Archive of Our Own

The bar glows low with amber light.
Leather booths. Jazz on loop. That slick kind of place with waiters in vests and everything overpriced.

Gi-hun’s already tipsy—third drink in, slouched over the table with his legs spread too wide and a grin stretched across his face. His shirt’s rumpled. His voice keeps rising above the music every time he bursts out laughing.

“NO—wait, wait, Sang-woo, you weren’t even there! Jung-bae, back me up—he literally cried. Cried. Like real tears. From one wasabi chip.”

“It wasn’t a chip,” Sang-woo fires back, mock offended. “It was like a full-ass ball. Gi-hun made it look like candy!”

“And you bit it like candy,” Jung-bae wheezes.

All three of them nearly double over. Gi-hun smacks the table as he laughs, eyes crinkling.

In-ho’s been silent since they sat down.

Sitting stiff in the booth beside Gi-hun, sipping his whiskey like it personally insulted him. Arms crossed. Eyes flicking between his husband’s flushed face and the way his so-called best friends keep knocking shoulders with him.

He’s not even mad at them.
But he is.

Because Gi-hun’s smiling like that. Laughing with his head tilted. Letting Sang-woo tug at his sleeve and shout “ya, remember that one night in Busan??” like they’re still in college.

And every time Jung-bae points at Gi-hun like “this dumbass right here,” Gi-hun just leans into it, giggling like he’s invincible.

“I swear, you’re gonna make me choke,” Gi-hun says, breathless, wiping tears from the corner of his eye.

And In-ho just… Stares. Then quietly sets his glass down. Eyes never leaving Gi-hun.

“Don’t,” he says, low.

Gi-hun blinks, still smiling. “Huh?”

“Don’t choke.”

He says it flat. Deadpan. Not even a trace of humor. Just that cold stare under his lashes. One hand now resting tight on Gi-hun’s thigh under the table.

Gi-hun freezes slightly.

“Oh…” he breathes, suddenly aware. “Right.”

The table’s still caught in laughter, but there’s a shift now. A crackle in the air. Gi-hun can feel it—not from his friends, but from the death grip tightening on his thigh under the table.

In-ho hasn’t moved otherwise. Hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring at Sang-woo now. Then Jung-bae. Then back to Gi-hun.

Sang-woo either doesn’t notice or chooses to pretend he doesn’t.

But Jung-bae’s not as brave.

He raises his brows a little. “Damn, In-ho,” he says, chuckling awkwardly, “you planning to kill us or just undress us with your eyes?”

Gi-hun snorts. “Bro, stop—he’s always like that.”

In-ho doesn’t laugh.

Jung-bae leans back a little, sipping his drink. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to offend the silent guardian.”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes and turns to his husband, all teasing:

“Hey. C’mon. Lighten up, babe.”

He reaches over to tap In-ho’s chest with two fingers. Playful. Grinning.

“You’re not mad, are you?”

The grip on his thigh squeezes. Not painful. But tight enough to make Gi-hun suck in a breath mid-laugh.

His legs twitch slightly under the table. He glances sideways—In-ho hasn’t moved an inch. Still expressionless. But his thumb rubs once over the spot he’s gripping. A warning.

Gi-hun blinks.

“…Okay,” he mutters, trying to act like nothing’s wrong, though his voice dips slightly. “Maybe not lighten up that much…”

Sang-woo glances between them, oblivious. “What’s going on over there? You guys good?”

Gi-hun waves him off quickly. “We’re fine. In-ho’s just… being In-ho.”

But his knees have clamped together a little now. And he hasn’t touched his drink since.

Sang-woo slams his glass down with a grin.

“You remember that New Year’s party? The one in that freezing-ass rooftop apartment?”

Gi-hun lights up immediately.

“Oh my god, the one with the broken heater?? Where Jung-bae passed out in the bathtub??”

“That’s the one! And you—” Sang-woo points at him dramatically, “—you showed up in that ridiculous red fur coat. Looking like a drunk Santa Claus.”

Gi-hun loses it. Absolutely dying.

“I loved that coat! You’re just mad I was warmer than you.”

“You looked like a flaming pigeon.”

They’re doubled over now. Sang-woo’s leaning in, laughing so hard he’s gripping Gi-hun’s forearm. Gi-hun leans right back, their heads almost touching. Breathless. Grinning like idiots.

“You’re a menace,” Gi-hun wheezes.

“You married a menace,” Sang-woo shoots back, shaking his head.

The table shakes with their laughter. Meanwhile—In-ho hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds. His jaw is tight. One hand still wrapped firmly around Gi-hun’s thigh—now sliding ever so slightly higher. Thumb dragging back and forth in a rhythm that says I’m right here. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Gi-hun finally starts to notice. His laugh falters just for a second. His eyes flick down to In-ho’s hand under the table. He clears his throat. Shifts a little in his seat. But Sang-woo keeps talking.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you managed to calm down. You were wild back then.”

Gi-hun chuckles, breath shaky. “Yeah, well. People grow up.”

“Somehow,” Sang-woo smirks.

Another burst of laughter between them. Too easy. Too familiar.

In-ho leans in a fraction. Voice like steel:

“You never told me about that party.”

Gi-hun flinches. Just a little. Then blinks and forces a smile.

“It was years ago. Before we even met—”

“Mm.”

That’s all In-ho says. But his fingers press just hard enough to make Gi-hun fall quiet. But… It goes back to just Jung-bae and Sang-woo who are still laughing about some half-finished story when In-ho finally speaks again. Calm. Low. Deceptively soft.

“It’s getting late.”

Gi-hun blinks, mid-laugh. “Huh?”

In-ho sets his glass down. Doesn’t look at anyone but Gi-hun.
“We should go.”

The tone leaves no room for argument.

There’s a beat of silence at the table. The tension—undeniable now. Even Jung-bae leans back slightly.

“…Right,” he mutters. “Guess it’s that time.”

Sang-woo gives a little awkward cough. “Yeah, we should probably head out too.”

The three of them start standing. Gi-hun is the last to move, still trying to shake the weight of In-ho’s hand off his thigh.

He flashes his friends a sheepish smile. “We should all hang out again sometime—next time, let’s do something less fancy. Like… I dunno, chicken and beer night.”

Jung-bae chuckles, clapping his shoulder.

“Sounds good, man.”

Sang-woo leans in, giving Gi-hun a brief side-hug. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

Jung-bae follows suit. Just a quick squeeze around the back. Familiar. Friendly. Their goodbyes are warm, casual—nothing out of the ordinary.

But behind them…

In-ho stands still.
Watching.
Not smiling.
Not saying a word.

His eyes are locked on every movement. The way Sang-woo’s hand lingers on Gi-hun’s back for a second too long. The way Jung-bae leans in to mutter something close to his ear before heading off.

Gi-hun turns around after they leave, adjusting his coat.

“Hey—don’t give me that look. You know they’re just friends.”

But In-ho doesn’t answer. He just steps forward. Opens the door. And waits. Not speaking. Not blinking.

Gi-hun swallows.

“…Okay.”

