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The car isn't his. The man inside, even less so.
It doesn’t stop In-ho from sitting down with a wary frown and just staring at the stranger until the vehicle lurches forward to start the journey ahead. The man grins at him like a fool — or at least in his general direction with the blindfold obstructing his vision — head canted to the side expectantly.
In-ho considers the bottle of champagne and glasses set on the corner table, but decides it’s too careless under these circumstances, forcing him to tackle the enigma in front of him with a dry mouth. He’s young and pretty, even with his face partially covered. Clothes provocative with the way they cling to him, especially the gaudy mesh shirt. His arms are pulled behind his back, but In-ho can’t tell how they are bound.
The grin doesn’t waver, even when the silence stretches far beyond what’s reasonable.
The most laughable thing about the whole situation is that In-ho can’t tell who’s behind it, whether friend or foe. Multiple names and explanations jump to his mind, but none he can immediately exclude - from certain unbearably smug meddlers baiting him to genuinely dangerous individuals poking for weaknesses. The trap is so overtly obnoxious that it succeeds in concealing its real purpose.
The ride will last a while, and he’s not sure if he can take the incredulous tension so long.
"You're the worst honeypot I've ever seen,” he states, choosing the likeliest, but more cynical theory he can come up with.
He doesn’t expect the delighted laughter that follows. “You know what they say, you can only get what you pay for.”
“So you were cheap?” In-ho disparages while toying with his cuff link, feeling off-balance by the direction the conversation is pulling him.
“I like to think I’m priceless,” the man replies, the smile on his lips curling even more, like he’s barely holding himself back from laughing again.
“I’m afraid you got lost in the wrong limousine,” In-ho points out. “There’s no need for your services here.”
Whatever they may be. He keeps his voice low and uninterested, but his eyes haven’t gotten the memo - they keep mapping the strange creature, following the long lines of his legs, the toned expanse of his torso and tapered waist revealed through the sheer fabric. At least he seems to be well-suited for his profession.
“I disagree,” he croons with a playful tone. “I’m right where I need to be.”
“You're not used to getting rejected, are you?” A hint of amusement is creeping into Inho’s voice despite his best attempts.
“What makes you say that?” the stranger asks innocently. He shifts in his seat, the gesture very casual, but not without intention. He stretches his neck, displaying the long column of his throat, while squirming against whatever is holding him imprisoned - a clink of metal, the sound identical to those of handcuffs. He’s making an offer, putting himself on display.
But In-ho isn’t stupid enough to play along.
“The driver will take you wherever you want to go,” he offers, continuing when he sees the man open his mouth, likely to make some crude innuendo. “Though, you won’t be lonely for long if you intend to stay.”
“Oh, I get it!“ The man suddenly perks up - In-ho knows he definitely didn’t get anything. “You’re the ‘hot and cold’ type of guy. I can play that game.”
“Aren’t you clever,” In-ho quips dryly, displeased about how he’s perceived. “How did a man of your intellect end up here?”
“Hey! I will have you know that my friend got into SNU!”
In-ho can’t figure out what that has to do with anything. The conversation doesn’t stray far from that, shameless flirting mixing with more and more outlandish stories that he has difficulty following. He’s surprised to hear the engine die, realizing he has reached his destination. It’s only then that his companion finally looks uncertain, as if he wasn’t expecting his plans to end like this.
“You’re just going to abandon me here, like this?” he asks, sounding offended.
“Let the driver know what you want,“ In-ho advises. There’s a strange pull of reluctance, like he wants to stay and see how far the entertainment goes. But that’s only because he knows whatever is outside waiting for him will be far worse than any of this.
“Aww, but we were becoming so close,” he complains, pouting in a way that has probably reduced many men to ruin. He rattles the cuffs behind his back in a final attempt to convince him. “You’re no fun.”
In-ho has a feeling that if he just leaves now, the man will find a way to hunt him down again; he has the tenacity only someone in their early 20s could pull off. So he moves closer to sit next to him, ignoring how excitable his companion looks about the turn of events.
“Open your mouth,” In-ho orders as he reaches for his pocket.
He obeys, almost theatrically, pushing his tongue like he’s an inexperienced star of amateur porn. It should look comical, but somehow he makes it temptingly compelling. In-ho has to snap himself out of the appreciative trance he had momentally fallen into, completely by accident.
