Chapter Text
Gi-hun wrung his hands, a nervous habit he’d sworn he’d kicked by now. It made him look twitchy and immature. Like a teenager—an awkward one at that—rather than the grown man he was. He let out a breath, smoothing his palms down the sides of his shirt.
It was the nicest shirt he owned—which, frankly, didn’t mean much at all. The button-up was more button-less, with the bottom three having popped off God knows where, leaving thread-ridden holes in their wake. The cuffs were frayed and folded just the wrong way, and the collar stuck up in the back no matter how many times he tried to press it into place.
But the fabric was dark and (mostly) stainless, and if he tucked the edge of the shirt in, the missing buttons didn’t cause too much of an issue. He’d rolled the sleeves up to hide the cuff problem, and Gi-hun had thought—looking into the mirror with a hint of satisfaction—that he didn’t look quite like his world was on the brink of collapse.
Anyways, he’d wanted to dress nice.
He knew this wasn’t the most… conventional job interview— interview? Would he be interviewed? Hopefully not —but dressing up rather than down felt like the right choice.
He stood in front of the door to a bustling bar. The place was way out of budget for him—believe that if it wasn’t he would have been in there before—and people cast him sidelong looks as they shouldered past him.
Each of them were decked out in black-and-gold finery, all smooth leather and tight-fitting satin. He watched a woman walk by with maybe six gold piercings—in her left ear alone. She gave him a black-lipsticked smirk, her eyes scanning him up and down. She was, as he took it, thoroughly unimpressed.
God, what was he doing here?
Well, currently? He was loitering.
Which he should… probably stop doing.
Gi-hun grimaced, reaching up to slide the dark mask over his face. It’d been handed to him by the suited doorman, and he’d been outside fidgeting with it for a long couple of moments. The plastic was smooth as it slid over his skin, cool and unyielding. The mask covered everything but his mouth. He shrugged out his shoulders, feeling the high-pitched buzz of nerves under his skin.
Yet another person body-checked him on their way in, barely casting a glance backwards to mumble an apology. Gi-hun stumbled, straightening with a huff. Right. Fine. Point taken.
He turned the handle of the door with a trembling hand, ducking into the space with his heartbeat loud in his ears.
The door swung open smoothly, opening with it the drone of a dozen voices murmuring at once. The noise hit him before the perfume of the room did—it smelled like citrus and whiskey, smoky and laced with sweetness. Dim and warm from the combined body heat of all of the patrons, the bar felt like a bustling hive, alive with sticky-sweet voices.
Gi-hun heard the door click closed behind him. He wiped his clammy palms off on the backs of his pants.
Only a few eyes turned his way, but he felt, immediately, how he stuck out. He didn’t glitter like the rest of them—the light didn’t catch him like the facets of a rare little jewel. He absorbed it, dulled it, made it yellow and ordinary. Like a rock. That was it. He was a rock in a pile full of gemstones.
A broke rock in a pile of gemstones, actually.
Gi-hun’s shoulders curled forward, that dance of how-small-can-I-become-just-by-hunching. The truth was, not very small at all. Gi-hun was, for good or bad, a tall sort of man.
He scanned the warmly lit bar, craning his neck to peer around patrons. He knew, vaguely, who he was looking for. He just didn’t know what the man would look like up close, in person. In real life.
A hand settled on his shoulder. Gi-hun gave an embarrassing half-squeak, tensing as he whipped around. He’d swatted the hand violently away by the time he realized who it was.
The man tilted his head, golden hood pooling around his face. He wore the same black mask as Gi-hun, his lips pursed in what very well looked like contained laughter. The hood connected to a golden band around his neck, his shirt form-fitting and a dark, velvety black. The golden buttons adorning it flashed in the low light. He lifted his hands in mock surrender, the aurous bands around his wrists glinting.
“If you don’t like being touched,” the man began, voice low and smooth, “this might not be the position for you.” His smile was just the tiniest bit wolfish, and Gi-hun felt his skin prickle. In warning. In interest. Heat scoured the back of his neck, and he rubbed the feeling away with unsteady fingers. A nervous chuckle bubbled past his lips.
“No, ah—” he began, stumbling over the refrain. It was difficult to speak over the hubbub of other conversations, and he struggled for the right words. “That’s not it.”
