Archive of Our Own

Gi-hun still feels his body aching, his legs heavy from the long distances they ran. Pushing, surviving . He thinks he’s been incredibly lucky to befriend someone like Young-il—a reliable man. Attractive , too, but he tries not to dwell on that, even though he finds himself watching him, admiring him , more often than he’d like to admit. In another time, in another situation, he thinks maybe he would have had the courage to ask him out. Even if that’s not entirely true, because the Gi-hun of the present has been shaped by his first game, by all the deaths he carries with him. So his past self —naive, afraid to take, afraid to receive —wouldn’t have had the guts to even talk to Young-il. To begin with, he wouldn’t have even stepped out of that closet he so carefully locked himself into after meeting Eun-ji.

For now, he settles. That’s what he tells himself as he watches Young-il under the warm , orange lights of the enormous room they’re in.

His gaze lingers on his sharp jawline, the pronounced cupid’s bow peeking above his lower lip, his soft, fluffy brown hair falling over his forehead. His eyes . So deep that Gi-hun feels like he’s falling into an abyss when Oh meets his gaze. He wants to believe it’s his imagination, that the man standing before him, with his open-mouthed smile and flushed high cheekbones, isn’t flirting with him. Of course not.

His world tilted when he left the games—after his mother’s death, after Sang-woo. He let go of all his insecurities, of everything society called immoral . He accepted himself. What were the chances of finding another man in his early fifties willing to get to know him that way ...? Hadn't he also said that the only reason he entered the games was for his sick wife? For his son?

He feels guilty for wanting him . For getting lost in that magnetic gaze, full of an unspoken understanding he refuses to acknowledge but undeniably feels —burning his skin when Young-il gives him those heavy , unreadable glances.

He’s muscular , he notices too, even though the sports uniform is loose enough to almost hide his frame. He realized it during the pentathlon, when neither of them seemed willing to let go of the other’s arms, even after the game had ended. It had been difficult to pull away from the warmth of the other man, from the sense of safety that settled in his chest just by being near him—especially because it seemed just as difficult for Young-il. He thought he had felt the ghost of long, slender fingers brushing against his knuckles at the end. A silent “I’m here, Gi-hun. I see you.” It embarrasses him to admit that he had wanted Young-il to slip into his small cot, to warm him, to bring back that sense of security that almost made him cry. But of course, by morning, the man’s smaller body wasn’t curled up next to him under the thin blankets.

As they walk back to the circular platform, he feels those fingers again, brushing against his hand. Just a light touch, almost nothing —but enough to send sparks shooting through his entire body. His limbs go numb, and it has nothing to do with exhaustion. When he looks up, searching for the source of the warmth curling in his stomach, he finds him .

Young-il. His grin widening, unafraid, unwavering as he laces their fingers together. As he takes his hand . Another silent whisper.

Gi-hun’s mind spins, a whirlwind of thoughts colliding in his head, ever since what happened with Player 007’s mother . An incident, an isolated thought that crashed down on him when Young-il asked if his son had abandoned him. The memory—distant, yet deeply ingrained in him, one he hasn’t been able to shake even after all these years. How Gi-hun abandoned her . Not by joining the games, no —but long before that. When he didn’t notice her health deteriorating, he looked away on purpose because it was more convenient to ignore it while he relied on her financial support. He was a terrible son, irresponsible, and he knows he’ll carry the guilt of her death for the rest of his life. So for him, it was impossible to push away the sorrow that overtook him in that moment. It struck him with such force, so suddenly, that he barely had time to hold back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

And then, there he is. Young-il, holding his hand, squeezing it with a gentleness that fills his chest with inexplicable tenderness. Words aren’t needed; he can see the question reflected in his eyes. "Are you okay?" He would be lying if he said yes. Nothing has felt right in his life since he accepted that offer from a mysterious man— long dead now —at the train station. He believes those memories, those fleeting glimpses of his past, belong to another Gi-hun. Another life . Not to him, who sees himself as broken, unraveling, beyond repair.

At least, he thinks, he can pretend he’s okay if Young-il keeps holding him like this.

But, unfortunately, the games must go on. And by the time they’re all back on the platform, when it begins spinning again under the bright orange lights and the childish song plays, he lets go. Slowly, clinging to the last sparks of warmth lingering at his fingertips. But he doesn’t move away. His presence remains constant, standing so close that their shoulders bump as the platform picks up speed. He hears nervous laughter from nearby, hushed voices trembling with fear for what’s about to happen.

And Gi-hun? Gi-hun feels fear, but not for himself. For the others. For his best friend, Jung-bae. For the handful of people he might call his team . And, of course, for Young-il.

Yet Young-il doesn’t seem worried. Not scared. Anxious, maybe . There’s a fire burning in his darkened pupils, simmering beneath his gaze.

“What do you think it’ll be this time?” Jung-bae asks after a few seconds, his voice barely rising above the infernal music blaring overhead, above the whispered prayers woven into their conversation. Gi-hun hesitates, analyzing the endless possibilities unfolding before him. How many players? Before his racing mind can give Jung-bae an answer, Young-il speaks . Decisive, absolutely certain, with that serious expression of his. He looks shadowed—or maybe it’s just the way the lights cast his features in sharp relief, suddenly hardened.

