bedlam-barbie

[bedlam-barbie]

Heathens

Heathens

Or Attention part 5

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; salesman x recruiter!reader (main pairing for this part); somehow this became a love triangle

Warnings:psychopath!Salesman;obsessive!Salesman; antisocial personality disorder; violence; fight; love triangles yadda yadda; hurt no comfort; 

Word count: 4.3k

Summary: As the business trip continues, Gong Yoo finds himself reminiscing about reader and the magnet pull she had on him. The more time he spends in her proximity, the more he wants to claim her completely, devouring her soul.

Author’s note: As promised here is Part 5 of Attention, written from Salesman’s perspective. I had a lot of fun doing research and writing this. I did my best  to keep his inner monologue detached and cold, different from his charismatic way of speaking. This chapter does not include In ho, but I promise the next one will be Frontman centric. Please let me know if every so often you would like me to change again to his or In ho’s perspective. I await your feedback :) 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The arena reeked of sweat and blood, its stench thick in the air, a far cry from the usual opulence of the VIP gatherings. There were no champagne flutes here, no polished smiles, no perfectly tailored suits. Just a dimly lit space, marked by the quiet hum of anticipation, the sound of heavy footsteps, and the occasional crackle of electricity from the harsh overhead lights. It was an underworld, hidden beneath the glitz and glamour of their everyday lives. And it was the one aspect of these trips that Gong Yoo truly relished.

Every business trip, without fail, the second night would come with the same ritual. The sparring matches. The VIPs would watch from the sidelines, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and something darker, as if the act of violence were a guilty pleasure, a forbidden fruit they couldn't help but taste. Gong Yoo, however, was indifferent to their voyeurism. He didn't fight for their approval. He fought for himself.

The adrenaline, the primal rush, the physicality of it all—there was nothing like it. In that moment, there was no room for the games he played so effortlessly in his day-to-day life. No masks, no manipulations, no witty remarks to hide behind. Just raw, unfiltered instinct. There was no performance here, no calculating gestures. Just the crack of knuckles, the thud of flesh against bone, and the burn of his muscles as they pushed against the limits of his endurance.

It was a pure, savage release.

And he thrived in it.

Gong Yoo lived for those fleeting moments when the world slowed down. When the fight was the only thing that mattered. His mind went blank, and the noise of everything else—Il-Nam's steady guidance, In-Ho's cool authority, the games and politics that ruled their every action—faded into oblivion. The old man was very much aware of the late-night activities his guests would indulge in, especially Gong Yoo, but there was nothing wrong with letting his loyal psychopath off leash for one night.  In the ring, there was nothing to conceal, no persona to maintain. He could let the hunger inside him take over, stripping away the layers of control that kept him in check every other day.

But it wasn't just the violence that drew him in; it was the purity of the exchange. The brutality that rang out as opponents clashed, each one vying for dominance, testing their limits. And for Gong Yoo, there was a twisted satisfaction in knowing that even among the elite, he was still a force to be reckoned with. That no matter how refined their lives seemed, deep down, they were all animals, capable of violence, capable of destruction.

As he wrapped the bandages around his knuckles, the material pulling tight with methodical precision, Gong Yoo’s mind wandered back to the day he first truly encountered her. Not when she was hired, not when she became just another name on a list. No, this was the first real moment he saw her—not as an image, not as a fleeting presence—but as her.

Il-Nam had mentioned her in passing, the new recruiter, the dancer, he’d called her. Another vague title, another face in a sea of interchangeable voices. Gong Yoo was discerning by nature, selective in his attention. People were transactions, tools to be used, manipulated. He wasn’t antisocial. In fact, he was often the life of any gathering, charming in his way. But social interaction was always calculated, measured—there was no need for connection. People, after all, were predictable. Boring.

Yet, it was one year ago when Il-Nam had informed him that she would be taking up the position of Head of Recruitment alongside him. That moment marked the beginning of something Gong Yoo couldn’t have anticipated—something fascinating.

He paused for a moment, the bandage almost finished, and the memory settled into his mind with chilling clarity.

The first thing Gong Yoo had noticed was her smell. A bold, intoxicating blend of amber and vanilla, with a trace of cigarette smoke that lingered like a whisper on the edge of his senses. It wasn’t a fragrance that begged for attention—it demanded it. His eyes flickered instinctively toward the source, as though it were some kind of magnetic pull. And then, there she was, walking into the board meeting, poised and unbothered by the men who often filled the room like sharks.

She was dressed in a sleek black office dress, the material hugging her form in all the right places, the slit in the back drawing attention to her long, lean legs that moved with a languid confidence. The black heels clicked against the floor like the ticking of a clock, deliberate and precise. She was undeniably striking, but it wasn’t just her appearance that held his focus.

It was her eyes. They gleamed with a fire that burned bright against the usually dim backdrop of corporate monotony. Mischief. Challenge. And something else. Something sharp, like the edge of a blade.

And then there was the red lipstick.

That damn red lipstick.

It wasn’t a typical shade. It wasn’t the type of bold red that screamed for attention. It was deeper, darker, more dangerous, like the red of an open flame flickering in the dark—unpredictable, alluring.

Interesting, Gong Yoo thought, the word sliding into his mind like a cool, calculating assessment.

She wasn’t just another face, not just another voice. She was... different. Something about her presence caught his attention in a way he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t just her looks, though those were striking enough to make him pause. No, it was the way she carried herself, the way she owned the room without uttering a single word. It was the subtle play of power behind her actions, her confidence in her own skin, and the undeniable air of defiance.

A challenge.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, studying her, before he refocused on the task at hand, the bandages now firmly in place.

Gong Yoo didn’t know it then, but the moment he’d noticed her—truly noticed her—was the beginning of an intricate dance. One that would blur the lines between intrigue and obsession.

But that, of course, would come later.

His opponent was a large man. The kind with tattoos on his neck and rage. Undoubtedly chose the VIPs for the exact reason: to test him, to finally have someone who would beat him in the fight. Gong Yoo revealed in the moments he was underestimated, especially by the pigs in suits. But he did not hurry into the ring. No, he took his time, analyzed the man, his movements, his bravado, his laugh too loud for the room. Pathetic. Trash brought to him on a silver platter. 

And then his eyes lingered on the people watching catching the familiar mischievous gaze. He smirked in the corners of his mouth when he saw the red lipstick. His mind pushed him back to the night he finally got a taste of it. 

The blackjack night after the 33rd Squid Games was over.She arrived like a vision, dressed in a black Yves Saint Laurent mini dress that hugged her every curve, the sharp click of her red-bottom heels punctuating her entrance. The black leather trench she wore was peeled away by a valet who barely managed to keep his composure. Tight high stockings, perfectly styled hair, and that signature red lipstick—her signature. It started off as an innocent game, he watched amused by In ho’s jealousy. If there was one thing he enjoyed, was pushing the Frontman’s buttons. So he played along 

She didn’t glance at In-Ho once, which amused him to no end. He could feel the Frontman’s eyes burning into the side of his face, his irritation hidden behind the cold exterior of his mask.

They started with the usual pleasantries—fine dining, expensive wine, empty conversations. But the real entertainment was the game. Blackjack. Tradition. Il-Nam’s favorite.

Gong Yoo played, but his attention was elsewhere. On her. The way she effortlessly toyed with those around her, the way she laughed, tossing her head back just enough to draw eyes to the smooth line of her neck. The way she touched him—adjusting his tie, fingers lingering on his chest, nails lightly scraping the fabric. 

It’s just a game

In ho’s irritation was palpable, but he said nothing. And Gong Yoo? He was enjoying every second of it.

She smirked as she dragged her winnings across the table. “At this point, you guys have to try a little harder. It’s exhausting to keep seeing you lose.”

He leaned in, his voice low, deliberate. “And what do I win, if I may be so indiscreet?”

And then they were in the club.When they finally moved to the dance floor, he let his hands settle on her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the sheer fabric of her dress. She turned to face him, red lips curling into a knowing smirk.

“Oh?” she taunted, eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you actually dancing, Gong Yoo?”

He tilted his head, fingers tightening slightly. “I think you’ll find I can be quite adaptable.”

Her hands slid up his chest, smoothing over his tie, adjusting it with unnecessary precision. "Oh, I know you can be," she murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

Their game was deliberate. Calculated. She pressed closer, moving against him with the rhythm of the song, her hips rolling in a way that was almost lazy—like she wasn’t even trying. And yet, it was enough to send a slow burn curling through his veins.

He should have felt bored. She wasn’t his usual type. Too much fire, too unpredictable. But it was precisely because of that unpredictability that he couldn’t look away.

Gong Yoo let his hands slide lower, tracing the arch of her lower back, pressing her flush against him. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she laughed—a low, sultry sound against the shell of his ear.

“You’re having fun,” she observed.

He smiled. “You make it easy.”

She exhaled a soft hum, running her fingers into his hair, gripping it just enough to make his skin prickle. “Well,” she mused, “let’s see how much fun you can handle.”

And then she turned them, backing herself against the cool, shadowed wall of the club.

Before he could react, she lifted a leg, wrapping it around his waist, using the leverage to pull him in closer.

Gong Yoo sucked in a breath, bracing his hands on the wall beside her head, boxing her in. Their faces were close—too close—her lips hovering just inches from his.

The position was deliberate. He could feel the heat of her body pressing against him, the faintest scrape of lace from the tops of her stockings as her leg hooked tighter around him. It was instinctive, primal. If he let himself, he could take her right here, right now.

She knew it, too.

So then he finally captured her lips into a heated kiss. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him down harder, and he let her. Let her take, let her own the moment, because fuck, she was intoxicating. He let his fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thighs, let himself press closer than he should have—because even if this was a game, it was still good.

Her mouth was warm, teasing, demanding. A flick of teeth against his lower lip, a bite that made his grip tighten. Gong Yoo responded in kind, taking back control, swallowing the quiet sound she made when he pressed her harder into the wall. She gasped softly. He smirked against her lips.

So he pulled her into the bathroom. The pounding bass of the club faded the moment he pulled her inside, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind them. The air was thick with perfume and the lingering bite of alcohol, but none of it mattered.

This was it.

He was going to take her completely—consume her, devour her, wring her out of his system until there was nothing left to crave. That was how it worked. It always worked. She barely had time to react before he had her pinned against the sink.

But she didn’t resist. No, she laughed—low and sultry, breathless from the way he’d yanked her in so forcefully. Her nails dragged lightly down his chest, playful, teasing.

“Oh?” she purred, red lips curling into something wicked. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

He didn’t humor her with an answer. He just lifted her, effortless, and set her down on the cool porcelain.She parted her legs without hesitation, allowing him to step between them. He was met with heat, with silk and lace, with the unmistakable scent of her.

And then she was kissing him again—raw, desperate, hungry.

Gong Yoo growled against her lips, gripping her hips like he could brand himself into her skin. He wanted her to feel this, to remember this, to know exactly what it meant to be wanted by him.

She moaned, a sound caught between pleasure and amusement, fingers curling into his hair.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me,” she murmured against his mouth, voice dripping with satisfaction.

His grip tightened.He wasn’t going to let her win. Not tonight.

So he kissed her harder, rougher, letting his teeth scrape against her lower lip before biting down just enough to make her gasp. She responded in kind, clawing at his back, rolling her hips against his in a way that made his restraint snap, made every rational thought scatter into nothing. Her stockings were smooth beneath his hands, thighs warm as they wrapped around him, locking him in place. His grip tightened, hips pinning her against the sink so firmly that her breath hitched. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of her neck, enough to make her shiver—enough to remind her exactly who was in control here.

And it should have been enough.

"Salesman, you’re up."

The voice cut through the haze of memory like a blade, dragging Gong Yoo back to the present. The arena came into sharp focus—the scent of sweat and blood thick in the air, the muted roars of the VIPs murmuring their bets, the harsh fluorescent lights casting stark shadows over the sand-covered floor.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his grip to relax from the tight fists they had curled into. His knuckles still ached from the last fight, but it was a dull, almost pleasant pain—a reminder that here, in this ring, things were simple.

Unlike her.

Gong Yoo’s gaze flickered to the stands, where she sat, watching. That amused little smile tugging at her lips was infuriating. Like she knew exactly where his mind had been. Like she knew he had been thinking about the first time he had her—the bathroom at the club, her legs wrapped around him, her teasing whisper burning in his mind even now.

"You can try, darling, but I don’t think you’ll ever get enough."

And maybe, just maybe, she had been right. Gong Yoo clenched his jaw, forcing the thought away. He gave the Officer a small nod and stepped forward onto the sand, rolling his shoulders as he sized up his opponent. Big. Heavyset. The kind of fighter that relied on brute force rather than strategy. A perfect target.The bigger they were, the harder they fell.

And Gong Yoo couldn’t wait to make this one hit the ground.

He needed this.

The rush. The adrenaline. The raw, unfiltered release of aggression.

Because every time she came running to his bed, he welcomed her with a lazy smile, let her bite and tease and taunt—let her win.

And that had to stop.

Their relationship was nothing more than a transaction of skin and sweat, a game they both played to see who would break first. Friends with benefits, except they weren’t friends, and his obsession rarely felt like a benefit.

So he would win this fight.

He would break something tonight.If it couldn’t be her, then his opponent would have to do.

The bell rang, and Gong Yoo moved.

