Work Text:
Gi-hun’s heart thumped against his ribcage.
The polished marble clanked underneath his shoes, feet sauntering purposefully down the unfamiliar hallway. He passed door-after-door, golden frame after golden frame, each door concealing men in high company rankings. Gi-hun’s destination was set firmly at the end of the hall; the shining, gold-encrusted nameplate coming into vision.
Director and CEO, Hwang In-ho.
His feet paused at the closed door. He glanced over his shoulder, looking down at the barren hallway.
He’d studied their patterns for months; careful preparation and dozens of crumpled notes nestled in the bottom of his trashcan. Sweaty palms brushing his fountain pen against the delicate paper, pulse pounding in his ears as he perfected it. His confession.
Director Hwang,
You’ve captured my attention. Your kindness, determination, and drive have enamored me. To the company, I’m nobody. To you, even less so. I’ve stifled my feelings for months, written and re-written this a dozen times, considered, reconsidered—but I cannot keep it to myself any longer.
If you are curious about who I am, please return this letter to the 6th floor custodial closet.
I anxiously await your response,
Your admirer.
His heart had fallen into a lump in his throat as he ran his tongue over the delicate postcard, sealing it shut with a juvenile heart-shaped sticker he stole from his childhood craft box. His mind raced during his commute; letter tenderly tucked into his cars cupholder. He hid it underneath his uniform; thumbs looped into his belt buckle to keep it from shuffling.
He’d decided it was now or never; what had started as longing, juvenile glares had advanced into borderline obsession. On the rare opportunity he was chosen to represent his office in front of the daunting board of men, In-ho’s sharp eyes grounded him. Stabilized him to his surroundings, a thick woolen blanket encompassing him in warmth.
He was well acquainted with Jung-bae, the head custodian. The only man he could babble to, the only man he trusted with his secret.
And Jung-bae encouraged him.
Sly comments about the appearance of In-ho’s office. The stray papers Jung-bae had briefly glanced at before chucking in the trash. A bumped cigarette.
Gi-hun almost asked him for the last one. Almost.
Jung-bae swore to protect him; told him to ask In-ho to return the letter to his main floor. Would take immediate blame, before straying him in the right direction. Gi-hun made him swear—pinky swear, bottle of soju on the line—before agreeing.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeats. Before he can regret his decision, he bends, quickly slips the note underneath the door, before turning on his heel. A quick shot at his watch told him he was just in time; the directors would return in roughly 5 minutes.
He clicked the elevator button, holding his breath until the doors clicked open.
Empty.
He steps in, turns, and returns to his small cubicle, slipping back into his monotonous routine; shaky, sweaty palms not withholding.
***
“I need that report on my desk by the end of the day,” In-ho huffed, the leather soles of his shoes clacking against the tile.
His secretary matched his urgent pace, scribbling notes against his notepad, periodically nodding his head. A strand of his neat, black hair, fell in front of his eye. He quickly blew a puff of air, brushing it out of the way. They stalled outside In-ho’s door.
“Do you understand?” In-ho asked, pointing an accusatory finger at the taller man.
He stuck his hands up in mock surrender. “Have I ever failed you, sir?”
In-ho half-scoffed. “I won’t answer that.”
The taller man tucked his hands behind his back, shooting the other man a coy smile. “Of course. I’ll be taking my leave now, sir. Call if you need anything.”
In-ho hummed, clicking the door open without a word. He shut it behind him, took a quick, frustrated huff, running a hand down his face. He nearly took a step towards his desk before he spotted it; a small, indistinct postcard lay against his floor. He cocks his head, eyes narrow, as he bends over to pick it up.
His eyes pass over the cheesy sticker, brushing his thumb over the smooth vinyl. He flips it over. On the front, in neat letters, was his name.
“Director Hwang In-ho,” he mumbles to himself, pursing his lips. “Huh.”
His feet carry him to his desk, butt sinking into his generic swivel chair with a slight squeak. He tosses it against the dark oak desk, free hand clattering through one of the desk drawers for his gold-encrusted letter opener. His left hand finds it, twiddles it between his fingers, before unceremoniously tearing it open.
He discards the postcard, fingers curling around the contents. His back sinks against the chair, shoulders relaxing as his eyes glance over the craftsmanship.
“’You’ve captured my attention’…?” he mutters, lips curling into an amused smirk. His back straightens as he takes it in. “’Re-written a dozen times’… your admirer…?”
His hands clatter against the dark oak, eyes narrowing towards the closed door. His legs move before he can stop himself, urgently sauntering back towards the entrance of his office. His free hand wraps around the doorknob, swinging it open in one motion.
The secretary is still there, eyes scanning over his notes. His eyebrows rise at In-ho’s presence.
“Director Hwang,” he chips.
In-ho ignores the formality, stuffing the letter in his face.
“Is this from you?” he accuses, suspicion lacing his tone.
The secretary steps back, putting some space between them. His fingers grab at the paper, quickly scanning over the contents, then he laughs. Meeting In-ho’s gaze, he speaks.
“No. I’m practically glued to your hip most hours of the day—when would I find time to send you a love letter?” he replies, half-mocking. “But,” he continues, “whoever it is, it sounds like you’ve really caught their eye.”
In-ho snatches the letter back, crumbling it in his palm.
“Don’t fuck with me,” he responds, annoyed.
The other man makes a face like a Chesire cat—mocking, taunting. His hands return to a gesture of mock-surrender.
“I’m not,” he states, simply. “You should return it to the custodial closet; maybe they’ll smell like fresh linen and sewage.”
His secretary turns, finally descending the hall. In-ho watches him leave, lips straightening into a line. He re-enters his room, shutting the door behind him. His back meets the oak with a disgruntled huff, unfurling the crumpled paper in his palms. His thumb strokes over the words, a tinge of something churning low in his gut.
“6th floor custodial closet, huh?”
***
Life dulled around Gi-hun’s boring cubicle. A quick glance at the wall told him it was 20 past 5; overtime, technically, though he’d never been granted the luxury of bonus pay. He leaned back in the standard office chair, crossing his arms across his chest as he stared at the light reflection of the screen ahead of him.
A boring, plain Excel sheet displaying numbers laid atop numbers; a step-down report from the 9th floor, “a collaborative assignment” they’d called it, though Gi-hun knew it was nothing more than corporate-speak; the long spread of unfinished work passed down to an unlucky sucker.
He ran a hand down his face, sighing as he rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. The sudden, yet familiar, chime of the elevator caught his attention, eyes peering up.
Jung-bae.
Gi-hun groaned.
“Hey, kid, what’s the sass for?” Jung-bae quipped from the hall, figure turning, quickly turning his key into the janitorial closet. “I’m your hyung, remember?”
Gi-hun clicks his tongue. “Almost everyone’s my hyung,” he retorts. He rubs his hands down his well-fitted slacks and sighs. He gives one last glance at the Excel sheet, shaking his head before saving his work for the day. He reaches one hand out and clicks the monitor off.
Jung-bae re-emerges from the closet with a large trash bag. Gi-hun sees him out of his peripheral, giving him an unfunny smirk.
“What,” Gi-hun deadpans, collecting his things.
“Nothing,” Jung-bae giggles, pausing to open the bag. “It’s just, well, what about that hyung? Hm? Anything?”
Gi-hun’s cheeks flush. “No,” he responds after a beat, a tinge embarrassed. “I haven’t—he hasn’t come down. I haven’t gotten anything.”
