Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10941528.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      킬링_스토킹_|_Killing_Stalking_(Webcomic)
  Relationship:
      Oh_Sangwoo/Yoon_Bum
  Character:
      Yoon_Bum's_Uncle
  Additional Tags:
      mentions_of_rape_of_a_minor, Mentions_of_incest, Abuse, Torture,
      Kidnapping, Forced_Voyeurism, Revenge, Canon-Typical_Violence, Stockholm
      Syndrome, Lima_Syndrome, First_Time, Sangwoo's_questionable_attempts_at
      therapy
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-19 Words: 5040
****** and hell followed with him ******
by dawnstruck
Summary
     Sangwoo makes Bum face some of the ghosts from his past.
Notes
     This is something that I promised back in January and what a lot of
     people seemed interested in. The new Killing Stalking updates
     certainly inspired me to finally get it out.
     I mention some Korean forms of address in here; please let me know if
     I got anything wrong:
     Samchon - father's unmarried younger brother
     Joka - niece/nephew
     -sshi - honorific added to end of name
See the end of the work for more notes
Revelation 6:8. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on
him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over
the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with
death, and with the beasts of the earth.
 
The park is half-abandoned and not well-maintained. Grass and other weeds are
infringing on the narrow path, puddles gathered along the way. It had rained
only half an hour ago and the air is fresh with it, cleansed. Only the heavy
scent of the white lilac hangs heavy in the early night, sweet but almost
oppressive. Yoon Bum resists the urge to sneeze to get it out of his nose.
Around him, the world is silent. He shuffles on the spot. His soles make a
squelching sound in the shallow mud and he wonders whether someone will find
his footprints. Wonders whether he wants them to be found.
He worries at the zipper of his raincoat, jams the edge of it under his
thumbnail, but it’s too blunt to really hurt, so he bites the inside of his
cheek instead.
“Bum.”
He jerks. He’d been prepared, in a way, but the sound of that voice on his name
still has nausea coiling along the end of his spine. His fear, old and new, is
the only thing that roots him to the spot.
“Samchon,” he replies, quietly.
His gaze fights to stay downturned, but a couple of glances up tell him all he
needs to know.
His uncle has not changed. He is still sturdily built, still sloppily dressed,
his chin unshaven, his face unsmiling.
“You’ve got some nerve,” his uncle growls. The cigarette pinched between his
lips distorts his words but his anger is unmistakable. “Fucking running out on
me, barely ever bothering to pick up the phone, and now calling me out here
with no explanation.”
He gives Bum an assessing look, his small eyes squinting. “What do you want?
Money? A place to stay? That university stint didn’t work out too well for you,
did it?” Another look, this one more critical, lingering on the lavender bruise
on Bum’s cheek. “Don’t tell me you fell in with some criminals. I’m not getting
you out of that.”
“Ah,” Bum mumbles. He resist the urge to look over his uncle’s shoulder and
into the lilac shrubs behind him, instead reaching up to twirl a strand of hair
around his finger. His hair has gotten so long. When had it gotten so long?
“Hah?” His uncle makes an exaggerated gesture of cupping a hand at his ear,
“What did you say? You have to speak up, joka, or I can’t hear you.”
Yoon Bum takes a deep breath. His fists clench. He had not forgotten this per
se, the constant ridicule and his helpless anger, but it still feels as though
he had been tossed back into cold water without warning.
“I- I just-,” he begins, his voice wavering. The lilac remains unmoved. “I was
thinking, maybe-“
“Stop stammering,” his uncle cuts him off. “And you got to stop it with the
damn mumbling if you ever want anyone to take you serious. You’re not a kid
anymore.”
A few steps and suddenly his uncle is in his space again, sidled up close.
“Although,” he says, his coarse hand settling on jut of Bum’s hipbone, “You
haven’t really grown much, have you.”
“Don’t touch me!”
With a burst of strength, Yoon Bum shoves against his uncle’s shoulder, trying
to dislodge him. His uncle stands firm. Yoon Bum slips in the mud and goes
down, hard and jarring.