His opponent charged forward—predictable. A heavy, lumbering swing aimed straight at his jaw. Gong Yoo sidestepped effortlessly, the air slicing past his cheek as he felt the force of the missed punch. Slow. Sloppy. Just as he had expected.

A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. This wasn’t a fight. It was a performance.

His opponent regained his footing quickly, grunting as he threw another wild punch, this time lower—toward his ribs. Gong Yoo blocked it with ease, absorbing the impact before delivering a sharp counterstrike, his fist slamming into the man’s side just beneath his ribs. He heard the satisfying oof as air was forced out of his opponent’s lungs.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Gong Yoo taunted, tilting his head, his voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

The man growled, anger flashing across his bloodshot eyes. Perfect. He was getting reckless.

Gong Yoo danced backward, light on his feet, provoking another charge. Another swing. Another miss.

He toyed with him like a cat playing with a wounded mouse, letting him exhaust himself, each failed attack fueling his frustration. Gong Yoo was always patient. Always calculating. And when the moment came—when his opponent left himself open, panting, slow—he struck.

A devastating hook to the jaw. A sickening crunch as bone met bone. The man staggered, but Gong Yoo wasn’t done. He moved in, closing the distance in an instant. A ruthless knee to the ribs. Another sharp punch—this time to the nose. Blood spattered onto the sand.

His opponent barely had time to register the pain before Gong Yoo swept his legs out from under him with a brutal kick. The man hit the ground hard, gasping for air, his head lolling to the side.

Silence.

Then—applause. Cheers. The unmistakable laughter of the VIPs reveling in the violence.

Gong Yoo barely heard them. His gaze flicked to her again. She was still watching, still wearing that maddening little smirk. But now, she was biting her lip slightly, her eyes darker, filled with something new. Amusement? Approval? Lust? He felt a sharp pang of satisfaction settle in his chest. So he did what he always did.

He smiled.

Not the lazy, charming grin he used on marks. Not the cold smirk he wore when he won. A real smile. Sharp. Triumphant. Possessive.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifted his bloodstained hand to his mouth and slowly licked the crimson from his knuckles. Her smirk faltered for just a second.

And that—that single moment—was worth every second of the fight.

Gong Yoo strode into the changing room, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, his body thrumming with the fading remnants of the fight. Sweat trickled down his spine as he peeled off his tank top, the heat of exertion still clinging to his skin. But the rush—the sharp, electric pleasure of combat—was already slipping through his fingers, vanishing as quickly as it had come.

It never lasted. Nothing ever did.

Except for her.

Sitting on the bench, he began unwrapping the bandages from his hands, wincing slightly as the fabric peeled away from torn flesh. He watched, detached, as blood smeared across his knuckles, pooling in the creases of his skin. The pain was a dull, distant thing, nothing compared to the deeper ache she had carved into him.

It was maddening, this entanglement. He was not a man who felt. He was methodical, indifferent—perpetually numb, perpetually bored, always searching for the next fix to chase away the void. Cold. Calculated. Surgical.

And yet, she had forced her way in, made him feel things—strange, foreign things that he loathed. Jaw tightening, he reached for the antiseptic, watching the liquid sting as it met raw flesh. He welcomed the burn. It was easier to focus on that than the deeper wounds she left behind.

“I must confess, you were pretty hot out there,” her voice rang from behind him, smooth and teasing, that ever-present amusement curling around the edges.

He didn’t turn. He wouldn’t.

Instead, he smirked slightly, eyes still locked onto his raw knuckles. “Darling, I always look hot.” His voice was easy, lazy, like he wasn’t still burning from the fight. From her. From the way she had watched him with that wicked little smirk like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

The soft click of her heels echoed through the changing room as she made her way to him. Then, silence—except for the slight rustle of fabric as she lowered herself onto the bench beside him. He didn’t have to look to know she had crossed those damn long legs, the sleek black leather of her Louboutins catching the dim overhead light. He didn’t have to look to feel the heat of her so close to him.

But he did not give her the satisfaction of his attention. Not yet.

A moment passed between them, thick with the weight of something unspoken. Then, without a word, she reached for his hand. He tensed instinctively, not because of the pain but because she was touching him—gentle, deliberate, careful. Not teasing. Not taunting. Just touching.

She dipped a fresh cloth in antiseptic and started cleaning the blood from his skin, brows slightly furrowed, her lips pressed together in quiet concentration.

Gong Yoo let out a slow breath, a sound that was almost a sigh. He hadn’t meant to.

Interesting. That reaction again. Unfortunate. Inconvenient.

His eyes finally dragged away from his own hand and toward her face. But she wasn’t looking at him.

She was focused entirely on her task, wiping away the crimson smudges, fingers moving with a softness that unsettled him more than any fight ever could. His stomach tightened, something slow and unwanted curling in his chest. He had the sudden, violent urge to reach up, to touch the curve of her jaw, to drag his thumb across her cheek and force her to meet his gaze.

Instead, he flexed his fingers beneath her grasp. “If I didn’t know any better,” he murmured, voice low and lazy, “I’d think you actually care.”

She let out a soft scoff but didn’t look up. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, darling. I just like my toys in working condition.”

His lips curled, but there was no humor in it.

Toys.

It should have been a relief—confirmation that they were still playing the same game. That she wasn’t making this into something else. But for the first time, the word sat uneasily in his chest. He let the silence stretch, watching her, waiting for her to look at him. To smirk. To flirt. To do anything that would make this moment feel like every other one they’d had.

But she didn’t.

She finished tending to his left hand, her fingers ghosting over his knuckles for just a second too long before she finally let go. There was something infuriating about the way she touched him—not careful, not hesitant, but deliberate. Like she was studying him, unraveling him piece by piece.

She moved on to his right hand, the scent of her perfume—amber, vanilla, a faint trace of cigarette smoke—curling around him. He hated how easily it got under his skin. How easily she got under his skin.

Her voice cut through the silence, teasing but still soft, laced with amusement.

“So… ex-lawyer turned murderer, turned recruiter for the Squid Game, now partaking in underground fights to entertain the pigs in suits?” She glanced up at him, lips twitching into a smirk. “Now that’s a story I want to know more about, psycho killer.”

His jaw ticked, but his response came effortlessly.

“Please,” he muttered, watching as her fingers unwrapped the bandage with practised ease. “Corporate lawyer. Not just any kind of lawyer.”

She let out a small, knowing hum. “Oh, my apologies. That makes it so much better.”

His lips quirked, despite himself. Her sharp tongue was something he had grown to expect—quick, cutting, merciless. But it was the way she said it, the way she balanced between mocking and curious that made him pause. Because, unlike most people, she never looked at him with fear. Only intrigue.

“I should have expected the corporate part. Criminal law is messy.” Her voice was smooth, laced with that signature amusement of hers. “You like clean. Calculated. Let me guess… acquisitions?”

She didn’t even look up at first, her fingers continuing their slow, meticulous work of unwrapping the bandage. But then, finally, her eyes lifted to meet his. Curious. Amused. But curious nonetheless. Like she was searching for something buried deep inside him—something he wasn’t even sure existed anymore. It was unsettling. Few people dared to look at him for too long, let alone search for something beyond the mask.

He held her gaze, unreadable, but he could feel the way she studied him.

“What gave it away?” he asked, his voice neutral.

She smirked. “You seem like the type to prefer dismantling something piece by piece rather than bludgeoning it into submission. Mergers. Hostile takeovers. The slow kill rather than the quick one.”

A breath of laughter left him, low and dark. “That’s one way to put it.”

She tilted her head slightly, still holding his hand in hers. Her grip wasn’t tight, but it was deliberate—lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. “And yet, here you are. No more boardrooms. No more contracts. Just blood and broken bones for entertainment.”

He exhaled slowly, watching her.

“And here you are,” he countered, “trading in ballet slippers for stilettos and cigarettes. Recruiting lambs for slaughter instead of dancing for an audience.”

Her smirk widened, slow and wicked. “Oh, darling. Ballet was never for the audience.”

His lips quirked, the smallest flicker of something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “Neither was law.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. The air between them thick, charged, heavy with something neither of them wanted to name.

She finally broke the silence, releasing his hand and rising to her feet. “Well,” she said, adjusting the hem of her dress, “if you ever get tired of breaking noses for sport, let me know. Maybe I’ll let you break something else.”

And when she left, it finally hit him.

Sex. Power. Control. None of it was enough. But it was a mere failure of calculation, nothing more.

For the first time in his life, he felt terrified.

How pathetic. How fucking pathetic.

Gong Yoo was a murderer, a recruiter for a game built on death, a man who thrived in the art of manipulation. A true psychopath, perhaps the only real one in the entire organization. And yet, here he was—consumed. Owned.

By her.

And worst of all?

He didn’t even want to fight it.

[bedlam-barbie]

Who would'a thought I'd be drawing Squid Game yaoi on the year of our lord 2025? I sure didn't, but here we are and boy I'm so glad

[bedlam-barbie]

feminism hates to see me coming when it comes to these men

god i might be unsafe with them but i don't care. characters like this are hot. i need them BIBLICALLY

[bedlam-barbie]

so… for the next part of attention, I was thinking of adding Salesman’s perspective for a change. I want to explore more of his feelings and spiral into obsession. Would that be interesting for you guys? Yes this is an In ho x reader which somehow turned into a love triangle. Please let me know your opinions💞

[bedlam-barbie]

Sucker for pain

Or Attention part 4

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; salesman x recruiter!reader; somehow this became a love triangle

Warnings:jealous!InHo; power play; knife play;dom!salesman; sub!reader; marks, bruises and hickies; love triangles yadda yadda; hurt no comfort; no smut but explicit content

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: After the events at the ball, reader is left shaken, reckless and in need to quiet the voices, so she does what she does best: runs to Salesman’s bed. Regrettably so, she has to face In ho the next morning in the board meeting.

Author’s note: I know it’s been a while, but I have been stressed, had a massive writer’s block, felt like quitting it a bunch of times. This chapter is very Salesman heavy, I took the decision to make it a full-blown love triangle, especially after reading your comments and it is not the last part. Now I want to write more. Anyway, shoutout to my best friend, Leila who proofread this for me and supported me to continue. 

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

After the chaos had died down, she found herself doing what she knew best—seeking refuge in the Salesman. The world outside felt too loud, too suffocating, so she retreated into the familiar silence he offered. As always, Gong Yoo was waiting for her in his hotel room, unwavering, ready to deliver whatever she needed. He never asked why she was upset, never pried into why her mood had shifted so dramatically in just a few short hours. He didn’t need to know the reasons behind the storm inside her. It was something she’d come to rely on—his quiet presence. No questions, no judgment, no awkward silences or almost-kisses that threatened to turn into something more. Just two people using each other for comfort, for escape. That was the arrangement, and it worked.

But tonight was different. Tonight, the emptiness in her chest felt too vast, the numbness too heavy. The fleeting moments of connection they shared no longer seemed to fill the void. She needed more. She needed something—anything—that would make her feel even the smallest glimmer of life again, something to shake her out of the fog that had settled over her. She wasn’t sure if it was him she was looking for or if it was just a desperate search for something real in a world that had lost its meaning.

“Get out your pretty knife and put it to good use, Salesman,” she purred, her voice low and dangerous, teasing at the edges of desire.

A flicker of intrigue darkened his gaze. His lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, the kind that always made her pulse race. “Not that I don’t appreciate this sudden interest in knife play,” he mused, voice velvet-smooth, “but are you sure, darling?”

She tilted her head, unbothered by his faux concern. Shadows danced across her features as candlelight flickered between them. “Do you suddenly not wish to dominate me completely, Gong Yoo?” Her words were a sultry challenge, daring him to prove himself. “Because I, for one, want to be at your mercy tonight.”

His brow lifted at her boldness, though the faintest hint of hesitation lingered. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps something more fragile, flickering briefly in the quiet space between their breaths.

“And here I thought I was the reckless one,” he drawled, stepping closer, his silhouette swallowing the light between them. “Why tonight, hmm?”

A beat of silence passed before she spoke again, her tone softer now—stripped of its earlier bravado. “I just need the world to stop spinning for a while.” Her voice wavered ever so slightly, but her gaze held steady.

The raw honesty of her plea hung in the air like smoke, clinging to both of them. For a moment, the predatory gleam in his eyes dulled, replaced by something gentler. He reached out, fingertips grazing the side of her face, tracing the path where warmth bloomed beneath her skin.

“Good,” he said darkly. “Then let’s make the world stop spinning.”

And that was good enough for him. His lips crashed against hers, rough and insistent, as Gong Yoo pushed her firmly against the wall. His right hand closed around her wrists, pinning them effortlessly above her head. The blade lingered on her thigh, cool against the warmth of her skin. His fingers traced its path with deliberate slowness, pressing possessively into the tender flesh. She gasped as his grip tightened, pleasure and pain blurring into something irresistible.

A soft moan escaped her lips, raw and unbidden.

He pressed the blade deeper, just enough to sting, the sharp edge sending a fresh jolt through her body. Her pulse quickened, thrumming wildly beneath the steel as he drew her higher, higher still.

Then, with a swift, practised motion, he tore the blade upward, slicing through the gold fabric that clung to her curves. The dress fell away in shreds, pooling at her feet like liquid gold.

A shiver coursed down her spine as cool air kissed her fevered skin, the contrast only intensifying the heat that simmered between them.

