Chapter Text
Go Hyuntak likes to compare his life to the feeling of touching marble: smooth, cold, and expensive. It's the reality he always knew. His father is always in Seoul, far from their primary home. His mother always mingling at social events and charity fundraisers. Gotak himself was left with a black card at a very young age and the early understanding that love and affection were not part of the family dynamic.
Instead, he grew up around old money conversations, boring boardroom meetings and fake smiles. But most importantly, he grew up between country club walls, with well polished tennis courts and the scent of chlorine from the pools.
He learned that control and confidence filled any hole better than affection could anyway. And when he was on the court, he had all the control. Control over the game, over people’s impressions, over the fragile bubble that having a reputation represented.
The sun is particularly cruel that morning. Gotak tosses his tennis bag over his shoulder and slips on his sunglasses before stepping out of the car. The country club gates welcome him like they always do, familiar and with a nice shade. This is his element, where everything smells like freshly cut grass and entitlement.
People greet him as he passes by. Everyone knew him (and his family) here. He’d been playing on these courts since he was seven, when his mother decided that tennis was “elegant enough” for a boy with his last name and family history.
He does a quick scan around his assigned court, noticing that his coach wasn’t there yet. He can feel irritation starting to fill him. Schedules are part of the things he likes to have full control over. Whatever, he will just start warming up. He drops his bag on the bench, and soon the rhythmic sound of the ball against the wall echoes across the court. A few people stop by and watch him; they always do, because he moves like someone with years of experience. Precise and perfect. He likes to think that there’s an elegance to his arrogance.
When the coach finally arrives, he’s already beyond annoyed. “You’re late. Again.” He often struggles to control his anger. But that's all it is. Control. He doesn’t let it win.
“Traffic.” The coach replies, too used to his tone by now. “Your serve is tighter than last week. Keep it up.”
Gotak gives him a nod in return. But his focus drifts to a noise past the fence, near the main building. There’s a small group of staff unloading some supplies from a van, a new delivery, probably. He wouldn’t have cared if not for a particularly loud laugh that resonates over all the rest.
There he is. Park Humin.
The errand boy who had started working at the club a few months ago. All messy hair, rolled sleeves, and a grin a bit too bright that made everyone immediately love him. It’s irritating. Too alive, too unbothered. No control. Gotak watches as Humin jokes around with the older staff and carries most of the boxes as if they weigh nothing. He waves at everyone, and Gotak does his best to ignore him. Focuses back on his serve. And the ball hits the net. Fuck. When he looks up again, Humin is already inside the main hall.
He's able to focus properly for the rest of the set. He’s been having some pain in his right shoulder from his backhands, so he makes a mental note to book a massage when he’s finished. By the time he’s done with the first hour, the sun is at its highest, and it’s a struggle to even be on the court.
“Let’s take 10. Go get some water by the bar, we need some towels if we wanna push for longer.” Coach gives him a knowing look. “And I know you’ll want to.”
“At least you’re used to it. I’m not lazy like the rest of the players you work with.” Gotak doesn’t see the point in measuring words. He knows he’s the best. But yes, no point in continuing now with this heat. “10 minutes. No more.” And he’s off to the side bar.
When he gets under the shade, he automatically feels better. He puts his sunglasses back on and orders a water from the bartender. As he gulps it down, he hears a familiar squeaky sound against the polished floors.
Humin is pushing a cart full of towels, no doubt towards the tennis courts. He’s clearly struggling, the cart wheels malfunctioning. And then, as fate likes to test Gotak's patience, the cart tilts. The towels spilling all across the floor, all the way to Gotak's feet.
He lets out a long sigh. “Unbelievable.” He places the glass back on the bar, stepping away from the mess.
“You okay there, Baku?” The bartender chuckles fondly, teasing. Baku. Okay.
“Yeah, yeah, I guess I’m just clumsy today,” Humin replies sheepishly, gathering the towels one by one. Even embarrassed, he radiates warmth. It's something Gotak can’t really name but instantly hates.
“Maybe if you actually focused on your job, instead of giggling around, this wouldn’t happen,” Gotak says, pushing his sunglasses away from his face.
