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Moonjo had watched Jongwoo long enough before they’d even officially met to know that he liked cats. He knows, by the way Jongwoo set out food for the strays around the back-alley hotel they’d temporarily had to stay at before making their way to one of Moonjo’s other apartments in a different city, that he still likes cats. His gradual warming to Moonjo’s violent and bloody hobbies—and Moonjo’s presence itself—over the past few months had not come with an increased tolerance to abuse towards animals the way it did with some other people. Not that Moonjo has any interest in hurting cats, anyway, even if he doesn’t particularly like them. He never wanted to join in on the twins’ torment of the nearby felines back at Eden and even before, and now after Eden he still does not once experience even the slightest desire to harm the strays that mill around the building.
This is especially because Jongwoo only seems to really engage with Moonjo when he asks things like how the cats are doing, or if they like the new food Jongwoo bought them, or if the injured gray one’s torn ear seems to be healing nicely. So even if Moonjo doesn’t grow to like cats, he does grow to appreciate their presence a little bit, because it’s so nice to have Jongwoo do more than just tolerate him. It’s so nice to see his expression shift into something other than calm apathy and silent acceptance of Moonjo’s presence.
But that was before. Now they’re in a high-rise apartment in a rich neighborhood far away from Eden and the shitty run-down housing units around it, and there are no stray cats here.
Moonjo wants Jongwoo’s attention again. He aches for it. And nothing he tries to say or do comes even remotely close to getting Jongwoo to talk to him again the same way he did when they were surrounded by strays—not even when he asks about Jongwoo’s writing.
The solution seems obvious.
They’re going to get a cat.
Moonjo sees exactly zero drawbacks to this idea. He doesn’t particularly like cats, but he doesn’t hate them either, and his apartment is big and cats are small, so it’ll be easy to put up with it. Given the care he’d seen Jongwoo lavish on the strays, it also wouldn’t be unfounded to assume that Jongwoo would take responsibility over all their new cat’s needs as well, so Moonjo would just have to provide the money for its care, of which he had plenty. And with a cat around, Jongwoo would open up again; he’d warm to Moonjo again. He’d give Moonjo a little more of the genuine attention he so desperately craved.
Jongwoo blinks twice, slowly, over the rim of his coffee mug when Moonjo mentions the possibility of a cat the next morning. His expression, which had been calm and closed as usual, does not otherwise change. And he says nothing.
Moonjo shifts his weight awkwardly. Jongwoo is...surely he’s happy? Surely it pleases him, that he can bring one of his beloved cats into their lives?
This would bring them closer together, right?
“Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo says, a little cautiously. “Do you... not want a cat?”
Jongwoo stares at him for a full minute (Moonjo counts). And then, slowly, he sets down his coffee mug, stands up, walks to the closet in the foyer and pulls his jacket from it.
Moonjo blinks in confusion. “ Jagi, where...?”
Jongwoo turns to look at him. “There’s a shelter a few blocks away,” he says. “I pick the cat.”
And then he's out the door.
Moonjo realizes there might actually be one small, tiny, unexpected drawback to his idea when Jongwoo comes home with the cat and he almost immediately begins sneezing.
He’s not allergic. There’s no fucking way. He would’ve known already, right? Since the twins had always tormented cats and lugged their dead bodies around, even if they’d never actually lugged their dead bodies around in his immediate vicinity. He’s just—
“She’ll stay in one room for now,” Jongwoo says. “I’ll let her start exploring the rest of the apartment after about a week, once she gets more used to the sounds and smells and everything. What room do you think first? Should I keep her in the bedroom? The study?”
Moonjo tries his best not to sneeze again. “Not the bedroom,” he says weakly.
“Hm. No, you’re right,” Jongwoo muses. “Smells too much like us. Well, I don’t spend too much time in the study so she’ll be a little isolated, but it’s probably the best spot. The bathroom is too small, and I don’t want to put her somewhere too busy and overwhelm her, either.”
He’s completely distracted by the cat in the carrier. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Moonjo struggles to hold back yet another sneeze.
The cat has been here for all of two minutes and Moonjo is already fucking dying. And Jongwoo is fucking enamored.
What in high fucking hell is he supposed to do now?
“I thought of a new name for her,” Jongwoo continues, smiling softly at the cat. “Her name at the shelter was Midnight. But I like the sound of Eve better. It’s simple and beautiful, and a little more unique. And she’s so sweet, too, isn’t she?”
The cat’s purring. Jongwoo is practically purring.
Fuck.
“She’ll have a raw diet, of course.” Jongwoo’s still talking about the cat—it’s the most Moonjo has heard him talk in weeks—and he hasn’t even spared a glance in Moonjo’s direction. He’d come back with some basic supplies as well and is currently bent over setting up the litter box. “Raw is most natural and the best for her health. But they were feeding kibble and canned wet food at the shelter—not that there’s anything wrong with that, especially given how underfunded they are, which reminds me to let you know I put down a donation of two hundred million for them with your card—it just means I’ll have to be careful how I transition her. I don’t want her throwing up all the time like I did when you first made me eat human.”
“I didn’t make you,” Moonjo corrects, as he tries not to reel at Jongwoo having given two hundred million won to the shelter—which is fine! He can spare it. It’s fine. “You ate it yourself.”
“Because you made me believe it was beef or some shit,” Jongwoo says.
“I did not!” Moonjo sniffs. “I didn’t specify. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever.” Jongwoo straightens and dusts off his hands on his pants. “There we go, litter box all set. I’ll get another one or two over the next couple days so the rest of the apartment is ready for when she starts free roaming. I want to get her a couple more cat beds, too, and of course a cat tree. And you’re okay with me drilling holes in the wall, right? I think it would be nice to have a little maze system she can run and jump on and get up high. Cats like being able to get up high, you know.”
“Whatever makes you happy, jagiya ,” Moonjo says, and immediately sneezes again.
“That’s settled then,” Jongwoo says, satisfied. “I’ll go to the pet store tomorrow. I’ll even let you join, since I’ll probably need help carrying everything. You’ll have time, right, Moonjo? You—” He breaks off abruptly. “Wait. You’re sneezing. Are you—are you allergic ?”
“No,” Moonjo says immediately. “Just inhaled some litter dust. Don’t worry about it.”
Jongwoo stares at him. “You’re allergic,” he says.
Moonjo feels slightly uncomfortable. “Not necessarily—”
“I got dust-free cat litter,” Jongwoo deadpans. “It’s not the fucking litter dust.” He picks up the cat carrier and shoves it (gently, because the cat is still inside it) in Moonjo’s direction, and Moonjo can’t help the instinctive flinch back and the ducking of his face into his sleeve.
And then he sneezes again.
God. The way his body fucking insists on betraying him—
Jongwoo stares for a full thirty seconds, and then, inexplicably, begins to laugh. Wildly. Hysterically. It would be delightful to see him so happy if only it wasn’t at Moonjo’s expense.
