a man who adjusts to your every need. who kisses you every morning. who never lets you go to sleep angry with him. a man who knows every inch of you, every scar, mole, bump.
a man who never raises his voice at you. who lets his body language talk when he's angry. whose skin bubbles with heat as he crosses his arms and tilts his head, listening to your rant before nodding. "you're right, sugar. im sorry."
a man who practically begs you to let him make it better, kissing from your toetips all the way up to where your night shorts stop, barely covering any of your brown skin. who takes them down with his teeth because even though he's sorry, he's still got his pride.
a man who doesn't let up on your pleasure. who stays nursing on your clit like he's a baby. who makes you cum three times before even thinking about fucking you, your thighs sticky with sweat as he settles between them.
a man who fucks you in heavy, slooooww strokes that drag every vein through your walls. whose groans are low and sensual, driving fire to your clit and ovaries as he sweats, his body hot against yours. he notices how your stomach twitches softly as he lays his hand over it, how your walls suddenly close tight enough for him to halt his movements.
"like it when i lay my hand here, honey? when i feel my cock inside you? you like that?" his voice is taunting. he knows you like it. he knows because your moans suddenly pick up in volume, and your feet next to either of his ears nearly fall from his shoulders. he doesn't let you run from him, though. he wraps one of his arms around your knees, keeping your feet hopelessly in the air as he thrusts into you with debaucherous vigor.
a man who overstimulates every nerve in your body at once, sending you floating off as you come. who holds you through it, watching as your eyes roll like you're possessed. he can't get enough of it, not until you're practically choking, stumbling over how good it feels, how you can't take it anymore. the screams of his name into the heavy air of your bedroom just egging him on to make you cum again. to push your limit. to watch your soul wander from your body for a moment.
a man whose job and life purpose is to please you, a man who's intimate.
content warning: fem!viewer. these are explicit smut videos, watch at your own risk. you have been warned! if you don’t like this, don’t watch.
author’s note: i’ve been seeing so many twitter links posts for different fandoms so i decided to do one for squid game. make sure to be logged into twt/x beforehand, if some of the links stop working let me know. this was so much fun hehe. enjoy <3
want more? check out part 2❤️🔥
〇 salesman / recruiter tw: bdsm
he never makes love, he fucks, like he hates you
you better take it all
△ in-ho / frontman (001)
he gets so hard watching you play the games
relieving stress on his limousine
too big
□ thanos + nam-gyu (230 + 124)
they didn’t like your vote, they’ll change your mind
“see? you can’t vote x. staying here is way better”
〇 thanos (230)
he likes it rough
loves doggy
△ nam-gyu (124)
the way he talks is sooo namgyu, your throat around his cock + degradation? perfect combo
im telling you he has an obsession with your mouth
□ jun-ho / police officer
after a nightmare he had to make sure you were good
passionate and loving
taking care of you after a long day
〇 sang-woo (218)
you asked your hot professor for help, this is how it went :p
thinking about you
△ dae-ho (388)
he’s a MUNCH
matches your freak
□ min-su (125)
mommy kink going crazy
type of shit he deserves pt 1
pt 2
〇 myung-gi (333)
he’s an asshole
△ pink guards
being their favorite player <3
you literally have them wrapped around your little finger
Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader
Summary: You give in to your late-night pregnancy cravings and slip out quietly, leaving your husband, Hwang In-ho, to wake up in a frenzy when he finds you missing.
Warnings: Angst, Fear of losing someone, grief, pregnancy, cravings, gun, slight fluff, soft-Inho.
Late into the night, you stretch quietly in bed, your mind drifting through sleepy fog and growing sharper with an insistent craving. Turning to your side, you see your husband, Hwang In-ho, sleeping peacefully beside you. The chill of the night air sends shivers down your spine, but the thought of satisfying your craving warms you with determination. The clock reads 2:47 AM.
Knowing how hard In-ho has been working and how much rest he needs, you decide to slip out discreetly, believing you can make it back before he even notices. You pull on a warm coat, gather your essentials, and tiptoe out the door, careful to close it softly behind you.
Hours seem to pass in what feels like minutes. In-ho stirs awake, reaching out to find your side of the bed cold and empty. He blinks groggily, thinking you might be in another room. "Y/N?" he calls softly, expecting a quick reply or the distant hum of your voice.
When no response comes, he rises slowly, the initial calm giving way to a creeping unease. He checks the adjoining bathroom, then the kitchen, and each empty room sends another pang of worry coursing through him. The house feels eerily quiet, and with each step, the calm facade he tried to maintain begins to crack.
As he makes his way through the silent hallways and finds no sign of you anywhere, panic floods through him instantly. Memories of losing his first wife surge into his mind, and the dread of facing the same heart-wrenching loss with you engulfs him like a tidal wave.
Terror grips his chest as he moves more frantically now. "Yeobo?" he calls out again, his voice slicing through the silence like a knife, but only the echo of his own voice answers him back. His heart races uncontrollably as he grabs his phone, his hands shaking with a mix of fear and urgency.
"I can't find my wife," he says, his voice quivering as he speaks to his guards. "Search the building immediately," he commands, his tone rigid and leaving no room for delay. The icy fingers of fear grip his heart, the stakes now higher than ever with the thought of losing you and the baby—his entire world teetering on the brink of uncertainty.
As he listens to the hurried replies of his guards springing into action, he pulls open the drawer beside his bed and grabs his gun, the cold weight of the metal feeling reassuring in his hand. The transformation is swift—his usual calm demeanor gives way to the steely resolve of the Front Man.
He methodically sweeps through the apartment, each shadow and creak heightening his anxiety. Has something sinister befallen you? Could Gi-hun, that determined Player 456, have somehow found you? The uncertainty gnaws at him, each tick of the clock echoing louder in the eerily quiet apartment. His thoughts race wildly, the sense of impending dread building with each passing second.
Just as his mind threatens to overwhelm him, the soft click of the door breaks the silence. He pivots sharply, raising his gun, only to freeze as you step back inside with a small stack of snacks and an apologetic smile. The weight of the moment crashes over him, the relief almost too much to bear.
"In-ho," you start, but the torrent of emotions inside him is already surging to the surface. He lowers the gun, his hands trembling.
"Where were you?" His voice is a mix of anger, relief, and lingering fear. He steps forward, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, ensuring you're really there and unharmed.
"I... I couldn’t sleep," you say softly, holding up the snacks as a peace offering. "I thought some comfort food might help. I’m sorry if I worried you."
He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading. He pulls you into a fierce embrace, holding you as if you might disappear if he let go. The feel of you, warm and real in his arms, does more to calm his racing heart than anything else.
"I thought..." his voice breaks, unable to finish the sentence. The memories of his first loss are still too raw, the pain too fresh.
You pull back slightly and cup his face in your hands, your eyes filled with understanding and love. "I'm here. I’m not going anywhere," you reassure him, gently stroking his cheek.
He leans into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. When he opens them, there's a new resolve mirrored in their depths. "Next time, wake me," he pleads softly. "I can't... I won't lose you and the baby. You both mean everything to me."
You nod, your heart aching for the pain he’s been through. "I promise," you whisper, and he takes a deep breath, slowly finding his composure again.
With his arm protectively around you, he leads you back to the bedroom. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm, reassuring light on your path.
With measured steps, he walks over to the dresser and slides the gun back into the drawer, locking it firmly to ensure it’s secure. The sight of him putting the weapon away brings a greater sense of calm to both of you.
As you reach the bed, he gently guides you to sit on the edge before kneeling in front of you.