Humin looks up at him. For a second, his smile falters. But it’s not guilt, it’s annoyance. How dare he be annoyed at Gotak? When he’s the one causing all the mess.
“Sorry, sir.” He finally says, but it’s laced with sarcasm. Humin's stupid lip piercing shines in the sun, impossible to miss. How is he even allowed to have this at work? There’s a line of sweat near his forehead, and his shirt is clinging to him in the heat. Gotak averts his eyes quickly. Infuriating.
“Just try not to make a mess next time. And bring some of those to my court. Now.”
He walks away before Humin could say anything else, but the irritation clings to him like the humidity in the heat. And he knows why. Because Park Humin is not supposed to act like that around him. Staff either fumbled over themselves to please him or avoided him altogether. But Humin... he didn't seem to be scared or intimidated by him. Didn't seem impressed either. And for reasons Gotak refused to acknowledge that bothers him.
He walks back to the courts area, his expensive shoes light against the clean floor. On the way there, other members smile at him. ‘Good match today, Hyuntak?’ ‘Your mother's hosting a dinner next week, will I see you there?’ ‘Nice form out there!’ He nods back politely to all of them, he knows how to perform well. That's his whole life, after all.
The Humin interaction is still in his mind when he gets back to his court, stretching the tension out of his shoulders. His coach joins soon after and starts critiquing his footwork, but Gotak couldn't keep his attention on his words. Not when his brain keeps replaying the way Humin's arms flexed when he lifted the cart upright again, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the smile he gave the bartender. A real smile. Not the curated one Gotak had mastered over the years.
He hits the ball too hard, sending it straight into the net.
“Focus, Hyuntak.”
“I am focused.” He snaps back. But the coach just gives him a tired look. The kind adults give him when they remember he was just a spoiled kid hiding behind expensive clothes. He forces himself to ignore it, picks another ball, and focuses on the rhythm. This is his game, goddamit. No lowlife will take his attention away.
It works for a few minutes. Until he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, by the fence. Humin again. He's finally doing the rounds with the towels and some sports drinks. He passes around nearby courts first, chatting and laughing with the members. Gotak's jaw clenches. Why did everyone like him so much? He'd only been here a few months. He clearly didnt come from money; not a single thing about him is polished. He isnt anything that should matter in the bubble they are in.
Gotak misses his serve again. This one bounced off the frame of his racket, shooting straight up. One of the trainers in the court next to him lets out a laugh at it, embarrassment rushing into Gotak. His coach is about to scold him when Humin finally enters his court.
“Delivery for Court 3.”
Gotak freezes for a second before turning around. Humin stands at the gate holding a stack of fresh towels, neatly folded this time, with that annoyingly steady posture that suggests the towel disaster at the bar never happened.
“I’ll just drop these by the bench,” Humin says lightly.
“No. Leave them at the gate,” He replies, too quickly. Too sharply. God, hes really off his game in every way today.
Humin raises an eyebrow. Just a tiny movement, but Gotak feels it like a spark under his skin. “It’s fine. They should go on the bench.” And then he steps into the court without waiting for permission.
Gotak’s jaw clenches. “You’re bringing dirt in.”
“It’s a hard court,” Humin replies. “You'll survive, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy. Gotak can feel the heat rising from under his collar, crawling up the back of his neck. No one talks to him like that.
“Oh! Humin!” the coach calls, smiling warmly. “Morning, kid. You’re early today.”
Humin brightens instantly; he looks like a pathetic puppy when he smiles, Gotak notices. “Morning, coach! Thought I’d drop these off before the courts get busier. You know, keep the prince here hydrated and pampered.”
Gotak's eye twitches. Is this loser fucking serious?
Coach huffs a laugh. “He does go through towels like crazy. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
Of course, his coach likes him. Why does everyone have to like him?
Humin beams, running a hand through his messy hair. “Trying my best. You want me to leave some drinks as well?”
“That’d be great. Thanks, kid.”
Humin moves past them, placing the towels and two of the sports drinks neatly on the bench. His forearms flex when he adjusts the pile. Gotak looks away quickly and pretends to re-tie his wristband even though it’s already perfect, like always.
He gives the coach a playful salute as he turns toward the gate to leave. “Enjoy the practice. Try not to melt out here.” Then, as he's passing by Gotak, he adds in a low voice only for his ears, “You too, pretty boy.”