The man stared at him, his head dipping to look him up and down.
“Don’t worry,” Gi-hun tacked on at the end, shifting uncomfortably with the silence between them. He watched the other man’s lips purse, before that sly, sharp-toothed smile peeked back out.
His eyes were like the press of two delicate fingers, tracing lines down Gi-hun’s skin. Over his torso, his arms, his neck, coming up to scrutinize his face. Gi-hun shifted under the intensity of his stare. His eyes were liquid, ebony dark and glittering. He’d never realized that from the man’s livestreams.
Actually, now that the thought had surfaced, there were a lot of things he was now confronting that he hadn’t noticed when the man was separated by a screen.
Firstly, Gi-hun was the taller of the two. Which—yeah, that wouldn’t be clicking for a long time.
Secondly, the man radiated heat. Like a furnace, warmth washing over Gi-hun in waves. Gi-hun had been expecting someone icy. Someone who sucked warmth away—not someone who had it in such abundance that it flowed over his skin and out into the room. Gi-hun felt sweat begin to bead on the back of his neck.
He opened his mouth to speak again, twitching nervously. The silence felt tense and awkward. Dark eyes gleamed from under the mask.
“I—” he was drowned out by the roar of raucous conversation permeating the bar. He swallowed down the rest of the words, cursing himself silently. A woman in a black blazer and a gold undershirt ducked past him, appraising his outfit before turning a bewildered, maybe even half-offended, look to the man Gi-hun faced.
FRNT was the alias he went by. His channel? Well—
“Shall we go somewhere a little more private?” the man murmured, his voice swirling loud and clear in Gi-hun’s ears despite the rowdy background. He swallowed, pushing his sleeves up further—they’d started to fall down. His throat clicked as he nodded, not trusting himself to say anything of the intelligent sort.
Gi-hun had to scurry to keep up with the smooth pace of the man, who cut through the crowd like a hot knife through butter. Gi-hun, on the other hand, managed to knock, bump, or jostle every other person he passed. He mumbled a litany of apologies, ducking his head, grateful, suddenly, for the mask.
Candles scattered the room in flickering, wavering light, perfuming the air with cinnamon and myrrh. The ceiling was strung with delicate blown-glass bulbs, aglow with pinpricks of gold. The floor was black marble, shot through with streaks of white that were painted in the yellow glow of the entire place.
Slow, delicate music floated through the air, a devastating, methodical type of sweetness embedded in every note. Gi-hun caught the glare of the lights on the alcohol—champange and scotch and black cocktails with gold foil along their rims. He narrowly avoided crashing into a waitstaff carrying a tray of drinks, earning himself a huff and an exasperated double-take. His heart thudded harsh and loud against his ribs, and he let out a sigh of relief when he’d finally extricated himself from the suffocation of the crowd.
FRNT had stopped at the edge of a curtained-off room, leaning against the paneled wall. Gi-hun wiped his clammy hands against his shirt, approaching him with an apology on his lips. The man only inclined his head, drawing back one edge of the sleek fabric.
Go on.
Gi-hun ducked slowly through the curtains, feeling the soft press of velvet as he went. The room inside was small and cozy—cozy like rich-person cozy, cozy like Gi-hun was afraid to touch anything cozy, but cozy nonetheless. He stood awkwardly in the centre of it, hands hovering at his sides.
Was this the interview part? What did an interview for… this even entail?
The man followed behind him, easily taking a seat in the black-velvet loveseat that occupied the left side of the room. He reclined smoothly, one arm slinging over the back of the couch. He crossed an ankle over his knee, humming softly. The bands on his wrists glimmered in the low light. It was even darker here than it had been in the central area, lit only by a crystalline lamp—the shade made of opaque gold fabric.
The sounds of the rowdy bar had been softened slightly by the curtain, leaving a more incongruous hum of background chatter. The man had procured a glass on their way there, holding it lazily in one hand. The silence stretched on as Gi-hun shifted from foot to foot—still in the centre of the room. Still unsure.
All he knew was he couldn’t walk away.