The air outside is crisp. A soft chill brushing against Gi-hun’s flushed cheeks as they walk toward the car. The parking lot is mostly empty now, lit only by the dim glow of streetlamps.

In-ho walks ahead slightly, silent as ever. His posture is stiff. Calculated.

Gi-hun trails behind, arms crossed loosely. He glances over at In-ho’s side profile, squinting.

“You know they were just joking, right?”

No answer.

They reach the car.

In-ho opens the passenger door smoothly. Holds it there. Doesn’t look at him.

Gi-hun slides in with a small sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, not sure if it’ll be acknowledged.

It’s not.

In-ho closes the door. Walks around. Gets in on the driver’s side. Starts the car. They pull out of the lot. And the silence? Deafening. The only sound is the soft hum of the engine. The occasional turn signal. Gi-hun fidgets with his sleeves.

One minute passes. Then two. Finally—

“Okay,” Gi-hun says sharply, “are you gonna keep pretending I cheated on you with a plate of fried chicken, or are you gonna tell me what’s actually wrong?”

No response.

In-ho’s eyes stay forward. Hands tight on the wheel. Expression unreadable.

Gi-hun scoffs. “Oh, awesome. Great. You’re gonna punish me with the silent treatment again? For laughing? For talking to my friends?”

Still nothing.

Gi-hun turns in his seat, voice rising a bit. “Jesus, In-ho, say something. You’re acting like I let them lick tequila off my neck or some shit.”

The tension in In-ho’s jaw is visible now. His fingers flex once against the steering wheel. But he still doesn’t speak. Just keeps driving. Eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing holding him together.

Gi-hun lets out a frustrated breath, flopping back in his seat.

“You’re so dramatic,” he mutters. “It’s annoying.”

Gi-hun crosses his arms. The city blurs past the windows in streaks of gold and red. Neon signs. Traffic lights. Quiet murmurs of nightlife just outside. But inside the car—nothing but that suffocating, thick silence.

Gi-hun doesn’t say anything else. Not for a while. He just stares out the window, arms crossed tight, jaw set.

They’re almost home now. The familiar apartment complex creeping into view—tall, gray, familiar, glowing softly under the streetlamps. And then—Low. Barely audible over the engine.

“…I don’t like them.”

Gi-hun turns slowly.

“What?”

In-ho’s eyes stay forward. The wheel turns smoothly as he pulls into the complex’s entrance.

“Sang-woo. Jung-bae. I don’t like them.”

His voice is flat. Controlled. Like he’s rehearsed it in his head twenty times.

Gi-hun stares. Blinks once.

“You’re just saying that now?”

In-ho doesn’t answer. He’s pulling into their parking spot now. Clean. Perfectly lined up. Not a single overcorrection. He parks. Turns the engine off. The silence returns—but it’s different now.

Gi-hun finally huffs. “Well, great. That would’ve been nice to know before you crushed my thigh into powder under the damn table.”

No response. In-ho doesn’t even unbuckle yet. Just sits there. Eyes locked on the windshield. Breathing slow and measured.

Gi-hun’s fingers twitch on his lap.

“…Are you jealous?”

Nothing.

“Oh my god, you are jealous.”

Still nothing. But In-ho’s jaw tenses.

Gi-hun grins—teasing, but breathless. “Babe. They’re like my brothers. You think I’m gonna fuck Sang-woo in a coat closet after he nearly died from a wasabi ball—?”

The seatbelt clicks. In-ho’s unbuckling now. Still silent. Still terrifying. He finally turns his head. Slowly. Eyes dark. Jaw tight.

“Get inside.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

“…Shit.”

The car doors shut softly behind them. Not a slam. Not a sound. Just the quiet click of metal. Too quiet.

They walk side by side.

Up the stairs of their complex. The low buzz of the overhead lights flickers. Gi-hun glances sideways a few times, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“…You know,” he says finally, trying for something light, “even if they wanted me—which, ew, no thanks—I’d never let either of them fuck me.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Sang-woo’d probably cry before even getting it in.”

A pause.

He glances over.

In-ho is just walking. No reaction. But something shifts in the air. A twitch in his fingers. A slight tilt of his head. Like something dark just rolled through his brain.

“…Not that anyone’s gonna fuck me except you, obviously—”

Gi-hun’s voice trails off. The damage is done.

They reach the door. In-ho unlocks it in one smooth movement. Still hasn’t looked at him. Not once. Gi-hun steps in first. The soft click of his shoes against the wood. He sighs as he shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the hook by the door. He kicks off his shoes with a little flop.

In-ho enters silently behind him. Closes the door. Locks it. Turns and hangs his own coat. Everything neat. Everything quiet.

Gi-hun runs a hand through his hair and tries to joke again—voice a little nervous now.

“What, you gonna give me the silent treatment all night? Or just until I start begging?”

He turns around. And finally, In-ho looks at him. Expression unreadable. But something simmering in his eyes.

“Do you want me to imagine you fucking them?”

Gi-hun freezes.

“What—no—that’s not what I—”

“Then don’t say shit like that.”

His voice is calm. Dangerous. It’s definitely being held back with a leash.

Gi-hun swallows hard. His whole body prickling. He opens his mouth to respond—but he doesn’t get the chance. Because In-ho’s already stepping forward. Slow. Deliberate. Backing him toward the hallway.

Gi-hun laughs once, shaky. “O-Okay, maybe I did say that wrong—”

In-ho keeps walking.

“Bedroom.”

Gi-hun backs into the wall instead.

“Oh, fuck—”

Gi-hun’s back hits the wall with a soft thud. He barely has time to steady himself before—In-ho’s on him. Mouth crashing into his. Not slow. Not tender. Punishing. Rough. Possessive. The kind of kiss that leaves teeth marks and bruises in the shape of regret. Gi-hun gasps against it—caught between a whimper and a moan.

“Wait—In-ho—fuck—”

But there’s no waiting.

In-ho’s hands are already on his hips, yanking him forward, gripping hard. His thigh wedges between Gi-hun’s legs, pressing up until Gi-hun jerks from the pressure. He’s caged in. Chest to chest. Nowhere to go.

The kiss doesn’t let up. Sloppy now. Tongue. Teeth. His hand sliding up under Gi-hun’s shirt, nails scraping against skin like he wants to etch his name into him.

Gi-hun pulls back for air—eyes glassy, lips already red.

“Okay, okay—I get it, I said the wrong thing—shit—!”

In-ho growls against his jaw. His mouth trails down to bite at Gi-hun’s throat—hard.

“You think it’s funny?”
“Talking about who you’d let fuck you?”

Another bite. Harder. Right over his pulse point.

Gi-hun shudders—hips twitching.

“N-No—In-ho, come on—”

“You’re mine.”

In-ho lifts his leg, pressing his thigh harder between Gi-hun’s legs, grinding him back into the wall. His hand fists the collar of Gi-hun’s shirt, yanking it open with a vicious rip.

“You wanna talk about getting fucked? I’ll remind you who does that.”

Gi-hun chokes out a breathless laugh—wrecked already.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that—ah—”

Another bruising kiss. Like he’s trying to erase any trace of laughter from earlier.

