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Mrs. Yoon’s face falls as soon as he enters the café. He gives her a jaunty little wave, even winks at her, but her face only pales further, becoming white as a sheet.
Myeong-gil doesn’t pay her any mind. Not when Gun-woo is a mere few steps behind her, back turned as he seems to pour oat milk into a cup of coffee, completely focused on his task and helping her out like the good, filial son he is. How touching. He’s wearing a pistachio sweatshirt, more grey than green. It looks old and soft and worn. Well-loved. It falls loosely over his broad shoulders and back, only slightly clinging to the curves of the hard, steely muscles underneath, faintly bunching above the swell of his buttocks. Myeong-gil knows what it feels like to squeeze large handfuls of them while fucking him; to take the firm flesh between his teeth and bite.
Gun-woo hasn’t noticed his presence, but he does notice his mom’s uncharacteristic silence, attuned to her moods with the uncanny astuteness of a dog trained to detect bombs.
He turns around and—stops.
Raw fear cuts across his face like a knife, like it has been carved open again, hands shaking violently in front of him, nearly dropping the cup for it to shatter and spill scalding hot brown liquid on the floor in abstract, marbling patterns.
For a moment everything else ceases to exist and it’s just the two of them in the café. In the whole world.
The moment passes and Gun-woo tries to plaster over his fear by putting on a brave face for his mom.
She shakes her head mutely, clinging to him, tears in her eyes. “Don’t—don’t go,” she gasps quietly, knowing her son too well.
Setting the cup down, Gun-woo takes her hands into his own, handling them as if they were fragile, as if she were made of glass. The smile on his lips is as reassuring as it is false.
“I’ll be fine, mom,” he lies. “I'll be fine. Stay here. Don’t come over no matter what.”
Gently pushing off her fingers locked tight around his elbow, he comes out from behind the counter to march over with the grimness of a soldier. His marine training shows in his steps, the way he holds himself, tight and controlled.
The bandage is gone and the stitches have been taken out. The cut, Myeong-gil’s gift for him, seems to be healing nicely.
He already examined it thoroughly when Gun-woo came to his office.
The boy came empty-handed. Or, not empty-handed per se, but he only came bearing a meager amount of money, looking down at his feet, eyes flighty and unable to meet his, hands rubbing nervously, wringing, wringing, as he asked Myeong-gil to give him more time, that he’d do more part time jobs and scrape the money together somehow—
Before he could even finish speaking, Myeong-gil grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him against the wall where he stayed, frozen with terror and shaking like a leaf, letting Myeong-gil pin him there like he couldn’t just as easily push the man off him and beat him to a pulp with his bigger frame and superior strength.
Myeong-gil told him to take off the bandage, groping and licking the still-healing wound while mercilessly jerking him off with a hand stuck down the front of his pants, making him come in them like a fumbling teenager.
Taking advantage of the kid’s stunned state, he dragged him over to the table, bending him over it to pull down his pants, bite the firm globes of his ass and eat him out.
After forcing a second orgasm out of him, he had him right over the desk, naked from his hips down, bending his knees up to his ears until his thigh muscles were straining, fully exposing him, pretty weeping cock and pretty spit-slick hole, fucking him until he was a sobbing and mewling mess.
He didn’t stop even when Jang-do entered his office, doing a comical double take and stammering that he could come back later, but who Myeong-gil ordered to stay. To go ahead and report to him as he continued to pound into the moaning, pliant body before him. Gun-woo whimpered, tucking his face in his suit, cheeks wet, trying to hide underneath him, make himself as small as possible, as though he wasn’t several pounds of muscle, built like a tank, impossible to hide. An elephant trying to act like a mouse, like he always did.
It made Myeong-gil’s chest feel warm and full, made him feel fond, even indulgent, and he let Gun-woo hide instead of turning him around, speared on his cock, bare back pressed flush to his clothed chest, as he sat back in his chair, an arm around that laboring ribcage, and spread those thighs obscenely wide. He could have kept the boy like that all day, warm and snug around his cock, as subordinates and business partners came and went.
Instead, he only moved to cover him more fully, softly shushing him between questions he asked Jang-do and orders he gave on the further proceedings, a thread of something dark and possessive curling inside him.