“You’re allergic ,” Jongwoo giggles, and he puts the carrier back down before he drops it in his mirth. “I can’t believe the terrible serial killer cannibal Seo Moonjo is allergic to something. This is the best fucking day of my life.”
“Is my suffering so enjoyable to you?” Moonjo retorts indignantly.
“Yes.” Jongwoo’s still giggling. “Having Eve around is going to be so fun. It’ll remind me that you’re actually human.”
Moonjo splutters. “Can we just—I’m not allergic. I’m just sneezing. But—fine, if you insist on keeping her around, she doesn’t come in the bedroom, okay? This particular human would like to be able to sleep in peace, at least.”
Jongwoo chuckles. He picks up the carrier and the litter box and heads towards the study in the back. “Okay, okay. For now. Only until you’re able to find allergy meds that work.” He grins back at Moonjo. “Since this particular human would like to be able to cuddle something in bed.”
What—Jongwoo could cuddle him, couldn’t he? There’s only one bed, and only one bedroom, and the two of them share both. It should be obvious, but Jongwoo doesn’t say it. Is Jongwoo going to make him beg for it?
Moonjo absolutely does not pout.
And he most definitely does not beg for it.
“I’m not allergic,” Moonjo grumbles instead, one last time, and Jongwoo just laughs and shakes his head as he closes the study door behind him.
Eve is a black cat. Obviously. Her name was Midnight back at the shelter, and most humans aren’t known for being particularly creative.
She is a long-haired black cat, with beautiful light green eyes. There’s a russet tint to her fur under sunlight, and her tail is fluffier than those of even the fattest of squirrels.
She is ridiculously clingy.
Jongwoo, of course, loves it. Moonjo tolerates it. He begrudgingly accepts when she brushes against his legs while he’s standing in the study looking for a particular book, because his new antihistamines actually work quite well and a dose of those plus keeping almost six feet of distance between the cat and his face is enough to keep the sneezing at bay. (Luckily, the sneezing seems to be his only reaction to her presence.) And it’s easy enough to maintain that bare minimum distance when she’s confined to the study the first week, since all he has to do is stay out of the study.
Things get harder when she starts free roaming the apartment.
He’d always known that cats liked heights, and he’d always known they were good at getting to those heights. He’d known better than to expect they had any hope of keeping Eve on the ground, where she was at least almost-six feet away from his face at almost-all times. He’d known this especially because as soon as all the bare necessities for the cat were set up, Jongwoo had immediately begun drilling holes in the wall for the ridiculous elaborate elevated cat maze and perches he’d been talking about.
None of these expectations are enough to prepare him for the sheer volume of sneezing that erupts from his body as soon as he neglects to take his antihistamines consistently, though.
It’s fucking infuriating . And Eve is fucking six months old. He’s going to have to deal with this for the rest of her long fucking life.
But Jongwoo is smiling more now. Granted, it’s all because of the cat. Or something related to the cat. Or something that doesn’t seem to be related to the cat at all on the surface but which is probably somehow related to the cat in Jongwoo’s mind. Unfortunately he never starts smiling because of something Moonjo says or does (unless it’s about the cat), but sometimes his smile does linger a little bit when he looks up at Moonjo—after petting the cat.
So Moonjo can’t quite bring himself to hate her. Even when—
“There you are!”
Moonjo looks up at the sound of Jongwoo’s voice. He feels a smile spread across his face when he sees the other man coming out of the study, looking utterly delighted to see him.
Finally .
“Ah, yes, jagi , I’ve been reading this new book—”
Moonjo breaks off as Jongwoo sweeps past him to crouch in front of the cat on the ground.
“I didn’t expect you to be so adventurous already, baby,” Jongwoo croons, as he lifts the purring cat into his arms and strokes her fur. “It’s your first week free roaming the apartment but you seem so comfortable with everything already! Is that right, little Eve-ie? Sweet little baby, making herself at home.” He plants a kiss on the cat’s forehead. “My most beautiful little girl, my beautiful little Eve-ie. I’m surprised you’re on the ground, though, I thought you’d be hiding up high somewhere! But it’s so great that you’re comfortable down here too. I think I’m going to get you some new toys later today, how does that sound? Isn’t that exciting?” He chuckles, kisses her forehead again before putting her gently back on the ground, and leaves the room without another glance.
Moonjo is dumbfounded.
He’s literally sitting right here . He'd even let the cat curl up by his feet five minutes ago.
Did Jongwoo just...not see him...?
Impossible. Ridiculous.
So Jongwoo must be doing it on purpose. And indeed, the next time Moonjo sees him, he must have let a little bit of confusion show on his face, because Jongwoo looks almost smug .
Moonjo tries not to feel a little bit indignant and hurt by this, though he can’t hold back the immediate surge of yearning that rises in him—the strange, utter want that Jongwoo’s satisfaction at his confusion makes him feel. It’s not like he’s made the ultimate sacrifice by bringing a cat home or anything, right? He doesn’t even hate her. He’s doing all this for Jongwoo, because of his affection for Jongwoo—can't Jongwoo see that?
Or—maybe the problem is that he’s not giving the cat enough affection, he quickly realizes. He’s no expert on love and romance, but it’s not terribly hard to see that people usually give affection the way they like to receive affection. Maybe Jongwoo will open up to him more quickly if he thinks that Moonjo also enjoys the cat’s company.
Eve.
Her name is Eve.
Referring to the cat by her name seems like a good place to start.
It’s not easy, pretending to love Eve. There’s an abyss of difference between not-hate and love; it’s the difference between how he felt towards Kihyuk versus how he feels towards Jongwoo. Kihyuk, he tolerated. Jongwoo, he cherishes .
He needs to learn how to cherish Eve. Or at least, put on a convincing enough performance that Jongwoo believes it.
He doesn’t have much experience cherishing humans. He has even less experience cherishing animals. But then again, even if he had plenty of experience cherishing humans, he can’t very well cherish Eve the same way he cherishes the single person he’s ever cherished—by trying to get her to see and honor her true self, to follow the strongest instincts at her core without regret or shame or inhibition. She’s a cat. She already knows she’s a killer, even if she’s not particularly artistic or good at it, judging by her skills in pouncing on his shoes.
So he tries to learn by studying how Jongwoo treats her. He can’t quite bring himself to approach the cat on his own, but letting her rub against his legs or jump up on his lap when he’s sitting on the couch is acceptable. He doesn’t seek her out for affection, but he bends down to pet her when she trots over and meows at him, and when he sees her watching him slice a prime cut of his freshest meat, he even gives her a few scraps.
(“You’re not going to feed her human meat,” Jongwoo had said, a few weeks ago when he’d first transitioned her to a raw diet. “She’s not going to develop a taste for it. She’s not going to become like you.”