“Two.”

Short. As if he had already made up his mind.

Gi-hun gets lost in his face again. In every detail he can take in, because if Young-il is right—if his reasoning aligns with those pulling the strings behind these games—it might be the last time he sees him. The last time he can admire the beauty he’s tried so hard to ignore. Because he has a wife. Because this isn’t the time. Because, in another life...

Jung-bae and Young-il’s conversation fades into the background, distant syllables he can no longer register.

Then—

“Two!”

The room plunges into near-total darkness, broken only by strobing lights flashing purple, pink, blue—he’s not even sure anymore—illuminating players who scream and run, who break into full-blown panic. Some take a moment to react, like him, and he feels others moving, fleeing toward the safety of those numbered doors. The chaos, the disorder swirling around him, is a storm he isn’t a part of. He freezes. Like he hasn’t in a long time, because he doesn’t know what to do. The others are already moving forward; he sees Jung-bae disappear, dragged away by Daeho, and he feels relieved.

Relieved that, maybe, his best friend will survive. Will make it to the next round.

And though Gi-hun still wants to destroy the organization, to take down the psychopaths who force them into these horrific life-and-death scenarios, he doesn’t move forward.

Terror and adrenaline cloud his vision, making him tremble and pin himself to the smooth platform floor, ready to accept his inevitable death as the seconds tick away: constant beeping, a programmed sentence. Then he feels it. Young-il grips his wrist and pulls —so hard that when he runs, Gi-hun stumbles, nearly falling forward, but Young-il somehow steadies him. He doesn’t know how, but he does. Like an anchor, he doesn’t let him go. Dazed , Gi-hun can only watch.

He sees the two zeros and the one painted on his jacket. A familiar number. One he trusted so many years ago.

Before they can reach the door that Young-il has set as their target, the grip breaks. It shatters. Someone slams into him with a shoulder, knocking him down, making him crash onto the floor, his skull cracking against the cold surface. Young-il, despite being fast, doesn’t have enough time to react to the attack. It’s too late when he spins on his heels, searching for Gi-hun, who is still lying on the ground.

His head explodes with sharp pain, a migraine that shakes his bones, even making his jaw tremble from the impact. His vision blurs, and the ringing in his ears, already deafening from his dissociation, intensifies to the point where he fears his eardrums will burst. They don’t.

He tries to get up, but his body doesn’t respond. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t seem to want to obey the simple command he’s giving it, despite the anxiety shooting like lightning up his spine, settling at the base of his neck. Cortisol. Fight or flight . It surges, but even that isn’t enough to get his legs to lift him off the ground. It has to be Young-il who helps him, again— his angel. He sees him punching the man who knocked him down, hears him shouting words he can’t process, and then feels himself being lifted. Just like that. As if he weren’t an adult man but a ragdoll, a helpless child. Gi-hun has to cling to his shoulders, gripping whatever is closest to his palms to avoid falling as Young-il resumes running.

The room they enter is orange. Completely orange. A color that stings his eyes and churns his stomach because it makes Young-il’s face look pale, sickly . The dark circles under his eyes deepen as his gaze sharpens with an emotion Gi-hun doesn’t want to name. Something dangerous. Something close to hatred. To death.

He sets him down near the door of the tiny room before stepping forward, yelling more things. “Get out! Get out!” A confrontation begins with another player clinging to his clothes, to his small, personal corner, unwilling to give up his sense of security—even though having all three of them inside means they will all die. He doesn’t seem to care. Gi-hun can’t do anything to help him, or Young-il, who strides forward until he reaches the man.

Gi-hun still struggles to react, to get up, to hear the pleas of the man who has become his rival because he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want Young-il to die.

The door hisses shut with only a few seconds left before the game ends: a mechanical hiss, the pounding of more players colliding, scratching , begging for the door to open and let them in. A foolish hope they cling to, even though they know their fate is as sealed as the door itself.

Gi-hun watches them through the slit, the rectangle, and his gaze shifts from them to Young-il when another sound catches his attention. It’s not the ringing in his ears or the violent thumping of blood in his pulse. It’s a gurgle, a wet sound, from the player with them choking on his own saliva. He watches, stunned , as Young-il effortlessly traps him from behind, his arms locking around his throat, strangling him. The brutality of practice shows as he tightens his grip, and tightens , until the poor man’s neck gives with a sickening crack that fills the entire room—just before the countdown on the wall reaches zero.

And he should— he ought to —be terrified, because the gentle, sweet , sensitive man who had just held his hand moments ago has killed another man without effort. Without guilt landing in his gaze, in his bloodshot eyes. The dark circles deepen, taking on a new shade, a different meaning now that Gi-hun sees him exhausted . Not regretful. Just, perhaps, resigned.

He doesn’t feel fear. He can’t. More than anyone, he knows that everyone has the right to do the most twisted things if it means surviving .

They are survivors. Killers? Maybe.

