel.

“I need you,” Kanghyuk admitted — and it wasn’t the polished court voice now, but something raw, unguarded. “I can’t think straight when you’re not here. I want you under me, in front of me, in my sight at all times.”

The arm around Jaewon tightened just a fraction, and he could feel Kanghyuk’s chest rise and fall against his back.

“You’re mine,” Kanghyuk said, softer now, almost like a prayer. “I’ll make sure you never forget it. Even if it means burning the whole world down.”

Jaewon’s lips curved in the faintest, subtlest smile — a smile hidden from Kanghyuk’s eyes. Not because the words scared him, but because they landed exactly where he wanted them.

He loved this. Loved the weight of that arm, the quiet threats, the way Kanghyuk thought he was the one doing the claiming. To be owned by the man he’d spent years obsessing over wasn’t surrender — it was victory.

And he would give Kanghyuk every reason to keep saying those words, keep gripping him tighter, keep believing he was the hunter.

Jaewon let out a soft, sleepy sound, like a sigh, just enough to make Kanghyuk’s grip firm again. Behind his closed eyes, the smile lingered.

The light that filtered into the bedroom was thin and pale, just enough to sketch the edge of the blinds across the sheets. Jaewon woke slowly, stretching under the weight of an arm that hadn’t moved all night. Kanghyuk was still behind him, chest pressed to his back, the steady pull of his breathing warm against his neck.

The arm tightened before Jaewon could even shift.

“Where are you going?” Kanghyuk’s voice was low from sleep, but there was no mistaking the steel under it.

“Bathroom,” Jaewon murmured, smiling faintly without turning his head.

Kanghyuk let him go, but only after pressing his palm to Jaewon’s lower back, as if to remind him who decided when he could move.

When Jaewon returned, Kanghyuk was already sitting up, the sheets pooling at his waist, one hand curled loosely around the mug of coffee he’d brought in from the kitchen. He set it aside the moment Jaewon came close, pulling him in between his legs.

“Sit,” Kanghyuk said.

Jaewon obeyed, settling into his lap. Kanghyuk’s hands immediately slid over his thighs, up under the loose hem of the T-shirt he’d thrown on.

“You’re not leaving today.” It wasn’t framed as a request.

Jaewon tilted his head. “What about training?”

“I’ll call your coach. You’re not going anywhere I can’t see you.”

Jaewon let out a soft laugh, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. “You really can’t stand the thought of me out of your sight, can you?”

“No,” Kanghyuk answered simply, his gaze steady. “And I’m not going to try.”

Jaewon’s hand slid up his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his hair. “Then I guess I’ll stay.”

For the rest of the morning, Kanghyuk moved around him like a shadow. Making breakfast — but with a hand always resting on Jaewon’s hip when he passed by. Reading emails — but looking up every few minutes to watch him move around the apartment.

Jaewon never pushed back. He leaned into the touches, met the stares, even went to sit on the arm of Kanghyuk’s chair just to feel the man’s hand curl around his thigh again.

Inside, he was cataloguing every sign of it — every possessive grip, every controlling word, every subtle claim Kanghyuk made over his time and space. It was exactly the kind of chain he wanted.

By noon, Kanghyuk had pulled him onto the couch, one arm tight around him, the TV on but forgotten.

“You’re mine,” Kanghyuk murmured against his temple.

“I know,” Jaewon said softly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to sound like surrender — even though, deep inside, it was more like satisfaction.

The afternoon passed in slow, deliberate hours, the kind where the air in the apartment felt heavy with something unsaid. Kanghyuk worked from his home office, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear for long stretches — but every time Jaewon walked past the door, Kanghyuk’s eyes lifted to follow him until he disappeared from view.

When Kanghyuk finally emerged, it was with the kind of precision that made it clear his focus had shifted entirely. He found Jaewon curled on the couch with a book, bare legs stretched out, T-shirt loose over his shoulders.

“Come here,” Kanghyuk said.

Jaewon marked his page and set the book aside, moving without hesitation. Kanghyuk pulled him down into his lap, arm locking around his waist.

“What were you reading?”

“Just a novel,” Jaewon murmured. “Nothing special.”

Kanghyuk reached for the book on the table, flipping through the pages as if searching for something incriminating. Jaewon watched him with an expression just shy of amused.

“You’re acting like I’m hiding something,” Jaewon teased.

“You could be,” Kanghyuk said, eyes narrowing. “You could be doing anything when I’m not watching.”

Jaewon leaned in closer, his lips brushing Kanghyuk’s ear. “Then I guess you’d better keep watching.”

The words were playfulthe way Jaewon’s tone slipped just low enough to stir Kanghyuk’s possessiveness. The suggestion was bait, and Kanghyuk bit down hard.

“Don’t move,” Kanghyuk ordered, his hand tightening on Jaewon’s thigh.

Jaewon didn’t. He stayed exactly where Kanghyuk put him, letting himself be held, letting Kanghyuk feel in control — while inside, he was the one pulling at the invisible threads, the one who’d chosen the shirt he wore because he knew the loose collar would slide just so when Kanghyuk touched him.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour — Kanghyuk’s work abandoned entirely, his grip never loosening, his attention fixed on Jaewon as though the rest of the world no longer existed.

When Kanghyuk finally let him up, it wasn’t really freedom. He followed Jaewon into the kitchen, stood close enough that Jaewon could feel the heat of his body while he poured water into a glass.

“You’re staying here again tonight,” Kanghyuk said.

Jaewon turned, handing him the glass with a smile that looked soft but hid something sharper. “Of course, hyung.”

In Kanghyuk’s mind, the agreement was obedience. In Jaewon’s, it was strategy — another night where he could let Kanghyuk chain himself tighter without realizing whose game they were really playing.

By evening, the city was washed in the glow of streetlights and neon, the penthouse windows reflecting it back in long, fractured streaks. Kanghyuk stood in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine, his gaze flicking to where Jaewon sat at the counter scrolling through his phone.

“You’re not texting anyone I don’t know, are you?” Kanghyuk asked.

Jaewon didn’t even look up. “No, hyung.”

Kanghyuk set the glasses down, sliding one across to him. “Show me.”

It was meant to be a test — sudden, controlling, designed to catch someone off guard. But Jaewon handed the phone over instantly, unlocking it without hesitation.

Kanghyuk scrolled through the messages, his eyes narrowing at the sheer neatness of it — nothing out of place, nothing suspicious. He slid the phone back with a satisfied nod, unaware that the reason it was so clean was because Jaewon had deleted an entire day’s worth of conversations hours before, anticipating this exact demand.

The conversation Kanghyuk never saw wasn’t romantic, but it was dangerous — an anonymous thread where Jaewon had been pulling strings, arranging information about Kanghyuk’s upcoming court appearances. Not for sabotage, but for the satisfaction of knowing where Kanghyuk would be before Kanghyuk even told him.

Later, they were on the couch, Kanghyuk’s arm heavy around Jaewon’s shoulders. The television was on, but his attention was fixed on Jaewon, his thumb brushing slow circles over the back of his neck.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Kanghyuk said.

“Just tired,” Jaewon murmured, letting his head tip against Kanghyuk’s chest.

What Kanghyuk couldn’t see was the faint smirk tugging at Jaewon’s mouth, hidden in the shadows. He liked these moments — where Kanghyuk thought his vigilance was keeping Jaewon compliant, when in reality, Jaewon was the one feeding him the very cues that kept him on edge.

Kanghyuk believed he was watching Jaewon. The truth was, Jaewon was studying him — every tightening of his grip, every flicker of suspicion in his eyes, every quiet admission of need.

It was all going into the mental map Jaewon had been building since long before they met.

And for the first time, the smallest echo of that map: When Kanghyuk leaves the room to take a call, Jaewon reaches into the drawer of the side table and pulls out a folded sheet of paper.

It’s quick — just a glance before he tucks it away again — but it’s enough to see lines, arrows, dates, and Kanghyuk’s name written in clean block letters at the center.

By the time Kanghyuk returns, Jaewon’s face is soft again, his attention back on the TV.

Kanghyuk sits, pulling him close, still believing the chains only go one way.

The drive was silent except for the low hum of the engine. Kanghyuk’s hand rested on Jaewon’s thigh the entire way, not moving, but heavy — a claim that didn’t need words. When they reached the villa, the night air was sharp, scented faintly with pine. Kanghyuk unlocked the door, guiding Jaewon inside with a hand between his shoulder blades.