After a long moment, that sleek hood tilted his way. “Sit?” His voice ventured up at the edge; a question. Gi-hun eyed the black cushions of the couch, his nerves buzzing. It was like being in the wolf’s den now, all glinting teeth and focused eyes. “I want to get to know you,” The man took a slow sip of his whiskey glass, his eyes glinting. “Seong, is it?”
Gi-hun nodded, his fingers curling and flexing, stretching out the hum of adrenaline, as he eventually made his way to the loveseat. Good impressions , he heard himself thinking, almost like a prayer.
“Seong Gi-hun,” he mumbled as he sat down. The cushions were plush and soft, warm under him. He immediately leaned back into them, letting out an appreciative sigh. God, he could fall asleep here. The man—FRNT—inclined his head, humming softly. And Gi-hun was then very much not asleep.
“Well, Seong Gi-hun, ” he said, his voice a low purr. “Let’s see if you’re the right fit for this.”
So it was an interview. Aish, he’d never been good at those.
The gold hood swayed as he leaned closer. Gi-hun watched his eyes glitter beneath the mask.
He needed this. Needed whatever money could come from it. He just hoped that fact wasn’t written plainly across his chest like a brand.
The weight of the man’s stare pressed down on him—assessing, considering. The space between them felt like a wire pulled taut, trembling with the silence. Gi-hun drew in an unsteady breath. FRNT’s eyes lifted for just a moment.
Then, he moved.
It was fluid, effortless—the way he shifted forward, the way his presence filled every inch of Gi-hun’s world before he could even process it. One moment, they were sitting beside each other, the air thick with anticipation—
The next, warmth was flooding Gi-hun’s space—his veins—running over him in waves. FRNT’s black mask gleamed down at him.
And then he was in Gi-hun’s lap —which was—
“Okay?” The man asked steadily. Gi-hun spluttered, his throat working as he felt heat singe the tips of his ears.
When he didn’t speak, FRNT hooked his fingers under his chin, tilting his head back.
“You’re going to have to get used to answering me, Seong,” he murmured. His fingers were calloused and warm, unyielding against his jaw. Gi-hun’s pulse thudded loud in his ears, almost drowning out the next words that the man on top of him uttered. “Is this okay?”
Gi-hun was short-circuiting, just a little, but managed a soft yes in response, throat clicking as he swallowed. FRNT hummed, the sound appreciative, before his fingers trailed down from their place at Gi-hun’s jaw.
Gi-hun felt the man’s warmth, the feverish heat of him, seeping through his skin. Those fingers mapped down his shoulders, pressing through the cheap fabric to trace lines down his body. Appraising.
Gi-hun’s own hands moved from clutching the couch to hovering uncertainly over the man, unsure what was allowed, what he was supposed to do. The man chuckled softly as he noticed, his eyes pausing in their examination to meet Gi-hun’s gaze.
“You can touch.” Gi-hun belatedly placed his hands on the man’s waist, hoping that somehow his trembling couldn’t be felt. He felt the press of hipbones, the tension of corded muscle under his fingers. The man had finished running his palms down Gi-hun’s sides, leaving paths of tingling nerves wherever his touch went. His fingers circled the top button of his shirt, as if in contemplation.
“How much experience do you have with this kind of work?” Gi-hun almost laughed—would’ve, if he hadn’t been knocked breathless by the feeling of the man shifting forward in his lap. It was such a professional-sounding question, a question that belonged more in a cold, white office building rather than the heat-drenched, gold-filigree darkness of his current situation.
“I—well,” Gi-hun paused halfway through the sentence. How much could he lie without getting himself caught? It wasn’t like he was a blushing virgin, that much was true. And he’d—had some late nights at cheap bars that ended in someone else’s bed before. Mostly recently. Mostly where he took their wallet afterwards. But any of the things he’d watched during FRNT’s shows? He’d only ever seen it done through the screen. Still, it couldn’t be the hardest thing, right? Nothing he couldn’t do, anyway.
His grip had tightened on the man’s waist while he’d been thinking, and he blinked, letting go. “Some?” he finally said, his voice unsteady. The man tilted his head in acknowledgement, grinning slyly.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t lie to me, Seong,” he said, his eyes glinting knowingly. Gi-hun inhaled sharply, his heart jerking into his ribs.
