Archive of Our Own

Quiet grunts and groans fill the room, the smell of sex so thick in the air that you could choke on it. The sheets are filthy with come and other bodily fluids, the mattress creaking underneath the combined weight of the two shapes moving above it in motions that are not tender or loving, but the opposite.

They’ve been going at it for hours already.

Gun-woo is not a small man by any means, but he looks small under In-beom.

And yet, aside from his heavy breathing, the little hurt noises and punched-out sounds here and there that he can’t quite help—Gun-woo is completely silent.

Myeong-gil thought that he would have broken by now, but he hasn’t.

In fact, he seems to have only grown more resilient.

Put him under pressure, and he doesn’t crack.

He only becomes more beautiful, becomes something harder and more indestructible than carbon steel or diamonds, than any other material found on earth.

It’s impressive.

It only makes Myeong-gil want him, and want to break him, that much more.

He’s sitting back in his chair, flicking the zippo lighter open and closed, the small flame briefly flashing and reflecting on matte metal, as he watches. As he strokes himself.

He’s been teasing and edging himself for a while now, a master of his body. In control of himself. Of this room.

The whole world is a casino, and Myeong-gil owns it, just like he owns Gun-woo.

Just like he owns the two of them.

“Again,” he says. “Pull him up to his knees and mount him again. Make him feel like a bitch.”

In-beom follows his directions at once, eager to please as always.

Gun-woo is lying face-down in a pool of his own come, slumping there, senseless to the world, after climaxing for what must be the fourth or fifth time. Myeong-gil has kept count.

Sweat covers the whole length of his muscular body in a faint sheen, gathering between his shoulder blades, slicking the space there. Making it glitter. Gilding it.

Myeong-gil wants to lick it. He wants to lick a broad stripe up his spine, from the swell of his ass up, up, up, to taste him and his bronze, shivering, exhausted skin. Wants to sink his teeth into the big knob at his nape until he cries out.

In-beom wraps his big bear paws around Gun-woo’s hips, forcing him up on his knees again before he can recover his breath. He makes it look easy, like Gun-woo weighs nothing, picking him up like a child. Gun-woo tries to get his arms under him, tries to get up on his own to preserve some of his dignity, whatever is left of it, stubborn to a fault.

A single powerful thrust is enough to render his efforts useless, arms flopping beneath him, crushed by his own considerable weight. He can do nothing but lie there, upper body and face pressed into the dirty sheets with his ass raised high.

Like a bitch in heat.

In-beom has no love lost for him. He doesn’t bother to hold back or be gentle, ramming into him over and over again like an animal while grunting like one too, fucking him with his monster cock, as big as a horse’s. As a coke can.

He’s not kind.

He doesn’t know any limits, doesn’t share the same inhibitions that other people might possess. There’s something beautiful in that.

Something beautiful in his capacity for pure, raw, mindless violence.

But he’s only human. He’s sore and exhausted too. Gun-woo might be hurt worse than him, much worse than him, but still…

He’s been fucking Gun-woo nonstop, has already come a few times himself, and though he doesn’t allow himself to hiss or betray any other sign of discomfort or pain, Myeong-gil can tell from the clench of his jaw.

He takes it out on Gun-woo, angry at him, angry that he has to do this, hips slapping bruises into the boy’s firm, round ass, already bright cherry-red as though In-beom had taken a big palm to it instead. In-beom would love to do nothing more than that, Myeong-gil knows.

It’s all this brat’s fault, surely.

Even with his cheek still smushed to the mattress, sweat dripping into his tired, beautiful eyes, Gun-woo only displays his pearly whites at him in turn.

A few more thrusts, then In-beom is coming. Again. It’s inevitable, with how fast and rough he is going. He sinks deep, as deep as he can go, to make sure it hurts, and Gun-woo can feel him even in his gut and throat for days after, no part of him left untouched. He’s vicious about it, eyes fierce and murderous and lips pulled back, like he’s trying to kill Gun-woo with his dick alone.

He comes in powerful spurts, filling Gun-woo to the brim, to the point of overflowing, the excess running down his pink-slapped ass and thighs in milky-sticky lines.