He leans closer - noting how the man stills his chest in anticipation - and whispers: “Schedule an appointment next time.”
Then he lays his business card on the flat of his tongue and taps his chin to close his mouth. He’s out of the car by the time his companion spits the card out in outrage.
-
In-ho refuses to call it a party. The venue is drowning in opulence and putrefaction, even without the foul animals in it trying to surpass each other by parading their wealth and capacity for sociopathic cruelty. It’s disgusting - but it’s also the perfect breeding ground for blackmail and fortuitous opportunities. At its core, it’s business as usual.
He mingles among the few people who have the rare privilege of recognizing his face. Most of the guests don’t know him, but he’s invited anyway - nobody thinks twice about it, even when they should. The thing about these creatures is that they think their position makes them untouchable and unique. Which is mostly true - until people like In-ho are introduced to the equation.
He prefers to avoid these gatherings, but he has been given very little choice in the matter; such is the burden of inheritance. He doesn’t have the tolerance for what is required of him and has to make contingencies to achieve his goals, but luckily, these appearances are a rare occurrence.
But apparently it’s not all he has to endure.
He shouldn’t be so surprised to spot a familiar figure among the crowd. At first, In-ho thinks he has actually changed outfits, but a closer look confirms that he has just stolen some waiter’s coat, the unmistakable mesh shirt peeking from under it. He occasionally carries drinks like he’s part of the waiting staff, but it’s obvious to anyone’s scrutiny that he’s not professional enough to be one.
He keeps trying to catch his eye, though In-ho successfully avoids him, threading through the crowds with ease. But the trespasser is persistent, finally cornering him after his latest conversation ends and he’s left alone. He breaks the silence by offering something so atrocious that In-ho has to take a long moment to untangle it in his head before it clicks.
“Hors d'oeuvres,” In-ho carefully enunciates, not sure if he can hold the exasperation off his face. “That’s how it’s pronounced.”
“Huh, that’s what I said,” he blatantly lies, nearly tipping over the tray he’s balancing with a loose wrist. “Seong Gi-hun.”
In-ho doesn’t dignify it with an answer. Gi-hun doesn’t seem to hold it against him.
“My name, obviously,” he shrugs, before his expression loosens into a sultry grin with heavily lidded eyes. “But you can call me anything you want.”
“You may regret saying that.”
“I can handle whatever you’re gonna dish out on me,” he declares confidently. Then he tips the tray at him. “Snack?”
It actually takes effort not to sigh before walking off.
-
Gi-hun doesn’t lick his wounds for long. He tries another approach: getting friendly with all the disgusting men and women who are easily impressed by a pretty face and the confidence to match it. In-ho nearly assumes that he has been forgotten about, the young boytoy distracted by the golden opportunities around him - but he keeps whipping his head around to catch his reactions, constantly trying to gauge what is or isn’t working.
In-ho is amused by it - until he realizes that the only way he has noticed the pattern is because he can’t keep his own eyes off him. He can’t ignore him, no matter what he tries, finding himself staring whenever his concentration wanders. Whatever game Gi-hun is playing, it’s working with horrifying efficiency.
He doesn’t know what to make of it.
The next time Gi-hun teleports near him, he has replaced the food with two champagne-filled flutes. When In-ho doesn’t reach for one, he huffs and swallows both drinks like he’s downing shots. He loops the glasses between his fingers before acrobatically flipping the tray under the crook of his arm. While In-ho criticized his waitering abilities earlier, there is some familiarity with the way he handles the kitchenware. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s a bit curious about his background.
“You have been popular,” In-ho finds himself saying, and blinks in surprise. It seems to have come out of nowhere.
“Oh, you noticed?” Gi-hun immediately catches onto it, visibly brightening, even straightening his posture like he received high praise. “Don’t worry, I only have eyes for you.”
Sickeningly sweet. Like from a badly-written comedy. Despite his presumptions, In-ho fears that Gi-hun is an acquired taste - one that will be more and more difficult to decline.
“You should know your audience better,” In-ho scolds him as he adjusts his watch. He had just spoken to a man who disposed of his pregnant mistress through cruel and unusual methods, yet only now does he feel restless enough to fidget.
“What do you think I have been trying to do all evening?” Gi-hun asks flatly.
“You're involved with very dangerous men.” In-ho’s not entirely sure why he bothers with the warning, it’s not like the man will heed it. In fact, Gi-hun takes it as an opportunity to step closer, until In-ho can feel the warmth of his body.