The hall opened into a wide, dim-lit space — high ceilings, dark leather couch angled toward the wall of glass that framed the black stretch of forest outside. Kanghyuk didn’t bother turning on the rest of the lights. He locked the door, pocketed the key, and moved in behind Jaewon.

One hand slid to Jaewon’s throat, tilting his head back just enough for Kanghyuk’s mouth to find his jaw. “You’re not leaving this place until I’m done with you,” Kanghyuk murmured, voice already thick.

Jaewon’s breath shivered out — a soft, involuntary sound — and that was all it took for Kanghyuk to push him forward until his knees hit the couch.

“On your knees,” Kanghyuk ordered.

Jaewon sank down slowly, the leather cool against his shins. Kanghyuk stood in front of him, undoing his belt with deliberate slowness, the metal buckle clicking in the quiet. “Open.”

Jaewon obeyed, lips parting, eyes tilted up — but there was nothing meek in the way his gaze locked on Kanghyuk’s.

Kanghyuk’s hand slid into his hair, grip firm, guiding him forward as he pressed himself against Jaewon’s mouth. The first push was slow, letting Jaewon take him in, the heat and wet of his tongue curling around him.

“Mmh—” Jaewon’s moan was muffled, vibrating against him.

Kanghyuk’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer. “Deeper.”

The second thrust was harder, the blunt head hitting the back of Jaewon’s throat. Jaewon gagged softly, hands bracing on Kanghyuk’s thighs, but didn’t pull back. The wet sound of it filled the space — slick, obscene.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Kanghyuk breathed, hips starting to move in a slow, relentless rhythm.

Each push was harder, deeper, until the base of Kanghyuk’s length was pressed to Jaewon’s lips, the stretch forcing his throat to open around him. Spit slicked his chin, dripping down onto his shirt.

Kanghyuk’s other hand cupped the back of his head, holding him in place as he fucked into his mouth — no pretense of gentleness now, just raw, guttural need. “Nggh—Jaewon, fuck—your mouth…”

Jaewon’s moans were ragged, wet, choked around the thick length driving in and out of him. Every time Kanghyuk pulled back just enough for air, Jaewon inhaled sharply, then took him again without hesitation.

“Look at me,” Kanghyuk growled, and Jaewon’s tear-bright eyes lifted instantly, locking with his.

That eye contact made Kanghyuk’s pace rougher, his voice breaking into low, hungry curses. The couch creaked as Kanghyuk braced one knee against it, using the leverage to thrust even deeper — each stroke forcing another wet, guttural gag from Jaewon’s throat.

The sounds in the room were pure filth — the obscene slick of spit and cock, the muffled moans, the heavy, uneven breaths. Jaewon’s jaw ached, his throat stretched to the limit, but his hands stayed firm on Kanghyuk’s thighs, holding him there as if he didn’t want him to stop.

When Kanghyuk finally yanked him off, Jaewon gasped, saliva stringing from his swollen lips to the flushed, slick length still in Kanghyuk’s fist.

“Get back on,” Kanghyuk rasped, and Jaewon obeyed, taking him to the hilt in one smooth, hungry motion.

Kanghyuk’s head tipped back, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as his hips snapped forward. The couch shook with the force of it, Jaewon’s moans now nothing but raw, wet sounds around him.

The air between them was thick with sweat and heat, the leather couch warm under Jaewon’s knees, every movement pushing him further into the kind of filthy surrender that made Kanghyuk lose all sense of restraint.

Chapter Text

The villa was still cloaked in the afterglow of the night before — the scent of sex lingering in the air, the leather couch warm where skin had pressed against it for hours. The only light came from the floor lamp in the corner, low and amber, painting everything in muted gold.

Jaewon sat cross-legged on the couch now, one of Kanghyuk’s dress shirts hanging loose on his frame, the top buttons undone. He was sipping from a glass of water, still a little flushed, watching Kanghyuk move across the room like a predator still pacing after the hunt.

Kanghyuk’s phone buzzed on the low table. He glanced at the screen, and something in his gaze shifted — not softer, exactly, but familiar, like a shadow from an old chapter of his life had just brushed past him.

He picked it up. “Yoon Seok.” His voice dropped into a tone Jaewon hadn’t heard before — not the cold authority he used with his firm’s staff, not the low possession he used on Jaewon. This was smoother, warmer, tinged with history.

Jaewon’s head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly, though his expression stayed mild. He took another sip, letting the sound of Kanghyuk’s voice on the call wrap around him like static he couldn’t tune out.

“Mm. I’m out of the city for the night,” Kanghyuk said into the phone, leaning one hip against the edge of the table. “Yes, I saw the file. No, I’m not concerned… you always were too cautious.”

There was a quiet laugh on Kanghyuk’s end, one Jaewon had never heard him give anyone else. It was small, restrained, but real.

Something unpleasant twisted in Jaewon’s chest. He didn’t know this “Yoon Seok,” had never even heard the name before. And yet the tone, the ease between them, was enough to set his nerves humming in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a deep, irrational dislike that was already solidifying into something sharper.

Kanghyuk ended the call with a quiet, “I’ll be in touch,” and set the phone down.

Jaewon’s gaze followed the movement. “Who was that?”

Kanghyuk glanced at him, expression unreadable. “An old secretary. From before you.”

There was no reason for those last three words, and yet he’d said them — maybe to reassure, maybe to test.

Jaewon smiled faintly. “You seemed… close.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved just enough to suggest something between amusement and warning. “We worked together a long time. He knows things about me no one else does.”

Jaewon let the words sink in, his mind already turning them over. That meant Yoon Seok had access. Access to information, to Kanghyuk’s past, maybe even to parts of him Jaewon hadn’t yet claimed.

He set his glass down, rising from the couch and crossing to where Kanghyuk stood. His hands slid over Kanghyuk’s chest, slow, deliberate, his eyes steady on his. “You don’t need people like that now.”

Kanghyuk’s brows lifted slightly. “People like what?”

Jaewon’s smile didn’t falter. “People who think they know you better than I do.”

The air between them tightened, something unspoken sparking in the silence. Kanghyuk reached up, cupping Jaewon’s jaw in one large hand, tilting his head back just enough to make the gesture feel like both a caress and a claim.

“Careful,” Kanghyuk murmured.

But Jaewon only leaned in, brushing his lips against Kanghyuk’s, the taste of water still cool on his mouth. “Always.”

When Kanghyuk kissed him back, deep and slow, Jaewon let it happen — but in his mind, the name Yoon Seok was already etched in a place he didn’t plan to forget. And somewhere beneath the warmth of the kiss, a new, sharper hunger was taking root.

The next morning, the villa was steeped in the kind of stillness that followed storms — not quiet from peace, but from exhaustion. The couch still bore the creases of where Jaewon had been pinned, the faint marks on his throat blooming darker against pale skin.

Kanghyuk was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, pouring coffee into two mugs. Jaewon came in barefoot, the sound of his steps soft against the polished floor, the hem of Kanghyuk’s shirt brushing his thighs.

“You sleep?” Kanghyuk asked without turning.

“Enough,” Jaewon said, sliding behind him, his hands finding their way to Kanghyuk’s waist. He pressed close, his cheek against Kanghyuk’s back for a moment before speaking again. “Who’s handling your files now?”

Kanghyuk handed him a mug over his shoulder. “My current secretary. Why?”

Jaewon sipped slowly, letting the steam curl against his face. “Just curious. Yesterday… you seemed to trust that Yoon Seok person a lot.”

Kanghyuk gave a short laugh, carrying his own mug to the table. “He earned it.”

Jaewon followed, sitting close enough that his knee brushed Kanghyuk’s under the table. “Trust can be… dangerous. People change. And the ones who know the most about you can use it.”

Kanghyuk’s gaze lifted from his coffee, slow and deliberate. “You think he would?”

“I don’t know him,” Jaewon said with a small shrug, eyes flicking away like the thought had just occurred to him. “But I’ve seen people turn on each other for less than what you’ve given him.”

Kanghyuk watched him for a moment longer, then reached across the table, his fingers curling around Jaewon’s wrist — not harsh, but with weight. “You don’t like him.”

Jaewon’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes stayed unreadable. “Should I?”

Kanghyuk didn’t answer. His thumb brushed against the inside of Jaewon’s wrist before he let go, leaning back in his chair.

Jaewon tilted his head, studying him. “Just… be careful. Sometimes the ones who’ve been closest know exactly where to cut the deepest.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and quiet. Kanghyuk didn’t argue, and Jaewon didn’t push. He reached across instead, tugging Kanghyuk’s tie loose, leaning in to press a slow kiss to his mouth.

