Chapter 12: Leather & Worship
The leather was cool against his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat gathering beneath. Yong-Jin stood motionless, his fingers still tangled in Zykin’s short, rough hair, as the man’s tongue pressed against him. It wasn’t soft or tentative. It was a slow, deliberate claiming, a flat, wet stripe from base to tip that tore a ragged sound from Yong-Jin’s throat.
Zykin’s hands gripped his thighs, holding him steady. The pressure was firm, absolute, fingers digging into muscle through the soft leather of the skirt’s hem. He didn’t look up. He just repeated the motion, again, a focused, thorough exploration that had Yong-Jin’s knees threatening to buckle.
“S-Stop…” Yong-Jin breathed, but his fingers tightened in Zykin’s hair, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
Zykin paused, his breath hot against damp skin. He turned his head, pressing his scarred cheek against Yong-Jin’s inner thigh. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, a lion resting in its own kill. “Nyet,” he murmured, the word vibrating through muscle. “You do not mean that.” He tilted his head back, looking up the length of Yong-Jin’s body. His green eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but his gaze was shockingly clear. “Your hands say one thing. Your mouth… something else.” He shifted his grip, his thumbs pressing circles into the soft flesh higher up. “Let me hear the truth.”
Yong-Jin’s face was on fire. He was exposed, held open, completely mastered. The power Zykin wielded was terrifying, but in this moment, on his knees, he was handing Yong-Jin a different kind of control. The control to be honest.
“Don’t… stop,” Yong-Jin whispered, the words shaming and liberating at once.
A predatory smile touched Zykin’s lips. He ducked his head again.
This time, he took Yong-Jin into his mouth fully. The world narrowed to that wet, consuming heat. Yong-Jin cried out, his back arching, a wordless noise that echoed in the cavernous bedroom. Zykin’s technique was not gentle. It was hungry, almost clumsy in its greed, as if he were trying to consume him, to memorize his taste and texture. It was devastatingly effective.
Yong-Jin’s thoughts dissolved into a white-noise hum of sensation. The feel of Zykin’s tongue, the scrape of his teeth held carefully in check, the massive hands pinning his hips. He looked down, and the sight nearly broke him—the powerful, scarred tsar of the Bratva, brought to his knees, his head buried between Yong-Jin’s thighs, fully clothed in black except for the flush creeping up his neck.
Zykin moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to Yong-Jin’s core. His hips jerked forward of their own accord. Zykin’s grip tightened, holding him in place, controlling the rhythm. Teaching him. Letting him know even this, especially this, was given only as Zykin allowed.
The pressure built, coiling unbearably tight in his gut. His legs began to shake. “Zykin… I’m… I can’t…”
Zykin pulled back, letting Yong-Jin slip from his mouth with a wet sound. He was breathing hard, his lips swollen and slick. “You will,” he growled, his voice graveled with need. “For me.” He didn’t wait. He dove back in, his pace intensifying, his focus singular and absolute.
That was all it took. The permission, the command. Yong-Jin shattered.
His release ripped through him with a force that blinded him. He shouted, a sound that was half-sob, half-triumph, his fingers clamping down viciously on Zykin’s scalp. He rode the wave, helpless, until he was spent, trembling, his body held upright only by Zykin’s unyielding hands.
Zykin didn’t pull away. He stayed there, swallowing, until Yong-Jin flinched from over-sensitivity. Only then did he finally lean back on his heels, releasing Yong-Jin’s thighs. He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with a dark, primal satisfaction.
Yong-Jin sagged forward, but Zykin was already moving. He surged up off his knees, catching Yong-Jin as he crumpled, sweeping him into his arms as if he weighed nothing. He carried him the few steps to the bed, laying him down on the dark silk that drank the light. He stood over him, looking down at the wreck he’d made.
Yong-Jin lay gasping, the leather skirt rucked up around his waist, his skin sheened with sweat. He felt flayed open, utterly conquered.
Zykin began to undress. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic. The black turtleneck was pulled over his head, revealing the sprawling ink and scarred canvas of his torso. His belt buckle clinked, the sound loud in the quiet room. He shoved his trousers and briefs down in one movement, kicking them aside.
He was fully, intimidatingly aroused.
He crawled onto the bed, not over Yong-Jin, but beside him, propping himself up on one elbow. He traced a finger over Yong-Jin’s stomach, through the damp trails there. “See?” he murmured, his voice rough. “The truth is better.”
“You… didn’t…” Yong-Jin managed, gesturing weakly toward him.