“It’s not cannibalism if she’s a cat,” Moonjo had replied.
“You are not ,” Jongwoo had repeated, “feeding her human meat.”
“ You’re even eating human meat now,” Moonjo had pointed out.
“Did you not fucking hear what I said?”
“Jagiya, are you going to tie me down and beat me if I disobey?”
“I might. Asshole.”
Moonjo had paused to consider this. And then, not sure how exactly to interpret his immediate emotional and physical reaction to that particular image, he’d settled for what he’d hoped was a neutral smile. “Yes, jagiya .”
To that, Jongwoo had narrowed his eyes and stared hard at him for a few moments, his expression unreadable, before tutting his tongue and walking away.)
Anyway. Now, treating Eve is a delicate balance. On one hand, Moonjo tries not to let Jongwoo see that the meat he’s feeding her is human meat, because Jongwoo had explicitly told him not to do that, and angry Jongwoo is sexy Jongwoo but angry Jongwoo also leads to long spells of cold-shoulder Jongwoo, and cold-shoulder Jongwoo is exactly what Moonjo is trying to avoid. On the other hand, Jongwoo knows how much Moonjo values his meat and how he only bothers preparing the best quality cuts of it, so he would know it’s a compliment that Moonjo can bear giving scraps of it to a cat—it might even make him think that Moonjo treasures Eve almost as much as Jongwoo himself does.
Still, to better offset the risk of inducing angry cold-shoulder Jongwoo, Moonjo starts to buy things for Eve on his own, too. This is probably the easiest thing he’s done for her, because it involves the least amount of effort and sacrifice on his part; he has plenty of money to spare (even after the two hundred million won Jongwoo gave to the shelter) and even if he doesn’t know what Eve will most appreciate, if he buys enough things for her she’s sure to like at least something , right? So it’s a set of premium catnip mice one time; next it’s a fluffy new cat bed—heated, with memory foam. By the time half a dozen weeks have gone by since Eve’s adoption, she has more toys than he can even keep track of and he needs to buy more storage bins to hold all of them. Moonjo notes with pleasure that Jongwoo has started watching him when he comes home with the new items and presents them to the cat, and Jongwoo still isn’t really giving Moonjo much direct attention but sometimes he even takes one of the toys that Moonjo bought and plays with Eve with it, which Moonjo happily interprets as approval.
And it’s...cute. Moonjo doesn’t quite want to admit it. But Eve is cute, especially when she’s playing with one of Moonjo’s toys—not cute enough for Moonjo to want to pick her up, or cuddle her, or have anything to do with her litter box, but cute enough that he yields to Jongwoo once again and starts letting her into the bedroom.
Of course, she immediately starts trying to sleep on his face.
Honestly, how could he have expected anything else? Jongwoo finds his sneezing hilarious, and Eve seems determined to always provide Jongwoo with the best entertainment she can.
Still, Moonjo patiently tells himself this is fine. He can put up with it if it makes Jongwoo snort a laugh, or if it makes Jongwoo turn to face him when they sleep (even if that’s only so he can watch the cat as he falls asleep, and that it has nothing to do with Moonjo himself), or if it makes all the snarky complaints Jongwoo used to make about Moonjo only having one bedroom (and bed) in this apartment stop.
Jongwoo even reaches across the bed towards him one night, and Moonjo’s eyes go wide.
“Shut up,” Jongwoo says.
“I didn’t say anything—”
“Shut up. You were going to.” Jongwoo’s fingers don’t touch Moonjo’s cheek, but they come close, and Moonjo’s heart skips so many beats he thinks he might pass out.
Jongwoo pulls Eve off Moonjo’s face and tucks her into his chest, and she lets him without a hitch in her purring.
Moonjo is frozen.
“Fucking keeping her to yourself,” Jongwoo mutters, and promptly rolls over with Eve and goes to sleep.
Moonjo swallows hard as soon as he’s able to move again.
Yes.
He can put up with Eve in their bed.
He can put up with Eve on his face.
Speaking of their single bed. Moonjo has never considered himself an affectionate or romantic person—never considered himself a domestic person. Obsessive and possessive are better words to describe him. But seeing Jongwoo interact with Eve shifts something in him, brings forth something that perhaps had always been lurking in the back of his mind but had never been a priority. Because now, of course he still wants to mold Jongwoo into the best form of himself; of course he wants Jongwoo to accompany him on his hunts, to lend brushstrokes to his artwork, to ultimately make masterpieces of his own. But part of him also starts to want Jongwoo to reach for him for a casual touch over his morning coffee as easily as Jongwoo reaches over to scratch Eve’s ears as she lays beside him while he’s writing, or to come up behind him while he’s preparing the next chunk of meat and wrap his arms around his waist and demand a little piece of it for himself to taste.
He desperately wants Jongwoo to hold him down and kiss him.
He settles for watching Jongwoo smother the cat in kisses and pretending it’s him instead.
Jongwoo doesn’t reach across the bed again.
By the time three months have gone by since Eve’s adoption, Moonjo and Eve and Jongwoo have well-established ways of interacting (or not) with each other. He knows what to expect now, when he’s sitting on the couch with Eve; Jongwoo will come by at some point, lavish affection on the cat, and then walk out again without paying Moonjo any attention.
No matter. He’s patient. He can wait until Jongwoo comes around, which he’ll do eventually. He’ll accept a nod of greeting first, maybe even verbal acknowledgment of his presence if Jongwoo is feeling particularly generous. And then maybe a little later, there’ll be a bit of lingering in the room as they exchange brief conversation. Eventually, they’ll reach a point of comfortable, companionable silence, where Moonjo doesn’t have to be worried about the moment Jongwoo leaves him again.
Jongwoo walks in as expected one Saturday afternoon. He bends to scratch behind Eve’s ears with a smile, also as expected. And then he...sits down? On the couch? Right next to Moonjo?
Moonjo is more stunned than the first time Jongwoo had ignored him.
He turns carefully back to his book just in case, not wanting to do something to spook Jongwoo away. Not now, when he’s closer than he’s ever voluntarily been since Eden. But he doesn’t take in anything that he’s reading; the words blur together between the rapid pounding of his heart at Jongwoo’s unexpected proximity.
And then Jongwoo slips a hand onto his knee.
Moonjo feels like his heart stops entirely.
The hand stays there for a moment in silence. Still, unmoving, firm.
“Put it down, babe,” Jongwoo murmurs.
Babe. Moonjo swallows hard. Put—ah, yes, right; he closes the book and sets it down. He’d forgotten it was even in his hands—why are his hands suddenly shaking?