“Tsk.” His uncle looks down on him in derision. The end of his cigarette is a
flimsy fire in the twilight, but Bum stares at it, transfixed. He used to see
this same orange glow move above him in the dark. His breath turns to ashes in
response.
“You should be glad your parents died before they could see you grow into
this.” His uncle is shaking his head dispassionately. The light moves like the
head of a cobra. “Your father would be disappointed.”
“Shut up,” Bum whispers. His uncle leans closer, frowning.
“What was that?” he asks dangerously.
“Shut. Up,” Bum repeats. His fingers dig trenches into the sodden earth.
“You ungrateful brat!” His uncle kicks at Bum’s foot, unknowingly aggravating
the crooked bones. “I took you in when you had no one else left, remember? I
didn’t have to do that, you know, so show some fucking gratitude.”
Bum’s breath is coming in hiccups now, his chest jumping with it.
This was not how the plan was meant to go. He wasn’t supposed to do this on his
own. He couldn’t handle his uncle all by himself, he never could, and now-
“If you apologize real nice,” his uncle says and grabs his own crotch in a
meaningful gesture, “I might let you come back home with me.”
The lilac bursts open, twigs snapping, white petals fluttering to the ground to
cover the mud like snow. It’s weird, to witness it from this perspective this
time, when before Yoon Bum had been on the receiving end, but now he sees it
happening in slow motion, the baseball bat slicing through the air in a long
graceful arc, the sound of it, the force.
The wood splinters against the back of his uncle’s head, jerking him forward,
wide-eyed. For a moment, he seems to be wrangling with consciousness, but then
he falls to his knees and folds into a messy heap, joining Bum in the mud.
“You really need to learn how to stand up for yourself,” Sangwoo admonishes. He
is poking uncle with the bloodied end of the bat, but he watches Bum from the
corner of his eyes, “What would have happened if I hadn’t been here?”
In his chest, Bum’s heart trips over itself and somersaults unpleasantly.
“’m sorry, Sangwoo-sshi,” he mutters. The damp of the mud has soaked through
his pants.
“It’s alright,” Sangwoo says, crouching down a little to offer him a hand up,
“Let’s go home, shall we?”
Bum stares at him and then down at his uncle. The cigarette has fallen from his
lips, its fire finally extinguished. As if on instinct, Bum reaches out for it,
holds it in his dirtied fist. They can’t leave any evidence behind.
“Alright,” he says. When he takes Sangwoo’s hand, he gets mud on him as well,
but Sangwoo doesn’t seem to mind.
 
Sangwoo and Bum are sitting on the floor, playing Matgo.
“You’re brave today,” Sangwoo praises, “You haven’t called for stop even once
yet.”
Bum smiles uncertainly. When you call stop, the game ends and you collect your
winnings. When you say go, the stakes are raised and the game continues at a
higher risk. Yoon Bum has nothing to barter with. Nowadays, he pays in kisses.
No matter the outcome, he always loses anyway.
It takes a while for his uncle to wake up. He is sitting slumped against the
metal pole in the middle of the basement, chained up and naked, traces of mud
still smeared on his chin and cheeks. His shoulders come alive first, quivering
like the beginnings of an earthquake. Then he groans and raises his head.
“What the hell…” he mutters under his breath, the words slurred. He must be
concussed. Yoon Bum had been, back then.
“Oh, look at that,” Sangwoo says, tossing his cards down, now that another game
is about to begin. “Sleeping bastard is joining us.”
“Who thefuck are you?” uncle bites out. His bleary eyes are fixed on Sangwoo
but then they slide sideways and land on Yoon Bum and he seems to remember
their encounter in the park.
“Joka,” he growls and jerks forward, but the chains rattle and keep him in
place. He blinks, frowns, looks down at himself, notices his nudity for the
first time. The look on his face is really quite priceless.
“Bum, I swear if this is your idea of a prank, then you got another thing
coming,” he warns, “Let me go at once.”
