Chapter Text
Gi-hun knew the moment he walked in that the last session would be the hardest.
Not because of the poses, or the time holding still, or the ache settling constant in his spine. But because of the man in the front row—head bent, pencil poised, eyes lifting the second Gi-hun entered, catching him like a hand around the wrist.
The class hadn’t begun, and already Gi-hun’s pulse was uneven. In-ho looked up. Not with the cold, dissecting stare Gi-hun remembered from the first session, but with something quieter. A smile, small and almost private, flickered across his mouth.
The flutter in Gi-hun’s chest hit fast and reckless. His heartbeat picked up, thudding hard enough to make his breath catch. He felt absurdly raw, every step into the room a kind of exposure, nerves jangling under his skin. He tried to look away, to fix his attention on the battered velvet of the platform, but that soft curve of In-ho’s mouth kept tugging him back. It was nothing. It was everything.
Professor Park’s voice cut through the rising hum of Gi-hun’s blood: “For our last, let’s really push it.” He was already moving, gentle but firm, guiding Gi-hun’s limbs into place. One foot braced wide, calf flexing. Torso twisted, arm raised as if clawing for balance, the other drawn low across the hip. Shoulders pulled open, chest exposed, neck bared. It was a posture of tension, every muscle strained and visible.
It hurt. Instantly. The twist in his back, the exposed line of his throat, the white burn in his quads. Gi-hun held still, fighting the urge to flinch. Sweat prickled under his arms. His jaw locked tight.
But it was his mind that was working over time. Trying not to think of In-ho. Trying not to think about what he would do to replace the money he would be missing out on in the coming weeks.
Trying not to think about In-ho.
But several times he made eye contact, and In-ho was watching him with open hunger.
Minutes stretched like pulled taffy. Gi-hun's muscles trembled beneath his skin, sweat collecting in the hollow of his throat. Each time he dared to look, In-ho's eyes were there waiting, dark and intent, pencil suspended mid-stroke. The scratch of charcoal against paper filled the room, punctuated by Professor Park's occasional murmurs of encouragement. Gi-hun's breath caught when In-ho's gaze traveled down the length of his torso, lingering at the curve where hip met thigh. A flush crept up Gi-hun's neck that had nothing to do with the strain of holding the pose.
When Professor Park finally called time, the relief in Gi-hun's body was immediate – muscles uncoiling, joints softening. But something else remained taut, a wire pulled tight between himself and the man in the front row who was now slowly packing away his supplies, eyes still finding Gi-hun's across the emptying room.
Gi-hun was halfway to the changing room when footsteps approached from behind. He turned to find In-ho standing there, sketchbook clutched against his chest, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples.
"Wait," In-ho said, voice pitched low enough that others couldn't hear. His eyes darted to the remaining students filing out, then back to Gi-hun's face. "I have a project. An independent piece I'm working on." His fingers tightened on the sketchbook. "I'd very much like you to be involved."
Gi-hun's throat went dry. "Involved how?"
"As a model. For me." In-ho shifted his weight, a rare display of uncertainty. "I'd pay you, of course. Same rate as here. For your time."
Gi-hun's lips curved upward, his eyes dropping to the floor before meeting In-ho's again. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his robe, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
"You have a quality," In-ho continued, his voice dropping lower. "It’s been a long time…a really long time since I’ve had a muse inspire me quite like this." His fingers tightened around the sketchbook.
“Whatever you want," Gi-hun said, the words tumbling out before he could consider them. "I mean—I'm available. For the project."
In-ho nodded once, then flipped to the back of his sketchbook where a blank page waited, then handed the book to Gi-hun. "I’ll need your number," he said, holding out a pencil that had been tucked behind his ear. "So I can arrange the details."
Gi-hun took them and scribbled the digits quickly, his handwriting embarrassingly messy compared to the elegant charcoal lines he'd glimpsed in the sketchbook. When he handed everything back, their fingers brushed—a brief, electric contact that sent heat crawling up Gi-hun's neck.
In-ho's smile spread slowly, revealing a small dimple in his left cheek. "I'll be in touch soon," he said.