Kanghyuk’s hand slid into his hair, pulling him closer until the kiss deepened, their breaths mingling. When they broke apart, Kanghyuk’s eyes had that darker edge again — the one Jaewon knew meant his mind was already working.

Jaewon hid his satisfaction behind a soft smile, sipping from his coffee once more.

The seed was planted. Now it only needed time to take root.

The city was in the grip of late winter, the streets wet with melting snow and the wind sharp enough to cut through a coat. Kanghyuk’s penthouse was warm in contrast, lit low, shadows stretching long across the polished floors.

Jaewon sat cross-legged on the couch with Kanghyuk’s laptop balanced in front of him, the screen dimmed just enough that from a distance, it would look like harmless browsing. But the folder open was anything but harmless — tucked deep in a hidden drive, accessed through the kind of digital backdoor Jaewon had prepared long before.

Yoon Seok’s name sat at the top of the document list. Financial logs. Calendar records. A few personal messages Jaewon had found while “looking for something else.” His fingers moved deftly, pulling what he needed, shaping them into something poisonous.

By the time Kanghyuk came in from his shower, hair damp, shirt half-buttoned, Jaewon had closed the laptop and was sprawled like he’d been doing nothing more than waiting.

“You should see this,” Jaewon said, his tone easy, almost offhand.

Kanghyuk arched a brow, walking over. “What?”

“I was looking for that schedule file you told me to check,” Jaewon lied smoothly. “Found this instead.” He slid his phone across the coffee table. On the screen was a cropped image of a message thread — Yoon Seok’s name at the top, the conversation making it look like he’d been meeting with one of Kanghyuk’s rivals and discussing “compromising” details about the firm.

Kanghyuk picked it up, scrolling, his expression flattening. “Where did you get this?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaewon said softly, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “What matters is… if he’s still talking to them, what else has he told them?”

Kanghyuk’s gaze stayed on the phone, but his jaw tightened. Jaewon watched it with the quiet satisfaction of a hunter watching a trap close.

“I’m not saying he’s betraying you,” Jaewon continued, his voice dropping into something quieter, more intimate. “But if he is… wouldn’t you rather know now?”

Kanghyuk set the phone down, but didn’t speak.

Jaewon shifted closer, straddling his lap, his hands sliding up Kanghyuk’s chest until his palms rested against his shoulders. “You’ve worked too hard to let someone like that chip away at it. People like Yoon Seok… they’ll smile in your face while they’re holding a knife behind their back.”

Kanghyuk’s eyes finally lifted to his, dark and sharp. “You really don’t like him.”

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” Jaewon murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of Kanghyuk’s ear. “Not information. Not space. Not you.”

The words landed heavy, sinking into the same possessive vein that drove Kanghyuk’s own obsessions. Jaewon could feel it in the way his hands tightened on his hips, in the way his breathing shifted.

When Kanghyuk kissed him, it wasn’t gentle — it was hard, bruising, the kind of kiss that carried more than desire. It carried intent.

Jaewon kissed back with equal hunger, the corners of his mouth curling just slightly against Kanghyuk’s. He could taste it now — the suspicion taking root, the first real crack forming in the way Kanghyuk saw Yoon Seok.

The hunt was well underway.

The glass of whiskey in Kanghyuk’s hand was barely touched, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the penthouse. He sat in the leather armchair near the window, his phone in his other hand, thumb hovering over a contact he hadn’t called in months.

Jaewon was curled on the couch, legs folded under him, watching quietly. He’d said little since handing over the last bit of “evidence” that afternoon — an altered timestamp showing Yoon Seok meeting a man Kanghyuk had once publicly humiliated in court.

Kanghyuk’s jaw worked as if grinding through the words he wanted to say. The muscles in his forearm were tight, the tendons in his hand stark against his skin.

When he finally pressed the call button, his voice came out low and sharp. “Yoon Seok. We need to talk. Tonight.”

There was a pause, and then: “I don’t care where you are. Meet me at the old riverside warehouse at eleven. Yes, that one. Don’t be late.” He ended the call before any protest could form.

Jaewon shifted, his voice smooth. “Late night business?”

Kanghyuk looked at him then, the kind of look that felt like being pinned against a wall without a hand being laid. “Cleaning up.”

He set the glass aside and stood, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling them back with methodical precision. There was a pulse of something darker in the way he moved — controlled, but edged with the kind of temper that made people step out of his way.

Jaewon rose and crossed the space between them, his hands brushing Kanghyuk’s forearms as if to feel the tension there. “You look like you could kill someone right now.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved — not into a smile, but into something hungrier. “Maybe I could.”

"Just kidding."

The words sat heavy between them. Jaewon’s pulse quickened, but his voice stayed soft, and joking tone. “Then don’t waste it on the wrong person.”

Kanghyuk’s hand slid into Jaewon’s hair, gripping just enough to tilt his head back. “I never do.”

“I’ll be back late,” Kanghyuk said, already heading for the coat draped over the chair.

Jaewon watched him go, the sound of the door closing reverberating in the quiet. His mind was alive with heat — not from fear, but from the heady thrill of seeing Kanghyuk’s rage aimed exactly where he wanted it.

Chapter Text

The call came just after ten. Jaewon was still in Kanghyuk’s penthouse, half-reclined on the couch, scrolling idly through his phone. Kanghyuk’s name lit up the screen, and he answered without hesitation.

“Hyung?”

“Where are you right now?” Kanghyuk’s voice was low, clipped, vibrating with the kind of tension that pulled Jaewon instantly upright.

“At your place. Why?”

“Something came up. I need you here. Now.”

Jaewon blinked. “Here where?”

“The old riverside warehouse.” A pause, then, “It’s important. I can’t explain over the phone. Just get in the car and come. I’ll be outside waiting.”

The line went dead before Jaewon could ask more.

He didn’t waste time — throwing on the nearest coat, slipping his phone into his pocket. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, the city lights bleeding into the wet pavement as the driver Kanghyuk sometimes used took him toward the industrial edge of the river.

The warehouse loomed out of the dark like a relic — corrugated metal siding dulled with age, windows high and narrow, the kind of place that looked abandoned even when it wasn’t. One overhead light burned near the entrance, casting a pale cone across the cracked asphalt.

Kanghyuk stood beneath it, coat collar turned up, hands in his pockets. His eyes tracked Jaewon the second he stepped out of the car, the weight of his gaze enough to make the air feel heavier.

“What happened?” Jaewon asked as he approached, glancing toward the warehouse door.

Kanghyuk didn’t answer immediately. He reached out instead, curling a hand around the back of Jaewon’s neck — not rough, but with the quiet authority that made movement optional. He leaned in, his breath warm against Jaewon’s ear.

“I needed you to see something.”

Jaewon’s brow furrowed. “See what?”

“You’ll understand once we’re inside.” Kanghyuk’s hand slid down to Jaewon’s shoulder, steering him toward the metal door. The echo of their steps on the concrete was swallowed by the cavernous dark beyond.

Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, a faint sound — a shift, a muffled thud.

Kanghyuk’s voice was calm when he spoke again, but there was something under it now, a coiled heat that didn’t feel like anger alone.

“Do you trust me, Jaewon?”

Jaewon’s answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

Kanghyuk’s lips curved faintly. “Good. Then you won’t flinch at what you’re about to see.”

The warehouse air was cold enough to see his breath. It smelled faintly of oil and dust, the echo of their footsteps rolling into the shadows and back again. Kanghyuk’s hand never left Jaewon’s shoulder as they walked, fingers heavy, the kind of touch that didn’t restrain so much as remind.

The deeper they went, the more Jaewon’s eyes adjusted. The faint light from the entrance faded behind them, replaced by a single bulb swaying above in the center of the space, casting a pale circle on the floor like a stage.

In that circle, a chair. And in the chair, a man — bound, gagged, head hanging forward.

Jaewon’s breath caught before he could stop it. The man stirred at the sound of their approach, lifting his head just enough for the light to catch his face.

Yoon Seok.

Kanghyuk stopped just outside the circle of light. He didn’t look at Yoon Seok. His eyes were on Jaewon, steady and unblinking.

“You remember I said I wanted you to see something?”

Jaewon nodded slowly.

“This is what happens to people who forget their place.”

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even loud. But the weight behind it pressed into Jaewon’s skin like a hand at his throat.

Kanghyuk started to move then — not toward Yoon Seok, but around Jaewon, his steps slow, deliberate. He circled once, twice, never breaking eye contact.