The corners of Jongwoo’s lips quirk in an almost-smile. “That’s it. Good boy,” he says softly, and Moonjo feels something in him shift alarmingly. He likes that. Jongwoo’s hand traces up Moonjo’s leg, along the front of his thigh to reach the crease of his hip, and his eyes are intense but focused on the movement of his hand instead of on Moonjo’s face. He presses his thumb gently into Moonjo’s hip, making Moonjo’s lips part in a gasp of surprise, and then the hand slips up to Moonjo’s flank, and he’s moving slowly but Moonjo is so stunned that he can barely make his brain process what’s going on before Jongwoo is straddling Moonjo’s lap and bending down to kiss him.
Moonjo thinks he might actually pass out.
“You’re hard already, babe,” Jongwoo says against his lips. “That’s cute.”
Ah, so he is. Is that where all the blood in his head has gone?
He hears a soft moan. It takes a moment to realize it’s coming from himself.
Moonjo doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with kissing (there had only been a little bit of that with Kihyuk), but it doesn’t take someone with experience to be able to tell that Jongwoo is a good kisser. He licks into Moonjo’s mouth, forceful and firm and gentle all at the same time, his hands coming up to cup his cheeks, his jaw. Moonjo can’t help but reach up to wrap his arms around Jongwoo’s shoulders, wanting to hold him closer, wanting to never let him go. He yields to him, arches against him, cants his hips upwards, kisses him back as well as he can. He almost can't believe he isn’t in a dream, because he never expected Jongwoo to come to him so quickly, so soon, so fully , and he wants, he wants, he loves —
But then Jongwoo betrays him, Jongwoo draws back , and Moonjo is helpless to do anything but what Jongwoo nudges him to do, which right now is to release him.
He must make a hurt little sound as Jongwoo stops kissing him, though, because Jongwoo shushes him by putting a finger to his lips. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” Jongwoo asks.
“Yes, Jongwoo-yah—” Moonjo begins to say, but then Jongwoo tuts softly.
“Just nod or shake your head. Don’t talk unless I tell you.”
Moonjo clamps his mouth shut and nods.
It’s the right thing to do, listening to Jongwoo’s every word; there’s a small smile of approval on the other man’s face, and Moonjo wants more of it. He wants to be surrounded by Jongwoo’s approval. He wants to melt under it.
Jongwoo’s touch shifts; he strokes Moonjo’s cheek with his thumb, and Moonjo shakes.
“Do you wanna fuck me, too?” Jongwoo murmurs.
Moonjo can’t hold back his groan. “Please,” he whispers, and then he remembers that he’s not supposed to talk and bites down on his tongue to stop himself.
“Sweet thing,” Jongwoo says softly. “Come here, then.”
He leads them to the bedroom and Moonjo follows desperately, eagerly, on his heels like a puppy, and Eve, their wonderful, clever girl, is smart enough to have no interest in coming with them. Moonjo can’t quite believe what’s happening—Jongwoo is here, Jongwoo is paying attention to him, Jongwoo wants him—
“Strip. Then get on the bed,” Jongwoo says, and Moonjo obeys with shaking hands and no questions. Jongwoo’s voice is firm but not harsh, and his gaze is unreadable and intense but not disgusted— not disgusted! —as it rakes over his body, over the scars covering his skin. Moonjo settles breathlessly on his back on the bed, and he’s obscenely hard now, so hard it feels like his whole body is throbbing, and Jongwoo hasn’t even touched him there yet—
“Hands over your head,” Jongwoo says, and Moonjo wants so badly to please him, and he doesn’t make him say it twice.
"Stay there,” Jongwoo says. He leaves the room for a moment, and Moonjo swallows as he sees what he’s brought with him when he returns: a roll of green duct tape. It’s the same kind of tape he used back at Eden when he was still playing around with his art subjects—the same kind of tape he still uses now when he knows he’s going to have to tie someone down.
He wonders briefly if Jongwoo is going to kill him now, then, but he quickly corrects himself. He knows Jongwoo won’t. Not yet, anyway, not here. And Jongwoo proves him right by binding Moonjo’s hands to the bedposts with layers of tape instead, his movements deft and practiced, as if he were Moonjo and had all his experience incapacitating his victims.
It’s decidedly extremely hot.
Jongwoo seems to know this.
“Good boy,” Jongwoo murmurs again, and Moonjo whimpers. He knows it’s pathetic the way the praise goes straight to his cock, but he doesn’t care; Jongwoo’s kissed him. And even if he hadn’t, Moonjo would do anything for Jongwoo. Anything his darling wants. He’s devoted devoted devoted and he’ll really do anything, he’ll whine, he’ll cry, he’ll kill, he’ll die —
And then Jongwoo starts to strip.
Whatever small capacity for rational thought that had been left in Moonjo’s brain immediately disappears.
“You liked taking pictures of me, huh?” Jongwoo says, as he drops his clothes in a messy pile on the floor and stands naked at the foot of the bed. He’s still semi-soft, but his cheeks are flushed as he palms himself, his throat pale and long as he tilts his head back and sighs at the touch.
He’s beautiful.
“You liked stalking me and watching me so much, didn’t you,” Jongwoo continues. “Looking at everything I did through the hole in the wall, listening to everything I said. Following me everywhere. Doing anything for my attention. Isn’t that right? Tell me, babe.”
Moonjo’s breath leaves him in a huff; when he speaks, his voice is a hoarse rasp. “Yes. I liked watching you. I still like watching you, jagiya . I wish I could see you all the time. Please. Everything. All of you.”
“Yeah?” Jongwoo’s mouth quirks in a grin. He takes himself in hand and gives his cock a long, slow stroke, and Moonjo whines again as he sees it harden to full mast, wants desperately to taste it, to feel it.
“Watch me now, then,” Jongwoo says. “Keep your eyes on me now. Don’t fucking try and look away.”
As if Moonjo ever could.
He climbs onto the bed and leans over Moonjo, caressing Moonjo’s lips with two fingers. Moonjo kisses at them with a whine, chases them with his mouth, wanting to touch Jongwoo and wanting Jongwoo to touch him, and then Jongwoo grips his jaw hard with his other hand and holds him firmly in place with his grip. “Suck,” he commands, and Moonjo does.
He takes Jongwoo into his mouth, softening his jaw so his teeth do nothing more than graze at knuckles, pressing his tongue against the pads of Jongwoo’s fingers and tasting, inhaling, absorbing everything Jongwoo gives him. Jongwoo hums approvingly, fucking Moonjo’s mouth with his fingers as Moonjo moans and sucks and feels a line of spit run disgustingly down his chin as he swallows around the tips of Jongwoo’s fingers. Jongwoo’s grip on his jaw is bruising, and Moonjo wants it all over him. He wants Jongwoo to choke him, whether it’s by shifting the grip on his jaw down to his neck and tightening (hot) or shoving his fingers down Moonjo’s throat (even better); he wants Jongwoo to hurt him, to destroy him, to pull him into pieces. To cut him open like he did that day in Eden.