He held Gi-hun's gaze for a long moment, before packing his sketchbook away in his bag and turning on his heel. Gi-hun watched him leave, the straight line of In-ho's back receding through the doorway. Something unfurled in his chest—a warmth that spread outward like spilled ink, pooling beneath his ribs. His heart knocked against them, a quick, uneven rhythm that felt dangerously like hope. He pressed his palm flat against his sternum, as if to contain it, but the feeling only intensified—this bright, reckless thing he hadn't felt in years.
He’d be counting the days util he saw In-ho again.
***
Gi-hun stood on the sidewalk outside In-ho's building, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wiped his palms against his jeans and took several deep breaths of the cool night air that did nothing to slow his racing heart. In-ho’s phone call had been replaying over and over in his mind: the way his voice had dropped low when he'd said, "I've been thinking about the shape of your body. I need to work with you again." The way each word had seemed to travel directly from Gi-hun's ear to his groin. After hanging up, he'd barely made it to his bedroom before his hand was down his pants, eyes squeezed shut, imagining those artist's fingers on his skin instead of his own.
He paused before buzzing In-ho’s apartment number. Part of him hoped—no, knew—that tonight would end in sex. He wasn’t sure if that made him more or less nervous. With one last, deep breath, he pressed the buzzer.
In-ho's voice came through the intercom a moment later. "Come on up," he said. “Third floor.”
The stairs felt endless. Gi-hun tried to steady his breathing with each climb, but it was near impossible when each step brought him closer to whatever waited above. His checked his reflection in the window on the second floor—hair messy as always, shirt buttoned wrong in his nervousness. He fixed it with trembling fingers then started on the final set of stairs.
In-ho was already waiting in the hallway, leaning against his doorframe. He straightened when he saw Gi-hun, then stepped aside to let him in. He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a loose white shirt already flecked with paint, sleeves rolled up. No trace of the controlled intensity he wore in class, but the focus was still there, humming quietly beneath the surface.
“Before we start,” In-ho said, closing the door behind them, “I want to be clear about what we’ll be doing tonight.”
Gi-hun nodded immediately. “Of course.”
In-ho looked strangely nervous. “I want to paint you.”
“Umm…yeah? That’s what I thought?”
“No,” In-ho said, a flush of red crawling up his cheeks for a moment, before he swallowed and his resolve appeared to set. He looked back at Gi-hun with that intensity he had grown accustomed to. “I want to…paint…you.”
He crossed to a workbench, already loaded with paints and brushes, and handed Gi-hun a magazine. On the cover was a model—slender, beautiful, and naked, painted head to toe, like a living work of art.
“Oh,” Gi-hun said softly.
“As I said before, I’ll pay you for your time, of course,” In-ho said. “Whatever they were paying you for the sessions, I’ll match it.”
The knot in Gi-hun’s chest tightened, just a little. If In-ho was emphasising that he would be paid, did that mean nothing would happen between them?
He pushed the thought away for now. “And… what exactly will you be painting?” he asked.
In-ho crossed to the worktable and opened a sketchbook, flipping it around so Gi-hun could see. The page held a detailed study: two koi carp, intricately scaled, circling one another in a slow, endless loop.
“They’ll wrap across your torso and back,” In-ho said. “Flowing with the muscle. The movement matters more than realism. I thought—” He hesitated, then corrected himself. “I know your body will suit it. You hold still well.”
Gi-hun swallowed, eyes still on the sketch. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I can do that.”
There was a beat of silence—charged, but contained.
“So,” In-ho said, licking his lips. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Gi-hun's hands moved clumsily, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. The fabric caught against his skin, sticking at the collar, then the cuffs, his fingers suddenly thick and stupid. He shrugged the shirt off, folding it in a rough, silent bundle on the edge of the table. When he looked up, In-ho's eyes were tracking the movement, lingering on the hollow of his throat. Jeans next. He fumbled the button open, and pushed them down over his hips. In-ho's breath hitched—barely audible, but unmistakable. Gi-hun stepped out of them, bare now except for underwear, and then that too, peeled down, left draped over the pile.
He stood. Everything exposed. In-ho's gaze traveled over him slowly, deliberately, no longer pretending this was just about art. His breath came short. The air felt cold, but his skin prickled with heat wherever In-ho looked. Sweat gathered at the small of his back, trickled down his spine. He waited. Jaw tight. Staring at In-ho's hands, which trembled slightly as they reached for the first brush.