Gotak’s jaw drops again. His coach snorts under his breath, making Gotak snap his head toward him. “You’re laughing?”
The coach shrugs. “He’s harmless. And he’s right, you do get dramatic in the heat.”
“I do not!” Gotak stops, realizing he's getting heated again. He needs to control himself.
The gate clicks shut behind Humin and, with him gone, Gotak feels his composure getting better. Coach tosses him a ball. “Come on. Back to serves.”
Gotak forces his attention forward, and he’s back in his element.
Practice ends early. The heat is really getting unbearable, and yeah, maybe he was getting a little whiny about it. His mind wandered elsewhere, making his movements sloppy. Whatever. He packs his things fast, trying to pretend everything is fine. That he is fine. He is absolutely not thinking about Humin anymore. Or the way he laughs to easily. Or how the ugly club uniform fits his body. Definitely not the stupid nickname. Pretty boy.
You know what? Fuck this.
He swings his bag over his shoulder and marches toward the staff hallway before he can change his mind. Maybe the heat is making him insane. He has zero reason to be there, but he needs to prove something, even if he doesn’t know what. That he’s still in control? That Humin doesn’t faze him?
As he rounds the corner, he spots Humin restocking a cooler with more sports drinks. He’s crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He glances up when he hears Gotak's footsteps approaching.
“Oh,” he says. “Pretty boy survived.”
Gotak nearly sees red. “That,” he sputters, “is not my name.”
Humin tilts his head, grinning. “Sure it is. You responded to it.”
“I did not respond to anything. I certainly don't answer to you.”
“You came all the way here,” Humin says, reaching for another bottle, “so technically, you did.”
Gotak exhales sharply. “I came here to tell you something.”
“Oh boy.” Humin straightens, drying off his hands. “Am I in trouble?”
“Look,” Gotak says, shoulders stiff. “I don’t know what attitude you think you can have around me, but-”
He steps forward, a finger pointing in Humin’s direction. He's so heated that he completely fails to notice a few melted ice cubes near the cooler. His sneakers, while very prepared for hard surfaces, do not give him enough traction on a wet floor. It's doomed, he slips sideways, his whole body twisting to his left. A hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. The grip is strong, steady, grounding Gotak. Humin’s other hand braces his waist to stop him from crashing into the cooler.
For one mortifying second, Gotaks stops breathing. They’re chest to chest. Humin’s eyebrows lift, surprised. Lasts a second before his lips shift into an amused smirk. The stupid piercing stealing Gotak's attention again. They are so close.
“Whoa there,” Humin teases. “Careful. We don't want the prince to bruise his royal ass.”
The universe truly just despises Gotak, he's sure of it. “Let go,” he hisses.
Humin does. Slowly, making sure he can stand. There's a careful edge that burns Gotak.
Gotak jerks away like he’s been shocked. “I’m fine.” He says, even if there's no real question.
“No argument here. Would’ve been funnier if you weren’t, can't lie.”
“You,” Hyuntak points a shaking finger at him again, “Are completely out of line.”
Humin steps closer to him. He grabs Gotak's finger and brings it down, while looking straight into his eyes. “You say that like I’m trying to be in line.”
Gotak blinks. What the fuck.
With a smile, Humin pulls away. He picks up the last drink bottle, tosses it into the cooler, and wipes his hands on his shorts. “You done yelling at me?” he asks. “I’ve got three more coolers to restock.”
Gotak feels so pathetic, just standing there. “You really are insufferable.” He steps around the wet patch, “Mop this!” he barks at another staff member coming their way as he walks away.
Behind him, Humin yells,“Have a good day, pretty boy!”
Gotak doesn’t look back, but he can tell his ears are red all the way to the parking lot.
Gotak blasts the AC all the way back to his house, trying to cool off his face. He showers, changes into some comfortable clothes, all in autopilot. He eats dinner alone at their designer table that seats twelve. His mother is out. His father is… always out. He goes back to old practice recordings and starts taking notes on possible improvements.
By the time he's in bed, it's already pretty late. He's scrolling through his phone and absolutely not thinking about a certain errand boy. Not even a little. But his mind wanders anyway to the stupid nickname.