Gun-woo makes little noises of distress, like it’s too much, like he’s completely overwhelmed. Like something inside him has broken, even if he himself remains unbroken.

It’s the sexiest fucking sound Myeong-gil has ever heard.

In-beom continues to rut into Gun-woo, drawing out the moment and going slack-jawed.

Gun-woo has gone limp underneath him. Silent.

But then, from one moment to the next, In-beom is howling like a beast, clutching the side of his head, teetering left and right, disoriented, before finally succumbing to gravity and hitting the bed with a dull thump, the whole frame shaking with the force of it. A giant falling.

Gun-woo’s fist lowers, curled in a deceptively loose grip.

He moved almost too fast to see, twisting and turning his body to strike like a viper.

It wasn’t a wild, desperate swing. It was lethal. Precise.

Calculated.

He was waiting for In-beom to come and let his guard down.

He must have been acting, to a certain degree. Playing up how tired and weak he was. Myeong-gil underestimated him.

Gun-woo is growing smarter, or maybe he’s starting to think more like Myeong-gil.

Becoming more like him.

The skin of his scar shines in the dim light of the hotel room, along with the sweat on his neck like a dab of white paint. A bead slides down his chest, between his perfect pectorals. His nipples are hard points in the air.

He’s got a body made for fucking. For fighting. For killing.

He only needed one punch to take In-beom down. He’s getting better.

Myeong-gil has put him on a strict training regimen, an even stricter one than the one Gun-woo had before, taking over his boxing career just like he has the rest of his life.

Gun-woo has regular fighting sessions with In-beom that he always loses, no matter how many times he gets up again. Once or twice now, Myeong-gil has made In-beom fuck him silly afterwards until they both can’t get up or get it up anymore. They both hate it equally as much as the other. It’s almost funny.

Gun-woo raises his gaze from his felled opponent, turning to Myeong-gil. His eyes glow softly in the dark, like stars. Almost eerie.

A zing goes down Myeong-gil’s spine, heating his blood and making his heart beat faster. Making his dick thicken and throb in his grip.

He makes no motion to reach for his knife, only making a careless two-fingered gesture off to the side, the nervous shuffling there—a silent stay down—as he continues to stroke himself slowly, leisurely, with the other hand, mouth parted in equal parts intrigue and arousal. The tip of his tongue touches his front teeth, pressing from behind.

Gun-woo rises from the bed as though rising from water, a god, all smooth, brassy skin and bare feet padding silently on the ground as he stalks towards him with raw animal grace. Pantherine. Dangerous.

But then he hesitates, something not-quite-fear passing his clear eyes.

They are still so clear, even after hours of getting his brains fucked out by In-beom like he’s his personal Barbie-faced blow-up fuckdoll. Even after everything, despite everything. Myeong-gil is almost convinced that nothing can tarnish their shine.

The thought rather pleases him, he finds.

“Why are you smiling? I could kill you.”

“You could. But you won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because of this. If you had wanted to kill me, you would have done so long ago. But you haven’t. Because you need me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Just look at you. All that power, all that strength—and you are doing nothing with it. Instead you only yap and yap away in front of me, like a lost puppy. You need to do better, if you want me to pet you and stroke you in my lap. If you want my cock, instead of In-beom’s.”

Gun-woo’s fists clench, though he’s always been good at resisting taunts and keeping a cool head on his shoulders. Myeong-gil has watched enough recordings of his past matches to know that. 

Star-bright eyes flicker with intelligence and caution, widening slightly when Gun-woo realizes this is just a distraction—

He manages to get his arm up just in time before In-beom can crack his ribs and he needs to be carefully put back together again in one of Myeong-gil’s private hospitals. He still cracks to the floor, feet swept clean out from under him by the sheer force behind the blow. He recovers remarkably fast, rolling with the impact so he’s on his feet in seconds, coiled tight and already going in for another jab—

But he’s too slow. He doesn’t have the element of surprise on his side this time.

In-beom lets the first hit connect, a maniacal grin on his lips even as his head snaps back with the blow. It looks monstrous with his teeth bloodied and bared. But he catches the second one, crushing the fist in his hand until Gun-woo makes a pained sound. 