The paint was colder than he expected. It hit his skin with a shock—a slick, icy kiss to his exposed hip, a line of blue that made every nerve spark. He flinched. Couldn’t help it. The jolt ran up his side, visible, ungovernable. He heard his own voice break the hush: “Sorry. Sorry.”
But In-ho didn’t pull back. Didn’t scold. He just kept steady pressure with the brush, tracing the trembling muscle. His voice, when it came, was low and certain: “Don’t be. I like it.”
Gi-hun stared at the wall, heat flushing to his ears. The paint moved cold and slow across his ribs, mapped by careful hands, each stroke leaving him more exposed. He tried to hold still, but the sensation kept catching him off guard, and with every flinch, he caught In-ho’s smirk widening just a little.
Each new line startled something awake—a shudder, a twitch, the pulse hammering just below the surface. Gi-hun bit the inside of his cheek, jaw tight, hoping to kill the next flinch before it started. He glanced down, catching a glimpse of golden-orange scales emerging where In-ho's brush swept over his shoulder, the koi's body beginning to curl down toward his sternum.
But it kept happening. Each stroke a trap, sharper than the last. In-ho began on the second koi, its tail swooping around his stomach, and the brush pressed in, slow and deliberate. The bristles dragged, a wet chill blooming where scale met skin, and Gi-hun's whole stomach jerked, breath escaping him in a ragged sound he couldn't quite smother.
In-ho shifted closer. The heat from his body pressed in as he dipped the brush again. This time, he reached out, cupping Gi-hun’s jaw with paint-stained fingers. The touch landed like a brand. Thumb sliding up, slow, deliberate, dragging a blue smear across the high curve of Gi-hun’s cheekbone. In-ho held him for a moment, before shifting his focus to the paintbrush in his hand, and painting a sweeping curve of gold just beneath his left eye. Every stroke left a trail of cold, but it was the warmth of In-ho’s palm that nearly undid him.
“Hold still,” In-ho murmured.
Gi-hun tried. He tried to focus on the wall, on the lamp, on anything but the drag of that thumb tracing the hinge of his jaw, the fingertips splayed so wide they nearly bracketed his whole face. The grip was careful, almost reverent, holding Gi-hun steady while the cool drag of the brush circled his eye, a bright slash of pigment blooming into the hollow. He tried not to move. Tried not to shudder at the opposite sensations—the hot, reverent touch of In-ho’s fingers, and the distant, surgical chill of paint settling into flesh.
He wondered if In-ho could feel it—the way his pulse hammered beneath the skin. Of course he could—there was no hiding it. He closed his eyes, willing the heat to drain away, to dissolve into something bearable. He needed to think of anything else, anything that might slow the spiral threatening to rip through his composure. He tried numbers first—the rent, the bare shelf in his fridge, the overdue electric bill waiting like a fist in his mailbox. He gripped at shame, at memory, at the thousand small humiliations he couldn’t quite forget: the neon chicken suit, his ex-wife’s voice clipped and cold, the way the landlord’s mouth bent in a sneer every time he was late with his payment.
At last In-ho stepped back for a moment, his gaze raking over every inch of Gi-hun’s body, then coming to rest on Gi-hun’s cock.
In-ho licked his lips and took a step closer, falling to his knees in front of him.
He had no idea how he was supposed to retain his composure.
He didn’t. Not for more than a second.
In-ho's hand moved again, impossibly steady. The brush, loaded with pale pink, hovered for a moment over Gi-hun's cock. Then In-ho looked up, his eyes meeting Gi-hun's with an intensity that made breathing impossible. Without breaking that gaze, he reached out with his free hand, fingers wrapping firmly around the base to hold him steady. The brush touched down along the shaft, the bristles dragging a line of paint from tip to base, so slow it was nearly obscene.
Gi-hun's cock twitched involuntarily against In-ho's palm. He tried to fight it, forced every muscle to lock tight, to will himself limp, but it was pointless. The heat flushed up his chest, sweat prickling on paint-slick skin, but his dick thickened in In-ho's grip, an ache that spiked through every attempt at restraint.
In-ho didn't flinch. He watched, eyes narrowed, as if this was the moment he'd been waiting for—the second Gi-hun gave up the illusion of control. The brush pressed in, bolder now, tracing veins, circling the head with meticulous attention. Each stroke left Gi-hun harder, more desperate, until the tension between them became unbearable.