In-ho pulls back just enough to look at him now—his voice low, dangerous, and shaking from how tightly he’s holding it in:

“I’m not gonna stop until you forget every one of their names.”

Gi-hun barely has time to catch his breath—his shirt now hanging off his shoulders, half-torn—before In-ho’s mouth is on him again. But this time—lower. His lips press rough into the base of Gi-hun’s throat, and then trail downward—biting. Not kissing. Not sucking gently. Biting. Teeth scraping hard across his collarbone. A punishing sting. Then a full, wet bruise forming seconds later as In-ho drags his mouth across his chest, he’s marking HIS territory.

Gi-hun gasps, hips twitching against the wall.

“F-Fuck—In-ho, that’s gonna show—”

In-ho ignores him completely. His hands have pinned Gi-hun’s hips, locking him there. His lips trail lower, hovering over the top of his chest—then he bites. Hard. Gi-hun yelps, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the wall, muscles jumping.

“Ah—shit! You animal—!”

In-ho pulls back for a moment, just long enough to look up at him with dark, glazed eyes. His voice low and breathless.

“Good. Let them see it.”

Then he ducks down again. Mouth dragging across his chest now—bruising. Sucking. Biting. A streak of wet heat. A sharp nip over his nipple that makes Gi-hun shudder, legs buckling slightly.

“H-Holy shit—In-ho—”

Another hickey. Bigger. Deeper. Centered right over his heart like a goddamn brand.

Gi-hun’s head hits the wall with a thud. His hands shoot down to grip In-ho’s hair.

“You’re—fuck, you’re crazy—”

In-ho just bites again. Doesn’t speak. His hand slips down now, undoing Gi-hun’s belt with a dangerous kind of calm.

“You said it,” In-ho mutters, voice rough, mouth still on his chest, lips dragging lower.

The metallic clink of the belt buckle echoes in the quiet apartment—then the sharp snap as In-ho yanks it loose, hard and fast, pulling it from Gi-hun’s loops in one rough motion.

Gi-hun flinches, chest heaving.

“Hey—wait—”

But the belt is already on the floor.
A dead thing. Forgotten.

And before Gi-hun can say another word—In-ho’s thigh slams back between his legs. Right up against him. Grinding. Pressing. Forcing Gi-hun’s back flat to the wall.

“F-Fuck—!”

His hands slap against In-ho’s shoulders instinctively, trying to push, but there’s no strength behind it. Not with his body jerking at every drag of In-ho’s thigh against his already sensitive cock through his pants.

“Jesus—In-ho—calm down—”

But In-ho stopped listening ten minutes ago. His hands are gripping Gi-hun’s waist holding him there for dear life, fingers digging in so hard it aches. His mouth is still somewhere on Gi-hun’s chest—biting. Breathing. Marking. His breath is hot, ragged. His body feverish.

He grinds up into him again.
Harder.

Gi-hun cries out, head dropping back.

“You’re—fuck—out of your mind—”

Still nothing.

Not a word from In-ho.

Just the sound of his breathing. His thigh rocking up. The wet suck of another hickey forming right below Gi-hun’s collarbone.

Gi-hun claws at him now, gripping his hair, his shoulder, anything to ground himself.

“I said—ah—slow down—!”

But In-ho just ruts up into him harder. Like he’s trying to rub the memory of Sang-woo’s stupid laugh out of Gi-hun’s body.

Gi-hun is panting now, fingers twitching where they grip In-ho’s arms. His shirt is half-off, belt long gone, hips twitching against that unforgiving thigh.

“You’re—god—you’re insane—”

In-ho still doesn’t speak. His mouth is at Gi-hun’s ribs, dragging open-mouthed kisses down his stomach now, all teeth and bruises and territory.

Gi-hun, breathless, tries to push again. Fails.

“Okay—fuck—you win, alright? I won’t let anyone fuck me but you, happy now?” He laughs. A little.

That was the mistake. That stupid, breathless, half-teasing laugh. Like it’s all still some kind of joke.

In-ho freezes. Just for a second. Then—he stands straight.

Gi-hun blinks. “Wait—what are you—hey—”

And suddenly his feet are off the floor.

“Wait—NO—”

He’s thrown over In-ho’s shoulder like a ragdoll. His breath punches out of him from surprise.

“Oh my GOD—!”

In-ho stalks down the hallway like a man possessed—one hand gripping the back of Gi-hun’s thigh, the other shoved against his ass for support, muttering something under his breath that Gi-hun can’t even hear over his own embarrassed screeching.

“You’re insane—INSANE—people would PAY to be carried like this, you’re SICK—”

The bedroom door slams open.
And slams shut behind them.

Gi-hun is deposited—not thrown but definitely dropped with intent—onto the floor. He hits the plush carpet with a thud and a graceless tumble.

“Oof—fuck—”

He groans, flopping halfway onto his side, his shirt bunched up under his arms and pants hanging open. He looks up. Sees In-ho standing over him, chest rising and falling. He scrambles to sit upright, staggering to his feet like a drunk, muttering,

“You’re fucking crazy. This is literally abuse. I’m calling Sang-woo.”

He stumbles toward the vanity like it’s a safe zone. Like maybe if he looks in the mirror, he’ll recognize the mess In-ho’s made of him. But the second he sees himself—neck bruised. Shirt ripped. Chest covered in red marks—he freezes. His breath stutters. He stares at his reflection. And behind him—In-ho takes a single step forward.

“Take it off.”

Gi-hun grips the edge of the vanity, knuckles tight, chest still heaving. He’s staring at his reflection like it betrayed him. His whole neck’s flushed red, marked up like a damn buffet. His hair’s a mess. Shirt halfway off, lips swollen from kissing. His thighs are still twitching from the grind.

And yet—

“You’re so dramatic,” he mutters, looking at himself in the mirror instead of behind.
“God. Should’ve just let Sang-woo fuck me. At least he says please—”

Too far.

There’s no warning this time.

In-ho appears behind him. And in one swift, practiced movement—he yanks Gi-hun’s shirt the rest of the way off. The buttons pop. One flies across the floor. The fabric falls to the ground like surrender.

Gi-hun gasps, flinching slightly.

“Hey—!”

But then In-ho’s hands are on him. Mapping. Claiming. Worshipping with anger. Fingers sliding over his chest like he knows every inch—and he does. Every dip of his ribs. Every scar. Every spot that makes Gi-hun twitch or gasp or stutter his name like a prayer.

He’s done this a thousand times before.
But it’s never enough.

Not when Gi-hun looks like this.
Not when his body’s already trembling beneath his palms.

In-ho leans in. Mouth ghosting right against Gi-hun’s ear. His voice low. Calm. Dangerous.

“Try that joke again. See what happens.”

His hands slide down now—palming Gi-hun’s hips from behind, fingers curling hard against the waistband of his half-undone pants.

Gi-hun exhales shakily. Still looking at himself. At the way In-ho is all over him. At the hunger in his eyes. The way his mouth is parted like he’s starving.

“…I wasn’t gonna let him,” Gi-hun whispers, voice breaking just a little.
“I was just being stupid. You know that.”