His gaze flickered over her, dark and consuming. 

The blade, cold and unforgiving, traced the curve of her waist as his grip on her tightened, pulling her closer. A shiver ran through her, the contrast of the sharp metal and his rough touch sending sparks through her body. Her breath quickened, every nerve alight with anticipation.

The chaos inside her seemed to quiet, the only sound between them the rhythmic thumping of her heart, drowning out everything else. Only the heat between them remained, feverish and consuming. Her body responded instinctively, seeking him with a desperation she no longer cared to hide. Every touch, every rough press of flesh against flesh, drove her deeper into reckless oblivion where nothing else mattered.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice rough against her ear. “I thought you liked to fight.”

A breathless laugh escaped her, shaky and raw. “Maybe I’m tired of fighting.”

His lips brushed the curve of her neck, featherlight but devastating in their effect. “Good,” he whispered darkly. “Then stop resisting.”

The blade withdrew, leaving a ghost of cold in its wake. His free hand slid down her arm, guiding her wrist to rest against his chest, palm pressed flat over the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“Feel that?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

She nodded, unable to find words.

“That’s all that matters now,” he said. “Me. You. Nothing else.”

His fingers curled tighter around her wrist, pulling her closer still. The blade hovered over her skin for a moment, a pause that felt like an eternity. Then, with a swift, practised motion, he pressed it deeper against her exposed breast, the sharp sting a welcome interruption to the numbness that had consumed her for so long.

A breathless gasp escaped her lips, her body instinctively arching toward him. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world outside ceased to exist. Everything that had once felt heavy, suffocating, was suddenly distant, replaced by a sharp clarity that only he could bring. Sweat slicked their skin as they moved together, the intensity building like a storm on the verge of breaking. Her nails dug into his back, marking him as surely as he had marked her, and the low growl that rumbled from his chest only fueled her further.

But there was no hesitation now, no trace of doubt. His grip on her tightened as he claimed her completely, stripping away every last fragment of the world outside until only they remained—raw, unguarded, and utterly consumed by each other.

The moment the high ebbed away, the weight of reality crept back in, slow and suffocating. The hotel room was cold, heavy with silence, the chaotic heat they had conjured was now reduced to fading embers.

She reached for the ashtray on the nightstand, retrieving a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights. The familiar flick and hiss of the lighter cut through the stillness as she lit up, the first drag settling low in her lungs. Without a word, she tilted the pack toward him in offering.

He accepted with a lazy grin, taking his time before lighting his own cigarette. Smoke curled between them like a veil, thin and intangible.

“So,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his voice, “are we supposed to indulge in some aftercare now, doll?”

A laugh burst from her, sharp and unfiltered. “Please,” she scoffed. “As if you even know how to provide it.” She took another drag, exhaling slowly. “This right here? Chain-smoking in a hotel bed? That’s the only kind of aftercare we’ll ever have.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Sharp tongue for someone who couldn’t even speak five minutes ago.” His eyes gleamed wickedly. “Was it the Frontman again? Did he break your pretty little heart?”

Her jaw tightened at the mention, but she masked the sting with a bored exhale, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “What’s it to you?” she shot back coolly. “You got to play psycho killer with me tonight, didn’t you?”

Gong Yoo tilted his head, mock sincerity softening his features. “True,” he admitted with a grin. “And I must say—you scream beautifully. Though I have to admit, I’m curious.”

The weight of his gaze lingered, too observant for her liking. She let the question dangle unanswered, shifting instead to inspect the thin red lines tracing her skin, still raw and angry. Some cuts shimmered faintly with beads of blood where the blade had pressed just a little too deep. She wrinkled her nose, dragging her thumb across one without thinking.

“Your handiwork is a bit much,” she muttered, exhaling smoke through pursed lips. “These bruises are going to be visible from a mile away.”

His smirk widened. “Good. Think of them as souvenirs.”

She rolled her eyes, the ghost of a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he teased, “here you are.”

She flicked ash into the tray, leaning back against the headboard as cool air kissed her overheated skin. The sheets clung to her thighs, damp from sweat and tangled like remnants of the chaos they'd just unleashed. Her pulse was finally slowing, but the ache beneath her ribs persisted—a dull, stubborn weight.

Drawing in another drag, she broke the silence. “And just for the record,” she said flatly, “the Frontman has nothing to do with this.”

The Salesman arched a brow, scepticism radiating from him even as he reclined casually beside her. “Mm, sure. Totally unrelated,” he drawled, dragging the words out just enough to make them sting.

“I just needed a break,” she added, the lie sliding from her lips with practised ease. But even as the words escaped, doubt lingered in their wake. Was she lying only to him, or to herself as well? The truth was tangled somewhere between desperation and denial, buried too deep for her to untangle right now.

The smoke curled lazily between them, thickening the already-charged air. He didn’t press, though the glint in his eyes told her he wasn’t fooled. He rarely was. Instead, he stretched his arm along the back of the headboard, the casual sprawl of a man who had seen all her defences crumble and wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

“You're good at that,” he remarked lazily.

“At what?”

“Pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”

Her body stiffened , but she forced herself to stay composed, to meet his gaze without flinching. “Maybe I am fine,” she shot back.

“Maybe,” he conceded with a smirk, though it was clear he didn’t believe a word of it.

Silence settled again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The cigarette burned low between her fingers, and she crushed it into the ashtray with deliberate force, as if extinguishing more than just embers.

For now, she’d let the lie stand. It was easier that way. Even if the ache beneath her ribs told her otherwise.“You did a marvellous job with my dress,” she drawled sarcastically, gesturing toward the shredded gold fabric scattered across the floor like discarded petals. “How the hell am I supposed to leave your room now? Naked?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, amused. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the sheet loosely around her body like a makeshift toga. “Right. Because a naked woman casually strolling through a five-star hotel hallway in the middle of the night definitely won’t turn heads.”

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, eyes glinting mischievously. “If you want, I could make you a dress out of pillowcases.”

“Wow, fashion genius,” she deadpanned, lifting an eyebrow. “Next stop: Paris Fashion Week?”

He shrugged, flicking ash from his cigarette with practised ease. “I’m just saying, doll—you pull off dishevelled pretty damn well.”

“Shut up and give me one of your shirts, darling,” she quipped, mimicking his syrupy tone as she deliberately mocked the pet name.

He chuckled, the sound deep and lazy. “Ah, so the sharp tongue’s back already. Impressive recovery.”

She arched her brow. “Are you going to keep talking, or do I need to dig through your suitcase myself?”

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray, the cherry-red ember dying with a faint hiss. Rising from the bed, he moved with deliberate slowness, clearly enjoying her impatience. Her eyes tracked him as he sauntered to the chair where his clothes were draped haphazardly.

With a flourish far too theatrical, he plucked a black button-up shirt from the pile and threw it at her. “Finally, some chivalry,” she muttered, slipping it over her bare shoulders. The fabric hung loosely on her frame, the hem skimming just below her thighs. His scent clung to it—spice and smoke, heady and inescapable. She rolled up the sleeves with ease, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered.

“You wear it better than I do,” he remarked, leaning casually against the dresser.

“Obviously,” she shot back, buttoning only two buttons before turning to face him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a walk of shame to make.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “If anyone asks, just tell them I sent you.”

“Right,” she said dryly, heading for the door. Slipping her heels back on, she straightened the oversized shirt and made her way to her room. Thankfully, it was on the same floor, sparing her the added humiliation of waiting for an elevator in her current state. The hallway stretched silent and empty, her footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. 

The next morning, she woke up at exactly 6:00 AM, her body aching in places she hadn’t even known could hurt. The Frontman had summoned an emergency board meeting before breakfast, and the weight of the past weekend pressed down on her like an iron shroud. She was beyond done with the never-ending cycle of obligations. The gala, the endless small talk, the shared meals with high-profile VIPs—every moment had drained her, leaving behind only exhaustion. And now, with the board meeting looming, she had no choice but to pull herself out of bed, whether her body cooperated or not.

With a sigh, she dragged herself into the bathroom, stepping into the shower. The scalding water cascaded over her skin, soothing her sore muscles but doing little to wash away the memories of the night before. As she towelled off, she turned to the mirror, eyeing the aftermath of her latest game with the Salesman. The damage was extensive. Deep purple bruises kissed her collarbones, staining her skin like paint on a canvas. Thin, faded lines—remnants of his blade—ran along her ribs, whispering stories of sharp edges and unspoken challenges. She looked like a masterpiece of perfectly contained chaos.

Was this it? Had she finally lost her mind?

The thought should have been unsettling. It should have made her stomach churn, should have filled her with shame. But it didn’t. Instead, a slow, dark satisfaction curled in her chest, a quiet thrill at the memories flickering through her mind. Why did it feel so good to reminisce?

She pushed the thought away before it could take root. There was no time for distractions.

Moving with practised ease, she selected an outfit that was both elegant and authoritative—an emerald green silk blouse that draped over her frame, tucked into a fitted black pencil skirt with a tasteful slit at the back. She slipped on her favourite red-bottom heels, the click of the soles against the floor grounding her as she moved. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face as she applied her makeup, carefully concealing the stubborn marks on her neck and chest. She cursed under her breath, blaming Gong Yoo and his insufferable obsession with marking her skin.

By the time she stepped out of her suite, the lavish hotel hallways stretched before her, pristine and eerily quiet at this early hour. She walked with purpose, ignoring the faint hum of tiredness still clinging to her limbs. The top floor housed the conference room, a space reserved for only the highest-ranking members of the organization. As she pushed open the heavy double doors, the tension in the room was palpable.

The men were already seated.

At the head of the long, rectangular table sat Il-Nam, the creator of the games, his presence commanding even in old age. To his right, In-Ho—the Frontman—looked as impeccably composed as ever, dressed in a crisp black suit, his cold gaze unwavering as it flicked toward her. To Il-Nam’s left was the Officer, his expression unreadable.

The guards were seated as well, each representing a different division of their operation. A Circle, symbolizing the workers. A Triangle, signifying the soldiers. A Square, representing the managers. Their faces, though unmasked, remained impassive, their postures rigid.

And then there was Gong Yoo.

He lounged near the Officer, legs crossed, a glass of whiskey already in his hand despite the early hour. His dark eyes found hers the moment she stepped inside, and a slow, knowing smirk curled onto his lips.

“You’re late,” In-Ho remarked, his tone devoid of warmth.

She barely spared him a glance as she walked to her seat. “Apologies, Frontman. Water pressure issues.” The words dripped with sarcasm.

Gong Yoo chuckled under his breath, the sound rich with amusement. He leaned in slightly, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Maybe you should have showered in my room, then, darling.”

Her jaw clenched, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she settled into the chair beside him, exuding nonchalance as she crossed her legs.

“Let’s begin,” Il-Nam’s voice cut through the room, calm but commanding.

The air shifted instantly. The weight of his authority settled over them, and even Gong Yoo—smug as he was—stilled, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his whiskey glass as the meeting commenced. One of the other guards started giving out files concerning the matter at hand. “As you’ve likely heard by now, last night’s attack at the gala was orchestrated by a relative of one of our past contestants.” Il-Nam’s voice was calm, yet there was an unmistakable edge to it—a demand for answers masked by a veneer of patience. His gaze shifted to the Officer, sharp and unwavering. “What I need to understand first Officer, is how they managed to get into the ballroom in the first place.”

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

The Officer sat rigid, his hands folded neatly on the table as he met Il-Nam’s stare without flinching. “The main intruder was disguised as catering staff and let in his accomplices were dressed as guests,” he answered, his voice measured. “They entered using forged credentials, ones that—at first glance—passed our standard security checks. It was only after the attack began that we realized the ID had been altered. The forgery was sophisticated, which suggests external assistance.”

Il-Nam’s fingers drummed lightly against the polished wood of the table. “I see,” he said, though his tone made it clear that this explanation was far from sufficient.

The Officer continued, sensing the scrutiny. “The guards neutralized the threat within minutes, but unfortunately, not before they managed to get a weapon inside. That failure is on my team, and for that, I take full responsibility.” He exhaled slowly. “I have already ordered a full security review. Background checks on all third-party vendors are being re-evaluated, and any lapses in protocol will be corrected immediately.”

“Your security got it under control?” In-Ho’s voice was like a blade slicing through the tense silence. His sharp gaze bore into the Officer, demanding accountability. “If it weren’t for the Salesman and the Dancer over there, we’d be mourning at least five dead VIPs right now.” His tone was razor-edged, each syllable a quiet condemnation as his eyes moved from her to Gong Yoo before finally settling back on the Officer.

Gong Yoo let out a low chuckle, leisurely swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Oh, boss, you’re making me blush.” His smirk was infuriatingly smug as if the entire fiasco had been nothing more than a particularly entertaining performance.

She leaned back in her chair, one leg crossing over the other as she added with a smirk, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Frontman.”

In-Ho’s expression remained as cold and unyielding as ever. “Children. Enough.” His voice was sharp, silencing any further banter.

The Officer, however, remained composed despite the scrutiny. “With all due respect, Frontman, our response time was under three minutes. The VIPs were secured before any casualties. The intruders were neutralized before they could do any real damage.”

In-Ho scoffed. “Before they could do real damage?” His voice was laced with incredulity. “One of them walked right through the front doors disguised as catering staff. They had time to slip two more inside in ballgowns, carrying concealed firearms. And somehow, not one of your men caught on?”