“Uh-uh,” Sangwoo has gotten up to his feet now, wagging his index finger back
and forth in a forbidding gesture, “That’s not how this is gonna go.”
“Do I know you?” uncle asks, as though Sangwoo’s presence were a mere
inconvenience. As though Bum were the mastermind behind all this.
“You don’t need to,” Sangwoo points out, “But, see, I know all about you. Where
you live and where you work and what brand of liquor you prefer. I know how
many cigarettes you smoke on average, and I know that no one’s really going to
care if you suddenly disappear off the face of the earth.”
Finally a reaction as uncle seems to understand that this is so much more than
just a prank. People do not see Sangwoo’s real smile without instinctively
knowing that he is completely unhinged.
This time, when uncle looks around, reality seeps into his skin. At first
glance, the basement looks just like any other, tools and devices neatly hung
on lattices on the walls. But there is the hook dangling from the ceiling. The
table with the knives. The bleach and black trash bags and duct tape. And, of
course, the shackles around uncles wrist.
“Bum,” uncle says, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips, “Bum, what is
this? Why did you bring me here?”
But Bum just stares down at the scattered Matgo cards and doesn’t say anything.
Sangwoo looks between the two of them, cocking a curious eyebrow.
“Looks like Bum’s doesn’t wanna play right now,” he muses, reaching for one of
the knives on the table, “Oh well. Maybe he’ll join us next round. Right, Bum?”
The blade glints in the yellow glow of the naked lightbulb suspended from the
ceiling. Bum jerks his head in a quick nod.
“Let’s see,” Sangwoo crouches down on his haunches, right in front of uncle who
strains away, eyes on the sharp edge of the metal. “We’ll start out small and
work you up to it, I think.”
“What the hell!” uncle snarls, “Don’t you dare, you damned lunatic! Fucking
punk ass kid, you-!”
Sangwoo angles the tip of the blade into uncle’s nostril and neatly slices to
the side and down. Uncle yelps and red red blood rushes down his lips and chin.
Wounds to head and face always bleed a lot, Bum knows.
The top of uncle’s ear is next, just a corner of skin and cartilage that lands
somewhere off to the right.
“Hmm,” Sangwoo tilts his head to the side, “You’re starting to look like a real
Picasso. My mom always said I had a bit of an artist in me. I think this is my
red phase.”
And he wipes his palm across uncle’s face, spreading the blood and rubbing it
in deep.
Uncle is crying now, shallow and suppressed. Underneath the blood, his face is
purpling with it.
“Why-,” he chokes out, “Why are you doing this?”
“Yeah, why are we doing this?” Sangwoo asks, twisting around to look over his
shoulder, “Bum? It seems like your uncle here needs a reminder.”
He gets up and saunters over to where Bum is still kneeling on the floor, sinks
his fingers into black hair to tilt Bum’s head back.
“Tell us, Bum,” he implores, “Tell us what he did to you.”
Bum swallows. He is staring at the spot between Sangwoo’s brows so he doesn’t
have to look him in the eye.
“He… he touched me,” he repeats what Sangwoo already knows.
“Touched you where?” Sangwoo repeats what he has already asked.
A sharp inhale. “Everywhere.”
“Hm,” Sangwoo hums. In a fluid movement, he has hankered down next to Bum. 
“Did he touch you here?” he asks, sneaking a hand down to rub at Bum’s groin.
Bum flinches. “Y-yes.”
“And here?” The hand is somewhere else now, fingers prodding at Bum’s ass.
“Yes.”
“How old were you?”
“F-fourteen, I think.”
“Fourteen.” Sangwoo lets out a low whistle. “And did you enjoy it?”
“… no.”
“No? Why did you let him do it then?”
“H-he just did it. He hit me a-and threatened to kick me out.”
“So he forced you.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what it’s called when someone forces someone else into sex, Bum?”
“…”
“It’s called rape, Bum. Do you understand that? Your uncle raped you.”
Bum swallows. Something in his throat feels thick and uncooperative.