Using the captured limb as leverage, he throws him against the nightstand, destroying it and making the lamp fall to the floor where it breaks.

Myeong-gil knows In-beom wants nothing more than to lift Gun-woo’s body high and drop him over his knee, break both his spine and his spirit, the way he did Choi Tae-ho.

Another broken toy.

He’s clicking his tongue before he knows it.

There’s a tickle in his chest. Something like displeasure. Something else.

He didn’t tell In-beom to throw Gun-woo around like that.

“Let him go. You’ll break his arm at this rate.”

In-beom lets go, shifting guiltily on his feet like a child after getting scolded.

He’s angry, Myeong-gil can tell; radiating embarrassment to be caught off-guard in front of him and barely able to meet his eyes. Shy as a schoolgirl.

Poor In-beom. His mouth twitches.

Gun-woo sags limply to the ground, unconscious.

In-beom flips him over on his back, takes position between his splayed legs and fucks right back into him again. He doesn’t need to be ordered to, too furious at Gun-woo and getting humiliated like that in front of Myeong-gil that he probably wants to punish him. Teach him a lesson. It makes him even more brutal and ruthless than before, and it’s not long before Gun-woo stirs again, brows knitting, confused.

“Whuh?” he says.

Then he realizes what’s happening, almost comical. He struggles, but In-beom forces him down, forces him to take it with his insurpassable, Minotaur-like strength.

Seeming to sadistically delight in it, he grabs Gun-woo by the neck and bashes his head back against the floor over and over, pinning him there as he gurgles and chokes and futilely tugs at his meaty fingers.

“I want to see his face.” Myeong-gil pushes the lapel of his suit jacket behind him, eagerly leaning forward in his chair with an elbow on his knee for a better view.

In-beom slips out only long enough to flip Gun-woo around again who barely catches himself on his palms and knees, having to bite back a shout when he is roughly re-entered. A huge hand is in Gun-woo’s hair to lift his head, forcing him into a lewd, nearly spine-snapping arch. For someone his size, with his muscle mass, he’s surprisingly flexible.

Gun-woo, who is glaring at Myeong-gil through the dark slivers of eyes, through a fresh layer of tears.

Myeong-gil licks his lips and flicks his thumb over the head of his cock, pulsing and hot in his palm.

It’s rough, not as rough as Gun-woo’s, his strong boxer’s hands, but rough enough, lending it an edge of pain.

While Gun-woo is still watching, he lifts his palm to his mouth, licking it, then wraps it around his dick again, beating himself off at a faster pace now.

When In-beom finishes in Gun-woo, it doesn’t take long for Gun-woo to follow, like the well-trained puppy he is.

Myeong-gil has a full view of his face as he’s pounded from behind: every little pull of his brow and microexpression, his pouty, raw-bitten porn star lips, the lurid pink of his mouth when it falls open and his tongue hangs out, just asking to be fucked, to have all his holes stuffed with dick every second of every day, the sexy little ah-ah-ah noises he makes, his innocent, guileless face when he comes, like it surprises him, as though it always surprises him. As though it always hurts him, and he’s never prepared for it.

And Myeong-gil wants to hurt him. Wants to suck and bite his body all over. Wants to fuck his mouth, wants to fuck him on all fours for hours, raw, bare, painful, fingers pressing livid bruises into his mouth, into his hips and waist, his insides, that won’t fade for days and days and days. Just two dogs going at it, rutting against each other, nothing but sweat and stink and disgusting animal grunts. Wants to languidly spit in his mouth and lick it out again, wants to eat him out and fill him up, load after load, like he’s trying to put a baby in him. Wants to fuck him until he draws blood and it dots the sheets in pretty paint-by-number patterns. Until Gun-woo cries out, empty and full and bereft at once. Cries like a little kid missing mommy and daddy.

He wants Gun-woo, wants to rip chunks of flesh out of him with knives and hands and teeth, wants to gobble him down, eat him and spit him up and chew him down again, destroy him, tear him apart, wants to do it over and over, rinse and repeat, rewind and replay, rewind again, until Gun-woo’s mind breaks, stuttering and shivering apart like the film strip innards of a broken video cassette. Until he knows nothing but Kim Myeong-gil, as wide and vast and black as the sea.