Jung-bae hums. He walks the short distance to Gi-hun’s cubicle, placing the black trash bag over the ledge. His arms rest atop the cubicle walls as he lays his head against them, cocking his head towards the younger man.
“Didn’t you throw me under the bus?” Jung-bae asks, curious but friendly. “Something about meeting you in the 6th floor custodial closet; what if he thinks it’s me?”
Gi-hun scoffs, nervously running his fingers through his short black locs. “Are you saying you won’t help me out?”
Jung-bae raises his eyebrows. “I never said that,” he muses, “but, you know, it may sound like a cop-out from a low-level employee to pin a love-confession on his even younger, less-experienced coworker.”
Gi-hun opens his mouth to respond but his thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator again. Jung-bae cocks his head over his shoulder, quickly straightening his posture and grabbing the black trash bag with a sense of urgency. Gi-hun’s eyes widen.
Director Hwang.
Gi-hun’s butt lifts from the chair before he can stop it, palms clasping together against his crotch, greeting the CEO with a sincere bow.
“Director Hwang,” Jung-bae says first, a tinge of unseriousness behind it. “It’s an honor.”
“Janitor Park,” he retorts, cold.
His steps are cool and maneuvered—tapping against the dirty tile with purpose. He pauses at the wall of Gi-hun’s cubicle, shooting him a glance out of the corner of his eye.
“D-Director Hwang,” Gi-hun babbles. He gives another professional bow, deeper this time, more purposeful. In-ho ignores him.
“Janitor Park,” In-ho starts. His left-hand fumbles in his back pocket for a second before gripping something, pulling it out with ease. He holds it in front of Jung-bae’s face, seemingly uncaring of Gi-hun’s presence. But Gi-hun doesn’t need to give it a second glance; he already knows what it is.
His letter.
“Do you know what this is?” In-ho raps, almost annoyed. Jung-bae leans his head back, putting some space between him and the letter. He raises his eyebrows.
“Can I…?” he asks, free hand gesturing towards the envelope. In-ho gives a passive nod, offering it up to the younger man.
Gi-hun is completely frozen in place.
Jung-bae places the trash bag back against the wall of Gi-hun’s cubicle—what the fuck? Gi-hun thinks—both hands now removing the letter from their small containment cell. His eyes veer over the short, yet heavy words. He whistles, fighting back a smirk.
“I might have an idea,” he says after a beat, quietly stuffing the letter gently back into its container.
“Was it—” In-ho starts, then stops himself. He places a hand on his hip while another comes to his face, rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. He sighs and shakes his head. “Did you pull a prank on me?”
“No such thing, Director Hwang,” Jung-bae replies, grinning. Before Gi-hun can process anything, he sees it; the cock of Jung-bae’s thumb, now pointing directly at him. “Ask him.”
In-ho looks directly at him, cocking his neck. His eyes narrow, scanning up-and-down Gi-hun’s skinny, frail frame, as if taking him in. Gi-hun’s body is stiff as a board, the wind knocked from his lungs.
“And you are…?” In-ho asks, half-accusatory.
“S-Seong Gi-hun, sir,” he mumbles.
“I’m sorry?”
“Seong Gi-hun,” he replies, clearer this time. He straightens his figure, fingers twiddling together anxiously. “Uh, from the, uh, 6th floor material… management…” the last few syllables quiet on his tongue, shame crawling up his spinal cord.
“I know what the 6th floor does, Mr. Seong,” In-ho replies. Gi-hun sucks in his teeth. “This,” In-ho starts, grabbing the letter from Jung-bae’s grasp, sticking it in the young man’s face. “…is this yours?”
Truly, he hadn’t expected to get this far.
His prior thoughts and fantasies all but crumbled in an instant; the calming, caring perception he’d developed of the CEO collapsing before his eyes. Lonely nights spent rutting against his futon, hand jerking his stiff cock as he whined into his well-worn pillow. The mental image of In-ho working him open, muttering soft words of praise into his ear as he came undone; unfurling gently underneath his comforting gaze.
In-ho was… rude.
“Well?” In-ho asks again, shaking the paper in front of his face like a dog. “Are you going to say anything?”
Gi-hun fights a short, internal battle; tell the truth or not.
He’s nothing like you imagined, one part of him tells himself. Sang-woo was right, all those well-done photoshoots of him in nice, comfortable armchairs, dutifully signing paperwork were nothing more than corporate photo-ops.
The other side thumps at his skull. If you lie, you could get fired. Jung-bae could get fired.
He weighs the options inside his mind, losing his job after working so hard, attending internship after internship, long nights spent over the shitty tea lamp he’d bumped off Sang-woo’s mom, mind relaying technical concepts over-and-over to pass his exams.
He could almost hear it; the nagging of his mom’s voice as he shows back up to her door, two meager suitcases filled with clothes. The thick whack of newspaper against his temples as her well-meaning, yet hurtful, verbal assaults began about “the importance of a strong work ethic” and “how could you have possibly been fired already?”
Rent, utilities, food, and family. He couldn’t let them down.
“Yes,” Gi-hun breathes after a moment too long, eyes averting In-ho’s sharp gaze. “I—Well I just—it’s… I apologize, Director Hwang.” He gives another bow, even deeper. He internally wonders if he’ll pull a muscle in his back.
He hears the older man sigh from above him. Gi-hun curiously straightens his back, staring forward at the disgruntled CEO. His hands are on his hips now, Jung-bae standing off to the side like a deer-in-headlights. Gi-hun watches his shuffle away out his peripheral, retreating to the janitorial closet like a kicked dog.
You fucking asshole! Gi-hun thinks.
After what Gi-hun considers a beat too long, In-ho clicks his tongue. He makes a gesture towards the elevator with a cock of his head, beckoning Gi-hun forward.
“Come with me, Mr. Seong,” he states, flat. He turns on his heel, retreating down the small hallway. He doesn’t check over his shoulder to ensure Gi-hun is following; because he knows he will.
And he does.
***
The elevator ride to the top floor is wordless and completely void of air.
Gi-hun can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. His airway feels tight, like a thick, fat frog has stubbornly lodged itself inside his throat. In-ho stands by the buttons, shoulders straight, back taut, as the hum of machinery climbs them further and further. He says nothing, opting to stand with his jaw tight, hands shoved into his pockets like he meant business.
Gi-hun’s fingers fiddle together, anxiously digging at his dried cuticles like they may carry answers. His shirt feels too tight against his skin, his mind now poignantly aware of the sensation of skin-on-fabric. He fiddles with his collar, gulps nervously, and trails his eyes around the small box as if searching for an escape hatch.
“Top floor,” the robotic elevator voice chimes. The doors click open, unveiling the long stretch of hallway Gi-hun had anxiously descended hours prior; heart in his throat, sweat pooling at his palms like an excited schoolboy.
The sensation was back, though for different reasons.
“Come,” In-ho said, glancing over his shoulder. The first—and only—word he had said the entire ride.
Gi-hun nods his head, footsteps shakily following In-ho’s down the hall. His neck cranes at each door they pass, now taking in the names imprinted against every tile.
Hwang Jun-ho. Im Jeong-dae. Kim Yeong-sam. Jang Deok-su.
Names he’d heard in passing, barely above a whisper. The last three more-so than the first, always accompanied with a shivering spine and an unhappy grimace. Gi-hun’s lips thin into a straight line as he keeps walking, straightening his head forward to ground himself to something, anything.