“Can you say that for me, Bum?” Sangwoo needles him, “C’mon, say it.”
“M-my uncle raped me…”
“Louder, Bum, or the old fart can’t hear you.”
“He raped me,” Bum repeats, with a little more emphasis, but the words still
rasp across his vocal cords.
“That’s right,” Sangwoo agrees and then steps aside, “Now tell him.”
Uncle’s eyes are wide with panic.
“Bum,” he says and his chapped lips are pale, “Bummie, you know I didn’t mean
it. I’m your family.”
His family. His father’s younger brother. The uncle who had been estranged even
before his parents’ death. The one who had waited a mere five weeks after the
funeral of Bum’s grandmother before pushing Bum down onto the bed for the first
time and violently thrusting against him.
“You raped me,” Bum tells him what he never dared to acknowledge before, “You
raped me.”
Somewhere inside of him still lives the young boy who had hovered on the
kitchen floor in the middle of the night, wondering whether he had the guts to
just stab his uncle where he lay passed out on the sofa. But more than that, he
remembers the volcano of Sangwoo’s fury when he had first found out.
When he figured out that Bum had been fucked by something other than a dildo,
he had beaten Bum to within an inch of his life.
I’m sorry, Bum had yelped between blows, with his arms up to protect his head,
I’m sorry!
Who was it, Sangwoo had demanded, and the tone in his voice was even crueler
than his fists, You little slut! Who fucked you?
My uncle! Bum had cried, It was my uncle, it was my uncle, I didn’t want to,
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sangwoo-sshi, I-
That had been a week ago. Now they were here. Sangwoo did not forget and he
certainly did not forgive either.
“You heard what he said,” Sangwoo says, crouching down in front of uncle once
more, “You touched him. And I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”
With a precise sort of elegance, Sangwoo brings down the knife, slicing right
through two of uncle’s fingers. There is a moment of delay, like a lagging
video, and then uncle howls.
His scream reverberates off the bare walls and he presses himself closer to the
pole behind his back, feet scrambling against the floor. Bum stares at the two
fingers now lying next the cut-off ear, the fingers that had forced their way
inside of Bum, opening him up with spit and cooking oil and hand lotion.
“Bum!” uncle whimpers, tightly curled in on himself. His chains chink against
the metal of the pole, “Bum, help me, help, please, I-“
“Don’t,” Sangwoo warns lowly, “Don’t say his name. I should carve out your
eyes, just so you can’t look at him anymore.” And he poises the point of the
knife just underneath uncle’s left eye, splitting the tears apart.
Immediately, uncle freezes, his breath coming in aborted gasps, but underneath
him a puddle of piss spreads out.
“Ugh,” Sangwoo pulls a grimace and quickly gets out of the way, “What are you,
four? Or ninety? Can’t control your bladder, old man?” He shakes his head in
disgust and disapproval. “Don’t worry. You can keep your eyes for now. There’s
something I want you to see.”
And then he turns toward Bum.
We’re gonna make him pay, Sangwoo had promised after Bum confessed his sins,
We’re gonna make him regret ever laying a hand on you.
That had been the plan. Make him pay, make him hurt. Bum doesn’t know what else
Sangwoo wants. But, then again, he never does.
“Come here, Bum,” he orders, walking over to one of the rickety metal shelves
to pull down a couple of thick woolen blankets, spreading them down on the
floor and setting the knife aside. And he is unarmed now but Bum knows better
than to trust the peace.
So he stands, skittishly, walks over to where Sangwoo is waiting for him with
an outstretched arm.
“That’s right,” Sangwoo says, pulling him down onto the blankets and pressing a
kiss to his temple, “Let’s show your uncle that you don’t belong to him
anymore.”
By now, the shock must be setting in. There is no telling how much of what is
happening actually registers to his uncle’s brain, whether he truly understands
the situation.
Little faggot, he had grunted into Bum’s ear, pulling at his pants when he had
caught Bum looking at a dirty magazine, You actually want this, huh?
