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Gi-hun thinks the stairs between the game room, management, and dormitories vaguely resemble the constructions of small houses you find at playgrounds - the pastel pink and yellow, the pillars the X’s hide behind for cover, the extended half-round windows that the guards are shooting from. When bullets penetrate the walls, the pink paint crackles and falls away to reveal concrete. The yellow walls become saturated with splashes of blood and gore. They are low on ammunition. They need to act fast.
“I’ll look for the management area!” he yells as he crouches down to face Young-il.
“Will you be able to find it?” Young-il asks. Between the gunfire, Gi-hun has to strain to hear his voice.
“Should I come?” he continues as he nods towards the purple hallway. Briefly, in the back of his mind, Gi-hun wonders if bringing Young-il with him would be more advantageous than bringing any other of the X’s. Young-il has a point — it would be unwise to go alone, and here he is, offering himself up to Gi-hun. For what it’s worth, he trusts Young-il.
And since they’re next to one another, located closest to the hallway out of all the X’s, they need to move less, and are as such at less risk of being hit by guards when they get up and move. It’s decided then.
“Yes, we’ll have Jung-bae buy us time here. Go on, move!”
As he watches Young-il react to his decision, Gi-hun thinks that he sees a hint of surprise on Young-il’s features — an upwards tug in one side of his lip, brown eyes widening. But there’s no time to dwell on it, and Young-il moves past him to crawl over Gihun’s legs before he stands up in the hallway. Gi-hun is right behind him.
The first thing that Gi-hun notices is that this part of the facility is much darker. Compared to the headache-inducing LED lights in the dorms, whose beams of light reflect on the white tile walls, the purple hallways are far more dimmed. Shadows exaggerate the planes of Young-il’s face, the high cheekbones and sunken eyes, along with the downwards fold of his thin lips, make him appear much different from the man Gi-hun is used to seeing in bright, sterile lighting. As they move further in, Young-il probably catches him looking.
“Gi-hun-ssi,” says, keeping his voice low. His eyes are trained ahead of him again. They haven’t seen any guards here so far, but that doesn’t mean they’re not right around the next corner.
“Why did you pick me to go with you?” Young-il asks. Based on his tone, Gi-hun would think the man was seeking reassurance, but that could not possibly be, could it?
“You were the closest to me,” Gi-hun says. Honesty is the best policy among comrades, and truthfully, Gi-hun picked Young-il based on his physical proximity to him and the hallway.
“Oh.” For a fraction of a second, he sees the other freeze in his tracks before continuing again. Gi-hun wonders if he was expecting a different reply.
He doesn’t give it any more thought, the further they go into the labyrinthian maze. There were more things to worry about, their steps careful as they advanced. As they got closer to what could be the Frontman’s quarters, Young-il swiftly gunned down a guard about to ambush them, stunning Gi-hun briefly. It was like he expected him to come out of the corner. The quarters themselves were tightly guarded, not only requiring the mask identification to access them but had guards around to scan the area as well.
It wasn’t in their favor to go ahead and shoot them as well. They need them in order to access the quarters. Right before making the corner, Young-il peeks out of it briefly, going undetected. “There’s guards surrounding his quarters, Gi-hun-ssi. It might be too dangerous,” He whispers to Gi-hun, his tone fairly calm and collected at the view of the information he’d just learned.
Crouched by the corner together, Gi-hun swears Young-il looks at him as if he could see the gears inside of his brain turn. He takes a moment to think, weighing his options. He was sure that much like their Frontman, they wouldn’t care about a casualty like Young-il, but he didn’t have much to work with. Leaning closer to Young-il, Gi-hun whispers in his ear to stand up slowly and stay calm.
As Young-il follows his orders, they step out. The guards raised their rifles and suddenly, he could suddenly feel the cold barrel of Gi-hun’s rifle against the back of his head. He nudges him forward, making him shakily lift his arms up in surrender. Gi-hun could see him tremble — if he was acting, he was pulling off being scared very well, but Gi-hun could’ve never guessed the fear that consumed Young-il alive. He was before his own guards, surrendering to them, held at gunpoint by Gi-hun of all people. He could’ve never imagined this is how Gi-hun would find out.
Gi-hun watches as the last part of the muzzle disappears into Young-il’s brown head of hair, hitting the back of his skull with a soft thud. The sparse lights highlight locks around the crown of his head, creating the illusion of a halo.
“Don’t try anything funny or I'll kill him!” Gi-hun shouts over the ringing in Young-il’s ears — belatedly, In-ho realizes it was his own heartbeat. “Let us see your leader.”
Like unmoving statues, the guards do not reply to him at first. Pushing the muzzle against Young-il, Gi-hun forces him to go up the steps slowly. He wonders if he looks as determined as he did when they were planning the rebellion, sure of himself, gaunt face hardened at the sight of the Frontman’s guards or if he looks terrified in a way Gi-hun has never seen him. He’s mostly composed and collected, so he couldn’t imagine how fear would look on Young-il’s face.
The last time he was in this vulnerable of a position has to have been in his own games. Would Gi-hun go through with his threat, sacrificing one good man in favor of getting a hold of the object of his nightmares? Tremors wreck his body as instinct takes over his cortex, shaking hands bracketing each side of his head while he struggles to take deep breaths. His ribcage expands under the teal tracksuit when he takes a shaky inhale through his nose. He feels his stomach drop when the muzzle insistently knocks on his head again, forcing him ever closer to the two Squares guarding his quarters.