His eyes soften as he places his hands on your growing belly, the life inside a beacon of hope amidst his fears. He leans in, tenderly kissing your pregnant belly, a silent vow of protection and love to both you and the unborn child.
"We’re in this together," he murmurs, his lips lingering on your skin. You smile down at him, your hand resting on his head.
Under the covers, he keeps you close, one arm wrapped protectively around you, his hand resting gently on your stomach. The snacks are forgotten on the bedside table as sleep finally takes over, but this time, it’s a peaceful sleep, secure in the knowledge that you’re safe and by his side.
pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader
part: 2/3 [finished]
warnings: large age gap (20 vs late 40s) angst. slow burn. slight infantilization. no use of y/n. codependency. obsession from both sides. unhealthy dynamics. plot with porn. fingering. oral fixation. brat tamer inho. sub!reader. reader is very touch starved. a little yandere vibes. emotional manipulation. i made him very fatherly but toxic oops.
summary: he promised that you will make it out alive. he will make sure of it, no matter what it takes.
word count: 8k more or less
SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST
please ignore mistakes.
you can't remember half of it. everything happened so quickly— your little moment of bliss shattered by 388's quick warning. the lights went out. one moment you were in young-il's arms, the next he was dragging you down towards 456, who was hiding under another bed. he shifted to make room for you and you crawled to his side. young-il followed.
"stay quiet," 456 whispered, looking around. not much was visible in the dark, but soon enough, the loud noise of bottles shattering and people screaming began echoing through the hall.
"they're killing each other—" you whisper, eyes wide. you shift slightly, raising your head. you try to sit up. "they're killing our side of the people—"
young-il halted your movements with a hand on your arm, "don't move." he hissed. "we can't leave till the guards come in."
"what?" you snap, voice hushed, "if they kill all our people, what's gonna happen in the next vote? we'll lose!"
"there won't be a next vote," 456 added, flinching slightly at another sharp cry. he looked determined. "we're stopping this today."
you glanced at him, heartbroken. you looked out again, heartbeat picking up as you saw player 380 run away from nam-gyu. he was on her tail, visibly trying to kill her. a bottle lay there by the bed, and before young-il could stop you, you slid it out. nam-gyu tripped on it and fell on his face. luckily, it was too dark and he was too worked up to check who it was. you just hoped it gave player 380 enough time to hide.
young-il restrained you then, pushing you down slightly so you were fully sandwiched between him and 456, "don't compromise our position!"
"how much longer?" you whispered, ignoring him. you winced as more sounds of bones cracking and people choking on their own blood took over the entire room. neither of them answered, but even 456 jumped a little as the body of one of the girls on your side fell to the floor.
your eyes widened as the girl's eyes met yours, and then she sputtered out blood before laying there, lifeless.
"don't look." young-il voiced out, craning his neck down to meet your gaze. he clenched his jaw, settling you with a cold glare, "look at me."
"you should've told me this was the plan," you hissed through gritted teeth, squinting as the flashing of lights overwhelmed your senses, "would you be okay if that was m—mphh!"
he put a finger to your lips, shaking slightly as he gave you another warning glare. 456 watched with bated breath, as if counting all the people dying.
the lights go off again, and the room remains dark. only the noises of people fighting can be heard.
"time to move," 456 tells young-il, who nods and begins shifting out of the bed. you follow along, but he pushes you back in, "don't get out until i tell you."
"what?" you frown, confused. your words are quick, "you expect me to hide here while you go out there to do god knows what—
as you speak, young-il grits his teeth, frustrated. he's desperate as he grabs your shoulders. he glances back, makes sure no one sees before silencing you with a kiss. it leaves you breathless. he cups your face and looks into your eyes intensely, "don't get out until i tell you to." his voice is urgent, "close your eyes, put your hands to your ears. trust me, and listen to me for once."
you blink rapidly before nodding, still a little out of it. you don't think you'll ever get used to how good kissing him feels. you wish you could feel it again and again, under better circumstances.
456 hisses for young-il, and he pats your head before rushing away as soon as the doors open. the guards come in, rapidly firing their machine guns towards the ceiling, stopping the fight. you watch carefully, heart dropping to your stomach as young-il and 456 lay there, as if dead, along with 390 and 388. you almost rush out to check on them, but young-il's previous words hold you back. you watch as the guards start putting those devices to the dead bodies' ears, and when they reach your team members, 456 suddenly attacks. the rest of the team similarly manages to take their guns away, and kill the remaining guards. you almost jump out of your skin as a firing match starts— and young-il and player 120 skillfully kill most of them. you look on with bated breath, flinching as the guards fall to the floors. you begin to get out from under the bed, panting. one of the guards was still hiding, and he immediately aimed the gun at you. before you could move, young-il shoots him dead.
you look around the room, swallowing the lump in your throat at the sight of all the dead bodies. so many people with hopes and dreams. people with families, laying there, lifeless. cautiously, you looked around with purpose, before your eyes fell on player 380's body.
she couldn't hide.
you look away, sweat rolling down the side of your head. you clench your jaw and glare at the other team, eyes narrowing with resentment as you catch sight of nam-gyu. swallowing hard, you walk past the bodies, careful not to step on them. your eyes fell on your team members gathering the guards' weapons.
so this was the plan. you frown, rushing forward to help them. the guns are heavy, but you manage to place many of them along with some ammo on the bedsheet laying there.
456 announces the plan— something about capturing the ones who captured them all, and going to their headquarters to make them pay. you shift your gaze to young-il, who stares ahead blankly, as if thinking hard. you wonder if he's scared.
"anyone who knows how to use guns and wishes to join us—" 456 calls out, "please step forward!"
the players are silent, frozen. cowards, you think to yourself. you step forward immediately, and young-il's face hardens so dramatically, it almost makes you laugh. he takes a step towards you, "absolutely not!" he snaps, "stay right there."
"you need all the help you can get!" you argue back sharply. you point an accusatory finger at player 100 and his team. "don't you see? even these so called tough guys aren't willing to go with you! don't put your trust in these people, i can help more than they can! my aim's great!"
while you talk, young-il pinches the bridge of his nose, calls your name again gruffly. a warning.
"don't drag us into this!" player 100 interrupts angrily, his lip curling with disgust. "this is madness! you don't stand a chance against them!"
you quite literally snarl as you rush towards him, jabbing a finger to his chest. it makes him stumble backwards, "you had no issue with risking our lives and your own for money, but standing up to those who caught you is where you draw the line?" you glower at him, scoff at the rest of his team. to emphasize your point, you gather saliva in your mouth, spit it by his shoe. "fucking pussy !"
young-il quite literally snatches you away by the collar of your jacket before the other team can do anything. it's a little baffling how swiftly he moves, even while carrying such a big gun. he takes you to your side of the bunker, shoves you onto the bed, "don't make me tie you up." he grunts threateningly, "you are not going and that's final. you're built like a bird, you won't stand a chance against armed guards. i refuse to watch you get killed."
456 calls out for you, voice soft but urgent, "it's best if you stay here. we won't be able to focus if he's— if we're worried about you."
you grit your teeth as you scowl at young-il with glassy eyes. they're tears of anger. you want to scream at him. you want to pull him towards you and never let him go. you look at your team, watch with longing as player 120 guides them on how to use their guns. she's brave and badass, it makes you want to be like her.
"and you're okay with getting killed?" you drift your attention back to young-il, voice cracking. "what am i supposed to do if something happens to you?"
young-il sighs, gaze softening as he kneels before you . your lips wobble as you glare daggers at him, eyes narrowed. he shakes his head, "i'll come back to you alive."
you scoff bitterly. "how can you be so sure?"