The Officer’s jaw tightened slightly. “His accomplices arrived later, posing as guests. The gowns made the firearms difficult to detect until it was too late.”

Il-Nam, who had remained quiet up until now, let out a soft, amused chuckle, fingers tapping lazily against the polished wood of the table. “So,” he mused, “we not only had one security breach, but three. Right under our noses.�� His tone was calm, almost pleasant, but everyone at the table knew better than to mistake that for mercy.

The Officer exhaled slowly, keeping his composure. “The guards acted as soon as the first shot was fired. The ballroom was locked down, and the intruders were eliminated before they could reach their intended targets. Our casualties were minimal—two guards wounded, but no one important was harmed.”

“No one important,” In-Ho echoed, his voice dripping with disdain. “How reassuring.”

Il-Nam’s fingers stilled, the faint smile on his lips never quite reaching his eyes. “Tell me, Officer… if the Dancer and the Salesman hadn’t intervened as quickly as they did, how many would have died?”

A pause.

The Officer hesitated only for a fraction of a second, but in this room, that was enough.

“…At least five,” he admitted finally. “Possibly more.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Il-Nam leaned back in his chair, exhaling softly. “Then I suggest we start taking security matters more seriously,” he said, his voice deceptively light. “You will personally oversee the next security drill. I want weak points identified and eliminated. If another incident occurs, I will not be as forgiving.”

The Officer gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

Il-Nam’s gaze then flickered toward her and Gong Yoo, a faint glimmer of amusement in his expression. “And as for our unexpected heroes of the night…” He tapped his fingers against the table. “It seems we owe you our gratitude.”

Gong Yoo grinned, his dark eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, if gratitude comes with a raise, I might actually feel appreciated around here.”

She let out a soft chuckle, tilting her head slightly. “Oh, please. We both know I didn’t do it out of kindness. Just would’ve been a shame to let all that fine champagne go to waste.”

Il-Nam chuckled, though there was something calculating beneath the sound. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Let’s move on.”

The conversation shifted, but the tension in the air remained thick, unspoken. The attack had rattled the foundation of their carefully controlled world, and everyone in the room knew the truth—this wasn’t over. 

They had moved on to the second point of discussion—planning next year’s games—but the Dancer wasn’t listening. Her attention was fixed on the file in front of her, fingers skimming over the pages as she absentmindedly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

The room fell into an abrupt silence.

Just below her jawline, close to the delicate pulse point of her throat, lay a love bite—dark, unmistakable, and fresh.

Gong Yoo was the first to react. His grin stretched wider, a slow, lazy smirk curling at the edges as he bit back a laugh, the amusement dancing in his dark eyes. He didn’t bother hiding his satisfaction.

Across the table, In-Ho’s grip on his pen tightened slightly. His expression remained unreadable, but the sharpness in his gaze betrayed him. It flickered to the mark on her skin, then to Gong Yoo, before settling back on her. The air around him felt colder, his posture unnaturally stiff. His breathing slowed, controlled, but there was a heaviness to it—a subtle indication of something carefully reined in. Beneath the table, his fingers flexed once before stilling entirely.

Il-Nam, ever the observer, let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers steepled as he watched the silent exchange with mild amusement.

She frowned at the sudden shift in the atmosphere, glancing up from her file. “What?” she asked, scanning the room. “Do I have something on my face?”

Gong Yoo exhaled a low chuckle, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Oh, doll,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “Not on your face.”

Her brows furrowed, confusion flashing across her features—until she caught the way In-Ho’s jaw had tightened ever so slightly. Then, it clicked.

Ah.

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at her lips.

She lifted a delicate hand, tracing her fingers lazily over the mark. Then, just as deliberately, she shifted her gaze to In-Ho. She held it for half a second longer than necessary before tilting her chin slightly, challenging, daring. It was a small act, subtle enough to be brushed off—but the way his fingers curled ever so slightly against the table told her he had noticed.

She leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance as she turned the page in her file. “Oh, that?” she mused, tracing her fingers lightly over the bruise. “Must’ve been a mosquito.”

Il-Nam let out a soft chuckle, but In-Ho’s stare remained unreadable.

Gong Yoo, meanwhile, merely grinned. “Damn. That must’ve been one persistent mosquito. What do you say, bossman?” the man drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. He leaned back in his chair, lazily swirling the whiskey in his glass before flashing a wolfish grin. “I think she looks rather exquisite.”

Getting a rise out of In-Ho was his favourite pastime. Their mutual disdain was an unspoken but ever-present force in the room, simmering beneath the surface like a slow-burning fuse. And Gong Yoo, ever the provocateur, delighted in striking the match.

In-Ho turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable as he regarded the Salesman. He refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he merely raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

“This is the third time this month I’ve caught you with your hand in the cookie jar,” he said coolly, his voice devoid of emotion but laced with quiet authority. His gaze flickered back to the mark on her skin, then to Gong Yoo, sharp and assessing. “Which part of no fraternizing with colleagues is hard for you to understand?”

Gong Yoo chuckled, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Oh, come on,” he mused, resting his chin in his palm. “You say fraternizing like it’s some grave offence. I prefer to think of it as… team building.”

She smirked at that, lazily tapping her fingers against the table. “Didn’t realize I was company property,” she mused, tilting her head slightly, her voice teasing but laced with challenge.

In-Ho’s eyes flickered toward her, his gaze unreadable, but something in his jaw tightened.

Il-Nam chuckled softly, finally breaking the thick silence. “Ah, young people,” he mused, his voice amused but distant, as if watching an entertaining drama unfold before him. “So much energy, so many… distractions.”

Gong Yoo simply grinned wider, sensing the crack in In-Ho’s composure. He had won this round—whether In-Ho admitted it or not.

“Please,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully as she tapped her pen against the table. “Young? This one is 42,” she gestured lazily toward Gong Yoo, who gave her a mock-offended look, “and the other one is 47,” she finished, pointing toward In-Ho, whose expression remained unreadable.

She leaned back in her chair with an exaggerated sigh. “You’d think by now they’d have learned how to handle their big boy emotions.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, her smirk teasing as she let the words hang in the air.

Gong Yoo let out a short laugh, placing a hand over his heart in mock devastation. “You wound me,” he said, shaking his head. “Truly. And here I thought we had something special.”

She shot him an amused glance. “I’d say I was sorry, but we both know I’m not.”

Across the table, In-Ho remained silent, his gaze steady, unreadable. But the barely perceptible twitch of his jaw didn’t escape her notice.

Il-Nam chuckled again, clearly entertained. “Ah, the beauty of age,” he mused. “It teaches patience… but not immunity to certain distractions.” His gaze flickered briefly between In-Ho and Gong Yoo before settling back on his notes, the amusement never quite leaving his face.

Gong Yoo, ever the instigator, leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Well, some of us age like fine wine,” he said smoothly. “Others, well… they just let it turn them bitter.”

The air in the room thickened for a brief second, the tension a quiet undercurrent beneath the humour.

She smirked, twirling her pen between her fingers. “Or maybe it’s just that some people never learned how to share their toys.”

For the first time, In-Ho finally moved—just the slightest shift of his posture, but enough to betray that her words had landed.

[bedlam-barbie]

it’s over, he got me (almost fell in 2021)

[bedlam-barbie]

I apologize for the sudden stop in my writing. I’ve been really stressed with work, but i am so overwhelmed about your positive responses to my writing. I expect to be posting the last part for Attention tomorrow. After that I might dabble more with writing for the salesman and for in ho as well. I plan to also make a masterlist once i finish it 💗

[bedlam-barbie]

Babygurl surely has a taste when it comes to choosing men

[bedlam-barbie]

Out of control

Or Attention part 3

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; slight salesman x recruiter!reader for the plot

Warnings: canon accurate violence; gun; fights; hurt and comfort,some suggestive language, VIPs being disgusting,  reader has BPD, mentions of mental illness

Word count: 4.2k

Author’s note: well, somehow what was meant to be a 2 part shot, became a small series, I hope max 5 parts. The more I write, the more I’m eating up this love triangle… Please let me know your thoughts and opinions, also please reblog if you enjoyed!

Part 1 Part 2

Silence draped over them like a heavy blanket, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn't suffocating. There was no pressure to break it, no unsaid words clawing at the edges of their breath. Yet a stubborn part of her still burned—aching to scream at him, to demand that he care.

But she knew he did.

Maybe not as fiercely, not as openly as he once had, but the tenderness lingered in places he thought he'd hidden well. She saw it. Felt it. And that truth, fragile yet unspoken, was enough to still her restless heart.

When he finally turned to walk away, back toward the sea of masked strangers, she let him go. He hesitated for just a second, casting one last look her way before slipping the mask back onto his face.

Was that yearning in his eyes?

Her chest clenched at the thought. Did she dare believe he loved her?

Perhaps in another life, she thought bitterly, we could have been happy.

She let herself dream for a fleeting, reckless moment. 

In that imagined world, he was a celebrated detective, proud and upright, and she his beautiful, devoted wife. They had two children—a boy with curious eyes and a girl who laughed like sunshine. Their home was a charming white house on the outskirts of Seoul, with wide windows, a flourishing garden, and a bright red door.

Her days were filled with joy—cooking vibrant meals from cultures near and far, laughing as flour dusted her apron, guiding tiny hands through math problems. And when evening came, In Ho would return, his face lit with warmth, arms full of peonies just because he loved to see her smile.

After the children had been tucked into bed, they would sway together in the kitchen under the soft glow of the lights, the hum of the world fading away as they danced slowly, quietly, as though time itself belonged to them.

But dreams are fragile things. And hers shattered the moment the mask clicked back into place. Hwang In Ho was gone. What remained was only the Frontman—cold, impenetrable, and unreachable. She downed the last of her drink, forcing the bitter thought from her mind. She'd never been the kind of woman to dream of white picket fences, a loving husband, or children with wide, innocent eyes. In truth, she wasn’t even sure she wanted children at all.

And why would she?

To pass on her tangled mess of generational trauma? Her genetic curse of addiction? Her restless, fractured mind that teetered between darkness and ruin? No. It was better not to bring life into a world that already carried too much weight.

Even if some desperate part of her entertained the fantasy—who would she have them with?

The Frontman? Cold, hardened, and unreachable, carved out of stoicism like a statue of a forgotten god. The lives they lived were dangerous, unstable, always teetering on the brink of disaster. A family with him was impossible.

The Salesman?

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh at the absurdity of the thought. As if that manipulative charmer, who peddled temptations with a devilish grin, could ever love anyone beyond himself.

No, the truth was simple. Children were weaknesses, liabilities. And in their world, weaknesses got you killed.

Better to let the fantasy die before it took root. She glided back into the ballroom with practiced elegance, adjusting her mask until it sat perfectly on her face. Her sharp eyes scanned the room until they landed on Gong Yoo, effortlessly charming a small cluster of VIPs. Without missing a beat, she slipped beside him, her presence as deliberate as a choreographed step.

“There you are,” he said smoothly, his hand naturally settling on the small of her back. “Gentlemen, may I present my fellow recruiter.”

The woman offered a smile as radiant as it was dangerous. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said with a teasing lilt, “I’m the dancer—but you can call me the woman of your dreams.”

The innocence of her smile was betrayed by the spark of mischief in her eyes, a contrast that never failed to captivate. One of the men, hidden behind an ornate golden mask, took her hand with a flourish, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Her stomach twisted in revulsion, but her practiced mask remained intact. She was an expert at charming men who fancied themselves powerful, coaxing them into foolish investments—none more absurd than the deadly games they funded.

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man said, his gaze shamelessly lingering on her body, especially her chest. “My, my—you truly are a beauty.”

The Salesman's lips curled into an amused smirk. “Careful with this one,” he warned lightly. “She bites.”

“Good thing that’s how I like my women—feisty,” the man quipped, earning a chorus of laughter from the group. She laughed along, the sound as polished and disarming as glass champagne flutes clinking together. 

The question hung in the air, sharp and shameless:

“So tell us, Dancer. How exactly do you get those fools to join the games? Are you a stripper?”

Hunger dripped from his words, vile and brazen.

For a split second, she imagined slamming his face into the marble floor, painting it red with his arrogance. Her fingers itched to draw the dagger strapped against her thigh and gut him like a pig. But instead, she laughed—a sweet, melodic giggle that masked the storm beneath her composed exterior.

Little do you know, asshole.

Beside her, she felt Gong Yoo stiffen, his polished facade slipping just enough for her to notice the tension in his hand as it gripped her back firmly. The silent message was clear: Easy, darling. Not here. Wait until he’s leaving.

She tilted her head, her voice honeyed and playful. “Oh, Sir, you flatter me,” she teased, feigning embarrassment. “You’ve got me blushing.”

The men laughed, oblivious.

She leaned in slightly, keeping their attention hooked. “Unfortunately, no—I’m not a stripper,” she continued smoothly. “My job’s a little more... subtle. I usually find them in clubs or bars. Get them talking, loosen them up a bit.” She gestured toward Gong Yoo with a mischievous smile. “And then, as my associate here so brilliantly does, I lure them outside and invite them to a friendly game of ddakji.”

Her eyes sparkled with faux amusement as she leaned closer, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen a drunk man stumbling to slap tiles in an alleyway? Truly—something for the books.”