Pretty boy. No one had ever dared call him that. Not because it wasn’t true, he knows how he looks. But because people treated him like some sort of porcelain heir, never crossing any lines if he didn't cross first. All the hookups and relationships he had were with people in the same social class as him, and even then, he was the one initiating them. Everyone too afraid of the repercussions of being with his dad's son.
So yes, this is something different. Humin doesn't care. But he should care. Gotak could ruin his life with a snap of his fingers. Yet he looks at Gotak like none of this matters, calls him Pretty Boy like he wasn’t impressed, like it was just something he noticed.
His mind goes to the way Humin’s hand felt when he caught him. Steady and warm. Gotak's stomach twists at the memory of Humin’s arm around his waist, the brief brush of their bodies. He could tell he was really strong. Infuriating, is what it is.
Before he thinks much about it, Gotak searches Park Humin on his open Instagram app. He gets no real results back, just a couple of profiles that are clearly not his. He's about to give up when he recalls the nickname the bartender called him: Baku.
He types in multiple combinations of Humin's name with the nickname in until he finds it. bakuhoopz89. Humin is very active on Instagram, it seems. Rows of photos fill the screen, all loud and bright and unmistakably Park Humin. There are basketball court selfies, locker room group shots. Many videos of him sinking three pointers at the club's old, beat up half-court, that no member uses anymore. Lots of reels with obnoxiously upbeat songs, captions full of emojis and misspellings. It all gives Gotak a headache.
And then he sees them. The shirtless pics. They’re everywhere. Humin grinning like he knows exactly what he looks like and has absolutely no shame about it. One of them is clearly taken right after a morning run, hair sticking to his forehead, shirt balled up in his hand, chest rising as if he just sprinted the entire neighborhood. Gotak's mouth goes a little dry. He's not blind, he can admit to himself that the fucker is nice to look at.
He scrolls slower now, pretending it’s analytical. It’s not. Not in the way his body is responding to it. He's flushed, and he knows his dick is an active participant in this exploration now. He feels it getting harder every time another photo of those stupidly carved abs or those ridiculous shoulders appears. He hates it. But he's very aware of what he's about to do anyway. Not in the mood for teasing, he quickly pumps some lube that he has on his bedside table into his palm, phone forgotten for a few seconds as he gets comfortable over the covers. He gives himself a few pumps to make his cock fully hard as his other hand blindly reaches for his phone, still open on a row of Humin's thirst traps.
The phantom feeling of how he was held when he fell, combined with the visual of Humin's defined arms, makes a hot flush run down Gotak's body, and his hand speeds up. His legs open wider as he gets lost in the sensation. He fucks into his fist and lets his imagination run free. He's back into Humin's arms, but this time he doesn't pull back. Humin pulls him closer, one hand going over his ass, grabbing at it shamelessly. He brings his lips to Gotak's ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty boy? Is this why you came all the way here? Want me to make you feel good?” Gotak moans in return, both in real life and in his mind. Humin uses the hand kneading his ass to pull them even closer together, forcing Gotak to rut against his leg. He kisses and bites down on Gotak's neck before using his free hand to grab his jaw and kiss him. It's hungry and messy, no control.
It's everything Gotak hates. Yet he feels himself closer than ever, pleasure taking over completely. He runs his thumb over his cocks head, slowing down his strokes for a while, but soon the visual image he created is too much for him to hold back. He turns around, shoving a pillow between his legs and humping it like a wild animal, just like Humin is making him hump his leg. He moans into the mattress, his phone falling under him as he brings himself closer and closer to the edge. In his imagination, Humin gives a final lick to his lips, “Cum for me, Hyuntak. Be a good boy, and maybe I will fuck you later.” And Gotak obeys. He comes all over his pillow, biting his own hand as waves of pleasure crash into him.
He comes back from it slowly, his breathing still heavy. He can't help but feel embarrassed, even if he knew what he was about to do as soon as he searched for Humin's profile. His body craving someone so beneath him, betraying his logic. He lets out a long sigh. It's okay. Better to do this here, when he's alone, than to make a fool of himself in front of the infuriating boy. Again.