“Well?” Despite himself, Gi-hun feels impatience rising in his chest, expanding throughout his circulatory system as the guards continue to regard him with seeming indifference. He wonders if he could shoot the two guards, if it came to it. But that means they would need to find a way to open the door themselves.
In-ho does not remember the last time he was genuinely afraid of losing his life. Perhaps it was also all those years ago, in his own games, when he was a cornered animal before the others. He feels as small as he did then. His eyes widen, shifting between the guards as he jerks his head a millimeter to the side, signalling for them to give Gi-hun his will. He knows that they know him. They will obey.
And they do — slowly stepping to the side, as if they were backing away from a rabid animal, and one slowly turns to tap a pin code on a screen integrated in the wall. The doors are silent when they part, gradually revealing the view of his main room. If it were any other day, he would associate the leather armchair with a time to relax his sore muscles, but as it is, he is dominated by a sense of doom for what is to come.
Gi-hun cannot help but feel a sense of triumph as the two guards let go of their weapons, and the doors to the very heart of this organisation slide open. He gives a curt nod to the guard still turned to him, still holding the gun to Young-il’s head as they step inside. This was a risky plan — it feels almost too good to be true. He has never seen the guards spare a player, much less care about losing the life of one.
No. That’s not true.
In his mind’s eye, a picture appears of Oh Il-nam in the player tracksuit, standing in front of an artificial lawn to his childhood home. A year later he would see the old man die on the top floor of a hospital building, raised far above the common working class citizens.
How peculiar, Gi-hun thinks, that they share the same number. Tendrils of suspicion begin to wrap around his conscious thought. Yet he presses on, until they both stand in the centre of the room. The doors close.
The Frontman’s quarters are eerily quiet. So quiet there is no faint hum of any machinery, any clock, nor the jazz diorama — if there was, it would’ve pierced the silence. Opposite the luxurious armchair a large monitor hangs on the wall, showing the camera feed of the dormitories. It is deathly quiet in the dormitories after the rebellion seemingly failed, a blurry image of Xs split from Os on the screen. Gi-hun couldn’t focus on discerning any players in particular, though it wasn’t exactly easy to spot anyone, his mind was elsewhere. Specifically on the Frontman’s absence. Gi-hun knows he couldn’t have been wrong about this, everything in this room was telling that these indeed were the Frontman’s quarters, and yet he was missing.
He hasn’t yet dropped the muzzle from Young-il’s head, growing from a means to an end to a stark reminder of what Gi-hun could do to the Frontman if he so wished to.
“Gi-hun-ssi,” Young-il starts, voice shaky and laced with fear. “The guards aren’t watching us anymore. You should put down the gun.”
Gi-hun halts, looking over Young-il’s head. The golden light douses over his brown locks, making him look like an angel from heaven above, even though he couldn’t see how the light also framed over his features. He imagines the overhead light from the chandelier frame his fearful expression, uneven lips parted as he gasps for air. “I just have a feeling something’s w-”
The landline phone rings. Young-il flinches at the noise but doesn’t turn to look at Gi-hun, and neither does Gi-hun let go of him, noticing how he tensed up — it seemed like Young-il wants to reach out and answer the phone, if how his back straightened and his arms tensed was any sign. It continued ringing until it timed out, the two not sparing a word to each other before it rang again. It must’ve been the same person from before, and Gi-hun’s suspicion grew further. The ringing tone pierces the silence between them like a dagger, growing more insistent by the second, and out of the corner of his eye, Gi-hun notices Young-il’s jaw tense. As if he is deciding the best line of action.
“Gi-hun-ssi,” he breathes, barely audible over the ringing. “I have to take this. Please.”
Gi-hun hesitates but lets go of Young-il, allowing him to walk towards the landline, steps hurried as he does so, and picks up the phone, bringing the handset to his ear and mouth. Young-il is frozen, not talking into the receiver — the person on the other side must not be talking or Young-il doesn’t have permission to speak first. Gi-hun doesn’t raise his rifle again, letting it rest idly, but he feels restless, the air in the quarters almost foreboding. He watches as Young-il briefly moves his head as if he’s trying to look over his shoulder, mind racing.
“... Don’t let them find the island until the games are over.” Silence stretches over the room. Gi-hun feels as if his feet were rooted in the ground, an ice cold feeling washing over his entirety. He watches as Young-il remains still, as he doesn’t pick up any commotion over the speaker — his word must hold a final level of authority. It all adds up — the humiliatingly easy access to his quarters, the lack of a fight from his Squares — and yet, it doesn’t stop the wave of disgust washing over Gi-hun.
Kill them all. It’s something he never expected to hear out of Young-il’s mouth, voice usually clad in a soft-spoken tone. He doesn’t sound like he’s giving orders exactly, even though he is authoritative in the way he speaks, Gi-hun can tell he’s afraid to turn around and face him. He stays on the phone briefly, before putting down the headset.
Gi-hun has the rifle raised when In-ho turns to face him. His face was hard set, brows furrowed but the fire in his eyes was snuffed out. He didn’t seem to have given up or resigned, but a deep sense of disappointment lay in him, and In-ho could see it all. It isn’t how In-ho had wanted Gi-hun to find out that his closest ally, Oh Young-il, was the Frontman all along.