Wants to make violence to him.

He spills silently into his fist, staring hungrily at Gun-woo’s slack, unguarded post-orgasm face, beautiful and glowing with both sweat and exhaustion.

“Carry him to bed like a gentleman. Make him comfortable.”

In-beom does, pulling out with a small hiss before gathering Gun-woo to his chest, neither gentle nor cruel. Simply… apathetic. The body in his grip might as well be another object in the room, no different from the lamp or the nightstand he broke. Gun-woo looks tiny in his arms, like a child that stayed up too late sitting in front of the TV and fell asleep in a small, crumpled heap.

For the next part Myeong-gil gets up from the chair and walks up to them. He wants to watch this from up close and personal.

But then he stops.

Seeing Gun-woo all soft and exhausted like that on the bed… It tugs at fatherly instincts he’s never had and never will.

He brushes a strand of hair out of his face. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

It turns into a smile when he sees the plain jealousy written on In-beom’s face. He must be feeling neglected.

Leisurely wiping the come on his fingers on Gun-woo’s slack, plump lips, painting his tongue with it, he turns to the other man.

Fingers still slick with saliva, he puts a hand on the back of In-beom’s thick bullneck, running blunt nails through the soft, sweaty fuzz of his buzzcut, thumb gently tracing the forming bruise on his ear.

In-beom looks up at him, awaiting orders, as mindless and adoring as a dog.

Looks up at him like he’s god.

The power high hits his veins, his bloodstream, better than women or drugs.

Not gold, though it comes close.

“You must be tired, Beom-ah… Rest now.”

He leans in for the next words, making sure to keep his voice low. Quiet. The adults are talking.

In-beom looks at him unsurely, and Myeong-gil nods, a warm, benevolent smile on his lips as he pats the back of his neck.

“On his back, like this?”

A squeeze. “Yes, just like this.”

He steps away, and In-beom turns to Gun-woo again, taking big thighs into his even bigger hands to spread them.

“I want you to use your mouth on him first. Get him wet, just like you would a woman.”

As if Gun-woo isn’t wet enough already. Dripping down his thighs like a school slut after taking the whole football team. Still, no one complains and In-beom crawls down the mattress until his face is level with Gun-woo’s crotch and he’s breathing hot air over his sloppy, twitching hole.

He dives right into it, nose buried right under Gun-woo’s soft sac and not seeming to care, licking and lapping and sucking like there’s no tomorrow.

Gun-woo makes a choked sound. A muscle in his stomach jumps, thighs trembling like they want to wrap around the head between them and twist, if not to break In-beom’s neck, then to choke him until he passes out—but In-beom only grips them tighter, spreads him wider until they are flat against the bed and he’s completely exposed. Almost frog-legged, an awkward position for a man as big as him to be forced into.

“What does he taste like?” Myeong-gil asks, his tone gentle and patient. Paternal.

He knows In-beom can be shy and slow with words. It’s something his two boys have in common. It’s quite adorable.

“He tastes like me,” In-beom starts, slow, hesitant, “like my come. He tastes… good.”

“He does, doesn’t he? He tastes so fucking good. How does he taste compared to the other asses and pussies you’ve eaten out?”

“Better,” In-beom breathes out, like the answer surprises even him. “Better than any of them. There’s no comparison.” A moan. “God, he tastes so good. How can he taste so fucking good?”

“You could kneel and eat him out all day, couldn’t you? Suck and lick him and bite him until he cries. He's such a pretty crier, isn’t he? And you love to make him cry, don’t you, Beom-ah?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” In-beom babbles mindlessly, the words slurred and guttural and barely intelligible with the way he’s burying his face even more into the warm space between Gun-woo’s thighs while humping the bed.

“You hate him. You hate him so much for distracting me and hogging all of my time and attention, like the greedy little bitch he is. You wish he was just a dead body in the cold dark earth. That I would grow bored of him and just give you the order. Permission. That you could just snap his neck or crush his skull in your fist or strangle the little moaning slut while he’s too fucked-out to notice, and be done with it.”

“But when he cries you hate him just a little less, don’t you?” Myeong-gil continues, with a sly, knowing grin. “Maybe you even start to like him.”