"i just am."
"promise me." you hold your pinky up, clenching your jaw as you stare at him intensely, "promise me you won't die. promise me you'll come back for me."
he looks at your pinky, and then at you. you've always found him harder to read than other people. but you see reluctance in his eyes. he sighs, before raising his own pinky, joining it with yours. the contrast between your hands would've been comical if you were not in this shithole. he gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"i promise."
you can hear player 100 yelling at his team, clearly talking shit about you. you look over young-il's shoulder, and he glances at the old man too before turning to you knowingly.
"don't get in any trouble while i'm gone." he whispers softly. he reaches behind his back. "and just in case— i want you to have this."
it's a pistol. he probably took it from one of the dead guards. your eyes widen and you look at young-il. he teaches you how to unload it, and reload it, and how to work the safety, before placing it in your palm. your gaze never leaves his face. questioning.
"you've made enemies here," he explains, as if it's obvious, "if any of the men there try anything—"
"you want me to kill them?" you quirk an eyebrow.
his mouth curls into a smirk, "i want you to be safe."
he gets up, and as player 100 looks at you again, you jokingly aim the gun towards him. he jumps back in fear, stumbling into the younger men at his side. you chuckle, and young-il lowers your hand. "behave."
it makes your heart jump.
"why does that kid get a gun and we don't?!" one of the younger men yells. young-il ignores him.
you grin at him almost childishly. he shakes his head before addressing 149— the old lady who got here with her son.
"don't let her leave," he tells her, giving you a stern, sidelong glance. you roll your eyes.
before he can leave, you grab his hand and look at him intensely. you can only hope your eyes can convey what you can't verbally, not in front of people. for his sake.
"be careful." you decide to say, voice cracking. you memorize every feature of his face, with only one thought in your mind.
you're not allowed to leave me.
he nods, looking away before walking to his team. you yell at them too, telling them to be careful and watch as they carefully exit. you look on with longing as you watch them go, before glancing down at the gun in your hand, and then at the door again. soon enough, you can hear the faint sounds of guns firing. it makes you jump, but player 149 puts a hand on your shoulder, comfortingly guiding you to sit beside her.
you almost contemplate rushing out, what would these people even do? stop you? you have a gun in your hand, although you wouldn't want to pull it on 149. she's a good lady. people are already scared. you don't want to make it worse.
so you stay, and hope that young-il keeps his promise. pinky promises are sacred. you either keep them, or you die.
you decide that if he dies, you'll just bring him back to life somehow and kill him again.
you don't remember how long you wait. multiple times, you stand up and pace around the room. agitated, scared. every gunshot has you looking at the door again and again, hoping that somehow young-il will decide to burst through it. 149 tells you to be calm, tries to distract you with your life outside the games. it doesn't work.
thankfully, the pistol in your hand had scared the other team enough to not try anything with you. they talk within themselves, trying to busy themselves with conversations and anxiously bouncing their legs as they look at the ceiling. you wonder how they can be so calm after killing your team.
"you people are cowards." you say to no one in particular. the message hits the target though, because the ones who weren't willing to go and help shift uncomfortably.
"you'd rather die losing to a stupid game instead of a noble death trying to help people," you chide, chuckling bitterly. 149 tries to stop you from talking, but you shrug her words off with a shake of your head. you stand up and face the other team again. "it's shameful. you had no problem killing others who were in the same position as you, but your oppressors is where you decide to stop?" you gesture towards the dead bodies. the sight of blood doesn't make you squeamish anymore. it just makes you sad.
"these people died because you wanted to keep playing." you hiss, "you killed them."
the people on the other side don't respond, instead lowering their gaze to the floor. you look at nam-gyu sitting on the side, fiddling with something. you want to kill him. you want to kill everyone who stopped you from going home, who became the reason more innocent people died. your morals are a bit fucked, you think, but you're okay with it. people who do bad things deserve to die. you raise the gun, aim it at player 100. he flinches, and sits straight up, raising his hands. his team members shuffle away from him, and it makes you snicker. when he's on death's door, they abandon him. "have you gone crazy!?"
"game or no game, you were meant to die." you clench your jaw, your mouth twitching. "shall i kill you, old man?"
you don't get to pull the trigger. you're interrupted by player 388 rushing inside, panicked and covered in blood. your eyes widen, and you go straight to him, grabbing his shoulders. he looks shaken up, "what happened? where's 001? is he okay? did you find—"
"gather all the remaining ammo," he says shakily, fumbling over his words, "we ran out. i need to take some back."
you nod, and 149's son comes to help you check the dead guards' gear and gather the remaining ammunition. 388 wraps it up in a jacket, and rushes to the door, before suddenly stopping. you pause, looking at him, sweat breaking out across your skin. there's a bad feeling in your stomach. "what's wrong? aren't you going?"
he doesn't respond. you can't see his face because his back is turned to you. a moment passes and you step forward cautiously. he drops the walkie talkie, and your eyes fall to the floor where it lands— where you can hear the voice of player 120 asking where he is. they have no ammo.
"i can't do it." 388 whispers, shaking. he rushes back to his bed, drops the little makeshift bag full of ammo and cowers into himself. your eyes widen. you look at the walkie talkie, and back to him. if they don't get ammo soon, they're going to die. you rush to the bed, shoot 388 a frown— you consider comforting him, but you have another priority now. you grab the bundle and turn to leave.
149 runs after you along with a few others, pulling you by the sleeve of your jacket. she's trembling with worry. "your father told me not to let you leave—"
amidst the chaos, you let out a chuckle.
"he's not my father," you reply, yanking your jacket from her grip and composing yourself. the sentence would've had you cackling in a better situation. you can't wait to tell young-il about it. you can understand why she'd think so, even though you and young-il look literally nothing alike. the opposite, really. he's like a father in spirit.
your face hardens and you address the crowd. "they need help. is anyone gonna come with me?”
nobody moves. you scoff bitterly. predictable.
149 looks at you helplessly, pushes her son to grab you. when he advances towards you, you pull out the gun and hold it to his head, eyes crazed as you pull the safety. you warn him dangerously, "step back."
he raises his hands and steps back, lowering his gaze. holding the bundle to your chest, you walk backwards, aiming the gun to both sides of the room and ensuring no one grabs you. you look at 149, meet her crushed gaze and mouth an 'im sorry' to her before running out as fast as you can.
you're quite sure you got lost. you're running as fast as you can, trying to follow the sounds of the gunshots, and looking for any bullet holes or signs of struggle. you look up and see broken cameras, and recall 120 shooting them back in the hall. you follow them until one of the red guards encounters you, immediately raising his gun. he's slow, infuriatingly so— but it doesn't matter because in your panicked haze, you shoot him in the stomach, then rush forward and kick his gun away before running off.
you can see your team. you let out a breath of relief, and as soon as 120 meets your gaze, she gasps. you shake your head and quickly slide over to her, giving her the rest of the ammunition. she quickly reloads, and you toss the rest to the other players, before looking around frantically, flinching at the gunshots. "where's 001 and 456?" you ask her.