“You’ve been… busy lately,” Kanghyuk said, his tone conversational in a way that felt dangerous. “Little comments. Hints. Stories about people turning on the ones they’re close to.”

Jaewon’s lips parted, but no words came. Kanghyuk’s pace was unhurried, his shadow long against the concrete wall.

“You thought I didn’t notice.”

The cold in Jaewon’s chest had nothing to do with the warehouse air. “I—”

“Do you remember,” Kanghyuk interrupted, voice cutting clean through, “the day the scholarship program came to verify your details? When we visited your old house?”

Jaewon froze.

Kanghyuk stepped closer, close enough that Jaewon could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again. “While you were outside, showing the garden to the coordinator, I looked through the back window of the spare room. You’d forgotten the curtain was half-open.”

He leaned in just enough for the words to brush Jaewon’s ear. “I saw your wall.”

Every muscle in Jaewon’s body went tight.

“Photos. Maps. My schedule. My routes to court. Articles about me going back years. Dates marked with red circles. Arrows connecting my name to people I’d barely remembered meeting.” Kanghyuk’s voice stayed low, measured — the kind of control that was more unnerving than rage. “I didn’t have to guess what it was.”

Jaewon’s heart was pounding now, but Kanghyuk wasn’t finished.

“You’ve been obsessed with me longer than I’ve known your name.”

Kanghyuk finally smiled — slow, sharp, not kind. “And you know what I felt, standing there, looking at your little shrine?”

Jaewon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “…What?”

“Hard.”

The word landed between them like a blade dropped point-first into the floor.

Kanghyuk reached up, brushing a thumb along Jaewon’s jaw — gentle, almost tender, at odds with the heat in his eyes. “You think I’ve been killing for you without knowing the game you’ve been playing?”

Jaewon swallowed, but the flicker of pride in his gaze betrayed him.

“I knew,” Kanghyuk said, the syllables deliberate, final. “I knew, and I didn’t stop. Because watching you try to manipulate me… watching you think you were hunting me… that made me want you more.”

The circling stopped. Kanghyuk stepped directly in front of him now, their bodies almost touching.

“So tell me, Jaewon.” His hand slid from Jaewon’s jaw to the back of his neck, holding him there. “What should I do with him?”

He tilted his head toward Yoon Seok, still bound and silent in the chair.

Jaewon’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “…Kill him.”

Kanghyuk’s grin this time was pure predator. “Good. Then you’ll stay right here… and enjoy it.”

Kanghyuk’s fingers tightened on the back of Jaewon’s neck, the heat of his palm seeping into skin chilled by the warehouse air. His eyes roamed Jaewon’s face — not hurried, not searching, but taking in every detail like he was memorizing the expression for later.

“You’ve been in my head for a long time,” Kanghyuk said, the words almost a murmur. “The moment I opened that scholarship application… the way you wrote… the photograph you chose… You knew exactly how to pull me in.”

Jaewon’s lips parted in a small, sharp exhale. “…I did.”

“You baited me,” Kanghyuk continued, his voice like a slow drag of a blade. “That ridiculous ‘first love’ answer in your interview? The look in your eyes when you said it? You weren’t talking about someone else at all.”

Jaewon didn’t bother denying it. “I wanted you to hear it and think it was someone you had to compete with.” His tone was calm, deliberate. “So you’d start wanting to win me. And I knew you don’t lose.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved into something dangerous. “You wanted to make me jealous.”

“I wanted to make you mine,” Jaewon corrected.

Kanghyuk let out a low laugh, the sound edged with disbelief and heat. “You think you own me?”

Jaewon leaned forward, their noses almost brushing, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper. “I know I do.”

Kanghyuk’s eyes flared — not with anger, but with something darker. “Then you should know… I’ve bled for you.”

Jaewon’s brows twitched, a flicker of arousal laced through his surprise. “…How many?”

“Enough,” Kanghyuk said simply. “People who tried to touch you. People who looked too long. People who got in the way. Some of them never even knew you existed.”

Jaewon’s pulse pounded in his ears, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with fear. “And you think that scares me?”

“I’m hoping it doesn’t,” Kanghyuk said, brushing his thumb across Jaewon’s lower lip. “Because I’ve seen the way you look when I lose control. You like it.”

Jaewon’s tongue flicked against the pad of Kanghyuk’s thumb, slow and deliberate. “I love it.”

Kanghyuk’s gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “So when I put my hands around his throat…” His chin jerked toward Yoon Seok, still watching from the chair with wide, silent eyes. “…you’re going to stay right here. You’re going to watch. And when it’s done, you’re going to come home with me and let me fuck you until you can’t walk.”

Jaewon’s breath trembled, but his smile was steady. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

For a moment, they just stood there — predator and predator, circling in stillness now, each knowing the other was just as dangerous, just as deep in the sickness of their shared hunger.

Then Kanghyuk leaned in, his lips brushing Jaewon’s ear as he spoke again, voice low and final. “Good. Because you’re never leaving.”

Jaewon’s answer was nothing but a quiet, satisfied hum.

Kanghyuk didn’t move toward Yoon Seok immediately. He stayed with Jaewon, their bodies close but not touching, letting the air thicken between them. The single light above buzzed faintly, the cold settling into the concrete underfoot.

“Why him?” Kanghyuk asked, voice calm but laced with an edge. “Of all the people I’ve dealt with — of all the ones you could’ve whispered about — why focus on Yoon Seok?”

Jaewon’s gaze slid toward the bound man in the chair, eyes narrowing into something sharp, cutting. “Because he thinks he has a claim on you.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth twitched. “Claim?”

“He talks to you like he’s entitled,” Jaewon said, each word deliberate. “He looks at you like he’s measuring you against what he remembers, as if I’m just a phase.”

“That’s enough to have him erased?” Kanghyuk asked.

“It’s enough to make me want him gone,” Jaewon replied flatly. “No one talks to you like they still own part of you. No one.”

Kanghyuk’s gaze lingered on him, reading every microexpression. “Possessive.”

“Predator,” Jaewon corrected without missing a beat. “And he’s prey that doesn’t know it yet.”

A slow hum of approval left Kanghyuk’s throat. “You think you’re the only predator in this room?”

Jaewon’s lips curved faintly. “No. I think you’re mine.”

For a moment, there was only the low thrum of tension, like the air before lightning strikes. Kanghyuk stepped forward, closing the minimal space between them until Jaewon had to tilt his head back to hold his gaze.

“You want him dead because it makes you feel secure,” Kanghyuk said. “I want him dead because it makes me feel good to give you what you want.”

Jaewon’s brows lifted slightly. “A gift?”

Kanghyuk’s hand came up, brushing the edge of Jaewon’s jaw with the backs of his fingers. “The kind no one else would give. Not because they couldn’t, but because they wouldn’t dare.”

There was no smile in Jaewon’s voice when he answered. “Then give it to me.”

Kanghyuk’s eyes flicked to Yoon Seok, then back. “Sit.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. Kanghyuk took a chair from the shadows and placed it directly opposite Yoon Seok’s, close enough that Jaewon would be able to see every detail.

Jaewon didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, lowering himself into the seat with the poise of someone accepting a throne, his eyes locked on Yoon Seok with a cold, unblinking stare.

Kanghyuk moved behind him, resting his hands on Jaewon’s shoulders for a brief moment — grounding, claiming — before stepping into the light and toward the bound man.

“You wanted him gone,” Kanghyuk said, his voice now directed at Yoon Seok but meant for Jaewon. “So you’ll watch. You’ll see what happens when I decide someone doesn’t belong near you.”

Jaewon’s voice was soft, but it cut through the air like a blade. “Make it slow.”

The smallest smile ghosted across Kanghyuk’s mouth. “For you? Always.”

As Kanghyuk moved to stand before Yoon Seok, Jaewon sat perfectly still, the predator’s stillness — no wasted movement, only the sharp focus of someone savoring the moment before the strike. His pulse was steady, his breathing even, his entire being narrowed to the single fact that in a matter of moments, Yoon Seok would no longer exist.

And Kanghyuk — his Kanghyuk — would be the one to make it happen.

Chapter Text

The scrape of Kanghyuk’s shoes against the concrete seemed louder in the cold silence as he moved into Yoon Seok’s line of sight. The older man lifted his head fully now, his eyes darting from Kanghyuk to Jaewon and back again, confusion furrowing his brow.

Kanghyuk stopped in front of him, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

Yoon Seok tried to speak, but the gag muffled it into a choked, wet sound. Kanghyuk stepped behind him, pulled it free with a slow, deliberate tug.