“That’s it. That’s good, Moonjo-yah,” Jongwoo murmurs, as Moonjo, eager for praise and eager to please, leans up to take more of Jongwoo in his mouth, as he takes him a little too deep and chokes and coughs but refuses to pull back. Jongwoo fucks his mouth a little longer, coating his fingers in spit and humming as Moonjo swirls his tongue around his knuckles, and then he must decide that it’s enough, because he withdraws his fingers from Moonjo’s mouth and kneels back with parted legs and slips a finger up inside himself like it’s nothing.
“ Ah ,” Jongwoo sighs, his eyes fluttering closed and his back arching. “Yes. That’s it. That’s good.”
That’s hot. Moonjo whimpers. His cock is straining between his legs, he wants to be able to touch it, he wants Jongwoo to touch it, and he’s so hard it hurts and he’s pulling at the tape holding his hands to the bedposts, but Jongwoo’s perfect, he’s restrained Moonjo perfectly, and Moonjo can’t move.
He hates it.
He loves it.
“Should I add another?” Jongwoo asks softly. “Do you want to see it, babe? Do you want to see as I open myself up for you? Tell me.”
“Yes,” Moonjo whispers, and it comes out as a gasp. “Please, jagi , let me watch.”
Jongwoo’s lips quirk in a smile. He shifts so Moonjo can see him better, and Moonjo whimpers again as he sees a second finger disappearing into the cleft of Jongwoo’s ass, as he hears Jongwoo give a little hum of pleasure. Jongwoo is so beautiful, so pretty, golden like a lithe young god as he fucks himself with fingers that Moonjo slicked up for him, the gentle light of the nightstand lamp casting warm shadows over the muscles of his body. There’s a light sheen of sweat beading his skin now, and it makes Jongwoo shine, makes him almost glitter , and he’s so perfect, and he’s here, and he’s giving himself to Moonjo, and his pleasure comes out in another little sigh—
“Ah-ah, not yet,” Jongwoo says; a hand closes firmly around the base of Moonjo’s cock just as he starts to feel the white-hot surge overwhelm him, and Moonjo almost cries.
“Jongwoo,” Moonjo says. Begs. “Jongwoo, jagiya, please, I—”
“Shh,” Jongwoo murmurs. “Don’t talk now, honey. Just be patient for me. Wait for me. Don’t want you coming before you’re inside me. You’ve gotta get me off first, right, love? Make sure I come first.”
It’s the first time Jongwoo has touched him there, and it’s to stop him. Moonjo really could cry right now.
“Right there,” Jongwoo says, and releases him slowly when Moonjo bites his lip and nods. “Hold it just like that. Perfect.” He goes back to fucking himself again on his fingers, and Moonjo can see how he’s twisting and scissoring them, how he’s rotating his wrist, how he teases at his opening with a third. He mirrors the way Jongwoo bites his bottom lip, squirms as he watches Jongwoo touch himself with his free hand—rubbing rosy nipples to hardness, dragging his palm down the sleek lines of his body to stroke his cock, to cup his balls—and Moonjo twists and arches and yearns for something, everything, anything at all, against his own body, against the hardness of his own cock.
“You’re gonna fuck me good, aren’t you?” Jongwoo murmurs with a grin at Moonjo’s suffering. “You’ll hold it so you can be so good for me once I’m ready. You’re so eager, I can see it. How does it feel?”
He’s so fucking hard. “Hurts,” Moonjo whispers, squirming, and squeezes his eyes shut before remembering that Jongwoo told him to watch him, to not look away. “It hurts, Jongwoo, I want—I need—”
“Be a good boy and wait for me,” Jongwoo says, and the way he says it doesn’t sound like an order—nothing he’d said thus far sounded like an order—but his words might as well have been chains, for what power Moonjo had to resist them. “Can you do that? Will you be good? I’ll touch you if you’re good. Can you do that for me, baby?”
Yes, but—
“Wanna fuck you,” Moonjo whispers. He’s begging, again. “Let me fuck you. Please. I want it so bad.”
“Shh, I know.” Jongwoo huffs a laugh. “Look at you,” he says. “So wet for me.”
He’s right; Moonjo’s leaking, and he knows it. He’s making a mess. It should be humiliating, this lack of control he has over himself, but he can’t think about that right now. He just needs Jongwoo to touch him, because how can Jongwoo sit there fucking himself and touching himself and expect Moonjo to be able to just lie there and watch, take it all in and yet be able to do nothing—
But that’s the point, isn’t it? To make Moonjo watch for as long as Jongwoo feels like it? To torture him with this.
Jongwoo pushes a third finger in, and his mouth falls open at the feeling. “ Ah , yes,” he breathes. “That’s good.”
“Wanna feel you,” Moonjo pleads again. He strains at the tape, feels the burn and pull of it against his skin. Loves it. Wants it to mark him forever, so he can always carry the brand of what Jongwoo has done to him. The culmination of months and months of waiting. “Jongwoo, please, I need you, I want to feel you, I want you to touch me, it hurts—”
“Tsk. What did I say about talking without permission,” Jongwoo says with a raised eyebrow, his voice a little breathless, his cheeks flushed, and Moonjo shuts his mouth and sincerely wants to cry.
“I do want to hear you moan, though,” Jongwoo says. His eyes are half-lidded as he gazes down at Moonjo; Moonjo could drown in the glittering darkness of them. “The noises you make are so pretty. They’re even prettier when you shut up and stop running that stupid mouth of yours. So will you moan for me, jagiya ? Will you cry for me?”
Moonjo does. He can’t deny Jongwoo anything. And Jongwoo’s lips curve in a smile as he whines and whimpers, and Moonjo watches Jongwoo finger himself and aches to be the one doing it to him instead. He wants to beg; he wants to plead. He wants Jongwoo to know how much he needs him.
But Jongwoo knows that already, doesn’t he? He has to. He can see the way Moonjo is shaking for him, hear it in the way Moonjo’s voice breaks as he moans. It’s obvious in the flushed straining of Moonjo’s cock; Jongwoo doesn’t need Moonjo to tell him in words.
“Have you fucked anyone before?” Jongwoo asks, after a few more minutes of arching and rocking back onto himself, and Moonjo dutifully keeps his mouth shut and shakes his head.
“Good.” Jongwoo slips his fingers out, leans down and presses the ghost of a kiss to Moonjo’s lips. “I can take you raw, then.”
Moonjo—he doesn’t know what to call the sound that tears its way out of his throat. But that’s what it does; it tears him. It breaks him. Jongwoo breaks him.
