Work Text:
Gihun has such pretty hands, Inho would hardly think that he has worked in a factory for most of his life if he hadn't read his files a dozen times: long, thin fingers, slender and soft to the touch, always warm.
Inho loves do decorate them with expensive rings and pretty cuffs that well suit Gihun's skin color. He especially loves the sensation of those hands on his own skin, either when they grab his shoulders in bliss when he fucks into him or in moments like these, when his hands move across his body spreading warm oil and massaging the muscles hardened either by training or from hours managing the Games.
Inho has his eyes closed, chin resting on his own arms while Gihun keeps massaging his spine. He has become really good at this, after hours of training with a therapist. Inho is satisfied and proud of his own creation.
Near the bed, on the night stand, the rings and the cuffs Gihun wears daily shimmer under the warm light of the bedroom, near the controller of the shock collar - which is always at reach, though in the last few months Inho has hardly used it.
Gihun is silent as he works on him, but that is hardly a problem - there are more appropriate occasion for Gihun to be vocal. Now, after hours working on the logistics of the Games, Inho needs silence, and Gihun's hands on his naked body so he can properly relax.
And relax he does. It's not hard, after all he has nothing to fear: until he has recent footage of Seong Gayeong at his disposal to show Gihun each week, he can be sure that the other will never attempt anything stupid - apart from trying to escape, occasionally.
Gihun's hands work on his lower back, then they go up following the line of his spine, warm oil dribbling down on his side and onto the sheet that was pull out for the occasion. The faint smell of sandalwood fills his nostrils.
When he feels fingers working on his neck, he doesn't tense, doesn't tell Gihun to stop, doesn't tell him to move his hands away or moves them himself. He doesn't even turn his head - it would be just a waste of energy.
"Gayeong-sshi is pretty with that new hairstyle," he comments, his tone casual.
The finger around his neck go rigid, clench just enough for Inho to notice. Then they move to the shoulders, pressing against the more tense points and losing the muscles there.
Inho hums, satisfied.
This is how it is.
This is how is should always have been.