“Kanghyuk,” Yoon Seok rasped, voice raw. “What is this? Why the hell am I here?”

“Closure,” Kanghyuk said evenly.

The confusion only deepened in Yoon Seok’s face until his gaze flicked past Kanghyuk and landed on Jaewon. The younger man was seated like he owned the place, one ankle resting over his knee, his coat draped open to reveal the loose shirt beneath. His expression was unreadable — no curiosity, no sympathy. Just stillness.

Recognition flashed across Yoon Seok’s face. “Is this about him? He’s just—”

“You should choose your next words very carefully,” Kanghyuk interrupted, his voice low, sharp as a razor’s edge.

Yoon Seok swallowed, glancing between them again. “You’re serious… You’re actually serious.” He let out a harsh laugh that cracked midway. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

Kanghyuk’s smile was small, humorless. “Maybe.”

“You don’t even know him,” Yoon Seok said, jerking his chin toward Jaewon. “You think you do, but people like him—”

“People like me what?” Jaewon’s voice cut through the space, soft but carrying an edge that made the hairs on the back of Yoon Seok’s neck rise.

“You’re playing him,” Yoon Seok snapped, the panic finally breaking through the bravado. “I’ve seen it before. You act sweet, you worm your way in, you make him—”

“Obsessed?” Jaewon finished for him, leaning forward slightly. “Possessive? Willing to destroy anyone who comes too close?” He tilted his head, the faintest curve touching his lips. “Good. Then it’s working.”

Yoon Seok blinked, the realization hitting in layers — first that Jaewon wasn’t denying it, then that Kanghyuk wasn’t reacting with anger, and finally that they were both looking at him the same way.

Predators, standing over their prey.

“You’re both insane,” he breathed, a note of disbelief cutting through his fear.

“Maybe,” Kanghyuk agreed again, almost pleasantly. “But that’s what makes us perfect for each other.”

Yoon Seok’s eyes widened, his voice cracking on the next words. “You’re going to kill me for him?”

Kanghyuk stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Yoon Seok’s light. “I’m going to kill you with him in the room.”

Jaewon’s gaze stayed locked on Yoon Seok’s face, drinking in the shift from outrage to real fear. His own pulse picked up — not out of sympathy, but from the satisfaction of watching the man realize exactly how deep this went.

When Kanghyuk’s hand landed heavy on Yoon Seok’s shoulder, the man flinched hard. “And he’s going to watch,” Kanghyuk said, his tone almost warm. “Because I want my lover to be happy.”

Jaewon’s voice came low, steady. “I am happy. But I’ll be happier when he’s not breathing.”

The words landed like a sentence being passed. Yoon Seok’s jaw tightened, his breath fast and shallow, his eyes searching for something human in either of them — and finding nothing but the cold, hungry glint of two predators who had already decided his fate.

Chapter Text

The single bulb hummed overhead, its circle of light swallowing the three of them while the rest of the warehouse yawned into shadow. Kanghyuk stood behind Yoon Seok now, the chair legs scraping faintly as he turned it just enough to face Jaewon directly.

“I want you to see his eyes,” Kanghyuk said to Jaewon, voice quiet but carrying. “See when the light goes out.”

Yoon Seok jerked against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. “Listen to yourself, Kanghyuk! This isn’t you—”

Kanghyuk’s hand came down hard on the top of his shoulder, fingers digging in until Yoon Seok hissed. “It’s exactly me. You just never saw it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Yoon Seok tried again, his voice pitching higher. “You think he’s special? He’s using you. He—”

Kanghyuk moved so fast the chair rocked, his fingers clamping around Yoon Seok’s jaw, forcing him to look only at Jaewon. “Say another word about him and I’ll make this worse than it already is.”

Jaewon sat perfectly still in his seat, his eyes fixed on Yoon Seok’s face with a calm that was somehow more unnerving than rage.

Yoon Seok shifted tactics, his voice dropping, almost pleading. “Kanghyuk… we’ve known each other for years. I’ve been loyal. I’ve—”

“You’ve overstayed,” Kanghyuk cut in.

“You’re throwing me away for him?” Yoon Seok’s gaze darted back to Jaewon. “He’s not even worth—”

The punch came without warning — Kanghyuk’s fist slamming into Yoon Seok’s gut, knocking the air from his lungs in a sharp, ugly sound. The chair legs scraped again as he doubled forward, only to be yanked back upright by Kanghyuk’s grip in his hair.

“Careful,” Kanghyuk said, his voice low, steady. “I want him to hear you breathe while he watches.”

Jaewon leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, his eyes never leaving the struggling man. “You’re wasting time,” he murmured.

Kanghyuk’s gaze flicked to Jaewon — a spark of shared understanding passing between them — before he stepped to the front of the chair. His hands settled on either side of Yoon Seok’s face, the gesture almost gentle until his thumbs pressed hard into the hinge of the jaw, forcing it open.

Yoon Seok tried to thrash, the chair rocking against the concrete, but the ropes held. “You think this makes you strong?” he spat between clenched teeth. “You’re both sick.”

Kanghyuk’s smile was slight, dangerous. “We’re in love.”

The first choke was sudden — Kanghyuk’s forearm pressing hard across Yoon Seok’s throat, cutting the words into strangled gasps. Jaewon’s expression didn’t change, but his breathing slowed, his focus sharpening.

Yoon Seok’s legs kicked against the bindings, his eyes wide, darting between them. In a desperate lunge, he tried to bite Kanghyuk’s arm, but Kanghyuk wrenched his head back by the hair, slamming him against the chair.

“Still think you can talk your way out?” Kanghyuk asked, his tone almost curious.

Yoon Seok’s only answer was a rasping breath.

Kanghyuk looked over his shoulder at Jaewon. “You want it slow?”

Jaewon’s voice was calm, final. “I want him to know he’s dying because of me.”

Kanghyuk’s eyes darkened, and he nodded once.

The next minutes were a study in control — Kanghyuk never letting the pressure stay constant, loosening just enough for Yoon Seok to gasp, to look toward Jaewon in panic, before tightening again. Each time, Jaewon’s gaze was there, cold and steady, until Yoon Seok stopped looking anywhere else.

When the end came, it was quiet. No dramatic thrash, no scream. Just the slow fading of resistance, the slackening of rope against limbs.

Kanghyuk held on for a moment longer, feeling the last twitch pass before he stepped back.

The chair sagged under the dead weight. The light above swayed faintly.

Kanghyuk turned to Jaewon, breathing hard but smiling — not with relief, but with satisfaction. “Happy?”

Jaewon’s answering smile was slow, deliberate. “Perfect.”

The warehouse was silent now except for the faint hum of the single light overhead. Yoon Seok’s body slumped in the chair, head tilted at an unnatural angle, the last traces of breath long gone.

Kanghyuk stood over him for a moment longer, hands resting lightly on the back of the chair, as if savoring the stillness he’d created. Then he straightened, rolling his shoulders once, and glanced at Jaewon.

“Help me.”

Jaewon didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He rose from his seat and stepped into the circle of light, close enough to see the small bruise blooming where Kanghyuk’s arm had pressed against Yoon Seok’s throat. Together, they loosened the ropes, Yoon Seok’s wrists falling limply into his lap before his whole body tipped sideways with a dull thud onto the cold floor.

Kanghyuk crouched, hooking his hands under the dead man’s arms. “Feet,” he said simply.

Jaewon moved to the other end, grasping the ankles. The body was heavier than it looked, dead weight pulling against their grip, but they carried it without a word toward the shadowed corner of the warehouse where a tarp and heavy plastic sheeting waited.

They wrapped him in practiced silence — Kanghyuk taping the seams tight while Jaewon smoothed the plastic flat over the contours of the form beneath. Every movement was deliberate, almost ritualistic.

When it was done, Kanghyuk straightened and looked at Jaewon. “Trunk.”

Outside, the cold night air bit at their faces as they carried the bundle to the waiting black sedan. The trunk opened with a soft click, swallowing Yoon Seok whole before closing again with a solid, final sound.

The drive back was quiet, but it wasn’t the quiet of distance — it was charged, a low hum running between them. Kanghyuk’s hand stayed on the wheel, but his other rested on Jaewon’s thigh, fingers idly tracing patterns against the fabric of his pants.

Jaewon’s gaze stayed forward, the city lights sliding across his face, but his breathing had that slow, deep cadence that meant he was thinking about every detail of what they’d just done.

“You didn’t look away once,” Kanghyuk said after a while, his tone unreadable.

“You wouldn’t have liked it if I did,” Jaewon answered.