"Do you think this would be easier after?" Gi-hun said at last, his voice trembling.
"After?" repeated In-ho, his voice full of mock innocence. "After what?"
Gi-hun stared at him. The words sat on his tongue, impossible and obvious, thick as blood. He waited for In-ho to look away, to give him an out, but there was nothing but that steady, unblinking gaze.
He wanted to laugh. To shrug it off, turn it into a joke. But everything in this room had been peeled down to nerve and heat.
He swallowed, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“After you fuck me,” he said.
The silence that followed was absolute. He heard his own heartbeat thundering, too loud, ricocheting off the studio walls. His voice came again, ragged, raw: “That’s really why I’m here, right?”
The words cracked the hush. In-ho’s hand stilled, and for a moment, the air was thick enough to bite.
In-ho watched him, eyes narrowed, mouth parted slightly around the threat of a reply. The seconds stretched. Then, with a breath so quiet it barely lifted his chest, In-ho’s focus seemed to settle, darken. He pressed the bristles to Gi-hun’s hip again, dragging a slow, cold line up toward the hollow of his waist.
“…You don’t hold back,” In-ho murmured, voice edged with something raw. The bristles slid slow, paint trailing fire over bone. “Honestly—I didn’t think you’d say it out loud.” Each word punctuated by the stroke, deliberate, pressing in. “But I suppose you’re right. That’s one reason why you’re here.”
The words broke something loose in him. Relief and desire in equal measure. He let the air out of his lungs, a shaky, half-laughed sigh falling from his chest. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding away, leaving only hunger and the strange, dizzy freedom of being seen. No secrets left. No need to pretend.
Gi-hun let his eyes find In-ho’s, steady and dark and wanting.
“So stop pretending,” Gi-hun said, voice low, rough around the edges. His pulse was a living thing now, kicking against his ribs. He was done waiting. “If that’s why I’m here, then…kiss me.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t try to make it easier. He just stood, naked and painted, throat open, waiting for In-ho to close the distance.
In-ho stood up before him then stepped in, close enough that Gi-hun could smell the faint trace of aftershave under the tang of paint. His eyes tracked over Gi-hun’s body, slow and deliberate, cataloging every shimmer of pigment, every rise and tremble of breath.
He didn’t reach for him, not at first. Just hovered there, hands steady, gaze raking over the work he’d done. The koi, bright and impossible, swirling across ribs, hip, the ripple of water over the low sweep of thigh. Blue trailing upward in a shiver of movement, white and silver bleeding toward the hollow of his throat, lotus flowers sitting amidst the water, pink and delicate.
In-ho’s voice, when it came, was a rough scrape: “It almost feels like a shame. To ruin something like this.”
His fingers hovered just short of the paint, not touching, but close enough to make Gi-hun ache for it.
He didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.
All the air had gone thin, trembling on the edge of what would happen next. In-ho’s fingers hovered, steady and merciless, tracing the wicked red curve of a koi’s tail with nothing but shadow and intent. Gi-hun’s skin sparked, raw and electric, nerves drawn out to the surface wherever the heat of In-ho’s hand passed.
And then, finally, In-ho’s hand landed. Bare palm, paint-smeared, splayed flat against the center of Gi-hun’s chest—a claim more than a touch. The heat of it cut straight through the chill of paint, searing the line of the sternum, pinning him open. The sensation slammed through him: a shock, a jolt, something primitive and trembling. All the air squeezed from his lungs. His nerves sang.
Gi-hun didn’t wait. Didn’t think. Instinct took hold; he bent, mouth grazing In-ho’s, searching for resistance and finding none. Their lips met in a collision of hunger and relief, weeks of wanting folding into a single, breathless moment. The taste of pigment, faint and bitter, clung between their teeth. In-ho’s hand crept upward, locking at the nape of Gi-hun’s neck, anchoring him there. Holding him steady. Refusing to let go.
Then In-ho’s other hand drifted lower, cool and paint-stained, mapping the trembling planes of Gi-hun’s stomach. The pressure never wavered. Downward, slower now, thumb tracing a line down until his palm cupped the heavy heat of Gi-hun’s cock. For a moment he just held him, seemingly savoring the ache that shivered through Gi-hun’s body, the tense stillness that begged for more. Then his fingers closed, sure and unhurried, paint and sweat slicking the grip.