“Young-il. What was that about?” Gi-hun sees Young-il’s jaw clench, unsure of what to say. There were no real outcomes other than the one they both knew and it was useless for In-ho to keep hiding. Regardless, his eyes cannot find the other’s gaze as he speaks. He breathes in.
“That was Captain Park.” The words don’t come easily, he feels like a child being scolded for lying and now being made to tell the truth.
“He’s under your command,” Gi-hun concludes. In-ho nods shamefully.
“And you’re the top dog here.” A dog. That’s all he is.
Gi-hun glances down to see Young-il clench his hands into fists as he answers in the affirmative, face contorting into a look of regret. “I wish you would have found out under different circumstances,” he begins, “I’m sorry, Gi-hun-ssi, I—”
In-ho’s face is roughly flung to the side as it impacts with the back of Gi-hun’s right hand. He is stunned, not yet feeling the pain blooming on his cheek due to the pure shock. It’s all so sudden, the adrenaline rush from the smack and Gi-hun cornering him, grabbing him by the collar of his tracksuit’s jacket as the rifle falls to the floor, forgotten. “Sorry? You’re sorry ? You should be ashamed of yourself,” Gi-hun watches as his cheek blooms red where he’d hit him, Young-il all of a sudden becoming so small, so meek, so insignificant. His eyes are beady, looking up to Gi-hun like the dam had burst — he was afraid of him this whole time, of what he could do to him. And yet, it doesn’t fail to spring excitement in him, his blood running hot. Gi-hun’s face is so close to him that their breaths mingle, In-ho able to see every wrinkle, every eyelash of Gi-hun’s. His eyes are wild with fury, focus zeroing in on the smaller man.
“So it’s you. You’re the one responsible for everything. All those deaths. You’re pathetic, Young-il — if that’s even your real name.”
In-ho’s hands come to clasp over Gi-hun’s, but he doesn’t try to get away from Gi-hun, almost like he’s savoring the physical touch. It should disgust Gi-hun that he dares touch him, and yet he allows him to, large hands closing over his thin wrists.
“Hwang In-ho,” He breathes out, Gi-hun feeling his grip go lax. “That is my real name.”
Rage twists inside of Gi-hun — this was the brother Hwang Jun-ho was talking about. Jun-ho covered his older brother’s tracks — two liars, one surname shared between them. He didn’t have the heart to get angry at both of them now, only focusing on who he had in front of him, the man who haunted him for years on end, in his waking and subconscious world. His grip tightens around You- In-ho ’s collar as he pulls back to bash him against the wall again.
In-ho loses his footing as the back of his head hits the wall, cheap white shoes gliding on the floor. His knees click together as his legs fall between Gi-hun’s wide stance, only held up by the powerful grip the other has on him.
“If I were Jun-ho, I would have given up looking for my piece of shit brother long ago. You’re disgusting, nothing more than a weak, little coward.” Gi-hun spits, simply as if addressing In-ho directly was below him.
He lets go of In-ho, who falls on his ass with a frankly pathetic yelp. Gi-hun can barely believe he used to be frightened by the Frontman’s looming shadow — the image of his unfeeling mask doesn’t hold up to the man who now looks up at Gi-hun through tears in his eyes. In-ho hugs one arm around himself, as if to self-soothe, while the other arm has the nerve to reach out, fingers curling around Gi-hun’s shin. He sniffles.
“I’m sor— sorry,” he takes in a few shallow breaths as he continues, “Forgive me, please. Gi-hun-ssi. I’m sorry,” In-ho blubbers pathetically as Gi-hun steps away from him, kicking his arm away in the process. It makes his cries more desperate, seeing him be outright rejected like this — like he’s trash.
His apologies bear no weight to Gi-hun. Just empty lip service.
“If you want me to even begin to think about forgiving you,” Gi-hun begins. “You have to earn it. Show me that you’re as sorry as you say you are.”
///
The Frontman takes step after step up to his personal quarters from the VIP lounge. After the last game, Squid Game, wraps up, the VIPs have made it a tradition to hold an afterparty of sorts. Soon, they will be doing so much cocaine the blood vessels in their noses burst and the poor waiters are forced to clean up the splatter of snot and blood. The Frontman’s presence is no longer required. Sending the winners back with their respective prizes is a tedious, yet simple task — so simple even a Circle could do it.
The faint red beam of the scanner temporarily blinds In-ho behind the mask as his identity is confirmed and the doors slide open. The figure sitting in his chair does not greet him, does not react to the opening and closing of doors as he steps in. The first thing that comes off is the mask — his second identity — then his boots, then coat. Shortly after, he removes the turtleneck and dress pants slowly, folding them into a neat pile on the sleek floor. His undershirt, socks, and underwear go next.
He does not remove his gloves. He is not worthy of touching Seong Gi-hun directly with his bloodstained hands.
Sinking to his hands and knees, In-ho crawls towards the chair until he is in between the other man’s spread legs, bowing his head in submission. “It’s done,” he says.