His feet pause behind In-ho’s.
His back is slightly bent in front of his door, a glimmer of light refracting off the key he has dug from his coat pocket. He turns it in the lock without a word, unlocking the door with ease. He swings it open, takes a step forward, then turns his body to meet the younger man.
“After you,” he says, dull.
Gi-hun nods his head, taking an apprehensive step across the threshold. His spine straightens as he surveys the room; large, but modest. In-ho’s large, oak desk takes up most of the space, a handful of filing cabinets strewn off to the sides. Decorative paintings of black-and-white horses litter the walls, some more artistically creative than others. His desk-side trashcan is half-full, littered with gum wrappers and crumbled sheets of paper.
The door shuts behind him with a firm click.
Well, this is how I die, he thinks.
“Mr. Seong,” In-ho says. Gi-hun turns to meet the older man’s gaze, eyes trailing over his still-taut figure. Gi-hun watches him as he digs around in his back pocket once again, fingers finding the envelope once more. He waves it in the air before tossing it at Gi-hun’s chest, which he barely, pathetically, catches.
“…Do you take me for a faggot?” he states, flat.
Gi-hun blinks.
“…What?”
In-ho takes a step forward, shortening the gap between them. “I said, do you take me for a faggot?”
Gi-hun stares at him, voice caught in his throat. His mouth is open slack, eyes glazed over as his mind struggles to catch up.
“I… I don’t—”
In a moment, Gi-hun’s cheek burns. His brain hardly processes it; In-ho’s thick slap against his fair skin, head rattling to the side as the inertia catches up. His hand immediately races to his face, fingers fiddling over the now-reddened skin. His eyes meet In-ho’s.
He scoffs. Right in his face.
“You’re something else,” he belittles, gritting his teeth. He takes a small step back to shove his finger in Gi-hun’s face. Humiliating. Accusatory. “What gives you the right to assume anything about me? What gave you the gall? You’re a man. Have you even finished your military service, yet?”
“D-Director Hw—”
“Don’t talk over me,” he spits, an angry scoff accompanying his venom. “You look like a boy scout, like you think that badge of yours makes you something. Someone. Gives you power; let me guess, you’re a new graduate? Hm?”
Gi-hun’s lips warble. “I…”
“Don’t keep me waiting,” In-ho barks, raising his right hand to Gi-hun’s cheek, pausing before it can reach the skin. Gi-hun furls in on himself, a jolt of fear running down his body. He can feel it, the small, threatening presence of tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. His cheek stings. He feels small. Weak.
This is where I die, Gi-hun thinks again.
“I’m sorry, Director Hwang,” he forces. He tries to stifle the emotion in his tone to no avail, the tears brimming behind his eyes now pooling at his lids, threatening to spill if he speaks one more syllable.
In-ho shakes his hand, placing his hands on his hips. His neck cranes downwards as he tuts, tapping his foot impatiently against the polished marble.
“I’m not looking for an apology,” he says, lifting his head. Again, the hand raises before Gi-hun can process it, striking him hard across the cheek. Gi-hun groans in pain.
“I’m,” slap, “looking,” slap, “for,” slap, “…an answer.”
CRACK!
Gi-hun wails as the pain strikes him, hand immediately drifting towards his nose. The warm, red liquid gushes like a faucet, dripping off his face onto his previously pristine shirt, coating his fingers in sticky, iron-red. He opens his mouth to cry, but sputters, gagging on the taste as the liquid seeps into his mouth. He takes a shaky step back, vision obscured by tears, until his back hits In-ho’s desk.
“Mr. Hwang, I didn’t—”
“Director Hwang,” In-ho corrects, stepping forward in tandem with Gi-hun’s retreat. He leans over Gi-hun’s cowering frame, left hand snaking upwards towards his quickly bruising and bloodied face.
His thumb and index grip his nose, right hand coming to his chin to tilt his gaze upwards. Gi-hun stifles a guttural cry.
“Seems I broke it,” he mumbles, straightening his lips. “Hm.”
He takes a step back, giving Gi-hun a second to suck in a thick gulp of air. He collapses against the wood; butt hitting the marble in exhaustion. His fingers claw at his collar, unfurling it like it may grant him more air. He doesn’t see the kick of In-ho’s foot as it connects with his stomach.
“Fuck!” Gi-hun cries, keeling over. He grips his stomach, face now smooshed against the marble flooring. Blood seeps against the expensive tiling, lining the grout.
“Hey,” the voice chastises above him. His foot meets Gi-hun’s ribs, sending him curling in pain onto his back, another high, guttural scream punched from his lungs. “Your buddy just shined these floors. You never think before you act, do you?”
Another kick. Then another. And one more for good measure.
Gi-hun wheezes pitifully on the ground, body quivering in pain. His ribs ache underneath his now half-unbuttoned shirt. Blood has long dripped off his face, coating the floor in a long, sticky trail. His lungs burn. His legs won’t move.
In-ho crouches at his knees, fingers furling in Gi-hun’s black locs, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Listen to me, because I’m only going to say this once,” he states, exasperated. “If you ever—ever—mistake me for… that… again, I will make sure you never work in this field again. Not a single day of your life. You understand?”
Gi-hun opens his mouth to reply, but the thick, oozing pool of blood stops him. He opts to gently nod his head, humming low.
“Good,” In-ho finishes, dropping Gi-hun’s head against the tile, hard.
The older man stands and fiddles for something in his other coat pocket. Gi-hun can make it out, almost. The quick-following sensation of it on his skin, the up-close nature, confirms his suspicions.
500,000 won, cash.
“Go to the hospital,” In-ho states flatly. “You look like shit.”
He turns on his heel and leaves, clicking the door shut behind him. Gi-hun’s fingers twitched as he tried to orient himself, shakily pushing himself up on his elbow, before collapsing back to the ground. He sucked in a thick, wheezy breath, rubbing his cheek against the cold tile for some sort of leverage.
“I’m sorry, Director Hwang,” he whispers to himself, blood pooling from the corner of his mouth, pitifully combining with his saliva.
***
The hospital staff had looked at him like an animal as his shaky legs carried him to the emergency room.
It didn’t take long, shuffling him into an empty bed before patching his wounds up with a wide range of bandages. The doctor recommended an IV drip, to which he refused, fingers fiddling around the cash in his wallet, nearly shoving it in the man’s face.
“Just needed a patch-job,” he’d mumbled, grinning stupidly. The staff looked him up and down before retreating, telling him to pay at the front desk.
He left with a bag full of painkillers, gauze, and antiseptics. When he stepped foot into his meager apartment, the loneliness of the space began to truly seep in. The once calming darkness engulfed him, sending his gut churning until his finger found the light switch. He collapsed to the closest surface—his couch—and groaned, running a hand through his hair.
“What am I supposed to do,” he mumbled to himself. The tears were back, brimming, again, cruelly at the corners of his eyes. “What am I supposed to do,” he repeated, he whined, leaning his head against the back of the couch.
He slept horribly, pain stabbing through each of his nerves like a firecracker.
He called off the next morning. Then the next. And then the one after that.
He spent the weekend healing, watching bad TV and scrolling through his phone. He considered researching legal routes; a form of payback, almost, for the CEO’s treatment of his frail figure, before concluding that no one would believe him.
No one.
***
In-ho tried not to think about him.