He worked him with clinical precision: slowly pulling up, twisting at the head, then down, harder, like he was sculpting a shape from raw hunger and nerve. Each stroke pulled a stutter from Gi-hun’s breath, a tremor that echoed straight to his knees.
Gi-hun’s hands moved without thinking, desperate and greedy, fumbling for the edge of In-ho’s shirt. The cotton was slick beneath his palms, already damp with paint and heat. The buttons resisted him, small and stubborn, but he forced them open one by one, his breathing ragged in the hush. He wanted to see. Needed to see. For all the hours he had been laid bare beneath that gaze, he’d only ever had his own hunger, his own guessing, his own hands in the dark. Now, finally, he could touch what he’d only imagined—the hard line of muscle, the ridges of bone, the impossible warmth beneath skin.
He tore the shirt loose. Paint from Gi-hun’s hands smudged, orange and blue and white, across In-ho’s chest. He stared, stunned. For a moment, he couldn’t move. In-ho was nothing short of beautiful. The paint stood out against the pale stretch of skin, streaking over the ridges of his chest. Gi-hun’s gaze greedily raked downward, taking all of it in. The cut of In-ho’s collarbones, sharp and defined. The long line of his neck, tense and corded. His chest rose and fell, slow at first, then faster as Gi-hun kept staring.
He looked lower. The slope of abs, each muscle defined with ruthless clarity. The plane of his stomach, leading down to the impossible geometry of the v that cut beneath In-ho’s waistband. For a second, Gi-hun forgot to breathe.
He reached out, fingertips trembling. His hand landed just below In-ho’s breastbone, gentle at first—a sketched outline, barely a touch. He dragged his fingers down, mapping the ridges of muscle and tracing the heat beneath In-ho’s skin.
The waistband of In-ho’s jeans bit tight against his knuckles. For a moment, Gi-hun hesitated. The space between them crackled—a breathless, electric hush. He fumbled at the button, thumb catching, desperate for purchase, until it came loose with a giving snap. Then he slid the zipper down, exposing a band of dark fabric and the shape beneath, already heavy and straining. Gi-hun’s hand shook. He didn’t try to hide it. He pressed his palm against the line of In-ho’s cock, feeling the pulse, the heat, the proof of all that wanting.
In-ho’s breath stuttered, then his hand came up, sudden and rough, catching Gi-hun’s wrist. He held Gi-hun there, pulse fluttering under his palm, the urgency sudden and absolute. For a second, neither of them moved, then In-ho’s voice landed rough in Gi-hun’s ear, shoving past all the gentleness he’d used before. “From the first moment you stood up there, I wanted this.” The words were unapologetic. “You walked onto that platform, and I couldn't look away. Not for a second.”
He tugged Gi-hun forward, so close there was nothing but a whisper of breath between them. “I want you,” In-ho said. “…right now.”
In-ho’s mouth crashed into his, hard and hungry. Gi-hun staggered back into the edge of the worktable, the pot of brushes tipping over and clattering away, as In-ho pressed their bodies together. Paint smeared everywhere—in the crease of Gi-hun’s elbow, up the side of his neck, crushed between their chests.
Gi-hun gasped, breaking the kiss for half a heartbeat. “Shit, the paint—it’s getting everywhere—I’m ruining it…”
But In-ho only chased him, lips slick and reckless, voice a rasp of want against Gi-hun’s ear: “Don’t care. I want you messy. I want you like this.”
He barely had time to breathe before In-ho’s hands pulled him even closer, already crowding out every scrap of doubt. The edge of the workbench dug cold and unyielding behind his thighs.
Gi-hun’s lungs hitched as In-ho’s grip tightened, fingers bracing hard, hauling him off-balance and onto the bench in a single, seamless drag. His feet left the floor, the movement knocking the air from his chest, as In-ho’s lips claimed his once again.
In-ho broke away first. For a moment they just stared at each other, noses brushing, paint smearing across their jaws, both of them breathing like they’d run for miles. Then In-ho’s hands slid down, paint-slick, grabbing at Gi-hun’s thighs and spreading them apart, wide and helpless on the edge of the bench. The strength in his grip left no doubt: he wanted Gi-hun open. Wanted him ruined.