“Ah—” he ducked his head, his hair falling in waves against the plastic of the mask. “that’s—”
“It doesn’t matter to me how little you’ve done,” the man murmured. Gi-hun dared to look up at him, the words escaping him before he could check them.
“Really?” It seemed strange that he wouldn’t care.
FRNT shrugged, “Anything you don’t know,” he undid the top button of Gi-hun’s shirt. One of his only buttons, damnit. His fingers flickered over his collarbone, “I can teach you.” Gi-hun swallowed, mulling the notion over. The man shifted closer, knees braced on either side of his hips. Gi-hun had to tilt his head back to look at him. It was a strange kind of intoxication, being near the man. Gi-hun hadn’t even had an ounce of booze the entire day—he’d made sure of it—and yet, here he was—dumbstruck, glazed-eyes, hammered.
That someone could make him like that so effortlessly was almost alarming.
The man leaned in closer, his eyes intent as he brushed his fingers over Gi-hun’s face. Over the planes of his mask—stalling for just a moment on the edge of the plastic, down his jaw, coming to rest, feather-light, against his mouth. Gi-hun exhaled shallowly. He, honestly, had no idea how this was going.
Gi-hun wished that he could see the man’s face. See what expression he was making, besides the fire in his eyes. Maybe then he’d have an idea of how badly he was doing. If he should just quit while he was ahead.
Quit, and then what?
The thought sobered him. This was money—a way to get money. More money. Any money. More, surely, than being a fucking chauffeur. And he needed it—more than even he was willing to admit to himself.
Gi-hun had begun to trace circles against the man’s hips, more out of nervous energy than any real intent. The smooth fabric of his shirt ruffled under his touch. FRNT almost stiffened—too smooth to be called that but nonetheless a distinct tension in his frame.
“Open,” he murmured. His thumb pressed, gentle, coaxing, against his bottom lip. Gi-hun’s breathing shuddered to a halt in his throat. His lips parted, almost more out of surprise than anything else. The man nudged two of his fingers against his mouth. Asking.
Gi-hun hesitated for just a fraction of a second, his pulse tripping over itself. The slightest bit of pressure.
He opened.
It was dizzying, the taste of his fingers—of his skin against Gi-hun’s tongue. FRNT pursed his lips, that expression Gi-hun was beginning to notice was reserved for when the man was suppressing a smile. His fingers dragged into Gi-hun’s mouth, growing slick and warm. Something stirred, molten, in his core.
“Do you have a gag reflex?” Okay, not prepared for that. But FRNT seemed to answer his own question, pressing down against the flat of Gi-hun’s tongue until an unseemly noise left his throat. Gi-hun choked, leaning forward as the man dragged his fingers out. They glistened in the dim light, and Gi-hun looked away, flush rising to his face. His mouth still tasted of him—whiskey and metal and something that he didn’t have a name for.
FRNT wiped his hand off casually on the couch, the golden bands on his wrist glinting with the motion. “Good to know.”
Gi-hun knew he was blushing at that point, heat rising to the back of his neck. Thank god for the mask. His breathing was coming in rough patterns, and he leaned heavily against the couch, grateful for the support.
A smooth hand grasped his wrist, lifting it. The man turned to inspect the curve of his wrist with a languid tilt of his head. He lazily pressed his thumb to the pulse point there, probably feeling the frantic roar of Gi-hun’s blood in his veins.
“Have you been tied up before?” Gi-hun choked on nothing at all, his eyes widening.
“What—” Warmth spread down from his thundering pulse through his body, firm and insistent.
He had. But not like that. No—he’d been handcuffed. He’d been tied up by some particularly nasty officers. But not…that. The man’s lips pulled up into a sly grin, as if he’d expected as much but just wanted to see Gi-hun react.
FRNT leaned back, bringing Gi-hun’s hand with him, He pressed Gi-hun’s fingers to the band around his neck. The material shimmered gold under the light. It was cool under Gi-hun’s touch, a contrast to the heat of the man it belonged to. With Gi-hun’s touch pressed to his throat, his eyes flashed.
“Choked?” Gi-hun let out a harsh breath, his head ducked. It felt wrong, watching his fingers curl around the man’s neck. FRNT chuckled, leaning forward into it. Gi-hun’s nerves buzzed, shuddering with the pressure of those dark eyes. The pressure made him honest, the roar of blood under his skin. He shook his head, swallowing thickly. The man’s eyes tracked the dip of his throat as he did so.
