457ginho

Latest Posts by 457ginho

Idk man… I think the games would have been stopped if this was the conversation Gi Hun had with the Frontman

so... yeah

Okay but… I can’t stop thinking about the three of them—Junho, Inho, and Gihun—just accidentally sharing a bed after everything.

When the island was infiltrated, everything went to hell fast. Gunfire, chaos, screaming—then the bombs.

Junho would’ve died. He knows that.

But Inho got to him first.

He doesn’t remember the explosion itself—just Inho’s body crashing into his, shoving him down, wrapping around him like a shield. The sound tore the world in half, and when it cleared, Inho wasn’t moving.

The burns go straight down Inho’s spine.

Getting off the island was a blur. Gihun helped drag Inho onto the boat, Junho still in shock. Inho came in and out, screaming, sobbing, trying to fight them off. It took hours to treat him—if you could even call it that. They had no real supplies, just water, gauze, painkillers that weren’t strong enough.

Gihun's hands shook as he cut away the charred fabric from Inho’s back. Junho held him down—because someone had to—but he couldn’t meet Gihun’s eyes.

They hated him.

Gihun remembered the Mask. The cold voice. The games. The gun in his hand.

Junho remembered the betrayal. The distance. The man who stopped being his brother.

But all of that cracked, violently, when Inho started screaming. Not just noise. Screaming. Gut-wrenching, helpless. The kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper than the burns—like his soul was breaking open.

And suddenly, none of that hate mattered.

Junho’s grip tightened, and not to restrain him—just to hold on. Gihun didn’t speak, didn’t flinch, just kept working, dabbing antiseptic, whispering, “I’m sorry. I know. I know.” Like a prayer.

Inho thrashed. Cried. Begged someone—anyone—to stop. Sometimes he muttered Junho’s name like a child calling for their mom. Sometimes he screamed for his wife, dead and long gone.

They lost track of time. Hours, probably. By the end, Gihun’s face was soaked in sweat. Junho was silent, lips bloodless, knuckles white. Inho was trembling like a leaf, half-conscious and spent.

They didn’t even talk about where he would sleep.

There was only one bed—Gihun’s, barely a double, with a worn mattress and thin blankets. It wasn’t a decision so much as a necessity. Inho was shaking now—not screaming anymore, but trembling like he might shatter. From the burns. From the pain. From the fact that he was still alive. From the fact that his brother and Gihun—who had every reason to leave him behind to die—had chosen not to.

They wrapped him in the blankets, careful not to brush the scorched skin along his back. Inho didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. The tremors wouldn’t stop.

Junho stared. Gihun crouched nearby, silent. It was obvious they weren’t going to fit. Junho mumbled something about taking the couch. Gihun nodded like yeah, of course, he’d take the floor.

But Junho didn’t make it far.

He sat down, leaned back against the wall—and then just looked at Inho. At his bandaged back, his cracked lips, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Junho could still hear it—his screaming.

He could still feel the way Inho clung to him, even while fighting him. So Junho stood up again, quietly. Walked back to the bed. He didn’t ask. Just pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him, moving slowly, cautiously, like the memory of what had just happened might reach out and bite him.

Inho didn’t react—at first. But his shaking slowed just a little.

And that was enough.

Gihun stayed frozen for a moment, watching. He was so tired it felt like he was floating. His whole body ached with everything they’d been through. He told himself he’d stay on the floor. That this was for them, not him.

But then he was moving too.

He told himself it was practical. Inho needed warmth. The room was cold. This was just... a medical decision. He was helping. For Junho.

He was lying to himself.

Inho whimpered in his sleep as Gihun slid in beside him. A soft, cracked sound—like pain trying not to be heard. And then his forehead found Gihun’s neck, instinctively, like a child in the dark.

Gihun flinched. Didn’t pull away.