The air went thin, and he trembled, back arching as In-ho’s mouth dragged down his neck, down his chest, teeth scraping a stuttering line through the ruined artwork. Lower, lower, until nothing existed except the pressure of that mouth, the heat of breath, and the dark, hungry eyes fixed on the pulse at Gi-hun’s cock.
He half expected teeth and a rough, brutal heat—the same hunger that had been written in In-ho’s eyes for weeks now. Some part of him braced for it, chest tight, thighs shivering on the edge of the bench. But when In-ho’s mouth closed around him, it was slow. Careful. Tongue first, tracing the smudged, painted line from root to tip, almost reverent. The first touch made Gi-hun jolt, breath stuttering loud in the charged hush. The wet heat of it was a shock—not just the slick, obscene glide, but the patience behind each stroke, the way In-ho dragged his tongue under the head, lips soft around the ridge, like he was memorizing shape and taste and sound. Each bob of his head was unhurried, delicate, at odds with the bruising grip he kept on Gi-hun’s hips. Gentleness, where there could have been violence. Worship, where there could have been ruin.
He held Gi-hun in his mouth like something sacred, his movements unbearably slow. The swirl of his tongue, the hollowed heat, every careful pull at the head sent shudders spiraling up Gi-hun’s spine. He gripped the bench, knuckles whitening, thighs trembling where In-ho’s hands kept him open. Every time Gi-hun’s hips strained upward, desperate for more, the pressure would ease just enough to drive him mad. A tongue dragged along the underside, savoring the twitch and pulse. Then a breath of cool air, then the wet heat again, deeper, pressing right to the edge and then retreating. Over and over. The repetition was relentless.
He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe. The need built again and again, and In-ho just kept going, edging him closer, keeping him right at the edge of obliteration. Everything in the room blurred to a single point: the wet pop each time In-ho let his cock escape, then the patient, savoring drag as he took him back in. Gi-hun’s thighs burned, his muscles quivering, while sweat pooled in the hollow of his back.
“Please,” he heard himself gasp, his voice ragged and barely human. “Please, fuck, I can’t—I need to—”
In-ho’s mouth sealed around him, hard, merciless, and everything shattered.
He came hard, legs trembling, thighs locked around the edge of the workbench. The world whited out, nerves gone electric, every muscle straining for release. Hot pulses shook through him, one after another, tearing moans right out of his chest.; He heard his own voice, small and stunned, scraping up from somewhere deep. “Fuck. Oh, fuck…”
But In-ho didn’t let up. He worked him through every spasm, his mouth unyielding. Gi-hun’s oversensitive cock twitched, each stroke a fresh shock to the system.He tried—and failed—to catch his breath. His vision blurred, black creeping in at the edges—but In-ho’s fist stayed locked around the base of Gi-hun’s cock, milking the last shudders out with a brutal, patient insistence that bordered on worship. His mouth, wet and painted, lingered for a final moment at the tip, tongue teasing out every last tremor until Gi-hun was nothing but nerve and ache.
Only then did In-ho let go. He rose up slowly and deliberately, paint, sweat, and the remnants of Gi-hun’s release smeared wild across his jaw and down the column of his throat. Gi-hun stared at him, completely stunned, and he felt In-ho’s eyes bore back into him, gaze dark and unguarded, as if he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
For a long moment, In-ho only stood there, breathing hard, reverence in every line of his body. In the hush, he looked almost religious: jaw clenched, throat working, chest rising with each ragged breath.
“Stay right there,” he said.
Gi-hun couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. He watched, dazed, as In-ho walked to an adjacent room, then returned carrying a bottle of lube. He didn’t say a word. Just came forward, slick bottle in hand, gaze never leaving Gi-hun’s face. Each step closed the air, thickened it, until Gi-hun’s pulse tripped so fast he thought it might choke him, his body still thrumming with the last aftershocks of release—
He allowed In-ho to flip him over and bend him forward, a rough hand at the shoulder, the other cupping his hip. The table was cold beneath his torso. His cock, still wet and twitching, pressed against the wood. He heard his own breath in the hush, jagged and loud, every inhale thinner than the one before.
He braced himself as he heard the sound of the cap flipping open, shuddering at the sensation of the cold slide of lube between his cheeks. At first a single finger pressed in slowly. The pressure built, not sharp but insistent, and Gi-hun’s body flinched, back arching off the table in a helpless arc.