In-ho doesn’t answer. He just bites down on his shoulder. Hard. Gi-hun moans, fingers tightening on the vanity.

“Fuck—!”

In-ho finally peels off his own shirt—quietly, smoothly—muscles flexing under the dim bedroom light. The fabric hits the floor behind him with a dull whisper.

Gi-hun watches it fall in the mirror. His eyes flick down, then quickly look away—like looking too long might make things worse. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there in front of the vanity. Flushed. Marked up. Mouth parted. Waiting.

In-ho stands behind him—silent—and finally grabs the waistband of Gi-hun’s pants. They’re already halfway down from earlier, barely holding on. With one sharp tug—down they go.

Gi-hun sucks in a breath as the fabric pools around his ankles. He grips the vanity tighter, shifting just slightly to stay balanced.

And he doesn’t look back. Because he can see everything already. In the mirror—In-ho’s still behind him, eyes locked on Gi-hun’s body like he wants to devour it. The tension in his jaw. The way he breathes through his nose. Hungry. Possessive.

And then—in one brutal motion—the briefs are yanked down.

Gi-hun gasps—just a breath—and then SLAP.
A harsh, open-palmed smack to his bare ass. The sound cracks through the room. Gi-hun jolts, stumbling forward, catching himself on the vanity with a strangled noise.

“FUCK—!”

His face twists. Not in pain. But in shock. In humiliation. His thighs twitch where they’re spread slightly. Hips shifting back instinctively.

In-ho growls low behind him. Hands now gripping the curve of his ass like it’s his to shape.

“Still running your mouth, huh?”

He raises his hand again—slowly this time. Letting the threat linger. Gi-hun pants, biting back another sound. He still doesn’t look behind him. Just stares at his own wrecked reflection.

“I didn’t—ah—I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

SLAP.

Gi-hun cries out again, hips bucking forward—but In-ho’s there. Always there. One hand on his lower back now, holding him steady. Keeping him bent just right. Pinned in place. His other hand trails lower. Too slow. Too deliberate.

“Keep watching.”

Gi-hun breathes hard against the vanity—chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. His briefs are around one ankle now, pants forgotten. His thighs are twitching. His ass is still stinging.

He swallows.

“…Are you done?”

No answer.

He finally dares to glance up into the mirror—and realizes In-ho’s not behind him anymore.

“Wait—what the fuck—?”

He hears the soft click of the drawer opening behind him. That quiet, deliberate sound.

“Hey.”

No response.

Then—another click. A bottle cap. The unmistakable squelch of lube being squeezed into a palm.

Gi-hun exhales, head dropping to the surface of the vanity.

“Fuck me,” he mutters. “You’re really gonna draw it out like this?”

Still nothing. Footsteps return. Calm. Slow. He doesn’t even need to look. He can feel In-ho behind him again. The way the air shifts. The way his own body tightens with expectation. Then—a cool slick finger drags down the cleft of his ass.

Gi-hun twitches violently.

“Fuck—!”

One hand returns to steady him—flat against the small of his back. Holding him down. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just firm.

“Stay still,” In-ho mutters, voice low and gravel-deep now.

Gi-hun whines softly. His fingers curl tight against the vanity edge. And then—a finger presses in. Slow. Controlled. Too slow. Gi-hun breathes in hard. One shaky, high breath. Then a bitten-off moan as the finger slides deeper.

“God—fuck—you’re evil—”

In-ho doesn’t reply. Just works him open. Patient. Focused. Thumb ghosting over the base of his spine like a quiet threat. Another finger joins.
Gi-hun’s hips jerk.

“Shit—In-ho—”

He looks up again. In the mirror now—he sees himself. Bent. Flushed. Panting. And behind him: In-ho. Shirtless. Calm. Hands moving with practiced precision. Eyes fixed on where his fingers are disappearing into his husband’s body like it’s a ritual.

“You watching?”

Gi-hun nods, dazed. “Y-Yeah.”

“Then say it.”

Gi-hun swallows.

“I’m watching…”

“Good.”

The third finger presses in. Gi-hun chokes on a moan—mouth falling open. His fingers are white-knuckled on the vanity now. His forehead is pressed to the surface. Sweat prickles down his temple. His mouth keeps parting like he’s going to say something—but all that comes out are sounds.

In-ho is methodical. His fingers curl deep inside. Pressing exactly where they know Gi-hun will twitch. Dragging out. Then sinking back in. One slow thrust—wet and patient—followed by three sharp, fast ones that make Gi-hun gasp out loud.

“F-Fuck—God—In-ho—”

No response. Just the slick sound of fingers moving. Of his breath syncing with Gi-hun’s—ragged and low.

Gi-hun looks up again, dizzy.

He can see everything in the mirror:
His flushed skin. His heaving chest.
In-ho’s arm working between his legs.
His husband’s face, calm, eyes locked on him like he’s studying the way he falls apart.

“You look good like this,” In-ho mutters finally, voice rough. “Bent over and desperate.”

Gi-hun lets out a whimper. His thighs twitch—knees wobbling slightly.

“I’m not—desperate,” he pants. “You’re just—fucking mean.”

In-ho’s fingers suddenly pull almost all the way out—then slam back in hard, curling deep. Gi-hun yells, bucking forward, nearly knocking into the vanity.

“Ah—FUCK—!”

“Still not desperate?”

Another deep thrust. Slower this time.
Gi-hun chokes, eyes squeezed shut.

“I—fuck—okay—okay, I am—”

In-ho leans in. Mouth brushing his shoulder again, voice dark.

“Say it.”

“I’m desperate,” Gi-hun gasps. “I’m—I want it—please—fuck me already—please—”

And for one glorious second… He thinks he’s getting it. He thinks In-ho’s about to finally, finally give in. But instead—SLAP.

Another brutal smack to his already burning ass.

Gi-hun jerks forward with a sharp cry.

“FUCK—!”

His knees buckle slightly. His arms tremble. He stares into the mirror with wide, glassy eyes, mouth falling open in a stunned little whimper.

“You—fuck, what the hell—!?”

Behind him, In-ho growls low, dragging his fingers out with agonizing slowness.

“You don’t decide when I fuck you.”

Gi-hun lets out a desperate sound—something caught between a sob and a frustrated moan.

“I—I said please—”

“And I heard you.”

In-ho’s hands slide up his back now. Smoothing over the sweat-damp skin. Fingers digging in to hold him down again, flattening him slightly against the vanity. His lips brush the shell of Gi-hun’s ear. Voice low. Cold.

“But that doesn’t mean you get it.”

Gi-hun moans helplessly, thighs trembling, toes curling on the floor.

“God—In-ho—! You’re gonna kill me—”

“You’ll live.”

He palms Gi-hun’s ass again, spreading him slightly. Thumb brushing teasingly close—but not in.

“You’ll live. But you’re not cumming until I say so.”

Gi-hun bangs a weak fist on the vanity, still whining.

“You’re a dick—”

“And you married me.”

Gi-hun’s whole body jerks when he feels it—the heavy drag of In-ho’s clothed cock sliding up between his cheeks.