“ Gi-hun, I-I… ” His voice trembles, falters . It’s a whispering thread that snaps when, with an electric hum, all the lights go out. But the door doesn’t open, the locks don’t give way to the sudden power cut. A blackout? Gi-hun feels his senses slowly recovering, adapting to reality—so easy to escape if he just shuts his brain down enough, if he longs enough for the peace only death can bring.

They are plunged into absolute darkness, silence occasionally interrupted by the screams from the other rooms, by the orders of the guards moving at full speed outside; they run, regroup, and he hears them arguing over solutions to something as unforeseen as this. Because never— not in their game —has anything happened that resembles a miracle.

Something— or someone —moves in the room.

The unmistakable sound of fabric brushing against itself, of two knees dragging across the floor with a slowness that only makes Gi-hun’s heartbeat quicken. Then, a sigh. A warmth hitting his face like a slap. When did he get so close? He and Young-il had been on opposite sides. He moved slowly, and yet he closed the distance in seconds. In two blinks.

“I didn’t want to do it. I’m sorry. Not in front of you,” he whispers, his words adorned with velvet, almost ashamed. Another sigh, this time from Gi-hun’s trembling lips, as he presses himself against the wall behind him. Not out of fear. Not out of discomfort. Just because he feels overwhelmingly full—full of Young-il, in all his senses. He feels his warmth, his firm hands brushing his thighs as, unseen, he leans over Gi-hun. He isn’t sure what position they’re in, but he is sure of one thing—Young-il has him trapped.

Not in a dangerous way. No . In a way that sends spasms through his stomach, that knots something dormant, that makes his underwear feel tight and uncomfortable.

It’s so wrong.

Young-il killed a man, a man still lying just meters away from them, and yet all Gi-hun can think about is how intoxicatingly sweet his breath feels against his skin, floating near his neck: he should push him away. You have a wife! But he has been in self-imposed celibacy for so long that this closeness is enough to set him on fire. To burn him alive. To make him get hard .

Gi-hun moans , gasping when Young-il moves just a little closer. His hands no longer just brushing him, but truly holding , gripping his thighs and squeezing the flesh with a rough , broken groan that undoes him completely.

“I-it doesn’t matter, Young-il. It doesn’t matter…” he hears himself mumbling, still trying to meld with the wall as if that could stop what is already happening.

Young-il leans in, resting his head between Gi-hun’s neck and shoulder, his palms still exploring, mapping him, tattooing the softness of Gi-hun’s skin into his fingertips: Gi-hun shudders but doesn’t push him away —doesn’t stop him. He lets him rest there, close to his erratic pulse. The closeness is consuming him. The heat of another body threatens to reduce him to ashes. Is this happening? Or is it a fever dream? Is Young-il really touching him , between shallow sighs?

He thinks he's about to faint— worse , that he's already passed out or even dead, and that everything he feels right now is nothing but heaven itself. Or hell.

Until lips touch him. A pressure on his neck, a belated apology from Young-il’s silky voice, whispering that he can't hold back any longer . More kisses, one after another. Gi-hun loses count, doesn't even realize when he tilts his head back, exposing himself, offering more bare skin to Young-il so he can continue that exquisite path of pressure.

“I've wanted to do this since I first saw you, Gi-hun. Since the damn vote, ” he murmurs, hoarse . He purrs between each kiss, making a small sound of approval when he feels Gi-hun give in —when, of his own free will, he offers his throat to Young-il’s warm lips.

“And what if I told you I did too? T-that I’ve wanted this since the pentathlon? That I almost went looking for you that night to...? ”

The other man cuts him off, stops his monologue with a soft bite—barely a caress with his canines, just enough force to send the faintest flicker of pain through him, making him tremble and stealing his breath. A threat. His teeth linger, gripping the tender flesh of his throat— a promise of what will happen if he keeps talking. Gi-hun chokes on a nervous laugh. Is this the kind of man he is? He thinks it suits him. That violence suits Young-il.

“ No more , no more words about that. I don’t want to spend my whole life regretting not going to your bed to fuck you . Is that what you were going to say, Gi-hun? That you wanted to find me so I could bury my cock in you? Or were you going to pretend we were having a sleepover?”

Oh.

The dirty words hit him like a punch to the gut. A low blow . Questions that should sting but instead only stoke the fire already burning in his stomach; he feels the knot under his ribs tighten, squeezing with desire, and Young-il’s deep, low purr only makes him harder —sends a rush of blood straight to his cock. He feels it throb , ache inside his underwear. He feels himself, his hips instinctively rocking forward, searching for Young-il’s hands, the ones still resting on his thighs. But Young-il stops him again . Holds him down while silencing him with a shallow shh , quickly replaced by a guttural chuckle.

“I guess so. I didn't think talking to you like that would get you hard, Gi-hun. Have you always been this filthy? Or is this a special occasion?”

He sinks his teeth in, really sinks them in, and a cry—half pleasure, half blinding pain—escapes Gi-hun’s throat. He can’t stop the sound, not when he feels the slow, torturous way Young-il scrapes his throat—not when he feels his wet tongue tracing circles to counteract the pain curling in his gut, pulling at something inside him he didn’t even know was there. He could endure getting a tooth pulled without anesthesia . He’s survived stab wounds, kicks, punches hard enough to break his nose with ease. But this... This is different. It hurts, yes , but it also brings pleasure . It makes him feel alive . Young-il tightens his grip, holds on even more, until the warmth of blood traces a thin line down his neck.