In-ho didn’t stop. He pressed deeper, working the slick into him, careful and patient. Twisting, scissoring, opening him up with a gentle precision. Each time, a little more. Each time, Gi-hun’s body gave a little further, nerves shivering at the edge of sensation, until the burn faded to ache; the ache to heat; the heat to a need that hollowed him out and left him shaking and desperate for more, until finally his voice broke, ragged and pleading: “Please. Just fuck me. Please.”
Paint-smudged hands cradled his hips, firm but tender. There was a pause—In-ho's breath warm against his neck, a whispered,"Tell me if this is too much." against his ear. Gi-hun nodded, throat too tight for words. The initial pressure came gradually, In-ho easing forward with careful restraint, giving him time to adjust with each shallow movement.
The first stretch brought a gasp, not pain but fullness, a warm ache spreading through him like watercolor blooming on paper. His chest pressed against the cool wood, fingers curling against its smooth surface. Above him, In-ho moved with attentive patience, each gentle rock of his hips punctuated by soft, encouraging murmurs. Each motion was a mix of artist's precision and lover's devotion.
The strokes deepened, each one more certain than the last. In-ho drove forward, buried to the hilt, and the words spilled out between clenched teeth and stuttering breath.
“I thought about this every night,” he said, voice rough in Gi-hun’s ear. The next thrust came hard, wrenching a helpless sound from Gi-hun’s throat. “I wanted you so bad I couldn’t fucking sleep.” The rhythm built, and every time In-ho rocked into him, the confession cam tumbling out of him. “Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. I fucked my hand thinking about how you’d sound, how you’d look when I finally got inside you. Even then it wasn’t enough.”
The bench knocked against the wall. The world had narrowed to the slick, wet sounds, and the hot rush of breath. “It’s better than I imagined. Better than anything,” In-ho hissed, and his hips snapped forward again.
Gi-hun was already spent, cock twitching against the wood, still raw from the last orgasm, but it didn’t matter. The friction, the rhythm, the obscene pressure of In-ho grinding into him—all of it lit a fresh fuse, a second pulse of need he’d thought impossible. His body needed this, needed the man behind him: he felt himself getting hard again, helpless to it, seared by the heat of those words, the promise of being wanted this much.
He choked on a laugh, wild and breathless. “I waas the same.” The words cracked, pulled straight from his chest. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not for a second. Not since the first session.”
In-ho’s rhythm stuttered, then broke. He pulled out hard, dragging a raw moan from Gi-hun’s throat—a sound too loud, too exposed, hanging naked in the air. For a split second, nothing filled the empty ache except the throb of loss, the brutal, sudden absence where just a moment ago In-ho had been.
Then hands grabbed him, rough and sure, flipping him over on the bench to face In-ho. Their eyes locked for one electric moment before In-ho hoisted him up by the thighs. The world spun—a blur of sweat, paint, and wall closing in as In-ho carried him three stumbling steps backward. Gi-hun's feet barely touched the ground before he was lifted higher, spine pressed flat to the cool plaster, shoulder blades scraping against it as In-ho pinned him there.
His breath caught; he clung to In-ho's arms for balance, legs already split wide around In-ho's waist. No warning. No time to brace. In-ho drove into him in one savage thrust, holding him suspended against the wall like he weighed nothing. The shock of it rattled through every bone. Gi-hun gasped, head snapping back against the plaster, his hands scrabbling for purchase, nails biting into In-ho's shoulders, every nerve lit up, raw and exposed.
He locked his legs tightly around In-ho’s waist, desperate for leverage, desperate for more. Every thrust drove up into him, precise and unrelenting. The angle was perfect—Gi-hun felt each stroke deep inside, his body jerking helplessly with the impact. Pressure built, white-hot, blooming behind his ribs, each snap of In-ho’s hips hitting that sensitive spot inside him with ruthless accuracy.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. The world narrowed to the slick slide, the punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin on skin. Each time In-ho bottomed out, Gi-hun’s vision fractured, pleasure spiking so sharp it bordered on pain.
The pressure began to build once again. It was merciless, electric, the kind of need that made his vision blur at the edges. He wanted to warn him. He tried, but the words came out broken, torn up by the heat of breath and the slam of bodies. “I’m—I’m gonna come again, fuck, I’m close, don’t stop, don’t stop, please just—”
In-ho drove into him, each thrust sharpened by intent. There was no slack, no mercy. Gi-hun felt the pressure whip through him, electric and brutal, every nerve raw and exposed. The need overwhelmed thought; his cock jerked between them, already aching, every stroke blurring the world white at the edges.