“I haven’t allowed you to speak yet,” Gi-hun replies. In-ho bows further down, tip of his forehead touching the ground. His hands come out to his sides to support his weight. Gi-hun does not spare him a single glance, opening the whisky decanter and pouring himself two fingers before setting the crystal glass down. His face is set on the screen, which turns on as live feeds of the unconscious players start. There are six winners this year. Gi-hun settles further into the chair, somewhat satisfied with his efforts.
“You could have done better, In-ho. I seem to recall I said I’d like ten survivors,” he says. Not winners. The massacre of the fourth, fifth and sixth games combined could hardly be called a game, no matter how hard In-ho tried to make them easier. In-ho cannot respond.
“Speak.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” In-ho says, pressing his face flat down on the floor in an attempt to bow down even further. “I couldn’t fulfill your wish,” he knows there is no reason to explain himself or shield himself from the disappointment by conjuring useless excuses. In-ho sounds muffled as he speaks against the floor, so Gi-hun yanks him up by the roots of his brown hair.
“You couldn’t. And why is that?” Gi-hun challenges, regarding the naked man for the first time since he stepped into the room. He looks flushed, dull eyes glazed over with lust as he avoids Gi-hun’s piercing gaze.
“Because I’m useless. I’m only good for one thing.” He looks ashamed of himself, only able to utter the learned words as a whisper, a confession from a worthless creature.
“That’s right, trash. And what’s that?”
“Warming your cock —,” a tug of his hair interrupts him and he winces, “— sir.”
In the back of his mind, Gi-hun finds it both disgusting and amusing how easily the Frontman feel into their current roles. Disgusting, because of how needy he can get — because of how eager In-ho is to be used like this. Amusing, because it tracks with his role as the upper echelon’s dog. Following orders like it is second nature.
Gi-hun does not dwell on why he feels a surge of power with every cruel word, every hit, every order. In some ways, it was as though he was reclaiming what he’d lost thanks to the Frontman — especially coming from In-ho himself. He can understand why In-ho hid behind privilege and control, because control felt exhilarating, especially when he exercised it over scum like the Frontman. It was unbecoming of him — in no way Gi-hun could’ve ever thought he would want to dominate him like this, a thought so obscene that was obscuring his end goal and his moral convictions, and yet, even past the initial disgust, he finds himself fond of this newfound feeling.
“Good. Now get to work,” he says, letting In-ho go. The man scoots closer, hurried as if Gi-hun might change his mind, and undoes his belt buckle. He’d been dressed in the same clothes that he came in, that fateful night. The opening of his zipper reveals a mostly-flaccid cock under white briefs. Despite himself, In-ho feels a bead of slick drip out of him, mind growing hazy with arousal as greedy fingers inch closer to the bulge before palming it through layers of cotton and leather. In-ho noses it, olfactory senses quickly become overwhelmed with the heady smell of sweat and musk. He looks transfixed as the cock twitches to life before he closes his eyes and leans in, pursing his lips slightly as he kisses the shaft.
Gi-hun regards him as he does, feeling the featherlight touch of his lips. His hands rests on the crown of his head, encouraging In-ho to give more of himself, and he does, licking a wet stripe as he wantonly moans. Gi-hun composes himself, resisting the urge to buck into the wet mouth. In-ho is insistent, almost like he wants to see how much Gi-hun can take until he breaks. With his face pressed to his groin, In-ho swipes the flat of his tongue over his length, trailing up to where the fabric had begun to tent and lapping his tongue over the leaking head.
He doesn't deserve to have his eyes on Gi-hun and yet he does, looking at him through his wispy eyelashes as he kisses and mouths over the tent, darkening the fabric of his briefs with his drool. In-ho savors every groan that comes out of him, every upward twitch of his hips trying not to fuck In-ho’s eager mouth. He could feel himself growing wetter, clit impatiently throbbing at the neglect. In-ho knows he shouldn't touch himself, knows he'll have to beg — Gi-hun wasn't stupid after all, he'd see it — and yet, it doesn't stop him from closing his legs and squishing his toned thighs against each other. With his mouth against Gi-hun’s groin, In-ho’s moan of relief was muffled, mind now emptier than it'd been before he got on his knees.
The friction feels good, too good , already so achingly hard for him and In-ho’s done nothing but have his mouth on his clothed cock, drool gathering at the seam of his lips as he peppered it with kisses, not letting up on worshiping his cock until either of them got tired. If he could spend his last days on Earth here, between Gi-hun's legs, he would, lapping away at him. It is nothing short of a heavenly task, reserved only for the most devoted of servants.
Gi-hun breathes heavily through parted lips, exhales air hitting stray hairs on the crown of In-ho’s head that dance in the faint, manmade breeze. Threads of arousal in his gut tighten at the feel of his eager mouth around, but it is not quite enough — as pleasurable as it feels, Gi-hun is not desperate enough to be satiated at simple suggestions of a blowjob. As if bored, he takes a sip of the poured whisky — the notes, expensive as they are, have become muted, dulled almost, as the liquor in the glass has been allowed to aerate slightly. The sweet, yet tart, note of dark chocolate has evened out, bringing the bitter base notes of the liquor to the center stage on Gi-hun’s tastebuds. It is strong, and he would not consider himself a lightweight by any means, but even the small sip goes directly to his head, temporarily amplifying the sensation of having his cock licked, now fully hard. He becomes aware of the hot breaths along with In-ho’s tongue, how insufficient it is, how he wants more .