"control room!" she points towards the end of the hallway, and you nod before advancing. she tries to protest but you're quicker, and she's preoccupied with firing. luckily, the guards never seem to fire at you.
there are two sides. you hesitate, before finally taking the left one where you just heard two gunshots. you quickly rush forward, pistol held protectively. the whole area looks like some sort of purple maze, and you're wary as you walk, scared that a guard might jump out and shoot you.
finally, you see your young-il's back. he's crouching on the floor, looking at a dying player. the relief you feel is baffling. your eyes widen, and you call out his name. "young-il sir!"
he tenses, turning back so fast that you worry he'd get a whiplash. visibly stressed, he rushes towards you, shaking his head, "no— no, no, no, no, no, what are you doing here!”
you run towards him, almost tripping on the stairs. he grabs your shoulders, shakes you aggressively, "i told you not to fucking leave!"
you almost flinch at his tone. it's strange to see him swear. you answer him shakily, panting, "they— they ran out of ammo, i couldn't leave you!"
he looks upset and shaken up, clenching his jaw as he pinches the bridge of his nose, mumbling incoherently to himself. you turn towards the dying player, your expression pained. he tries to point at something, but you don't understand what. you kneel towards him, and his hand falls down. his croaking stops.
suddenly, you hear the footsteps of guards heading towards you. before you can move, you're surrounded. you hold onto your gun, shaking as you quickly stand up. you swallow hard, unblinking as they aim their guns at you.
that’s when you notice it.
they're aiming at only you, and not young-il. it makes you feel strange.
you look at him, and he's taking sharp breaths, as if trying to compose himself. or trying not to scream with rage. it's odd, how relaxed he looks. tense in the face, but relaxed in the way that he didn't take an offensive stance, or feel surprised at the sight of the guards. you frown in confusion, before he flicks his hand. the guards lower their guns.
you blink a few times, swallowing the lump in your throat, dread settling in your stomach. you look at the guards, then at young-il, who refuses to meet your gaze. you repeat the action.
guards. young-il. guards. young-il. then the players on the floor. then back at young-il's face. and it takes you a moment, but the realization sets in.
the guard letting you go to the restroom when young-il was by your side, him conveniently appearing to save you when you went exploring, him walking with that air of authority. how the guards never seemed to look at him too long. how easily he killed the man during mingle without a second thought. how one look from him had the guard lowering his gun during voting. how he was sure he wouldn't die. things that you never should've looked over.
you step back, your breathing getting ragged as you slowly raise your gun towards young-il. the guards point their guns at you again, ready to shoot. he stops them by raising his hand in warning. he clenches his jaw, his eyes unreadable and guarded.
"who are you." you demand tightly. your voice shakes pathetically, it makes you wince. you've never been this scared of anything in your life. not even the games.
"it doesn't have to be this way." he says quietly. his voice seems different, deeper. gravely. he holds his hand out to you in what he hopes is a comforting fashion. "put the gun down."
you step back, putting your finger on the trigger, just the way he taught you. ‘i want you to be safe,’ he'd said.
"i asked you a fucking question!" you yell, voice cracking. your gun feels slippery in your hands. it almost falls. you fumble trying to keep a tight grip on it. all this time, the prospect of death felt a little comforting with the idea that you'd have young-il by your side if it happened. but now, it just terrifies you. it looks bleak.
you sniffle, lips wobbling as fresh tears roll down your cheeks. you were always fucking unlucky. the first time you like a man this much, he turns out to be the bad guy. you feel utterly pathetic and terrified.
his eyes dart all over your panicked face before he gestures towards one of the guards, who raises his gun. there's a flash of guilt in his eyes that you can't miss. it makes your blood freeze. you refuse to die alone.
you straighten your aim towards young-il and pull the trigger. two gunshots ring out, and you don't get the time to react before something stings your chest, and you fall to the ground.
your vision goes black.
there are no dreams, no last memories. no flashes of your life. there's this heaviness in your chest, like someone is suffocating you.
you wake up with a startled gasp, sitting up immediately. your vision looks blurry, but with a few blinks you can make out a room. a lavish room with a closed window on the side. you frown in confusion, before putting your hand to your chest. there's no bleeding, no pain except the one in your muscles.
you swallow hard, your throat feeling dry. for a moment you wonder if it was all a dream, but when you try to move, you realize your right hand is chained to the side of the bed— with those strong black straps with locks that they used in the second game. you pull at it a few times, breathing getting heavy as you look down on yourself. your bloodied green jersey has been replaced by a comfortable pair of pink pyjamas that cover your arms and legs. you raise your hand to your head, and there's a small bandage on the right side of your face that you remember previously scratching in the bathroom.
you struggle a little, try to look for a way to unlock the straps, but it's like the room is purposely empty. absolutely no sharp or heavy objects to help you escape. like a prison cell.
you think of young-il. is he dead? you remember pulling the trigger. you knew the risk that came with aiming the gun at him when you were surrounded by guards— you just had this thought that if you were going to die, you would drag him with you. he won't get to live after what he'd done.
you don't get to brood about your thoughts for long, because the door opens and he steps inside— a man dressed in black, with a creepy mask. it makes you feel uneasy. you touch your chest again, look at him with a questioning gaze.
“it was just a tranquilizer.” he answers your silent question, voice distorted through the mask.
“is this really necessary?” you ask dryly, rattling the chain on your right hand.
“do you feel comfortable?” the man asks, gesturing towards your clothes.
you grit your teeth, “cut the bullshit. who are you?”
the man sighs, looking down, as if disappointed. he looks at you again before taking off the mask, and you feel like throwing up.
his hair looks different — slicked back with gel. his eyes look tired, even more so than back at the games. he looks more intimidating this way. you feel a strong urge to leap across the bed and ruffle his hair so he can look familiar again.
you have so much to say.
why did you do this? who the fuck are you? how are you still here, when i so clearly remember shooting you?
“you're alive,” you instead remark dryly. young-il gives you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“your aim needs more practice,” he says quietly, patting his right shoulder. “barely grazed me.”
the idea of having hurt him almost makes your chest ache, but you remind yourself of who he is.
you sniffle, lips wobbling as you look at him. your dear young-il. who comforted you, protected you, held you and kissed you so dearly. he really made a fucking fool out of you.
“and what's all that for?” you tilt your head towards his hand. trying to put on a mask, just like him. a brave face.
he places the mask on the table, walks over to sit on the side of the bed. you flinch, moving away from him slightly.
he notices, and it hurts more than getting shot. he doesn't dare reveal that on his face.
“is your name even young-il?” you ask quietly, voice strained.
he shakes his head. you snort bitterly.
“i'm guessing you're the big boss then.” you remark flatly, looking around the room. forcing yourself to appear nonchalant. he wants to tell you to drop the act, because he can still hear your voice faltering.
he nods, “something like that. i design the games.”
you bite down on your lower lip to stop it from wobbling. nobody knows the strength it takes trying not to cry. you lower your gaze to your lap.
your next question is pathetic. you would expect yourself to scream and threaten him to let you go, but there's only one thing on your mind.
“was i a game to you too?” you ask quietly. you don't want to know the answer. perhaps you would've preferred it if he killed you.
he sighs, averting his gaze. he utters your name softly, and you feel like a weak woman because you still like the way he says it.
your voice almost waivers when you ask, “are you going to hurt me?”
he looks at you, blinks a few times before answering honestly. “don't make me.”
you hold back the urge to sob. your left hand comes up to clap over your mouth, and he looks away as you cower in on yourself. how can he say that, after covering your eyes and pulling you into him to ensure you didn't get scared by people getting killed? you wish there was atleast a lamp on the side table, maybe you could've cracked his skull to free yourself from this fear. and to take revenge for playing with your heart.
“you ruined everything.” he admits, voice growing tight. solemn. he clenches his jaw, mouth twitching with barely disguised anger. “i went into the games because of gi-hun, to make sure he doesn't stop the game. and then ended up paying more attention to you than him.”
you release a shaky breath, pulling your knees to your chest. your mouth twists with emotion. gi-hun. player 456. your eyes widen, heart leaping out of your throat.