Junho, curled on the other side, had his face pressed into Inho’s hair now. Not speaking. Barely breathing. Just making sure he was real. That Inho hadn’t vanished into smoke and ash and screams. Gihun’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded, and saw Junho’s face twisted in something too fragile to name. Grief. Hope. Fear.

So Gihun reached over and wrapped an arm around him, too.

No one said anything. No one needed to.

Three men in a bed far too small, holding each other in the dark. Sharing heat. Sharing forgiveness.

They left all the hard conversations for the morning.

“Coming Out? No, Just Coming Over” (post-Games 457, Inho returns home, ft. one very emotionally intelligent stepmother)

After the Games collapse and the dust settles, Junho (bless his stubborn heart) basically drags Inho back into reality. He knows their mom hasn’t stopped setting out an extra bowl at dinner. Knows she still prays for the son who walked out the door and never came back. So he tells Inho it’s time. It’s long past time.

And Inho? He’s terrified. Like pacing-anxiously-wringing-his-hands-nearly-backing-out kind of terrified. He doesn’t believe he deserves forgiveness. Doesn’t believe she’ll even want to see him.

Junho’s patient with him. Too patient, really. But he knows his brother, knows how shame can build walls thicker than steel. So he waits. Coaxes. Tells him over and over: She never stopped waiting for you.

Eventually, Inho cracks. Quietly. One afternoon, he says, “Maybe I could visit. Just once.”

That’s when Gihun steps in. Gentle voice. Soft hand on the shoulder. “You don’t have to do it alone.” And Inho—without even thinking—asks him to come.

So it’s the three of them standing outside her apartment door, Junho knocking once, twice. And when she opens it and sees her eldest, the step-son she thought she’d lost, it’s like everything stills.

No yelling. No slamming doors. Just her pulling him in, sobbing into his chest. Her tiny frame wrapped around him like she’s trying to make up for years in a single hug. Inho doesn’t cry, but his eyes are glassy. Junho turns away, giving them space. Gihun just gently rests a hand on Inho’s back. No words. Just here.

Dinner is…awkward at first. But his mom, bless her, keeps the conversation moving. Gently asking questions, slowly reminding Inho what it means to belong somewhere. She asks Gihun where he’s from, what he does—never once hinting at anything beyond friendship. Just polite, motherly curiosity, doting in the way mothers do when they’re trying to say thank you without making anyone uncomfortable.

Gihun answers easily. Inho mostly picks at his food and listens, shoulders slowly lowering with every minute. At one point, she turns to Inho with a soft smile.

“So… how did you and Gihun meet?”

And he freezes. He feels Gihun glance at him, but doesn’t look back. The truth is a minefield, too fragile and too brutal to speak aloud.

So he lies. “Junho introduced us. A while back.”

There’s a tiny pause. Gihun doesn’t say anything. Neither does Junho. His mother smiles like she believes him. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn’t. But she doesn’t press. She just nods, and keeps talking, filling the space for him.

(She also calls Gihun “handsome” at one point. Inho definitely chokes on his rice.)

Later, when she offers to let them stay the night, Inho starts to decline—but she insists. “It’s just one night. It’s late. You’ll be more comfortable here.” Inho starts to protest, voice strained—but Gihun nudges him gently with a look that says it’s okay. So Inho nods.

She disappears down the hall to set something up. They sit in the dim room, Gihun’s knee brushing his, Junho already half-asleep on the floor like it’s ten years ago and nothing ever changed. When she returns, she just says, “There you go,” nods toward the spare room, and excuses herself to bed. No fanfare.

She disappears before they can thank her.

Inho hesitates before standing. There’s that gnawing in his chest again. He’s already preparing himself for two bedrolls. For separation. For unspoken lines drawn in thin blankets.

But when they walk in—

There’s only one bedroll on the floor. Blankets, pillows, neat and shared like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Inho stares. Gihun stares. Neither of them moves.

No assumptions. No jokes. Just this quiet, deliberate gesture wrapped in soft flannel. A thousand words unsaid—but understood.