Setting the crystal glass down, he pries off In-ho with his other hand, who whines pathetically in response. His gloved hands obediently fall to his thighs, and as Gi-hun’s gaze follows the light dancing on the shiny, black gloves — and he sees it. Thighs clamped desperately together, hips rolling before stopping as In-ho is caught red-handed. Gi-hun should have expected this, but still a faint annoyance at the blatant disregard of his authority makes itself known. In-ho should know better, that he is not allowed to get off unless he is given explicit permission, that Gi-hun’s pleasure should be his sole focus. Being found out, In-ho sobers up quickly, expression turning from arousal to fear of his impending punishment in an instant.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Gi-hun says, hand moving from In-ho’s forehead to his jaw, feeling the masseter muscle clench under his grasp. “You’re just too greedy for your own good, aren’t you?”
Still slick with saliva, In-ho’s lips part as if to apologize, but he reminds himself he is not allowed to speak, so he bites his quivering bottom lip as he is forced to look up at the man before him. He nods, or tries to, but he can barely move a muscle. A shoe comes to nudge between his closed knees, a silent order, and so he spreads his legs in shame. Strings of slick stick to his inner thighs, connecting them before breaking off, and In-ho lets out a gasp at the sudden loss of warmth around his cunt. The new sitting position strains his lower back as he is forced into an arch, no longer able to rub himself. He could feel himself throbbing, the ache from his arousal making his mind blank. He felt like a bitch in heat, the realization making him drip.
Before him, Gi-hun teases him, pushing down his briefs enough with his free hand so his cock is exposed, proudly hitting air. Beads of precum gathered at the blushing tip, making In-ho salivate. He lets go of In-ho’s jaw and In-ho remains glued to the sight, unable to tear his eyes off him. He knew Gi-hun could tell how badly he wanted to take him in his mouth and gag around his girth, but now he was furthering his punishment. Gi-hun spits in his palm before his thin, dainty fingers wrap around his cock, slowly pumping himself in his hand and gathering pre as he goes. He drags his pleasure out, breathy groans filling the air as he slowly thrusts into his closed fist, hissing in satisfaction. The shoe is a stark reminder of In-ho’s punishment, so wet he was dripping down on the hardwood floor as Gi-hun sped up, cockslit spitting out more and more precum, making the glide slick and easy.
In-ho whimpers, looking up to Gi-hun as he was being denied, face so close he could see every twitch. He had to hold back from humping the air, his tdick so hard he was sure it was cutting off the bloodflow in his brain. Gi-hun squeezes himself a little at the base, letting out a satisfied sigh, lips parted in pleasure.
“I should just - ah - cum on your face. You’re really good for nothing, hm? Not even what you’re mmn! meant to do,” He sighs out and In-ho shook his head frantically no, still not permitted to talk. He’s good, he can be good for Gi-hun. He wants to please him, wants his mouth on his cock. In-ho knows he doesn’t deserve it all that much, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to have Gi-hun come apart by his mouth. “You should beg for it. Beg to suck my cock.”
It springs In-ho into action, the foot stopping him from inching any closer, feeling the pain settle at his lower back from being forced to arch. “Please. Please let me - let me suck you off, I can be so good for you Gi-h — sir, please I need it, pleasepleaseplease -” He could see how Gi-hun frowned at him slipping up, already feeling so needy. Any longer and he would surely burst into tears. Gi-hun toys with the idea in his mind, digging the tip of his shoe deeper into his skin, making In-ho brokenly moan.
“Is that your idea of begging?” Gi-hun was so close to his mouth, he wanted to dart his tongue out and lap up his salty precum, and wanted him to fill his mouth with his cock, make him choke on it. “You should be lucky I’m giving you a second chance. Beg.”
“I’m - sir, please let me suck your cock, please, I will be so good for you, this is all I’m good for, please, you can use my mouth as you see fit,” eyes crinkle as In-ho holds back tears, drawing in a shallow breath before continuing, “I’m sorry for disobeying you, I know I’m worthless, but I promise I can be a good hole for you,” he blinks, eyelashes clumping together from saline wetness, a single tear runs in rivulets down the contours of his face.
“Please let me serve my purpose, sir, I need you, please —” he hiccups through the last part, losing the last of his composure at the prospect of Gi-hun denying him his single purpose. At the sight, Gi-hun feels a sense of amusement. This lowly thing is the Frontman? This desperate, pathetic excuse of a human being? If Gi-hun hadn’t known better, he would feel pity for the man before him, begging to be used. As it is now, the sight makes his cock twitch in his hand — In-ho deserves to plead for his forgiveness, for Gi-hun to fill him with a purpose again. In the end, he relents. In-ho is lucky that Gi-hun is a man with a sense of sympathy, no matter how little he deserves it.
He steers his cockhead until he reaches the other man’s pretty bottom lip, smearing a bead of precum onto it as he presses it down, signalling for In-ho to part his mouth.
“Go on,” Gi-hun says. “Show me how good you are.”
In-ho doesn’t need any more encouragement than that, tongue darting out to taste Gi-hun directly before closing his lips around the head, grateful that he is allowed to taste him as he moans. Saliva gathers in his mouth as he experimentally licks the cockslit to taste Gi-hun’s pre from its very source. He sucks, slurping on his own spittle as he creates a seal, thin lips stretching around the hard cock.