“In that case, I'm hoping you're more dangerous than anyone else,” he whispers with a conspiratory look in his eyes. “So you can take good care of me.”
It’s just flirting. But it also proves what In-ho already suspected - despite the arrogant, self-assured attitude, there is naivety, even fragility to him. He’s oblivious to the den he has voluntarily entered, the distinct stench of atrocities and filth absent from his radar, like he has no survival instincts. He’s a prime target for the monsters lurking here.
The thought actually unnerves him.
“Want to see how creative I can get with a pair of handcuffs?” Gi-hun asks excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to get to the next phase of his flirting strategy.
In-ho really looks at him, evaluating him. His darkening mood must be palpable, considering how Gi-hun’s expression falters a bit, worried about misstepping. Then In-ho wonders if he’s looking too deeply into this; maybe the act is part of the service Gi-hun is selling.
“Already saw that, wasn’t as impressive as you think,” In-ho chides him.
“That's what most people would call a teaser.”
“I’m afraid I’m immune.”
Gi-hun laughs aloud, the sound of it light and cheerful. “Oh, I have heard that one before.”
He then accepts his loss and disappears into the crowd - but not before blowing an exaggerated kiss.
It only deepens the sense of unease. He doesn’t belong here.
-
In-ho tries not to concern himself with any of it.
It works for a while, and he finds an opportunity to enjoy a live band in one of the many corners of the mansion. He’s trying to solve the mystery of whether he recognizes the cabaret singer from an earlier event or if just the song itself is familiar when he feels weight drop next to him on the booth seat.
He pretends to be absorbed in the performance, only glancing to the side when he sees a glass of whisky nudged towards him from the corner of his eye. It’s exactly how he prefers his liquor, like he had personally ordered it. But In-ho hasn’t indulged in one this evening.
Gi-hun knows things he shouldn’t.
His uninvited companion mutters something under his breath when In-ho flags down one of the waiting staff and orders the same drink. Gi-hun then commandeers the glass he had tried to offer, taking a casual sip of it. He doesn’t look fazed by the strong flavor, instead following In-ho’s example and looking at the stage.
“I'm not getting rid of you, am I?” In-ho asks rhetorically, though he’s not surprised to receive an answer anyway.
“Nope,” Gi-hun confirms, setting his drink down. He cushions the bottom of the glass with his pinkie finger to avoid making a sound and it strikes as oddly uncharacteristic of him.
“I thought you were inexpensive.” In-ho can’t help bringing it up again, curiosity awakening again. “You need not be so diligent.”
Gi-hun finally fully faces him with a smile that In-ho had yet to witness. It’s subtle, just barely curling the corners of his lips - like he has a juicy secret that he can’t wait to share. He then ruins the mysterious expression with a blatantly lecherous look-over, before drawling, “Let’s just say I have a personal investment in this.”
In-ho wants to roll his eyes at him, but the gesture is beneath him.
The waiter appears with his drink, discreetly leaving it right within reach before disappearing like a ghost. The short distraction only encourages the growing thoughts in his head. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the facts. He can deny himself all he wants, but the truth refuses to be brushed aside.
He wants Gi-hun.
He can lie and insist that the man keeps stealing his attention because he’s the strangest, most entertaining thing to happen to him all evening, and that’s all it is. A delightful little surprise, it doesn't mean anything. But he’s only kidding himself.
There is a significant risk that In-ho’s earlier assessment of him being a honeypot isn’t wrong. Whoever hired Gi-hun may be genuinely dangerous and targeting In-ho for very specific reasons. Maybe that’s why he plays up his role, taking refuge in audacity. Never mind all the various attempts to get him to ingest something, there is the possibility he’s wearing a wire, or whatever hidden cameras in the vicinity are solely focused on him. Gi-hun could be a threat, one designed to dismantle him.
He’s tempted to throw the question on the table - who’s behind this. But if this is even remotely a serious attempt, Gi-hun would know better than to share the information. In-ho isn't any closer to narrowing the list of suspects down, in fact the opposite is true - new names keep popping into his head.
He should be worried about whoever it may be - they seem to know his tastes better than he does.
“I bet you would be even hotter if you smiled,” Gi-hun comments. He takes a deep sip of his own drink, face scrunched in concentration as he pretends to analyze the complex flavour profile. He continues when In-ho fails to indulge him. “Have you ever tried it?”