He heard the low hum FRNT made. Gi-hun looked up as his hand was released, returning as if by default to grasp his waist. “You’re an interesting man,” he heard, the voice smooth and warm. Like whiskey. Like candle wax. FRNT paused, that wolfish half-grin coming back. “You break so easily.” Gi-hun’s breathing gave an embarrassing hitch. Was that a good or bad thing?
In the silence, the gentle lilt of the music drifted through the curtain, catching in the soft corners of the room.
Gi-hun shifted. He was hot, bothered, all of the fucking above. But as he glanced down between them, gaze sluggish and dazed, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one.
Which, okay, yeah, was maybe a little gratifying.
FRNT smoothly moved off of him, leaning back into the couch as he swiped his whiskey glass from the side table. He raised it to his lips, taking a contemplative sip. Gi-hun watched him, his pulse thrumming. Had he passed? The man turned those dark eyes his way. He needed to pass.
“You can call me Hwang In-ho when we’re not working.” A flare of relief burst through his chest. Thank fuck. He’d made it through. Whatever test that was, it seemed like he hadn’t entirely failed.
“And,” Gi-hun swallowed, “when we are?”
Hwang set his whiskey glass down, the edge clinking against the table. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm.
“That,” he began, the hints of teeth peeking into the words, “is almost entirely up to you.” Gi-hun stiffened against the seat cushion. The man watched him, the faint outline of a smile on his lips. He picked up the glass to take a thoughtful sip.
“Some prefer ‘Master’,” he looked into his glass, watching the liquid swirl in the bottom of it. Gi-hun glanced over at him, his eyes wide. He hoped the shade of red he was turning wasn’t too noticeable. But Hwang’s grin widened as they locked eyes, and Gi-hun knew he’d caught on. “Others prefer something like ‘Lord’,” he continued, turning to twist forward, draping himself over the couch right next to Gi-hun.
The heat of him was overwhelming. His voice was low, saccharine. He must be enjoying this, Gi-hun thought with a touch of petulance.
“I tend to prefer ‘Sir’ myself,” he mused, his fingers tracing over Gi-hun’s shoulder. Gi-hun shivered, finding himself leaning into the touch. Sir, huh?
“But,” And Gi-hun was embarrassed to admit that he missed the pressure as soon as it lifted. Hwang waved his hand smoothly through the air. “In the end, you call me whatever you’d like.”
Gi-hun blew out a breath, looking down at his hands where he was twisting them together. He slowly nodded, pressing his palms to the velvet cushions.
He was suddenly cold without the press of the other man’s warmth.
A black card was offered out to him, materializing in the man’s hand. Gold lettering. Gi-hun read it quickly. An address. Hwang tilted his head, gold hood catching in the light of the lamp.
“I do hope I’ll see you there.” The man rose, lithe as a cat, all sleek lines and easy balance. He cast a backwards glance at Gi-hun, still on the couch. He nodded to him, lips quirking up, “Gi-hun.”
He swept out of the alcove without another word.
Gi-hun felt all the tension leave him in a whoosh, leaning heavily against the edge of the couch.
Wow.
He turned the card over and over in his hands, watching the text glint in the dim light. He almost could’ve believed that entire sequence was a dream, if not for the sleek black card between his fingers.
That, and the lingering taste of the man’s skin on his tongue.
He pocketed the card with a sigh, brushing his ruffled hair out of his eyes. A cautious triumph fluttered in his chest—he’d done it. Gotten the job.
The only thing was—Gi-hun slowly ducked out of the alcove, feeling the press of eyes on his skin. Heads turned in his direction, alcohol-loose mouths spilling whispers in a giddy haze. It was as if they’d known what’d happened behind the dark curtain. What he’d just gotten himself into.
The bright lights of the outside world were dazzling after the darkness of the bar, all the fluorescents and headlights stabbing at his eyes.
He took what might’ve been his first full breath since entering the bar, the air second-hand-smoke-sour and sharp.
It steadied him. Helped him get his footing. He squared his shoulders.
Now the question allowed itself to fully surface:
What, exactly, had he gotten himself into?