In-beom’s face is all mashed up against Gun-woo’s ass. He’s given up on shoving him wide, instead hooking his hands around his thighs from behind to tug him closer, to wriggle his large, fleshy tongue deeper into him, yanking him down the bed in his violent, clumsy eagerness.

The thighs around his head are thick as rubber tires, locking and squeezing tight around his ears. The bruised one too, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He must be suffocating, not getting any air, but even so he doesn’t let up on his enthusiastic licking and slurping.

Gun-woo writhes and twists on the sheets, one hand clawing in them, almost tearing the fabric, while the back of the other presses to his mouth to muffle the sounds. “Hmmph.”

His ribcage is heaving, shimmering wth sweat. It pushes his chest out, emphasizes the impossible dip of his waist.

“Look at how much he likes it. The little slut can’t get enough of your talented mouth, Beom-ah.”

Myeong-gil is standing by the bed, a hand on the back of In-beom’s head, not pushing, just gently holding him there, feeling the muscles in his neck work as he eats Gun-woo out.

“He loves it, he loves it so damn much. That’s why he hates it.”

Gun-woo glowers at him, above the wet sheen of his face and the fading teeth marks on his hand. Myeong-gil smiles, drawing a light, ticklish finger down his tense thigh, making him twitch and jerk. Probably making him clench around In-beom’s tongue too, if the shudder going through the man’s large frame is any indication.

Myeong-gil lifts and licks his finger.

He wasn’t lying; Gun-woo does taste good.

In-beom is getting off on it too: on Gun-woo’s taste as much as how much the latter hates it. Hates him, both of them… himself, most of all. The man is messy about it, entire face soaked, saliva dribbling down his chin and everywhere, as he slobbers and pants all over Gun-woo like a horny mastiff.

He comes only after wrenching another silent, unwanted orgasm out of Gun-woo.

While the kid is still catching his breath, arm thrown over his eyes, finely trembling all over from the aftershocks, In-beom begins to feed thick fingers into him. They go in easy. There’s barely any resistance.

Gun-woo hardly seems to notice when it’s just two or three, but he starts to pay attention at four, when In-beom tries to fit his thumb in too, pressing threateningly at the rim. He sits up, or at least tries to. Alarmed.

“Wait—”

In-beom doesn’t wait.

His thumb pops inside.

Gun-woo convulses, body honest where his mouth is not, refusing to let even the slightest sound out, and In-beom has to use some force to pin him down. Even after all the fucking, he’s not quite prepared or stretched enough for this, for the large hand sinking deeper into him, into his body, in a way he had probably thought impossible. Carving a space in him where no one has been before. Except it’s not In-beom carving that space.

It’s Myeong-gil.

Because In-beom is an extension of him, no different from his arm or leg. Because Myeong-gil owns him, just like he owns the rest of Smile Capital.

Because when he’s done with this, when he’s done with all of this, he will own everything under the sky.

Even Gun-woo.

They are quickly getting to the widest part, the base of the thumb.

Gun-woo might tear, if In-beom doesn’t pause or slow down.

In-beom has no such consideration for him.

He pushes the rest of the way inside with sheer, brilliant brute force.

Gun-woo’s mouth falls open, tears hanging in the corners of his eyes, too shocked to even let them fall.

In-beom has big hands, big as the rest of him.

His fist is even bigger.

He curls it in Gun-woo now.

Gun-woo jerks as though tased, before curling in on himself protectively, as best he can with In-beom’s other hand still around his neck, little hurt sounds slipping past his lips that he can’t quite hold back.

A tug of fatherly instincts again. Myeong-gil shushes him and coos at him softly, touching the side of his face, the one with the scar, to comfort him.

Then he reaches down between thick thighs, finger delicately tracing where Gun-woo is stretched so wide around In-beom, swallowing him down to the wrist, making a shiver ripple through the kid. Myeong-gil can feel it, can feel the way Gun-woo twitches and tenses up.

It has to make In-beom feel even bigger inside him.

Myeong-gil leans down, placing a sweet kiss on his sweaty, pained brow.