Jongwoo climbs over to straddle him, and Moonjo almost comes just from the feeling of Jongwoo lining himself up and pressing his entrance against his tip. It’s too much already, Jongwoo is so warm, and when he pushes the head of Moonjo’s cock past his rim and slides himself down he’s so wet and hot and soft inside, so tight, and Moonjo can feel the way Jongwoo moves above him to settle himself more deeply on his cock. His heart is pounding akin to murder and it’s throbbing in his loins, and he can feel the pulse of it in his cock, even tighter now that he’s inside Jongwoo—fuck, he’s inside Jongwoo —
“Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo gasps despite himself, and Jongwoo hums and catches his gasp in a kiss. Moonjo wants to hold him; he wants to caress Jongwoo’s face and wrap his arms around his shoulders and touch the softness of his flushed skin. He wants to hold Jongwoo’s cock in his hands and stroke him off the way he likes, wants to make Jongwoo feel good; he wants , and he’s desperate, but Jongwoo has his hands bound, has him splayed and helpless beneath him, and as Jongwoo surrounds him Moonjo swears he can feel Jongwoo’s heartbeat too—or is it just the echo of his own—fuck, it doesn’t matter, he’s inside Jongwoo and Jongwoo wants him too, and he wants Jongwoo to move but he also knows he wouldn’t be able to bear it—
“Fuck me, babe,” Jongwoo says softly, and Moonjo can’t help it when he comes.
It’s white-hot. It’s blinding. It leaves Moonjo gasping and arching and his toes curling into the sheets, his hands fisting and twisting in the restraints.
“I’m-I’m sorry,” Moonjo gasps, sobs, as soon as—before—he’s able to draw breath again. “I’m sorry, Jongwoo, I didn’t mean to, I tried—”
Jongwoo hums, rocks his hips, smiles as Moonjo whimpers and cries at the friction against his oversensitive cock, which is still fucking pulsing. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Moonjo says again anyway, and his eyes are burning, his vision turning blurry at the edges, because for some reason he feels terrible, he feels humiliated , he’s had his impulsive moments but he’s never lost control like this before, not during sex, not in front of someone he desperately wants to please, not when he'd specifically been ordered to let Jongwoo come first—
Jongwoo stops the tracks of his tears with his thumb. “We’ll just get you up again,” he says gently. “It’s alright. But you know it was a mistake, don’t you? So I’m going to have to hurt you a little bit now too. Will you be a good boy and let me?”
(“Jagiya, are you going to tie me down and beat me if I disobey?”
“I might. Asshole.” )
Fuck.
“Yes,” Moonjo says immediately, desperately, tilting his head and chasing Jongwoo’s touch with his lips, wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him, as if Jongwoo’s permission for Moonjo to grant him affection was akin to his forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Jongwoo-yah, I couldn’t hold it. I’m sorry—please hurt me. Please. Do whatever you want to me, I can take it, I promise.”
“I know you can,” Jongwoo says. “Because it’s me, isn’t it? Because you’ll do anything for me.”
“ Yes ,” Moonjo gasps. “Yes, Jongwoo-yah, anything.”
“Because you love me,” Jongwoo murmurs, and kisses him deeply. Moonjo sobs into it, and Jongwoo wipes away his tears, catches his gasps on his tongue and swallows them. He’s canting his hips gently, rocking Moonjo back to hardness, playing at one of Moonjo’s nipples. “Do you like this? Does it feel good?” he asks, and Moonjo’s exhale is a helpless whine. His shoulders ache with the way he’s been struggling against his restraints, with the way he’d spasmed through his orgasm.
“Jieun liked it when I did this to her,” Jongwoo continues softly. “She was sensitive here too.”
Jieun. Through the pleasure, Moonjo feels a lick of anger settle low in his gut. Does Jongwoo still think about her? Is he still thinking about her now, while he’s sitting across Moonjo’s hips with Moonjo inside of him? While he’s kissing Moonjo?
Jongwoo chuckles, and his fingers curl around Moonjo’s throat. “Jealous, are we?”
The fingers tighten; Moonjo lets out a choked groan. He’s fully hard again already, despite the rush of anger, and he knows Jongwoo must be able to feel it too; he starts moving, fucking himself slowly as Moonjo lays helpless and fuming at the thought of Jieun.
“You’re gonna hold it this time though, right?” Jongwoo says. Moonjo knows his grip will leave bruises in the morning— if he wakes up in the morning, anyway; he’s starting to feel a little dizzy from the tightness of Jongwoo’s hold. But the pleasure of that—the ecstasy of Jongwoo drowning him— is starting to drown out the anger. “You’ll hold it back for me. You’ll wait until I let you.”
Moonjo tries to nod. Jongwoo clenches around him as he goes down and Moonjo thinks he might pass out.
“You feel good, Moonjo-yah,” Jongwoo whispers. He’s still fucking himself slow, so slow and good, and Moonjo can barely process anything anymore, he can barely feel anything, but he also feels everything, and it’s too much—
And then, just before Moonjo feels like he’s about to go unconscious, Jongwoo releases him. “Don’t worry,” he says, and there’s the slightest shake in his voice, the slightest break of composure that makes Moonjo tremble and blush even as he gasps for breath, makes the last of his anger and jealousy melt away. “I don’t think about her anymore. It’s just you now, babe.”
Moonjo blooms. “Just me,” he gasps. “Just me.”
“Yes.” Jongwoo’s hands slip down to Moonjo’s chest, to his flanks, to his belly, and his touch is in turn gentle and bruising, sometimes stroking flushed, sweat-slicked skin, sometimes brushing against a nipple and making Moonjo’s hips jerk, sometimes holding him and tightening to the point of pain, fingers digging deep in and around Moonjo’s ribs and hips as Jongwoo fucks himself, head tilted back and thighs quivering and breath gasping.
“Fuck me deeper,” Jongwoo says, as if Moonjo isn’t already thrusting up to meet him, as if it doesn’t already feel like the deepest Moonjo can go, bottoming out in Jongwoo’s body—but he tries anyway, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes as Jongwoo squeezes around him down there and as the grip of Jongwoo’s hands squeezes his flanks, as he grinds his hips up and Jongwoo arches; and then, there —
Jongwoo lets out a soft cry. Moonjo echoes it, partly in pleasure and partly in pain as Jongwoo’s hands tighten on him even further. He wants to touch, he wants to hold, but the most he can do is shift his aching shoulders a little bit. He hasn’t been helpless this way with anyone else before, ever, and he doesn’t want to ever be in the future either. But with Jongwoo it’s different. He’ll let Jongwoo do whatever he wants to him. He’ll lie here bound for eternity if Jongwoo wanted it.
“I can see you inside me,” Jongwoo gasps. “Look.” And he’s right; through watery eyes Moonjo can see the faint shape of himself moving in and out of Jongwoo’s belly, and the sight goes straight to his head.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, jagiya —”
Jongwoo huffs a breathless laugh; he shifts one of his hands from Moonjo’s flank to his own stomach. “I almost wish I didn’t restrain you completely now,” he says. “Wish you could put a hand on me and feel this. Feel the way you mark me even from the outside, too. It’s so fucking hot, babe.”