“is he okay?” you ask, voice cracking with concern, “is he alive?”
his head snaps up— gaze hardening almost dramatically. his eye twitches, and he gives you a tight smile. it doesn't suit him because it's not the one you're familiar with. “are you worried about him?”
you glare at him, eyes narrowing.
“he’ll be fine.” he adds nonchalantly. his voice sounds different— cold in a way that makes goosebumps rise on your skin. “would you rather be with him than me?”
you snort bitterly, looking away with a roll of your eyes. he can't be fucking serious. he has the audacity to be jealous after what he's done to you. he is so unbelievably ridiculous.
“put me back in the game.” you hiss through gritted teeth.
“i can't do that.” he shakes his head, “you will die in there. you won't survive the next games. i made sure they get increasingly difficult—”
“i'll win!” you argue, “i’ll beat them all and win, stop treating me like a fucking child—”
“you are a fucking child compared to me!” he bellows, making you flinch. your gaze never falters as you grit your teeth, looking at him with all the rage you can muster. he grabs your jaw, squishing your cheeks so hard that your lips pucker. he would've kissed you if he wasn't so fucking angry. his voice is harsh as he continues, shaking your head. “you! are quite literally a baby compared to me and the others in there. they're ruthless animals who won't hesitate to rip you apart to win. you're going to die in there and i wouldn't be there to save you!”
his words have your stomach churning, because he's right. but that doesn't matter to you.
“since when do you care?!” you snap challengingly. your words come out muffled.
he glares back at you, his nostrils flaring with anger, “i wish i didn't care.” he hisses, voice low. hoarse. he leans towards you. “oh how desperately i wish i didn't care about you.”
your heart begins to race as you stare at him, dumbfounded, unable to speak. he looks into your eyes, then glances down at your lips, before making eye contact again. he lets go of your face and straightens up, composing himself.
“you almost ruined my entire plan.” his voice is collected, almost guarded. “you consume my every waking thought ever since i felt your head against my chest. do you know how many times i had to warn my guards not to shoot you? especially with how many times you kept crossing the line?”
your breath hitches, and you open your mouth to argue. he doesn't give you a moment to speak.
“i'm not sending you back in the games where you can die.” he continues darkly. he brings his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. the action is gentle— a stark contrast against what he previously did. the situation you're in, the kind of man he is. you blink at him, eyes teary. his gaze softens just slightly. “you made me promise not to abandon you. I don't plan to.”
“you're a sick man,” you whisper. you can't believe he's holding that against you— your promises from when he was deceiving you, “you designed those fucking games. you can stop them anytime you wanted. i got stuck here because of you, you killed all those innocent people. you're a sadistic, psychotic asshole—”
he shoots you a warning glare, pressing his hand against your mouth. “don’t test me, brat. ”
you sniffle, letting out a pained whimper. you push his hand off your mouth, “let me go.”
he looks unamused, “i can't do that.”
“were you not planning to leave me?” you try to reason with him, desperate. “when you left with the rest of the team? you wouldn't have come back after that—”
“i would've found a way to get you home.” he admits quietly. “i had a plan. but then you came running after me like the brat you are. you never listen.”
“then let me go now!” you protest heatedly. his words have your heart hurting. if that's true, then you're the one who sealed your fate. another impulsive decision ruined your life. “i told you about me. i told you about my mom! i miss her. she and my sister—" you almost choke on a sob as you croak the words out, the mere thought of them driving you to insanity, "they need me."
“i've settled your father's debt,” he mentions after a moment of silence, looking deeply into your eyes. he hopes it gives you some comfort, stops you from wanting to leave him. “you don't have to go back. they'll live a life of ease.”
your blood runs cold. that means he knows where they are.
“do you expect me to fucking thank you?” you can't hold back the tears rolling down your cheeks, shaking your head, “i wanna go home.” you sniffle, “you ruined our lives. you played with my feelings and my life. people are dead because of you. how can you say you'd have let me go home one moment, and then refuse it the next?”
"don't hurt them," you speak again, leaning forward almost pleadingly. perhaps you shouldn't piss him off. you're not the kind to beg for your life. but your family? now that's another thing. "please keep them out of this. dont hurt them, please."
"i won't," he says airily, his dark eyes deeply boring into yours, "not if you don't give me a reason to. just be good."
you sniffle, violently trembling. be good. you'll be good. for your family's sake.
his hands cup your face and you flinch. his thumbs brush the tears away. you avert your gaze. you can't meet his eyes— you resent him.
you resent yourself because his touch still makes you feel an odd sense of comfort.
"this is torture," you choke out, "why are you doing this to me?"
he says your name softly, guides your face up to look at him, “i’m selfish.” he admits. “the moments i spent with you.. was the happiest i've been in a… long, long time. i'm not ready to let go of that. ever. ”
he has lost everything. his wife, his baby. his brother. his humanity. only now he has control over his life, enough resources. he can change fate with a flick of his finger. he's not going to lose you, not after you've made him feel human again, for the first time in years. you've ripped open his ribcage and climbed inside, sealed it shut with your touch. he hasn't been needed by anyone like this— it gives him a sense of purpose. he doesn't trust himself to not lose his mind if you're ever out of his sight. he'll make sure you're by his side, where he can hold you and comfort you. whatever it takes.
you shake your head, lips wobbling. you try to pull away, your free hand coming up to hold onto his, to pry it off your face. he doesn't let up, instead climbing towards you and invading your personal space as he presses your foreheads together.
“i don't know about you kids, but in my time, pinky promises were a big deal,” he says lowly, the side of his mouth quirking up. he's trying to joke, he wants to see you smile again. the way you did when you looked at him— with stars in your eyes. like he's your hero. nothing else has ever made him feel more alive. “i’m afraid i can't let you go.”
you let out a shudder, squeezing your eyes shut as he pushes you till your back collides with the bed. you shake your head, voice tired. “just kill me.”
his face drops, and he looks at you coldly, “you think i'd have you here like this if i planned to kill you?”
you don't respond to that, your chest heaving. everything hurts. your head is pounding, and you feel faint.
his thumb brushes across your cheekbone. he looks at you tenderly, analyzing every feature of your face.
“you know, i really expected you to struggle harder against me.” he observes. the words make you feel embarrassed. your skin heats up with shame, and you clear your throat, looking anywhere but him.
he might be right, you think. you've struggled a little, yes, but he can tell you have the ability to be so much more insufferable. but you're not, not yet. it's fucked up. because even after everything, for some reason you can't seem to brush him off you. you can't seem to let go of the comfort and hope he provided you in one of the most terrifying moments of your life.
you convince yourself it's because your family's life is on the line. not because of your personal feelings.
you don't answer him. you don't have to either, because judging by the small smirk creeping on his face, he knows.
“i'll take care of you,” his face softens. he's trying to convince you. there's a desperate edge to his voice. you look so utterly beautiful to him— your complexion glowing even more because of the pink pyjamas he got for you. in that moment he makes a mental note of what color clothes he'd shower you in the most. “those people down there that you're so desperate to save? they would've thrown you under the bus to win. they don't care about you. i'll make sure you're safe. the life you were living before was worthless. let me look after you.”