When Sangwoo helps him out of his clothes it’s different, as though undressing
a little kid. The shirt collar catches on Bum’s ears, musses up his hair. He
shivers in the cold.
“You’re so pale,” Sangwoo says, his large hands settling on Bum’s hips,
smoothing up along his weight and holding his ribcage. “It would be even better
if you had proper breasts,” he adds with a pout and his thumbs brush back and
forth over Bum’s pink nipples that have already hardened, the skin around them
tightening.
Sangwoo isn’t into men, but he always makes an exception for Yoon Bum.
When they are both naked, Sangwoo spreads Bum’s legs and pulls a bottle of lube
from the shelf. So he must have planned this after all; he just hadn’t told Bum
about it.
“I’ll be gentle,” he promises, his knuckle rubbing over the inside of Bum’s
knee as though he hadn’t fucked him raw with the dildo before.
Bum’s chest jumps, with his heart, with his breath, and he gives a tight nod.
In morbid fascination, he watches as Sangwoo presses his fingers into him,
covered in lube and blood as they are. It’s uncomfortable and he forces himself
to relax, blinks away the tears that are gathering at the corners of his eyes.
“That’s good,” Sangwoo encourages him, “Open up for me. There you go.”
“Sangwoo-sshi,” Yoon Bum pleads. His hands hesitate just short of Sangoo’s
broad shoulders. “Could you… would you kiss me?”
There is a split moment in which Sangwoo looks perplex, as though he had never
expected such a request. Then he smiles and leans down.
“Of course,” he murmurs against Bum’s mouth, “Anything for you.”
So Bum opens up his mouth and kisses him, wetly, bites at Sangwoo’s lip and
finds his tongue, to distract himself from the world around them.
His uncle had never kissed him. And no one had ever kissed him like Sangwoo
did. This was all Bum had ever dreamed of.
Eventually, Sangwoo pulls back and pulls his fingers free, grabbing at his own
cock and holding it steady. Bum wriggles his ass against him, but Sangwoo
ignores that, gives a little sigh.
“I really wanted to be your first,” he admits, sounding forlorn, “I wanted this
to be special.”
 “You are my first,” Bum insists, “The first one I love.”
“You don’t love your uncle?” Sangwoo asks and Bum quickly shakes his head.
“Then I forgive you.”
And finally, the head of Sangwoo’s long perfect cock pushes past Yoon Bum’s
rim, stretching him wide. Bum’s toes curl into the coarse blanket underneath
him.
“Oh,” Sangwoo says and laughs a little, a furrow of concentration on his brow,
“Damn.”
He rolls his hips forward, pressing deeper, and Bum meets him halfway. It’s
been a while since he’s been fucked with the dildo, even longer that he had any
real fun doing it. His body needs to readjust, but the burn is familiar enough.
The angle is new, though. Bum was used to being taken from behind, with his
face in the pillow to muffle his cries. And when he was by himself and on his
back, it was too hard to reach.
This is better, though. This means something.
So they do it face to face, pushing and thrusting against each other, a layer
of sweat gathering between them, and it could almost be a facsimile of love.
But then Sangwoo pushes Bum’s head to the side, to where his uncle is sitting
in his line of vision.
Uncle’s short fat cock hangs at half-mast, like a flag of surrender, and it is
revolting, it is disgusting that he would be getting off on this, too. But Bum
shamefully remembers all those time when he had grown erect and ejaculated
against his will, when it was less about real pleasure and more about his body
frantically reacting to too much stimulus.
His uncle had always laughed at him then. He isn’t laughing now.
Sangwoo brushes Bum’s prostate and Bum moans, his back arching.
“You like that?” Sangwoo asks and does it again.
You like that? Uncle asked, his fingers fondling Bum’s cock.
“Please,” Bum whimpers, bucking against him.
Please, Bum cried, trying to twist away.
“Tell me, Bum,” Sangwoo demands, “Show your uncle how this is meant to go.”