Moonjo moans. It’s Jongwoo who echoes him this time, and as the other man leans down to press their bodies together Moonjo can feel the hard press of Jongwoo’s cock between their bellies. Moonjo wishes desperately there were a way they could both be inside each other at the same time, and he can’t tell for sure but he might have said it out loud because Jongwoo bites him then with another moan, sinking his teeth into his throat, and Moonjo keens. Pain blossoms under Jongwoo’s mouth, and he wonders headily how hard Jongwoo will bite, if he’ll go far enough to draw blood, to sever his jugular and let him bleed out here on the bed; he wonders if his greatest creation will grant him his most heavenly death, his most reverent blessing—
“ Ah, Jongwoo —” Moonjo bites back a cry as Jongwoo’s fingers push deeper into his belly, thumb digging in and dragging down from his sternum, along the bottom of his ribs and deep enough that Moonjo imagines Jongwoo could even feel his kidneys all the way back near his spine, and when Jongwoo reaches the bottom curve of Moonjo’s ribcage he starts again one rib higher up, going as deep as muscle and skin and bone will allow without cracking—
“I want to peel this back,” Jongwoo gasps against Moonjo’s throat. “All of this skin. Want to open you up and see how you’re put together.” He huffs another laugh. “Think you could give me an anatomy lesson on yourself?”
Moonjo shakes. It hurts. It feels divine. It feels like Jongwoo will make every soft part of him bruise.
“There’s knives in the kitchen, jagi ,” he says unsteadily. “You could carve me. I’ll show you.”
“Someday I will, when I'm ready to eat you,” Jongwoo promises breathlessly. “But you gotta teach me what to look for first. What’s under this bottom rib, babe?”
Moonjo knows. He’s taken apart enough bodies to know even if he hadn’t learned anatomy as part of dental school.
“L-liver,” Moonjo bites out through the pain, through the pleasure. “Stomach on the other side. A little higher on the left and you get the spleen.” He groans as Jongwoo’s touch shifts accordingly.
“Here?”
“Yes.” Pain flares sharply; Jongwoo’s using his nails now.
“Told you I’d hurt you,” Jongwoo says, and his voice is unsteady—delighted. He likes this, Moonjo realizes. He likes hurting Moonjo.
The realization very nearly makes Moonjo come again.
“You can live normally without it, right?” Jongwoo breathes, rocking his hips back. “Without your spleen.”
Moonjo huffs a tight laugh. “Yes. Mostly. Why, do you want to dig it out of me?”
“I might.” The nails draw blood, and Moonjo gasps.
“What else could you spare?” Jongwoo asks. There’s a bright, manic shine to his eyes; he’s taking Moonjo apart in his head even as the tightness of his body on Moonjo’s cock is taking him apart here on the bed, and Moonjo loves it, he loves the way Jongwoo is unfurling and blossoming, growing into himself—
“A kidney? You can live normally without both, right? Or without part of your liver? Appendix? What else?” Jongwoo’s hands push deep again, at the level of his navel this time, like they’re trying to breach the layer of skin and fat and muscle and peritoneum and hold Moonjo’s organs in his hands, like he wants to carve a hole in the cavity of Moonjo’s belly and rip pieces of him out through it.
It hurts, and Moonjo’s heady with it. He doesn’t tense up to resist; he keeps his body soft and pliant instead, as if it would better let Jongwoo in through his walls. He wishes he could will his ribcage into splitting open so Jongwoo could slip his hands even deeper into him.
“Gallbladder,” Moonjo gasps. “A lung, surprisingly. An astonishing percentage of the intestines. Just not all of the above at once.” He laughs tightly again. “Teeth.”
“Ha. I’m not pulling out your teeth, Moonjo,” Jongwoo says. “I’m not you.”
No, he’s not. He’s Jongwoo.
He’s perfect.
And he’s still fucking himself on Moonjo’s cock through all this; steady, incessant. Like he’s focused on stroking Moonjo off instead of on his own pleasure. “Where exactly is the gallbladder, anyway?”
“A little higher, and to the right,” Moonjo says, and grits his teeth at the pain, at the pleasure. “Just under my liver.”
“Ah, so lower than the spleen. Next to the pancreas, right?”
“Mm.”
Jongwoo’s grin is feral. “I’ll pull it all out of you someday,” he promises. “I’ll take you apart with my bare hands, once you teach me how; so much of it that you won’t be able to live anymore. But I’ll go slow. You like yielding to me, don’t you? Deferring to me. You want to see me experiment. So I want to see how pliant you can really be before all the flesh that holds you together starts to tear. I want to feel how much I can bend and stretch you before it all rips apart. I won’t even sedate you because I know you’d want to watch. Right, babe? And even then, even unsedated, you still wouldn’t fight me, because it would be a death fit for both of us.” His nails drag sharply, and beads of blood well up in their wake. “How far down can your lungs go, when you breathe in? Down to this bottom rib? What about when you exhale?”
Moonjo tells him.
“Beautiful, babe,” Jongwoo whispers; Moonjo’s breath flutters. His cheeks are wet.
“Your lungs only inflate because of your diaphragm, you know,” Jongwoo says softly. “That single, thin layer of muscle which pulls down into your abdominal cavity and sucks air into your lungs. Without that muscle, without that seal, there’s no breathing. There’s no muscle in the lungs themselves to prevent them from collapsing. But yes—you know that already.” His eyes flutter closed briefly. “I’ll puncture that last, then, when I kill you. I’ll make sure you’re able to breathe through everything, until the very end, when I finally let your lungs collapse so you suffocate to death. I’ll make sure you’re awake the whole time I tear your body apart. I promise. You’ll be able to tell me your favorite recipes for every bit of you that I rip out. And I’ll enjoy it.”
Ah. Here he is, finally; Jongwoo unfurling into his full glory. Jongwoo coming home to himself. Jongwoo realizing that everything Moonjo had told him, everything Moonjo had tried to show him, was the truth.
And Jongwoo admitting it to them both.
Moonjo feels like he’s in heaven.
Jongwoo works his way up Moonjo’s body, bruising and bleeding between every rib, and he’s losing control too, Moonjo can tell; his rhythm stutters and gets faster, and he clenches down on every little noise of pain and pleasure that escapes Moonjo’s throat.
His touch reaches Moonjo’s upper chest, a few inches under his collarbones, at the tapering end of the scar that lies there. “And here’s the heart,” he whispers; it’s not a question.
Moonjo answers anyway. “Yes.”
The pressure doesn’t let up, but Jongwoo’s hands still in their movement. “Mine,” he says.
Moonjo’s eyes close; he tilts his head back and he arches up into the bruising pain of Jongwoo’s touch. “Yours.”
Jongwoo shudders, and his hands slip around Moonjo now, under his shoulder blades to press them tightly together almost like an embrace, and his mouth is on Moonjo’s throat again, his tongue rasping over the cartilage and his lips sucking a bruise. “Mine,” he repeats, and there’s teeth now again too, sharp and stinging, marking.