Gi-hun bites back a groan, finding himself relieved by the warm mouth enveloping him as In-ho’s cheeks hollow out. His right hand finds purchase in In-ho’s head of hair, not guiding more of his cock into him — if In-ho wants more, he has to work for it. At the moment, he’s more than content to lap up his pre, lavishing the sensitive glans with kittenish licks. Feeling impatient, In-ho lowers his head further, taking more of Gi-hun in his mouth. Gi-hun should’ve told him off, call him greedy, but he wants to see In-ho unravel before him. It’s not about permitting him to take what he wants, but to watch him become debauched. In-ho’s tongue presses against his underside, traces the vein running up his length, watches as Gi-hun exhales through his nose sharply.
Emboldened by his reaction, he bobs his head up and down, slurping him down, messy as his saliva drips down from the corner of his lips. In-ho pushes his own limits, taking him until he hits the back of his throat, gagging around him. He could feel his own pathetic cock throbbing, nose firmly pressed against his groin, breathing his musk in where it was at its most potent. The sounds he makes are loud and downright obscene, swallowing his own thick saliva and Gi-hun’s precum, slobbering all over his cock like he’d die if he didn’t. He leaks more and more, feeling him throb on his tongue — he must’ve been close. Upping his efforts in sight of swallowing his release, In-ho hollows his cheeks, creating more suction, reveling in how Gi-hun panted and huffed from above him.
Unceremoniously, with his fingers tightly woven into In-ho’s brown locks, Gi-hun pulls him off his cock, a glob of saliva dripping down on his pelvis as the other heaves for breath. In-ho’s eyes are darkened with lust, bottom lip quivering as he looks up to Gi-hun in confusion. It’s clear he wants to protest, wants more, but Gi-hun, despite his hyperempathy, didn’t feel like In-ho deserved it. He’d been too good to him, even allowing him to have his mouth on his cock. Still holding on to his hair, Gi-hun stands up and forces In-ho on his feet, legs shaky like a baby fawn’s and aching from being on his knees this whole time. Reaching for his belt, he manhandles In-ho and bends him over the armchair’s backrest, forcing his back into another delicious arch, making him present his sopping wet cunt and ass. His hands scramble for purchase, but not before Gi-hun grabs his wrists and ties them together with his belt, tightening the belt buckle until he sees the tan skin around his wrist twist at the restraint. With his arms now forced behind his back, the arch In-ho is forced into becomes overexaggerated, almost like he’s an offering to Gi-hun.
Holding himself by the base of his cock, Gi-hun nudges the cockhead between his cunt lips, teasing his hole with the blunt tip. In-ho nearly sobs, thighs quivering as he wordlessly begs for it, moving his hips down in an attempt to lower himself on Gi-hun’s dick. He doesn’t go unpunished, Gi-hun’s rough hands, scarred by the games and years of labor, come on to his wide hips, gripping him and immobilizing him.
“You’re impatient, aren’t you? You should be lucky I’m even fucking you,” Gi-hun says, having aligned himself with In-ho’s entrance, slowly entering him inch by inch. In-ho moans in relief, low and throaty, feeling so satisfied and so full, so lightheaded with pleasure. He’s so close even though he has barely been touched this whole time, trying to stave off his premature orgasm, muscles clamping down on him like he’s trying to milk Gi-hun dry. It doesn’t take long for Gi-hun to fully bury himself in his pussy, fingers curling into a futile attempt at a fist as In-ho whimpers, tightening around him and feeling the tension in his belly release. It was barely anything, and yet, In-ho soaks both their thighs with his cum, squirting all over his cock before Gi-hun has even fucked him properly. Mortification washes over In-ho, making him hyperaware of the sweat at his tailbone and the slickness between his thighs, almost wanting to curl up and hide from Gi-hun.
“Couldn’t even wait. You’re so pathetic,” In-ho gasps as Gi-hun pounds into him in earnest, fucking him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. His dick twitches and aches with oversensitivity, savoring the pain and the burn that came with getting fucked right after cumming. Sobs and whimpers he lets out involuntarily are cut up by the force of Gi-hun’s pistoning in and out, coming out as small, pathetic noises. In the haze of his orgasm, In-ho doesn’t realize when one of his gloves slipped off, Gi-hun forcing his mouth open to gag him with the expensive leather.
“You’re so noisy. Maybe I should have you clean up your mess to shut you up,” His hips smack against In-ho’s as he uses him like a cocksleeve, the quarters filling with the squelching sounds of In-ho’s pussy and skin slapping against skin. Gi-hun’s fingers dig into In-ho’s hips, angling himself in a way that would brush against that sweet, rubbery spot inside of him. It isn’t hard to figure out when he did as he watched In-ho let out a muffled whine and quake, completely at Gi-hun’s mercy. He bites down on the glove again, breathing in through gritted teeth as he tries not to drool over his chair. In-ho feels as though every slam of Gi-hun’s hips digs deeper inside him, practically feeling his cock in his diaphragm as the burn from overstimulation transitions into that delicious buzz of pleasure.