Once Jang-do had left, nearly falling flat on his face in his haste to get out, Myeong-gil made Gun-woo come for the final dry, and painful, time, before commanding him to pull his shirt up so Myeong-gil could strip himself and stripe his tits with sticky white. Mark him.
After, he had to help Gun-woo get dressed, hands and legs shaking too hard to do it himself, let alone stand on his own. He pulled his pants up over the come lewdly trickling down his trembling thighs and tugged his shirt down over his filthy chest.
“My business card,” he said, dragging a warm palm over his front to smooth out the wrinkles. “I trust you still have it?”
Gun-woo hesitated for a moment, then pulled out a slip of paper from the pocket of his jacket.
It was a bit crinkled and warped, stained with blood, but he didn’t throw it away. Stubborn, but not stupid. “Mm,” he said. “Good boy.”
Dark dog eyes flashing, like blue sparks. Electric and electrifying.
The kind that could zap you, burn you, along with your empire, everything you held dear, if you weren’t careful.
Good.
If the boy had broken too easily, by just this much, Myeong-gil might have sent him to one of his clubs for Gun-woo to use his mouth or spread his legs for anyone with enough money; to let him work off his mother’s debt that way.
“Call me whenever you need more time.” He leaned in, Gun-woo stiffening up as he did, shoulders tight and nearly baring his teeth in animal fear. “If you and your mom need help with anything or if anyone hurts you. I'll take care of them.”
“Why?”
“Because you belong to me now. You are mine.”
“I’m not,” came the knee-jerk reaction, the angry snarl, one that Myeong-gil easily countered with—
“Aren’t you?”
Gun-woo said nothing to that, the strong, delicate line of his jaw clenching enticingly.
Myeong-gil smiled, and leaned in closer, reaching behind him to shove the business card down the back of his waistband, down his boxer shorts, the way trades did with the girls in strip clubs, wriggling cash along with their grubby fingers inside their flimsy panties that barely covered anything.
I own you.
I own you and your mom, the café and your house and the clothes on your back, your body and your organs and your fists, all your impotent fury and strength, the air you breathe into your lungs and the very ground you walk on; every fearful, stubborn heartbeat in your chest.
Myeong-gil enjoyed watching him walk out limping, face red and eyes haunted, mind a dark daze; a maze he would never be able to find his way out of again, no matter how much he tried.
No matter how much he fought, his hard fists and soft heart helpless before this invisible opponent.
His enemy is not Myeong-gil.
It’s his own mind.
The kid comes to a stop where Myeong-gil is sitting at one of the tables, legs comfortably crossed, completely at ease in contrast to how wound-up the body next to him is, nearly vibrating with tension.
Gun-woo will always come to him, seek him out, again and again. Myeong-gil has made sure of that.
"What are you doing here?"
Gun-woo is looking at him with that heady mixture of fear, resentment and exhaustion that instantly lights up his veins. Blue sparks. Electricity.
Dangerous. That's what he is.
"What does it look like? I'm here to drink coffee."
Myeong-gil finds himself scrutinized, long and hard.
“How do you like it?”
“Guess.”
There’s another long pause as Gun-woo goes quiet, thinking. He’s good at that: reading people. Observing. “Black. No cream or sugar.”
Myeong-gil smiles wide, leaning back. “Bingo.”
When Gun-woo comes back with the coffee, setting it down carefully, meticulous and attentive in this as he is in everything, Myeong-gil asks, half-teasing, “Did you spit into it?”
“I wouldn’t do that to the coffee.”
Myeong-gil can imagine that he would never do that. Not that he wouldn’t do it to the coffee, mind, but that he wouldn’t do it to anyone at all.
He’s too good for that.
Gun-woo turns to leave, but Myeong-gil halts him with: “Ah-ah, not so fast.”
He doesn’t need to pull him back by the arm or touch him, get physical—make it ugly—when his mere words work just as well:
A leash.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d start thinking that you are eager to get away from me. You might hurt my feelings.”
An angry, disdainful snort. The tendon in Gun-woo’s neck is taut from where he is still half-turned, stretching his throat appealingly.
It would look even more beautiful with a collar wrapped around it.