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved faintly. “No. I wouldn’t.”

They didn’t speak again until they were pulling into the private garage beneath Kanghyuk’s building. The trunk stayed closed — the disposal would come later — but as they stepped into the elevator, the mirrored walls reflected their faces back at them.

Kanghyuk’s eyes found Jaewon’s in the glass. “You understand there’s no going back now.”

Jaewon turned his head, meeting the real gaze instead of the reflection. “Good. I don’t want to.”

Something in Kanghyuk’s expression shifted then — not softer, but sharper, like a lock clicking into place.

When the elevator doors opened to the penthouse, neither of them rushed to move. They stepped out together, and as the door closed behind them, the city was shut out entirely.

They weren’t just bound by want anymore. They were bound by blood.

The trunk stayed shut until the hour was deep enough that the city’s pulse had slowed to a crawl. Kanghyuk drove without hurry, taking side streets and service roads that skirted the usual eyes. The bundled weight in the back shifted only slightly with each turn, the sound muted by layers of heavy plastic.

Jaewon sat in the passenger seat, watching Kanghyuk’s profile in the glow of the dash lights. The focus there — the cold calculation — wasn’t new to him, but tonight it was sharpened, refined, honed entirely toward the task at hand.

When they finally turned off onto a narrow road lined with skeletal trees, Jaewon understood the destination. The river.

The car rolled to a stop beside a stretch where the guardrail had been broken for years, never repaired. Beyond it, the ground sloped down to the water’s edge, the current sluggish but deep.

Kanghyuk killed the engine. For a moment, neither moved. Then he glanced at Jaewon, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “Ready?”

Jaewon nodded once.

The trunk opened with a hollow echo in the quiet night. Together, they slid the wrapped bundle out, the weight familiar now. Kanghyuk took the upper half, Jaewon the lower, their grips tightening in unison as they carried it down the slope.

The ground was soft with damp earth, sucking faintly at their shoes, the smell of the river growing stronger with each step. The moonlight caught on the plastic, turning it into a pale, shapeless shadow in their hands.

At the edge, Kanghyuk set his end down first, letting Jaewon do the same. They stood over it for a moment, the water whispering against the bank.

“No one’s going to find him,” Kanghyuk said, his voice low.

Jaewon’s gaze stayed on the bundle. “Good.”

Kanghyuk crouched, unspooling the heavy chain he’d brought from the warehouse. He wrapped it tightly around the form, securing it with padlocks that clicked shut with the finality of sealed fate.

When he straightened, he handed Jaewon one end of the bundle. “On three.”

They lifted together, swinging once to gather momentum before releasing. The splash was heavy, deep, the water closing over the shape almost immediately. Only a few bubbles broke the surface before the current took it under entirely.

The silence that followed was complete.

Kanghyuk’s hand found Jaewon’s shoulder, squeezing once before sliding down his arm, fingers curling around his wrist. “It’s done.”

Jaewon turned his head, meeting Kanghyuk’s eyes in the dark. “It’s ours.”

The walk back to the car was unhurried. No glances over shoulders, no hesitation. Just two men moving through the shadows like they belonged there.

When they reached the car, Kanghyuk held Jaewon’s gaze a moment longer before unlocking the doors. “You know,” he said as they got in, “most people couldn’t stomach that.”

Jaewon fastened his seatbelt, a faint smile touching his lips. “I’m not most people.”

Kanghyuk’s answering smile was sharper, darker. “No. You’re mine.”

The drive back was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet now — not the stillness before an act, but the satisfaction after. The kind that didn’t need words because the act itself had said everything.

By the time they pulled into the garage again, the air between them was heavier, thicker — not with guilt, but with something far more dangerous: certainty.

Chapter Text

The penthouse was quiet when they returned, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that came with peace. It was charged — the aftermath of violence still clinging to their clothes, their skin, their breath.

Kanghyuk didn’t head to the bedroom. He dropped his coat on the floor near the door and went straight to the bar, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a pair of glasses without asking if Jaewon wanted one. He set both down on the table and turned, his eyes locked on Jaewon.

“You knew.”

Jaewon leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, gaze steady. “So did you.”

Kanghyuk stepped closer, his shirt sleeves still rolled back, dark stains drying along his knuckles. “I knew from the moment I saw your wall.”

“And I knew from the moment I read your court transcripts,” Jaewon replied, his voice even. “Every calculated pause, every time you broke someone without raising your voice. I knew I wanted you before you knew my name.”

Kanghyuk’s mouth curved into something between a smile and a warning. “You set a trap.”

“So did you,” Jaewon shot back. “You could’ve ignored that scholarship application. You didn’t.”

Kanghyuk closed the last steps between them, close enough that Jaewon could see the flecks of darker red drying along his palm. “You think I’d ever let you walk away now?”

Jaewon’s answering smile was slow, razor-thin. “You think I’d ever try to?”

The tension in the air was electric — not born from mistrust, but from the understanding that each was as dangerous as the other.

Kanghyuk reached into his pocket, his hand curling around something cold, heavy. He pulled it free and held it between them — a ring, simple but solid, catching the light in a way that seemed almost wrong with the dried blood still streaking his fingers.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low, steady. “Completely. You put this on, there’s no divorce, no leaving, no one else. If you try… I’ll end you.”

Jaewon didn’t flinch. “If you try, I’ll put a bullet in you while you sleep.”

Kanghyuk’s eyes lit with something almost like pride. “Good. We understand each other.”

He took Jaewon’s hand, sliding the ring onto his finger, the faint smear of red marking the skin. He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

“There,” Kanghyuk said. “Now it’s official.”

Jaewon looked at the ring, then at Kanghyuk, and the slow curve of his lips this time was something darker, hungrier. “I was yours long before this.”

Kanghyuk’s bloodstained hand came up to cup Jaewon’s face, his thumb smearing a faint streak along his cheek. “And you were mine long before I touched you.”

They stood there in the low light, ring gleaming, blood drying, both knowing there was no line left between love and violence, between devotion and destruction.

Not lovers in the way the world understood. But bound, in the truest, most dangerous way possible.

The restaurant was warm, awash in the low murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of cutlery. To anyone glancing their way, Kanghyuk and Jaewon were simply another couple seated in a private booth near the window — the elite lawyer with the striking young man at his side, sharing a quiet dinner.

Kanghyuk’s suit was immaculate, his cufflinks catching the light when he lifted his glass. Jaewon was dressed in soft neutrals, hair falling just so across his forehead, the very image of polite youthfulness.

They looked… safe.

Jaewon leaned forward slightly, smiling at something Kanghyuk said, his hand brushing the man’s wrist. The touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary — not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for Kanghyuk to feel the pressure of possession in it.

Across the room, a woman at another table glanced toward them. Her gaze lingered on Kanghyuk a second too long.

Jaewon’s smile didn’t falter, but under the table, his fingers tightened around Kanghyuk’s thigh. Just a small, pointed squeeze.

Kanghyuk didn’t look toward the woman. He didn’t need to. His free hand slid to cover Jaewon’s, thumb stroking once along the back of it, a silent acknowledgment. His eyes, when they met Jaewon’s again, were faintly amused — and something else. Approval.

The waiter arrived, setting down their plates with the standard pleasantries. Jaewon thanked him with soft politeness, but as the man turned away, his gaze followed him a little too long.

Kanghyuk caught it — of course he caught it. The tip of his tongue ran slowly along his lower lip before he picked up his knife. “You’re playing again,” he murmured.

Jaewon tilted his head innocently. “Am I?”

Kanghyuk’s smile was subtle but dangerous. “Yes. And I’ll let you — for now.”

To anyone else, it would sound like teasing. To them, it was a reminder of the leash that was only ever slack because both of them wanted it that way.

As they ate, the conversation was light, full of little laughs and glances that would have seemed affectionate to any onlooker. But under the table, their knees pressed together, and their hands occasionally found each other in silent, deliberate touches that spoke of ownership more than affection.

When the check came, Jaewon reached for it. Kanghyuk let him take it — another little game — but when they stood to leave, it was Kanghyuk’s hand at the small of Jaewon’s back, steering him through the room, his grip firm enough to remind them both exactly who was leading.

Outside, the cool evening air wrapped around them. Kanghyuk leaned down, his voice low so only Jaewon could hear. “You’ll tell me what you want tonight.”

Jaewon’s smile was small, sharp. “You already know.”

And they walked on, the perfect picture of a couple in love — no one suspecting that behind the smiles and gentle touches lay something far more dangerous, and far more permanent.