It feels so good, it’s too much, it makes In-ho delirious — he pushes his hips against Gi-hun, meeting him halfway and never staying without his cock in his greedy hole. Every thrust made his thighs quiver and legs spread further, toes curling at how good it felt to be filled. Gi-hun picks up the pace, In-ho’s already weak legs wobbling and struggling to keep himself upright in time with their shared movements. Coupled with the thrusts, it doesn’t take long for In-ho to lose his balance, planted on the armchair face first and ass up, exposed in his entirety. Now completely immobile, he becomes nothing but a toy to use for Gi-hun as he pleases, and at the thought In-ho lets out a muffled, broken moan at the though as rough hands adjust their hold, Gi-hun angling his thrusts again to keep hitting that bundle of nerve endings inside him. His neck aches from the position his head is in, but he gives it no mind as his vision clouds with pleasure. In-ho’s world is reduced to the sensation of his cunt being filled, dick throbbing uselessly as Gi-hun ignores it, continuing to fuck into him as his own orgasm begins to build.
Gi-hun watches his cock disappear in and out of In-ho’s tight cunt, thrusting in tune with the weak backwards twitches he makes. Slick, remnants of In-ho’s previous orgasm, mixed with precum steadily drips between them, strings of it connecting to Gi-hun’s tight balls whenever he pulls away. He hisses, a sharp inhale as he begins to feel his own pleasure building. In-ho’s limp hands, one gloved, bounce in sync with his thrusts before Gi-hun slows down and leans over In-ho, causing his cock to completely stuff his pussy. With one hand, Gi-hun removes the last glove, his other hand still tightly gripping In-ho’s hip as his lower belly makes contact with his plump ass. In-ho makes a sound into the glove, clearly confused by the brief pause, but still needy enough to weakly wiggle his hips in Gi-hun’s hold. Once retrieved, Gi-hun pulls back as he restarts fucking In-ho in a leisurely pace, certainly not rough enough for the other, as he uses both hands to pull on the glove. It fits uncomfortably — clearly tailored specifically for In-ho, evident in the palm being too broad and fingers being too short for Gi-hun’s slender hands. But it will serve its purpose, Gi-hun thinks, as he reaches around between the leather chair and In-ho’s front, pulling his hips back slightly. His index- and middle- finger bracket his clit, not yet rubbing it. His release being so close, yet so far away, makes In-ho moan pitifully into the glove, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You’re just so desperate, you know that?” In-ho nods frantically, the movement nothing but an affirmation to the statement — thanks to the limited mobility of the position his head is in.
“And a slut —” a small moan escapes In-ho, “ ah , I bet you’re loving this, hm? Do you like being used?” Another weak nod. In-ho sobs, not able to even talk back even if he wanted to. He feels faint, Gi-hun sees right through him — he is nothing but a pathetic toy for him to use, and yet, he’s never felt more accomplished, finally finding someone whom he thoroughly enjoys serving. It is miles better than any satisfaction he reaps from his position as the Frontman, far better than the words of praise he receives after a well-deserving winner emerges in the games. His jaw aches from biting down on the glove as saliva begins to gather around the creases of the leather glove. He moves his back, likewise aching, deepening the arch even further in a silent confirmation that yes, he is just a slut. As if a reward, gloved fingers come together to squeeze and stroke his wet dick in hurried circles, cold leather chafing the sensitive head while tears once again gather in In-ho’s eyes. The sensation is too much, the relief of finally being touched mixed with the painful friction of the fabric — his tactile senses feel amplified, like every nerve ending is firing signals to his overwhelmed brain, mind going blank with desire once again. Gi-hun’s fingers are rubbing him raw, it stings, but he feels so full, so good, overwhelmed by pain and pleasure simultaneously. Gi-hun’s pace speeds up, rhythm breaking, and In-ho thinks he must be nearing his end as well, tries to meet him halfway by canting his hips obediently.
“Do you want to cum again?” He asks, as if In-ho had any real say in the matter. He can only take what pleasure Gi-hun gives him, only work for whatever Gi-hun permits, his bodily autonomy no longer in his own grasp, yet he nods as a muffled sob escapes him. Walls clamp around Gi-hun, sucking him in deeper as In-ho involuntarily squirms in his grasp, chasing his fingers as pelvis muscles spasm. He’s so close, oh , so close. Abruptly, Gi-hun ceases to rub him, “Not yet,” he hisses. Not unlike the prize money in the golden piggy bank, he dangles the sweet release over In-ho’s head, and he begins to cry in earnest now. “You can cum when I tell you to. Don’t be impatient,” In-ho can only accept it, nodding weakly as the other keeps fucking into him.
Gi-hun can tell he’s getting closer with every movement, every contraction of In-ho’s abused cunt sending electric impulses through his cock that become stored in his abdomen and accumulate into an impending orgasm. He watches, mesmerised, as his ass jiggles whenever it makes impact with Gi-hun’s lower belly. Fuck, he’s so perfect, so pliant under him, like they were made for one another, as a pair of pieces in a bigger puzzle, ah, so good for him, so perfect, taking all of him and wanting more, so greedy but so, so fucking good —
Both hands come to In-ho’s hips again, thumbs kneading his well-developed glutes while he buries himself in his cunt as he cums, a shaky moan escaping Gi-hun. The walls enveloping him squeeze in sympathy, as if his greedy cunt tries to milk him for his cum.