“My turn,” Zykin said, his smile all sharp edges. But he made no move to touch himself. He just watched Yong-Jin recover, his gaze cataloging every twitch, every shuddering breath. “Do you know why I like this?” he asked, his finger hooking under the waistband of the leather skirt.
Yong-Jin shook his head.
“Because it is only for me,” Zykin said, matter-of-factly. “No one else will ever see you like this. Soft here,” he stroked the inside of Yong-Jin’s thigh, “surrounded by the leather I chose. It is a secret. My favorite secret.” His hand drifted higher, a blunt promise. “And now, you will keep another secret for me.”
He leaned in, kissing Yong-Jin deeply, letting him taste himself. Yong-Jin melted into it, his body pliant and exhausted. Zykin’s hand settled between his legs, not demanding, just resting. He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to Yong-Jin’s. “Can you take me?” he breathed. His voice was different now. A strain beneath the confidence. A vulnerability so finely etched it could cut glass.
It was the question that undid Yong-Jin completely. The monster asking for entry, not demanding it. Yong-Jin turned his head, nuzzling into the side of Zykin’s neck, his lips finding the rough end of his scar. He kissed it. “Yes.”
That single word acted like a trigger. Zykin’s control, so carefully maintained, splintered.
He moved with a sudden, frantic need. He slid the leather skirt off completely, tossing it to the floor. He rolled Yong-Jin onto his stomach, then pulled him up onto his knees. His hands were everywhere, gripping, guiding, positioning. Yong-Jin felt the blunt pressure against him, and braced himself.
But Zykin paused. He heard the man take a deep, shuddering breath behind him. A bottle clicked open, the sound of slick liquid. Cold gel dripped onto Yong-Jin’s skin, making him jump. Zykin’s fingers followed, not roughly, but with an urgent, focused efficiency, preparing him. It was clinical and intimate all at once.
Then he was pushing in. It was too much, too fast, a stretch that burned. Yong-Jin cried out, his fists clutching the dark silk sheets.
Zykin froze, buried to the hilt, his body a tense, trembling wall of heat against Yong-Jin’s back. He dropped his head between Yong-Jin’s shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gusts. “Bozhe,” he gasped, a prayer or a curse. “Ty takoy… tepliy.” You are so warm. He didn’t move for a long moment, just shuddered, as if the sensation was overwhelming him.
Then he began to move. It wasn’t the graceful, controlled rhythm from before. It was raw, desperate, a driven pounding that shook the bed frame. Each thrust pushed a choked sound from Yong-Jin’s throat. Zykin’s hands clutched his hips, sure to leave bruises, holding him in place to be used. He was muttering in Russian, a broken stream of filth and devotion against Yong-Jin’s skin. “Moy… moy… solnyshko moyo…” My sun.
The pain bloomed, then faded, transforming into something else—a deep, full ache that began to spark with a treacherous kind of pleasure. Yong-Jin buried his face in the sheets, his own sounds muffled. He was being unmade, consumed, rewritten with every brutal, perfect stroke.
Zykin’s rhythm grew frantic, losing all finesse. One hand slid around Yong-Jin’s waist, pulling him back impossibly tighter against him. His other hand fisted in Yong-Jin’s hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring them together. His movements became jagged, then he stilled, driving deep one final time.
A raw, guttural shout tore from Zykin’s chest, a sound of pure, unfiltered release. He held himself there, pulsing, his body convulsing against Yong-Jin’s. For a moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths.
Slowly, Zykin’s grip loosened. He slumped forward, his weight crushing Yong-Jin into the mattress. He was heavy, a deadweight of muscle and bone and satisfaction. He nuzzled into the back of Yong-Jin’s neck, his lips moving against the damp skin.
“Spasibo,” he whispered. Thank you.
They lay like that for a long time, stuck together in the aftermath. Yong-Jin’s mind was blank, floating. Eventually, Zykin rolled off him with a groan. He immediately pulled Yong-Jin against his side, tucking the smaller man’s head under his chin. His heart hammered against Yong-Jin’s ear, a frantic drum slowly calming.
He reached down and pulled the tangled silk sheets over them. He traced meaningless patterns on Yong-Jin’s shoulder with his fingertips. The silence was thick and complete.
Zykin’s phone, abandoned on the nightstand, lit up. A call. It buzzed once, twice, a violent little dance on the marble surface.
Zykin ignored it. He pressed a kiss to Yong-Jin’s hair. “Sleep,” he commanded softly.
But the phone stopped, only to start buzzing again immediately. And again. It was relentless.
With a low curse, Zykin disentangled himself and grabbed it. “Chto?” he snarled into the receiver. What?