He feels him shudder, pressing forward like he hadn’t expected the skin to give so easily under his fangs. He hears Young-il hum in approval, feels his hands travel upward , toward his crotch, and his tongue already lapping up the warm blood in slow, deliberate strokes. Taking his time to taste him.

And that idea—the image forming behind his closed eyelids—fills him with dangerous ecstasy.

The air thickens with the metallic scent of his blood, of copper. That hot liquid that signifies life shouldn’t turn him on the way it does. But it does. He knows Young-il feels the same, that this violent act has ignited them both, despite the fact that they should be focusing on more important things.

The games. The Frontman. The games. The Frontman...

For Gi-hun, it’s hard to concentrate when Young-il keeps purring against his neck.

Even harder when he suddenly pulls away from his throat—only to crash against his lips in a messy kiss. More teeth, more struggle, that scorching, relentless hunger of Young-il devouring him. Taking everything in his path, leaving nothing behind. More bites, controlled this time, meant only to tease him. Gi-hun buries his hands in Young-il’s hair and pulls , gripping his scalp, yanking him back— to remind him that he can fight too. That he can hurt too. And that only seems to ignite Young-il further, he laughs against his lips, then lunges forward without hesitation. A deep kiss, interrupted only by the occasional wet sounds escaping them both—moans, gasps, pleas slipping from Gi-hun’s parted lips when he feels it’s too much, when he can’t hold back anymore. His tongue moves on its own against Young-il’s, swallowing the whimper it earns, savoring the curses that strike his mouth as violently as the kiss itself. He pushes up, his hips buck, and not even all of Young-il’s strength can keep him still—though, from the smirk forming against his lips, Gi-hun suspects he’s not really trying to stop him anymore. And damn. The darkness makes everything a thousand times more intoxicating, because he doesn’t react to anticipation— he reacts to touch, to the way his senses are assaulted without mercy.

Because, without warning, without knowing how the hell it happens , Young-il pulls away. Vanishes . The only thing connecting them is a thin string of saliva that breaks instantly. He feels his presence disappearing from his orbit, the sound of rustling clothes, and then... Then Young-il grabs him and flips him over. No effort at all. Everything shifts, and suddenly, Gi-hun is on his back, on his stomach , twisted into a position he doesn’t quite understand because his eyes still haven’t adjusted to the darkness.

A real, frustrated whimper slips from him for breaking a kiss that could have sent him to heaven all on its own.

“What the fuck are you doing? Did you get shy all of a sudden? ”

Young-il lingers somewhere behind him, forcing him onto all fours with strong hands guiding him . He can’t see him, but he can feel him—his knees pushing the insides of his legs apart, the sudden jolt making him lurch forward, into the wall. His cheek presses against it, all his weight supported by his face against the cold, smooth surface. A stark contrast to the heat burning across his skin. And oh, hadn’t he been wishing for a break just minutes ago? To surrender to inevitable death? Young-il saved him . Saved him and now seems to be collecting his payment.

The shorter man's chest hovers over his back. And he feels it. His erection rubbing against his ass, grinding on purpose until another moan spills from his lips. Focus on this , his movements seem to say as Young-il shamelessly grinds against him—against his ass that lifts, pressing back, chasing that delicious friction sending sparks through his core.

“ A-ahh… Fuck, fuck, Young-il… W-what exactly are you looking for?”

He has to speak. He has to do it before his mind turns into pure static from the pleasure numbing his legs, pulling at his organs, throbbing through the veins of his swollen, aching cock.

Young-il laughs in response.

“I want to really taste you. Will you let me? Will you stay quiet, or will you be able to face the others' stares once we walk out of here?”

Really taste him.

Gi-hun wants to ask what he means, but at the same time, he’s afraid to. He can’t see his face—he doesn’t need to—to know he's grinning from ear to ear, to know his eyes are burning with the darkness that has consumed him from the moment they met. Young-il, calm, confident in a way only he can be, presses himself against Gi-hun’s back. His lips rest on the nape of his neck, right where his hair begins. Kissing. Worshiping. Gi-hun hears him sigh as he takes in the sweat pooled at the base of his neck. He shudders, and not just because Young-il knows exactly where to press his lips to make him tremble, but because of what it signals—anticipation. Is this what he meant by tasting him? Kissing his nape, biting at the skin of his neck when Gi-hun instinctively tilts his head back? Clutching at his flesh like a predator?

His pulse is erratic, a thing of its own, ignoring his silent pleas to calm down, to slow before his heart gives out from sheer pleasure .

He lets himself enjoy it, lets Young-il savor him as much as he wants. He allows those large, heavy hands to cradle his ass, to caress it in slow circles, to knead it, mold it. And he never thought that could be a sensitive spot, never imagined he could feel this much excitement just from another man touching him there —the way Young-il does, with devotion.