“F-fuck me,” Bum stumbles out, “Sangwoo-sshi, please, fuck me harder, I need- I
need you, your cock, I-“
“Yes,” Sangwoo groans, holding him down by the hips. Bum claws at his upper
arms, leaving red traces behind. His head, now freed again, twists wildly on
the blankets. His gaze is on the lovely face above him, trying to memorize
every single detail. No one can take this from him. No one, not even Sangwoo
himself.
With a low grunt, Sangwoo comes, finishes inside of Yoon Bum, his hips jerking
a couple more times.  Bum can see how he looks almost surprised with it, as
though he had not expected it to feel just as good as with a girl, better even
maybe.
Breathing hard, Sangwoo pulls out and Bum’s body rebels at how bereft it feels
at the loss. Sangwoo wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead, brushing
away the sweat.
“Huh,” he says, just a quiet exhale. Then he smiles.
“Now that was something,” he admits, “We’re definitely doing that again. But
first…”
His head swivels around toward uncle.
Sangwoo stands up and Bum scrambles to his knees. His ass aches faintly and his
cock is still throbbing with need. His hands clench in the blankets as he
watches Sangwoo grab the sledgehammer off the wall.
He’s going to break uncle’s legs, he thinks. Like he does with all of his
victims.
“C’mon, Bum,” Sangwoo says, nudging him with his foot, “You do it.”
Helplessly, Bum blinks up at him with owlish eyes. “W-what?”
“You do the honors,” Sangwoo explains impatiently and then just pulls Bum up by
the wrist, pushing the sledgehammer into his hands. It seems to weigh a ton and
all of Bum is too thin, too weak, too faint. “Make it good, break some of his
bones.”
And he shoves Bum forward.
“Bum,” uncle hiccups, nervously eyeing the heavy end of the hammer where it
drags across the concrete, “Bum, don’t do that.”
“Do it, Bum,” Sangwoo whispers from behind him, and they are like the voices
that sometimes speak inside of Bum’s head.
His knees wobble. He can feel cum sliding out of him, trickling along the
inside of his thighs. It’s been a while but he still remembers the feeling. His
uncle had never used a condom.
When he tries to lift the hammer, it shakes in his grip.
“Bum,” uncle is still sounding panicked but there is a hard edge underneath it,
the one he had used whenever Bum had a bad episode and was too lethargic to
care about punishment. “Bum, don’t you fucking dare. You little shit, I’m gonna
make you regret it. I should have tossed you on the street the moment you
showed up at my door - that would have served you right!”
“Bum,” Sangwoo urges.
“Raped you? Hah! Like you are doing so much better now, being the whore of this
maniac and all!”
“Bum.”
“You ever consider that maybe that’s all you’re good for?! That no one would
ever want you for anything else?!”
“Shut up,” Bum whimpers. The sledgehammer slips from his fingers, standing
awkwardly tilted to the side. He presses his hands over his ears, trying to
drown out the echoes.
“Why do I always have to do everything by myself?” Sangwoo sighs. He grabs the
hammer, hefts it up to the height of his shoulder and, before uncle can even
open his mouth again, lets it smash down onto the balding skull.
It’s more the sound than the visual that has Bum dry-heave on the floor.
Stabbing is bloodier, definitely, more painful and more time-consuming. But the
brutal force of the sledgehammer, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment between
alive and dead sure is something else.
“There.” Sangwoo lets the hammer fall where he stands and wipes a splatter of
blood from the corner of his mouth. Then he turns to Bum.
“Look,” he says simply, accompanied by a vague gesture, “He can’t hurt you
anymore.”
So Yoon Bum looks.
The side of uncle’s head is caved it, splinters of bone and gray brain tissue
sticking out. His yellowed eyeballs are rolled back, burst blood vessels
crisscrossing through them. His mouth hangs open, gaping and obscene like the
maw of a slayed beast. His limbs sit twisted with agony and the body that was
once so repulsively familiar, so hated, so dreaded, will soon be cooling in the
hands of Death.
His uncle is dead and he will never be alive again. He will never take and
torment Bum again.