Yong-Jin could hear the tinny, agitated voice on the other end but not the words. Zykin listened, his body going rigid beside him. The post-coital softness evaporated from his face, replaced by cold, familiar granite.
“How many?” Zykin asked, his voice deadly calm.
More frantic tinny speech.
“Where is Anton?”
A pause.
“Tell him to hold them at the gates. Do not let them into the main hall. I am coming.” He ended the call and sat up, swinging his legs out of bed.
“What’s wrong?” Yong-Jin asked, pushing himself up on his elbows. A cold dread was seeping into the warmth of the bed.
Zykin stood, naked and formidable, already striding toward his discarded clothes. He didn’t look at Yong-Jin as he pulled his trousers on. “Men,” he said, buckling his belt. “From the Litvinov brigada. They are at the warehouse. They are asking for the Korean mechanic.” He yanked his turtleneck over his head, his voice muffled for a moment before his face emerged, sharp and dangerous. “They say they have come to collect what is theirs.”
He turned then, and his eyes were the color of winter ice. He walked back to the bed, crouching down so he was eye-level with Yong-Jin. He cupped his face, his thumb stroking Yong-Jin’s cheekbone. The touch was tender, but his words were frozen steel. “You see? The world does not forget so easily.” He leaned in, kissed him hard. “But I do. I erase it.”
He stood up, grabbing his jacket from a chair. “You will stay here. Anton’s men are outside. You will lock this door behind me. You will not open it for anyone but me.” He was at the bedroom door now, a spectre of violence dressed in black. He looked back once, his hand on the knob. “Get dressed. Put on the trousers. Be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Yong-Jin’s voice was a thread.
Zykin’s smile was a flash of teeth in the dim room. “To see what happens to men who come for my things.”
He was gone. The door clicked shut. The silence he left behind was of a different kind—a waiting silence, charged and brittle.
Yong-Jin sat alone in the rumpled sheets that smelled of sex and Zykin. He looked at the black leather skirt, discarded on the dark marble floor like a shed skin. From the street, twenty floors below, came the faint, lonely wail of a siren, bleeding up through the snow.
From the street, twenty floors below, came the faint, lonely wail of a siren, bleeding up through the snow. It severed the silence. Yong-Jin flinched. The remnants of warmth and lingering shock evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. Zykin was going out there, into the snow and the wail, towards men who wanted to “collect” him.
The thought was a bolt of pure lightning, jolting him from the bed. His legs felt like water, but he forced them to hold. The dark trousers Zykin had laid out for him were pooled on the floor where he’d stepped out of them. He snatched them up, yanking them on with clumsy, frantic hands. He didn’t bother with the sweater. The cool air of the penthouse pebbled his bare skin.
He didn’t think. He just ran. The polished marble was icy under his feet as he slammed into the hall. Zykin was at the reinforced front door, shrugging into a long, dark coat, his back a wall of tension.
"Back in the room," Zykin growled without turning, his voice the crack of a whip. "Now."
Yong-Jin didn’t listen. He crossed the space in three strides and threw his arms around Zykin’s middle, pressing his face against the cold leather of the coat’s back. He held on tight, his fingers clutching at the heavy material. Zykin went absolutely still, a statue of surprised violence.
"Don’t get hurt," Yong-Jin mumbled into the leather, his voice muffled and thick. He swallowed. "Just... make sure to come back."
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then, Zykin’s hands came up, covering Yong-Jin’s where they were locked around his waist. His grip was crushing, almost painful, as if he were anchoring himself to the spot. He took a deep, shuddering breath that expanded his chest against Yong-Jin’s cheek.
He peeled Yong-Jin’s hands away gently but firmly and turned. His face was unreadable, carved from some cold, northern stone. But his green eyes, usually so distant, were focused with an alarming intensity. He cupped Yong-Jin’s jaw, his thumb rough on his cheekbone.
"This?" he said, his voice low. "This is what I come back for. Not the money. Not the respect." He leaned in, his forehead touching Yong-Jin’s. "You are my only reason to walk through that door again. Remember that."
He kissed him, hard and quick, a brand of possession. When he pulled away, the tsar was fully present, the softness gone. "Lock it behind me. Do not stand near the windows." He turned the heavy lock and pulled the door open. A slice of concrete hallway and the stern profile of Anton, holding a sleek, black rifle, appeared.
Zykin paused on the threshold. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes finding Yong-Jin’s in the dim foyer light. The ghost of a smile, bleak and terrible, touched his lips. "I will bring Litvinov his answer in a box."
The door shut with a definitive, hydraulic hiss. Yong-Jin stood there, hearing the deadbolts engage automatically from the outside. He was locked in. The immense, opulent space, once a cage he resented, now felt like a fragile shell. He walked to the door and pressed his palm against the cold steel. He could hear nothing from the other side.