And it’s too much. Too much to process.

The kisses, the bites trailing his neck, the way his ass is being handled, Young-il’s deep groans and the filthy words spilling from his lips between each scrape of his teeth.

“ So, so delicious... I want to eat you whole, Gi-hun. Let me… ”

Gi-hun nods frantically, not caring if his response is too eager, if Young-il might see him as some pathetic bastard desperate for human touch. It doesn’t matter, not when he can feel the same hunger in Young-il. The way he grinds against his ass, his simulated thrusts pressing his face harder and harder against the wall. Deep, slow rolls of his hips, savoring the way Gi-hun moans—shameless, effortless, without restraint. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if half the players hear him moaning, begging for more. More contact, more friction, more skin, more violence.

He thinks he could come just from this—just from Young-il rutting against him, just from his kisses, his bites, his claiming touch.

“ Just like that ... That’s how I like you, baby . Moan for me. Let me hear that pretty voice of yours… ”

And then, Young-il pulls away again . A second time. This time, it hurts so much that Gi-hun whimpers the moment he feels the loss—feels him detach from his neck; his warmth is gone, leaving nothing but the cold air in its wake. No more mingling breaths, no more heavy pants. No. Nothing. Until...

His pants are yanked down in one swift motion, his underwear catching on his erection—dragging against it with a friction so sharp it makes him cry out in pain. It’s unexpected, not at all pleasurable, and yet—his body betrays him. He hardens even more. Young-il isn’t even touching him yet, not really, but one of his hands flies down to grip Gi-hun, desperate for relief. And the pressure is soothing , the coolness of his palm an exquisite contrast to the raw, burning heat of Seong’s skin. Young-il wraps his fingers around the base, exhales a slow, shaky breath. Gi-hun hears it, deep and breathless, as if he’s the one struggling to hold back.

Young-il hums. “ Ah, baby... You’re so fucking hard for me... And already this wet for me? About to come without even telling me, without asking for permission? ”

“N-no, that’s not…” he murmurs, suddenly embarrassed. Because it’s true. He’s soaked, his pre-cum smeared all over his length—there’s no denying it: he could have come at any moment. He expected to . Expected Young-il to keep grinding against him until he spilled inside his pants, until the pleasure became so overwhelming he had no other choice; would Young-il have laughed at him? Teased him for coming too fast, for being so desperate at nearly fifty years old? A shiver runs down his spine at the thought of Young-il’s deep, dangerous laughter mocking him.

“But it is.” Another tug—this time at his cock. From the base, he feels Young-il’s palm pulling, yanking without removing his underwear, still snagged, until it finally slips fre e. Until his erection meets the cold air of the room, until it bounces against his stomach, smearing it. Young-il hums, and he knows that if the lights suddenly flickered back on, he’d see him biting his lip.

His breathing has grown shallow, deceptively calm—though it’s probably just a trick to make him believe Young-il is in complete control, even as he feels his hand trembling around his cock. His fingers twitching.

“You’re hard and wet for me, but I want you to come like you’ve never come before...”

Without warning, he feels Young-il’s breath near— too near —his ass. And the other hand, the one not gripping his cock, spreads one of his cheeks, leaving him exposed. Vulnerable .

“N-no, wait, wait—no one’s ever... This isn’t—”

A slap.

Hard. Violent. Young-il strikes his ass with relentless force, leaving no room for questions, saying everything without words: Be quiet. Be quiet. And Gi-hun whimpers, a sound that perfectly blends the sharp pain of blood vessels bursting under the blow and the deep pleasure that rockets through him. He wants to stay silent, to convince himself he can accept what’s coming without fighting it— but he knows himself. He’s nervous. He’s no virgin, but there are things he’s never had the chance to try.

This is one of them.

And he’s afraid. The questions, the insecurities he thought he’d buried when he became a survivor resurface: What if he hates it? What if he’s disappointed? Worse—what if he’s disgusted?

But Young-il doesn’t give him time to resist. He takes advantage of the haze of confusion and dives in.

The first thing Gi-hun feels is the wetness of his tongue—the slick heat of saliva spilling over his hole, the shudder that racks him when he hears Young-il moaning against his ass, moaning with pleasure . He feels his lips trembling, vibrating with every sound. And he feels so... so ruined .

His stomach clenches, his insides twisting mercilessly, overwhelmed by this new sensation: his mind whites out, his face contorting into an expression that might look like pain— but it isn’t . Of course it isn’t. His mouth falls open, and Gi-hun begins a symphony of embarrassing sounds that only make Young-il move faster. The cacophony of broken moans, his voice fraying at the edges— it excites him even more. Yet Gi-hun, ever himself , tries to pull forward, craving escape from the fog threatening to crush him.

“W-wait, wait, Young-il—” he pleads, unsure if his voice even makes sense anymore. The response comes as a second slap lands.

Young-il’s palm cracks against the already-sensitive flesh of his ass.

“No talking,” he murmurs, his throat vibrating, syllables tightening around the hole he assaults again without hesitation.

And Gi-hun feels it. God , does he feel it.