The men roared with laughter, exactly as she knew they would. They were drunk on ego, money, and the illusion of control.Suddenly, the music faded, replaced by the delicate chiming of a champagne flute as Il Nam tapped it slowly, commanding the room’s attention.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice smooth and confident. “Welcome. I trust tonight’s festivities have been to your liking.”

From his elevated position on the grand balcony, Il Nam surveyed the sea of masked guests below. Flanking him were the ever-imposing Frontman and the Officer, their dark figures contrasting against the elegance of the scene.

His words flowed with deliberate grace, each syllable resonating with authority. “As some of you are aware, this year marks my final year as host of the Squid Games. These past thirty-three years have been nothing short of extraordinary.” He paused, allowing a wave of applause to sweep through the room. “None of this would have been possible without each and every one of you.”

The crowd clapped, their masked faces turned toward the enigmatic figure above.

Il Nam lifted a hand, signaling for silence as he continued. “With that, I am honored to announce that I have chosen my successor.” He gestured subtly toward the stoic figure beside him. “Our Frontman, who has dedicated himself entirely to the Games for the past five years, will now take my place. For his unwavering commitment and loyalty, I am eternally grateful.”

He raised his champagne flute with a celebratory flourish. “Join me in honoring our new host.” His gaze softened as he turned toward the Frontman. “You have truly exceeded my expectations.” The ballroom echoed with the sound of clinking glasses and polite applause.

From below, the dancer's eyes remained fixed on In Ho. Despite herself, a warmth bloomed in her chest—pride, quiet and undeniable. She wanted to be indifferent, detached, to mask any trace of emotion.But she couldn’t. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the Salesman watching her, his lips curled into a knowing smirk. Glass in hand, he acted as though the unfolding scene was some private performance meant for his amusement.

“Careful,” he murmured in her ear. “That heart of yours might start showing.”

Before she could respond, chaos erupted.

Gunshots shattered the air, sharp and deafening. Screams rippled through the ballroom as panic took hold. The scent of gunpowder mingled with the metallic tang of fear.

The woman’s eyes darted through the crowd, scanning for the source. A group of masked infiltrators surged forward, pulling weapons from concealed places beneath tuxedos and dresses. They moved with brutal efficiency, shoving some VIPs to the ground and holding others at gunpoint.

Pandemonium spread like wildfire. Guests in glittering masks tripped over one another in a desperate rush toward the exits. Blood splattered across marble floors, staining the opulence with horror.

The Salesman cursed under his breath, his carefree smirk gone. “Shit,” he hissed, stepping closer to her. “Stay down.”

But she didn’t listen.

A cold, determined calm washed over her as instinct took control. There was no time for fear—only action.

An infiltrator broke from the pack, rushing toward a frightened VIP who cowered behind an overturned table. Without hesitation, the dancer intercepted him, moving like liquid steel.

She pivoted sharply on her heel, her hand snapping out to disarm him in one swift motion. The gun clattered to the floor as she drove her knee into his stomach, doubling him over with a strangled gasp. She followed up with a brutal elbow to the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

Gong Yoo watched, his usual bravado replaced by genuine concern. "You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered, eyes flicking between her and the armed assailants still swarming the room.

A second infiltrator lunged at her from behind, blade glinting under the flickering lights. She sensed him before he made contact, twisting just in time to catch his wrist. The knife hovered dangerously close to her throat, but she remained unyielding, twisting his arm until a sickening crack echoed through the room. He screamed as she drove him to the ground, kicking the blade out of reach.

Nearby, the Frontman stood rigid, his mask unreadable but his body tense. For years, he had seen countless brutal fights—but watching her now, there was something unsettling about the recklessness with which she fought.

She's going to get herself killed.

The thought gnawed at him as he moved toward the fray, signaling for security reinforcements.

Three more attackers circled her, weapons drawn. The Salesman swore loudly. “Damn it, woman, what are you doing?!”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she smirked, blood smeared across her knuckles.

"Just having a little fun," she quipped before launching herself at the nearest assailant.

The ballroom became a blur of violence—the dancer ducking, striking, and twisting with brutal precision. One attacker swung wildly; she slipped beneath the blow and retaliated with a savage uppercut that sent teeth flying. Another charged with a gun, but she was faster, closing the distance and slamming his head into a pillar with a bone-crunching thud.

Behind her, the Salesman clenched his jaw. He hated admitting it, but he was worried. Not just impressed—worried.

In Ho, still commanding the scene, issued curt orders to secure the VIPs. Yet his eyes never fully left her.

The woman moved like a force of nature—unrelenting, fierce, and terrifyingly beautiful in her defiance. But no matter how skilled she was, the odds were shifting. More infiltrators were pushing into the ballroom.

The Salesman cursed again. "She's gonna get herself killed out there," he growled, shoving past the chaos toward her.

He moved—a shadow determined to protect the woman who seemed hell-bent on proving she didn’t need saving.A tall attacker rushed toward her with wild desperation, swinging a crowbar. She sidestepped with a dancer’s grace, her footwork precise as she spun behind him. With a fierce kick to the back of his knee, he crumpled, dropping the weapon. She finished him off with a brutal punch that cracked his jaw.

Before she could catch her breath, a voice called out smoothly from behind:

“Darling, I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

Gong Yoo stepped into the fray, shedding his usual air of nonchalance for something sharper, deadlier. His burgundy tuxedo was immaculate despite the chaos, though his eyes gleamed with amusement and danger alike.

An attacker lunged at him, and Gong Yoo barely flinched, grabbing the man by the collar and delivering a calculated blow to his temple. The assailant crumpled instantly. He dusted off his sleeve with mock elegance, smirking.

“You make it look easy,” she quipped, her voice breathless but steady.

“That’s because it is, darling.” He winked before turning to face two more assailants charging their way.

Together, they moved like a deadly duet. She dodged a wild swing, landing a bone-crunching kick to one man’s ribs, while Gong Yoo disarmed the other with a disarmingly smooth twist of the wrist before delivering a vicious uppercut.

Blood painted the marble floor as the infiltrators realized they were outmatched—not just by guards or the infamous Frontman, but by these two relentless forces who fought with terrifying synergy.

The Frontman observed from a distance, his mask concealing the turmoil beneath. His orders had secured most of the VIPs, but his focus remained on her. She was fast, brutal, and fearless—but also reckless.

One of the last attackers aimed a gun directly at her back.

“No!” Gong Yoo shouted, his usual charm stripped away, replaced by raw panic.

But she had already sensed the danger. With uncanny precision, she twisted, grabbing a broken champagne bottle from the floor. The glass glinted under the flickering lights as she drove it straight into the gunman’s forearm. The weapon fired into the ceiling, plaster raining down as he howled in pain.

She followed up with a merciless elbow to his throat, dropping him like dead weight.

Breathing heavily, she wiped blood from her face, her eyes still sharp and alert. Gong Yoo stood beside her, his hand instinctively brushing her shoulder as if reassuring himself she was unharmed.

“You know,” he panted, half-laughing, “I really thought I’d have to save you.”

“Please.” She smirked. “I’ve got this.”

The Frontman finally approached, his authoritative presence cutting through the aftermath like a blade. Guards were restraining the last of the infiltrators, and silence began to settle over the ruined ballroom.

“You’re reckless,” the Frontman said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Effective,” she shot back defiantly, though exhaustion crept into her voice.

The masked figure didn’t respond, but his lingering gaze on the woman said enough.

She straightened, brushing glass shards from her dress as she surveyed the carnage. The ballroom, once pristine and elegant, now resembled a battlefield drenched in blood and destruction.

“Well,” the Salesman drawled, his smirk returning, “guess that’s what happens when you throw such a killer party.”

The dancer huffed a breathless laugh, but the weight of what had just transpired lingered between them all. 

“It’s been a blast boys, but I need to clean myself up now.” she said and without waiting for an answer from them, she made her way to the bathroom.

She stood at the marble sink, blood swirling down the drain as she scrubbed at her knuckles. Her breathing was shallow, heart still racing—not just from the chaos but from the exhilaration that thrummed in her veins.

She had felt alive.

The crack of fists meeting flesh, the sharp edge of survival cutting through every instinct—it ignited something deep inside her, something she didn’t want to admit she craved. Even now, her hands trembled not from fear but from the fading thrill of battle.

God help her, she’d enjoyed it.

The realization made her stomach churn with guilt. What kind of person savored violence? She had brushed so close to death tonight, yet all she could think about was how addictive it was—the rush, the power.

The door creaked open behind her.

She stiffened, half-expecting Gong Yoo’s smug grin. But no—it was him.

In Ho. Damn it, why was he always there, in the back of her mind? Ready to jump in to save her.

Mask removed, his dark eyes were sharp with concern as they locked onto her bloodied reflection in the mirror.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly, stepping toward her.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, forcing her voice to steady as she reached for a towel.

He was there before she could pull away, taking the towel from her hand without asking. The roughness of his palm contrasted with the gentle precision as he lifted her bruised knuckles into the light.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered, his voice low and strained.

“I know,” she admitted softly.

And she did. Reckless wasn’t new for her—but tonight, it had been different. Tonight, she hadn’t just fought to survive. She’d fought because part of her wanted to. The thought made her want to scream.

But In Ho said nothing more, focused instead on cleaning the streaks of dried crimson from her skin. The room was silent except for the soft trickle of water and the faint rustle of fabric.Her heart pounded—different now, softer, raw. Not from violence, but from the weight of his presence, the tenderness in his touch despite the wall he always kept between them.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said quietly, watching his profile in the mirror.

“Yes, I did,” he murmured, his voice rough.

His words hit harder than any blow she’d taken that night. He wasn’t just talking about tonight—he never was with her. His dark eyes were focused on every little scratch, carefully cleaning them up.

“I handled myself,” she insisted, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the war raging inside her.

“I know,” he admitted, guilt flickering in his eyes. “But seeing you like this...” He shook his head as if forcing the thought away.

Her throat tightened. Why did he care? Why did she want him to care?

"Who were they?" she asked abruptly, her voice sharp, demanding an answer.

"No one you need to concern yourself with," he said, his words cold, but his eyes flickered with something darker. "I’ve already sent the Officer to investigate. But... I did hear one of them shouting, something about doing this for their son." His jaw tightened as he spoke, the weight of his words lingering in the air. "It seems some family of a former player has managed to track us down, and they’ve gathered others, desperate for revenge."

He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking with hers, and for a moment, there was a chilling intensity in his voice. "But don’t trouble yourself, little dove. You won’t need to lift a finger. I’ll make sure they’re dealt with... permanently."

“You liked it, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through her defenses.

Her breath caught. “What?”

“The fight,” he said grimly. “You liked it.”

The truth hung between them, heavy and undeniable.She wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, to make a snarky remark—but she couldn’t.

“I don’t know what's worse,” she whispered hoarsely. “That I did... or that I wanted it to keep going.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped closer, brushing his thumb across the cut along her jawline. The tenderness in the gesture made her ache, and for a moment, she wanted to collapse into the warmth of it, to forget the darkness clawing inside her. For just a second, she closed her eyes letting him caress her skin, her defenses fully down.

“You’re not a monster,” he said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

She let out a bitter laugh. “Aren’t I?”

“No.” His voice was firm, certain. “I’ve seen monsters. You’re not one of them.”

Her breath hitched. “Then what am I?”

His hand lingered on her jaw, thumb tracing the faint bruise. “Someone I can’t stop thinking about,” he admitted softly. The raw honesty in his voice shattered what was left of her defenses. In a perfect world, this would have been the moment they would have kissed, where he would profess his undying love and they would have lived happily ever after.

But alas, this was not a perfect world.

“You have no right to care,” she whispered, her voice breaking trying to fight back against the feelings.

“I know.” He stepped back, the distance between them sudden and painful. “But I can’t help it. You’re all cleaned up,” he said gruffly, retreating to safer ground.

But neither of them moved. Their eyes lingered, heavy with unspoken words. In Ho’s hair remained perfectly styled, slicked back with precision, and his onyx tuxedo fit his frame like it had been tailored just for him. It was almost maddening how flawless he appeared while she stood there, disheveled and bloodied, her dress torn from the chaos.

In a way, it perfectly represented who they were: him, an image of unwavering control, and her, a whirlwind of chaos and recklessness.

The contrast between them stung—like a cruel reminder that they could never truly align. He was every inch the mask he wore: composed, untouchable. And she? She was a storm, a wild force of nature trying to fit into a world of structure.

For a moment, she hated him. Not for who he was, but for how effortlessly he embodied everything she could never be.

Her pulse quickened, the intensity of the moment feeding the restless, chaotic part of her. But she stayed still. Neither of them moved—too afraid, or too proud, to take the next step.

In Ho broke the silence, his voice as controlled as always. "You should leave," he said, but there was something unspoken in the way he said it. A vulnerability hiding behind the command, barely noticeable but undeniable.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the ache in her chest. "And leave you to play the perfect host?"

His jaw clenched slightly at the jab, but he said nothing, his gaze still locked on hers. The distance between them felt like miles, and yet she could feel the magnetic pull, as though the space was too small to contain the tension brewing between them.

There was a flicker in his eyes—a softness, quickly masked by the cold exterior he’d perfected. "You’re making this harder than it needs to be," he murmured, his tone quieter now, yet still holding that edge of finality.