“i hate you,” you whisper, voice cracking. another tear rolls down your cheek, and he wipes it away. you don't mean it. he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
“i know.”
you don't get to speak again, because he tilts your head up and crashes his mouth onto yours in a bruising, punishing kiss. it makes you wince, and you choke on a soft sob. against your better judgement, you kiss him back.
the moment your mouth parts under his, he takes the chance to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding in. he moans into your mouth, holding your face as he climbs over you completely. you contemplate biting his tongue off, but you don't. as if reading your mind, his hand comes down to gently squeeze your throat— just enough to make you feel a little lightheaded. you gasp softly, eyes blinking dazedly at him. he pulls his mouth away, then places a soft peck upon your lips. then another. and another. you take greedy breaths as you squirm under him. his hand leaves your throat and slips under your top and you jolt at the feeling of his warm hands against your tummy. his mouth trails down, leaving soft kisses across the smooth skin of your neck.
“you’re sick.” you gasp shakily, throwing your head back, giving him more room to place his wet kisses upon you.
“you're the one letting a man like me touch you,” he whispers hoarsely against your neck, voice slightly teasing. “maybe you're just as sick as i am.”
his words make you shiver. you consider them, and you force yourself to think of all the people back there in the hall, ready to march to their deaths tomorrow. your eyes open and you snap out of your trance.
you use your free hand to push slightly at his chest, gaze pleading, “don't kill them,” you whisper. “let them go. atleast our team. they're good people—”
“are you really doing this?” the switch in his voice has you quivering slightly. his hand comes up, grabs your hair. it stings just slightly. a warning. "do you think they would've been this desperate to save you?"
you let out a noise of protest, looking at him helplessly. trying to touch a string of empathy within him. he has none, not anymore.
“they knew what they were getting themselves into. there's no favoritism. you either win, or die.”
your ears ring, heart pounding against your chest. “then what am i?”
he smirks, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip.
“you're my little girl.” he noses the side of your neck. goosebumps rise on your skin, “don't bring that up again.”
you grit your teeth, feeling even more remorseful. is there no way to change his mind? even being responsive to his affection doesn't help.
but you're not being docile to change his mind.
you realize you're pliant because you like being under him.
your logical side forces you to speak. your guilty conscience doesn't allow you to get too comfortable under a killer. "this feels wrong."
he stops, clenches his jaw with restrained anger. he squeezes his eyes shut, mentally counts from 1-10 to avoid doing anything he might regret later.
"let me make you an offer," he pulls back, cocking his head to the side. his eyes are unreadable, voice flat, "i'll let them go on one condition."
your eyes widen with hope, and you nod enthusiastically, eager for him to speak.
"with every player i leave alive—" a small smirk appears on his face, despite his best efforts to hide it. "i'll kill someone you love."
the way terror seized you was suffocating. your throat immediately felt dry, eyes widening with shock. you stared at him, motionless, images of your family, your friends, flashing through your head. his hand gently splayed across your stomach, pressing down a little.
"a life for a life." he announced again, giving you a tight lipped smile, "how does that sound?"
"no." you warned, clasping his wrist desperately with your free hand, breathing rapidly. "no— no. please don't. i'll— i'll stay with you. i'll do anything you say, just—" you held back a sob, "please don't hurt them."
in life threatening situations— people only look out for two types of people. themselves, and the ones dearest to them.
he smiled fully then, amused. predictable, he thinks, before leaning back down, "then conversation's over."
"you made the right choice," he whispered. you didn't bother struggling, squeezing your eyes shut. his hand pulls down your top just enough. his mouth quite literally waters as he bites down on your exposed skin, leaving cherry red bruises across your collarbones.
you have no choice, you tell yourself. it's okay to get comfortable now. you couldn't have done anything.
you mewl, and he slips two of his fingers in your mouth, watching intently with a hungry gaze as you suck on them enthusiastically— just like back in the hall. your eyes flutter, and you mumble incoherently as his fingers gently thrust in and out of your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. it’s messy and sloppy, and the sight of your saliva slipping down your chin makes him moan softly, “my pretty baby.”
you whimper as his hand slides down to your bottoms. you wait with bated breath as you look at him with hazy eyes. his hand slips down into your panties, and a desperate moan escapes your bruised lips.
“i just want to ruin you,” he chuckles breathlessly, teasing your entrance. he hovers over you, looks at you like a starving man as he pinches your clit. you yelp slightly. he taunts you, gaze full of faux innocence as he raises his eyebrows. “does it hurt, huh, sweetheart? do you want daddy to make you feel good?”
“oh fuck—” the moment that word comes out of his mouth, in his soft, breathy voice— you moan. you're pathetic. it's whiney and high pitched and so utterly desperate, it makes him proud to get a reaction like that out of you. and suddenly he understands a little more why you got so attached to him. he pecks your lips again, and smirks against your mouth. he teases your entrance with a single finger.
you whine, “please.”
“what did you say, hm?” he pretends not to hear you, pushing two fingers in. you've never been brave enough to use two even while masturbating— and his are long and thick. the stretch makes you wince. “come on, baby, tell your old man what you said.”
you try to capture his lips with yours again in hopes that he would stop teasing you. he chuckles breathlessly, then lets out a soft moan at the way your walls clench around him.
“i’m a sadistic, psychotic asshole, right?” he throws your words back at you, and you wince. you squeeze your eyes shut, bite down on your lips to hold back a needy whine. his fingers pull back and then thrust again, curling slightly. his thumb goes to your clit, rubbing it. you take a sharp breath, squirming on the bed as you moan again. he doesn't let up, “is that not what you called me? and now you want me to make you feel good?”
his voice grows serious again, face hardening. his motions stop. “apologize.”
your eyes snap open, and you look at him, surprised. “huh?”
“apologize,” he repeats, “for everything you said earlier. and i'll consider making you cum.”
that gets you to clench your jaw. you glare at him with narrowed eyes, chest heaving with frustration. but you won't do it. if anyone should be apologizing— it's him. he was the one who deceived you and ruined your life. and he hasn't apologized even once. he must think you're stupid. hell would freeze over before you apologize.
you almost reconsider your decision— but then again, his threat only stands if he leaves the players alive. he didn't say anything about language. you shake your head, your previous stubbornness taking over. “not a chance in hell.”
he snorts, looking at you, unamused. his facial expressions don't change, but you can see it in his eyes. little things like a twitch give him away. your heart drops as he pulls his hand out completely, his fingers glistening and wet. he brings them to his mouth, sucks the juices off so casually that it leaves you dumbfounded and flustered.
“i have no patience for brats.” he nods, standing up. you stutter over your words, mouth opening and closing like a fish. much like it did when you first met.
“b-but—”
“i have some work to do.” he announces coldly. you wonder if he's going to do something bad. he's having the time of his life, sexually and emotionally tormenting you. “i'll be back in a bit. i asked the guards to bring you some chocolate milk. feel free to tell them your favourite food for dinner.”
the sudden change in events has you so unbelievably baffled that you can't say a thing as he begins to leave. it's brutal, and it almost makes you want to cry.
“sir?” you call out softly, almost timidly. unsure of how to address him. you're not going to take a risk.
he stops midway, before sighing to himself. he turns to you, looks at the desperation in your eyes.