The hunger with which Young-il devours him, the desperation in every lick, and then— fuck —the tip of his tongue presses inside. His muscles tense, then relax around the intrusion. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t an assault; it’s a slow, terrifying claiming . He wants to pull away, to beg him to stop because he can’t take it—but instead, he shatters . He gives in completely, and at some point, he finds himself rocking back and forth, not to escape, but to chase more . To meet with greater force the hungry tongue and mouth of Young-il, who devours him. Devours him, takes everything from him. He feels him trembling behind, feels his own body reacting to the wet sounds, the slick noises caused by Young-il’s own saliva and that thick moisture beginning to seep into his hole.

“F-fuck, you’re delicious... So open for me. Keep going, baby. Keep fucking yourself on my tongue…”

He’s close.

Terrifyingly close—because he’s never come like this before, never without being touched. And yet here he is, his neglected cock bobbing with every thrust of his hips, every time he grinds back against Young-il’s face, but he doesn’t complain. No, he revels in it, in the way Gi-hun chases his tongue like he’ll die without it. And in return, he feasts . His tongue moves in circles, thrusting in and out, fucking him with a sweetness that drives Gi-hun to the edge.

He’s close. So, so close...

“You like it, baby? Like being the first man I’ve ever eaten out like this?”

The muscles in his stomach tighten. His hole flutters, his cock twitching, anticipating the orgasm he knows is coming. He nods— keeps nodding—because he can’t form a coherent sentence, because all that escapes his throat are sobs, broken moans, babbles about how good it feels, how right , how overwhelming.

“That’s it, that’s it... Come for me like this. Let me ruin you like this...”

More wetness. By now, Gi-hun barely feels like he’s breathing. Barely feels like he exists. He’s floating, lost in the white static of his mind—no games, no death, no loneliness . Just the unbearable heat of Young-il’s mouth on his ass, his filthy words, the vibrations of his groans against his hole. It’s too much . He’s about to—

As if he knows, as if he understands him completely, Young-il’s other hand wraps around his cock again.

And no , no, no—

“Y-Young-il—ah! Hah...”

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”

Now, he begins to pump it mercilessly —his palm grips the base tightly before sliding up and down, squeezing . When he reaches the head, he rubs it with the soft tips of his fingers, spreading the wetness from his slit before dragging back down to the hilt with force. Picking up speed. All without stopping his work on his ass, without pulling his tongue away for even a second. And soon, somehow, in some deranged way, he finds a rhythm: suddenly, the thrusts of his tongue, the tortuous path inside him, sync perfectly with how he’s stroking his swollen, erect, desperate cock. As his fist pulls back to the base and tightens, his fingers fly to the reddened, sensitive tip on the downstroke—scratching, pressing—until even those broken whimpers turn into pleas . Into uncontrollable sobbing.

“P-please, please, please… Yo-young-il… I’m—I’m there, I’m—”

Young-il doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s too busy devouring him, jerking him off, relishing the way Gi-hun is losing his mind, how his consciousness unravels under his fingers and tongue...

Gi-hun hears the unmistakable sound of fabric rustling—a uniform being shoved down—and soon, a growl reverberates through the room, even as Young-il’s mouth keeps working him over : a gasp, a curse, a signal.

“I-I’m close too…”

Young-il has started stroking himself. Gi-hun can’t see it. He just feels it. He doesn’t even know how . Where Young-il finds the focus, how he keeps the rhythm without drowning in the pleasure that’s left Gi-hun incapable of forming a single coherent thought.

But knowing , feeling that Young-il is touching himself while eating him out—it ignites him. Burns him alive. He’s already overwhelmed, already on the edge, and yet...

He forces himself to pull away.

And the haze clouding Young-il’s senses makes it easy to escape without getting a sharp slap in retaliation.

Immediately, he misses it—the wetness, the heat, the sensation Young-il had so effortlessly familiarized him with, the one he surrendered to despite his fear of not being enough . Despite the terror of disgusting him, of scaring him, he let himself enjoy this new thing Young-il served to him on a silver platter.

He turns his face from the wall only to collapse forward, bracing himself against the floor, spreading his legs wider, his own hands now pulling himself open . He doesn’t know if Young-il’s eyes have adjusted to the dark, if he can see him clearly—but he hopes so. Hopes he can see him ruined , face wet with tears and spit, mouth still hanging open, unable to stop the moans, the gurgles, the shameful sobs. Hopes he can see his cock, swollen and twitching from overstimulation, see the thick, glistening precum smeared across the floor, across himself . Hopes he can see his ass— open , ready , offered .

Hopes he understands , without words, because Gi-hun doesn’t know if he can ask .

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

Of course Young-il doesn’t make it easy.

Of course he’d tease him until he’s even more embarrassed—his voice, shaky at first, steadies almost instantly, dripping with a confidence that crushes Gi-hun, buries him. He hears him laughing , feels him getting closer—but Young-il’s face doesn’t return to his ass. Instead, he leans over his back, the heat of his breath crawling up Gi-hun’s spine as his hard, heavy cock rubs against his ass. Not where he wants it. But close. Close enough to tempt , to break him.

