Chapter Text
“I’m home,” Kang-woo says as soon as he unlocks the door and steps into his apartment, but he pauses when he sees the lights on. For a moment, his heart trembles; he wonders if Mi-sook and Joo-won have come back to life, if they are sitting on the couch in the living room and will look up and smile at him when he enters. Maybe the past two years were just a nightmare, a long, painful, horrible nightmare that he will forget come morning…
He blames it on having one too many drinks with Ha-ri, but it takes him way too long to notice that the figure sitting at the kitchen table is neither his wife nor his son.
“You came home late,” a low, pleasant voice says; Kang-woo can almost hear the pout in it. “I stayed up and waited for you so we could have dinner together, but it seems like you had dinner already. I’ll have to pack up the food for tomorrow.”
That’s when he finally sees the food on the table, arranged on various plates. The smell wafts up into the air, imbuing it with warmth and life in a way it hasn’t seen in years. He feels a pang again.
“Kim Min-joon? What are you doing here?”
Those too-pink lips curve into a smile; somehow it manages to look both devilish and innocent at once. “Surprised, Choi Kang-woo-ssi?”
Kim Min-joon, otherwise known as Jan Gebauer, is not dressed in his sleek black tailored suit, not like earlier today when he was in their office or in the lobby of Taeyang Life Insurance, arrogantly and smugly calling Kang-woo a dog while declaring himself his owner. Instead he’s wearing a large baby blue sweater that almost hangs off his shoulders, showing off his pale neck and collarbones, long sleeves coming down to his knuckles. It makes him look strangely soft, comfortable in a way that makes Kang-woo feel uncomfortable in turn, though he cannot quite say why.
Asymmetrically parted bangs fall into seductive black eyes, only serving to highlight them further, and Kang-woo’s fingers itch to reach out and brush them aside.
He never expected the little brother of the co-pilot who crashed Juhan Air 801 and murdered his family to be so beautiful.
Min-joon rises from the table and saunters over to him on light feet, rolling off the ground on only the balls and tip-toes, sinuous and feline and playful, but then he stops, youthful features suddenly pulling into a grimace.
“Boah, Scheiße, du stinkst!” he says, turning away in revulsion and flapping his hand back and forth in front of his face as though to banish away the foul smell. “Did you drink again? Don’t you know it’s bad for your health? You really need to cut down on that, or I’ll have to have a serious word with your team.”
In the blink of an eye, Kang-woo’s surprise transforms into rage.
It’s the presumptuous overfamiliarity of it all: Min-joon breaking and entering like this, daring to set foot in his home, the place where he used to live together with his family, desecrating their memory and mocking their deaths along with his pain and grief—that pushes him over the edge.
He grabs Min-joon by the throat who chokes, frantic hands coming up to scrabble at his wrist and hold it, an anchor, as Kang-woo bodily drags him over to the table in a few furious steps, sweeping the dishes clean off the surface with his other arm, china and glass shattering on the ground, before slamming him on top.
“Are you even human?” he barks, tears pricking his eyes, using his stronger and heavier build to curve threateningly over him. “Don’t you know any shame?”
Even clutching at the hand still around his neck, winded and dazed and bangs fanning out around his face from the impact, Min-joon only tips his head back, smiling, and raises his brows. “Did you already forget? I’m a conman; I’m not human."
Kang-woo’s vision tinges red again. “Someone like you has no right to be here. Get out! Get out of my home right now.”
His grip tightens, causing those deep black eyes to close, lashes fluttering on smooth, flawless cheeks, red mouth falling open. Oh, how easy it would be to crush that long, pale, fragile throat in his fist…
That’s when he feels the bulge against his thigh, the shape of it clear and unmistakable through the thin, soft slacks Min-joon is wearing. Something dark and hot and sick twists in his stomach.
“Are you actually getting off on this?” he says in disgust.
“You only noticed just now?” Min-joon laughs, breathless and low in a way that slithers underneath Kang-woo’s skin, slick and serpentine. “I got off on it in your office too, when you had me pressed up against the wall and strangled me… If you had reached down and ground your palm against my cock just once, I would have come right then and there in front of everyone.”
He lets out a soft moan then, demonstratively squirming and rubbing himself off on Kang-woo’s body now.
“Stop that.” Kang-woo grabs his hip to still it, bruising, but it seems to have the opposite effect instead: Min-joon only moans louder, ineffectually wriggling his hips up and down in search of friction. It’s indecent. It’s downright obscene.
Letting go of the hand around his throat to pull Kang-woo closer, he runs palms up his back, nails scratching lines deep enough to be felt through the faux-leather jacket. Fingers curling around broad shoulders, Min-joon turns his head until his lips brush the shell of an ear:
“Why should I stop when you are getting off on it too?”
Slyly, he presses his thigh up against Kang-woo’s own hard cock. Kang-woo jerks back as though zapped by a taser.
“What do you want?” he hisses.
“I think that’s another thing you’ll have to figure out on your own, Choi Kang-woo-ssi.”
Kang-woo grinds his teeth, jaw clenching hard enough to break something.
Bite and fetch, Min-joon said back in the Mad Dog office.
Well, Kang-woo will bite alright.
