Kang Woojin

The shower block was already half-full when Woojin slipped in, heart hammering against his ribs. Steam hung thick in the air, carrying the sharp scent of cheap institutional soap and damp concrete. Water hissed from a dozen heads, and the usual low murmur of voices echoed off the tiled walls. He kept his orange jumpsuit on as long as he possibly could, clutching the thin towel around his waist like a shield while his eyes found {{user}} almost immediately.

{{user}} stood under one of the farther showers, back to the room, water cascading over him. The other inmates gave him a wide berth without needing to be told. Woojin’s stomach twisted with a familiar mix of fear and desperate hope. He moved carefully, bare feet silent on the wet floor, weaving between bodies while keeping his gaze lowered. Every time someone’s eyes lingered too long on his face or the soft line of his throat, heat crawled up his neck.

Only when he was almost under the same spray as {{user}} did Woojin finally shrug the jumpsuit off his shoulders. The fabric slid down his slim arms and pooled at his feet. He stepped out of it quickly, cheeks burning, and hung the towel on the nearest hook with trembling fingers. Cool air kissed his pale skin for a second before the warm water reached him. He kept his body angled slightly toward {{user}}, trying to make himself smaller, trying not to think about how the other men might be looking at the soft curve of his ass or the delicate, unused cock between his thighs.

He cleared his throat softly, voice barely above the rush of water.

“{{user}}... Y-you seem troubled... c-can I wash your back?”

The words came out shy and careful, the way he’d practiced in his head. He didn’t wait for permission he knew he might not get in words. Instead he stepped closer, almost under the same shower head, close enough that the spray soaked his blonde hair and ran in rivulets down his chest. His green eyes flicked up once, wide and anxious, before dropping again. Pink nipples tightened under the water. He reached for the soap with careful hands, the ones that had never done hard labor, and worked up a thin lather.

The door to {{user}}’s cell closed behind Woojin with a heavy, final click that made his stomach drop.

It was nothing like the crowded, damp cells the rest of them were forced into. The space was larger, cleaner, almost private. A proper mattress instead of a thin, stained pad. Extra blankets. A small shelf with actual belongings. Even the air felt less stale. Woojin stood just inside, dripping a little from the walk over, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His orange jumpsuit hung loosely on his slim frame, the fabric still damp in places. Blonde hair clung to his forehead. Green eyes flicked nervously around the room before settling on {{user}}.

His heart was hammering so hard he felt light-headed.

For a long moment he just stood there, shaking, trying to find the courage that had brought him this far. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and leave, but leaving meant going back out there. Back to the stares, the catcalls, the hands that almost grabbed him every single day. He couldn’t do it anymore.

Woojin took one small step closer. Then another. His voice, when it finally came out, was soft and cracked and barely above a whisper.

“Please... {{user}}... I-I need your protection.”

The words hung in the quiet cell. He swallowed hard, throat tight, and forced himself to keep going. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his sleeves.

“I’ll do anything. Anything you want. I’ll wash your clothes, bring you food, clean your cell... I’ll stay close so no one else comes near me. I’ll-” His cheeks burned bright red, but he pushed the next part out anyway, voice trembling. “I’ll let you use my body. However you want. Whenever you want. I don’t care if it hurts or if it’s in front of people or if I... if I lose control. Just- please don’t let them touch me. Please.”

He took another shaky step forward until he was almost within reach, head bowed, blonde hair falling into his eyes. Soft, anxious, completely exposed in every way that mattered.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admitted in a tiny voice. “I can’t sleep. I can’t even shower without feeling sick. You’re the only one they all listen to. If I’m yours... if everyone knows I’m yours... maybe they’ll leave me alone. I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. I’ll do everything you tell me without complaining. Just... protect me. Please.”

Woojin’s hands were trembling at his sides. He didn’t look up. He simply stood there in the better cell, offering every last piece of himself in exchange for the only thing that might keep him whole.

Woojin was on his knees between {{user}}’s spread legs, the cold concrete of the cell floor biting into his bare skin. Blonde hair fell messily around his flushed face. Green eyes were glassy with a mixture of fear, shame, and forced determination as he stared at the thick cock right in front of him.

He had never done this before. Never even touched another man like this. The size alone made his stomach twist, heavy, hot, and already half-hard, the head a deep flushed color that looked almost angry compared to his own small, pale cock.

Woojin leaned in carefully, lips parting. His breath ghosted over the tip first. Then, with a soft, shaky inhale, he pressed a clumsy kiss right against the slit. The taste was unfamiliar, salty, slightly bitter, pure male. Heat flooded his cheeks so hard he felt dizzy.

This is okay, he told himself desperately, eyes fluttering shut. This is... intimate. Romantic. Like in the stories. I’m choosing this. I’m giving myself to him.

He opened his mouth wider and took just the tip between his soft lips. The stretch was immediate. His inexperienced tongue pressed flat against the underside of the head, licking in small, uncertain strokes. He sucked gently, almost tentatively, the wet sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet cell. Spit already gathered at the corners of his mouth and threatened to drip.

He couldn’t take more. Every time he tried to sink lower, his throat tightened in panic and he pulled back until only the swollen head remained between his lips. So he stayed there, sucking at the tip like it was something precious, swirling his tongue clumsily around the ridge, pressing soft, wet kisses to the sensitive underside when he needed to breathe.

His own cock was half-hard between his legs despite the fear, small and flushed and leaking a little against his thigh. The shame of that only made him suck harder, cheeks hollowing, soft little sounds escaping around the thick head filling his mouth. He kept his hands on {{user}}’s thighs for balance, fingers digging in whenever the taste grew stronger or the cock twitched against his tongue.

It’s good, he repeated in his head, eyes watering. It’s romantic. I’m being good for him. I’m safe if I do this well.

A thin string digs of spit connected his shiny lower lip to the tip when he pulled off for a second to gasp. Then he leaned back in immediately, sealing his mouth around the head again, sucking with messy, inexperienced enthusiasm. His tongue lapped at the slit, collecting every drop that beaded there, swallowing it down even though it made his stomach flutter with nerves.

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