“— cum,” he breathes, and it is as if a dam breaks within In-ho, whose sobs wreck his entire body as he squirts between them both again. He tightens impossibly more, dripping all over the front of Gi-hun’s ruined pants while Gi-hun rides through the aftershocks of his orgasm, fucking his own spend into In-ho’s pussy, hips moving like he was working to plant his seed in his womb. It isn’t too dissimilar to marking him, not unlike how In-ho marked him with that wretched number, as if he is carving his own signature inside the Frontman and forever changing him — as if he is breeding life into a lifeless being. It should’ve been disgusting, the brief flash of In-ho bearing a child — his child — crossing his mind, but perhaps he deserved it after all. Maybe In-ho’s hypocritical self would want that, too.
They remain connected as Gi-hun leans over once again to remove the glove in In-ho’s mouth, gently prying open his locked jaw before massaging the sore muscle. At his newfound freedom, In-ho heaves in air, mouth going open with his dull eyes half-closed, like a dead fish, before he speaks out of turn.
“Thank you,” he gasps, blown-out pupils finding Gi-hun’s gaze. He’s completely out of it. Gi-hun spares him of punishment this time around. He loosens the belt, revealing red, irritated skin — huffs as he realises he’ll need to find a soothing balm in the first-aid kit later — arms instantly falling to the chair to support In-ho’s upper back. At last, he finally goes to pull out his mostly-soft cock. His seed almost immediately spills out of In-ho’s sore cunt, as if Gi-hun were only a cork that held back his own semen, and he watches with a morbid interest as it drips down his quivering thighs. He wonders if he’s ruined In-ho for good as Gi-hun hears him whimper at the feeling of emptiness.
Gi-hun tucks himself into his pants, he’s going to borrow a spare pair of clothes later from unused guard uniforms, before wordlessly making his way to In-ho’s bathroom, goal set on finding a washcloth and a glass of water. They’ve done this so many times that it isn’t hard for Gi-hun to find what he’s looking for, acquainted with the layout of his quarters inside out. Once he’s filled up a glass of water for In-ho and found the washcloth, he runs it over lukewarm water — nothing too cold but nothing to sear and burn him.
With the glass of water in one hand and the damp washcloth in other, Gi-hun returns to In-ho, who had stay put where he’d left him and starts dabbing him clean, from his thighs where his slick was growing uncomfortably sticky, then working his way up, careful with how he cleans up him where he’s sore — it doesn’t fail to make In-ho whimper though. He cleans up his front too, again attentive with his movements, getting most of their combined cum off him — In-ho would still need to shower later. In-ho is sat on the armchair, nasty with the proof of their coupling and he’s still a little out of it, eyes calmly following Gi-hun whenever he is within his line of sight. He’s given the glass of water and drinks more than half of it — it makes sense , Gi-hun thinks, he scratched his throat raw with the crying and moaning . They fall into their routine quite easily, In-ho brings up his bruised red wrists up so that Gi-hun can apply the soothing balm on his irritated skin.
“Gi-hun-ssi,” In-ho starts, voice a little hoarse, as Gi-hun rubs the balm into his skin. “Did I do well?” His eyes are expectant, looking up to Gi-hun whereas Gi-hun has his eyes focused on his wrists. The balm soothes him almost immediately, not holding back his sigh of relief.
Silence stretches over them as Gi-hun seems to think his answer, or maybe he’s letting In-ho sit on hot coals. Finally, he responds, “You did fine. Could’ve done better.”
In-ho looks away from Gi-hun, almost like he got burned. It clearly isn’t what he wanted to hear, but Gi-hun’s right — he didn’t give it his all. They could’ve had more survivors, the games could’ve always been modified further to be easier, but he did good enough. If Gi-hun had to be honest, he was overly forgiving with In-ho, always giving in to him more than he should. He didn’t know whether to blame In-ho for this, or to blame himself, as some sort of moral failing on his part. It was perhaps his subconscious mind playing tricks on him, registering the Frontman and the man behind the mask as two separate entities, with only the latter deserving of his care.
Dejected, In-ho leans forward, head hanging almost below his shoulders as he considers his failure to be good. He closes his eyes as exhaustion from his work day paired with their coupling catches up to him. Gi-hun watches him before grabbing him by his sides as he stands tall, once again hoisting him up to a stand position. In-ho slumps against him, slurring ’m sorry, Gi-hun-ssi , before stabilising again and looking up through sunken eyes. Gi-hun huffs — he’d wanted to draw them both a bath, properly doing away with the remnants of both their cum on In-ho before getting him to bed, but here he is, gently guiding the other to the bedroom with an arm around his blocky waist.
In-ho collapses on top of his smoothed-out duvet before eagerly crawling under it and closing his eyes once again, settling into a sleeping position on his side, facing Gi-hun where he stands before him. He knows he’s covered in grime and dried sweat, but he cannot be bothered. He can always just wash the sheets later.
Gi-hun regards him, kneeling down to look closer as In-ho’s breath evens out and tired eyes darting around under their lids come to a standstill. It’s not often Gi-hun sees this, deep-stead tension in In-ho’s shoulders fading away as soft snores break the silence spanning across the bedroom. Despite himself, he finds the sight somewhat endearing. In-ho is usually a light sleeper, but if he weren’t, Gi-hun wouldn’t be afraid to wake him as he brushes away parts of his bangs that threaten to poke his eyes.
He silently steps away from the sleeping figure to undress.
In-ho, deep in slumber, does not notice the mattress dip as his other half joins him.