Chapter Text

The silence after blood was always the loudest. Kanghyuk’s ears still rang with the echo of breath cut short, with the rhythm of his own pulse hammering in his skull. The world outside moved on—the city lights burned steady, the cars hissed along wet asphalt—but inside, in the cage of his chest, everything was wild and shuddering.

Beside him, Jaewon walked in step. Too calm, too even. His shirt clung damp to his back, the fabric whispering with each movement. Kanghyuk’s gaze kept dragging to his throat—the delicate line of tendon shifting when he swallowed, the faint shine of sweat there. That throat. That fucking throat he’d promised to ruin.

They closed the door of Kanghyuk’s apartment behind them with a dull thunk. No words. Just the lock sliding shut, sealing them in.

The air was heavy, metallic, thick with the memory of everything they had just done. Kanghyuk’s hand shot out, slamming flat against the wall beside Jaewon’s head, caging him instantly.

Jaewon didn’t flinch. He only tilted his chin up, eyes dark, mouth parted like he had been expecting this. Like he had been waiting.

Kanghyuk’s voice came out low, rough, dangerous. “You should be shaking right now.” His breath ghosted hot across Jaewon’s lips. “But you’re not. You’re just standing here, looking at me like you know what’s coming.”

A faint twitch at the corner of Jaewon’s mouth, half-smirk, half-dare. “Maybe I do.”

That snapped the last thread of restraint. Kanghyuk grabbed his jaw, fingers digging hard, forcing his head back against the wall. His thumb pressed into Jaewon’s cheek, his palm squeezing until his lips parted with a broken little gasp.

“You think you can walk out of this?” Kanghyuk hissed. “I told you—” his other hand slid down, gripping Jaewon’s hip hard enough to bruise, “—you won’t be able to walk when I’m finished with you.”

Jaewon’s eyes fluttered, but his voice was steady, quiet, full of heat. “Then don’t stop.”

Kanghyuk growled deep in his chest, a raw animal sound. He kissed him then—if it could be called a kiss. It was a devouring, a smash of lips and teeth, tongue forcing its way in, biting, claiming. Jaewon moaned into it, sharp and needy, hands grabbing at Kanghyuk’s shoulders like he couldn’t hold himself upright.

Clothes tore in their path—buttons pinging off somewhere, fabric ripping down the middle. Kanghyuk shoved Jaewon across the room until his back hit the dining table, scattering papers and glass. He bent him over it in one brutal move, chest pressed flat, ass jutting back against Kanghyuk’s crotch.

“Spread.” The command was a snarl, breath hot against the shell of his ear.

Jaewon obeyed instantly, legs trembling as they slid apart, the stretch making him whimper.

Kanghyuk ground against him, the thick bulge of his cock already straining hard through his slacks, rubbing slow and cruel between the cleft of Jaewon’s ass. Each drag made Jaewon gasp louder, nails scraping across the wood of the table, his voice breaking into desperate little noises.

“Nnghh—ahhhhn—Hyuk—”

“That’s it,” Kanghyuk groaned, grinding harder, rutting against him with sharp, punishing rolls. “Whine for me. You’re not getting mercy tonight. Not after everything.”

Jaewon tried to push back, to match the rhythm, but Kanghyuk grabbed his wrists and slammed them flat against the table, pinning him down. His body arched, mouth falling open with a ragged cry, drool smearing the polished surface as his cheek pressed hard into it.

“You’re mine to break,” Kanghyuk growled, voice hot and venomous against the side of his neck. “And I’m not stopping until your legs give out under you.”

Jaewon’s answer was a sobbed moan, trembling, hips rolling helplessly back against him, begging without words.

Kanghyuk yanked his zipper down. The sound was sharp, obscene, final.

Kanghyuk’s zipper split the silence, and the sound alone made Jaewon’s breath stutter. He turned his head just enough to glance back, lips parted, eyes glassy with need.

Kanghyuk shoved him upright suddenly, forcing him to his knees on the hard floor. The sharp motion made Jaewon grunt, but he dropped down obediently, palms pressing against Kanghyuk’s thighs, head already bowing as if he’d been trained for this moment his whole life.

Kanghyuk pulled his cock free with a hiss, thick and flushed, heavy in his hand. He gripped the base tight, veins standing, the tip already wet. He tilted Jaewon’s chin up with the other hand, thumb smearing across swollen lips.

“Open.”

Jaewon’s lips parted instantly. His tongue slipped out, pink and wet, dragging across the head in one slow swirl that made Kanghyuk curse deep in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hand clenched in Jaewon’s hair, guiding his head closer.

Jaewon took him into his mouth with a needy hum, lips stretching, throat working as he sank down inch by inch. His eyes fluttered but never closed, locked on Kanghyuk’s face even as tears welled at the corners from the stretch.

Kanghyuk groaned, hips twitching forward. “Take it. Every inch. That’s it—ahhh—fucking beautiful when you choke on me.”

Jaewon gagged softly, saliva spilling down his chin, coating his lips as his throat tightened around the thick intrusion. He moaned through it, desperate, the vibrations sending heat straight through Kanghyuk’s spine.

“God, yes—keep going, don’t you dare stop.” Kanghyuk thrust shallowly, each push forcing another gagging sound from Jaewon’s throat, obscene and wet, his spit dripping down onto the floor between his knees.

With one brutal tug in his hair, Kanghyuk pulled out, cock slipping wet from Jaewon’s mouth with a filthy slurp. Jaewon gasped, strands of spit still connecting them, drool sliding down his neck.

Kanghyuk’s grin was feral. “On your stomach. Now.”

Jaewon scrambled onto the table again, chest flat, ass arching high. Kanghyuk shoved his legs wider, his palms gripping firm handfuls of Jaewon’s ass, spreading him apart obscenely.

The sight alone made his cock twitch.

Without warning, Kanghyuk’s tongue dragged over him—hot, wet, circling tight. Jaewon’s body jerked, a sharp cry ripping from his throat.

“A-ahhhhn! Hyuk—oh fuck—”

Kanghyuk licked deeper, tongue pushing insistently, sloppily, savoring the taste of him. His grip on Jaewon’s hips tightened, holding him open, forcing him to take every wet swipe, every filthy lap. He groaned against him, the vibrations making Jaewon’s body shiver uncontrollably.

Jaewon’s thighs trembled, his voice breaking into helpless, high-pitched whines. “Nnnghhh—haaahhh—yes—please, please—”

Kanghyuk chuckled darkly against him, tongue thrusting, teasing, pulling more cries out of him. Then he pulled back, lips slick, and slapped Jaewon’s ass hard enough to make him jolt forward on the table.

“Your hole’s begging for me,” Kanghyuk growled, voice rough with hunger. “So wet, so fucking ready—and I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

Jaewon whimpered, rocking back against the air, desperate, nails scraping over the table’s edge as he panted for more.

The taste of him still burned on Kanghyuk’s tongue, salt and musk heavy in his mouth, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He pulled back, chest heaving, dragging Jaewon’s hips tighter to the edge of the table. His hands roamed greedy and rough, spreading, squeezing, leaving new fingerprints where bruises already bloomed.

Jaewon was trembling, thighs quivering so violently it was a wonder he stayed upright. His cheek was pressed to the wood, damp from drool and sweat, his lips parted in ragged moans. His back arched beautifully, ass high, open, glistening from Kanghyuk’s tongue.

“Stay like that,” Kanghyuk muttered, voice guttural, as if torn out of his chest.

He spat into his palm, slicked his cock with a rough stroke, the obscene sound of it filling the charged silence. The head pushed against Jaewon’s hole—hot, swollen, leaking—and Jaewon gasped so hard it was almost a sob.

“Hyuk—ahhh—”

“Quiet,” Kanghyuk growled, though his own breath shook. “Just take me.”

He pushed. The blunt head forced its way inside, stretching Jaewon slow and brutal, inch by inch. Jaewon’s fingers clawed at the table, his entire body shuddering, voice breaking into choked cries.

“Nnnnghhh—ahhhhnnn—ahhh, Hyuk—f-fuck—so big—”

“Yeah,” Kanghyuk groaned, driving deeper, deeper still, until his hips slammed flush against Jaewon’s ass with a wet slap. “Every inch. You feel that? That’s me inside you. All of me. Filling you up so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

Jaewon’s answer was a wordless cry, his mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut as his body convulsed around him.

Kanghyuk stilled for a heartbeat, savoring the clutching heat, then pulled back only to slam forward with a brutal thrust. The sound—wet, sharp, obscene—rang through the room.