Moonjo doesn’t want to wait for Jongwoo to pull him apart. He wants Jongwoo to hold his heart now .
They rock together, as close as two bodies could ever be while both still being whole. Jongwoo’s letting out soft little moans with every thrust—or is it Moonjo—or is it both of them? Because with his eyes closed, Moonjo can almost believe that they’re one, him and Jongwoo, that Jongwoo’s pleasure is his own too, that he can feel every surge of sensation through Jongwoo’s body. He can’t tell them apart anymore. The mix of sweat and blood is slick between their bodies, and Jongwoo feels so good, and then Moonjo mumbles something like I love you and Jongwoo comes suddenly with a gasping cry of Moonjo’s name.
Moonjo comes too, then, with a sob, with Jongwoo’s hands and lips on his throat. It might be the clench of Jongwoo around him as the other man comes which pushes him over the edge a second time; it might be the sharpness of teeth under his jaw. It could be the feeling of Jongwoo’s thundering heart as they lay pressed together, or the knowledge that the sudden hot wetness between their bellies is because of him , because of how he made Jongwoo feel.
Or it could be the way Jongwoo holds him and whispers yours, yours, as he shakes.
It takes him a long time to come down. When he does, Jongwoo is laying over his chest, his lips pressed against the numb skin of Moonjo’s scar, his eyes large and dark as they watch Moonjo’s face.
“You love me,” Jongwoo murmurs.
Moonjo shivers. “Yes. Yes, jagiya . Always.”
He feels Jongwoo’s lips curve in a smile. He lies there for a few more moments, basking in the post-coital afterglow, and then he sits up. He guides Moonjo’s softened cock out of himself gently, and then he leans up to free Moonjo’s wrists from the restraints he’d so deftly crafted out of tape. The tape stings as he removes it, and Moonjo winces, but he enjoys the pain. It would be such a delightful reminder, come tomorrow, of what Jongwoo had given him tonight.
Jongwoo’s touch lingers. “Can you feel anything on them?” he asks.
“Hm?”
“Your scars,” Jongwoo says. His grip is firm on Moonjo’s left arm as he massages feeling back into it. “Do you feel anything if I touch them?”
Ah. “Not really,” Moonjo says. “Pressure, maybe. But not much else.”
Jongwoo’s hands are warm, and the pressure they apply doesn’t hurt this time. He takes his time returning the circulation to Moonjo’s hands, and then he gets a towel and begins wiping Moonjo clean. He’s...gentle. Tender. His touch is a caress.
Moonjo had expected to be used.
He hadn’t expected aftercare.
He hadn’t expected care.
“How did you get them?” Jongwoo asks eventually, as Moonjo knew he would. The question was inevitable.
“My mother beat me,” Moonjo replies, and shivers a little as the towel drags over the tenderness of an already-forming bruise. “Usually my body was good at healing. But there were times when Mother was a little too harsh.”
“Your birth mother? Or Mrs. Eom?”
“Both.”
The motion of Jongwoo’s hands stills for a moment. “What about your father?” he asks after a pause. Some of the furrows he’s raked with his nails are still oozing blood, and he dabs at them with a corner of the towel.
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Moonjo tilts his head. “He died when I was very young, so I don’t have much memory of him. But I suppose I’ve had some of these scars since before I can remember, too.”
Jongwoo finishes wiping down Moonjo’s body before he begins to clean himself, and he’s silent for a long time. “Did you become an orphan because you killed your mother?”
Moonjo’s lips twitch in an approximation of a smile. “Maybe.”
“Hm.” Jongwoo pauses, and then he leans down and presses a slow, chaste kiss to Moonjo’s lips. “She deserved it, if she beat you like that. They both did.”
Moonjo feels his grin widening. “Why, getting possessive of me now, jagiya ? I’m only allowed to hurt when it’s you causing it?”
“Of course.” Jongwoo says it like it’s obvious. “It’s what you deserve. And it’s what you want, isn’t it? You liked me hurting you.”
“Mm. Sure did, jagiya ,” he murmurs, still grinning. “Liked feeling like your hands were inside me. Liked when you put them around my throat and held me down like that.”
Jongwoo chuckles, drapes himself over Moonjo and traces the outline of something on his bare chest. “We could get you a collar, then, if you like it so much,” he says. “You could wear it under your turtlenecks or something, cinched a little too tight, pretending it’s my hands. You could wear it around like you’re my little puppy. Would you like that?”
Moonjo hums; the suggestion makes him feel warm inside, even if Jongwoo sounds like he’s teasing. “My heart is yours. My throat is yours. My everything is yours. I’ll be your hunting dog if you want.”
“Want me to add a little dog tag too, then, so everyone knows?” Jongwoo smirks. “With my contact info in case you wander off somewhere and get lost?” His smirk widens and his teeth nibble at Moonjo’s jaw. “Or an ‘aggressive dog’ warning. Name: Seo Moonjo. Dangerous; will bite. Contact Yoon Jongwoo if found.”
“‘Will bite.’ Tch.” Moonjo snorts. “Of course I bite people. It’s called chewing.”
Jongwoo’s teeth close sharply, and Moonjo gasps in surprise.
“I’m chewing,” Jongwoo says smugly. But then he pats Moonjo’s chest and sits up. “Come on,” he says. “We should get properly cleaned up. And I need to feed Eve.”
“What if I’m still hungry, too?” Moonjo says innocently, with a very not-innocent smile. He knows he’s just had two orgasms in less than an hour. He knows he’s not a hormonal teenager anymore and might not have the stamina to muster up a third. And yet —
Couldn’t Eve wait, just a little bit longer?
Jongwoo rolls his eyes. “You do know that it’s only because of Eve that you just got laid, right? I still wouldn’t have even looked in your direction if you hadn’t gotten my attention first by getting a cat for us.”
“For you,” Moonjo corrects.
“For us ,” Jongwoo insists. “Shut up. I’ve seen how you dote on her too—and don’t give me any bullshit about how you were just faking it for my attention, or I really will never give you any attention again.” He stands and slides off the bed, pulling Moonjo up with him. “Let’s go shower. And then I’ll feed Eve. And then we’ll see after that, depending on how pathetically hungry you still are.”
“I’ll still be hungry,” Moonjo promises, still smiling, and he can’t resist pulling Jongwoo in for a kiss, his heart fluttering in delight when Jongwoo leans into it too. “Always hungry for you, babe. For your touch. For your cock—in my mouth this time, please.”
“For my love?”
Moonjo moans helplessly. “ Yes .”
Jongwoo chuckles. “Eve first,” he says.
Moonjo yields. Eve first. This is all because of her, after all.
And as if she knows they’re talking about her, as if she firmly believes she has every right to be smug and demanding for what she’s contributed—which she definitely does believe; she’s a cat—Eve meows from outside the door.