“inho is fine.” he remarks flatly, swallowing hard. he doesn't know why he decided to reveal his name to you.
perhaps because it would give him another excuse to not let go of you.
you keep looking at him, a devastated expression on your face. like you're dying inside. and maybe you are.
your only source of comfort is gone. you'd gotten too used to it in the past few days. now you wish you'd never met him.
the emotion on his face is unreadable as he walks back to you. he places a soft kiss to your forehead and turns to leave. you grab his hand. the prospect of being alone leaves you terrified. maybe if you can convince him to stay, be good for him, he wouldn't hurt your loved ones. you'll behave.
you start to miss how things used to be.
if things were different, he would have come back to you. he would smile as he walked through the door, and you would finally feel your heart pumping blood as you run to him. he'd drop his gun and hold you, and you'd cry into his chest. he'd ask you if you caused any trouble, and you would take him to your bed and tell him everything. you would tell him that 149 called him your father, and he would laugh— his old man laugh which sounds so sweet and makes his eyes crinkle. he would ruffle your hair and say something along the lines of, ‘with how many times i've saved your ass, i might as well be.’
from a younger age, all you've ever desired is comfort, something you never received. someone to hold you when you cry, to take care of you. protect you. you're sick of being the tough one. the mere idea of it was so far away for you, that the first show of affection and reassurance had you getting this terribly attached. perhaps, inho's biggest crime was taking that away from you.
“inho.” you whisper, visibly crushed. you don't even feel horny anymore. you just miss his comfort, his soft words of reassurance. his laugh. your eyes grow teary. “please don't leave me.”
he looks at you, contemplating. he sighs defeatedly, before grasping your hand properly. it's so warm, and you choke on a soft sob as the reality of your situation sinks in again. you're done for. there's no escape. you're alone, and there's no one to save you. your young-il will not come swooping in to protect you, because he was never there in the first place. you don't even realize when you break down into heartbreaking sobs, breathing ragged.
he isn't used to showing much physical affection. not after what he went through, not until you. and now with you like this, something softens within him. he sits back down on the bed, wordlessly leaning into you, his arms open. you feel utterly pathetic at how quickly you crawl into his lap, burying your face in his chest. you feel like you're betraying your team, but do you have a choice? perhaps you did. you could've chosen to be tough and refuse his affection. but the stakes are different now. your family's life is on the line.
you never stood a chance, not after you met him.
and you don't want to think of a single instance where you don't get to experience being held by him.
your morals are more fucked than you thought. even after all the threats, after him practically forcing you to stay, you can't help but desire his affection. you'll be selfish for once. what could you have done anyway? you would've died in there, and your family would be alone. if what he said is true, atleast now they can live a life of ease without any debts.
as for your team, 456 will look out for them. he's alive, afterall.
you force your mind to be silent.
“i miss you,” you wail painfully, your free hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.
he holds you like a child, a hand pressing your head close, the other wrapping around your waist. he shushes you gently, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. he doesn't regret anything he did. you'd made him promise to come back for you, afterall. he always keeps his word. “i'm right here.”
you lean into his neck, and breathe in the smell of him. you squeeze your eyes shut till your sobs die down into the occasional hiccup. the stretch of your right hand and the rattling of the chains is another reminder of where you are.
perhaps if you stay hidden against his chest, you can try to convince yourself it's still your young-il holding you like this.
A/N: so! that's the end of dusk till dawn. this story truly was my joker. i tend to add a lot of psychological elements and character interactions so the fic feels more immersive and realistic, like you're really part of the game. i hope you liked it. can y'all tell who my favourite characters are? lol. also, i'm very horrible with smut so i really tried but i just can't write too much 💔 I'm mostly an angst girl as you can tell. anyways, this was a little self indulgent. thank you so much for the support you guys showed me, it truly means everything! i might write blurbs related to this specific couple from time to time, but no promises! maybe if i get good ideas or requests. anyways i rambled a lot. thank you for reading. feedback is always motivating.
Summary: In-Ho would let the world burn for you, developing a huge soft spot and love for you, once you die in his arms, he’s determined to make sure everyone pays for it
Warnings: reader!death, angst, mentions of gunshots, daeho has ptsd, violence, swearing, mentions of blood, deaths
a/n: reader doesn’t know he’s the frontman fyi
———
The arena was a hellscape. The air smelled of gunpowder and fear, screams mingling with the deafening sound of gunfire. Shadows darted in and out of your vision as frantic players pushed past you, some tripping over fallen bodies, others using them as shields.
Every step you took felt like a battle against the tide of selfish desperation.
You clutched the heavy bag of bullets to your chest, your heart pounding wildly. Somewhere out there, Young-il was fighting, orchestrating this mess while holding together the fragile remnants of control.
Dae-ho cowered behind the bunk beds, leaning with his legs to his chest on his bunk bed, his hands trembling as he peeked out.
You’d told him to stay put, and thankfully, he listened. You couldn’t blame him for being terrified—it was every man for himself now, and his fear was written all over his face.
“Stay here,” you had told him, squeezing his shoulder as the fear and panic grew in his eyes. “I’ll find Young-il and Gi-hun. You’ll be okay, alright? I'll come back for you, you just stay put here.” You comforted, he trembled with fear, clutching his legs tighter at every gun shot.
He nodded, wide-eyed, and you’d forced yourself to turn away before the weight of the situation could settle over you. Now, pushing through the chaos, your focus narrowed. You had to find Young-il.
“Young-il!” you screamed, your voice raw as you ran through the area, running up the stairs, dodging bullets and panicked players. “Young-il!” It felt like a never-ending maze of death.
He was there, standing in the midst of the chaos like a storm given human form. His sharp features twisted in determination, his dark eyes scanning the crowd as he dodged bullets and ran from the chaos.
You called out to him again, louder, but he didn’t hear you over the deafening sounds of death and desperation.
Before you could reach him, a frantic player shoved you from behind.
You stumbled, dropping the bag of ammo and as you bent down to pick it up, a sharp burning pain ripped through your side. BANG!
The world spun as your knees buckled. The ground was cold and unforgiving when you hit it, the bullets spilling out of the bag and scattering across the floor.
It was a surreal kind of agony, blinding and consuming. You tried to breathe, but it felt like your lungs had been punched.
Blood was warm against your hands as you pressed them to the wound, your vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes.
You tried again, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Young-il…”
Through the haze, you saw him turn, his eyes landing on you. For a moment, time froze. His face- usually so unreadable, so carefully controlled, cracked with raw emotion. Horror. Rage. Despair. He saw you.
And then he ran.
“Young-il...” you tried to say again, but the sound barely left your lips.
When he reached you, he dropped to his knees, his hands immediately pressing over yours to stem the bleeding.
“No,” he whispered, his voice shaking as his eyes darted across your body, assessing the damage.
“No, no, no! NOT HER!” His voice rose as he turned his fury to the guards, his tone sharper than a blade. “She’s not a target for fucks sake!”
His words carried the weight of command, but the guards hesitated only briefly. Young-il didn’t wait for an answer.
His focus snapped back to you, his hands trembling as he cradled you against his chest.
“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, you have to stay with me. I can fix this. Just hold on, okay? Please.”
You blinked up at him, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Young-il…” His name was the only thing you could manage, but it was enough to draw his gaze back to you, his dark eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Don’t talk,” he said quickly, his hands pressing harder against your wound. “Save your strength. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”
There was a desperation in his voice that you’d never heard before, a vulnerability that broke through his steely exterior. It was almost enough to make you believe him. Almost.
A small, weak smile tugged at your lips. “You… always so serious,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted… to help.”
“And you did,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling. “You did more than enough. Just stay. Please stay!"
Your hand, slick with blood, reached up to touch his face. He flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring.”
“No, no, no…” His voice cracked as your hand slipped away, falling limply to your side. “Don’t you dare…” His words dissolved into a choked sob as he pulled you closer.
"FUCK!" He cried aloud, rocking you gently in his arms.
The chaos around him seemed to fade into nothingness as he held you, now lifeless, his world crumbling in his arms.
His tears fell freely now, staining your already bloodied clothes. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and uneven. "My Y/N..." he whispered. "My Y/N..."