“Sit down, kid.”
He tugs on the leash. No reaction. He sighs, heavy with disappointment, watching as Gun-woo’s shoulders grow tense, an ingrained, pavlovian response. Daddy issues, or bad experiences with some other father figure. He can work with that.
“I don’t like repeating myself, Gun-woo-ya. Come here and sit. Down.”
Another tug.
“Your mom is looking. You don’t want her to worry, do you?”
Behind the counter, Mrs. Yoon is watching anxiously, face pale and drawn and rubbing her knuckles raw, a habit shared by both mother and son, bound by the same trauma.
Third time’s the charm.
Gun-woo sits down in the chair farthest from him. That’s no problem.
Myeong-gil raises a brow. “Maybe I should personally say hi to her, tell her that everything is fine. Poor woman looks like she’s about to faint. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Gun-woo grinds his molars, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but scoots over to sit in the chair closest to Myeong-gil.
Such a good, obedient boy.
He takes a sip from the coffee, then sets it down again. His warm hand on Gun-woo’s knee, feeling the tension running through it, through his whole body, faintly travels up his thigh. It twitches, like it wants to close, but he lets go, arm lifting to casually drape over the tense line of shoulders instead, broad and defensively rounded like he’s in a boxing match.
His palm rubs up and down in soothing motions as he continues to leisurely sip his coffee, knees crossed, pant leg faintly riding up to reveal his ankle above the polished leather of his oxford shoe, the tip of the knife sheath peeking out, blending perfectly with the black merino wool of his sock, all but invisible and never far from reach.
He drags his palm over the bend of a shoulder, fingers flitting from one shoulder blade to the other, feeling the solid muscles flexing underneath the soft green fabric. Hm. Jumpy.
He can hear Gun-woo’s tight, fast breaths, can see the sweat covering his skin in a faint sheen with the adrenaline pumping through his veins.
Fight but not flight; his Gun-woo isn't the type to run away, even if it would be better to.
Even if it would be wiser to.
Placing his other hand on the boy’s own two on the table, one forming a shaking fist the other is tightly wrapped around, he leans in.
"Relax, boy,” he murmurs into his ear. “Or people will think something is amiss."
Gun-woo glares at him, then lets him untangle his hands, pressing one of them flat against the table with his own, palm to rough, callused knuckles, fingers sliding along fingers. The kid has big, strong hands from boxing, but they are still not as big as Myeong-gil’s, digits more slender than his own blunt, square ones. A thug’s hands, some people like to laugh, the first time they meet him; unbefitting of a businessman, just like the big bad scary scar on his face. Like some kind of gangster.
It’s never long before he teaches them better than to laugh at him.
Their bodies are tilted towards each other in a seemingly friendly way. Anyone looking in from the outside would think that he’s Gun-woo’s father or his uncle. That they are just catching up with each other. Having a nice conversation.
The hand on Gun-woo’s shoulder glides down to his chest, lightly thumbing his nipple through his comfortable sweater that makes him look so soft and utterly delectable. Biteable.
Gun-woo catches his wrist, worrying his lower lip and eyes already clouding over with involuntary pleasure.
“We are in public.” He sounds slightly breathless.
“So? Are you going to tell me to stop?”
Those hate-filled eyes lower with sullen compliance, long lashes dipping to pale, smooth cheeks in defeat, as Myeong-gil knew they would. He continues to roll the nipple under his thumb until it’s erect, aroused and visible through the sweater.
Then he slides his arm back over Gun-woo’s shoulders in comradely fashion, gripping him tight, and lets the hand on the table drop into his lap, dragging up his inner thigh again, squeezing the firm, impressive muscles there, once, possessively, along the way.
He can feel how Gun-woo fights to keep them spread nice and wide, not to clamp them tight like some prude or prim bitch against the invasive touch. Soon, his fingers brush the large bulge between his legs.
It’s like a jolt goes through Gun-woo, making him sit ramrod straight, holding himself rigid and very, very still.
“Breathe,” Myeong-gil reminds him, while gently palming him through his pants, fingertips faintly squeezing around him, around the shape of him, through the soft denim.
He’s already hard just from a little nipple play and groping. Needy little bitch, Myeong-gil thinks with a disdainful, affectionate snort.