He tosses the ruined pillow on the floor, too tired to deal with that now, and grabs his phone again. For a second, Gotak's brain refuses to understand what he’s seeing. Then it hits him. Under the last picture he had open of Humin, there's a tiny red heart.
“Oh my god,” he whispers out loud into the empty room, horrified. He taps the screen, trying to unlike it. The red heart disappears, but he knows it's pointless. Humin definitely got the notification. He feels sick. Why did this have to happen to him?
He just knows that tomorrow Humin will walk into the club, a fucking smirk on his face like he won something. There's nothing he can do. And who knows, maybe Humin won't see it. Maybe he won't mention it. Gotak prays to every possible deity that he doesn’t.
...He absolutely will.
Baku walks the path from the staff housing to the club, his hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, morning sun slowly waking him up. He's a morning person, and the smell of wet grass and sunscreen makes him even more sure that it'll be a good day. Not that it is much of a competition, considering the smell of stale alcohol and fear he’d lived with for years. Anything was better than that house.
He hums to himself under his breath, letting his mind drift back to the moment he woke up. A single notification from 1am the night before getting his attention immediately.
Go Hyuntak liked your photo.
For a solid ten seconds, Baku had just stared at it, half-asleep and confused, wondering if he was hallucinating. Then he laughed out loud. Because, please. Pretty boy wasn’t subtle, not even close. Hyuntak had already unliked it by the time he opened it, but the screenshot he took of the notification is forever. The certainty of the thought “he definitely wants me” makes him grin as he walks, swinging his key around his fingers.
“Poor Hyuntak-ssi,” he mutters, amused. “You’re not as slick as you think.”
Because the thing is, over the past few months since he got the job, he's noticed a few things. The way Hyuntak’s eyes trail him whenever he crosses the court to refill something. The way his jaw clenched when Baku runs his hands through his hair. Even the disgusted little scoff he does at Baku’s every action that never matches the flush at the tips of his ears or neck.
That's not to say that Hyuntak can't be insufferable. He's been nothing but a spoiled brat since their first interaction, and that only continued to be the theme every time. One of them comes to mind as clearly as the path in front of him.
Baku had been wiping down one of the benches when Hyuntak stormed onto the court wearing a designer sports jacket like he was arriving for a magazine shoot instead of a practice session.
“You missed a spot,” Hyuntak had said sharply, pointing his racket at the bench.
Baku squinted at the perfectly clean seat. “Where?”
“Right there.” Hyuntak pointed again.
Baku had leaned down, wiped the invisible spot with exaggerated care just to properly annoy the brat, then straightened up. “How’s that, your majesty?”
Hyuntak’s scowl had been immediate and so deeply satisfying.
And then the rich boy had taken a step too close, chest barely brushing Baku’s arm, voice dropping into something sharp. “Do your job properly and I won’t have to tell you twice.”
Baku remembered the way his skin heated under that gaze. The tension of that tiny moment. Remembered thinking, Damn, he’s hot when he’s being a pain in the ass.
He still thinks that. But he also thinks that someone needs to put him in his place. That someone being him, of course. He has a little giggle imagining what was Hyuntak's reaction to liking his picture. Pretty boy definitely panicked. Baku had a good idea of what Hyuntak was doing looking at his Instagram at 1am, if he went through all the trouble of finding it.
God, he really is something else. Beautiful and spoiled and tightly wound in a way that makes Baku want to peel him apart with his teeth. And maybe force him to his knees. Who knows.
In the end, he doesn't get to find out during the day. As soon as he clocks in, he's being pulled to help with kitchen duties. It's not his main role, but he's happy to fill in if needed. Cooking is something he always enjoyed. So by the time Baku finally stumbles out of the staff wing, the sky is panted in a deep orange, night quickly approaching.
He rolls his shoulders, muscles aching but buzzing with leftover energy from being indoors all day. The club is so peaceful at this hour, quiet. Everyone should’ve been gone. Should being the keyword here, because as he's passing the tennis courts, he can clearly hear a very familiar sound of a ball hitting the hard floor.
Baku smirks when he sees him. Lucky really on his side. Because there he is. Hyuntak, drenched in sweat, hitting ball after ball like the court had personally offended him. Pretty boy must have used his connections to stay after hours. Once again. The staff hated it, but nobody said a word. That was the power of having his last name.