Bum takes a teetering step forward, his toes dipping into some of the piss on
the concrete. His uncle doesn’t move.
Breath shudders out of Bum as an avalanche might, easily triggered and wholly
destructive. He pulls his foot back, needs a moment to find his balance. Then
he unleashes ten years of pain.
He kicks at the unwieldy mass of his uncle’s corpse, kicks at his wobbling
belly, at his crotch, steps onto the mutilated fingers, jams his knee into his
face until he hears the bone and cartilage crunch. He kicks and rails until his
legs ache, until a strange kind of heaviness settles in the pulse of his
wrists, and then he kicks some more.
Finally, finally, when his body gives in before his mind does, Bum sinks down
to his knees. Gravity, and the hot tears spill down his cheeks in reckless
abandon, sobs wrenching from his lungs until he can barely breathe with it.
Suddenly, Sangwoo is there again, pulling him to his arms, a palm cupped around
the back of Bum’s head.
“Shh,” he whispers soothingly, “Ssh, don’t cry. He isn’t worth your tears.”
And Bum bites his lower lip, his hands shaking, but there is still something
inside of him that needs to be let out. So he presses his face against
Sangwoo’s chest and screams instead.
He screams like he wasn’t allowed to scream when his uncle fucked him. Screams
like he couldn’t when his classmates called him names. Screams like he had
wanted to when his parents and his grandparents died. Yoon Bum screams and
wishes it changed anything.
There may be a certain vindication to it, but never a liberation. What Bum had
to endure can be avenged but it cannot be undone. That is something that
someone like Sangwoo will never understand.
But throughout it all, Sangwoo holds him. There is blood on both of them, the
smell of it mingling with that of the sweat and piss and shit that is
permeating the stagnant air of the basement, a stench Bum has become familiar
with since coming to live with Sangwoo. Right now, he doesn’t even care
anymore.
This is a turning point, not like a fork in the road, but like leaping off a
tall cliff. There is no going back and only a suspicion of what might wait at
the end.
His uncle is dead. The last of his family. The only one who still might have
looked for him, who came when Bum called. All he has now is Sangwoo.
The realization has another high of adrenaline surge through Bum’s veins. He is
still half-hard, from not having come before, and against his belly he can feel
Sangwoo’s cock perking up again as well. Perhaps it was uncle’s death that did
it. Perhaps it was Bum’s violent outburst.
All Bum knows is that he wants and that he aches, that he needs something that
distracts him from the terrible itch underneath his skin.
“Sangwoo,” he says, scratching at his chest, “Sangwoo, I want you to fuck me.”
“Now?” Sangwoo asks, laughter tangled in the word, but he doesn’t object when
Bum climbs onto his lap, just lets himself be pushed onto the floor.
Bum has never ridden anyone before, not even his dildo. It takes him a moment
to reach back and guide Sangwoo’s cock back into himself but, when he does, he
sinks all the way down.
The pressure is incredible, both deep in his guts and all the way up to his
first vertebra, a sweet tingling sensation. He pushes himself up, comes down
again, changes the angle a little. Sangwoo’s hands are cradling his hips,
helping his movements along with gentle guidance. The look in his eyes is both
fascinated and fond, a quiet sort of reverence to it, as though he had just
witnessed the birth of a new deity.
Bum does not know whether to blossom or wither underneath his touch.
When he finally comes, his orgasm feels more like an exorcism, but the demons
still lurk underneath his collarbone.
Tomorrow, they will drive up to the park again and bury uncle next to Ji Eun
and Sangwoo’s father and all the others. For now, though, it is just the two of
them.
 
End Notes
     So, did anyone else notice how, in chapter 21, the dildo was covered
     in Ji Eun’s blood? Yup yup yup, that comic never gets boring.
     This is definitely the most fucked up thing I have ever written, so I
     hope you appreciate it. I actually had a lot of fun doing it because,
     damn, writing the headspace of those messy boy's is always a
     pleasure.
     Please let me know what you think!
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