“Use your mouth,” he orders. Cold. Not the kind of cold that freezes his heart—no, this is the coldness of a commander . A man who gives orders as naturally as the sun rises and sets. Three words are all it takes to shatter Gi-hun completely, to wrench a whine from his throat.

A smack —not from his palm.

It’s the wet slap of his cock against Gi-hun’s ass. Then another. And another. Until finally, the tip presses against him. Teases him.

Gi-hun’s fingers claw at the floor, his body arching deeper, spreading wider , his hips shaking side to side—a silent plea. But he isn’t the one giving orders. He isn’t in control. He obeys , listens, stays quiet when he’s supposed to—no questions, no hesitation.

He tries . Desire coils low in his gut, burning where Young-il had promised exactly what he’d do if Gi-hun came to him at night.

“F-fuck me… Young-il, please, I need—I need to feel—”

“That’s it,” Young-il murmurs as the tip pushes in, circling slowly , torturously , stoking the desperation clawing at Gi-hun’s chest—he wants to beg , to scream for him to just do it , to fuck him already before he loses his mind— “So fucking greedy for me, huh? My tongue wasn’t enough? Need my cock to make you come, baby? Feel it—f-feel all of it, take it, it’s all for you...”

He isn’t gentle. Isn’t careful . When Young-il’s hips snap forward, when his cock buries itself inside Gi-hun— merciless , unrelenting —the stretch is agonizing . Gi-hun screams , a raw, broken sound, because it hurts , even after being prepped. Because all he’s ever known are his own fingers—slender, careful, never more than two on his loneliest nights. But Young-il... Young-il is thick . Invasive . So hard he scrapes his walls.

And he doesn’t wait for Gi-hun to adjust. Of course he doesn’t.

“Shit, shit,” Young-il hisses when he bottoms out. He moves, his hips rolling slow at first, testing, letting himself adjust—not Gi-hun—to the tightness clenching around him. The pressure , the heat , the inferno of Gi-hun’s body. More curses spill from his lips, his nails digging into Gi-hun’s hips, leaving crescent marks, scratching skin raw— “Fuck—you’re so tight, Gi-hun, you’re sucking me in, swallowing me whole—”

More filthy words.

More curses . Gi-hun doesn’t know how to respond , if he even should , if Young-il even needs anything more than these shattered moans tearing his throat apart.

“Just like that, baby, just like that—take it, take all of me...”

Now it’s Young-il who’s babbling, lost in the thick haze of pleasure that’s left Gi-hun so fucked out he can’t even form a word. Nothing except Young-il’s name—the one he repeats endlessly, clings to, screams when he feels him moving harder, faster. When his thrusts gain force, gain rhythm.

He hears the wet slap of his ass hitting Young-il’s hips, his stomach, his own balls and cock bouncing with every impact as the other man buries himself deeper. Deeper. Drilling into him.

Gi-hun tries to reach for his erection, tries to relieve himself, but Young-il won’t allow it.

His senses are sharpened, heightened, even if his mouth can’t form anything beyond curses and filthy words, and he’s faster than Gi-hun: he releases his hips only to clamp his hands around Seong’s wrists. Grabs them . Yanks him back without warning, without giving him time to react, forcing him to arch until his head is level with Young-il’s. Pulls . Squeezes. He already feels the flesh swelling under Oh’s violent touch, the bruises he’ll see in a few hours.

“No, no, sweetheart—this is your punishment for not coming just from your ass. For not being satisfied with my tongue.”

“Y-Young-il, that’s not... I didn’t... I just wanted—”

But Young-il isn’t listening. Doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to. He thrusts again, so deep he strikes that sweet , sensitive spot, the one that shatters Gi-hun completely.

He melts. Breaks.

What tears from his throat isn’t a scream, a moan, or a sob. It’s nothing. The static in his head given sound, something tacit. Intimate. Just his face twisting into another expression, his lips parting and closing, his nostrils flaring violently because he can’t breathe—because oxygen flees his lungs. It burns. Every inhale is fire in his chest; every exhale, pressure threatening to explode him from the inside. He gasps. Feels saliva dripping from his lips, tears resuming, crying like a river. He’d never reached this before. Never felt it.

His G-spot dissolving under the pressure of Young-il’s cockhead. His most sensitive point utterly consumed.

He thinks he’ll die. That he’s one step from a heart attack. But Young-il holds him.

His lips trace a path over Gi-hun’s sweat-soaked hair: kisses, more kisses, tender in a way that doesn’t match the brutal pace he soon resumes.

Pound. Pound.

He doesn’t care that Gi-hun’s choking on his own breath, that he’s forgotten how to fucking breathe. He keeps driving in, spearing him, hunting that swollen prostate—aching, desperate .

And he finds it. That’s the worst part. He finds it effortlessly, and with it, erases every trace of humanity, of thought , in Gi-hun. Gi-hun the survivor. Gi-hun, the poor bastard who thought he could overthrow him.