Still thick. Still hard.
Still trapped in those goddamn pressed black slacks from earlier.

Gi-hun moans—high and broken.

“S-shit—!”

His knees nearly buckle again. His hands scrabble against the vanity for support, forehead pressing into the mirror now, leaving streaks of sweat on the glass.

“Why—why are you still wearing those—?”

In-ho doesn’t answer. He just keeps grinding. Slow. Intentional. Cruel. The stiff fabric of his slacks rubbing in just the right place as he ruts between Gi-hun’s ass cheeks—hands planted firmly on his hips, thumbs spreading him just slightly with each thrust.

Gi-hun’s practically naked.
His pants are bunched around one ankle. His shirt’s long gone. His chest flushed red with bruises. Breathless. Wrecked. Sweat running down his back.

And behind him? In-ho. Shirtless. Muscles taut. Still fully dressed from the waist down. Looking like control itself.

Gi-hun whines again—head turning just slightly, cheek pressed against the mirror.

“You’re gonna kill me—I can’t take it—please—”

In-ho leans forward—his chest pressed to Gi-hun’s back now, his hips still rolling. His voice right at his ear.

“You said I was insane, remember?”

Gi-hun nods quickly, barely able to breathe.

“You’re—you are—fuck—”

In-ho hums.

“Good.”

He grinds up again—harder this time, his cock dragging with heavy friction, the heat of it nearly unbearable through the slacks.

Gi-hun sobs out a moan, his thighs shaking. His cock twitching, untouched.

“Please—please touch me—just—please—”

In-ho still doesn’t reach for him. Just keeps rocking. Slow. Steady. Watching Gi-hun melt in the mirror.

The room’s gone quiet again. Too quiet. Gi-hun’s panting—forehead pressed to the mirror, whole body trembling, sweat slick on his skin. He’s given up pretending he’s in control. His arms are weak. His legs are worse. His ass still stings. His cock’s untouched and leaking. And then—he hears it. The soft, deadly clink of a belt being undone. A slow pull of leather sliding through loops.

“Oh—fuck—”

He barely breathes it. Then the soft rustle of fabric. The unmistakable shuffle of pants being shoved down. And finally—that weight. That cock. Heavy and hot, pressing against the small of his back. Thick. Familiar. Obnoxiously big. Already leaking, smearing slick across his skin as In-ho ruts up against him once.

Gi-hun gasps sharply—body jerking.

“Shit—In-ho—”

In the mirror, he can see it now. His husband, flushed and shirtless behind him, pants halfway down, cock in hand. That same cock that’s split him open more times than he can count. The one he knows by shape, by weight, by stretch. And still—every single time—

“You’re—god—how are you always this big—”

His voice breaks. He’s not even being dramatic. He’s genuinely panicking a little.

In-ho doesn’t say a word. He just smears the head against Gi-hun’s ass, sliding lower, dragging it between his cheeks with slow, messy control—like he’s measuring the way Gi-hun’s body flinches.

Gi-hun moans, trembling violently now.

“I can’t—I can’t take it yet—I’m not ready—”

In-ho leans in, voice rough and low against his ear.

“You will be.”

Gi-hun’s mouth is open now, panting against the mirror, fogging up the glass in hot little bursts.
His fingers are clawed around the edge of the vanity. His knees keep wobbling. His entire body is reaching.

In-ho is dragging the head of his cock in slow, deliberate circles around Gi-hun’s hole. Just teasing. Not even trying to go in. Just letting him feel it. That stretch. That slick heat. That threat.

“Oh my god—” Gi-hun moans. “Just—put it in—I lied… I can take it. C’mmoon…”

But In-ho’s silent. The head presses just barely—just barely inside—Gi-hun gasps, body twitching. He can feel the stretch already, the dull pressure that promises to ruin him. So he rolls his hips back. Just a little. Just enough to take more.

SLAP.

Another sharp spank, right on his swollen ass cheek.

Gi-hun shouts, body jolting forward.

“AH—fuck—what the—!?”

Behind him, In-ho growls low.

“I said you don’t decide.”

Gi-hun breathes hard, thighs shaking violently now. His hole pulses around nothing. His cock twitches untouched beneath him.

“You’re—you’re actually evil—!”

In-ho’s cock drags back again. Still heavy. Still hot. Still not inside. His hand settles firmly on Gi-hun’s hip now, holding him in place.

“Try that again, and I’ll start over.”

Gi-hun groans into the mirror. Loud. Frustrated. Wrecked.

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind—”

In-ho hums.

“Don’t care.”

One more second and… It finally happens. The thick, aching tip of In-ho’s cock presses in. Slow. Deep enough to breach. Gi-hun gasps—loud. His whole body jumps. His hands slam down harder on the vanity as his back arches, a moan ripping out of his throat.

“Oh my—fuck—yes—yes—”

His legs twitch violently. His chest is rising and falling like he’s been holding his breath for ten years. But then—it pulls out. Completely.

No warning. No mercy.

Just the absence of it.

Gi-hun makes a sound that isn’t even a word—just a desperate, broken whine, high in his throat like a wounded animal.

“N-no—no—In-ho—please—”

He pushes back again—but In-ho’s hand is already on his hip, holding him still. Now he speaks. Voice flat. Cold. Cruel.

“You want it that bad?”

Gi-hun gasps. “Yes—”

“You gonna cry over it?”

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut. “I—no—I just—fuck—please—”

In-ho clicks his tongue.

“You’re pathetic.”

He runs the slick head back over Gi-hun’s twitching hole again. Not pressing in—just teasing. Spreading him with it.

“Bent over like a bitch in front of a mirror. Drooling for cock.”

Gi-hun’s thighs are shaking so hard now it’s a miracle he’s still standing.

“And after all that flirting? After all that shit you said back at the bar?”

He leans in—mouth right at Gi-hun’s ear.

“Now look at you. No shirt. Pants around your ankle. Begging for my cock like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

Gi-hun whines again. His fingers grip the vanity like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

“Say it.”

“W-What?”

“Say you’re nothing without it.”

Gi-hun clenches his jaw. Staring at himself in the mirror. At how wrecked he looks. Red cheeks. Panting. His cock twitching in front of him, untouched. Leaking. And he still—still—manages to shake his head.

“N-no.”

SLAP.

Another harsh, stinging smack across his ass.
Gi-hun yelps, whole body jolting forward.

“AH—!”

In-ho grabs his hips tighter, his voice flat.

“Try again.”

Gi-hun breathes hard. His fingers twitch against the vanity. He still doesn’t say it.

“I’m not—I’m not saying that—”

SLAP.

Harder this time.

Gi-hun squeals, his knees nearly buckling as he gasps.

“AH—shit—In-ho—!”

Another beat of silence. Then—a small, cracked voice:

“I—”

He swallows. Face flushed. Words stuck in his throat. But they spill anyway.

“I’m… I’m nothing without it.”

A pause. Then louder—barely.

“Without… your cock.”

He hides his face against the mirror.

In-ho drags his cock back down to his hole—now twitching, open, desperate—and rubs the tip in slow circles.

“That’s what I thought.”