Baku steps through the gate and intentionally lets it clang loudly behind him. Hyuntak freezes mid serve, turning with an annoyed flick of his racket. “Must you be so loud?”
“And should you still be here?” Baku shoots back.
Hyuntak scoffs, tossing a ball into the air and catching it again. Hot. “I have permission.”
“Yeah, I'm sure you do. Special privileges for the golden boy.” Baku walks closer, picking up a stray ball on his way. “Did you beg your poor coach to stay overtime today again?”
“I did not beg,” Hyuntak's cheeks flushed from more than just exertion. “I requested.”
“Mhmm.” Baku leans against the bench, arms crossed. He can't help but keep teasing. “Politely request? Or did you glare at him until he caved?”
Hyuntak’s jaw tightens. “Shut up. What are you even doing here? Why are you talking to me?”
Baku grins. God, he is just so easy.
“You’re in a mood today,” he says, tone deliberately light. “Bad practice?”
Hyuntak opens his mouth, ready to fire back, but Baku doesn't give him the chance. He does have a reason to talk to him, after all.
“So,” he said casually, “using Instagram a lot lately?”
Hyuntak goes rigid and Baku savours it. This is the reaction he's looking for. “You know,” he continues, swinging the ball lightly between his hands, “I woke up to the funniest notification. Like. Hilarious, really. Made my whole day.”
Hyuntak’s ears go red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Baku hums thoughtfully. “Must’ve been an accident, right? Happens to the best of us.” He pauses, then continues with a wicked smile. “Though usually people don’t accidentally scroll all the way back to shirtless pictures from weeks ago.”
“That wasn’t...” Hyuntak swallows hard, Baku’s eyes following the motion. “It was a glitch.”
“Oh yeah.” Baku nods solemnly. “I'm sure. Just a 1 am glitch.”
Hyuntak walks closer, racket in hand, like he is ready to beat him with it. “Listen, you—”
“I’m listening,” Baku says, leaning in too. “Pretty intently, actually.”
Hyuntak sputters for a second, then huffs, turning away as if that would hide the embarrassment across his face. “You’re… annoying.”
“And you’re a terrible liar,” Baku says warmly. This is better than he was hoping for. “Kinda cute though.” He is not done, though. He knows what he wants.“So tell me. What were you doing looking at my profile at 1 am, pretty boy?”
Hyuntak whips around so fast that the racket almost slips from his hand. His shoulders are squared, every inch of him defensive. Cornered without even being touched. Delicious.
“I wasn’t,” Hyuntak snaps. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, I don't think I am. And I think I know exactly what you were doing.”
“Ah, do you? Enlighten me, then.” Hyuntak rolls his eyes so hard Baku’s tempted to kiss him just to see if they’d roll back. Soon. Instead, he closes the distance with a step.
“I think you were thinking about me. I think you were wondering what it would be like to have me touch you in all sorts of ways golden boys like yourself don't get to be touched often. I think-” Baku fingers graze up his arm, slow enough to give Hyuntak time to shove him away, but fast enough to make it clear he’s not bluffing. Hyuntak doesn’t move, but his breathing quickens. His ears even redder. “-that you were touching yourself while thinking of everything I could do to you.”
Baku moves even closer, lips hovering over Hyntak's ear. “I know you want me,” He whispers. “I just wanna hear you admit it.”
Hyuntak swallows hard. His voice is a whisper, sharp and shaky. “…I don’t.” But he doesn't move away. Instead, his free hand comes up to rest against Baku’s chest. For a second, Baku thinks he will be pushed away, but the hand just rests there. Feeling him.
“Admit it. Say it. So I can take you to the showers and give you what you want.” Baku insists, warmth spreading from the hand on his chest to all over his body.
Hyuntak raises his gaze. Their eyes lock. “I think you'll give it to me either way, Humin.” He steps away from Baku, walking to the bench and slipping his bag onto his shoulder. “I don't beg or ask for anything. If you want something, then you can come and get it.” And he's walking away. Towards the showers, one last look back at Baku. Daring him.
Baku lets out a surprised laugh. This brat. Fine. If this is how he wants to do this, that's fine by him. Pretty boy doesn't know what's coming his way.