He lets his hand slide up until it’s on Gun-woo’s lower abdomen, on his rock-hard abs, the slight bulge distending them, lightly pressing down.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, almost tender. “That’s the iron fist of Smile Capital. My business. My money. My power. All must bow before it, sooner or later. Even you, Gun-woo-ya.” 

He takes pleasure in it. In saying his name. Liking the curl and electric taste of it on his tongue.

But Gun-woo doesn’t look like he agrees. If anything, he looks like he wants to spit in his face again, all phlegm and blood and blue-hot, sparking rage. A boy’s ignorant, foolish rage.

Though he knows better than to. Myeong-gil has taught him better than to.

After a long, hard moment, that stubborn streak breaks on the flutter of lashes and fades to resignation, to defeat… leaving behind only soft soft soft.

“Good puppy,” Myeong-gil warmly praises him. “That’s a good boy.”

As a reward, he rubs his belly, almost gentle, kind, if not for how it heightens Gun-woo’s awareness of how full he is, uncomfortably so.

But before long, the kid isn’t just panting out of pain. There’s an edge of helpless arousal to it too. A high-pitched, dog-like whine escapes his lips.

“One more, Gun-woo-ya. I know you can do it.”

“I can’t.”

“You can, because that’s what I told you to. Because that’s what I want.”

And Kim Myeong-gil always gets what he wants, be it with money or might.

He doesn’t touch Gun-woo’s cock, just lets his hand stay on his belly, large and fatherly and warm. Heavy.

He feels it when In-beom starts to rock his fist inside Gun-woo, pressed up right against his prostate.

Even if the kid can't get hard anymore, his release still builds, slow, steady, against his will, before finally dribbling out of his soft cock, massaged out of him through the constant stimulation to his swollen, oversensitive prostate, as he can do nothing but twitch and cringe and twitch again, face screwing up beautifully.

“Show me,” Myeong-gil murmurs, gripped by sudden, blinding hunger. “Show the camera.”

Understanding at once, In-beom pulls his fist out with a wet, squelching pop. Too-fast. It’s almost like Gun-woo comes again, rough knuckles scraping against sensitive walls, stretching them one last time. Paying this no mind, In-beom hauls him up and into his lap, back to chest, because he knows Myeong-gil likes to see Gun-woo’s face. Likes to see the scar. Taking a muscular thigh into each hand, he spreads him wide, revealing his pink, gaping hole.

Gun-woo is too tired to even react, completely boneless, head resting back on In-beom’s shoulder, stretching his long, sweaty throat, big tits heaving, brows knitted, eyes squeezed tightly shut like he can pretend he’s not there, like this isn’t happening, if only he tries hard enough.

It’s erotic beyond belief. It makes Myeong-gil instantly chub up again in his pants.

“Are you getting this on camera, Jang-do?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” comes the immediate, hasty confirmation. The phone is hovering right above Gun-woo’s hole now, leaking and dripping come, too open and loose to keep it inside.

It twitches under the attention of so many pairs of eyes on it.

“Get his face too, zoom in on it. If you miss even one second, there will be consequences.”

Jang-do audibly gulps and nearly drops the phone, hurrying to do as ordered. Gun-woo avoids looking into the camera lens, at least until Myeong-gil whistles and snaps his fingers a few times in his face to catch his attention.

”Come on—eyes open and forward on the camera, sweetheart. You know how much your audience would pay to see those pretty little peepers? Fuck. They’d pay a fortune.”

Reluctantly, Gun-woo does so, glaring weakly, venomously through the sheen of sweat and tears on his cheek.

Obeying him and not at the same time.

Myeong-gil can’t help but smile.

So there’s still some fight left in him after all… maybe there always will be.

It’s not such a bad thought.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, cheering and clapping his hands, “just like that. That’s the money shot right there. You’ll make me a very rich and very happy man, Gun-woo-ya.”

When it’s time for the others to leave, he praises In-beom, saying that he did a good job, that he would never share Gun-woo with anyone or let anyone else touch him like this, only In-beom. Myeong-gil trusts him.

“You are my brother,” he says, clasping his neck again, In-beom grinning back at him, tired but satisfied, puffing up under both his words and his touch.