He rubs him through the thick fabric, fondling him, while making sure to pay special attention to the head, pressing down with the meat of his palm. His fingers dance up and down the zipper, the metal warmed by both his hand and Gun-woo’s own body heat, wafting off him in waves. He can feel how those stomach muscles go tight; how Gun-woo has to resist bucking into the touch.
He pulls down the zipper, tooth by tooth, hearing how Gun-woo’s breaths grow heavy, ragged, with every slow, agonizing centimeter.
His fingers slip underneath the edge of the sweater, briefly ghosting over clenching abs, to snake down the waistband of his boxers.
“You see,” Myeong-gil says, as his fingers curl around the base, enjoying the weight of him in his palm, the feeling of his silky-soft skin, a full-body shudder running through Gun-woo, “I’ve got plans for you, kid. Big plans. There’s a spot for you by my side in my empire. But first you must learn your place. First you must learn how to heel.”
The flash of teeth at that, as though to contest his statement. As though he isn’t already right in the palm of Myeong-gil’s hand, heavy and vulnerable.
But Myeong-gil likes it.
He likes Gun-woo. He likes him a lot. Enough not to kill him in the café, and enough not to kill him now or every other time he has dared to defy him, too stubborn and contrary for his own good.
Myeong-gil still wants to let Gun-woo work for him one day, let him use his boxing skills for him. Frankly speaking, it’d be a waste not to use them. There’s so much bright potential in the boy.
He’s like a shepherd dog, just as capable of protecting the sheep as he is of tearing their dumb bleating bodies apart.
If only he could see that, and forget all about his pesky little morals and principles…
But for now, this is his place.
This is how he can still serve Myeong-gil in his empire.
He’s already sopping wet and dripping in Myeong-gil’s palm, completely drenching his underwear. Myeong-gil pumps him gently a few times, pulling back the foreskin to rub the exposed head, the sensitive slit, and dig his nail in it, punching out a sexy little nngh from him.
“Careful,” Myeong-gil tells him, sensually nosing the scar on his cheek just as his thumb continues to rub, drawing another gush of wetness from him, “you want to be quiet, don’t you?”
His hand drifts lower, rolling soft balls between his fingers, drawn tight to the body, and massaging the taint, finding the pliant furrow of skin below. He breaches it, using Gun-woo’s own precome as slick. The boy is deliciously tight like always, virgin-tight, like the first time, and he can only get into him up to the first knuckle.
He pulls it out, before fucking it into him again, in and out, playing with his rim, stretching it, until he can wriggle his entire finger inside, quickly locating his prostate and grazing it with the side of a nail. Gun-woo convulses again, letting out something between a grunt and a low, dog-like whuff. His hand snaps tight around Myeong-gil’s wrist again, almost like he wants to push him off, but he doesn’t. He holds him there. Hand and chest shaking.
Myeong-gil gently circles his prostate, watching him fight himself, struggling to maintain his composure. It’s fucking beautiful.
For a while he fucks him with his finger, but it’s just one. It’s not enough. There are tears of frustration in Gun-woo’s eyes. He wants it out and he needs more.
Slipping the finger out, Myeong-gil returns with three. He has a thug’s hand, and three fingers are already as wide as a dick, but Gun-woo swallows them like a champ, making tiny little noises as Myeong-gil fucks him on them while continuing to massage his shaft with his palm.
He winks at a girl staring at them, blushing and hurriedly looking away when caught.
She probably thinks they are just a couple, playing their sex games. Too amorous and in love to keep their hands off each other.
Far more interesting is Mrs. Yoon who’s still standing at the counter as though frozen, clutching at it as if it’s the only thing holding her up. She looks like a wraith, as though all the blood has drained from her body.
Something cruel twists in his chest, twisting the sharp corners of his mouth too.
“Look,” Myeong-gil can’t help but say. “Look at your mom.”
Gun-woo shakes his head mutely, vehemently, seeming to dig his heels in about this, like the brat he is.
“Look at your mom or I’ll break all the fingers on her hand, one after the other.”
Left with no other choice, Gun-woo does, reluctantly raising both his head and his gaze, almost like he’s afraid.