She took a step closer, ignoring the war waging inside her. “Is it hard for you? Or is it hard for you to admit you don’t want me to go?”

The words hung in the air, too raw, too honest. She saw his eyes narrow, the slightest flicker of frustration passing through them. His body stiffened, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

"I don’t need you here," he said, his voice tight, but there was a pause before the last word—a hesitation that didn’t go unnoticed.

The dancer’s heart hammered in her chest, but she refused to let it show. "Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he held back, caught between something he couldn’t admit and the image he had built around himself. She saw it—the turmoil beneath the surface. He wasn’t as untouchable as he wanted her to believe.

"You should go," he repeated, but this time, it was softer. Almost... pleading.

It was too much. The fight, the connection, the tension—it all boiled over inside her, and she knew there was only one way to stop the storm in her chest. She closed the space between them.

Her breath caught as her hands came to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath the fabric of his tuxedo. She looked up, meeting his eyes, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

For a moment, neither of them moved, and in that instant, everything seemed to hang in the balance. Then, slowly, she leaned in. His eyes flickered to her lips, and the air between them thickened, charged with something far more intense than just the heat of the moment.

Just as she was about to close the distance, the briefest hint of hesitation stopped her.

What are you doing?

It was a question that hovered in her mind, but she didn’t have an answer for it. Instead, she pulled back, just enough to look at him, breathless, torn between the impulse to pull him closer and the need to protect herself from what this moment could mean.

His hand twitched, almost as if he wanted to reach for her but stopped himself. She could see it—the war between the man he was and the man she’d forced him to be.

"I can’t do this," he muttered, his voice almost a whisper, thick with frustration.

She tilted her head, meeting his gaze steadily. "You’re the one who won’t do this. But you want to."

He took a step back, exhaling sharply, his chest rising and falling with the weight of their proximity. He didn't answer—he didn’t need to.

And in that silence, the unspoken truth hung heavy: Neither of them was ready for what this could become, but neither of them could walk away, either.

Author's note: please let me know your opinions! should I make it more of a love triangle between the three or tame it down? How are you liking it so far?

[bedlam-barbie]

Seong Gi-hun x Female Reader Headcanons ✨

He leaves you for a man.

[bedlam-barbie]

Crawling back to you

Or Attention part 2

Part 1 Part 3

Pairing: In Ho x recruiter!reader ; slight salesman x recruiter!reader for the plot

Warnings: hurt no comfort,some suggestive language, reader has BPD, mentions of mental illness

Summary: 3 months after that faithful night in the club, they meet again, only this time, the Frontman was not going to let her go so easily. 

Word count: 4.2k

Author’s note: I am so beyond grateful for all your comments and likes! I was truly not expecting for you to like my work. I was half expecting it to flop lol. Anyway, I am unsure where to go with this story if I should leave it as a two part or write more. So please tell me if you have any ideas or suggestions regarding the direction it should go in. In other news, it kind of got me excited to write for the Salesman as well. So please let me know if you are interested in a Salesman centric one shot. The Salesman’s name will be Gong Yoo as I am not creative enough.

The room was immaculate, every detail meticulously curated, as though plucked straight from the pages of an opulent design catalogue. Rich, dark drapes cascaded elegantly over the towering windows, leaving just enough of an opening to let the faint shimmer of stars peek through, casting a delicate glow into the space. Furniture in nude fainted colors. The air carried a quiet sophistication, but it felt almost surreal. If she didn’t know any better, she might have believed she’d just had sex in a high-end furniture showroom.

She quietly put her bra and underwear on, starting her search for the rest of the clothes throughout the apartment. The man she had just slept with was watching her every move from the top of the king size bed, an amused smirk on his lips.

“You know most women would jump at the opportunity to spend the night with me”

“Please, you already know I am not most women” she replied rolling her eyes. “Have you seen my shirt?”

“And what do I get if I help you?” he asked coily, slowly moving towards the woman like a predator watching its prey.

Her face turned to meet his, his eyes taunting her looking for a reaction. She tilted her head and gave him an innocent look. One of her hands sneaked around his neck, her fingers playing with his dark locks.

“Nothing” she said simply and then yanked him by his hair downwards. “We have an agreement, Gong Yoo, and I don’t very much enjoy when my toys overstay their welcome.”

“Tsk, and here I thought we were friends” the man replied amused, a sharp knife appearing suddenly, its blade now resting just under the woman’s chin.

Her soft giggle filled the room at the sight of the blade. This was exactly why he was her perfect match in her nocturnal activities. She did consider the Salesman, a friend of sorts. Well, as good of a friend a psychopath can be. Her head moved slightly, enough for the knife to press between her lips. Her tongue danced around the silver metal.

“And I thought you knew who you were sleeping with” she said casually. “Now, I do need to leave, we have an early flight tomorrow morning.”

She let go of his hair and took the sharp object out of her mouth. His body was still pressed to hers, wearing nothing and God he did look good. But somewhere in the back of her mind, was a familiar older face, chiseled to perfection, dark orbs full of secrets that could stare into her soul who knew her inside and out. She quickly dismissed the thought, focusing on the scene in front of her instead.

“How could I forget? It’s not everyday that the games celebrate 30 years. How would you like to be my date?”

She was not easily surprised by the man. She had come to know him almost better than herself in the last 3 years. And much more in the last three months. It all started once the games of 2020 ended and they went out for their yearly blackjack event. The night began as a way to hurt their boss, but the more days had passed she realized she liked the Salesman’s company. Not in a romantic sense, but definitely sexually. It was a welcome distraction from work stress and more importantly. From him.

It was almost unbelievable how she let a man toy with her emotions again. A part of her wanted to yell that she was over the man behind the black mask, that his rejection did not sting at all, that she simply went home with the Salesman that night because she wanted to. Not out of vengeance. Gong Yoo had become in a weird way her safe space. While the man was deeply disturbed, she saw him as predictable. When the words regarding the gala left his mouth, she was speechless. He could read the confusion of her face and smirked.

“Well, darling, we both know why we started our little randez-vous. The Frontman will be there, no doubt with a date, so I believe it would be in our best interest to show up together.”

“Interesting, and what is in it for you?”

“Oh, I am sure you can find a way to thank me that night” his eyes were dark and intense, watching her every move.

“God you truly are a narcissistic psychopath, huh?” she asked giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And you are such a borderline cliché, my dear” his smirked grew. “Do we have a deal?”

“Absolutely.”

There was an undeniable comfort in the rhythm they had fallen into. Their days followed a familiar pattern: each would go about their routine, which, now that the games were over, mostly revolved around endless paperwork and researching potential recruits for the next year. The office was stark and quiet, tucked away in the bustling heart of Seoul. Some days, the real fun began after hours. They’d invent new ways to compete, often over the most ridiculous games, challenges that almost always escalated until one—or both—ended up naked in her apartment or his. The routine was theirs, equal parts playful and intimate, a strange solace in a world that had once been chaos.

The woman couldn’t lie, not even to herself—she wasn’t over the Frontman. In fact, she hated how deeply he still had a hold on her, so much so that even hearing his name felt like a fresh wound being reopened. Every thought of him sent a volatile mix of emotions crashing through her—jealousy, pain, anger. She presumed it was all of them but mostly she felt worthless, abandoned. The demons in her mind weren’t new; they had taken root long ago, feeding on every rejection, every unanswered plea. And every time she recalled that morning, it brought her back to feeling like a forgotten child, desperate for even the faintest trace of love. But she wasn’t that child anymore. She had stopped begging a long time ago.

So his invitation, although unexpected, felt like the right call. Although not wanting to admit it even to herself, it gave a strange sense of comfort that Gong Yoo would be there by her side and she did not have to face their boss alone.

As they stepped into the dimly lit ballroom, her eyes instinctively scanned the space, searching for the black mask—and, more importantly, the man behind it. It was clear he played a significant role in the event’s orchestration. The room demanded respect. Every detail, from the grand chandeliers casting a warm, subdued glow to the meticulously placed furnishings, exuded deliberate perfection. The air was crisp, almost unwelcoming, with stone statues lining the room, their lifeless eyes seeming to watch her every move with an air of expectation.

A symphony of classical music filled the space, the notes rising delicately from a live band tucked into a corner near the expansive dance floor. The atmosphere reeked of opulence and elegance, yet an undeniable chill lingered, making the grandeur feel eerily detached. Conversations hummed softly, muffled by the anonymity of the masks each attendee wore. The VIPs, ever distinct, were adorned in elaborate gold masks, while the guards stood out with their pink ones. Management’s masks, jet black and severe, carried an air of authority, while hers—and those of the other recruiters—were a deep burgundy, striking but unmistakably subordinate.

She opted for a long gold dress. Her gown was a statement in itself, perfectly at home in the opulence of the ballroom. The fabric shimmered like molten gold under the dim light, every movement catching the soft glow of the chandeliers above. The structured corset-like bodice hugged her figure, cinching her waist and giving her the regal posture of someone who belonged in a room like this. The neckline swept off her shoulders, its draped detailing softening the otherwise commanding presence of the gown, leaving her collarbones and shoulders beautifully exposed.

The skirt flowed effortlessly to the floor, its subtle draping at the hip enhancing her curves and giving her an almost statuesque elegance. It was the kind of dress that didn’t just demand attention—it commanded it. Her strappy gold metallic sandals clicked against the marbled floor. Gong Yoo wore a burgundy suit perfectly tailored to his measurements, looking almost like her perfect accessory. They walked arm in arm to the bar.

“You clean up nicely, darling” his voice purred in her ear. “All of this for little old me?” he added mockingly.

“You know it, baby,” she whispered playfully. From the outside, they looked like the perfect couple. Too bad her eyes were looking for a particular figure in the sea of bodies.

And then she saw him, At the grand balcony overlooking the masses. The Frontman was a picture of restrained elegance, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that exuded authority and quiet sophistication. The fabric was rich and matte, absorbing the dim light that filtered through the grand balcony. Beneath the perfectly cut blazer, a matching black vest hugged his frame, its buttons glinting subtly, accentuated by a delicate chain that trailed from one pocket—a subtle yet striking detail that added a vintage edge to the modern ensemble. His tie, jet black like the rest of his attire, was perfectly knotted, a seamless continuation of his sleek, monochrome look.

Seated on the grand balcony, the ballroom’s muted hum stretched out before him, but his focus remained inward. A glass of deep amber liquor rested casually in his hand, the light from the room catching the liquid’s warmth. His  posture relaxed but deliberate, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling on his sharp features. The boutonniere pinned to his lapel—a delicate arrangement of soft blooms—offered the only contrast, a fleeting touch of life against the otherwise dark, striking uniform. His familiar mask perfectly put onto his face. For just a moment, she forgot how to breathe. It was as if he felt her eyes lingering on him and instinctively went to her.

He raised his glass in her direction and tilted his head slightly before resuming his chat with presumably Il-Nam. The minor interaction made her pulse raise, blood rushing to her ears. God, why was she acting like a stupid little girl with a crush? Was he right that morning? Was she that pathetic? She quickly downed a glass of champagne.

“Atta, girl” Gong Yoo said amused. “ Just remember this is not the place for table dancing”

“Hilarious, does the humor come with the personality disorder or did you pay extra for that?”  she asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Who said I am wearing any?” she replied, smirking slightly.

“There she is.” He laughed, a sparkle playing behind those eyes. “Maybe you should stop speaking like that or I might come to collect that favor you owe me.”

“That’s if you can catch me before I turn into a pumpkin, Mr. Salesman. Now come on, I would like a dance” she replied innocently.

“Your wish is my command, darling”

As they weaved their way through the sea of elegantly masked couples toward the center of the dance floor, her gaze instinctively flicked to where she had last seen In Ho. But he was gone. Still, she could feel him—his presence lingering like a shadow, his eyes tracking her every move from some unseen vantage point. It sent a chill down her spine, but she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Not tonight.

The quartet began a new melody, its hauntingly beautiful notes echoing through the grand ballroom. Taking their positions, she and the Salesman fell seamlessly into the rhythm, their movements effortlessly synchronized. His precision was remarkable, each turn, step, and sway executed with an almost mechanical flawlessness that both impressed and unsettled her. He led with quiet confidence, his hand firm yet gentle on her waist, guiding her through the intricate dance as though they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

Her gown shimmered with every twist and spin, catching the light as their bodies moved in perfect harmony. For a moment, the rest of the room seemed to melt away, the opulent surroundings fading into the background. Yet, even as she danced, the weight of unseen eyes bore down on her, a reminder that the game they were all playing was far from over.

As Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons no 8 : Winter began to play, a chill swept through her, and with a sudden turn, she felt a cold hand grip her arm, pulling her toward him. Her breath caught in her throat. No—it wasn’t just any man. It was In-Ho. Her In-Ho. God, how she wanted to slap herself for thinking of him like that. With flawless precision, he guided her every step away from the eyes of Gong Yoo.

“In-Ho,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Hello, little dove,” he replied, his tone heavy with menace. “Did you enjoy playing house with Gong Yoo?” His words dripped with sarcasm.

She could feel herself getting angry again. How dare he speak to her this way after he was the one who pushed him towards the other man, himself?

“Funny. Almost as funny as your face that night in the club.” She replied coolly, maintaining his gaze. Although she could not see his face, she felt his body tense up , his grip on her waist hardening as well.

“Are you in love with him?” he asked directly.