That weak, warbling figure smearing blood against his floor like a busted faucet. By the time he returned to the office in the morning, the blood smear had already been disposed of, wiped clean as if it had never occurred at all.
He attended meetings, bickered with his secretary, and chased Jun-ho out of his executive chair more than once.
But it persisted.
That small, thumping thought in the back of his mind; the one of the black locs twisted between his fingers. Of blood dripping off his chin and tears staining his cheeks. The weak curl of his body as his cries bounced off the walls, wailing in shrilled agony.
It meant nothing. Nothing.
Neither did checking his timecard. Or his handful of Excel spreadsheets. Or his company emails. Or the glance at his social media. Or his investigation into his alma mater’s.
Nothing at all.
He remembers returning home that night; staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth, bath towel slung atop his shoulder. He grimaced at himself, narrowing his eyes at his taut figure. He spit the toothpaste into the sink, flushed his mouth, gargled, then spit. He gave himself one last look before retreating to bed, slinking underneath the covers.
It meant nothing that he showed up in his dreams, too.
Huddled on his knees, peering at In-ho through tear-soaked eyelashes, cheek palming at the prominent bulge in his boxers. Fingers dipping into the spandex, tongue darting across the dribble of pre-cum caught at the tip, red, puffy lips taking him in one solid moti—
“Director Hwang, your input?” Jeong-dae quipped, cocking his head towards the man at the head of the table.
In-ho blinked. He stared at the table of board members, all now anxiously peering at him for his much-desired input. He swallowed a thick heap of saliva.
“It’s… good,” he replied, faux-confident.
The table murmured.
Was that not the right answer?
“If you say so,” Yeong-sam muttered, swiveling in his seat. “I suppose that about wraps it up,” he added, clasping his palms together on the wood. The table broke into murmurs of agreement as papers shuffled hand-to-hand, laptops clicked closed, and Jun-ho clicked the projector off.
In-ho stood without a word, turning to leave. He paused at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.
“Hyung,” Jun-ho whined, wrapping his arms around his waist annoyingly. He rubbed his face against In-ho’s shoulder and blew a fat raspberry.
“Ew!” In-ho barked, pushing Jun-ho off him. His brother laughed.
“You seem to be in a hurry,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Were you even, like, on the same planet as us?”
In-ho scoffed. “It’s not that, I was…” he trailed off, trying to find a convenient excuse. “…thinking about the report from Oh Industries, I just haven’t been able to wrap my head around it.”
Jun-ho stuffed his hands in his pockets and hummed. “Right,” he replied, mockingly. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with your…” he took one hand out of his pocket and pointed downwards at In-ho’s crotch. “…issues.”
In-ho looked down at the prominent bulge straining against his slacks. His cheeks flushed. He turned and left without a word, ignoring Jun-ho’s mocking voice clamoring at him down the hall.
He retreated to his office, locking it shut behind him. He quickly unfurled his belt, pulling down his pants and boxers in one motion. He hissed as his cock freed, slapping against his stomach.
“You’re kidding,” he muttered to himself. “You’re kidding.”
He palms at himself quickly, seething through his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut, quickly trying to imagine something that’ll help him finish fast, something to ease the tension, the ache—
It meant nothing that he saw Seong Gi-hun. Back bent over his desk, ass in the air, moaning like a whore as he took him from behind. Tears dripping against the polished oak as he muttered filthy words of praise to the petite man, cock straining against his abdomen. Black hair strewn against the table, covering his eyes and obscuring his vision.
In-ho cums in his palm with a strained whimper, fingers gripping the wall for leverage as his knees buckled. He lets out a thick, heavy sigh, as reality sets in. He stares at the mess in his hand; the white, sticky substance coating each of his digits, dribbling between the cracks.
His jaw tightens.
That man—boy, really—might’ve meant something.
***
Gi-hun returns to work that Monday. Scared? Definitely.
No one says anything to him as he saunters to his desk with a newly bandaged nose, but they stare. He feels their eyes on him, the peeping, knowing glares that could only mean one thing: what the fuck happened to you?
He works diligently, forcing himself to engross himself in his work; anything for a distraction.
Around lunchtime, he stands. He walks to the elevator, crossing the floor-manager’s open door. Just as he reaches the elevator, he hears it.
“Seong Gi-hun!” he barks.
Fuck my life.
His shoulders sag, dejected. He turns and enters the man’s office, pausing at the doorframe.
“Mr. Kim,” he states, professionally, but dull.
“Were you off to lunch?” the man asks, cocking an eyebrow.
Gi-hun’s eyes bulge, lips thinning into a straight line as he gives a wordless nod.
“Hm,” Mr. Kim retorts. He folds his hands underneath his chin, giving Gi-hun a passive look. “I just received an email; Director Hwang would like you to meet him in his office for lunch.”
Gi-hun’s knees nearly buckle.
“I’m sorry?” he sputters, confused. That tinge of fear returns, reverberating down his spinal column. He swallows a cold, thick lump in his throat, wincing dejectedly.
Mr. Kim flips his cheap monitor around, giving Gi-hun a clear view of the short, yet concise, email.
From: Hwang In-ho
To: Kim Jung-beom
Please send Seong Gi-hun to my office, top floor, for lunch this afternoon.
Thank you,
Hwang In-ho, CEO
Gi-hun blinks at the screen, which Mr. Kim takes as his cue to flip it around. He clicks at something with his computer mouse and sucks a thin breath between his teeth.
“Must’ve caught his attention,” he remarks, dully.
Gi-hun leaves without a word, just a small, professional nod to his manager. He returns to the elevator, clicks the button, and freezes as the doors clamor open.
Empty.
He steps in, turns, and stares at the buttons. He briefly—though intently—considers skipping on the offer; sulking by himself in the corner of a cafeteria, ignoring the aching sting of his healing nose. He could find and annoy Jung-bae, and that new intern—Dae-ho, he vaguely remembers—isn’t far-off from him in age.
The quick flash of bitter, cruel remembrance stiffens him to the reality of the situation; the blood pooling from his nostrils, the pang in his ribs, the guttural twist of his stomach, body keeled over, aching in pain against the authoritative figure’s expensive tiling.
“I get it,” he mumbles to himself, “today’s the day I die.”
He clicks the button for the top floor, sucking in a heavy breath as the metallic doors hammered shut.
***
The light knock of fingers against wood pulls In-ho from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he states, stiffening.
He let’s out an uneasy, almost worried sigh through the nostrils as he enters; black hair gently strewn, white polo shirt snug to his frame, gently tucked into his cheap black slacks. He’s taller than In-ho, though not stockier. He looks frail; ballerina-like, In-ho supposes. A tall, kicked dog.
He shuts the door behind him with a shaky hand.
“Director Hwang,” he mumbles.
“Mr. Seong.”
Gi-hun straightens his body, holding his hands against his crotch. “You wanted to see me?”
In-ho blinks at him before swiveling in his seat, bending over to grab something out of Gi-hun’s line of sight. He re-emerges with a plain, white takeout bag, gently thumping it against the desk. Gi-hun’s eyes narrow, confused.
In-ho gestures at it. “Sticky fried chicken,” he states, as if it made a world of difference. “Rice, too. Sit.” He gestures, again, but this time, in front of him, towards the dull, slightly-aged leather chair.
Well, that wasn’t there last week.