He falls over the graceful curve of collarbones, leaving teeth marks in pale skin and making Min-joon throw his head back, stretching his long, swanlike neck still trapped under Kang-woo’s hand, swallowed by it. When Kang-woo squeezes, he can feel the convulsions, the way that adam’s apple digs into the meat of his palm like he’s crushing sharp-pitted fruit in his fist instead. Slicing and bleeding him. It makes more of that foul heat pool in his stomach; makes him want to snarl.
With his other hand he grabs the edge of that soft, powder blue sweater. It looks and feels expensive, like pure cashmere; Min-joon must have bought it with the 3,4 billion insurance money he got, otherwise with what he amassed from his life as a con artist, stealing money from other people and living off of them like a parasite. Like a blood leech.
The way he’s leeching off of Kang-woo now, blackmailing him and his team, making them do the dirty work for him for whatever incomprehensible, selfish designs he has. Making them accomplices to his crimes.
Pushing the sweater up to his armpits and chin to bare more of his smooth skin, Kang-woo licks and bites his nipples until they are shiny with spit and candy apple red.
Min-joon is sugar and spice and nothing nice.
Despite looking so skinny in the clothes he wears, he does pack some decent muscle on his frame and can boast a pair of heavy tits that fill Kang-woo’s palms quite nicely. The kid is sensitive and crying, face as wet and shiny as his pert nipples, arm thrown over his eyes as he pants, long sleeve covering his hand up to the knuckles. Sweater paws. Almost cute.
Less cute is how he says, “Mm, just like that, Choi Kang-woo-ssi.” Acting like he’s still in control of it all. Like Kang-woo is only giving him what he wants, exactly how he wants it.
But Kang-woo is no one’s dog.
He takes the pale blue fabric between his fingers and pulls. It rips easily under his grip: expensive, and delicate.
He wonders if Min-joon will rip just the same.
“Hey! I liked that one.”
It turns into a yelp when Kang-woo tugs down his slacks and briefs at once to roughly shove his fingers inside, not expecting to find Min-joon already wet and loose.
“Give a girl a warning, will you?” is puffed warmly into his ear, low and husky, even as strong walls flex around his fingers, keeping him softly, sweetly inside.
It makes Kang-woo’s stomach swoop, makes him feel lightheaded, with vertigo or something else.
“I already got myself ready for you in your shower. Had to take the edge off somehow after how you choked me and left me hanging. And I wanted to give you a nice surprise when you came home too. Do you like it?”
It ends on a small, breathy moan as he shamelessly rolls his hips down onto Kang-woo’s fingers. Fucking himself on them.
The idea of him making himself at home and using Kang-woo’s shower, using his shampoo and shower gel (he does smell like him, waking something primal and hungry in him, something he thought long dead right alongside his family), fingering himself open in there, getting himself off that way… it only enrages and arouses Kang-woo even more.
When he yanks his fingers out, the little brat whines, disappointed and empty, clenching around nothing. But he doesn’t remain empty for long.
Kang-woo turns Min-joon around and bends him over the table before re-entering him, with his dick this time. He relishes in his sweet gasp, just as he does in the fluttering heat around him, sucking him in, tighter than when it was around his fingers.
He drives in and out with cruel, vengeful force as Min-joon moans and mewls and meets every thrust. Unstoppable force meeting unstoppable force.
Much to Kang-woo’s chagrin, it doesn’t stop Min-joon from being the usual chatterbox.
“Fuck me harder,” he demands, bossy, still talking to him like he’s the owner and Kang-woo is his dog. “Yes, yes, just like that. That’s perfect. Good boy. I’ll, ah, hah, have to reward you later on. Give you a treat.”
Not about to listen to more of his bullshit, Kang-woo pushes his fingers into Min-joon’s mouth to plug it and shut him up. Min-joon doesn’t complain, moaning loudly and lewdly around the digits and sucking on them, laving them with his too-clever tongue.
When he removes his fingers to place them on his hip instead, grip him better, his other hand sliding up that slick back to find his nape, press his face into the table, Min-joon folds easily.
He is hard and unbending in other ways, but not like this. This is not how he breaks.
His slender hands are underneath his chest, making the elegant wings of his shoulder blades stand out, skin stretched over sharp-edged bone, as he bends himself as much as possible, more and more, impossibly, sweat pooling in the nimble, feline arch of his spine, well aware of how it makes him look. Of what it does to anyone looking at him.
He gazes up at Kang-woo from where he’s lying on the table, black eyes striking underneath the soft, damp fall of his hair. Unfathomable.
The image brands itself into Kang-woo’s mind.
He meant to get under Min-joon’s skin, but Min-joon got under his instead.
Kang-woo told himself he wouldn’t kiss him, but he can’t resist taking his jaw from behind, half-turning his face to hungrily press his own mouth to the cat curl of Min-joon’s, lick at his lips until they part. Until he can lick his way inside. One slow, lazy lap after the other.
Min-joon tastes the way he looks; like his sickeningly sweet smile.
Like the lipgloss he wears. Sweet, like cherries. Like the desserts he likes to eat with the rotten sweet tooth he has, sharing the same tastes as an overgrown, spoiled child. A dentist’s nightmare. An enfant terrible.
He tastes nothing like Kang-woo’s dead wife.