“Once,” In-ho replies dryly. “Didn’t much care for it.”
“Shame,” Gi-hun clicks his tongue. “I was looking forward to it.”
In-ho should leave. It’s the smartest course of action at this point. But since he hasn’t done it already, it’s very unlikely that he will. He’s not entirely sure if he cares about caution and secrecy anymore - lately, he has begun to question things he has taken for granted until now. His need for privacy may have become excessive to the point of paranoia. And that's without considering whether any of it has been worth it. What a provocative line of thinking - he wonders when it stopped mattering.
“What can you do for me that I couldn’t get anywhere else?” In-ho nonchalantly raises the glass to his lips, bringing his eyes back to the stage. Gi-hun’s inhale is so sharp that he can nearly feel it cut through the air.
“You tell me. I'm down for anything,” Gi-hun offers simply. Only the way he stumbles with his glass — knocking it hard onto the surface of the table — betrays his nervousness. Or excitement, it’s impossible to tell which.
“Hmm, too vague,” In-ho surmises, still following the performance to disguise how the anticipation is creeping under his skin. He brushes the rim of the glass against his lower lip as he pretends to think it over. “It’s your job to tell me what I need.”
“You haven’t been very receptive to it!” He’s almost whining, the brat.
“Guess you will have to come up with something else then,” In-ho declares, and finally rewards himself with a substantial sip.
The alcohol warms his blood as he lowers his hand, still making a show out of ignoring his companion. He catches glimpses of movement from his peripheral vision, but it’s not enough to recapture his attention. He had expected Gi-hun to throw himself at him, but he has kept his distance - always close, but never touching. He assumes it's a remarkable show of self-control.
When the band finishes their song to scattered applause, In-ho turns to look at him. He has opened his coat and shrugged it off his shoulders to leave only the thin, see-through fabric over his chest. He has spread his long legs and leaned into the cushions of the booth, displaying himself in a playful, yet sensual manner, trailing his fingers up across the length of his body.
His eyes are dark and expression unguarded, but there is subtle rigidness in his movements, something he can’t quite control. In-ho has a feeling he doesn’t often do this kind of seduction, so used to enticing his victims with a flutter of eyelashes and a bold suggestion. He can’t help feeling a bit smug for being able to resist the usual tricks.
One of the wandering hands grazes at the junction of his thigh and hip, drawing attention to the hardening swell in the tight pants before withdrawing. In-ho raises an eyebrow at him challengingly and Gi-hun’s eyes jump to scan their surroundings. The lounge they are in is dark, with little foot traffic, most of the party taking place elsewhere in the mansion - but they are very much not alone. Whatever they decide to engage in won’t remain a secret for long, the booth itself only a partial visual protection.
Not that it would be inconceivable - most of the staff has been recruited with very specific requirements and expectations in mind. Wandering carelessly around these gatherings often leads to discovering vulgarity in its many forms, ranging from the stench of sex and degradation, to designer drugs and their unpredictable users, to brutality past horrors most people would fear to comprehend.
Gi-hun isn’t much of an outlier in that regard, being a greedy opportunist. He fits right in. Yet the hesitation is plain on his face, and it uncomfortably highlights how young he looks. But In-ho isn’t a good man - he doubts he could even recognize one anymore.
“Maybe I should leave early,” he remarks with a pointed look.
Gi-hun loses all sense of subtlety and gropes himself through the pants. The uncertainty drops from his face like a veil, a heated gaze directed right at him. In-ho doesn’t realize how loose his hold of the glass has gotten until it threatens to slip from his fingers. The simple motion of setting the drink on the table seems to break the dam that he unwittingly held back, arousal seizing through his body with an almost dizzying flood.
It wasn’t supposed to go this far. Gi-hun drags his fingertips across the growing bulge, face flushing as In-ho intently follows the spectacle. He slowly fondles himself, teases the fastenings of his pants, gathering the courage to go through with it—
Then a waitress rushes by the booth, the flurry of movement next to him catching him by surprise.
The reality of the situation seems to finally register with him - he covers his mouth with his hand and bends forward to rest his elbow on the table, curling in on himself, no longer splayed across the booth. Their shared gaze is broken by the momentary embarrassment, Gi-hun’s eyes a bit glassy as he tries to recompose himself. He shudders when In-ho leans closer, still a notable distance apart.