Inho crouches down slowly, brushing his hand over the blanket. “She knew,” he says, barely above a whisper. “She didn’t say anything, but… she knew.”

Gihun kneels beside him. “Yeah.”

And Inho finally lets his head drop, shoulders caving, some deep ache inside him spilling out in a quiet, trembling breath.

They lie side by side that night in silence, facing the ceiling, fingers brushing.

Home isn’t loud. It’s not a welcome parade.

It’s one bedroll on a wooden floor, and a mother who sees everything.

I have this one-shot planned too.

i just wanted everyone to know that whenever i write inho going through gay turmoil this is what i picture his facial expressions to be in my head.

nsfw inhun thought

i love the thought of steamy inhun hate sex but a part of me yearns to write a silly borderline crack fic where i really empathise the ‘old man’ in toxic old man yaoi and have them reallyyyyy struggle to fuck.

their first time is just gihun rearranging inho at least fifty times; hands and knees, missionary, cowgirl, side by side—fucking hell even the ‘pillows under the hips’ strategy is used—because gihun keeps slipping out, his knees and back ache, and inho’s ass is tighter than the security on the island if that was even possible.

Apparently the Squid Game director made the cast test out the pentathlon game to figure out the right time limit, and now all I can picture is a cursed behind-the-scenes AU where Inho is like:

“Circle guards, we’re playtesting. Mask up. Game time.”

So now you’ve got a bunch of poor exhausted guards, who thought today was just gonna be corpse disposal and trauma, suddenly lined up for Red Light, Green Light like it’s gym class. And then Inho shows up—fully masked, trench coat flapping in the wind like some kind of dystopian PE teacher—and joins the game.

He’s doing everything with them, completely dead serious. They’re crawling through the honeycomb challenge and Inho’s right there, carving his shape with surgeon-level precision, muttering “Inconsistent sugar texture. We need a 12.3% longer boil.” like it’s a bomb diffusal exercise.

Yet Another Inho Whump Headcanon: Inho suffers from chronic migraines.

Not the kind you can shake off. The kind that burrow in behind your eyes and make it feel like your skull is splintering from the inside. The kind you hide because life won’t slow down for your pain.

It started young. Before Junho ever needed a kidney, before they even knew the full extent of how hard life was going to get. Inho learned early to swallow his pain because his stepmother already had too much on her plate—medications, bills, long shifts at the market, and a fragile kid who needed more than they could afford. Inho was now an adult barely. He didn’t want to be a burden.

Sometimes Junho would find him like that: tucked in the fetal position, drenched in sweat, barely breathing through the pounding in his skull. And baby Junho, bless him, would climb in bed and curl around him, whispering nonsense, trying to “pet the pain away.” It never worked, but Inho would pretend it did.

Inho got good at hiding it. He had to. On the police force, you don’t get to be fragile. You don’t get sick days when your paycheck is feeding three mouths and buying dialysis supplies. He never disclosed his condition—he couldn’t afford the scrutiny. So he powered through shifts half-blind, vomiting quietly in the station bathroom before heading back out to the street. There were days he drove patrol with one eye closed and his fingers white-knuckled on the wheel.

Even from his wife—God, Inho hid it from her too. Said it was stress, just too many hours, said he was fine when he came home with that tightness in his jaw, his body trembling under the blankets. She knew. Of course she did. She’d sit beside him in the dark, quietly massaging his temples, kissing his forehead, running her fingers over pressure points on his brow. She never said anything, just held him like he wasn’t cracking open inside. Inho thinks of her hands even now, sometimes. Thinks of the quiet kindness, the way she never asked for an explanation.

And then she got sick. And the Games came. And everything broke.

Inho fought through the pain the entire time. People think the hardest part of the Game is the violence. But for Inho, it was the nights. The lights, the noise, the cold. He bit into his knuckles until they bled to keep from screaming. Sometimes he’d black out and wake up unsure if it was from a migraine or from sheer exhaustion. He only won because he was used to pain. He knew how to compartmentalize. He’d been doing it his whole life.