He has already dismissed Jang-do too. This isn’t for the cameras or anyone else.

Despite his earlier words, he has no intention of sharing these videos with others. They are for his private viewing pleasure and growing porn collection. Nobody else. He’d probably kill anyone who tried to watch them and carve their eyes out with his knife.

Gun-woo is curled up on the bed, only half-awake as Myeong-gil undresses and settles behind him, rubbing his arm and kissing the sharp wing of one shoulder blade. Then his jaw, down his neck and shoulder…

He can feel Gun-woo relax too, the way his massive muscles start to feel less and less like steel under the soft ministrations of his mouth. His silent sigh of relief. Better Myeong-gil than In-beom.

Better the devil you know.

Arms wrapped around Gun-woo from behind, Myeong-gil rolls his hips into Gun-woo’s, lazily fucking the tight, wet space between his ass cheeks.

He’s fully hard again now, after watching Gun-woo come apart around In-beom’s fist. Fucked by Smile Capital—literally.

The thought sends a fresh wave of terrible, heady heat through him.

Gun-woo barely moves, almost asleep, not even when the head of Myeong-gil’s cock finally catches on his hole, easily thrusting all the way inside without any friction. Meeting only slick, sucking heat, better than any bitch he’s ever fucked before. His own personal fleshlight.

His fingers dig into an already-bruised hip bone, unable to resist, pulling Gun-woo back on his cock, hips flush, to make sure Myeong-gil is fully sheathed in him.

To make sure Gun-woo can feel him, every inch of him.

Gun-woo only lets out a small sigh.

Almost disapproving, as though he’s in any position to disapprove.

Myeong-gil lets it slide this time.

However, after only a few thrusts he clucks his tongue. “You are too loose. There’s no friction. Your used-up whore hole is no good for fucking. Shit,” he curses, punctuating it with another thrust that goes in easy, too easy, “you are worse than useless.”

Every negative word makes Gun-woo flinch and curl in on himself, stoking the cruel part inside Myeong-gil. Making his chest feel warm with something that might be affection, if he was capable of it.

He’s lying, of course: he actually likes Gun-woo like this, too fucked-up and fucked-out to put up any resistance, either with his body or his mind.

It’s cute. It’s so cute he wants to fuck Gun-woo bloody and raw and screaming.

Destroy him—in every way possible.

“See, here is what we are going to do,” Myeong-gil says, dragging a soothing palm down from Gun-woo’s nape over his tense, muscled back, rubbing over his defensively rounded shoulders as the kid subconsciously curls in on himself, as though trying to protect himself. As though it’s possible to.

It’s not.

Nothing and no one could protect Gun-woo from Myeong-gil.

Least of all Gun-woo himself.

“Since you are too sloppy and I won’t be able to feel it if I fuck you, I’m going to fuck your fat thighs instead. There must be a reason why you work out so much. You’ve been secretly fantasizing about someone fucking you and every part of your slut body like this, haven’t you? Putting you on your knees where you belong and fucking you like a bitch the way you deserve. The way you crave. But I still have to finish inside you. You know why I have to do it, don’t you? That I have to claim you after someone else touched you?”

After a moment, he gets Gun-woo’s tiny, wordless nod in response, a brief, trembling dip of his chin towards his chest, barely there but still there—gets permission.

Tricking him into becoming complicit in this.

Myeong-gil grins, kissing the tip of an ear as a reward.

“Go ahead, baby.” A reassuring pat to his hip. “Make a tight, wet space for me to fuck into. Make it good for me.”

Gun-woo obeys him beautifully, without thinking, pressing his thighs together until he’s warm and snug around Myeong-gil’s cock. He’s perfect, just perfect. And all Myeong-gil’s.

Pure greed seizes him then, a monstrous thing, making him fuck Gun-woo harder than he meant to.

It’s exactly as hard as he meant to.

*

Afterwards, once he has claimed Gun-woo inside and out, reclaimed him—he takes his wet, lovely face between his fingers and tilts it up to kiss him, long and deep and dirty, watching Gun-woo.

Gun-woo watches him too, through hazy, barely open slits. He watches him for a long moment. Then he kisses back.

He kisses the devil.