“You need to try harder,” he whispers.
“What, this isn't hard enough for you?” Gi-hun laughs faintly, bringing his free hand back to clutch at his clothed erection.
“You need to convince me,” In-ho scolds him as he draws back, Gi-hun’s face dropping to a disappointed frown. “Make me really believe it.”
He doesn’t hesitate to accept the challenge, fingers deftly undoing the button and zipper. His breath stutters as he coaxes his cock out, his eagerness quickly taking over as he strokes the tip, hips rolling to meet the touch. Even as curled as Gi-hun is, it's impossible to hide what he’s doing, the repetitive movement betraying him. He gasps softly, nearly getting lost in the pleasure before pinning his unwavering eyes on In-ho. He licks his lips as he fucks into his fist, needing to make sure he has his audience’s full attention.
He doesn’t need to worry, because In-ho is frozen to the spot. He's grateful for it, because it's the only thing keeping him from squirming - or worse, reaching out to touch him. It feels like there's a fire blazing right under his skin, spreading fast into his muscles and bones. His mind is a blur and he can’t tell if it’s so messy with frantic thoughts and ideas, or so utterly blank it only appears busy and heavy.
A couple walks close by their table and Gi-hun’s face flushes in response, but he doesn’t avert his eyes from In-ho, hand only pausing for seconds before resuming. The woman laughs aloud and the man makes a crude comment in English that he suspects Gi-hun doesn’t understand. Gi-hun gnaws on his lower lip to stifle the noises he keeps making, eyelashes threatening to flutter shut.
The music changes again and the different rhythm recaptures In-ho’s attention for the briefest moment, just long enough for him to remember his surroundings and glance at the band. Gi-hun seems to dislike it, making a frustrated groan, and lowers his head to rest on the table. It allows him to free his other hand and bring it down to form a tight circle around the base of cock while the other one tugs on the head, alternating tricks. Like he's already that close, about to lose control.
In-ho wants to order him to straighten up, to lean into the booth again to keep himself exposed - but realizes he would rather not share the embarrassed, downright indecent look on Gi-hun’s face with anyone. There are probably countless people who have seen it before, but right now, it only belongs to him.
“You're such a tease,” Gi-hun whispers, ending the sentence with a quiet, trembling moan. “I wish you would fuck me already.”
In-ho’s body suddenly forgets the automated efficiency behind basic bodily functions - he has to remind himself to breathe. He’s fairly certain his reactions are more and more telegraphed on his face, but he doubts he can do anything about it. He’s practically shaking, tense muscles brought to their limits as he struggles for self-control. He imagines commanding Gi-hun to prepare himself, to slide his clever little fingers lower from his cock, to show off how easily he can take them.
“Here?” In-ho asks nonchalantly, even though his blood is thundering in his ears. He hopes his voice isn't as shaky as the sensation of it feels in his chest. “Right now?”
Gi-hun shivers, mouthing the word “yes”.
The fantasy grows stronger, more vivid. He could just pull him onto his lap, let him have what he has so desperately craved for hours. The way Gi-hun would tremble with each slide of his cock, hips rocking as he tries to take him deeper - until he would be obscenely spread open, clenching tight around him with each glance and hushed whisper aimed in their direction.
There is needy despair on Gi-hun’s face like he's reading his thoughts and falling apart due to them. His body jolts as he teases the wet tip of his erection, pace speeding up. In-ho’s own arousal aches painfully in response, and he realizes how badly things have spiraled out of control.
“Stop.”
Gi-hun whines, the sound stretching into a whimper. He halts his hands, hips stuttering forward a few times before they follow the order too. His face is open, distorted with the pain of interrupted pleasure. The obedience restores some of In-ho’s coherence and he swallows air, only then realizing how fast his breathing had gotten. Just from watching.
“You're shameless,” In-ho tells him, unsure if his tone is dismayed or admiring. “Everyone knows what you’re doing.”
Gi-hun nods, the gesture slow, like he’s stuck in a dream. It lights a spark of electricity in In-ho’s head, the sudden impact nearly managing to shatter his focus.
“If I don’t touch you, others will approach,” he elaborates, knowing how a public display like this will be eventually interpreted in this place. “And volunteer to help you.”
Gi-hun keens, biting his lips. He looks pleading, but it’s unclear whether it's because of his words or the need to come. He has told In-ho multiple times that he has the power to decide how he should be treated. It’s dangerous and allows for the rapid growth of potential ideas.