Jaewon screamed, the pitch high and raw. “AHHHHhnnn—ahhh ffffuck—!”

Kanghyuk’s rhythm built fast, relentless, his hips pistoning with savage hunger. Each thrust shoved Jaewon hard into the table, his cheek sliding across the wood, his moans spiraling into broken sobs of pleasure.

“Listen to you,” Kanghyuk panted, his grip iron on Jaewon’s hips. “So loud, so desperate. You love this. Being split open by me. You fucking love it.”

Jaewon could only whimper, nodding frantically as his body jolted forward with every pounding thrust. His cock rubbed helplessly against the wood, smearing precum, leaving slick trails.

The table shook beneath them, glasses rattling, something crashing to the floor unnoticed. The air was thick with the slap of flesh, the guttural groans, the sharp, breathless cries.

Kanghyuk bent over him, pressing his chest against Jaewon’s back, one hand sliding up to wrap around his throat. He squeezed just enough, feeling the frantic thrum of his pulse under his palm.

“You’re mine,” he growled into his ear, biting the lobe hard. “Every fucking breath. Every sound you make. This body, this heat—it all belongs to me.”

Jaewon’s voice came out strangled, desperate. “Y-yes—yours—ahhhhnnn—always—”

Kanghyuk snapped his hips harder, fucking him so deep Jaewon’s cry broke into a sob, his body arching helplessly. The thrusts drilled into his core, hitting so perfectly it wrenched orgasmic sounds out of him with every movement.

“God—ahhh—nghhh—Hyuk—ahhh fuck—deeper—ahhhhnnn!”

“You want deeper?” Kanghyuk snarled, teeth scraping down his neck. “You’ll get deeper. You’ll take every inch I give you, until you can’t even stand.”

He hauled Jaewon upright without pulling out, keeping him impaled to the hilt. Jaewon’s back pressed to his chest, head lolling back against Kanghyuk’s shoulder, throat bared beautifully as his hands scrambled for purchase. Kanghyuk gripped his thighs, spreading them wider, forcing his legs open until his muscles trembled with strain.

Then he fucked up into him from below, slamming with brutal, upward thrusts that made Jaewon scream.

“AHHHhhhhh—ahhhnghhhhh—f-fuck, Hyuk—so—so much—ahhhh!”

Jaewon’s entire body quaked, sweat dripping down his chest, his nipples rubbed raw against Kanghyuk’s shirt as he convulsed with every thrust. His cock slapped against his stomach, leaking, painting his skin with pre-come.

Kanghyuk kissed the side of his throat roughly, biting hard enough to bruise, his voice a growl vibrating against his skin. “I’m going to ruin you tonight. You’ll wake up tomorrow and you won’t be able to walk. Every step you take will remind you of me inside you.”

Jaewon moaned brokenly, nodding, tears streaming down his face from the overwhelming force of it.

The pace didn’t relent. Kanghyuk drove into him with merciless precision, over and over, the sound of their bodies colliding echoing through the apartment, louder, wetter, filthier. The rhythm shook through Jaewon’s bones, every nerve alive with unbearable pleasure.

He screamed again, voice cracking, body convulsing in Kanghyuk’s arms—his orgasm ripped out of him untouched, spilling hot across his stomach in frantic pulses as he sobbed Kanghyuk’s name.

“Hyuk—ahhhhnnnn—Hyuk—ahhhhhh—”

Kanghyuk didn’t stop. He held him tight, still fucking him hard through the spasms, the wet clutch of his body only driving him madder. His own release boiled close, every thrust rougher, faster, until his groan turned into a guttural roar as he slammed deep one final time—burying himself fully, spilling hot, pulsing, filling Jaewon until it leaked out around him.

They collapsed against the table, bodies slick with sweat, panting ragged, their skin sticking where it touched. Kanghyuk’s hand still clutched Jaewon’s throat, thumb pressed over the frantic flutter of his pulse, as if refusing to let him go even now.

“You’re mine,” Kanghyuk whispered again, quieter, hoarse, but more dangerous than ever. “No one else will ever have you. You’re mine.”

Jaewon’s lips curved faintly, exhausted, trembling, but his voice was steady. “I know.”

The table creaked as Kanghyuk finally drew back, leaving Jaewon trembling and leaking down his thighs. His body was limp, chest slick with sweat, his voice raw from crying out. But the night wasn’t over. Not close.

Kanghyuk scooped him up as if he weighed nothing, lifting him off the table with his cock still buried deep inside. Jaewon gasped, arms clinging around his neck, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The sudden shift forced Kanghyuk deeper, and the sharp cry that tore out of Jaewon’s throat was half agony, half bliss.

“Hyung—ahhhhnnnn—f-fuckkk—”

The word Hyung on his lips was like gasoline to flame. Kanghyuk snarled against his mouth, carrying him across the room with rough, jarring thrusts at every step, forcing Jaewon to bounce on his cock while clinging helplessly to his shoulders.

He stopped before the floor-length mirror in his bedroom. The reflection stared back: Jaewon’s flushed face streaked with tears, his lips swollen, his body trembling as Kanghyuk held him suspended and open, cock splitting him apart.

“Look,” Kanghyuk growled against his ear, grinding in deep so Jaewon’s back arched. “Look at yourself. Look how you’re wrapped around me. How your body clings to me like it was made for this.”

Jaewon’s eyes fluttered open, dazed, staring at their reflection. His head fell back on Kanghyuk’s shoulder, moaning gutturally as his hips twitched.

“Hyung—ahhhhnnn—too deep—can’t—ahhhhhh—”

“You can,” Kanghyuk snarled, lifting him higher, then slamming him down on his cock with brutal force. The sound—slap, slap, shhhhk, ahhhhnnn!—echoed through the room, wet and loud, their reflection bouncing in the mirror like a fever dream.

Every thrust wrung another guttural moan from Jaewon, his voice breaking beautifully as he gasped Hyung over and over, sobbing it into Kanghyuk’s ear. His body shuddered, legs trembling, his cock leaking between them untouched.

“Say it,” Kanghyuk demanded, biting his jaw, rutting into him like he’d never stop. “Say whose you are.”

Jaewon sobbed, eyes locked on the mirror as his reflection showed him unraveling, mouth open, sweat dripping down his chest. “Y-yours, Hyung—ahhhhnnnn—only yours—forever—”

The words snapped something in Kanghyuk. He carried him the final steps and dropped him onto the bed without leaving him, pinning him down into the sheets, folding his knees up to his chest. His cock drove into him mercilessly, harder, deeper, the rhythm punishing.

Jaewon screamed, nails clawing at the sheets, his back arching so hard it looked like he might snap. “AHHHHHHhhhnnnn—ahhh, Hyung, Hyung, Hyung—!”

Kanghyuk’s moans grew guttural, animalistic, spilling out uncontrollably with each thrust. His voice cracked low, deep groans tearing from his throat. “Fuckkkk—so tight—ahhhhnnn—Hyung’s cock owns you—every part of you—ahhhhhh godddd—”

Jaewon’s voice dissolved into endless cries, his body convulsing, muscles seizing around Kanghyuk’s cock with desperate, trembling clutch. His orgasm ripped out of him violently, spraying hot across his chest and stomach, the sheets beneath ruined, his scream echoing raw into the room.

But Kanghyuk didn’t stop. He pounded through it, chasing his own climax, his groans breaking into guttural roars as he finally slammed deep and spilled inside him again, filling him until it leaked out in wet streams. He collapsed forward, still buried, sweat dripping from his body onto Jaewon’s skin, his lips pressed to his throat, teeth marking him.

For long minutes, the room was filled only with their ragged breathing, their bodies tangled, the sheets soaked through. Kanghyuk’s grip never loosened, even as Jaewon twitched under him, overstimulated and limp.

When morning came, sunlight streamed harsh and unforgiving through the blinds. Jaewon stirred, body aching everywhere, legs refusing to move, his throat hoarse from moaning all night. He smiled faintly, hazy satisfaction painting his features, the ache between his thighs proof of the possession he’d begged for.

The television droned in the background, the morning news flashing headlines. Body Found Near Han River. Authorities Investigating Possible Homicide.

Jaewon’s eyes lingered on the words, then drifted to Kanghyuk, who stood shirtless at the window, coffee in hand, watching the city as though it belonged to him.

Their gazes met. Kanghyuk’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

Jaewon’s own smile answered, soft, satisfied, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who knew he was utterly, completely owned.

The memory of the night still burned in his body, in every bruise, every ache, every drop of seed still leaking inside him. He didn’t need to walk today. He only needed to belong.

And he did.