In-ho slams into him. No warning. No easing in. Just one brutal, deep thrust that sends Gi-hun crashing against the vanity with a ragged scream.

“FUCK—AH—!”

His legs nearly give out. His whole body jerks forward. But In-ho doesn’t stop. He pulls all the way out—and slams back in again. Gi-hun’s moans break. High, desperate, humiliated. The sound of skin slapping fills the room. The vanity rattles. He tries to hold himself up, arms shaking violently, head dropping.

“Too much—fuck—In-ho—slow—”

No.

In-ho grabs him. One arm slamming across his chest, dragging him back into his cock—making him take the whole thing.

“You wanted this. So fucking take it.”

Another thrust. Deep. Mean.

Gi-hun’s mouth falls open in a wrecked cry. And that’s when In-ho shoves two fingers between his lips.

“Open.”

Gi-hun doesn’t even get to think—his mouth is already parted from the moan, and the fingers slide right in. He gags once—moans again.

“Mmmph—!”

In-ho fucks into him again, rough and deep, his voice now thick with rage and lust and control.

“Drooling. Crying. Gagging on my fingers while I ruin your hole.”

He curls them inside Gi-hun’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue—stretching him open from both ends.

“Fucked dumb already?”

Gi-hun makes a broken noise around his fingers, eyes glassy, completely collapsed forward except where he’s held upright by In-ho’s arm and cock. He watches his reflection. Mouth full. Ass red. Body bouncing.

“Look at you.”

“You said please like a good boy and now you’re getting used like a hole.”

Gi-hun’s moaning around In-ho’s fingers now—helpless. Drooling. Spit leaking down his chin, pooling at the corners of his mouth. Every thrust slams into him with bruising force. The vanity creaks. His knees buckle again. He would’ve collapsed if In-ho weren’t holding him up like a fuckdoll.

“Mmph—mmfuck—nnnhh—!”

His eyes flutter. He tries to breathe but In-ho’s fingers curl deeper inside his mouth—shoving his tongue down, keeping his jaw stretched wide.

“You like this?”

In-ho’s voice is dark. Rough. Cold.

“Like being used? Bent over and fucked like some free-use whore?”

Gi-hun sobs. Actually sobs.
He nods. He fucking nods.

In-ho grins against his ear.

“Look at that. Didn’t even deny it.”

He slaps Gi-hun’s ass again—hard. The sound ricochets through the room. Gi-hun screams around his fingers, back arching, eyes rolling.

“You’re so pathetic,” In-ho growls. “All that attitude at the bar just to come home and get bred like a needy slut.”

Another thrust—deeper. Meaner. Gi-hun gasps. Drool trails down his chest now. He’s a mess. Shaking. Leaking. Every word out of In-ho’s mouth makes him twitch harder.

“Say thank you,” In-ho growls, pulling his fingers free.

Gi-hun pants, spit-slick lips parting.

“Th-thank you—thank you—fuck—thank you for fucking me—”

“Louder.”

“Thank you for fucking me—!”

In-ho slams into him again.

“That’s right. That’s all you’re good for.”

Gi-hun’s whole body is trembling. His hands barely keep him upright on the vanity—fingers slipping from sweat and spit. His thighs are quaking. His mouth is open. And his moans are getting desperate. And then—he cums.

Without warning.
Without permission.

A broken, sobbing cry rips out of him as his cock spills onto the vanity—legs shaking, back arching, his entire body pulsing with release.
He gasps. Blinks. Tries to catch his breath.

In-ho doesn’t slow down. He slams into him harder. Gi-hun chokes, body jolting forward.

“AH—FUCK—In-ho—!”

In-ho growls low behind him.

“Did I give you permission to cum?”

Gi-hun stutters. Whimpers.

“N-no—no—I—I couldn’t hold it—”

SLAP.

Another vicious spank that sends a fresh wave of heat through him. His knees nearly give.

“You’re disgusting,” In-ho spits, voice breathless and mean. “Cumming like some fucking toy just from being used.”

Another thrust—deep, deliberate. Gi-hun’s breath catches. And then In-ho leans in—teeth brushing his ear. Voice dropping.

“Maybe I’ll get you pregnant.”

Gi-hun splutters.

“That’s not—what—In-ho—that’s not possible—!”

He’s moaning mid-sentence, voice breaking apart into nonsense.

In-ho slams in again. Harder.

“I’ll try anyway.”

“F-Fuck—”

“Fill you up. Keep you leaking all night. Maybe if they see you like that, marked and full, they’ll stop fucking talking to you.”

Gi-hun wails. His whole body curling under the weight of it.

“That’s not how it works—!”

“It will if I do it enough.”

In-ho grabs his hips again—slamming into him, chasing his own orgasm now, hips pistoning like a man obsessed.

“You’re mine. Gonna fuck it into you. Gonna ruin you from the inside out.”

“Oh my god—fuck—”

In-ho’s thrusts get sloppier now. Rougher. Harsher. More frantic. He’s close. Gi-hun can feel it in the way his hips snap forward—how his cock twitches deep inside, the heat building, unbearable.

“F-Fuck—In-ho—are you—?”

And then—he cums. Hard. A guttural growl tears from his throat as he slams in one final time, burying himself to the hilt. Gi-hun screams—his whole body jolting forward against the vanity as he feels it—

That first hot pulse.
Then another.
And another.
And another.

He’s filled. Completely.

“Oh my—fuck—fuck—you’re—it’s so much—”

In-ho breathes heavy behind him, chest slick against Gi-hun’s back. But he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking. Fucking his cum deeper inside him.

Gi-hun whimpers, barely able to hold himself up. In-ho grabs him by the hair. Yanks his head back. Gi-hun gasps, throat bared, his face twisted into pure submission—only for In-ho to grab his cheeks with one hand, squishing them, forcing his mouth open.

“Look.”

He shoves Gi-hun’s face toward the mirror. Right into his own reflection.

“Look at this fucking mess.”

Gi-hun moans, eyes fluttering, lips parted from the grip.

“You see this?”

Another slow thrust.

“Drool down your chin. Spit all over the mirror. Covered in hickeys. Full of my cum.”

He smirks, pressing in deep again.

“You think Sang-woo or Jung-bae would want to see you like this?”

Gi-hun shakes his head, still panting, still whining, face smashed between In-ho’s fingers.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?”

In-ho leans in, voice a whisper against his ear.

“No. Just me.”

Gi-hun’s still gasping—eyes glassy, mouth hung open, breath fogging the mirror. He barely has time to register it when In-ho suddenly pulls out. Wet. Sticky. Heavy. And the moment he does—cum spills out. All over Gi-hun’s thighs.
Dripping down in slow, hot streaks. His hole fluttering, overstimulated, twitching open around nothing.

Gi-hun cries out. “In-ho—don’t—!”

But In-ho is just watching. Smirking.

“Look at that.”

He strokes his cock once—wet, shining with both lube and cum.

“Can’t even hold it in.”

And then—he slams it back in. Gi-hun screams. His legs give out, and he nearly collapses forward, but In-ho grabs him, fucking him deep with one hand on his hip and the other fisting his hair again.

“You like that?”