“What is between me and Gong Yoo is none of your goddamn business. You are the one who threw me out like a rag doll you were done playing, or don’t you remember that? And now you are doing what? Ambushing me?”

Her words cut through the air like a knife, a sarcastic smile plastered on her face trying not to raise her voice. Although she did love indulging in creating chaos, she believed there was a time and a place. Surrounded by her colleagues and all the potential donors for the games? Not a bright idea. There was a certain way she enjoyed chaos, calculated, ruthless, like a contained flame. Moreover, the woman was very much aware that tonight In Ho was to be selected as the new Host by Il-Nam. As much as she hated his guts, she would put on a show, a pleasant smile and clap for the man. That being said, it was taking everything in her power not to yell and hit him.

“I knew you were not going to pick up my calls so instead I opted for a more discreet way. I wanted to talk to you about what happened.”

“What is there to talk about? We fucked, I thought you loved me since that’s what you claimed and then you threw me out. I was being a stupid pathetic girl. There is no big mystery to elucidate.”

Even speaking of what had happened, made her feel mortified. How mortifying it all sounded on her lips. Her eyes were searching the crowd for her date, hoping he would swoop in and save her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Serves her right for believing that he was actually a friend.

“If you are looking for Gong Yoo, Il-Nam wanted to speak to him.” The Frontman spoke as if reading her mind. “Your sociopath in shining armor has more important matters to attend to” he added.

Although she could not see her face, she felt a flicker of jealousy in his words. The mask he wore was impenetrable, but something in his voice betrayed him. A part of her wanted to kiss his worries away to tell him how everything between her and the Salesman was nothing but a physical affair. She would have taken him into her arms, taken his mask off and caressed his handsome face. Snap out of it, you are truly pathetic.

“As much as I loved this dance of ours, Sir, I fear, I need to go and powder my nose, otherwise I might have to shoot my brains out” she said, a fake smile playing on her perfect lips.

In-Ho sighed, but he released her as the final notes of the song drifted into silence. She bowed respectfully, her movements precise, and he tilted his head slightly in her direction—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. For a moment, she stood still, her gaze lingering on him. But then, with a practiced smile, she turned and made her way toward the restrooms, weaving through the crowd.

Her body shook involuntarily, the emotions bubbling up inside her like a storm. A rush of anger, bitter and raw, mixed with an ache deep in her chest. It felt like her heartstrings were being pulled and twisted, as if every step forward was one taken away from the person she used to be. She clenched her fists, her perfectly manicured blood red nails digging into her skin, the sharp pressure enough to draw blood from the palms. The sting spread through her hands, but she didn’t flinch. She couldn’t afford to. It was the only way she knew how to keep the chaos at bay—how to stop herself from spiraling into a panic attack, or worse, breaking down in front of everyone.

Her method wasn’t graceful, but it was hers. Unrefined, perhaps, but effective. It anchored her, forcing her to stay in the moment, to keep the lid on the storm inside.

Once inside the restroom, she leaned against the sink, her fingers trembling as she fumbled for the powder in her clutch. The mirror in front of her reflected a woman she barely recognized: the smile from moments ago still lingering in her eyes, but beneath it, there was something fractured. Something torn. She closed her eyes for a brief second, taking in a steadying breath, and then began to pat her face gently, as if each motion could somehow smooth out the tension knotting inside her.

Her hands moved automatically, as they always did when she needed to hide what was truly going on. She applied the powder with care, trying to ignore the way her heart was racing, the way her mind threatened to break free from its restraints. Each tap of the puff against her skin was a moment of false peace—a temporary illusion of control. She hated it, but at least it worked.

With one final sweep of her hand, she put the powder away and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She could hear the music still playing softly in the background, but all she could focus on now was the quiet rage that swirled within her. She wasn’t ready to face him again, not yet, but she would. She always did.

Taking one last breath, she straightened herself up and walked back into the crowd. No one would see the cracks. She made her way outside in the gardens. A beautiful labyrinth laid before her eyes, flower bushes in her sight. Her hands opened her clutch again and pulled out her case of cigarettes, carefully taking one out and lighting it. As she took the first drag, she felt her heartbeat slowing down, closing her eyes. His scent lingered in her nostrils. Musky and seductive mixed with his body odor. The same scent she spent hours scrubbing off her skin in the hot shower after the night they spent together.

“Can I have one of those?” his voice rang behind her.

“What? Are you stalking me now?” she asked harshly without moving an inch.

“No, the atmosphere was stuffy and my social battery in speaking to the VIPs was slowly drained”

He sounded sincere, she thought, though she didn’t give him the satisfaction of another glance. Without a word, she reached into her bag and handed him one of her Marlboros. In-Ho removed his mask, setting it down gently on the marble fence. The action was deliberate, almost ceremonial, as if the mask itself deserved reverence.

They stood there in an uneasy silence, the kind that hung thick in the air, neither of them willing to break it. The Frontman searched for her eyes, but she refused to meet his gaze, doing everything in her power to avoid it. Instead, she focused on the cigarette between her fingers, drawing in a steady breath of smoke, feeling the burn in her lungs.

She took a sip from the glass of champagne she had grabbed on her way outside, its coldness a fleeting distraction from the heat building inside her. Above them, the stars twinkled, casting a soft glow across the garden, and the faint hum of music drifted from inside the building. If it weren’t for the tension hanging between them, the scene would have almost been romantic. The flicker of stars in the sky, the music, the champagne—everything about the moment was meant for ease, for connection. But there was no peace here, not with him, not with the weight of the situation pressing down on her.

She clenched her jaw and took another drag from her cigarette, determined not to let her mind wander too far.

“You look breath-taking,” he admitted, breaking the silence.

“Thank you” she replied coldly, but his compliment awakened something inside her. Warmth pulled through her body.

“You know, gold was my ex wife’s favourite colour” In Ho spoke, his eyes trailing in the distance.

The woman looked up to him and for the first time he saw how handsome his face was looking under the stars. Although a part of her wanted to quiet him, she decided against it, instead opting to understand where this little confession was going.

“She loved gold and white roses and those American pancakes that I know you also enjoy so much” he continued. Her eyes looked at him with caution, almost testing to see where the conversation was headed.

“What happened to her?” she asked softly.

“She died.” He admitted while taking another drag from the cigarette, looking down. “You know she loved Vivaldi’s seasons, particularly winter number 8. She always said it reminded her of me”

“Cold, sharp, determined. I can see that.” The woman replied quietly. “But also oh so captivating and tragically beautiful” she added, her words more of a whisper to herself.

His eyes lifted to meet hers, and for a fleeting moment, the tension dissolved, leaving only a fragile, unspoken intimacy between them. In-Ho hadn’t expected it, the sudden wave of tenderness that swept through him, but it was undeniable—and strangely welcome. Something ached deep within his chest, raw and unresolved. Perhaps it was the pain of speaking about his late wife after so many years, or maybe it was the way the moonlight kissed her skin, making her seem almost otherworldly, like she didn’t belong to this grim reality they both inhabited.

He wanted to pull her into his arms, to bury his face in the warmth of her shoulder and murmur apologies that had long been buried beneath layers of regret and silence. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was—for everything. But words stuck in his throat, too heavy to form.

Instead, he flicked his cigarette against the marble, extinguishing it with a sharp twist of his fingers. The ember died quickly, leaving only a faint wisp of smoke curling into the night air. His hands drifted back toward the cold, familiar weight of the mask. It was easier that way—to retreat behind the impassive facade, where vulnerability couldn’t touch him.

But for a single beat, he lingered—just long enough for the ache inside him to remind him of what could never be.

“Are you and him a couple?” In-Ho asked suddenly, his eyes going back to her, studying her face.

“No,” she laughed dryly. “I am not that stupid, I am very much aware of the kind of person Gong Yoo is. He is great in bed, but I am not naive enough to think I can save a psychopath”

“Then why are you here, with him?” Curiosity took the better of him before he could stop himself.

The woman hesitated, wondering if there was any point in answering. Silence might have been safer, but perhaps it was the champagne loosening her resolve—or the charged atmosphere pressing in around them. Something inside her shifted, compelling her to seek his gaze, searching for answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to find.

Was that jealousy lacing his voice? Pain? Or just cold, detached curiosity? After all, the Salesman had taken away his favorite toy. But was that all she had ever been to him—a possession, something to flaunt and control? The thought twisted uncomfortably in her chest.

She clenched her jaw, torn between bitterness and intrigue, unsure whether she wanted to push him for the truth or leave it buried where it belonged.

“It sounds insane, but I know what I get when I am with him. The lines are clear, I can see his intentions behind every gesture. I don’t have to worry myself to death about what he wants, I already know it. Sex, an accessory on his arm, a thrill. Someone that challenges him. He is easy”

“Unlike me”

“Unlike you” she confirmed while finishing her own cigarette.

[bedlam-barbie]

y’all and in ho really pulled me out of fanfiction retirement

FINE I am writing part 2 of Attention (while at my big girl job ) as we speak cause this man has me thirsty

should probably be done tonight or tomorrow

[bedlam-barbie]

hwang in-ho x feminine!reader like:

[bedlam-barbie]

Attention

Part 2 Part 3

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x recruiter!fem!reader ; slight Salesman x fem!reader

Warnings: jealous!In-Ho; slightly obsessive!In-Ho; slightly suggestive themes and words: yearning; angst; probably ooc!In-Ho

Word count: ~4k

Author’s note: sooo this is my first fanfiction I have written in 10 years, what this man does to me… I needed some more recruiter!reader as I am so obsessed with the idea. I also included the Salesman as he is my other guilty pleasure. I deeply want to write a part 2 , let me know if you are interested!

Hwang In-Ho had always hated clubs. He hated the obnoxious music. He hated the smell of sweat and desperation. He hated people pushing into each other. He hated the shameless displays of people grinding and almost taking their clothes in the middle of the dance floor. He hated the cheap liquor diluted with water. He hated random people getting it on in those disgusting toilets. It was safe to say, In-Ho would rather be anywhere else than there. 

But there was one thing he didn’t hate about it. 

Her hair was bouncing to the rapid rhythm, her body somehow knowing how to sway to every beat of every song, sending him into a trance. She would always make eye contact with him lip syncing to the filthiest lyrics. Her lips always painted in a beautiful red color almost begging him to come over and taste them. It was almost like their own ritual. He would sit at their reserved table in a leather armchair, nursing a glass of whiskey, while she would be just within his eye reach dancing, a mischievous look behind those oh so pretty eyes. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, unless absolutely having to, she would not look at him, not address him. It was like In-Ho was not worthy of her attention. He was aware he fucked up, that was the whole reason he even showed up to this God forsaken rats’ nest. The more she ignored him, the more starved he became, a combination of anger and hurt playing at his heartstrings. 

Lust and guilt coiled tightly within him, indistinguishable from one another. She wasn’t just beautiful—her beauty was deliberate, a weapon she wielded with precision. And him, unarmed and unprepared, stood squarely in her sights. He should’ve looked away. He didn’t. In-Ho took another sip of the whiskey as he watched her dance with him as he contemplated what has brought him to this specific moment.

It was a sunny morning in Seoul, a rare occurrence in the grey autumn. He looked over at the other side of the bed, finding her sleeping peacefully. She was sleeping on her back, her beautiful hair splattered on the black satin pillow. Her chest was slowly rising and falling, his white crisp shirt covering almost nothing of her perfect figure. For the first time since he had met her 3 years ago, she looked delicate, youthful, carefree. Gone were the sassy attitude, the makeup, the expensive clothes and her sharp tongue. In-Ho placed a soft kiss between her breasts as he made his way out of the bed into the shower. 

The smell of her skin, the sound of her voice moaning, the softness of her delicate body, they were all stuck in his mind, as well as her little love confession. He was planning to get started on breakfast, make some coffee, treat her like a princess. As he exited his shower, he took a look at his phone, making sure he hadn’t missed any important work-related calls. The games were going to start in just over a week and everything had to be perfect. That’s when he saw the date. 

25th of October.

In-Ho’s heart dropped as he read it over and over again. No, it wasn’t possible. The 25th was going to be in a few days. He franticly opened his calendar checking again.

And again online.

And again, on his physical one.

And all over again on his phone.

He felt a rush of panic wash through him. Hwang In-Ho was not a man that panicked. Or a forgetful man. Ever. But even so the thought was plaguing his mind: He had forgotten. How could have that happened? Afterall, it was the anniversary of his wife’s death. He would always buy her flowers on the 25th. He would always bring them over to her grave. He would always spend at least 2 hours speaking to her, to her and their unborn child. 

Well, until now, he did at least. Uncontrollable anger burned through his mind. Anger at himself, anger at her. He was supposed to be at the cemetery. Not saying yes to her invite to have some drinks at the bar near their work. Not letting a spoiled insane subaltern seduce him with her long lashes and playful smiles. Not fucking said stupid girl who was two whole decades younger than him. 

He didn’t even realize when she sneaked behind him, putting her arms around his waist and smiling into his back.

“Good morning, handsome” her voice whispered softly. 

The sweetness in her voice made his heart flutter. Which in turn, made him even more inexplicably angry. His body tensed up under her touch and he pushed her arms away. 

“Someone woke up to the wrong side of the bed” she teased.

Under any other circumstance, he would have been amused. She would always tease him and he quite frankly found it as endearing as it also turned him on.

“It’s time for you to go” In-Ho replied coldly.