When Inho came home and found her gone, the grief screamed louder than any migraine ever had. He howled until his throat tore, and for one small, twisted moment, he was glad the pain in his head was drowned out by the pain in his chest.

But the migraines never left. If anything, becoming the Front Man made them worse. The mask—heavy, suffocating—makes the pressure unbearable. The screens are too bright. The intercoms too loud. He lives in a world of sensory torture, and no one sees it. He’s careful. Clinical. Keeps the lights in his quarters low. Takes his pills in secret. Breeds loyalty through silence. The guards never suspect anything. The Managers know better than to ask why he sometimes retreats to his room, breathing like he’s drowning. And when the VIPs are around, he wears his mask like a wall. They don’t see the tremor in his hands. They don’t notice how often he excuses himself mid-conversation.

And then came Gihun.

Inho, as Young-il, was supposed to monitor him. Test him. Chip away at him. But one night, the mask slipped. The migraine hit like a hammer, and Inho—Young-il—couldn’t hide it fast enough. He curled up in the shadows, fingers pressed hard to his temples, shaking, trying not to cry. Trying to breathe.

And Gihun found him.

Gihun knelt beside him without asking anything. Just placed Inho’s head in his lap and began to gently rub circles into his forehead, along his brow, down the sides of his nose.

“My mom used to say this helps,” he murmured.

Inho wanted to pull away. He should have pulled away. But the pain was too much. And the touch was… kind.

So he stayed.

And in the dark, with his head cradled in the lap of a man who didn’t know who he really was, a tear slipped down Inho’s temple and into his hair.

Because Gihun was comforting Young-il. Not him.

Gihun didn’t know he was touching a monster. Didn’t know the blood on Inho’s hands. Didn’t know the mask behind the man. Inho was glad it was dark. Glad Gihun didn’t see the tear.

Because if he did… he might have pulled away.

If Gihun doesn't survive in s3, I hope he at least makes it outside and see the sun one last time...

457 canon

bro is scared

Processing that you are gay

reblog if you love Hwang In-ho

hold your breath and count to 1,000,000 if you don’t love Hwang In-ho

ship where one of them is divorced, the other’s partner is dead. two broken and traumatized men finding each other by fate, blood and violence, in a cruel, corrupted world that dooms them to hatred and betrayal and destines them both to be each other’s archenemies. but despite the pain, despite deaths and betrayal looming over their heads, maybe this little moment of soft eyes and gentle smiles is real. maybe, just for this moment, we can pretend the world outside isn’t real and nothing else matters. just for this moment, we can pretend this was another universe where we’re not cursed by blood and suffering, another universe where our love for each other is not doomed or forbidden. just for this moment, we can just be us.

Seong Gi-hun and Hwang In-ho, I love you both with all my heart.

time this was posted: 4:57 AM

pointing a gun in the face of a man who is only here because of the plans he's made, accompanied by the lurking presence of his right hand man watching over his shoulder

Stop talking and put your mouth on mine before I shoot every person on this island so I can be alone with you

--Inho probably

HWANG JUN-HO & HWANG IN-HO

Poem by ultrawistful

The fact they eye fucking each other in the circle

Be so for real you two, old men!

gihun with some suspiciously boyfriend-shaped cats hmmm

Translation:

1) What are you doing, Young-il?

2) Just a little massage before the next game.

3) It's a little... unusual...

4) I have my own methods...

5) Oh, okay...

Second image: 6) You don't mind, do you?

Heh

"Chasing Ghosts"

"How much can you change and get away with it. Before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of mvrder?"

- Richard Siken

They wish they had more hands if that meant they'd be able to hold each other harder, longer... But which ones aren't real? That's not for me to decide.

when i enter a cutie patootie competition and this is my opponent 🤦💔