Another thrust. Sloppy. Viscous. Loud. Cum squelching with every movement.

“Being bred? Stuffed full like some dumb breeding bitch?”

Gi-hun moans, barely coherent.

“I—I can’t—fuck—In-ho—you’re insane—”

In-ho slams in again, groaning low.

“That’s what you get. Wearing that shirt. Laughing with other men.”

Another thrust. Cum splashes back out.

“And now? Now you’re just my cumdump.”

Gi-hun’s mouth falls open, drooling again.

In-ho growls, fucking deeper.
“Say what you are.”

Gi-hun’s body convulses from overstimulation. He sobs.

“I’m—I’m your cumdump—!”

“Louder.”

“I’m your cumdump—fuck—I’m yours—only yours—!”

In-ho grits his teeth.

“Damn right you are.”

Another deep, messy thrust. Cum leaking out with every stroke—getting pushed back in and out and in again. The filth is endless.

Gi-hun’s voice is nearly gone. His moans come out in hoarse, broken whimpers. His thighs are trembling so hard he can’t even stand. The only thing keeping him upright is the force of In-ho’s hips slamming into him—over and over.

Each thrust is obscene.
Slick. Squishy. Wet with filth.
Cum leaking out around In-ho’s cock and getting shoved right back in again.

Gi-hun sobs. Loud. Wrecked.

“Neighbors—gonna hear—”

In-ho groans into his ear, voice low and breathless.

“Let them.”

Another sharp, sloppy thrust. The vanity rattles.

“Let the whole fucking building know who you belong to.”

Gi-hun cries out, head dropping, mouth open, drooling again.

“You’re gonna kill me—”

“You’ll survive. You always do.”

In-ho grabs his waist tighter—holding him still now, slamming into him with brutal rhythm. Harder. Faster. Getting rougher again. His breathing picks up. His groans deepen. He’s close, his fingers dig in like he’s hanging on for dear life.

“You gonna cum again—?” Gi-hun gasps, body shaking.

“Yeah.”

Another thrust.

“Fuck—fuck—again—?”

In-ho growls—“Yeah. Again. I’m gonna fill you up again.”

A loud, choked groan bursts from In-ho’s throat as he buries himself to the hilt, cumming. Gi-hun screams, of course. His body jerks, twitching violently. Thick spurts pulse deep inside him again—flooding him.

There’s already so much inside, it leaks immediately—dripping down his thighs, painting the floor, his legs, everything.

“Shit—shit—fuuuck—you’re still—still—”

In-ho keeps grinding into him. Slow now. Lazily rolling his hips, cock still twitching inside.

“You were made for this,” he mutters, breath ragged. “Just to be filled.”

Gi-hun’s legs barely work by the time In-ho pulls out again—a slow, wet drag of his cock, followed by an immediate drip of cum down his thighs.

“F-Fuck—In-ho—I can’t—”

But In-ho grabs him by the arm, one hand still slick, and drags him. Not far. Just across the room—to the full-length mirror. Gi-hun stumbles, dazed and gasping, cum running down his legs in thick, glistening trails. He opens his mouth to ask what the hell In-ho’s doing—but before he can speak, he’s bent forward again. Hands braced against the wall. Back arched. Hole exposed.

In-ho right behind him. One hand on his hip. One hand guiding his cock back in.

“Wait—wait—In-ho—you’re serious—”

“Shut up.”

He thrusts in. Again. Gi-hun screams, forehead slamming to the mirror. His entire body jolts as he’s fucked back open.

“God—you’re still hard—!?”

“I’ll keep going until I break you.”

In-ho’s cock is back inside—sliding in easier now, soaked in his own cum, slicked up and obscene.

Gi-hun bent just slightly. In-ho right behind him.
Shorter. But in complete control. His head rests over Gi-hun’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the mirror.
Watching every single thrust. Every ripple of Gi-hun’s flushed, sweaty body.

“Look at yourself,” he breathes against his ear.
“All fucked out. Still taking it.”

Gi-hun tries to turn away, but In-ho grabs his jaw, turning it back to the mirror.

“No. Keep looking.”

Another thrust. Deep. Cruel.

“You’re disgusting.”

Gi-hun chokes out a moan.

“You love this. Don’t even pretend.”

SLAP.

A quick spank. His cock bounces from the force. Gi-hun’s absolutely gone though. Body shaking, leaking, twitching—cock flushed and soft between his legs now, dripping onto the floor. Eyes barely open. Lips parted. Just staring at the mirror, watching himself get wrecked, again and again and again.

In-ho keeps fucking. Slow, deep thrusts now. Just enough to make Gi-hun jolt every time. Using his own cum as lube at this point. Hands tight on Gi-hun’s hips. Head tilted up by his shoulder, watching his expression melt in real time.

“You like this cock?”

No answer. Just a pitiful sound—high and soft.

“Hmm?”

He rolls his hips forward again. Harder.

“That the sound of a yes?”

Another moan. Wet. Muffled. Gi-hun’s lips are slack.

In-ho grins.

“You love this cock, don’t you? Like it’s the only thing keeping you together.”

Gi-hun twitches. His knees knock. His nails scrape the mirror, useless.

“You want me to fuck it into your brain? Is that it?”

No answer.

In-ho laughs.

“That’s what I thought. Dumb bitch.”

Another thrust.

Squelch. Slap. Moan.

“Look at you.”

“Can’t even speak. Can’t even think.”

Another hard thrust.

Gi-hun yelps—the sound torn from his throat.

“Just a hole. Just something to fill.”

Gi-hun’s whole body is twitching—exhausted and overstimulated, but his hips won’t stop rolling back. Every time In-ho thrusts, he pushes back into it. Like he needs it. His chest is heaving. His mouth is open. And his eyes locked on the mirror.
Staring at the sight of himself: red, sweaty, fucked-out, and still—still—taking it.

Behind him, In-ho’s breath is hot at his ear. His thrusts never stop. Slow. Deep. Dragging. Stretching. Destroying.

“Look at this face.”

In-ho reaches around. Wraps a hand around Gi-hun’s slick cock. It twitches immediately in his palm.

“And such a pretty cock, I can never get enough of it.”

He laughs.

“You like this that much?”

Gi-hun lets out a desperate whimper.

“You’re still pushing back on me. Still taking this cock like you need it.”

His hand strokes—slow. Wet. Cruel. Not for kindness. Just to watch Gi-hun squirm.

“Filthy little thing. You want it all, don’t you?”

Another thrust. His cock slams back in.

Gi-hun moans. Loud. Shameless.

“You wanna get bred and jerked off at the same time?”

His thumb slides over the tip—smearing precum everywhere.

“You’re so fucking disgusting.”

“I bet you’d let me do this in front of your friends.”

Gi-hun’s body shakes.

“Sang-woo walks in and sees you like this? Bent over a mirror. Full of cum. Getting stroked like a needy bitch.”

Gi-hun lets out a broken, whimpering sob—his thighs squeezing.

“Still not gonna say anything?”

In-ho thrusts harder.

“No excuse. You’re loving every second.”