Now he’s just a melted little thing against him, overwhelmed to the bone by pleasure, by the new possibilities Young-il— In-ho —has opened for him. So he fucks him mercilessly, reveling in Gi-hun’s pleas to keep going, just like that, harder . He loves seeing him like this: glossy with sweat and spit in the dark, becoming a wreck , surrendering to the man he’d sworn was his enemy. Surrendering to the man who minutes ago snapped another human’s neck.

But hadn’t that been what turned him on in the first place?

In-ho had seen it under those orange lights—the desire flashing in Gi-hun’s pupils as life faded from his arms, as the man he calls Young-il stole a final gasp from someone he’d deemed an obstacle. He should’ve feared him. Should’ve run . Yet here he is, utterly fucked out , begging to be taken harder , deeper , pleading for help to reach his climax. And In-ho will give it to him. He’ll grant it because he’s just as close.

He can already feel pleasure coiling in his toes, tightening his jaw, making him falter.

“K-keep going, Young-il, Young-il—”

It would be better, he thinks, if that pretty mouth begged for his real name with the same intensity—not the alias he’d crafted so easily. A taunt. A warning for Gi-hun not to trust again. And yet, he had. Trusted . That’s why he’s like this now: with In-ho’s cock buried to the hilt, his own dick dripping endlessly. He feels Gi-hun’s hips trying to match his frenetic rhythm, and it’s so sweet. So tender . This isn’t the man who stood before the players and challenged them, warned them, begged them to stop the games. Not the fierce fighter who thought he stood a chance against him—in his limo, in his arena, in this fucking room.

He’s just as close.

In-ho fills himself with the sweet stench of Gi-hun’s sweat, the thick saliva dripping down his chin, ruining his shirt and sweater. The inescapable reek of sex. Absolute depravity. He savors, too, the memory of Gi-hun’s taste—salt on his skin, the heat of his insides, a scent he can’t describe beyond two words: Seong Gi-hun . He lets himself enjoy gutting him, spearing him, slamming into that solid knot of his prostate, feeling him clench around his length, taking him whole .

“Be a good boy,” he purrs, still kissing his head, still inhaling the ghost of his shampoo. “Keep taking me like this. Let me take care of you… Please, let me fuck you like this forever. Forget your stupid revenge, Gi-hun. Stop playing the goddamn h-hero and—and just… c-come with me.”

Gi-hun nods. Agrees, though he doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to—probably can’t even process words anymore. Nothing beyond his name, beyond those sweet nothings whispered against his skin. He feels his walls fluttering. Hears the wet slap of his cock against the floor, feels it trembling, shaking. They’re close. So In-ho speeds up—doesn’t know how, but he does. His thrusts grow erratic, the rhythm falters, yet he manages to hit Gi-hun’s ass harder. Slams into him over and over until he fears he’ll split his own groin with the force.

“I-I’m close, Young-il… G-gonna… Gonna come—”

“Do it. Do it. Come for me. Let me fill you—will you? Will you walk out with my cum dripping down your thighs? Let everyone see you like this—ruined, fucked out, mine? Let Jung-bae hug you and smell how much you reek of me?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

In-ho never thought he’d be this kind of man—violent, perverted in bed. But with Gi-hun, it feels natural. He wants him destroyed. Ashamed . Wants to see how awkwardly he’ll walk once the idiots upstairs fix the blackout. The perfect opportunity. Not that In-ho needed the darkness to fuck him, but it’s sharper like this—every sense heightened, every thrust, every kiss, every squeeze to his wrists met with a broken whine. Later, he’ll deal with whoever caused this mess. (Later, he might even thank them for handing Gi-hun to him on a silver platter.)

Of course, it would’ve been more interesting to fuck him on camera. To let everyone see him vulnerable, split open —not just the players, but the man he hates so much . The man his ass clenches around as if his life depends on it.

One last thrust does it—deep, deliberately slow, grinding into his burning prostate—and Gi-hun comes . Spills onto the floor, his body squeezing In-ho so tight he worries about circulation. But it doesn’t last. In-ho keeps fucking him, chasing his own climax, and Gi-hun’s muscles relax almost instantly when a second orgasm hits. This time, it’s not just cum—i t’s something liquid, clear, glossy. Something In-ho would’ve loved to drink dry under different circumstances.

“Y-Young… Young-il—” A broken sound. Not a scream—his throat must be too ruined to speak properly for days. Just a whimper. A plea. A name he clings to for safety.

And as Gi-hun collapses onto him, whimpering from overstimulation, In-ho delivers one final thrust and spills inside him. Comes so hard his mind whites out for seconds, so violently he hears himself moaning, gasping, begging Gi-hun’s name.

Thick, hot threads of cum fill him. He feels them with every shallow thrust, every ragged breath. He’d hoped to wring a third orgasm from him , something unforgettable, but it never comes.

Doesn't matter. 

It’s enough to feel Gi-hun squeezing him, releasing him, milking him with every labored breath. Enough to know that when he pulls out—when the ache of leaving his warmth fades—Gi-hun will feel him. Will remember with every step, will swallow his shame under the others’ stares.

In-ho, though? He’ll savor the confusion on Gi-hun’s little team’s faces.

Savor knowing how thoroughly Seong Gi-hun is already his—even if the poor bastard doesn’t realize it yet.