Gi-hun steps forward apprehensively, a hint of suspicion laced with every step. His pants squeak against the cheap leather as he sinks into the seat, adjusting until he was comfortable. In-ho unpackages the meal wordlessly, sliding a pair of chopsticks across the table with nothing but a pensive brow. Gi-hun nods his head as he’s handed his serving; a full, overflowing container of chicken and rice, still steaming.
He suddenly doesn’t feel very hungry.
In-ho takes a bite of his food across the table, sighing around the taste of warm, salty sauce. He chews, swallows, then talks.
“I’m sorry about your nose,” he says, as if it fixed anything. Gi-hun stares. “And for…” he waves his hand vaguely, “…everything else.”
Gi-hun swallows. “It’s fine.”
I was in so much pain I could hardly take a piss.
In-ho folds his hands against the desk. “So,” he rasps, before clearing his throat, “I’m assuming you’ve already guessed I didn’t really invite you up here for lunch.”
A shiver runs down Gi-hun’s frame. His nails dig into the styrofoam takeout container, jaw tightening. He shifts his foot from one to another, swallowing thickly before responding.
“Director Hwang, I meant it, I’m really sorr—“
“Enough with that!” In-ho barks, slamming his fist against the dark oak. It startles Gi-hun, sending him jolting in his chair. He instinctively cowers, back leaning against the leather to put distance between the both of them, a protective hand coming to shield his face from a sense of impending punishment.
In-ho runs a hand down his face, muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath. His eye catches Gi-hun’s.
“I don’t need an apology,” he adds, weakly masking his annoyance. “I—“ he pauses, briefly considering his words, then groans before continuing, “—fuck, here.”
He drags open a desk drawer out of Gi-hun’s line of sight, quickly rummaging through traces of long-forgotten files to find one specific paper he’d tucked at the bottom of the polished oak. His fingers loop around the corners, carefully removing it from its small container. He hands it to Gi-hun without a word, free hand clicking the desk drawer shut.
Gi-hun contemplates bolting; briefly checking over his shoulder to gauge the distance between him and the door. He hadn’t locked it in when he entered, and he was only mere feet from the exit. He could bolt from his chair, long, janky legs carrying him down the hallway to the elevator, all the way to the ground floor and through those glorious glass double doors; blacklisted from any office job in Seoul, probably—safe, definitely.
He abandons those thoughts when he catches his eye. The subtle twitch of his jaw, his heavy eye bags seeping into his aging skin.
Against his better judgement, he grabs the paper from In-ho’s fingers and turns it around.
A contract.
Simple, concise.
Name: Employee ID: Date:
Consent Clause
Hwang Industries takes pride in admiring and celebrating its hard-working employees that make the company what it is. We’ve recognized your work, your devotion, your drive, and would like to congratulate you with an offer.
If signed, the employee agrees to forfeit all prior duties in exchange for a premium promotion. Pay will increase accordingly. You will be expected to run errands, answer phone calls, and attend board meetings alongside President and Chief Executive Officer, Hwang In-ho.
*Further details on this contract may be disclosed upon signature.*
We at Hwang Industries appreciate your cooperation.
Signature:
The paper feels like molten fire underneath Gi-hun’s sweat-dampened palms. He gazes up at In-ho, who is giving a passive, almost doe-eyed look.
“What is this?” Gi-hun asks, more authoritative than intended. “What…” he quickly rises from his seat, heat rising to his cheeks. His arms flail around the room as sweat accrues on his brow. “…What is this!?”
He looks strained. Bewildered. Knees ready to buck at a moments notice. His fingers curl into fists at his side, a poor attempt to keep his emotions inside. In-ho simply gazes at him.
“I fired my secretary,” he states, plainly. “He was a moron, seemed to think he was better than me.” In-ho rises from his chair and maneuvers around the desk, feet carrying him in front of Gi-hun’s quivering figure. Gi-hun instinctively retreats, stepping backwards until his back aligns with one of the many metal filing cabinets. His eyes scan towards the door, but In-ho is too quick; his arms raise at either side of Gi-hun’s head, encaging him between his figure.
“You, on the other hand,” he mumbles, heat rasping against Gi-hun’s reddening cheeks, “you seem to know your place, don’t you?”
Gi-hun’s pulse feels like a racehorse underneath his skin. His heart pounds against his ribcage, body now poignantly aware of the rush of blood clamoring in his ears. His mind scrambles for an answer; something that’ll appease the much older, much more daunting man. He feels weak underneath his gaze, like a prey animal being stalked in the Savana.
He’s then, suddenly, aware of the aching in his bruised and broken nose, too.
His tongue darts out to lick his lips. The heavy stench of silence has washed over them, tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. Gi-hun breaks it with an embarrassing, gut-churning question; one he hopes—prays—is the one In-ho wants to hear.
“The position,” he warbles, trembling gently under In-ho’s gaze, “the… the pay… how much…”
Gi-hun expects ridicule. Pain. A quick flash of red stamped across his cheek like a warning.
But none comes.
In-ho breathes through his nose, takes a step back, and leans his neck towards the ceiling as if in deep thought. He tuts, then replies.
“Roughly 4x your current salary.”
“Four!?” Gi-hun yelps. In-ho gives him a bewildered eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m—“ he cuts himself off before he can finish that sentence. “It’s… well, it’s very generous, Director Hwang.”
In-ho nods. “So?”
Gi-hun’s fingers twiddle with his shirt. “Well, I may need a day or two to think on it.”
“The offer isn’t valid past today,” In-ho quickly adds. Abrupt.
“Huh…?”
“I can’t go several days without an assistant. I’ll likely have a wrongful termination lawsuit on my desk by tomorrow from that leech. I need the position filled now, not tomorrow, not two days from now,” In-ho turns, bends, and lifts the contract from the ground. He hands it to Gi-hun. “Do you need elaboration on anything?”
Gi-hun is almost stunned to silence. His eyes scan over the document one more time; the small, yet world-changing document that could transform his life from a scruffy Boy Scout from the playground of Ssangmun-dong to a well-paid, high-profile, man.
He swallows a thick trail of saliva.
“Are these really my only duties?” he asks, meeting In-ho’s gaze. He straightens his spine and rounds his shoulders, mustering faux-confidence. “Or is there more off the record?”
At that, In-ho steps forward. Gi-hun doesn’t retreat, using his extra inch of height to look down at him. He mentally prepares for the assault on his skin; the impending doom that awaits him for acting out.
But it doesn’t come.
The snaking sensation of fingers on his waist does, though.
“What are you…?” Gi-hun gawks, his confident exterior immediately tarnished.
In-ho digs his nails into the flesh. He squeezes, then lets his hands wander, fingers trailing his petite frame until his hands are rested right underneath the curve of his ass. In-ho hears Gi-hun’s breath hitch. Feels the tension gather in his frame.
He squeezes.
“What are you doing!” Gi-hun yelps again. A thin trail of spit connects to his teeth, heat already pooled in his cheeks.
“This,” In-ho replies, before his hands begin to fondle the skin encased by cheap slacks, “would be your secondary duty. Top priority is to act as my secretary. Coffee runs, answer the phone, check my email, boring, corporate bullshit.” His hands move a twinge, his index and middle prodding at Gi-hun’s clothed crack.
“Your second priority is me. You’ll spread your legs when I ask; part your lips when I say so, and every time you do, I’ll give you a million won. Off-the-record, separate from your paycheck, an exchange between business partners. Tell me, you’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”
A beat of silence. Gi-hun says nothing. In-ho hums, then continues.