Gi-hun’s cock is leaking into In-ho’s fist. His hole is still being drilled deep, filled over and over with thick, wet thrusts—In-ho’s cock punching into him like it’s desperate. And it is. In-ho’s breathing is getting rough. His thrusts messier. Uncontrolled. He wraps his arm tighter around Gi-hun’s chest, pulling him flush against his body—fucking up into him hard, deeper than ever.

His voice—low, breaking:

“You’re mine.”
“Only mine.”
“Always mine.”

Gi-hun lets out a wounded cry, head rolling back on In-ho’s shoulder, staring at their reflection in the mirror. Their bodies pressed together.

In-ho cums after a few more thrusts. A loud, raw moan tears from his throat—way too loud this time. Unfiltered. Choked and guttural. He slams in once, twice— burying himself as deep as he can go. Gi-hun feels it. The third load. The twitch. The heat. The flood.

“F-Fuck—”

In-ho holds him there—hips locked. Cock twitching deep inside. His moans shaking right against Gi-hun’s back. He’s clearly done. But Gi-hun’s not. Because the moment he feels that warmth filling him again—he cums as well. All over the mirror.

“Nnhh—In-ho—fuck—”

His entire body spasms. His thighs shake. His moan comes out shaky and wrecked, tears threatening the corners of his eyes as his orgasm rips through him.

In-ho holds him still through it—cum still leaking out of him, mixing with what’s already dripping down his thighs.

They just stand there. Both of them panting. Sweating. Holding. Wrecked.

Gi-hun’s face is fogged against the mirror. His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, completely gone.

And finally—In-ho pulls out. Slow. Heavy. Wet. Cum immediately spills out. A full, messy drip that leaks down Gi-hun’s thighs and hits the floor with a humiliating little splatter.

It just keeps dripping. Too much.

Gi-hun twitches.

In-ho exhales. A long, shaky sigh right into the crook of Gi-hun’s neck. And then—soft lips. Kissing. Not biting. Not possessive. Just… kissing. Gentle. In-ho nuzzles into his skin like he didn’t just break him.

“…Shit,” he whispers against his neck.

Another kiss.

“Sorry.”

He holds Gi-hun a little tighter. One hand smoothing over his trembling stomach. His voice quiet now. Low and tired.

“I got jealous. I was watching you laugh, and… I don’t know. I lost it.”

Another kiss to his shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to be that rough.”

There’s a pause. He waits for a response. But Gi-hun? Gone. Just blinking slowly at the mirror. Cheeks flushed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to remember how to breathe.

“Baby?”

Nothing. He’s just… standing there. Dumb. Spaced out. Filled to the brim.

In-ho smiles weakly.

“Yeah. That’s fair.”

He kisses his cheek again. Starts slowly guiding them both down to the floor, murmuring soft things into his ear—nothing coherent. Just gentle, grounding touches from the same man who just split him in two.

They sit on the floor for a while. Gi-hun slumped against the mirror, dazed, blinking slow like he’s just returned from another plane of existence.
In-ho pressed behind him, arms around his waist, breath warm against his shoulder. Then finally—In-ho kisses the side of his neck.

“Wait here, baby.”

He gently lays Gi-hun back against the wall—so soft now, careful, like he might break him for real—and gets up. Gi-hun makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t move. His legs still aren’t working.

In-ho crosses the room, quiet. He opens the dresser. Pulls out a clean pair of sweats and a shirt. Then vanishes into the bathroom for a moment—running warm water, wiping himself down, catching his breath.

When he returns he’s got a soft towel in hand. Kneels down in front of Gi-hun. And starts wiping him clean. Tender. Slow. Not rushing a thing. Wiping the mess from his thighs. From between his legs. From his stomach. Even cleaning up the floor around him without a word of complaint.

“You did so well,” In-ho murmurs.
“Took everything. Like a good boy.”

Gi-hun groans, rolling his head to the side with the smallest glare.

“You’re an asshole.”

In-ho smiles.

“Yeah.”

He kisses Gi-hun’s knee.

“But I’m your asshole.”

Gi-hun huffs a laugh. He’s still a wreck. Still flushed. Still sore. But slowly—he starts leaning into the touch again.

In-ho presses a clean kiss to his thigh. Then the side of his hip. Then wipes him gently again.

“Let me take care of you, baby. Just rest.”

In-ho finishes wiping him down—gentle, every movement reverent. And once Gi-hun’s thighs stop twitching, once the mess is mostly gone, once he’s clean enough to breathe—In-ho slips one arm beneath his knees, the other around his back, and lifts him.

Gi-hun doesn’t even protest this time. His head falls against In-ho’s shoulder with a soft sigh.
Like a weight being set down.

“You’re insane,” he mumbles.

“I know, you’ve said that twenty times tonight.”

In-ho lays him down carefully on the bed—fluffed pillows, fresh sheets, soft lamplight glowing beside them. Then—without a word—he grabs the clothes he set aside earlier: Clean briefs. A loose shirt. He sits beside Gi-hun and gently lifts him upright. Gi-hun’s body slumps a bit in his hands, but he doesn’t resist. Just lets him. Lets In-ho dress him.

He slips the briefs up his thighs, slow and careful.
Guides his arms through the sleeves of the shirt.
Pulls it down, smooths it over his stomach, tugging the hem into place.

Every touch full of focus. Full of love.

Gi-hun’s just… watching him.
Eyes wide. Soft. Overflowing.
Staring at his husband like he can’t believe he gets to be loved like this.

“…You’re really good at this,” he whispers.

In-ho glances up, a little breathless.

“At what?”

Gi-hun smiles, dazed.

“Everything.”

In-ho swallows. Quiet for a second. Then leans in and kisses his forehead. He then stands for a moment in the soft glow of the bedroom—hair messy, chest rising slowly. He glances around.

The mirror is streaked.
The floor’s a battlefield.
Pants, briefs, a button-up missing half its buttons, the towel soaked with sweat and cum—all still scattered across the room.

He sighs through his nose.

“…I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

He turns the lamp off. The room slips into shadow. And then—he crawls into bed. The sheets shift softly beneath him.

Gi-hun’s already watching. Still curled in the middle of the bed in In-ho’s clothes, hair damp with sweat, eyes sleepy but shining.

And the moment In-ho lays down—Gi-hun’s already moving. He scoots over fast—legs shaking the whole time—and collapses right into In-ho’s chest with a soft, broken sound. Arms winding tight around his waist. Head under his chin.

Like his body knows where to go.
Like he belongs there.

In-ho holds him immediately. No hesitation. Just arms wrapping around his back, pulling him in.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

Gi-hun nods against his chest.

“My legs don’t work,” he mumbles.

In-ho huffs a tired laugh. Kisses the top of his head.

They lay there in silence for a while. And then softly—barely above a whisper—

“I love you.”

Gi-hun says it first.
Simple. Soft. Clear.

In-ho looks down at the top of his head, heart clenching hard.

“I love you too.”

Another kiss. To his hair. To his cheek.

He pulls the blanket up around them both and lets his fingers stroke softly along Gi-hun’s spine.

“More than anything.”

Gi-hun exhales. Shaky.
But finally, finally at peace.