“What if I let them use you however they want?” He asks, the words spilling from his lips without much forethought. “Let them take turns with you?”
Gi-hun looks tortured, eyes wide, brows downturned, lips frozen in a silent protest. He squirms, moaning aloud when the motion causes him to brush against his awaiting hands. But he doesn't say a word, fingers curling against his heated flesh, but not daring more. He has given In-ho the gift of unspeakable power, it doesn’t even matter that it can be bought.
He’s willing to be degraded, reduced to a toy for common use - just so he can beg for crumbs of In-ho’s attention. He’s fully prepared to spread his legs and take countless cocks, simply another plaything for the most despicable monsters in the world. Even if In-ho promised him nothing as a reward, he would still go through it - seeking his approval at all costs.
The mere thought nearly tips him over the edge.
“I'll do it,” Gi-hun insists as he locks their eyes with sharp determination. “If you promise to watch all of it.”
If he says more, In-ho doesn’t hear it. His body is on the brink of implosion, every nerve in his body counting down to collapsing. The roar of his blood is so loud that he feels dizzy.
“Under the table,” he manages to growl out.
Gi-hun takes no time to slip onto his knees, immediately honing in on In-ho’s belt and aggressively unbuckling it. The trap is closing in. This will inevitably be used against him. This could ruin all that he has spent years building. This is stupid, reckless and obvious.
He doesn't care.
Heat engulfs his cock, swallowing him deep, and he can’t stop the tortured groan that crawls all the way from his lungs. It should feel like failure, like he’s losing, but all he can focus is on the suction, the wet tongue dragged across his length, the fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs through the fabric.
He clutches the forgotten whisky glass in his hand and presses it to the side of his mouth, trying to find something to ground himself with. But all he feels is intoxicating pleasure clawing at his insides, body burning hot until he feels sweat bead on his skin. His head has become a hellish mess full of fluff and noise.
He hunches partially over the table like his sense of balance is failing him, simultaneously trying to conceal his face and everything plainly written on it. What a humiliating show he's making of himself. There will be questions later, from people he would rather die than answer to.
The thoughts are banished from his mind when his entire body shudders in response to the hot mouth devouring him. He shifts until he can look down, profanities slipping out when he catches the sight of Gi-hun taking his cock to the hilt, slick lips stretched tight around him. There is no teasing, no playful exploration - he acts so hungry for it, like he needs it more than In-ho does.
It’s over the second Gi-hun’s lashes flutter open, blazing eyes connecting with his.
It already feels like a heavy electric charge passing through his body, but the sensation intensifies when Gi-hun swallows multiple times around his pulsing cock, refusing to end the maddeningly tight suction. His hand slithers into his hair, tugging on the waves ruthlessly until Gi-hun withdraws - only to sloppily kiss the sensitive flesh, scraping his tongue over to bathe it with his saliva.
Gi-hun looks like a desperate mess, face heavily tinted red, eyes struggling to stay open. His lips are swollen and he’s half a breath away from panting. His mouth slips away only when In-ho moves his shoe to rest on his groin, moaning helplessly in response.
“Get yourself off,” In-ho orders, once he finds his voice again, and Gi-hun immediately obeys, bringing his own hand to grab his ankle to better rut against the hard, expensive leather.
In-ho considers making him beg for his permission to come, but Gi-hun looks completely out of it, like he wouldn’t understand the complexities of spoken instructions. He’s panting and shaking as he thrusts into the pressure against his bare cock, uncaring about his position and neediness.
As the pitch of his gasps and moans becomes higher, In-ho tugs on his hair to angle his face towards him, just in time to catch the ecstatic bliss taking over his expression. He stubbornly keeps his eyes open and aimed at In-ho, even when the sensations threaten to overwhelm him. The shameless eagerness to please is thrilling, rocking the very core of him.
For a moment In-ho wonders about making him clean the mess he has undoubtedly made of his shoe, but the thought is lost when Gi-hun leans to loll his head on his thigh, looking up almost adoringly. “Knew you looked good like that.”
It takes him a moment to connect the words to what he said earlier and realize there is the faintest curl of a smile on his own lips. The breathy laugh that slips out only makes Gi-hun grin and nuzzle against him.
Gi-hun doesn’t belong here.
And he’s not sure how much that applies to himself.