“I saw your email exchanges with Jung-bae; risky, daring, even, to admit that on the company email.” Gi-hun whimpers. In-ho’s gut twists. “What did you say, then? You wish I’d ‘bend you over my desk’, ‘take you right there’, ‘pull my ha—‘“
“Director Hwang,” Gi-hun rasps. It comes out strained, embarrassed, weak. His thighs shuffle. In-ho looks down.
A bulge. A strain against the slacks.
A perverted smile creeps onto his lips.
“What’s this?” In-ho asks mockingly. He raises his left hand, clicks his thumb and index together, positions it above his crotch, and flicks. Gi-hun lets out a strained moan.
“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” In-ho tuts accusingly. “You don’t get the ‘sign-on bonus’ until you sign that paper, I should let you know.”
“Pen,” Gi-hun rasps quickly. His fingers dig into his knuckles, barely containing himself. “I’ll take it. The job—the bonus, I’ll do it. Please.”
In-ho’s cheeks warm. “Of course, follow me.” He gestures towards his desk, walking the short distance until he’s seated back in his office chair. Gi-hun follows him with shame, fingers curled around his frail wrist.
In-ho leans over, grabs an expensive fountain pen, and hands it to the young man. Gi-hun doesn’t blink; scribbling his name, employee ID, date, and finishing it off with his chicken-scratch signature. He hands it to In-ho without a word. In-ho’s eyes scan over the document, nod, then place it in his desk side drawer.
“When…” Gi-hun mumbles, “…do I start…?”
“Now,” In-ho responds.
His arm darts outwards, thick fingers curling around Gi-hun’s frail wrists. He tosses him to the floor, hand nudging his cheek as he maneuvers him over, over, over until his figure is awkwardly cushioned underneath his desk. He has to duck his head just to fit. In-ho pushes his swivel chair forward until he’s close enough to grab Gi-hun’s mop of black hair, shoving it into his crotch without care.
“I trust you know what to do,” In-ho breathes. Gi-hun peers at him through his eyelashes, giving him a weak nod.
His fingers gather around In-ho’s belt, quickly undoing the loop and exposing his fly. He unclasps the metal button, then the fly, and waits for In-ho to gently lift his butt so he can shuffle the fabric downwards. He tugs them just around the tip of In-ho’s thighs, exposing his expensive boxers.
Gi-hun’s frame trembles as he sees the outline of it against the fabric. A light hint of pre-cum dribbling through in a small wet spot.
He loops his fingers in the spandex, and tugs. In-ho’s cock frees with a slight slap, emerging already rock-hard. Gi-hun’s eyes graze it; the long, hard length. The nestle of pubic hair in his groin, untrimmed.
He gulps.
You’ve never done this before, his mind screams. What are you doing!
I’ve watched enough porn, he argues back with himself. Internally, he screams.
He tries to remember how the men did it in the western pornos he watched; fingers curling around the base to give it a passive jerk. He’s jerked off enough to know the motion, the simple up-and-down.
I can do this.
“I’ll go soft if you take any longer,” In-ho chastises. Before Gi-hun can respond, his fingers are curled in his hair, twisting his head towards the daunting length, and prying the tip past his puffy lips in one motion.
He gags.
In-ho has shoved his nose in his pubic hair. The salty taste of pre-cum hits the tip of his throat, coating his warm entrance in bitterness. His throat struggles around the intrusion, tears already brimming at the corner of his eyes. He taps In-ho’s thigh but he doesn’t respond; his head is already leaned back against his chair, a soft, content moan spilling from his lips.
“Good boy,” he mumbles, petting his soft locs. “Now, get to wor—“
Knock knock.
They stiffen. Gi-hun’s body reacts to the sound immediately; it panics. He huns around In-ho’s cock, sending shockwaves through the man’s spinal column. He lightly smacks his head, wincing.
They catch each other’s gaze. Gi-hun’s terrified, tear-soaked eyes. In-ho’s straight, slightly strewn with pleasure. In-ho makes a small, simple gesture.
One finger to his lips.
Shhh.
He straightens his spine and looks ahead. He swivels his chair as close to the desk as he can without smooshing Gi-hun and then speaks towards the door.
“Come in,” he says.
No! No, no, no, no!
Too late.
The door clicks open.
“Director Hwang,” the voice chips.
“Myung-gi,” In-ho responds, slightly exasperated. Gi-hun hears the sound of the door shut and the subsequent heel-to-marble clack.
“You got a cold?” the man—Myung-gi—asks. “You finally got an office chair,” he adds.
In-ho hums, and Gi-hun almost gags. The sound sending a tingle of sensation up his back.
“It looks old,” Myung-gi babbles before Gi-hun hears the sound of him slinking into it regardless. “I brought that report you’ve been hounding me for.”
The click of a briefcase, possibly, then the shuffle of papers. Gi-hun watches In-go grab the papers, look through them—barely—and nod his head.
“It’s good work, Mr. Lee,” he mutters.
“Is it? You hardly gave it a glance.”
Gi-hun hears—and feels—In-ho groan.
“Do you doubt me?” In-ho asks in that usual authoritative tone.
A click of the other man’s tongue. “No. You’re the boss, boss.”
It sounds final, definitive, like the man might get up and go. But he doesn’t. No squeak on leather, nor the clicking of soles against tile come.
“Were you eating two containers of takeout food by yourself?”
Gi-hun is getting agitated, though not nearly as much as In-ho is. His cock has slowly grown soft in his mouth, reducing Gi-hun to more of a cock warmer than a cheap prostitute. It’s more manageable, this way, but he wonders, passively, if In-ho will take it out on him.
“Yes,” In-ho lies.
Myung-gi tsks. “You’re nearing 50, Director Hwang. That fried food’ll clog your arteries.”
“Maybe I hope it will.”
The leather squeaks, but the shoes don’t retreat. Myung-gi has leaned over the desk to slap In-ho on the shoulder.
“Don’t be such a sour puss, we’d be lost without your leadership,” he quips, laughing. His butt returns to the chair.
“Are you just here to bother me?”
“Should I go?”
In-ho looks down, a quick, flick of the eyes. But it does the trick.
Gi-hun is still seated pathetically between his legs, cheeks bulging like a hamster as he slowly-softening cock curled in his mouth. His eyes are puffy, slightly tear-stained, his lips bitten and flushed red. His saddened look almost fills In-ho with pity. Almost.
It intrigues him, more-so.
Gi-hun wants to plead. Take his cock out of his mouth and warble for mercy. Make him leave. Kick Myung-gi out with a rough slam and work him open on the door right then.
But he can’t.
In-ho flicks back to Myung-gi.
“No,” he responds. A grin curves onto his lips. “You’re right, all that greasy food is gonna kill me someday. Are you hungry?”
“Is it still warm?”
In-ho smirks. “Steaming.”
“Well, put it on my tab,” Myung-gi jokes.
“It’s on the house,” In-ho replies, simple.
Underneath the table, Gi-hun’s legs go numb.
***
Myung-gi leaves after what feels like an eternity. Belly full and a pep-in-his-step, something about needing to call his girlfriend being what finally dragged him away from the CEO’s office.
In-ho politely asks him to lock the door on the way out, babbling about how he has a ‘spare key’, and he’ll ’take that one back later’.
The first thing he does when the door locks is sigh. He kicks the swivel chair away from the desk, giving Gi-hun some space to breathe. His knees struggle to catch up with the sudden movement as his head is lurched forward, lips still firmly wrapped about his length.