Through the peephole, he saw Anton, a statue of menace with his rifle, guarding the empty hall. Zykin was already gone, vanished into the elevator. The siren’s cry had faded, leaving only the hum of silence and his own frantic heartbeat. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, his back against the unyielding metal, and waited.
The warehouse district was a chessboard of shadows and sodium light. Zykin’s Mercedes, black and silent, slid to a halt a block from his own facility. He didn’t approach directly. He moved on foot, a darker shadow merging with the night, his coat blending into the industrial gloom.
Two of Litvinov’s men leaned against a dirty van, smoking. They were muscle, cheap suits and colder eyes. They never saw him. Zykin emerged from between two storage containers, his movements fluid and silent. The first man had his neck snapped before his cigarette hit the wet asphalt. The second gasped, turning, but a heavy fist crushed his larynx.
Zykin lowered the body to the ground. He didn’t break his stride.
The main loading bay door of his warehouse was slightly ajar, light spilling out. He could hear raised voices inside—Anton’s calm, steady baritone, and another, raspier voice shouting in agitated Russian. Zykin paused just outside the light pool, listening.
"…a simple misunderstanding, Anton! We come for the mechanic, we leave. Our boss, he is upset his property left without settlement."
"He is not property," Anton replied, his voice even. "And there is no misunderstanding. You are on the wrong side of the city. You are breathing my air."
Zykin pushed the door open. It groaned on its tracks.
The scene inside was tense but static. Five more of Litvinov’s men stood in a loose group, their hands hovering near their coats. Anton and three of his own soldiers formed a wall between them and the interior of the warehouse. All heads turned as Zykin entered.
He took his time, unbuttoning his long coat and letting it drape open. He wasn’t armed visibly. He didn’t need to be. His presence altered the gravity in the room. The shouting man, a gaunt figure with a weaselly face, paled.
"Pakhan," Anton said, a note of relief in his voice.
"Litvinov sends puppies to do a wolf’s job," Zykin said, his voice conversational as he walked toward the group. His eyes scanned them, counting, assessing. "Where is your master? Hiding in his counting house?"
The weaselly man puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim his bluster. "The Korean. He worked in a garage under our protection. He owes a debt. We are here to collect him and the money."
Zykin stopped a few feet away. He smiled. It was the most terrifying thing any of them had ever seen. "You are mistaken," he said softly. "The debt is mine. I collected your garage. Your lease. Your tools." He took a step closer. The men instinctually stepped back. "You can tell Litvinov his debt to me is now this: the insult of your presence here tonight."
He moved then.
It wasn’t a fight; it was a dismantling. He grabbed the weaselly man by the throat and the back of his head and slammed his face down onto the upward arc of his own knee. The crack was sickeningly loud. The man dropped, a boneless heap. Another man pulled a knife. Zykin caught the swinging wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped, and drove the man’s own blade into his thigh. He didn’t scream; he gurgled as Zykin’s fist silenced him.
Anton and his men surged forward, a wave of controlled violence meeting the remaining three. It was over in seconds. The concrete floor was slick with new, dark stains. The only sound was ragged breathing and the soft drip of blood from Zykin’s knuckles.
He looked down at the weaselly man, who was moaning through a ruined face. Zykin crouched beside him. "You listen," he whispered, his voice coated in something dark and sweet. "You tell Litvinov the Korean’s name is Ru Yong-Jin. You tell him Yong-Jin belongs to me. You tell him if he speaks that name again, if he even thinks it, I will mail him his own fingers until he runs out of places to wear his rings." He patted the man’s cheek, leaving a red smear. "Do you understand the message?"
The man whimpered, his eyes wide with terror.
Zykin stood. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and meticulously wiped the blood from his hands. He turned to Anton. "Clean this up. Send the message back to Litvinov in their car. Tidy."
Anton nodded. "And the mechanic?" he asked, his voice low. "Are we moving him?"
Zykin looked toward the warehouse ceiling, as if he could see through it to the penthouse twenty miles away. He thought of arms locked around his waist, a face pressed against his back, a muffled plea. A feeling, vast and quiet, settled in his chest.
"No," Zykin said, his voice final. "He stays with me. He is safest where I can see him." He dropped the bloody handkerchief onto the chest of the groaning man. "Finish here."
He walked back out into the freezing night, the cold air cleansing the scent of iron and fear from his lungs. He didn’t look back at the ruin he’d left behind. His mind was already traveling down granite corridors, past a steel door, to a warm body pressed against it, waiting. His pace quickened.