He could see her tense up as well. Her hands crossed over her body. His dress shirt which he found so unbelievably hot on her earlier now looked like a painful reminder of his own shame.

“Excuse me?” her voice was controlled but she was hiding her built up anger as well.

“I said, you should leave. You were great last night and everything, but let’s not treat it as if it was more than us scratching an inch.” His voice was measured and he looked into her eyes. He could see she was hurt by his words. Damn it, he hated seeing her in pain. 

“In-Ho, you said you loved me last night. You told me how long you’ve waited to say it, to kiss me. You kissed me as if you were dying and I was the only thing that could save you.” 

God, she was right. He did and say it all, and he did mean it. His face was cold unenterable.

“Maybe you should not listen to what old perverted men like me tell you. God, your father really did a number on you if you are dumb enough to sleep with any old men.” In-Ho knew his words would hurt her, but he needed her to stay away. It was better like this. The anger he harbored in that moment for himself and for her would only end in one way: violence. And while he was all for rough play, he would not touch her in that way. 

“I called you a taxi already”

Smack

The sound of her hand hitting him across the face echoed in the penthouse. His jaw clenched, his eyes suddenly burning of desire. The thoughts of his wife finally stopped and there was nothing but silence. Without giving it another thought, his palms found her cheeks pulling her into a desperate hungry kiss. He felt her body tense up and she pulled away.

Smack

Her eyes were burning of unspoken anger and pain, some tears threatening to fall. She angrily spit in his face. It took him by surprise. Everything was so quick.

“Fuck you” she whispered.

She turned around grabbing the remains of her dress and heels and she hurried out. She looked almost pathetic. Her figure gathering everything in the stupid white shirt. To him, she never looked so small, so broken and his heart almost ached. When she left, silence took over completely. In-Ho knew he screwed up, badly, but in that second, her feelings were the last thing on his mind. 

The next time they met was just after the games, earlier tonight. She had not tried contacting him after the incident and neither did he. Whether it was guilt or his shame it did not matter. He poured it all into the games. In-Ho tried to pretend it was just another incident that did not affect him in the slightest. At the end of the day, she was just another employee, another recruiter. He promised himself he would never betray the memory of his wife again. As long as he did not see her it was fine.

Then it came the celebration. Oh Il-Nam decided for everyone in the company to meet for dinner and a poker night at one of the most reputable places in Seoul. Their blackjack table was set apart from the others in a private room overlooking the city. It was a tradition after all, every year after the end of the games, they would come together to celebrate it. As he was very much aware, that would probably be the last one hosted by Il-Nam and as Frontman and the next in line to take his place as the Host, he knew it was mandatory for him to attend regardless of personal feelings.

At first, he told himself that it was fine. That he will see her again and they would both be acting professional for the sake of Il-Nam. While she was an attention seeker through and through, In-Ho was not about to grant her the satisfaction of regretting his choices. As expected, he was one of the first ones to arrive. One by one all appeared before the scheduled time 20:00. His heart quickened as the arrival time came and went but she was not there. He scoffed to himself. Of course she was late, always making an entrance, always captivating the eye of every man that dared to breathe in her presence. In Ho liked to lie to himself and say it never affected him like that. Sure, she was stunningly beautiful, but she was just another woman. And then she did finally appear.

Dressed in a mini black Yves Saint Laurent dress hugging every curve of her body, her red bottom heels clicking as she made her entrance. Her signature red lipstick and blow out making her look utterly ethereal. She had a black leather trench that one of the valets quickly pulled down. She was wearing tight high stockings and for a few seconds, In-ho forgot how to breathe. The officer looked at him knowingly and handed him a glass of whiskey.

She was a storm that commanded surrender, and everyone fell willingly.

Throughout the whole night, she did not even glance once towards him. She sat down next to the Salesman. God, how he disliked that one. In-Ho saw him as nothing more than a psychopath. A useful psychopath, but none the less, a psychopath. He never even bothered to know his name, for him it did not matter, he was as important like a gum stuck onto his shoe. He could remark that he was a loyal one though, every year bringing one of the biggest number of recruits for the games, as big as the ones she did. After all, he was the one that recruited him as well. He supposed his disdain for the man came from that. 

As dinner finished, the mandatory game of blackjack started. At this point it was tradition. It was Il-Nam’s favorite game and as it was most probably the last year he would take part in it; he saw it as proper to participate. However, he could not concentrate on the game. He heard her giggle, and his eyes instinctively went to find her.

In-ho saw her arrange the Salesman’s tie, while whispering seductively in his ear, her hand touching his chest for a little more time than necessarily. He felt himself getting angry as he saw the perfectly manicured hands traveling onto the other man’s body. It was not like he has not seen it before. He was perfectly aware of her flirtatious manners, at the end of the day, she acted the same way towards him. So why was he getting so irrationally angry?

“I win again. At this point, you guys have to try a little harder, it is getting exhausting to keep on seeing you lose” she said smugly as she dragged the tokens towards her, a smirk playing on her perfect lips.

“And what do I win, if I may be so indiscreet?” the Salesman’s voice purred close to her ear. 

“Children, behave, there are elders present” In-Ho’s voice rang before he could control it. He was starting to get irritated by the sound of his stupid voice.

“Oh, In-ho, it’s fine. I think it is rather exciting to raise the stakes. You know how these young ones are, they would do anything for the thrill” Il-Nam’s voice said amused. “And after all, I think they would make quite a dashing pair.”

Jealousy coiled in his chest like a venomous snake, hissing and writhing with every stolen glance he dared to throw at her. What did he even mean? The Salesman was 42 for god’s sake, and she was 25! It was not as if they were witnessing some sort of young exciting love story. No, it was a psychopath and a brat trying to get his attention. However, he gave a cold smile towards the pair and returned to his hand, wishing this night would end already. He had no idea that it was just getting started.

After about two hours, Il-Nam announced that he would be leaving. And that was the moment, In Hu knew things were about to take a turn. Until that moment, everything between her and the Salesman were casual touches. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he was aware of her intentions to make him suffer in every way she could imagine, and he was not about to let her succeed. 

“Full house” her voice sang. 

She won. Again. It would have been impressive if it was not so annoying. Did she have to be so good at everything? In Hu thought gritting his teeth. It was unfair how natural everything came to her. She was the most interesting and exciting person he had ever met. Every single move was perfectly executed with grace laced by playfulness, her fingers intertwined with a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in another. Every time her lips pressed to the filter fascinated the Frontman completely. Every strand of hair framing her soft features, reminding him of the night they spent together.

“Not going to lie, you guys are really boring” she said raising an eyebrow. “But since I won again, I propose the following, you each owe me a drink at a place of my choosing.” 

“And where would that be?” The Officer asked.

“Oh, I want to go dancing” she smirked as she left the martini glass on the table.

“Dancing? I would rather shoot myself” In-Ho scoffed. 

“I’m sorry, did you win? No, I didn’t think so” she said looking straight into the man’s eyes.

 If looks could kill, he would have been a dead man. 

“Well, I for one would love to take you anywhere you wanted. A deal is a deal” the Salesman added, his hand slipping on her exposed back.

While going to a club was the last thing that In Hu wanted, he was not going to let him take her out of his sight. He clenched his jaw tightly. He thought about how easy it would be to simply pull out his gun on that psychopath’s head and simply end it right now. God why did she have to make it so messy? While replaceable, he thought about the hassle he would have to go through to find another man to take his job and actually do it as well. No, killing the Salesman would only create more problems for himself, but the image of her pretty face being covered in a quick splash of his blood was tempting. 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

And now there he was, watching her like a hawk, toying with his drink, while she was dancing with someone he should had squished like a bug, the second he got in power. No matter, in all due time, he would be gone. His beautiful muse was swaying seductively to the beat of the song while playing with the Salesman’s tie, her eyes hungry for more. In Hu knew that look well. It was the same look she had in her eyes while she was on top of him just a few weeks ago. Hungry, desperate, mischievous. 

“So, are you going to do something or let that piece of trash get your woman?” the Officer inquired pulling the Frontman out of his spell.

“I have no idea what you are talking about” In Hu replied coldly downing the rest of the drink. He had asked the bartender for the whole bottle; he knew he would need it the second they entered. He lit up a cigarette while pouring another glass, his eyes still stuck on the two of them.

“Come on, you look ready to jump and kill him on the spot” the other man said lighting up a cigarette of his own. While technically not allowed on the premises of the club, what were they going to do? Kick them out? 

“Maybe I will” 

“We both know that would be unwise. And besides, I’ve seen her stealing glances at you, that is exactly what she wants. So do all of us a favor and fuck her good, cause if you don’t… I just know he would make sure she screams.”

“Mind your tongue, Officer.”

“Come on man, we both know her type. Bitches like her need to know their place.”

The second the words came out of his mouth, In hu took his cigarette from his lips swiftly and extinguished it on the back of the man’s hand. He would not have anyone speak that way, not of her. The Officer winced in surprise but did not have the courage to say another word. This was a warning.

“Next time I will not be so nice about it. Speak another ill word about her and I just might shatter a glass and cut that finger of yours off. Or better yet, your tongue.”

His eyes went back to the show in front of him. There was his woman, dancing now on the top of the bar with a bottle of Don Perignon champagne. Her smile was big and seductive, her moves perfectly rehearsed. God, the more he looked at her the more stunning she looked. Her skin glistened under the club light. Her hair once styled to perfection was bouncing around wildly to the music. She moved effortlessly, like gravity was an afterthought, and the air around her seemed taut, tethered to her presence by an invisible string.

Seeing her like that, made his heart flutter. She truly was spectacular. And for a second, she looked at him again. He could have sworn the planet stopped spinning in that moment. Everyone else fading into darkness as if they were the only two people in the world. 

“Do you believe in true love?” Her question surprised him.

It was the night they met randomly in the bar by the office. In Hu was dressed in a jet-black Versace suit, his hair slicked backed. Expensive shoes were slowly tapping to the sound of jazz music in the background. He took a moment before he responded, his face staring into his empty glass. 

“If you had asked me this 5 years ago, I would have said yes.”

“And now?”

“Only sometimes. Usually when I look at you.” 

His words surprised even himself. Maybe it was the one too many glasses of whiskey, or the way she looked at him from behind those doe eyes. Maybe it was the way her knee was slightly touching his or her scent. Amber and vanilla. Always amber and vanilla, sometimes with a faint cigarette smell. She smiled and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. If only she knew the effect she had on him, he would never hear the end of it.

“Now, Sir, maybe you should stop speaking like that or I might start to believe you are in love with me”

In Hu did not respond but a smirk appeared on his lips. He leaned over to her and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. His palm then travelled onto her cheek finally resting by her lips. She looked at him, a seductive grin taking form. Carefully, she kissed his palm, and each finger, while maintaining the Frontman’s gaze. When done with her little show, she lightly took his thumb in her mouth slowly sucking on it.

“Tsk tsk, little dove, careful what you wish for” he warned her, his face stern but feeling his heart rate go slowly upwards. 

Her eyes effortlessly left his, her attention peaked by the Salesman’s voice, breaking their trance. As soon as he no longer felt her gaze, In-Ho made up his mind. He had made a mistake, one that he would do anything to fix. While he hated the way the Officer spoke about her, he was right about one thing. She was his woman after all, and this cat and mouse game was getting old. He was man enough to admit that he had lost against her and now all he wanted was to take her to his bed and fuck her hard to show her who she belonged to. He got up the sofa just as he saw her get down from the bar. 

“Finally,” the Officer muttered.

“Did I not make myself clear last time?”

In Hu’s voice snapped glaring at his colleague, taking his eye off her for just a second. His gaze went back to the spot he had left her but she was no longer there. In the dark he saw a glint of the back of her dress leaving towards the side of the bar. The Frontman finished his drink and made his way to follow her. He was not even sure what to say to her, he had never acted impulsively before. Every single one of his actions had been perfectly calculated for the past few years. 

Lost in thought he had caught up with her. That’s when he saw the scene unfolding in front of him. Her back was pressed against the wall, her hands folded around the Salesman’s neck, fingers tangled into his dark black hair. His woman’s legs were resting around his torso. He could make out the man’s face buried deep into her neck kissing it sloppily, her head tilted slightly on the side, a soft moan escaping her beautiful lips. And then she looked straight ahead into In Hu’s eyes. A sarcastic smile played on her mouth. Fuck you, her eyes said before capturing the Recruiter’s lips in a passionate kiss, her beautiful legs pulling him in closer to her own body.

The Frontman froze for a few seconds as he watched them kiss as if there was no tomorrow, their bodies busy in a seductive tango. Anger and jealousy danced within his veins fueling his body completely. Not now, he thought desperately trying to keep his mask of coldness from cracking under the club lights. But deep inside he also felt the familiar sting of a feeling he long ago buried. 

Pain. Gut wrenching pain. 

[bedlam-barbie]

found this on tiktok and I legit choked on my drink

[bedlam-barbie]

well, here we are, I haven’t written fanction in 10 years but I saw the frontman snap a man’s neck and something clicked in my lizard brain.

so now I write for every character in Squid Games but especially for In Ho and the Salesman. requests are open 💗

some things you need to know before:

i have a full time job so i might be slower with posts

i don’t write non con, i can do dubious con sometimes but please do not request that

i am 24 so please minors dni

i only do fem!reader / gn!reader