In-ho looks at him.
“Was that so bad?” he mocks. He reaches out his hand and strokes Gi-hun’s cheek with his thumb. Gi-hun warbles around the sensation, half-embarrassed, half-aroused.
“Mouth off, sweets,” he coos with another tap to his cheek. Gi-hun finally—finally—peels off with a wet pop. He sucks in a thick, heavy breath, as if he’s been suffocated for oxygen for the last hour.
“Director Hwang,” he whines between breaths, “I was—you—I was so—“
“I know, I know,” In-ho soothes. “But you should’ve known, it’d never be that simple with me.”
Gi-hun blinks at the man as he caresses his taut jaw.
“I don’t understand.”
“Stand,” is all In-ho says.
Another blink. Gi-hun pauses before he moves, pulling himself up with the assistance of his palms placed firmly on the ground. His knees crack as he stands, an involuntary groan slipping past his lips. He tries to ignore the way In-ho’s eyes gaze up-and-down his frame. Taking him in. Predator stalking prey.
“Turn around.”
Gi-hun’s tongue wets his lips. He turns.
“Bend over.”
“Director—“
“Now.”
Dejectedly, he obeys. His spine curves, chest leaning over the expensive oak as he bends. He places his forehead against the table, hands coming to rest right above his forehead. His arches his back, ever so slightly, popping out the curve of his ass.
In-go hums.
A shift. A squeak. Then; hands.
Cascading over his frame. They start slow; small, soothing mounts of pressure into his taut muscles. Running circles into his back, cooing every time he runs over a particularly stubborn spot, eliciting a small whine from the man underneath them.
He drags his fingers down the young man’s spine, spider-like, tantalizingly. He halts at the curve of his ass, sucking in a thick breath as he stares intently at the hint of exposed skin that’s come undone from his pants.
“Filthy,” he rasps, clicking his tongue. “Bent over my desk like a cheap whore.”
Gi-hun yelps as his fingers snake into his slacks, pulling them down in one motion. He tugs them around Gi-hun’s knees, pausing to take in the sight of him stripped to his boxers, hair strewn against his desk, the soft flush of red dragging up his skin.
Just like I’d imagined, In-ho thinks.
His cock is already stiffening again, half-hard around his exposed crotch. Without warning, he pulls the rest of the thin clothing downwards, exposing Gi-hun’s round, soft ass. Gi-hun whimpers as it’s exposed to air, shivering slightly against the bitter air.
In-ho whistles.
He sticks one hand out to massage the fair skin, noting every curve and dip. The plush roundness. The slight quiver with each dip of his fingers.
“Tell me,” he whispers, tugging the skin. Gi-hun groans. “Has anyone ever seen you like this?”
“H-Huh?”
Without warning, In-ho’s hand pulls back, then returns with a hard smack.
“A-Ah!” Gi-hun yelps. His fingers curl into fists against the desk, jaw tightening as his teeth grit.
“I said, has anyone ever seen you like this? Back bent, spine curved, ass in the air. Well?”
Gi-hun’s cheek rubs against the cold table. He almost hides his face in shame.
“No,” he admits, reluctantly. “It’s…” the words struggle on his tongue, shame nipping at his cheeks. He sucks in a breath before finishing. “It’s my first time. I’ve never— I haven’t done this before.”
In-ho pauses. Hands stalled, no movement. For a second, Gi-hun thinks he’s done something wrong; admitted the wrong thing. Admitted to his now boss that he’s a virgin.
Then In-ho laughs.
Low and throaty. A chuckle more than anything else. His soothing hand is back to his ass, gently rubbing the skin.
“Well, what an honor,” he mumbles.
He rolls his hips forward, the tip of his half-hard cock against the top of Gi-hun’s crack. Gi-hun melts at the sensation, whimpering into the desk. In-ho rolls his hips again, gently rocking himself back-and-forth against his soft skin. Muttering under his breath as he works himself to full-hardness, pre-cum dripping and lubricating his ass.
In-ho leans over his frame, sticking two fingers in front of Gi-hun’s mouth.
“Suck,” he commands. Gi-hun obeys without thought, parting his lips for the intrusion, clasping them shut around the digits as he curved his tongue around them. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine how he saw it in his pornos; thin, petite bottoms obediently warbling around words of praise, curling their tongue around the spit-covered fingers, delicate eyelashes fluttering against their skin.
This was… substantially filthier.
In-ho rushed him. Shoving his fingers in to the knuckle, quickly covering them in a thin coating of spit before exiting his warmth. His hand retreats to the swell of Gi-hun’s ass.
His free hand drags his cheeks apart, humming at the sight of his reddened rim. His spit-soaked fingers prod at the entrance, his cock soaking in every sound warbling from Gi-hun. The tautness in his figure, the sharp gasp at the sudden sensation, the gentle pawing of the younger man’s hand, now balled into a loose fist against his chest.
“Gentle,” he pleads. “Please.”
In-ho clicks his tongue.
“We’ll see.”
He doesn’t wait; he sticks in both fingers without warning, stopping at the base of his knuckle.
Gi-hun thrashes.
“Director Hwang!” he yelps, mouth pried open. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes again. His legs are shaking against the table, jaw tightening as the man squeezes his eyes shut, trying to adjust to the new sensation.
“Ow,” he whimpers. “Ow, ow, ow…”
“Shhh,” In-ho tuts, “will feel better soon. Promise.”
He pulls the fingers out before Gi-hun can reply, pausing at the first knuckle, then slamming back in.
It knocks the wind from Gi-hun’s lungs. He wails, tightly balling his hands into fists. He nibbles on the skin of his fingers hard enough to draw blood.
It fucking hurts.
“Lube,” he breathes, “any? Please?”
“Don’t have any,” In-ho replies coolly. He’s already begun to set a steady pace; fingers thrusting in-out, in-out, in-out, in a brutal, uncaring nature. He whistles as Gi-hun writhes underneath him, pained moans seeping past his lips, spittle pooling on the table.
“I heard men have a sweet spot, just like women,” In-ho says. “You just gotta…” his fingers curve downwards, and Gi-hun keels.
“F-Fuck!” he cries, eyes peeling open. “What was…?”
“Your prostate, Mr. Seong. You’re telling me you don’t know about it?”
Gi-hun’s lips part to respond but they’re replaced with a low, guttural moan as In-ho hits that spot, repeatedly. He isn’t subtle, either, twisting and curving his fingers in different manners to get him at every angle. Gi-hun’s legs feel like putty. His cock aches against his stomach, stiff and leaking.
“Gonna add one more, okay?” In-ho mumbles, more to himself than Gi-hun. He adds a third, reveling in the noise that comes from Gi-hun’s lips. Soft ah’s and ooh’s and curses coming from low.
Gi-hun’s hand is back on his chest, weak.
“Gonna cum, gonna cum,” he babbles, almost mindless.
In-ho stops.
He removes his fingers without warning, leaving Gi-hun high-and-dry. Gi-hun cocks his head over his shoulder, curious and disappointed.
“What…?” he whimpers. His question is answered by the feeling of something bigger, much thicker, prodding at his entrance.
“Relax, Gi-hun,” In-ho seethes. His tip prods at the delicate rim, huffing as it smears the pre-cum gathered at the head. He ruts his hips, popping the head inside, giggling as Gi-hun tenses.