And then he stops. He stops.
Mother and son look at each other across the café, as trapped and helpless, as powerless, as the other.
Gun-woo stares at her, eyes wide and vulnerable, mouth moving silently around words he can’t utter. Maybe more reassurances and pretty lies, like earlier.
He looks like a child, like he has been turned into one again.
Lips pressing to the conch of an ear, Myeong-gil whispers, “I know your father was a drunk. Did he hit your mother? Did he sometimes force himself on her? Did you watch, the way she's watching now? Did she like it too?” A low, mean laugh. “Did she like it, the little whore?”
He knows Gun-woo: the boy can take anything, can take any abuse, but he won’t stand for insults against his mom.
It makes him come back to sudden life. He’s livid, eyes ablaze with both hurt and rage, pushing a hand on the table, bucking in his seat and trying to shove Myeong-gil off him.
But it’s right then that blunt fingers jab into his prostate—all the fight bleeding out of him again.
He snaps taut, taut as a live wire, as one thousand fahrenheit and hot molten metal, hot enough to sting Myeong-gil’s fingertips, then collapses in on himself.
His head lolls, a puppet with its strings cut, all the lights going out behind his dark, sparkling eyes.
They are at half-mast, nearly closed, barely conscious, as he seems to focus on just breathing.
He’s biting the inside of his cheek. He has to be biting through flesh, and Myeong-gil wonders if he can taste blood in his mouth, sweet and coppery.
His thumb is on his taint, three fingers still knuckle-deep in him, fucking him, massaging his prostate from both inside and out, as Gun-woo can do nothing more than shiver and take it. The angle is awkward, not ideal to fit in more, giving Myeong-gil a crick in his wrist, but he still tries, nudging a fourth finger at the already thin, stretched rim.
Just as he manages to pop it inside, fleshy walls stutter and seize tight around his fingers, trapping them there, as Gun-woo comes, silently, without even making a sound. As though dead.
Myeong-gil milks him, fucking him on all four fingers, making sure to aim at his prostate, while grinding the heel of his palm against the base of his jerking cock until every last drop has been wrung from him and he’s squelching in his ruined underwear.
His arm is still casually draped around that broad back, to steady him, to comfort him, letting Gun-woo bury his face in his shoulder, wet mouth gasping against his neck, a pleasant sensation.
It’s almost like this is consensual. Like this is something Gun-woo wants.
If they were in private, he would pull Gun-woo on his lap, all useless muscle and weak uncoordinated calf limbs and shame, thick enough to drown in, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back, murmuring sweet nothings into his sweaty hair and holding him until the tremors wracking his gasping frame went away. But they are not, so he doesn’t.
Myeong-gil keeps his fingers in him, continuing to massage his hot, swollen prostate until his dick pulses again, sluggishly dribbling more come, adding to the sticky mess in his pants. He keeps them inside, filling and forcing him wide through the aftershocks, and then he slips them out, out of his twitching, gaping hole and his boxers, tucking him in and zipping him up again.
Looking at Gun-woo, making sure he’s looking right back at him, he raises his hand to lick off the white streaks coating his fingers and palm.
Gun-woo goes fetchingly pink, up to his ears, probably down to his chest too if Myeong-gil were to lift his sweater, push it up to his swallowing throat to bare his tits.
He cleans off the rest with a paper napkin, before finishing what’s left in his cup. It has gone cold by now.
“I like the coffee here. It’s good. I should visit more often.”
He makes to get up and leave, but then grabs Gun-woo by the back of his neck, licking hungrily into his open, surprised mouth, tongues sliding against each other, wet and filthy. He sucks on Gun-woo’s until he’s moaning, the sound muffled by aggressively nipping lips and teeth, sharing the taste of coffee and come between them.
The taste of being owned.
When he pulls back, the kid is all dazed eyes and red, swollen lips. Myeong-gil smiles.
Dragging his hand from Gun-woo’s sweaty nape to the side of his neck, gripping him there, feeling his warm, frantic pulse under his touch, fight or flight, fury or fear, a wild animal in a cage, he draws his thumbnail from one side to the other in a straight line. A beheading.
What need would he have of a collar?
It’s already there.