And then, the grief turned to something darker.
When he finally looked up, his face was a mask of cold fury. He laid you down gently, brushing a hand over your face to close your eyes. Then he rose, his movements slow, deliberate.
The guard who had shot you barely had time to react before Young-il shot bullet which tore through his chest. One shot. Then another. And another. Now limp, the guard fell to the ground, dead.
“Young-il” Gi-hun’s voice called, but it was drowned out by the sound of gunfire as Young-il turned his wrath on the rest. He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate.
For a mere second, you had given him a glimmer of hope, he had reconsidered his actions for a short moment in time. He even thought about ending the games and running away to take care of you, and only you.
But no, now, he remembered who he truly was.
The man who had once orchestrated the games with calculated precision was gone, replaced by someone unrecognisable—a man consumed by amplified vengeance and grief.
A man with no mercy. A man with no heart. Every last bit of empathy, washed away.
“For her,” he muttered under his breath as he fired another shot. “For her.”
Young-il had lost everything before. But losing you? That was a wound that would never heal. For you, he would destroy it all. Let the world burn. Let them all pay.
— HE'S THE KIND OF GUY who’d manipulate you subtly, weaving himself so deeply into your life that you wouldn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s made himself the sole person you can rely on, the only one you can trust.
— He’s the kind of guy who rarely lets anyone get close, especially in a place like this. As the Frontman, he’s used to controlling everything with precision and cold detachment. But when it comes to you, something shifts. The games are brutal, unforgiving, but he finds ways to make sure you get a little more help—extra food to keep you going, or a quiet word to the guards to make sure they would help you. He doesn’t do this for anyone else, but for you, he bends the rules just enough to keep you alive, his actions hidden beneath the mask but speaking volumes about the care he won’t openly admit.
— The kind of guy who’d undress you with his eyes from across the room, watching you as you laugh and chat with your teammates, completely unaware of the intensity of his gaze. His stare is almost predatory, soaking in every detail, devouring you without a single word.
— The kind of guy who never shows his jealousy outright, keeping his emotions carefully concealed behind a calm exterior. But his eyes—sharp and piercing—will find the person you’re talking to, delivering a silent, bone-chilling warning. Without a word, he makes them feel exposed, unsettled, and unwelcome.
As their confidence crumbles under his unrelenting gaze, they’ll stammer some flimsy excuse, their discomfort driving them to leave in a hurry. You, sweet and oblivious, will watch them go, your mind never grasping the quiet dominance he just asserted.
And when the space between you clears, he’ll step in with perfect timing, his presence effortlessly stealing your focus. His voice will be warm, his words lighthearted, drawing you into an easy conversation as if nothing had happened.
— The kind of guy who always gets what he wants, and if he’s set his sights on you, nothing and no one will stand in his way. Anyone who tries to come between you and him is dealt with swiftly—whether it’s a rival or someone foolish enough to fall for you. If they dare challenge him, they’re as good as gone.
— In sex, he’s the kind of guy who revels in your every movement, his hands gripping your waist with just the right amount of force. “Good girl,” he’d murmur, his voice low and dripping with desire, each word sending shivers down your spine. “That’s it, attagirl,” he’d whisper, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with raw admiration, as if every move you made was crafted to drive him wild.
If you’re straddling him, bouncing on his cock with desperate urgency, he’d lean back against the wall, his head tilting slightly as his eyes flutter shut, a deep, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His fingers digging into your waist, controlling your movements with a firm, possessive grip as his ragged breaths mingled with husky groans. “Fuck, you feel so good—so tight, so perfect,” he’d rasp, his voice dripping with raw hunger. The words would make your pace falter for just a heartbeat before his hands tightened on your hips, driving you down harder, faster, his need for you utterly insatiable.
But if he’s mad at you, it’s completely different. He’d have you on your stomach, your back arched as he pushes your head down into the bed, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “Such a fucking bad girl.” in a deep, rough voice that makes your body shudder. His frustration would translate into every powerful thrust, his movements unrelenting as your muffled cries echo into the pillow. The way he claims you, rough and demanding, would send you spiraling, your body surrendering completely as he makes sure you feel every inch of his cock.
— He’d absolutely be the type to let you cockwarm him while he’s busy, his focus shifting between his work and the needy little whines you make every time you shift in his lap. His hand would lazily rest on your thigh, occasionally gripping tighter when you squirm too much, a silent warning to behave.
But when you get too desperate, too needy for him to ignore, he’d smirk, shifting his hips just enough to tease you, his cock pressing against all the right spots. “Patience, baby,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with amusement as you let out a frustrated whimper.
And when he finally indulges you, he leans back on the couch, drink in hand, watching as you take control, bouncing up and down on his cock with reckless abandon. His eyes stay locked on you, hungry and half-lidded, while he takes a slow sip of his drink. The big screen glows in the background, but his full attention is on the way you move, the way you moan his name like it’s the only word you know.
“Look at you,” he’d groan, his voice low and thick. “So fucking desperate for me, riding my cock like a good girl. Keep going, baby—show me how much you need it.” And when you finally fall apart, trembling in his lap, he’ll just chuckle, pulling you close to kiss you as if rewarding you for putting on the perfect show.
— He’s the kind of man who makes your whole body burn. His panting breaths, low grunts, and the slick sheen of sweat gliding down his chiseled abs are enough to drive you mad. His hand pushes back his messy hair, but that one strand falls stubbornly over his forehead, making him look devastatingly wrecked as his tired, lust-heavy eyes lock onto yours. Each deep thrust is accompanied by a guttural sound from deep in his chest, the intensity in his gaze leaving you utterly undone. He’d lift you like you weigh nothing, slamming you onto the bed with a feral growl. His tie is gone in seconds, ripped away and tossed aside as his jaw clenches, every move commanding your attention and submission.
You were utterly wrecked beneath him, legs spread wide on his bed, your body trembling as his fingers plunged into you, hitting every spot that made your back arch off the sheets. His smirk was downright sinful as he watched you fall apart, his voice low and teasing.
“Feel good, baby?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The way your thighs quivered and your nails dug into his back said it all. He chuckled when all you could do was nod, your breathless moans spilling out as his fingers worked you mercilessly. You’d already cum twice, your mind foggy and body pliant, but he wasn’t done with you. His dark, lust-filled eyes pinned you in place, making you feel even more exposed, more vulnerable, and it only made you crave him more.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Gotta make sure you’re ready for me, baby. Can’t have my girl getting hurt when I stretch this pretty little pussy out.” His words were sweet and filthy all at once, paired with soft kisses along your jaw and forehead that contrasted with the way his fingers fucked into you.
When he finally pulled his fingers out, leaving you aching and desperate, he unzipped himself, letting his cock spring free, already slick with precum. He stroked himself slowly, teasing you as your eyes went wide, taking in how thick and hard he was.
“See this, baby? All of it’s for you.”
As he pressed into you, inch by inch, your walls stretched to take him, the fullness almost too much to bear. You cried out, clutching at him, but he only groaned deeply, his voice husky. “Fuck… this tight little pussy was made for me,” he rasped, his hips sinking into you completely.
“You’re taking me so well, baby,” he said, his breath hot against your lips as he leaned in to kiss you deeply. His thrusts started slow, deliberate, every movement sending shockwaves through your body.
“fuck, you’re perfect… so good for me, taking every inch like the sweet little slut you are.” His praise was filthy, his tone raw, and the way his body pinned yours down left you completely at his mercy.
HI I'M BACK! also Happy new year everyone! Which person should i do next? Thanos? Salesman? Player 333? Lmk!