“A-Ah, uhhh…” Gi-hun mumbles. “Big,” is all he says.
In-ho snorts. “That’s just the tip, baby,” he coos. He caresses Gi-hun’s skin, placing his hands on either side of his hips. In one motion, he thrusts, until his crotch is nestled at the hilt.
And Gi-hun cums.
Pitifully, small streaks painting his stomach, thighs, and floor as he lets out a strangled noise. Mewls cry past his lips, his hand quickly coming to shelter his face from shame.
“I’m sorry, Director,” he sniffles, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorr—“
In-ho quiets him with a roll of his hips. Gi-hun yelps, body sent into shockwaves of overstimulation as In-ho’s cock dragged over his prostate. In-ho spanks him again, eliciting another pathetic whine from the man.
“I don’t fucking care if you cum,” In-ho breathes, “just know, you’ll be responsible for cleaning it up afterwards, okay?”
“Yes sir,” Gi-hun responds with another sniffle.
“Good. Who knows, maybe you have another one in you.”
With that, In-ho rolls his hips back. His tip almost drags out until he slams back in, chuckling low at the reaction the younger man gives him. A squeaky, high-pitched moan, punched from his lungs.
He sets a brutal pace. He cares little for the state of Gi-hun’s body; his thighs shake against the table, sweat and cum pooling down his inner thighs. Every roll of his hips punches another sound; whimper, moan, swear, it all melts In-ho’s brain.
His own body feels warm and fuzzy. He’d had sex before; obviously. One-night-stands with women whose faces he couldn’t even remember. Unknown numbers in his phone clamoring for more, one more date, an opportunity to really change his world.
It’d all felt meaningless.
Jun-ho had a nice girlfriend; he said he had planned on proposing soon. They’d be wed and then everyone could stop breathing down his neck about marriage and kids. Those two, mind-numbing topics he zoned out of every Chuseok, focusing his brain elsewhere.
Right now, pummeling in-and-out of this young, mouthy office worker, he’d be happy if he could knock him up; drag his fingers over the slight curve of his stomach as he grew fat with their child, whimpering and mewling, calling him Director Hwang, as if his name were an out-of-reach luxury.
In-ho chuckled. “What the hell are you doing to me?” he groaned. He leans over his figure, fingers finding Gi-hun’s short, black hair. His twists his fingers through the knots, one hand still placed on his hip for leverage as he chased his own climax.
“Director,” Gi-hun babbled, “Directorrrr,” he singsong’s, a dumb, dopy smile on his lips.
“Gi-hun,” In-ho gasps.
“Feels good,” he coughs against the desk. “Love it. Love it.”
In-ho grits his teeth. “Fuck,” he whispers. His hips speed up, orgasm close. His hand leaves Gi-hun’s curls and snakes down to his cock, wrapping around it with one palm. He sets a brutal pace to his meager penis, stroking in tandem with his punishing thrusts.
“C-Cumming…!” Gi-hun keels, body pulsating around his cock as In-ho’s punches out his second orgasm. His tip sprays small, pathetic ropes over his fingers, a slight spray of urine spitting out as well. It pools against the floor in a disgusting mixture.
“Fuck!” In-ho rasps one last time. His hips still as he collapses over Gi-hun, sucking in thick and heavy breaths as his orgasm works its way through his body.
Their breaths almost rhythmically combine, both of them spent. In his haze, In-ho almost forgets; the purpose of this meeting. What he’d sought to do in the first place.
His hand shakily snakes into his coat pocket, fingers gripping around his phone. He unlocks it with his thumb and pulls up the camera app.
Leaning back, he snaps a photo of the aftermath; his cock nestled to the hilt inside Gi-hun’s ass. The mixture of piss-and-cum littering his previously pristine floor tiling. Gi-hun spent, bent over his desk like a cheap whore.
“There,” In-ho says, breathing in through his nose. He leans over, placing the photo in front of Gi-hun’s glazed-over eyes. He watches Gi-hun take it in; soak in the aftermath of their romp.
“Now, you’ll never leave.”
***
Jung-bae crosses his arms across his chest as he watches Gi-hun pack his meager cubicle into a single box.
“A promotion, huh?”
Gi-hun hums. “Yup. Already told you, like, a thousand times.”
“Well forgive me for not being able to wrap my head around it!” Jung-bae gawks. He walks over and sinks into Gi-hun’s former chair. He looks up at him and tuts. “I mean, all power to you, I’m happy for you, but isn’t this, like, illegal?”
Gi-hun pauses. “Illegal?”
Jung-bae nods. “Yeah, like—okay, take this, for example. If my wife applied for a job underneath me, and I was the one giving her the interview, don’t you think that’d give her an unfair advantage over the other applicants?”
Gi-hun sighs and shoves his standard-issue office pens into the pile of things. He pauses as his fingers grasp around it; the not-so-old college graduation photo. His mom grinning at his side, Sang-woo teasingly pinching his cheeks. A large, sprawling bouquet wedged in Gi-hun’s hands. He snorts, and places it gently atop the mess.
“I guess so,” Gi-hun finally responds. “But Director Hwang and I aren’t dating.”
“Sure, and I bet he’s not fucking his new, young and spry, sexy secretary either.”
Gi-hun stills for a second, then turns his head.
“You’re a flippant pervert,” he grimaces.
He looks through his drawers one more time, searching for anything he might’ve left behind. After he’s done, he scoops the box underneath one arm and strolls to the elevator. Jung-bae follows him.
“Hey, I was joking,” he laughs, nudging Gi-hun’s shoulder.
“Hmm,” Gi-hun replies.
He clicks the button for the elevator and waits, eyes scanning the digital clock above it. He’s pulled from his thoughts by Jung-bae turning his body to face him.
“Look, kid, I’m serious, though. Be safe. Rich people are vipers.”
Gi-hun’s eyes scan over Jung-bae’s face, then down to his box of stuff, then back to the elevator. He sighs, and meets Jung-bae’s gaze again.
“I will. I promise.” He gives Jung-bae a friendly smile. The elevator chimes, doors clicking open. He steps inside and clicks for the top floor, shooting Jung-bae one last glance.
“Oh, and Mr. Park,” he says.
“Yeah?”
Gi-hun points at his feet. “Your shoe is untied.”
He giggles as the doors shut, Jung-bae’s curses muffling behind the heavy aluminum.
He steps out on the top floor, feet dragging across the carpet to that familiar door at the end of the hall. He knocks as a courtesy, though he knows he doesn’t really have to.
“Come in,” the voice calls.
He twists the knob open and shuts it behind him. The resounding sound of the lock straightens his spine.
He turns, placing the cardboard box atop one of the many filing cabinets with ease. He turns, meeting the Director’s hungry, peeping gaze. He steps towards him without a word, sinking into his lap as his fingers trail over his shoulders.
“Director,” he greets, flat.
“Mr. Seong.”
Neither move for a moment until In-ho breaks the silence. His right hand fiddles at the knob one of the desk-side drawers, slipping it open and twiddling his fingers through the stack of miscellaneous goods until his fingers curl around the target.
He holds it up without a word; a small, clear container of lube.
“Provide mercy to the suffering,” he jokes, a hint of a smirk digging at the corner of his cheeks.
Gi-hun hums. His fingers leave In-ho’s shoulder to unbutton his shirt, one-by-one, achingly slow.
“Thank you, Director Hwang,” he breathes between buttons, “I appreciate it.”