He shattered. No warning, nothing delicate. The second orgasm ripped out of him, hot and helpless, splattering between their bellies, painting both their skin and what was left of the markings. The sound it wrenched from his throat was loud and desperate, a raw thing clawing up from his chest. In-ho crushed their mouths together, swallowing every broken gasp, every whimper Gi-hun couldn’t contain. The rhythm of their bodies barely faltered, and Gi-hun couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just clung to In-ho’s shoulders as though falling to pieces.
In-ho broke away, panting, his mouth slick and stained with blue. " Can I…?" The words trembled, fevered and low, barely controlled. " Can I come inside you?"
Gi-hun didn't trust his voice. He just nodded, wild, frantic, clinging tighter, legs locked around In-ho's hips. In-ho's rhythm changed instantly—faster, his control fracturing with each thrust. Then his body went rigid, muscles seizing under Gi-hun's fingers. A groan tore from In-ho's throat as he buried himself deep, pulsing hot and wet inside him. Gi-hun gasped at the sudden liquid warmth flooding him, intimate and primal.
For a few seconds, they just hung there together, muscles locked, faces close enough to feel the tremble of every exhale. In-ho's gaze cut through the haze, sharp and dark, something feral simmering behind the exhaustion. He pressed their foreheads together, jaw clenched, his hands still fisted in Gi-hun's thigh and hip. Gi-hun stared up at him, stunned by the force of it, by the way In-ho looked at him like there was nothing else in the world worth seeing.
And then, all at once, In-ho shifted. He tilted his head up and caught Gi-hun’s mouth in a bruising kiss, then without putting him down, he carried Gi-hun away from the makeshift studio, away from the work bench, and down the hall. In-ho shoved open his bedroom door, and dropped him on the mattress.
Gi-hun landed hard, paint and sweat and want smearing straight through the white sheet. Instinct made him flinch, twisting sideways, half-laughing, half-helpless, “Shit, you’re ruining your bed. The paint’s everywhere.”
In-ho didn’t hesitate. He crawled in after, dropped beside him, the heat of his body crowding out logic. “Good,” he said, voice soft but absolute. “I want it to stay here. I want to see it tomorrow. Proof of what happened” Then he looked at Gi-hun, really looked, eyes bright and stunned like he couldn’t believe his luck.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Just breath, raw and shallow, and the mess they'd made blooming wild between them. And In-ho's gaze, fixed on Gi-hun with something that felt like recognition—like he'd been searching without knowing what he was looking for until now. Gi-hun reached up, traced the smudge of blue paint across In-ho's cheekbone, and felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile he couldn't contain.
It was almost a joke, how fast the marks had blurred, all those careful koi and impossible lines smudged to chaos. Not much left of the original except a shimmer of scale at his shoulder, a flicked tail across the hollow of his hip. Everything else was gone, ruined by want. He looked down at himself, then at In-ho, who even now watched him with that hungry, intense focus.
After a minute, Gi-hun nudged In-ho's ribs with his elbow. "Guess you'll have to paint me again."
In-ho's head dropped back onto the pillow, a smile already forming. His chest rose and fell against Gi-hun's side as he caught his breath. Then laughter bubbled up, warm and genuine. "What, now?" In-ho turned to face him, eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing through the blue haze on his mouth. "Can't get enough of being my canvas?"
"Maybe I want to be the artist next time." Gi-hun grinned, reaching out to trace a fresh smudge across In-ho's collarbone. "You'd make a pretty good canvas yourself."
The mattress dipped as In-ho rolled toward him, propping himself up on one elbow. His hand found Gi-hun's chest, drawing lazy circles over the dried paint. "I think it's better we stick to our respective roles, don't you? It takes a long time to learn how to paint."
Gi-hun's throat tightened. He picked at a flake of blue paint on his forearm, not quite meeting In-ho's eyes. "We have time though, right?" His voice came out smaller than he intended. "It's not like this—us—is a one-time only deal?" The question hung in the air, fragile as tissue paper.
The corners of In-ho's lips tilted up in a lazy, warm smile. "You're right," he said. "We have all the time in the world."
